was back on the farm, his own small piece of heaven, and he planned to work it.
From what Lucca could tell, there didn’t appear to be any dust. He’d been paying a local woman to make sure the place was cleaned on a periodic basis and was pleased to see she’d followed through. He put the duffel bag down on the tiles in the kitchen with relief. It weighed a ton.
No longer encumbered, he limped past the small table and chairs to the hallway, taking in the living room on the other side. He didn’t need lights turned on to find his old bedroom. Everything was still in place, like a time capsule that had just been opened.
He moved over to the window and undid the shutters, letting in the sound of the cicadas. Moonlight poured in, illuminating the double bed minus any bedding. Unlatching the glass, he pushed it all the way open to allow the scented breeze to dance on through. There was no other air like it anywhere on earth. He knew, because he’d been everywhere.
While he stood there filling his lungs with the sweet essence of the fruits and flowers, the pain in his leg grew worse. The plate the surgeon had put in his thigh to support the broken bone caused it to ache when he was tired. He needed another painkiller followed by sleep. A long one.
Diavolo! It meant going back to the kitchen, but he didn’t know if he could make it without help. Walking the distance from the car had exhausted him.
Somewhere in his closet among his favorite treasures he remembered his grandfather’s cane. His mother’s father had lost the lower half of his leg in the war and had eventually been fitted with a prosthesis.
He rummaged around inside until he spotted it, never dreaming the day would come when he would find use for it. Grazie a Dio Lucca hadn’t lost a limb.
Armed with the precious heirloom, he left the bedroom and headed for the kitchen, where he’d put the duffel bag. He’d packed the pill bottle in his shaving kit on top. Once he’d swallowed painkillers, he ran the tap water, then lowered his head and drank his fill. It tasted good.
He eventually shut off the tap. One more stop to the bathroom before sinking into oblivion.
By now he was leaning heavily on the cane. The short climb to the house had done its damage. Only a few more feet … Come on. You can do it! But even as he said the words, the cane slid on the tiles from his weight and he went crashing.
A loud thump resounded in the hallway followed by a yelp and a volley of unintelligible cursing in Italian. Annabelle shot up in bed. Someone—a man—was in the house, thrashing about after some kind of fall. It couldn’t be Guilio. He would have phoned if he’d intended to come over for some reason. Maybe it was the caretaker Guilio had forgotten to tell her about.
With her heart in her throat, she slid out of bed. After throwing on her robe, she hurried over to the door. When she opened it, enough moonlight spilled from the doorway of the other bedroom to outline a figure crawling on his hands and knees.
Knowing the intruder was hurt in some way, she felt braver as she found the switch in the hall and turned on the light. His dark head reared back in complete surprise, revealing a striking face riddled with lines of pain. She grabbed for the cane she could see lying a few feet from him and lifted it in the air.
“I don’t know who you are,” she said through clenched teeth. “You probably don’t speak English, but I’m warning you I’ll use this if you make another move.” With a threatening gesture, she took a step toward him.
“You have me at a disadvantage, signorina.”
His deep voice spoke beautiful English with the kind of Italian accent that resonated to her insides. He was probably in his mid-thirties. The dangerous-looking male didn’t have the decency to flinch. Even on the floor twisting in agony, he exuded an air of authority. She doubted he was anyone’s caretaker. This kindled her fear of his lean, hard-muscled body on a level she didn’t wish to examine.
“You’re trespassing on private property, signore.”
He strained to brace his back against the wall. A black T-shirt covered his well-defined chest. With his legs stretched out full length in jeans molding powerful thighs, she could see he would be six-two or six-three if he were standing. He put her in mind of someone, but she couldn’t think who.
“You took the words out of my mouth, signorina. A man has the right to come home to his own house and be alone.”
She drew in a fortifying breath. “I happen to know that no one has lived in this house for years.”
His lids drooped over his eyes. He was exhausted. Perspiration beaded his forehead and upper lip. She saw the signs of his pain and felt unwanted sympathy for his distress, but it only lasted until he said, “Nevertheless it’s mine, so what are you doing here?”
“You’re the intruder,” she snapped. “I’ll ask the questions if you don’t mind. First of all, I want to see your ID.”
“I don’t have it on me.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“It’s in the kitchen.”
“Of course it is,” she mocked again. “And if I ask for your name, you’ll lie to me, so there’s no point. We’ll let the police get the truth out of you.”
That made him open his eyes enough to gaze up at her through inky black lashes. “How sad your cynicism is already showing.”
Heat made its way into her cheeks. “Already?”
“Well, for one thing you’re not married.” He stared at her ringless fingers. “Disillusionment doesn’t usually happen to a woman until she’s approaching forty. At least that’s been my assessment.”
He’d pressed the wrong button. “It would take a broken-down, forty-year-old cynic of a man to know, wouldn’t it? Your vast knowledge on the subject doesn’t seem to have done you a whole lot of good. No wedding ring on your finger, either. Not even the paler ring of skin to give proof you’d once worn one. What you need is a walker that won’t slip, signore, not a cane.”
The lines around his mouth tightened. She didn’t know if she’d hit her target, or if he was reacting to his pain.
He slanted her an impatient glance. “Why don’t you admit you’re a down-and-out tourist who doesn’t have enough money for a hotel room, so you cased the area and settled on this empty house.”
Smarting from the accusation she said, “What if I were? You’ve done the same thing by waiting until the middle of the night to find a vacant spot to lick your wounds.”
“Like a stray dog, you mean?”
Behind his snarl-like question she heard a bleakness that matched the whitish color around his lips. They’d traded insults long enough. His pain caused her to relent. “I’m a guest here for a time. My name is Annabelle Marsh. What’s yours?”
He rested his head of unruly black hair against the wall. “None of your business” was the off-putting response.
His eyes had closed, giving her enough time to hurry into the bedroom and grab her cell phone off the side table. When she returned seconds later, his lids fluttered open. “What
