‘Si. It’s a family business. They’re away at the moment, snatching a few days with my sister Carla and her new baby before the harvest starts, but they’ll be back the day after tomorrow.’
‘So how many rooms are there?’
He laughed. ‘I have no idea. I’ve never counted them, I’m too busy trying not to let it fall down. It’s crumbling as fast as we can patch it up, but so long as we can cheat time, that’s fine. It’s quite interesting.’
‘I’m sure it is. And now it’s your turn to run it?’
His mouth tugged down at the corners, but there was a smile in his eyes. ‘Si. For my sins. My father keeps trying to interfere, but he’s supposed to be retired. He doesn’t understand that, though.’
‘No. It must be hard to hand it over. My father wouldn’t be able to do it. And the harvest is just starting?’
He nodded. ‘The grape harvest is first, followed by the chestnuts and the olives. It’s relentless now until the end of November, so you can see why I was in a hurry to get back.’
‘And I held you up.’
‘Cara, accidents happen. Don’t think about it any more.’ He pushed back his chair. ‘I think it’s time you went to bed. It’s after midnight.’
Was it? When had that happened? When they were outside, sitting in the quiet of the night and watching the twinkling lights in the villages? Or now, sitting here eating bread and cheese and olive oil, drinking wine and staring into each other’s eyes like lovers?
She nodded and pushed back her chair, and he tucked her arm in his so she could feel the solid muscle of his forearm under her hand, and she hung on him and hopped and hobbled her way to her room.
‘Ring me if you need anything. You have my mobile number on my card. I gave it to you on the plane. Do you still have it?’
‘Yes—but I won’t need you.’
Well, not for anything she’d dream of asking him for …
His brows tugged together. ‘Just humour me, OK? If you feel unwell in the night, or want anything, ring me and I’ll come down. I’m not far away. And please, don’t lock your door.’
‘Massimo, I’m feeling all right. My headache’s gone, and I feel OK now. You don’t need to worry.’
‘You can’t be too careful,’ he said, and she could see a tiny frown between his brows, as if he was still waiting for something awful to happen to her.
They reached her room and he paused at the door, staring down into her eyes and hesitating for the longest moment. And then, just when she thought he was going to kiss her, he stepped back.
‘Call me if you need me. If you need anything at all.’
‘I will.’
‘Good. Buonanotte, Lydia,’ he murmured softly, and turned and walked away.
WHAT was she thinking about?
Of course he hadn’t been about to kiss her! That bump on the head had obviously been more serious than she’d realised. Maybe a blast of fresh air would help her think clearly?
She opened the French doors onto the terrace and stood there for a moment, letting the night air cool her heated cheeks. She’d been so carried along on the moment, so lured by his natural and easy charm that she’d let herself think all sorts of stupid things.
Of course he wasn’t interested in her. Why would he be? She’d been nothing but a thorn in his side since the moment he’d set eyes on her. And even if he hadn’t, she wasn’t interested! Well, that was a lie, of course she was interested, or she wouldn’t even be thinking about it, but there was no way it was going anywhere.
Not after the debacle with Russell. She was sworn off men now for life, or at least for a good five years. And so far, it hadn’t been much more than five months!
Leaving the doors open, she limped back to the bed and pulled her pyjamas out of her flight bag, eyeing them dubiously. The skimpy top and little shorts she’d brought for their weightlessness had seemed fine when she was going to be sharing a hotel room with Claire, but here, in this ancient historic house—palazzo, even, for heaven’s sake! She wondered what on earth he’d make of them.
Nothing. Nothing at all, because he wasn’t going to see her in her nightclothes! Cross with herself, her head aching and her ankle throbbing and her bruises giving her a fair amount of grief as well, she changed into the almost-pyjamas, cleaned her teeth and crawled into bed.
Oh, bliss. The pillows were cloud-soft, the down quilt light and yet snuggly, and the breeze from the doors was drifting across her face, bringing with it the scents of sage and lavender and night-scented stocks.
Exhausted, weary beyond belief, she closed her eyes with a little sigh and drifted off to sleep …
Her doors were open.
He hesitated, standing outside on the terrace, questioning his motives.
Did he really think she needed checking in the night? Or was he simply indulging his—what? Curiosity? Fantasy? Or, perhaps … need?
He groaned softly. There was no doubt that he needed her, needed the warmth of her touch, the laughter in her eyes, the endless chatter and the brilliance of her smile.
The silence, when she’d simply held his hand and offered comfort.
Thinking about that moment brought a lump to his throat, and he swallowed hard. He hadn’t allowed himself to need a woman for years, but Lydia had got under his skin, penetrated his defences with her simple kindness, and he wanted her in a way that troubled him greatly, because it was more than just physical.
And he really wasn’t sure he was ready for that—would ever be ready for that again. But the need …
He’d just check on her, just to be on the safe side. He couldn’t let her lie there alone all night.
Not like Angelina.
Guilt crashed over him again, driving out the need and leaving sorrow in its wake. Focused now, he went into her room, his bare feet silent on the tiled floor, and gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the light.
Had she sensed him? Maybe, because she sighed and shifted, the soft, contented sound drifting to him on the night air. When had he last heard a woman sigh softly in her sleep?
Too long ago to remember, too soon to forget.
It would be so easy to reach out his hand, to touch her. To take her in his arms, warm and sleepy, and make love to her.
Easy, and yet impossibly wrong. What was it about her that made him feel like this, that made him think things he hadn’t thought in years? Not since he’d lost Angelina.
He stood over her, staring at her in the moonlight, the thought of his wife reminding him of why he was here. Not to watch Lydia sleep, like some kind of voyeur, but to keep her safe. He focused on her face. It was peaceful, both sides the same, just as it had been when he’d left her for the night, and she was breathing slowly and evenly. As he watched she moved her arms, pushing the covers lower. Both arms, both working.
He swallowed. She was fine, just as she’d told him, he realised in relief. He could go to bed now, relax.
But it was too late. He’d seen her sleeping, heard that soft, feminine sigh and the damage was done. His body, so long denied, had come screaming back to life, and he wouldn’t sleep now.
Moving carefully so as not to disturb her, he made his way back to the French doors and out