by Romy Sommer
‘Sarah?’ He was a big man, tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a bouncer.
He reached past me, and I flinched back, swinging with all my might just as the tiny pantry flooded with cold white light.
In the moment before my weapon connected with solid flesh, I glimpsed the intruder. He was dark-haired, bearded, and terrifying. He grunted and staggered back, clutching his head.
‘What the hell?!’ His accent was thick, not immediately traceable, but he spoke in English without even thinking, I noted, as I gripped the heavy metal object close to my chest.
And he knew my name. Oh heavens.
Probably not a burglar after all.
The man glowered at me, still holding his head. ‘Why are you hiding in here?’
‘I wasn’t hiding. I was looking for biscuits.’
‘In the dark?’ He removed his hand from his forehead and there was a streak of blood on his fingers, and even more on his brow where a long gash oozed.
‘You’re bleeding!’
He scowled. ‘Of course I am. You’re lucky I’m not bloody unconscious, or worse.’
I glanced at the weapon in my hand. I held an old-fashioned iron for pressing clothes, one of those solid antique cast-iron types that opened up to place hot coals inside. A formidable weapon indeed. ‘I am so sorry! I thought you were a burglar.’
He moved to lean against the scarred Formica kitchen counter, as if unable to stand without help, and I hurried to his side to offer support, even though I still felt as shaky as a budding spring leaf.
He brushed me away, irritable. ‘How can I be a burglar when I live here?’
‘You live here?’ Oops. Luca hadn’t mentioned anyone living here. I took a wild guess. ‘You’re Tommaso?’
‘Of course. Who else would I be?’ he snapped. I could hardly blame him for his surliness. The blood was trickling now down his temple, and his face was paler than it had been when he’d loomed over me in the pantry door.
I felt a tad pale too. The bedding upstairs was masculine. Had I pulled a Goldilocks and slept in Baby Bear’s bed? Not that this man could be remotely confused with a baby bear. More like a great big, angry Papa Grizzly.
Until he swayed on his feet.
‘You need to sit.’ I set down the old iron and pulled out a chair from the kitchen table. Casting me another annoyed glance, he slid into it. Satisfied that at least he wasn’t likely to collapse on the floor, I hurried to the cracked sink and wet a tea towel, which I used to dab at his forehead until the blood stopped trickling and the wound looked relatively clean. Thankfully it was a shallow cut and shouldn’t need stitches. I just hoped the iron wasn’t rusty enough to cause an infection. ‘You’ll need antiseptic and a band aid, to keep the cut clean. Where will I find them?’
‘Under the kitchen sink.’
I found a first aid box under the sink and set it on the kitchen table, rooting through its jumbled contents for band aids and antiseptic. He flinched when I dabbed iodine on the cut but didn’t make a sound. Done at last, I moved back to the kettle and set it going again. I needed tea more than ever. In fact, I could do with a shot of brandy, but I wasn’t brave – or stupid – enough to ask my host where to find his liquor cabinet.
‘Tea?’ I offered, bringing the filled teapot and two mismatched cups to the table.
‘Yes, please.’
While I poured, I sneaked a surreptitious look. He wasn’t as old as the beard had at first made him appear, nor quite as rough and threatening as he’d first seemed. His thick hair was long, almost to his shoulders, though not as shaggy as I’d first thought.
But even if he wasn’t a terrifying burglar, he still wasn’t Baby Bear. He was the rightful owner of this castello, I was his guest, and probably a very unwelcome one at that – now more than ever.
‘Shall we start over?’ I infused as much good cheer into my voice as my still jittery nerves could manage. ‘I’m Sarah Wells, John’s daughter, and I’m very grateful you’re letting me stay in the house.’
He said nothing, just eyed me with a cool, grey gaze that was more than a little hostile. Okay, so I wasn’t going to get the red carpet rolled out for me any time soon.
I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘Luca didn’t tell me you were living in the house.’
He gave me an odd look. ‘I don’t. I live in the cottage.’
The cottage was across the back yard. It had been converted from the old stable block back in the Fifties and was where the housekeeper Elisa had lived.
‘Okay. So what are you doing here in the kitchen?’
‘I saw the light on and came over to say hello. I thought you might want dinner.’ He waved, and I turned to look behind me at the tray he must have set down on top of the old wood stove before coming to find me in the pantry. Only now did I become aware of the aromatic smell filling the kitchen. My stomach pulled tight, and not just from hunger.
He’d been nothing more than neighbourly, and I’d bashed him over the head with the nearest weapon I could find. Not a great way to open negotiations.
I forced a polite smile I didn’t feel. ‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’
His eyes narrowed. An uncomfortable silence filled the room but I refused to show any weakness to this intimidating man, so I ignored it and returned his hard gaze.
There was something oddly familiar about his light eyes, blue-grey, with an emphasis on the grey.
Then realisation struck. ‘Tommy?!’
The discovery that this tall, broad-shouldered, bearded man was my old childhood friend rocked me even more than the fear that a complete stranger was breaking into the castello. ‘You were my father’s business partner?’
His eyes narrowed further. I didn’t even think that was possible. ‘No one’s called me that since my mother died. You didn’t know?’
The mental adjustment took me a long moment. I couldn’t help myself – I stared openly at him now. If I looked hard enough, past the long hair and scraggly beard, I could just about see a glimmer of Elisa’s grandson, the boy I used to play with when he’d come to visit during those never-ending summers so long ago.
I only ever knew him as Tommy, the English-speaking kid from Edinburgh, not as Tommaso, but of course he was half-Italian from his father’s side. His accent, always a convoluted mash-up of Scottish and Italian, certainly leaned more heavily now toward his Italian side. How long had he been living here?
‘I’m sorry about your mother. And Nonna.’
He shrugged, a simple gesture that managed to convey a great deal, a uniquely Italian ability. I’ve never met an English person able to say so much with nothing but body language.
‘My grandmother was old, and it wasn’t unexpected, but my mother … it was nearly nine years ago now. She had cancer, and in the end her death was a mercy.’
I’d never met his parents, but still felt a pang for his loss. Like me, Tommy was sent to Italy alone as a child. In my case, Geraldine had been eager to get rid of me, but for Tommy it had been out of necessity. His parents had both worked, and they hadn’t had time to entertain an energetic youth all summer. And his grandmother had been delighted to have him. He’d been wanted.
His visits to his Nonna Elisa had been the highlight of my summers. Even at the age when most boys would have been horrified to have a younger girl tagging along wherever they went, we’d been friends. We’d explored this big house together, run wild on the farm, gone fishing and truffle hunting and blackberry picking together. And then there’d been that last summer…
Involuntarily, my gaze dropped to his mouth. Tommy always had the most sensuous mouth for a boy, with full lips that tasted of … I blushed, and averted my gaze, but not before he noticed.
His eyes narrowed again as he studied me. ‘Your hair has grown since I last saw you.’
‘Well, it has been twenty years.’ I touched the end of my long braid. I’d been growing it out for years, mostly because I hadn’t had time for anything but hurried trims.
/> ‘Nearly twenty. I like your hair long.’
‘Well, I liked your hair shorter.’
The amused gleam in his eyes was very much the young man I remembered from that last summer. Always full of mischief, needling me, pushing my boundaries.
‘The last I heard, you were still living in Edinburgh,’ I said to fill the sudden, awkward silence.
‘That was a long time ago. I moved here soon after my mother died. Nonna was getting old, and I didn’t want her to be alone.’
Nearly nine years. ‘My father never told me.’ I bit my lip, a habit I thought I’d grown out of. There were so many things John and I never discussed, and now we never would.
‘We have a meeting tomorrow with Luca at ten.’ Tommaso lifted the teapot, offering to re-fill my cup, but I shook my head. ‘We’ll drive together. We should leave at about nine-thirty.’
I nodded, though the thought of spending even half an hour in a car with this man I once knew so well, who was now a stranger, only made me more anxious. I rose to clear away the teapot and cups. ‘In that case, I’m going to bed. It’s been a long day.’ A shattering day. Half an hour ago, I’d dreaded being alone, now I craved it.
Tommaso rose. ‘You can leave the iron when you go to bed. This is a very safe district. You can sleep peacefully.’ The wicked glint was back in his eyes.
‘Thank you for the food,’ I said, as he stepped out into the back yard. He merely nodded. I didn’t wait to watch him cross the yard to the cottage. I shut the door, flicked the latch, and heaved a sigh. Then, grabbing the tray, I bolted back upstairs, not pausing to see what was under the cloth covering, not even pausing to catch my breath, until I was safely in my room with the door shut and my wheelie case pushed up under the door handle, creating a barrier between me and the rest of the empty, echoing house.
Chapter 3
Non tutto il male vien per nuocere
(Not everything bad that happens is wasted)
I slept in later than I had in … well, at least since my uni days.
I’d been wary the night before of closing the curtains, in case they released another tornado of dust, but even with bright light creeping into the room, I only woke when it reached the bed. I must have been more exhausted than I realised. Not that I’d admit it. I didn’t want to give Cleo the chance to say, ‘I told you so’.
Broad daylight only marginally brightened the house’s gloom as I tramped downstairs to the kitchen. In daylight, the pantry appeared bigger – and barer. There were indeed biscuits, a packet of factory-made shortbread biscuits, but no bread or cereal or anything else remotely breakfasty. And only instant coffee. I groaned. I didn’t fancy facing Tommaso again on an empty stomach.
Though to give the devil his due, that beef stew he’d brought over last night had been really good. As good as Nonna’s stews used to be.
Once I’d fortified myself with coffee and biscuits, the next thing on my agenda was to phone home. Sure, it was Saturday morning so Cleo wouldn’t have anything new to tell me about work, but I needed to hear her ever-optimistic voice telling me things weren’t as bad as they seemed.
But the mobile signal was so weak I couldn’t dial out. I wandered from room to room, waving my phone in the air. Nothing. Not even on the terrace or in the deserted back yard, or along the drive, though I walked all the way to the gate. Shit. As I reached the wrought iron gates a small canary-yellow Fiat, brimming over with young men, sped past. The whistles trailing behind the little car made me suddenly and excruciatingly aware that I was still dressed in nothing more than sleep shorts and a camisole top.
So I trudged back up the drive, hesitating for a long moment at the door of Tommaso’s cottage, which nestled into the slope behind the castello. Thankfully, the place appeared empty, and when I knocked, almost afraid he would answer, there was no response.
John must have had access to the outside world. I’d phoned him a few times here at the villa, so there had to be a landline at least. The castello may not yet have joined the twenty-first century, but it was certainly part of the twentieth.
There’d been a library, hadn’t there? One of those rooms that was shrouded in dust cloths even in my distant youth. Opening doors on rooms that clearly hadn’t seen daylight in years – a billiard room that was only used for storage these days, and a morning room with faded tapestries on its walls – I ripped off dust cloths to reveal rickety chairs, rotting upholstery, paintings caked in grime. I finally reached a room lined with books and smelling as if it has died and gone to a watery grave. The library. It had damp patches in the ceiling and the patterned parquet floor was warped from water damage. Someone should have dumped the entire contents of this room in a skip a long time ago.
There, at last, was a phone jack in the wall, and a cable clinging to flaking plaster, up through the driest part of the ceiling, up to … where?
With a groan, I headed back upstairs, counting out my paces, not entirely surprised when I realised the rooms above the library were my father’s. I pushed open the door and peered into the murky darkness.
Throwing open the shutters, I raised a sash window to let in a little light and fresh air. The bed loomed large, a massive four-poster covered with the same crocheted blanket John used even when I was young. It came with the house, he’d told me once.
How was it that the guest room had new bedding, but this one, the one that was lived in, remained frozen in time?
The phone I’d been searching for sat on the bedside table, a black thing with a rotary dial that belonged in a museum. Did those things even work in this day and age?
I lifted the receiver and heard the familiar sound of a dial tone. Hallelujah!
Cleo answered on the second ring, sounding sleepy.
‘You must have had a really good date last night,’ I said brightly.
She moaned. ‘I wish!’ Down the phone, I heard her stretch. ‘I think I’m officially ready to give up dating.’
Wow, that was a first. In the dictionary, under ‘eternal optimist’ you’d find Cleo’s name. She was a glass half-full person, especially when it came to men. Or maybe that was even when it came to men. ‘It couldn’t have been that bad…’
‘Worst. Date. Ever.’ Cleo’s dating history could fill an encyclopaedia. She’d been on more first dates than anyone I’ve ever met. I quit dating after Kevin (though as Cleo so kindly pointed out, I wasn’t exactly dating much before Kevin), but even though some of the guys she dated made Kevin look like a real keeper, she refused to give up hope that her One was out there.
She moaned again. ‘He was bald. And not in that sexy Vin Diesel way. More like a 40-year-old accountant who’s losing all his hair kind of way. His ear hairs were longer than the hairs on his head. The picture on his dating profile must have been at least ten years out of date. But that wasn’t even the worst of it. I could overlook the fact that he lied about his looks. But he spent the entire meal talking about his ex.’
I winced. Dating really did get harder with every passing year. ‘I told you online dating was soul destroying. Perhaps you should come to Italy. The men here are definitely better looking.’ And charming, with one grumpy, bearded exception.
‘I wish. But I haven’t accrued several years’ worth of leave like you have. Hang on a moment – are you referring to someone in particular? Have you met someone?’
‘My lawyer looks like he stepped out of GQ.’ I perched on the edge of the bed. ‘All slick, sexy and metrosexual. It’s just as well there’s eye candy, since the news isn’t good.’
‘What happened?’ Cleo was wide awake now. She listened as I filled her in, groaning in all the right places, laughing when I told her about hitting Tommaso over the head.
‘Don’t laugh, it wasn’t funny. I might have killed him!’
‘On the plus side, if you’d killed him, you would inherit everything, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yeah, but I might also have been calling you from jail this morning.’
‘That’s ok
ay. You have your sexy lawyer to get you free. And then you and he could live happily ever after in your castle and make GQ-worthy babies.’
I glanced around my father’s shabby bedroom. There was the door to the en-suite. How many times had the bathroom flooded to cause all that damage downstairs in the library? ‘It’s not much of a castle, and this inheritance may be more trouble than it’s worth.’
‘Nonsense. Half a vineyard is better than nothing.’ And there was that injection of optimism I’d been looking for.
Cleo yawned. ‘Besides, I’ve never known you to back down from a challenge. You’re the most level-headed analyst I’ve ever met. If there’s an advantage to be found in this situation, you’ll find it.’
Yes, but that was before I’d over-estimated the repayment capabilities of one of the firm’s most valuable clients and risked their biggest investment to date. I rubbed my face, glad Cleo couldn’t see me now. When it came to work, I never showed weakness, not even to my BFF.
‘You are not going to get back on a plane without a big fat cheque in your back pocket. You hear me?’ she said, on another yawn.
‘I hear you.’ I sighed. ‘Besides, it’s not like I have anything better to do with my time. Of course, I can do this. Piece of cake.’ Though if the metaphor was going to fit my life right now, it would have to be a very heavy fruitcake. The kind where you couldn’t quite identify all the bits baked into it.
‘I am not selling.’ Tommaso leaned across the little boardroom table in Luca’s office, his arms crossed over his chest, his face set in a scowl. ‘Your father left this vineyard to me because he wanted me to run it, not so it could be sold to strangers.’
I bristled. He was being unnecessarily stubborn, since Luca had already explained that it was inevitable the courts would split the inheritance 50/50 between us – eventually. ‘There are other farms you could buy once we sell and split the proceeds. Why does it have to be this one?’
Tommaso’s eyes turned flinty. ‘How can you even ask me that?’
I shrugged. What did he expect of me? I had no ties to this land. Even my father had no ties here. He was just another foreigner who’d decided to buy a farm in Tuscany, like a less glamorous Sting. ‘Then buy me out if you want to keep it so badly.’