From Florence With Love

Anita was lovely, though. Strikingly beautiful, but warm and funny and kind, and Lydia wondered if she realised just how often Gio glanced at her when she’d looked away.

Elisa did, she was sure of it.

And then she met Massimo’s eyes, and realised he was studying her thoughtfully.

‘Excuse me, I have to go and do something in the kitchen,’ she murmured. ‘Carlotta very kindly let me experiment with the dessert, and I need to put the finishing touches to it.’

She bolted, running along the corridor and arriving in the kitchen just as Carlotta had put out the bowls.

‘Roberto say you tell them I cook everything!’ she said, wringing her hands and hugging her.

Lydia hugged her back. ‘You did, really. I just helped you. You told me exactly what to do.’

‘You know what to do. You such good cuoca—good cook. Look at this! So easy—so beautiful. Bellisima!’

She spread her hands wide, and Lydia looked. Five to a tray, there were ten individual gleaming white bowls, each containing glorious red and black frozen berries fogged with icy dew, and in the pan on the stove Roberto was gently heating the white chocolate sauce. Sickly sweet, immensely sticky and a perfect complement to the sharp berries, it was her favourite no-frills emergency pud, and she took the pan from Roberto, poured a swirl around the edge of each plate and then they grabbed a tray each and went back to the dining room.

‘I hope you like it,’ she said brightly. ‘If not, please don’t blame Carlotta, I made her let me try it!’

Elisa frowned slightly, but Massimo just gave her a level look, and as she set the plate down in front of him, he murmured, ‘Liar,’ softly, so only she could hear.

She flashed him a smile and went back to her place, between Gio and Anita’s father, and opposite Isabelle. ‘So, tell me, what’s it like living in Tuscany full-time?’ she asked Isabelle, although she could see that she was blissfully contented and the answer was going to be biased.

‘Wonderful,’ Isabelle said, leaning her head against Luca’s shoulder and smiling up at him. ‘The family couldn’t have been kinder.’

‘That’s not true. I tried to warn you off,’ Gio said, and Luca laughed.

‘You try and warn everybody off,’ he said frankly, ‘but luckily for me she didn’t listen to you. Lydia, this dessert is amazing. Try it, cara.’

He held a spoonful up to Isabelle’s lips, and Lydia felt a lump rise in her throat. Their love was so open and uncomplicated and genuine, so unlike the relationship she’d had with Russell. Isabelle and Luca were like Jen and Andy, unashamedly devoted to each other, and she wondered with a little ache what it must feel like to be the centre of someone’s world, to be so clearly and deeply loved. That would be amazing.

She glanced across the table, and found Massimo watching her, his eyes thoughtful. He lifted his spoon to her in salute.

‘Amazing, indeed.’

She blinked. He was talking about the dessert, not about love. Nothing to do with love, or with her, or him, or the two of them, or that kiss last night.

‘Thank you,’ she said, a little breathlessly, and turned her attention to the sickly, sticky white chocolate sauce. If she glued her tongue up enough with that, maybe it would keep it out of trouble.

‘So how much of that was you, and how much was Carlotta?’

It was midnight, and everyone else had left or gone to bed. They were alone in the kitchen, putting away the last of the serving dishes that she’d just washed by hand, and Massimo was making her a cup of camomile tea.

‘Honestly? I gave her a hand.’

‘And the dessert?’

‘Massimo, she was tired. She had all the ingredients for my quick fix, so I just improvised.’

‘Hmm,’ he said, but he left it at that, to her relief. She sensed he didn’t believe her, but he had no proof, and Carlotta had been so distraught.

‘Right, we’re done here,’ he said briskly. ‘Let’s go outside and sit and drink this.’

They went on her bench, outside her room, and sat in companionable silence drinking their tea. At least, it started out companionable, and then last night’s kiss intruded, and she felt the tension creep in, making the air seem to fizz with the sparks that passed between them.

‘You don’t have to go tomorrow, you know,’ he said, breaking the silence after it had stretched out into the hereafter.

‘I do. I’ve bought a ticket.’

‘I’ll buy you another one. Wait a few more days.’

‘Why? So I can finish falling for you? That’s not a good idea, Massimo.’

He laughed softly, and she thought it was the saddest sound she’d ever heard. ‘No. Probably not. I have nothing to offer you, Lydia. I wish I did.’

‘I don’t want anything.’

‘That’s not quite true. We both want something. It’s just not wise.’

‘Is it ever?’

‘I don’t know. Not for us, I don’t think. We’ve both been hurt enough by the things that have happened, and I don’t know about you but I’m not ready to try again. I have so many demands on me, so many calls on my time, so much duty.’

She put her cup down very carefully and turned to face him. ‘We could just take tonight as it comes,’ she said quietly, her heart in her mouth. ‘No strings, just one night. No duty, no demands. Just a little time out from reality, for both of us.’

The silence was broken only by the beating of her heart, the roaring in her ears so loud that she could scarcely hear herself think. For an age he sat motionless, then he lifted a hand and touched her cheek.

‘Why, cara? Why tonight?’

‘Because it’s our last chance?’

‘Why me?’

‘I don’t know. It just seems right.’

Again he hesitated, then he took her hand and pressed it to his lips. ‘Give me ten minutes. I need to check the children.’

She nodded, her mouth dry, and he brushed her lips with his and left her there, her fingers resting on the damp, tingling skin as if to hold the kiss in place.

Ten minutes, she thought. Ten minutes, and my life will change forever.

He didn’t come back.

She gave up after half an hour, and went to bed alone, humiliated and disappointed. How stupid, to proposition a man so far out of her league. He was probably still laughing at her in his room.

He wasn’t. There was a soft knock on the door, and he walked in off the terrace. ‘Lydia? I’m sorry I was so long. Are you still awake?’

She propped herself up on one elbow, trying to read his face, but his back was to the moonlight. ‘Yes. What happened? I’d given up on you.’

‘Antonino woke. He had a nightmare. He’s all right now, but I didn’t want to leave him till he was settled.’

He sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes shadowed in the darkness, and she reached for the bedside light. He caught her hand. ‘No. Leave it off. Let’s just have the moonlight.’

He opened the curtains wide, but closed the doors—for privacy? She didn’t know, but she was grateful that he had because she felt suddenly vulnerable as he stripped off his clothes and turned back the covers, lying down beside her and taking her into his arms.

The shock of that first contact took their breath away, and he rested his head against hers and gave a shuddering sigh. ‘Oh, Lydia, cara, you feel so good,’ he murmured, and then after that she couldn’t understand anything he said, because his voice deepened, the words slurred and incoherent. He was speaking Italian, she realised at last, his breath trembling over her body with every groaning sigh as his hands cupped and moulded her.

She arched against him, her body aching for him, a need like no need she’d ever felt swamping her common sense and turning her to jelly. She ran her hands over him, learning his contours, the feel of his skin like hot silk over the taut, corded muscles beneath, and then she tasted him, her tongue testing the salt of his skin, breathing in the warm musk and the lingering trace of cologne.

He seemed to be everywhere, his hands and mouth caressing every part of her, their legs tangling as his mouth returned to hers and he kissed her as if he’d die without her.

‘Please,’ she whispered, her voice shaking with need, and he paused, fumbling for something on the bedside table.

Taking care of her, she realised, something she’d utterly forgotten, but not him. He’d remembered, and made sure that she was safe with him.

No strings. No repercussions.

Then he reached for her, taking her into his arms, and as he moved over her she stopped thinking altogether and just felt.

He woke to the touch of her hand on his chest, lying lightly over his heart.

She was asleep, her head lying on his shoulder, her body silvered by the moonlight. He shifted carefully, and she sighed and let him go, so he could lever himself up and look down at her.

There was a dark stain over one hipbone. He hadn’t noticed it last night, but now he did. A bruise, from her fall. And there was another, on her shoulder, and one on her thigh, high up on the side. He kissed them all, tracing the outline with his lips, kissing them better like the bruises of a child.

It worked, his brother Luca told him, because the caress released endorphins, feel-good hormones, and so you really could kiss someone better, but only surely if they were awake—

‘Massimo?’

He turned his head and met her eyes. ‘You’re hurt all over.’

‘I’m all right now.’

She smiled, reaching up and cradling his jaw in her hand, and he turned his face into her hand and kissed her palm, his tongue stroking softly over the sensitive skin.

‘What time is it?’

He glanced at his watch and sighed. ‘Two. Just after.’

Two. Her flight was in thirteen hours.

She swallowed hard and drew his face down to hers. ‘Make love to me again,’ she whispered.

How could he refuse? How could he walk away from her, even though it was madness?

Time out, she’d said, from reality. He needed that so badly, and he wasn’t strong enough to resist.

Thirteen hours, he thought, and as he took her in his arms again, his heart squeezed in his chest.

Saying goodbye to the children and Carlotta and Roberto was hard. Saying goodbye to Massimo was agony.

He’d parked at the airport, in the short stay carpark, and they’d had lunch in the café, sitting outside under the trailing pergola. She positioned herself in the sun, but it didn’t seem to be able to warm her, because she was cold inside, her heart aching.

‘Thank you for everything you’ve done for me,’ she said, trying hard not to cry, but it was difficult and she felt a tear escape and slither down her cheek.

‘Oh, bella.’ He sighed, and reaching out his hand, he brushed it gently away. ‘No tears. Please, no tears.’

‘Happy tears,’ she lied. ‘I’ve had a wonderful time.’

He nodded, but his eyes didn’t look happy, and she was sure hers didn’t. She tried to smile.

‘Give my love to the children, and thank Francesca again for my Italian lessons.’

He smiled, his mouth turning down at the corners ruefully. ‘They’ll miss you. They had fun with you.’

‘They’ll forget me,’ she reassured him. ‘Children move on very quickly.’

But maybe not if they’d been hurt in the past, he thought, and wondered if this had been so safe after all, so without consequences, without repercussions.

Maybe not.

He left her at the departures gate, standing there with his arms round her while she hugged him tight. She let him go, looked up, her eyes sparkling with tears.

‘Take care,’ she said, and he nodded.

‘You, too. Safe journey.’

And without waiting to see her go through the gate, he walked away, emotions raging through him.

Madness. He’d thought he could handle it, but—

He’d got her address from her, so he could send her a crate of wine and oil.

That was all, he told himself. Nothing more. He certainly wasn’t going to contact her, or see her again—

He sucked in a breath, surprised by the sharp stab of loss. Ships in the night, he told himself more firmly. They’d had a good time but now it was over, she was gone and he could get on with his life.

How hard could it be?

CHAPTER SIX

‘WHY don’t you just go and see her?’

Massimo looked up from the baby in his arms and forced himself to meet his brother’s eyes.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Of course you do. You’ve been like a grizzly bear for the last two weeks, and even your own children are avoiding you.’

He frowned. Were they? He hadn’t noticed, he realised in horror, and winced at the wave of guilt. But …

‘It’s not a crime to want her, you know,’ Luca said softly.

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘Of course not. Love never is.’

His head jerked up again. ‘Who’s talking about love?’ he snapped, and Luca just raised an eyebrow silently.

‘I’m not in love with her.’

‘If you say so.’

He opened his mouth to say, ‘I do say so,’ and shut it smartly. ‘I’ve just been busy,’ he said instead, making excuses. ‘Carlotta’s been ill, and I’ve been trying to juggle looking after the children in the evenings and getting them ready for school without neglecting all the work of the grape harvest.’

‘But that’s over now—at least the critical bit. And you’re wrong, you know, Carlotta isn’t ill, she’s old and tired and she needs to stop working before she becomes ill.’

Massimo laughed out loud at that, startling his new nephew and making him cry. He shushed him automatically, soothing the fractious baby, and then looked up at Luca again. ‘I’ll let you tell her that.’

‘I have done. She won’t listen because she thinks she’s indispensable and she doesn’t want to let anybody down. And she’s going to kill herself unless someone does something to stop her.’

And then it dawned on him. Just the germ of an idea, but if it worked …

He got to his feet, wanting to get started, now that the thought had germinated. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before, except he’d been deliberately putting it—her—out of his mind.

‘I think I’ll take a few days off,’ he said casually. ‘I could do with a break. I’ll take the car and leave the children here. Mamma can look after them. It’ll keep her off Gio’s back for a while and they can play with little Annamaria while Isabelle rests.’

Luca took the baby from him and smiled knowingly.

‘Give her my love.’

He frowned. ‘Who? I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is a business trip. I have some trade samples to deliver.’

His brother laughed and shut the door behind him.

‘Do you know anyone with a posh left-hand-drive Mercedes with a foreign number plate?’

Lydia’s head jerked up. She did—but he wouldn’t be here. There was no way he’d be here, and certainly not without warning—

‘Tall, dark-haired, uber-sexy. Wow, in fact. Very, very wow!’

Her mouth dried, her heart thundering. No. Surely not—not when she was just getting over him—

‘Let me see.’

She leant over Jen’s shoulder and peeped through the doorway, and her heart, already racing, somersaulted in her chest. Over him? Not a chance. She’d been fooling herself for over two weeks, convincing herself she didn’t care about him, it had just been a holiday romance, and one sight of him and all of it had come slamming back. She backed away, one hand on her heart, trying to stop it vaulting out through her ribs, the other over her mouth holding back the chaotic emotions that were threatening to erupt.

‘It’s him, isn’t it? Your farmer guy. You never said he was that hot!’

No, she hadn’t. She’d said very little about him because she’d been desperately trying to forget him and avoid the inevitable interrogation if she so much as hinted at a relationship. But—farmer? Try millionaire. More than that. Try serious landowner, old-money, from one of Italy’s most well-known and respected families. Not a huge brand name, but big enough, she’d discovered when she’d checked on the internet in a moment of weakness and aching, pathetic need.

And try lover—just for one night, but the most magical, memorable and relived night of her life.

She looked down at herself and gave a tiny, desperate scream. She was cleaning tack—old, tatty tack from an even older, tattier pony who’d finally met his maker, and they were going to sell it. Not for much, but the saddle was good enough to raise a couple of hundred pounds towards Jen’s wedding.

‘He’s looking around.’

So was she—for a way to escape from the tack room and back to the house without being seen, so she could clean up and at least look slightly less disreputable, but there was no other way out, and …

‘He’s seen me. He’s coming over. Hi, there. Can I help?’

‘I hope so. I’m looking for Lydia Fletcher.’

His voice made her heart thud even harder, and she backed into the shadows, clutching the filthy, soapy rag in a desperate fist.

‘She’s here,’ Jen said, dumping her in it and flashing him her most charming smile. ‘I’m her sister, Jen—and she’s rather grubby, so she probably doesn’t want you to see her like that, so why don’t I take you over to the house and make you a cup of tea—’

‘I don’t mind if she’s grubby. She’s seen me looking worse, I’m sure.’

And before Jen could usher him away, he stepped past her into the tack room, sucking all the air out of it in that simple movement.

‘Ciao, bella,’ he said softly, a smile lurking in his eyes, and she felt all her resolve melt away to nothing.

‘Ciao,’ she echoed, and then toughened up. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again.’

She peered past him at Jen, hovering in the doorway. ‘Why don’t you go and put the kettle on?’ she said firmly.

With a tiny, knowing smile, Jen took a step away, then mouthed, ‘Be nice!’

Nice? She had no intention of being anything but nice, but she also had absolutely no intention of being anything more accommodating. He’d been so clear about not wanting a relationship, and she’d thought she could handle their night together, thought she could walk away. Well, she wasn’t letting him in again, because she’d never get over it a second time.

‘You could have warned me you were coming,’ she said when Jen had gone, her crutches scrunching in the gravel. ‘And don’t tell me you lost my phone number, because it was on the same piece of paper as my address, which you clearly have or you wouldn’t be here.’

‘I haven’t lost it. I didn’t want to give you the chance to avoid me.’

‘You thought I would?’

‘I thought you might want to, and I didn’t want you to run away without hearing me out.’ He looked around, studying the dusty room with the saddle racks screwed to the old beams, the saddle horse in the middle of the room with Bruno’s saddle on it, half-cleaned, the hook dangling from the ceiling with his bridle and stirrup leathers hanging from it, still covered in mould and dust and old grease.

Just like her, really, smeared in soapy filth and not in any way dressed to impress.

‘Evocative smell.’ He fingered the saddle flap, rubbing his fingertips together and sniffing them. ‘It takes me back. I had a friend with horses when I was at boarding school over here, and I stayed with him sometimes. We used to have to clean the tack after we rode.’

He smiled, as if it was a good memory, and then he lifted his hand and touched a finger to her cheek. ‘You’ve got dirt on your face.’

‘I’m sure. And don’t you dare spit on a tissue and rub it off.’

He chuckled, and shifting an old riding hat, he sat down on a rickety chair and crossed one foot over the other knee, his hands resting casually on his ankle as if he really didn’t care how dirty the chair was.

‘Well, don’t let me stop you. You need to finish what you’re doing—at least the saddle.’

She did. It was half-done, and she couldn’t leave it like that or it would mark. She scrunched the rag in her fingers and nodded. ‘If you don’t mind.’

‘Of course not. I didn’t know you had a horse,’ he added, after a slight pause.

‘We don’t—not any more.’

His eyes narrowed, and he leant forwards. ‘Lydia?’ he said softly, and she sniffed and turned away, reaching for the saddle soap.

‘He died,’ she said flatly. ‘We don’t need the tack, so I’m going to sell it. It’s a crime to let it rot out here when someone could be using it.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. He was ancient.’

‘But you loved him.’

‘Of course. That’s what life’s all about, isn’t it? Loving things and losing them?’ She put the rag down and turned back to him, her heart aching so badly that she was ready to howl her eyes out. ‘Massimo, why are you here?’

‘I promised you some olive oil and wine and balsamic vinegar.’

She blinked, and stared at him, dumbfounded. ‘You drove all this way to deliver me olive oil? That’s ridiculous. Why are you really here, in the middle of harvest? And what was that about not wanting me to run away before hearing you out?’

He smiled slowly—reluctantly. ‘OK. I have a proposition for you. Finish the saddle, and I’ll tell you.’

‘Tell me now.’

‘I’ll tell you while you finish,’ he compromised, so she picked up the rag again and reapplied it to the saddle, putting on rather more saddle soap than was necessary. He watched her, watched the fierce way she rubbed the leather, the pucker in her brow as she waited for him to speak.

‘So?’ she prompted, her patience running out.

‘So—I think Carlotta is unwell. Luca says not, and he’s the doctor. He says she’s just old, and tired, and needs to stop before she kills herself.’

‘I agree. She’s been too old for years, probably, but I don’t suppose she’ll listen if you tell her that.’

‘No. She won’t. And the trouble is she won’t allow anyone else in her kitchen.’ He paused for a heartbeat. ‘Anyone except you.’

She dropped the rag and spun round. ‘Me!’ she squeaked, and then swallowed hard. ‘I—I don’t understand! What have I got to do with anything?’

‘We need someone to feed everybody for the harvest. After that, we’ll need someone as a housekeeper. Carlotta won’t give that up until she’s dead, but we can get her local help, and draft in caterers for events like big dinner parties and so on. But for the harvest, we need someone she trusts who can cater for sixty people twice a day without getting in a flap—someone who knows what they’re doing, who understands what’s required and who’s available.’

‘I’m not available,’ she said instantly, and he felt a sharp stab of disappointment.

‘You have another job?’

She shook her head. ‘No, not really, but I’m helping with the farm, and doing the odd bit of outside catering, a bit of relief work in the pub. Nothing much, but I’m trying to get my career back on track and I can’t do that if I’m gallivanting about all over Tuscany, however much I want to help you out. I have to earn a living—’

‘You haven’t heard my proposition yet.’

She stared at him, trying to work out what he was getting at. What he was offering. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know, because she had a feeling it would involve a lot of heartache, but—

‘What proposition? I thought that was your proposition?’

‘You come back with me, work for the harvest and I’ll give your sister her wedding.’

She stared at him, confused. She couldn’t have heard him right. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, finding her voice at last.

‘It’s not hard. The hotel was offering the ceremony, a reception for—what, fifty people?—a room for their wedding night, accommodation for the night before for the bridal party, a food and drink package—anything I’ve missed?’

She shook her head. ‘Flowers, maybe?’

‘OK. Well, we can offer all that. There’s a chapel where they can marry, if they’re Catholic, or they could have a blessing there and marry in the Town Hall, or whatever they wanted, and we’ll give them a marquee with tables and chairs and a dance floor, and food and wine for the guests. And flowers. And if they don’t want to stay in the guest wing of the villa, there’s a lodge in the woods they can have the use of for their honeymoon.’