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She bit down on her lip. “I doubt it. I sell okay in the UK and Australia, but not anywhere else yet.” She lifted her shoulders. “It’s a labour of love, but at least the hours are flexible and I can do it from anywhere in the world.”
“So you’re here for research?” He prompted after a moment.
She smiled quickly, hoping he wouldn’t realise the way her face had tightened in response to the question. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. It’s kind of a writer’s retreat,” she substituted. “I needed a break. From home.” She sipped her tea quickly, choking on it a little.
“Where’s home?”
“England.” It was a vague answer that told him nothing he didn’t presumably already know, given her accent. She couldn’t help it. In the six months since leaving London, she’d received several text messages from Michael each week. It was impossible to feel safe and as though she was out of the woods when he was still reaching out to her. Every time she saw his name on her phone, she panicked. It was like being dragged back into their home, back into his life, the sensation suffocating and cloying.
“London?”
She stood up a little jerkily and moved towards the large windows. “You were right about the storm. It’s not showing any sign of letting up.”
He was quiet for a few moments and she held her breath, wondering if he was going to let her conversation change go. But after a few moments, his voice came from right behind her. “Our summer storms tend to be like that. There aren’t many, but when they come, they’re violent as all hell.” She lifted her gaze to his face, marvelling at the strength there, a bone structure that reminded her a little of the cliff face she’d scaled earlier that day. “When I was a boy, I was here with my grandfather and Yaya when a storm came through. It destroyed half the town, including this place.”
She looked around, taking in the grandness of the house with fresh eyes. As if reading her thoughts, he murmured, “Oh, it didn’t used to look like this.”
“No?”
“It was far more rustic.” He lifted a hand, running it over the smooth, white wall. “But beautiful. Big open rooms coming off a central hallway, terracotta roof, lime-washed walls, and the smell of salt and sand and fish everywhere. The walls were the strangest colour – like sand, I suppose – yellow brown, but I can’t see that colour without feeling a yearning for this place.”
Her smile was instinctive. “It sounds a lot like La Villetta.”
“I’ve never been inside,” he murmured, his voice like melted chocolate. “But certamente, the exteriors would indicate they were constructed around the same time.”
“The first time I saw La Villetta, I felt like I’d stepped into a postcard of Italy. It was everything I’d imagined.”
“You hadn’t been here before?”
“To Ondechiara? Never.”
“To Italy, though?”
“To Rome and Venice.”
His lips showed a hint of derision. “The tourist hotspots.”
“Guilty as charged,” she responded in kind, earning a grin from him that seared something in the pit of her stomach. “I was blown away by the beauty of this place. The village is lovely, of course, and the people friendly, but it’s the countryside I’m besotted with. Rolling mountains in a dozen different shades of green, roads that carve their way across the hills’ undulations, flowers that seem to burst with life, fruit that fills the air with the most divine fragrance.” She shook her head a little. “And there, in the middle of nowhere, on the edge of a little tributary, is La Villetta di Pietra, all stone-washed walls and tiled floors, a garden with geraniums and lavender, and goats just across the field.” She wasn’t aware of the way his eyes dropped to her smile, studying her in a manner that would have made her heart flip and flop if she’d noticed it.
“It’s like something out of a fairy tale. I feel so safe here.”
“Safe?” He prompted and inwardly, she admonished herself for employing such a telling word.
“You know, calm. It’s nice.” The response was awkward. She lifted her face to his and finally saw the way he was looking at her, so her breath snagged in her throat and she felt an odd rush of feeling – of many feelings, all tangled together so she couldn’t understand a single impulse that was overtaking her body.
There was guilt,
certainly, because her body was warm all over, her pulse throbbing, her heart racing, her fingertips aching with a need to reach out and touch this man. Why should she feel guilty, though? Because of Michael? The very idea sparked defiance in her chest. He’d already taken enough from her. He’d hurt her enough. He didn’t get to have any place in this – he was a completely separate part of her life – a part of her past, not her present and certainly not her future.
That was why she was here, in Italy. Because here she needed a circuit-breaker; a fresh start. His eyes dropped to her mouth and her heart lurched because she wanted, more than anything, to feel his lips on hers. A tiny sound escaped her lips – something between a groan and a plea – but it was enough to startle her. She took a small step back, smiled tightly and returned her attention to the view.
“And you like calm?”
His own voice was gravelled and it sparked a tsunami of need in her belly. She tamped down on it with effort.
“Who doesn’t?”
He was quiet and despite her best intentions, she found her eyes lifting to his.
