Italian Escape. Liz Fielding

earlier that evening. He usually put at least an hour in after dinner; working from home sometimes gave things a different perspective.

      Five minutes later it was as unread as when he had opened it. His eyes kept wandering over to Minty, who was industriously rinsing out pans. She looked tired; her hair was pulled back in a knot and she was still wearing the light trousers and simple knitted top she had put on two days ago when she had left to do the deliveries. But she hadn’t come in complaining about how exhausted she was, how achy her limbs were—and he knew they would be, after two days in such a confined space.

      It was almost impossible to work, to concentrate, with Minty so visible, so present. Since she had arrived she had kept her word and had stayed in her room at night, eaten separately and kept out of his way. They had barely seen each other to exchange a muttered greeting. Just as he wanted, as he had insisted.

      And yet tonight he found himself moved by the weariness in her eyes. It was the same old story. He couldn’t resist being her knight in shining armour, whether she wanted him to or not.

      They might have spent most of their lives at loggerheads, but occasionally an unofficial, unacknowledged truce would be called. That first summer she’d come to stay, Luca had spent one memorable day playing old board games with the broken-hearted small girl after she’d discovered her father had chosen to go to St Tropez with his latest girlfriend instead of making a promised visit to Oschia.

      Luca still had a fondness for Cluedo.

      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?’

      ‘I’m glad you didn’t.’ Minty wrung out the cloth and hung it up over the sink taps before collecting her wine glass and bag and bringing them over to the sofas. Luca was relieved when she chose the other one to curl up into, her long legs folded under her. ‘There are so many old houses like this that have been remodelled. Botox for houses, turning them into wrinkle-free, soulless show-homes. This place wears its history proudly, wrinkles and all.’

      Luca twirled the wine glass round a couple of times, as if looking for answers in the ruby depths. It hadn’t even occurred to him to change the house, to modernise it, although all around the local area houses like this one were being done up, turned into holiday homes or country retreats. ‘I’m not a big fan of leather and chrome,’ he said. ‘I guess I always imagined my children being raised in the same house that I was, eating at the same table, off the same plates. I always thought a house like this should be filled with children. It seems too big for just one.’

      ‘There were two of us in the holidays,’ Minty reminded him.

      ‘Si, but you were never a childlike child. Always so knowing, so old for your years. When you weren’t doing something crazy, that is.’

      Minty had raised her glass ready to take a sip but at his words she set it back down on the table. ‘I wasn’t the only one. Old for my years, I mean, not crazy.’ She laughed. ‘Did you ever misbehave, Luca?’

      He shook his head, smiling. ‘Only when you were with me.’

      Their eyes met, blue held by gold, sudden awareness blazing between them, remembering the last time they had misbehaved together here in this room, on the very sofa Minty was curled up on. Awareness that it would be so easy for him to put down his glass and move just a few steps over to her. Awareness that it would take just one touch, that all he needed to do was run one finger down her cheek to the corner of her mouth, onto those full lips.

      He swallowed, hard. It was tempting, when she looked at him like that: guileless, teasing, daring. Vulnerable.

      But the price was too high to pay. It had always been too high.

      None of her emotions were real. It was all a game.

      He looked away, deliberately breaking the invisible line of attraction linking them. He took a sip of wine and leant back, to all appearances relaxed.

      Even if he was coiled tighter than a snake in winter.

      ‘So, how many children would it take to fill this house?’ If Minty was affected by the sudden attraction—or by Luca’s withdrawal—she wasn’t showing it.

      It was frustrating. But safer.

      ‘Four.’

      She spluttered. ‘Four? That’s ambitious.’

      Luca eyed her coolly. ‘I am ambitious. In every area of my life.’

      ‘Obviously. You’re, what, twenty-nine now? Better get a move on if you want to make it to number four. Unless you’re hoping for one a year?’

      He shook his head, smiling. ‘Not quite that fast, but I would like them sooner rather than later.’

      ‘So who’s the lucky brood mare?’ When Luca didn’t reply, Minty raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re not planning single fatherhood, are you?’