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It was hers.
Three days they’d been back.
Holly had smiled her way through every one of them as if she hadn’t revealed to him her deepest darkest secret. As if she hadn’t begged him to make love to her.
Three sleepless nights of reminding himself of all the reasons why he shouldn’t go there.
And Holly had taunted him every time he closed his eyes. Holly peeling off her top and revealing those breasts clad in lace and bows. Holly in the shower, with the water cascading over her skin. Holly tasting of wine and woman.
She was killing him. Driving him mad. And she hadn’t so much as come near him for days. And whereas in the corking room it had been the brushing against each other, the seemingly casual touches that had stirred him, now it was their lack of touching that stirred him and made him hot with wanting.
And now a new team of workers had arrived to prune the acres of the younger vines and she left him working alone in the old vines to spend half the day with them. He could hear her laughter welling up from the rows as she worked alongside them. He could hear their deep voices, and he wondered if she was thinking about having gratuitous sex with one of them.
And he wondered about his reason for not wanting to make love to her—a reason that had seemed so potent that night, but now seemed more feeble by the minute. Shouldn’t her first time be good? Not some fumbled grope in the dark with someone who didn’t care about her experience.
Didn’t she deserve a man who knew how to pleasure a woman?
And it wasn’t the same as Michele, surely. Wasn’t she taking advantage of him—or at least his presence—rather than the other way around?
And the more he thought about that conversation in the car, the more he thought maybe she was right. Maybe she was different. Sure she might be a virgin, but she was older. She was no Michele—he couldn’t imagine her clinging on to someone after the expiry of their relationship’s use-by date.
And Holly’s place was very firmly here whereas in a few short weeks he’d be back to work amongst the rolling hills and vineyards of Piacenza. She wouldn’t follow him. She couldn’t without giving up what she’d worked for here, and there was no way he could see that happening.
Maybe he could help her out, and put a damned stop to this ceaseless burning.
Maybe he should help her out.
Purman the virgin?
Not for much longer.
He growled.
Not if he had anything to do with it.
Mamma Angela’s place was buzzing, a huge crowd already gathered by the time Holly arrived with Gus. Everyone cheered when the guest of honour arrived, proud that one of their own was a finalist in such a prestigious award, and Holly beamed. It was a fun party. There was wine aplenty, as to be expected, freshly pickled local olives and cheeses all overlaid with the tantalising smell of a lamb slowly roasting on a spit.
And somewhere amongst the crowd was Franco.
She’d been avoiding him all week, keeping at arm’s length, determined not to look needy. If he truly didn’t want to help her out, he’d welcome the space. On the other hand, if he was having second thoughts …
Holly didn’t know much about seduction, but she hoped he was having second thoughts.
She found him with Angela overseeing the lamb, the two rapidly conversing in Italian. Angela wore a big apron over her button-through dress, her thick black hair curled back in a ring around her face.
Franco was wearing his sharp Italian threads, the ones he’d been wearing the first day he’d arrived, complete with those ridiculously inappropriate hand-stitched loafers. She’d forgotten how good he’d looked in that outfit—she’d got so used to seeing him in his bush outfitter gear—but tonight he was back to European elegance and he looked more exotic than ever.
He returned her breezy smile with a scowl, and waited for Angela to throw her arms around Holly and squeeze her tight before he greeted her. ‘Holly.’ He nodded, flicking his eyes over her and not looking happy about what he saw, and she wondered if she’d made a huge blunder by staying away.
‘Franco,’ she said uncertainly, ‘I’m glad you’re here.’
‘Of course he come,’ Angela said, her hands held out wide. ‘Who else out of this lot outside my family can speak Italiano. It is so good to speak like my mamma teach me back in Puglia.’
Holly smiled. Clearly Franco had won another fan and she wondered if she’d overblown this whole Chatsfield thing from the start. It wasn’t like there’d been anything in the papers for weeks. Maybe even longer …
‘And so lucky you are to get him to work in your vineyard. Franco is an expert with the wine.’
‘Not as expert as Holly, of course,’ he added.
