From Florence With Love. Lucy Gordon
around.’
So was she—for a way to escape from the tack room and back to the house without being seen, so she could clean up and at least look slightly less disreputable, but there was no other way out, and …
‘He’s seen me. He’s coming over. Hi, there. Can I help?’
‘I hope so. I’m looking for Lydia Fletcher.’
His voice made her heart thud even harder, and she backed into the shadows, clutching the filthy, soapy rag in a desperate fist.
‘She’s here,’ Jen said, dumping her in it and flashing him her most charming smile. ‘I’m her sister, Jen—and she’s rather grubby, so she probably doesn’t want you to see her like that, so why don’t I take you over to the house and make you a cup of tea—’
‘I don’t mind if she’s grubby. She’s seen me looking worse, I’m sure.’
And before Jen could usher him away, he stepped past her into the tack room, sucking all the air out of it in that simple movement.
‘Ciao, bella,’ he said softly, a smile lurking in his eyes, and she felt all her resolve melt away to nothing.
‘Ciao,’ she echoed, and then toughened up. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again.’
She peered past him at Jen, hovering in the doorway. ‘Why don’t you go and put the kettle on?’ she said firmly.
With a tiny, knowing smile, Jen took a step away, then mouthed, ‘Be nice!’
Nice? She had no intention of being anything but nice, but she also had absolutely no intention of being anything more accommodating. He’d been so clear about not wanting a relationship, and she’d thought she could handle their night together, thought she could walk away. Well, she wasn’t letting him in again, because she’d never get over it a second time.
‘You could have warned me you were coming,’ she said when Jen had gone, her crutches scrunching in the gravel. ‘And don’t tell me you lost my phone number, because it was on the same piece of paper as my address, which you clearly have or you wouldn’t be here.’
‘I haven’t lost it. I didn’t want to give you the chance to avoid me.’
‘You thought I would?’
‘I thought you might want to, and I didn’t want you to run away without hearing me out.’ He looked around, studying the dusty room with the saddle racks screwed to the old beams, the saddle horse in the middle of the room with Bruno’s saddle on it, half-cleaned, the hook dangling from the ceiling with his bridle and stirrup leathers hanging from it, still covered in mould and dust and old grease.
Just like her, really, smeared in soapy filth and not in any way dressed to impress.
‘Evocative smell.’ He fingered the saddle flap, rubbing his fingertips together and sniffing them. ‘It takes me back. I had a friend with horses when I was at boarding school over here, and I stayed with him sometimes. We used to have to clean the tack after we rode.’
He smiled, as if it was a good memory, and then he lifted his hand and touched a finger to her cheek. ‘You’ve got dirt on your face.’
‘I’m sure. And don’t you dare spit on a tissue and rub it off.’
He chuckled, and shifting an old riding hat, he sat down on a rickety chair and crossed one foot over the other knee, his hands resting casually on his ankle as if he really didn’t care how dirty the chair was.
‘Well, don’t let me stop you. You need to finish what you’re doing—at least the saddle.’
She did. It was half-done, and she couldn’t leave it like that or it would mark. She scrunched the rag in her fingers and nodded. ‘If you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not. I didn’t know you had a horse,’ he added, after a slight pause.
‘We don’t—not any more.’
His eyes narrowed, and he leant forwards. ‘Lydia?’ he said softly, and she sniffed and turned away, reaching for the saddle soap.
‘He died,’ she said flatly. ‘We don’t need the tack, so I’m going to sell it. It’s a crime to let it rot out here when someone could be using it.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. He was ancient.’
‘But you loved him.’
‘Of course. That’s what life’s all about, isn’t it? Loving things and losing them?’ She put the rag down and turned back to him, her heart aching so badly that she was ready to howl her eyes out. ‘Massimo, why are you here?’
‘I promised you some olive oil and wine and balsamic vinegar.’
She blinked, and stared at him, dumbfounded. ‘You drove all this way to deliver me olive oil? That’s ridiculous. Why are you really here, in the middle of harvest? And what was that about not wanting me to run away before hearing you out?’
He smiled slowly—reluctantly. ‘OK. I have a proposition for you. Finish the saddle, and I’ll tell you.’
‘Tell me now.’
‘I’ll tell you while you finish,’ he compromised, so she picked up the rag again and reapplied it to the saddle, putting on rather more saddle soap than was necessary. He watched her, watched the fierce way she rubbed the leather, the pucker in her brow as she waited for him to speak.
‘So?’ she prompted, her patience running out.
‘So—I think Carlotta is unwell. Luca says not, and he’s the doctor. He says she’s just old, and tired, and needs to stop before she kills herself.’
‘I agree. She’s been too old for years, probably, but I don’t suppose she’ll listen if you tell her that.’
‘No. She won’t. And the trouble is she won’t allow anyone else in her kitchen.’ He paused for a heartbeat. ‘Anyone except you.’
She dropped the rag and spun round. ‘Me!’ she squeaked, and then swallowed hard. ‘I—I don’t understand! What have I got to do with anything?’
‘We need someone to feed everybody for the harvest. After that, we’ll need someone as a housekeeper. Carlotta won’t give that up until she’s dead, but we can get her local help, and draft in caterers for events like big dinner parties and so on. But for the harvest, we need someone she trusts who can cater for sixty people twice a day without getting in a flap—someone who knows what they’re doing, who understands what’s required and who’s available.’
‘I’m not available,’ she said instantly, and he felt a sharp stab of disappointment.
‘You have another job?’
She shook her head. ‘No, not really, but I’m helping with the farm, and doing the odd bit of outside catering, a bit of relief work in the pub. Nothing much, but I’m trying to get my career back on track and I can’t do that if I’m gallivanting about all over Tuscany, however much I want to help you out. I have to earn a living—’
‘You haven’t heard my proposition yet.’
She stared at him, trying to work out what he was getting at. What he was offering. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know, because she had a feeling it would involve a lot of heartache, but—
‘What proposition? I thought that was your proposition?’
‘You come back with me, work for the harvest and I’ll give your sister her wedding.’
She stared at him, confused. She couldn’t have heard him right. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, finding her voice at last.
‘It’s not hard. The hotel was offering the ceremony, a reception for—what,