turned to face him. ‘I don’t understand. Are you saying I can stay? Or is this some game? Because I don’t know how to play.’
His mouth curved at the edges. ‘This isn’t a game.’
‘But it doesn’t make any sense,’ she replied fiercely. ‘One minute you’re jack-booting around like some crazed dictator on a rampage, and now you’re being—’ She stopped.
‘What? What am I being?’
His blue eyes were fixed on her animated features and she frowned. ‘I don’t know—reasonable, nice!’
He winced. ‘Reasonable! Nice? I don’t think anyone has ever accused me of being that before!’ His tone was teasing.
‘I don’t suppose they have,’ she said cautiously.
He grinned, his handsome face softening. ‘It’s a low blow! Arrogant, ruthless, crazed...I can handle. Niceness, though... That’s dangerous! Whoever heard of a nice CEO?’
She bit her lip.
He frowned. ‘I’m serious. You have to promise me: what happens in the maze, stays in the maze. I can’t have my reputation as a “bullying, greedy monster” ruined.’
Recognising her words, Flora blushed. ‘You were a bit bullying,’ she said carefully. ‘But I suppose that doesn’t matter now.’
He was watching her thoughtfully. ‘I’d like to think it doesn’t.’ Pausing, he glanced across the lawn. ‘Are there more gardens over there?’
Surprised by the change of subject, she nodded.
‘I’d like to see them. Will you show me?’ he asked simply.
Breathing in the drifting scents of blossom and warm earth, Massimo was surprised—impressed, even—by the scale and diversity of the gardens. He was no horticulturist, but even he could see that in stark contrast to the palazzo it looked as though someone was taking care of them.
Between narrow gravel-filled paths edged with meticulously trimmed bay hedges, the neat, square beds were filled with lavender, thyme, rosemary and sage, while espaliered fruit trees mingled with climbing roses, jasmine, honeysuckle and wisteria on the walls and arches.
Massimo ran his hand lightly over a topiary spiral. No doubt Bassani had taken up gardening when his career as an artist had begun to fade. Squinting into the sunlight, his face tightened. It was pretty, but gardening—like all hobbies—seemed a complete waste of time to him. He worked out with a personal trainer five mornings a week, but work fulfilled all his needs except rest and relaxation, which was why, in his leisure time, he liked to sleep and have sex.
His lip curled—although not necessarily in that order.
‘It’s beautiful,’ he said finally. ‘I didn’t know Bassani was such a keen horticulturist.’
Flora looked up at him, her mouth curving into a pout, and he felt his groin tighten almost imperceptibly. How to describe those lips? Not red, not pink— He smiled grimly as the words came to him from school art lessons: rose madder. He stared at her critically. A tiny scar just above her eyebrow and a sprinkling of freckles over her nose and cheeks contrasted with the classical symmetry of her face and saved her from being just another pretty girl. But that mouth was a work of art: a mixture of challenge and seduction, determination and—surrender.
An image of Flora, soft-eyed, her body melting against his, those lips parting, exploded inside his head.
Struggling to keep himself from touching the plump cushion of her lower lip, he gestured offhandedly towards a cluster of dark red peonies. ‘Did he choose everything?’
Flora shook her head slowly. ‘Umberto didn’t have anything to do with the gardens—’ She checked herself. ‘He liked sitting in them, of course, but he knew absolutely nothing about plants.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘He couldn’t tell a weed from a wallflower!’
Watching her eyes mist over as she talked about her lover, Massimo felt something twist inside him. The thought of Flora and Umberto together, her bewitching young body pressed against the older man’s, made him want to snap the heads off the flowers—
Her voice broke into his thoughts. ‘He sometimes helped me with the planting, though. Not the actual digging, but he always knew what plant should go where. I think that’s because he was an artist; he had a wonderful eye for colour and composition.’
Massimo nodded. ‘I know even less about colour and composition than I do plants. But I have a couple of properties on the mainland,’ he said idly. ‘I could do with a capable gardener.’ His blue eyes gleamed. ‘Maybe I could poach yours.’
She burst out laughing. He was impossible. Incorrigible. Infuriating. And for one bizarre moment, it actually felt like they liked each other. Biting her lip, she met his gaze. ‘So now that you can’t have my home, you want my gardener?’
Amusement lit up his eyes. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that but—yes. It seems only fair.’
The gentle, mocking tone of his voice made her heart beat faster. He was still her enemy, she told herself frantically. He was a devil in disguise and she shouldn’t let her guard down just because his eyes were like woodland pools and his voice was as sweet and silken as wild honey.
‘That’s not going to happen,’ she said carefully, hoping that her face revealed nothing of her thoughts. ‘Looking after these gardens—’ she frowned ‘Well, it’s not just a job. It’s more complicated than that.’
His eyes were dark and teasing. ‘Compared to that maze nothing is complicated! Don’t look so worried, cara, I’m not going to kidnap your gardener. I can see you don’t want to lose his services.’
Their eyes met, and she felt her skin grow warm and tingling beneath his lingering gaze. His eyes were a beautiful, deep, dark blue of a forget-me-not, and she felt a sudden sharp heat inside as she stared at his lean jawline and the full, passionate mouth. He would be impossible to forget even if his eyes didn’t demand that he be remembered: his lean, muscular body, the compelling purposefulness of his gaze and the intensity of his masculinity set him apart from every other man she’d ever met. And his smile— She felt a rush of longing. What woman wouldn’t want to be the cause of that smile?
And then, as though the sun had gone behind a cloud, his smile faded. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said slowly. ‘It must be the heat or something. I’m usually a little quicker on the uptake.’ He frowned. ‘You don’t have to explain. I get it.’
‘Get what?’ The hair on the nape of her neck rose at the sudden tension between them.
‘Obviously, he’s a “friend” of yours.’
She stared at him, confused. ‘Who?’
‘Your gardener.’
The expression on his face was hard to define, but she could almost see him retreating, and she felt a rush of panic. ‘He’s not a friend of mine. I mean, he can’t be. He doesn’t exist,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I do the gardening. Me. On my own.’
There was a moment’s silence as he studied her face and then
