Читать книгу Awakening The Ravensdale Heiress - Melanie Milburne, Melanie Milburne - Страница 9

CHAPTER TWO

‘YOU’RE GOING TO FRANCE?’ Jasmine Connelly said, eyes wide with sparkling intrigue. ‘With Leandro Allegretti?’

Miranda had dropped into Jasmine’s bridal boutique in Mayfair for a quick catch-up before she flew out the following day. Jaz was sewing Swarovski crystals onto a gorgeous wedding dress, the sort of dress for every girl who dreamed of being a princess. Miranda had pictured a dress just like it back in the day when her life had been going according to plan. Now every time she saw a wedding dress she felt sad.

‘Not going with him as such,’ she said, absently fingering the fabric of the wedding gown on the mannequin. ‘I’m meeting him over there to help him sort out his father’s art collection.’

‘When do you go?’

‘Tomorrow... For a couple of weeks.’

‘Should be interesting,’ Jaz said with a smile in her voice.

Miranda looked at her with a frown. ‘Why do you say that?’

Jaz gave her a worldly look. ‘Come, now. Don’t you ever notice the way he looks at you?’

Miranda felt something unhitch in her chest. ‘He never looks at me. He barely even says a word to me. This is the first time we’ve exchanged more than a couple of sentences.’

‘Clues, my dear Watson,’ Jaz said with a cheeky smile. ‘I’ve seen the way he looks at you when he thinks no one’s watching. I reckon if it weren’t for his relationship with your family he would act on it. You’d better pack some decent underwear just in case he changes his mind.’

Miranda pointedly ignored her friend’s teasing comment as she trailed her hand through the voluminous veil hanging beside the dress. ‘Do you know much about his private life?’

Jaz stopped sewing to look at her with twinkling grey-blue eyes. ‘So you are interested. Yay! I thought the day would never come.’

Miranda frowned. ‘I know what you’re thinking but you couldn’t be more wrong. I’m not the least bit interested in him or anyone. I just wondered if he had a current girlfriend, that’s all.’

‘Not that I’ve heard of, but you know how close he keeps his cards,’ Jaz said. ‘He could have a string of women on the go. He is, after all, one of Jake’s mates.’

Every time Jaz said Jake’s name her mouth got a snarly, contemptuous look. The enmity between them was ongoing. It had started when Jaz was sixteen at one of Miranda’s parents’ legendary New Year’s Eve parties. Jaz refused to be drawn on what had actually happened in Jake’s bedroom that night. Jake too kept tight-lipped. But it was common knowledge he despised Jaz and made every effort to avoid her if he could.

Miranda glanced at the glittering diamond on her friend’s ring finger. It was Jaz’s third engagement and, while Miranda didn’t exactly dislike Jaz’s latest fiancé, Myles, she didn’t think he was ‘The One’ for her. Not that she could ever say that to Jaz. Jaz didn’t take too kindly to being told what she didn’t want to hear. Miranda had had the same misgivings over Fiancés One and Two. She just had to hope and trust her headstrong and stubborn friend would realise how she was short-changing herself before the wedding actually took place.

Jaz stood back and cast a critical eye over her handiwork. ‘What do you think?’

‘It’s beautiful,’ Miranda said with a sigh.

‘Yeah, well, I’m going cross-eyed with all these crystals,’ Jaz said. ‘I’ve got to get it done so I can start on Holly’s. She’s awfully nice, isn’t she?’

‘Gorgeous,’ Miranda said. ‘It’s amazing, seeing Julius so happy. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure he was ever going to fall in love. They’re total opposites and yet they’re so perfect for each other.’

Jaz looked at her with her head on one side, that teasing glint back in her gaze. ‘Is that a note of wistfulness I can hear?’

Miranda rearranged her features. ‘I’d better get going.’ She grabbed her tote bag, slung it over her shoulder and leaned in to kiss Jaz on the cheek. ‘See you when I get back.’

* * *

When Miranda landed in Nice she saw Leandro waiting for her in the terminal. He was dressed more casually this time but if anything it made him look even more heart-stoppingly attractive. The dark blue denim jeans clung to his leanly muscled legs. The rolled back sleeves of his light blue shirt highlighted his deep tan and emphasised the masculinity of the dark hair liberally sprinkled over his strong forearms. He was cleanly shaven but she could see where he had nicked himself on the left side of his jaw. For some reason, it humanised him. He was always so well put together, so in control. Was being back in his childhood home unsettling for him? Upsetting? What emotions were going on behind the dark screen of his eyes?

As he caught her eye a flutter of awareness rippled deep and low in her belly. Would he kiss her in greeting? She couldn’t remember him ever touching her. Not even by accident. Even when he’d walked her back to the gallery last week he had kept his distance. There had been no shoulder brushing. Not that she even reached his shoulders. She was five-foot-five to his six-foot-three.

Miranda smiled shyly as he came towards her. ‘Hi.’

‘Hello.’ Was it her imagination or was his voice deeper and huskier than normal? The sound of it moved over her skin as if he had reached out and stroked her. But he kept a polite distance, although she couldn’t help noticing his gaze slipped to her mouth for the briefest moment. ‘How was your flight?’ he said.

‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘But you didn’t have to put me in first class. I was happy to fly coach.’

He took her carry-on bag from her, somehow without touching her fingers as he did so. ‘I didn’t want anyone bothering you,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing worse than being a captive audience to someone’s life story.’

Miranda gave a light laugh. ‘True.’

She followed him out to the car park where he opened the door of the hire car for her. She couldn’t fault his manners, but then, he had always been a gentleman. She had never known him to be anything but polite and considerate. She wondered if this was difficult for him, coming back to France to his early childhood home. What memories did it stir for him? Did it make him wish he had been closer to his father? Did it stir up regrets that now it was too late?

She glanced at him as they left the car park and joined the traffic on the Promenade des Anglais that followed the brilliant blue of the coastline of the Mediterranean Sea. He was frowning as usual; even his hands on the steering wheel were clenched. She could see the tanned flesh straining over his knuckles. The line of his jaw was grim. Everything about him was tense, wound up like a spring. It looked like he was in physical pain.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

He looked at her briefly, moving his lips in a grimace-like smile that didn’t reveal his teeth. ‘I’m fine.’

Miranda didn’t buy it for a second. ‘Have you got one of your headaches?’ She had seen him once at Ravensdene when he had come down with a migraine. He was always so strong and fit that to see him rendered helpless with such pain and sickness had been an awful shock. The doctor had had to be called to give him a strong painkiller injection. Jake had driven him back to London the next day, as he had still been too ill to drive himself.

‘Just a tension headache,’ he said. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

‘When did you arrive?’

‘Yesterday,’ he said. ‘I had a job to finish in Stockholm.’

‘I expect it must be difficult coming back,’ Miranda said, still watching him. ‘Emotional for you, I mean. Did you ever come back after your parents divorced?’

‘No.’

She frowned. ‘Not even to visit your father?’

His hands tightened another notch on the steering wheel. ‘We didn’t have that sort of relationship.’

Miranda wondered how his father could have been so cold and distant. How could a man turn his back on his son—his only child—just because his marriage had broken up? Surely the bond of parenthood was much stronger than that? Her parents had gone through a bitter divorce before she’d been born and, while they hadn’t been around much due to their theatre commitments, as far as she could tell Julius and Jake had never doubted they were loved.

‘Your father doesn’t sound like a very nice person,’ she said. ‘Was he always a drinker? I’m sorry. Maybe you don’t want to talk about it. It’s just, Julius told me you didn’t like it when your father came to London to see you. He said your dad embarrassed you by getting horribly drunk.’

Leandro’s gaze was focussed on the clogging traffic ahead but she could see the way his jaw was locked down, as if tightened by a clamp. ‘He didn’t always drink that heavily.’

‘What made him start? The divorce?’

He didn’t answer for a moment. ‘It certainly didn’t help.’

Miranda wondered about the dynamics of his parents’ relationship and how each of them had handled the breakdown of their marriage. Some men found the loss of a relationship far more devastating than others. Some sank into depression, others quickly re-partnered to avoid being alone. The news was regularly full of horrid stories of men getting back at their ex-wives after a broken relationship—cruel and vindictive attempts to get revenge, sometimes involving the children, with tragic results. ‘Did he ever remarry?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘Did he have other partners?’

‘Occasionally, but not for long,’ Leandro said. ‘He was difficult to live with. There were few women who would put up with him.’

‘So it was his fault your mother left him?’ Miranda asked. ‘Because he was so difficult to live with?’

He didn’t answer for so long she thought he hadn’t heard her over the noise of the traffic outside. ‘No,’ he said heavily. ‘That was my fault.’

Miranda looked at him in shock. ‘You? Why would you think that? That’s ridiculous. You were only eight years old. Why on earth would you blame yourself?’

He gave her an unreadable glance before he took a left turn. ‘My father’s place is a few blocks up here. Have you ever been to Nice before?’

‘A couple of years ago—but don’t try and change the subject,’ she said. ‘Why do you blame yourself for your parents’ divorce?’

‘Don’t all kids blame themselves?’

Miranda thought about it for a moment. Her mother had said a number of times how having twins had put pressure on her relationship with her father. But then, Elisabetta wasn’t a naturally maternal type. She was happiest when the attention was on her, not on her children. Miranda had felt that keenly as she’d been growing up. All of her friends—apart from Jaz—were envious of her having a glamorous showbiz mother. And Elisabetta could act like a wonderful mother when it suited her.

It was the times when she didn’t that hurt Miranda the most.

But why did Leandro think he was responsible for his parents’ break-up? Had they told him that? Had they made him feel guilty? What sort of parents had they been to do something so reprehensible? How could they make a young child feel responsible for the breakdown of a marriage? That was the adults’ responsibility, not a child’s, and certainly not a young child’s.

But she didn’t pursue the conversation for at that point Leandro pulled into the driveway of a rundown-looking villa in the Belle Epoqué style. At first she thought he must have made a mistake, pulled into the wrong driveway or something. The place was like something out of a gothic noir film. The outside of the three-storey-high building was charcoal-grey with the stain of years of carbon monoxide pollution. The windows with the ragged curtains drawn were like closed eyes.

The villa was like a faded Hollywood star. Miranda could see the golden era of glamour in its lead-roofed cupolas on the corners and the ornamental ironwork and flamboyance of the stucco decorations that resembled a wedding cake.

But it had been sadly neglected. She knew many of the grand villas of the Belle Époque era along the Promenade des Anglais had not survived urban redevelopment. But the extravagance of the period was still apparent in this old beauty.

It made Miranda’s blood tick in her veins. What a gorgeous old place for Leandro to inherit. It was a piece of history. A relic from an enchanted time when the aristocracy had flaunted their wealth by hiring architects to design opulent villas with every imaginable embellishment: faux stonework, figureheads, frescos, friezes, decorative ironwork, ornamental stucco work, cupolas, painted effects, garlands and grotesques. The aristocracy had indulged their taste for the exotic, with Italian and Classic influences as well as Gothic, Eastern and Moorish.

And he was packing it up and selling it?

Miranda looked up at him as he opened her car door for her. ‘Leandro, it’s amazing! What a glorious building. It’s like a time capsule from the Art Nouveau period. This was your childhood home? Really?’

He clearly didn’t share her excitement for the building. His expression had that closed-off look about it, as shuttered as the windows of the villa they were about to enter. ‘It’s very run-down,’ he said.

‘Yes, but it can be brought back to life.’ Miranda beamed at him, clasping her hands in excitement. ‘I’m so glad you asked me to come. I can’t wait to see what’s inside.’

He stepped forward to unlock the door with the set of keys he was holding in his hand. ‘Dust and cobwebs mostly.’

Miranda’s gaze went to his tanned hand, that funny fluttery feeling passing over the floor of her belly as she watched the way his long, strong fingers turned the key in the lock. Who was the last woman he’d touched with those arrantly masculine but beautiful hands? Were his hands smooth or rough or something deliciously in between? She couldn’t stop herself from imagining those strong, capable hands exploring female flesh. Caressing a breast. Gliding down a smooth thigh. Touching the silken skin between her legs.

Her legs?

Miranda jerked back from her wayward thoughts as if a hand had grabbed and pulled on the back of her clothing. What was she doing thinking of him that way? She didn’t think of any man that way.

That way was over for her.

It had died with Mark. She owed it to his memory, to all he had meant to her and she to him.

Miranda could not allow herself to think of moving on with her life. Of having a life. A normal life. Her dreams of normal were gone.

Dead and buried.

Leandro glanced at her. ‘What’s wrong?’

Miranda felt her face flame. Why did she always act like a flustered schoolgirl when she was around him? She was an adult, for God’s sake. She had to act mature and sensible. Cool and in charge of her emotions and her traitorous needs. She could do that. Of course she could. ‘Erm...nothing.’

His frown created a deep crevasse between his brows. ‘Would you rather go to a hotel? There’s one a couple of blocks down. I could—’

‘No, of course not.’ She painted on a bright smile. ‘Don’t spoil it for me by insisting I stay at some plush hotel. This is right up my alley. I want to be in amongst the dust and cobwebs. Who knows what priceless treasures are hidden inside?’

Something moved at the back of his gaze, as quick as the twitch of a curtain. But then his expression went back to its default position. ‘Come this way,’ he said.

Miranda followed him into the villa, her heels echoing on the marbled floor of the grand foyer. It made her feel she was stepping into a vacuum, moving back in time. Thousands of dust motes rose in the air, the sunlight catching them where it was slanting in from the windows either side of the opulently carved and sweeping staircase.

As Leandro closed the door, the central chandelier tinkled above them as the draught of the outside air breathed against its glittering crystals.

Miranda felt a rush of goose bumps scamper over every inch of her flesh. She turned a full circle, taking in the bronze, marble and onyx statues positioned about the foyer. There were paintings on every wall, portraits and landscapes from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries; some looked even older. It was like stepping into a neglected museum. A thick layer of dust was over everything like a ghostly shroud.

‘Wow...’ she breathed in wonder.

Leandro merely looked bored. ‘I’ll show you to your room first. Then I’ll give you the guided tour.’

Miranda followed him upstairs, having to restrain herself from stopping in front of every painting or objet d’art on the way past. She caught tantalising glimpses of the second floor rooms through the open doors; most of the furniture was draped with dust sheets but even so she could see in times gone past the villa had been a showcase for grandeur and wealth. There were a couple of rooms with the doors closed. One she assumed was Leandro’s bedroom but she knew it wasn’t the master suite as they had passed it three doors back. Did he not want to occupy the room his father had slept in all those years?

Miranda felt another prickle of goose bumps.

Had his father perhaps died in there?

Thankfully the room Leandro had assigned her had been aired. The faded formal curtains had been pulled back and secured by the brass fittings and the window opened so fresh air could circulate. The breeze was playing with the gossamer-sheer fabric of the curtain in little billowy puffs and sighs.

‘I hope the bed’s comfortable,’ Leandro said as he placed her bag on a velvet-topped chest at the foot of the bed. ‘The linen is fresh. I bought some new stuff when I got here yesterday.’

Miranda glanced at him. ‘Did your father die at home?’

His brows came together. ‘Why do you ask?’

She gave a little shrug, absently rubbing her upper arms with her crossed-over hands. ‘Just wondering.’

He held her look for a beat before turning away, one of his hands scoring a pathway through the thickness of his hair. ‘He was found unconscious by a neighbour and died a few hours later in hospital.’

‘So you didn’t get to say goodbye to him?’

He made a sound of derision. ‘We said our goodbyes a long time ago.’

Miranda looked at the landscape of his face—the strong jaw, the tight mouth with its lines of tension running down each side and the shadowed eyes. ‘What happened between the two of you?’ she said.

His eyes moved away from hers. ‘I’ll leave you to unpack. The bathroom is through there. I’ll be downstairs in the study.’

‘Leandro?’

He stopped at the door and she heard him release a ‘what now?’ breath before he turned to look at her with dark eyes that flashed with unmistakable irritation. ‘You’re not here to give me grief counselling, okay?’

Miranda opened her eyes a little wider at his acerbic tone. She had never seen him even mildly angry before. He was always so emotionless, so neutral and blank...apart from that frown, of course. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

He scrubbed his hand over his face as he let out another whoosh of air. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a weighted tone. ‘That was uncalled for.’

‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘I realise this is a difficult time for you.’

His mouth twisted but it was nowhere near a smile, not even a quarter of one. ‘Let me know if you need anything. I’m not used to catering for guests. I might’ve overlooked something.’

‘Don’t you have visitors come and stay with you at your place in London?’ Miranda said.

His eyes were as unfathomable as ever as they held hers. ‘Women, you mean?’

Miranda felt another blush storm into her cheeks. Why on earth was she was discussing his sex life with him? It was crossing a boundary she had never crossed before. She’d thought about him with other women. Many times. How could she not? She’d seen the way other women looked at him. The way their eyes flared in interest. The way they licked their lips and fluttered their eyelashes, or moved or preened their bodies so he would take notice. She had been witnessing his effect on women for as long as she could remember. He wasn’t just eye candy. He was an eye banquet. He was intelligent, sophisticated, cultured and wealthy to boot. Alpha, but without the arrogance. He was everything a woman would want in a sexual partner. He was the stuff of fantasies. Hot, erotic fantasies she never allowed herself to have. What did it matter to her what he did or who he did it with?

She didn’t want to know.

Well, maybe just a little.

‘You do have them occasionally, don’t you?’ Miranda said.

One of his dark brows rose in a quizzical arc. ‘Have them?’

She held his look but it took an enormous effort. Her cheeks were on fire. Hot enough to sear a steak. He was teasing her. She could see a tiny glint in the dark chocolate of his eyes. Even one corner of his mouth had lifted a fraction. He was making her out to be a prude who couldn’t talk about sex openly. Why did everyone automatically assume because she was celibate she was uptight about all things sexual? That she was some old-world throwback who couldn’t handle modernity? ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about so stop trying to embarrass me.’

His eyes didn’t waver from hers. ‘I’m not a monk.’

Miranda couldn’t stop her mind running off with that information. Picturing him with women. Being very un-monk-like with them. Touching them, kissing them, making love to them. She imagined his body naked—the toned, tanned and taut perfection of him in the throes of animal passion.

She could feel her own body stirring in excitement, her pulse kicking up its pace, her blood pulsing with the primitive drumbeat of lust, her inner core contracting with a delicious clench of desire. She quickly moistened her lips with the point of her tongue, an electric jolt of awareness zapping her as she saw his dark-as-night gaze follow every micro-millimetre of its pathway across her mouth.

The subtle change in atmosphere made the air suddenly super-charged. She could feel the voltage crackling in the silence like a singing wire.

He was standing at least two metres away and yet she felt as if he had touched her. Her lips buzzed and fizzed. Throbbed. Ached. Would he kiss soft and slow or hard and fast? Would his stubble scrape or graze her? What would he taste of? Salty or sweet? Good quality coffee or top-shelf wine? Testosterone-rich man in his prime?

Miranda became aware of her body shifting. Stirring. Sensing. It felt like every cell was unfurling from a tightly wound ball. Her body stretched its cramped limbs like a long-confined creature. Her frozen blood thawed, warmed, heated. Sizzled.

Needs she had long ignored pulsed. Each little ripple of want in her inner core reminded her: she was a woman. He was a man. They were alone in a big, run-down old house with no one as buffer. No older brothers. No servants. No distractions.

No chaperone.

‘I hope it won’t cramp your style, having me here,’ Miranda said with what she hoped was suitably cool poise.

There was little to read on Leandro’s face except for the kindling heat in his gaze as it continued to hold hers. ‘So you wouldn’t mind if I brought someone home with me?’

Oh, dear God, would he? Would he bring someone back here? Would she have to watch some gorgeous woman drape herself all over him? Would she have to watch as they simpered up at him? Flirted and fussed over him? Would she have to go to bed knowing that, only a few thin walls and doors away, he was doing all sorts of wickedly sensual, un-monk-like things with someone else?

Miranda lifted her chin. ‘Just because I’ve sworn a vow of celibacy doesn’t mean I expect those around me to follow my example.’

He studied her for an infinitesimal moment, his eyes going back and forth between each of hers in an assessing manner that was distinctly unnerving. Why was he looking at her like that? What was he seeing? Did he sense her body’s reaction to his? She was doing her level best to conceal the effect he had on her but she knew most body language was unconscious. She had already licked her lips three times. Three times!

‘Do you think Mark would’ve sacrificed his life like you’re doing if the tables were turned?’ he said at last.

Miranda pursed her lips. At least it would stop her licking them, she thought. She knew exactly where this was going. Her brothers were always banging on about it. Jaz, too, would offer her opinion on how she was missing out on the best years of her life, yadda-yadda-yadda.

‘I’ll make a deal with you, Leandro,’ she said, eyeballing him. ‘I won’t tell you how to live your life if you don’t tell me how to live mine.’

His mouth took on a rueful slant. ‘Put those kitten claws away, cara,’ he said. ‘I don’t need any more enemies.’

He had never used a term of endearment when addressing her before. The way he said it, with that hint of an Italian accent all those years living in England hadn’t quite removed, made her spine tingle. But why was he addressing her like that other than to tease her? To mock her?

Miranda threw him a reproachful look. ‘Don’t patronise me. I’m an adult. I know my own mind.’

‘But you were just a kid back then,’ he said. ‘If he’d lived you would’ve broken up within a couple of months, if not weeks. It’s what teenagers do.’

‘That’s not true,’ Miranda said. ‘We’d been friends since we were little kids. We were in love. We were soul mates. We planned to spend the rest of our lives together.’

He shook his head at her as if she was talking utter nonsense. ‘Do you really believe that? Come on. Really?’

Miranda aligned her spine. Straightened her shoulders. Steeled her resolve to deflect any criticism of her decision to remain committed to the promises she had made to Mark. She and Mark had become close friends during early childhood when they had gone to the same small village school before she’d been sent to boarding school with Jaz. They’d officially started dating at fourteen. Her friendship with Mark had been longer than that with Jaz who had come to Ravensdene when she was eight.

Along with Mark’s steady friendship, his stable home life had been a huge draw and comfort for Miranda. His parents were so normal compared to hers. There’d been no high-flying parties with Hollywood superstars and theatre royalty coming and going all hours of the day and night. In the Redbank household there’d been no tempestuous outbursts with door-slamming and insults hurled, and no passionate making up that would only last a week or two before the cycle would begin again.

Mark’s parents, James and Susanne, were supportive and nurturing of each other and Mark and had always made Miranda feel like a part of the family. They actually took the time to listen to any problems she had. They were never too busy. They didn’t judge or dismiss her or even tell her what to do. They listened.

Leandro had no right to doubt her convictions. No right to criticise her choices. She had made up her mind and nothing he or anyone could say or do would make her veer from the course her conscience had taken. ‘Of course I do,’ she said. ‘I believe it with all my heart.’

The humming silence tiptoed from each corner of the room.

Leandro kept looking at her in that measuring way. Unsettling her. Making her think of things she had no right to be thinking. Erotic things. Forbidden things. Like how his mouth would feel against hers. How his hands would feel against her flesh. How their bodies would fit together—her slight curves against his toned male hardness. How it would feel to glide her mouth along his stubbly jaw, to press her lips to his and open her mouth to the searching thrust of his tongue.

She had never had such a rush of wicked thoughts before. They were running amok, making a mockery of her convictions. Making her aware of the needs she had for so long pretended weren’t there. Needs that were moving within that dark, secret place in her body. The way he was looking at her made her ache with unspent passion. She tried to control every micro-expression on her face. Stood as still as one of his father’s cold, lifeless statues downstairs.

But, as if he had seen enough to satisfy him, he finally broke the silence. ‘I’ll be in the study downstairs. We’ll eat out once you’ve unpacked. Give me a shout once you’re done.’

Miranda blinked. Dining out? With him? In public? People would assume they were dating. What if someone took a photo and it got back to Mark’s parents? Even though they had said—along with everyone else—she should get on with her life, she knew they would find it heartbreakingly difficult to watch her do so. How could they not? Everything she did with someone else would make their loss all the more painful. Mark had been their only son. Their only child. The dreams and hopes they’d had for him had died with him. The milestones of life: dating, engagement, marriage and children would be salt ground into an open wound.

She couldn’t do it to them.

‘You don’t want me to fix something for us here?’ Miranda said.

Leandro gave a soft sound that could have been his version of a laugh. ‘You’re getting your fairy tales mixed up,’ he said. ‘You’re Sleeping Beauty, not Cinderella.’

Miranda felt a wick of anger light up inside her. What right did he have to mock her choice to remain loyal to Mark’s memory? ‘Is this why you’ve asked me here? So you can make fun of me?’

‘I’m not making fun of you.’

‘Then what are you doing?’

His gaze dipped to her mouth for a nanosecond before meshing with hers once more. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’

Miranda frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

He came over to where she was standing. He stopped within a foot of her but even so she could feel the magnetic pull of his body as she lifted her gaze to his. She had never been this close to him. Not front to front. Almost toe to toe.

Her breathing halted as he placed a gentle but firm fingertip to the underside of her chin, lifting her face so her eyes had no possible way of escaping the mesmerising power of his. She could feel the slow burn of his touch, each individual whorl of his blunt fingertip like an electrode against her skin. She could smell the woodsy and citrus fragrance of his aftershave—not heady or overpowering, but subtle, with tantalising grace notes of lemon and lime.

She could see the dark pinpricks of his regrowth along his jaw, a heady reminder of the potency of his male hormones charging through his body. She could feel her own hormones doing cartwheels.

Her tongue sneaked out before she could stop it, leaving a layer of much-needed moisture over her lips. His gaze honed in on her mouth, his eyelashes at half-mast over his dark-as-pitch eyes.

Something fell off a high shelf in her stomach as his thumb brushed over her lower lip. The grazing movement of his thumb against the sensitive skin of her mouth made every nerve sit up and take notice. She could feel them twirling, pirouetting, in a frenzy of traitorous excitement.

His large, warm hand gently slid along the curve of her cheek, cupping one side of her face, some of her hair falling against the back of his hand like a silk curtain.

Had anyone ever held her like this? Tenderly cradled her face as if it were something delicate and priceless? The warmth of his palm seared her flesh, making her ache for him to cup not just her face but her breasts, to feel his firm male skin against her softer one.

‘I shouldn’t have brought you here,’ he said in a deep, gravelly tone that sent another shockwave across the base of her belly.

A hummingbird was trapped inside the cavity of Miranda’s chest, fluttering frantically inside each of the four chambers of her heart. ‘Why?’ Her voice was barely much more than a squeak.

He moved his thumb in a back-and-forth motion over her cheek, his inscrutable eyes holding her prisoner. ‘There are things you don’t know about me.’

Miranda swallowed. What didn’t she know? Did he have bodies buried in the cellar? Leather whips and chains and handcuffs? A red room? ‘Wh-what things?’

‘Not the things you’re thinking.’

‘I’m not thinking those things.’

He smiled a crooked half-smile that had mockery at its core. ‘Sweet, innocent, Miranda,’ he said. ‘The little girl in a woman’s body who refuses to grow up.’

Miranda stepped out of his hold, rubbing at her cheek in a pointed manner. ‘I thought I was here to look at your father’s art collection. I’m sorry if that seems terribly naïve of me but I’ve never had any reason not to trust you before now.’

‘You can trust me.’

She chanced a look at him again. His expression had lost its mocking edge. If anything he looked...sad. She could see the pained lines across his forehead, the shadows in his eyes, the grim set to his mouth. ‘Why am I here, Leandro?’ Somehow her voice had come out whispery instead of strident and firm.

He let out a long breath. ‘Because when I saw you in London I... I don’t know what I thought. I saw you cowering behind that pot plant and—’

‘I wasn’t cowering,’ Miranda put in indignantly. ‘I was hiding.’

‘I felt sorry for you.’

The silence echoed for a moment with his bald statement.

Miranda drew in a tight breath. ‘So you rescued me by pretending to need me to sort out your father’s collection. Is there even a collection?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then maybe you’d better show it to me.’

‘Come this way.’

Miranda followed him out of the suite and back downstairs to a room next door to the larger of the two sitting rooms. Leandro opened the door and gestured for her to go in. She stepped past him in the doorway, acutely conscious of the way his shirt sleeve brushed against her arm. Every nerve stood up and took notice. Every fine hair tingled at the roots. It was like his body was emitting waves of electricity and she had only to step over an invisible boundary to feel the full force of it.

The atmosphere inside the room was airless and musty, as if it had been closed up a long time. It was packed with canvasses, on the walls, and others wrapped and stacked in leaning piles against the shrouded furniture.

Miranda sent her gaze over the paintings on the walls, examining each one with her trained apprentice’s eye. Even without her qualifications and experience she’d have been able to see this was a collection of enormous value. One of the landscapes was certainly a Gainsborough, or if not a very credible imitation. What other treasures were hidden underneath those wrapped canvasses?

Miranda turned to look at Leandro. ‘This is amazing. But I’m not sure I’m experienced enough to handle such a large collection. We’d need to ship the pieces back to London for proper valuation. It’s too much for one person to deal with. Some of these pieces could be worth hundreds of thousands of pounds, maybe even millions. You might want to keep some as an investment. Sell them in a few years so you can—’

‘I don’t want them.’

She frowned at his implacable tone. ‘But that’s crazy, Leandro. You could have your own collection. You could have it on show at a private museum. It would be—’

‘I have no interest in making money out of my father’s collection,’ he said. ‘Just do what you have to do. I’ll pay for any shipment costs but that’s as far as I’m prepared to go.’

Miranda watched open-mouthed as he strode out of the room, the dust motes he’d disturbed hovering in the ringing silence.