"Can I get you anything else? A bottle of wine, perhaps?"
He shook his head and indicated his glass of water. "This is good."
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if he was all right, but that would be stupid as he obviously wasn't. She really wanted to know what was troubling him in case she could help. The words nearly burst from her mouth, but she managed to bite them back. She shouldn't pry. His problems were none of her business.
Instead, she reluctantly headed back to the kitchen, ladled out a helping of beef for herself, and then sat at the kitchen table to eat. She opened her book and read a few pages, but she couldn't concentrate. "Rossellini," she whispered to herself, rolling the word over her tongue in a fake Italian accent. "Maria Rossellini." That sounded good. She had the crazy urge to write it down like a besotted teenager. But she wasn't besotted; she just found him fascinating and mysterious.
When she had finished eating, she went back to the dining room, eager to see if he wanted the crème brûlée or lemon meringue pie for dessert. Disappointment kicked in her chest at the sight of his empty chair. He must have crept out or she'd have heard him. But his plate was clean so at least he'd eaten a decent meal. Her goal for Wednesday was to get him to eat breakfast as well, even if she had to stake out the entrance hall in the morning to stop him from escaping.
Chapter Two
Wednesday started well. The sun was shining and Maria's Italian ate a full English breakfast before he disappeared out the front door.
As soon as he left, she hot-footed it upstairs to clean his room before she went out. She entered number twelve and with a guilty little murmur of pleasure, inhaled the delicious spicy smell of his aftershave. She paused during her cleaning to enjoy the glorious view from the window and noticed a lone figure that looked like Mr. Rossellini, striding along the coast path to the south of the village. Squinting against the sunlight, she watched as he halted on the Jacka, the huge rocky outcrop that towered over the harbor. While he stared out to sea, she stared at him. What was he thinking? What kept him out alone all day?
She had tried to make small talk at breakfast, to find out where he'd gone the previous day. But all he'd said was that he'd walked the coast path.
With a glance at her watch, she tore herself away from the window, hurried downstairs and prepared to go out. After she locked up, she walked down the lane to the village. The ancient slate-roofed cottages crowded along the narrow street, a mix of gray stone and whitewashed walls, a few hardy flowers in hanging baskets and the shop signs providing bright splashes of color.
The committee running the annual fundraiser for the local playgroup was meeting in the Plume of Feathers, the pub by the harbor, and she was one of the eight members. She pushed open the door and walked through the rustic splendor of the oak-paneled bar, with its many brass knickknacks, to the airy, modern conservatory that served as a restaurant. Amid a veritable jungle of potted plants and hanging flowers, most of her fellow committee members were already seated around a pine dining table, chatting and drinking coffee.
"Morning, Maria! Ready for action?" Philip, the owner of the establishment, rubbed his hands together. He was new to the pub trade and the village. An ex–Royal Marine, he seemed to have boundless energy and infected everyone with his enthusiasm. At his side sat his wife, Millie, joggling their two-year-old daughter on her knee, making the little girl giggle.
Maria wasn't surprised to find her sister, Chris, hadn't arrived yet. Punctuality had never been her forte. After Maria had said her hellos, she took a seat. "Want a coffee?" Philip held up a cafetière. She nodded and as he poured, Chris burst through the door with a bulky bag over her shoulder, towing a small, golden-haired daughter by each hand.
Maria jumped up and took Charlotte from her. "Hello, munchkin, how are you this morning?" She sat the toddler on her lap and kissed her golden curls.
"She's grumpy," Chris said, dumping her bag beside a chair and sitting with her other daughter, Poppy, on her lap. "Charlotte's teething and it's disturbing her sleep."
"Oh, poor baby." Maria hugged her niece tighter, breathing her lovely baby smell. One day, she wanted her own little girl, and she couldn't wait. Nowadays, it wasn't fashionable for young women to want homes and babies; they all wanted careers. But Maria longed for nothing more than a husband and children to care for. Her mother said she belonged in a bygone era.
"Shall we get started? It doesn't look as though the other two are going to show," Philip said, a hint of censure in his voice.
"Blast," Chris interrupted as Philip talked about catering. "I've left the girls' toy bag in the car."
"Don't worry." Maria dug in her handbag and pulled out two crayons. She tore in half the paper she had brought to take notes and gave each of her nieces a piece of paper and a crayon.
"You're a gem," Chris said.
"That's what aunties are for, isn't it, precious?" Maria said, smiling at Poppy.
As Philip updated them on the budget, Maria watched Charlotte scribble red lines on the paper, wishing she had her own daughter on her lap. But first she needed a husband, and she wasn't having much luck on that front.
Tom had been her last serious boyfriend, but that ended three years ago. They'd met a few weeks after she started college and been together the whole time. She'd thought he was the one. But everything changed when they finished college. He wanted to travel, to see the world before he settled down. Against her better judgment, she'd let him persuade her to go with him to Austria to work as a chalet girl, while he was a ski instructor for six months. Her degree was in hospitality management. He'd said the experience would look good on her resumé.
She had hated every moment. The ski instructors who lived in the chalet partied, drank, and stayed up all night. Tom fit right in with them and made lots of friends. A cold fist clenched in Maria's stomach as she remembered what some of his so-called friends had done. She quickly shoved the bad memories down and shut them away. She'd put up with their lecherous behavior for three months, but eventually they'd pushed her too far. It had hurt to leave Tom behind, but it hurt even more that he had let her down. Her parents had then encouraged her to get a job in a prestigious hotel, but she had learned her lesson. She belonged at the Crow's Nest where she felt safe.
"Maria?" Philip said, and she jolted back to the meeting.
"Sorry, what did you say?"
"Richard's let us down with the music. All he had to do was select a playlist and burn the tracks to a CD or load them on an MP3 player, but he hasn't done it. You'll have time to sort out the music, won't you?"
"Oh," she hesitated. She didn't own an MP3 player and had no idea how to 'burn' a CD. But it should be easy enough to come up with a list of fifties and sixties songs for the 'hop' they were organizing. Somebody else could help her with the CD part. "Okay. I'm sure I can do that."
Philip grinned around the table and rubbed his hands together. "Things are looking good, ladies and gents. Chris says we've already sold half the tickets. We're on target for a full house!" He glanced down at his notes one last time. "We're all done for this week, folks. See you next week, same time, same place."
Maria glanced at her sister, feeling guilty she had zoned out and missed Chris's report on ticket sales. Charlotte turned her cute little smile on Maria and she grinned back. "Are you feeling better now, poppet?"
Pointing at her mouth, Charlotte screwed up her nose. "Tooth’s sore."
"I need to get these two little rascals home and give them some lunch." Chris hooked her bag over her shoulder and lifted Poppy onto a hip. Maria gathered her things together and followed Chris out, holding Charlotte in her arms for a cuddle before they said goodbye.
As they emerged into the parking lot, Chris halted at her car, staring towards the beach. "Wow, hottie alert."
Maria followed her gaze to see Mr. Rossellini chatting with Mark Trevarthan, one of the local fishermen who kept his boat in the harbor. Her Italian wore sunglasses and the sun gleamed off his luxurian
t black hair. Her heart gave a little jump at the sight of him. He had seemed reluctant to talk at breakfast, but he looked happier now, conversing easily with Mark. As she watched them, the two men clambered up on the deck of the green, wooden fishing boat and examined a crab pot. Mr. Rossellini gestured freely as they chatted. Lithe and animated, he exuded energy and charisma.
She hadn't noticed it so much in the guesthouse, but out here, surrounded by the ordinary people from the village, her Italian seemed exotic, almost glamorous.
"I wonder what Mr. Eye Candy is doing in Porthale." Chris frowned. "He looks vaguely familiar. Do you think he's an actor shooting a movie in the area?" She glanced around. "I don't see a sports car complete with the prerequisite glamorous blonde. Perhaps he's on his own."
Maria tried to keep her expression neutral. Having a man stay at the guesthouse while she was there alone would freak out her parents if they knew. Perhaps she should have thought it through more carefully before she offered him a room.
Chris nudged Maria's arm. "You should go and chat him up. If he's still around in three weeks, he'd be one hell of a hot date for the hop." Chris grinned, but her eyes narrowed as she studied Maria. "You know who he is, don't you? Come on, spill."
"He's staying at the Crow's Nest," Maria admitted sheepishly.
"Him?" Chris's eyes opened like saucers, and she gazed at him some more. "What's a man like that doing staying at the Nest? Hey!" She swung back to Maria. "The place is meant to be closed." Then a slow smile spread across her face. "You bad, bad girl. Don't tell me he's your—"
"Gosh, no," Maria replied before Chris's imagination soared completely out of control. "Where would I have met an Italian man like him? He appeared on the doorstep on Monday night. I couldn't turn him away in that deluge."
"Course not." Chris gave her a knowing smile. "I bet he looked good dripping wet, his clothes all tight and clingy. I might just stop by later and introduce myself." She strapped Poppy in her car seat, then sauntered around the car, watching the Italian, and repeated the process with Charlotte.
Eager to change the subject, Maria turned the conversation to more mundane matters. "I've started on the decorating. If Eric's back's bad, I suppose he won't be fit enough to help me move the furniture back into the newly carpeted rooms."
Chris shook her head as she climbed into the driver's seat of her SUV. She lowered her window so they could continue to talk. "Not for a few weeks, at least. The chiropractor wants him to keep moving, but to take things easy. Maybe your Italian stallion can flex those gorgeous muscles and give you a hand."
Maria bit her lip as she glanced at Mr. Rossellini. If he could help, it would be really useful. Normally she wouldn't dream of asking a guest to move furniture, but the situation was not quite normal. Doing something constructive might help distract him from his problems.
As she watched him, he noticed her and raised a hand. "Maria, I have bought a crab." He swung down from the boat with the crab in a plastic bag and started across the pebbles towards her.
His blue shirt was open at the throat and his leather jacket slung over his shoulder. Little tingles raced through her, setting her heart fluttering. Gosh, he really was gorgeous. She might have taken on more than she'd bargained for when she agreed to let him stay.
***
The young woman who ran the guesthouse blushed as Dino walked up to her. Her long brown hair was tied back in a simple ponytail, and she was fresh-faced, only a touch of makeup on her skin. She wore jeans and a yellow blouse fastened with tiny pearly buttons shaped like flowers. He'd barely noticed her when he arrived, but she was pretty in an understated way. And she cooked like an angel. The boeuf bourguignon she'd prepared had been delicious. His mother would approve of her.
"You are walking back now?" He gestured up the hill towards the guesthouse.
"Yes." She flapped around with her bag and the sweater in her hand, looking flustered. She certainly wasn't like the women who mobbed him outside the venues where he performed. As she started walking, he fell into step beside her. "You're not staying out all day today then?" she asked.
"The sun is shining. I would like to sit in your garden if that is acceptable."
"Of course. The weather's weird this winter. It almost feels like spring today." She looked away, then cast him a shy sideways glance. "Would you like me to cook you lunch?"
He smiled, despite the deep melancholy that still weighed down his heart. She was as eager to feed him as his mother. "Do you think I am too thin?"
"Gosh, no. I'm just worried that you missed two meals in a row. And you were out for so long yesterday. Walking uses up lots of energy."
Why would a complete stranger worry about him? He had stayed in the best hotels money could buy, all over the world. The staff members he met were mostly polite, but none of them cared if he chose to eat or not.
As they reached the top of the street and turned up the lane to the guesthouse, she pointed at the bag containing his purchase. "I'll cook your crab for dinner tonight, if you like. Are you keen on fish?"
"We eat much fish where I come from. My father and two of my brothers are fishermen. It was good to talk of things that remind me of home. I bought the crab to show my gratitude." Discussing tides, the catch, and the unpredictable weather had taken him back to a simpler time, a time when he'd helped his father at weekends for pocket money.
"You obviously didn't join the family business," she observed.
"Ah, Maria, you are right," he said wistfully. They had reached the guesthouse gate. He opened it and stared out to sea as the young woman passed him, wondering, not for the first time, if his life might have been happier if he'd stayed in Riomaggiore, married a local girl, and lived the simple life of a fisherman. But singing was his passion, always had been. His spirit would wither if he could not sing for people. He could never give up performing, not for anyone or anything.
***
While Mr. Rossellini went into the garden, Maria put his crab in a pot in the larder to deal with later. Then she defrosted and cooked some part-baked bread rolls and a portion of homemade mushroom soup. When the lunch was ready, she carried it out on a tray with a napkin and cutlery.
She paused beneath the arched trellis leading to the sheltered walled garden. In the unseasonably warm weather, her Italian was enjoying the sunshine. Head tipped back and eyes closed, he was listening to something through earphones attached to his phone. Her breath caught at the sight of him, so dark and gorgeous and masculine, his lean muscular body stretched out and relaxed. Little tingles of pleasure raced around inside her. With a sigh of longing for things that could never be, she moved forwards and deposited the tray on the table.
"I've brought your lunch." She raised her voice so he would hear over his music. His thick, black lashes lifted and the weight of his gaze rested on her. He'd appeared distracted up till then, lost in the turmoil of his thoughts. Now when his languorous, brown eyes settled on her, she felt the intensity of his presence like a physical touch.
He pulled out the earphones. The faint strains of classical music sounded for a moment before he switched it off. "Thank you, Maria." He straightened his seat and examined his bowl of soup.
"It's my homemade mushroom." She winced inside at her eager tone. She must stop blowing her own horn over her cooking.
He unfolded the napkin she had wrapped around the warm rolls and the corners of his lips twitched. "This is perfect, Maria." His gaze rose to her again. For a moment she couldn't breathe, then heat rushed to her cheeks. Heavens, woman, get a grip. She was behaving like a lovesick puppy!
"I'm going upstairs for a while. When I come down, I'll make you a cup of coffee." She hurried upstairs intent on doing something useful and not thinking about Mr. Rossellini.
***
Dino tasted the soup and his eyelids fell with pleasure. Sublime. She was a culinary angel. He glanced at the upstairs windows thoughtfully. In his home village of Riomaggiore, a pretty young woman who cooked as well as Maria wou
ld have suitors lining up at her door. Granted, Dino had not been paying attention up until now, but Maria wore no rings and he had not noticed a boyfriend visiting. The men in Porthale must be blind and stupid not to have snapped her up.
He had just finished his soup and picked up his napkin when a bloodcurdling scream rang out from upstairs. Dino shot out of his chair, dropping his napkin. Had she fallen from a ladder, cut herself? He raced inside, bounded up the stairs three at a time, and slid to a halt outside the open door of a bedroom.
Maria was inside, huddled in the far corner by the window. The healthy pink roses that had earlier colored her cheeks were gone, her complexion now chalk-white. Dino glanced around the room at a loss to see anything out of place. "What is the matter?"
She gnawed her lips, staring at a heap of plastic sheet on the ground in front of her. "It's in there." Her gaze flicked up to him then back to the plastic. "A spider. A really massive one."
The tension in Dino's shoulder's drained away, and he suppressed a smile. "Ah, cara, cara." He shook his head as he strolled into the room and nudged the folded plastic with his toe. A spider scuttled out.
Maria's scream rent the air again.
Dino winced. She definitely did not have a singing career in her future, but she probably had a sore throat coming. The spider secreted itself beneath another fold and was hidden again. "Let me take this out for you."
"Yes! Yes, please."
He caught hold of the corners and gathered the plastic sheet into a bundle, then carried it downstairs. Maria's tentative footsteps sounded behind him. He went out the front door to the car park and flapped the sheet.
"Where did it go? It won't get back in the house, will it?" she asked from the safety of the front step.
He hadn't seen the spider fall out, but this called for a white lie. If she thought it might still be inside, his culinary angel would probably shut herself in her room, and he wouldn't get his crab tonight. "It is in the hedge, Maria."
The Ultimate Romance Box (6 Bestselling Romance Novels) Page 40