Louise Fuller - A Deal Sealed By Passion

He shook his head. ‘You’re not going to have a tantrum about losing, are you, cara? I told you—I don’t give up and I don’t give in. And, besides, I hate waiting.’

She shivered as his face shifted, grew harder and colder than the marble bench pressing against her legs.

‘And I never, ever lose.’

Flora stared at him stonily. ‘What a wonderful mantra for life. Your parents must be so proud of you.’

His eyes flared, and nervously she realised that his broad body was blocking her only way of escape.

There was a short, tense silence and then he shrugged. ‘And what about your parents, cara? Were they proud that their daughter was shacked up with a man old enough to be her grandfather?’ He paused, his lip curling, his teeth bared so that for a moment he seemed to resemble a large, dangerous animal more than a man.

She lifted her chin and met his gaze. ‘We can stand here all day and trade insults, if you want,’ she said stiffly. ‘But it won’t alter the fact that I have a legal right to stay here as a tenant for as long as I wish. Nothing you can do or say will change that fact.’

For a long moment he stared at her steadily and then, to her astonishment, he smiled without rancour. ‘That’s true.’

She waited tensely as he continued to study her, his abrupt change of mood almost as unsettling as the growing realisation that they were only inches apart, alone, separated from the rest of the world by seven-foot hedges. Goosebumps tiptoed over her skin, and she swallowed uneasily. Why was he looking at her like that? It reminded her of the way buyers used to look at Umberto’s paintings: cool, assessing, critical.

She shivered again, and he frowned slightly. ‘You’re cold! Of course, you must be.’

Before she could reply, he had pulled off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. His hand grazed her skin, and she shivered once more, this time from the heat of his touch.

Feeling somehow disloyal—although to what or to whom, she wasn’t sure—she tried to shrug it off, but he shook his head.

‘It’s just a jacket, cara. Not a white flag.’

Blushing, wondering how or when her thoughts became so transparent, she nodded mutely. She felt hot. Impatient. Restless. But where had all her anger and outrage gone? Wrapping her arms tightly across her chest, she stared mutinously past his head. He was making her feel like this. His tantalising nearness seemed to have driven all rational thought from her mind. And now, wearing his jacket, with the warmth of his body still clinging to the fabric, she felt even more confused.

Still staring straight ahead and desperate to at least appear cool and calm, she cleared her throat. ‘I’ll walk you out.’ His gaze was burning her skin and, turning, her heart shivered as her eyes collided with his.

He nodded slowly. ‘Then I won’t charge you for the loan of my jacket.’ Her eyes widened and he grinned. ‘I’m kidding. Look. I can find my own way out—’

She rolled her eyes. ‘No you can’t. Come on. It’ll only take a few minutes.’

It took seven. Giorgio was waiting at the entrance. He glanced anxiously at their faces. ‘Ah, there you are. There you both are—’

Massimo interrupted him smoothly. ‘Giorgio. I don’t believe you’ve met Miss Golding. Miss Golding, this is my chief legal advisor, Giorgio Caselli. Our business is done here, Giorgio. I’ll see you back at the helicopter.’

Looking both astonished and respectful, the lawyer nodded. ‘It is? Excellent. Wonderful. It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Golding.’

Flora stared after him, a sense of foreboding creeping over her skin. Was that it, then? After all these months of harassment, was he just going to give up and walk away?

She turned to face him. ‘I don’t understand. Are you saying I can stay? Or is this some game? Because I don’t know how to play.’

His mouth curved at the edges. ‘This isn’t a game.’

‘But it doesn’t make any sense,’ she replied fiercely. ‘One minute you’re jack-booting around like some crazed dictator on a rampage, and now you’re being—’ She stopped.

‘What? What am I being?’

His blue eyes were fixed on her animated features and she frowned. ‘I don’t know—reasonable, nice!’

He winced. ‘Reasonable! Nice? I don’t think anyone has ever accused me of being that before!’ His tone was teasing.

‘I don’t suppose they have,’ she said cautiously.

He grinned, his handsome face softening. ‘It’s a low blow! Arrogant, ruthless, crazed...I can handle. Niceness, though... That’s dangerous! Whoever heard of a nice CEO?’

She bit her lip.

He frowned. ‘I’m serious. You have to promise me: what happens in the maze, stays in the maze. I can’t have my reputation as a “bullying, greedy monster” ruined.’

Recognising her words, Flora blushed. ‘You were a bit bullying,’ she said carefully. ‘But I suppose that doesn’t matter now.’

He was watching her thoughtfully. ‘I’d like to think it doesn’t.’ Pausing, he glanced across the lawn. ‘Are there more gardens over there?’

Surprised by the change of subject, she nodded.

‘I’d like to see them. Will you show me?’ he asked simply.

Breathing in the drifting scents of blossom and warm earth, Massimo was surprised—impressed, even—by the scale and diversity of the gardens. He was no horticulturist, but even he could see that in stark contrast to the palazzo it looked as though someone was taking care of them.

Between narrow gravel-filled paths edged with meticulously trimmed bay hedges, the neat, square beds were filled with lavender, thyme, rosemary and sage, while espaliered fruit trees mingled with climbing roses, jasmine, honeysuckle and wisteria on the walls and arches.

Massimo ran his hand lightly over a topiary spiral. No doubt Bassani had taken up gardening when his career as an artist had begun to fade. Squinting into the sunlight, his face tightened. It was pretty, but gardening—like all hobbies—seemed a complete waste of time to him. He worked out with a personal trainer five mornings a week, but work fulfilled all his needs except rest and relaxation, which was why, in his leisure time, he liked to sleep and have sex.

His lip curled—although not necessarily in that order.

‘It’s beautiful,’ he said finally. ‘I didn’t know Bassani was such a keen horticulturist.’

Flora looked up at him, her mouth curving into a pout, and he felt his groin tighten almost imperceptibly. How to describe those lips? Not red, not pink— He smiled grimly as the words came to him from school art lessons: rose madder. He stared at her critically. A tiny scar just above her eyebrow and a sprinkling of freckles over her nose and cheeks contrasted with the classical symmetry of her face and saved her from being just another pretty girl. But that mouth was a work of art: a mixture of challenge and seduction, determination and—surrender.

An image of Flora, soft-eyed, her body melting against his, those lips parting, exploded inside his head.

Struggling to keep himself from touching the plump cushion of her lower lip, he gestured offhandedly towards a cluster of dark red peonies. ‘Did he choose everything?’

Flora shook her head slowly. ‘Umberto didn’t have anything to do with the gardens—’ She checked herself. ‘He liked sitting in them, of course, but he knew absolutely nothing about plants.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘He couldn’t tell a weed from a wallflower!’

Watching her eyes mist over as she talked about her lover, Massimo felt something twist inside him. The thought of Flora and Umberto together, her bewitching young body pressed against the older man’s, made him want to snap the heads off the flowers—