‘It was. They took her to hospital, and she died later that day—she was on life support and they tested her brain but there was nothing. No activity at all. They turned off the machine, and I came home and told the children that their mother was gone. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life.’
His voice broke off again, turning away this time, and Lydia closed her eyes and swallowed the anguished response. There was nothing she could say that wouldn’t be trite or meaningless, and so she stayed silent, and after a moment he let out a long, slow breath and sat back against the bench.
‘So, now you know,’ he said, his voice low and oddly flat.
Wordlessly, she reached out and touched his hand, and he turned it, his fingers threading through hers and holding on tight.
They stayed like that for an age, their hands lying linked between them as they sipped their wine, and then he turned to her in the dim light and searched her face. He’d taken comfort from her touch, felt the warmth of her generous spirit seeping into him, easing the ache which had been a part of him for so long.
How could she do that with just a touch?
No words. Words were too hard, would have been trite. Did she know that?
Yes. He could see that she did, that this woman who talked too much actually knew the value of silence.
He lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips, then smiled at her sadly. ‘Did you eat anything?’
She shook her head. ‘No. Not really.’
‘Nor did I. Shall we see what we can find? It’s a very, very long time since breakfast.’
* * *
It wasn’t exactly haute cuisine, but the simple fare of olive bread and ham and cheese with sweetly scented baby plum tomatoes and a bowl of olive oil and balsamic vinegar just hit the spot.
He poured them another glass of wine, but it didn’t seem like a good idea and so she gave him the second half and he found some sparkling water for her. She realised she’d thought nothing of handing him her glass of wine for him to finish, and he’d taken it without hesitation and drunk from it without turning a hair.
How odd, when they’d only met a scant twelve hours ago. Thirteen hours and a few minutes, to be more exact.
It seemed more like a lifetime since she’d watched him getting out of the taxi, wondered if he’d be The One to make it happen. The guy she’d been talking to was funny and seemed nice enough, but he wasn’t about to give her a lift and she knew that. But Massimo had looked at her as he’d gone into the Jet Centre foyer, his eyes meeting hers and locking…
She glanced up, and found him watching her with a frown.
‘Why are you frowning?’ she asked, and his mouth kicked up a fraction in one corner, the frown ironed out with a deliberate effort.
‘No reason. How’s your head now?’
She shrugged. ‘OK. It just feels as if I fell over my feet and spent the day hanging about in a hospital.’ It was rather worse than that, but he didn’t need to know about every ache and pain. The list was endless.
She reached out and covered his hand. ‘Massimo, I’m all right,’ she said softly, and the little frown came back.
‘Sorry. It’s just a reflex. I look after people—it’s part of my job description. Everyone comes to me with their problems.’
She smiled at him, remembering her conversation with Francesca.
‘I’m sorry I kept your father away from you for so long. He’s been so kind and helpful.’
‘He is. He helps everybody.’
‘You’re just a fixer, aren’t you? You fix everything for everybody all the time, and you hate it when things can’t be fixed.’
His frown deepened for a moment, and then he gave a wry laugh and pulled his hand away, swirling the wine in her glass before draining it. ‘Is it so obvious?’
She felt her lips twitch. ‘Only if you’re on the receiving end. Don’t get me wrong, I’m massively grateful and just so sorry I’ve dragged you into this awful mess and upset everyone. I’m more than happy you’re a fixer, because goodness only knows I seemed to need one today. I think I need a guardian angel, actually. I just have such a gift for getting into a mess and dragging everybody with me.’
She broke off, and he tipped his head on one side and that little crease between his eyebrows returned fleetingly. ‘A gift?’
She sighed. ‘Jen’s accident was sort of my fault.’
He sat back, his eyes searching hers. ‘Tell me,’ he said softly, so she did.
She told him about Russell, about their trip to her parents’ farm for the weekend, because Jen and Andy were going to be there as well and she hadn’t seen them for a while. And she’d shown him the farm, and he’d seen the quad bike, and suggested they go out on it so she could show him all the fields.
‘I didn’t want to go with him. He was a crazy driver, and I knew he’d want to go too fast, so I said no, but then Jen offered to show him round. She wanted to get him alone, to threaten him with death if he hurt me, but he hurt her instead. He went far too fast, and she told him to stop but he thought she was just being chicken and she wasn’t, she knew about the fallen tree hidden in the long grass, and then they hit it and the quad bike cartwheeled through the air and landed on her.’
He winced and closed his eyes briefly. ‘And she ended up in a wheelchair?’
‘Not for a few weeks. She had a fractured spine, and she was in a special bed for a while. It wasn’t displaced, the spinal cord wasn’t severed, but it was badly bruised and it took a long time to recover and for the bones to heal. She’s getting better now, she’s starting to walk again, but she lost her job and so did Andy so he could look after her. He took away everything from them, and if I’d gone with him, if it had been me, then I might have been able to stop him.’
‘You really think so? He sounds like an idiot.’
‘He is an idiot,’ she said tiredly. ‘He’s an idiot, and he was my boss, so I lost my job, too.’
‘He sacked you?’
She gave him a withering look. ‘I walked…and then his business folded without me, and he threatened to sue me if I didn’t go back. I told him to take a flying hike.’
‘What business was he in?’
‘He had a restaurant. I was his chef.’
Hence the tidy kitchen, he realised. She was used to working in a kitchen, used to bringing order to chaos, used to the utensils and the work space and the arrangement of them that always to him defied logic. And his restaurant had folded without her?
‘You told me you were a cook,’ he rebuked her mildly. ‘I didn’t realise you were a chef.’
She quirked an eyebrow at him mockingly. ‘You told me you were a farmer and you live in a flipping fortress! I think that trumps it,’ she said drily, and he laughed and lifted his glass to her.
‘Touché,’ he said softly, and her heart turned over at the wry warmth in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he went on. ‘Sorry about this man who clearly didn’t deserve you, sorry about your sister, sorry about your job. What a mess. And all because he was a fool.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Tell me more about him.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like why your sister felt she needed to warn him not to hurt you. Had you been hurt before?’
‘No, but she didn’t really like him. He wasn’t always a nice man, and he took advantage of me—made me work ridiculous hours, treated me like a servant at times, and yet he could be a charmer, too. He was happy enough to talk me into his bed once he realised I was a good chef—sorry, you really didn’t need to know that.’
He smiled slightly. ‘Maybe you needed to say it,’ he suggested, and her laugh was a little brittle.
‘There are so many things I could tell you about him. I said I was a
lousy judge of character. I think he had a lot in common with Nico, perhaps.’
He frowned. ‘Nico?’
‘The guy at the airport?’
‘Yes, I know who you mean. In what way? Was he a drinker?’
‘Yes. Definitely. But not just a drinker. He was a nasty drunk, especially towards the end of our relationship. He seemed to change. Got arrogant. He used to be quite charming at first, but it was just a front. He— Well, let’s just say he didn’t respect women either.’
His mouth tightened. ‘I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to tolerate that.’
‘No, I shouldn’t. So—tell me about your house,’ she said, changing the subject to give them both a bit of a break. She reached out and tore off another strip of bread, dunking it in the oil that she couldn’t get enough of, and looked up to see a strange look on his face. Almost—tender?
Nonsense. She was being silly. ‘Well, come on, then,’ she mumbled round the bread, and he smiled, the strange look disappearing as if she’d imagined it.
‘It’s very old. We’re not sure of the origins. It seems it might have been a Medici villa, but the history is a little cloudy. It was built at the time of the Florentine invasion.’
‘So how come your family ended up with it?’
His mouth twitched. ‘One of our ancestors took possession of it at the end of the seventeenth century.’
That made her laugh. ‘Took possession?’
The twitch again, and a wicked twinkle in his eye. ‘We’re not quite sure how he acquired it, but it’s been in the family ever since. He’s the one who renamed the villa Palazzo Valtieri.’
Palazzo? She nearly laughed at that. Not just a fortress, then, but a proper, full-on palace. Oh, boy.
‘I’ll show you round it tomorrow. It’s beautiful. Some of the frescoes are amazing, and the formal rooms in the part my parents live in are fantastic.’
‘Your parents live here?’ she asked, puzzled, because there’d been no mention of them. Not that they’d really had time, but—
‘Sì. It’s a family business. They’re away at the moment, snatching a few days with my sister Carla and her new baby before the harvest starts, but they’ll be back the day after tomorrow.’
‘So how many rooms are there?’
He laughed. ‘I have no idea. I’ve never counted them, I’m too busy trying not to let it fall down. It’s crumbling as fast as we can patch it up, but so long as we can cheat time, that’s fine. It’s quite interesting.’
‘I’m sure it is. And now it’s your turn to run it?’
His mouth tugged down at the corners, but there was a smile in his eyes. ‘Sì. For my sins. My father keeps trying to interfere, but he’s supposed to be retired. He doesn’t understand that, though.’
‘No. It must be hard to hand it over. My father wouldn’t be able to do it. And the harvest is just starting?’
He nodded. ‘The grape harvest is first, followed by the chestnuts and the olives. It’s relentless now until the end of November, so you can see why I was in a hurry to get back.’
‘And I held you up.’
‘Cara, accidents happen. Don’t think about it any more.’ He pushed back his chair. ‘I think it’s time you went to bed. It’s after midnight.’
Was it? When had that happened? When they were outside, sitting in the quiet of the night and watching the twinkling lights in the villages? Or now, sitting here eating bread and cheese and olive oil, drinking wine and staring into each other’s eyes like lovers?
She nodded and pushed back her chair, and he tucked her arm in his so she could feel the solid muscle of his forearm under her hand, and she hung on him and hopped and hobbled her way to her room.
‘Ring me if you need anything. You have my mobile number on my card. I gave it to you on the plane. Do you still have it?’
‘Yes—but I won’t need you.’
Well, not for anything she’d dream of asking him for…
His brows tugged together. ‘Just humour me, OK? If you feel unwell in the night, or want anything, ring me and I’ll come down. I’m not far away. And please, don’t lock your door.’
‘Massimo, I’m feeling all right. My headache’s gone, and I feel OK now. You don’t need to worry.’
‘You can’t be too careful,’ he said, and she could see a tiny frown between his brows, as if he was still waiting for something awful to happen to her.
They reached her room and he paused at the door, staring down into her eyes and hesitating for the longest moment. And then, just when she thought he was going to kiss her, he stepped back.
‘Call me if you need me. If you need anything at all.’
‘I will.’
‘Good. Buonanotte, Lydia,’ he murmured softly, and turned and walked away.
CHAPTER FOUR
WHAT was she thinking about?
Of course he hadn’t been about to kiss her! That bump on the head had obviously been more serious than she’d realised. Maybe a blast of fresh air would help her think clearly?
She opened the French doors onto the terrace and stood there for a moment, letting the night air cool her heated cheeks. She’d been so carried along on the moment, so lured by his natural and easy charm that she’d let herself think all sorts of stupid things.
Of course he wasn’t interested in her. Why would he be? She’d been nothing but a thorn in his side since the moment he’d set eyes on her. And even if he hadn’t, she wasn’t interested! Well, that was a lie, of course she was interested, or she wouldn’t even be thinking about it, but there was no way it was going anywhere.
Not after the debacle with Russell. She was sworn off men now for life, or at least for a good five years. And so far, it hadn’t been much more than five months!
Leaving the doors open, she limped back to the bed and pulled her pyjamas out of her flight bag, eyeing them dubiously. The skimpy top and little shorts she’d brought for their weightlessness had seemed fine when she was going to be sharing a hotel room with Claire, but here, in this ancient historic house—palazzo, even, for heaven’s sake!—she wondered what on earth he’d make of them.
Nothing. Nothing at all, because he wasn’t going to see her in her nightclothes! Cross with herself, her head aching and her ankle throbbing and her bruises giving her a fair amount of grief as well, she changed into the almost-pyjamas, cleaned her teeth and crawled into bed.
Oh, bliss. The pillows were cloud-soft, the down quilt light and yet snuggly, and the breeze from the doors was drifting across her face, bringing with it the scents of sage and lavender and night-scented stocks.
Exhausted, weary beyond belief, she closed her eyes with a little sigh and drifted off to sleep…
* * *
Her doors were open.
He hesitated, standing outside on the terrace, questioning his motives.
Did he really think she needed checking in the night? Or was he simply indulging his—what? Curiosity? Fantasy? Or, perhaps…need?
He groaned softly. There was no doubt that he needed her, needed the warmth of her touch, the laughter in her eyes, the endless chatter and the brilliance of her smile.
The silence, when she’d simply held his hand and offered comfort.
Thinking about that moment brought a lump to his throat, and he swallowed hard. He hadn’t allowed himself to need a woman for years, but Lydia had got under his skin, penetrated his defences with her simple kindness, and he wanted her in a way that troubled him greatly, because it was more than just physical.
And he really wasn’t sure he was ready for that—would ever be ready for that again. But the need…
He’d just check on her, just to be on the safe side. He couldn’t let her lie there alone all night.
Not like Angelina.
Guilt crashed over him again, driving out the need and leaving sorrow in its wake. Focused now, he went into her room, his bare feet silent on the tiled floor, and gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the light.
Had she sensed him? Maybe, because she sighed and shifted, the soft, contented sound drifting to him on the night air. When had he last heard a woman sigh softly in her sleep?
Too long ago to remember, too soon to forget.
It would be so easy to reach out his hand, to touch her. To take her in his arms, warm and sleepy, and make love to her.
Easy, and yet impossibly wrong. What was it about her that made him feel like this, that made him think things he hadn’t thought in years? Not since he’d lost Angelina.
He stood over her, staring at her in the moonlight, the thought of his wife reminding him of why he was here. Not to watch Lydia sleep, like some kind of voyeur, but to keep her safe. He focused on her face. It was peaceful, both sides the same, just as it had been when he’d left her for the night, and she was breathing slowly and evenly. As he watched she moved her arms, pushing the covers lower. Both arms, both working.
He swallowed. She was fine, just as she’d told him, he realised in relief. He could go to bed now, relax.
But it was too late. He’d seen her sleeping, heard that soft, feminine sigh and the damage was done. His body, so long denied, had come screaming back to life, and he wouldn’t sleep now.
Moving carefully so as not to disturb her, he made his way back to the French doors and out onto the terrace. Propping his hands on his hips, he dropped his head back and sucked in a lungful of cool night air, then let it out slowly before dragging his hand over his face.
He’d swim. Maybe that would take the heat out of his blood. And if it was foolish to swim alone, if he’d told the children a thousand times that no one should ever do it—well, tonight was different.
Everything about tonight seemed different.
He crossed the upper terrace, padded silently down the worn stone steps to the level below and rolled back the thermal cover on the pool. The water was warm, steam billowing from the surface in the cool night air, and stripping off his clothes, he dived smoothly in.
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