want to be with you, angelina mia,’ Vitale intoned across the bonnet, whipping off his sunglasses to view her with level dark golden eyes. ‘Why do you think I arranged this outing? Only to please you.’
As Zara could think of no good reason why he should have bothered otherwise, the anxious tension fell from her heart-shaped face. ‘I’m no good with moody guys,’ she confided with a wry look. ‘They make me uncomfortable.’
‘I’m not moody.’
Aware of the powerful personality that drove him, Zara didn’t quite believe him on that score. He might not be subject to moods as a rule but he was definitely a very driven and strong individual. She was convinced that he could be stubborn and tough and a bit of a maverick but she had no idea how she could be so sure of those traits when she had only met him the day before. And yet she was sure. In much the same way she read the strain in his dark golden gaze and realised for the first time that he wasn’t just flirting with her, he wasn’t just playing a sexual game like so many of the men she had met. Vitale Roccanti was keen to soothe the feelings he had hurt. He sincerely cared about her opinion. Heartened by that conviction, she tried not to smile.
Vitale lifted out the picnic basket Giuseppina had made up and tossed Zara a cotton rug to carry and extended his free hand to her. ‘Let’s find somewhere to eat …’
‘The orchard,’ she suggested dreamily, already mentally visualising the garden design she had often studied.
In the heat of the afternoon they strolled along gravelled paths. The clarity of her aunt’s talent as a designer was still as clear as it must have been forty years earlier when it was first created. ‘The garden’s been replanted,’ Zara registered in surprise and pleasure, for she had expected to see overgrown shrubs and trees, the once noticeable lines of her aunt’s vision blurred by many years of growth.
‘Eighteen months ago.’ Vitale’s explanation was crisp, a little distracted. As she stood there against the backdrop of a great yew tree he was remembering his sister dancing along the same path in a scarlet silk gown for a fashion photographer’s benefit, her lovely face stamped with the detached hauteur of a model, only the sparkle of her eyes revealing her true joyous mood. ‘For a while the house and garden were open as a tourist attraction.’
‘But not now,’ Zara gathered.
‘The owner cherishes his privacy.’
‘It’s almost selfish to own something this beautiful and refuse to share it with other people,’ Zara contended in a tone of censure, lavender eyes darting in every direction because there was so much for her to take in.
His handsome mouth quirked as he watched her clamber unselfconsciously onto a stone bench in an effort to gain a better overall view above the tall evergreen hedges. ‘The temple on the hill above the lake offers the best prospect.’
Zara’s fine brows connected in a sudden frown. ‘There was no temple in the original scheme.’
‘Perhaps the owner felt he could add a little something without destroying the symmetry of the whole,’ Vitale murmured a tinge drily.
Zara went pink. ‘Of course. I think it’s wonderful that he thought enough of the garden to maintain it and secure its future for another generation.’
Vitale shot her a searching glance, much amused against his will by her quick recovery. She was a lousy liar, having something of a child’s artlessness in the way that she spoke and acted without forethought. She had no patience either. He watched her hurry ahead of him with quick light steps, a tiny trim figure with silvery pale hair catching and holding the sunlight. When he had seen the photos of her he had assumed the hair was dyed but it looked strikingly natural, perfectly attuned to her pale Nordic skin and unusual eyes. He would have to get her clothes off to explore the question further and that was a prospect that Vitale was startled to discover that he could hardly wait to bring about.
Monty Blake’s daughter had an unanticipated charm all of her own. Even in the casual clothes her quintessential femininity, dainty curves and deeply disconcerting air of spontaneity turned him on hard and fast. It was years since any woman had had that effect on him and he didn’t like it at all. Vitale much preferred a predictable low level and controllable response to a woman. He did not like surprises.
Beyond an avenue of cypresses and the vista of a picturesque town clinging to the upper slopes of a distant hill, the garden became less formal and a charming winding path led them to the cherry orchard. Wild flowers laced the lush grass and Zara hovered rather than spread the rug because it seemed almost a desecration to flatten those blooms. Vitale had no such inhibitions, however and he took the rug from her and cast it down. He was wondering if she could possibly have chosen the private location in expectation and encouragement of a bout of alfresco sex. No way, absolutely no way, Vitale decided grittily, was he sinking his famously cool reputation to fool about in long grass like a testosterone-driven teenager.
Seated unceremoniously on her knees and looking not remotely seductive, however, Zara was already digging through the basket and producing all sorts of goodies. ‘I’m really hungry,’ she admitted.
Vitale studied her and decided that he was becoming too set in his ways. Maybe he could bite the bullet if the only option was making out in the grass. He poured chilled white wine while she set out plates and extracted thin slices of prosciutto ham, wedges of onion and spinach frittata, a mozzarella and tomato salad and a bowl of pasta sprinkled with zucchini blossoms. It was a colourful and enticing spread.
‘Giuseppina is a treasure,’ Zara commented, digging in without further ado to a wedge of frittata washed down with wine from a moisture-beaded glass.
‘I’m an excellent cook,’ Vitale volunteered unexpectedly. ‘Giuseppina is a recent addition to my household.’
‘I can just about make toast,’ Zara told him cheerfully. ‘My older sister, Bee, is always offering to teach me to cook but I’m more into the garden than the kitchen.’
‘I didn’t know you had a sister.’
Zara kicked off her shoes and lounged back on one elbow to munch through ham and a generous spoonful of the juicy tomato salad with unconcealed enjoyment. ‘Dad has three daughters from two marriages and one affair. He’s a bit of a womaniser,’ she muttered, downplaying the truth to an acceptable level.
‘Is he still married to your mother?’
Worrying at her full lower lip, Zara compressed her sultry mouth. ‘Yes, but he’s had other interests along the way—she turns a blind eye. Gosh, I don’t know why I’m telling you that. It’s private.’
‘Obviously it bothers you,’ Vitale remarked perceptively.
It had always bothered Zara. Several years earlier, Edith had gently warned her niece to mind her own business when it came to her parents’ marriage, pointing out that some adults accepted certain compromises in their efforts to maintain a stable relationship. ‘I think fidelity is very important …’
Thinking of the wedding plans that he already knew were afoot in London on her behalf, Vitale almost laughed out loud in derision at that seemingly naïve declaration. He supposed it sounded good and that many men, burned by female betrayal, would be impressed by such a statement. More cynical and never ever trusting when it came to her sex, Vitale veiled his hard dark eyes lest he betray his scorn.
Zara could feel hot colour
