by Nina Milne
Guilt panged anew—she shouldn’t have left in the first place. The least she could have done for the man who had brought her up singlehandedly from the age of eight was not abandon him. But she visited regularly, checked up nearly daily, and she would be home soon.
Stefan stepped a little closer to her—not into her space, but close enough that for a stupid moment she caught a whiff of his scent, a citrus woodsy smell that sent her absurdly dizzy.
For a second his body tensed, and she would have sworn he caught his breath, and then he frowned—as though he’d lost track of the conversational thread just as she had.
Focus.
‘I’d like to discuss a deal,’ he said eventually, as the frown deepened into what she was coming to think of as his trademark scowl. ‘What will it take for you to walk away from this? I understand that you are worried about your father—but I would guarantee that his job is safe, that nothing will change for him. If anything, he would have more autonomy to do as he wishes with the grove. And you can name your price—what do you want?’
Holly’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t want anything.’
‘You don’t even want to think about it?’ Disbelief tinged each syllable.
‘Nope.’
‘Why not?’ The question was genuine, but lined with an edge—this was a man used to getting his own way.
‘Because the Romanos have toiled on that land for generations—now we have a chance to own the land in our own right. Nothing is worth more than that. Nothing. Surely you see that?’
‘No, I don’t. It is just soil and fruit and land—the same as any other on Lycander. Take the money and buy another lemon grove—a new one that can belong to the Romanos from the start.’
His tone implied that he genuinely believed this to be a viable solution. ‘It doesn’t work like that. We have a history with Il Boschetto di Sole—a connection, a bond. You don’t.’
His frown deepened but he remained silent; it was impossible to tell his thoughts.
‘So why don’t you take your own advice? You have more than enough money to buy a score of lemon groves. Why do you want this one?’
‘That’s my business,’ he said. ‘The point is I am willing to pay you well over the market price. I suggest you think carefully about my offer. Because I am also willing to fight it out, and if I win then you will have nothing. No money and no guarantee that your father will keep his job.’
For a second her blood chilled and anger soared. ‘So if you win you would take his job from him?’
‘Perhaps. If I win the grove it will be mine to do with as I wish.’
For a second a small doubt trickled through her—what if she lost and was left with nothing? But this wasn’t about money; this was about the land of her father’s heart. This was her opportunity to give her father something infinitely precious, and she had no intention of rolling over and conceding.
‘No deal. If you want a fight, bring it on. This meeting is over.’
Before she could head around the immense table he moved to intercept her. ‘Where are you going? To marry the first man you find?’
‘Perhaps I am. Or perhaps I already have a boyfriend ready and eager to walk me to the altar.’
As if. Post-Graham she had decided to eschew boyfriends and to run away screaming from any altar in sight.
‘Equally, I’m sure there will be women queuing round the block to marry you.’
He gusted out a sigh, looking less than enamoured at the thought. ‘For a start, I’m pretty sure it’s not that easy to just get married—there will be plenty of red tape and bureaucracy to get through. Secondly, I have a better idea than instant matrimony, even if it were possible. Let’s call a truce on the race to the altar whilst my lawyers look at the will and see if this whole marriage stipulation can be overturned. There has to be a better way to settle this.’
‘No argument here—that makes sense.’ Caution kicked in. ‘In theory...’ Because it could be a trick—why should she believe anything Stefan Petrelli said? ‘But what’s to stop you from marrying someone during our ‘truce’ as a back-up plan?’
Call her cynical, but she had little doubt that a millionaire prince could find a way to obliterate all red tape and bureaucracy.
‘The fact that even the thought of marriage makes me come out in hives.’
‘Hives may be a worthwhile price to pay for Il Boschetto di Sole.’
‘Point taken. In truth there is nothing to stop either of us reneging on a truce—and it would be foolish for either of us to trust the other.’ Rubbing the back of his neck, he looked at her. ‘The lawyers will work fast—that’s what I pay them for. We’re probably only talking twenty-four hours—two days, tops. We’ll need to stick together until they get back to us.’
Stick together. The words resonated in the echoey confines of the meeting room, pinged into the sudden silence, bounced off the chrome and glass and writhed into images that brought heat to her cheeks.
Something sparked in his grey eyes, calling to her to close the gap between them and plaster herself to his chest.
‘No way.’ The words fell from her lips with vehemence, though whether it was directed at herself or him she wasn’t sure.
In truth, he looked a little poleaxed himself, and in that instant Holly wondered if this attraction could be mutual.
Then, as if with an effort, he shrugged. ‘What’s the alternative? Seems to me it’s a good idea to spend one weekend together in the hope that we can avoid a year of marriage.’
Deep breath, Holly. His words held reason, and no way would she actually succumb to this insane attraction—she’d steered clear of the opposite sex for eighteen months now, without regret. Yet the whole idea of sticking to Stefan Petrelli caused her lungs to constrict. Go figure.
‘How would it work?’
‘I suggest a hotel. Neutral ground. We can get a suite. Two bedrooms and a living area.’
Had there been undue emphasis on the word ‘two’? A glance at his expression showed tension in his jaw—clearly he wasn’t overly keen on the logistics of them sticking together either. But she couldn’t come up with an alternative—couldn’t risk him heading to the altar, and definitely couldn’t trust him. And this was doable. A suite. Separate bedrooms.
So... ‘That could work.’
‘What are your plans for the weekend? We can do our best to incorporate them.’
‘Nothing I can’t reschedule.’
In fact her plans had been to work, chill out and continue her exploration of London—maybe meet up with a colleague for a quick drink or to catch a film. But such a programme made her sound like a complete Billy-no-mates. In truth she had kept herself to herself in London, because she’d figured there was no point getting too settled in a life she knew to be strictly temporary.
‘I do have some work to do, but I can do that anywhere with internet. What about you?’
‘I’ve got some meetings, but like you I should be able to reschedule. Though I do have one site visit I can’t postpone. I suggest we go there first, then find a hotel and swing by our respective houses for some clothes.’
‘Works for me.’
It would all be fine.
One weekend—how hard could it be?
CHAPTER THREE
STEFAN FIDGETED IN the incredibly comfortable Tudor-style seat that blended into the discreetly lavish décor of the Knightsbridge hotel. Gold fabrics adorned the lounge furniture, contrasting with the deep red of the thick curtains, and the walls were hung with paintings that depicted the Tudor era—Henry VIII in all his glory, surrounded by miniatures of all his wives.
The irony was not lost on Stefan—his own father was reminiscent of that monarch of centuries ago. Cruel, greedy, and with a propensity to get through wives. Alphonse’s tally had been four.
Stefan tugged his gaze from the
jewelled pomp of Henry, fidgeted again, drummed his fingers on the ornamental desk, then realised he was doing so and gritted his teeth. What was wrong with him?
Don’t kid yourself.
He’d already identified the problem—he was distracted by the sheer proximity of Holly Romano. Had been all day. To be fair, it wasn’t her fault. Earlier, at his suggestion, she’d remained in the car whilst he conducted the site visit; now they were in the hotel and for the most part she was absorbed in her work. Her focus on the computer screen nearly absolute.
Nearly.
But every so often her gaze flickered to him and he’d hear a small intake of breath, glimpse the crossing and uncrossing of long, slender jean-clad legs and he’d know that Holly was every bit as aware of him as he was of her.
Dammit!
Attraction—mutual or otherwise—had no place here. Misplaced allure could not muddy the waters. He wanted Il Boschetto di Sole.
An afternoon of fact-finding had elicited the news that the lemon grove wasn’t just lucrative—a fact that meant nothing to him—but was also strategically important. Its produce was renowned. It generated a significant amount of employment and a large chunk of tax revenue for the crown.
Ownership of Il Boschetto di Sole would bring him influence in Lycander—give him back something that his father had taken from him and that his brother would grant only as a favour. For it to come from a place his mother had loved would add a poignancy that mattered more than he wanted to acknowledge. Perhaps there he could feel closer to her—less guilty, less tormented by the memory of his betrayal.
He could even move her urn of ashes from the anonymous London cemetery where her funeral service had taken place. For years he had done his best, made regular pilgrimage, laid flowers. He had had an expensive plaque made, donated money for a remembrance garden. But if he owned the grove he would be able to scatter her ashes in a place she had loved, a place where she could be at peace.
His gaze drifted to Holly Romano again. He wanted to come to a fair deal with her, despite her vehement repudiation of the idea. His father had never cared about fairness, simply about winning, crushing his opponent—Stefan had vowed never to be like that. Any deal he made would be a fair one. Yes, he’d win, but he’d do it fair and square and where possible he’d treat his adversary with respect.
He pushed thoughts of Alphonse from his mind, allowed himself instead to study Holly’s face. There was a small wrinkle to her brow as she surveyed the screen in front of her, her blonde head tilted to one side, the glorious curtain of golden hair piled over one shoulder. Every so often she’d raise her hand to push a tendril behind her ear, only for it to fall loose once more. There came that insidious tug of desire again—one he needed to dampen down.
As if sensing his scrutiny, she looked up.
Good one, Petrelli. Caught staring like an adolescent. ‘Just wondering what you’re working on. Admin isn’t usually so absorbing.’
There was a hesitation, and then she spun the screen round to show him. ‘It’s no big deal. One of the managers at work has offered to mentor me and she’s given me an assignment.’ She gave a hitch of her slender shoulders. ‘It’s just some research—no big deal.’
Only clearly it was—the repetition, her failed attempt to appear casual indicated that.
‘Maybe you should consider asking to move out of admin and into a marketing role.’
‘No point. I’m going back home in a few months.’
Then why bother to be mentored? he wondered.
As if in answer to his unspoken question she turned to face him, her arms folded. ‘I want to learn as much as I can whilst I’m here, to maximise how I can help when I get back.’
It made sense, and yet he intuited it was more than that. Perhaps he should file it away as potentially useful information. Perhaps he should make a push to find something he could bring to the negotiating table.
‘Fair enough.’ A glance outside showed the autumn dusk had settled in, which meant... ‘I’m ready for dinner—what about you?’
‘Um... I didn’t realise it was so late. I’m quite happy to grab a sandwich in my room. I bet Room Service is pretty spectacular here.’
‘I’m sure it is, but I’ve heard the restaurant is incredible.’
Blue eyes surveyed him for a moment. ‘So you’re suggesting we go and have dinner together in the restaurant?’
‘Sure. Why not? The reviews are fantastic.’
‘And you’re still hoping to convince me to cut a deal and cede my claim.’
‘Yes.’
‘It won’t work.’ There was steel in her voice.
‘That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try. Hell, don’t you want to convince me to do the same?’
‘Well, yes, but...’
‘Then we may as well pitch over a Michelin-starred meal, don’t you think?’
She chewed her bottom lip, blue eyes bright with suspicion, and then her tummy gave a less than discreet growl. She rolled her eyes, but her lips turned up in a sudden smile.
‘See? Your stomach is voting with me.’
‘Guess my brain is outvoted, then,’ she muttered, and she rose from the chair. ‘I’ll be five minutes.’
True to her word she emerged just a few moments later. She’d changed back into the charcoal skirt she’d worn earlier, topped now by a crimson blouse. Her hair was swept up in an artlessly elegant arrangement, with tendrils free to frame her face.
In that moment he wished with a strangely fierce yearn that this was a date—a casual, easy, get-to-know-you-dinner with the possibility of their attraction progressing. But it wasn’t and it couldn’t be. This was a fact-finding mission.
Suddenly his father’s words echoed in his ears with a discordant buzz.
‘Information is power, Stefan. Once you know what makes someone tick you can work out how to turn that tick to a tock.’
That was what he needed to focus on—gaining information. Not to penalise her but so that he could work out a fair deal.
Resolutely turning his gaze away from her, he made for the door. But as they headed down plush carpeted corridors and polished wooden stairs it was difficult to remain resolute. Somehow the glimpse of her hand as it slid down the gleaming oak banister, the elusive drift of her scent, the way she smoothed down her skirt all combined to add to the desire that tugged in his gut.
She paused on the threshold of the buzzing restaurant, a look of slight dismay on her face. ‘I don’t think I’m exactly dressed for this.’
‘You look...’ Beautiful. Gorgeous. Way better than any of the women sitting in white cushioned chairs braided with gold, around circular tables illuminated by candles atop them and chandeliers above. ‘Fine,’ he settled on.
Smooth, Petrelli, very smooth.
But oddly enough it seemed to do the trick. She looked up at him and a small smile tugged her lips upwards. ‘Thank you. I know clothes shouldn’t matter, but I am feeling a little inadequate in the designer department.’
‘I’m hardly up to standard either,’ he pointed out. ‘I’m channelling the lumberjack look—the whole jeans and checked shirt image.’
The maître d’ approached, a slightly pained expression on his face until he realised who Stefan was and his expression morphed to ingratiating. ‘Mr Petrelli. This way, please.’
‘People are wondering why we’ve been allowed in,’ Holly whispered. ‘They’re all looking at us.’
‘Let them look. In a minute George here will have discreetly spread the word as to who I am and that should do it. Royal entrepreneurial millionaire status transcends dress code. Especially when accompanied by a mystery guest.’
‘Dressed from the High Street.’ Her tone sounded panicked. ‘Oh, God. They won’t call the press or anything, will they?’
‘Not if they know what’s good for them.’
&n
bsp; She glanced over the menu at him. ‘You don’t like publicity, do you?’
In fact he loathed it—because no matter what he did, how many millions he’d made, whatever point he tried to get across, the press all wanted to talk about Lycander and he didn’t. Period.
‘Nope. So I think we’re safe. Let’s choose.’
After a moment of careful perusal he leant back.
‘Hmm... What do you think? The duck sounds amazing—especially with the crushed pink peppercorns—but I’m not sure about adding cilantro in as well. But it could work. The starters look good too—though, again, I’m still not sure about fusion recipes.’
A small gurgle of laughter interrupted him and he glanced across at her.
‘What?’
‘I didn’t have you down as a food buff. The lumberjack look didn’t make me think gourmet.’
‘I’m a man of many surprises.’
In truth, food was important to him—a result of his childhood. Alphonse’s toughening up regime had meant rationed food, and the clichéd bread and water diet had been a regular feature. His stomach panged in sudden memory of the gnaw of hunger, the doughy texture of the bread on his tongue as he tried to savour each nibble. He’d summoned up imaginary feasts, used his mind to conjure a cacophony of tastes and smells and textures. Vowed that one day he’d make those banquets real.
Whoa. Time to turn the memory tap off. Clearly his repressed memory banks had sprung a leak—one he intended to dam up right now.
The arrival of the waiter was a welcome distraction, and once they’d both ordered he focused on Holly. Her cerulean eyes were fringed by impossibly long dark lashes that contrasted with the corn-gold of her hair.
‘And do you cook? Or just appreciate others’ cooking?’ she asked.
‘I can cook, but I’m not an expert. When I have time I enjoy it. What about you?’
Holly grimaced. ‘I can cook too, but I’m not inspired at all. I am a strict by-the-recipe girl. I wish I enjoyed it more, but I’ve always found it quite stressful.’ Discomfort creased her forehead for a second, as if she regretted the words, and she looked down. ‘Anyway, today I don’t need to cook.’
