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The driveway definitely needed some attention, he thought critically, as he sidestepped a crater-like pothole. Up close, the palazzo too had clearly seen better days. Parts of the stucco were crumbling, and there were small plants poking through the plaster like loose threads on a jumper. And yet still there was something magical about its faded glamour.
He scowled, irritated by this sudden and wholly uncharacteristic descent into sentimentality. There was nothing magical about bricks and plaster. Especially when they were reduced to rubble. And as soon as Miss Flora Golding signed over her tenancy rights that was exactly what was going to happen.
Eyes narrowing, he climbed up the steps to the large front door and pulled purposefully on the bell rope. Tapping his fingers impatiently against the brickwork, he frowned and then pulled on the rope again. There was no answering jangle from inside and stifling a stab of irritation, he hammered hard against the peeling paint, resting his hand on the wood, the heat of it somehow feeding his anger.
Damn her! How dare she keep him waiting like this? Craning his neck, he looked up at the first-storey windows, half expecting to see a face, the eyes dancing with malice. But there was no face, and for the first time he realised that the windows—all the windows—were shuttered. Gritting his teeth, he straightened up. The message could hardly be clearer: Miss Golding was not at home to visitors. Ever.
His head felt full to spilling with rage. Turning on his heel, he walked down the steps and strode along an untidy path beside the palazzo, his shoes crunching explosively on the gravel. Each shuttered window seemed to jeer at him as he passed, and his anger swelled with every step. Reaching the end of the path, he found a gate, the latch broken and with what looked suspiciously like a woman’s stocking tied around it to keep it shut. Irritably, he tore at it with his fingers.
Stalking past a pile of discarded masonry and rusting iron railings, he felt a quiver of excitement as he stepped through a crumbling stone archway into a walled garden. In contrast to the front of the building, all the shutters and the windows at the back of the building were open, and then, turning towards the palazzo, he noticed a half-empty glass of water and the remains of an apple on a marble-topped table. So she was here! But where, exactly?
Blinking in the sunlight, his spine stiffened as he got his answer. Somewhere in the gardens, a woman was singing.
He stared fiercely around the terrazza, but it was empty except for a handful of sunbathing salamanders. For a moment he was rooted to the spot, the pounding of his heart drowning out the song, and then, forcing himself to breathe more slowly, he lifted his head. But it was too late. She’d stopped singing.
Damn it! He turned slowly on the spot, his eyes narrow slits of frustration. Where the hell was she? And then he heard it—the same husky voice—and he felt another flicker of excitement. With light, determined steps, he ducked under an archway festooned with roses—and then stopped almost immediately. It was just another empty terrace. His disappointment aching like a blow to the stomach, he glanced through a fringing of leaves at a large sunken ornamental pond and a collection of marble nymphs.
What the hell was wrong with him? Chasing after a singing girl like some foolhardy sailor bewitched by a siren...
And then his breath stopped his throat and his heart seemed to miss a beat as across the garden he saw one of the nymphs reach out to touch a cluster of pale pink oleanders.
Dry-mouthed, he watched her bend and twist in silence, his breath still trapped somewhere between his throat and his stomach. With the sunlight gleaming on her wet body she looked like a goddess fresh from her morning bath. Her beauty was luminous, dazzling. Beside her the exquisite marble nymphs looked dull and blandly pretty.
Staring hungrily at the slender curl of her waist, the small upturned breasts, he felt the blood start to pulse in his neck. His eyes followed the soft curve of her backbone down to the firm, rounded bottom. The vertebrae looked both defenceless and dangerous and he watched, silently mesmerized as she lifted her arms, and stretching languidly, began to hum. And then his breath almost choked him as he saw that she wasn’t completely naked but was wearing a tiny flesh-coloured thong.
The scrap of damp fabric tugged at his gaze.
His chest tightening, he stared at her hungrily, his blood pulsing thickly as she dipped her feet into the pond and then began to sing again in the same sweet, light voice.
Massimo smiled. He recognised the song, and with the breath spinning out of him like sugar turning to candyfloss he started to whistle the tune.
The girl froze, her head jerking upwards. Taking a step forwards, she frowned. ‘Who’s there?’
Moving out from under the archway, Massimo held his hands out in front of him. ‘Sorry. I couldn’t resist. I hope I didn’t scare you.’
She stared at him fiercely, and he realised with surprise that she didn’t seem scared. Nor had she made any attempt to cover her nakedness. But then given the beauty of that body, why should she? His own body hardened painfully as she looked up at him defiantly.
‘Then perhaps you shouldn’t creep about in the bushes. This is private property and you’re trespassing. I suggest you leave now before I call the police.’
Her Italian was fluent, and bore no trace of an English accent, and he felt another stab of surprise and admiration too. But neither showed on his face as he smiled at her coolly.
‘The police! That might be a little premature.’ His English was perfect and, watching her eyes widen with surprise, he smiled grimly, gratified to see that he had got under that delectable skin. ‘Don’t you want to know who I am first?’
‘I know who you are, Mr Sforza.’ Her voice was clear and calm. She lifted her chin. ‘And I know what you want. But you’re not going to get it. This is my home, and I’m not about to let you turn it into some ghastly boutique hotel for loud, sweaty tourists, so you might as well leave.’
‘Or what?’ His eyes drifted casually over her naked breasts. ‘If you’re concealing a weapon, I’d really like to know where.’ He stared at her mockingly. ‘This is my property and my land and you are my tenant. As your landlord, I’m entitled to inspect what’s mine. Although, to be fair, I think you’ve pretty much shown me everything there is to see.’
Flora glared at him, her eyes flashing with anger. So this was the famous Massimo Sforza—or was that infamous? The man whose arrogant swirling signature had dominated her days and dreams for so many weeks. He was everything she had imagined him to be: slickly clever, charming yet ruthless. But now, with that glittering blue gaze locked onto hers, it was clear she had underestimated the ratio of charm to ruthlessness. Meeting his eyes, she felt a shiver of fury run through her body. He clearly believed that his presence was dazzling enough to overpower her objections to his stupid hotel. If so, he was sadly mistaken. She’d had her fill of men simply assuming that she would fit in with their plans. Particularly one as smug as Massimo Sforza.
Her heartbeat began to quicken. He was completely, irredeemably loathsome. So why then was her pulse fluttering like a moth near a candle? Heat burned her cheeks and she shook her head in denial—but there could be no denying her body’s treacherous, quivering response to his. Nor the fact that he was the most wickedly attractive man she’d ever met.
And the most dangerous.
She gritted her teeth, confused and angered by her body’s response. It was so inappropriate and shallow and given who she knew him to be, frankly wrong. So what if he was handsome? Hadn’t she seen his photo in enough newspapers and magazines to have grown sick of that sculpted head? Her body felt hot and taut beneath the intensely blue focus of his gaze, but she shivered. It was crazy: he hadn’t even touched her. But nothing could truly have prepared her for the reality of his beauty or that air of power and self-assurance. With that sleek black hair, the flawless bone structure just visible beneath the stubble and that imperious gaze he might easily have been one of the bandits that used to roam the island’s hills.
She scowled. Only now, instead of robbing rich travellers of their money and jewellery, he robbed ordinary people of their homes and livelihoods. He might be wearing the trappings of respectability and wealth—his suit and shoes were clearly handmade and expensive—but he had the morals of a common thief.
Her gaze skipped swiftly over the breadth of his chest. It might be broad—but not because he was big-hearted. This man didn’t have a heart, and she would do well to remember that the next time she got dewy-eyed about his blatant masculine perfection.
