Her Mediterranean Playboy (15 page)

‘Doing my job,’ she replied, a bit tartly. Already the sight of him was causing memories to stir within her; she couldn’t quite take her gaze from the hollow of his throat where last night she’d put her lips and tasted the salt of his skin. And then asked him to stop.

‘Yes, I realise that,’ Leandro replied dryly. He wasn’t smiling, but neither did he look as ferociously moody as he normally was. ‘However, as you reminded me yesterday, today is your day off. Sunday.’

‘Oh.’ A blush swept over Zoe’s face and she dropped the dustsheet. When had she
ever
forgotten her day off? ‘I must have…’ Her throat was dry from the dust of the room. ‘The workmen,’ she justified lamely. ‘They made me think…Why are they working on a Sunday?’

‘I’m paying them extra to get the job done,’ Leandro replied, a brusque note entering his voice. ‘I need to get this villa on the market in the next few months. I hope they didn’t disturb your beauty sleep?’

‘No…’ Zoe trailed off, wondering why she couldn’t grin challengingly at Leandro and snap back a witty retort—something about how she didn’t need any beauty sleep to begin with. That was what she would have normally done. Yet all her witty retorts and snappy rejoinders had trickled from her mind—and, even worse, from her heart. She didn’t feel capable of making one, or even
wanting
to make one.

Instead questions clamoured in her throat, desperate for
answers. Why are you selling this villa? Why were you so angry last night? What is haunting you?

Who are you?

And who am I, wanting things I never did before?

‘So.’ Leandro cleared his throat, absently swiping at a few strands of cobwebs from the gilt doorframe. ‘Do you have exciting plans for your day off?’

‘No, I don’t have any plans,’ Zoe admitted. ‘I suppose I could go for a swim…’ Only that conjured up memories of her last swim with Leandro, the water beading on his moonlit skin, the kiss they’d almost shared, and she blushed again. What was
wrong
with her?

‘In that case,’ Leandro said, clearing his throat again, ‘would you like to see some of the sights of the region?’

‘With you?’ Zoe blurted, the surprise in her voice cringingly blatant to both of them.

Leandro’s mouth tightened, and his eyes shadowed before he managed a tiny smile. ‘Yes, that was the idea.’

Zoe bent to retrieve the dustsheet, smoothing it out before folding it in an effort to hide her confusion. Why was Leandro asking her out? If that was indeed what he was doing? Was this a peace offering? Or an offer of something more?

What did he want? What did
she
want?

‘All right.’ She looked up, smiling, although Leandro’s expression was carefully neutral. ‘That would be nice.’

Nice.
Such an innocent, innocuous word. Would this outing be the same? She didn’t know, wouldn’t think. She’d just enjoy, or at least try to. It was something—better than a day spent moping alone.

‘Good.’ He nodded briskly. ‘I’ll meet you downstairs in half an hour.’

‘All right,’ Zoe repeated, and then he was gone.

Z
OE
showered and dressed quickly, choosing a demure pink tee shirt and khaki shorts, her hair swept up in a ponytail. It was armour, of a kind—a way to keep Leandro at a distance. She wasn’t sure who needed the protection, him or herself. She refused to consider the issue too closely.

Leandro was waiting by the front door as she came down the stairs. He smiled briefly when he saw her, the cool smile of a friendly employer, nothing more, and Zoe knew they’d both put the boundaries in place, both donned the armour of an impersonal employer-employee relationship.

It was better this way, she told herself. Safer. So there was absolutely no reason to feel disappointed.

‘I thought we’d take the boat,’ Leandro said, and led her through the kitchen and the gardens to the shore.

A few minutes later they were seated on the speedboat, jetting smoothly through the lake’s tranquil waters, the sun high and bright above.

‘What are you going to show me?’ Zoe called over the sound of the motor, and Leandro slotted her a quick, knowing smile.

‘Everything.’

Zoe sat back and tried to ignore the tingle of anticipation—awareness—at his words. Had he meant to sound so provocative? Already the boundaries were slipping, changing. Weakening. And so was she. Because she didn’t even mind.

She pushed her sunglasses down, determined to simply
enjoy the day and not second-guess everything Leandro Filametti said. Not to wonder or want. It would, she knew, be a difficult task.

Leandro glanced across at Zoe, reclining in the seat across from him, her long, tanned legs stretched out in front of her. She looked carelessly relaxed, yet he didn’t think he’d been imagining the guarded look in her eyes when he’d invited her out for the day.

And why had he done that, precisely? He’d had no intention of even seeing her today, having closeted himself in his study before she’d woken. Yet he’d spent the morning gazing sightlessly at figures, listening for the sound of her steps on the stairs, the slam of the front door as she went out in pursuit of a day’s pleasure.

By eleven o’clock he’d had enough, and had gone in search of her. He’d looked on the jetty, in the gardens, expecting her to be swimming or sunbathing or just lolling around. The last place he’d expected her to be was upstairs, cleaning as if the devil was driving her.

And his invitation had surprised him as much as it had her. He couldn’t fathom why he’d made it; he’d determined to ignore her completely after last night. To forget her.

Yet he couldn’t. And even now Leandro knew he was deceiving himself, thinking he could take his housekeeper to see the sights as some sort of friendly gesture, something almost paternal and innocent.

It was anything but.

He’d invited her out today because he wanted—needed—to see her, to be with her, and the realisation ignited both his fury and despair. Why must he be so weak when it came to this woman? A woman who was totally unsuitable, ridiculously inappropriate. A woman who reminded him of every showy, lipsticked tart his father had picked up and paraded, to his family’s shame.

And Leandro was just the same—taking her out, showing her off…Didn’t he realise how dangerous this was? How dangerous
he
was? At least when it came to Zoe.

They rode in silence for half an hour, before Leandro slowed and they approached a crumbling jetty surrounded by dense forest that led directly to the shore.

‘An island,’ Zoe said in surprise. A tiny island right in the middle of the lake, which looked practically deserted.

‘Isola Comacina,’ Leandro confirmed. ‘Lake Como’s only island. It doesn’t have much on it any more, but it has a colourful history.’ He tied up the boat, exchanging greetings with a wrinkled, round-cheeked man who sat in a rickety wooden chair on the jetty, presumably to welcome visitors to this undisturbed oasis. Zoe scrambled out of the boat, avoiding the impulse to take Leandro’s extended hand, and he dropped it without a word.

‘The island has been somewhat of a haven over the years,’ Leandro told her as they followed a path from the shore to the island’s heart.

The air smelled sweet and dry, and the forest cleared to reveal a meadow of long grass and a few twisted plane trees.

‘Oh?’ Zoe picked her way across the tufted mounds of grass, half wishing Leandro would offer his hand again. The chunky-heeled sandals she’d chosen to wear were far from practical, yet she was honest enough to admit she wanted to hold his hand for another reason. She wanted to feel its cool, dry strength, his fingers wrapping possessively—promisingly—around hers.

She wanted his touch.

‘How is it a haven?’ she asked, swallowing as she looked away from the sight of his arm swinging loosely at his side, his fingers within reach.

‘The inhabitants of Lake Como—the wealthiest ones anyway—took refuge here when the barbarians swept in over a thousand years ago. The island looked a little different then—covered with houses and churches.’ Leandro pointed downwards, and Zoe saw a foundation of ancient crumbled stone. ‘Not much left now.’

‘No,’ she agreed. It was hard to imagine this lonely, deserted landscape busy and bustling with life. The only sound now was the rustle of grass as they walked through the meadow, and the
distant cawing of a gull. ‘What happened then?’ she asked, and Leandro shrugged, his hands in his pockets.

‘They had several hundred years of prosperity when they formed an alliance with Milan. Then Como and Milan declared war on each other, and soldiers came here and burned everything. A decree was made that nothing could be built on the island—no houses, churches or fortresses. That was over eight hundred years ago, and no one has really lived here since then.’

‘I guess they took that decree kind of seriously?’

Leandro smiled faintly. ‘I suppose. A curse was put on the island, actually, by Bishop Vidulf: “No longer shall bells ring, no stone shall be put on stone, nobody shall be host, under pain of unnatural death.”’

‘And that frightened people off good and proper?’ Zoe returned, but a shadow had passed over Leandro’s face, and there was a haunted, almost hunted look in his eyes.

‘Yes…It must be terrible to live under a curse.’ His words fell into the stillness, rippling and disturbing the tranquillity, and somehow Zoe felt he was speaking from experience.

‘Well, here’s one building that’s still standing!’ she said cheerfully, for they’d come upon a little church, with a high bell tower looking out over the little island.

‘Yes, a few buildings remain. Fifty years ago this was a retreat for artists. Their cottages are on the other side, along with a hideously over-priced restaurant that caters to tourists.’

‘Shall we eat there?’ Zoe asked innocently, and couldn’t help but smile at Leandro’s firm shake of his head.

‘Indeed not. There are far better places to eat.’

They didn’t speak much as they wandered around the rest of the island, gazing at the ruins, with the lake sparkling like a jewel in the distance.

There was something lonely and sad about Isola Comacina, Zoe thought, although perhaps she was only being fanciful, thinking of the bishop’s curse. Yet she wasn’t being fanciful in noticing that a pall had come over Leandro’s mood. He seemed guarded and distant, his mind on other matters, other memories.

What are they? Zoe wanted to ask, wanted to know. Yet she knew
she had no right to such information. Still, she wondered what ghosts haunted Leandro, what had made him kiss her last night with such angry desperation before turning away in self-disgust.

They took the boat over to Bellagio, an ancient village with steep cobblestoned alleyways lined with flowerpots and sidewalk cafés.

Leandro led her to a café tucked away on a tiny alley. They were the only patrons, and the hostess, a smiling woman with greying, flyaway hair barely kept by a headscarf, fussed over them, bringing menus and bread and a plate of olives swimming in herbs and oil.

‘Signor Filametti, è stato così lungo,’
she exclaimed, and Zoe looked up with a jolt of surprise. She didn’t understand the Italian, but she recognised Leandro’s name. He was known here. He was known—just as he was in Menaggio.

He
was
famous.

And why shouldn’t he be? Zoe reminded herself as she spread her napkin across her lap. If the villa belonged to Leandro’s family—had done so for centuries—then of course he would be known in the region. Fussed over as a man of consequence, wealth, power.

Except he didn’t wear his family’s history and power like a mantle, with a sense of entitlement as Steve had. Leandro wore it like a yoke. A burden.

The realisation surprised Zoe, even though it was so glaringly obvious. After a few rather tersely exchanged words, Leandro opened his menu, effectively dismissing the friendly hostess, who promptly scurried to the back of the restaurant. Yet Zoe had the feeling that he acted more out of self-preservation than anything else.

‘She knew you,’ she commented, scanning the lines of incomprehensible Italian on her menu.

Leandro hesitated for half a second, his eyes on his own menu. ‘Yes,’ he replied flatly, and Zoe decided not to pursue that line of conversation.

‘What do you recommend?’ she asked instead. ‘I can’t understand a word.’

Leandro looked up, smiling faintly. ‘I thought on your CV it said you knew Italian?’

Did it? Zoe bit her lip. ‘I do—a bit,’ she said.
‘Sì, ciao, grazie…’

Leandro’s smile deepened. ‘You’re practically fluent.’

‘I bought a book,’ Zoe replied, her smile matching Leandro’s. ‘And I even looked at it once or twice.’

He shook his head, but Zoe could tell for once he was not annoyed. ‘You’re hopeless.’

‘Why did you hire me, then?’

He glanced up, his expression sharpening. ‘Because you suited my needs.’

‘Which are?’ She held her breath, waiting, wondering what he would say. Admit.

‘Someone who doesn’t know me or my family,’ Leandro said flatly. ‘A perfect stranger.’

His expression had darkened as he spoke, and when he turned back to his menu it felt like a dismissal. A rejection.

Yes, Zoe agreed silently, she was that indeed. A stranger. But why had Leandro wanted a stranger as an employee? It was an odd requirement, and one that made Zoe wonder yet again about his past. His secrets.

The mood remained sombre over lunch—huge plates of pasta and a shared salad that should have created a cosy, intimate mood, yet missed by a mile.

Leandro had retreated back into himself, and with a prickle of hurt annoyance Zoe realised she felt like an irritation to him now—as if she’d insisted on coming along rather than come by his own unexpected invitation.

‘Where to now?’ she asked as she followed Leandro out of the restaurant.

‘Back to the boat, I should think.’ Leandro scanned the sky. It was already well into the afternoon, and a few gauzy pink clouds streamed like ribbons across the horizon. ‘I’ll show you a tour of the lake’s most spectacular sights from the boat, and then we should head back to the villa. I need to accomplish something today.’

‘Important research?’ Zoe surmised, falling into step beside him.

‘Yes, actually. I have a client in Zurich, and my numbers analysis could affect the outcome of his bid by several million euros.’

‘Wow.’

‘Indeed.’

Back in the boat, Leandro perched at the helm, speeding them through the water with a distant, distracted air. Zoe gazed out at the gentle swells the boat created, trying to ignore the vague, yet growing sense of disappointment that gnawed at her insides and ate at her hopes.

What had she expected from today? From Leandro? Surely no more than what he was giving her—a friendly, if impersonal tour of Lake Como. Yet last night and all of its implications remained between them, unspoken, stretching the silence as taut as a wire. For a moment Zoe relived the touch of Leandro’s lips on hers, his hands on her body, skin against skin.

Had it really been no more than a mistake? An aberration? It seemed that was how Leandro was going to view it. And there had been something
wrong
about it—something angry. Yet even that realisation could not keep her from remembering the sweetness of his touch, and Zoe sighed, restless, unsatisfied, not knowing what she wanted or how she could even begin to get it. If Leandro could even provide it…For surely she wanted more than he was willing to give?

Leandro cut the motor, and they were both plunged into a tranquil silence that somehow made Zoe feel more tense than ever. He pointed at the near shore.

‘Villa Carlotta.’

Zoe glanced at the villa whose impressive façade was reflected in the still water. The densely forested mountain towered behind, the tops of the trees reaching for a few wispy clouds. The terraced gardens, surrounded by hedges, led right down to the water. It was like looking at a postcard—something too fabulous to be real.

‘It’s amazing,’ she said, and Leandro nodded.

‘One of the more spectacular villas on the lake.’

‘Yours is pretty spectacular,’ Zoe ventured, trying for a light tone. Leandro just shrugged. ‘It
is
yours, isn’t it?’ she pressed.
She didn’t look at him, but leaned over the side of the boat to trail her fingers through the smooth silky water.

‘Of course it is,’ Leandro replied.

‘I mean it belongs to your family.’ Her words seemed to fall into the silence, rippling and disturbing the stillness just as her fingers were. ‘I saw some paintings as I was cleaning. Portraits of your ancestors. Filamettis.’

‘Ah.’ Leandro’s fingers clenched around the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening, although his tone was deceptively light.
Still
, Zoe wasn’t fooled. ‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact. It has been in the Filametti family for generations. But it now belongs to me.’ There was implacable resolution, a hardness to his tone, and he turned his head away from her, squinting into the sunlight.

‘But why are you selling it?’ Zoe blurted. ‘It’s your family’s. It must have such a history, a
legacy
—’

‘That it does.’ Leandro shrugged one shoulder, his muscles rippling under his shirt. ‘But it’s not one I admire or care for, so it hardly matters.’