If she so much as walked past him every cell in his body stood to attention. If she sent her tongue out over her beautiful mouth he felt as if she had stroked it over him intimately. When she smiled that hesitant, shy, nervous smile every pore of his skin contracted with primal need as he imagined her losing that shyness with him. As soon as he caught a trace of her scent he would feel a rush through his flesh. His blood would bloom with such heat he could feel it charging through his pelvis and down his legs.
But he kept his distance.
Always.
She was the kid sister of his two closest friends. It was an unspoken code between mates: no poaching of sisters. If things didn’t work out, it would strain everyone’s relationship. He had seen enough with the angst between Jake and Jasmine. The air could be cut with a knife when those two were in the same room. The fallout from their fiery spat still made everyone uncomfortable even seven years after the event. You couldn’t mention Jaz’s name around Jake without his expression turning to thunder. And Jaz turned into a hissing and spitting wildcat if Jake so much as glanced her way.
Leandro wasn’t going to add to the mix with a dalliance with Miranda, even if she did somehow manage to move on from the loss of her teenage boyfriend. She wasn’t the type to settle for a casual fling. She was way too old-fashioned and conservative for that. She would want the fairy tale: the house with the picket fence and cottage flowers, the kids and the dog.
He wondered if she had even had proper sex with her boyfriend. They had started officially dating when she’d been fourteen, which in his opinion was a little young. He knew teenagers had sex younger than ever but had she been ready emotionally? Why was she so determined to cling to a promise that essentially locked her up for life? He didn’t understand why she would do such a thing. How could she possibly think she’d loved Mark enough to make that sort of sacrifice?
He had always had the feeling Mark Redbank had clung to Miranda for all the wrong reasons. She believed it to have been true love but Leandro wasn’t so sure. Call him cynical, but he’d always suspected Mark had used Miranda, especially towards the end. He thought Mark had played up his feelings for her to keep her tied to him. The decent thing would have been to set her free but apparently Mark had extracted a death-bed promise with her that she was stubbornly determined to stick to.
But touching her had awakened something in Leandro. He had never touched her before. Not even when he came to visit the family at Ravensdene. He had always avoided the kiss on the cheek to say hello, mostly because she was too shy to offer it and he would never make the first move. He had never even shaken her hand. He had made every effort to avoid physical contact. He knew she saw him as a cold fish, aloof, distant. He had been happy to keep it that way.
But being in that room with all those memories and all that crushing grief had pushed him off-balance. Something had been unleashed inside him. Something he wasn’t sure he could control. Now he had touched Miranda he wanted to touch her again. It was an urge that pulsed through him. The feel of her creamy skin beneath his palm, against his fingers, her silky hair tickling the back of his hand, had stirred his blood until it roared through his body like an out of control freight train. It made him think forbidden thoughts. Thoughts he had never allowed himself to think before now. Thoughts of her lying pinned by his body, his need pumping into her as her cries of pleasure filled the air.
The brief flare of temper she had shown confirmed everything he had suspected about her. Underneath her ice-maiden façade was a passionate young woman just crying out for physical expression. He could see it in the way she held herself together so primly, as if she was frightened of breaking free from the tight moral restraints she had placed around herself. Kissing her would have proven it. He wanted to taste that soft, innocent bow of a mouth and feel her shudder all over with longing. To thrust his tongue between those beautiful lips and taste the sweet, moist heat of her mouth. To have her tongue tangle with his in a sexy coupling that was a prelude to smoking-hot sex.
He clenched his hands into tight fists as he wrestled with his conscience. He wasn’t in a good place right now. He was acting totally out of character. It would be wrong to try it on with her. He could slake his lust the way he usually did—with someone who knew the game and was happy with his rules. He didn’t do long term. The longest he did was a month or two—any longer than that and women got ideas of bended knees, rings and promises he couldn’t deliver on.
It wasn’t that he was against marriage. He believed in it as an institution and admired people who made it work. He even believed it could work. He believed it was a good framework in which to bring up children and travel through the cycles and seasons of life with someone who had the same vision and values. He was quietly envious of Julius’s relationship with Holly Perez. But he didn’t allow himself to think too long about how it would be to have a life partner to build a future with—to have someone to hope and dream with.
He was used to living on his own.
He preferred it. He didn’t have to make idle conversation. He didn’t have to meet someone else’s emotional needs. He could get on with his work any hour of the day—particularly when he couldn’t sleep—and no one would question him.
Leandro heard a soft footfall at the top of the stairs and looked up to see Miranda gliding down like a graceful swan. She was wearing a knee-length milky-coffee-coloured dress with a cashmere pashmina around her slim shoulders. It would have been a nondescript colour on someone else but with her porcelain skin and auburn hair it was perfect. She had scooped her hair up into a makeshift but stylish knot at the back of her head, which highlighted the elegant length of her slim neck. She was wearing a string of pearls and pearl studs in her earlobes that showcased the creamy, smooth perfection of her skin and, as she got closer, he could pick up the fresh, flowery scent of her perfume. Her brown eyes were made up with subtle shades of eye shadow and her fan-like lashes had been lengthened and thickened with mascara.
Her mouth—dear God in heaven, why couldn’t he stop looking at her mouth?—was shiny with a strawberry-coloured lip gloss.
A light blush rode along her cheekbones as she came to stand before him. ‘I’m sorry for keeping you waiting...’
Leandro felt her perfume ambush his senses; the freesia notes were fresh and light but there was a hint of something a little more complex under the surface. It teased his nostrils, toyed with his imagination, tormented him with its veiled sensual promise. He glanced at her shoes. ‘Can you walk in those?’
‘Yes.’
‘The restaurant is only a few blocks from here,’ he said. ‘But I can drive if you’d prefer.’
‘No, a walk would be lovely,’ she said.
* * *
They walked to a French restaurant Leandro informed Miranda he had found the day before. Every step of the walk, she was aware of the distance between them. It never varied. It was as if he had calculated what would be appropriate and rigorously stuck to it. He walked on the road side of the footpath just like the well-bred gentleman she knew him to be. He took care at the intersections they came to making sure it was safe to cross against the traffic and other pedestrians.
Miranda was aware of him there beside her. Even though he didn’t touch her, not even accidently to brush against her, she could feel his male presence. It made her skin lift, tighten and tingle. It made her body feel strangely excited, as if something caged inside her belly was holding its breath, eagerly anticipating the brush of his flesh against hers.
Miranda realised then she had never been on a proper dinner date with an adult man. When she and Mark went out they had done teenage things—walks and café chats, trips to the cinema and fast-food outlets and the occasional friend’s party. But then he had been diagnosed and their dates had been in the hospital or, on rare occasions when he’d been feeling well enough, in the hospital cafeteria. They had never gone out to dinner in a proper restaurant. They had never gone clubbing. They had never even gone out fo
r a drink as they had been under age.
How weird to be doing it first with Leandro, she thought. It made her feel as if something had shifted in their relationship. A subtle change that put them on a different platform. He was no longer her brothers’ close friend but her first proper adult dinner-date. But of course they weren’t actually dating, no matter what Jaz thought about the way he looked at her. Jaz was probably imagining it. Why would Leandro be interested in her? She was too shy. Too ordinary. Too beige.
The small intimate restaurant was tucked in one of the cobbled side streets and it had both inside and outside dining. When Leandro asked her for her preference, Miranda chose to sit outside, as the October evening was beautifully mild, but also because after the dusty, brooding, shadowy interior of his father’s villa she thought it would be nice to have some fresh air. For Leandro, as well as her.
The weight of grief in that sad old villa had been hard enough for her to deal with, let alone him. It pained her to think he carried the burden of guilt—guilt that should never have been laid on his young child’s shoulders. She couldn’t stop thinking of him as a six-year-old boy—quiet, sensitive, intelligent, caring. How could his parents have put that awful yoke upon his young shoulders?
It was a terrible tragedy that his sister Rosie had gone missing. A heart-breaking, gut-wrenching tragedy that could not be resolved in any way now that would be healing. But his parents had been the adults. They’d been the ones with the responsibility to keep their children safe. It hadn’t been Leandro’s responsibility. Children could not be held accountable for doing what only an adult should do. Children as young as six were not reliable babysitters. Not even for two or three minutes. They were at the mercy of their immature impulses. It wasn’t fair to blame them for what was typical of that stage of childhood development. It wasn’t right to punish a child for simply being a child.
How much had Leandro suffered with that terrible burden? He had shouldered it on his own for all this time—twenty-seven years. He had stored it away deep inside him—unable to connect properly with people because of it. He always stood at the perimeter of social gatherings. He was set apart by the tragic secret he carried. He hadn’t even told her brothers about Rosie and yet he had asked Miranda to come here and help him with his father’s collection. What did that mean? Had it been an impulsive thing on his part? She had never thought of him as an impulsive man. He measured everything before he acted. He thought before he spoke. He considered things from every angle.
Why had he asked her?
Was it a subconscious desire on his part to connect? What sort of connection was he after? Could Jaz be right? Could he be after a more intimate connection? Was that why he was challenging her over her commitment to Mark? Making her face her convictions in the face of temptation—a temptation she had never felt quite like this before?
He thought her silly for staying true to her commitment to Mark. But then Leandro wasn’t known for longevity in relationships. He wasn’t quite the one-night-stand man her brother Jake was but she hadn’t heard of any relationship of Leandro’s lasting longer than a month or two. He moved around with work a lot which would make it difficult for him to settle. But even so she didn’t see him as the guy with a girl in every port.
Would Miranda’s time here with him help him to move past the tragedy of Rosie? Would he feel freer once his father’s things were packed up and sold? Once all this sadness was put away for good?
Once they were seated at their table with drinks in front of them Miranda took a covert look at him while he perused the menu. The sad memories from being in his little sister’s room were etched on his face. His dark-chocolate eyes looked tired and drawn, the two lines running either side of his mouth seemed deeper and his ever-present frown more firmly entrenched.
He looked up and his eyes meshed with hers, making something in her stomach trip like a foot missing a step. ‘Have you decided?’ he said.
Miranda had to work hard not to stare at his mouth. He had showered and shaved, yet the persistent stubble was evident along his jaw and around his well-shaped mouth. She had to curl her fingers into her palms to stop herself from reaching across the table to touch the peppered lean and tanned skin, to trace the sculptured line of his beautiful mouth. His thick hair was cut in a short no-nonsense style, although she could see a light sheen amongst the deep grooves where he had used some sort of hair product. Even with the distance of the table between them she could smell the hint of citrus and wood in his aftershave.
‘Um...’ She looked back at the menu, chewing on her lower lip. ‘I think I’ll have the coq au vin. You?’
He closed the menu with a definitive movement. ‘Same.’
Miranda took a tentative sip of her white wine. He had ordered one as well but he had so far not touched it. Did he avoid alcohol because of his father’s problems with it? Or was it just a part of his careful, keeping-control-at-all-times personality?
Self-discipline was something she admired in a man. Her father had always lacked it, which was more than obvious, given this latest debacle over his love child. But Leandro wasn’t the sort of man to be driven by impulse. He was responsible, mature and sensible. He was the sort of man people came to for help and advice. He was reliable and principled. Which made what had happened to him all the more tragic. How hard it must be for him to come back here to the place where it all began. His life had changed for ever. He carried that burden of guilt. It had defined him. Shaped him. And yet he had kept it to himself for all those years.
‘If I hadn’t found Rosie’s statue in the garden would you have told me about her?’ Miranda said into the little silence.
His fingers toyed with the stem of his glass. ‘I was planning to. Eventually.’
She watched as his frown pulled heavily at his brow. ‘Leandro... I really want to say how much I feel for you. For what you’re going through. For what you’ve been through. I feel I’m only just coming to understand you after knowing you for all these years.’
He gave her a ghost of a smile. It was not much more than a flicker across his lips but it warmed her heart, as if someone had shone a beam of light through a dark crack. ‘I was a little hard on you earlier,’ he said.
‘It’s okay,’ Miranda said. ‘I get it from my brothers and Jaz too. And my parents.’
‘It’s only because they love you,’ he said. ‘They want you to be happy.’
Miranda put her glass down, her fingers tracing the gentle slope on the circular base. ‘I know...but it wasn’t just Mark I loved. His family—his parents—are the loveliest people. They always made me feel so special. So included.’
‘Do you still see them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that wise?’
Miranda frowned as she met his unwavering gaze. ‘Why wouldn’t I visit them? They’re the family I wish I’d had.’
‘It might not be helping them to move on.’
‘What about your mother?’ she said, deftly changing the subject. ‘Does she want you to be happy?’
He gave a nonchalant shrug but his mouth had taken on that grim look she always associated with him. ‘On some level, maybe.’
‘Do you ever see her?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘When was the last time?’ Miranda asked.
He turned the base of his glass around with an exacting, precise movement like he was turning a combination lock on a safe. ‘I went down for one of my half-brother’s birthdays a couple of months ago.’
‘And?’
He looked at her again. ‘It was okay.’
Miranda cocked her head at him. ‘Just okay?’
He gave her a rueful grimace. ‘It was Cameron who invited me. I wouldn’t have gone if he hadn’t wanted me to be there. I didn’t stay long.’
Miranda wondered what sort of reception he’d got from his mother. Had she greeted him warmly or coldly? Had she tolerated him being there or embraced his presence? How did his mother’s husband treat him
? Did he accept him as one of the family or make him feel like an outsider who could never belong? There were so many questions she wanted to ask. Things she wanted to know about him, but she didn’t want to bombard him. It would take time to peel back the layers to his personality. He was so deeply private and going too hard too soon would very likely cause him to clam up. ‘How old are your half-brothers?’
‘Cam is twenty-eight, Alistair twenty-seven and Hugh is twenty-six.’ He turned his glass another notch. ‘My mother would have had more children but it wasn’t to be.’
‘Three boys in quick succession...’ she murmured, thinking out loud.
‘But no girl, which was what she really wanted.’
Miranda saw the flash of pain pass over his features. ‘I’m not sure having any amount of children would make up for the one she lost. But in a way she lost two children, didn’t she?’
Leandro’s mouth tilted cynically. ‘Don’t feel sorry for me, ma petite,’ he said. ‘I’m a big boy.’
Hearing him switch to French from Italian endearments was enough to set her pulse racing all over again. His voice was so deep and mellifluous she could have listened to him read a boring financial report and still her heart would race. ‘It seems to me you’ve always had to be a big boy,’ Miranda said. ‘You’ve spent so much of your childhood and adolescence alone.’
‘I had your family to go to.’
‘Yes, but it wasn’t your family,’ she said. ‘You must have felt that keenly at times.’
He picked up his wine glass and examined the contents, as if it were a vintage wine he wanted to savour. But then he put it back down again. ‘I owe a lot to your family,’ he said. ‘In particular to your brothers. We had some good times down at Ravensdene. Some really great times.’
Awakening the Ravensdale Heiress (The Ravensdale Scandals) Page 6