Читать книгу Italian Escape: Summer with the Millionaire / In the Italian's Sights / Flirting with Italian - Liz Fielding, Helen Brooks - Страница 12

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?’

‘I’m glad you didn’t.’ Minty wrung out the cloth and hung it up over the sink taps before collecting her wine glass and bag and bringing them over to the sofas. Luca was relieved when she chose the other one to curl up into, her long legs folded under her. ‘There are so many old houses like this that have been remodelled. Botox for houses, turning them into wrinkle-free, soulless show-homes. This place wears its history proudly, wrinkles and all.’

Luca twirled the wine glass round a couple of times, as if looking for answers in the ruby depths. It hadn’t even occurred to him to change the house, to modernise it, although all around the local area houses like this one were being done up, turned into holiday homes or country retreats. ‘I’m not a big fan of leather and chrome,’ he said. ‘I guess I always imagined my children being raised in the same house that I was, eating at the same table, off the same plates. I always thought a house like this should be filled with children. It seems too big for just one.’

‘There were two of us in the holidays,’ Minty reminded him.

‘Si, but you were never a childlike child. Always so knowing, so old for your years. When you weren’t doing something crazy, that is.’

Minty had raised her glass ready to take a sip but at his words she set it back down on the table. ‘I wasn’t the only one. Old for my years, I mean, not crazy.’ She laughed. ‘Did you ever misbehave, Luca?’

He shook his head, smiling. ‘Only when you were with me.’

Their eyes met, blue held by gold, sudden awareness blazing between them, remembering the last time they had misbehaved together here in this room, on the very sofa Minty was curled up on. Awareness that it would be so easy for him to put down his glass and move just a few steps over to her. Awareness that it would take just one touch, that all he needed to do was run one finger down her cheek to the corner of her mouth, onto those full lips.

He swallowed, hard. It was tempting, when she looked at him like that: guileless, teasing, daring. Vulnerable.

But the price was too high to pay. It had always been too high.

None of her emotions were real. It was all a game.

He looked away, deliberately breaking the invisible line of attraction linking them. He took a sip of wine and leant back, to all appearances relaxed.

Even if he was coiled tighter than a snake in winter.

‘So, how many children would it take to fill this house?’ If Minty was affected by the sudden attraction—or by Luca’s withdrawal—she wasn’t showing it.

It was frustrating. But safer.

‘Four.’

She spluttered. ‘Four? That’s ambitious.’

Luca eyed her coolly. ‘I am ambitious. In every area of my life.’

‘Obviously. You’re, what, twenty-nine now? Better get a move on if you want to make it to number four. Unless you’re hoping for one a year?’

He shook his head, smiling. ‘Not quite that fast, but I would like them sooner rather than later.’

‘So who’s the lucky brood mare?’ When Luca didn’t reply, Minty raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re not planning single fatherhood, are you?’

‘I hoped to be married with at least one child by now, but it didn’t work out. I was engaged,’ he offered, surprising himself with his openness.

‘What happened?’

He shrugged. ‘We wanted different things.’

Minty smiled, although it didn’t reach her eyes, which were dark with sympathy. ‘Welcome to the club. You’ll have to do better than one failed engagement if you want premier membership, though.’

‘Thanks; I’ll stick to the basic category.’

She sipped her wine pensively then slid him a look from under those long eyelashes. ‘So who was it? Do I know her?’

‘Francesca Di Rossi.’

Amusement flared on the mobile face. ‘So she did it. Well done, Francesca. Lucky escape, if you ask me.’

Luca wasn’t sure what reaction, if any, he’d expected. The dark amusement in Minty’s voice was not it.

‘So she did it,’ Luca repeated slowly. ‘What do you mean by that?’ Although he suspected he knew what her answer would be.

‘You must know you were considered quite the catch locally: tall, dark, not too horrid to look at. Add in your family connections and the fact you employ half the district... I’m surprised prospective replacements aren’t queuing up around the block. Although the “four children” may be putting less committed candidates off.’

‘It’s not something I advertise.’ But her words were still rankling him. ‘Why “lucky escape”?’

Minty shrugged. ‘I just wouldn’t have thought you and Francesca were very compatible, that’s all. I didn’t know her very well, but I know her type. I bet she would have remodelled the house before you got round to cutting the wedding cake.’

Luca blinked in surprise. Francesca had been full of suggestions: new bathrooms; a new kitchen. He had thought at first she was simply taking an interest in his life. The truth was she had wanted to change his life. Change Luca.

‘I thought she loved it round here, wanted to stay, settle down.’ Luca couldn’t believe he was volunteering the information. After they’d split up he had shut the door on that part of his past and had barely given Francesca a second thought.

Unlike Minty. How could one interrupted night have made more of an impression than two years with Francesca?

‘She didn’t?’ Minty’s voice jolted him out of his thoughts.

‘Not at all. She thought I should move the office part of the business to Florence so I could be near that side of my family.’ His mouth twisted wryly. ‘Near the aristocratic side. Turned out Francesca was a big fan of titles. She wanted us to have a fancy apartment and spend our time in fancy restaurants with fancy people. I wanted to stay here.’

‘You couldn’t compromise? Some time here, some time there?’

Luca shook his head. The truth was he hadn’t even considered it. ‘Honestly? I don’t think either of us cared enough deep down to make it work. For me, my work is here; my life. But Francesca felt stifled here. How do you compromise on that? In the end she found someone who wanted the same things she did. They’re very happy and that’s great.’ It was. When Luca analysed his feelings around Francesca’s infidelity, he felt a little humiliation—and a much greater relief.

Minty nodded sagely. ‘She was your starter fiancée—much better than a starter marriage, in my opinion.’

‘Che?’

She settled back, stretching slightly, and despite himself his eyes were drawn to the way her top stretched up, the enticing flash of midriff. ‘I bet you thought settling down was the right thing to do. There she was, a local girl. She knew the right people, went to the right parties, said the right things, was there when you needed her. Am I right?’

How on earth did she know that? Luca’s face must have shown his amazement, as Minty laughed. ‘I told you, I know girls like her. I’ve been a girl like her. Far better to find out you’re incompatible now than in ten years’ time when you have children. If you ask me, that mother of your four offspring won’t be someone quite so obvious. Someone who doesn’t make it quite so easy at the beginning, but who is comfortable to be with at the end.’

‘What made you so wise?’ The perception surprised him. Luca had never doubted that Minty had layers; he just didn’t think she had depth.

‘Three fiancés.’ She laughed as she said it but there was a glimmer of pain in her eyes that even Minty’s best carefree expression couldn’t hide. ‘I am the starter-fiancé expert.’

‘In that case, your theory doesn’t work,’ Luca said. ‘Shouldn’t there be one starter, not an entire buffet of them?’

‘Oh, they weren’t my starter fiancés,’ Minty said. ‘I was theirs. I’m the mistake that showed them exactly what they don’t want in a future partner. It’s a gift, really. I should get some kind of humanitarian award for it.’

Luca hated it when she did this: showed a hint of her inner self and covered it up with a brave face and a few self-deprecating jokes. It made a man want to get up and walk over to where she sat, supremely graceful, head up, eyes glittering, daring the world to feel sorry for her. It made a man want to gather her into his arms, pull her close and tell her it was all right, that she didn’t have to pretend.

It made a man remember just how yielding and vulnerable she could really be. Made a man think of hard kisses, soft caresses; how a man could get lost in those lips, those eyes. In her promise. He’d come so close to getting lost.

But he’d come to his senses.

It still sickened him, how close he had come to taking advantage of her, of her youth, of her grief. The only saving grace was that he had stopped, pushed her away, before it was too late.

By the time he’d risen from his sleepless, guilt-ridden bed, before he could apologise, make things right, she had gone, snuck away in the night.

Straight back to England. To Barty. To her boy-lover.

Luca looked over at Minty, her long legs curled under her, her head high despite the deep shadows under her eyes, despite the lingering sadness in their blue depths. A small part of him—the part of him that didn’t want a five-year plan; that didn’t want a predictable path; the ruthlessly suppressed part of him that occasionally, just occasionally wished to be spontaneous—wanted to walk over, raise her to her feet and pull her in close. But no. He couldn’t take the risk; he couldn’t trust her no matter how much she seemed to have changed.

Slowly, deliberately, he got to his feet. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said as lightly as he could. ‘Better a failed engagement than a bad marriage. And I learnt a lot from Francesca. Compatibility, shared goals, they’re what’s important in life; that’s what I’m looking for. A woman who values family, a home, a quiet life.’

‘Apron optional?’

Her eyebrows were raised enquiringly, a suspiciously innocent look on her face. Luca suppressed a smile. She wasn’t going to get to him that easily. ‘Would I like to come home to the smell of freshly baked bread whilst my bathed bambinos cluster about me? Of course. I think any man or woman would. But no, I am not looking for a homemaker, unless that’s what she wants, of course. I’m looking for someone I can rely on. Someone who relies on me. A partnership. Someone who will be there when I wake up.’

And on that parting shot he left the room, all too aware that he had yet another sleepless night ahead of him. Another night hyper-aware of his maddening guest so near, so far.

But he didn’t look back.