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He was glad she didn’t refuse, because he didn’t really want to argue with her, nor did he want her pneumonia on his conscience. He had only his own clothes to offer and there was a substantial size difference between them. He pulled out a sweater and a pair of board shorts that had a drawstring waist, as well as some socks. When he returned to the lounge room, she was staring at one of the paintings – a landscape of the area that had been done by a well-known impressionist. It had been turned into a print at some point, before his family’s acquisition, and the replication was sold all over the world.
Her eyes flicked to his. “I’m making a puddle.”
“Di niente. I have towels.”
Her eyes held his in a way that was compelling and unnerving. “This is beautiful.”
“Si.” He moved towards it. “It captures Ondechiara well.”
She nodded. “It’s the original?”
“Si.”
“Wow.” The word escaped her lips so softly he barely heard it.
“Here. There’s not much but at least it will keep you warm for now.”
“Thanks.” She looked around. “Is there somewhere…?”
“Of course,” he nodded crisply. “The door on the left.” He gestured down the corridor. As she walked towards the powder room, he found his eyes following her without his knowledge, studying the lithe grace of her step, the gentle curve of her rear, her neat waist. He dragged his gaze away with effort, turning his attention to the water she’d leaked onto the marble floor. Grabbing a towel from the linen press, he’d just finished drying it when she returned.
Seeing her dressed in his clothes was his undoing. She was so petite and feminine, she was dwarfed by his shirt, and his socks came halfway up her calves, all wrinkled and thick. Out of nowhere, he imagined the feel of his fabric on her body and his whole body tightened in response. His desire now was no stealth-like whisper. It was a throb, a drum beating intensely in his gut, pulsing through his body in a way that was unsettling, given the promise he’d rendered in order to convince her to take shelter.
“What are you doing so far from la villetta?” His voice was a little unnatural. He silently cleared his t
hroat.
“I told you,” she smiled, her wet clothes clutched in front of her. “Exploring.”
He moved towards her, noting more details up close. She wore no make up – or perhaps she had at some point that day, but it had all been washed off now. She didn’t need cosmetics. She had a beauty that was completely natural, her bone structure so fine, her complexion stunning. She’d towel-dried her hair and pulled it over one shoulder and the size of his shirt meant the fine bones of her décolletage were displayed to him.
“Can these go in the machine?” He gestured to her clothes.
She pulled a face that was borderline teasing. “Yeah. But you don’t need to bother…”
“We’re stuck here til the storm passes. It’s no trouble.”
“If you’re sure.”
He held a hand out by way of acceptance and she placed the clothes in them. The gesture was unconscious but it brought them nearer; up close, there was a hint of citrus surrounding her, as though she’d been kissed by the grove to the east of the house. Her eyes flared wide, as though she too felt this zip of awareness, this hum of need, and neither of them moved for several seconds. They stared at each other so he caught every detail of her response. Her lips parted and her breath was warm, fanning against his Adam’s apple. A hint of colour flared in her cheeks, and the fine pulse point at the base of her throat trembled visibly.
Curiosity strangled him.
“I…” Her voice was soft. She swallowed, as if struggling to grab the threads of her thoughts. “I didn’t realise this was a house. I wouldn’t have encroached on your privacy…”
“Di niente.” He shook his head, and it was like breaking a spell – or postponing its hold at least. “I’ll be right back.”
But she padded behind him, so that as he pushed the towels and her clothes into the washer, he was conscious of her leaning against the doorjamb watching him with an undisguised curiosity of her own. “You’re more domesticated than you look.”
He added a tablet and shut the door, pressed some buttons then stood. “You don’t know that – I could very well have ruined your clothes by putting them on the wrong setting.”
She shrugged. “That’s true.”
And though he knew he should resist the temptation to flirt with her, he heard himself say, “And how do I look…?” He deliberately let his question taper off, realising he didn’t know her name.
“Maddie,” she supplied.
“Maddie,” he repeated. It suited her. Soft and sweet but somehow confident too. “Well?” He prompted.
