loudly enough against my ribs that the intruder could probably hear it on the other side of the pantry door, I clung to the door handle, steadying myself, relieved to be hidden here in the pitch dark. With my free hand, I groped behind me, and my fingers hit cold iron, rounding on a solid, heavy handle.
The door handle twisted unexpectedly beneath my fingers and I squealed, louder even than the handle had, giving myself away.
The pantry door swung open, and all my blood drained to my toes.
‘Sarah?’ He was a big man, tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a bouncer.
He reached past me, and I flinched back, swinging with all my might just as the tiny pantry flooded with cold white light.
In the moment before my weapon connected with solid flesh, I glimpsed the intruder. He was dark-haired, bearded, and terrifying. He grunted and staggered back, clutching his head.
‘What the hell?!’ His accent was thick, not immediately traceable, but he spoke in English without even thinking, I noted, as I gripped the heavy metal object close to my chest.
And he knew my name. Oh heavens.
Probably not a burglar after all.
The man glowered at me, still holding his head. ‘Why are you hiding in here?’
‘I wasn’t hiding. I was looking for biscuits.’
‘In the dark?’ He removed his hand from his forehead and there was a streak of blood on his fingers, and even more on his brow where a long gash oozed.
‘You’re bleeding!’
He scowled. ‘Of course I am. You’re lucky I’m not bloody unconscious, or worse.’
I glanced at the weapon in my hand. I held an old-fashioned iron for pressing clothes, one of those solid antique cast-iron types that opened up to place hot coals inside. A formidable weapon indeed. ‘I am so sorry! I thought you were a burglar.’
He moved to lean against the scarred Formica kitchen counter, as if unable to stand without help, and I hurried to his side to offer support, even though I still felt as shaky as a budding spring leaf.
He brushed me away, irritable. ‘How can I be a burglar when I live here?’
‘You live here?’ Oops. Luca hadn’t mentioned anyone living here. I took a wild guess. ‘You’re Tommaso?’
‘Of course. Who else would I be?’ he snapped. I could hardly blame him for his surliness. The blood was trickling now down his temple, and his face was paler than it had been when he’d loomed over me in the pantry door.
I felt a tad pale too. The bedding upstairs was masculine. Had I pulled a Goldilocks and slept in Baby Bear’s bed? Not that this man could be remotely confused with a baby bear. More like a great big, angry Papa Grizzly.
Until he swayed on his feet.
‘You need to sit.’ I set down the old iron and pulled out a chair from the kitchen table. Casting me another annoyed glance, he slid into it. Satisfied that at least he wasn’t likely to collapse on the floor, I hurried to the cracked sink and wet a tea towel, which I used to dab at his forehead until the blood stopped trickling and the wound looked relatively clean. Thankfully it was a shallow cut and shouldn’t need stitches. I just hoped the iron wasn’t rusty enough to cause an infection. ‘You’ll need antiseptic and a band aid, to keep the cut clean. Where will I find them?’
‘Under the kitchen sink.’
I found a first aid box under the sink and set it on the kitchen table, rooting through its jumbled contents for band aids and antiseptic. He flinched when I dabbed iodine on the cut but didn’t make a sound. Done at last, I moved back to the kettle and set it going again. I needed tea more than ever. In fact, I could do with a shot of brandy, but I wasn’t brave – or stupid – enough to ask my host where to find his liquor cabinet.
‘Tea?’ I offered, bringing the filled teapot and two mismatched cups to the table.
‘Yes, please.’
While I poured, I sneaked a surreptitious look. He wasn’t as old as the beard had at first made him appear, nor quite as rough and threatening as he’d first seemed. His thick hair was long, almost to his shoulders, though not as shaggy as I’d first thought.
But even if he wasn’t a terrifying burglar, he still wasn’t Baby Bear. He was the rightful owner of this castello, I was his guest, and probably a very unwelcome one at that – now more than ever.
‘Shall we start over?’ I infused as much good cheer into my voice as my still jittery nerves could manage. ‘I’m Sarah Wells, John’s daughter, and I’m very grateful you’re letting me stay in the house.’
He said nothing, just eyed me with a cool, grey gaze that was more than a little hostile. Okay, so I wasn’t going to get the red carpet rolled out for me any time soon.
I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘Luca didn’t tell me you were living in the house.’
He gave me an odd look. ‘I don’t. I live in the cottage.’
The cottage was across the back yard. It had been converted from the old stable block back in the Fifties and was where the housekeeper Elisa had lived.
‘Okay. So what are you doing here in the kitchen?’
‘I saw the light on and came over to say hello. I thought you might want dinner.’ He waved, and I turned to look behind me at the tray he must have set down on top of the old wood stove before coming to find me in the pantry. Only now did I become aware of the aromatic smell filling the kitchen. My stomach pulled tight, and not just from hunger.
He’d been nothing more than neighbourly, and I’d bashed him over the head with the nearest weapon I could find. Not a great way to open negotiations.
I forced a polite smile I didn’t feel. ‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’
His eyes narrowed. An uncomfortable silence filled the room but I refused to show any weakness to this intimidating man, so I ignored it and returned his hard gaze.
There was something oddly familiar about his light eyes, blue-grey, with an emphasis on the grey.
Then realisation struck. ‘Tommy?!’
The discovery that this tall, broad-shouldered, bearded man was my old childhood friend rocked me even more than the fear that a complete stranger was breaking into the castello. ‘You were my father’s business partner?’
His eyes narrowed further. I didn’t even think that was possible. ‘No one’s called me that since my mother died. You didn’t know?’
The mental adjustment took me a long moment. I couldn’t help myself – I stared openly at him now. If I looked hard enough, past the long hair and scraggly beard, I could just about see a glimmer of Elisa’s grandson, the boy I used to play with when he’d come to visit during those never-ending summers so long ago.
I only ever knew him as Tommy, the English-speaking kid from Edinburgh, not as Tommaso, but of
