Читать книгу From Florence With Love: Valtieri's Bride / Lorenzo's Reward / The Secret That Changed Everything - CATHERINE GEORGE - Страница 10

WHAT was she thinking about?

Of course he hadn’t been about to kiss her! That bump on the head had obviously been more serious than she’d realised. Maybe a blast of fresh air would help her think clearly?

She opened the French doors onto the terrace and stood there for a moment, letting the night air cool her heated cheeks. She’d been so carried along on the moment, so lured by his natural and easy charm that she’d let herself think all sorts of stupid things.

Of course he wasn’t interested in her. Why would he be? She’d been nothing but a thorn in his side since the moment he’d set eyes on her. And even if he hadn’t, she wasn’t interested! Well, that was a lie, of course she was interested, or she wouldn’t even be thinking about it, but there was no way it was going anywhere.

Not after the debacle with Russell. She was sworn off men now for life, or at least for a good five years. And so far, it hadn’t been much more than five months!

Leaving the doors open, she limped back to the bed and pulled her pyjamas out of her flight bag, eyeing them dubiously. The skimpy top and little shorts she’d brought for their weightlessness had seemed fine when she was going to be sharing a hotel room with Claire, but here, in this ancient historic house—palazzo, even, for heaven’s sake! She wondered what on earth he’d make of them.

Nothing. Nothing at all, because he wasn’t going to see her in her nightclothes! Cross with herself, her head aching and her ankle throbbing and her bruises giving her a fair amount of grief as well, she changed into the almost-pyjamas, cleaned her teeth and crawled into bed.

Oh, bliss. The pillows were cloud-soft, the down quilt light and yet snuggly, and the breeze from the doors was drifting across her face, bringing with it the scents of sage and lavender and night-scented stocks.

Exhausted, weary beyond belief, she closed her eyes with a little sigh and drifted off to sleep …

Her doors were open.

He hesitated, standing outside on the terrace, questioning his motives.

Did he really think she needed checking in the night? Or was he simply indulging his—what? Curiosity? Fantasy? Or, perhaps … need?

He groaned softly. There was no doubt that he needed her, needed the warmth of her touch, the laughter in her eyes, the endless chatter and the brilliance of her smile.

The silence, when she’d simply held his hand and offered comfort.

Thinking about that moment brought a lump to his throat, and he swallowed hard. He hadn’t allowed himself to need a woman for years, but Lydia had got under his skin, penetrated his defences with her simple kindness, and he wanted her in a way that troubled him greatly, because it was more than just physical.

And he really wasn’t sure he was ready for that—would ever be ready for that again. But the need …

He’d just check on her, just to be on the safe side. He couldn’t let her lie there alone all night.

Not like Angelina.

Guilt crashed over him again, driving out the need and leaving sorrow in its wake. Focused now, he went into her room, his bare feet silent on the tiled floor, and gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the light.

Had she sensed him? Maybe, because she sighed and shifted, the soft, contented sound drifting to him on the night air. When had he last heard a woman sigh softly in her sleep?

Too long ago to remember, too soon to forget.

It would be so easy to reach out his hand, to touch her. To take her in his arms, warm and sleepy, and make love to her.

Easy, and yet impossibly wrong. What was it about her that made him feel like this, that made him think things he hadn’t thought in years? Not since he’d lost Angelina.

He stood over her, staring at her in the moonlight, the thought of his wife reminding him of why he was here. Not to watch Lydia sleep, like some kind of voyeur, but to keep her safe. He focused on her face. It was peaceful, both sides the same, just as it had been when he’d left her for the night, and she was breathing slowly and evenly. As he watched she moved her arms, pushing the covers lower. Both arms, both working.

He swallowed. She was fine, just as she’d told him, he realised in relief. He could go to bed now, relax.

But it was too late. He’d seen her sleeping, heard that soft, feminine sigh and the damage was done. His body, so long denied, had come screaming back to life, and he wouldn’t sleep now.

Moving carefully so as not to disturb her, he made his way back to the French doors and out onto the terrace. Propping his hands on his hips, he dropped his head back and sucked in a lungful of cool night air, then let it out slowly before dragging his hand over his face.

He’d swim. Maybe that would take the heat out of his blood. And if it was foolish to swim alone, if he’d told the children a thousand times that no one should ever do it—well, tonight was different.

Everything about tonight seemed different.

He crossed the upper terrace, padded silently down the worn stone steps to the level below and rolled back the thermal cover on the pool. The water was warm, steaming billowing from the surface in the cool night air, and stripping off his clothes, he dived smoothly in.

Something had woken her.

She opened her eyes a fraction, peeping through the slit between her eyelids, but she could see nothing.

She could hear something, though. Not loud, just a little, rhythmic splash—like someone swimming?

She threw off the covers and sat up, wincing a little as her head pounded and the bruises twinged with the movement. She fingered the egg on her head, and sighed. Idiot. First thing in the morning she was going to track down that dress and burn the blasted thing.

She inched to the edge of the bed, and stood up slowly, her ankle protesting as she put weight through it. Not as badly as yesterday, though, she thought, and limped out onto the terrace to listen for the noise.

Yes. Definitely someone swimming. And it seemed to be coming from straight ahead. As she felt her way cautiously across the stone slabs and then the grass, she realised that this was the terrace they’d sat on last night, or at least a part of it. They’d been further over, to her left, and straight ahead of her were railings, the top edge gleaming in the moonlight.

She made her way slowly to them and looked down, and there he was. Well, there someone was, slicing through the water with strong, bold strokes, up and down, up and down, length after length through the swirling steam that rose from the surface of the pool.

Exorcising demons?

Then finally he slowed, rolled to his back and floated spread-eagled on the surface. She could barely make him out because the steam clouded the air in the moonlight, but she knew instinctively it was him.

And as if he’d sensed her, he turned his head and as the veil of mist was drawn back for an instant, their eyes met in the night. Slowly, with no sense of urgency, he swam to the side, folded his arms and rested on them, looking up at her.

‘You’re awake.’

‘Something woke me, then I heard the splashing. Is it sensible to swim on your own in the dark?’

He laughed softly. ‘You could always come in. Then I wouldn’t be alone.’

‘I haven’t got any swimming things.’

‘Ah. Well, that’s probably not very wise then because neither have I.’

She sucked in her breath softly, and closed her eyes, suddenly embarrassed. Amongst other things. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise. I’ll go away.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m finished. Just close your eyes for a second so I don’t offend you while I get out.’

She heard the laughter in his voice, then the sound of him vaulting out of the pool. Her eyes flew open, and she saw him straighten up, water sluicing off his back as he walked calmly to a sun lounger and picked up an abandoned towel. He dried himself briskly as she watched, unable to look away, mesmerised by those broad shoulders that tapered down to lean hips and powerful legs.

In the magical silver light of the moon, the taut, firm globes of his buttocks, paler than the rest of him, could have been carved from marble, like one of the statues that seemed to litter the whole of Italy. Except they’d be warm, of course, alive …

Her mouth dry, she snapped her eyes shut again and made herself breath. In, out, in, out, nice and slowly, slowing down, calmer.

‘Would you like a drink?’

She jumped and gave a tiny shriek. ‘Don’t creep up on people like that!’ she whispered fiercely, and rested her hand against the pounding heart beneath her chest.

Yikes. Her all but bare chest, in the crazily insubstantial pyjamas …

‘I’m not really dressed for entertaining,’ she mumbled, which was ridiculous because the scanty towel twisted round his hips left very little to the imagination.

His fingers, cool and damp, appeared under her chin, tilting her head up so she could see his face instead of just that tantalising towel. His eyes were laughing.

‘That makes two of us. I tell you what, I’ll go and put the kettle on and pull on my clothes, and you go and find something a little less …’

‘Revealing?’

His smile grew crooked. ‘I was going to say alluring.’

Alluring. Right.

‘I’ll get dressed,’ she said hastily, and limped rather faster than was sensible back towards her room, shutting the doors firmly behind her.

He watched her hobble away, his eyes tracking her progress across the terrace in the skimpiest of pyjamas, the long slender legs that had been hidden until now revealed by those tiny shorts in a way that did nothing for his peace of mind.

Or the state of his body. He swallowed hard and tightened his grip on the towel.

So much for the swimming cooling him down, he thought wryly, and went into the kitchen through the side door, rubbed himself briskly down with the towel again and pulled on his clothes, then switched on the kettle. Would she be able to find him? Would she even know which way to go?

Yes. She was there, in the doorway, looking deliciously rumpled and sleepy and a little uncertain. She’d pulled on her jeans and the T-shirt she’d been wearing last night, and her unfettered breasts had been confined to a bra. Pity, he thought, and then chided himself. She was a guest in his house, she was injured, and all he could do was lust after her. He should be ashamed of himself.

‘Tea, coffee or something else? I expect there are some herbal teabags or something like that.’

‘Camomile?’ she asked hopefully.

Something to calm her down, because her host, standing there in bare feet, a damp T-shirt clinging to the moisture on his chest and a pair of jeans that should have had a health warning on them hanging on his lean hips was doing nothing for her equilibrium.

Not now she knew what was underneath those clothes.

He poured boiling water into a cup for her, then stuck another cup under the coffee maker and pressed a button. The sound of the grinding beans was loud in the silence, but not loud enough to drown out the sound of her heartbeat.

She should have stayed in her room, kept out of his way.

‘Here, I don’t know how long you want to keep the teabag in.’

He put the mug down on the table and turned back to the coffee maker, and as she stirred the teabag round absently she watched him. His hands were deft, his movements precise as he spooned sugar and stirred in a splash of milk.

‘Won’t that keep you awake?’ she asked, but he just laughed softly.

‘It’s not a problem, I’m up now for the day. After I’ve drunk this I’ll go and tackle some work in my office, and then I’ll have breakfast with the children before I go out and check the grapes in each field to see if they’re ripe.’

‘Has the harvest started?’

‘La vendemmia?’ He shook his head. ‘No. If the grapes are ripe, it starts tomorrow. We’ll spend the rest of the day making sure we’re ready, because once it starts, we don’t stop till it’s finished. But today—today should be pretty routine.’

So he might have time to show her round …

‘Want to come with me and see what we do? If you’re interested, of course. Don’t feel you have to.’

If she was interested? She nearly laughed. The farm, she told herself firmly. He was talking about the farm.

‘That would be great, if I won’t be in your way?’

‘No, of course not. It might be dull, though, and once I leave the house I won’t be back for hours. I don’t know if you’re feeling up to it.’

Was he trying to get out of it? Retracting his invitation, thinking better of having her hanging around him all day like a stray kitten that wouldn’t leave him alone?

‘I can’t walk far,’ she said, giving him a get-out clause, but he shook his head.

‘No, you don’t have to. We’ll take the car, and if you don’t feel well I can always bring you back, it’s not a problem.’

That didn’t sound as if he was trying to get out of it, and she was genuinely interested.

‘It sounds great. What time do you want to leave?’

‘Breakfast is at seven. We’ll go straight afterwards.’

It was fascinating.

He knew every inch of his land, every nook and cranny, every slope, every vine, almost, and as he stood on the edge of a little escarpment pointing things out to her, his feet planted firmly in the soil, she thought she’d never seen anyone who belonged so utterly to their home.

He looked as if he’d grown from the very soil beneath his feet, his roots stretching down into it for three hundred years. It was a part of him, and he was a part of it, the latest guardian in its history, and it was clear that he took the privilege incredibly seriously.

As they drove round the huge, sprawling estate to check the ripeness of the grapes on all the slopes, he told her about each of the grape varieties which grew on the different soils and orientations, lifting handfuls of the soil so she could see the texture, sifting it through his fingers as he talked about moisture content and pH levels and how it varied from field to field, and all the time his fingers were caressing the soil like a lover.

He mesmerised her.

Then he dropped the soil, brushed off his hands and gave her a wry smile.

‘I’m boring you to death. Come on, it’s time for lunch.’

He helped her back to the car, frowning as she trod on some uneven ground and gave a little cry as her ankle twisted.

‘I’m sorry, it’s too rough for you. Here.’ And without hesitating he scooped her off her feet and set her back on the passenger seat, shut the door and went round and slid in behind the wheel.

He must have been mad to bring her out here on the rough ground in the heat of the day, with a head injury and a sprained ankle. He hadn’t been thinking clearly, what with the upset of yesterday and Francesca’s scene at the table and then the utter distraction of her pyjamas—even if he’d been intending to go back to bed, there was no way he would have slept. In fact, he doubted if he’d ever sleep again!

He put her in the car, drove back to the villa and left her there with Carlotta. He’d been meaning to show her round the house, but frankly, even another moment in her company was too dangerous to contemplate at the moment.

He made a work-related excuse, and escaped.

He had a lot to do, he’d told her as he’d hurried off, because la vendemmia would start the following day.

So much for her tour of the house, she thought, but maybe it was as well to keep a bit of distance, because her feelings for him were beginning to confuse her.

Roberto brought the children home from school at the end of the afternoon, and she heard them splashing in the pool. She’d been contemplating the water herself, but without a suit it wasn’t a goer, so she’d contented herself with sitting in the sun for a while and relaxing.

She went over to the railings and looked down, and saw all three of them in the water, with Carlotta and Roberto sitting in the shade watching them and keeping order. Carlotta glanced up at her and waved her down, and she limped down the steps and joined them.

It looked so inviting. Was her face a giveaway? Maybe, because Carlotta got to her feet and went to a door set in the wall of the terrace, under the steps. She emerged with a sleek black one-piece and offered it to her. ‘Swim?’ she said, encouragingly.

It was so, so tempting, and the children didn’t seem to mind. Lavinia swam to the edge and grinned at her, and Antonino threw a ball at her and missed, and then giggled because she threw it back and bounced it lightly off his head. Only Francesca kept her distance, and she could understand why. It was the first time she’d seen her since supper last night, and maybe now she’d find a chance to apologise.

She changed in the cubicle Carlotta had taken the costume from, and sat on the edge of the pool to take off her elastic ankle support.

‘Ow. It looks sore.’

She glanced up, and saw Francesca watching her warily, her face troubled.

‘I’m all right,’ she assured her with a smile. ‘I was really stupid to fall like that. I’m so sorry I upset you last night.’

She shrugged, and returned the smile with a tentative one of her own. ‘Is OK. I was just tired, and Pàpa had been away for days, and—I’m OK. Sometimes, I just remember …’

She nodded, trying to understand what it must be like to be ten and motherless, and coming up with nothing even close, she was sure.

‘I’m sorry.’ She slipped into the water next to Francesca, and reached out and touched her shoulder gently. Then she smiled at her. ‘I wonder, would you teach me some words of Italian?’

‘Sure. What?’

‘Just basic things. Sorry. Thank you. Hello, goodbye—just things like that.’

‘Of course. Swim first, then I teach you.’

And she smiled, a dazzling, pretty smile like the smile of her mother in the photograph, and it nearly broke Lydia’s heart.

He came into the kitchen as she was sitting there with the children, Francesca patiently coaching her.

‘No! Mee dees-pya-che,’ said Francesca, and Lydia repeated it, stretching the vowels.

‘That’s good. Ciao, bambini!’

‘Ciao, Pàpa!’ the children chorused, and he came over and sat down with them.

‘I’m teaching Lydia Italiano,’ Francesca told him, grinning at him.

He smiled back, his eyes indulgent. ‘Mia bella ragazza,’ he said softly, and her smile widened, a soft blush colouring her cheeks.

‘So what do you know?’ he asked Lydia, and she laughed ruefully.

‘Mi dispiace—I thought sorry was a word I ought to master pretty early on, with my track record,’ she said drily, and he chuckled.

‘Anything else?’

‘Grazie mille—I seem to need that a lot, too! And per favore, because it’s rude not to say please. And prego, just in case I ever get the chance to do something that someone thanks me for. And that’s it, so far, but I think it’s the most critical ones.’

He laughed. ‘It’s a good start. Right, children, bedtime. Say goodnight.’

‘Buonanotte, Lydia,’ they chorused, and she smiled at them and said, ‘Buonanotte,’ back.

And then she looked at Francesca, and added, ‘Grazie mille, Francesca,’ her eyes soft, and Francesca smiled back.

‘Prego. We do more tomorrow?’

‘Si.’

She grinned, and then out of the blue she came over to Lydia and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, Francesca.’

He ushered them away, although Francesca didn’t really need to go to bed this early, but she’d lost sleep the night before and she was always happy to lie in bed and read.

He chivvied them through the bathroom, checked their teeth, redid Antonino’s and then tucked them up. As he bent to kiss Francesca goodnight, she slid her arms round his neck and hugged him. ‘I like Lydia,’ she said. ‘She’s nice.’

‘She is nice,’ he said. ‘Thank you for helping her.’

‘It’s OK. How long is she staying?’

‘I don’t know. A few days, just until she’s better. You go to sleep, now.’

He turned off her top light, leaving the bedside light on so she could read for a while, and went back down to the kitchen.

Lydia was sitting there studying an English-Italian dictionary that Francesca must have lent her, and he poured two glasses of wine and sat down opposite her.

‘She’s a lovely girl.’

‘She is. She’s very like her mother. Kind. Generous.’

Lydia nodded. ‘I’m really sorry you lost her.’

He smiled, but said nothing. What was there to say? Nothing he hadn’t said before.

‘So, the harvest starts tomorrow,’ Lydia said after a moment.

‘Si. You should come down. Carlotta brings lunch for everyone at around twelve-thirty. Come with her, I’ll show you what we do.’

Massimo left before dawn the following morning, and she found Carlotta up to her eyes in the kitchen.

‘How many people are you feeding?’ she asked.

Carlotta’s face crunched up thoughtfully, and she said something in Italian which was meaningless, then held up her outspread hands and flashed them six times. Sixty. Sixty?

‘Wow! That’s a lot of work.’

‘Si. Is lot of work.’

She looked tired at the very thought, and Lydia frowned slightly and began to help without waiting to be asked. They loaded the food into a truck at twelve, and Roberto, Carlotta’s husband, drove them down to the centre of operations.

They followed the route she’d travelled with Massimo the day before, bumping along the gravelled road to a group of buildings. It was a hive of activity, small tractors and pickup trucks in convoy bringing in the grapes, a tractor and trailer with men and women crowded on the back laughing and joking, their spirits high.

Massimo met them there, and helped her down out of the truck with a smile. ‘Come, I’ll show you round,’ he said, and led her to the production line.

Around the tractors laden with baskets of grapes, the air was alive with the hum of bees. Everyone was covered in sticky purple grape juice, the air heavy with sweat and the sweet scent of freshly pressed grapes, and over the sound of excited voices she could hear the noise of the motors powering the pumps and the pressing machines.

‘It’s fascinating,’ she yelled, and he nodded.

‘It is. You can stay, if you like, see what we do with the grapes.’

‘Do you need me underfoot?’ she asked, and his mouth quirked.

‘I’m sure I’ll manage. You ask intelligent questions. I can live with that.’

His words made her oddly happy, and she smiled. ‘Thank you. They seem to be enjoying themselves,’ she added, gesturing to the laughing workers, and he grinned.

‘Why wouldn’t they be? We all love the harvest. And anyway, it’s lunchtime,’ he said pragmatically as the machines fell silent, and she laughed.

‘So it is. I’m starving.’

The lunch was just a cold spread of bread and cheese and ham and tomatoes, much like their impromptu supper in the middle of the first night, and the exhausted and hungry workers fell on it like locusts.

‘Carlotta told me there are about sixty people to feed. Does she do this every day?’

‘Yes—and an evening meal for everyone. It’s too much for her, but she won’t let anyone else take over, she insists on being in charge and she’s so fussy about who she’ll allow in her kitchen it’s not easy to get help that she’ll accept.’

She nodded. She could understand that. She’d learned the art of delegation, but you still had to have a handle on everything that was happening in the kitchen and that took energy and physical resources that Carlotta probably didn’t have any more.

‘How old is she?’

Massimo laughed. ‘It’s a state secret and more than my life’s worth to reveal it. Roberto’s eighty-two. She tells me it’s none of my business, which makes it difficult as she’s on the payroll, so I had to prise it out of Roberto. Let’s just say there’s not much between them.’

That made her chuckle, but it also made her think. Carlotta hadn’t minded her helping out in the kitchen this morning, or the other night—in fact, she’d almost seemed grateful. Maybe she’d see if she could help that afternoon. ‘I think I’ll head back with them,’ she told him. ‘It’s a bit hot out here for me now anyway, and I could do with putting my foot up for a while.’

It wasn’t a lie, none of it, but she had no intention of putting her foot up if Carlotta would let her help. And it would be a way to repay them for all the trouble she’d caused.

It was an amazing amount of work.

It would have been a lot for a team. For Carlotta, whose age was unknown but somewhere in the ballpark of eighty-plus, it was ridiculous. She had just the one helper, Maria, who sighed with relief when Lydia offered her assistance.

So did Carlotta.

Oh, she made a fuss, protested a little, but more on the lines of ‘Oh, you don’t really want to,’ rather than, ‘No, thank you, I don’t need your help.’

So she rolled up her sleeves and pitched in, peeling and chopping a huge pile of vegetables. Carlotta was in charge of browning the diced chicken, seasoning the tomato-based sauce, tasting.

That was fine. This was her show. Lydia was just going along for the ride, and making up for the disaster of her first evening here, but by the time they were finished and ready to serve it on trestle tables under the cherry trees, her ankle was paying for it.

She stood on one leg like a stork, her sore foot hooked round her other calf, wishing she could sit down and yet knowing she was needed as they dished up to the hungry hordes.

They still looked happy, she thought. Happy and dirty and smelly and as if they’d had a good day, and there was a good deal of teasing and flirting going on, some of it in her direction.

She smiled back, dished up and wondered where Massimo was. She found herself scanning the crowd for him, and told herself not to be silly. He’d be with the children, not here, not eating with the workers.

She was wrong. A few minutes later, when the queue was thinning out and she was at the end of her tether, she felt a light touch on her waist.

‘You should be resting. I’ll take over.’

And his firm hands eased her aside, took the ladle from her hand and carried on.

‘You don’t need to do that. You’ve been working all day.’

‘So have you, I gather, and you’re hurt. Have you eaten?’

‘No. I was waiting till we’d finished.’

He ladled sauce onto the last plate and turned to her. ‘We’re finished. Grab two plates, we’ll go and eat. And you can put your foot up. You told me you were going to do that and I hear you’ve been standing all day.’

They sat at the end of a trestle, so she was squashed between a young girl from one of the villages and her host, and the air was heady with the scent of sweat and grape juice and the rich tomato and basil sauce.

He shaved cheese over her pasta, his arm brushing hers as he held it over her plate, and the soft chafe of hair against her skin made her nerve-endings dance.

‘So, is it a good harvest?’ she asked, and he grinned.

‘Very good. Maybe the best I can remember. It’ll be a vintage year for our Brunello.’

‘Brunello? I thought that was only from Montalcino?’

‘It is. Part of the estate is in the Montalcino territory. It’s very strictly regulated, but it’s a very important part of our revenue.’

‘I’m sure.’ She was. During the course of her training and apprenticeships she’d learned a lot about wines, and she knew that Brunellos were always expensive, some of them extremely so. Expensive, and exclusive. Definitely niche market.

Her father would be interested. He’d like Massimo, she realised. They had a lot in common, in so many ways, for all the gulf between them.

Deep in thought, she ate the hearty meal, swiped the last off the sauce from her plate with a chunk of bread and licked her lips, glancing up to see him watching her with a smile on his face.

‘What?’

‘You. You really appreciate food.’

‘I do. Carlotta’s a good cook. That was delicious.’

‘Are you making notes?’

She laughed. ‘Only mental ones.’

He glanced over her head, and a smile touched his face. ‘My parents are back. They’re looking forward to meeting you.’

Really? Like this, covered in tomato sauce and reeking of chopped onions? She probably had an orange tide-line round her mouth, and her hair was dragged back into an elastic band, and—

‘Mamma, Pàpa, this is Lydia.’

She scrambled to her feet, wincing as her sore ankle took her weight, and looked up into the eyes of an elegant, beautiful, immaculately groomed woman with clear, searching eyes.

‘Lydia. How nice to meet you. Welcome to our home. I’m Elisa Valtieri, and this is my husband, Vittorio.’

‘Hello. It’s lovely to meet you, too.’ Even if she did look a fright.

She shook their hands, Elisa’s warm and gentle, Vittorio’s rougher, his fingers strong and hard, a hand that wasn’t afraid of work. He was an older version of his son, and his eyes were kind. He reminded her of her father.

‘My son tells me you’ve had an accident?’ Elisa said, her eyes concerned.

‘Yes, I was really stupid, and he’s been unbelievably kind.’

‘And so, I think, have you. Carlotta is singing your praises.’

‘Oh.’ She felt herself colour, and laughed a little awkwardly. ‘I didn’t have anything else to do.’

‘Except rest,’ Massimo said drily, but his smile was gentle and warmed her right down to her toes.

And then she glanced back and found his mother looking at her, curiosity and interest in those lively brown eyes, and she excused herself, mumbling some comment about them having a lot to catch up on, and hobbled quickly back to Carlotta to see if there was anything she could do to help.

Anything, other than stand there while his mother eyed her speculatively, her eyes asking questions Lydia had no intention of answering.

If she even knew the answers …