Leandro Filametti regarded her hand silently for a moment before he shook it. His touch was light, yet firm, and all too brief. He dropped her hand without ceremony and turned to walk out of the foyer, clearly expecting Zoe to follow—which, with some resentment, she did.
Leandro led her down a narrow passageway to the back of the palazzo. From the peeling paint and chipped woodwork, Zoe could tell the palace needed a good deal of TLC. More, she suspected, than her limited capabilities allowed.
Leandro stopped on the threshold of an enormous ancient kitchen. Zoe regarded the huge blackened range and the scarred oak table with both awe and dismay. A single plate and glass, she noticed, had been washed and placed on the drainer by the sink. In the huge space, clearly meant for cooking meals for twenty or more, they looked incongruous and lonely.
‘You can start here,’ Leandro informed her.
‘Start…?’ Zoe stared around. She couldn’t even see so much as a broom—and, frankly, she wouldn’t know where to begin. How did you scrub away years of grime and dust? Did you start with the cobwebs or the mouse nests?
‘Yes,’ Leandro replied, his tone sharp with impatience. ‘You do know what housekeeping entails, don’t you?’
‘I do,’ Zoe replied, her tone matching his. ‘But I also know that my suitcase is still on your front steps, I’ve been travelling all night and I haven’t even washed my face or had a drink of water.’ Juice, perhaps, but not water.
Leandro did not even look abashed. ‘If you’d like a few moments to freshen up, by all means take them,’ he said, with just a trace of sarcasm.
‘Could you show me my room?’
‘Top floor. Take any room you like,’ he replied. ‘And you can get acquainted with the house as well as with your responsibilities.’
With that he turned on his heel and disappeared down another passageway, leaving Zoe open-mouthed and fuming.
She wasn’t what he’d expected. Back in the sanctuary of his private study, Leandro ran his hands through his hair before dropping them with ill-concealed impatience. In truth, he hadn’t known what to expect; he hadn’t thought to expect anything at all. He hadn’t considered the housekeeper he’d hired beyond her ignorance of Italian society and, most importantly, the Filametti family. He wanted someone anonymous; someone to whom he could be anonymous.
Yet when he’d surveyed Zoe Clark on his front steps, anonymous had not been the first word that came to mind. She was, in fact, all too familiar—all too similar to the women of his past. His father’s past.
Fast and flighty. Cheap and easy. Unprincipled.
Even now his mind conjured the image of her standing there, dressed in a skinny-strapped top and shorts that showed far too great an expanse of smooth, tanned leg. Her hair, silky and dark, framed her face in choppy waves, and her eyes were a warm honeyed brown, almond-shaped and luxuriously fringed. Everything about her, Leandro thought, reeked of sensuality—a confident sexuality that he recognised, remembered. How he loathed that knowing feline smile, the glint in the eyes of a woman so arrogantly confident of her own paltry charms. And yet his father had fallen prey to those charms time and time again.
He would not be the same.
Yet even as that resolution fired his soul, another part of his body already recognised there was something about Zoe Clark that he both resented and wanted. She was sexy, and he was man enough to respond to it. That didn’t mean he would act upon it. Ever. The world—his world—was waiting for him to make the same mistake his father had. To fall. To humiliate himself, his family, the ancient Filametti name. He knew it, had always known it, and even in the lonely solitude of the villa he recognised the dangers within himself.
He didn’t need the complication of a sexy housekeeper; he didn’t want it.
Except even as his fingers had wrapped around hers for that brief, tantalising moment, he had.
Leandro muttered an oath under his breath and sat down at the huge mahogany desk that had once belonged to his father. He hated that desk, its connotations and memories, yet some perverse part of his psyche insisted on using it. Redeeming it—or perhaps avenging it was the better term. He gazed sightlessly at the pages in front of him, with their endless equations, numbers and squiggles that represented a lifetime of research and achievement, and yet right now they signified nothing. He swore again.
The less he saw of Zoe Clark, the better, he decided. She could sweep and mop and dust and stay completely out of his way.
He didn’t need distractions—and ill-timed, inappropriate desire was just one of many he’d have to push resolutely away.
Zoe found the servants’ staircase—a steep, narrow, dismal set of steps—and cautiously made her way up. The gloom was intensified by a gossamer net of cobwebs suspended from the ceiling, and the only sound besides her own breathing was the resentful squeak of the steps as she made her way upwards.
She passed a dark, silent floor of closed doors and more shrouded furniture and then went up to the top floor, gazing in dismay at the four rooms available there. Each one was small and depressing, containing only a chest of drawers and a narrow bed whose mattress was questionable in both comfort and hygiene.
It was also stiflingly hot.
‘At least the view is good,’ she muttered, as she forced open a pair of peeling shutters and gazed out at the terraced gardens that ran down directly to the lake. The gardens were in as much disrepair as the villa, but they showed it less. Bougainvillea run rampant, Zoe decided, was pretty. Dust run rampant was not.
With a sigh she turned back to survey the room. Sweat trickled down her back and between her breasts, and with sudden clarity and determination Zoe decided she was not going to suffer up here while a dozen bedrooms below went unused.
Leandro Filametti be damned. She deserved a little comfort if he expected her to tackle this lot.
Twenty minutes later Zoe had settled on one of the more modest bedrooms on the second floor. Painted in a faded lemony yellow, it was a smaller room, whose shuttered windows afforded a stunning view of Lake Como. After locating a dented bucket and an old mop in one of the kitchen’s many cupboards, Zoe spent most of the afternoon cleaning her own bedroom, airing the mattress and scrubbing and dusting what looked like a dozen years’ worth of dust and dirt.
Why was this villa such a mess? she wondered more than once. It was a prime piece of property, yet it looked as if it had been empty for years.
She felt as dirty as the room had been by the time she’d finished cleaning, and she seriously doubted the villa was equipped with a decent shower.
The sun was starting its descent towards the lake, but the air was still sultry and warm. With a defiant shrug Zoe decided she’d make use of the natural resources on hand, and after slipping on a bikini she made her way downstairs.
All was silent, and Leandro was nowhere to be seen. Just as well, Zoe decided grimly. If she saw him, she might give him a piece of her mind—and that could get her fired.
She picked her way through the overgrown gardens to a set of stone steps that led directly to an old jetty. The water shimmered with late-afternoon sunlight and after a second’s hesitation Zoe dived in, gasping as the shock of surprisingly cold water hit her near-naked body. She swam underwater for a few lengths, before surfacing and flipping onto her back, her eyes closed.
She floated pleasantly in an almost half-doze before she became conscious of another presence. She didn’t know what alerted her, but something prickled along her skin entirely separate from the cool water. She lifted her head, treading water, as her eyes scanned the shoreline and came in direct contact with Leandro Filametti.
His expression was neutral, his eyes narrowed against the sun, his hands fisted on his hips. Even so, Zoe’s heart slammed in her chest and she found herself strangely conscious of everything: her own rather bare body, the coolness of the water, the brilliance of the sun. And the cold, hard look she could now see in Leandro’s eyes—could feel emanating from him just as if she were st
anding in front of a freezer.
He didn’t speak, and Zoe forced a breezy laugh as she raised an arm in greeting. ‘Come on in. The water’s lovely.’
Wrong thing to say, she decided, as Leandro’s neutral expression darkened into a scowl.
‘I see you are availing yourself of the comforts of my home,’ he said after a moment, and before she could stop herself Zoe gave a little laugh of disbelief.
‘Comforts? I’m afraid, Signor Filametti, that your home affords very few comforts.’
In answer he arched one eyebrow, coldly sceptical. Zoe was getting tired of treading water, so she swam to the side of the jetty and hauled herself up. Sitting on the sun-warmed stone, dripping wet, she felt Leandro’s gaze rove over her, and was conscious yet again of the skimpiness of her bikini. She was also aware that she didn’t have a towel.
‘What have you been doing this afternoon?’ Leandro asked, his tone one that suggested Zoe had been lolling by the lakeside for hours, eating bonbons and reading novels.
‘Making a bedroom habitable,’ she replied sharply. ‘When an ad says “room and board provided” it usually means just that. But none of the bedrooms in your villa were fit for human habitation, Signor Filametti, so I spent the afternoon making sure I had a place to sleep tonight.’
Leandro was silent for a long moment, and when Zoe glanced at him she saw his expression was as dark and foreboding as ever.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said finally, surprising her. ‘I didn’t think…I am involved in important research at the moment, and such considerations escaped my notice.’
Zoe jerked her head in a nod of acceptance. ‘I couldn’t find any sheets,’ she added, a bit petulantly.
Leandro’s mouth quirked upwards in an unexpected glimmering of a smile. ‘Or towels, I suspect. Those I have, I brought with me. Although if I recall the beds on the top floor are single—’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem,’ Zoe replied, ‘because I chose a bedroom on the second floor.’ She glared at him, ready for a battle, but after a tiny pause he just shrugged.
‘As you wish. When you come up to the house I’ll provide you with some sheets…’ His disapproving glance took in her wet length once more before he added, ‘And a towel.’
He shouldn’t have gone down to the lake, Leandro knew. He was angry with himself that he had. He hadn’t made the decision until he’d heard the sound of splashing and realised Zoe Clark must be down there. Swimming. In a swimming costume.
This realisation had presented his tired mind with far too many intriguing images that he’d pushed resolutely away. He’d been without a woman for too long—without companionship of any kind for too long. Normally a woman like Zoe Clark would disgust him. Bold, obvious, inappropriate, cheap. All the qualities he despised in a woman.
The few women he’d taken to his bed had been sophisticated, classy and most importantly discreet. They’d understood the nature of short-term, expedient affairs and they’d wanted the same thing. Pleasure. Satisfaction. And a painless goodbye.
Not, he thought grimly, money. Or, worse, love.
He didn’t know what Zoe wanted, but he knew what women like her were capable of. And even if they weren’t, he knew what the tabloids were capable of. He’d seen firsthand how whispers could destroy a person. Already he imagined the headlines if someone got hold of his situation: Like father, like son. Leandro Filametti in a flagrant affair with his housekeeper.
He pushed the thought—and the temptation—away.
Upstairs in the villa Leandro dug through the supplies he’d brought to the villa from his flat in Milan and found a set of clean sheets and a couple of towels. He should have considered the whole matter of her bedroom, but he hadn’t wanted to consider her at all. Thinking about a housekeeper meant thinking about the villa, and even though he’d spent every day of the last month within its walls he didn’t want to think about it.
He didn’t want to remember.
As he headed downstairs his stomach gave a growl, reminding him that it was nearing suppertime and the only thing in the fridge was half a portion of pasta, left over from the restaurant where he’d eaten last night. He’d brought it home for lunch and forgotten about it completely. Somehow he didn’t think Zoe Clark would consider it suitable fare—and she would be quick to point out that room and board meant feeding her too. He knew her type; she would insist on her rights.
The only option was to take her out to a restaurant. Of course there was always the danger of being recognised, but Lornetto was small enough and its few residents were close-mouthed and loyal. Annoyed, Leandro realised he was almost looking forward to the prospect of the evening ahead. He was being so weak…as his father had been weak. Grimacing, he headed for the kitchen.
He found Zoe dripping and shivering by the range, her arms wrapped around her sides. She dropped them as soon as she saw him.
‘This kitchen is huge,’ she remarked. ‘I’m not sure where to begin.’
Leandro shrugged. ‘You just need to clean it.’ He thrust the sheets and towels into her arms. He couldn’t keep himself from noticing the lithe perfection of her body, tanned and taut and so very bare. She wasn’t curvaceous, but she had enough of a rounded shape to please a man and make his mid-section tighten uncomfortably. ‘Once you’re dressed, we’ll go out to eat. Perhaps tomorrow you can go to the shops for food and whatever else you’ll need. Do you cook?’
Zoe raised an eyebrow. ‘That wasn’t in the job description, but I can rustle up a few meals, if that’s what you’re asking. Is it just the two of us here?’
Although the question was basic, it seemed to reverberate through the air, conjuring up an uncomfortable intimacy, and Leandro instinctively sharpened his tone. ‘Yes. I’ll see you in a few minutes.’ He turned on his heel, striding quickly out of the room before Zoe had a chance to say another word.
CHAPTER TWO
SHE shouldn’t be looking forward to sharing a meal with as ornery a creature as Leandro Filametti, yet Zoe was honest enough to acknowledge that she was. She gazed briefly at her reflection in the tarnished mirror in her bedroom, happy enough with her appearance. No need to impress her employer, she decided, knowing that any attempt to do so would most likely achieve the opposite effect. She’d settled on a pair of jeans and a yellow silky top with skinny straps. She left her hair loose and damp, and eschewed any make-up. Leandro was waiting, probably counting the minutes or seconds to determine how tardy she was. He seemed the type.
Humming under her breath, Zoe headed downstairs. Just as she’d expected, Leandro was waiting in the foyer, and Zoe saw immediately that he’d changed. He wore a cream-coloured button-down shirt and tan trousers—a boring outfit if there ever was one. And yet on him it looked far too appealing. The sleeves were rolled up to expose strong, tanned forearms—how did someone closeted all day doing research get tanned?—and the trousers emphasised a trim waist and long, well-muscled legs.
Zoe tore her gaze away; there was no point ogling her employer. She didn’t want to get involved with someone like Leandro Filametti, who could only see her as the hired help—a drudge to be treated with disdain or at best grudging respect. She knew how that scenario played out. But he was nice to look at.
‘There is a restaurant in Lornetto, the nearby village,’ Leandro told her. ‘We can walk, if you like.’
‘Sounds great,’ Zoe replied breezily, causing a brief frown to pass over Leandro’s face like a shadow. What a stickler, she thought, with a little burst of annoyed amusement. She wondered what kind of research he was doing. He was probably an accountant, or something equally dull.
Yet there was nothing dull about the flash of awareness that tingled up her arm when he took her elbow and guided her down the crumbling steps of the portico. He dropped it as soon as they’d navigated the wrecked stone, but Zoe was still conscious of a strange, shivery warmth where he’d touched her.
She shrugged the feeling away, determined not to be distracted. She hadn’t come to
Italy for a relationship; she’d come to get away from one, and she’d do well to remember that.
The sun set as they walked down the lane, leaving vivid violet streaks across the sky, and although the air was still warm and scented with lavender there was a hint of coolness too, as the evening breeze rolled in from the mountains.
They walked in companionable enough silence for a few moments along the lake road—La Ancina Strada, from Roman times, according to the guidebook Zoe had leafed through—until a village—no more than a huddle of stone buildings along a narrow cobblestoned street—came into view.
There was certainly something charming about the scattering of tables under a faded striped awning, Zoe reflected as Leandro guided her to an outdoor café along an even narrower side street. Dusk had fallen, and the night cloaked them in cool softness as he pulled out her chair. There was, she thought with an uneasy sort of pleasure, something almost romantic about the situation.
That notion was quickly dispelled as Leandro took a seat across from her, folded his hands in businesslike fashion and launched into an extensive list of her duties.
‘I’m selling the villa,’ he stated bluntly, ‘as soon as it’s in decent condition. You are required to keep it as neat and clean as possible. I understand the difficulty, since so much of it is in disrepair, but there will be workmen coming in to deal with much of the damage, and as their work continues so yours should become easier.’
Zoe nodded, although she hardly thought navigating workmen, falling plaster and all manner of unknown hazards would make her job easier.
A waiter came, and without a glance at her Leandro ordered for both of them. Annoyance prickled along her spine at this presumption—although she recognised fairly that she knew an appallingly little amount of Italian.
‘What did you order?’ she asked after the waiter had left. ‘Just out of curiosity.’
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