Tears welled in her eyes again, and she brushed them away crossly, but then she felt a light touch on her arm and looked up, and he was staring down at her, his face concerned.
He frowned and reached out a hand, touching the moisture on her cheek with a gentle fingertip.
‘Lydia?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m fine. Ignore me, I’m a sentimental idiot.’
He dropped to his haunches and took her hand, and she had a sudden and overwhelming urge to cry in earnest. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to distress you. You don’t need to cry for us.’
She shook her head and sniffed again. ‘I’m not. Not really.
I was thinking about my mother—about how I’d miss her—and I’m twenty-eight, not five.’
He nodded. ‘Yes. It’s very hard.’ His mouth quirked in a fleeting smile. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve neglected you. Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee? Water? Something stronger?’
‘It’s a bit early for stronger,’ she said, trying for a light note, and he smiled again, more warmly this time, and straightened up.
‘Nico would have been on the second bottle of champagne by now,’ he said, and she felt a wave of relief that he’d saved her from what sounded more and more like a dangerous mistake.
‘Fizzy water would be nice, if you have any?’ she said, and he nodded.
‘Claire?’
‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’
He moved away, and she let her breath out slowly. She hadn’t really registered, until he’d crouched beside her, just how big he was. Not bulky, not in any way, but he’d shed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, and she’d been treated to the broad shoulders and solid chest at close range, and then his narrow hips and lean waist and those long, strong legs as he’d straightened up.
His hands, appearing in her line of sight again, were clamped round two tall glasses beaded with moisture and fizzing gently. Large hands, strong and capable, no-nonsense.
Safe, sure hands that had held hers and warmed her to the core.
Her breasts tingled unexpectedly, and she took the glass from him and tried not to drop it. ‘Thank you.’
‘Prego, you’re welcome. Are you hungry? We have fruit and pastries, too.’
‘No. No, I’m much too excited to eat now,’ she confessed, sipping the water and hoping the cool liquid would slake the heat rising up inside her.
Crazy! He was totally uninterested in her, and even if he wasn’t, she wasn’t in the market for any more complications in her life. Her relationship with Russell had been fraught with complications, and the end of it had been a revelation. There was no way she was jumping back into that pond any time soon. The last frog she’d kissed had turned into a king-sized toad.
‘How long before we land?’ she asked, and he checked his watch, treating her to a bronzed, muscular forearm and strong-boned wrist lightly scattered with dark hair. She stared at it and swallowed. How ridiculous that an arm could be so sexy.
‘Just over an hour. Excuse me, we have work to do, but please, if you need anything, just ask.’
He turned back to his colleagues, sitting down and flexing his broad shoulders, and Lydia felt her gut clench. She’d never, never felt like that about anyone before, and she couldn’t believe she was reacting to him that way. It must just be the adrenaline.
One more hour to get through before they were there and they could thank him and get away—hopefully before she disgraced herself. The poor man was still grieving for his wife. What was she thinking about?
Ridiculous! She’d known him, what, less than two hours altogether? Scarcely more than one. And she’d already put her foot firmly in it.
Vowing not to say another thing, she settled back in her seat and looked out of the window at the mountains.
They must be the Alps, she realised, fascinated by the jagged peaks and plunging valleys, and then the mountains fell away behind them and they were moving over a chequered landscape of forests and small, neat fields. They were curiously ordered and disciplined, serried ranks of what must be olive trees and grape vines, she guessed, planted with geometric precision, the pattern of the fields interlaced with narrow winding roads lined with avenues of tall, slender cypress trees.
Tuscany, she thought with a shiver of excitement.
The seat belt light came on, and Massimo returned to his seat across the aisle from her as the plane started its descent.
‘Not long now,’ he said, flashing her a smile. And then they were there, a perfect touchdown on Tuscan soil with the prize almost in reach.
Jen was going to get her wedding. Just a few more minutes …
They taxied to a stop outside the airport building, and after a moment the steps were wheeled out to them and the door was opened.
‘We’re really here!’ she said to Claire, and Claire’s eyes were sparkling as she got to her feet.
‘I know. I can’t believe it!’
They were standing at the top of the steps now, and Massimo smiled and gestured to them. ‘After you. Do you have the address of the hotel? I’ll drive you there.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’d hate you not to win after all this,’ he said with a grin.
‘Wow, thank you, that’s really kind of you!’ Lydia said, reaching for her skirts as she took another step.
It happened in slow motion.
One moment she was there beside him, the next the steps had disappeared from under her feet and she was falling, tumbling end over end, hitting what seemed like every step until finally her head reached the tarmac and she crumpled on the ground in a heap.
Her scream was cut off abruptly, and Massimo hurled himself down the steps to her side, his heart racing. No! Please, she couldn’t be dead …
She wasn’t. He could feel a pulse in her neck, and he let his breath out on a long, ragged sigh and sat back on his heels to assess her.
Stay calm, he told himself. She’s alive. She’ll be all right.
But he wouldn’t really believe it until she stirred, and even then …
‘Is she all right?’
He glanced up at Claire, kneeling on the other side of her, her face chalk white with fear.
‘I think so,’ he said, but he didn’t think any such thing. Fear was coursing through him, bringing bile rising to his throat. Why wasn’t she moving? This couldn’t be happening again.
Lydia moaned. Warm, hard fingers had searched for a pulse in her neck, and as she slowly came to, she heard him snap out something in Italian while she lay there, shocked and a little stunned, wondering if it was a good idea to open her eyes. Maybe not yet.
‘Lydia? Lydia, talk to me! Open your eyes.’
Her eyes opened slowly and she tried to sit up, but he pressed a hand to her shoulder.
‘Stay still. You might have a neck injury. Where do you hurt?’
Where didn’t she? She turned her head and winced. ‘Ow … my head, for a start. What happened? Did I trip? Oh, I can’t believe I was so stupid!’
‘You fell down the steps.’
‘I know that—ouch.’ She felt her head, and her hand came away bloodied and sticky. She stared at it. ‘I’ve