The Matarese Circle (1979) by Robert Ludlum

Author:Robert Ludlum [Ludlum, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

She stood in front of him; he bad not seen her come to him, she was simply there. He looked down at her, her face tilted up to his, her eyes close, her tears near, her lips parted.

Her whole body was trembling; she was gripped by fear. The scars had been torn away; he had ripped them because she had seen the ache in his eyes.

She could not erase his pain. What made her think he could erase hers?

And then, as if she were reading his thoughts, she whispered again.

"If you loved her so much, love me a little. It may 91

help.

She reached up to him, her hands cupping his face, her lips inches from his, the trembling no less for the nearness. He put his arms around her; their lips touched and the ache was released. He was drawn into a wind; he felt his own tears well up in his eyes and roll down his cheeks, mingling with hers. He let his hands fall down her back, caressing her, pulling her to him, holding her, holding her. Please, closer, the moisture of her mouth arousing

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280 THE MATARESE CIRCLE

him, replacing the ache of pain with the ache of wanting her beside him.

He swept his hand around to her breast; she pulled her own hand down and pressed it over his, pushing herself against him, revolving her body to the rhythm that infused them both.

She pulled her mouth away. "fake me to bed. In the name of God, take me.

And love me. Please love me a little."

"I tried to warn you," he said. "I tried to warn us both."

He was coming out of the earth and there was sunlight above. Yet in the distance there was the darkness still. And fear; he felt it sharply. But for the moment, he chose to remain in the sunlight-if only for a while.

With her.

21

The magnificence of the Villa dEste was not lost in the chill of the evening. The floodlights had been turned on and the banks of fountains illuminated-thousands of cascading streams caught in the light as they arced in serrated ranks down the steep inclines. In the centers of the vast pools, the geysers surged up into the night, umbrella sprays sprinkling in the floodlights like diadems. And at each formation of rock constructed into a waterfall, screens of rushing silver fell in front of ancient statuary; saints and centaurs were drenched in splendor.

The gardens were officially closed to the public; only Rome's most beautiful people were invited to the Festa Villa d'Este. The purpose was ostensibly to raise funds for its maintenance, augmenting the dwindling govemment subsidies, but Scofield had the distinct impression that there was a secondary, no less desirable motive: to provide an evening where Villa dEste could be enjoyed by its true inheritors, unencumbered by the tourist world. Crispi was right. Everyone in Rome was there.

Not his Rome, thought Bray, feeling the velvet lapels of his tuxedo.

Their Rome.

The huge rooms of the villa itself had been

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