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Surely goading him would at least get a response.
But when the silence continued, I forced myself to look towards the bed, then almost dropped the tray.
The bed was empty. I searched the rest of the room, then rushed to the en suite bathroom, but he wasn’t in there either.
What the actual.?Where had he gone?
‘Mr Camaro?’ I asked, my heart ramming my throat as I raced back into the bedroom, still carting the tray. Surely, he was in no condition to go for a morning stroll? He had barely been able to sit up when I’d brought him his meal last night.
Jessie, you idiot, you annoyed him so much he ran away. Even though he can barely walk.
Just as I was becoming frantic—imagining his emaciated body at the bottom of one of the cliffs, or lying frozen after spending a night lost in the grounds—a shadow crossed the empty room. I swung round to see a dark silhouette in the terrace doorway. His tall frame was propped against the door, his sweatpants—the only thing he wore—hung off his narrow hips, but somehow his chest looked less sunken. His gaze was fierce—and a great deal more lucid than it had been the night before—when he turned into the light.
‘Oh, thank goodness. You’re here,’ I blurted out, my relief making the tray rattle.
‘Where else would I be?’ he asked, his voice gruff with irritation but somehow less sulky and self-pitying.
‘Good point,’ I murmured, feeling the flush of awareness as my gaze absorbed the hard lines of his chest and it occurred to me that although he was way too thin, he looked stronger and more imposing than he had last night too. My gaze skated over the tattoos and scars which I had once found so compelling. The spike of awareness made me realise that hadn’t changed.
Great.
I could see the effort it was taking for him to stand upright, though, from the slight tremor in his legs, to the sheen of sweat which made his skin glow. He winced, as he headed back onto the terrace. I followed him to the doorway, and watched as he made slow, painful progress towards the chaise longue which he must have been sitting in when I arrived.
But just as he reached it, he stumbled. His face contorted as he gripped the back of the chair to stop from falling.
I dumped the tray on the dresser and rushed onto the terrace. But as I reached out to offer him my hand, he flinched.
‘Don’t,’ he snapped.
I withdrew my hand. And watched—emotion squeezing my ribs—as he braced his arms, his knuckles whitening, and forced himself to put weight back on his injured leg. It seemed to take an eternity as he breathed through the pain. But when he finally managed to manoeuvre himself around the chair, and collapsed back into it, admiration swept through me.
‘You know, that would get a lot easier if you would see the physiotherapist Henri has hired for you,’ I murmured, trying to sound dispassionate, as I ticked off item two on Henri’s list.
‘If I wanted your opinion, I would ask for it,’ he snarled.
The sulky tone was back.
In a weird way I was glad—it helped to slow my frantic heartbeat. When he was being a self-absorbed jerk, it was easier not to feel too much sympathy for him.
I returned to the bedroom to retrieve the breakfast tray. I placed it on the wrought iron table in front of him and whisked off the domed cover with a theatrical flourish.
‘I made waffles.’ I announced, mimicking the talking donkey in a children’s cartoon Belle’s son Cai had made me watch about a hundred times.
Renzo’s gaze shifted from the view across the cliffs and locked on mine. A surly brow rose up his forehead. Apparently, he was not an aficionado of classic kids’ cartoons, because he did not look amused.
‘Did I say I wanted breakfast?’ he said, through gritted teeth as he shifted in the chair trying to ease his leg.
I placed the dome on the table. And straightened. I could play this one of two ways, I decided. Either I could admit I could see how much he was suffering and take pity on him...or I could play devil’s advocate.
My heart was still pounding frantically in my throat—making me very aware I was not as unaffected by his suffering as I wanted to be. But I could tell from that surly scowl, the last thing he wanted, or needed, was my pity.
So, I placed my hands on my hips and let my gaze sweep derisively over his chest—which no longer looked quite as unimpressive as I wanted it to.
‘You may not want breakfast, big guy. But it’s fairly obvious you need to eat. Unless of course you would rather feel sorry for yourself before you finally manage to starve yourself to death.’
His brows shot up his forehead. And I could see my stroppy response had shocked him. I braced myself, ready to get the boot, less than twenty-four hours after being hired.
But then to my utter astonishment the sharp glower on his face lifted and a strangled sound came out of his mouth.
