Flirting with Italian. Liz FieldingЧитать онлайн книгу.
sorry. I had no idea.’
‘No?’ He shrugged. ‘Well, Bella hasn’t yet made the leap to Hollywood so your ignorance is forgivable. Perhaps you’ll allow me to restore your faith in our hospitality by joining me for lunch.’
As he spoke, a woman appeared on the terrace below them and began to lay the table beneath the pergola. Without waiting for her answer, Matteo called down to her in Italian so rapid that she didn’t manage to catch a single word.
The woman waved to show that she’d heard and he said, ‘Graziella is expecting you. You cannot disappoint her.’
She could. She should.
Every atom of sense was telling her that if this was a movie she’d have been yelling at the stupid woman, dithering between going and staying, to beat it.
But she’d come to see the house and she’d never get another chance like this. It wasn’t as if she’d be alone with him.
‘I would hate to disappoint Graziella,’ she said.
‘And if you want to take another photograph,’ he said, ‘please go ahead.’
‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ A gesture assured her that he said nothing that he didn’t mean. ‘Well, to be honest, I was wishing that there was someone to take a photograph of me when you turned up.’
‘Were you? To prove to your friend that you were here?’
He was frowning, as if he couldn’t understand why she would want to take one in this particular spot.
‘Yes. No …’ She put her hands on the wall, using her heel against the rough stonework to boost herself up before he could help. ‘Why wouldn’t he believe me?’
‘I don’t know. But maybe, in future, you should be more careful what you wish for.’
‘I don’t know. This isn’t going so badly.’ She’d wished and Matteo di Serrone had turned up right on cue.
It hadn’t started out well, but things were looking up.
Ignoring her somewhat provocative response, he said, ‘Do you want to take off your dark glasses?’
‘Oh, right.’
She pulled them off, propped herself on her hands, leaning forward, looking straight at her phone.
‘Say … formaggio.’
She looked up at him, laughed, and he took the photograph.
CHAPTER THREE
ITALIAN FOR BEGINNERS
I went right off the tourist route and, as I stood in a village square taking these photographs, it felt as if nothing much has changed in a very long time.
Well, apart from the cars, satellite television, the internet and mobile phones …
AND so it begins, Matteo thought, as Sarah Gratton replaced her glasses. Hiding her eyes.
‘I can manage,’ she said, as he reached out to help her down.
‘I don’t think you should risk it in your enfeebled state.’
‘I’m not in the least bit feeble …’ He put his hands on her waist and her words died on a little gasp. Nicely done. ‘You might want to hold on,’ he encouraged.
She was lovely and trying so hard. It would be a shame not to make the most of the moment.
After the briefest pause she placed her palms on his shoulders. Her touch was light, her arms fully extended to keep a ladylike distance between them and yet the contact was like a lightning conductor, focusing everything primitive, ancient, instinctive into a single point of heat low in his belly.
And he was the one struggling for breath as he said, ‘Ready?’
‘Ready,’ she said, poised, as cucumber-cool as if she were sitting on a bench in her own garden.
‘Hang on,’ he said, and she clutched at him, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he lifted her clear of the wall and she slid down his body until her feet touched the ground.
He held on to her, making sure she was steady. Then just held on as he was immersed in her scent. Not the kind sprayed out of a bottle, but something more personal. Warm skin, silky hair, the scent of a woman held in the arms of a man she desired.
For a moment it was not Sarah clinging to him for support. He was the one hanging on to her, weak with the longing to bury his face in her hair, her neck. In the creamy softness of the breasts he’d glimpsed as she’d leaned forward, bombarding his senses with everything female.
‘I’ve got it, thanks,’ she said, her hands sliding to his elbows, steadying him in return for just a moment before she stepped back to pick up her hat.
What colour were they? Her eyes. He should have noticed …
‘Sorry. I’m heavier than I look,’ she said.
She was a lot more of many things, but ‘heavier than she looked’ was nowhere near top of the list.
She glanced away, towards the house. ‘I take it we’re not going to use your brother’s shortcut?’ she said, laying her hand beside the telltale footprint on the wall. A good hand, with nails buffed to a shine. No rings. Nothing showy or obvious. Nothing of the femme fatale.
An innocent English rose taking a walk in the Italian countryside and if he hadn’t been warned, hadn’t been expecting something like this, he would have fallen for it.
‘He’s young, in a hurry,’ he said, a little too sharply, and she turned to look up at him, a tiny frown plucking at the wide space between her eyes. ‘There’s a girl waiting for him in Rome.’
‘Oh?’ Her brows rose a notch. ‘Well, he really is very beautiful.’
‘We have different fathers,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘My mother remarried after my father was killed.’
He wasn’t telling her anything that anyone with a computer couldn’t have discovered in thirty seconds. Always assuming she didn’t already know his family history by rote.
‘I see that I must add self-deprecation to the other gifts from your nanny.’
‘Must you?’ he countered lightly.
‘It’s such a very English trait.’
‘Possibly.’
The only useful lesson his nanny had taught him was that everyone had their price. Never to trust a smiling face. Never to let anyone close. He’d forgotten it only once and he wasn’t about to forget it again.
He took her arm—the path was uneven—as he turned up the hill. She didn’t object, but then he hadn’t expected her to.
‘Age helps. And, being older than my beautiful brother, I’ve learned patience. The value of taking time to enjoy the journey.’
It was definitely time to slow things down.
He had lived like a monk for the past couple of years, concentrating on his vines, staying away from the kind of women who were drawn to celebrity. Who fed off it. Yearned for it. That had all been a game. A cat playing with a mouse. Until Katerina, he had thought he was the cat. He should have known better. Well, this time he was ready.
Almost ready. His head might understand that this was not real, but his body appeared to have other ideas.
‘You’re saying we should stop and smell the roses,’ Sarah suggested.
‘Why not? There’s no rush. Is there?’
‘I used to think not …’ She shook her head, but she was smiling.
‘What?’ he