Kitabı oku: «From Florence With Love», sayfa 7

‘Thank you and shut up,’ she said meekly, and then burst into tears.

Lydia cooked the leg of lamb for supper and served it with rosemary roast potatoes and a redcurrant jus, and carrots and runner beans from the garden, and they all sat round at the battered old kitchen table with the dogs at their feet and opened one of the bottles of Brunello.

‘It seems wrong, drinking it in here,’ she said apologetically, ‘but Andy’s doing the accounts on the dining table at the moment and it’s swamped.’

‘It’s not about the room, it’s about the flavour. Just try it,’ he said, watching her closely.

So she swirled it, sniffed it, rolled it round on her tongue and gave a glorious sigh. ‘That is the most gorgeous wine I have ever tasted,’ she told him, and he inclined his head and smiled.

‘Thank you. We’re very proud of it, and it’s a perfect complement to the lamb. It’s beautifully cooked. Well done.’

‘Thank you. Thank you for trusting me with it.’ She smiled back, suddenly ridiculously happy, and then the men started to talk about farming, and Jen quizzed her about the palazzo, because she’d hardly said anything about it since she’d come home.

‘It sounds amazing,’ Jen said, wide-eyed. ‘We’ll have to look at that video.’

‘You will. It’s great. The frescoes are incredible, and the view is to die for, especially at night, when all you can see is the twinkling lights in the distance. It’s just gorgeous, and really peaceful. I know it’ll sound ridiculous, but it reminded me of home, in a way.’

‘I don’t think that’s ridiculous,’ Massimo said, cutting in with a smile. ‘It’s a home, that’s all, just in a beautiful setting, and that’s what you have here—a warm and loving family home in a peaceful setting. I’m flattered that you felt like that about mine.’

The conversation drifted on, with him telling them more about the farm, about the harvest and the soil and the weather patterns, and she could have sat there for hours just listening to his voice, but she had so much to do before they left in the morning, not least gathering together her clothes, so she left them all talking and went up to her room.

Bearing in mind she’d be flying back after the harvest was over, she tried to be sensible about the amount she took, but she’d need winter clothes as well as lighter garments, and walking boots so she could explore the countryside, and something respectable in case he sprang another dinner on her—

‘You look lost.’

She looked up from her suitcase and sighed. ‘I don’t know what to take.’

‘Your passport?’

‘Got that,’ she said, waggling it at him with a smile. ‘It’s clothes. I want enough, but not too much. I don’t know what the weather will be like.’

‘It can get cold. Bring warm things for later, but don’t worry. You can buy anything you don’t have.’

‘I’m trying to stick to a sensible baggage allowance for when I come back.’

‘Don’t bother. I’ll pay the excess. Just bring what you need.’

‘What time are we leaving?’

‘Seven.’

‘Seven?’ she squeaked, and he laughed.

‘That’s a concession. I would have left at five, or maybe six.’

‘I’ll be ready whenever you tell me. Have you been shown to your room?’

‘Si. And the bathroom is opposite?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry it doesn’t have an en suite bathroom—’

‘Lydia, stop apologising for your home,’ he said gently. ‘I’m perfectly capable of crossing a corridor. I’ll see you at six for breakfast, OK?’

‘OK,’ she said, and for a heartbeat she wondered if he’d kiss her goodnight.

He didn’t, and she spent a good half-hour trying to convince herself she was glad.

They set off in the morning shortly before seven, leaving Jen and Andy still slightly stunned and busy planning their wedding, and she settled back in the soft leather seat and wondered if she’d completely lost her mind.

‘Which way are we going?’ she asked as they headed down to Kent.

‘The quickest route—northern France, across the Alps in Switzerland, past Lake Como and onto the A1 to Siena. We’ll stay somewhere on the way. I don’t want to drive through the Alps when I’m tired, the mountain roads can be a little tricky.’

Her heart thudded. They were staying somewhere overnight?

Well, of course they were, he couldn’t possibly drive whatever distance it was from Suffolk to Tuscany in one day, but somehow she hadn’t factored an overnight stop into her calculations, and the journey, which until now had seemed simple and straightforward, suddenly seemed fraught with the danger of derailing their best intentions.

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘LYDIA?’

She stirred, opened her eyes and blinked.

He’d pulled up in what looked like a motorway service area, and it was dark beyond the floodlit car park. She yawned hugely and wrapped her hand around the back of her neck, rolling her head to straighten out the kinks.

‘Oh, ow. What time is it? I feel as if I’ve been asleep for hours!’

He gave her a wry, weary smile. ‘You have. It’s after nine, and I need to stop for the night before I join you and we have an accident.’

‘Where are we?’

‘A few miles into Switzerland? We’re getting into the mountains and this place has rooms. It’s a bit like factory farming, but it’s clean and the beds are decent. I’d like to stop here if they have any vacancies.’

‘And if they don’t?’

He shrugged. ‘We go on.’

But he must be exhausted. They’d only stopped twice, the last time at two for a late lunch. What if they only have one room? she thought, and her heart started to pound. How strong was her resolve? How strong was his?

She never found out. They had plenty of space, so he booked two rooms and carried her suitcase for her and put it down at the door. ‘We should eat fairly soon, but I thought you might want to freshen up. Ten minutes?’

‘Ten minutes is fine,’ she said, and let herself into her lonely, barren motel room. It was clean and functional as he’d promised, just another generic hotel room like all the rest, and she wished that for once in her life she had the courage to go after the thing she really wanted.

Assuming the thing—the person—really wanted her, of course, and he’d made it clear he didn’t.

She stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. What was she thinking about? She didn’t want him! She wasn’t ready for another relationship. Not really, not if she was being sensible. She wanted to get her career back on track, to refocus her life and remember where she was going and what she was doing. She certainly didn’t need to get her heart broken by a sad and lonely workaholic ten years her senior, with three motherless children and a massively demanding business empire devouring all his time.

Even if he was the most fascinating and attractive man she’d ever met in her life, and one of the kindest and most thoughtful. He was hurting, too, still grieving for his wife, and in no way ready to commit to another relationship, no matter how deeply she might fall in love with him. He wouldn’t hurt her intentionally, but letting herself get close to him—that was a recipe for disaster if nothing else was.

‘Lydia?’

There was a knock at the bedroom door, and she turned off the bathroom light and opened it. Massimo was standing there in the corridor, in a fresh shirt and trousers, his hair still damp from the shower. He looked incredible.

‘Are you ready for dinner?’

She conjured up a smile. ‘Give me ten seconds.’

She picked up her bag, gave her lips a quick swipe of translucent colour as a concession to vanity and dragged a comb through her hair. And then, just out of defiance, she added a spritz of scent.

She might be travel weary, and she might not be about to get involved with him, but she still had her pride.

The dinner was adequate. Nothing more, nothing less.

He was tired, she was tired—and yet still they lingered, talking for an hour over their coffee. She asked about Isabelle and Luca’s baby, and how the children were, and he asked her about Jen’s progress and if she’d be off the crutches by the time of the wedding, whenever it would be.

They talked about his time at boarding school, and she told him about her own schooling, in a village just four miles from where she lived.

And then finally they both fell silent, and he looked at his watch in disbelief.

‘It’s late and tomorrow will be a hard drive,’ he said. ‘We should go to bed.’

The word bed reverberated in the air between them, and then she placed her napkin on the table and stood up a little abruptly. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry, you should have told me to shut up.’

He should. He should have cut it short and gone to bed, instead of sitting up with her and hanging on her every word. He paid the bill and escorted her back to her room, leaving a clear gap between them as he paused at her door.

Not because he wanted to, but because he didn’t, and if he got any closer, he didn’t trust himself to end it there.

‘Buonanotte, bella,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll wake you at five thirty.’

She nodded, and without looking back at him, she opened the door of her room, went in and closed it behind her. He stared at it for a second, gave a quiet, resigned laugh and let himself into his own room.

This was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? For her to keep her distance, to enable him to do the same?

So why did he suddenly feel so lonely?

It was like coming home.

This time, when she saw the fortress-like building standing proudly on the hilltop, she felt excitement and not trepidation, and when the children came tumbling down the steps to greet them, there was no look of horror, but shrieks of delight and hugs all round.

Antonino just wanted his father, but Francesca hugged her, and Lavinia hung on her arm and grinned wildly. ‘Lydia!’ she said, again and again, and then Carlotta appeared at the top of the steps and welcomed her—literally—with open arms.

‘Signorina! You come back! Oh!’

She found herself engulfed in a warm and emotional hug, and when Carlotta let her go, her eyes were brimming. She blotted them, laughing at herself, and then taking Lydia by the hand, she led her through the courtyard to her old room.

This time there were flowers on the chest of drawers, and Roberto brought in her luggage and put it down and hugged her, too.

‘Grazie mille, signorina,’ he said, his voice choked. ‘Thank you for coming back to help us.’

‘Oh, Roberto, it’s my pleasure. There’s so much Carlotta can teach me, and I’m really looking forward to learning.’

‘I teach,’ she said, patting her hand. ‘I teach you everything!’

She doubted it. Carlotta’s knowledge of traditional dishes was a rich broth of inheritance, and it would take more than a few experiments to capture it, but it would still be fascinating.

They left her to settle in, and a moment later there was a tap at the French doors.

‘The children and I are going for a swim. Want to join us?’

She was so tempted. It was still warm here, much warmer than in England, although she knew the temperature would drop once it was dark. The water in the pool would be warm and inviting, though, and it would be fun playing with the children, but she felt a shiver of danger, and not just from him.

‘I don’t think so. I’m a bit tired. I might rest for a little while.’

He nodded, smiled briefly and walked away, and she closed the door and shut the curtains, just to make the point.

The children were delightful, but they weren’t why she was here, and neither was he. And the more often she reminded herself of that, the better, because she was in serious danger of forgetting.

She didn’t have time to think about it.

The harvest season was in full swing, and from first thing the following morning, she was busy. Carlotta still tried to do too much, but she just smiled and told her she was allowed to give orders and that was all, and after the first two days she seemed happy to do that.

She even started taking a siesta in the middle of the day, which gave Lydia time to make a lot of the preparations for the evening without prodding Carlotta’s conscience.

And every evening, she dished up the food to the workers and joined them for their meal.

They seemed pleased to see her, and there was a bit of flirting and whistling and nudging, but she could deal with that. And then Massimo appeared at her side, and she heard a ripple of laughter and someone said something she’d heard a few times before when he was about. She’d also heard him say it to Francesca on occasions.

‘What does bella ragazza mean?’ she asked in a quiet moment as they were finishing their food, and he gave a slightly embarrassed laugh.

‘Beautiful girl.’

She studied his face closely, unconvinced. ‘Are you sure? Because they only say it when you’re near me.’

He pulled a face. ‘OK. It’s usually used for a girlfriend.’

‘They think I’m your girlfriend?’ she squeaked, and he cleared his throat and pushed the food around his plate.

‘Ignore them. They’re just teasing us.’

Were they? Or could they see the pull between them? Because ignore it as hard as she liked, it wasn’t going away, and it was getting stronger with every day that passed.

A few days later, while she was taking a breather out on the terrace before lunch, Isabelle appeared. She was pushing a pram, and she had a little girl in tow.

‘Lydia, hi. I was hoping to find you. Mind if we join you?’

She stood up, pleased to see her again, and hugged her. ‘Of course I don’t mind. Congratulations! May I see?’

‘Sure.’

She peered into the pram, and sighed. ‘Oh, he’s gorgeous. So, so gorgeous! All that dark hair!’

‘Oh, yes, he’s his daddy’s boy. Sometimes I wonder where my genes went in all of this.’ She laughed, and Lydia smiled and reached out to touch the sleeping baby’s outstretched hand.

It clenched reflexively, closing on her fingertip, and she gave a soft sigh and swallowed hard.

He looked just like the picture of Antonino with his mother in the photo frame in the kitchen. Strong genes, indeed, she thought, and felt a sudden, shocking pang low down in her abdomen, a need so strong it was almost visceral.

She eased her finger away and straightened up. ‘Can I get you a drink? And what about your little girl?’

‘Annamaria, do you want a drink, darling?’

‘Juice!’

‘Please.’

‘P’ees.’

‘Good girl. I’d love a coffee, if you’ve got time? And anything juice-related with a big slosh of water would be great. We’ve got a feeder cup.’

They went into the kitchen, and she found some biscuits and took them out into the sun again with the drinks, and sat on the terrace under the pergola, shaded by the jasmine.

‘Are you completely better now, after your fall?’ Isabelle asked her, and she laughed and brushed it aside.

‘I’m fine. My ankle was the worst thing, really, but it’s much better now. It still twinges if I’m careless, but it’s OK. How about you? Heavens, you’ve had a baby, that’s much worse!’

Isabelle laughed and shook her head. ‘No. It was harder than when Annamaria was born, but really very straightforward, and you know Luca’s an obstetrician?’

‘Yes, I think so. I believe Massimo mentioned it. I know he’s a doctor, he met us at the hospital when I had the fall and translated everything for me. So did he deliver him? What’s he called, by the way?’

‘Maximus—Max for short, after his uncle. Maximus and Massimo both mean the greatest, and my little Max was huge, so he really earned it. And yes, Luca did help deliver him, but at home with a midwife. Not like last time. He nearly missed Annamaria’s birth, and I was at home on my own, so this time he kept a very close eye on me!’

‘I’ll bet. Wow. You’re very brave having them at home.’

‘No, I just have confidence in the process. I’m a midwife.’

‘Is that how you met?’

She laughed. ‘No. We met in Florence, in a café. We ended up together by a fluke, really.’ She tipped her head on one side. ‘So what’s the story with you and Massimo?’

She felt herself colour and pretended to rearrange the biscuits. ‘Oh, nothing, really. There is no story. He gave me a lift, I had an accident, he rescued me, and now I’m doing Carlotta’s job so she doesn’t kill herself.’

Isabelle didn’t look convinced, but there was no way Lydia was going into details about her ridiculous crush or their one-night stand! But Luca’s wife wasn’t so easily put off. She let the subject drop for a moment, but only long enough to lift the now-crying baby from the pram and cradle him in her arms as she fed him.

Spellbound, Lydia watched the baby’s tiny rosebud mouth fasten on his mother’s nipple, saw the look of utter contentment on Isabelle’s face, and felt a well of longing fill her chest.

‘He’s a good man, you know. A really decent guy. He’d be worth the emotional investment, but only if you’re serious. I’d hate to see him hurt.’

‘He won’t get hurt. We’re not getting involved,’ she said firmly. ‘Yes, there’s something there, but neither of us want it.’

Isabelle’s eyes were searching, and Lydia felt as if she could see straight through her lies.

Lies? Were they?

Oh, yes. Because she did want it, even though it was crazy, even though she’d get horribly badly hurt. And she’d thought Russell had hurt her? He didn’t even come close to what Massimo could do if she let him into her heart.

‘He’s not interested in an emotional investment,’ she said, just in case there was any misunderstanding, but Isabelle just raised a brow slightly and smiled.

‘No. He doesn’t think he is, but actually he’s ready to love again. He just hasn’t realised it.’

‘No, he isn’t. We’ve talked about it—’

‘Men don’t talk. Not really. It’s like pulling teeth. He’s telling you what he thinks he ought to feel, not what he feels.’

She glanced up, at the same time as Lydia heard crunching on the gravel.

‘Talk of the devil, here they are,’ Isabelle said, smiling at her husband and his brother, and not wanting to get involved any deeper in this conversation, Lydia excused herself and went back to the kitchen.

Seconds later Massimo was in there behind her. ‘I’ve come to tell you we’ve almost finished. The last of the vines are being stripped now and everyone’s having the afternoon off.’

‘So no lunch?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t think you’ll get away with that, but no evening meal, certainly. Not today. And tomorrow we’re moving on to the chestnut woods. So tonight I’m taking you out for dinner, to thank you.’

‘You don’t need to do that. You’re paying for my sister’s wedding. That’s thanks enough.’

He brushed it aside with a flick of his hand, and smiled. ‘Humour me. I want to take you out to dinner. There’s a place we eat from time to time—fantastic food, Toscana on a fork. The chef is Carlotta’s great-nephew. I think you’ll find it interesting. Our table’s booked for eight.’

‘What if I want an early night?’

‘Do you?’

She gave in and smiled. ‘No, not really. It sounds amazing. What’s the dress code?’

‘Clean. Nothing more. It’s where the locals eat.’

‘Your mother’s a local,’ she said drily, and he chuckled.

‘My mother always dresses for the occasion. I’ll wear jeans and a jacket, no tie. Does that help?’

She smiled. ‘It does. Thank you. Help yourselves to coffee, I need to get on with lunch.’

Jeans and a jacket, no tie.

So what did that mean for her? Jeans? Best jeans with beaded embroidery on the back pockets and a pretty top?

Black trousers and a slinky top with a cardi over it?

A dress? How about a long skirt?

Clean. That was his first stipulation, so she decided to go with what was comfortable. And by eight, it would be cool, and they’d be coming back at about eleven, so definitely cooler.

Or maybe …

She’d just put the finishing touches to her makeup, not too much, just enough to make her feel she’d made the effort, when there was a tap on her door.

‘Lydia? I’m ready to go when you are.’

She opened the door and scanned him. Jeans—good jeans, expensive jeans, with expensive Italian leather loafers and a handmade shirt, the leather jacket flung casually over his shoulder hanging from one finger.

He looked good enough to eat, and way up the scale of clean, so she was glad she’d changed her mind at the last minute and gone for her one decent dress. It wasn’t expensive, but it hung like a dream to the asymmetric hem and made her feel amazing, and from the way he was scanning her, he wasn’t disappointed.

‘Will I do?’ she asked, twirling slowly, and he said nothing for a second and then gave a soft huff of laughter.

‘Oh, yes. I think so.’

His eyes were still trailing over her, lingering on the soft swell of her breasts, the curve of her hip, the hint of a thigh—

He pulled himself together and jerked his eyes back up to meet hers. ‘You look lovely,’ he said, trying not to embarrass himself or her. ‘Are you ready to go?’

‘I just need a wrap for later.’ She picked up a pretty pashmina the same colour as her eyes, and her bag, and shut the door behind her. ‘Right, then. Let’s go get Toscana on a fork!’

It was a simple little building on one side of a square in the nearby town.

From the outside it looked utterly unpretentious, and it was no different inside. Scrubbed tables, plain wooden chairs, simple décor. But the smell was amazing, and the place was packed.

‘Massimo, ciao!’

He shook hands with a couple on the way in, introduced her as a friend from England, and ushered her past them to the table he’d reserved by the window.

‘Is it always this busy?’

His lips twitched in a smile. ‘No. Sometimes it’s full.’

She looked around and laughed. ‘And these are all locals?’

‘Mostly. Some will be tourists, people who’ve bothered to ask where they should eat.’

She looked around again. ‘Is there a menu?’

‘No. He writes it on a board—it’s up there. Tonight it’s a casserole of wild boar with plums in a red wine reduction.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘No. He cooks a few things every night—you can choose from the board, but the first thing up is always his dish of the day, and it’s always worth having.’

She nodded. ‘Sounds great.’

He ordered a half-carafe of house wine to go with it—again, the wine was always chosen to go with the meal and so was the one to go for, he explained—and then they settled back to wait.

‘So—are you pleased with the harvest?’ she asked to fill the silence, and he nodded.

‘Si. The grapes have been exceptional this year, it should be an excellent vintage. We need that. Last year was not so good, but the olives were better, so we made up for it.’

‘And how are the olives this year?’

‘Good so far. It depends on the weather. We need a long, mild autumn to let them swell and ripen before the first frosts. We need to harvest early enough to get the sharp tang from the olives, but not so early that it’s bitter, or so late that it’s sweet and just like any other olive oil.’

She smiled. ‘That’s farming for you. Juggling the weather all the time.’

‘Si. It can be a disaster or a triumph, and you never know. We’re big enough to weather it, so we’re fortunate.’

‘We’re not. We had a dreadful year about three years ago, and I thought we’d go under, but then the next year we had bumper crops. It’s living on a knife edge that’s so hard.’

‘Always. Always the knife edge.’

Her eyes met his, and the smile that was hovering there was driven out by an intensity that stole her breath away. ‘You look beautiful tonight, cara,’ he said softly, reaching out to touch her hand where it lay on the table top beside her glass.

She withdrew it, met his eyes again warily. ‘I thought we weren’t going to do this?’

‘We’re not doing anything. It was a simple compliment. I would say the same to my sister.’

‘No, you wouldn’t. Not like that.’ She picked up her glass of water and drained the last inch, her mouth suddenly dry. ‘At least, I hope not.’

His mouth flicked up briefly at the corners. ‘Perhaps not quite like that.’

He leant back as the waiter appeared, setting down bread and olive oil and balsamic vinegar, and she tore off a piece of bread and dunked it, then frowned thoughtfully as the taste exploded on her tongue. ‘Is this yours?’

He smiled. ‘Yes. And the balsamico is from my cousin.’

‘And the wild boar?’

‘I have no idea. If it’s from our estate, I don’t know about it. The hunting season doesn’t start until November.’

She smiled, and the tension eased a little, but it was still there, simmering under the surface, the compliment hovering at the fringes of her consciousness the whole evening. It didn’t spoil the meal. Rather, it heightened the sensations of taste and smell and texture, as if somehow his words had brought her alive again and set her free.

‘This casserole is amazing,’ she said after the first mouthful. ‘I want the recipe.’

He laughed at that. ‘He won’t give it to you. Women offer to sleep with him, but he never reveals his secrets.’

‘Does he sleep with them anyway?’

He chuckled again. ‘I doubt it. His wife would skin him alive.’

‘Good for her. She needs to keep him. He’s a treasure. And I’ve never been that desperate for a recipe.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He was. He didn’t even want to think about her sleeping with anybody else, even if she wasn’t sleeping with him. And she wasn’t.

She really, really wasn’t. He wasn’t going to do that again, it was emotional suicide. It had taken him over a week before he could sleep without waking aroused and frustrated in a tangle of sheets, aching for her.

He returned his attention to the casserole, mopping up the last of the sauce with a piece of bread until finally the plate was clean and he had no choice but to sit back and look up and meet her eyes.

‘That was amazing,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘Dessert?’

She laughed a little weakly. ‘I couldn’t fit it in. Coffee, though—I could manage coffee.’

He ordered coffee, and they lingered over it, almost as if they daren’t leave the safety of the little trattoria for fear of what they might do. But then they ran out of words, out of stalling tactics, and their eyes met and held.

‘Shall we go?’

She nodded, getting to her feet even though she knew what was going to happen, knew how dangerous it was to her to leave with him and go back to her room—because they would end up there, she was sure of it, just as they had before, and all their good intentions would fall at the first hurdle …