meant. ‘That was one of the best days of my life,’ she said.
It had been. Sometimes she thought that that was the day her crush on Luca had turned from something inconvenient but entertaining into something real, all-encompassing. Or maybe the day he took pity on a small, sobbing girl and entertained her patiently, playing board games in a language he’d barely spoken. Minty had cheated dreadfully, of course, but he didn’t seem to mind. Most days she could write him off as serious, stuffy, dull. And then he would do something kind, something spontaneous.
Would get under her skin.
Luca was still looking at her intently and all Minty wanted to do was to take a step towards him. Forget Joe, forget everything. For a moment she stood wavering, memories flooding through her. Memories of Rome, of laughter and teasing, of being treated like an adult, treated with respect. Other memories pushed insistently: memories of firelight and red wine, tears kissed away, comforting arms becoming stronger, more dangerous. Heat.
And then the utter chill of rejection.
Minty turned resolutely away. ‘Come on, then,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Or you might not make it in till lunch, and even Special Ops wouldn’t cope with that!’
* * *
He might be just a little bit biased but Luca knew that his farm was the most beautiful place on earth. The meadows were already strewn with a rainbow assortment of spring flowers; herds of cows were dotted about the distant fields, all chewing contentedly.
Minty sighed, a great, satisfied gust. ‘When I’m in London I think it’s the nicest place on earth and can’t imagine living anywhere else,’ she said. ‘And when I’m at the ancestral pile I feel exactly the same way—I yearn for London. But this kind of countryside is different. It’s peaceful and yet alive somehow. You know?’
Luca grunted in acknowledgement and kept on walking, faster than before. Minty had to break into a stride in order to keep up. He gave the velvet flip-flops a meaningful glance but manfully resisted saying anything.
He didn’t know what to say. Things suddenly seemed different, almost comfortable. The moment he had said she could stay had felt like the start of something new between them. Or was it the moment she had let her facade crack a little, had let him in enough to see the hurt? Was that why he felt catapulted into deeper intimacy with her?
He had promised himself it wouldn’t happen. Not again. And yet in some ways it was as inevitable as the dew-soaked dawn.
Besides, she was older now, and different under that flippant exterior. Maybe the depths he had always hoped for did exist after all.
Or maybe he was a fool who never learned.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts, searching for a neutral topic of conversation. ‘I am going to a charity event in Florence this weekend—at least, my grandfather has summoned me there.’ His mouth twisted wryly. ‘You know the conte; he doesn’t like the word no.’
‘I love Florence,’ Misty said wistfully. ‘I haven’t been there for years.’
He grimaced. ‘I hate it: tourists, crammed streets, noise, expectations.’ The hideous formality, the eternal disappointment of his grandfather. The only times Florence had been bearable were when Minty had tagged along. Her irreverence had always taken the sting out of his grandfather’s disapproval.
She had almost made it fun.
‘You’re still not close to your grandfather?’
That was an understatement.
‘He was always nice to me,’ she continued, looking up at him, concern in her eyes— concern for him. That was unexpected.
And surprisingly nice.
‘He approved of you: title, lots of well-connected relatives, the right manners—when you chose to show them. Me, however; I was a disappointment. No social aspirations. All I wanted to do was grub about on the farm or work in the factory.’
‘Glad that someone approves of me. Maybe I should ask him to adopt me.’
‘He’d accept like a shot,’ Luca said. He stopped and turned, looked down at her, a sudden wild idea springing fully formed into his head. Minty was right, his grandfather had always liked her. ‘Come with me.’
A faint colour crept over her cheeks. ‘To please your grandfather?’
Was it? ‘Maybe. Partly.’ His eyes met hers, gold on blue.
Or was it because he liked having her around, liked the way she made him feel? Because with her he felt something other than responsibility, something a lot lighter.
Because when he looked into those improbably blue eyes he felt like he could do anything, be anyone. Since his parents’ crash he had worked so hard to be responsible, sensible, to live up to their legacy. His eyes had been so fixed on his chosen path he’d never noticed the small, winding diversions tempting him away.
Except just occasionally, in the company of the willowy girl standing next to him. Then he occasionally allowed himself to explore other routes, just for a little while, until his feet found his chosen straight-and-narrow path again.
He missed those diversions.
* * *
For a moment the world fell away. She could have been anywhere: desert, city street, her father’s estate. All that existed was the heat of those extraordinary eyes, suddenly alight again with fire, passion. With life.
Minty swallowed, trying to get some moisture back into a suddenly dry mouth. His gaze scorched her and she felt the heat of it right down to her toes, pooling at the pit of her stomach, molten lava burning her up inside.
She took a tentative step towards him, despite the warning bell clanging in her head. This man was different. She had survived the others; she might not survive this one. Not again. But now she had made the move she didn’t know if she could, if she wanted to, pull back.
Only she didn’t have to. He did, stepping back, moving away, pulling his eyes abruptly away from hers, breaking the connection. The shutters were back down and he was once again her childhood adversary, the disapproving golden boy.
It was a good thing he’d stopped, otherwise she most definitely would have, she told herself, but the ache of frustrated desire was hot and insistent.
He started walking again, further down into the valley. Minty stood for a second, watching him: the tall, broad frame; the dark hair, dishevelled as if he had washed it this morning and just left it to dry. He probably had.
Awareness prickled up and down her spine. Dear God, she wanted to find out if he really was all that she remembered. She wanted to pull that T-shirt up over his shoulders; undo his belt with trembling, suddenly clumsy fingers; try to unbutton his jeans before impatiently yanking them down. She wanted to see him, taste him, feel his skin against hers. She leant helplessly against the fence, her legs suddenly incapable of movement.
This impulsive nature of hers. She needed to contain it, channel it elsewhere into work and projects. No more throwing herself at unsuitable men, trying to be what they wanted. No more failing.
She was
