he reflected with distaste.
‘What’s she doing in France?’ he asked Steve carelessly, angling his chin in Belle’s direction.
‘I only know local gossip. Word is she came out here about three years ago as a housekeeper/ companion for an elderly English widow living in the village. The widow’s family hired her in London and left her to sink or swim as the old lady drifted into dementia. Eventually the local doctor got a little help for her but Belle was basically left to struggle.’
Dante slanted up an ebony brow. ‘She sounds like an idiot. Why didn’t she just walk out and go home when the job got too much for her?’
Steve frowned. ‘She was attached to the old lady by then and didn’t want to let her down or abandon her.’
‘How did she end up working here, in the bar?’
‘The widow had a heart attack and died and as soon as the funeral was over, her family sold her house and left Belle homeless and without sufficient money to get home on. They also threw out the old lady’s dog...Charlie,’ Steve murmured as a small raggedy mutt badly in need of grooming nudged up against his leg for attention before moving on to eagerly greet another regular customer, who was more likely to offer him food.
Dante paid no heed to the dog, his attention resting on his friend. ‘And then?’
‘The guy who rents this place offered Belle an old campervan to live in. It’s parked in the overflow car park behind the trees and she and the dog moved in. Then he gave her a job here.’
‘So, she’s pretty much one of life’s losers,’ Dante surmised without surprise. ‘I’m more into winners.’
‘But losers are undoubtedly easier and less demanding to negotiate with,’ Steve remarked with cynical acceptance. ‘And when have you ever been shy about profiting from other people’s misfortunes?’
Dante grinned. ‘Being ruthless is in my genes.’
‘Except when it came to your brother. I lost count of the times you dragged Cristiano out of trouble,’ Steve murmured, unimpressed. ‘And you say you’re not sentimental and yet look at the lengths you’re willing to go to, simply to buy that woodland back.’
Dante’s high cheekbones and strong jawline clenched hard. ‘That’s different.’
‘It must be, particularly as I seem to remember that the first time you stayed in Cristiano’s log cabin, you hated it like hell.’
‘I don’t enjoy roughing it, but Cristiano was always a back-to-nature freak,’ Dante recalled abstractedly, his attention locking back on Belle as a couple of young guys flirted with her while she delivered their drinks. She wasn’t blushing for their benefit, she was brisk and professional, he noted with helpless satisfaction. He signalled her with a graceful brown hand to order another set of drinks.
‘Not for me,’ Steve demurred with regret. ‘Sancha will have dinner on and she hates it when I’m late for meals.’
‘It’s only nine,’ Dante pointed out incredulously.
‘Well, to be honest, my wife doesn’t really like me out of her sight for too long,’ Steve admitted with quiet pride.
Dante winced at the very idea of his freedom to do as he liked being curtailed in such a fashion.
‘Listen, don’t knock being married until you’ve tried it!’ Steve protested in his own defence.
‘I am never ever going to try it,’ Dante assured him with a grim look of amusement. ‘But I am in the market for a girlfriend I can employ and I may be late back tonight.’
Dante returned to watching Belle, his attention drawn involuntarily to the bountiful swell of her breasts as she bent down to lift drinks off the tray, not to mention the enticing curve of her bottom thrust out and the skirt rising to expose the backs of her slender bare thighs. He shifted in his seat again, his even white teeth gritting with irritation. He wasn’t a horny teenager. Why was he reacting like one? She brought him his drink and he tossed a note down, telling her to keep the change.
* * *
‘It’s too much,’ she said uncomfortably.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Dante advised succinctly. ‘I’d like a word with you in private when you finish your shift.’
‘I’m tired. I’ll be going straight to bed,’ she told him swiftly. ‘Sorry!’
‘Don’t blow me off before you hear what I have to say,’ Dante urged. ‘It’s possible that I could have a job for you, a job that would eventually get you back to the UK.’
Belle tensed like a greyhound fired up at the starting line. Her eyes lifted from the table they had been carefully studying and surged up to his lean, darkly handsome features instead. There she clashed unwarily with stunning dark golden eyes and she took a very slight step back, gooseflesh tingling on her exposed skin. ‘A job? What kind of a job?’ she questioned.
A lazy grip on his beer bottle, Dante lounged back gracefully against the balustrade surrounding the decking. ‘Later,’ he murmured silkily. ‘That is...if you can contrive to stay awake that long.’
Belle reddened at the comeback. He was so sure of himself he set her teeth on edge. He dangled the bait and then waited for her to jump. Well, she wasn’t going to jump, was she? What sort of job could he possibly offer her? Aside from waitressing, her only work experience was in housekeeping and caring, and it was unlikely that he would seek to hire her for domestic work. Intelligence told her that a wealthy man would use an agency to fill such positions. On the other hand, she had no reason to suspect that he could be on the brink of offering her anything immoral. She was not irresistible, she was not the sort of bombshell that men moved mountains to impress or entrap, she acknowledged impatiently. No, the only sort of sleazy offers she got came from bored married men and randy young ones, thinking that a foreigner might offer a taste of something more exciting than a local. Though surely it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that Dante Lucarelli could have an elderly relative in need of care?
Then, even in that line, there were plenty of people with the paper qualifications for caring that Belle ironically lacked. Fate had forced her into a caring role after her widowed grandfather had become sick. She had had to drop out of school to look after him when he was diagnosed as terminally ill. But it would have been unthinkable for Belle to do any less when her grandparents had loved and cared for her since she was a baby.
Tracy, Belle’s mother and her grandparents’ only child, had been a fashion model in love with the high life, and when Belle’s father had refused to marry Tracy after she fell pregnant, Tracy had refused to become a single parent struggling to survive. At only a few weeks old, Belle had been dumped with her grandparents. On the only occasion when Tracy had chosen to take Belle home with her, it had proved a disaster for both mother and daughter. Tracy was a man’s woman and the man in her life always came first. That was why, in the end, Tracy had satisfied her maternal instincts by making regular payments to her parents in return for which they had raised Belle for her.
Between the ages of five and fifteen, Belle had not seen her mother once, merely following her parent’s jet-set progress round the world with the aid of a map and infrequent postcards. It had been a huge source of disappointment and hurt to Belle when she was fourteen to be invited to
