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Viciously, she began to brush the pie crust with beaten egg, realising that she must be feeling especially vulnerable if she had just come out and told a complete stranger that. But Lily had been feeling vulnerable lately—and her stepmother’s erratic behaviour hadn’t helped. Never the easiest of women to get along with—Suzy had recently taken to moving the house’s most valuable items up to her London home. Of course, she was perfectly within her rights to do so—Lily knew that. Suzy could do whatever she wanted since she had inherited every last bit of her late husband’s estate. All the money he’d owned was now hers and so too was this beautiful house, the Grange.
Even now, the pain and injustice of it all could still hit Lily like a savage blow. Her father’s death barely nine months after his second wedding had been sudden and unexpected and had left her with a numbing feeling of insecurity. Through her own grief and the heartbreaking task of comforting her younger brother, she had tried to tell herself that of course Dad must have been planning to amend his will. No father would want to see his two children left without any financial support, would he? But the fact was that he hadn’t got around to doing it and it had all gone to his much younger wife, who seemed to have taken to widowhood alarmingly well.
Even the pearl necklace which Lily had been promised by her darling mother had been ferreted away to Suzy’s metropolitan home and she had a sinking feeling she would never see it again. Was that why her stepmother had recently been shifting everything of value—afraid that Lily might pawn some of the precious artefacts when her back was turned? And the terrible thing was that an instant windfall would solve some of Lily’s problems—because wouldn’t it give her brother the security he deserved?
Ciro heard the tremble in her voice and wondered what had caused it. But his attention was distracted as she bent to place the pie in the oven, his eyes riveted to the seductive curve of her bottom. Her bare legs gave off a silky sheen and the little cotton dress she wore brushed close against her thighs.
‘No, I’m not a cat burglar and I’m not after your jewels or your baubles,’ he said unevenly.
Lily turned around to find his dark eyes fixed on her and, even though it was wrong, it felt good to have such a gorgeous man gazing at her with unashamed interest. Didn’t it make her feel desirable for a change, instead of some invisible nobody who spent her whole time fighting off unspoken fears about the future?
‘Then what are you doing here?’
‘For some strange reason, it’s gone clean out of my mind,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t remember.’
Their gaze held and Lily didn’t need the frantic bash of her heart against her ribcage to know they were flirting. It was a long time since she’d flirted with anyone and it felt… dangerous. Because the sensuality which was shimmering off his powerful body brought back too many memories and they weren’t good ones. Memories of disbelief and heartbreak and a tear-soaked pillow.
‘Well, try,’ she said. ‘Before I lose the little patience I have left.’
Ciro wondered what to tell her because it wasn’t for him to enlighten her that he would soon be the owner of this house. But if she worked here… then wasn’t it conceivable that he might keep her on once the sale went through? ‘I’ve been looking for somewhere to buy,’ he said.
Confused now, Lily stared at him. ‘But this house isn’t for sale.’
Ciro quashed a momentary feeling of guilt. ‘I realise that,’ he said truthfully. ‘But you know how it is when you’re scouting around an area—how you always notice the best things when you’re not on a tight schedule? You see the sudden twist of a path, which makes you wonder where it leads. Yet the moment an agent starts detailing the square footage—you stop seeing a place for what it is, and it becomes simply real estate.’
‘So you’re saying you prowl around properties when you think they’re empty—because they might appeal to you on an aesthetic level? No wonder I thought you were up to no good!’
But Ciro wasn’t really listening. He found himself wanting to remove the pins from her hair so that he could see it tumble down over her shoulders. To splay his fingers over those fleshy hips and to dip his lips to the slender column of her neck and kiss it.
He told himself that he should leave right now and not return until the keys of the old house w
ere in his hands. Yet the homeliness of the kitchen, combined with her old-fashioned body, was making him feel a sense of nostalgia which was sharpening his desire for her. Suddenly, it was all too easy to imagine what she might look like, naked—with all her curves and cushioned flesh. If he’d met her at a party, he would be well on the way towards making that fantasy a reality—but he’d never met a woman in a kitchen before.
‘What can I smell?’ he asked.
‘You mean the cooking?’
‘Well, you certainly haven’t let me close enough to sample your perfume,’ he drawled.
Lily swallowed, her skin prickling with nerves and excitement. ‘There are several smells currently competing for your attention,’ she said quickly. ‘There is the soup bubbling away on the hob.’
‘You mean home-made soup?’
‘Well, it’s certainly not out of a carton or a tin,’ she said, with a shudder. ‘It’s spinach and lentil, lightly flavoured with coriander. Best served with a dollop of crème fraîche and a hunk of freshly baked bread.’
It sounded like an edible orgasm, Ciro thought irreverently and felt the heaving aching of his groin. ‘Sounds delicious,’ he said unevenly.
‘I am reliably informed that it is delicious. While this—’ she pointed towards a sticky-looking concoction which was sitting cooling on a rack ‘—is your common or garden lemon drizzle cake.’
‘Wow,’ he said softly.
She searched his face for signs of sarcasm but could find none and there was something about his almost wistful expression which made her throw caution to the wind. ‘You could… try some, if you like. It tastes best when it’s warm from the oven. Sit down and I’ll cut you a slice. After all, if you’ve come all the way from Naples—the least I can do is show you a little English hospitality.’
Again, he heard the clamour of his conscience but Ciro blotted it out. Instead, he lowered himself into a solid-looking wooden chair and watched her as she moved around the kitchen. ‘You still haven’t told me your name.’
‘You didn’t ask.’
‘I’m asking now.’
