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Leaning forward, he gripped his ribs and his shoulders began to shake, the strangled, choking sounds starting to alarm me... Until I realised, he wasn’t dying... He was laughing. The deep, rough sound echoing across the empty estate was raw and rusty and painful, almost as if he hadn’t laughed in a very long time and was relearning how.
But when he finally flopped back in the chair, scrubbing away the moisture from his eyes with his fist, and gulping for breath, the raucous laughs had subsided into low chuckles, and the tension in my own shoulders had relaxed.
When he turned towards me, though, the tension cinched tight again, darting deep into my abdomen, as I spotted a twinkle in the deep emerald of his irises I remembered. I realised his handsome face, despite the heavy beard, and the gaunt hollows in his cheeks, was no less captivating than it had been four years ago.
The shiver of unwanted sensation I had woken up with went into overdrive.
‘It’s lucky you are a good cook,’ he said, his voice husky with the approval that had once made me do stupid things. ‘Because your mouth is...’ His gaze dipped. ‘Very bad,’ he added.
I chewed on my bottom lip, trying to contain the punch of lust as the memory of our kiss on the dance floor bombarded me and the sensation centred on my mouth.
His gaze lifted to mine. For one terrible moment, I thought he had remembered that incendiary kiss too. But then the twinkle in his eyes died, his gaze becoming shuttered and wary. The scowl returned as he looked back towards the sea.
‘Leave the breakfast,’ he said, his tone dismissive. ‘And tell the grounds staff to refill the pool,’ he added, closing his eyes, as if he was absorbing the feel of the early-morning sun warming his sallow skin—and deliberately shutting me out. He lifted his hand, doing a flicking motion with his fingers, as if I was a troublesome fly. ‘I will have my lunch at noon. Now go.’
I wanted to tell him where he could stick his rude commands, but the shimmer was still there—distracting and disturbing me. So I decided to let him stew for now.
But just as I reached the balcony door and lifted last night’s dinner tray from the dresser he added, ‘By the way, I do not permit the staff to swim in the pool.’
I ignored the spark of anger at the contemptuous comment, aware he was deliberately trying to put me in my place. I bit down hard on my lip and swallowed down my response as I left the room.
We’ll just see about that, Mr Grumpy.
CHAPTER SEVEN
One week later...
Renzo
AWEEKAFTERmy new—and unwanted—personal chef had arrived I was tired and out of sorts. Each morning, I struggled out of bed before she appeared, forced myself to shower, and dress, then went to sit on the terrace, trying to look nonchalant, so she wouldn’t find me lying flat on my back in the bed like an invalid. But the process wasn’t getting any easier. My leg cramped painfully for hours afterwards and every other muscle in my body continued to protest at the unwanted exertion.
But worse, as I endured the pain each morning, each lunchtime and each evening, I was aware I was becoming fascinated with the annoying, insolent woman—who did not behave like any other person I had ever employed.
As I sat exhausted on the terrace this evening and waited for her last appearance of the day with my supper tray, my leg in agony from the marching I had done around and around the room this afternoon to relieve the cramping, my traitorous heart was going into overdrive in my chest. All because I was about to see her again.
How pathetic.
I heard the door to the suite open and close, and her soft footsteps in the bedroom, and my heart crammed into my throat.
‘Hello, Mr Camaro. I’ve made you a delicious aubergine Parmigiana for dinner tonight,’ she announced as she plopped the tray on the wrought iron table in front of me. The bright breezy tone made my irritation flare. ‘With freshly baked ciabatta rolls and a tiramisu for dessert.’
My taste buds were already dancing a jig as she uncovered the feast she had prepared for me. But as my gaze devoured her lean frame—disguised in the baggy T-shirt and scuffed jeans she always wore, and I noticed the flushed dewy skin of her face devoid of make-up as she straightened and grinned at me—the swell of something hot and fluid blossomed in my groin.Again.
The irritation twisted into resentment in my gut.
Somehow, the housekeeper I didn’t even like had begun to captivate me. I was actually beginning to look forward to seeing her each day, anticipating her arrival like a lovesick teenager.
‘I wanted meat tonight,’ I stated belligerently, the ache in my leg now joined by the pointless ache in my groin. ‘I’m sick of always eating vegetables,’ I added, knowing that my anger had nothing to do with her choice of menu and everything to do with the fact I could not act on my attraction to her, even if I had wanted to. Which of course I did not, I added to myself swiftly, to stave off the familiar feeling of inadequacy and hopelessness.
I did not sleep with my employees. Even ones that fascinated and—damn it—aroused me.
She stared back at me, the beguiling sparkle of achievement in her face fading. For a moment, I thought I could see the soft sheen of pity—which I hated even more than my inability to even contemplate seducing her, or any other woman—but then she propped a bunched fist on her hip and her brows flattened.
‘Stop being such a grump, Camaro,’ she snapped, as usual not backing down for a second. Why did that only fascinate and excite me more?Damn her. ‘Who climbed up your bum today?’
‘Perhaps if you were in constant pain, you’d know who climbed up there,’ I snarled, infuriated now, not just by my growing dependence on her, but how reduced I felt in her present.
‘You wouldn’t be in constant pain if you’d agree to work with the physio, so whose fault is that exactly?’ she announced, then swept off the terrace and disappeared.
