Powerful Italian, Penniless Housekeeper

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I’m not going to let it.’ The beam of light swung away from her and she shivered in the sudden darkness. But a moment later he spoke again, and his voice was closer now.

‘I can’t do this and hold the torch, so you’re going to have to listen very carefully and do what I say. OK?’

‘OK.’ Her voice sounded small and quiet. But perhaps it was just because her heart was suddenly beating very loudly, making the blood pound in her ears. The torch was on the ground far below, its powerful beam cutting through the indigo darkness and turning the rain on Angelica and Hugh’s limestone patio into pools of mercury. Up here it seemed very dark.

‘Come carefully towards the edge of the roof and stop when I tell you.’

Sarah did as he said, letting out another whimper of fear as she felt another tile crack. Rain was running down her face, making her eyes sting. She closed them.

‘That’s it. Stop there,’ he ordered, and although his voice was harsh there was a peculiar intimacy to it. ‘Now, reach out your arms. I’m going to lift you down.’

‘No! You can’t! I’m too heavy, I’ll…’

But the rest of her protest was lost as she felt one arm circle her waist, and then she was being pulled against his body.

Through the thin layer of their wet clothes she could feel the warmth of his skin, his hard-muscled chest. Instinctively her hands found his shoulders, and even through her shock and fear she was aware of their power. Heat suddenly erupted inside her, tingling through her chilled body.

‘Thank you,’ she muttered, trying to pull quickly away from him as her feet made contact with something solid. Instantly the world tilted and her stomach gave a sickening lurch as she felt herself falling and realised she had just stepped off the edge of the table they were standing on. He grabbed her again, pulling her back into the safety of his arms.

‘I’m beginning to think you have a death wish,’ he said grimly, sweeping her legs from under her and holding her against him as he climbed down from the table in one fluid movement.

‘If I did I could think of more elegant ways to end it all than falling off a roof while wearing nothing but my nightie. Now, please, put me down.’

‘The gravel is sharp and you’ve got no shoes on.’

‘I’m fine. I can manage. Please…’ she said, miserably aware that by now his back was probably groaning with bearing the weight of her. Although he certainly showed no sign of noticing that she was heavier than your average feather pillow. Against her ear his breathing was perfectly slow and steady, and his pace easy. It didn’t slow at all at her words either, she noticed with a thud of alarm and helpless excitement as they rounded the corner of the house and he made straight for the hulking shape of a large 4x4 that loomed out of the darkness. ‘Where are you taking me, anyway?’

‘Home.’

‘Look, stop, please. And let me go!’

He sighed. ‘If that’s really what you want…’

Unreasonable disappointment shafted through her as he set her down on the wet gravel and stood back. She wobbled slightly as the sharp stones cut into her feet. Out of the warmth of his arms, she realised how cold she was.

‘It is,’ she said and hoped that the sudden feeling of uncertainty about that wasn’t evident in her voice. ‘Look, it’s very kind of you to help, but we’ll be fine here until morning. We’ve never even met before and there are five of us here, so—’

‘Actually, you’re wrong.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, for a start, your family are already there, at Castellaccio.’

‘What? But they can’t…we can’t…possibly descend on you. It’s out of the question-we’ll manage fine here.’

‘Funny. That wasn’t what your sister said. Or her friend— Fenella, was it?’

Bloody Fenella. Her words from earlier echoed mockingly around Sarah’s head. He sounds delish. I wouldn’t mind getting on the right side of him…Of course, never in a million years would she pass up the opportunity to get a foot in the door of a film director’s luxury palazzo. Limping as quickly as she could after Lorenzo Cavalleri, it wasn’t just the sharp gravel beneath Sarah’s bare feet that made her wince.

He reached the car and pulled open the door. A small light inside went on and she felt her heart stop, and then start again with a painful thump as she caught a fleeting glimpse of hard cheekbone and sharp jawline darkened with stubble before he melted back into the darkness and went around to the other side of the car.

For a moment he had reminded her of the man in the pub that night. The man who had kissed her. But of course that was ridiculous; he was Italian, and male—that was where the coincidence ended. Getting into the car, she quickly did up her seat belt and, as he got into the driver’s seat beside her, deliberately turned her head and looked out into the wet night.

She could hardly remember what he looked like anyway, she told herself crossly. Because it was unimportant. He was unimportant.

‘First thing tomorrow I’ll get a decent local builder to come and have a look at the roof and then hopefully we can get it sorted out,’ she said stiffly as he started the engine.

‘You know many decent local builders?’

‘No, but I’m guessing that any local builder would be better than the idiots that Hugh and Angelica brought over from London. God knows what they’ve done.’

‘My guess is they’ve put the tiles on upside down. Tuscan roof tiles curve slightly, and it appears they’ve laid them so that the water flows right down between the gaps. If I’m right the whole roof will need redoing.’

Sarah groaned. ‘Oh, God, but the wedding’s the day after tomorrow. I’ll have to think of something.’

There was a slight pause, and then he said quietly, ‘Why is it your responsibility?’

Sarah stared through the silvery lines of rain on the window.

‘You’ve met Angelica and my mother. They’re each as hopeless as the other, and we can’t wait until Hugh and Guy get here if it’s going to be sorted out before the wedding.’

‘Hugh I’ve met, but who’s Guy?’

The windscreen wipers beat a steady tattoo, like a heartbeat in the womb-like interior of the car, and warm air from the heater curled around her, making her chilled skin tingle. She felt suddenly very, very tired and leaned her head back against the soft leather seat, closing her eyes. ‘Guy’s my stepfather. Angelica’s father. He’s the kind of person who makes things happen and gets things done—especially for Angelica, but I suspect that re-roofing an entire house in under twenty-four hours is beyond even his capability.’

‘You don’t get on with him?’

‘Oh, I do. You couldn’t not. He’s charming, witty, extremely generous…’

‘But?’

She was dimly aware that the car had come to a standstill, but he didn’t turn the engine off. Below the throb of the engine she could hear the rain pattering on the roof, and it made her feel oddly safe and protected. Or maybe it was this man that made her feel like that—this stranger, Lorenzo Cavalleri. For a moment she thought back to how it had felt to be in his arms when he had rescued her from the roof. The strength that she had sensed in him, that was more than just a matter of hard muscle…

She sat up abruptly and opened her eyes, feeling for the door handle.

Rescued her.

Uh-uh. She didn’t need to be rescued. She didn’t ask for it and she didn’t want it. She could cope perfectly well without a man, and she wasn’t going to make the mistake of letting her hormones rule her head again. Not after Rupert. Not after the man in The Rose and Crown that night. Perhaps she should ring Italian Accents Anonymous.

‘He’s not my father, that’s all,’ she said abruptly, pushing the door open and getting out of the car. The shock of the cold rain on her newly warmed skin was almost a relief.

Small world, thought Lorenzo, getting out of the car and walking round to where she waited by the palazzo’s double front doors. He felt a smile touch his mouth as he looked at her. She was standing perfectly still, perfectly straight, almost as if she was oblivious to the rain that was plastering her hair to her head and running down her face. Most women he knew would be horrified at the idea of being so thoroughly drenched—like her sister, for example, who had insisted on an umbrella being found before she would even make a dash for the car back at the farmhouse.

‘The door’s not locked. Please, go in.’

She didn’t move. ‘Look, I’m sorry about this,’ she said as Lorenzo moved past her, pushing open the door. ‘Really. It doesn’t seem right. We don’t even know you. Maybe we should just go and—’