Her Mediterranean Playboy (18 page)

Leandro moored the boat and then helped her up. His fingers remained twined with hers all the way to the restaurant.

It was a small, intimate, expensive place—the kind of restaurant that only had half a dozen items on the menu, but all were sinfully delicious. They shared
tiramisu
for dessert, Leandro’s eyes dark and heavy-lidded in the candlelight, and then he led her back to the boat.

It was magical being on the lake at night, with the smooth surface of the water reflecting the stars above. Leandro cut the motor so they drifted in the middle of the lake, the only sound the lap of the water against the sides of the boat. Zoe stood up, her hands curling around the railing. A slight breeze rippled her hair, and she pulled her shawl around her shoulders.

‘I love it here,’ she said quietly. ‘A night like this…I never want it to end.’

Behind her Leandro stiffened slightly, and too late Zoe realised what she had said—how it had sounded. She opened her mouth to take back the words, then closed it again. Let Leandro make of it what he would.

His hands came up to her shoulders, slipping under her gauzy
wrap to warm her skin. ‘A night like this need never end,’ he said softly, and kissed the nape of her neck. Zoe shivered. ‘Zoe…’

He pressed against her, her name a supplication and a thanksgiving. Zoe leaned back, her arms reaching up to twine around his neck, and for a split second she remembered the couple she’d watched with such bitter envy on the boat.

Now she was like them, happy and loved. For a time.

Banishing the thought, she turned so she could embrace Leandro fully, her lips seeking his, her body needing the caress, the release, yet her heart still wanting so much more.

The days slid by all too quickly; July melted into August. Zoe tried not to count, not to think of it. She refused to register the passing of the weeks, or the fact that the roofers were nearly done. She simply wanted to enjoy, to revel in Leandro’s attention, in the nights in his bed, the days in his company.

They’d fallen into a routine of sorts, both working most of the morning before coming to the kitchen to share a coffee. Zoe was surprised at how easy it was to talk with him, to laugh and chat and speak of simple things, with the sunlight slanting through the wide, high windows.

They’d mostly return to work after lunch—although almost as often they’d find themselves upstairs, in bed, whiling away the lazy summer afternoons, loving each other.

In the evenings they often stayed in; Zoe would cook a meal they’d enjoy on the terrace, and then they’d curl up on one of the sofas in the drawing room and read or chat or even play chess. Leandro, laughing, had taught her, and was amazed at how quickly she’d picked up the game.

It felt, Zoe thought, as if they were reclaiming the villa. The past. Filling the rooms with laughter again, with love. For she loved Leandro—loved him with a completeness that cast out fear and left only a strong, happy certainty. She even let herself hope—believe—that he felt it too.

How could he lie with her in his arms night after night and not feel it? How could he swim and laugh and dance with her and not be in love?

She even let herself daydream—something she was usually wary of. She pictured the rooms of the villa restored and decorated again, filled with family. Their children, even.

Dangerous, Zoe knew, to want this much. To hope this much. Yet she couldn’t help it. She was happy, and happiness did that to you. It made you believe.

For a little while, anyway.

The day the roofers finished up and left was cold and grey and drizzly. Zoe plied them with cups of coffee and freshly made
biscotti
, not wanting them to go. Not wanting to admit that it was all inexorably coming to an end.

Eventually they left, and she stood on the portico—a mason had repaired the crumbling step—and watched their van disappear down the drive, past the new red and white sign stuck to the iron gate.

A chill that was far colder than the needling drizzle swept through Zoe. The sign read
‘Per La Vendita’
. For sale.

Zoe gazed at it for a moment, unblinking, as the coldness penetrated her bones, her heart, made her shiver deep inside. Of course she’d always known Leandro planned to sell the villa. She’d expected it, and yet…she hadn’t. Somehow she’d managed to convince herself it wasn’t really going to happen.

The drizzle strengthened to a downpour, and Zoe realised she was getting soaked. She turned back inside.

A glance at the calendar by the kitchen telephone told her it was the end of August. She could hardly believe it; they’d been lovers since the beginning of the summer. Her plane ticket was booked for next week.

Zoe sank into a kitchen chair and dropped her head into her hands, her mind buzzing. One week. Seven days. That was all she had left.

It’s not enough.
Her mind screamed it, her heart begged for more. And sitting there, alone in the kitchen, as the rain streamed down the windowpanes and turned the lake to no more than a dank grey mist, she realised she was going to get it. More. At least she was going to ask.

She’d even hope for an answer. The right answer. The belief
that Leandro loved her even if he didn’t want to admit it to himself. Even if it didn’t feel safe.

She rose from the table, her mind still buzzing, a strange new courage fizzing through her. That courage took her all the way to Leandro’s study door, and after a second’s hesitation she knocked. There was no answer. Another second and she turned the knob, opening the door with careful slowness.

The room was empty.

She’d only been in Leandro’s study a handful of times; he told her he’d clean it himself, as he didn’t want his papers disturbed. Looking at the messy scattering of papers across the desk’s burnished mahogany top, Zoe wondered how they could be
more
disturbed.

She walked slowly around the room, taking in the masculine leather chairs, the bookshelves lined with dusty, musty tomes. This must have been his father’s study, she realised, and wondered why Leandro had chosen it for himself. Punishment or retribution?

There were so many papers on the desk, some even scattered on the floor, that she didn’t know why one small crumpled ball on top of the wastebasket intrigued her. She couldn’t explain why she reached down to take it, laid it on the desk to smooth out the wrinkles. Perhaps because it had been more crumpled than the rest—savagely twisted into the tiniest ball possible. She remembered doing that with her own childish drawings. This was something no one must see, yet she couldn’t bear to destroy it completely. Silently she scanned the single sheet; it was a letter, written in Italian. She could only understand a few phrases. They were enough.

Il più caro Leandro…Sono così spiacente…Lascilo vederlo…Il vostro padre votato…

Dearest Leandro…I’m so sorry…Let me see you…Your devoted father.

Leandro’s father. He’d written him, after all these years, and Leandro had clearly thrown the letter away. Zoe stared at the words, trying to make more sense of it. The picture Leandro had painted of his father had been of an entirely unscrupulous man,
corrupted by lust and driven by desperation. A man who had abandoned his family without a single backward glance, never to see them again.

Yet this letter showed a man who longed for forgiveness, for healing. Leandro, it seemed, was determined not to give it.

‘What are you doing?’

Zoe looked up, tensing at Leandro’s harsh voice—a voice he hadn’t used with her for weeks. Months. It was, she knew, the voice of a judgemental stranger.

She also knew how it looked. She’d been snooping in Leandro’s study, going through his rubbish and reading his personal letters. A blush rose from her throat to stain her cheeks. She pushed the letter away, as if to distance herself from it.

‘I’m sorry.’

Leandro cocked one eyebrow, his mouth curling into an unpleasantly cynical smile. ‘Are you? What for, Zoe?’ He moved closer, with soft, lethal grace, and Zoe had to keep herself from taking a defensive step backwards.

‘I—I was looking for you,’ she said, stumbling over the simple explanation. ‘I thought you’d be in here…’

‘But I wasn’t,’ Leandro finished softly. ‘So you decided to snoop around.’

He was so close to her now, his eyes bright with an anger Zoe didn’t even understand. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I didn’t mean to snoop. I don’t even know why I read that letter…’

‘What?’ His eyebrows rose in disbelief. ‘You didn’t read them all?’

‘No!’ Zoe shook her head, her hair brushing against her face. ‘Leandro, why are you being so…so…?’ She stopped, not wanting to finish the question. So cold. So hateful. So unforgiving.

‘Why were you snooping, Zoe?’ Leandro asked, in a voice no less hard for its softness. ‘What were you looking for? My chequebook? My bank balance? A few bits and baubles?’

‘What?’
It took a full thirty seconds for comprehension to trickle coldly through her, while Leandro watched with scornful assurance. ‘You think I was…? You still think I’m like one of your father’s bimbos?’

Leandro cursed and turned away. ‘No…of course not…I don’t know what to think!’

The last came out in a cry of anguish, and Zoe grabbed the letter and shoved it towards him. He caught it reflexively against his chest, glancing down at the lines of scrawled writing, his brow furrowed.

‘I was reading
this
,’ she said heavily. ‘A letter from your father. I can’t understand all the Italian, but I know enough to realise he’s sorry and he wants to see you.’

Leandro’s fingers tightened around the wrinkled paper before, with deliberate, supreme indifference, he crumpled the letter once more and tossed it back in the bin. ‘So?’

‘So?’
Zoe shook her head. ‘Leandro, this is your
father
—your family.’ She glanced at the crumpled ball of paper and felt all her hopes blow away like insubstantial dust. It had been such a deliberate dismissal of his father, his family,
everything
. Everything she’d begun to believe. ‘You’re never going to change, are you?’

‘Change?’ Leandro’s voice sharpened, his eyes narrowing. ‘Why should I change?’

‘I thought…’ Tears welled at the corners of her eyes, and only with effort could she blink them back. She felt disappointment and something deeper pouring through her, scalding her. She’d been so utterly foolish. ‘I thought you’d change,’ she finally said, and heard the ache of longing in her own voice. ‘I thought you were changing—that what we had together…’ She shook her head, not wanting to articulate just how deluded she had been. ‘But I realise now I was wrong.’

‘Yes, you were.’ Leandro’s voice was cold. ‘I told you how much I had to give, Zoe. I never deceived you. I thought you were like—’

‘Like you. Yes, I know.’ She gave a tired imitation of a laugh and felt the tears sting her eyes again. ‘But you see, I’ve come to realise this summer that I’m not really like that. I’m not sure I ever was. I know how I acted, how I wanted to be seen, but inside…’ She shrugged. ‘I want what I never had growing up. My mother was just like me. More, even. We travelled from
place to place and we never stayed long—a few months at most—before she’d get itchy feet and have to pack up and leave. Always a new adventure, new school, new friends. Except they never really were friends—we never had time. I suppose I grew used to it, and I convinced myself that was how I wanted to live
my
life. Safer, really. You never get hurt, because no one ever gets close enough.’

A muscle ticked in Leandro’s jaw, and for a moment he looked as if he might speak. But the silence just stretched on, endless, agonising. Zoe forced herself to continue.

‘But now I know what I want, Leandro, and it’s not just a good time. I don’t even think I’ve ever
had
a good time—you were only my second lover, you know. I’m not the girl you thought I was. I’m not the girl
I
thought I was.’

‘Zoe—’

Leandro broke off, and Zoe knew whatever he wanted to say he couldn’t. He was right; he didn’t have any more to give. He couldn’t give her what she wanted—which was everything.

‘I don’t want a good time, Leandro. I want a home, a family. Love.’ Her smile curled the corners of her mouth. ‘I want it all, Leandro. And I thought maybe you did too…with me. I thought that even if you felt you didn’t have enough to give you’d still want more. But you don’t.’

Leandro was staring at her, his face horribly expressionless, making Zoe feel even more vulnerable. She’d exposed more to this man than anyone else, and he didn’t even want it.
Her.

‘It’s funny,’ she finally said, breaking the taut, uncomfortable silence. ‘It took a letter from your father to make me wake up from the dream I was living in. Because this was all a dream, wasn’t it? Living here together like it’s a home…our home…’ Her voice cracked and she swallowed down the howl of sorrow that threatened to erupt out of her. ‘If my father ever wrote to me like that I wouldn’t throw away the letter. I’d keep it, and I’d see him. Because no matter what he did, Leandro, he’s sorry now, and he loves you—’

‘You can tell all that from a few badly translated lines of Italian?’ Leandro’s voice rang with contempt. ‘You have no idea, Zoe.’

Zoe gazed at him, at his powerful frame and blazing eyes radiating scorn and rage, and she shook her head. ‘Nor do you. Consider this my notice.’

Ducking her head so he couldn’t see the tears that had begun to slip silently down her cheeks, she hurried out of the room.

Leandro watched her go, his chest aching as if he’d run a marathon, as if his heart were breaking.

But of course it wasn’t. He didn’t love Zoe Clark; he didn’t love anybody. He’d made sure of that.

He cursed under his breath, wishing he’d never hired her, never met her, never loved her—

No.
He did
not
love her. They’d been having a perfectly fine time, a
good
time, and she’d ruined it with silly schoolgirl dreams he’d thought her too savvy to possess.