Miranda felt a rush of goose bumps scamper over every inch of her flesh. She turned a full circle, taking in the bronze, marble and onyx statues positioned about the foyer. There were paintings on every wall, portraits and landscapes from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries; some looked even older. It was like stepping into a neglected museum. A thick layer of dust was over everything like a ghostly shroud.
‘Wow...’ she breathed in wonder.
Leandro merely looked bored. ‘I’ll show you to your room first. Then I’ll give you the guided tour.’
Miranda followed him upstairs, having to restrain herself from stopping in front of every painting or objet d’art on the way past. She caught tantalising glimpses of the second floor rooms through the open doors; most of the furniture was draped with dust sheets but even so she could see in times gone past the villa had been a showcase for grandeur and wealth. There were a couple of rooms with the doors closed. One she assumed was Leandro’s bedroom but she knew it wasn’t the master suite as they had passed it three doors back. Did he not want to occupy the room his father had slept in all those years?
Miranda felt another prickle of goose bumps.
Had his father perhaps died in there?
Thankfully the room Leandro had assigned her had been aired. The faded formal curtains had been pulled back and secured by the brass fittings and the window opened so fresh air could circulate. The breeze was playing with the gossamer-sheer fabric of the curtain in little billowy puffs and sighs.
‘I hope the bed’s comfortable,’ Leandro said as he placed her bag on a velvet-topped chest at the foot of the bed. ‘The linen is fresh. I bought some new stuff when I got here yesterday.’
Miranda glanced at him. ‘Did your father die at home?’
His brows came together. ‘Why do you ask?’
She gave a little shrug, absently rubbing her upper arms with her crossed-over hands. ‘Just wondering.’
He held her look for a beat before turning away, one of his hands scoring a pathway through the thickness of his hair. ‘He was found unconscious by a neighbour and died a few hours later in hospital.’
‘So you didn’t get to say goodbye to him?’
He made a sound of derision. ‘We said our goodbyes a long time ago.’
Miranda looked at the landscape of his face—the strong jaw, the tight mouth with its lines of tension running down each side and the shadowed eyes. ‘What happened between the two of you?’ she said.
His eyes moved away from hers. ‘I’ll leave you to unpack. The bathroom is through there. I’ll be downstairs in the study.’
‘Leandro?’
He stopped at the door and she heard him release a ‘what now?’ breath before he turned to look at her with dark eyes that flashed with unmistakable irritation. ‘You’re not here to give me grief counselling, okay?’
Miranda opened her eyes a little wider at his acerbic tone. She had never seen him even mildly angry before. He was always so emotionless, so neutral and blank...apart from that frown, of course. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
He scrubbed his hand over his face as he let out another whoosh of air. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a weighted tone. ‘That was uncalled for.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘I realise this is a difficult time for you.’
His mouth twisted but it was nowhere near a smile, not even a quarter of one. ‘Let me know if you need anything. I’m not used to catering for guests. I might’ve overlooked something.’
‘Don’t you have visitors come and stay with you at your place in London?’ Miranda said.
His eyes were as unfathomable as ever as they held hers. ‘Women, you mean?’
Miranda felt another blush storm into her cheeks. Why on earth was she was discussing his sex life with him? It was crossing a boundary she had never crossed before. She’d thought about him with other women. Many times. How could she not? She’d seen the way other women looked at him. The way their eyes flared in interest. The way they licked their lips and fluttered their eyelashes, or moved or preened their bodies so he would take notice. She had been witnessing his effect on women for as long as she could remember. He wasn’t just eye candy. He was an eye banquet. He was intelligent, sophisticated, cultured and wealthy to boot. Alpha, but without the arrogance. He was everything a woman would want in a sexual partner. He was the stuff of fantasies. Hot, erotic fantasies she never allowed herself to have. What did it matter to her what he did or who he did it with?
She didn’t want to know.
Well, maybe just a little.
‘You do have them occasionally, don’t you?’ Miranda said.
One of his dark brows rose in a quizzical arc. ‘Have them?’
She held his look but it took an enormous effort. Her cheeks were on fire. Hot enough to sear a steak. He was teasing her. She could see a tiny glint in the dark chocolate of his eyes. Even one corner of his mouth had lifted a fraction. He was making her out to be a prude who couldn’t talk about sex openly. Why did everyone automatically assume because she was celibate she was uptight about all things sexual? That she was some old-world throwback who couldn’t handle modernity? ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about so stop trying to embarrass me.’
His eyes didn’t waver from hers. ‘I’m not a monk.’
Miranda couldn’t stop her mind running off with that information. Picturing him with women. Being very un-monk-like with them. Touching them, kissing them, making love to them. She imagined his body naked—the toned, tanned and taut perfection of him in the throes of animal passion.
She could feel her own body stirring in excitement, her pulse kicking up its pace, her blood pulsing with the primitive drumbeat of lust, her inner core contracting with a delicious clench of desire. She quickly moistened her lips with the point of her tongue, an electric jolt of awareness zapping her as she saw his dark-as-night gaze follow every micro-millimetre of its pathway across her mouth.
The subtle change in atmosphere made the air suddenly super-charged. She could feel the voltage crackling in the silence like a singing wire.
He was standing at least two metres away and yet she felt as if he had touched her. Her lips buzzed and fizzed. Throbbed. Ached. Would he kiss soft and slow or hard and fast? Would his stubble scrape or graze her? What would he taste of? Salty or sweet? Good quality coffee or top-shelf wine? Testosterone-rich man in his prime?
Miranda became aware of her body shifting. Stirring. Sensing. It felt like every cell was unfurling from a tightly wound ball. Her body stretched its cramped limbs like a long-confined creature. Her frozen blood thawed, warmed, heated. Sizzled.
Needs she had long ignored pulsed. Each little ripple of want in her inner core reminded her: she was a woman. He was a man. They were alone in a big, run-down old house with no one as buffer. No older brothers. No servants. No distractions.
No chaperone.
‘I hope
