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Her problem was that kiss.
Her problem was the dark magic of Maceo’s ferocious passion...how easily he’d overcome her resistance.
Most of all her problem was her own stunned realisation that whatever had gone before was nothing compared to the thrill of what she’d experienced.
He’d kissed as if he desired her. As if she mattered. As if he would have expired if he hadn’t devoured her.
Because he doesn’t know!
And she, momentarily forgetting every valid reason why she shouldn’t...couldn’t...give in to such base emotions, had yearned for more with every cell in her body.
But when the reminder had rammed through the fog of her desire and brought her to her senses, Maceo had seemed just as stricken as she felt.
Because he’d only recently buried his wife...
There it was again. That stinging sensation. It was almost as if she was...jealous. It was irrational. And shaming. Because with every day spent in this place she learned that Carlotta Caprio-Fiorenti had been just shy of a saint. She’d been devoted to Luigi, and then to Maceo. She’d possessed a deep sense of family—as evidenced by her brothers’ prominent positions in the company.
Had that been the drive behind Carlotta’s effort to reach out to Faye despite her less than warm reception? The bite of guilt was damning and unwelcome. Perhaps because through all of this turbulence she’d still held back from asking Maceo about that picture. About Pietro and who he had been to Luigi and his parents.
She hadn’t come across anything else about him, despite scrutinising the countless Fiorenti and Caprio pictures displayed all over the villa, and secretly searching the library from top to bottom for another hidden picture.
A frustrated sound bubbled up from her throat.
‘The reports are that challenging?’ a deep, sardonic voice said from behind her.
She spun around, a small gasp leaving her lips. Maceo stood in the centre of the room, a solid, riveting figure who made it impossible to acknowledge anything else in the vicinity. With the sun long set, and only a couple of lamps illuminating the interior of her office, the play of light and darkness lent him an even more enigmatic aura, triggering a sort of hypnotic absorption that made her heart thump faster as he filled the room, taking up vital space and oxygen.
‘Not at all.’ She strove for equanimity and breathed a sigh of relief when she achieved it.
His head tilted a fraction, that assessing gaze zeroing in on her vulnerable spots—which she was discovering were many when it came to this man.
‘Then what’s the problem?’
‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ she said with false nonchalance. Because he was coming closer, and her gaze was doing that thing where it remained glued to him no matter how much she tried to resist.
Maceo didn’t have the same problem, evidently. His gaze veered away to skate over the papers, then the shoes she’d abandoned some time in the last hour. For some reason his eyes remained riveted on the red-soled heels for charged moments before, sliding his hands into his pockets, he redirected his scrutiny to her.
‘Pick two,’ he threw out, a deep throb in his voice.
Faye dragged her gaze from the play of dark blended wool over his strong thighs. ‘Two...?’ she echoed, in an alarmingly husky voice.
He jerked his chin at the reports. ‘Are you up to date on the sustainability projects with our growers?’ he asked, instead of answering her question.
‘Yes.’
She was stunned by what she’d read. She’d dealt with enough supposedly community-minded companies in her bid to secure funding for New Paths and similar women’s shelters to know that not all conglomerates were willing to spread their wealth. But Casa di Fiorenti went above and beyond in supporting the farmers whose products it bought. Free grants and sharing resources had increased profit on the ground level—an unprecedented outcome that had seen its competitors scrambling to save face by emulating the multi-billion-euro company.
‘And?’ Maceo prompted, alerting her to the fact that she’d got lost in the wonder of it all.
‘And whoever had the idea to give the farmers the tools they need to increase their output deserves a medal. Several medals.’
A wry smile ghosted over his lips. ‘You have Luigi to thank for that,’ he said, approaching her where she stood.
Warmth and bewilderment twisted through her. ‘He did this?’
Maceo nodded. ‘He set the ball rolling long before it was fashionable to give without expecting something in return.’
Then why? her heart screamed. Why had he shown such kindness and consideration to others but deserted
