filed the name away for future reference and regarded the goddess of buckets and sensuality curiously. ‘Where’s his father?’
‘The wording on his birth certificate says “Father: unknown”.’
‘His mother?’
‘She died in an Athens boarding house nearly a year ago of hep C. As far as anyone can gather, the only person looking after her was Sam.’
Rough. Damn rough on a kid. ‘Is the Chloe who came down to the harbour to find him this afternoon his real aunt?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So where was she when her sister got sick?’
‘You sound a touch judgemental.’
‘Feels about right,’ he said mildly. Given the picture she was painting.
‘I do like a man who’s in touch with his feelings.’
‘Let’s not get carried away,’ he said dryly.
Serena turned off the tap, picked up the bucket and strolled towards a cluster of herbs by the kitchen door. ‘Chloe was right here, running the hotel. She hadn’t heard from her sister in over a year and a half.’
‘Close family.’
‘You’re being judgemental again,’ she told him.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I like that about you.’ A tiny smile played at the edge of her lips. ‘Where was I?’
‘Aunt Chloe.’
‘Oh, yeah. According to Chloe, her sister lit out for Athens some twelve years ago, defiant, disowned, and three months pregnant. She was sixteen. Chloe was thirteen at the time and tried to play peacemaker. She failed. Her parents were unmoveable and her sister didn’t want either Chloe’s pity or the savings she sent her. The family fractured.’
‘How’d the boy end up here?’
‘Chloe’s sister named her next of kin.’ Serena shrugged. ‘Chloe loves Sam, but she can’t handle him. Sam’s carrying a lifetime of rejection and an ocean of resentment around on his shoulders. He’s fiercely independent. Chloe’s fiercely overprotective. She’s determined not to fail him. They clash.’
‘So where does Nico fit into all of this?’
Serena chuckled, her expression lightening as she gave each clump of herbs a drink. ‘Smack bang in the middle; between a boy who desperately needs to feel worthy and a woman he’s crazy in love with.’
Pete shuddered. ‘No wonder he’s gone sailing.’
‘You underestimate my cousin, flyboy. My money’s on Nico claiming them both before summer’s out.’
‘It’s a pretty picture to be sure.’ So was she. ‘Tell me,’ he drawled. ‘What would you have been wearing if this hadn’t been a purely platonic evening meal?’
‘Lipstick for starters.’
She didn’t need it.
‘And probably a dress.’
‘Strappy?’
Definitely.
‘Short?’
‘No. Something demure. Just above the knees. A first-date dress.’
‘What colour?’
‘For you? Blue. So that when you looked at me you’d think of something you already loved. The sky.’
‘Oh, you’re good,’ he said in admiration.
‘Yes, I am.’ Her accompanying grin rammed that particular point home. ‘Now you. If this wasn’t a strictly platonic dinner deal where would you have taken me?’
‘For you?’ He didn’t have to think hard. ‘The Trevi Fountain in Rome. I’d buy you a gelato and give you a bright new penny so you could toss it into the fountain and make a wish. And then we’d walk wherever our feet took us—a sidewalk trattoria or a bustling restaurant— and everyone in the room, myself included, would say a heartfelt prayer of thanks for beautiful sirens in sky-blue dresses.’
‘Oh, you’re very good,’ she said wistfully.
‘Thank you. I aim to please.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ she murmured as she slid the bucket back beneath the tap. ‘You interest me, flyboy, I’ll give you that. There’s just one thing I can’t quite figure out. Something that doesn’t quite fit your carefree and extremely appealing image.’ She smiled archly and sent a shaft of heat straight through him. ‘What you said to Sam … the way you listened to him, helped him … the way you told him to get back to you.’ She turned and headed for the door with a sway to her hips that was truly distracting. ‘It was nice.’
CHAPTER TWO
NICE? Nice? Pete Bennett had been called a lot of things by the women who sauntered through his life, but nice had never been one of them. It didn’t feel like a compliment. Okay, so he could, on occasion, be nice. Nothing wrong with that. But what if nice mutated into caring? What if caring morphed into really caring? Then where would he be?
Nope. Better to disabuse the bucket goddess of all nicehood fantasies immediately. Rolling his shoulders back for good measure, and with the spell she’d woven about him still clouding his mind somewhat, he headed across the courtyard after her.
The kitchen in the whitewashed cottage consisted of a fridge, a sink, a wall full of shelving laden with fresh food and a square central bench that doubled as a table. Simple, cosy, and, to Serena’s way of thinking, all about the food. She’d put a chicken—liberally seasoned with garlic and oregano—in the oven earlier, along with half a dozen salt-licked potatoes. A loaf of crusty bread and the fixings of a salad sat on the bench waiting to be sliced, diced, and tossed into a bowl just before serving. Serena came from a family of cooks, chefs, restaurateurs, and foodies. Cooking might not have been her first love, or even her second, but in her family there was no excuse for poor cooking.
Pete had followed her into the kitchen and now stood leaning against the doorframe. Judging by the dangerous gleam in his eyes, he’d used up his daily quota of nice on Sam. Serena didn’t mind a bit.
Nice was a bonus, certainly, but sexy, playful, and thoroughly entertaining would do just fine.
‘Call me curious,’ he said, ‘but if renting Vespas to tourists isn’t your lifelong ambition, why do it?’
‘Family,’ she muttered, taking a chunk of feta from the fridge and setting it on the bench alongside a wickedly sharp cutting knife. ‘All the grandchildren do a six-month stint helping out here. It’s my turn.’
‘What happens when all the grandchildren have had a turn? Does it rotate back to the beginning?’
‘Theoretically,
