The Count of Castelfino

Twenty minutes later, shaved, showered and feeling slightly more human, he walked into the dining room of his suite. A meal was being laid out on its central table. His body clock told him it should be dinner. It didn’t look like it. In fact, it didn’t look like anything that had appeared on the Villa Castelfino’s menu in all his thirty-two years.

‘That food looks delicious,’ he said suspiciously, picking up the neatly folded copy of La Repubblica lying on his tray.

‘It is, signor. Some of us were invited to lunch over at the Garden Cottage today, and the head gardener gave us this to eat, too.’

Before Gianni could question the man further, he noticed something.

‘This is Monday’s newspaper. What happened to Sunday, Rodolfo?’

‘The indoor staff had strict instructions not to disturb you, signor.’

The man put such an odd emphasis on the word ‘indoor’ that Gianni’s mind filled instantly with suspicion. He walked around the table, surveying his unlikely meal from every angle. There were cheese palmiers with half a dozen different sorts of salads and a cut glass dish of something brightly coloured.

‘This looks like English trifle. I haven’t seen that since I was at school. Where did it come from?’

‘The head gardener suggested some amendments to your menu, signor.’

Gianni stopped pacing. Frowning, he shook a finger in the air. ‘That was what I was going to ask you a moment ago. I didn’t know we had a head gardener,’ he said slowly, suspecting he already knew what had happened. The girl who had invited herself into his estate had become a cuckoo in the nest the moment he turned his back.

‘Miss Imsey has only recently arrived, signor.’

‘Oh…her,’ Gianni said with the airy exhaustion of a man who had a million employees, all of them more trouble than they were worth. ‘Well, don’t worry. She won’t be here for long. I’m more interested in practical skills than paper qualifications. People who hide from life by studying are always afraid of hard work.’ He was quite confident in his views, but the look on Rodolfo’s face instantly made him suspicious again. ‘Oh, now don’t say you’ve been taken in by that face, or those legs…her smile, that rivulet of hair or those baby blue eyes…’

Gianni’s tone began to waver along with his conviction. Straightening his jacket like a prosecuting counsel, he brought himself briskly back to the ancestral line. No member of staff could be allowed to run riot around the place. It didn’t matter how pretty and distracting she was.

‘Or anything else, for that matter!’ He added sharply. ‘That girl is only interested in one thing—collecting her wages. She told me so herself, the moment she arrived.’

Gianni’s waiter was in no hurry to leave. It was obvious he had something more to say. Reaching for a second cheese palmier, Gianni gave him a stare calculated to squeeze tears from a commando.

‘You look like you’ve got something else to tell me, Rodolfo.’

The man coughed politely. ‘You may like to know that Cook is currently wearing a face like an old lemon, signor.’

Gianni was bringing the serving tongs from the silver salver to his plate. When he heard those words, he stopped. The thought that Meg had been nice to him only so she could get paid was irritating. News that she could manage to annoy his staid old cook brought a grudging smile back to his face.

‘This wouldn’t have anything to do with the new head gardener, would it?’ he asked innocently.

‘Sì, Count.’

‘And…morale in the kitchens is…?’ Gianni probed, brushing pastry crumbs from his fingertips.

‘On the way up.’

‘I always said the Bellini family lets good staff have its head,’ Gianni said in a warm glow of self-satisfaction.

Dismissing the waiter, he settled down to enjoy his meal. He was ravenous, and ate himself to a standstill. It was the first time he could ever remember sitting in the Villa Castelfino and pushing away a plate because he was full, rather than nauseous. It was then he realised he was beginning to feel better than he had done in years. As well as the improved diet, in one day he had managed to get more sleep than he normally did in a week. Then reality kicked in again. His father was dead. The future of hundreds of hectares of real estate and thousands of staff across the globe relied on him, in his capacity as the new Count di Castelfino. His business could expand now, exactly as planned.

Walking over to his sound system, he put on some music. Then he went out onto the balcony leading from his private dining room. From there he could survey the scene at his leisure. All the land below him, right out as far as the sheltering hills, was now his responsibility. Until a few days ago, his vineyard had occupied fewer than a hundred hectares of the vast estate. That was set to change. Gianni had his gaze fixed firmly on the future. His nights of excess were behind him. From now on, improving his wine business would absorb all his waking moments. It saved him having to think about the one aspect of aristocratic life that loomed over him like a cloud of volcanic ash. He didn’t want to be the last man to bear his name and title—but neither did he want to see a child suffer by being born into the Bellini family. The taste of that was still bitter in his own mouth.

He sat down to reflect on the view, trying to avoid thinking about the inevitable. It was quite a distraction. He had never really looked at the landscape outside his suite before. It had simply always been there. Now every vine, olive tree and cypress belonged to him. He relaxed in his seat contentedly.

And then Megan Imsey walked into view, pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with tools. A broad brimmed straw hat shaded her expression, but Gianni could see she was enjoying herself in the sunshine. As he watched she turned her head this way and that, looking at the desiccated grasses sprawling over the weedy path. She must be heading for the walled garden, he realised. Work was already well under way there, on his father’s last project. It was an extravagance of greenhouses, wild enough to bankrupt the Bellini coffers. His study of her became critical. Why was she going there when he had already told her what he thought of his father’s plans? And what sort of person worked when they didn’t have to, in any case?

With that, Gianni’s scorn slipped into a smile. He only had to think of the times he’d rolled home at first light, still on a champagne-fuelled high. He’d stopped off at his vineyard many times, to work off his excess energy. An attitude like that had carved him a spectacular career as a wine producer in only a few years. He had done it by applying the same guidelines he used in his private life—if you want something done properly, do it yourself.

He wondered if Miss Megan Imsey had a similar interest in quality control. This might be the perfect moment to find out. It was a beautiful day, and he was feeling lucky…

The Tuscan sun clung to Meg like a second skin. To call it hot was an understatement. Beneath her long sleeved white shirt, baggy overalls, shady straw hat and sunglasses she was coated in sunscreen. It might be safe, but it felt totally suffocating. Despite the heat she bowled along through the gardens at a good pace. She was always eager to get to work, but the Villa Castelfino had one big novelty that made it really special. A hundred years ago, an earlier count had built his aristocratic young English wife a walled kitchen garden to stop her feeling homesick. Nothing had been done with it for years, until Gianni’s father had hatched this scheme for a grand range of state-of-the-art greenhouses. The new complex was almost finished, but on this sunny morning Meg was more interested in the undeveloped parts of the garden. Its faded melancholy really appealed to her. Smiling, she unlocked the garden door and let herself into one whole hectare of heaven.

She stood for a moment and relished her achievement. This was what she had spent the last few months planning and supervising on her trips to Italy. A glass palace took centre stage in the secret garden. There were still a few cosmetic touches to add, but the main building was pretty much complete. This morning the entire roof was open to catch every available breeze. It looked like a stately galleon in full sail. Flushed with success, Meg wondered how Gianni could possibly dislike such a lovely thing. With a pang of fear, she wondered how she could persuade him to keep her on. She couldn’t bear to think of anyone tampering with her beautiful greenhouses. This success had given her a welcome boost, on top of saving her parents’ business from bankruptcy. The possibility they might slip back while she was away was enough to worry about. Her fragile self-confidence didn’t need this project to founder as well.

To cheer herself up, Meg turned her attention to the rest of the garden. Once upon a time it had produced all the food for the villa. Decades of neglect meant it was now nothing more than an area of infrequently mown grass and overgrown fruit trees. Without regular care their long, lissom branches grew in all directions, throwing welcome pools of shade throughout the day. She parked her barrow in one of these slightly cooler spots, beside an ancient dipping pool. Then she went back and locked the garden door. That would ensure she wasn’t disturbed. Returning to her barrow full of tools and provisions, she tied one end of a length of twine around the neck of her water bottle. Lowering it into the dipping pool would keep the contents chilled. Then she started work.

The structural work of repairing the hard landscaping was complete, so it was left to Meg to begin the best job of all. She was about to mark out new flowerbeds, and couldn’t wait to get started. There would be borders at the foot of the encircling wall, designed to complement the new garden buildings. Meg’s mind had been turning over ideas for a long time. Now she needed to see them marked out on the ground, to get a feel for how they might work in reality. Once she had the details right, work could start. That meant there would be something worth seeing by the end of the week. The bigger the impact she could make on Gianni Bellini, the more likely he was to let her stay. Or so she hoped.

She began measuring up and marking out, but soon felt overdressed. The first things to go were her sandals. The short, prickly grass beneath her bare feet made her laugh with the excitement of it all. She was making the closest possible contact with this grand estate, and it was fun! Curling her toes into the hot turf she carried on, hammering in pegs and laying out string to plan the new flower-beds. There was so little air movement that soon her hat and shirt began to cling uncomfortably in the heat. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if she was brave enough to strip off completely. Glancing around, she came to a decision. The garden wasn’t overlooked. Working in her underwear was no worse than wearing a bikini, and she had worked in one of those often enough at home. The door into her sanctuary was locked. No one would see. If she was careful to avoid getting sunburned, no one would ever know.

Impulsively, she tore off her outer clothes and went back to work. When the sun parched her skin too fiercely, she dodged back into the shade and enjoyed a drink of pool-cooled water from her bottle. She was straightening up to assess how the outline was developing when a frighteningly familiar voice almost sent her into orbit.

‘Is this how all English gardeners dress, Megan?’

Meg whirled around and her heart stood still. It was Gianni: the real one, not the exhausted version who had tried to send her away the day before. Today he looked every inch as seductive as he had done at the Chelsea Flower Show. That alarmed her as much as his anger had done.

‘What are you doing here?’ she burst out, her hands trying ineffectually to cover all the bits her scanty underwear was failing to hide.

He nodded towards the villa. ‘I live here, remember?’

Meg was caught completely off guard. ‘I’m sorry—how could I possibly forget?’ She gasped. A blush was no defence against him. He continued looking at her with undisguised interest.

‘You certainly seemed to have done.’

‘I never dreamed anyone would disturb me in here. The door was locked. I have the only key. How did you get in?’ she blustered, embarrassment mixed up with growing anger.

One hand in his pocket, Gianni strolled over to the old medlar tree where Meg had hung her hat and shirt. Plucking them from the branches like particularly desirable fruit, he made his way over to her. He took his time. It was painfully obvious to Meg that he was making her wait for her clothes. She wasn’t in the mood to be toyed with. As soon as he got close enough she snatched her things from his hands and pulled them on. He watched with something close to amusement. Then he drew a second key from his pocket with a flourish.

‘As I said—I live here. I have a copy of every key in the place.’

Barefoot but otherwise decent, Meg rallied.

‘That doesn’t explain why you felt the need to come in here.’

‘It wasn’t a need. It was a want. I wanted to see you, Megan.’

There was a haunting look in his dark eyes. It was so delicious she could hardly meet his gaze. Nervous that he might be able to read all sorts of things from her own expression, she looked down at the coarse wiry grass at her feet. All sorts of hope were beginning to stir deep within her, but there was only one she could put into words.

‘I hope you’re feeling better, Count.’

His smile widened, bright as pearl against the golden warmth of his skin. ‘Yes, I am—but call me Gianni, please.’