Her Mediterranean Playboy (13 page)

‘I thought you’d drowned!’

‘I’m a good swimmer.’ His hand didn’t leave her shoulder, and a desperate, aching weakness flooded through her, making it hard even to tread water. ‘I’m ready to get out,’ she said, a bit stiffly.

Shrugging off his hand, she swam to the ladder by the side of the jetty. She felt Leandro’s eyes on her as she climbed up, grabbing her towel and wrapping it securely around her. Desire and fear warred within her, and she didn’t know which would win. Which she wanted to win.

Leandro hauled himself up, dripping wet and utterly magnificent. Zoe couldn’t keep her gaze from roving over the taut muscles of his body gleaming in the moonlight. Her breath caught in her throat and her mind turned blank as sensation—the expectation of sensation—took over once more.

Leandro looked down and held her gaze, his eyes dark and compelling. Zoe forced herself to breathe. In. Out. And again. Despite her best intentions, her breath came out in a shudder, and Leandro lifted his hand.

Zoe stilled, tensed, waiting for his fingers to tangle in her damp hair and draw her inexorably closer. She wouldn’t resist. Yet he didn’t move his hand, and the moment stretched between them, suspended and endless.

Her head fell back, her lips parted. Her throat was open and
vulnerable to his caress. Slowly Leandro let his fingers trail down her cheek, along her jaw, her throat working as he dropped his hand lower, to touch the vee between her breasts.

It was such a small, simple touch, and yet it left fire in its wake. Fire and yearning. Zoe swayed, and reached out a hand to steady herself. Her palm encountered the slick, taut muscle of Leandro’s chest and she felt him jerk in response. She reached up with her other hand and laid it flat against him. They remained that way for a moment, suspended on the threshold, and then suddenly Leandro stepped away.

Zoe’s hands dropped, her arms falling limply to her sides, and her eyes flew open. She saw Leandro’s mouth harden into a thin line and distaste flickered in his eyes. Disappointment—and something deeper—swamped her.

‘It’s late,’ he said brusquely. ‘Goodnight.’ And without another word or look, he turned and disappeared into the darkness.

T
HE
next morning Leandro was already enclosed in his study when Zoe awoke at the much more reasonable hour of seven o’clock. She dressed in her oldest clothes—a faded tee shirt and cut-off shorts—and after a cup of strong coffee in the kitchen determined to begin tackling the drawing room.

Faded yellow curtains covered every window, and when Zoe pushed them aside a cloud of musty dust rose in the still air. She coughed, wincing, and then moved to the next window.

Last night had been a wake-up call of sorts. Seeing the distaste in Leandro’s eyes—perhaps it had even been disgust—had acted like a bucket of ice water, drenching her senses and her desire. For a moment or two she’d been wrapped up in the seductive promise of pleasure given and received. Shared. Of seeing her own desire reflected in his eyes, of feeling wanted. And perhaps she’d even deceived herself that it meant something more.

Well, it didn’t. The look in his eyes had confirmed that. Yes, Leandro Filametti might
want
her, but that was all. And when the wanting was over he’d discard her, dump her like a bucket of dirty water, disgusting and forgotten. Like Steve had.

Zoe stilled, remembering the similar look of disgust in Steve’s eyes. His snide rejection had stung her pride more than her heart, because she hadn’t let her heart get involved—even when she’d finally given a man her body, she’d refused him her heart. Her love. Not that he’d wanted either.

Zoe’s mouth twisted cynically as she plunged her mop into a
bucket of soapy water. She’d avoided love and commitment for so long she barely remembered what that craving felt like. That deep, endless well of need. And she didn’t want to feel it again—the hope, the disappointment, the unfulfilled longing that swamped the senses and the heart.

Yet she didn’t want a fling either. Her one attempt at a fling had left her more hurt and embittered than she ever wanted to be again. So what was left?

A sigh escaped her, a heavy sound. Nothing was left, and the thought was unbearably depressing.

She forced her mind away from such ruminations as she tackled the drawing room, mopping the old parquet floors with a determined ferociousness. She’d emptied the bucket of dirty water half a dozen times, and each time she’d hauled it to the kitchen she had found herself looking around for Leandro. She hadn’t seen him at all.

Later in the morning a crew of workmen arrived to start on the roof, and Zoe glimpsed Leandro talking to them on the front driveway. He disappeared back into his study without so much as a word or glance in her direction.

At noon she ate some leftover pasta alone in the kitchen, half wondering if she should knock on Leandro’s study door and offer him some. She decided against it, for her own sake.

After she’d eaten she offered coffee and some
biscotti
she’d bought at the market to the roofers. The three men threw up their hands and exclaimed over her kindness and beauty, with shouts of
‘Magnifico!’
and
‘Bella!’
as Zoe handed around mugs. She laughed, feeling cheered by their easy friendliness.
This
was the Italy she’d expected—not Leandro’s taciturn disapproval.

‘What were you doing?’ He stood in the foyer, hands on trim hips, as she returned with empty mugs and a plate scattered with crumbs.

‘Feeding the work crew,’ she replied a bit tartly, even as her heart started skittering once again. ‘It’s hot out there.’

Leandro grunted his assent and Zoe dared to ask, ‘Would
you
like a coffee? Biscotti?’

Leandro gazed at her for a long moment, his expression foreboding and yet also fathomless. What had she done to earn such disapproval? Zoe wondered. Gone for a swim? Acted a little light-heartedly? What made him—men like him, men like Steve—judge her so quickly and harshly?

Or was she judging herself?

‘No,’ he said at last, and Zoe almost thought she heard a thread of regret in his voice. ‘No, thank you.’

He hesitated, and for a moment Zoe thought he might say something. Then he turned to go back to his study, and she went back to work.

By late afternoon the drawing room was resplendent in all its faded glory, the now clean floor and walls somehow emphasising the threadbare condition and peeling gilt of the antique sofas and chairs.

Zoe perched on the edge of a chair and surveyed the room with a strange aching pride. Afternoon sunshine streamed through the wide, now sparkling windows, pooling in golden puddles on the floor.

She’d pulled away the dust sheets from the furniture and paintings, intending to wash them—although she realised the villa might not even possess a washing machine. Yet even so she could imagine the curtains and sofas restored, the room blazingly beautiful once more.

With a little sigh she rose from the spindly chair and walked over to one of the paintings, an ancient-looking oil portrait of a rather austere man in nineteenth-century dress. Had he lived here? she wondered. He looked halfway to a scowl—so close to the way Leandro looked at her.

Then her gaze rested on the tarnished placard at the bottom of the picture, and her heart skipped a surprised beat.

Alfredo Filametti, 1817-1888.
Her breath caught in her throat before she expelled it in a slow hiss. Glancing quickly up at the figure depicted in the painting, she realised there actually
was
a passing resemblance to Leandro—in the set of the mouth, the deep aquamarine of the eyes. Alfredo Filametti was Leandro’s ancestor. The villa had to be his family home.

Her mind was still spinning with this new information as she showered, and then repaired to the kitchen to make dinner. She grilled some chicken breasts with lemon and basil in the huge oven, and tossed a quick salad. She set the meal on the terrace, looking forward to Leandro’s company more than she knew she should.

At a little after seven, the meal she’d made steaming and fragrant, the table decorated with wild orchids from the garden, Zoe knocked on Leandro’s study door—and was answered with an indistinct noise halfway between a snarl and a hello.

‘Dinner’s ready,’ she called, and inwardly winced at how wifely she sounded.

‘Leave a plate by the door,’ Leandro barked back, and Zoe stiffened.

She shouldn’t be hurt or disappointed, she reminded herself fiercely. Had she actually
expected
Leandro to eat with her every night? They might share a simmering attraction, but he was clearly showing her what kind of relationship he intended them to have now. And that was probably for the best.

She forced the feelings back, and even managed a shrug. ‘Fine.’ She took a plate from the terrace, unable to keep from noticing how romantic the table looked, with its flowers and fripperies. Unable to keep from feeling like a fool.

Resolutely she made him up a plate and brought it to the study, leaving it outside his door with a perfunctory knock. There was no response.

She ate alone in the kitchen, and afterwards took her cup of coffee out to the terrace, sipping it with a rather disconsolate air as she watched the sailing boats and pleasure yachts bob lazily along the lake.

Suddenly the summer stretched in front of her, endless and lonely. What was she supposed to do with herself all alone? she wondered. She could hardly expect Leandro to entertain her, yet she chafed at the idea of night after night spent alone, empty and aching with a need she could barely name…A need she’d always refused to acknowledge, or even feel…

She watched as a couple came out onto the prow of a yacht.
Even squinting, Zoe could barely make out their forms, although she suspected they were tall and slim and elegant. Rich. People like Leandro. Accustomed to wealth and power and luxury. People who looked down on skivvies like her.

She watched as the couple embraced, the woman’s slim brown arms twining around the man’s neck with sinuous ease.

They looked so happy, so in love. Zoe could almost hear the low murmur of their voices, the rumble of the man’s laughter. They had everything, she thought with a sudden, surprising bitterness. Not just wealth and power, but happiness too. Love.

A pang of sorrowful longing pierced her, making her hurt in a way she’d kept herself from hurting for so long. Deep inside, in the empty well of her soul that insisted human beings were made for love, for togetherness and belonging, for a
home
.

She didn’t want to feel this way. She’d come to Italy for an escape, not for a revelation about her life and its shortcomings. She
liked
her life; she always had. It suited her fine and it would continue to do so.

She’d never allowed herself another choice.

Zoe set her chin, forcing the sorrow and the emptiness—the longing—back deep inside, where it could stay good and buried. There was no reason why she couldn’t enjoy herself this summer. Why she couldn’t have fun. Lornetto might not be much of a hot spot, but there were surely other villages nearby, with bars, clubs—places she could go and meet people like herself. Girls like her, men like her, people who wanted to laugh and dance and have a good time. If you had a good enough time you forgot about the loneliness and the need. You filled up the emptiness…if only for a moment.

A little voice whispered inside her that she didn’t want any of that right now—maybe not ever again—but Zoe pushed it away. She’d told herself she was going to have a fantastic summer, and she
was
.

‘Where are you going?’

Zoe turned, her hand still on the handle of the front door.
‘Out,’ she said sweetly. ‘It’s nine o’clock at night. I assume my duties are over for the day?’

‘Yes…’ Leandro admitted reluctantly. ‘But where do you think you’re going dressed like that?’

Zoe glanced down at the strappy jewel-green sundress. It was on the skimpy side, but she hardly thought it deserved Leandro’s look of contempt. ‘Out,’ she repeated, and added a smile that was only a little bit brittle with determination.

Leandro scowled. She hadn’t even seen him in four days, and now he looked like a surly bear woken suddenly from his hibernation. He had several days’ stubble on his jaw, and his hair was tousled, sticking up in a dozen different directions. He wore an old tee shirt and jeans, but the casual clothes just emphasised his lithe and yet powerful frame.

‘Out where?’ he demanded.

Zoe reined in her temper. She couldn’t decide if Leandro had been avoiding her or was utterly indifferent to her presence in the villa, but after four days of non-stop cleaning and silent, solitary evenings, she was ready for a change.

‘To Menaggio,’ she said. She’d discovered a bus timetable in a drawer in the kitchen, and had realised she could get there on her own. ‘Tomorrow’s Sunday—my day off,’ she reminded him. ‘So don’t worry if I’m back late.’

‘What will you be doing in Menaggio at this hour?’ Leandro asked, but the condemnation in his voice provided the answer.

‘Having fun,’ Zoe tossed back defiantly, and with a waggle of her fingers she flounced out of the villa, refusing to look back.

He had no right to interrogate her like that, she fumed as she strode down the villa’s drive. No rights in her life at all. And she wouldn’t think of him once this evening—she’d find a club in Menaggio, meet people, dance and chat, and have fun for as long as she liked. She
would
.

And she would like it.

Leandro stared unseeingly at the front door of the villa, the sound of its slamming echoing remorselessly through his mind. Zoe Clark had every right to do as she pleased in the evening, he knew.
There was no absolutely no reason why she shouldn’t go out and enjoy the region’s attractions. Yet the thought of her in some seedy bar in Menaggio, dancing and drinking and flirting, made Leandro’s gut tighten and his mouth pull into a grimace.

Of course he should have expected no less. If
he
wasn’t going to provide her amusement, she’d damn well find it somewhere else. He should be amazed that it had taken her so long. He knew what she was like—what women such as her were like.

Yet at that moment he wasn’t thinking of his father’s women; he was thinking only of Zoe.

He’d
liked
knowing she was in the villa—listening to her move about, sometimes humming or whistling under her breath. He’d caught glimpses of her wringing out a mop in the sink or washing windows, her hair caught up in a ponytail, and he’d felt that tug of desire.

He’d always retreated before she saw him, knowing he couldn’t get any nearer. She was dangerous.
He
was.

He’d been avoiding her for days—ever since he’d come so close to pulling her into his arms after their evening swim. She’d been irresistible then, dripping wet, her skin almost silver in the moonlight. She’d wanted him, wouldn’t have resisted, and that had made it all the harder to step away.

Even now he wondered why he had.

Why not take what was on offer? Why not enjoy it?

He could make his expectations clear; perhaps she wanted the same thing? A quick, easy affair. No strings, no promises.

He’d had such arrangements before—he was a man, after all—but they’d been with women of his own world, his own class, women he could trust.

Could he trust Zoe? He didn’t know—and, worse, he didn’t know if he could trust himself. Already he sensed in himself a deeper need for Zoe than he’d had for other women, and that was dangerous.

Suddenly he could hear his father’s desperate, wheedling voice.

It never meant anything, Leandro…I couldn’t help it…I was lonely…A man has needs…

And what of his family’s needs? His family left bankrupt and
shamed by his father’s illicit lifestyle? What about his mother, left not just heartbroken but utterly destroyed by his father’s faithlessness?

And was he, Leandro, going to act in the same manner? Chasing after whatever bit of skirt caught his fancy? Weren’t the tabloids waiting for him to do so?

He wouldn’t give them the pleasure. He wouldn’t give
himself
the pleasure of sampling a woman like Zoe either. He knew what she was like—what women like her were capable of: selling their stories, blackmailing his family, holding out for more and more and more. Always more. Until there had been
nothing
left.