The splash of a fountain was the only sound to disturb the silence. As Rebekah climbed out of the car she was struck by the serene atmosphere. It was not difficult to imagine the Benedictine monks who had once lived here going about their daily lives with quiet devotion to their religious beliefs.
‘Nonna Perlita was a keen gardener,’ Dante told her when she admired the plants. ‘The knot garden on the other side of the house was her pride and joy. There is also a swimming pool, and in the grounds of the estate there’s a lake, although I wouldn’t recommend you swim in it. I used to catch newts in it when I was a boy.’
‘Who looks after the place now that your grandmother is no longer here?’
‘I employ staff from the village—a couple of grounds-men tend to the gardens and carry out any maintenance work, and two women come regularly to clean the house.’
Dante opened the heavy oak front door and gave a deep sigh of pleasure as he ushered Rebekah into the cool stone-floored hall. ‘For me this is home. One day I intend to move back here permanently.’
Rebekah gave him a surprised look. ‘Did you used to live here? I thought you grew up in England.’
‘I was born here—much to my father’s displeasure. He wanted his heir to be born in England, at the Jarrell estate. But my mother went into labour early while she was visiting my grandparents, and so this house is my birthplace.’ He gave a wry laugh. ‘Apparently my father accused my mother of giving birth early on purpose because she wanted me to be born in Italy. It was just one of many things they could not agree on—as was the language I should be brought up to speak. My father only spoke English to me and my mother taught me Italian, so I grew up bilingual.
‘I went to school in England, but spent most of the holidays here with my grandmother,’ he continued. He shrugged. ‘I enjoy living in London, but I think of myself as Italian rather than English.’
His Italian heritage was obvious in his dark olive skin tone and his jet-black hair, Rebekah mused. At his house in London she mostly saw him dressed in one of the superbly tailored suits he wore for work. He always looked gorgeous, but today he was wearing black jeans, matching shirt and designer shades and was so impossibly good-looking that she felt a fierce ache of longing whenever she looked at him. In fact she was so intent on not looking at him that she walked across the entrance hall to inspect a large framed photograph hanging on the wall.
The woman in the photo was clearly very elderly. Her hair was white and her face lined, but despite the marks of old age she was startlingly beautiful and bore an aura of serenity that was reflected in her bright silvery-grey eyes.
‘Is this lady your grandmother?’ She spun round and her heart lurched when she discovered that Dante had moved silently to stand beside her.
His eyes were focused on the picture. ‘Yes, that was Perlita a few months before she died.’
Unexpectedly, raw emotion clogged Dante’s throat. Usually when he’d arrived at the house he’d gone straight to see his grandmother. He wished she was still here, and curiously, because he had never brought any of his mistresses to the Casa di Colombe, he wished that Rebekah could have met her. In many ways the two women were very alike, he realised. Like Nonna, Rebekah was independent and, he suspected, fiercely loyal to the people she cared about. He had heard the love in her voice when she spoke about her family.
He glanced down at her and for the first time it struck him how petite she was compared to his tall frame. He hadn’t noticed when he had danced with her at the party because she had been wearing high heels, but now she was wearing flat shoes and he was surprised by a feeling of protectiveness. He ran his finger lightly down her cheek. ‘How are you feeling? You still look pale.’
‘I’m fine now that the sickness has stopped,’ she assured him.
‘I want you to take things easy for the next couple of days.’ Dante’s eyes glinted wickedly. ‘In fact I think you need to spend most of the time lying down.’
Rebekah’s common sense told her to move away from him, but her heart refused to listen and her senses were swamped by his virile masculinity. The scent of his aftershave was tantalisingly sensual, as was the warmth that emanated from his body as he stepped closer and slid an arm around her waist.
‘Naturally, I will lie down with you to keep you company,’ he murmured in his rich as molten syrup voice.
A shiver of excitement ran through her. Common sense urged her to pull herself out of his arms, but she was trapped by the feral gleam in his eyes so that when he lowered his head she sank against him and parted her lips in readiness for his kiss.
Remembering his hot, hungry kisses when he had made love to her after the party, she was unprepared for the soft brush of his mouth on hers. As light as gossamer, he teased her lips apart in a slow, sweet kiss that was utterly beguiling. Rebekah melted into it, her whole being attuned to the exquisite sensations he aroused in her and the thudding drumbeat of desire that pounded in her blood and made her ache for his possession.
This was not keeping him at arm’s length, taunted a voice inside her head. She had promised herself she would not be swayed by his sexy charm. But she had glimpsed the flare of pain in his eyes when he had looked at the photo of his grandmother and her heart had ached for him. He had told her that this was his first visit to Tuscany since his grandmother’s death and she sensed he was still grieving for Perlita.
When she had slept with him two nights ago she had thought she could indulge in a passionate fling with him that would mean nothing to either of them, even though she was scared of her emotions becoming involved. But the discovery that there were depths to Dante she had been unaware of made her afraid that he could pose even more of a threat to her emotions. She could not risk falling for him, and so, calling on all her willpower, she tore her mouth from his and stepped away from him.
‘I guess I should start dinner. It’s getting late,’ she mumbled, flushing beneath his quizzical stare. ‘Although I’ve heard that it is usual in Mediterranean countries for people to have dinner late in the evening,’ she added rather desperately as he continued to regard her with an intentness she found unsettling. ‘But you’re probably hungry,’ she finished lamely.
‘I’m ravenous, but I have a feeling we’re talking about different appetites,’ he said drily.
Dante did not understand why Rebekah had backed off, but the curious half-wary, half-defensive expression in her eyes forced him to control his frustration. She clearly carried a lot of emotional baggage—which meant that she was exactly the sort of woman he usually avoided. So why wasn’t he heading for the hills to get away from her? Why had he brought her to the Casa di Colombe, which was his private sanctuary and a haven of peace? He felt anything but peaceful at the moment, he thought grimly. And, strangely, his frustration was not only on a sexual level. He wanted to know who had put the shadows in her eyes, and conversely he was annoyed with himself for his curiosity when all he wanted was a temporary affair with her.
With an effort he controlled his impatience. ‘I have a few things to do, so why don’t you go and explore the house? The maids should have made up the beds and stocked the kitchen with basic provisions. We can pick up fresh fruit and vegetables at the market in Montalcino tomorrow.’ He pointed down the hallway. ‘You’ll find the kitchen that way.’
From the outside, the house did not look very different from how it must have looked when it had been built and used as a monastery centuries ago. But, inside, the Casa di Colombe had been expertly renovated and turned into a charming, comfortable home. Much love had gone into the interior design of the house, Rebekah thought as she strolled through the airy, sunlit rooms on the ground floor where the old stone floors blended perfectly with the pale walls and elegant furnishings. She remembered the serene face of Dante’s grandmother in the