Zoe nodded, digesting this even as another echo began its insistent, remorseless beating in her brain. You seem like the kind of girl who takes what she can get when she can get it. Who enjoys the ride and damns the consequences. Who doesn’t care…about anything. Shock rippled icily through her, pooled like cold acid in her stomach. She was beginning to understand why this felt so personal.
‘And you think I’m just like them?’ she whispered, cruel comprehension making her feel sick, ashamed, though she knew she had nothing to be ashamed of. ‘Your father’s women—those heartless, blackmailing scum! You think I’m just like them. That’s why…’
Dizzily she stepped back from him, reaching for a chair to steady her, her fingers curling slickly around the burnished wood. She didn’t know why the realisation should hurt so much, should make her feel as if her heart was breaking. Her heart wasn’t even involved. It couldn’t be. Yet at that moment she felt as if someone had reached right down inside and wrenched it apart. She felt torn up inside, shattered into pieces…
It all made a kind of sickening sense now—why Leandro resisted his attraction to her, why he judged her so harshly.
I shouldn’t…want…
He was afraid of becoming like his father, of being his father—risking and ruining everything for a girl like her. A tart, a trollop, a cold-hearted, blackmailing—
Bile rose in her throat and she choked it down, willing herself not to cry, not to care.
Wasn’t that how she’d kept herself safe all these years? First as a child, losing best friends and favoured ‘uncles’ when her mother had decided it was time to move on, and then later, as an adult, when she’d followed in her mother’s footsteps, quite literally, never staying long enough to know or be known, because she was afraid to try any other way. Afraid to be hurt.
Yet now she was hurt. Now she hurt all over.
Leandro turned slowly to look at her. There was a new, naked desolation in his face, a bleakness in his eyes that somehow seemed strangely vulnerable. ‘No, Zoe,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t think that. You’re not like them at all.’
Tears, treacherous tears, gathered at the corners of her eyes and she dashed at them angrily. ‘But you said—’
‘I think I was trying to prove to myself that you were. And you must admit you do project a certain image.’ Leandro’s sudden wry smile took the sting out of his words.
‘Image…’ Zoe repeated numbly. It was all about image. Who she pretended to be because it was safer. It wasn’t who she really was—who she’d ever been.
‘Is it just an image?’ Leandro asked softly. ‘Who are you really, Zoe Clark? Why did you come to Italy? What are you running away from? Because I am beginning to think you have secrets—perhaps as many as I do.’
Yes, she did. And the fact that he’d guessed made Zoe ache. She almost wanted him to know, to tell him all of it, to finally be known. Understood. Accepted.
Loved.
His hand reached out slowly, hypnotically, to brush a strand of hair away from her cheek. ‘And,’ he added, his voice lowered to a rasp, ‘why can’t I get you out of my mind?’
‘I can’t get you out of mine either,’ Zoe admitted shakily.
They stared at each other, silent, still, and Zoe knew it was a moment for making decisions. For turning away if they could. And surely that was the safer, saner course of action? She already knew she was in way too deep—cared far too much. Yet she couldn’t—didn’t even want to. Under Leandro’s penetrating stare she felt vulnerable, emotionally bare, and even though it terrified her it was something she wanted. Craved. To know and be known. Finally.
She didn’t know who moved first, who gave in before the other. It didn’t matter. One moment they were simply staring at one another, and the next they were a tangle of arms, of legs and lips and skin, seeking and finding again and again, like deepwater divers desperate for air.
She stumbled backwards, tripping on the frayed fringe of the carpet, and Leandro’s arms came around her, steadying her. Holding her. She never wanted him to let her go.
She could feel him pressed against her, felt the hard length of his thigh, the chiselled muscles of his chest. Felt his lips on her skin, touching her bare shoulder, the nape of her neck, her jawbone. She shuddered under his caress, wanting more. Needing more.
There was nothing desperate or angry here; there was, instead, something precious. Something beautiful. Or so Zoe wanted to believe.
Her fingers threaded through Leandro’s hair, drawing him closer. He kissed her again, deeply, drinking her in, and Zoe let him—let herself open to his touch in a way she never had before.
Leandro drew back, tilted her chin so she was forced to meet her gaze, and somehow it felt even more intimate than a kiss.
‘Zoe…are you sure?’
Her heart thudding in her ears, desire coursing wildly through her veins, her senses alert and her thoughts blurred, there was nothing Zoe wanted more than to give a simple yes.
Yet as Leandro’s gaze burned into hers she found that single word so difficult to say.
Yes. What was she agreeing to? A single night of pleasure? A one-night stand with her employer, who would walk away from her in the morning?
She was worth more than that. She wanted more than that.
‘Zoe?’ Leandro said softly, his fingers caressing her cheek. Such a light, simple touch, and yet it reached deep inside her—made her ache from its tenderness.
‘Yes,’ she whispered, praying she wouldn’t regret her decision, knowing that when Leandro looked at her like that she was powerless to say anything else. To walk away, to stay safe. ‘Yes, I’m sure.’
He led her by the hand, silent and accepting, through the shadowy, moonlit corridors of the villa. Everything was hushed, as if even the house around them sensed the expectancy of the moment.
In his bedroom he stopped before the wide double bed with its navy sheets and turned slowly to her.
‘Let me look at you.’
Zoe fidgeted under his sweeping gaze, the airy confidence she’d cloaked herself with falling away. Had anyone really looked at her before? Had anyone seen who she truly was? Had she?
Steve had, she supposed. He’d seen her naked. Yet this felt like so much more than a physical baring. She felt as if her senses, her soul, her whole self were being bared. Exposed. And the strange thing was that she didn’t mind. She wanted it.
Slowly Leandro reached out and pushed the straps of her top off her shoulders. With the barest shrug the garment slithered off her, leaving her nearly naked save a skimpy pair of pyjama shorts. Zoe felt goosebumps rise on her arms even though she wasn’t cold. Leandro was still looking at her, and she fought not to cover herself, to stand there proud and bold, willing to be vulnerable.
He reached out to stay the arm she hadn’t realised was already moving closer, protectively, towards her body.
‘Don’t. You’re beautiful.’
‘So are you,’ she admitted with a little smile, and then reached out to lift his tee shirt over his head and shoulders. He shrugged it away completely and she let her hands drift down his bare chest. His muscles flexed under her touch.
‘What you do to me,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve been helpless to resist you since I first saw you on my doorstep.’
‘And that infuriated you?’ Zoe whispered, her hands resting on his belt buckle.
Leandro helped her to unclasp it. Such a simple task. Yet she felt as shy and uncertain as the virgin she almost was—for even though she’d had a physical relationship she’d never felt like this.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I didn’t want to want you. But I did. God knows, I did.’
‘And now?’ She shouldn’t ask the question, shouldn’t be so desperate for its answer.
‘I do.’ He pulled her towards him, her breasts colliding against his chest, and murmured against her hair, ‘Can’t you tell?’
Yes, she could. But she wondered at the war that had raged within Leandro. Would he hat
e her in the morning? Hate himself? Could she stand it?
His hands stroked her body, reached up to cup her breasts with sleek yet gentle movements that still managed to stir her up inside, and it was all too easy to push away that scared little voice and give herself up to feeling. Feeling wanted, desired. Treasured, even.
She wouldn’t think about the morning.
Yet morning came, as Zoe had known it would. She lay in Leandro’s arms as dawn crept along the horizon, sent its pale pink fingers streaking along the floor. A gentle breeze rustled the curtains. She’d been awake most of the night, caught between regret and wonder. It was an uncomfortable place.
Her body still tingled and ached from their lovemaking; Leandro had touched and caressed her with an intimacy that even now astounded her. He’d touched her everywhere, fingers and lips seeking, exploring, yet it hadn’t simply been about the physical pleasure, amazing and intense as that had been. It had been something more, something deeper, and she’d seen it reflected in Leandro’s eyes. This wasn’t the one-night stand they’d both silently agreed on.
She’d seen it in Leandro’s eyes when she’d touched him, felt it when he’d shuddered and almost—almost—tried to resist her caress. As if he’d been afraid it was too much. Too intense, too wonderful.
They were both afraid, Zoe had realised with a thrill of understanding as she’d traded caress for caress with Leandro. They were both protecting themselves, trying not to care, and yet now it was all stripped away.
When he’d finally entered her it had felt like the purest form of communication.
Yet now, as sunlight slanted across the floor and Leandro slept next to her, the doubts crept in. Last night she’d never felt so physically vulnerable, so emotionally exposed. Or was she just feeling that way now? Lying in his arms, waiting for him to wake up, having no idea what the expression on his face would be?
Disgust? Desire? Indifference? Irritation? The range of possibilities was frightening. Zoe had never felt so hesitant, so uncertain, and she knew why. She wasn’t in control. She hadn’t played it safe.
She’d let herself care.
CHAPTER SEVEN
LEANDRO lay on his side and watched Zoe sleep. It was an hour or so past dawn and she looked exhausted. Her lashes fanned on her cheeks, shadows showed under her eyes, yet she was still so beautiful.
His gut tightened—and so did something a little higher, a little more vital and frightening. His heart.
How had he come to care for this woman?
He meant what he’d said last night; he knew she wasn’t like the women his father had chased after. Those women had been grasping, shallow, obvious. Zoe might only be after a good time, but Leandro knew she was far from the greedy blackmailer he’d been determined to see her as. He thought of her taking such simple pleasure in buying peaches, serving biscotti. She was a woman who in her unguarded moments looked thoughtful and even sad, and he knew she’d never been the schemer he’d wanted to believe her to be.
Gently he brushed a tendril of hair away from her forehead and she sighed softly in her sleep. Leandro smiled at the sound. What was she hiding? he wondered. He thought of her guarded references to an unhappy past—a lack of home and family—and wondered just what had made Zoe Clark determined to treat the world with such insouciant indifference.
Determined not to care, as he was determined not to care.
His gut clenched again, and so did his heart. It was a warning, a reminder that Leandro could not afford to ignore. He couldn’t afford to get involved.
He knew what happened when you did. He knew how much it hurt.
Determinedly he pushed away the wave of desire—and, more fearfully, something deeper—and rolled away from Zoe, vainly searching once more for sleep.
Zoe realised she must have finally fallen into a doze, for when she awoke the sun was high in the sky and Leandro was still sleeping—although now his back was to her. Even in the ignorance of sleep it felt like a rejection, and Zoe tried to prepare herself for the dreaded morning-after conversation. Confrontation, more like.
As if Leandro had sensed her thoughts, he stirred and slowly rolled over, blinking sleep out of his eyes only for a second before he was instantly alert.
‘Good morning.’
His tone was expressionless, impossible to discern, and it gave Zoe no clue as to how she should behave. She gave a little smile that could mean anything—or nothing—and tossed her hair out of her eyes, drawing the sheet protectively over her in a casual gesture that Leandro still noticed.
‘Good morning.’
They stared at each other, silent and unblinking, for a long moment, before Leandro smiled lazily and said, ‘How about some breakfast?’
So there was to be no conversation. No confrontation. At least not yet. Zoe didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved. She stretched sleepily to mask her confusion, buy herself time. She didn’t know how to act—couldn’t afford to be honest. Didn’t even know what honesty would look like, sound like. Her feelings for Leandro were so new, raw and untested. She was afraid to try them out and see if they were real.
‘All right,’ she said after a moment, and slipped quickly from the bed, throwing on her discarded clothes with her back to Leandro. Still she felt him watching, and a rosy blush spread over her whole body.
When she turned around again, Leandro had pulled on his pyjama bottoms. His chest was still magnificently bare. Zoe averted her gaze, feeling awkward and gauche.
‘I’ll let you off the hook this morning,’ he said. ‘I’ll cook breakfast.’
He was as good as his word, and as Zoe sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, Leandro cracked half a dozen eggs into a bowl and began to briskly whisk them.
‘I can’t make much,’ he told her, ‘but I can do a decent omelette.’
‘Sounds good,’ Zoe replied lightly.
And it smelled good too, when, a few minutes later, Leandro placed an omelette in front of her, steaming and fragrant with basil and tomato.
He sat across from her and handed her a fork. ‘Dig in.’
They ate silently for a few moments, the sun streaming through the wide windows, glinting off the lake. It should have been a pleasant, comfortable, even happy moment, yet Zoe could only feel the tension uncoiling in her belly, wrapping around her heart.
What is this? she wanted to ask. What are we? A one-night stand? A summer fling?
Was she actually thinking it might be more?
She choked on a bite of omelette and reached desperately for her half-drunk mug of coffee. Leandro watched her in concern. When she’d recovered herself, she found she had a bit courage as well, and she set her mug down with careful determination.
‘So…’
Leandro sat back in his chair, his arms folded, as if he’d expected this. ‘So?’
His expression was guarded, yet not unfriendly. Neutral, Zoe decided, which could mean—or could hide—anything.
She licked her lips, her mouth and throat suddenly dry, the words she’d intended to speak evaporating into thin air. ‘What do you want, Leandro?’ she finally asked. ‘From me?’ And then she held her breath and waited. Worse—hoped.
For what?
Leandro was silent for a long moment. He raked a hand through his hair, let out a long sigh. Not good signs. ‘We had a good time last night, Zoe.’
Something in Zoe wilted. Withered. A good time. That was all she was good for, the kind of girl she still was. To him, at least. Inside she didn’t feel like that at all.
‘Yes,’ she agreed, and reached for her mug once more, desperate to disguise the disappointment she felt rolling through her in consuming waves. Surely Leandro would be able to see it in her eyes, her face? ‘Yes, we did,’ she repeated, her voice stronger now. She was able to meet his gaze directly.
‘So?’ Leandro shrugged, smiling a bit. ‘You’re here for…what…? Another two months?’
‘So we can have two months of good times,’ Zoe filled in fo
r him, feeling sick.
Leandro frowned, and Zoe saw something crystallise and harden in his eyes. ‘Is that not what you want? You seem like you’d…’ He trailed off, shrugging, and Zoe forced herself to smile.
‘I know what I seem like.’
‘I’m not judging you,’ Leandro told her quickly. ‘You know that?’
Zoe nodded slowly. ‘Yes.’ And he wasn’t—not really. She was judging herself. She rose from the table, clearing the plates—mindless tasks, because she couldn’t think, didn’t want to think, about how she was feeling. How much she hurt.
‘Zoe…’ Leandro rose as well. ‘I feel as if I’ve said something to offend you.’
‘Offend me? No, of course not.’ She leaned against the sink, a damp dish towel in one hand. ‘Like you said, we had a good time last night, Leandro. There’s no reason for it to stop, is there?’ She swallowed, forced herself to continue. ‘As long as we know what to expect, no one gets hurt—right?’
‘Right,’ Leandro agreed slowly. He didn’t move, and Zoe turned determinedly back to the dishes. When he spoke again his voice was low and final. ‘If you were expecting…more, I’m afraid I don’t have it to give, Zoe.’
‘Why should I expect more?’ she asked, her back to him. She heard the brittleness in her voice, felt it inside.
‘It’s not about who you are,’ Leandro said. He crossed the room in a few long steps and reached out to stay her arm, his fingers curling around her wrist, burning her bare skin. ‘It’s who I am.’
Zoe’s fingers clenched around the dish towel. She looked down, blinked hard. ‘I see.’
‘Do you? Do you remember when I said I didn’t plan to marry or have children? Any of that?’
Blink again. Quickly. ‘Yes.’
‘I meant that. I’m not—’ He shrugged, releasing her arm. ‘After everything, I’m not capable of that. And I didn’t think you wanted it either.’
He had said as much. Not her. Yet she wasn’t about to point that out now. ‘No, not really,’ she said instead. She pushed her hair back from her face and found a smile. ‘We’ve had a good time, Leandro, like you said. And there’s no reason why it can’t continue.’ Except for the fact that her heart was splintering apart at every damning word he said.
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