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…
CHAPTER EIGHT
THEY didn’t speak on the way back to the palazzo.
She sat beside him, her heart in her mouth, the air between them so thick with tension she could scarcely breathe. They didn’t touch. All the way to her bedroom door, there was a space between them, as if they realised that the slightest contact would be all it took to send them up in flames.
Even when he shut the door behind them, they still hesitated, their eyes locked. And then he closed his eyes and murmured something in Italian. It could have been a prayer, or a curse, or just a ‘what the hell am I doing?’
She could understand that. She was doing it herself, but she was beyond altering the course of events. She’d been beyond it, she realised, the moment he’d walked into the tack room at home and smiled at her.
He opened his eyes again, and there was resignation in them, and a longing that made her want to weep. He lifted his hand and touched her cheek, just lightly, but it was enough.
She turned her face into his hand, pressing her lips to his palm, and with a ragged groan he reeled her in, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that should have felt savage but was oddly tender for all its desperation.
His jacket hit the floor, then his shirt, stripped off over his head, and he spun her round, searching for the zip on her dress and following its progress with his lips, scorching a trail of fire down her spine. It fell away, and he unclipped her bra and turned her back to face him, easing it away and sighing softly as he lowered his head to her breasts.
She felt the rasp of his stubble against the sensitised skin, the heat of his mouth closing over one nipple, then the cold as he blew lightly against the dampened flesh.
She clung to his shoulders, her legs buckling, and he scooped her up and dropped her in the middle of the bed, stripping off the rest of his clothes before coming down beside her, skin to skin, heart to heart.
There was no foreplay. She would have died if he’d made her wait another second for him. Incoherent with need, she reached for him, and he was there, his eyes locking with hers as he claimed her with one long, slow thrust.
His head fell against hers, his eyes fluttering closed, a deep groan echoing in her ear. Her hands were on him, sliding down his back, feeling the powerful muscles bunching with restraint, the taut buttocks, the solid thighs bracing him as he thrust into her, his restraint gone now, the desperation overwhelming them, driving them both over the edge into frenzy.
She heard a muffled groan, felt his lips against her throat, his skin like hot, wet silk under her hands as his hard body shuddered against hers. For a long time he didn’t move, but then, his chest heaving, he lifted his head to stare down into her eyes.
‘Oh, cara,’ he murmured roughly, and then gathering her against his heart he rolled to his side and collapsed against the pillows, and they lay there, limbs entangled, her head on his chest, and waited for the shockwaves to die away.
* * *
‘I thought we weren’t going to do that.’
He glanced down at her, and his eyes were filled with regret and despair. ‘It looks like we were both wrong.’
His eyes closed, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her, and easing away from her embrace he rolled away and sat up on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, dropping his head into his hands for a moment. Then he raked his fingers through his hair and stood up, pulling on his clothes.
‘I have to check the children,’ he said gruffly.
‘We need to talk.’
‘Yes, but not now. Please, cara. Not now.’
He couldn’t talk to her now. He had to get out of there, before he did something stupid like make love to her again.
Make love? Who was he kidding? He’d slaked himself on her, with no finesse, no delicacy, no patience. And he’d promised her—promised himself, but promised her—that this wouldn’t happen again.
Shaking his head in disgust, he pushed his feet into his shoes, slung his jacket over his shoulder and then steeled himself to look at her.
She was still lying there, curled on her side on top of the tangled bedding, her eyes wide with hurt and confusion.
‘Massimo?’
‘Later. Tomorrow, perhaps. I have to go. If Antonino wakes—’
She nodded, her eyes closing softly as she bit her lip. Holding back the tears?
He was despicable. All he ever did was make this woman cry.
He let himself out without another word, and went through to his part of the house, up the stairs to the children to check that they were all in bed and sleeping peacefully.
They were. Antonino had kicked off the covers, and he eased them back over his son and dropped a kiss lightly on his forehead. He mumbled in his sleep and rolled over, and he went out, leaving the door open, and checked the girls.
They were both asleep, Francesca’s door closed, Lavinia’s open and her nightlight on.
He closed the landing door that led to his parents’ quarters, as he always did when he was in the house, and then he made his way back down to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine.
Why? Why on earth had he been so stupid? After all his lectures to himself, how could he have been so foolish, so weak, so self-centred?
He’d have to talk to her, he realised, but he had no idea what he would say. He’d promised her—promised! And yet again he’d failed.
He propped his elbows on the table and reste
d his face in his hands. Of all the idiotic things—
‘Massimo?’
Her voice stroked him like a lover’s touch, and he lifted his head and met her eyes.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, his voice rough.
‘I came to get a drink,’ she said uncertainly.
He shrugged. ‘Go ahead, get it.’
She stayed there, her eyes searching his face. ‘Oh, Massimo, don’t beat yourself up. We were deluded if we thought this wouldn’t happen. It was so obvious it was going to and I can’t believe we didn’t realise. What we need to work out is what happens now.’
He gave a short, despairing laugh and pushed back his chair. ‘Nothing, but I have no idea how to achieve that. All I know that whenever I’m with you, I want you, and I can’t just have what I want. I’m not a tiny child, I understand the word no, I just can’t seem to use it to myself. Wine?’
She shook her head. ‘Tea. I’ll make it.’
He watched her as she took out a mug from the cupboard, put a teabag in it, poured on boiling water, her movements automatic. She was wearing a silky, figure-hugging dressing gown belted round her waist, and he’d bet his life she had those tiny little pyjamas on underneath.
‘Just tell me this,’ she said at last, turning to face him. ‘Is there any reason why we can’t have an affair? Just—discreetly?’
‘Here? In this house? Are you crazy? I have children here and they have enough to contend with without waking in the night from a bad dream and finding I’m not here because I’m doing something stupid and irresponsible for my own gratification.’
She sat down opposite him, cradling the tea in her hands and ignoring his stream of self-hatred. ‘So what do you normally do?’
Normally? Normally? he thought.
‘Normally, I don’t have affairs,’ he said flatly. ‘I suppose if I did, it would be elsewhere.’ He shrugged. ‘Arranged meetings—afternoon liaisons when the children are at school, lunchtimes, coffee.’
‘And does it work?’
He laughed a little desperately. ‘I have no idea. I’ve never tried.’
She stared at him in astonishment. ‘What? In five years, you’ve never had an affair?’
‘Not what you could call an affair, no. I’ve had the odd liaison, but nothing you could in any way call a relationship.’ He sighed shortly, swirled his wine, put it down again.
‘You have to see it from my point of view. I have obligations, responsibilities. I would have to be very, very circumspect in any relationship with a woman.’
‘Because of the children.’
‘Mostly, but because of all sorts of things. Because of my duties and responsibilities, the position I hold within the family, the business—any woman I was to become involved with would have to meet a very stringent set of criteria.’
‘Not money-grabbing, not lying, not cheating, not looking for a meal ticket or an easy family or status in the community.’
‘Exactly. And it’s more trouble than it’s worth. I don’t need it. I can live without the hassle. But it’s more than that. If I make a mistake, many people could suffer. And besides, I don’t have the time to invest in a relationship, not to do it justice. And nor do you, not if you’re going to reinvent yourself and relaunch your career.’
He’d be worth the emotional investment, but only if you’re serious.
Oh, Isabelle, you’re so right, she thought. But was she serious? Serious enough? Could she afford to dedicate the emotional energy needed, to a man who was so clearly focused on his family life and business that women weren’t considered necessary?
If she felt she stood the slightest chance, then yes, she realised, she could be very, very serious indeed about this man. But he wasn’t ever going to be serious about her. Not serious enough to let her into all parts of his life, and there was no way she’d pass his stringent criteria test.
No job, for a start. No independent wealth—no wealth of any sort. And besides, he was right, she needed to get her career back on track. It had been going so well…
‘So what happens now? We can’t have an affair here, because of the children, and yet we can’t seem to stick to that. So what do we do? Because doing nothing doesn’t seem to work for us, Massimo. We need a plan.’
He gave a wry laugh and met her eyes again, his deadly serious. ‘I have no idea, cara. I just know I can’t be around you.’
‘So we avoid each other?’
‘We’re both busy. It shouldn’t be so hard.’
They were busy, he was right, but she felt a pang of loss even though she knew it made sense.
‘OK. I’ll keep out of your way if you keep out of mine.’
He inclined his head, then looked up as she got to her feet.
‘You haven’t finished your tea.’
‘I’ll take it with me,’ she said, and left him sitting there wondering why he felt as if he’d just lost the most precious thing in the world, and yet didn’t quite know what it was.
* * *
Nice theory, she thought later, when her emotions had returned to a more even keel. It just didn’t have a hope of working in practice.
How could they possibly avoid each other in such an intimate setting?
Answer—they couldn’t. He was in and out of the kitchen all the time with the children, and she was in and out of his workspace twice a day at least with food for the team of workers.
They were gathering chestnuts this week, in the castagneti, the chestnut woods on the higher slopes at the southern end of the estate. Carlotta told her all about it, showed her the book of chestnut recipes she’d gathered, many handed down from her mother or her grandmother, and she wanted to experiment.
So she asked Massimo one lunchtime if she could have some for cooking.
‘Sure,’ he said briskly. ‘Help yourself. Someone will give you a basket.’
She shouldn’t have been hurt. It was silly. She knew why he was doing it, why he hadn’t met her eyes for more than a fleeting second, because in that fleeting second she’d seen something in his eyes that she recognised.
A curious mixture of pain and longing, held firmly in check.
She knew all about that.
She gathered her own chestnuts, joining the workforce and taking good-natured and teasing advice, most of which she didn’t understand, because her Italian lessons with Francesca hadn’t got that far yet—and in any case, she was very conscious of not getting too close to his children, for fear of them forming an attachment to her that would only hurt them when she went home again, so she hadn’t encouraged it.
But she understood the gist. Sign language was pretty universal, and she learned how to split open the cases without hurting her fingers and remove the chestnuts—huge chestnuts, marrone, apparently—and that night after she’d given them all their evening meal, she went into the kitchen to experiment.
And he was there, sitting at the kitchen table with a laptop and a glass of wine.
‘Oh,’ she said, and stood there stupidly for a moment.
‘Problem?’
‘I was going to try cooking some of the chestnuts.’
His eyes met hers, and he shut the laptop and stood up. ‘It’s fine. I’ll get out of your way.’
She looked guarded, he thought, her sunny smile and open friendliness wiped away by his lack of control and this overwhelming need that stalked him hour by hour. It saddened him. Greatly.
‘You don’t have to go.’
‘I do,’ he said wearily. ‘I can’t be around you, cara. It’s too difficult. I thought I could do this, but I can’t. The only way is to keep my distance.’
‘But you can’t. We’re falling over each other all the time.’
‘There’s no
choice.’
There was, she thought. They could just go with the flow, make sure they were discreet, keep it under control, but he didn’t seem to think they could do that successfully, and he’d left the kitchen anyway.
She sat down at the table, in the same chair, feeling the warmth from his body lingering in the wood, and opened Carlotta’s recipe book. Pointless. It was in Italian, and she didn’t understand a word.
Frustration getting the better of her, she dropped her head into her hands and growled softly.
‘Lydia, don’t.’
‘Don’t what? I thought you’d gone,’ she said, lifting her head.
‘I had.’ He sat down opposite her and took her hand in his, the contact curiously disturbing and yet soothing all at once.
‘This is driving me crazy,’ he admitted softly.
‘Me, too. There must be another way. We can’t avoid each other successfully, so why don’t we just work alongside each other and take what comes? We know it’s not long-term, we know you’re not looking for commitment and I’m not ready to risk it again, and I have to go back and try and relaunch my career in some direction.’
He let go of her hand and sat back. ‘Any ideas for that?’ he said, not running away again as she’d expected, but staying to have a sensible conversation, and she let herself relax and began to talk, outlining her plans, such as they were.
‘I’ve been thinking more and more about outside catering, using produce from my parents’ farm. There are plenty of people with money living in the nearby villages, lots of second homes with people coming up for the weekend and bringing friends. I’m sure there would be openings, I just have to be there to find them.’
‘It could be a bit seasonal.’
‘Probably. Easter, summer and winter—well, Christmas and New Year, mostly. There’s always lots of demand around Christmas, and I need to be back by then. Will the olive harvest be over?’
‘Almost certainly. If it’s not, we can manage if you need to return.’ He stood up and put the kettle on. ‘I was thinking we should invite your sister and her fiancé over to meet Anita so she can start the ball rolling.’
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