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What was it about this skinny English girl with messy hair and eyes like an angry cat? Even before he’d met her in the flesh she’d been messing with his head. Playing games. Pulling strings.
And he’d let her.
Even though he’d vowed never to let it happen again. Never to let his emotions rise up and drag him under to that place of dark misery that had been his childhood.
His stomach tightened as it always did at the thought of his stepmother and, grimacing, he pressed the ignition, letting the snarl of the engine override the jerky beat of his heart. He’d let that manipulative little witch get under his skin. But it wouldn’t happen again. Whatever it was he thought he’d felt when he held her in his arms was just that: a thought. Fleeting, illusory—like a rainbow.
Shifting gear, he imagined the day ahead. He had a meeting with the architect. Then lunch with his land agent. Maybe afterwards he would take the yacht out. Invite a couple of ‘guests’ to join him. Find a deserted beach and lose some inhibitions.
Feeling calmer, he pressed his foot down lightly on the accelerator pedal. The hard stone of fear and doubt inside him was disintegrating, mingling with
the dust whipped up from the road, and as he pushed the car up a gear, his head emptied of everything but the sound of the engine and the intoxicating rush of air.
* * *
‘And six of the tomatoes, please.’
Flora gazed dully at the colourful fruit and vegetables spilling onto the dusty ground. She wasn’t a keen cook, preferring meals of almost rustic simplicity, but this was one of her guilty pleasures: poring over the crates of lemons and artichokes in Cagliari market.
She had woken early and, hounded by the memory of what had happened the day before, had slipped out of the palazzo with no plan in mind other than avoiding Massimo. Now, wandering aimlessly around the town, she felt both listless and strangely on edge.
Crossing the road towards the café quarter, she felt a sudden sharp pang of envy as a pair of teenage boys shot by her on a scooter, shouting with laughter. Yesterday she had felt like that too: carefree and unfettered. But now everything had changed.
And it was all because of him: Massimo.
She bit her lip. It was so unfair! And irrational!
It wasn’t as if she’d never been kissed before. She’d had boyfriends. Actual, real-life boyfriends whom she’d liked and respected. Her cheeks grew warm. Only their kisses had never felt like that.
Even now she could still feel the touch of his lips on hers, vivid and blazing like a brand. And, more worryingly, she couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said to her after she’d kissed him. It had been arrogant and crass and it should have repelled her. But it hadn’t. Instead, she had felt something stir inside her—a tingling, flickering tug of desire that had tasted warm and sweet and smooth on her tongue—
She took a hard, fast breath and, stopping abruptly in front of a café, sat down and ordered a coffee. A folded newspaper had been left on the table and she threw it onto the unoccupied chair beside her, dropping her bag on top of it.
Glancing round at the smiling, happy faces, she felt a pinprick of fear. Surely there had to be rules about this sort of thing. It didn’t make sense that he, of all people, should have such an intense physical effect on her. She bit her lip, goosebumps tingling over her skin. But was it really that incomprehensible? Massimo Sforza was the most beautiful man she’d ever met. Sexy and smart, and of course arrogant beyond belief. But nothing could detract from his dazzling, wild, mesmerising beauty.
Her phone buzzed inside her bag and, relieved to have an excuse to push away her unsettling thoughts, she pulled it out. Her relief faded and her breath jerked in her throat. It was Freddie.
Typically, he started speaking as soon as she picked up. ‘I think you’re right. You should stay put.’
Flora frowned. Her mind seemed to have stalled. Had Freddie just told her she was right? ‘Okay...’ she said hesitantly. ‘Wow! That’s great. It feels like the right thing to do. I mean, I can’t just up and leave every time something gets tricky. Sometimes you have to stay and fight—like Spartacus.’
‘So you’re saying you’re like a slave in Ancient Rome?’
Freddie’s voice was pleasant enough, but the undertone beneath his words still stung. ‘No,’ she said hastily. ‘In fact, it’s actually got better,’ she lied.
There was a silence, and then Freddie said softly, ‘That’s great!’ He paused. ‘If it was true. But I know when you’re lying, and you just lied to me. Which means it’s a whole lot worse than you’re letting on. Which leads me back to why I rang you in the first place—’
‘To tell me I’m right to stay here,’ Flora interrupted, resenting Freddie’s hectoring tone and feeling a familiar wave of panic rise up.
‘No! To tell you that I’m coming over to help—’
‘Oh, no, you’re not, Freddie. You are not coming!’ Curling over the phone, she pushed her coffee cup across the table with a shaking hand. ‘I do not need you to fight my battles.’
‘So you admit you’re fighting with him?’
Flora breathed out slowly. ‘Please, Freddie. Don’t cross-examine me. I’m fine. I don’t need your help.’
‘Spartacus had help. And he still lost.’
