opened his mouth to say, ‘I do say so,’ and shut it smartly. ‘I’ve just been busy,’ he said instead, making excuses. ‘Carlotta’s been ill, and I’ve been trying to juggle looking after the children in the evenings and getting them ready for school without neglecting all the work of the grape harvest.’
‘But that’s over now—at least the critical bit. And you’re wrong, you know, Carlotta isn’t ill, she’s old and tired and she needs to stop working before she becomes ill.’
Massimo laughed out loud at that, startling his new nephew and making him cry. He shushed him automatically, soothing the fractious baby, and then looked up at Luca again. ‘I’ll let you tell her that.’
‘I have done. She won’t listen because she thinks she’s indispensable and she doesn’t want to let anybody down. And she’s going to kill herself unless someone does something to stop her.’
And then it dawned on him. Just the germ of an idea, but if it worked …
He got to his feet, wanting to get started, now that the thought had germinated. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before, except he’d been deliberately putting it—her—out of his mind.
‘I think I’ll take a few days off,’ he said casually. ‘I could do with a break. I’ll take the car and leave the children here. Mamma can look after them. It’ll keep her off Gio’s back for a while and they can play with little Annamaria while Isabelle rests.’
Luca took the baby from him and smiled knowingly.
‘Give her my love.’
He frowned. ‘Who? I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is a business trip. I have some trade samples to deliver.’
His brother laughed and shut the door behind him.
‘Do you know anyone with a posh left-hand-drive Mercedes with a foreign number plate?’
Lydia’s head jerked up. She did—but he wouldn’t be here. There was no way he’d be here, and certainly not without warning—
‘Tall, dark-haired, uber-sexy. Wow, in fact. Very, very wow!’
Her mouth dried, her heart thundering. No. Surely not—not when she was just getting over him—
‘Let me see.’
She leant over Jen’s shoulder and peeped through the doorway, and her heart, already racing, somersaulted in her chest. Over him? Not a chance. She’d been fooling herself for over two weeks, convincing herself she didn’t care about him, it had just been a holiday romance, and one sight of him and all of it had come slamming back. She backed away, one hand on her heart, trying to stop it vaulting out through her ribs, the other over her mouth holding back the chaotic emotions that were threatening to erupt.
‘It’s him, isn’t it? Your farmer guy. You never said he was that hot!’
No, she hadn’t. She’d said very little about him because she’d been desperately trying to forget him and avoid the inevitable interrogation if she so much as hinted at a relationship. But—farmer? Try millionaire. More than that. Try serious landowner, old-money, from one of Italy’s most well-known and respected families. Not a huge brand name, but big enough, she’d discovered when she’d checked on the internet in a moment of weakness and aching, pathetic need.
And try lover—just for one night, but the most magical, memorable and relived night of her life.
She looked down at herself and gave a tiny, desperate scream. She was cleaning tack—old, tatty tack from an even older, tattier pony who’d finally met his maker, and they were going to sell it. Not for much, but the saddle was good enough to raise a couple of hundred pounds towards Jen’s wedding.
‘He’s looking around.’
So was she—for a way to escape from the tack room and back to the house without being seen, so she could clean up and at least look slightly less disreputable, but there was no other way out, and …
‘He’s seen me. He’s coming over. Hi, there. Can I help?’
‘I hope so. I’m looking for Lydia Fletcher.’
His voice made her heart thud even harder, and she backed into the shadows, clutching the filthy, soapy rag in a desperate fist.
‘She’s here,’ Jen said, dumping her in it and flashing him her most charming smile. ‘I’m her sister, Jen—and she’s rather grubby, so she probably doesn’t want you to see her like that, so why don’t I take you over to the house and make you a cup of tea—’
‘I don’t mind if she’s grubby. She’s seen me looking worse, I’m sure.’
And before Jen could usher him away, he stepped past her into the tack room, sucking all the air out of it in that simple movement.
‘Ciao, bella,’ he said softly, a smile lurking in his eyes, and she felt all her resolve melt away to nothing.
‘Ciao,’ she echoed, and then toughened up. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again.’
She peered past him at Jen, hovering in the doorway. ‘Why don’t you go and put the kettle on?’ she said firmly.
With a tiny, knowing smile, Jen took a step away, then mouthed, ‘Be nice!’
Nice? She had no intention of being anything but nice, but she also had absolutely no intention of being anything more accommodating. He’d been so clear about not wanting a relationship, and she’d thought she could handle their night together, thought she could walk away. Well, she wasn’t letting him in again, because she’d never get over it a second time.
‘You could have warned me you were coming,’ she said when Jen had gone, her crutches scrunching in the gravel. ‘And don’t tell me you lost my phone number, because it was on the same piece of paper as my address, which you clearly have or you wouldn’t be here.’
‘I haven’t lost it. I didn’t want to give you the chance to avoid me.’
‘You thought I would?’
‘I thought you might want to, and I didn’t want you to run away without hearing me out.’ He looked around, studying the dusty room with the saddle racks screwed to the old beams, the saddle horse in the middle of the room with Bruno’s saddle on it, half-cleaned, the hook dangling from the ceiling with his bridle and stirrup leathers hanging from it, still covered in mould and dust and old grease.
Just like her, really, smeared in soapy filth and not in any way dressed to impress.
‘Evocative smell.’ He fingered the saddle flap, rubbing his fingertips together and sniffing them. ‘It takes me back. I had a friend with horses when I was at boarding school over here, and I stayed with him sometimes. We used to have to clean the tack after we rode.’
He smiled, as if it was a good memory, and then he lifted his hand and touched a finger to her cheek. ‘You’ve got dirt on your face.’
‘I’m sure. And don’t you dare spit on a tissue and rub it off.’
He
