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Her brother’s use of her childhood nickname made a lump form in her throat.
‘It’s okay,’ she said quietly, kicking a pebble into the sunken pond. ‘It was just a thought. And thanks for looking into it. I know it’s not your thing.’
She could almost picture the amused expression on his face. ‘It’s a little domestic for my tastes. But then again, Sforza’s a big name. He’s high-profile. I could easily stir the pot up a little.’
She sighed. ‘No, thank you. I can handle him. It’s just nice to know I can run things past you.’
Freddie cleared his throat. ‘You know you can always ring me. It makes a nice change from all the usual horror.’
Freddie specialised in ‘causes’, not cases, but she knew he loved his work.
‘Look...’
She heard the shift in his voice.
‘I know you don’t want to hear it, but you’re wasting your time out there. There’s plenty of flowers in England too, you know. Why don’t you come home? Dad would love to see you. We both would. You can have your own room—’
Gritting her teeth, Flora interrupted her brother quickly. ‘Thanks, Freddie. But I’m not leaving the palazzo. It’s my home—’
But he’d already moved on. ‘Okay. But just promise me you’re not going to go looking for a fight. Just keep your head down and stay out of his way—’
Glancing at the seedlings in front of her, Flora sighed. Of course she had promised, and she had meant what she said.
She had no intention of giving Massimo Sforza the satisfaction of getting what he wanted, and launching an all-out battle against him would have done just that. He was clever and cool-headed enough to keep on goading her until she snapped—thus giving him the perfect justification to end her tenancy. So, much as she would have liked to take him on at every opportunity, she’d kept her promise and kept out of his way.
She bit her lip. And it was fine. Except that Massimo’s arrival in her life had been so sudden, so traumatic, that living with him felt as if she was dealing with the aftermath of some natural disaster. Everything familiar and safe had gone. Now even something simple, like eating breakfast, was so highly charged with possible outcomes that just thinking about it left her exhausted.
At some point she would be happy to resume open warfare, but in the meantime she was like a shipwreck survivor alone on a raft at sea. Picking up another tray of seedlings, she sighed. What she really needed was time to come to terms with her new circumstances. Time to get her bearings. And time to plan her next step...
* * *
Thankfully, the following two weeks went by without incident. The house was finally free of dust sheets and ladders, and the smell of wet paint was starting to fade. Much as she had done before Massimo’s arrival, Flora spent most of her days in the greenhouses, writing up notes for her thesis. And after a couple of days spent looking warily over her shoulder she’d finally begun to relax, for it was clear that whatever occupied her landlord’s days it didn’t involve venturing into what she thought of as her space.
The gardens, though, represented a somewhat trickier prospect. A sort of no man’s land. It was galling to admit it, but she skirted round them to reach the greenhouses. However, she couldn’t avoid going there for ever unless she was happy to see them all go to seed. Picking up her favourite trowel and a pair of secateurs, she shut the greenhouse door firmly. She would start today with the rose garden. It always needed the most attention.
Her cheeks grew warm. The fact that it was the garden farthest away from the palazzo obviously had nothing to do with her decision.
After days stuck in the greenhouses, it felt glorious to feel the sun on her skin and hear the birds chattering excitedly in the hedges. The air was thick and heavy: there would be a storm later, but probably not until the evening. She worked steadily, only stopping to eat a makeshift lunch of a sebadas and some grapes.
Finally straightening up, she noticed a beautiful apricot floribunda: Absent Friends. She had planted it after Umberto died. He had loved all roses, but that delicate coral colour had been his favourite.
‘You poor old thing,’ she said softly. Brushing the petals lightly with her hands, she inhaled the smooth, voluptuous scent with pleasure. ‘I’m sorry I’ve haven’t been looking after you.’ Gently, she trimmed back a couple of straggling stems. ‘There. That’s better!’
Smiling, she turned to throw the discarded blooms into her bucket—and it was th
en that she saw Massimo’s tall figure, leaning casually against the stone sun dial that formed a centrepiece to the rose garden.
‘I’ve heard of people talking to their pets. Or even to trees. But I’ve never heard anyone talk to a flower before.’
Slowly, he began to walk towards her, his eyes fixed on her face. Hypnotised, she watched him come closer, her body stilled by the sudden tension in the air. Even the birds had fallen quiet, their sharp cries replace by a taut, expectant silence.
He stopped in front of her, and she felt suddenly almost giddy. After so many days of harbouring a grudge against him it was a shock to see him again. And a greater shock to be reminded of how beautiful he was. Her eyes skipped nervously over the curved, hard muscles of his arms and chest. Dressed casually in blue jeans and a faded grey T-shirt, he looked more indie rock star than autocratic billionaire businessman.
His gaze travelled lazily over her and despite the warmth of the day she felt a shiver trickle over her skin.
‘So. Do they talk back?’
He spoke gently, without any hint of mockery, but she still felt her cheeks grow warm.
