Zoe bristled, but Leandro ignored her, gesturing to a row of small quaint shops lining one of the town’s squares.
‘Perhaps we should have a coffee first, and you can actually make that list?’
‘All right,’ Zoe agreed, her voice still stiff. Hunger won over pride. ‘I am starving.’
Leandro led her to a small street café, its tables shaded by brightly coloured umbrellas and situated perfectly to watch the lively bustle of the square.
Zoe’s eyebrows rose when the owner of the café came out, speaking in rapid Italian, fawning over Leandro as if he were some kind of celebrity. Zoe saw a few other patrons glance their way, heard the speculative murmur of hushed whispers and wondered just what was going on.
Just who Leandro was.
Leandro answered the owner tersely before leading Zoe to a table at the back. He ordered two espressos and a basket of pastries, affecting an air of unconcern even though Zoe was conscious of a few more open stares and another round of whispers.
‘You’re famous,’ she stated baldly, and Leandro shrugged, his mouth tightening.
‘My family is from this region, that is all.’
At least that was all he was going to say, Zoe realised, although she imagined there was quite a bit more to the story. Shrugging, she started to write her list on the back of a napkin.
After a moment Leandro peered over at her writing. ‘“Cleaning supplies”,’ he read, his voice dry with amusement. ‘That’s a bit general, don’t you think?’
‘In general, I need everything,’ Zoe replied. ‘I looked around yesterday and couldn’t find so much as a sponge.’
‘Fair enough.’ Leandro shrugged. ‘The villa’s been vacant for years, so I’m not surprised.’
‘You mentioned it hasn’t been for sale,’ Zoe said. She’d added ‘food’ to the list. That was pretty general, too. All she’d seen in the kitchen was a plastic takeaway container and a packet of coffee.
‘Yes, I did.’ Leandro’s tone was guarded.
‘Who owned it? And why did they sell now?’
The waiter came with the coffee and rolls, and Zoe took one from the basket, biting into it with relish. Leandro watched her, sipping his own coffee.
‘They didn’t sell,’ he said at last, and then forestalled any of the questions which had clamoured to Zoe’s tongue by raising one hand. ‘Eat up,’ he told her brusquely, dispelling any notion of friendliness. ‘We have a lot to do, and I want to get back to the villa. You should, too. I’d like to see you earn your keep.’
The shops lining the square were small, yet surprisingly well stocked. Within an hour Zoe had found nearly all the cleaning supplies she needed, as well as the basic food provisions she wanted to make some simple meals. Leandro arranged for it all to be delivered to the boat, and they were heading back to the dock when Zoe saw a small outdoor market set up in another smaller, leafy square.
She skidded to a halt, strangely mesmerised. ‘Oh, let’s stop!’ The stalls, with their barrels of spices and baskets of fresh fruit and vegetables, beckoned enticingly, unexpectedly. Kerchief-clad housewives haggled over bins of lettuce and joints of beef, their hard bargains tempered by shouts of laughter.
With a sigh and a little shrug, Leandro gave his acceptance, and soon Zoe was lost amid the stalls, touching fabrics, chatting in her broken, nearly useless Italian, happier than she’d been in a while.
When she’d said she could make meals, she’d meant it; but she’d envisaged plates of pasta with tinned sauce—staples from her nomadic existence. Yet now the ropes of garlic, the bunches of fresh basil, the huge rounds of mozzarella floating murkily in brine, made her want to be unaccountably domestic, providing real meals—meals for a home, a family.
Ridiculous.
She’d never had a family or a home—didn’t even want one—and Leandro Filametti’s decrepit villa hardly counted as one anyway. Still, she couldn’t keep herself from loading up a wicker basket with plump red tomatoes and mozzarella wrapped in wax paper, a kilo of ripe peaches and the freshest asparagus she’d ever seen.
‘I hope you’re planning on actually cooking with this,’ Leandro muttered, taking the basket from her.
Zoe gave him a quick grin. ‘Absolutely.’
Half an hour later he finally pulled her away and they headed back to the boat. It was well after lunchtime, and Zoe had a brief spasm of guilt for having taken so long.
‘I’ll make you a really nice lunch,’ she promised as they got in the boat.
‘Never mind about that,’ Leandro replied tartly. ‘I’ll settle for dinner. You can spend the afternoon doing what you’re paid for.’
As soon as they returned to the villa, the bags and boxes were loaded into the kitchen, then Leandro disappeared into his study. Zoe felt momentarily bereft without him; she’d enjoyed their outing more than she wanted to admit even to herself.
With a pragmatic shrug, she began to put all their purchases away. She’d start on the kitchen first, she decided. It needed a good scrub, and she didn’t relish the idea of cooking in a such a dirty space. She wrapped a kerchief around her head, got out the new mop and sponge and set to work.
Three hours later the kitchen was as clean as it would get without a complete overhaul, and Zoe was filthy. She considered another dip in the lake, but decided to opt for a shower instead. She didn’t want Leandro thinking she was slacking off the job…Except, Zoe asked herself in exasperation, why did she care what he thought?
Why did she care at all?
She never had before.
Even as she’d scrubbed and mopped he’d intruded on her thoughts. Questions, images, memories. Why had he bought this villa? Why had the people in the café recognised him and whispered about him? What was his life normally like? Did he have a girlfriend? A wife? A family?
Stupid questions, she told herself as she stripped off and stepped into the shower. Ones with answers she shouldn’t care about, shouldn’t even consider. She twisted the taps on and let the water stream hotly over her. Many of the villa’s bathrooms looked as if their plumbing was at least fifty years old, but she’d found a renovated one on the upstairs hallway, and she revelled in the strong stinging spray.
Until the door opened.
To her credit, Zoe didn’t even yelp. The shower door was fogged completely, so she could barely see Leandro…although she could make out that he was only in a towel, his chest bare and bronzed. She resisted the urge to wipe away the steam so she could see a little more.
And she wondered how much he could see.
Enough, she determined. For he froze in the doorway, and Zoe saw his eyes sweep her hidden length, felt tension and awareness stretch tautly between them, before, with a muttered apology—or was it an oath?—he slammed out of the bathroom.
Zoe leaned her forehead against the wet glass, her heart pounding, her head swimming. Even her knees felt weak.
Desire. Molten, liquid, hot. It coursed through her, stronger than she’d expected or even wanted. It made her wonder what Leandro was thinking. Feeling. And what might possibly happen between them.
Stop. Her mind screeched such musings to a halt. She didn’t want to get involved with a man like Leandro. Hadn’t she learned that lesson already? For a moment—a second—she pictured Steve’s sneering face.
A girl like you…What did you expect?
A girl like you. The same words Leandro had used. The same condemnation. The judgement had hurt then, and she wasn’t about to let herself feel that again. She refused to be used by a man who had too much power and wealth for anyone’s good.
Even if he looked amazing in just a towel.
Still a little shaky, Zoe turned off the taps and stepped out of the shower, wrapping a thick towel around her, and another to cover her hair. Safely swaddled, she stepped out of the bathroom, glancing instinctively for Leandro, but he was gone.
And she felt disappointed.
Leandro raked his hands through his hair, his heart beating fast and erra
tically. He felt every latent instinct tightening into need at just seeing the vague outline of Zoe’s delectable body.
From outside his bedroom he heard the bathroom door open and close, and cursed himself for hiding in here—away from her, away from temptation.
For he was so unbearably tempted. In that brief moment of seeing her fogged shape behind the shower glass he’d wanted her. He’d wanted to slide the door open and step under the spray, pulling Zoe’s wet naked length against his, feeling her—feeling the smoothness of her skin against his palms, the sweetness of her lips against his. He’d wanted that touch, both the thrill and the comfort of a body close—joined—with his.
It would be so easy. The desire was there between them, stretching, simmering. Why not take advantage of it? Why not enjoy it and let Zoe enjoy it? He could be discreet; perhaps so could she?
Why not?
Such enticing, enchanting little whispers, stroking his conscience to sleep. He didn’t use women. He didn’t discard them as his father had, time and time again. He didn’t let them enslave him, wrapping him around their little fingers, cheapening himself, his name, his family.
He wouldn’t be that man.
It’s not the same…You’re in control. No one would know. There could be no scandal, no shame. Just mutual pleasure…Surely you can see that?
Leandro cursed aloud. Had his father had such thoughts? Been led astray by such damning whispers?
You’ve been without a woman for so long…what are you trying to prove?
Nothing. Everything.
Resolutely Leandro turned away from the door, away from the image of Zoe imprinted on his brain—away from the desire coursing through his body, convincing his mind just how easy—and wonderful—it could be.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Zoe pushed the memory of Leandro’s intrusion into the bathroom firmly from her thoughts. It wasn’t as easy as she would have liked.
She found herself becoming cross, banging pots and cupboard doors as she assembled the ingredients for a simple pasta dish.
She should just get Leandro Filametti out of her mind, she told herself. Maybe giving in to temptation would do the trick…For a moment she imagined it.
What would Leandro be like as a lover? How would he kiss? Would his lips be soft? She remembered the brief touch of them against her fingers and knew they would be. Soft lips for a hard man.
She exhaled loudly, forcing the treacherous images away. She wanted to be sensible. She was going to be sensible. She’d learned her lesson with Steve. She shook her head in self-disgust. At least she’d thought she’d learned her lesson. Steve had been the first man she’d let close, and look what had happened. She might not have loved him—she wasn’t that stupid—but she’d let herself care.
And she’d learned her lesson. Don’t care. Not about anyone. Certainly not about a man like Leandro, who treated girls like her with careless contempt.
She turned her attention to the meal, determined to enjoy the simple pleasure of slicing ripe red tomatoes, the fragrant aroma of basil wafting through the kitchen. The sounds and scents of a home. While the sauce was simmering she went out to the garden and picked a bunch of soft pink oleanders, holding them to her nose to inhale their sweet fragrance.
She was overwhelmed for a moment by the simple pleasures of food and flowers. The large, dank space of the kitchen was somehow transformed by the bubbling pots on the stove, by the sense of space being used and enjoyed.
She was being silly, she knew, silly and romantic. But she couldn’t help it. Somehow this decrepit old villa was growing on her, winding its way around her heart.
She didn’t even notice Leandro come into the kitchen, and when he spoke from the doorway she gave a little jump, nearly dropping the flowers.
‘That smells good.’
‘Thank you.’ Zoe busied herself with putting the flowers in an old glass jar.
‘It looks much better in here too,’ Leandro added.
Zoe dug a pair of ancient black scissors out of a drawer and snipped the ends off the flowers.
‘That’s my job.’ She glanced at Leandro, her heart giving a now-customary lurch, and saw his hair was damp, brushed away from his forehead, curling along the nape of his neck. He was dressed simply in a white tee shirt and faded jeans that hugged his long muscular legs. Zoe swallowed and looked away. ‘I thought we could eat on the terrace,’ she said, turning to needlessly stir the sauce bubbling on the range top. ‘It’s so hot in here.’
‘Fine.’ Leandro was silent for a long moment, and Zoe kept her focus on the pans bubbling away on the stove. ‘I’m sorry about earlier,’ he finally said. ‘I’ll install a lock on the door.’
‘Or just listen for the sound of running water?’ Zoe returned, her voice somewhere between a scold and a joke.
Leandro was silent again, and Zoe almost looked around. Almost.
‘I did,’ he finally said, and she whirled around in surprise. He was gone.
By the time the meal was ready, the sun had set and the first stars were twinkling on the horizon. Zoe had laid the small wrought-iron table outside for two, conscious of the intimacy of the gesture. The soft night air swirled around her. The lights from a few boats glittered on the smooth surface of the lake, competing with the stars above.
Zoe gazed at the table and wondered if Leandro even expected her to join him. Perhaps he wanted to eat alone? In other circumstances she would never have presumed to share a meal with her employer. Unless he asked.
Why don’t you join me? Steve again, reminding her of how pointless and pathetic getting involved with her employer was—how false this situation really was.
‘Ready?’ His voice, like a low hum, seemed to creep right into her bones and swirl around her soul. Zoe turned with a bright, fixed smile.
‘Yes, I’ll just bring it out.’
A few minutes later she came out onto the terrace with a large steaming bowl of pasta, returning to add salad, bread and a jug of water.
Leandro surveyed the spread with the barest flicker of a smile. ‘I haven’t eaten this well in weeks.’
‘Takeaways and coffee aren’t exactly a healthy diet,’ Zoe agreed, and he glanced at her as she sat down.
‘I imagine you survive on the same,’ he said. ‘Or similar. Am I right?’
Discomfited, she shrugged. It was no more than the truth, but she didn’t want to be reminded of it now. ‘I like cooking when I get the chance.’
‘And when is that?’ He’d placed a napkin on his lap and now began to serve them both pasta.
‘When there’s more than just me, I suppose.’
Leandro glanced up at her, his eyes heavy-lidded and sensuously speculative. ‘And is there often more than just you?’
‘You’d probably assume there was,’ Zoe replied, a bit crossly. ‘But, no, actually, there isn’t.’ She didn’t let anyone get close enough. Or else she wasn’t given the chance.
Leandro’s smile widened briefly before he took a bite of pasta. ‘This is delicious. Is it from a recipe?’
‘I just made it up,’ Zoe admitted, absurdly pleased by his casual compliment. ‘I put in all the things I liked.’
‘Why am I not surprised?’
She should be annoyed by his assumptions, Zoe supposed, but somehow she couldn’t be. Not when the night air was as soft as silk, and the stars glittered like tiny diamonds strewn on a velvet cloth above them. Not when Leandro looked at her with that lazy sensuality that made her toes curl and her heart hammer and her mind go wonderfully blank.
And he was attracted to her, too. She could feel it—sense it the way you sensed a storm coming, when the atmosphere grew heavy and an energy snapped and buzzed through the air. She became achingly aware of everything: the cool heaviness of her fork—sterling silver, undoubtedly—the cool water sliding down her throat, the distant lap of the lake against the jetty.
Did Leandro feel it too? Was he wondering, as she was, what might happen after dinner? What would?
They hardly spoke for the rest of the meal. Yet even so, as Zoe cleared the plates, she almost expected Leandro to come up behind her and wrap his arms around her waist. She was waiting for his touch, needing it, caution thrown to the winds, senses scattered.
But that didn’t happen. He helped her carry the plates and bowls back into the kitchen, and then set about brewing coffee while she washed up. It was a strangely domestic and intimate scene, like that of a husband and wife. Or perhaps lovers. Zoe’s whole body seemed to tingle with awareness and expectation as she waited for—what?
What did she want Leandro to do? What did she want to happen? Zoe pushed those questions out of her mind; now wasn’t the time for thinking, it was for feeling. For waiting and wanting.
Yet as soon as the coffee was brewed Leandro took his mug and retreated to his study. Disappointment swamped her as he left, and the sudden heavy expectancy was dispelled, the storm clouds of desire blown clean away.
It was better this way, she told herself, struggling to be pragmatic. Better and safer.
It was late by the time Zoe finished with the dishes, and she prowled restlessly through the darkened rooms of the villa, taking in the swathed furniture, the paintings covered with sheets. The villa was completely furnished, she realised. Whoever had once lived here had left it suddenly, sorrowfully. Or was she letting her imagination run away with her?
Why had it been left to decay and rot? She felt like a magician, being asked to transform the empty rooms into something liveable and clean. A fairy godmother, longing to make the decrepit villa a happy place—a home.
Yet how on earth could she accomplish such a task? She, who had never known a home? Zoe gazed at the tattered drapes at the windows, suddenly remembering her childish effort at making curtains from a cut-up dress that had no longer fitted her. They’d been ridiculous raggedy things, the hems stapled because she’d never learned to sew. Yet Zoe had been so proud of them; they’d lent something warm and alive to the sterile hotel room with its plastic shades and stained bedspread. Her mother, however, hadn’t even noticed.
Her Mediterranean Playboy Page 12
