Liz Fielding: Italian Escape

He shrugged. ‘He does like you. I know I shouldn’t care about pleasing him and, to be honest, I find it insulting that he will be far more impressed if you accompany me to this event than he is by my multi-million-euro turnover, but...’ He paused, oddly vulnerable. ‘But he’s old. Frail.’ Another pause, longer this time, then, almost imperceptibly, ‘He and Gio are all I have left.’

Minty was torn between conflicting emotions. If there was one subject she didn’t do, it was families. Oh, she could laugh at her own situation, turn her childhood, her failed relationships, into a self-deprecating stand-up routine that had them rolling in the aisle. But deep, heartfelt, emotional discussions? Not her style. And yet, she sensed that this man rarely opened up, that he carried his shame, his fears, tightly boxed up inside him.

For some unfathomable reason he was choosing here and now to release them—he was choosing her. It terrified her and yet at the same time she was touched, gratified that he didn’t think she was too shallow to understand.

‘He’s a link to your mother,’ she offered shyly.

‘Yes!’ He turned to her. ‘Exactly. Would she approve of me, of the man I’ve become? Or, like him, would she be disappointed that I don’t attend balls and charity events and the opera in Verona? Would she think I was an uncouth country farmer who thinks of nothing but ice cream?’

‘She married a farmer,’ Minty pointed out. ‘And for what it’s worth I think she would be ridiculously proud of you. So proud she’d have to bite her tongue at parties so as not to bore all the other guests with a long list of your virtues! I think she would look at you and see a man proud of his home and his heritage. A man who has no reason at all to make his grandfather happy, but wants to anyway, because that’s the kind of person he is. That’s what she would see.’

Minty stopped abruptly, heat flushing her cheeks. Where on earth had all that come from? ‘Anyway,’ she said gruffly. ‘That’s what I think. For what it’s worth.’

Consumed with embarrassment, she couldn’t look at him. Instead, kicking off her shoes, she padded forward, enjoying the unaccustomed feel of the soft spring grass under her bare feet, still pale from months of London winter, from the restriction of tights, thick socks and boots. The stream rushed merrily on over the flat pebbles, a cool, enticing blue. Minty dipped one toe in and inhaled in shock. Goodness, it was cold.

‘It’s not just about you, though. These occasions—charity balls, trips to the opera—they’re all good for networking.’ She shrugged, leaning forward until all her weight was on the submerged foot, wiggling it over the flat pebbles until it was comfortable. She dipped her other foot in until she was standing in the stream, water swirling round her ankles. ‘It all depends,’ she said, horribly aware that he still hadn’t spoken. ‘Depends on what you want to do. I’m happy to go with you. It could be a good business step. You should start to think about sponsorship opportunities as well. It’s the missing link in your marketing strategy.’

She swivelled to face him and instantly wished she hadn’t. If he looked this good in a black T-shirt, what on earth would he be like in black tie? Her pulse sped up.

Minty shuffled backwards, carefully testing her weight on the pebble bed before shifting. Her skin had adjusted to the temperature; it was gloriously refreshing. Bending down, she trailed her fingers in the water. ‘I wish it was deep enough to swim in.’

He was giving her a quizzical look. ‘It must be freezing. Is this one of those English things?’

‘Used to be. Of course, now we’re not supposed to swim in rivers; if it’s not private land or contaminated, then the health and safety people will get you. Luckily there’s a river at Westhorpe which has a perfect bathing place. With the great British weather, though, there’s no point waiting for a nice day. If we did, we’d never swim.’ She heaved a gusty sigh. ‘Of course, I didn’t spend enough holidays there to really take advantage of it and I doubt Stepmama lets the heir, spare and girl loose in it often.’

‘I prefer a nice, clean, regulated swimming pool myself,’ Luca said a little stiffly, but she noticed that his eyes seemed to be drawn to the calves of her legs, her submerged ankles.

Regulated pool indeed. ‘Come in,’ she coaxed. ‘The water’s lovely.’

He shook his head at her, amused. ‘You said yourself it’s not deep enough to swim in; it barely covers your feet!’

‘I’m paddling,’ she said with as much dignity as was possible when one is standing in the middle of a stream. ‘And it’s lovely.’ She swivelled round to show him, almost slipping on an unwary pebble but catching herself in time. ‘See?’ Her eyes were laughing at him, daring him, but she felt secure. He seemed so solid on the bank, so rooted in the ground she couldn’t imagine him doing something so uncivilised, so childlike. ‘Scared?’ she taunted softly.

Slowly, with almost cat-like grace, Luca pushed himself away from the tree on which he’d been leaning and leant down, loosening the ties on his boot before slipping it off, casually kicking it off his foot. His eyes fixed on Minty’s face, he slid his sock off his foot, tucking it neatly into a boot. It should have looked ridiculous, he should have looked ridiculous, like a still from a fifties seaside advertisement: father relaxing at the beach. But there was something so deliberate, so assured in his movements, Minty could only stand and watch, her mouth dry.

Now the other shoe, the other sock. His eyes still on hers, he pulled up his T-shirt, flashing a glimpse of toned stomach. He loosened his belt and then slowly, far, far too slowly, worked the buttons at his fly before pulling off the jeans and laying them neatly on the ground.

Minty stared at his legs, her mouth dry. They were, she thought, rather nice legs; very nice indeed. Defined; definitely legs that had known manual work, legs with lean, muscular strength, but not bulky. They had a shapeliness that any regency buck would have been glad to slip into a pair of skintight breeches. They were less tanned than his hands and his face, more a burnt-gold colour, lightly dusted with silky dark hairs.

Her eyes skated back up over the crisp, blue boxers, up that narrow waist and the disappointingly hidden abdomen she’d caught such a tantalisingly small glimpse of earlier. Up to the comforting width of his shoulders and his strong, golden arms.

Minty swallowed. As Luca advanced over the grass, his eyes fixed on her face, she wanted to retreat, wade backwards through the icy water, flee to the safety of the other bank. But she was paralysed. The sun was behind him, casting a glow to that golden flesh. His amber eyes were lit up with amusement, with challenge. With desire. She wanted to speak, to break the spell, but she was caught; there was nothing she could do.

Tension mingled with the sweet ache of desire twisting in her chest, spreading outwards, downwards. She swayed helplessly as he slid one foot into the water. His expression didn’t change, didn’t register the cold. Her heart raced, the beat so loud, thrumming in her ears. It was as if the countryside marched to the beat of her desire. Slowly, so very slowly he advanced, wading effortlessly through the shallow depths.

Minty licked her lips, desperately trying to get some moisture back into her dry mouth. A flicker of his eyes showed his register of the movement—and his approval. Her hands, shaking, damp, twisted convulsively.

Luca stood before her, impossibly tall, imposing. Infinitely fascinating. She wanted to lean bonelessly into him, be absorbed by him—by his strength, by his goodness, by his loyalty. She couldn’t help herself. She raised one hand to his sculpted cheek and traced a feather-light path down, past the indention of the dimple, onto his lips. How could anything be simultaneously so hard and yet so soft? She ran her finger wonderingly along his smooth lower lip, coming to rest on his jaw.