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see.’
The waiter came to the table bearing two steaming bowls of pasta, fragrant with fresh basil and oregano. Zoe’s mouth watered. She hadn’t eaten anything all day, and she was starving.
Neither of them spoke as they dug into the pasta, and after a few moments Zoe became aware that Leandro was watching her with a mixture of amusement and disapproval.
‘Do you always attack your meals with so much gusto?’
‘When I haven’t had anything to eat all day,’ she replied, swallowing a mouthful of pasta, ‘yes.’
Leandro did not look remotely abashed. Zoe wondered what kind of women he was used to. No doubt stick-thin models from Milan, who toyed with a lettuce leaf and called it a meal. Her mouth twisted in cynicism. He was wealthy, good-looking, powerful. Men like that liked ornaments on their arm, nothing more. Ornaments they quickly discarded … or shattered.
Pushing those memories away, Zoe smiled brightly at Leandro as their pasta bowls were cleared. ‘What kind of research do you do?’
‘You wouldn’t understand it,’ Leandro replied, and her interest—and annoyance—were piqued.
‘Try me.’
He shrugged. ‘Risk analysis. I’m an actuary—I work in financial forecasting. Cashflow studies, you’d call it.’ At Zoe’s blank look he continued, amusement lurking in his eyes, ‘Statistical modelling, stochastic stimulations, pricing role?’
Zoe shook her head. ‘Nope, nope and nope.’
The amusement in his eyes made its way to his mouth, and Zoe’s heart rate jumped and then kicked up a notch at the sight of his full-fledged grin. Did he know of its dazzling effect? she wondered, feeling almost dizzy. Was he aware of how it lightened his features, brightened his eyes, and made him all too approachable?
‘I told you you wouldn’t understand it,’ he said with a shrug, and at this dismissal Zoe’s heart rate settled right down again.
‘Well, it’s obviously made you rich,’ she said bluntly.
Leandro’s mouth tightened, his eyes flashing with something close to anger. ‘Yes, it has. Although it is of no concern to you. I started my own company, and it has done well.’
Clearly he’d had enough of the subject—and of her—for he rose from the table, signalling for the bill with one autocratically raised hand. Zoe rose as well, and in a matter of seconds Leandro had dealt with the bill and was striding out of the restaurant, clearly expecting her to follow. He didn’t look back, and with a little stirring of resentment, she made her way down the dusky street to join him, matching his brisk pace.
By the time they’d left the lights of Lornetto behind, the road was dark and filled with shadows. There were no street lights or passing cars, only the silvery glint of moonlight on the lake. Zoe stumbled on the uneven pavement and Leandro reached out to steady her, grabbing her elbow in a firm grip before she righted herself again.
‘And you didn’t even have a glass of wine,’ he said, his voice a murmur in the dark. ‘Although I think you wanted one.’
There went her heart rate again—skittering all over the place, stupid thing. Zoe could see his eyes and teeth gleaming in the darkness, but nothing more. ‘How did you know?’ she asked, a bit unevenly.
Leandro dropped his hand from her elbow, his face partially averted. When he spoke, his voice was coolly dismissive. ‘A girl like you … what else would I expect?’
It took Zoe a moment to process his implication. She came to a stop in the middle of the road. ‘What do you mean, a girl like me?’ she asked, feeling a sudden icy pooling in her stomach. It was so close to what Steve had said, what he had thought.
Leandro turned around, exasperated. ‘What do you think I mean?’
It was clearly a rhetorical question; there was no doubt, Zoe thought bitterly, in either of their minds what he meant. Resentment bubbled within her.
‘The implication is hardly complimentary,’ she said, her voice sharp.
Leandro just shrugged. ‘It is what it is. Now, I don’t fancy standing in the middle of the road in the dark. Let’s go.’ Without waiting for a response, he turned and started back down the shadowy road.
Fuming, Zoe followed.
A girl like her. If she felt like being charitable—or he did—she might think that simply meant someone who was fun, friendly, full of life. A few months ago she would have made that assumption—before she’d realised exactly what kind of assumptions men like Steve and apparently Leandro were making about her. A girl like you. Loose, easy, cheap. Basically, a slut.
Her mouth thinned and her eyes narrowed as she followed Leandro up the villa’s private lane. The palazzo was no more than a huge shadow in the darkness.
She shouldn’t be offended by Leandro’s words, Zoe told herself. She shouldn’t care what a man like him thought. She understood that going from place to place, job to job, made men think she was as loose as her lifestyle. And projecting a certain image—fun-loving, free—kept her safe. Protected her heart. She revelled in her reputation, in her freedom.
She could pick up or drop down at a moment, discarding homes and relationships with insouciant ease. That was who she was. That was who she had to be, to protect herself from getting hurt.
So why, for a moment, did she not like a man like Leandro assuming it?
A man like Leandro … What did that mean? She didn’t know him at all, Zoe realised. He was rich, he was well connected, he was a buttoned-up accountant. No, an actuary. Whatever that was. But beyond the basics she had no idea what kind of man he was.
‘The kind of man who thinks he knows all about a girl like me,’ she muttered, and Leandro, now at the front door, turned round.
‘Did you say something?’
‘No.’ Her voice came out in a petulant retort, but Leandro merely arched an eyebrow.
Zoe jabbed him in the chest with one forefinger; even with just the tip of her finger she could feel the hard definition of sculpted muscle underneath his shirt. ‘You don’t know me, signor. So don’t go telling me what kind of girl I am.’ She sounded ridiculous, Zoe realised distantly. She also realised her finger was still jabbed in his chest. And yet she didn’t move it. If she wasn’t so tired, if her brain didn’t feel so fuzzy and light and disconnected, she wouldn’t have mentioned anything. She certainly wouldn’t have touched him.
Instead, her brain registered in that same disconnected way that he’d wrapped his own hand—warm, strong, dry—around her finger and raised it to his lips. His eyes were dark, and Zoe detected a spark of anger in their depths. She wondered who he was angry with. Himself or her.
She watched, fascinated, as her finger barely brushed the softness of his parted mouth. His eyes darkened even more, to almost black, and his mouth thinned into a contemptuous, knowing smile as he dropped her hand and it fell limply to her side.
‘I wouldn’t presume to tell you anything,’ Leandro replied curtly. ‘I don’t need to. You say it plainly enough.’
With that he turned and disappeared into the darkness of the house, and Zoe realised it was the third time that day he’d walked away and left her standing alone.
He was playing with fire. Touching her. Needing to touch her. And enjoying it.
Leandro flung himself into his desk chair and closed his eyes, but he couldn’t banish the image of Zoe Clark at dinner, wearing that silky top, her hair dark and soft around her face. He pictured the way her eyes had danced with amusement, the way those silly little straps had slipped off her tanned shoulders. The way he’d wanted to push them off.
And she would have let him.
He could