by Lucy King
‘You can continue to stay with me until you leave. I’ll take you to Milan in the morning.’
What? No. No way.
‘And before you object,’ he added when she automatically opened her mouth to do exactly that, ‘it is not an inconvenience. I am aware that you are extremely capable and can handle this on your own. I know you’re no damsel in distress and I have no intention of telling you what to do, or preventing you from doing anything you want to do, if you insist upon it. It’s simply an efficient use of resources and makes the most sense. That is all.’
Hmm. Carla didn’t know about that. In her opinion, staying with Rico would mean approximately thirty-six more hours of trying to keep a lid on the attraction that instead of dissipating seemed to be growing in intensity. It would mean spending time with him, which would result in the kind of stress and discomfort that did not appeal. It would mean further reliance on someone who wasn’t her, and worse, on a man.
On the other hand, it would provide an opportunity to restart her temporarily derailed mission to change his mind about meeting Finn. Earlier, she’d opened an email from Georgie, in which her best friend had asked how she was getting on and whether she’d made any progress. The deluge of guilt and shame she’d felt at the realisation that she’d allowed her own issues to take over had prevented her from replying. She didn’t want to have to admit that she hadn’t made very much progress at all. She didn’t want to have to confess to all the reasons why.
Now was the chance to get back on track and rectify that. If she accepted his proposal and installed herself in his house, Rico would be a captive audience. She’d give him no option but to talk. She might not have much time, but in the course of her career she’d achieved a lot more with less, and here, failure was not an option. This time, nothing was going to get in her way. Her focus would remain unshakeable.
She’d put her plan into action the minute they returned to his island. He wouldn’t know what had hit him. She’d start with his house and go from there. You could tell a lot about a person from the place they called home. And then she’d move on to everything else she wanted to know, such as why he’d really walked out of Finn’s study yesterday lunchtime and what exactly he had against police stations. She’d noticed the tension that had radiated off him when she’d been filling in the forms. It hinted at dark secrets she badly wanted to uncover. For the job she was here to do, naturally.
Why he obviously now had no intention of acting on the attraction he still felt for her was not something she needed to know, any more than why he affected her so fiercely. The mission was her number one priority. It was the only thing that mattered now, so she’d be a fool and a coward not to accept his offer, not to mention an appalling best friend, and she hoped she was no longer any of those things.
‘Thank you,’ she said with a nod, ignoring the flutter of misgiving that nevertheless flickered deep inside her. ‘That would be great.’
* * *
What Rico was doing inviting Carla to stay, to invade his space and shatter his privacy, he had no idea. He’d caught the flare of triumphant satisfaction in her eyes while she’d been considering what best to do. He knew what she was going to attempt. Hadn’t he recognised her tenacity and her resourcefulness and decided to have nothing to do with her precisely because she might slip beneath his guard? By taking her back to his home, by exposing himself to the barrage of prying questions that was undoubtedly coming his way, wasn’t he potentially not just lowering his guard but also quite possibly tossing it aside altogether?
Rico had been taking risks from the moment he’d woken up to the harsh realities of life at the age of sixteen and discovered he cared about absolutely nothing. He had no responsibilities, was accountable to no one, and therefore had zero to lose. So why shouldn’t he pursue the thrill his reckless actions gave him, especially when they unfailingly turned out well?
Telling Carla she could continue to stay with him, however, was reckless beyond belief, a risk too great even for him to take. He knew that. It destabilised the status quo. It threatened the very essence of who he was. So why had his instincts, the ones he’d never yet had cause to doubt, prodded him to do it? Why did inviting Carla into his space, regardless of what she might do with it, feel so right?
Steering the boat towards the jetty, Rico eased off on the throttle and tossed a buoy over the side. The boat bumped gently against the wood, jarring the thoughts knocking around his head, and he threw a loop of rope over the mooring post.
Perhaps he was overthinking this, he thought grimly as Carla grabbed the replacement bag she’d bought and hopped off before he could even think about offering her a hand, which was a relief. Where was the danger really? If she started bombarding him with questions about himself and reasons why he should establish proper contact with his brother he’d be ready. If she decided to get personal, he could choose what to reveal and what to keep secret. He’d been doing it for years. And as for the scorching desire he felt for her, his will power was strong and she’d be gone soon enough.
Shaking off the unease and focusing on the eminently sensible way he was going to handle the next thirty-six hours, Rico stepped off the boat and set off up the cypress tree-lined path that led to the house.
‘What made you choose to live here instead of the city?’ she asked, falling in beside him.
‘It’s cool in the heat of the summer,’ he replied, and it was partly the truth. She didn’t need to know about his craving for space, clean air and greenery after calling the dirty urban streets home for too long. ‘There’s plenty of room for the pool. Plus you can’t land a helicopter in the city.’
‘I can see how that would be inconvenient.’
‘You’ll see just how convenient it is tomorrow when I take you to Milan.’
‘We’re going by helicopter?’
‘Fastest way to get there.’
‘Speed is good.’
Not always. He could think of plenty of occasions when slow was better. But now wasn’t one of them, so he upped his pace, as uncomfortably aware of Carla hot on his heels as he was of the sharp complaint of his muscles.
‘We’ll leave at eight.’
‘I’ll change my flight to Tuesday morning,’ she said with a slight breathlessness that he ruthlessly ignored. ‘Just in case there’s any delay tomorrow.’
‘I’ll take you to the airport.’
‘That would be appreciated.’
‘It’s no problem at all.’
They continued in silence for a moment and then she said, ‘So if I’m going to be staying here for a little while longer, would you show me around? I wouldn’t want to get lost and wind up somewhere I shouldn’t.’
‘Now?’
‘Unless you have somewhere else to be. The standard tour will do.’
‘There is no standard tour,’ he said, faintly disturbed about the thought of her nosing around his home even though it was too late for regrets.
‘The premium one, then.’
‘There’s never been a tour of any kind.’
‘Don’t tell me I’m your first house guest.’
‘All right, I won’t,’ he said, coming to a stop at the front door and glancing at her as he pushed his sunglasses onto his head then fished his keys from the pocket of his shorts.
Her eyes widened as she reached the obvious conclusion. ‘Am I?’
‘As I told you, I value my privacy.’
‘My lips will remain sealed.’
As if on cue, his gaze dropped to her mouth and the world seemed to stop, keys, tours, privacy forgotten and in their place nothing but a drumming need that drowned out everything but the two of them.
He wanted to step forward, plant his hands on her shoulders and press her up against the warm, solid oak of the door. He wanted to lower his head to hers and cover her mouth with his and kiss her until neither of them coul
d think straight.
He could almost feel her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair. He could imagine all too clearly her arching her back to plaster herself against him and the soft, sighing gasps she might emit.
She was standing so close he wouldn’t even have to make much of a move. One step and he could yield to the hot, powerful desire surging through him. One step and she’d be in his arms and kissing him back because he just knew the same thing was running through her mind. She’d gone very still and her smile was fading. She was as transfixed by his mouth as he was by hers and a flush was appearing on her cheeks.
She wanted him as much as he wanted her, only this time, he realised while his body hardened and throbbed, she wasn’t rejecting it. This time she wasn’t pulling back. This time she was actually leaning towards him, her eyes darkening with desire that he badly wanted to stoke.
But to act on the attraction that still burned between them could expose him to her perceptiveness and uncanny insight and there was no way in hell he was going to allow that to happen. Besides, he had a plan for how to handle her—a sensible one, which was remarkable for a man who thrived on recklessness—and he had every intention of sticking to it.
The house, he reminded himself, taking a mental step back from the brink of insanity and clearing both his throat and his head. That was what she’d asked him about. The house.
Swiftly putting some distance between them, he turned to unlock the door. ‘The villa was originally built by a seventeenth-century industrialist as a summer retreat,’ he said, striding out of the dazzling, reason-wrecking heat and into the cool, calm interior.
‘What?’
He glanced over his shoulder, the slight huskiness to her voice grating over his nerve-endings, and he noticed that she was looking a little flustered, which was only fair when she’d had a similarly devastating effect on him. ‘You asked about the house.’
‘Right,’ she said, giving herself a quick shake and following him in, composure unfortunately restored. ‘Yes. So how long have you lived here?’
‘Since the renovations were completed five years ago.’
‘And before that?’
‘Milan.’
‘What were you doing there?’
Grafting, mainly. Working sixteen-hour days and moving quickly up the ranks. Making the most of the opportunity he’d been given to shed his past and turn his life around. ‘Building my career.’
‘Do you live here permanently?’ she asked as he led her through the huge drawing room, the snug, the study and the dining room that could host supper for twenty, looking at the space through a visitor’s eyes and wondering what she thought, even though her opinion really didn’t matter. With his wealth he could have bought any number of lavish palaces, but he didn’t need opulence. He just needed space and light and comfort.
‘I have places elsewhere,’ he said. ‘But this is my home.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, stopping at the base of a set of wide stone steps that went up and round, while he wondered what to do with the strange kick of pleasure he felt at the approval he’d told himself he didn’t want. ‘Light and airy but very, very minimalist.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It wasn’t necessarily a compliment.’
‘Oh?’
‘Where are all your things?’
He frowned, disquiet zigzagging through him. ‘What things?’
‘Photos, knick-knacks, trinkets, mementos. You know, the stuff and clutter a person generally accumulates as they go through life.’
‘I don’t have any.’
Her eyebrows lifted and she stared at him in astonishment. ‘None?’
‘I prefer to look forward, not back.’
‘So you hang on to nothing?’
‘I don’t see the point.’
‘I guess it saves on the dusting.’
It saved on the navel-gazing. It prevented the stirring up of memories of times he’d long since blocked out, and unwanted, unnecessary emotional ties. It facilitated a life free of burden and responsibility. But he’d been right in his initial assessment of her. She did see far too much. Which meant he had to be exceptionally careful about what else he allowed her access to.
‘What’s up there?’
‘My bedroom suite.’
For a moment, his words hung between them, charging the sudden silence with crackling static, while their gazes locked as if held by some invisible unbreakable thread, and then, with a swallow and a shaky laugh, she said, ‘I probably don’t need to see that.’
‘No,’ he agreed with an evenness that belied the fierce heat suddenly whipping around inside him, making him harden and ache. ‘You don’t.’
And there was no ‘probably’ about it. It was bad enough that she could roam around the communal areas of the house. Bad enough that he could envisage her walking up the stairs ahead of him, looking over her shoulder with heat and desire in her mesmerising green gaze and then gliding into his room, shedding her clothes and pulling him down with her onto his bed. Under no circumstances was she checking out his suite just in case she ‘got lost and wound up somewhere she shouldn’t’.
Instead, having hauled his body back under control, he took her up another set of stairs at the opposite side of the hall that led to the guest rooms, all four of them, one of which was temporarily hers, which again, did not need to be seen by either of them, and then back down, through a set of French windows and into the garden.
‘The gym is a recent addition,’ he said, stalking towards the studio and opening the door onto a vast room furnished with state-of-the-art equipment, where he’d spent much time slowly regaining his strength.
‘Installed after your accident?’
‘Yes.’
‘You said a BASE jump went wrong.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What led to the bad landing?’ she asked, weaving between the machines, inspecting them with interest as she went.
Annoyingly unable to take his eyes off her, Rico leaned against the wall and jammed his hands in his pockets. ‘The jump itself was fine,’ he said, remembering the thunder of nerves and anticipation as he’d stepped off the top of a snow-capped mountain that rose up two thousand metres above sea level and begun soaring through jagged cliffs, high on speed and adrenaline and invincibility. ‘But, coming in to land, a gust of wind caught my wingsuit and blew me off course. I over-adjusted and slammed into a tree, and from there I crashed to the ground.’
The disbelief had almost been as great as the pain, he recalled, still unable to fully credit what had happened. He’d been BASE jumping for years, thriving on the exhilaration, taking ever-increasing risks in this as with everything he did, because why not?
The few accidents he’d had had been expected and minor. Until this one, which had seen him airlifted to hospital in Courmayeur, where he’d endured hours of complex surgery, followed by a stint at a clinic back home in Venice and then a gruelling physiotherapy programme that technically he was still supposed to be in the middle of.
‘A rookie mistake?’
‘I have a thousand skydives and two hundred BASE jumps under my belt,’ he said. ‘It’s simply one of the most dangerous sports you can do and on this occasion I was unlucky.’
The look she threw him was disconcertingly shrewd. ‘Is the danger the attraction?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re a risk-taker.’
‘I am. Are you?’
She gave her head a shake. ‘Quite the opposite. I like things planned, organised and well thought through. I like control.’
‘Yet you work in crisis management and damage limitation, where the unexpected is the norm.’
‘True,’ she admitted, ‘but the unexpectedness is expected. Will you go back to doing it?’
‘BASE jumping? No,’ he s
aid, realising, once his brain had caught up with his mouth, that it was true. Which was odd. Because why would he want to give it up? Yes, he’d been injured, but he’d been injured before, albeit not quite so severely, and been back in the saddle as soon as he could. What was different about this time? And why was his chest tight and his pulse fast?
‘What will you do instead?’
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted uneasily, apparently unable to answer anything right now.
‘Doesn’t it get a bit lonely, rattling around here on your own?’
‘No.’
‘You should get a pet.’
The thought of it sent a shudder through him. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’
Because he needed attachments like a hole in the head. Because he preferred to move through life alone and apart, and that precluded animals. ‘I don’t want one.’
‘Why not?’
‘What business is it of yours?’
‘I’m seeing a theme.’
‘What kind of a theme?’ he asked, a strange sense of apprehension beginning to trickle though him.
‘No neighbours, no pets, no clutter, no attachments of any kind. You don’t just live on an island, Rico, you are an island. So was that why you left Finn’s study?’ she asked with a tilt of her head. ‘Did the thought of potential attachment spook you?’
‘Not at all,’ he said easily, although how close she was to the truth was making him sweat. ‘I merely remembered I had somewhere else to be.’
‘Here?’
‘Precisely. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going for a swim.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
AS IF A swim was going to succeed in putting her off, thought Carla, watching Rico stalk out of the gym as if he had wolves snapping at his heels.
She’d been right in her belief that one could discover a lot from exploring another person’s house. In Rico’s case, she’d indirectly learned that exiting a conversation when it touched a nerve was what he did, and it revealed more than she suspected he was aware of. It gave her points to note and avenues to pursue, such as why he moved through life like a ghost, living in such isolation, even if the isolation was splendid, as indeed it was.