Her Mediterranean Playboy (11 page)

And she would have let him.

He could still feel the barest brush of her finger against his lips—what had he been thinking, teasing her like that? Teasing himself?

He certainly wasn’t going to act upon the latent desire that hummed inside him—between them. If he were a different man he might have. He might have said to hell with good intentions and higher principles, and taken what was so blatantly on offer. He’d enjoy it, for a time, and then he’d walk away—tabloids, colleagues, family be damned…All for the sake of desire.

But he wasn’t a different man.

He wasn’t his father, and he wouldn’t cheapen and enslave himself to desire. Not for a woman like Zoe Clark—a woman like all the others who took and took and didn’t care who she stepped on to get what she wanted.

Who she hurt.

It’s obviously made you rich.

His mouth thinned in distaste at the memory of her words. Another woman on the prowl. Well, she wouldn’t get anything from
him
. He wouldn’t give her the chance.

Stifling a curse, he pulled his papers towards him, one hand fumbling for the spectacles he’d discarded on his desk. He switched on the desk lamp, and with a grim, determined focus bent his head to his work.

Z
OE
awoke to bright lemony sunshine pouring through the windows, a fresh breeze from the mountains ruffling the rather tattered curtains.

She lay still for a moment, enjoying the feel of the sun and the breeze, before memories of last night filtered through her consciousness and started to spoil her mood.

A girl like you.

You say it plainly enough.

Leandro Filametti had made it clear how little he thought of her. She shouldn’t be surprised, Zoe knew. She’d faced far worse in her years as a chambermaid or short-order cook, in the endless parade of dead-end jobs she’d determinedly revelled in. Zoe Clark—the girl without a plan.

Tomorrow will take care of itself, sweetie. Hasn’t it always?

And with the dead-end jobs had come the leering looks, the men who assumed
a girl like her
was always on offer.

And when she’d finally chosen to be involved with someone, to give her body and yet keep her heart safe, she’d still had her ego stamped on. She pictured Steve’s sneering face before resolutely pushing the image away.

She wouldn’t let Steve hurt her any more—she’d let him hurt her enough already—and she wouldn’t let Leandro hurt her either.

Except last night Leandro’s carelessly delivered condemnation
had
hurt. It had pierced her armour of indifference, and she didn’t even understand why.

Why was Leandro Filametti different? Why did he make her feel different?

‘He doesn’t,’ Zoe said aloud, her voice sounding strange, echoing in the empty room. She shrugged off her covers and jumped out of bed, determined to enjoy the beautiful day, so fresh and bright, and not to think about Leandro.

Not to care.

She was good at that; she always had been. And now would be no different.

The villa was silent as Zoe made her way downstairs, stepping through pools of sunshine. She skidded to a halt when she saw Leandro sitting at the huge kitchen table, drinking a cup of coffee.

‘Sleeping Beauty finally awakes,’ he said, his voice a mixture of amusement and acerbity.

‘What—?’ Zoe glanced inadvertently at the clock, and gasped when she saw what time it was. ‘Eleven a.m.!’

‘It must be the jet lag,’ Leandro said laconically. ‘In future I hope you intend to have a little
less
beauty sleep.’ He rose from the table, taking his mug to the sink. ‘If you’re dressed, we might as well head to town. I can’t spend all day fetching and carrying, and it’s already near lunchtime.’

‘Fine.’ Zoe pushed her hair away from her face, and her stomach rumbled audibly.

A smile flickered across Leandro’s features, then disappeared. ‘And we’ll get some breakfast as well.’

Zoe followed Leandro outside, through the gardens and down to the jetty, to where a weathered speedboat was moored. It was a small craft, clearly meant for functional use, yet despite its age Zoe could tell it was well made and expensive.

Like Leandro, she thought with a trace of humour. Nothing showy or ostentatious, nothing obvious, yet he still emanated the sort of arrogant assurance that could only come from a lifetime of money and power.

She repeated that mantra to herself as she climbed into the boat, sinking into one of the comfortable leather seats as Leandro slid into the driver’s seat and the boat thrummed to life.

Zoe knew she should stay angry with Leandro, remind herself of all the assumptions he’d made, but with the sun sparkling on the water as if the lake were strewn with diamonds, and the day stretched out in front of them filled with enticing possibility and adventure, she found her indignation trickling away…at least for the moment. She slipped on her sunglasses as they pulled away from the jetty. The breeze was fresh, and just a little bit sharp.

‘This is fabulous!’ she shouted to Leandro over the sound of the motor. He glanced across at her, a smile lurking in his eyes, and suddenly Zoe wanted to see it on his mouth, see his face transformed, alive. ‘Can you go any faster?’

For a moment his mouth tightened, as if he disapproved of the question, its implications and innuendoes. Then with a shrug he pushed the throttle forward and the speedboat jumped ahead, singing through the sea. A gurgle of laughter escaped from Zoe’s throat, and she turned to see Leandro grin.

His teeth flashed white in his tanned face, his eyes, the same colour of the lake, sparkling with humour, and Zoe felt herself react, her heart skipping a beat, her insides tightening.

This was dangerous, she acknowledged, even as she grinned back. She knew what getting involved with a man like Leandro meant. What it felt like. Yet for that moment, recklessly, she
wanted
to be just a little bit dangerous. She’d keep her wayward heart under lock and key.

She held his gaze, silently challenging him, her grin changing into a seductive smile. He looked away first, his smile disappearing, and Zoe felt a flicker of disappointment. She sat back, enjoying the simple beauty of the alpine forests that stretched straight to the shore, dotted with the terracotta tile and crumbled stone of the region’s many hamlets and villages.

After a quarter of an hour Leandro steered the boat towards the shoreline of one of the lake’s larger towns. A promenade fronted the water, lined with villas, shops and street cafés. Leandro moored the boat at the public dock, and leaped gracefully out of the boat before extending a hand to Zoe.

She took it, not wanting to make a fool of herself by scrambling inelegantly out of the speedboat. And, she admitted silently,
she liked the feel of his hand encasing hers—although he dropped it almost immediately.

‘You should be able to get what you need in the shops here in Menaggio,’ Leandro said as they walked towards the centre of town. ‘Did you bring a list?’

She hadn’t even thought of a list, but Zoe smiled brightly. ‘Of course.’

Leandro’s lips twitched even as his eyes narrowed. ‘Why do I have trouble believing that?’

Zoe met his gaze directly. She was good at brazening it out; she’d had loads of practice evading landlords, bosses, men with groping hands and leering looks. Widen the eyes, smile confidently, keep the voice firm. It was easy. Too easy. ‘I don’t know. Why?’

Leandro shook his head. ‘Because you don’t seem like the kind of girl who even thinks about lists.’

Another judgement. ‘You seem to have fitted me neatly into a box,’ Zoe said, her voice a little shorter than she’d intended. ‘And it’s
woman
, please. Not girl. I’m twenty-eight.’

‘Are you?’ Leandro murmured, his tone and smile both sardonic. ‘And don’t you think you fit into that box?’

Zoe glanced at him sharply. ‘No one belongs in a box. Not willingly, anyway.’

‘Perhaps not,’ Leandro agreed in a drawl. ‘But even so the box can still fit.’

Zoe bristled, but Leandro ignored her, gesturing to a row of small quaint shops lining one of the town’s squares.

‘Perhaps we should have a coffee first, and you can actually
make
that list?’

‘All right,’ Zoe agreed, her voice still stiff. Hunger won over pride. ‘I am starving.’

Leandro led her to a small street café, its tables shaded by brightly coloured umbrellas and situated perfectly to watch the lively bustle of the square.

Zoe’s eyebrows rose when the owner of the café came out, speaking in rapid Italian, fawning over Leandro as if he were some kind of celebrity. Zoe saw a few other patrons glance their
way, heard the speculative murmur of hushed whispers and wondered just what was going on.

Just who Leandro was.

Leandro answered the owner tersely before leading Zoe to a table at the back. He ordered two espressos and a basket of pastries, affecting an air of unconcern even though Zoe was conscious of a few more open stares and another round of whispers.

‘You’re famous,’ she stated baldly, and Leandro shrugged, his mouth tightening.

‘My family is from this region, that is all.’

At least that was all he was going to say, Zoe realised, although she imagined there was quite a bit more to the story. Shrugging, she started to write her list on the back of a napkin.

After a moment Leandro peered over at her writing. ‘“Cleaning supplies”,’ he read, his voice dry with amusement. ‘That’s a bit general, don’t you think?’

‘In
general
, I need everything,’ Zoe replied. ‘I looked around yesterday and couldn’t find so much as a sponge.’

‘Fair enough.’ Leandro shrugged. ‘The villa’s been vacant for years, so I’m not surprised.’

‘You mentioned it hasn’t been for sale,’ Zoe said. She’d added
‘food’
to the list. That was pretty general, too. All she’d seen in the kitchen was a plastic takeaway container and a packet of coffee.

‘Yes, I did.’ Leandro’s tone was guarded.

‘Who owned it? And why did they sell now?’

The waiter came with the coffee and rolls, and Zoe took one from the basket, biting into it with relish. Leandro watched her, sipping his own coffee.

‘They didn’t sell,’ he said at last, and then forestalled any of the questions which had clamoured to Zoe’s tongue by raising one hand. ‘Eat up,’ he told her brusquely, dispelling any notion of friendliness. ‘We have a lot to do, and I want to get back to the villa. You should, too. I’d like to see you earn your keep.’

The shops lining the square were small, yet surprisingly well stocked. Within an hour Zoe had found nearly all the cleaning supplies she needed, as well as the basic food provisions she wanted to make some simple meals. Leandro arranged for it all
to be delivered to the boat, and they were heading back to the dock when Zoe saw a small outdoor market set up in another smaller, leafy square.

She skidded to a halt, strangely mesmerised. ‘Oh, let’s stop!’ The stalls, with their barrels of spices and baskets of fresh fruit and vegetables, beckoned enticingly, unexpectedly. Kerchief-clad housewives haggled over bins of lettuce and joints of beef, their hard bargains tempered by shouts of laughter.

With a sigh and a little shrug, Leandro gave his acceptance, and soon Zoe was lost amid the stalls, touching fabrics, chatting in her broken, nearly useless Italian, happier than she’d been in a while.

When she’d said she could make meals, she’d meant it; but she’d envisaged plates of pasta with tinned sauce—staples from her nomadic existence. Yet now the ropes of garlic, the bunches of fresh basil, the huge rounds of mozzarella floating murkily in brine, made her want to be unaccountably domestic, providing real meals—meals for a home, a family.

Ridiculous.

She’d never had a family or a home—didn’t even
want
one—and Leandro Filametti’s decrepit villa hardly counted as one anyway. Still, she couldn’t keep herself from loading up a wicker basket with plump red tomatoes and mozzarella wrapped in wax paper, a kilo of ripe peaches and the freshest asparagus she’d ever seen.

‘I hope you’re planning on actually cooking with this,’ Leandro muttered, taking the basket from her.

Zoe gave him a quick grin. ‘Absolutely.’

Half an hour later he finally pulled her away and they headed back to the boat. It was well after lunchtime, and Zoe had a brief spasm of guilt for having taken so long.

‘I’ll make you a really nice lunch,’ she promised as they got in the boat.

‘Never mind about that,’ Leandro replied tartly. ‘I’ll settle for dinner. You can spend the afternoon doing what you’re paid for.’

As soon as they returned to the villa, the bags and boxes were loaded into the kitchen, then Leandro disappeared into his study.
Zoe felt momentarily bereft without him; she’d enjoyed their outing more than she wanted to admit even to herself.

With a pragmatic shrug, she began to put all their purchases away. She’d start on the kitchen first, she decided. It needed a good scrub, and she didn’t relish the idea of cooking in a such a dirty space. She wrapped a kerchief around her head, got out the new mop and sponge and set to work.

Three hours later the kitchen was as clean as it would get without a complete overhaul, and Zoe was filthy. She considered another dip in the lake, but decided to opt for a shower instead. She didn’t want Leandro thinking she was slacking off the job…Except, Zoe asked herself in exasperation, why did she care what he thought?

Why did she care at all?

She never had before.

Even as she’d scrubbed and mopped he’d intruded on her thoughts. Questions, images, memories. Why had he bought this villa? Why had the people in the café recognised him and whispered about him? What was his life normally like? Did he have a girlfriend? A wife? A family?

Stupid questions, she told herself as she stripped off and stepped into the shower. Ones with answers she shouldn’t care about, shouldn’t even consider. She twisted the taps on and let the water stream hotly over her. Many of the villa’s bathrooms looked as if their plumbing was at least fifty years old, but she’d found a renovated one on the upstairs hallway, and she revelled in the strong stinging spray.

Until the door opened.

To her credit, Zoe didn’t even yelp. The shower door was fogged completely, so she could barely see Leandro…although she could make out that he was only in a towel, his chest bare and bronzed. She resisted the urge to wipe away the steam so she could see a little more.

And she wondered how much he could see.

Enough, she determined. For he froze in the doorway, and Zoe saw his eyes sweep her hidden length, felt tension and awareness stretch tautly between them, before, with a muttered apology—or was it an oath?—he slammed out of the bathroom.

Zoe leaned her forehead against the wet glass, her heart pounding, her head swimming. Even her knees felt weak.

Desire. Molten, liquid, hot. It coursed through her, stronger than she’d expected or even wanted. It made her wonder what Leandro was thinking. Feeling. And what might possibly happen between them.

Stop.
Her mind screeched such musings to a halt. She didn’t want to get involved with a man like Leandro. Hadn’t she learned that lesson already? For a moment—a second—she pictured Steve’s sneering face.