‘I did a basic social media search—you work for Lamberts Marketing, as part of their admin team. That doesn’t sound like someone whose heart and soul are linked to a lemon grove in Lycander.’
‘It’s temporary. I thought working for a marketing company for a short time would give me some useful insights and skills which will be transferrable to Il Boschetto di Sole. My plan is to return in six months.’
Yes, she loved London, but she had always known it was a short-term stay. Her father would be devastated if she decided not to return to Lycander, to her life on Il Boschetto di Sole. She was a Romano, and that was where she belonged. Of course he wouldn’t force her return—but he needed her.
Ever since her mother had left Holly had vowed she would look after him—especially since he’d been diagnosed with a long-term heart condition. There was no immediate danger, and provided he looked after himself he should be fine. But that wasn’t his forte. He was a workaholic and the extent of his cooking ability was to dial for a take away.
Guilt panged anew—she shouldn’t have left in the first place. The least she could have done for the man who had brought her up singlehandedly from the age of eight was not abandon him. But she visited regularly, checked up nearly daily, and she would be home soon.
Stefan stepped a little closer to her—not into her space, but close enough that for a stupid moment she caught a whiff of his scent, a citrus woodsy smell that sent her absurdly dizzy.
For a second his body tensed, and she would have sworn he caught his breath, and then he frowned—as though he’d lost track of the conversational thread just as she had.
Focus.
‘I’d like to discuss a deal,’ he said eventually, as the frown deepened into what she was coming to think of as his trademark scowl. ‘What will it take for you to walk away from this? I understand that you are worried about your father—but I would guarantee that his job is safe, that nothing will change for him. If anything, he would have more autonomy to do as he wishes with the grove. And you can name your price—what do you want?’
Holly’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t want anything.’
‘You don’t even want to think about it?’ Disbelief tinged each syllable.
‘Nope.’
‘Why not?’ The question was genuine, but lined with an edge—this was a man used to getting his own way.
‘Because the Romanos have toiled on that land for generations—now we have a chance to own the land in our own right. Nothing is worth more than that. Nothing. Surely you see that?’
‘No, I don’t. It is just soil and fruit and land—the same as any other on Lycander. Take the money and buy another lemon grove—a new one that can belong to the Romanos from the start.’
His tone implied that he genuinely believed this to be a viable solution. ‘It doesn’t work like that. We have a history with Il Boschetto di Sole—a connection, a bond. You don’t.’
His frown deepened but he remained silent; it was impossible to tell his thoughts.
‘So why don’t you take your own advice? You have more than enough money to buy a score of lemon groves. Why do you want this one?’
‘That’s my business,’ he said. ‘The point is I am willing to pay you well over the market price. I suggest you think carefully about my offer. Because I am also willing to fight it out, and if I win then you will have nothing. No money and no guarantee that your father will keep his job.’
For a second her blood chilled and anger soared. ‘So if you win you would take his job from him?’
‘Perhaps. If I win the grove it will be mine to do with as I wish.’
For a second a small doubt trickled through her—what if she lost and was left with nothing? But this wasn’t about money; this was about the land of her father’s heart. This was her opportunity to give her father something infinitely precious, and she had no intention of rolling over and conceding.
‘No deal. If you want a fight, bring it on. This meeting is over.’
Before she could head around the immense table he moved to intercept her. ‘Where are you going? To marry the first man you find?’
‘Perhaps I am. Or perhaps I already have a boyfriend ready and eager to walk me to the altar.’
As if. Post-Graham she had decided to eschew boyfriends and to run away screaming from any altar in sight.
‘Equally, I’m sure there will be women queuing round the block to marry you.’
He gusted out a sigh, looking less than enamoured at the thought. ‘For a start, I’m pretty sure it’s not that easy to just get married—there will be plenty of red tape and bureaucracy to get through. Secondly, I have a better idea than instant matrimony, even if it were possible. Let’s call a truce on the race to the altar whilst my lawyers look at the will and see if this whole marriage stipulation can be overturned. There has to be a better way to settle this.’
‘No argument here—that makes sense.’ Caution kicked in. ‘In theory...’ Because it could be a trick—why should she believe anything Stefan Petrelli said? ‘But what’s to stop you from marrying someone during our ‘truce’ as a back-up plan?’
Call her cynical, but she had little doubt that a millionaire prince could find a way to obliterate all red tape and bureaucracy.
‘The fact that even the thought of marriage makes me come out in hives.’
‘Hives may be a worthwhile price to pay for Il Boschetto di Sole.’
‘Point taken. In truth there is nothing to stop either of us reneging on a truce—and it would be foolish for either of us to trust the other.’ Rubbing the back of his neck, he looked at her. ‘The lawyers will work fast—that’s what I pay them for. We’re probably only talking twenty-four hours—two days, tops. We’ll need to stick together until they get back to us.’
Stick together. The words resonated in the echoey confines of the meeting room, pinged into the sudden silence, bounced off the chrome and glass and writhed into images that brought heat to her cheeks.
Something sparked in his grey eyes, calling to her to close the gap between them and plaster herself to his chest.
‘No way.’ The words fell from her lips with vehemence, though whether it was directed at herself or him she wasn’t sure.
In truth, he looked a little poleaxed himself, and in that instant Holly wondered if this attraction could be mutual.
Then, as if with an effort, he shrugged. ‘What’s the alternative? Seems to me it’s a good idea to spend one weekend together in the hope that we can avoid a year of marriage.’
Deep breath, Holly. His words held reason, and no way would she actually succumb to this insane attraction—she’d steered clear of the opposite sex for eighteen months now, without regret. Yet the whole idea of sticking to Stefan Petrelli caused her lungs to constrict. Go figure.
‘How would it work?’
‘I suggest a hotel. Neutral ground. We can get a suite. Two bedrooms and a living area.’
Had there been undue emphasis on the word ‘two’? A glance at his expression showed tension in his jaw—clearly he wasn’t overly keen on the logistics of them sticking together either. But she couldn’t come up with an alternative—couldn’t risk him heading to the altar, and definitely couldn’t trust him. And this was doable. A suite. Separate bedrooms.
So... ‘That could work.’
‘What are your plans for the weekend? We can do our best to incorporate them.’
‘Nothing