your eyes, Giorgio. You’re missing the scenery,’ he said mockingly. Frowning, he shook his head. ‘I don’t know why you insisted on coming. You know you hate flying. Just take deep breaths and we’ll be back on terra firma before you know it.’ He turned back to address the pilot. ‘How long before we land?’
‘Ten minutes, sir.’
Massimo frowned. ‘That was quick!’
The pilot grinned. ‘We made good time—but then this chopper’s the best on the market.’
Massimo nodded. To him, the helicopter was simply a means of transport. He had no interest in the make or model. Nor did its stupidly high price tag excite him. In truth, all of his ‘toys’—the cars, jets and luxury yachts—left him cold. What truly excited him was the pursuit of some unattainable deal. He loved going head to head with an opponent. And the more he—or she—tried to outmanoeuvre him, the more single-minded and ruthless was his desire to bring them down.
As Miss Flora Golding was about to find out.
The pilot pointed out of the window. ‘That’s the Palazzo della Fazia, sir. If you don’t mind, I’ll probably bring her down over there.’ He gestured towards a large, flat patch of land at the end of the drive.
Massimo nodded, but his eyes were fixed on the honey-coloured building in front of him. The helicopter touched down lightly and as the rotors slowed, he stepped onto the parched grass, his gaze continuing to rest on the palazzo. He owned many large and impressive properties, but he found himself holding his breath as he stared at the golden stucco shimmering beneath the Majorelle blue sky. He was transfixed not by its grandeur but by its serenity and its sense of reassuring immutability—as though the building had grown up out of the land itself.
‘Thank goodness that’s over!’
Massimo turned sharply as Giorgio came and stood beside him, patting his pallid, sweating face with a handkerchief.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked drily.
The lawyer smiled weakly. ‘I feel okay.’
Massimo frowned. ‘Really? You look terrible. Look... Why don’t you wait here? I don’t think you being sick in the flowerbeds is going to help close this deal, do you?’
Giorgio opened his mouth to object. Then took one look at his boss’s face and closed it again.
Massimo smiled. ‘Don’t look so worried. This won’t take long.’
The driveway definitely needed some attention, he thought critically, as he sidestepped a crater-like pothole. Up close, the palazzo too had clearly seen better days. Parts of the stucco were crumbling, and there were small plants poking through the plaster like loose threads on a jumper. And yet still there was something magical about its faded glamour.
He scowled, irritated by this sudden and wholly uncharacteristic descent into sentimentality. There was nothing magical about bricks and plaster. Especially when they were reduced to rubble. And as soon as Miss Flora Golding signed over her tenancy rights that was exactly what was going to happen.
Eyes narrowing, he climbed up the steps to the large front door and pulled purposefully on the bell rope. Tapping his fingers impatiently against the brickwork, he frowned and then pulled on the rope again. There was no answering jangle from inside and stifling a stab of irritation, he hammered hard against the peeling paint, resting his hand on the wood, the heat of it somehow feeding his anger.
Damn her! How dare she keep him waiting like this? Craning his neck, he looked up at the first-storey windows, half expecting to see a face, the eyes dancing with malice. But there was no face, and for the first time he realised that the windows—all the windows—were shuttered. Gritting his teeth, he straightened up. The message could hardly be clearer: Miss Golding was not at home to visitors. Ever.
His head felt full to spilling with rage. Turning on his heel, he walked down the steps and strode along an untidy path beside the palazzo, his shoes crunching explosively on the gravel. Each shuttered window seemed to jeer at him as he passed, and his anger swelled with every step. Reaching the end of the path, he found a gate, the latch broken and with what looked suspiciously like a woman’s stocking tied around it to keep it shut. Irritably, he tore at it with his fingers.
Stalking past a pile of discarded masonry and rusting iron railings, he felt a quiver of excitement as he stepped through a crumbling stone archway into a walled garden. In contrast to the front of the building, all the shutters and the windows at the back of the building were open, and then, turning towards the palazzo, he noticed a half-empty glass of water and the remains of an apple on a marble-topped table. So she was here! But where, exactly?
Blinking in the sunlight, his spine stiffened as he got his answer. Somewhere in the gardens, a woman was singing.
He stared fiercely around the terrazza, but it was empty except for a handful of sunbathing salamanders. For a moment he was rooted to the spot, the pounding of his heart drowning out the song, and then, forcing himself to breathe more slowly, he lifted his head. But it was too late. She’d stopped singing.
Damn it! He turned slowly on the spot, his eyes narrow slits of frustration. Where the hell was she? And then he heard it—the same husky voice—and he felt another flicker of excitement. With light, determined steps, he ducked under an archway festooned with roses—and then stopped almost immediately. It was just another empty terrace. His disappointment aching like a blow to the stomach, he glanced through a fringing of leaves at a large sunken ornamental pond and a collection of marble nymphs.
What the hell was wrong with him? Chasing after a singing girl like some foolhardy sailor bewitched by a siren...
And then his breath stopped his throat and his heart seemed to miss a beat as across the garden he saw one of the nymphs reach out to touch a cluster of pale pink oleanders.
Dry-mouthed, he watched her bend and twist in silence, his breath still trapped somewhere between his throat and his stomach. With the sunlight gleaming on her wet body she looked like a goddess fresh from her morning bath. Her beauty was luminous, dazzling. Beside her the exquisite marble nymphs looked dull and blandly pretty.
Staring hungrily at the slender curl of her waist, the small upturned breasts, he felt the blood start to pulse in his neck. His eyes followed the soft curve of her backbone down to the firm, rounded bottom. The vertebrae looked both defenceless and dangerous and he watched, silently mesmerized as she lifted her arms, and stretching languidly, began to hum. And then his breath almost choked him as he saw that she wasn’t completely naked but was wearing a tiny flesh-coloured thong.
The scrap of damp fabric tugged at his gaze.
His chest tightening, he stared at her hungrily, his blood pulsing thickly as she dipped her feet into the pond and then began to sing again in the same sweet, light voice.
Massimo smiled. He recognised the song, and with the breath spinning out of him like sugar turning to candyfloss he started to whistle the tune.
The girl froze, her head jerking upwards. Taking a step forwards, she frowned. ‘Who’s there?’
Moving out from under the archway, Massimo held his hands out in front of him. ‘Sorry. I couldn’t resist. I hope I didn’t scare you.’
She stared at him fiercely, and he realised with surprise that she didn’t seem scared. Nor had she made any attempt
