From Florence With Love. Lucy Gordon

of the grinding beans was loud in the silence, but not loud enough to drown out the sound of her heartbeat.

      She should have stayed in her room, kept out of his way.

      ‘Here, I don’t know how long you want to keep the teabag in.’

      He put the mug down on the table and turned back to the coffee maker, and as she stirred the teabag round absently she watched him. His hands were deft, his movements precise as he spooned sugar and stirred in a splash of milk.

      ‘Won’t that keep you awake?’ she asked, but he just laughed softly.

      ‘It’s not a problem, I’m up now for the day. After I’ve drunk this I’ll go and tackle some work in my office, and then I’ll have breakfast with the children before I go out and check the grapes in each field to see if they’re ripe.’

      ‘Has the harvest started?’

      ‘La vendemmia?’ He shook his head. ‘No. If the grapes are ripe, it starts tomorrow. We’ll spend the rest of the day making sure we’re ready, because once it starts, we don’t stop till it’s finished. But today—today should be pretty routine.’

      So he might have time to show her round …

      ‘Want to come with me and see what we do? If you’re interested, of course. Don’t feel you have to.’

      If she was interested? She nearly laughed. The farm, she told herself firmly. He was talking about the farm.

      ‘That would be great, if I won’t be in your way?’

      ‘No, of course not. It might be dull, though, and once I leave the house I won’t be back for hours. I don’t know if you’re feeling up to it.’

      Was he trying to get out of it? Retracting his invitation, thinking better of having her hanging around him all day like a stray kitten that wouldn’t leave him alone?

      ‘I can’t walk far,’ she said, giving him a get-out clause, but he shook his head.

      ‘No, you don’t have to. We’ll take the car, and if you don’t feel well I can always bring you back, it’s not a problem.’

      That didn’t sound as if he was trying to get out of it, and she was genuinely interested.

      ‘It sounds great. What time do you want to leave?’

      ‘Breakfast is at seven. We’ll go straight afterwards.’

      It was fascinating.

      He knew every inch of his land, every nook and cranny, every slope, every vine, almost, and as he stood on the edge of a little escarpment pointing things out to her, his feet planted firmly in the soil, she thought she’d never seen anyone who belonged so utterly to their home.

      He looked as if he’d grown from the very soil beneath his feet, his roots stretching down into it for three hundred years. It was a part of him, and he was a part of it, the latest guardian in its history, and it was clear that he took the privilege incredibly seriously.

      As they drove round the huge, sprawling estate to check the ripeness of the grapes on all the slopes, he told her about each of the grape varieties which grew on the different soils and orientations, lifting handfuls of the soil so she could see the texture, sifting it through his fingers as he talked about moisture content and pH levels and how it varied from field to field, and all the time his fingers were caressing the soil like a lover.

      He mesmerised her.

      Then he dropped the soil, brushed off his hands and gave her a wry smile.

      ‘I’m boring you to death. Come on, it’s time for lunch.’

      He helped her back to the car, frowning as she trod on some uneven ground and gave a little cry as her ankle twisted.

      ‘I’m sorry, it’s too rough for you. Here.’ And without hesitating he scooped her off her feet and set her back on the passenger seat, shut the door and went round and slid in behind the wheel.

      He must have been mad to bring her out here on the rough ground in the heat of the day, with a head injury and a sprained ankle. He hadn’t been thinking clearly, what with the upset of yesterday and Francesca’s scene at the table and then the utter distraction of her pyjamas—even if he’d been intending to go back to bed, there was no way he would have slept. In fact, he doubted if he’d ever sleep again!

      He put her in the car, drove back to the villa and left her there with Carlotta. He’d been meaning to show her round the house, but frankly, even another moment in her company was too dangerous to contemplate at the moment.

      He made a work-related excuse, and escaped.

      He had a lot to do, he’d told her as he’d hurried off, because la vendemmia would start the following day.

      So much for her tour of the house, she thought, but maybe it was as well to keep a bit of distance, because her feelings for him were beginning to confuse her.

      Roberto brought the children home from school at the end of the afternoon, and she heard them splashing in the pool. She’d been contemplating the water herself, but without a suit it wasn’t a goer, so she’d contented herself with sitting in the sun for a while and relaxing.

      She went over to the railings and looked down, and saw all three of them in the water, with Carlotta and Roberto sitting in the shade watching them and keeping order. Carlotta glanced up at her and waved her down, and she limped down the steps and joined them.

      It looked so inviting. Was her face a giveaway? Maybe, because Carlotta got to her feet and went to a door set in the wall of the terrace, under the steps. She emerged with a sleek black one-piece and offered it to her. ‘Swim?’ she said, encouragingly.

      It was so, so tempting, and the children didn’t seem to mind. Lavinia swam to the edge and grinned at her, and Antonino threw a ball at her and missed, and then giggled because she threw it back and bounced it lightly off his head. Only Francesca kept her distance, and she could understand why. It was the first time she’d seen her since supper last night, and maybe now she’d find a chance to apologise.

      She changed in the cubicle Carlotta had taken the costume from, and sat on the edge of the pool to take off her elastic ankle support.

      ‘Ow. It looks sore.’

      She glanced up, and saw Francesca watching her warily, her face troubled.

      ‘I’m all right,’ she assured her with a smile. ‘I was really stupid to fall like that. I’m so sorry I upset you last night.’

      She shrugged, and returned the smile with a tentative one of her own. ‘Is OK. I was just tired, and Pàpa had been away for days, and—I’m OK. Sometimes, I just remember …’

      She nodded, trying to understand what it must be like to be ten and motherless, and coming up with nothing even close, she was sure.

      ‘I’m sorry.’ She slipped into the water next to Francesca, and reached out and touched her shoulder gently. Then she smiled at her. ‘I wonder, would you teach me some words of Italian?’

      ‘Sure. What?’

      ‘Just basic things. Sorry. Thank you. Hello, goodbye—just things like that.’

      ‘Of course. Swim first, then I teach you.’

      And she smiled, a dazzling, pretty smile like the smile of her mother in the photograph, and it nearly broke Lydia’s heart.

      He came into the kitchen as she was sitting there with the children, Francesca patiently coaching her.

      ‘No! Mee dees-pya-che,’ said Francesca, and Lydia repeated it, stretching the vowels.

      ‘That’s good. Ciao, bambini!’

      ‘Ciao, Pàpa!’ the children chorused, and he came over and sat down with them.

      ‘I’m