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She found herself slowing down so that she could absorb her surroundings. It really didn’t matter how many big houses she walked around in London, none could compare to something in a setting like this because there was no such thing as perfect privacy in the city. You could part with millions and still have neighbours around within shouting distance. Whereas here your millions would buy you all the solitude you could ever need.
She wouldn’t have minded having a look around the gardens before her viewer but that would have been an indulgence, and she was slightly relieved to find that the option was denied her because, lo and behold, there was her car randomly parked at an angle in the courtyard—a long, very expensive silver Bentley Continental, the sort that cost roughly the same price as some people’s houses. Unfortunately for Charlotte, no one was in it. Nor was the woman anywhere to be seen at the front of the house. Well, there was no way she would be inside, not unless she had decided to embark on a little breaking and entering.
With a sigh of frustration, Charlotte walked back up to the front door and glanced around her, then she set off. She had to look at the brochure to see where the boundaries of the house lay. Frankly none were within sight, and the prospect of trekking through acres of land in search of one errant old lady with more money than sense filled her with dismay.
She was circling the back of the house, vaguely admiring the lawns and the extensive copse behind, which was all part of the package, when she heard his voice from behind her and for the first few seconds she really didn’t recognise it. But only for a few seconds. Then her body froze in utter shock. Just an ordinary, polite apology that he had missed her.
Charlotte turned around and there he was: the man who still visited her in every sweet dream and every nightmare she had had over eight years. God, she had been thinking of him only this morning! Had that been some sort of dreadful, sick premonition? She blinked to dispel the reality of him standing not more than five metres away from her, and then she closed her eyes and, for the first time in her life, she blacked out.
She surfaced to find herself flat on her back with her head resting on something soft, like a cushion. There was also someone peering down at her. Oh God. She struggled to sit up and wriggle away from him at the same time, all the while keenly aware of the image she would be presenting—neat bob all over the place, snappy grey suit creased and soiled beyond redemption, hands covered in dirt and little chips of gravel from where she had tried to hoist herself away from him.
‘Well, well, well…’ Riccardo said softly. ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’
‘What are you doing here?’ She sat up, gritting her teeth to ward off the sudden giddiness, and shakily got to her feet.
He hadn’t changed. At least, not much. When she had occasionally imagined herself bumping into him again, she had always helpfully reconstructed him as overweight, balding and prematurely aged from the stress of all those little Italian bambinos his mother told her he would one day have, with an Italian girl from his own class and not a foreigner without a penny to her name.
But eight years had sharpened his killer looks. The black hair was short now and there were a few lines on his face but he was still devastatingly good looking. He had been kneeling next to her and he bent to brush the knees of his trousers, his expensive, hand-tailored trousers which were probably as ruined as her skirt would be but had cost ten times as much. Tough.
A ball of resentment welled up inside her like acid. ‘I was told to expect a Mrs Dean.’
‘You’ve changed.’ He circled her like a tiger that had somehow managed to corner some interesting prey and didn’t want to devour it just quite yet.
