WARM WINTER KISSES a feel good Christmas romance novel (3 page)

Chapter 4

Rocco’s little cottage in the country turned out to be nothing of the sort. Nestling at the end of a winding lane, high up on a hill overlooking a valley of marvellous proportions, it was a rambling stone-clad building covered in a vibrant scarlet Virginia creeper. Pulling into the large gravel driveway, I caught my breath at the beauty of the surroundings. It was a far cry from the cosmopolitan setting of the West End restaurant and I could understand why Rocco loved it here so much.

Climbing out of the car, I breathed in the crisp, fresh September morning air and was filled with a sense of optimism. This had to be better than doing battle with the other commuters on an overcrowded, stuffy tube train. I wandered over to the main entrance and was just about to rap on the brass knocker when the door gently eased open.

‘Can I help you?’ A woman stood on the threshold. I guessed she was in her late fifties; her grey hair was tied back in a neat bun and she was peering at me over red-rimmed spectacles. From the feather duster in one hand and spray polish in the other, I guessed she was the cleaner, although judging by her frosty expression, it crossed my mind she might well have been his personal security guard.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said, holding out my hand. ‘Beth Brown. I’m working for Rocco for the next few weeks.’

‘Ah yes. Do come through,’ she said, her face thawing slightly. She pulled back the heavy oak door and ushered me through into the hall. In awe I looked up at the galleried landing, admiring the huge paintings of countryside scenes hanging on the walls.

‘Rocco rang to tell me you’d be arriving. I’m afraid he’s been caught up in London. He won’t be back until much later. Still, it’ll give us a chance to get to know each other better.’ She gave me a warm smile. ‘Come into the kitchen and I’ll make you a nice cup of coffee.’ I followed her rotund derriere as it swayed along the passageway, admiring as I went the oak panelling and the cool slate floor. ‘I’m Sylvia, by the way, Rocco’s housekeeper.’

Well, I could see why he would need a housekeeper. A house like this would need a lot of looking after. It felt warm and welcoming like a proper family home, and for a moment I half expected a horde of excited children to come running at me. Walking into the kitchen, which had to be twice the size of my little flat, I was surprised and heartened to find a real rustic retreat. With Rocco being at the forefront of the culinary scene, I’d imagined his kitchen would be a state-of-the-art designer effort with lots of chrome and stainless steel, but then again my limited dealings with the man had already shown me that he was full of surprises.

Instead there was a large cream range, against which lay a battered dog’s basket, a huge refectory table surrounded by about eight chairs with a variety of checked cushions upon them, and glass-fronted French Oak kitchen cabinets filled with an odd assortment of brightly-coloured crockery. By the back door was a collection of Wellington boots, hats, umbrellas and wax coats. It was the sort of place where you could quite happily pull out one of the chairs and settle down with a glass of wine for a natter.

For the moment I was more than happy to accept the steaming mug of coffee offered by Sylvia.

‘There you go my lovely. Have that and then I’ll show you up to your room.’

‘I can’t get over how beautiful the house is,’ I said, peering out of the leaded windows into the fields beyond. ‘Does Rocco spend a lot of time here?’

‘Not as much time as he’d like to, but he comes down whenever he can. He works so hard, that boy; I do worry about him at times. He gets to relax here. Walking Millie, fishing and cooking. That’s when he’s happiest, just pottering about in the kitchen. Of course, he can’t do a lot of those things if PP puts an appearance in.’

‘PP?’ I asked.

‘Her Ladyship. Pandora. Precious Pandy, that’s what I call her. Not to her face, of course,’ she added with a smile.

I giggled, as Sylvia shook her head, muttering, ‘Personally, I don’t know why he hangs around with her.’

I giggled some more. It was pretty obvious to me, and I imagined most of the male population, what Rocco would see in one of the world’s highest-paid supermodels. With a mane of the glossiest raven hair, flawless olive skin and almond-shaped green eyes, her face was a familiar sight on the front of all the glossy magazines.

‘She’s a looker, I’ll give you that,’ said Sylvia, as if reading my thoughts, ‘but she’s no better than she should be, that one. Don’t worry; I’m not speaking out of turn. Rocco knows precisely what I think about her because I’ve told him. You want to hear her ranting and raving.’ She drew a breath, pursing her lips and shaking her head. ‘It’s shocking the way she talks to him.’

‘Really?’ I said, hoping I wouldn’t have the misfortune of running into PP anytime soon.

‘You’d have to see if for yourself to believe it. Rocco says I’ve got it all wrong about Pandora, but I’ve got the measure of that one, I can tell you.’

Hmm . . . I could imagine, but I wasn’t going to waste any time worrying about Rocco. I was certain he could give as good as he got, and I was also sure he wasn’t averse to the odd bit of ranting himself. Besides, with my track record I was hardly in a position to pass comment.

Sylvia, her forearms resting on the table, leaned closer across the table and peered at me.

‘What about you, then? Have you got a boyfriend waiting at home?’ I was beginning to suspect she had the instincts of a sparrow hawk.

‘Me? Oh no,’ I said, rather too brightly. ‘Young, free and single, that’s me.’

‘That’s the trouble with you young girls today. You’re all so busy fiddling with your careers you don’t give any thought to the things that matter. Then when you do finally decide you may want to settle down, it’s too late. All the good ones have been taken.’

I flinched. As if I needed any reminding of my perilous position. Sylvia wasn’t to know she was putting her fur-edged and slippered size fives into troubled waters, but by her concerned expression I could tell that her finely tuned antennae were about to break me down.

‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Do you not have a lot of luck in that area, then?’

Really, I’d felt fine when I arrived, but, under Sylvia’s insistent probing, I was feeling steadily worse by the moment.

‘No, no, it’s not that,’ I explained. ‘It’s just that I did have a boyfriend, but we split up last week so it’s all a bit, you know . . . raw.’ I smiled bravely, hoping that would be the end of the harsh glare of the spotlight on my love life. No such luck.

‘Ah, what a shame.’ She narrowed her eyes in sympathy. ‘Were you with him very long?’

‘Five years.’

Sylvia let out a huge sigh.

‘Almost like a marriage, then?’ She nodded, knowingly. ‘And did you love him very much
?
’

I clasped my fingers around my mug and thought of Martin. It seemed as if he’d always been there. Like the mole on my cheek and the freckles on my nose. And now he wasn’t.

‘Do you know, I’m really not sure.’

Sylvia’s face creased into laughter, the corners of her eyes crinkling fondly.

‘In that case, I don’t think you could have done. If you’d loved him, really loved him, you wouldn’t need to think about it.’

I shrugged my shoulders and sighed.

‘Do you know,’ I said, swirling the remaining contents around the bottom of my mug, ‘that’s funny, because it’s exactly what my sister Lexi said.’

Sylvia stood up from her chair, wiping her hands on her pinny.

‘Sounds to me as though your sister knows what she’s talking about. Come on,’ she said, picking up my empty coffee mug and placing it in the pristine white butler sink, ‘I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.’

* * *

As I unpacked my case in the pretty guest bedroom, hanging up my clothes in the white armoire, I wondered how it was that Lexi and Sylvia, who I’d only known for a matter of minutes, could have such an intimate understanding of the state of my love life.

What kind of klutz was I? Why hadn’t I, when I’d been living, sleeping, sharing my toothpaste with the man, come to realise that I didn’t love Martin any longer, if indeed I ever had done? Because if I was finally being honest with myself, I had to admit that I hadn’t really loved him. Respected, liked and admired him, yes, in bucket loads, but loved? It broke my heart to admit it, but the answer was a definite no.

After the body blow of Martin’s rejection, the huge smack in the teeth to my pride, my main feeling was one of relief and a little frisson of excitement at being alone again. Of course, there was the worry that I’d never find anyone who’d want to go out on a date with me again, living my days out as a lonely old spinster in a one bed-roomed flat with not a soul to care for me, but that was just a minor consideration.

I was a product of my generation, an independent, self-assured career woman. I didn’t need a man, hell no! But by God, I wanted one. Preferably one that I’d love with a passion and with whom I’d share everything that went with the whole caboodle. A small house, a couple of kids if we were so blessed, along with the customary golden retriever. Well, it’s hardly the worst aspiration in the world
—
is it?

For the moment though I had to content myself with being stuck in a huge country home in the Buckinghamshire countryside, with an absentee boss and a whole pile of paperwork to sift through along with a list of telephone calls to make. The morning sun was just beginning to break through the cloud and a battalion of birds were making themselves heard out in the garden. Life could be a lot worse, I reckoned.

Sylvia called up the stairs as she left.

‘There’s some soup on the stove, if you’re feeling hungry. And there’s a nice slab of cake in the tin. Just help yourself. Tell Rocco, I’ll be in tomorrow as usual. Bye, lovey, see you again.’

At least I’d found an ally in Sylvia. Already I felt as if we were old friends.

I didn’t need much encouragement on the food front. I was famished. I helped myself to a steaming mug of soup, sat down at the kitchen table and started working my way down the job list. Within a couple of hours I’d ticked off everything that had needed doing. Shooting was starting at eight the next morning and I’d checked and double checked with everyone involved that they were going to be there at the right time. I didn’t want to get off to a bad start with Rocco.

By the time I’d finished it was late afternoon. I dipped into the cake tin and helped myself to a thick slice of fruit cake, made a pot of tea and tidied away the mess I’d made at the table. There was still no sign of Rocco and no word from him either. A quick phone call telling me what time he’d be arriving wouldn’t have gone amiss, but then again I don’t suppose Rocco was worried by such trivialities. He’d probably completely forgotten I was coming, anyway.

Outside, the sky had darkened; it was too late to go for an exploratory wander in the unfamiliar countryside. Instead, I picked up my phone to call Lexi. She’d be dying to know how I was getting on. I tapped in her number. Once and then again, and then a third time just to make sure. She wasn’t at home, nor was she answering her mobile. Typical, just when I was in the mood for a good natter! Alone in a strange house with nothing to do and no one to speak to, what else was there to do?

I wandered upstairs past the door that led to my bedroom and along the corridor. Really, I’m not the nosey type by nature, but it was such a lovely house and I was just curious to know what I might find behind those closed doors. Like Goldilocks I knew I was heading for disaster, but I just couldn’t help myself. I peeked in awe into each of the four double bedrooms that looked as if they’d been prepared for an inspection from
Homes and Gardens
magazine, then into the huge family bathroom with its inviting spa bath, his and hers basins and a walk-in wet room. My little shower at home was tiny by comparison. If you dropped the soap, then you really had problems, having to turn into Harry Houdini to retrieve it.

Finally, I reached the door at the very end of the corridor. I knew instinctively whose bedroom this would be. With my fingers gripping the handle and my heart in my throat, I eased the door open and tiptoed into the vast master bedroom, Rocco’s room. The first thing to hit me was the smell, not unpleasant, but very masculine. Musky and earthy. Eau de Testosterone.

The room had a lived-in air. There were books on the bedside cabinet, photos dotted on the chest of drawers, a black dressing gown hung on the back of the door and there was a bed of mammoth proportions. On the walls were paintings of naked Rubenesque women reclining seductively in the way of . . . naked Rubenesque women. It felt like an exclusive men’s club and me an unwelcome visitor. Drinking in the atmosphere I twirled around slowly and almost fainted on the spot when I looked straight into the searching eyes of Rocco.

‘Christ!’ I gasped.

On the wall, overlooking the bed, hung a huge canvas black and white print of the master. With his customary intensity, he was challenging the camera, his eyes heavy and brooding. It was a picture I’d seen before, although where I couldn’t remember. Probably on the cover of a magazine or on the back of one of his cookery books. I shivered.

Returning his gaze, even in the safety of a photo, felt strangely unnerving. He wasn’t traditionally handsome; how could he be with that strong Roman nose? And those wild curls that looked as though they’d never met with a brush. The strong outline of his jaw gave his face a hard edge and those vulpine eyes bristled with danger. Handsome, maybe not. But mesmerising, charismatic and hot? Oh yes, all three with cherries on top.