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‘As well as being an heir to a hotel fortune and Italian vineyard owner, I mean.’
His socks followed. ‘Your point being?’
‘It’s just you seem to like dribbling out the details, making us think one thing while all the while something else is true.’
‘I didn’t make you think one thing—you decided I knew nothing about wine all by yourself.’ He put his hands to the band of his knitted top and, before she realised what he was doing, reefed it over his head, tossing it into a corner.
Panic squeezed her lungs. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m getting undressed. You can stay and argue if you want, but I’m going to bed.’ He stood, bare-chested, his skin gleaming olive in the thin light, and put his hand to his trousers and suddenly she didn’t care how much space he took up, she was going to get around him and through that door.
‘I’m leaving,’ she said, practically hugging the wall to get past. But she turned at the door, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on a wall so there was no chance she would witness if he did drop his trousers before she got the last word in. ‘Oh, and I was wrong before and you were right.’
He sighed. ‘I don’t get you.’
‘I don’t like you,’ she said over her shoulder, ‘and it is personal.’
Yesterday’s storms had long gone, the morning mist hanging like veils between the gums, swirling damp kisses to her cheeks as she worked, snippers in her hand cutting the new shoots off at the second bud. Some days she’d find the odd kangaroo or two grazing near where she worked, or there would be a brand-new lamb arrived overnight to welcome her.
She loved this season in the vineyard, a time she could be at one with the vines, talking to them, whispering words of encouragement as she went.
And she loved this time of the day.
Usually.
Not today.
Today there were no kangaroos and no brand-new lambs to make her smile. Today there were mutters instead of whispers. Today there were kookaburras laughing in the gum trees. Today her gut was wound tighter than a vine on a wire.
Because today Franco was joining her with the pruning.
The snippers in her hand felt awkward and uncooperative and not for the first time she glanced down at her watch. Not for the first time she asked herself why she bothered checking. It was still early and they would be hours yet. Apparently Josh had taken Franco into town to the menswear supplier and no doubt a decent breakfast while they were waiting for the shops to open.
Thank God for Josh. She didn’t want to be the one today to knock on Franco’s door and rouse him if he was still sleeping. She didn’t want to risk a second look at that bare chest or see his long wavy hair tousled by sleep or his square chin adorned in designer stubble.
She didn’t even want to think about that bare chest and all that olive skin or the tone of the muscles packed beneath. Neither did she want to remember the feel of his hands in her hair and on her scalp and what his touch had done to the rest of her.
No, the only thing she wanted was to see the back of him. And fully clothed into the deal.
She snipped her way along the row, some measure of anticipation fizzing in her blood. Today was the test. Franco had told them he could prune. He’d agreed that if he was rubbish, the deal was off. Today they’d get to find out if he’d spoken the truth or whether he’d overplayed his hand.
And whether she could breathe again without the risk of breathing air flavoured by him.
The tightness in her gut pulled another notch tighter. But given how confident he’d been of his talents, how much chance was there of that happening any time soon?
She heard them before she saw them. Two men talking somewhere out there in the mist in low tones, one voice unmistakably Australian, the other a blend, a product of two foreign cultures.
And their voices were like two different varieties of wine, she mused, two different characters with different top and bottom notes and regional flavours.
They were laughing at a shared joke, loud and uncontained, and for one horrible moment Holly had the feeling they were laughing about her.
She’d given Franco enough ammunition for a few good jokes. Had he shared the story of her fleeing from his bedroom as he’d got undressed?
And she was just telling herself not to be so paranoid when she saw them emerge from the swirling mist and they saw her and they both stopped laughing and she felt even sicker.
Josh waved. Franco kept his hands in his pockets.
At least she assumed it must be Franco, except he looked more like something out of an RM Williams bush outfitters ad, all decked out in slim-fitting moleskin jeans and boots and a dark jacket and with an Akubra on his head and all brand-spanking-new.
