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Smiling down at her, he pulled a chair out at the table. After a fraction of hesitation, she walked forward, making him think of a leggy, skittish colt likely to break for freedom at the last moment.
Her gliding grace was as natural as breathing, and all the more attractive because she remained utterly unaware that the way she moved made men watch her.
Standing behind her, he fought the impulse to tuck a behind her ear a stray strand of hair that floated across her cheek. At least he was free to enjoy the scent of her shampoo and take in all the details of the lovely length of her neck, the delicate protrusion of her shoulder blades and the line of her spine. A ballet dancer would have been jealous of the supple strength in the fine network of muscles under the silky skin of her back.
‘She offered to stay.’
‘Your cook?’ Tilda said, faintly trying to jolt her brain into active life, but at least able to breathe now he wasn’t standing so close. She watched through her lashes as he pulled out a seat opposite her but didn’t immediately sit down.
‘She has her grandson visiting her. He’s an undergraduate at Oxford and she doesn’t get to see him that much.’
‘Oh, no, that’s fine...that’s very considerate of you.’
He pushed away the stab of guilt. His motives had been far from altruistic; he had just seized on the excuse to have dinner with Tilda with no interruptions.
He was playing with fire and he knew it, but it didn’t seem to matter. A kind of madness had taken hold when he had seen her standing there, and he wasn’t fighting it very hard. He wasn’t fighting, he was going with the flow, and it felt...dangerous...but danger always had attracted him.
Some inner sense told her that if she didn’t break the spell now she never would. ‘I should look in on Sam...’ she said, half-rising. ‘I wasn’t sure where his room was.’
‘I already have looked in.’ On one of the several occasions he had stood outside their suite door, debating whether to go inside.
‘Oh!’ She sank back down, thinking,at least I tried...though not so desperately hard.
‘He is stuffing his face again and talking astrophysics.’
‘And how goes the hunt for a new PA? Have you considered Rowena?’
‘The office again!’ He sighed. ‘History repeating itself...’
Tilda gave a mystified shake of her head. ‘Sorry I don’t...?’
‘Angelapersuaded me to giveyoua chance.’
Tilda smiled. ‘Did she? I never knew. I wonder how she is.’ Tilda really regretted losing contact with the older woman. ‘It’s tragic...she was only thirty-one.’ On the last occasion they’d met, Angela had been coping with the hair loss from chemo with typical Angela humour.
‘And now she is thirty-five, and she and her husband have started a business and have adopted their first child.’
Her eyes flew wide. ‘She had the all-clear!’ Her delight morphed into astonishment. ‘Youkept in touch!’
‘She worked for me for eight years—I am their child’s godfather.’ Probably not a very good one, but he had been touched to be asked, and little Arthur was probably the closest he’d ever come to parenthood. Actually, he thought, self-correcting his thought, there was no probably about it.
He remembered his godson’s birthday, sent him Christmas gifts and had set up a trust fund for his education, but he didn’tknowthe child; he felt noemotionalconnection—certainly not the sort that he felt for Sam. In a few short weeks the teen had made a big impression and Ezio liked to think he had actually been of some help to the kid too.
‘Well, send her my love the next time you speak to her. So, does your housekeeper live in...and other staff...?’ She had seen a group of men looking busy in the garden.
‘Sybil has a cottage in the grounds and the head gardener, Nikos, lives in the gatehouse. A contractor comes in for the heavy-duty stuff these days, but he has a few men who help, and a youngster he is training up to replace him.’
‘The garden here looks very beautiful,’ she said, relieved to be talking about something normal. ‘I can’t wait to explore.’
‘They are actually more upkeep than the house. Sybil makes do with a couple of locals who come in daily, and more as needed, but the place is empty a lot of the year.’
Processing this information in her head, Tilda came up with the information she had been fishing for in a roundabout way—the place was empty except for Sam, who would probably fall asleep over his computer screen.
‘Wine?’
‘Oh God, yes please,’ she said with feeling. Then, catching the quiver of his lips, she added quickly, ‘I’m quite thirsty.’ Her eyes went to the water jug and she grabbed it and filled her glass, looking at him over the rim as she raised it to her lips.
‘And you missed out on the champagne on the flight.’
