‘What business was he in?’
‘He had a restaurant. I was his chef.’
Hence the tidy kitchen, he realised. She was used to working in a kitchen, used to bringing order to chaos, used to the utensils and the work space and the arrangement of them that always to him defied logic. And his restaurant had folded without her?
‘You told me you were a cook,’ he rebuked her mildly. ‘I didn’t realise you were a chef.’
She quirked an eyebrow at him mockingly. ‘You told me you were a farmer and you live in a flipping fortress! I think that trumps it,’ she said drily, and he laughed and lifted his glass to her.
‘Touché,’ he said softly, and her heart turned over at the wry warmth in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he went on. ‘Sorry about this man who clearly didn’t deserve you, sorry about your sister, sorry about your job. What a mess. And all because he was a fool.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Tell me more about him.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like why your sister felt she needed to warn him not to hurt you. Had you been hurt before?’
‘No, but she didn’t really like him. He wasn’t always a nice man, and he took advantage of me—made me work ridiculous hours, treated me like a servant at times and yet he could be a charmer, too. He was happy enough to talk me into his bed once he realised I was a good chef—sorry, you really didn’t need to know that.’
He smiled slightly. ‘Maybe you needed to say it,’ he suggested, and her laugh was a little brittle.
‘There are so many things I could tell you about him. I said I was a lousy judge of character. I think he had a lot in common with Nico, perhaps.’
He frowned. ‘Nico?’
‘The guy at the airport?’
‘Yes, I know who you mean. In what way? Was he a drinker?’
‘Yes. Definitely. But not just a drinker. He was a nasty drunk, especially towards the end of our relationship. He seemed to change. Got arrogant. He used to be quite charming at first, but it was just a front. He—well, let’s just say he didn’t respect women either.’
His mouth tightened. ‘I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to tolerate that.’
‘No, I shouldn’t. So—tell me about your house,’ she said, changing the subject to give them both a bit of a break. She reached out and tore off another strip of bread, dunking it in the oil that she couldn’t get enough of, and looked up to see a strange look on his face. Almost—tender?
Nonsense. She was being silly. ‘Well, come on, then,’ she mumbled round the bread, and he smiled, the strange look disappearing as if she’d imagined it.
‘It’s very old. We’re not sure of the origins. It seems it might have been a Medici villa, but the history is a little cloudy. It was built at the time of the Florentine invasion.’
‘So how come your family ended up with it?’
His mouth twitched. ‘One of our ancestors took possession of it at the end of the seventeenth century.’
That made her laugh. ‘Took possession?’
The twitch again, and a wicked twinkle in his eye. ‘We’re not quite sure how he acquired it, but it’s been in the family ever since. He’s the one who renamed the villa Palazzo Valtieri.’
Palazzo? She nearly laughed at that. Not just a fortress, then, but a proper, full-on palace. Oh, boy.
‘I’ll show you round it tomorrow. It’s beautiful. Some of the frescoes are amazing, and the formal rooms in the part my parents live in are fantastic.’
‘Your parents live here?’ she asked, puzzled, because there’d been no mention of them. Not that they’d really had time, but—
‘Si. It’s a family business. They’re away at the moment, snatching a few days with my sister Carla and her new baby before the harvest starts, but they’ll be back the day after tomorrow.’
‘So how many rooms are there?’
He laughed. ‘I have no idea. I’ve never counted them, I’m too busy trying not to let it fall down. It’s crumbling as fast as we can patch it up, but so long as we can cheat time, that’s fine. It’s quite interesting.’
‘I’m sure it is. And now it’s your turn to run it?’
His mouth tugged down at the corners, but there was a smile in his eyes. ‘Si. For my sins. My father keeps trying to interfere, but he’s supposed to be retired. He doesn’t understand that, though.’
‘No. It must be hard to hand it over. My father wouldn’t be able to do it. And the harvest is just starting?’
He nodded. ‘The grape harvest is first, followed by the chestnuts and the olives. It’s relentless now until the end of November, so you can see why I was in a hurry to get back.’
‘And I held you up.’
‘Cara, accidents happen. Don’t think about it any more.’ He pushed back his chair. ‘I think it’s time you went to bed. It’s after midnight.’
Was it? When had that happened? When they were outside, sitting in the quiet of the night and watching the twinkling lights in the villages? Or now, sitting here eating bread and cheese and olive oil, drinking wine and staring into each other’s eyes like lovers?
She nodded and pushed back her chair, and he tucked her arm in his so she could feel the solid muscle of his forearm under her hand, and she hung on him and hopped and hobbled her way to her room.
‘Ring me if you need anything. You have my mobile number on my card. I gave it to you on the plane. Do you still have it?’
‘Yes—but I won’t need you.’
Well, not for anything she’d dream of asking him for …
His brows tugged together. ‘Just humour me, OK? If you feel unwell in the night, or want anything, ring me and I’ll come down. I’m not far away. And please, don’t lock your door.’
‘Massimo, I’m feeling all right. My headache’s gone, and I feel OK now. You don’t need to worry.’
‘You can’t be too careful,’ he said, and she could see a tiny frown between his brows, as if he was still waiting for something awful to happen to her.
They reached her room and he paused at the door, staring down into her eyes and hesitating for the longest moment. And then, just when she thought he was going to kiss her, he stepped back.
‘Call me if you need me. If you need anything at all.’
‘I will.’
‘Good.
