She was panting, stuttering, her anger vying with her fear. He was bluffing. He had to be. There was nothing he could do.
But as she watched the helicopter rise up into the sky and slowly disappear from view she knew that it was she who was mistaken. She had thought he had come to the palazzo simply to broker a deal. And maybe it had started out that way. But that had been before she threw his deal back in his face. She felt a rush of nausea. Now there would be no more deals, for his parting words had been a declaration of war. And she knew with absolute certainty that when Massimo Sforza came back next time he would be bringing an army.
ROLLING OVER IN her large wrought-iron bed, Flora stared miserably out of the window at the cloudless sky. She’d slept badly again. Her night had been filled by images of Massimo Sforza, his eyes darker than his bespoke navy blue suit, beckoning her towards him only for the floor to open up beneath her feet.
Her cheeks grew warm, and she shifted uncomfortably beneath the bedclothes. The nightmares had been horrible, but the dreams were far more unsettling. Dreams of a naked Massimo, his lean, muscular body pressed against hers, those long, supple fingers drifting lazily over her skin and—
And what? Irritably, she sat up. He’d probably take the bed, with her still in it, and push it out to sea—and frankly she’d deserve it.
Gritting her teeth, she pulled on a faded black T-shirt and a pair of sawn-off jeans and stomped downstairs. Holding her breath, she forced herself to look at the letter cage hanging on the back of the door, but there was no heart-stopping white envelope to greet her, and she breathed out slowly.
It had been three weeks since Massimo had turned up at the palazzo, but still she sensed his presence everywhere. The thought that someday she would turn round to find him standing there, watching her, his face rapt and triumphant, made her feel dizzy.
But only until the anger kicked in.
In the kitchen, she took out a plate and a cup and glanced up at the deadbolts she’d fitted to the French windows. As a tenant, she was forbidden from changing the main locks, but there was nothing in her contract about adding additional security so she had bought new solid steel padlocks for all the gates too. Glancing up at the old iron range, she felt the tension inside her ease a little. There was only one key to the huge, solid oak front door and it was hanging there, between the skillet and the espresso coffee pot. Whatever happened, Massimo Sforza was not going to be able to barge his way unannounced into her home again.
* * *
She woke the next morning to the insistent ringing of her mobile phone. ‘Okay, okay,’ she mumbled, fumbling on the bedside table, her eyes still screwed shut. ‘Hello? Hello!’
Opening one eye, she squinted into the sunlight filtering through the gap in the curtains. Who the hell was ringing at this time? And, more importantly, why weren’t they saying anything? She gazed irritably at her phone and then her breath seemed to freeze in her lungs as the ringing began again—from somewhere downstairs.
For a moment she lay gripped with confusion, panic swelling inside her, cold and slippery as a toad. Wishing her heart would stop making so much noise, she strained her ears. Surely she’d imagined it—but there it was again. And then from nowhere came a high-pitched screeching that made her press her hands over her ears.
Still wincing, she rolled out of bed. She wasn’t scared now. Burglars didn’t use drills. She sniffed suspiciously. Or make coffee!
The noise downstairs was even louder than in her bedroom. Edging into the kitchen, she took a deep breath as her mouth fell open in horror. Everywhere she looked, there were people in overalls and boxes piled on top of one another.
Her lips tightening, she tapped the nearest man on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me! What are you doing in my kitchen?’
But before he could answer a woman with a sleek shoulder-length blond bob, wearing a clinging grey jacket and skirt, slid past her, miming apologetically.
Gritting her teeth, Flora gazed furiously in front of her. She might not go shopping much anymore, but she knew a designer suit when she saw one and that little outfit probably cost more than her food bill for a year.
It also answered her question more eloquently than any workman could have done.
Her face twisting with anger, she stormed out onto the terrazza. ‘I knew it,’ she spat. ‘I knew you’d be behind this! You are such a—’ She swore furiously in English at the man lounging at the table, drinking coffee.
He frowned, his handsome face creasing with mock horror. ‘Somebody got out of bed the wrong side.’ His eyes gleamed maliciously. ‘Good morning, Miss Golding! I hardly recognise you with your clothes on!’
‘Ha-ha! Very amusing. Now, will you please tell me what the hell you’re playing at?’
‘I’m not playing at anything, cara. This is work.’ His eyes pinned her to the spot. ‘I’m sorry we got you up so early, but not all of us have the luxury of a lie-in.’
He was speaking in English too, and she stared at him mutely, trying to work out why. And then abruptly he stood up and languidly stretched his shoulders and all rational thought went out of her head as her body went on high alert.
‘Don’t mind us,’ he said, stifling a yawn. ‘We can just carry on down here and you can go back up to bed.’
Flora gaped at him. Why was he acting like this? He was being friendly, pleasant. He was making it seem as though this was something she’d agreed to. Glancing round, she felt her skin grow warm as she saw two of the men on his team share a conspiratorial glance.
Did they think she and Massimo were—? She opened her mouth to protest—and then stopped as Massimo smiled malevolently at her outraged expression.
Their eyes met and his smile widened. ‘Actually, I had a very early start. Perhaps I’ll just come up with you—’
She glowered at him. ‘No. You will not—’ And then she jumped violently as a loud thumping started from somewhere further inside the house. ‘What the hell is that noise?’ Turning, she stalked back into the kitchen like an angry cat.
Following her, Massimo shrugged, his face bland and unreadable. ‘I’m not exactly sure.’ He gestured vaguely towards a box of cables. ‘Something to do with improving the internet.’
His eyes picked over the two spots of colour on her cheeks and the pulse throbbing in her neck and something in their considering gleam made her want to take some of the cable and strangle him with it. But instead she gritted her teeth. Knowing him, he was probably hoping she’d do just that so he could exercise some medieval right to remove unstable female tenants.
She took a deep breath. ‘You can’t do this, Mr Sforza—’
‘Call me Massimo,’ he said smoothly. ‘I know I’m your landlord, but there’s really no need to stand on ceremony.’
She bit her lip—he was baiting her. Worse, he was enjoying watching her struggle with her temper. ‘Yes. You are my landlord. Which means that you can’t just walk in here whenever you feel like it.’
‘You know, I thought you’d say that,’ he murmured, reaching into his jacket pocket. ‘So I had one of my staff print off a copy of your tenancy agreement. Here. You can keep it.’ He glanced at the slanting pile of letters stacked against the wall. ‘File it with all your other important documents.’
Staring at him mutinously, she snatched it from him. ‘I don’t need a copy. I know what it says, and it says that you can’t just turn up without warning. You have to give me notice.’
He frowned. ‘Did I not do that? How remiss of me. I can’t imagine how that happened. And there was me, trying to be a