Do you want something to drink?’
Ana felt reckless and a little bit dangerous; she knew why Vittorio had asked her if she played cards, why they were here about to play billiards instead of back in that candlelit room. This was business. She was business. He could not have made it plainer. And that was fine; she could handle this. Any disappointment she’d felt—unreasonably so—gave way to a cool determination. ‘I’ll have a whisky.’
Vittorio gazed at her for a moment, his expression thoughtful and perhaps even pleased, his mouth curling upwards into a little smile before he nodded and went to push a button hidden discreetly by the door. Within minutes another servant—this time a man, some kind of butler—appeared at the doorway, silent and waiting.
‘Mario, two whiskies please.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
Ana selected her cue and carefully chalked the end. She studied the table with its three balls: two cue balls, one white, one yellow and a red object ball. Vittorio was setting up the castle in the middle of the table: five skittles, four white, one red, made into a cross. The object of the game was simple: youwanted to knock your opponent’s ball into the skittles for points, or have it hit the red object ball. Her father liked to say it was a grown-up game of marbles.
‘So where did you learn to play stecca ?’ Vittorio asked as he stepped back from the table.
‘My father. After my mother died, it was a way for us to spend time together.’
‘How touching,’ he murmured, and Ana knew he meant it. He sounded almost sad.
‘And I suppose your father taught you?’ she asked. ‘Or did you play with your brother?’ She leaned over the table and practised a shot, the cue stick smooth and supple under her hands.
‘Just my father.’
Ana stepped back, letting the cue stick rest on the floor. ‘Would you like to go first?’
Vittorio widened his eyes in mock horror. ‘Would a gentleman ever go first? I think not!’
Ana gave a little laugh and shrugged. ‘I just wanted to give you the advantage. I warned you I was good.’
Vittorio threw his head back and let out a loud laugh; the sight of the long brown column of his throat, the muscles working, made something plunge deep inside Ana and then flare up again in need. Suddenly her hands were slippery on the cue stick and her mouth was dry. She was conscious of the way her heart had started beating with slow, deliberate thuds that seemed to rock her whole body. ‘And I told you I was good too, as I remember.’
‘Then we’ll just have to see who is better,’ Ana returned pertly, smiling a little bit as if she was relaxed, as if her body wasn’t thrumming like a violin Vittorio had just played with a few words and a laugh.
The servant entered quietly with a tray carrying two tumblers, a bottle of Pellegrino and another bottle of very good, very old single malt whisky. Ana swallowed dryly. She’d only said shewanted whisky because she’d known what Vittorio was up to; she’d felt reckless and defiant and whisky seemed like the kind of drink men drank when they were playing a business games of billiards.
She, however, didn’t drink it. She had a few sips with her father every now and then, but the thought of taking a whole tumbler with Vittorio made her nervous. She was a notorious lightweight—especially for a winemaker—and she didn’t want to make a fool of herself in front of him. Especially not with this desire—so treacherous, so overwhelming, so new—still warring within her, making her feel languorous and anxious at varying turns.
‘So,’ Vittorio said as he reached for the whisky, ‘do you take yours neat or with a little water?’
Water sounded like a good idea, a way to weaken the alcohol. ‘Pellegrino, please.’
‘As you wish.’ He took his neat, Ana saw, accepting her tumbler with numb fingers. Vittorio smiled and raised his glass and she did likewise. They both sipped, and Ana managed not to choke as the
Ana felt reckless and a little bit dangerous; she knew why Vittorio had asked her if she played cards, why they were here about to play billiards instead of back in that candlelit room. This was business. She was business. He could not have made it plainer. And that was fine; she could handle this. Any disappointment she’d felt—unreasonably so—gave way to a cool determination. ‘I’ll have a whisky.’
Vittorio gazed at her for a moment, his expression thoughtful and perhaps even pleased, his mouth curling upwards into a little smile before he nodded and went to push a button hidden discreetly by the door. Within minutes another servant—this time a man, some kind of butler—appeared at the doorway, silent and waiting.
‘Mario, two whiskies please.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
Ana selected her cue and carefully chalked the end. She studied the table with its three balls: two cue balls, one white, one yellow and a red object ball. Vittorio was setting up the castle in the middle of the table: five skittles, four white, one red, made into a cross. The object of the game was simple: youwanted to knock your opponent’s ball into the skittles for points, or have it hit the red object ball. Her father liked to say it was a grown-up game of marbles.
‘So where did you learn to play stecca ?’ Vittorio asked as he stepped back from the table.
‘My father. After my mother died, it was a way for us to spend time together.’
‘How touching,’ he murmured, and Ana knew he meant it. He sounded almost sad.
‘And I suppose your father taught you?’ she asked. ‘Or did you play with your brother?’ She leaned over the table and practised a shot, the cue stick smooth and supple under her hands.
‘Just my father.’
Ana stepped back, letting the cue stick rest on the floor. ‘Would you like to go first?’
Vittorio widened his eyes in mock horror. ‘Would a gentleman ever go first? I think not!’
Ana gave a little laugh and shrugged. ‘I just wanted to give you the advantage. I warned you I was good.’
Vittorio threw his head back and let out a loud laugh; the sight of the long brown column of his throat, the muscles working, made something plunge deep inside Ana and then flare up again in need. Suddenly her hands were slippery on the cue stick and her mouth was dry. She was conscious of the way her heart had started beating with slow, deliberate thuds that seemed to rock her whole body. ‘And I told you I was good too, as I remember.’
‘Then we’ll just have to see who is better,’ Ana returned pertly, smiling a little bit as if she was relaxed, as if her body wasn’t thrumming like a violin Vittorio had just played with a few words and a laugh.
The servant entered quietly with a tray carrying two tumblers, a bottle of Pellegrino and another bottle of very good, very old single malt whisky. Ana swallowed dryly. She’d only said shewanted whisky because she’d known what Vittorio was up to; she’d felt reckless and defiant and whisky seemed like the kind of drink men drank when they were playing a business games of billiards.
She, however, didn’t drink it. She had a few sips with her father every now and then, but the thought of taking a whole tumbler with Vittorio made her nervous. She was a notorious lightweight—especially for a winemaker—and she didn’t want to make a fool of herself in front of him. Especially not with this desire—so treacherous, so overwhelming, so new—still warring within her, making her feel languorous and anxious at varying turns.
‘So,’ Vittorio said as he reached for the whisky, ‘do you take yours neat or with a little water?’
Water sounded like a good idea, a way to weaken the alcohol. ‘Pellegrino, please.’
‘As you wish.’ He took his neat, Ana saw, accepting her tumbler with numb fingers. Vittorio smiled and raised his glass and she did likewise. They both sipped, and Ana managed not to choke as the
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