Lucy Gordon - From Florence With Love

‘I’m Lydia Fletcher—and if you can get us there before the others, I’ll love you forever.’

His warm, strong and surprisingly slightly calloused fingers closed firmly round hers, and she felt the world shift a little under her feet. And not just hers, apparently. She saw the shockwave hit his eyes, felt the recognition of something momentous passing between them, and in that crazy and insane instant she wondered if anything would ever be the same again.

The plane was small but, as the saying goes, perfectly formed.

Very perfectly, as far as she was concerned. It had comfortable seats, lots of legroom, a sober pilot and a flight plan that without doubt would win her sister the wedding of her dreams.

Lydia could hardly believe her luck.

She buckled herself in, grabbed Claire’s hand and hung on tight as the plane taxied to the end of the runway. ‘We did it. We got a flight straight there!’ she whispered, and Claire’s face lit up with her smile, her eyes sparkling.

‘I know. Amazing! We’re going to do it. We can’t fail. I just know you’re going to win!’

The engines roared, the small plane shuddering, and then it was off like a slingshot, the force of their acceleration pushing her back hard into the leather seat as the jet tipped and climbed. The Thames was flying past, dropping rapidly below them as they rose into the air over London, and then they were heading out over the Thames estuary towards France, levelling off, and the seat belt light went out.

‘Oh, this is so exciting! I’m going to update the diary,’ Claire said, pulling out her little notebook computer, and Lydia turned her head and met Massimo’s eyes across the narrow aisle.

He unclipped his seat belt and shifted his body so he was facing her, his eyes scanning her face. His mouth tipped into a smile, and her stomach turned over—from the steep ascent, or from the warmth of that liquid-chocolate gaze?

‘All right?’

‘Amazing.’ She smiled back, her mouth curving involuntarily in response to his, then turning down as she pulled a face. ‘I don’t know how to thank you. I’m so sorry I was rude.’

His mouth twitched. ‘Don’t worry. You weren’t nearly as rude to me as I was to Nico.’

‘What did you say to him?’ she asked curiously, and he gave a soft laugh.

‘I’m not sure it would translate. Certainly not in mixed company.’

‘I think I got the gist—’

‘I hope not!’

She gave a little laugh. ‘Probably not. I don’t know any street Italian—well, no Italian at all, really. And I feel awful now for biting your head off, but … well, it means a lot to me, to win this wedding.’

‘Yes, I gather. You were telling me about your sister?’ he said.

‘Jennifer. She had an accident a few months ago and she was in a wheelchair, but she’s getting better, she’s on crutches now, but her fiancé had to give up his job to help look after her. They’re living with my parents and Andy’s working with Dad at the moment for their keep. My parents have got a farm—well, not really a farm, more of a smallholding, really, but they get by, and they could always have the wedding there. There’s a vegetable packing barn they could dress up for the wedding reception, but—well, my grandmother lived in Italy for a while and Jen’s always dreamed of getting married there, and now they haven’t got enough money even for a glass of cheap bubbly and a few sandwiches. So when I heard about this competition I just jumped at it, but I never in my wildest dreams imagined we’d get this far, never mind get a flight to exactly the right place. I’m just so grateful I don’t know where to start.’

She was gabbling. She stopped, snapped her mouth shut and gave him a rueful grin. ‘Sorry. I always talk a lot when the adrenaline’s running.’

He smiled and leant back, utterly charmed by her. More than charmed …

‘Relax. I have three sisters and two daughters, so I’m quite used to it, I’ve had a lot of practice.’

‘Gosh, it sounds like it. And you’ve got two brothers as well?’

‘Si . Luca’s the doctor and he’s married to an English girl called Isabelle, and Gio’s the lawyer. I also have a son, and two parents, and a million aunts and uncles and cousins.’

‘So what do you do?’ she asked, irresistibly curious, and he gave her a slightly lopsided grin.

‘You could say I’m a farmer, too. We grow grapes and olives and we make cheese.’

She glanced around at the plane. ‘You must make a heck of a lot of cheese,’ she said drily, and he chuckled, soft and low under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear.

The slight huff of his breath made an errant curl drift against her cheek, and it was almost as if his fingertips had brushed lightly against her skin.

‘Not that much,’ he said, his eyes still smiling. ‘Mostly we concentrate on our wine and olive oil—Tuscan olive oil is sharper, tangier than the oil from southern Italy because we harvest the olives younger to avoid the frosts, and it gives it a distinctive and rich peppery flavour. But again, we don’t make a huge amount, we concentrate on quality and aim for the boutique market with limited editions of certified, artisan products. That’s what I was doing in England—I’ve been at a trade fair pushing our oil and wine to restaurateurs and gourmet delicatessens.’

She sat up straighter. ‘Really? Did you take samples with you?’

He laughed. ‘Of course. How else can I convince people that our products are the best? But the timing was bad, because we’re about to harvest the grapes and I’m needed at home. That’s why we chartered the plane, to save time.’

Chartered. So it wasn’t his. That made him more approachable, somehow and, if it was possible, even more attractive. As did the fact that he was a farmer. She knew about farming, about aiming for a niche market and going for quality rather than quantity. It was how she’d been brought up. She relaxed, hitched one foot up under her and hugged her knee under the voluminous skirt.

‘So, these samples—do you have any on the plane that I could try?’

‘Sorry, we’re out of wine,’ he said, but then she laughed and shook her head.

‘That’s not what I meant, although I’m sure it’s very good. I was talking about the olive oil. Professional interest.’

‘You grow olives on your farm in England?’ he asked incredulously, and she laughed again, tightening his gut and sending need arrowing south. It shocked him slightly, and he forced himself to concentrate.

‘No. Of course not. I’ve been living in a flat with a pot of basil on the window sill until recently! But I love food.’

‘You mentioned a professional interest.’

She nodded. ‘I’m a—’ She was going to say chef, but could you be a chef if you didn’t have a restaurant? If your kitchen had been taken away from you and you had nothing left of your promising career? ‘I cook,’ she said, and he got up and went to the rear of the plane and returned with a bottle of oil.

‘Here.’

He opened it and held it out to her, and she sniffed it slowly, drawing the sharp, fruity scent down into her lungs. ‘Oh, that’s gorgeous. May I?’

And taking it from him, she tipped a tiny pool into her hand and dipped her finger into it, sucking the tip and making an appreciative noise. Heat slammed through him, and he recorked the bottle and put it away to give him something to do while he reassembled his brain.

He never, never reacted to a woman like this! What on earth was he thinking of? Apart from the obvious, but he didn’t want to think about that. He hadn’t looked at a woman in that way for years, hadn’t thought about sex in he didn’t know how long. So why now, why this woman?