In the Italian's Sights Read online

  Taking another step backwards into the bedroom, she said shakily, ‘I—I can’t do this. I’m—I’m sorry.’

  ‘Because of the man you left England to escape?’ he said softly. ‘He still has your heart?’

  Oh, he was good. She’d give him that. He didn’t miss a trick. ‘I told you. I’m not escaping anyone.’ She drew air into her lungs. ‘And even if I was it wouldn’t alter the fact that I don’t sleep around.’

  ‘I did not think for a minute that you would, Cherry.’

  The way he said her name in his delicious accent caused another shiver inside, but her voice was tight when she said, ‘I didn’t come to Italy looking for a cheap holiday romance, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  He tilted his head. ‘Why would I think that, mia piccola?’ He was standing in the doorway now, leaning nonchalantly against the frame, and the very casualness of his pose brought a flood of pride to her rescue.

  He could clearly take her or leave her, she told herself bitterly. Like all men, it would seem. And that was fine—just fine. She could do exactly the same. ‘I just wanted to make my position absolutely clear.’ She tried to moderate her stare into less of a glare. ‘Should I agree to your sister’s request.’

  He nodded. ‘Understood.’ And with that he stepped back on to the landing and closed the door, leaving her alone with an abruptness that was shocking.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SHE’D deserved the sleepless night, Cherry told herself the next morning, after she had watched the night hours creep by. She’d been unbelievably stupid to allow Vittorio to kiss her like that and kiss him back. Of course he had expected he could go further. He’d probably thought they’d both spend the night in her bed—well, his bed, to be pedantic about it. She was in his house after all.

  But not for much longer. She nodded to the thought as she stepped out of the shower and began to dry her hair. It was seven o’clock on a beautiful May morning and with any luck the hire car would be delivered before long. Of course there was breakfast to endure before that, but she’d get through and leave as soon as she could.

  She’d go and see the Castel del Monte first; several people had mentioned it was the finest castle in the region and a breathtaking monument to the modern eye. And then she’d travel further up the coast to the province of Foggia and see more castles, churches and cathedrals. Someone had told her—she couldn’t remember who—that just outside Foggia were the remains of the largest Roman amphitheatre in southern Italy, with a vast arena which had accommodated twenty thousand spectators; she couldn’t leave the area without paying a visit. A few days of culture and improving her mind was just what she needed to put the last twenty-four hours firmly behind her.

  She continued her plans as she dressed, refusing to think of anything else, and left her room just before seven-thirty to make her way to the breakfast room. The door was open when she reached it, and on entering she saw the big dark figure of Vittorio sitting at the table reading a paper. Sophia was not present, which wasn’t what she’d hoped.

  ‘Buongiorno, Cherry.’ Vittorio had risen and pulled out a chair for her before she was halfway across the room, and she had no choice but to sit down next to him.

  She sat, refusing to acknowledge that he looked just as good in jeans and a T-shirt as the more tailored clothes he’d been wearing the day before—although the jeans and T-shirt shouted exclusivity anyway. Born with the proverbial silver spoon and spoiled rotten from the cradle, she told herself viciously. He had no idea of what real life was like. None at all. She doubted he had ever done a day’s work in his life.

  ‘I trust you slept well?’ he said softly, interrupting her character assassination.

  Wild horses wouldn’t have dragged the truth from her. ‘Very well, thank you,’ she replied stiffly, as the two maids bustled in with large dishes of food, which they placed on a long sideboard at the side of the room.

  ‘It is customary that we help ourselves in the morning,’ Vittorio explained quietly. ‘Rosa and Gilda will bring coffee. Would you prefer espresso or cappuccino?’

  Cherry turned to Rosa, who was waiting at her side. ‘Cappuccino, please.’

  ‘Si, signorina.’

  The maid’s smile was sunny. She clearly couldn’t detect the tension in the air, although to Cherry the atmosphere was positively crackling. She helped herself to a glass of orange juice from the jug on the table and sipped it as the two girls left the room. Every morning since arriving in Italy she had woken up looking forward to breakfast. Today her stomach felt in knots.

  ‘There was a call from the car hire firm this morning, Cherry.’ Vittorio rose to his feet as he spoke, coming behind her and pulling back her chair for her as she stood up, before handing her a plate. ‘They regret that due to circumstances outside of their control they cannot provide a replacement car until tomorrow.’

  ‘What?’ Her surprise caused her to meet the beautiful grey eyes for the first time that morning and she felt the impact right down to her toes.

  ‘I told them it is not a problem,’ he continued smoothly. ‘And they can deliver the car the same time tomorrow morning, OK?’

  Not OK. So not OK. Vittorio was waiting for her to select food from the dishes on display but, ignoring them, she said, ‘I want a car today. I’m not prepared to wait. It’s in the agreement I signed that a new car will be provided within twenty-four hours. Did you remind them of that?’

  ‘You are bristling like the porcupine,’ he said mildly. ‘I take it you are not willing to help Sophia and stay for a while?’

  She turned away, swallowing hard and pretending to examine the dishes of sweet pastries and preserves, along with others of salami and cheeses, fresh fruit cut into slices and arranged in a colourful pattern, and bowls of olives. ‘I don’t think I’d be much help.’ If anything had convinced her she needed to leave this house as quickly as possible it was Vittorio, freshly shaved, damp hair slicked back and smelling like heaven. This was self-preservation, clear and simple. Ignore it at your peril, Cherry.

  ‘I do not think this is so, but of course the choice is yours and yours alone.’ Vittorio was filling his plate, apparently indifferent to her decision. ‘Ah, here is Sophia,’ he added, looking beyond Cherry.

  Cherry turned quickly. She had half expected Vittorio’s sister to be bright and bouncy now the truth was out in the open and Vittorio had taken it as well as could be expected, but Sophia’s lovely face was tear-stained and her expression woebegone.

  Instinctively Cherry put down her plate and went to the young girl, taking Sophia’s arm as she said quietly, ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Has Vittorio told you the wedding is to take place in a few weeks?’ Sophia’s green eyes were swimming with tears. ‘I do not know where to start, Cherry. And I was sick this morning.’ A tear slipped down one cheek. ‘I do not feel well.’

  ‘You should have thought of that before you seduced Santo,’ said Vittorio behind them, with what Cherry considered utter callousness. ‘You have no one but yourself to blame for the position you are in. You said that yourself yesterday.’

  ‘You’re not helping.’ Cherry swung round and glared at him. ‘Can’t you see she’s upset? And it takes two to tango, as you well know.’

  ‘If Sophia had merely indulged in the tango with Santo we would not be having this conversation.’ Grey eyes dared her to argue further.

  Never one to refuse a challenge, Cherry snorted her disgust. ‘For goodness’ sake, we’re not all robots like you. Some of us have feelings and Sophia is very tender right now. Your sister’s having a baby, and that’s a huge change in a woman’s body and emotions. She needs your understanding—if you have any, that is. Which is very doubtful.’

  ‘My understanding tells me Sophia needs to sit down,’ Vittorio said drily.

  Cherry’s gaze shot back to his sister, who was looking green. By the time she had ushered Sophia back to bed, telling her to sleep as late as she could and then have something to eat when she
was rested, Cherry knew she was hooked. Sophia had asked her to stay for a little while and help her with the preparations for the wedding, as Vittorio had predicted, and there was just something incredibly vulnerable about this child-woman who had lost her parents at such a tragically young age. And Sophia had been so sympathetic and kind down by the pool, when she had confided about Liam and Angela. If she stayed to help Sophia now it would be just a month or so out of her life. She could give the Italian girl that, and would do so gladly if it wasn’t for Vittorio. But she could handle him. Or, more precisely, this ridiculous attraction she felt. And maybe she wouldn’t see much of him anyway—not if she was helping Sophia with the organisation of the wedding.

  Vittorio’s gaze was waiting for her when she walked back into the breakfast room. She saw her plate was in its place on the table and a steaming mug of cappuccino by the side of it.

  ‘Have you always been such a little mother?’ he asked softly.

  It could have been sarcastic but it wasn’t. She relaxed infinitesimally as she sat down. ‘Always,’ she said, a little ruefully. Any lame ducks, be they human or animal, always seemed to make a beeline for her door. She had even started dating Liam after he’d cried on her shoulder after his former girlfriend had unceremoniously dumped him.

  Vittorio nodded. ‘The porcupine with the soft centre. I like this. Too often I have found it is the other way round with modern women.’

  She eyed him over her cappuccino as she took a sip, but said nothing. She was feeling a little shattered, to be truthful.

  ‘You think I am hard, unkind, si?’ he murmured. ‘Unfair?’

  If she was going to be around for a while she might as well be honest. ‘Certainly cynical,’ she said, without denying the other words.

  He didn’t seem offended. Surveying her thoughtfully, he leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee. ‘I think you are right,’ he said after a moment or two. ‘But I do not consider cynicism a bad thing on the whole—not if it is hand-in-hand with fairness and impartiality. The only danger can be if it sours an individual so that he or she cannot recognise true genuineness when it is presented to them.’

  Cherry stared at him. ‘And can you?’ she asked bluntly. ‘Recognise the real thing, I mean?’

  Something flared in the grey eyes before his lids came down to conceal his gaze for a second. When he looked at her again it was gone. ‘But of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ she agreed derisively. ‘Silly of me to ask. It must be wonderful to be so amazingly clever.’

  ‘It has been that way for so long that I do not even think about it,’ he said gravely. ‘But, si, you are right again. It is wonderful.’

  She tried not to smile, she really did—his ego was big enough already—but she couldn’t help herself.

  ‘That is better,’ he said contentedly. ‘You were in danger of giving yourself indigestion with all that acidity. Now, eat your breakfast, Cherry, and then we must make the call to your car people, si?’ He smiled innocently. ‘To insist on a vehicle?’

  He knew. She wasn’t sure how he knew she’d changed her mind about leaving, but she was positive he did. She ate a pastry before she said, ‘Actually, I shan’t need a car today after all. I’ve told Sophia I’ll at least think about staying for a bit and talk to her later. I’ll phone and postpone delivery.’

  ‘Really?’ The grey eyes opened wider in simulated surprise.

  Yes, really, Mr Know-All. ‘But I’ve made no promises.’

  ‘Of course not.’ It was soothing. And irritating.

  ‘And if I do stay it can only be for a short time, until Sophia is feeling more in control.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ He nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘She is very emotional at the moment.’

  ‘As is to be expected,’ he agreed gravely.

  Cherry admitted defeat and ate her breakfast, aware Vittorio was watching her with silent amusement. But it wasn’t that which was causing the flutterings in her stomach. More the fact that now she’d made up her mind to stay she knew she would have found it a huge wrench to leave this morning. Which confirmed all her fears. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  She had almost finished eating when Vittorio spoke again. ‘I think Sophia will sleep for some time. She is certainly over-tired and will wish to be composed for the meeting with Santo’s family this evening. I am visiting our factory this morning. Would you like to accompany me and see for yourself how the Carella olive oil is produced? It will while away an hour or two,’ he added offhandedly.

  Cherry hesitated. She was genuinely interested in seeing first-hand the process which made Puglia the main olive oil centre in Italy, but it seemed a little too… cosy somehow. Then she told herself she was being ridiculous. If she stayed on for a while she had to be able to be around Vittorio; perhaps there was no time like the present to get used to it and master her body’s response to his particular brand of vigorous masculinity? ‘Thank you,’ she said politely. ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘I will meet you outside in fifteen minutes.’

  Vittorio was sitting in a gleaming black Range Rover when she walked down the steps of the villa, the morning sun already blazing hot in the cloudless blue sky. She was wearing a sleeveless pink cotton dress that she’d had for ages, but it was lovely and cool on a warm day, and she had pulled her hair into a high knot so the air could get to the back of her neck. Already she felt sticky. Vittorio looked cool and comfortable and much, much too good-looking.

  He slid out of the car as she approached, opening the passenger door and helping her inside the vehicle with the natural courtesy she’d noticed before. She felt flustered and hot as she sat down, but now the heat came from within rather than without. She exhaled slowly as Vittorio walked round the large bonnet and then stared primly ahead as he joined her in the Range Rover. She caught a faint whiff of his aftershave, the elusive and evocative scent which she now associated with him, and her nerves responded, tightening and vibrating.

  ‘So.’ He started the engine, swinging the vehicle in a semi-circle before leaving the pebbled area in front of the villa and joining the road they’d travelled on the day before, but in the opposite direction from where her little car sat marooned. ‘What do you know of the liquid gold we harvest?’

  Trying to match his casualness, Cherry smiled. ‘It’s great for dressing salads and grilling meat?’

  ‘Si.’ He grinned, and her traitorous body responded. ‘But there is much more to the oil than that—as I am sure you have heard. It is beneficial in fighting heart disease and obesity, and this was understood even in ancient times. Roman and Greek athletes were known to smear the olive oil over their bodies to improve bloodflow and enhance muscle development, and in some parts of the world this still happens today.’

  Cherry had a mental image of that magnificent body she had practically drooled over at the pool the day before gleaming and oiled and had to swallow hard.

  ‘And of course today the oil is used not just in cooking but in a wide range of cosmetics and soap, and for this the Puglia region is superb. All our oil is extra-virgin—the best quality, si? Less than one per cent of acidity per hundred grams. And a beautiful yellow. The colour of the sun.’ He grinned again. ‘But I am the bore. This cannot interest you, Cherry.’

  Whatever else Vittorio was, he could never be boring. She glanced at the large strong hands on the steering wheel, the gold watch on his tanned wrist glittering in the sunshine, and tried to keep her voice steady. ‘On the contrary. I find it very interesting to think an industry that started thousands of years ago is still going strong and is growing more successful if anything. And even I can tell Puglia’s oil is better than what I’ve been used to at home. Before I came to Italy I would never have dreamt of enjoying a basket of local bread dipped in olive oil as lunch, but it’s delicious.’

  ‘Si—and healthy. We make good bambini—strong sons and daughters, us Italians—and we enjoy life.’

  She dared not let her thoughts go down that
route, and as the white-walled, red-roofed buildings of the Carella factory came into view, breathed a silent sigh of relief.

  Vittorio’s manager met them as he brought the Range Rover to a standstill. His name was Federico and he was a cousin of Vittorio’s. It appeared all the dozen or so employees were family. While Vittorio disappeared into the office, Federico escorted her round the factory, where modern machinery had replaced the traditional presses of Vittorio’s grandfather’s day, taking Cherry through the labour-intensive and, in its early stages, back-breaking work needed to process the oil. First the trees must be harvested, he explained, and then—swiftly so that the olives didn’t bruise, oxidise or spoil in any way—the fruit must be pulped to a paste. The paste then had to be stirred vigorously before the final method of extraction was performed.

  ‘And all must be done with love, si?’ Federico said with a flash of his dark brown eyes. ‘This makes the best olive oil.’

  Cherry smiled, amused by the mild flirting as she wondered if anything at all was done in Italy without the loooove factor! It would appear not.

  Vittorio was waiting for them at the foot of the stairs which led up to the office after the tour, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans and his grey eyes fastened on her face.

  Federico grinned at his cousin as they reached him. ‘This woman is not merely the pretty face,’ he said appreciatively. ‘Cherry has asked the questions of intelligence, si?’

  ‘I’m glad you approve,’ Vittorio drawled drily. ‘I’ve signed those documents you left on my desk, and the papers for the next shipments are with them. There is nothing else of importance?’ And as Federico shook his head, ‘Then I will see you tomorrow.’

  ‘You are not taking Cherry away so soon?’ Federico protested.

  ‘Cherry.’ Vittorio turned to her, his eyes dancing. ‘This man has a wife and a houseful of little ones. Do not be fooled by his velvet tongue. He is the Casanova.’

  They left Federico still objecting, and once in the Range Rover Vittorio slid one arm along the back of her seat as he turned to her. ‘There is no rush to get back.’ His eyes lingered on her hair and he murmured, almost to himself, ‘Such colours when the light catches it. Red, gold—like the flames of a fire. It shimmers like silk in the sun, do you know this? It is a crime to imprison such loveliness.’