Kitabı oku: «Modern Romance January Books 5-8», sayfa 7

‘Properties?’ She faced him, that unrepentantly joyous laughter in her voice again. ‘They’re hardly the same as a home.’

He had no need for a home. He needed only space and comfort and a decent bed, and frankly he could get that anywhere. Ideally a hotel with all those extra features, like food on call. Properties, on the other hand, were business. A way to build his empire and the security and success he enjoyed.

‘How many properties do you have?’ he asked acidly.

‘I own none as yet, but I only want one home. Definitely only need one. I have no desire to trot around the globe.’

‘No? Not even in a private jet?’ He played up to her pious little performance. ‘Maybe you should try it sometime. You might find it’s not so bad.’

‘And isolate myself completely from the rest of the world?’ She shook her head. ‘I actually want to know my neighbours. Not keep them out with my fancy gates and scary beeping security system and private transport.’

‘You want to know them?’ He shuddered theatrically and fished a tube of antiseptic ointment from the box as well as a plaster.

She waggled her finger at him and laughed softly. ‘You make out you want your space and privacy but you chose to go to that party last night.’

‘I needed to promote my interests—namely this villa—and I might have learned something interesting.’

She blinked at him. ‘You didn’t talk to any of them to learn anything.’

‘That’s because I was distracted.’ He was distracted again now—by her eyes, her lips and the raging desire that had meant he’d hardly slept.

‘You wanted to be distracted. That’s why you took me with you. You used me to avoid everyone else. What I still don’t understand is why you wanted to go in the first place.’

The truth was banal. ‘Because I could.’ He smiled. He hadn’t been allowed here years ago. Now there was no stopping him. ‘And you used me to get an up-close look at the palazzo. I say we’re even,’ he said firmly. ‘Now, be quiet and let me fix this.’

He carefully cleaned her wound and dabbed on the antiseptic ointment but her question had opened up that old wound and the memories scurried.

All his childhood he’d been told of the beautiful Villa Rosetta, the holiday home his father lived in for a few months each year. But by the time Rafe had arrived, his father was too ill to visit. When he’d died, it had been ruled out altogether. His half-brother, his nephew held all the power. Leonard and Maurice had laughed at him when he’d asked if he could visit Italy. They’d said no, just as they’d said no to all his most personal requests.

Including the ones to see his mother.

As a youngster he’d done everything they’d asked of him. His academic achievements had been outstanding, as had his sporting ones. He’d done everything and anything he could to win their attention, to earn the visit from his mother that they’d promised.

It had never happened. And by the time he’d been old enough to make the journey himself, it had been too late.

But in the end he’d learned that winning had some benefits. He garnered attention from others—those who sought his advice, strove to emulate his success, trusted him with their assets and made his business even more successful. And it brought him women. Women liked men with money, men who were fit, men who were winners. Once he’d begun winning, he’d won more—a snowball of success after success after success.

But he knew that without the success, without the money, the properties, the physique...they wouldn’t want to know him. Just as they hadn’t wanted to know him before he’d acquired all those things. So he didn’t allow people to get close. He didn’t trust anyone and he’d never give a person a chance to reject him, or to betray him, again. He’d had enough of that for a lifetime.

‘You’re looking very stern. You think it’s fatal?’ Grace said quietly.

He glanced up into those melted-caramel eyes and forgot to breathe. The hard knot tightening his chest softened—while another part of him altogether hardened to the point of pain. ‘I’m resisting the urge to kiss it better,’ he replied bluntly.

Her eyes widened. Yeah, he’d win now too—here, with her. He pressed the plaster over her small wound and shot her a speaking look before turning his attention to the coffee machine she’d doubted he could master. Efficiently, ruthlessly, silently proving a point. Doing it all on his own—as always. His terms. His timelines. ‘Do you take milk?’ he asked.

‘No, thank you. I like it strong.’

He bit back the smile at her innocently uttered innuendo and handed her the cup. He watched her sip gratefully. She was clearly starving. ‘You’re sure about something to eat? I think there might be some pastries in the freezer.’

She half snorted on her next sip of coffee. ‘Freezer?’ She shook her head and coughed her way back to recovery. ‘No, thank you.’

‘You don’t love frozen pastries?’ He laughed ruefully. ‘I haven’t been into the village yet.’

‘You do your own shopping? How arduous for you,’ she teased. ‘No, thank you. I’ll eat at work—which is at the local bakery, and that’s why I need to leave. I should have left half an hour ago.’

She’d told him last night that she was a waitress. No wonder she thought she knew how to make a coffee.

A second later she put the cup on the bench and stood. ‘Thanks so much,’ she said again. ‘But I really need to go or I’ll be even more late for work.’

‘I’ll give you a lift.’

She shook her head. ‘I’ll bike back. That’s how I got here yesterday.’

He walked with her back out to the garden and picked a couple of roses, grinning when she narrowed her eyes at how easily he snapped them from the plant. ‘It’s all in the angle,’ he explained soothingly as he held them out to her. ‘Take them to Alex.’

As she took them, she looked right at him and smiled. The pleasure and appreciation in her eyes walloped him in the solar plexus. Suddenly he didn’t want her to leave at all. But she was already walking away.

‘Thank you. Yet again. I’d better get going.’ She glanced back at the villa. ‘I guess all those models will be arriving soon?’

Hell, he’d forgotten about that. ‘I guess so.’ He walked with her up the long driveway. ‘The spread will be a good advertisement for the villa.’

‘Does it need to be advertised?’

‘It’s a high-end fashion magazine with extremely discerning readers. Readers who can afford to rent a villa for several thousand a week.’ He slowed as they neared the security gates.

‘And wear white designer dresses without worrying about spilling stuff on them.’ She nodded. ‘So you’re going to keep it as a holiday home for the super-wealthy?’

‘What else?’

‘A home,’ she said softly.

‘No one could live here permanently, they’d never get any work done,’ he scoffed, then frowned as he saw something that vaguely resembled a bicycle stashed beside one of the trees. He stepped closer to study it. ‘You ride this thing? It’s a man’s bike. Is it even roadworthy?’

‘It’s vintage.’

He frowned. ‘It sure is something.’ An old man’s bike. He felt a tightening in his chest but he couldn’t hold back his curiosity. ‘The same owner as your watch?’ Who was the old guy who gave her these things?

‘Different. Alex loaned it to me. He’s taken care of it for years and it goes like a dream. By that I mean it’s fast.’

‘You like fast?’ he jeered softly. ‘I wasn’t sure.’

‘I like fast. But I also like reliable. Not everyone is all about buying new things, only to discard them after using them once.’ She lifted her chin in the air.

‘Ouch.’ He pressed his hand to his heart, wincing. ‘I think the rose has thorns.’

‘Roses generally do.’ She placed the two she was holding into the pannier at the back of her bicycle. ‘Thank you for an interesting evening,’ she said awkwardly, glancing up at him when she was done.

He knew he was standing too close, too much in her way, but he couldn’t tear himself away from her. ‘It was merely interesting?’

She nodded slowly, her caramel gaze not leaving his. She didn’t seem to be breathing. Her focus strayed to his lips. She was remembering—he was instinctively certain—remembering every moment of that scorching kiss. He smiled tightly at the strength of attraction flowing between them. Using an intense amount of self-control, he deliberately stepped back so he no longer blocked her path. After a tiny hesitation she mounted the bike.

‘Travel safe,’ he called gently as she wobbled her way out of the gates.

He refused to say goodbye. Because he’d have his trespassing tourist back in his villa soon enough. But next time she’d be in his bed and wide, wide awake.

CHAPTER FIVE

GRACIE PUSHED THE fierce surge of energy from her body, pedalling so fast the usual fifteen-minute trip took only nine. She whipped upstairs to her apartment to quickly shower and change. She’d be only a few minutes late to the pasticceria, but on her way back out she nearly tripped over the elderly man checking the tires on her bike.

‘Alex.’ She smiled warmly, pleased to see him looking a bit better. But immediately she reproached him. ‘Why are you up and about so early?’

‘Your light battery is almost flat,’ he said gruffly.

‘You should still be in bed, recuperating.’

‘I wanted to see you.’ His eyes had a little of their usual sparkle back.

‘To find out about your roses?’ she teased. ‘Here.’ Gracie lifted the fresh-picked blooms from the basket. ‘They’re perfect, as you can see.’

‘I can.’ His hand shook slightly as he took them but he wasn’t studying the roses as much as he was scrutinising her.

‘You really should go back inside and rest.’ Gracie put her hands on her hips.

‘Stop fussing. Sofia was here half the night, fussing.’ He hesitated and finally looked down at the blooms in his hand. ‘You enjoyed the fireworks?’

‘I did,’ she said, instinctively wary.

‘I didn’t hear you come home last night. I wasn’t sure...’

Gracie smiled even as she blushed with embarrassment. At least she had someone in her life who cared about her. And that was nice. ‘It was a late night. I ended up staying at a friend’s house.’

There was a twinkle in Alex’s eye. ‘Sofia’s niece Stella swung by after the fireworks and showed us some photos from the palazzo’s event on her phone.’

Photos? Gracie had forgotten that people might’ve taken pictures.

‘You went to the palazzo for the festival.’ Alex finally got to his point.

‘Yes.’ She abandoned any fleeting hope of keeping her exact whereabouts secret. ‘I met the villa’s owner when watering the roses and he invited me. I could hardly say no to the chance to get inside the palazzo.’

‘Of course not.’ Alex’s expression sharpened. ‘Was he nice?’

Gracie wasn’t entirely sure that ‘nice’ was the best adjective to describe Rafael, but it would do. ‘He seemed to be.’

‘So my roses will be safe.’

Gracie laughed. ‘He’d be crazy to touch them. I think he’s all about preserving his assets and he knows their value.’

‘I guess that’s good.’ But the old man didn’t smile. ‘Could you check on them again tonight, please? It’s going to be even hotter today.’

‘Are you sure you need me to?’ Gracie was mortified at the thought of going back there. Rafael would assume she’d become another of his ‘stalkers’.

‘Yes.’ Alex sat down heavily in his outdoor seat by his container garden and coughed a couple of times. ‘I really appreciate your help on this, Gracie,’ he wheezed. ‘It doesn’t take much for them to dehydrate.’

She narrowed her gaze but as he peered up at her she sighed. Alex was incorrigible, but she was fond of him and now he’d taken a seat she could see he was truly struggling for breath. He was the first and best friend she’d made here, and she’d do anything for him.

Rafael couldn’t get away from the villa fast enough. Overrun with leggy models, make-up artists, the photographer and his many intrusive assistants, his quiet had been shattered. Worse was the lingering thread of temptation that Grace had left—unravelling the last peace left in his mind. And he couldn’t help but agree with her assertion that pastries were better fresh, not frozen. It took only an hour of noisy distraction and interruption from all the officious assistants before he gave in and drove to Bellezzo.

It wasn’t the largest village—merely a haphazard collection of old buildings clinging to the hillside right on the lakefront. According to the boundary sign, it had a population of just under six hundred people and apparently every last one of them was currently queuing in the town’s only pasticceria. It was a bar, bakery and café all bundled into one small shop on the corner of the central square. After parking the car, he glimpsed a familiar ancient bike propped against the wall of the alley next door but the delicious smell propelled him into the tiny café itself. He paused in the doorway, blinking at the number of people waiting to be served, all apparently unfazed by the length of the queue. The pastries had to be stellar because it wasn’t just tourists queuing, but locals as well. He couldn’t see through the crowd to scope the food in cabinets, but he could see above them to the staff behind the counter.

Grace’s hair was swept back in a neat braid and that fresh, sparkling smile was on her lips as she expertly filled delicate-looking pastries. She wasn’t serving but baking. As she worked, she helped the tourists who spoke little Italian with their orders—translating, interpreting, laughing. It was crowded and busy and looked and smelled insanely delicious. His stomach growled.

‘I need another dozen, Gracie,’ an older Italian woman, clearly the boss, called.

‘On it.’

Gracie. It suited her. He ignored the curious glances of other customers and watched her work. Everyone watching was salivating, including him. But he had some other reactions that weren’t anywhere near as appropriate for a public place. Breathing out, he rested his eyes by looking around. There were a few small tables crammed inside—all occupied by satisfied customers drinking coffee and eating. A few more were leaning against a tall counter.

Pictures of the lake hung on the walls, a few signs advertised the specials of the day—it seemed the place opened till lunch and then opened again at night for coffee and pizza. A couple of newer-looking signs advertised their catering service and also picnic packing for those hiring boats for a float on the lake. Clearly the business was aiming to make the most of the summer season and the influx of people.

He glanced again at the queue ahead of him. A couple of guys—clearly tourists—were watching Grace with the same kind of hunger he was desperately trying to suppress.

She was so skilled he knew she’d had serious training. After another two trays were done, she helped serve.

Rafael watched with increasing dismay as the pastry cabinet was depleted by the million customers ahead of him. His mouth was watering and his stomach was rumbling worse than hers had been first thing this morning. But worse was the thrum of blood beating around his body. Finally he got to the front—and met her gaze.

‘Oh.’

Rafe smiled at the flush that immediately mottled her skin.

‘I really need food,’ he all but begged her before she could speak. ‘Enough for me and those fashion-shoot people.’

‘Fashion-shoot people?’ Her eyebrows lifted sceptically. ‘I didn’t think models ate anything... I definitely wouldn’t have thought they’d eat pastries filled with custard and cream.’

‘These pastries would tempt anyone.’ He was dying of hunger. For everything. Recklessness fired in his blood. ‘You made them. You’re the temptress.’

That colour built in her cheeks again, but before she could speak, he put in another plea. ‘They’re going fast. I really don’t want to miss out.’

‘We always sell out before lunchtime.’

‘I’m not surprised.’ He smiled at the pride in her voice.

‘You’d like a selection?’

Right now he’d take anything she cared to toss his way. ‘Enough for nine people. And me.’

‘You have a particularly large appetite?’ A mischievous smile tugged the corners of her mouth.

Was she flirting with him?

‘I’d call it healthy.’ He watched her lift the pastries into a large box. ‘Did you give Alex the roses?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ Her smile bloomed to one of true delight. ‘He was satisfied with their condition.’ She bit her lip as she closed the lid of the box. ‘I think he was worried you’re going to rip them out.’

‘Why would I do that?’ He was taken aback. ‘I like beautiful things.’

She laughed. ‘You like to collect them.’

He wasn’t going to deny it, neither was he going to apologise for the fact. ‘Who doesn’t like spending time with beauty?’ He wanted lots of time with her. ‘Beauty and her roses.’