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‘Uno minuti per favore,’ she had muttered as she got to her feet, flicking through her book. ‘Er...mi dispiace, ma il mio italiano non è molto buono.’ When she’d finished her garbled apology for not speaking Italian she’d beamed at him.
He’d taken in her tall, lithe frame, her long honey-blonde hair, the bare, dirty feet and the garish multicoloured top over the pair of frayed denim shorts. For all her grubbiness she’d shone brighter than the blazing midday sun.
‘Are you English?’ he’d asked, putting the gun back in its holster.
She had nodded.
‘This is private land. You must leave.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she had said. ‘We didn’t realise we were trespassing. There’s a gap in your fence we thought was a footpath.’
He had followed the direction she’d pointed at, and had seen a couple of panels had come off.
‘Get that fixed,’ he’d said to Paolo, who was hovering in the background, before turning his attention back to the striking woman before him. ‘You must leave now.’
‘Give us a minute to pack our materials away.’ She had turned to her cowering friend who was hiding behind her. ‘Are you going to stand there like a stuck lemon or are you going to pull your finger out?’
‘He’s got a gun!’ the friend had yelped, pointing a finger at Luca.
‘He’s also put it away,’ she had replied patiently, throwing Luca a discreet wink. That wink had jolted him to his core. ‘We are trespassing in Sicily, Cara, not Surrey.’
It was only when they had started packing their stuff away that he’d realised what they had been doing. ‘You are artists?’
‘I suppose we are,’ had said the brave woman, who had not so much as flinched at the sight of his gun. ‘We graduated last summer and have been travelling Europe ever since. We’re trying to get in as much art appreciation as we can before the real world drags us into its tentacles. That’s why we were pitched up here—Cara dabbles in landscapes and the view was spectacular. Honestly, your estate is beautiful.’
But Luca had had no interest in Cara. ‘Do you paint too?’
‘I do. Portraits. I normally work with oil but as we’re outdoors I’ve brought my sketchbook with me.’
‘May I see it?’
‘Sure.’ She had knelt down for another rummage in her rucksack, giving him a perfect view of her pert bottom.
He had blinked in shock as a stab of lust had run through him.
Grubby urchins were usually well off his radar.
This woman though...
She had brought a large sketchbook over to him.
Taking his time, he had flipped through it. Most of the drawings had been of her companion. They had been, without exception, exquisite.
He had looked back up and met her eyes properly for the first time.
The most enormous feeling of warmth had spread through his bones, a thickening in his chest that had made it hard to catch a breath.
‘Do you take commissions?’ he had asked after too long a pause during which they had simply stared at each other.
Her wide hazel eyes had crinkled at the sides. ‘Not from people whose names I don’t know.’
He had extended a hand. ‘I’m Luca Mastrangelo.’
‘Grace Holden.’ She had wiped her hand down the side of her shorts before reaching out to accept his.
A shock of heat had zipped through his hand, permeating through him. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Grace Holden.’
Her answering smile had stolen his remaining breath.
Neither had made any attempt to relinquish the other’s hand.
Later, over a romantic meal at his favourite restaurant, he’d asked why she hadn’t been scared when he had pulled out the gun.
She’d smiled mischievously. ‘You weren’t aiming it at us. You looked peed off but not murderous.’
Out of everything, that was the thing that cut in his craw the most. How could the woman who had judged him so accurately with one glance even dream he was capable of murder? Why the hell did she think they had let that man live? It had been at his insistence, that was why. That man had been caught cheating from them before, from their casino in Sardinia. Francesco’s men had been ready to tow him out to sea and throw him in with weights on his ankles.
Did she think he enjoyed hurting people or having people hurt in his name?
He took no more enjoyment from it than his father had.
A lump formed in his throat. Pietro Mastrangelo had been a fine and honourable man who believed in the sanctity of life. Always he would favour the route that left the least physical and emotional damage, a lesson Luca had taken to heart.
The way Grace had looked at him, the words she had said to him...she truly believed him to be a monster. She gave him no credit for saving that man’s life. Thanks to him, that man would still be able to live a long life and be a husband to his wife and a father to his children.
