Summer with the Millionaire

On her father’s third wedding day—a small, intimate affair for around two hundred guests, including a celebrity magazine, but not the groom’s only offspring—Luca had taken twelve-year-old Minty on an illicit road trip, pillioned on the back of his beloved Vespa. Rose had been furious when they had finally rocked back up long after dark, dirty, exhausted, exhilarated. Until she had seen the light shining in Minty’s eyes.

At sixteen, Minty’s boyfriend had dumped her by text. Another impromptu road trip, this time in Luca’s teeny Fiat—a present from Gio and Rose, who’d shared a fear of very young men driving powerful cars. Not that Luca had ever been likely to drive recklessly, not after his parents’ accident. They had headed south and ended up in Rome for an afternoon of sightseeing, shopping and very expensive coffee.

The last truce of all had been the night after Rose’s funeral. Luca’s hands tightened on the laptop keyboard at the memory. Six years later and he could still taste Minty, still recall exactly how it had felt to run his hands down those long, long legs; up over that supple waist to the swell of her small, firm breasts; her gasps and murmured endearments, begging him please not to stop, never to stop. He stared sightlessly at his keyboard, willing the memory to fade.

For the aftermath of these truces was always the same: distance; disdain. Minty acting out worse than usual, as if to wipe out those rare moments of vulnerability. And that last time she’d simply disappeared. For six years Luca hadn’t known who to despise more—himself for taking advantage of a grieving girl not yet out of her teens, or Minty for running away.

And now she was back. Wiping dishes in his kitchen as if they really were the family she had refused to allow them to be.

She was surprising him. There had been no moaning, no trying to shirk the long, arduous schedule he had put together for her. It was still early days, less than a week since she had taken up the challenge, but he had ensured her every moment was filled: a 4:00 a.m. start day for the morning milking; a gruelling day in the frozen-food section of the warehouse followed by two days on the road. Tomorrow would be spent in one of the kitchens; the weekend would be serving in the café which sold Di Tore Dolce products directly to the public.

‘I love that you haven’t changed anything,’ she said, banging the dishwasher door shut. She picked up a cloth and began to wipe down the sides. ‘The same dishes, pans, worktops. I like that it’s all the same.’

Luca put the laptop down on the table in front of him and leant back, the glass of wine in his hand. ‘What would I have changed?’ he asked.

Minty shrugged. ‘Sleek, black leather sofas and chrome everywhere,’ she suggested. ‘Knocking through into the next room. Creating an outdoor kitchen.’

Luca shuddered, looking round at the comfortable, cosy room. ‘That sounds completely horrible.’

‘Standard young CEO fare,’ she said. ‘The shinier, bigger and more expensive, the better. Hugely overcompensating, of course.’ She winked at him. ‘Good to see a man comfortable with what he has.’

‘This is part of my family’s history,’ Luca said, ignoring the wink and the innuendo. ‘Furniture made and chosen by my parents and grandparents. By Rose. Why would I change it?’

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