He added a tablet and shut the door, pressed some buttons then stood. “You don’t know that – I could very well have ruined your clothes by putting them on the wrong setting.”
She shrugged. “That’s true.”
And though he knew he should resist the temptation to flirt with her, he heard himself say, “And how do I look…?” He deliberately let his question taper off, realising he didn’t know her name.
“Maddie,” she supplied.
“Maddie,” he repeated. It suited her. Soft and sweet but somehow confident too. “Well?” He prompted.
“You look like a man who’s never used a washing machine in his life,” she grinned, after a slight pause. “Or maybe it’s just that this place looks like it should come with an army of help…”
He laughed at that. “True. But I prefer to be alone when I’m in Ondechiara.”
“You don’t live here?”
“No.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “So you’re just renting the place? Like a holiday home?”
He frowned. In the village he was well known, but beyond that, the Montebello name was a global one. That she hadn’t heard of him was a fascinating novelty. “No. It’s mine.”
She narrowed her gaze speculatively and for a brief second he was reminded of his initial belief that she might be a journalist. “It’s truly lovely.”
“Si.” He stepped towards her, intending to leave the usually light-filled laundry, but she didn’t shift, so his movement simply brought them close once more. “And what brings you to this tiny little town on the edge of Italy, Maddie?” He liked saying her name. It rolled off his tongue in a way that was addictive.
For the briefest moment, her smile slipped and her eyes darkened. It was a striking contrast to the easy amusement he’d enjoyed seeing moments earlier. “That’s a long story.”
He looked over his shoulder, to the rain that was lashing the window behind him, plunging the house into a state of gloom. “We seem to have a bit of time.”
“True,” she murmured, straightening, but still not moving, and not answering his question. Their eyes were locked and though they weren’t touching, the look was intimate and unnerving, addictive and heated. She broke the spell this time. “I don’t mean to be rude, but would you mind if I have a warm drink? A tea perhaps? I think the rain’s seeped into my skeleton.”
“Of course.”
She stepped back now, allowing him to pass, but as he did so, their arms brushed and he felt a burst of awareness, so he tilted his head towards her. She was staring at him, stricken, and he understood. The tension bubbling between them was arcing two ways, a powerful electrical current that was somehow intensified by the storm raging beyond the house.
She followed behind him – he felt her – into the large kitchen that opened off the lounge room. “Have a seat,” he gestured to the stools parked at the marble bench top.
“I can make it. I really didn’t mean to put you out…”
“It’s no trouble,” he repeated, flicking the kettle on and pulling a mug from the pantry. For himself, he scooped some coffee into the coffee cradle and pressed a button, watching as the dark liquid began to pool into his espresso cup. “You were telling me why you’re in Ondechiara?”
“Was I?”
She was intentionally evasive, he was sure of it. It sparked curiosity and a hint of caution – hadn’t he learned his lesson about women who were secretive by nature? He didn’t want to think of Claudette though. He’d promised himself a long time ago that she didn’t deserve his consideration after what she’d done.
“You don’t have to if you’d prefer not to discuss it.” His words were unintentionally clipped, the ghost of Claudette filling him with reminders of disgust – at her easy deception and his gullibility.
“Thank you.”
Her response surprised him. She made no attempt to obfuscate, no attempt to lie. She simply chose not to answer him.
He studied her more thoughtfully now, new possibilities opening up to him. Was she a runaway? A fugitive?
“I’m not a criminal or anything,” she promised him, laughing now, the sound bursting into the room relaxing him, pleasing him, mending the tear Claudette had forced between them. “It’s just…something I’m still making sense of,” she offered. “And I prefer to keep to myself. You know?”
He lifted one brow, her words echoing his own mantra. “I do.”
She bit down on her lip so he had to ball his hands at his side to resist the temptation to reach across and smudge his thumb over the soft pink flesh.
“How long have you been here? Or is this something you’d prefer not to answer, as well?”
“No,” she shook her head, a smile playing about the corners of her lips. “About six months.”
Surprise shifted inside of him. “I haven’t seen you around.”
“No,” she lifted her shoulders.
“Because you like to keep to yourself?”
He put a teabag into the cup and poured the water over it.
“I guess so,” but she was smiling. “Part of the appeal of the place I rented is that it’s secluded. I love that. I feel like I’m right on the edge of the earth.” She angled her face towards the window, staring out at the stormy view. “I go into town for supplies, but other than that, I like my own company.”
“For six months?”
“Uh huh.”
“And you walk.”
“Yep.”
“Why here?”
Her skin paled perceptibly and he wondered about that, about what she wasn’t saying.
“I mean, my villa? Not Ondechiara.”
“Oh.” She sipped her tea, her eyes holding his over the edge of the mug. “I remember seeing it the first day I arrived. This big, beautiful building high on the cliffs. I was fascinated by it – the way it seems to be cast from the stone that surrounds the town, yet totally modern at the same time. It’s a beautiful contradiction.”
“But you haven’t been here before?”
“No,” she shook her head. “I felt like a long walk today,” she shrugged. “I don’t remember even consciously deciding to set out for this place.”
“There’s security fencing.” Admittedly, it wasn’t particularly robust, but it should have served as a deterrent, nonetheless.
“I came up the steps. From the beach.”
He swore under his breath. “They’re disused for a reason, Maddie. They’re incredibly dangerous. Didn’t you notice the fallen rocks?”
She flinched – just a small, involuntary movement that had him softening his tone. “There’s a locked gate.”
“It was an open gate when I got there.”
“The wind must have blown it off its hinges.” He shook his head, because that shouldn’t have been possible and yet the only option was that she’d scaled a six foot construction – which didn’t seem likely.
“I didn’t notice,” she admitted, a hint of guilt crossing her face.
“I’ll have it fixed.”
“So how do you get down to the beach?”
“I would drive, if I wanted to go there.”
“But you’re right here, above it. Why don’t you get the stairs fixed?”
He frowned. “I would, if I used the beach.” He took a drink of his espresso. “By the way, that whole stretch of the beach is private too. There were definitely signs, right? Or had they also been blown away?”
A hint of blush spread through her cheeks. “No, there were signs saying ‘private property’. I presumed they were placed in error. I mean, beaches shouldn’t be private, right?”
He laughed. “Why do I get the feeling you’re trouble, Maddie?”
“Because I don’t like to listen to bossy signs?”
He made a growling noise of assent.
“I truly presumed this was an art gallery or something.”
“An art gallery that was only accessible by perilous steps from the beach?”
“No. Naturally I
thought there was a street somewhere too.”
“There is.”
“Let me guess, it’s gated though.”
“Si.” He shrugged his broad shoulders, noting the way her eyes dropped to the gesture, following the outline of his body. “I like to keep to myself too.”
“I’m sorry to have intruded,” she lifted her gaze to his face and he felt the same flash of electricity firing deep in his gut.
Pleasure and anticipation stirred inside of him, even as he knew he should fight it. She was staring at him with those enormous blue eyes and his body was responding even as his mind was trying to retain control. She was staring at him and slowly he shook his head, and when he spoke there was a gruff resignation in his voice, as though he knew there was a game of fate afoot, one that would get the better of him.
“I’m not.”
Chapter 2
BREATHE. JUST, BREATHE. Maddie wrapped her hands around the mug and tried not to stare at him. But she was fighting a losing battle because he was beyond addictive and she found her eyes inhaling him at every opportunity.
She’d never really gone for the ‘tall, dark and handsome’ guys, or so she’d thought, but this specimen of masculinity was breath-takingly intoxicating. He was easily six and a half feet tall and his build was slim, but at the same time, muscular, his skin a deep tan, his hair brown with a hint of gold at the front from where he’d spent time in the sun. But it was his eyes that had her fixated. They were a spectacular blue, flecked with gold, and the lashes surrounding them were thick and dark. His jaw was squared, but covered in the hint of stubble that made her fingertips itch with a desire to lift up and touch.
What the heck was happening to her?
She’d been stupid to keep walking when it had started to pour with rain, but it had been light enough and she’d presumed it would pass. Then, she’d got a little lost and before she’d known it she was on the beach beneath the enormous construction she’d been wondering about since she’d come to Ondechiara.
“You’re warm enough now?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” she nodded, forcing herself to hold his eyes even when the intensity of his stare spread wildfire through her veins. “So what do you do when you’re not rescuing stray tourists from cliff tops?”
The briefest hint of a frown crossed his face. “I’m in finance.” The words were a little uneasy. She wondered if there was a problem with his job. The global finance industry had been in turmoil lately, it was possible he’d been caught up in that. She didn’t want to pry, particularly if he’d recently been made redundant or similar.
She was lucky to be immune from that kind of consideration in her line of work. “I’ve always admired people who are good with numbers,” she said, instead. “I’ve never had much of a head for them.”
“Everyone has a head for numbers.”
She pulled a face. “I beg to differ.”
“Maths is everywhere,” he pointed out, finishing his coffee and placing it in the sink.
“And I use it as little as possible.”
“It’s hard to avoid.”
“I’ve made it an art form,” she winked, and wished she hadn’t when he formed a slow, sensual grin in response.
“What do you do then - when you’re not avoiding numbers like the plague?”
She sipped her tea. “I’m a writer.”
For the briefest moment, something shifted in his expression, so he was stern and alert. “As in a journalist?”
She shook her head. “No. As in a fiction writer. A novelist.”
“Seriously?”
She nodded.
“Would I have read anything you’ve written?”
She bit down on her lip. “I doubt it. I sell okay in the UK and Australia, but not anywhere else yet.” She lifted her shoulders. “It’s a labour of love, but at least the hours are flexible and I can do it from anywhere in the world.”
“So you’re here for research?” He prompted after a moment.
She smiled quickly, hoping he wouldn’t realise the way her face had tightened in response to the question. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. It’s kind of a writer’s retreat,” she substituted. “I needed a break. From home.” She sipped her tea quickly, choking on it a little.
“Where’s home?”
“England.” It was a vague answer that told him nothing he didn’t presumably already know, given her accent. She couldn’t help it. In the six months since leaving London, she’d received several text messages from Michael each week. It was impossible to feel safe and as though she was out of the woods when he was still reaching out to her. Every time she saw his name on her phone, she panicked. It was like being dragged back into their home, back into his life, the sensation suffocating and cloying.
“London?”
She stood up a little jerkily and moved towards the large windows. “You were right about the storm. It’s not showing any sign of letting up.”
He was quiet for a few moments and she held her breath, wondering if he was going to let her conversation change go. But after a few moments, his voice came from right behind her. “Our summer storms tend to be like that. There aren’t many, but when they come, they’re violent as all hell.” She lifted her gaze to his face, marvelling at the strength there, a bone structure that reminded her a little of the cliff face she’d scaled earlier that day. “When I was a boy, I was here with my grandfather and Yaya when a storm came through. It destroyed half the town, including this place.”
She looked around, taking in the grandness of the house with fresh eyes. As if reading her thoughts, he murmured, “Oh, it didn’t used to look like this.”
“No?”
“It was far more rustic.” He lifted a hand, running it over the smooth, white wall. “But beautiful. Big open rooms coming off a central hallway, terracotta roof, lime-washed walls, and the smell of salt and sand and fish everywhere. The walls were the strangest colour – like sand, I suppose – yellow brown, but I can’t see that colour without feeling a yearning for this place.”
Her smile was instinctive. “It sounds a lot like La Villetta.”
“I’ve never been inside,” he murmured, his voice like melted chocolate. “But certamente, the exteriors would indicate they were constructed around the same time.”
“The first time I saw La Villetta, I felt like I’d stepped into a postcard of Italy. It was everything I’d imagined.”
“You hadn’t been here before?”
“To Ondechiara? Never.”
“To Italy, though?”
“To Rome and Venice.”
His lips showed a hint of derision. “The tourist hotspots.”
“Guilty as charged,” she responded in kind, earning a grin from him that seared something in the pit of her stomach. “I was blown away by the beauty of this place. The village is lovely, of course, and the people friendly, but it’s the countryside I’m besotted with. Rolling mountains in a dozen different shades of green, roads that carve their way across the hills’ undulations, flowers that seem to burst with life, fruit that fills the air with the most divine fragrance.” She shook her head a little. “And there, in the middle of nowhere, on the edge of a little tributary, is La Villetta di Pietra, all stone-washed walls and tiled floors, a garden with geraniums and lavender, and goats just across the field.” She wasn’t aware of the way his eyes dropped to her smile, studying her in a manner that would have made her heart flip and flop if she’d noticed it.
“It’s like something out of a fairy tale. I feel so safe here.”
“Safe?” He prompted and inwardly, she admonished herself for employing such a telling word.
“You know, calm. It’s nice.” The response was awkward. She lifted her face to his and finally saw the way he was looking at her, so her breath snagged in her throat and she felt an odd rush of feeling – of many feelings, all tangled together so she couldn’t understand a single impulse that was overtaking her body.
There was guilt,
certainly, because her body was warm all over, her pulse throbbing, her heart racing, her fingertips aching with a need to reach out and touch this man. Why should she feel guilty, though? Because of Michael? The very idea sparked defiance in her chest. He’d already taken enough from her. He’d hurt her enough. He didn’t get to have any place in this – he was a completely separate part of her life – a part of her past, not her present and certainly not her future.
That was why she was here, in Italy. Because here she needed a circuit-breaker; a fresh start. His eyes dropped to her mouth and her heart lurched because she wanted, more than anything, to feel his lips on hers. A tiny sound escaped her lips – something between a groan and a plea – but it was enough to startle her. She took a small step back, smiled tightly and returned her attention to the view.
“And you like calm?”
His own voice was gravelled and it sparked a tsunami of need in her belly. She tamped down on it with effort.
“Who doesn’t?”
He was quiet and despite her best intentions, she found her eyes lifting to his.
“Why do you come here?”
Surprise flashed in his eyes. “The same reasons as you, I suspect.”
Maddie doubted that, but she didn’t say as much. To deny his assertion was to invite questions she wasn’t willing to answer. She hadn’t spoken to anyone about Michael. She couldn’t, and it was so hard to explain why. She hated that she felt a degree of shame for what she’d been through, because she understood it was completely out of her control, but it was hard to admit to what had happened – no, it was hard to admit why she’d stayed after the first time he’d hit her. She’d truly believed though that he’d made a mistake. It had seemed so out of character at the time, except it wasn’t, obviously.
She’d left London, telling her parents she had a deadline and needed to write away from distraction, telling her friends only that she and Michael had broken up without fleshing out any further details. And she told no one where she was going. She didn’t dare risk it. Michael was charming and clever and could undoubtedly persuade someone to open up to him about her location.
Just This One Summer: A billionaire forbidden love romance... (The Montebellos Book 2) Page 2