Valtieri's Bride & A Bride Worth Waiting For: Valtieri's BrideA Bride Worth Waiting For

by Caroline Anderson

  But maybe not if they’d been hurt in the past, he thought, and wondered if this had been so safe after all, so without consequences, without repercussions.

  Maybe not.

  He left her at the departures gate, standing there with his arms round her while she hugged him tight. She let him go, looked up, her eyes sparkling with tears.

  ‘Take care,’ she said, and he nodded.

  ‘You, too. Safe journey.’

  And without waiting to see her go through the gate, he walked away, emotions raging through him.

  Madness. He’d thought he could handle it, but—

  He’d got her address from her, so he could send her a crate of wine and oil.

  That was all, he told himself. Nothing more. He certainly wasn’t going to contact her, or see her again—

  He sucked in a breath, surprised by the sharp stab of loss. Ships in the night, he told himself more firmly. They’d had a good time but now it was over, she was gone and he could get on with his life.

  How hard could it be?

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘WHY don’t you just go and see her?’

  Massimo looked up from the baby in his arms and forced himself to meet his brother’s eyes.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Of course you do. You’ve been like a grizzly bear for the last two weeks, and even your own children are avoiding you.’

  He frowned. Were they? He hadn’t noticed, he realised in horror, and winced at the wave of guilt. But…

  ‘It’s not a crime to want her, you know,’ Luca said softly.

  ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘Of course not. Love never is.’

  His head jerked up again. ‘Who’s talking about love?’ he snapped, and Luca just raised an eyebrow silently.

  ‘I’m not in love with her.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  He opened his mouth to say, ‘I do say so,’ and shut it smartly. ‘I’ve just been busy,’ he said instead, making excuses. ‘Carlotta’s been ill, and I’ve been trying to juggle looking after the children in the evenings and getting them ready for school without neglecting all the work of the grape harvest.’

  ‘But that’s over now—at least the critical bit. And you’re wrong, you know, Carlotta isn’t ill, she’s old and tired and she needs to stop working before she becomes ill.’

  Massimo laughed out loud at that, startling his new nephew and making him cry. He shushed him automatically, soothing the fractious baby, and then looked up at Luca again. ‘I’ll let you tell her that.’

  ‘I have done. She won’t listen because she thinks she’s indispensable and she doesn’t want to let anybody down. And she’s going to kill herself unless someone does something to stop her.’

  And then it dawned on him. Just the germ of an idea, but if it worked…

  He got to his feet, wanting to get started, now that the thought had germinated. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before, except he’d been deliberately putting it—her—out of his mind.

  ‘I think I’ll take a few days off,’ he said casually. ‘I could do with a break. I’ll take the car and leave the children here. Mamma can look after them. It’ll keep her off Gio’s back for a while and they can play with little Annamaria while Isabelle rests.’

  Luca took the baby from him and smiled knowingly.

  ‘Give her my love.’

  He frowned. ‘Who? I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is a business trip. I have some trade samples to deliver.’

  His brother laughed and shut the door behind him.

  * * *

  ‘Do you know anyone with a posh left-hand-drive Mercedes with a foreign number plate?’

  Lydia’s head jerked up. She did—but he wouldn’t be here. There was no way he’d be here, and certainly not without warning—

  ‘Tall, dark-haired, uber-sexy. Wow, in fact. Very, very wow!’

  Her mouth dried, her heart thundering. No. Surely not—not when she was just getting over him—

  ‘Let me see.’

  She leant over Jen’s shoulder and peeped through the doorway, and her heart, already racing, somersaulted in her chest. Over him? Not a chance. She’d been fooling herself for over two weeks, convincing herself she didn’t care about him, it had just been a holiday romance, and one sight of him and all of it had come slamming back. She backed away, one hand on her heart, trying to stop it vaulting out through her ribs, the other over her mouth holding back the chaotic emotions that were threatening to erupt.

  ‘It’s him, isn’t it? Your farmer guy. You never said he was that hot!’

  No, she hadn’t. She’d said very little about him because she’d been desperately trying to forget him and avoid the inevitable interrogation if she so much as hinted at a relationship. But—farmer? Try millionaire. More than that. Try serious landowner, old-money, from one of Italy’s most well-known and respected families. Not a huge brand name, but big enough, she’d discovered when she’d checked on the internet in a moment of weakness and aching, pathetic need.

  And try lover—just for one night, but the most magical, memorable and relived night of her life.

  She looked down at herself and gave a tiny, desperate scream. She was cleaning tack—old, tatty tack from an even older, tattier pony who’d finally met his maker, and they were going to sell it. Not for much, but the saddle was good enough to raise a couple of hundred pounds towards Jen’s wedding.

  ‘He’s looking around.’

  So was she—for a way to escape from the tack room and back to the house without being seen, so she could clean up and at least look slightly less disreputable, but there was no other way out, and…

  ‘He’s seen me. He’s coming over. Hi, there. Can I help?’

  ‘I hope so. I’m looking for Lydia Fletcher.’

  His voice made her heart thud even harder, and she backed into the shadows, clutching the filthy, soapy rag in a desperate fist.

  ‘She’s here,’ Jen said, dumping her in it and flashing him her most charming smile. ‘I’m her sister, Jen—and she’s rather grubby, so she probably doesn’t want you to see her like that, so why don’t I take you over to the house and make you a cup of tea—’

  ‘I don’t mind if she’s grubby. She’s seen me looking worse, I’m sure.’

  And before Jen could usher him away, he stepped past her into the tack room, sucking all the air out of it in that simple movement.

  ‘Ciao, bella,’ he said softly, a smile lurking in his eyes, and she felt all her resolve melt away to nothing.

  ‘Ciao,’ she echoed, and then toughened up. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again.’

  She peered past him at Jen, hovering in the doorway. ‘Why don’t you go and put the kettle on?’ she said firmly.

  With a tiny, knowing smile, Jen took a step away, then mouthed, ‘Be nice!’

  Nice? She had no intention of being anything but nice, but she also had absolutely no intention of being anything more accommodating. He’d been so clear about not wanting a relationship, and she’d thought she could handle their night together, thought she could walk away. Well, she wasn’t letting him in again, because she’d never get over it a second time.

  ‘You could have warned me you were coming,’ she said when Jen had gone, her crutches scrunching in the gravel. ‘And don’t tell me you lost my phone number, because it was on the same piece of paper as my address, which you clearly have or you wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘I haven’t lost it. I didn’t want to give you the chance to avoid me.’

  ‘You thought I would?’

  ‘I thought you might want to, and I didn’t want you to run away without hearing me out.’ He lo
oked around, studying the dusty room with the saddle racks screwed to the old beams, the saddle horse in the middle of the room with Bruno’s saddle on it, half-cleaned, the hook dangling from the ceiling with his bridle and stirrup leathers hanging from it, still covered in mould and dust and old grease.

  Just like her, really, smeared in soapy filth and not in any way dressed to impress.

  ‘Evocative smell.’ He fingered the saddle flap, rubbing his fingertips together and sniffing them. ‘It takes me back. I had a friend with horses when I was at boarding school over here, and I stayed with him sometimes. We used to have to clean the tack after we rode.’

  He smiled, as if it was a good memory, and then he lifted his hand and touched a finger to her cheek. ‘You’ve got dirt on your face.’

  ‘I’m sure. And don’t you dare spit on a tissue and rub it off.’

  He chuckled, and shifting an old riding hat, he sat down on a rickety chair and crossed one foot over the other knee, his hands resting casually on his ankle as if he really didn’t care how dirty the chair was.

  ‘Well, don’t let me stop you. You need to finish what you’re doing—at least the saddle.’

  She did. It was half-done, and she couldn’t leave it like that or it would mark. She scrunched the rag in her fingers and nodded. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course not. I didn’t know you had a horse,’ he added, after a slight pause.

  ‘We don’t—not any more.’

  His eyes narrowed, and he leant forwards. ‘Lydia?’ he said softly, and she sniffed and turned away, reaching for the saddle soap.

  ‘He died,’ she said flatly. ‘We don’t need the tack, so I’m going to sell it. It’s a crime to let it rot out here when someone could be using it.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. He was ancient.’

  ‘But you loved him.’

  ‘Of course. That’s what life’s all about, isn’t it? Loving things and losing them?’ She put the rag down and turned back to him, her heart aching so badly that she was ready to howl her eyes out. ‘Massimo, why are you here?’

  ‘I promised you some olive oil and wine and balsamic vinegar.’

  She blinked, and stared at him, dumbfounded. ‘You drove all this way to deliver me olive oil? That’s ridiculous. Why are you really here, in the middle of harvest? And what was that about not wanting me to run away before hearing you out?’

  He smiled slowly—reluctantly. ‘OK. I have a proposition for you. Finish the saddle, and I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Tell me now.’

  ‘I’ll tell you while you finish,’ he compromised, so she picked up the rag again and reapplied it to the saddle, putting on rather more saddle soap than was necessary. He watched her, watched the fierce way she rubbed the leather, the pucker in her brow as she waited for him to speak.

  ‘So?’ she prompted, her patience running out.

  ‘So—I think Carlotta is unwell. Luca says not, and he’s the doctor. He says she’s just old, and tired, and needs to stop before she kills herself.’

  ‘I agree. She’s been too old for years, probably, but I don’t suppose she’ll listen if you tell her that.’

  ‘No. She won’t. And the trouble is she won’t allow anyone else in her kitchen.’ He paused for a heartbeat. ‘Anyone except you.’

  She dropped the rag and spun round. ‘Me!’ she squeaked, and then swallowed hard. ‘I—I don’t understand! What have I got to do with anything?’

  ‘We need someone to feed everybody for the harvest. After that, we’ll need someone as a housekeeper. Carlotta won’t give that up until she’s dead, but we can get her local help, and draft in caterers for events like big dinner parties and so on. But for the harvest, we need someone she trusts who can cater for sixty people twice a day without getting in a flap—someone who knows what they’re doing, who understands what’s required and who’s available.’

  ‘I’m not available,’ she said instantly, and he felt a sharp stab of disappointment.

  ‘You have another job?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, not really, but I’m helping with the farm, and doing the odd bit of outside catering, a bit of relief work in the pub. Nothing much, but I’m trying to get my career back on track and I can’t do that if I’m gallivanting about all over Tuscany, however much I want to help you out. I have to earn a living—’

  ‘You haven’t heard my proposition yet.’

  She stared at him, trying to work out what he was getting at. What he was offering. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know, because she had a feeling it would involve a lot of heartache, but—

  ‘What proposition? I thought that was your proposition?’

  ‘You come back with me, work for the harvest and I’ll give your sister her wedding.’

  She stared at him, confused. She couldn’t have heard him right. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, finding her voice at last.

  ‘It’s not hard. The hotel was offering the ceremony, a reception for—what, fifty people?—a room for their wedding night, accommodation for the night before for the bridal party, a food and drink package— Anything I’ve missed?’

  She shook her head. ‘Flowers, maybe?’

  ‘OK. Well, we can offer all that. There’s a chapel where they can marry, if they’re Catholic, or they could have a blessing there and marry in the Town Hall, or whatever they wanted, and we’ll give them a marquee with tables and chairs and a dance floor, and food and wine for the guests. And flowers. And if they don’t want to stay in the guest wing of the villa, there’s a lodge in the woods they can have the use of for their honeymoon.’

  Her jaw dropped, and her eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘That’s ridiculously generous! Why would you do this for them?’

  ‘Because if I hadn’t distracted you on the steps, you wouldn’t have fallen, and your sister would have had her wedding.’

  ‘No! Massimo, it wasn’t your fault! I don’t need your guilt as well as my own! This is not your problem.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you would have won if you hadn’t fallen, and yet when I took you back to my home that night you just waded in and helped Carlotta, even though you were hurt and disappointed. You didn’t need to do that, but you saw she was struggling, and you put your own worries and injuries out of your mind and just quietly got on with it, even though you were much more sore than you let on.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  He smiled tenderly. ‘I saw the bruises, cara. All over your body.’

  She blushed furiously, stooping to pick the rag up off the floor, but it was covered in dust and she put it down again. The saddle was already soaped to death.

  ‘And that dinner party—I know quite well that all of those dishes were yours. Carlotta doesn’t cook like that, and yet you left an old woman her pride, and for that alone, I would give you this wedding for your sister.’

  The tears spilled down her cheeks, and she scrubbed them away with the backs of her hands. Not a good idea, she realised instantly, when they were covered in soapy filth, but he was there in front of her, a tissue in his hand, wiping the tears away and the smears of dirt with them.

  ‘Silly girl, there’s no need to cry,’ he tutted softly, and she pushed his hand away.

  ‘Well, of course I’m crying, you idiot!’ she sniffed, swallowing the tears. ‘You’re being ridiculously generous. But I can’t possibly accept.’

  ‘Why not? We need you—and that is real and genuine. I knew you’d refuse the wedding if I just offered it, but we really need help with the harvest, and it’s the only way Carlotta will allow us to help her. If we do nothing, she’ll work herself to death, but she’ll be devastated if we bring in a total stranger to help out.’

  ‘I was a total stranger,’
she reminded him.

  He gave that tender smile again, the one that had unravelled her before. ‘Yes—but now you’re a friend, and I’m asking you, as a friend, to help her.’

  She swallowed. ‘And in return you’ll give Jen this amazing wedding?’

  ‘Sì.’

  ‘And what about us?’

  Something troubled flickered in his eyes for a second until the shutters came down. ‘What about us?’

  ‘We agreed it was just for one night.’

  ‘Yes, we did. No strings. A little time out from reality.’

  ‘And it stays that way?’

  He inclined his head. ‘Sì. It stays that way. It has to.’

  Did it? She felt—what? Regret? Relief? A curious mixture of both, probably, although if she was honest she might have been hoping…

  ‘Can I think about it?’

  ‘Not for long. I have to return first thing tomorrow morning. I would like to take you with me.’

  She nodded. ‘Right. Um. I need to finish this—what are you doing?’

  He’d taken off his jacket, slung it over the back of the chair and was rolling up his sleeves. ‘Helping,’ he said, and taking a clean rag from the pile, he buffed the saddle to a lovely, soft sheen. ‘There. What else?’

  * * *

  It took them half an hour to clean the rest of Bruno’s tack, and then she led him back to the house and showed him where he could wash his hands in the scullery sink.

  ‘Don’t mention any of this to Jen, not until I’ve made up my mind,’ she warned softly, and he nodded.

  Her sister was in the kitchen, and she pointed her in the direction of the kettle and ran upstairs to shower. Ten minutes later, she was back down in the kitchen with her hair in soggy rats’ tails and her face pink and shiny from the steam, but at least she was clean.

  He glanced up at her and got to his feet with a smile. ‘Better now?’

  ‘Cleaner,’ she said wryly. ‘Is Jen looking after you?’

  Jen was, she could see that. The teapot was on the table, and the packet of biscuits they’d been saving for visitors was largely demolished.