‘Si.’
She stared around her, but the light was fading and it was hard to tell what she was looking at. But the massive edifice ahead of them was outlined against the sunset, and as they drew closer she could see lights twinkling in the windows.
They climbed the hill, driving through a massive archway and pulling up in front of a set of sweeping steps. Security lights came on as they stopped, and she could see the steps were flanked by huge terracotta pots with what looked like olive trees in them. The steps rose majestically up to the biggest set of double doors she’d ever seen in her life. Strong doors, doors that would keep you safe against all invaders.
She had to catch her jaw again, and for once in her life she was lost for words. She’d thought, foolishly, it seemed, that it might shrink as they got closer, but it hadn’t. If anything it had grown, and she realised it truly was a fortress.
An ancient, impressive and no doubt historically significant fortress. And it was his family home?
She thought of their modest farmhouse, the place she called home, and felt the sudden almost overwhelming urge to laugh. What on earth did he think of her, all tarted up in her ludicrous charity shop wedding dress and capering about outside the airport begging a lift from any old stranger?
‘Lydia?’
He was standing by her, the door open, and she gathered up the dress and her purse and phone and squirmed off the seat and out of the car, balancing on her good leg and eyeing the steps dubiously.
How on earth—?
No problem, apparently. He shut the car door, and then to her surprise he scooped her up into his arms.
She gave a little shriek and wrapped her arms around his neck, so that her nose was pressed close to his throat in the open neck of his shirt. Oh, God. He smelt of lemons and musk and warm, virile male, and she could feel the beat of his heart against her side.
Or was it her own? She didn’t know. It could have been either.
He glanced down at her, concerned that he might be hurting her. There was a little frown creasing the soft skin between her brows, and he had the crazy urge to kiss it away. He almost did, but stopped himself in time.
She was a stranger, nothing more, and he tried to ignore the feel of her against his chest, the fullness of her breasts pressing into his ribs and making his heart pound like a drum. She had her head tucked close to his shoulder, and he could feel the whisper of her breath against his skin. Under the antiseptic her hair smelled of fresh fruit and summer flowers, and he wanted to bury his face in it and breathe in.
He daren’t look down again, though. She’d wrapped her arms around his neck and the front of the dress was gaping slightly, the soft swell of those beautiful breasts tempting him almost beyond endurance.
Crazy. Stupid. Whatever was the matter with him? He gritted his teeth, shifted her a little closer and turned towards the steps.
Lydia felt his body tense, saw his jaw tighten and she wondered why. She didn’t have time to work it out, though, even if she could, because as he headed towards the house three children came tumbling down the steps and came to a sliding halt in front of them, their mouths open, their faces shocked.
‘Pàpa?’
The eldest, a thin, gangly girl with a riot of dark curls and her father’s beautiful eyes, stared from one of them to the other, and the look on her face was pure horror.
‘I think you’d better explain to your children that I am not your new wife,’ she said drily, and the girl glanced back at her and then up at her father again.
‘Pàpa?’
He was miles away, caught up in a fairy-tale fantasy of carrying this beautiful woman over the threshold and then peeling away the layers of her bridal gown …
‘Massimo? I think you need to explain to the children,’ Lydia said softly, watching his face at close range. There was a tic in his jaw, the muscle jumping. Had he carried Angelina up these steps?
‘It’s all right, Francesca,’ he said in English, struggling to find his voice. ‘This is Miss Fletcher. I met her today at the airport, and she’s had an accident and has to rest for a few days, so I’ve brought her here. Say hello.’
She frowned and asked something in Italian, and he smiled a little grimly and shook his head. ‘No. We are not married. Say hello to Miss Fletcher, cara.’
‘Hello, Miss Fletcher,’ Francesca said in careful English, her smile wary but her shoulders relaxing a little, and Lydia smiled back at her. She felt a little awkward, gathered up in his arms against that hard, broad chest with the scent of his body doing extraordinary things to her heart, but there was nothing she could do about it except smile and hope his arms didn’t break.
‘Hello, Francesca. Thank you for speaking English so I can understand you.’
‘That’s OK. We have to speak English to Auntie Isabelle. This is Lavinia, and this is Antonino. Say hello,’ she prompted.
Lydia looked at the other two, clustered round their sister. Lavinia was the next in line, with the same dark, glorious curls but mischief dancing in her eyes, and Antonino, leaning against Francesca and squiggling the toe of his shoe on the gravel, was the youngest. The baby in the photo, the little one who must have lost his mother before he ever really knew her.
Her heart ached for them all, and she felt a welling in her chest and crushed it as she smiled at them.
‘Hello, Lavinia, hello, Antonino. It’s nice to meet you,’ she said, and they replied politely, Lavinia openly studying her, her eyes brimming over with questions.
‘And this is Carlotta,’ Massimo said, and she lifted her head and met searching, wise eyes in a wizened face. He spoke rapidly to her in Italian, explaining her ridiculous fancy-dress outfit no doubt, and she saw the moment he told her that they’d lost the competition, because Carlotta’s face softened and she looked at Lydia and shook her head.
‘Sorry,’ she said, lifting her hands. ‘So sorry for you. Come, I help you change and you will be happier, si?’
‘Si,’ she said with a wry chuckle, and Massimo shifted her more firmly against his chest and followed Carlotta puffing and wheezing up the steps.
The children were tugging at him and questioning him in Italian, and he was laughing and answering them as fast as he could. Bless their little hearts, she could see they were hanging on his every word.
He was the centre of their world, and they’d missed him, and she’d kept him away from them all these hours when they must have been desperate to have him back. She felt another shaft of guilt, but Carlotta was leading the way through the big double doors, and she looked away from the children and gasped softly.
They were in a cloistered courtyard, with a broad covered walkway surrounding the open central area that must cast a welcome shade in the heat of the day, but now in the evening it was softly lit and she could see more of the huge pots of olive trees set on the old stone paving in the centre, and on the low wall that divided the courtyard from the cloistered walkway geraniums tumbled over the edge, bringing colour and scent to the evening air.
But that wasn’t what had caught her attention. It was the frescoed walls, the ancient faded murals under the shelter of the cloisters that took her breath away.
He didn’t pause, though, or give her time to take in the beautiful paintings, but carried her through one of the several doors set in the walls, then along a short hallway and into a bedroom.
He set her gently on the bed, and she felt oddly bereft as he straightened up and moved away.
‘I’ll be in the kitchen with the children. Carlotta will tell me when you’re ready and I’ll come and get you.’
‘Thank