Strictly speaking, it wasn’t all his. He really did own it in conjunction with his siblings since their father had died and left the family home to them all. But with his youngest brother at Harvard and determined to live up north, a soon-to-be married sister who already lived abroad and two other brothers who had bought houses with their significant others, Vito had begun thinking of the Cesare family home as his responsibility.
The way it had been for many years after their folks had died.
As the oldest of the Cesares, Vito had stepped in to raise his younger siblings. His mother had passed away in childbirth when he was barely a teenager, his father had followed her six years later. He’d taken care of the kids and the house until his sister was safely in college and his youngest brother was almost finished with high school. Then he’d given over the responsibilities to his brothers Nico and Renzo so he could finally live his own dreams on the European racing circuit.
The sound of footsteps on the driveway made him pause, pulling his head out of old memories. Turning as he reached the side door, he found the possessive owner of the fire bush on his heels, staring up at him with wary blue eyes.
“You can’t go in,” she informed him, tucking a strand of chin-length dark brown hair behind one ear. “The place is a little messy.”
He peered around the yard and wondered if the inside could be as bad as the outside. Glancing back down at her dust-smeared khaki cargo shorts and damp gray T-shirt, he was hardly reassured. Although he’d be lying if he pretended not to notice the admirable curves beneath the layers of dirt. “How messy?”
“Considering you look like you just walked off a shoot for GQ, you’ll probably think it looks pretty bad.” She folded her arms under those admirable curves of hers and looked at him as though he was the one covered in grime. “But as far as I’m concerned, it’s just all in a day’s work.”
That didn’t sound good. At all. Vito’s method of combating jet lag involved lots of sleeping, not cleaning. In fact, he’d grown accustomed to maid service since he’d traded surrogate parenthood to his younger siblings for life in the fast lane as a Formula One race-car driver. He hadn’t picked up a mop in years.
And he didn’t miss domestic duties one little bit.
Deciding that facing the mess couldn’t be any worse than surviving the heat, Vito inserted his key in the lock.
Paused. Turned back to the woman behind him.
“I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“Christine Chandler. Sorry. I try to avoid introductions when my hands are dirty.” She kept the hands in question tucked under her folded arms.
“Very understandable.” Nudging open the door he stepped inside the kitchen of the sprawling ranch house his dad had bought when he moved to the U.S. Or at least, the room that used to be the kitchen.
Currently, the kitchen sink overflowed with flower cuttings, plant stems and mountains of dirt. The windowsill overlooking the backyard was crammed full of flower flats precariously balanced half on the sill and half on the dining-room chairs. Bags of potting soil and birdseed crowded the floor.
“Birdseed?” It was the least offensive question that sprang to mind when all he really wanted to know was what in the hell this insane woman was doing to his house.
His mother had always called their home “Hollywood tacky” with its open floor plan and sixties modern architecture. But it had felt like home to Vito with the big yard and tons of neighbor kids to grow up with. He always looked forward to coming home, but this time…Damn.
“For the birds,” she explained very slowly as if only a complete moron would ask such an obvious question. Easing around the bags on the floor, she washed her hands over a tiny free corner of the sink. “Your uncle Giuseppe stressed that he hoped to attract a lot of birds.”
“And you can’t keep this stuff in the garage?”
“The birdseed, yes. I’ll move it now that you’re home.” She nudged one of the bags with the toe of her work boot. “But I have to be careful with the plants because it’s very hot in the garage and they’ll stay fresher if I keep them cool. I can always move them out to the workshop.”
Vito dropped his suitcase on top of a stack of empty flower flats by the door. Draping his jacket over the suitcase, he made his way to the refrigerator and hoped a drink would clear his head. He wanted straight scotch. He’d settle for a soda or anything else his brothers had left in the fridge.
He found only lemons. Tons and tons of lemons.
“I drink a lot of lemonade when I work.” Drying her hands, she moved past him to grab a white pitcher off the door. Something he hadn’t noticed thanks to the citrus garden growing on the other shelves. “Want me to pour you a glass while we discuss how to handle this miscommunication?”
He wasn’t sure he even wanted to discuss it anymore. His whole world was in chaos and he’d been made a stranger in his own home.
Maybe he’d hunt down the scotch after all.
“Are you okay?” Christine stuffed a glass in one of his hands and then pried the open refrigerator door from his other. “I’d be happy to get out of your way and go back to work as soon as we establish that I am still getting paid for my efforts. I am going to get paid for all this, aren’t I?”
She made a sweeping gesture to indicate his house, that ought to be condemned, and his eyesore of a yard that would piss off neighbors for miles around.
“Do you usually get paid for doing this?” He’d be surprised if she didn’t get hauled off to jail. Was she exercising squatter’s rights by moving into his house and making it hers?
He had to stifle an absurd urge to laugh as she seemed to genuinely consider his question.
“Honestly, sometimes I don’t get paid because I’m very new at this, but I studied horticulture with the best landscape designers in California and now I’m ready to bring that knowledge to southern Florida.” She busied herself by filling a paper cup with water and pouring the contents over the plants in his sink. “Your yard is my first large-scale production as a solo artist, but I’ve worked on bigger undertakings with other designers.”
He leaned against the light wooden cupboards in the kitchen where he’d toasted his first Pop-Tart, weary with the way she seemed to talk in circles. For all he knew, his tired brain could be making it sound as though she was talking in circles when she was being perfectly rational.
“And just what did my uncle hire you to do here?” He made a mental note to call Giuseppe as soon as possible and ask him what the hell he thought he was doing jumping in to hire help for Vito without asking.
For that matter, why did Vito’s whole family have to tiptoe around the fact that Vito was now a multimillionaire and could damn well afford to hire his own help? And his brothers were no better, paying to take care of every repair needed on the family home instead of letting him know when he needed to pitch in. According to Renzo and Nico, Vito had already given enough to the family coffers while they were growing up.
“I’m landscaping the property.” She set down the paper cup and turned to face him, her back against the wine cabinet his brother Renzo had built long ago. “Your uncle said he wanted this place to be gorgeous by the time his niece’s wedding rolls around, so I’m developing a large-scale overhaul.” Pausing, she bit her lip, automatically drawing his gaze to that soft expanse of pink. “Do you know anything about this wedding, or is your uncle…you know…losing it?”
“He’s not losing it.” And even if he were, Vito would never let on as much to an outsider. He did wonder if Giuseppe really intended to pay Christine, or if he was leaving that up to Vito. He needed to discuss that matter with him when he called, too. “He probably wanted to surprise me. He didn’t mention anything about me coming home while you were working?”