by Alexia Adams
Wandering back to the kitchen, he saw a small note propped up against the kettle.
Help yourself to breakfast.
He opened the fridge to find a half liter of milk, a couple of eggs, and some mushrooms. The fridge itself was only slightly cooler than the room. Nothing had been modernized in the cottage. This room he remembered, as it still held the same crappy appliances his father had had since Matteo had been a boy. The guesthouse had all the mod cons. Bella obviously spent any money she had on making more rather than her own comfort.
Even if they didn’t stay together, it made no sense for his wife to live like a pauper. He had the money now to make decent renovations. She could move into the guesthouse while they overhauled the main cottage. They could add a few more rooms, create a master suite with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sea, put in a huge soaker tub and a shower big enough for two. His body flooded with heat as the memory resurfaced of sharing the tiny shower with its limited hot water. Bella’s naked body pressed against his had cancelled out any discomfort. Maybe they’d keep that. He undid another button on his shirt.
Not that he had plans to stay long on the farm even if they resumed their relationship. He’d finally got the dirt out from under his nails. He was a businessman now, owning luxury resorts and an export business that spanned from Morocco to the Sudan. With no Internet and sporadic cell reception, he couldn’t run his business here. They’d find a caretaker to manage the land for them. Given Bella’s reaction last night, she’d developed quite an affinity for the farm. But surely once she’d seen his other houses, she’d be happy to leave the little cottage behind.
He was getting ahead of himself again. Until he knew what had caused his memory loss and why he’d washed up on a Tunisian beach, he’d keep his plans to himself.
Putting the kettle on the stove to boil, in case he had to settle for tea, he then searched for some way to make coffee. Farrah, an early riser, usually beat him to the office and had it ready. Dio, that was another complication in his life. Farrah had been at his side for the past four years, building the export business with him, dealing with the women artisans who didn’t trust a foreign man. They worked so well together. But the part of him that had felt shackled by his wedding ring now said he had to give his marriage a fighting chance.
His conscience had a lot to answer for.
The kettle shrieked before he’d discovered some means to distill the few coffee beans he’d found in the door of the freezer.
“Here, let me,” Bella said from behind him. She reached around and removed the kettle from the element and took the package of coffee out of his hand. Her long, dark hair was mostly up in a ponytail; however, the wind had teased strands from the elastic until they framed her face like a halo. Her skin was flushed from the cold morning air and she smelled of dirt, salt, and a hint of citrus and lavender. He shoved his hands into his pockets. It seemed his body had no problem remembering what to do with his wife. He wasn’t going to be able to do this husband-from-a-distance thing for long.
She bustled about the kitchen, pulling a coffee bean grinder from the back of a cupboard along with a stovetop percolator. The whizz as she ground the beans prevented talking. Soon the heady aroma of fresh ground coffee filled the kitchen, and she inhaled deeply.
“I usually just drink instant,” she said as she put the grounds into the percolator before adding the water. She put it on the stovetop then turned back to him, her face unreadable. “I was saving the beans for company. I guess you qualify.”
“You never used to drink instant coffee. You said it was like dirty water.” The comment was out of his mouth before he even properly remembered it. Merda, next he’d be declaring his love before he was sure that’s what this warm glow signified. Or maybe it was just stress-induced indigestion.
“Well, I changed. Seemed a waste to make real coffee just for myself.” When the brew was ready she poured them each a cup.
He let that comment pass. It was too soon to remind her that she wasn’t alone anymore.
“Have you been out all night?” There were deep shadows under her eyes and her shoulders slumped.
“Yeah. I needed to check the fencing. See how many new posts I have to order.”
She sipped her coffee, staring at him over the rim of her cup as though she couldn’t decide if he was real or a figment of her exhausted mind. He felt her confusion in his own chest.
“Sit down, Bella. Let me cook you some breakfast.”
Scenes of them cooking together flashed through his brain. Did she remember how they used to feed each other tidbits until there was little left to plate up for the actual meal? It had always been his favorite time of the day, when they chatted and kissed and shared secrets and dreams. Or had the bad eclipsed the good in Bella’s mind?
“I can’t eat yet. I have to milk the goats first. Coffee will do for now.”
“Goats? When did we get goats?”
“We didn’t get goats. I did. Right after the sheep.”
“What?”
“This is a sheep farm now. I sold the artichoke fields to Signor Francisco. The mafia has the vegetable market under their control. I couldn’t even sell half of the last crop.”
“Where’d you get the money to change agriculture?”
“From the bank. I finally put my degree to use, formulated a business plan. Then I got a loan.” Her eyes searched his. Did he used to react differently when she mentioned her degree? Dio, had he been that much of an ass? He’d proved he could hold his own with all the university graduates he came across in business. It didn’t bother him now that she was better educated than him. Her relationship with his friend, however, did.
“Not from Cristoforo?”
“No.” She put her half-drunk cup down on the counter. “Milking usually takes me about forty-five minutes. If you have breakfast ready when I get back, I won’t say ‘no’ to an egg and piece of toast. Sorry, I don’t have much in the fridge; I wasn’t expecting a visitor. Today is market day, and I was planning on going into town this afternoon to get groceries.”
“Can I help with the milking? It’ll take half the time with the two of us.” He’d never milked a goat in his life, but there was no time like the present. Bad day to wear his new handmade loafers, though.
“No, the nannies are very particular and don’t like anyone but me touching them. The vet got a nasty bite last time he visited. I assume you’d like to keep all your fingers?”
“That would be preferable. But I’m coming to town with you,” he said.
She stared at him for a long moment. “Whatever.” Pushing away from the counter she was almost at the door when he stopped her with a hand on her arm.
“Do you have a copy of the business plan for the farm? I’d like to see it.” Maybe if he saw her vision for the land he could get his head around the changes. The Vannis had grown vegetables for generations. He couldn’t believe his father had let her switch to animals.
“It’s in the file cabinet somewhere. Help yourself.” She gestured to the little lean-to he’d built next to the house. This time, he closed his eyes on the memories the room evoked. With his father always around, the tiny office had become a place where they could do more than paperwork.
She crossed the yard to a small barn he hadn’t noticed before. There was no sway in her hips, and her ponytail didn’t bounce from side to side. Bella was buried under such a heavy workload that her depleted lack of enthusiasm and energy was on clear display. He’d spend the next week helping her while figuring out what to do about their relationship.
He found the business plan easily enough in the file cunningly marked “Business Plan & Loan Application.” The document was solid and dated almost three years ago, so after his father’s death. She hadn’t been able to talk the old man around to her way of thinking.
He studied the other papers in the folder. She’d neglected to tell him that while the loan was from the bank, it was guaranteed by Cristoforo Bernini. But acc
ording to the ledger on the desk, Bella hadn’t missed a payment yet. In fact, the farm was in better shape financially than when he’d left.
He shoved the papers back into the folder and refiled it in the old, battered cabinet. Dio, he could remember her excitement when he’d found it in an abandoned building and brought it home. Now he could bring her diamonds and designer dresses. Would she be as happy?
A file marked Legal Documents caught his eye. The first paper was a petition for divorce; under cause Bella had written Abandonment all in capitals. His stomach fell to his knees and the coffee he’d drunk threatened to come back up. She thought he’d left her deliberately? No wonder his reception so far had been on the arctic side of cold.
The second document stalled his heart: Petition to have missing person declared dead. The only thing needed was her signature.
Bella had given up and was ready to move on. Was he too late to save his marriage?
• • •
Bella tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she dragged herself back to the cottage. Although she was physically exhausted, an electrical energy zapped through her veins. Didn’t take a psychologist to know it was anticipation at seeing Matteo. He’d always had this effect on her. Even after two years of marriage it hadn’t lessened. But was spectacular sex enough to base a marriage on? Probably not. She needed more now.
Her steps slowed as she approached the front door, acutely aware that she smelled of goat and sweat and had coffee breath. She’d done little actual work on the farm during the two years before Matteo had disappeared. Her role had been to look after the paperwork, housework, and clean for a few of the old bachelor neighbors to bring in some extra money. Matteo and his father had held the opinion that a woman’s job was in the home, not digging in the dirt or fixing the rundown tractor. Well, she’d showed them. Even her father-in-law had admitted before he died that she’d made a damn good farmer.
Still, it would be nice to have a shower before she ate.
Before she could grab the door handle, Matteo opened it. “I’ve run a bath for you in the guesthouse. You look exhausted. Can you make it, or shall I carry you?”
Temptation, thy name is Matteo. “I can walk.”
He put his arm around her shoulders, and she forced herself not to lean against him. She had to stay strong, not let herself rely on him again. Who knew if he would stay? If he left, it would be crueler than before, because this time it would be a conscious decision.
Provided it was true what he said about the amnesia.
“If you give me a list, I can get what you need in town. You’re too tired to go shopping,” he said as he opened the door to the steam-filled bathroom. A delicate scent of lavender and lemons tickled her nose. The bath salts were her latest business venture, but so far only her guests had used them.
Damn. Guests.
“I have to go. I use the wifi at the café to check online bookings for this place. Oh, God, I have people coming to stay here tomorrow.” It had been all ready for them. Now she’d need to wash the sheets and remake the bed, clean whatever mess Matteo had made, restock the bath salts . . . She mentally added the things to her to-do list and groaned. Sleep would have to wait for another day.
“I’ll move my things into my father’s old room while you have a bath. Then I’ll get this place sorted. Do you have extra sheets?”
She should protest his assumption that he could just move into the cottage. But as his name was still on the deed, there wasn’t a lot legally she could do to turf him out. “Yeah, in the linen cupboard in the upstairs hall. You know how to change a bed?” He and his father had lived like two bachelors before their marriage, rarely changing the bedding.
“I worked at a resort for six months doing everything from cleaning the rooms to tending bar. I can make a bed.” Matteo lingered, his eyes searching hers. He lifted a hand and tucked another strand of her hair behind her ear. “Relax for a few minutes, bellissima. We have a lot to talk about when you’re ready.”
They did. They were married strangers. The past and present were colliding, creating a vortex ready to suck in her lonely heart.
He closed the door behind him and she let the tears fall. Would he bring her back to life? Or destroy her once and for all time?
Chapter Four
Matteo stripped the sheets from the bed and tried not to think of the many times he’d done it before. His first year of memory loss had been hard. He’d worked every job he could get, sometimes for just pennies an hour, trying to earn enough money to investigate his past. But because the Arab Spring had been sweeping through Tunisia, the government had been in complete disarray and didn’t care about a lone man unable to prove who he was.
Why hadn’t Bella reported him missing? That was the question that gnawed hardest at his soul.
He pulled out the replacement linen and quickly remade the bed, packed up his toiletries, and took the used sheets and his bag to the main cottage. He lingered for a moment in front of Bella’s room. The room they’d shared as husband and wife. Would they share it again? Or had too much time elapsed for them to go back? He was definitely different from the poor vegetable farmer she’d married. He could only assume that she’d changed as well. He had to get to know his own wife all over again.
He threw his bag into his father’s old room, shutting down the grief until he had time to deal with it, and went back to the guesthouse, wanting to have the meager breakfast ready by the time Bella came out of the tub. Dio, how he’d have liked to join her in the scented water. Run his hands over her smooth skin, taste the promise of ecstasy on her lips. He grew hard and forced his mind to cooking. Feed her first. She looked thin enough to blow away with the next gust of wind.
A delicate scent of lavender and lemons flowed over him, and he turned. Bella stood in the doorway, her dark hair now falling in soft waves around her shoulders and down her back. She wore the short satin robe he’d pulled from her closet, her nipples hard and clearly showing through the fabric. He swallowed; his blood pressure went through the roof.
“I made a mushroom omelet as there were only three eggs. And there’s no more coffee. Would you like tea?” Merda, he sounded like the waiter he’d also been years ago.
“Tea would be great.” She sat at the table, and when she crossed her legs the robe parted to reveal her strong, lean thighs. He poured himself a glass of water and drank it all at once.
He placed the plate with the toast and eggs in front of her and made the tea. “Where’s yours?” she asked as she hesitated with a forkful of omelet by her lips.
“There wasn’t enough for both of us. I’ll eat when we go into town.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Matteo, there’s no need to play the martyr. There’s plenty. Grab a fork and help yourself.” She pushed the plate equidistance between them and waited until he picked up a utensil. He was ravenous, having skipped dinner last night as he’d waited in the car for her to finish her date.
His stomach roiled, and he put his fork down after one bite. This was the first issue they had to tackle. Although he wasn’t sure if he was ready to hear her answer.
He reached across and took her free hand in his, running his thumb over the calluses on her palm. It was hard to keep his focus. The memories tumbled through him, leaving a path of destruction in their wake—the passion, the love, the tenderness.
He’d had rough hands like hers when they first married. And she’d often commented on how much she loved his strong fingers on her body. Now his were smooth and soft and hers were rough. His heart squeezed painfully in his chest. His delicate wife reduced to a farm worker because life had stolen six years from them. He had to make it up to her.
Matteo cleared his throat of emotion. “Bella—”
The crunch of gravel outside had both of them glancing out the window. “It’s Cristo,” she said. Before he could reply, she abandoned her breakfast and went to the door, throwing it open, never mind the fact she was barely dressed.
He was
about to find out just how close the relationship between his wife and former buddy really was.
• • •
“Cristo, in here,” she called out as her friend exited the vehicle and started toward the cottage.
“Bella, I got your text, but I don’t understand. What do you mean Matteo’s back?” His gaze swept her just as a breeze plastered the fabric to her body, leaving nothing to the imagination. She hadn’t wanted to put her dirty clothes back on after her bath, and the only thing Matteo had left in the bathroom was her old robe, his first-year anniversary present to her. When she dared look at Cristo’s face, he had the same expression Matteo had worn when he’d seen her in the doorway ten minutes ago.
Lust.
Guess I’m not as old and hag-like as I thought. Before she could answer Cristo’s question, however, Matteo came up behind her. His arms snaked around her waist, and he pulled her back against his hard body. His breath caressed her neck, its warmth slithering down her cleavage. He’d done it a million times during their marriage, but why did it feel so possessive now? Had he seen the look in Cristo’s eyes as well?
“Cristoforo.” Her husband’s deep voice vibrated through her, and his arm tightened against her abdomen. She pulled away, not ready to play this game now.
“Matteo. What the hell?” Cristo was as stunned as she’d been last night.
“Yes, hell would be a good way to describe it. I’m back now. To claim my wife.”
“I’m not an object, Matteo.” She crossed her arms over her chest until she saw both men staring pointedly at her breasts, the fabric pressed tight against them. “Oh for God’s sake,” she muttered under her breath. They were behaving like teenagers. You’d think they’d never seen a set of boobs before.
“Bella’s right. You were gone a long time. She’s not a toy that you can just toss aside and come back for when it suits you. She’s a strong, beautiful woman who deserves a man who treasures her, not abandons her the moment things get tough.”
