Читать книгу Italian Boss, Housekeeper Mistress - Кейт Хьюит - Страница 6

SHE shouldn’t be looking forward to sharing a meal with as ornery a creature as Leandro Filametti, yet Zoe was honest enough to acknowledge that she was. She gazed briefly at her reflection in the tarnished mirror in her bedroom, happy enough with her appearance. No need to impress her employer, she decided, knowing that any attempt to do so would most likely achieve the opposite effect. She’d settled on a pair of jeans and a yellow silky top with skinny straps. She left her hair loose and damp, and eschewed any makeup. Leandro was waiting, probably counting the minutes or seconds to determine how tardy she was. He seemed the type.

Humming under her breath, Zoe headed downstairs. Just as she’d expected, Leandro was waiting in the foyer, and Zoe saw immediately that he’d changed. He wore a cream-coloured button-down shirt and tan trousers—a boring outfit if there ever was one. And yet on him it looked far too appealing. The sleeves were rolled up to expose strong, tanned forearms—how did someone closeted all day doing research get tanned?—and the trousers emphasised a trim waist and long, well-muscled legs.

Zoe tore her gaze away; there was no point ogling her employer. She didn’t want to get involved with someone like Leandro Filametti, who could only see her as the hired help—a drudge to be treated with disdain or at best grudging respect. She knew how that scenario played out. But he was nice to look at.

‘There is a restaurant in Lornetto, the nearby village,’ Leandro told her. ‘We can walk, if you like.’

‘Sounds great,’ Zoe replied breezily, causing a brief frown to pass over Leandro’s face like a shadow. What a stickler, she thought, with a little burst of annoyed amusement. She wondered what kind of research he was doing. He was probably an accountant, or something equally dull.

Yet there was nothing dull about the flash of awareness that tingled up her arm when he took her elbow and guided her down the crumbling steps of the portico. He dropped it as soon as they’d navigated the wrecked stone, but Zoe was still conscious of a strange, shivery warmth where he’d touched her.

She shrugged the feeling away, determined not to be distracted. She hadn’t come to Italy for a relationship; she’d come to get away from one, and she’d do well to remember that.

The sun set as they walked down the lane, leaving vivid violet streaks across the sky, and although the air was still warm and scented with lavender there was a hint of coolness too, as the evening breeze rolled in from the mountains.

They walked in companionable enough silence for a few moments along the lake road—La Ancina Strada, from Roman times, according to the guidebook Zoe had leafed through—until a village—no more than a huddle of stone buildings along a narrow cobblestoned street—came into view.

There was certainly something charming about the scattering of tables under a faded striped awning, Zoe reflected as Leandro guided her to an outdoor café along an even narrower side street. Dusk had fallen, and the night cloaked them in cool softness as he pulled out her chair. There was, she thought with an uneasy sort of pleasure, something almost romantic about the situation.

That notion was quickly dispelled as Leandro took a seat across from her, folded his hands in businesslike fashion and launched into an extensive list of her duties.

‘I’m selling the villa,’ he stated bluntly, ‘as soon as it’s in decent condition. You are required to keep it as neat and clean as possible. I understand the difficulty, since so much of it is in disrepair, but there will be workmen coming in to deal with much of the damage, and as their work continues so yours should become easier.’

Zoe nodded, although she hardly thought navigating workmen, falling plaster and all manner of unknown hazards would make her job easier.

A waiter came, and without a glance at her Leandro ordered for both of them. Annoyance prickled along her spine at this presumption—although she recognised fairly that she knew an appallingly little amount of Italian.

‘What did you order?’ she asked after the waiter had left. ‘Just out of curiosity.’

‘A local pasta dish,’ Leandro replied with a shrug. ‘Made with tomatoes and basil—simple enough.’

Zoe nodded. She wasn’t about to kick up a fuss over something so small, yet it still irritated her that Leandro had ordered for her without even asking. It spoke volumes about how he viewed his station in life … and hers.

And yet, she asked herself, determined to be honest, why should she care? She’d had years of experience in menial work; her impressive listing of chambermaid and waitressing jobs was undoubtedly what had secured her this position in the first place. Yet for some reason, in the enforced intimacy of their situation, it rankled.

‘May I have a drink?’ she asked a little pettishly, and Leandro’s eyes narrowed, his lips thinning in obvious disapproval.

‘The waiter will bring water—were you thinking of something else?’

Zoe almost said she’d like a glass of wine after the day she’d had, but she decided she’d pressed enough. She shrugged her acceptance instead and switched subjects. ‘Why are you selling the villa? Is it a business investment?’

Leandro’s expression hardened briefly and he shrugged in reply. ‘Something like that.’

Zoe took a thoughtful sip from the water glass the waiter had placed on the table. ‘Why is it in such a state?’

‘Isn’t it obvious? No one has lived in it for years.’

‘Yes, but …’ Zoe set down her glass. ‘Why not? It’s beautiful, and it’s the type of property that would go in a heartbeat—or so I would have thought.’

‘You know very much about real estate in the region?’ Leandro asked with an arched eyebrow.

Zoe shrugged. ‘I read gossip magazines. Celebrities are always buying up places like this for millions.’

‘This villa hasn’t been for sale.’

There was an ominously final note in Leandro’s voice that made Zoe wonder what he wasn’t saying. Still, she decided to drop the subject.

‘You mentioned getting supplies in—would I find them here?’

‘Probably not. Lornetto is no more than a fishing village. There is a market town across the lake—you can take the boat.’

‘The boat?’ The idea of jetting across the lake on her own gave Zoe an unspeakable thrill.

Leandro must have sensed it, for he narrowed his eyes. ‘Have you ever driven a powerboat?’ he asked. ‘It is a small one, but still …’

Zoe opened her eyes wide. ‘I’m sure I can manage.’

A reluctant smile quirked the corner of his mouth before disappearing completely, replaced by the more familiar disapproval. ‘It is not so simple. I’ll drive you tomorrow. After that …’ He shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’

The waiter came to the table bearing two steaming bowls of pasta, fragrant with fresh basil and oregano. Zoe’s mouth watered. She hadn’t eaten anything all day, and she was starving.

Neither of them spoke as they dug into the pasta, and after a few moments Zoe became aware that Leandro was watching her with a mixture of amusement and disapproval.

‘Do you always attack your meals with so much gusto?’

‘When I haven’t had anything to eat all day,’ she replied, swallowing a mouthful of pasta, ‘yes.’

Leandro did not look remotely abashed. Zoe wondered what kind of women he was used to. No doubt stick-thin models from Milan, who toyed with a lettuce leaf and called it a meal. Her mouth twisted in cynicism. He was wealthy, good-looking, powerful. Men like that liked ornaments on their arm, nothing more. Ornaments they quickly discarded … or shattered.

Pushing those memories away, Zoe smiled brightly at Leandro as their pasta bowls were cleared. ‘What kind of research do you do?’

‘You wouldn’t understand it,’ Leandro replied, and her interest—and annoyance—were piqued.

‘Try me.’

He shrugged. ‘Risk analysis. I’m an actuary—I work in financial forecasting. Cashflow studies, you’d call it.’ At Zoe’s blank look he continued, amusement lurking in his eyes, ‘Statistical modelling, stochastic stimulations, pricing role?’

Zoe shook her head. ‘Nope, nope and nope.’

The amusement in his eyes made its way to his mouth, and Zoe’s heart rate jumped and then kicked up a notch at the sight of his full-fledged grin. Did he know of its dazzling effect? she wondered, feeling almost dizzy. Was he aware of how it lightened his features, brightened his eyes, and made him all too approachable?

‘I told you you wouldn’t understand it,’ he said with a shrug, and at this dismissal Zoe’s heart rate settled right down again.

‘Well, it’s obviously made you rich,’ she said bluntly.

Leandro’s mouth tightened, his eyes flashing with something close to anger. ‘Yes, it has. Although it is of no concern to you. I started my own company, and it has done well.’

Clearly he’d had enough of the subject—and of her—for he rose from the table, signalling for the bill with one autocratically raised hand. Zoe rose as well, and in a matter of seconds Leandro had dealt with the bill and was striding out of the restaurant, clearly expecting her to follow. He didn’t look back, and with a little stirring of resentment, she made her way down the dusky street to join him, matching his brisk pace.

By the time they’d left the lights of Lornetto behind, the road was dark and filled with shadows. There were no street lights or passing cars, only the silvery glint of moonlight on the lake. Zoe stumbled on the uneven pavement and Leandro reached out to steady her, grabbing her elbow in a firm grip before she righted herself again.

‘And you didn’t even have a glass of wine,’ he said, his voice a murmur in the dark. ‘Although I think you wanted one.’

There went her heart rate again—skittering all over the place, stupid thing. Zoe could see his eyes and teeth gleaming in the darkness, but nothing more. ‘How did you know?’ she asked, a bit unevenly.

Leandro dropped his hand from her elbow, his face partially averted. When he spoke, his voice was coolly dismissive. ‘A girl like you … what else would I expect?’

It took Zoe a moment to process his implication. She came to a stop in the middle of the road. ‘What do you mean, a girl like me?’ she asked, feeling a sudden icy pooling in her stomach. It was so close to what Steve had said, what he had thought.

Leandro turned around, exasperated. ‘What do you think I mean?’

It was clearly a rhetorical question; there was no doubt, Zoe thought bitterly, in either of their minds what he meant. Resentment bubbled within her.

‘The implication is hardly complimentary,’ she said, her voice sharp.

Leandro just shrugged. ‘It is what it is. Now, I don’t fancy standing in the middle of the road in the dark. Let’s go.’ Without waiting for a response, he turned and started back down the shadowy road.

Fuming, Zoe followed.

A girl like her. If she felt like being charitable—or he did—she might think that simply meant someone who was fun, friendly, full of life. A few months ago she would have made that assumption—before she’d realised exactly what kind of assumptions men like Steve and apparently Leandro were making about her. A girl like you. Loose, easy, cheap. Basically, a slut.

Her mouth thinned and her eyes narrowed as she followed Leandro up the villa’s private lane. The palazzo was no more than a huge shadow in the darkness.

She shouldn’t be offended by Leandro’s words, Zoe told herself. She shouldn’t care what a man like him thought. She understood that going from place to place, job to job, made men think she was as loose as her lifestyle. And projecting a certain image—fun-loving, free—kept her safe. Protected her heart. She revelled in her reputation, in her freedom.

She could pick up or drop down at a moment, discarding homes and relationships with insouciant ease. That was who she was. That was who she had to be, to protect herself from getting hurt.

So why, for a moment, did she not like a man like Leandro assuming it?

A man like Leandro … What did that mean? She didn’t know him at all, Zoe realised. He was rich, he was well connected, he was a buttoned-up accountant. No, an actuary. Whatever that was. But beyond the basics she had no idea what kind of man he was.

‘The kind of man who thinks he knows all about a girl like me,’ she muttered, and Leandro, now at the front door, turned round.

‘Did you say something?’

‘No.’ Her voice came out in a petulant retort, but Leandro merely arched an eyebrow.

Zoe jabbed him in the chest with one forefinger; even with just the tip of her finger she could feel the hard definition of sculpted muscle underneath his shirt. ‘You don’t know me, signor. So don’t go telling me what kind of girl I am.’ She sounded ridiculous, Zoe realised distantly. She also realised her finger was still jabbed in his chest. And yet she didn’t move it. If she wasn’t so tired, if her brain didn’t feel so fuzzy and light and disconnected, she wouldn’t have mentioned anything. She certainly wouldn’t have touched him.

Instead, her brain registered in that same disconnected way that he’d wrapped his own hand—warm, strong, dry—around her finger and raised it to his lips. His eyes were dark, and Zoe detected a spark of anger in their depths. She wondered who he was angry with. Himself or her.

She watched, fascinated, as her finger barely brushed the softness of his parted mouth. His eyes darkened even more, to almost black, and his mouth thinned into a contemptuous, knowing smile as he dropped her hand and it fell limply to her side.

‘I wouldn’t presume to tell you anything,’ Leandro replied curtly. ‘I don’t need to. You say it plainly enough.’

With that he turned and disappeared into the darkness of the house, and Zoe realised it was the third time that day he’d walked away and left her standing alone.

He was playing with fire. Touching her. Needing to touch her. And enjoying it.

Leandro flung himself into his desk chair and closed his eyes, but he couldn’t banish the image of Zoe Clark at dinner, wearing that silky top, her hair dark and soft around her face. He pictured the way her eyes had danced with amusement, the way those silly little straps had slipped off her tanned shoulders. The way he’d wanted to push them off.

And she would have let him.

He could still feel the barest brush of her finger against his lips—what had he been thinking, teasing her like that? Teasing himself?

He certainly wasn’t going to act upon the latent desire that hummed inside him—between them. If he were a different man he might have. He might have said to hell with good intentions and higher principles, and taken what was so blatantly on offer. He’d enjoy it, for a time, and then he’d walk away—tabloids, colleagues, family be damned … All for the sake of desire.

But he wasn’t a different man.

He wasn’t his father, and he wouldn’t cheapen and enslave himself to desire. Not for a woman like Zoe Clark—a woman like all the others who took and took and didn’t care who she stepped on to get what she wanted.

Who she hurt.

It’s obviously made you rich.

His mouth thinned in distaste at the memory of her words. Another woman on the prowl. Well, she wouldn’t get anything from him. He wouldn’t give her the chance.

Stifling a curse, he pulled his papers towards him, one hand fumbling for the spectacles he’d discarded on his desk. He switched on the desk lamp, and with a grim, determined focus bent his head to his work.