Читать книгу Summer with the Millionaire - Jessica Gilmore - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

EVERY LIMB WAS HEAVY; her head was not just foggy but filled with a traditional London pea-souper straight from the nineteen-thirties. Minty wasn’t sure she could even stagger down the driveway, let alone open the front door and flop her exhausted body inside when she got there.

‘Ciao, Gianni; ciao Alfonso. Grazie; a presto,’ she said, feebly pushing the heavy lorry door shut, managing a small wave at the grinning drivers as she did so. How did they manage to stay awake? And so cheerful. Forty-eight hours of helping to deliver ice cream and other frozen desserts to restaurants, on a circular route that had taken in three countries and given very few opportunities for sleep, had taken every ounce of zest out of her.

She turned away from the lorry and, on the third attempt, hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and set off along the cypress-tree-lined path that led to the farmhouse.

Minty had spent every summer in Oschia since she’d turned seven and yet, on evenings like this, with the sunset beginning to turn the countryside red-gold, the landscape still had the power to make her stop and stare, drink it in. It was an idyllic setting.

The old stone house was positioned in the middle of a row of terraced plateaux that climbed down the hillside. At the top of the hill the small Oschian town clung on precariously. To one side she saw the medieval town walls gleaming gold in the evening sun, the tower of the medieval church jutting high above; in every other direction were a hundred different shades of green, as far as the eye could see.

It was only a couple of hundred yards down the driveway yet every weary step felt like a mile. Luckily the front door wasn’t locked. Minty didn’t think she was capable of finding her keys, hidden as they were somewhere amongst the tangle of essential toiletries, changes of underwear, sweet wrappers and other items she had considered necessary for her road trip. She turned the big wooden doorknob and almost fell into the large, marble-tiled hallway, dropping her bag with a relieved sigh.

‘Honey, I’m home,’ she called out, then sniffed. What was that smell? Onions, garlic, tomatoes, herbs, some kind of fish: the smell of a proper Italian kitchen. Her stomach rumbled painfully. It had been a while since the last food stop. At least that one had been over the Italian border; their journey through Austria, Slovenia and the tip of Germany had required more stop-offs at bratwurst stalls than Minty cared to remember.

The currywurst at the second one had definitely been a mistake; having two, an even bigger mistake.

Minty stayed in the hallway for a second, leaning against the panelled wall. Ahead was the staircase. All she had to do was somehow get herself up those stairs and she would be just one door away from her bed. Her gloriously comfortable bed with all the trimmings. What a beautiful contrast to the past two days, trying to nap squeezed into the front seat of the lorry between Gianno and Alfonso. Charming men, but not her sleeping companions of choice.

Minty swayed, torn between hunger and tiredness. Another enticing waft of garlic floated through the air and, with a regretful look up the stairs, Minty pulled herself together and went through the door to the kitchen to find the source of the heavenly smell.

The house was exactly the same as it had always been, unpretentious and homely with the large kitchen at its very heart. Taking up the whole back of the house, the combination kitchen, dining and family room was a warm, spacious area, the separate parts divided by a long tiled counter. On one side was the kitchen area, simple, with wooden doors and shelves, a marbled worktop and a huge range cooker. On the other a large table was set about with assorted, mismatched chairs. Further back, cosily clustered around the fireplace, were two old sofas. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered one wall, filled with an assortment of battered, well-read Italian and English paperbacks, ancient board games and several incomplete packs of cards.

Minty had been raised in one of England’s oldest and finest houses but she had never felt as at home there as she did here, had never loved it as much as she loved this room with its simple charm. Every piece of furniture had been lovingly chosen and pieced together. It was a much-loved home, far more appealing than the stunning, architecturally remodelled places she usually holidayed in.

Luca stood at the stove stirring the source of the heavenly smell with a spoon. At the sight of him Minty rocked back on her heels. There was something so inherently sexy about a handsome man cooking. It really wasn’t fair; like a man holding a puppy or a baby, or taking his granny to church, the act added an extra glow, a sweetness to the sensuality.

He was dressed in snug-fitting, worn black jeans, in parts so faded they were grey, and a simple black T-shirt. The lack of colour should have been austere, especially teamed with his dark hair, but he looked good, the jeans showcasing long, powerful legs; the T-shirt skimming the smooth stomach; the short sleeves defining the muscles on his olive-skinned arms. Yep, he looked good, Minty thought dreamily.

She shook her head angrily, clearing the fog as best as she could. Goodness, she must be tired, standing here mooning over Luca, of all people! She was hungry, that was all; her brain was confusing the cook with the food.

‘That smells delicious.’

Luca didn’t bother to look round. ‘Separate meals, remember?’

‘I’ll make the spaghetti,’ she said as coaxingly as she could.

Luca spun round, horror on his face, tomato sauce splattering everywhere from the spoon he still held. ‘Mio Dio, do you still know nothing about food?’ he said. ‘‘First of all this is cioppino—a soup. A simple salad and some ciabatta are all it needs. Secondly, if you think I would trust you with cooking pasta, you are delusional—unless at some point in the last six years you learned what al dente means, which I doubt very much. Thirdly, if it was a stew I would team it with something heartier than spaghetti: farfalle or maybe bucatini.’ The amber eyes glazed over as he considered his options.

‘I have done several cooking courses, you know,’ Minty said, ignoring Luca’s outburst. He couldn’t help himself. Gio was just the same, convinced that nobody could cook as well as he did, especially not someone unfortunate enough to be English. ‘I can even make pasta, not just cook it. How about I cut the bread?’

Luca’s withering glare would have wilted a lesser mortal. Luckily Minty was made of sterner stuff—and had been weathering his glares for years. ‘So it can go stale? No, thank you.’

‘Wash the salad? Or will I make the lettuce leaves too wet? Be too rough with the cucumbers?’

Luca continued to stare for a few seconds longer then shrugged, turning back to the stove to resume stirring. Minty, taking silence for acquiescence, padded over to the large American-style fridge and opened it, surveying the huge array of contents. ‘Only four types of lettuce leaves; Luca, your standards are slipping,’ she said. Suddenly she felt far more awake, either from the prospect of dinner or rediscovering the old joy of baiting Luca. Or both. ‘I’m not sure I can work with such ingredients,’ she continued, throwing a provocative glance over her shoulder. He was standing ramrod-straight, radiating disapproval.

She removed the salad leaves, by the look of them picked fresh that day, and carried them over to the sink to wash. For a few minutes there was silence as they worked side by side. Minty had never really cooked with anyone else before. It was oddly comfortable.

‘Can you pass the garlic?’ she said after a while.

Luca eyed her suspiciously. ‘Why?’

‘Well, I could put it at the door and ward off vampires, but I was thinking of making a vinaigrette for the salad and to dip the bread into. Your call.’

The corners of Luca’s mouth curled in a reluctant smile and he tossed a small white bulb over to Minty, who caught it one-handed with an elaborate flourish. Standing there, knife in one hand, chopping board in front of her, no small talk, Minty was aware of an odd sensation.

She was almost content.

* * *

Dinner tasted as good as it smelt, helped, Minty was at pains to point out, by her perfectly seasoned vinaigrette. Afterwards, she collected the dishes and took them into the kitchen, waving Luca away when he came to help. ‘Although I still think both my salad and the dressing were masterpieces,’ she said, ‘I do have to concede that you did the bulk of the cooking. It’s only fair I clear up.’

Luca wasn’t going to argue. He took his wine and a small plate of grapes and cheese over to the sofa and opened up his laptop, pulling up the spreadsheet Alessandro, his head of sales, had emailed over earlier that evening. He usually put at least an hour in after dinner; working from home sometimes gave things a different perspective.

Five minutes later it was as unread as when he had opened it. His eyes kept wandering over to Minty, who was industriously rinsing out pans. She looked tired; her hair was pulled back in a knot and she was still wearing the light trousers and simple knitted top she had put on two days ago when she had left to do the deliveries. But she hadn’t come in complaining about how exhausted she was, how achy her limbs were—and he knew they would be, after two days in such a confined space.

It was almost impossible to work, to concentrate, with Minty so visible, so present. Since she had arrived she had kept her word and had stayed in her room at night, eaten separately and kept out of his way. They had barely seen each other to exchange a muttered greeting. Just as he wanted, as he had insisted.

And yet tonight he found himself moved by the weariness in her eyes. It was the same old story. He couldn’t resist being her knight in shining armour, whether she wanted him to or not.

They might have spent most of their lives at loggerheads, but occasionally an unofficial, unacknowledged truce would be called. That first summer she’d come to stay, Luca had spent one memorable day playing old board games with the broken-hearted small girl after she’d discovered her father had chosen to go to St Tropez with his latest girlfriend instead of making a promised visit to Oschia.

Luca still had a fondness for Cluedo.

On her father’s third wedding day—a small, intimate affair for around two hundred guests, including a celebrity magazine, but not the groom’s only offspring—Luca had taken twelve-year-old Minty on an illicit road trip, pillioned on the back of his beloved Vespa. Rose had been furious when they had finally rocked back up long after dark, dirty, exhausted, exhilarated. Until she had seen the light shining in Minty’s eyes.

At sixteen, Minty’s boyfriend had dumped her by text. Another impromptu road trip, this time in Luca’s teeny Fiat—a present from Gio and Rose, who’d shared a fear of very young men driving powerful cars. Not that Luca had ever been likely to drive recklessly, not after his parents’ accident. They had headed south and ended up in Rome for an afternoon of sightseeing, shopping and very expensive coffee.

The last truce of all had been the night after Rose’s funeral. Luca’s hands tightened on the laptop keyboard at the memory. Six years later and he could still taste Minty, still recall exactly how it had felt to run his hands down those long, long legs; up over that supple waist to the swell of her small, firm breasts; her gasps and murmured endearments, begging him please not to stop, never to stop. He stared sightlessly at his keyboard, willing the memory to fade.

For the aftermath of these truces was always the same: distance; disdain. Minty acting out worse than usual, as if to wipe out those rare moments of vulnerability. And that last time she’d simply disappeared. For six years Luca hadn’t known who to despise more—himself for taking advantage of a grieving girl not yet out of her teens, or Minty for running away.

And now she was back. Wiping dishes in his kitchen as if they really were the family she had refused to allow them to be.

She was surprising him. There had been no moaning, no trying to shirk the long, arduous schedule he had put together for her. It was still early days, less than a week since she had taken up the challenge, but he had ensured her every moment was filled: a 4:00 a.m. start day for the morning milking; a gruelling day in the frozen-food section of the warehouse followed by two days on the road. Tomorrow would be spent in one of the kitchens; the weekend would be serving in the café which sold Di Tore Dolce products directly to the public.

‘I love that you haven’t changed anything,’ she said, banging the dishwasher door shut. She picked up a cloth and began to wipe down the sides. ‘The same dishes, pans, worktops. I like that it’s all the same.’

Luca put the laptop down on the table in front of him and leant back, the glass of wine in his hand. ‘What would I have changed?’ he asked.

Minty shrugged. ‘Sleek, black leather sofas and chrome everywhere,’ she suggested. ‘Knocking through into the next room. Creating an outdoor kitchen.’

Luca shuddered, looking round at the comfortable, cosy room. ‘That sounds completely horrible.’

‘Standard young CEO fare,’ she said. ‘The shinier, bigger and more expensive, the better. Hugely overcompensating, of course.’ She winked at him. ‘Good to see a man comfortable with what he has.’

‘This is part of my family’s history,’ Luca said, ignoring the wink and the innuendo. ‘Furniture made and chosen by my parents and grandparents. By Rose. Why would I change it?’