there had been a huge fuss about it. And someone had definitely stolen two pairs of her knickers when she’d been out swimming in the overcrowded pool. Somehow she didn’t think Renzo Sabatini’s Tuscan villa was going to be anything like that. ‘I went on a school trip when I was a teenager,’ she said. ‘That was the only time I’ve been abroad.’
He frowned. ‘You’re not much of a traveller, then?’
‘You could say that.’
And suddenly Darcy scented danger. On the journey over she’d been worried she might do something stupid. Not something obvious, like using the wrong knife and fork at a fancy dinner, because her waitressing career had taught her everything there was to know about cutlery.
But she realised she’d completely overlooked the fact that proximity might make her careless. Might make her tongue slip and give something away—something which would naturally repulse him. Renzo had told her that one of the things he liked about her was that she didn’t besiege him with questions, or try to dig deep to try to understand him better. But that had been a two-way street and the fact he didn’t ask about her past had suited her just fine. More than fine. She didn’t want to tell any lies but she knew she could never tell him the truth. Because there was no point. There was no future in this liaison of theirs, so why tell him about the junkie mother who had given birth to her? Why endure the pain of seeing his lips curve with shock and contempt as had happened so often in the past? In a world where everyone was striving for perfection and judging you, it hadn’t taken her long to realise that the best way to get on in life was to bury all the darkness just as deep as she could.
But thoughts of her mother stabbed at her conscience, prompting her to address something which had been bothering her on the flight over.
‘You know the money I saved on my airfare and clothes?’ she began.
‘Yes, Darcy. I know. You were making a point.’ He shot her a glance, his lips curving into a sardonic smile. ‘Rich man with too much money shown by poor girl just how much he could save if he bothered to shop around. I get the picture.’
‘There’s no need to be sarcastic, Renzo,’ she said stiffly. ‘I want you to have it back. I’ve put most of it in an envelope in my handbag.’
‘But I don’t want it back. When are you going to get the message? I have more than enough money. And if it makes you feel better, I admire your resourcefulness and refusal to be seduced by my wealth. It’s rare.’
For a moment there was silence. ‘I think we both know it wasn’t your wealth which seduced me, Renzo.’
She hadn’t meant to say it but her quiet words reverberated around the car in an honest explanation of what had first drawn her to him. Not his money, nor his power—but him. The most charismatic and compelling man she’d ever met. She heard him suck in an unsteady breath.
‘Madonna mia,’ he said softly. ‘Are you trying to tempt me into taking the next turning and finding the nearest layby so that I can do what I have been longing to do to you since last I saw you?’
‘Renzo—’
‘I don’t want the damned money you saved! I want you to put your hand in my lap and feel how hard I am for you.’
‘Not while you’re driving,’ said Darcy and although she was disappointed he had turned the emotional into the sexual, she didn’t show it. Because that was the kind of man he was, she reminded herself. He was never emotional and always sexual. She didn’t need to touch him to know he was aroused—a quick glance and she could see for herself the hard ridge outlined beneath the dark trousers. Suddenly her lips grew dry in response and she licked them, wishing they could have sex right then. Because sex stopped you longing for things you were never going to have. Things other women took for granted—like a man promising to love and protect you. Things which seemed as distant as those faraway mountains. With an effort she dragged her attention back to the present. ‘Tell me about this place we’re going to instead.’
‘You think talking about property is a suitable substitute for discovering what you’re wearing underneath that pretty little dress?’
‘I think it’s absolutely vital if you intend keeping your mind on the road, which is probably the most sensible option if you happen to be driving a car.’
‘Oh, Darcy.’ He gave a soft laugh. ‘Did I ever tell you that one of the things I admire about you is your ability to always come up with a smart answer?’
‘The house, Renzo. I want to talk about the house.’
‘Okay. The house. It’s old,’ he said as he overtook a lorry laden with a towering pile of watermelons. ‘And it stands against a backdrop that Leonardo should have painted, instead of that village south of Piacenza which is not nearly as beautiful. It has orchards and vineyards and olive groves—in fact, we produce superb wines from the Sangiovese grape and enough olive oil to sell to some of the more upmarket stores in London and Paris.’
The few facts he’d recited could have been lifted straight from the pages of an estate agent’s website and Darcy felt oddly disappointed. ‘It sounds gorgeous,’ she said dutifully.
‘It is.’
‘So...why are you selling it?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s time.’
‘Because?’
Too late, she realised she had asked one question too many. His face grew dark, as if the sun had just dipped behind a cloud and his shadowed jaw set itself into a hard and obdurate line.
‘Isn’t one of the reasons for our unique chemistry that you don’t plague me with questions?’
She heard the sudden darkness underpinning his question. ‘I was only—’
‘Well, don’t. Don’t pry. Why change what up until now has been a winning formula?’ His voice had harshened as he cut through her words, his hands tensing as a discreet sign appeared among the tangle of greenery which feathered the roadside. ‘And anyway. We’re here. This is Vallombrosa.’
But his face was still dark as the car began to ascend a tree-lined track towards an imposing pair of dark wrought-iron gates which looked like the gates of heaven.
Or the gates of hell, Darcy thought with a sudden flash of foreboding.
‘HOW ON EARTH am I going to converse with everyone?’ questioned Darcy as she stepped out onto the sunny courtyard. ‘Since my Italian is limited to the few words I learnt from the phrasebook on the plane and that phrase about the lightning strike?’
‘All my staff are bilingual,’ Renzo said, his show of bad temper in the car now seemingly forgotten. ‘And perfectly comfortable with speaking your mother tongue.’
The words mocked her and Darcy chewed on her lip as she looked away. Mother tongue? Her own mother had taught her to say very little—other than things which could probably have had her prosecuted if she’d repeated them to the authorities.
‘Pass Mummy that needle, darling.’
‘Pass
