Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [65]
“But why are you laughing, India? What have I done?”
“Nothing … you’ve done nothing—it’s just funny, that’s all.” She threw back her head and laughed, and Fabrizio moved away, straightening his jacket and smoothing back his hair.
“I don’t see anything funny,” he said, annoyed. No woman had ever laughed at him when he was making love.
His macho instincts—and his erection—were so obviously deflated that India found it even funnier.
“Stop laughing!” commanded Fabrizio. “What’s the matter with you tonight?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She gasped between giggles. “It’s just something I thought about.”
“I was thinking about you,” said Fabrizio coldly, “and I supposed you were thinking of me at such a time.”
“I was, truly I was … it’s—well, I just thought of something my mother told me and I realized I’m more like her than I thought.”
“Ah, your mother.” Fabrizio was filled with genuine Italian sympathy for a lost mother. “Poor little India. You will see, the pain will fade in a while. Sometimes laughter comes from sad memories.”
India pulled her fur jacket over her breasts. It was bloody cold making love in cabs. She began to laugh again.
“Really, India, that’s enough. You’re becoming quite hysterical.”
“I’m sorry, Fabrizio, I didn’t mean it. It just happened.” She tidied her appearance and peered out of the windows. All she could see was a dark country road. “It’s very dark out there,” she remarked.
“The countryside usually is,” retorted Fabrizio.
India sighed. Obviously she’d hurt his finest feelings. To laugh when an Italian was making love to you—even one as sophisticated as Fabrizio—was the wrong thing to do. She’d probably insulted his manhood, when all she’d been thinking of was her own reactions. Something else he’d said was true, though, that he had been thinking of her and at such a moment she should have been thinking of him. She hadn’t—and it wasn’t the first time. More and more often lately she’d found her thoughts drifting away while Fabrizio was consumed with passion. It really wasn’t right to be wondering what was going on elsewhere while a man made love to you in some elaborate hotel bedroom. Was it that the secrecy of the relationship was finally becoming a bore? It wasn’t Fabrizio’s love-making, she could reassure him on that—but something was missing. India took his hand and kissed it and Fabrizio slid an arm around her.
“That’s better, cara.” He snuggled her head onto his shoulder. “You’re calmer now.”
“Are we almost there?”
“Another half hour. Not long, and then we’ll be alone together.”
That’s the problem, thought India, I miss being with people. Affairs with married men become a lonely business—too lonely. Like this weekend, for instance. Marisa was in Milan visiting her family and wouldn’t be back until Monday. Fabrizio had pleaded pressure of work, saying that he must stay in Rome, and had arranged to borrow the country villa of a friend who was abroad. They would have two nights together—only two, because he was nervous that Marisa might surprise him by returning earlier on Sunday. He didn’t think she was suspicious yet—she’d laughed at the items in the newspapers and seemed unconcerned—but one never knew.
India snuggled closer to Fabrizio. She enjoyed being with him, she liked him, he was an amusing companion. He was an accomplished lover—and at first she had enjoyed the secrecy. It was easier in the beginning, she remembered; new love affairs bloom in out-of-the-way restaurants, where you were both unlikely to meet anyone you knew. Romance was heightened by assignations in quaint rooms in remote inns, and passion was allowed to take its course in thrilling rendezvous in some secret apartment; you were satisfied with much less in the beginning. But does romance begin to fade simply because it can’t be part of the real world?
“What are you thinking, cara?” Fabrizio kissed the end of her cold nose.
“I’m not sure.” India stared through