Italian Boss, Housekeeper Mistress
Italian Boss, Housekeeper Mistress
Kate Hewitt
About the Author
KATE HEWITT discovered her first Mills & Boon
romance on a trip to England when she was thirteen, and she’s continued to read them ever since.
She wrote her first story at the age of five, simply because her older brother had written one and she thought she could do it too. That story was one sentence long — fortunately, they’ve become a bit more detailed as she’s grown older.
She has written plays, short stories, and magazine serials for many years, but writing romance remains her first love. Besides writing, she enjoys reading, travelling, and learning to knit.
After marrying the man of her dreams — her older brother’s childhood friend — she lived in England for six years and now resides in Connecticut with her husband, her three young children, and the possibility of one day getting a dog.
Kate loves to hear from readers — you can contact her through her website, www.kate–hewitt.com.
Dear Reader,
Italy in summer … can you think of anything better? Sun-drenched afternoons idling in a boat on the lake, pavement cafés enjoying tiny cups of espresso and baskets of pastries, street markets with barrels of mozzarella and ropes of garlic — writing this story was a feast of the senses.
My hero, Leandro, is a man who’s sworn off such earthly pleasures, and all because of a scandal in his past. It takes his feisty American housekeeper Zoe to reawaken his need and desire for not just pleasure, but love.
I was so thrilled to be able to be part of this anthology, and I hope you enjoy these wonderful stories of men and women discovering both passion and love during one memorable summer in Italy …
Kate
Italian Boss, Housekeeper Mistress
Kate Hewitt
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
ZOE CLARK slipped the sunglasses off her nose to survey the discreet grey limousine idling at the kerb.
‘Nice,’ she murmured as the uniformed driver opened the door with a flourish. He’d already taken her one beaten up suitcase and stowed it in the boot.
Now she slipped into the cool leather interior of the luxury car and leaned her head back against the plush seat.
This was going to be a fantastic summer.
A smile bloomed and grew across her face as she leaned forward and flipped open the mini-fridge.
‘Is this complimentary?’ she called to the driver.
He stiffened before answering in heavily accented English, ‘Of course.’
Zoe grinned and plucked a bottle of orange juice from the fridge. She’d rather have had the little bottle of cognac, but she didn’t think it would be prudent to meet her future employer with brandy on her breath.
She took a swig of juice as the limousine pulled away from Milan’s Malpensa Airport and into the teeming traffic.
The sky was cloudless and blue, the sun glinting brightly off the cars that zipped and zoomed their way across half a dozen motorway lanes.
Zoe sipped her drink, feeling the first familiar wave of fatigue crash over her. She hadn’t slept much on the plane, and now a bit grimly she wondered if her employer would expect her to start work that morning.
For a moment she imagined him greeting her at the door of his villa, a feather duster and frilly apron in hand. What exactly did the temporary housekeeper of an Italian villa in the lakes do?
The job description had been surprisingly pithy—a scant two lines of tiny print in the back of the New York Times. Blink and you’d miss it. But Zoe had had a lifetime’s experience of looking at such ads, circling them in red ink—usually with a pen that was sputtering or leaking or had lost its life altogether—before handing them hopefully to her mother.
What about this one?
There was always something better, something great right around the corner. There had to be.
The driver turned off the motorway, leaving behind the rolling hills of Lombardy as well as the endless traffic of the capital’s outskirts for a smaller road lined with plane trees. Zoe glanced at the small road sign that read ‘Como: 25 kilometres’ before leaning her head once more against the soft leather seat and closing her eyes.
She must have dozed—she could sleep anywhere, except perhaps on planes—for when she woke the car was climbing higher into the hills, the dark green, densely forested peaks of the mountains providing a stunning backdrop.
She rapped on the dividing window, and with a long-suffering air the driver pressed a button so the glass slid smoothly away.
‘Are we almost there?’
‘Sì, signorina.’
Zoe sat back, taking in the ancient winding road, and the wrought-iron gates that presented themselves at intervals, guarding the wealthy residents within, whose villas could barely be glimpsed through the heavy foliage of rhododendrons and bougainvillea. As the car continued up the twisting road the lake shimmered enticingly at each bend, before disappearing again, and Zoe found herself turning around to look at it, to find its brilliant blue promise winking at her from between the trees.
‘This is beautiful,’ she said to the driver, before realising belatedly that he’d already pressed a button to return the dividing glass to its original place.
Then the car was turning smoothly into a narrow lane, and the driver spoke into an intercom affixed to an ancient crumbling wall. Zoe couldn’t hear what was spoken, but after a moment the iron gates swung inwards, and the car proceeded up the lane.
Foliage crowded the car densely on both sides of the drive, so that when it finally fell away to reveal the villa Zoe let her breath out in a sharp, impressed exhalation.
Wow.
A sweep of jewel-green lawn led up to a villa that seemed more like a palace—a palazzo—than the villa Zoe had been imagining.
This place was a castle.
And she was supposed to clean it all?
She counted twenty-two multi-paned windows glinting in the sunlight before she stopped.
The car pulled round the circular drive to the front of the villa. A pair of solid oak doors, looking as if they’d survived the Dark Ages, remained ominously shut.
Zoe climbed out of the car before the driver could come round, earning his continued disapproval. He took her suitcase from the boot and deposited it on the crumbling portico.
‘Here you are, signorina.’
It took Zoe a moment to realise he was leaving.
‘Wait—you’re going?’ she demanded, hearing an annoying edge of panic creep into her voice. ‘Don’t you work here?’
‘I am hired only,’ the driver replied, his voice stiff with disdain, before he slammed the door and drove away.
As the sound of his motor faded into the distance, Zoe was conscious of how surprisingly silent it was. A bird twittered nearby, and the breeze, cool and fresh from the lake, rustled the leaves of the palm trees that fringed the great lawn.
The owner of the villa—her employer, Leandro Filametti—obviously knew she was here. Someone had answered the intercom and opened the gates. So why the silent treatment now?
Squaring her shoulders, Zoe marched up to the front door, lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it drop. A deep, melancholy boom reverberated through her bones—and hopefully through the house—and then there was silence.
Zoe waited. The bird twittered again, fretfully this time, its tranquillity disturbed. Zoe raised her hand to the knocker once more, her fingers curling around the sun-warmed metal, but before she could drop it to sound the boom again the door opened, pulling her with it.
‘Argh!’ With a surprised yelp she tried to disentangle her fingers from the knocker, and in the process nearly fell headlong into the man who had opened the door.
Firm hands curled around her shoulders and righted her once more. Zoe was conscious of a sudden sense of strength and power, although she couldn’t really see the man in front of her. Once she was steady, she looked up, and found her breath coming out in a rush once more.
The man was beautiful. Zoe didn’t know if he was her employer or a gardener, but she certainly liked looking at him. His hair was light brown and a bit ragged, touching the back of his collar. Eyes the same colour as the lake—a deep blue-green—were narrowed against the sunlight, or perhaps in disapproval. He didn’t look very friendly.
Zoe straightened, unable to keep her gaze from wandering down the length of him. He was tall, a few inches over six feet, dressed in a faded grey tee shirt and worn jeans that hugged his long powerful legs. His feet were tanned and bare.
Zoe swallowed. ‘Hello … um … Ciao. Il mi …’ Her few words of Italian, snatched on the plane from a battered phrasebook, seemed to have leaked out of her brain. She smiled with bright determination. ‘I’m Zoe Clark.’
‘The housekeeper.’ He spoke with little accent, his voice cutting and precise. He stepped back, opening the door wider, yet somehow the gesture still seemed unfriendly. ‘Come in.’
Zoe stepped into a foyer, the black and white marble cool even through her flip-flops. The light was dim, and as her eyes adjusted she saw a sweeping spiral staircase in front of her, ornate and yet also clearly in disrepair. Her glance took in sheet-shrouded tables, and a bronze statue of a cupid that looked in need of some serious polish.
The man cleared his throat and her gaze snapped back to him. ‘Are you Leandro Filametti?’
‘Yes.’
The one word was spoken with a brusque flatness that made Zoe want to recoil. Instead, she jutted her chin and thrust out her hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’
Leandro Filametti regarded her hand silently for a moment before he shook it. His touch was light, yet firm, and all too brief. He dropped her hand without ceremony and turned to walk out of the foyer, clearly expecting Zoe to follow—which, with some resentment, she did.
Leandro led her down a narrow passageway to the back of the palazzo. From the peeling paint and chipped woodwork, Zoe could tell the palace needed a good deal of TLC. More, she suspected, than her limited capabilities allowed.
Leandro stopped on the threshold of an enormous ancient kitchen. Zoe regarded the huge blackened range and the scarred oak table with both awe and dismay. A single plate and glass, she noticed, had been washed and placed on the drainer by the sink. In the huge space, clearly meant for cooking meals for twenty or more, they looked incongruous and lonely.
‘You can start here,’ Leandro informed her.
‘Start …?’ Zoe stared around. She couldn’t even see so much as a broom—and, frankly, she wouldn’t know where to begin. How did you scrub away years of grime and dust? Did you start with the cobwebs or the mouse nests?
‘Yes,’ Leandro replied, his tone sharp with impatience. ‘You do know what housekeeping entails, don’t you?’
‘I do,’ Zoe replied, her tone matching his. ‘But I also know that my suitcase is still on your front steps, I’ve been travelling all night and I haven’t even washed my face or had a drink of water.’ Juice, perhaps, but not water.
Leandro did not even look abashed. ‘If you’d like a few moments to freshen up, by all means take them,’ he said, with just a trace of sarcasm.
‘Could you show me my room?’
‘Top floor. Take any room you like,’ he replied. ‘And you can get acquainted with the house as well as with your responsibilities.’
With that he turned on his heel and disappeared down another passageway, leaving Zoe open-mouthed and fuming.
She wasn’t what he’d expected. Back in the sanctuary of his private study, Leandro ran his hands through his hair before dropping them with ill-concealed impatience. In truth, he hadn’t known what to expect; he hadn’t thought to expect anything at all. He hadn’t considered the housekeeper he’d hired beyond her ignorance of Italian society and, most importantly, the Filametti family. He wanted someone anonymous; someone to whom he could be anonymous.
Yet when he’d surveyed Zoe Clark on his front steps, anonymous had not been the first word that came to mind. She was, in fact, all too familiar—all too similar to the women of his past. His father’s past.
Fast and flighty. Cheap and easy. Unprincipled.
Even now his mind conjured the image of her standing there, dressed in a skinny-strapped top and shorts that showed far too great an expanse of smooth, tanned leg. Her hair, silky and dark, framed her face in choppy waves, and her eyes were a warm honeyed brown, almond-shaped and luxuriously fringed. Everything about her, Leandro thought, reeked of sensuality—a confident sexuality that he recognised, remembered. How he loathed that knowing feline smile, the glint in the eyes of a woman so arrogantly confident of her own paltry charms. And yet his father had fallen prey to those charms time and time again.
He would not be the same.
Yet even as that resolution fired his soul, another part of his body already recognised there was something about Zoe Clark that he both resented and wanted. She was sexy, and he was man enough to respond to it. That didn’t mean he would act upon it. Ever. The world—his world—was waiting for him to make the same mistake his father had. To fall. To humiliate himself, his family, the ancient Filametti name. He knew it, had always known it, and even in the lonely solitude of the villa he recognised the dangers within himself.
He didn’t need the complication of a sexy housekeeper; he didn’t want it.
Except even as his fingers had wrapped around hers for that brief, tantalising moment, he had.
Leandro muttered an oath under his breath and sat down at the huge mahogany desk that had once belonged to his father. He hated that desk, its connotations and memories, yet some perverse part of his psyche insisted on using it. Redeeming it—or perhaps avenging it was the better term. He gazed sightlessly at the pages in front of him, with their endless equations, numbers and squiggles that represented a lifetime of research and achievement, and yet right now they signified nothing. He swore again.
The less he saw of Zoe Clark, the better, he decided. She could sweep and mop and dust and stay completely out of his way.
He didn’t need distractions—and ill-timed, inappropriate desire was just one of many he’d have to push resolutely away.
Zoe found the servants’ staircase—a steep, narrow, dismal set of steps—and cautiously made her way up. The gloom was intensified by a gossamer net of cobwebs suspended from the ceiling, and the only sound besides her own breathing was the resentful squeak of the steps as she made her way upwards.
She passed a dark, silent floor of closed doors and more shrouded furniture and then went up to the top floor, gazing in dismay at the four rooms available there. Each one was small and depressing, containing only a chest of drawers and a narrow bed whose mattress was questionable in both comfort and hygiene.
It was also stiflingly hot.
‘At least the view is good,’ she muttered, as she forced open a pair of peeling shutters and gazed out at the terraced gardens that ran down directly to the lake. The gardens were in as much disrepair as the villa, but they showed it less. Bougainvillea run rampant, Zoe decided, was pretty. Dust run rampant was not.
With a sigh she turned back to survey the room. Sweat trickled down her back and between her breasts, and with sudden clarity and determination Zoe decided she was not going to suffer up here while a dozen bedrooms below went unused.
Leandro Filametti be damned. She deserved a little comfort if he expected her to tackle this lot.
Twenty minutes later Zoe had settled on one of the more modest bedrooms on the second floor. Painted in a faded lemony yellow, it was a smaller room, whose shuttered windows afforded a stunning view of Lake Como. After locating a dented bucket and an old mop in one of the kitchen’s many cupboards, Zoe spent most of the afternoon cleaning her own bedroom, airing the mattress and scrubbing and dusting what looked like a dozen years’ worth of dust and dirt.
Why was this villa such a mess? she wondered more than once. It was a prime piece of property, yet it looked as if it had been empty for years.
She felt as dirty as the room had been by the time she’d finished cleaning, and she seriously doubted the villa was equipped with a decent shower.
The sun was starting its descent towards the lake, but the air was still sultry and warm. With a defiant shrug Zoe decided she’d make use of the natural resources on hand, and after slipping on a bikini she made her way downstairs.
All was silent, and Leandro was nowhere to be seen. Just as well, Zoe decided grimly. If she saw him, she might give him a piece of her mind—and that could get her fired.
She picked her way through the overgrown gardens to a set of stone steps that led directly to an old jetty. The water shimmered with late-afternoon sunlight and after a second’s hesitation Zoe dived in, gasping as the shock of surprisingly cold water hit her near-naked body. She swam underwater for a few lengths, before surfacing and flipping onto her back, her eyes closed.
She floated pleasantly in an almost half-doze before she became conscious of another presence. She didn’t know what alerted her, but something prickled along her skin entirely separate from the cool water. She lifted her head, treading water, as her eyes scanned the shoreline and came in direct contact with Leandro Filametti.
His expression was neutral, his eyes narrowed against the sun, his hands fisted on his hips. Even so, Zoe’s heart slammed in her chest and she found herself strangely conscious of everything: her own rather bare body, the coolness of the water, the brilliance of the sun. And the cold, hard look she could now see in Leandro’s eyes—could feel emanating from him just as if she were standing in front of a freezer.
He didn’t speak, and Zoe forced a breezy laugh as she raised an arm in greeting. ‘Come on in. The water’s lovely.’
Wrong thing to say, she decided, as Leandro’s neutral expression darkened into a scowl.
‘I see you are availing yourself of the comforts of my home,’ he said after a moment, and before she could stop herself Zoe gave a little laugh of disbelief.
‘Comforts? I’m afraid, Signor Filametti, that your home affords very few comforts.’
In answer he arched one eyebrow, coldly sceptical. Zoe was getting tired of treading water, so she swam to the side of the jetty and hauled herself up. Sitting on the sun-warmed stone, dripping wet, she felt Leandro’s gaze rove over her, and was conscious yet again of the skimpiness of her bikini. She was also aware that she didn’t have a towel.
‘What have you been doing this afternoon?’ Leandro asked, his tone one that suggested Zoe had been lolling by the lakeside for hours, eating bonbons and reading novels.
‘Making a bedroom habitable,’ she replied sharply. ‘When an ad says “room and board provided” it usually means just that. But none of the bedrooms in your villa were fit for human habitation, Signor Filametti, so I spent the afternoon making sure I had a place to sleep tonight.’
Leandro was silent for a long moment, and when Zoe glanced at him she saw his expression was as dark and foreboding as ever.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said finally, surprising her. ‘I didn’t think … I am involved in important research at the moment, and such considerations escaped my notice.’
Zoe jerked her head in a nod of acceptance. ‘I couldn’t find any sheets,’ she added, a bit petulantly.
Leandro’s mouth quirked upwards in an unexpected glimmering of a smile. ‘Or towels, I suspect. Those I have, I brought with me. Although if I recall the beds on the top floor are single—’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem,’ Zoe replied, ‘because I chose a bedroom on the second floor.’ She glared at him, ready for a battle, but after a tiny pause he just shrugged.
‘As you wish. When you come up to the house I’ll provide you with some sheets.’ His disapproving glance took in her wet length once more before he added, ‘And a towel.’
He shouldn’t have gone down to the lake, Leandro knew. He was angry with himself that he had. He hadn’t made the decision until he’d heard the sound of splashing and realised Zoe Clark must be down there. Swimming. In a swimming costume.
This realisation had presented his tired mind with far too many intriguing images that he’d pushed resolutely away. He’d been without a woman for too long— without companionship of any kind for too long. Normally a woman like Zoe Clark would disgust him. Bold, obvious, inappropriate, cheap. All the qualities he despised in a woman.
The few women he’d taken to his bed had been sophisticated, classy and most importantly discreet. They’d understood the nature of short-term, expedient affairs and they’d wanted the same thing. Pleasure. Satisfaction. And a painless goodbye.
Not, he thought grimly, money. Or, worse, love.
He didn’t know what Zoe wanted, but he knew what women like her were capable of. And even if they weren’t, he knew what the tabloids were capable of. He’d seen firsthand how whispers could destroy a person. Already he imagined the headlines if someone got hold of his situation: Like father, like son. Leandro Filametti in a flagrant affair with his housekeeper.
He pushed the thought—and the temptation—away.
Upstairs in the villa Leandro dug through the supplies he’d brought to the villa from his flat in Milan and found a set of clean sheets and a couple of towels. He should have considered the whole matter of her bedroom, but he hadn’t wanted to consider her at all. Thinking about a housekeeper meant thinking about the villa, and even though he’d spent every day of the last month within its walls he didn’t want to think about it.
He didn’t want to remember.
As he headed downstairs his stomach gave a growl, reminding him that it was nearing suppertime and the only thing in the fridge was half a portion of pasta, left over from the restaurant where he’d eaten last night. He’d brought it home for lunch and forgotten about it completely. Somehow he didn’t think Zoe Clark would consider it suitable fare—and she would be quick to point out that room and board meant feeding her too. He knew her type; she would insist on her rights.
The only option was to take her out to a restaurant. Of course there was always the danger of being recognised, but Lornetto was small enough and its few residents were close-mouthed and loyal. Annoyed, Leandro realised he was almost looking forward to the prospect of the evening ahead. He was being so weak … as his father had been weak. Grimacing, he headed for the kitchen.
He found Zoe dripping and shivering by the range, her arms wrapped around her sides. She dropped them as soon as she saw him.
‘This kitchen is huge,’ she remarked. ‘I’m not sure where to begin.’
Leandro shrugged. ‘You just need to clean it.’ He thrust the sheets and towels into her arms. He couldn’t keep himself from noticing the lithe perfection of her body, tanned and taut and so very bare. She wasn’t curvaceous, but she had enough of a rounded shape to please a man and make his mid-section tighten uncomfortably. ‘Once you’re dressed, we’ll go out to eat. Perhaps tomorrow you can go to the shops for food and whatever else you’ll need. Do you cook?’
Zoe raised an eyebrow. ‘That wasn’t in the job description, but I can rustle up a few meals, if that’s what you’re asking. Is it just the two of us here?’
Although the question was basic, it seemed to reverberate through the air, conjuring up an uncomfortable intimacy, and Leandro instinctively sharpened his tone. ‘Yes. I’ll see you in a few minutes.’ He turned on his heel, striding quickly out of the room before Zoe had a chance to say another word.
CHAPTER TWO
SHE shouldn’t be looking forward to sharing a meal with as ornery a creature as Leandro Filametti, yet Zoe was honest enough to acknowledge that she was. She gazed briefly at her reflection in the tarnished mirror in her bedroom, happy enough with her appearance. No need to impress her employer, she decided, knowing that any attempt to do so would most likely achieve the opposite effect. She’d settled on a pair of jeans and a yellow silky top with skinny straps. She left her hair loose and damp, and eschewed any makeup. Leandro was waiting, probably counting the minutes or seconds to determine how tardy she was. He seemed the type.
Humming under her breath, Zoe headed downstairs. Just as she’d expected, Leandro was waiting in the foyer, and Zoe saw immediately that he’d changed. He wore a cream-coloured button-down shirt and tan trousers—a boring outfit if there ever was one. And yet on him it looked far too appealing. The sleeves were rolled up to expose strong, tanned forearms—how did someone closeted all day doing research get tanned?—and the trousers emphasised a trim waist and long, well-muscled legs.
Zoe tore her gaze away; there was no point ogling her employer. She didn’t want to get involved with someone like Leandro Filametti, who could only see her as the hired help—a drudge to be treated with disdain or at best grudging respect. She knew how that scenario played out. But he was nice to look at.
‘There is a restaurant in Lornetto, the nearby village,’ Leandro told her. ‘We can walk, if you like.’
‘Sounds great,’ Zoe replied breezily, causing a brief frown to pass over Leandro’s face like a shadow. What a stickler, she thought, with a little burst of annoyed amusement. She wondered what kind of research he was doing. He was probably an accountant, or something equally dull.
Yet there was nothing dull about the flash of awareness that tingled up her arm when he took her elbow and guided her down the crumbling steps of the portico. He dropped it as soon as they’d navigated the wrecked stone, but Zoe was still conscious of a strange, shivery warmth where he’d touched her.
She shrugged the feeling away, determined not to be distracted. She hadn’t come to Italy for a relationship; she’d come to get away from one, and she’d do well to remember that.
The sun set as they walked down the lane, leaving vivid violet streaks across the sky, and although the air was still warm and scented with lavender there was a hint of coolness too, as the evening breeze rolled in from the mountains.
They walked in companionable enough silence for a few moments along the lake road—La Ancina Strada, from Roman times, according to the guidebook Zoe had leafed through—until a village—no more than a huddle of stone buildings along a narrow cobblestoned street—came into view.
There was certainly something charming about the scattering of tables under a faded striped awning, Zoe reflected as Leandro guided her to an outdoor café along an even narrower side street. Dusk had fallen, and the night cloaked them in cool softness as he pulled out her chair. There was, she thought with an uneasy sort of pleasure, something almost romantic about the situation.
That notion was quickly dispelled as Leandro took a seat across from her, folded his hands in businesslike fashion and launched into an extensive list of her duties.
‘I’m selling the villa,’ he stated bluntly, ‘as soon as it’s in decent condition. You are required to keep it as neat and clean as possible. I understand the difficulty, since so much of it is in disrepair, but there will be workmen coming in to deal with much of the damage, and as their work continues so yours should become easier.’
Zoe nodded, although she hardly thought navigating workmen, falling plaster and all manner of unknown hazards would make her job easier.
A waiter came, and without a glance at her Leandro ordered for both of them. Annoyance prickled along her spine at this presumption—although she recognised fairly that she knew an appallingly little amount of Italian.
‘What did you order?’ she asked after the waiter had left. ‘Just out of curiosity.’
‘A local pasta dish,’ Leandro replied with a shrug. ‘Made with tomatoes and basil—simple enough.’
Zoe nodded. She wasn’t about to kick up a fuss over something so small, yet it still irritated her that Leandro had ordered for her without even asking. It spoke volumes about how he viewed his station in life … and hers.
And yet, she asked herself, determined to be honest, why should she care? She’d had years of experience in menial work; her impressive listing of chambermaid and waitressing jobs was undoubtedly what had secured her this position in the first place. Yet for some reason, in the enforced intimacy of their situation, it rankled.
‘May I have a drink?’ she asked a little pettishly, and Leandro’s eyes narrowed, his lips thinning in obvious disapproval.
‘The waiter will bring water—were you thinking of something else?’
Zoe almost said she’d like a glass of wine after the day she’d had, but she decided she’d pressed enough. She shrugged her acceptance instead and switched subjects. ‘Why are you selling the villa? Is it a business investment?’
Leandro’s expression hardened briefly and he shrugged in reply. ‘Something like that.’
Zoe took a thoughtful sip from the water glass the waiter had placed on the table. ‘Why is it in such a state?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? No one has lived in it for years.’
‘Yes, but …’ Zoe set down her glass. ‘Why not? It’s beautiful, and it’s the type of property that would go in a heartbeat—or so I would have thought.’
‘You know very much about real estate in the region?’ Leandro asked with an arched eyebrow.
Zoe shrugged. ‘I read gossip magazines. Celebrities are always buying up places like this for millions.’
‘This villa hasn’t been for sale.’
There was an ominously final note in Leandro’s voice that made Zoe wonder what he wasn’t saying. Still, she decided to drop the subject.
‘You mentioned getting supplies in—would I find them here?’
‘Probably not. Lornetto is no more than a fishing village. There is a market town across the lake—you can take the boat.’
‘The boat?’ The idea of jetting across the lake on her own gave Zoe an unspeakable thrill.
Leandro must have sensed it, for he narrowed his eyes. ‘Have you ever driven a powerboat?’ he asked. ‘It is a small one, but still …’
Zoe opened her eyes wide. ‘I’m sure I can manage.’
A reluctant smile quirked the corner of his mouth before disappearing completely, replaced by the more familiar disapproval. ‘It is not so simple. I’ll drive you tomorrow. After that …’ He shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’
The waiter came to the table bearing two steaming bowls of pasta, fragrant with fresh basil and oregano. Zoe’s mouth watered. She hadn’t eaten anything all day, and she was starving.
Neither of them spoke as they dug into the pasta, and after a few moments Zoe became aware that Leandro was watching her with a mixture of amusement and disapproval.
‘Do you always attack your meals with so much gusto?’
‘When I haven’t had anything to eat all day,’ she replied, swallowing a mouthful of pasta, ‘yes.’
Leandro did not look remotely abashed. Zoe wondered what kind of women he was used to. No doubt stick-thin models from Milan, who toyed with a lettuce leaf and called it a meal. Her mouth twisted in cynicism. He was wealthy, good-looking, powerful. Men like that liked ornaments on their arm, nothing more. Ornaments they quickly discarded … or shattered.
Pushing those memories away, Zoe smiled brightly at Leandro as their pasta bowls were cleared. ‘What kind of research do you do?’
‘You wouldn’t understand it,’ Leandro replied, and her interest—and annoyance—were piqued.
‘Try me.’
He shrugged. ‘Risk analysis. I’m an actuary—I work in financial forecasting. Cashflow studies, you’d call it.’ At Zoe’s blank look he continued, amusement lurking in his eyes, ‘Statistical modelling, stochastic stimulations, pricing role?’
Zoe shook her head. ‘Nope, nope and nope.’
The amusement in his eyes made its way to his mouth, and Zoe’s heart rate jumped and then kicked up a notch at the sight of his full-fledged grin. Did he know of its dazzling effect? she wondered, feeling almost dizzy. Was he aware of how it lightened his features, brightened his eyes, and made him all too approachable?
‘I told you you wouldn’t understand it,’ he said with a shrug, and at this dismissal Zoe’s heart rate settled right down again.
‘Well, it’s obviously made you rich,’ she said bluntly.
Leandro’s mouth tightened, his eyes flashing with something close to anger. ‘Yes, it has. Although it is of no concern to you. I started my own company, and it has done well.’
Clearly he’d had enough of the subject—and of her—for he rose from the table, signalling for the bill with one autocratically raised hand. Zoe rose as well, and in a matter of seconds Leandro had dealt with the bill and was striding out of the restaurant, clearly expecting her to follow. He didn’t look back, and with a little stirring of resentment, she made her way down the dusky street to join him, matching his brisk pace.
By the time they’d left the lights of Lornetto behind, the road was dark and filled with shadows. There were no street lights or passing cars, only the silvery glint of moonlight on the lake. Zoe stumbled on the uneven pavement and Leandro reached out to steady her, grabbing her elbow in a firm grip before she righted herself again.
‘And you didn’t even have a glass of wine,’ he said, his voice a murmur in the dark. ‘Although I think you wanted one.’
There went her heart rate again—skittering all over the place, stupid thing. Zoe could see his eyes and teeth gleaming in the darkness, but nothing more. ‘How did you know?’ she asked, a bit unevenly.
Leandro dropped his hand from her elbow, his face partially averted. When he spoke, his voice was coolly dismissive. ‘A girl like you … what else would I expect?’
It took Zoe a moment to process his implication. She came to a stop in the middle of the road. ‘What do you mean, a girl like me?’ she asked, feeling a sudden icy pooling in her stomach. It was so close to what Steve had said, what he had thought.
Leandro turned around, exasperated. ‘What do you think I mean?’
It was clearly a rhetorical question; there was no doubt, Zoe thought bitterly, in either of their minds what he meant. Resentment bubbled within her.
‘The implication is hardly complimentary,’ she said, her voice sharp.
Leandro just shrugged. ‘It is what it is. Now, I don’t fancy standing in the middle of the road in the dark. Let’s go.’ Without waiting for a response, he turned and started back down the shadowy road.
Fuming, Zoe followed.
A girl like her. If she felt like being charitable—or he did—she might think that simply meant someone who was fun, friendly, full of life. A few months ago she would have made that assumption—before she’d realised exactly what kind of assumptions men like Steve and apparently Leandro were making about her. A girl like you. Loose, easy, cheap. Basically, a slut.
Her mouth thinned and her eyes narrowed as she followed Leandro up the villa’s private lane. The palazzo was no more than a huge shadow in the darkness.
She shouldn’t be offended by Leandro’s words, Zoe told herself. She shouldn’t care what a man like him thought. She understood that going from place to place, job to job, made men think she was as loose as her lifestyle. And projecting a certain image—fun-loving, free—kept her safe. Protected her heart. She revelled in her reputation, in her freedom.
She could pick up or drop down at a moment, discarding homes and relationships with insouciant ease. That was who she was. That was who she had to be, to protect herself from getting hurt.
So why, for a moment, did she not like a man like Leandro assuming it?
A man like Leandro … What did that mean? She didn’t know him at all, Zoe realised. He was rich, he was well connected, he was a buttoned-up accountant. No, an actuary. Whatever that was. But beyond the basics she had no idea what kind of man he was.
‘The kind of man who thinks he knows all about a girl like me,’ she muttered, and Leandro, now at the front door, turned round.
‘Did you say something?’
‘No.’ Her voice came out in a petulant retort, but Leandro merely arched an eyebrow.
Zoe jabbed him in the chest with one forefinger; even with just the tip of her finger she could feel the hard definition of sculpted muscle underneath his shirt. ‘You don’t know me, signor. So don’t go telling me what kind of girl I am.’ She sounded ridiculous, Zoe realised distantly. She also realised her finger was still jabbed in his chest. And yet she didn’t move it. If she wasn’t so tired, if her brain didn’t feel so fuzzy and light and disconnected, she wouldn’t have mentioned anything. She certainly wouldn’t have touched him.
Instead, her brain registered in that same disconnected way that he’d wrapped his own hand—warm, strong, dry—around her finger and raised it to his lips. His eyes were dark, and Zoe detected a spark of anger in their depths. She wondered who he was angry with. Himself or her.
She watched, fascinated, as her finger barely brushed the softness of his parted mouth. His eyes darkened even more, to almost black, and his mouth thinned into a contemptuous, knowing smile as he dropped her hand and it fell limply to her side.
‘I wouldn’t presume to tell you anything,’ Leandro replied curtly. ‘I don’t need to. You say it plainly enough.’
With that he turned and disappeared into the darkness of the house, and Zoe realised it was the third time that day he’d walked away and left her standing alone.
He was playing with fire. Touching her. Needing to touch her. And enjoying it.
Leandro flung himself into his desk chair and closed his eyes, but he couldn’t banish the image of Zoe Clark at dinner, wearing that silky top, her hair dark and soft around her face. He pictured the way her eyes had danced with amusement, the way those silly little straps had slipped off her tanned shoulders. The way he’d wanted to push them off.
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.
CHAPTER THREE
ZOE 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.
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Kate Hewitt
About the Author
KATE HEWITT discovered her first Mills & Boon
romance on a trip to England when she was thirteen, and she’s continued to read them ever since.
She wrote her first story at the age of five, simply because her older brother had written one and she thought she could do it too. That story was one sentence long — fortunately, they’ve become a bit more detailed as she’s grown older.
She has written plays, short stories, and magazine serials for many years, but writing romance remains her first love. Besides writing, she enjoys reading, travelling, and learning to knit.
After marrying the man of her dreams — her older brother’s childhood friend — she lived in England for six years and now resides in Connecticut with her husband, her three young children, and the possibility of one day getting a dog.
Kate loves to hear from readers — you can contact her through her website, www.kate–hewitt.com.
Dear Reader,
Italy in summer … can you think of anything better? Sun-drenched afternoons idling in a boat on the lake, pavement cafés enjoying tiny cups of espresso and baskets of pastries, street markets with barrels of mozzarella and ropes of garlic — writing this story was a feast of the senses.
My hero, Leandro, is a man who’s sworn off such earthly pleasures, and all because of a scandal in his past. It takes his feisty American housekeeper Zoe to reawaken his need and desire for not just pleasure, but love.
I was so thrilled to be able to be part of this anthology, and I hope you enjoy these wonderful stories of men and women discovering both passion and love during one memorable summer in Italy …
Kate
Italian Boss, Housekeeper Mistress
Kate Hewitt
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
ZOE CLARK slipped the sunglasses off her nose to survey the discreet grey limousine idling at the kerb.
‘Nice,’ she murmured as the uniformed driver opened the door with a flourish. He’d already taken her one beaten up suitcase and stowed it in the boot.
Now she slipped into the cool leather interior of the luxury car and leaned her head back against the plush seat.
This was going to be a fantastic summer.
A smile bloomed and grew across her face as she leaned forward and flipped open the mini-fridge.
‘Is this complimentary?’ she called to the driver.
He stiffened before answering in heavily accented English, ‘Of course.’
Zoe grinned and plucked a bottle of orange juice from the fridge. She’d rather have had the little bottle of cognac, but she didn’t think it would be prudent to meet her future employer with brandy on her breath.
She took a swig of juice as the limousine pulled away from Milan’s Malpensa Airport and into the teeming traffic.
The sky was cloudless and blue, the sun glinting brightly off the cars that zipped and zoomed their way across half a dozen motorway lanes.
Zoe sipped her drink, feeling the first familiar wave of fatigue crash over her. She hadn’t slept much on the plane, and now a bit grimly she wondered if her employer would expect her to start work that morning.
For a moment she imagined him greeting her at the door of his villa, a feather duster and frilly apron in hand. What exactly did the temporary housekeeper of an Italian villa in the lakes do?
The job description had been surprisingly pithy—a scant two lines of tiny print in the back of the New York Times. Blink and you’d miss it. But Zoe had had a lifetime’s experience of looking at such ads, circling them in red ink—usually with a pen that was sputtering or leaking or had lost its life altogether—before handing them hopefully to her mother.
What about this one?
There was always something better, something great right around the corner. There had to be.
The driver turned off the motorway, leaving behind the rolling hills of Lombardy as well as the endless traffic of the capital’s outskirts for a smaller road lined with plane trees. Zoe glanced at the small road sign that read ‘Como: 25 kilometres’ before leaning her head once more against the soft leather seat and closing her eyes.
She must have dozed—she could sleep anywhere, except perhaps on planes—for when she woke the car was climbing higher into the hills, the dark green, densely forested peaks of the mountains providing a stunning backdrop.
She rapped on the dividing window, and with a long-suffering air the driver pressed a button so the glass slid smoothly away.
‘Are we almost there?’
‘Sì, signorina.’
Zoe sat back, taking in the ancient winding road, and the wrought-iron gates that presented themselves at intervals, guarding the wealthy residents within, whose villas could barely be glimpsed through the heavy foliage of rhododendrons and bougainvillea. As the car continued up the twisting road the lake shimmered enticingly at each bend, before disappearing again, and Zoe found herself turning around to look at it, to find its brilliant blue promise winking at her from between the trees.
‘This is beautiful,’ she said to the driver, before realising belatedly that he’d already pressed a button to return the dividing glass to its original place.
Then the car was turning smoothly into a narrow lane, and the driver spoke into an intercom affixed to an ancient crumbling wall. Zoe couldn’t hear what was spoken, but after a moment the iron gates swung inwards, and the car proceeded up the lane.
Foliage crowded the car densely on both sides of the drive, so that when it finally fell away to reveal the villa Zoe let her breath out in a sharp, impressed exhalation.
Wow.
A sweep of jewel-green lawn led up to a villa that seemed more like a palace—a palazzo—than the villa Zoe had been imagining.
This place was a castle.
And she was supposed to clean it all?
She counted twenty-two multi-paned windows glinting in the sunlight before she stopped.
The car pulled round the circular drive to the front of the villa. A pair of solid oak doors, looking as if they’d survived the Dark Ages, remained ominously shut.
Zoe climbed out of the car before the driver could come round, earning his continued disapproval. He took her suitcase from the boot and deposited it on the crumbling portico.
‘Here you are, signorina.’
It took Zoe a moment to realise he was leaving.
‘Wait—you’re going?’ she demanded, hearing an annoying edge of panic creep into her voice. ‘Don’t you work here?’
‘I am hired only,’ the driver replied, his voice stiff with disdain, before he slammed the door and drove away.
As the sound of his motor faded into the distance, Zoe was conscious of how surprisingly silent it was. A bird twittered nearby, and the breeze, cool and fresh from the lake, rustled the leaves of the palm trees that fringed the great lawn.
The owner of the villa—her employer, Leandro Filametti—obviously knew she was here. Someone had answered the intercom and opened the gates. So why the silent treatment now?
Squaring her shoulders, Zoe marched up to the front door, lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it drop. A deep, melancholy boom reverberated through her bones—and hopefully through the house—and then there was silence.
Zoe waited. The bird twittered again, fretfully this time, its tranquillity disturbed. Zoe raised her hand to the knocker once more, her fingers curling around the sun-warmed metal, but before she could drop it to sound the boom again the door opened, pulling her with it.
‘Argh!’ With a surprised yelp she tried to disentangle her fingers from the knocker, and in the process nearly fell headlong into the man who had opened the door.
Firm hands curled around her shoulders and righted her once more. Zoe was conscious of a sudden sense of strength and power, although she couldn’t really see the man in front of her. Once she was steady, she looked up, and found her breath coming out in a rush once more.
The man was beautiful. Zoe didn’t know if he was her employer or a gardener, but she certainly liked looking at him. His hair was light brown and a bit ragged, touching the back of his collar. Eyes the same colour as the lake—a deep blue-green—were narrowed against the sunlight, or perhaps in disapproval. He didn’t look very friendly.
Zoe straightened, unable to keep her gaze from wandering down the length of him. He was tall, a few inches over six feet, dressed in a faded grey tee shirt and worn jeans that hugged his long powerful legs. His feet were tanned and bare.
Zoe swallowed. ‘Hello … um … Ciao. Il mi …’ Her few words of Italian, snatched on the plane from a battered phrasebook, seemed to have leaked out of her brain. She smiled with bright determination. ‘I’m Zoe Clark.’
‘The housekeeper.’ He spoke with little accent, his voice cutting and precise. He stepped back, opening the door wider, yet somehow the gesture still seemed unfriendly. ‘Come in.’
Zoe stepped into a foyer, the black and white marble cool even through her flip-flops. The light was dim, and as her eyes adjusted she saw a sweeping spiral staircase in front of her, ornate and yet also clearly in disrepair. Her glance took in sheet-shrouded tables, and a bronze statue of a cupid that looked in need of some serious polish.
The man cleared his throat and her gaze snapped back to him. ‘Are you Leandro Filametti?’
‘Yes.’
The one word was spoken with a brusque flatness that made Zoe want to recoil. Instead, she jutted her chin and thrust out her hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’
Leandro Filametti regarded her hand silently for a moment before he shook it. His touch was light, yet firm, and all too brief. He dropped her hand without ceremony and turned to walk out of the foyer, clearly expecting Zoe to follow—which, with some resentment, she did.
Leandro led her down a narrow passageway to the back of the palazzo. From the peeling paint and chipped woodwork, Zoe could tell the palace needed a good deal of TLC. More, she suspected, than her limited capabilities allowed.
Leandro stopped on the threshold of an enormous ancient kitchen. Zoe regarded the huge blackened range and the scarred oak table with both awe and dismay. A single plate and glass, she noticed, had been washed and placed on the drainer by the sink. In the huge space, clearly meant for cooking meals for twenty or more, they looked incongruous and lonely.
‘You can start here,’ Leandro informed her.
‘Start …?’ Zoe stared around. She couldn’t even see so much as a broom—and, frankly, she wouldn’t know where to begin. How did you scrub away years of grime and dust? Did you start with the cobwebs or the mouse nests?
‘Yes,’ Leandro replied, his tone sharp with impatience. ‘You do know what housekeeping entails, don’t you?’
‘I do,’ Zoe replied, her tone matching his. ‘But I also know that my suitcase is still on your front steps, I’ve been travelling all night and I haven’t even washed my face or had a drink of water.’ Juice, perhaps, but not water.
Leandro did not even look abashed. ‘If you’d like a few moments to freshen up, by all means take them,’ he said, with just a trace of sarcasm.
‘Could you show me my room?’
‘Top floor. Take any room you like,’ he replied. ‘And you can get acquainted with the house as well as with your responsibilities.’
With that he turned on his heel and disappeared down another passageway, leaving Zoe open-mouthed and fuming.
She wasn’t what he’d expected. Back in the sanctuary of his private study, Leandro ran his hands through his hair before dropping them with ill-concealed impatience. In truth, he hadn’t known what to expect; he hadn’t thought to expect anything at all. He hadn’t considered the housekeeper he’d hired beyond her ignorance of Italian society and, most importantly, the Filametti family. He wanted someone anonymous; someone to whom he could be anonymous.
Yet when he’d surveyed Zoe Clark on his front steps, anonymous had not been the first word that came to mind. She was, in fact, all too familiar—all too similar to the women of his past. His father’s past.
Fast and flighty. Cheap and easy. Unprincipled.
Even now his mind conjured the image of her standing there, dressed in a skinny-strapped top and shorts that showed far too great an expanse of smooth, tanned leg. Her hair, silky and dark, framed her face in choppy waves, and her eyes were a warm honeyed brown, almond-shaped and luxuriously fringed. Everything about her, Leandro thought, reeked of sensuality—a confident sexuality that he recognised, remembered. How he loathed that knowing feline smile, the glint in the eyes of a woman so arrogantly confident of her own paltry charms. And yet his father had fallen prey to those charms time and time again.
He would not be the same.
Yet even as that resolution fired his soul, another part of his body already recognised there was something about Zoe Clark that he both resented and wanted. She was sexy, and he was man enough to respond to it. That didn’t mean he would act upon it. Ever. The world—his world—was waiting for him to make the same mistake his father had. To fall. To humiliate himself, his family, the ancient Filametti name. He knew it, had always known it, and even in the lonely solitude of the villa he recognised the dangers within himself.
He didn’t need the complication of a sexy housekeeper; he didn’t want it.
Except even as his fingers had wrapped around hers for that brief, tantalising moment, he had.
Leandro muttered an oath under his breath and sat down at the huge mahogany desk that had once belonged to his father. He hated that desk, its connotations and memories, yet some perverse part of his psyche insisted on using it. Redeeming it—or perhaps avenging it was the better term. He gazed sightlessly at the pages in front of him, with their endless equations, numbers and squiggles that represented a lifetime of research and achievement, and yet right now they signified nothing. He swore again.
The less he saw of Zoe Clark, the better, he decided. She could sweep and mop and dust and stay completely out of his way.
He didn’t need distractions—and ill-timed, inappropriate desire was just one of many he’d have to push resolutely away.
Zoe found the servants’ staircase—a steep, narrow, dismal set of steps—and cautiously made her way up. The gloom was intensified by a gossamer net of cobwebs suspended from the ceiling, and the only sound besides her own breathing was the resentful squeak of the steps as she made her way upwards.
She passed a dark, silent floor of closed doors and more shrouded furniture and then went up to the top floor, gazing in dismay at the four rooms available there. Each one was small and depressing, containing only a chest of drawers and a narrow bed whose mattress was questionable in both comfort and hygiene.
It was also stiflingly hot.
‘At least the view is good,’ she muttered, as she forced open a pair of peeling shutters and gazed out at the terraced gardens that ran down directly to the lake. The gardens were in as much disrepair as the villa, but they showed it less. Bougainvillea run rampant, Zoe decided, was pretty. Dust run rampant was not.
With a sigh she turned back to survey the room. Sweat trickled down her back and between her breasts, and with sudden clarity and determination Zoe decided she was not going to suffer up here while a dozen bedrooms below went unused.
Leandro Filametti be damned. She deserved a little comfort if he expected her to tackle this lot.
Twenty minutes later Zoe had settled on one of the more modest bedrooms on the second floor. Painted in a faded lemony yellow, it was a smaller room, whose shuttered windows afforded a stunning view of Lake Como. After locating a dented bucket and an old mop in one of the kitchen’s many cupboards, Zoe spent most of the afternoon cleaning her own bedroom, airing the mattress and scrubbing and dusting what looked like a dozen years’ worth of dust and dirt.
Why was this villa such a mess? she wondered more than once. It was a prime piece of property, yet it looked as if it had been empty for years.
She felt as dirty as the room had been by the time she’d finished cleaning, and she seriously doubted the villa was equipped with a decent shower.
The sun was starting its descent towards the lake, but the air was still sultry and warm. With a defiant shrug Zoe decided she’d make use of the natural resources on hand, and after slipping on a bikini she made her way downstairs.
All was silent, and Leandro was nowhere to be seen. Just as well, Zoe decided grimly. If she saw him, she might give him a piece of her mind—and that could get her fired.
She picked her way through the overgrown gardens to a set of stone steps that led directly to an old jetty. The water shimmered with late-afternoon sunlight and after a second’s hesitation Zoe dived in, gasping as the shock of surprisingly cold water hit her near-naked body. She swam underwater for a few lengths, before surfacing and flipping onto her back, her eyes closed.
She floated pleasantly in an almost half-doze before she became conscious of another presence. She didn’t know what alerted her, but something prickled along her skin entirely separate from the cool water. She lifted her head, treading water, as her eyes scanned the shoreline and came in direct contact with Leandro Filametti.
His expression was neutral, his eyes narrowed against the sun, his hands fisted on his hips. Even so, Zoe’s heart slammed in her chest and she found herself strangely conscious of everything: her own rather bare body, the coolness of the water, the brilliance of the sun. And the cold, hard look she could now see in Leandro’s eyes—could feel emanating from him just as if she were standing in front of a freezer.
He didn’t speak, and Zoe forced a breezy laugh as she raised an arm in greeting. ‘Come on in. The water’s lovely.’
Wrong thing to say, she decided, as Leandro’s neutral expression darkened into a scowl.
‘I see you are availing yourself of the comforts of my home,’ he said after a moment, and before she could stop herself Zoe gave a little laugh of disbelief.
‘Comforts? I’m afraid, Signor Filametti, that your home affords very few comforts.’
In answer he arched one eyebrow, coldly sceptical. Zoe was getting tired of treading water, so she swam to the side of the jetty and hauled herself up. Sitting on the sun-warmed stone, dripping wet, she felt Leandro’s gaze rove over her, and was conscious yet again of the skimpiness of her bikini. She was also aware that she didn’t have a towel.
‘What have you been doing this afternoon?’ Leandro asked, his tone one that suggested Zoe had been lolling by the lakeside for hours, eating bonbons and reading novels.
‘Making a bedroom habitable,’ she replied sharply. ‘When an ad says “room and board provided” it usually means just that. But none of the bedrooms in your villa were fit for human habitation, Signor Filametti, so I spent the afternoon making sure I had a place to sleep tonight.’
Leandro was silent for a long moment, and when Zoe glanced at him she saw his expression was as dark and foreboding as ever.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said finally, surprising her. ‘I didn’t think … I am involved in important research at the moment, and such considerations escaped my notice.’
Zoe jerked her head in a nod of acceptance. ‘I couldn’t find any sheets,’ she added, a bit petulantly.
Leandro’s mouth quirked upwards in an unexpected glimmering of a smile. ‘Or towels, I suspect. Those I have, I brought with me. Although if I recall the beds on the top floor are single—’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem,’ Zoe replied, ‘because I chose a bedroom on the second floor.’ She glared at him, ready for a battle, but after a tiny pause he just shrugged.
‘As you wish. When you come up to the house I’ll provide you with some sheets.’ His disapproving glance took in her wet length once more before he added, ‘And a towel.’
He shouldn’t have gone down to the lake, Leandro knew. He was angry with himself that he had. He hadn’t made the decision until he’d heard the sound of splashing and realised Zoe Clark must be down there. Swimming. In a swimming costume.
This realisation had presented his tired mind with far too many intriguing images that he’d pushed resolutely away. He’d been without a woman for too long— without companionship of any kind for too long. Normally a woman like Zoe Clark would disgust him. Bold, obvious, inappropriate, cheap. All the qualities he despised in a woman.
The few women he’d taken to his bed had been sophisticated, classy and most importantly discreet. They’d understood the nature of short-term, expedient affairs and they’d wanted the same thing. Pleasure. Satisfaction. And a painless goodbye.
Not, he thought grimly, money. Or, worse, love.
He didn’t know what Zoe wanted, but he knew what women like her were capable of. And even if they weren’t, he knew what the tabloids were capable of. He’d seen firsthand how whispers could destroy a person. Already he imagined the headlines if someone got hold of his situation: Like father, like son. Leandro Filametti in a flagrant affair with his housekeeper.
He pushed the thought—and the temptation—away.
Upstairs in the villa Leandro dug through the supplies he’d brought to the villa from his flat in Milan and found a set of clean sheets and a couple of towels. He should have considered the whole matter of her bedroom, but he hadn’t wanted to consider her at all. Thinking about a housekeeper meant thinking about the villa, and even though he’d spent every day of the last month within its walls he didn’t want to think about it.
He didn’t want to remember.
As he headed downstairs his stomach gave a growl, reminding him that it was nearing suppertime and the only thing in the fridge was half a portion of pasta, left over from the restaurant where he’d eaten last night. He’d brought it home for lunch and forgotten about it completely. Somehow he didn’t think Zoe Clark would consider it suitable fare—and she would be quick to point out that room and board meant feeding her too. He knew her type; she would insist on her rights.
The only option was to take her out to a restaurant. Of course there was always the danger of being recognised, but Lornetto was small enough and its few residents were close-mouthed and loyal. Annoyed, Leandro realised he was almost looking forward to the prospect of the evening ahead. He was being so weak … as his father had been weak. Grimacing, he headed for the kitchen.
He found Zoe dripping and shivering by the range, her arms wrapped around her sides. She dropped them as soon as she saw him.
‘This kitchen is huge,’ she remarked. ‘I’m not sure where to begin.’
Leandro shrugged. ‘You just need to clean it.’ He thrust the sheets and towels into her arms. He couldn’t keep himself from noticing the lithe perfection of her body, tanned and taut and so very bare. She wasn’t curvaceous, but she had enough of a rounded shape to please a man and make his mid-section tighten uncomfortably. ‘Once you’re dressed, we’ll go out to eat. Perhaps tomorrow you can go to the shops for food and whatever else you’ll need. Do you cook?’
Zoe raised an eyebrow. ‘That wasn’t in the job description, but I can rustle up a few meals, if that’s what you’re asking. Is it just the two of us here?’
Although the question was basic, it seemed to reverberate through the air, conjuring up an uncomfortable intimacy, and Leandro instinctively sharpened his tone. ‘Yes. I’ll see you in a few minutes.’ He turned on his heel, striding quickly out of the room before Zoe had a chance to say another word.
CHAPTER TWO
SHE shouldn’t be looking forward to sharing a meal with as ornery a creature as Leandro Filametti, yet Zoe was honest enough to acknowledge that she was. She gazed briefly at her reflection in the tarnished mirror in her bedroom, happy enough with her appearance. No need to impress her employer, she decided, knowing that any attempt to do so would most likely achieve the opposite effect. She’d settled on a pair of jeans and a yellow silky top with skinny straps. She left her hair loose and damp, and eschewed any makeup. Leandro was waiting, probably counting the minutes or seconds to determine how tardy she was. He seemed the type.
Humming under her breath, Zoe headed downstairs. Just as she’d expected, Leandro was waiting in the foyer, and Zoe saw immediately that he’d changed. He wore a cream-coloured button-down shirt and tan trousers—a boring outfit if there ever was one. And yet on him it looked far too appealing. The sleeves were rolled up to expose strong, tanned forearms—how did someone closeted all day doing research get tanned?—and the trousers emphasised a trim waist and long, well-muscled legs.
Zoe tore her gaze away; there was no point ogling her employer. She didn’t want to get involved with someone like Leandro Filametti, who could only see her as the hired help—a drudge to be treated with disdain or at best grudging respect. She knew how that scenario played out. But he was nice to look at.
‘There is a restaurant in Lornetto, the nearby village,’ Leandro told her. ‘We can walk, if you like.’
‘Sounds great,’ Zoe replied breezily, causing a brief frown to pass over Leandro’s face like a shadow. What a stickler, she thought, with a little burst of annoyed amusement. She wondered what kind of research he was doing. He was probably an accountant, or something equally dull.
Yet there was nothing dull about the flash of awareness that tingled up her arm when he took her elbow and guided her down the crumbling steps of the portico. He dropped it as soon as they’d navigated the wrecked stone, but Zoe was still conscious of a strange, shivery warmth where he’d touched her.
She shrugged the feeling away, determined not to be distracted. She hadn’t come to Italy for a relationship; she’d come to get away from one, and she’d do well to remember that.
The sun set as they walked down the lane, leaving vivid violet streaks across the sky, and although the air was still warm and scented with lavender there was a hint of coolness too, as the evening breeze rolled in from the mountains.
They walked in companionable enough silence for a few moments along the lake road—La Ancina Strada, from Roman times, according to the guidebook Zoe had leafed through—until a village—no more than a huddle of stone buildings along a narrow cobblestoned street—came into view.
There was certainly something charming about the scattering of tables under a faded striped awning, Zoe reflected as Leandro guided her to an outdoor café along an even narrower side street. Dusk had fallen, and the night cloaked them in cool softness as he pulled out her chair. There was, she thought with an uneasy sort of pleasure, something almost romantic about the situation.
That notion was quickly dispelled as Leandro took a seat across from her, folded his hands in businesslike fashion and launched into an extensive list of her duties.
‘I’m selling the villa,’ he stated bluntly, ‘as soon as it’s in decent condition. You are required to keep it as neat and clean as possible. I understand the difficulty, since so much of it is in disrepair, but there will be workmen coming in to deal with much of the damage, and as their work continues so yours should become easier.’
Zoe nodded, although she hardly thought navigating workmen, falling plaster and all manner of unknown hazards would make her job easier.
A waiter came, and without a glance at her Leandro ordered for both of them. Annoyance prickled along her spine at this presumption—although she recognised fairly that she knew an appallingly little amount of Italian.
‘What did you order?’ she asked after the waiter had left. ‘Just out of curiosity.’
‘A local pasta dish,’ Leandro replied with a shrug. ‘Made with tomatoes and basil—simple enough.’
Zoe nodded. She wasn’t about to kick up a fuss over something so small, yet it still irritated her that Leandro had ordered for her without even asking. It spoke volumes about how he viewed his station in life … and hers.
And yet, she asked herself, determined to be honest, why should she care? She’d had years of experience in menial work; her impressive listing of chambermaid and waitressing jobs was undoubtedly what had secured her this position in the first place. Yet for some reason, in the enforced intimacy of their situation, it rankled.
‘May I have a drink?’ she asked a little pettishly, and Leandro’s eyes narrowed, his lips thinning in obvious disapproval.
‘The waiter will bring water—were you thinking of something else?’
Zoe almost said she’d like a glass of wine after the day she’d had, but she decided she’d pressed enough. She shrugged her acceptance instead and switched subjects. ‘Why are you selling the villa? Is it a business investment?’
Leandro’s expression hardened briefly and he shrugged in reply. ‘Something like that.’
Zoe took a thoughtful sip from the water glass the waiter had placed on the table. ‘Why is it in such a state?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? No one has lived in it for years.’
‘Yes, but …’ Zoe set down her glass. ‘Why not? It’s beautiful, and it’s the type of property that would go in a heartbeat—or so I would have thought.’
‘You know very much about real estate in the region?’ Leandro asked with an arched eyebrow.
Zoe shrugged. ‘I read gossip magazines. Celebrities are always buying up places like this for millions.’
‘This villa hasn’t been for sale.’
There was an ominously final note in Leandro’s voice that made Zoe wonder what he wasn’t saying. Still, she decided to drop the subject.
‘You mentioned getting supplies in—would I find them here?’
‘Probably not. Lornetto is no more than a fishing village. There is a market town across the lake—you can take the boat.’
‘The boat?’ The idea of jetting across the lake on her own gave Zoe an unspeakable thrill.
Leandro must have sensed it, for he narrowed his eyes. ‘Have you ever driven a powerboat?’ he asked. ‘It is a small one, but still …’
Zoe opened her eyes wide. ‘I’m sure I can manage.’
A reluctant smile quirked the corner of his mouth before disappearing completely, replaced by the more familiar disapproval. ‘It is not so simple. I’ll drive you tomorrow. After that …’ He shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’
The waiter came to the table bearing two steaming bowls of pasta, fragrant with fresh basil and oregano. Zoe’s mouth watered. She hadn’t eaten anything all day, and she was starving.
Neither of them spoke as they dug into the pasta, and after a few moments Zoe became aware that Leandro was watching her with a mixture of amusement and disapproval.
‘Do you always attack your meals with so much gusto?’
‘When I haven’t had anything to eat all day,’ she replied, swallowing a mouthful of pasta, ‘yes.’
Leandro did not look remotely abashed. Zoe wondered what kind of women he was used to. No doubt stick-thin models from Milan, who toyed with a lettuce leaf and called it a meal. Her mouth twisted in cynicism. He was wealthy, good-looking, powerful. Men like that liked ornaments on their arm, nothing more. Ornaments they quickly discarded … or shattered.
Pushing those memories away, Zoe smiled brightly at Leandro as their pasta bowls were cleared. ‘What kind of research do you do?’
‘You wouldn’t understand it,’ Leandro replied, and her interest—and annoyance—were piqued.
‘Try me.’
He shrugged. ‘Risk analysis. I’m an actuary—I work in financial forecasting. Cashflow studies, you’d call it.’ At Zoe’s blank look he continued, amusement lurking in his eyes, ‘Statistical modelling, stochastic stimulations, pricing role?’
Zoe shook her head. ‘Nope, nope and nope.’
The amusement in his eyes made its way to his mouth, and Zoe’s heart rate jumped and then kicked up a notch at the sight of his full-fledged grin. Did he know of its dazzling effect? she wondered, feeling almost dizzy. Was he aware of how it lightened his features, brightened his eyes, and made him all too approachable?
‘I told you you wouldn’t understand it,’ he said with a shrug, and at this dismissal Zoe’s heart rate settled right down again.
‘Well, it’s obviously made you rich,’ she said bluntly.
Leandro’s mouth tightened, his eyes flashing with something close to anger. ‘Yes, it has. Although it is of no concern to you. I started my own company, and it has done well.’
Clearly he’d had enough of the subject—and of her—for he rose from the table, signalling for the bill with one autocratically raised hand. Zoe rose as well, and in a matter of seconds Leandro had dealt with the bill and was striding out of the restaurant, clearly expecting her to follow. He didn’t look back, and with a little stirring of resentment, she made her way down the dusky street to join him, matching his brisk pace.
By the time they’d left the lights of Lornetto behind, the road was dark and filled with shadows. There were no street lights or passing cars, only the silvery glint of moonlight on the lake. Zoe stumbled on the uneven pavement and Leandro reached out to steady her, grabbing her elbow in a firm grip before she righted herself again.
‘And you didn’t even have a glass of wine,’ he said, his voice a murmur in the dark. ‘Although I think you wanted one.’
There went her heart rate again—skittering all over the place, stupid thing. Zoe could see his eyes and teeth gleaming in the darkness, but nothing more. ‘How did you know?’ she asked, a bit unevenly.
Leandro dropped his hand from her elbow, his face partially averted. When he spoke, his voice was coolly dismissive. ‘A girl like you … what else would I expect?’
It took Zoe a moment to process his implication. She came to a stop in the middle of the road. ‘What do you mean, a girl like me?’ she asked, feeling a sudden icy pooling in her stomach. It was so close to what Steve had said, what he had thought.
Leandro turned around, exasperated. ‘What do you think I mean?’
It was clearly a rhetorical question; there was no doubt, Zoe thought bitterly, in either of their minds what he meant. Resentment bubbled within her.
‘The implication is hardly complimentary,’ she said, her voice sharp.
Leandro just shrugged. ‘It is what it is. Now, I don’t fancy standing in the middle of the road in the dark. Let’s go.’ Without waiting for a response, he turned and started back down the shadowy road.
Fuming, Zoe followed.
A girl like her. If she felt like being charitable—or he did—she might think that simply meant someone who was fun, friendly, full of life. A few months ago she would have made that assumption—before she’d realised exactly what kind of assumptions men like Steve and apparently Leandro were making about her. A girl like you. Loose, easy, cheap. Basically, a slut.
Her mouth thinned and her eyes narrowed as she followed Leandro up the villa’s private lane. The palazzo was no more than a huge shadow in the darkness.
She shouldn’t be offended by Leandro’s words, Zoe told herself. She shouldn’t care what a man like him thought. She understood that going from place to place, job to job, made men think she was as loose as her lifestyle. And projecting a certain image—fun-loving, free—kept her safe. Protected her heart. She revelled in her reputation, in her freedom.
She could pick up or drop down at a moment, discarding homes and relationships with insouciant ease. That was who she was. That was who she had to be, to protect herself from getting hurt.
So why, for a moment, did she not like a man like Leandro assuming it?
A man like Leandro … What did that mean? She didn’t know him at all, Zoe realised. He was rich, he was well connected, he was a buttoned-up accountant. No, an actuary. Whatever that was. But beyond the basics she had no idea what kind of man he was.
‘The kind of man who thinks he knows all about a girl like me,’ she muttered, and Leandro, now at the front door, turned round.
‘Did you say something?’
‘No.’ Her voice came out in a petulant retort, but Leandro merely arched an eyebrow.
Zoe jabbed him in the chest with one forefinger; even with just the tip of her finger she could feel the hard definition of sculpted muscle underneath his shirt. ‘You don’t know me, signor. So don’t go telling me what kind of girl I am.’ She sounded ridiculous, Zoe realised distantly. She also realised her finger was still jabbed in his chest. And yet she didn’t move it. If she wasn’t so tired, if her brain didn’t feel so fuzzy and light and disconnected, she wouldn’t have mentioned anything. She certainly wouldn’t have touched him.
Instead, her brain registered in that same disconnected way that he’d wrapped his own hand—warm, strong, dry—around her finger and raised it to his lips. His eyes were dark, and Zoe detected a spark of anger in their depths. She wondered who he was angry with. Himself or her.
She watched, fascinated, as her finger barely brushed the softness of his parted mouth. His eyes darkened even more, to almost black, and his mouth thinned into a contemptuous, knowing smile as he dropped her hand and it fell limply to her side.
‘I wouldn’t presume to tell you anything,’ Leandro replied curtly. ‘I don’t need to. You say it plainly enough.’
With that he turned and disappeared into the darkness of the house, and Zoe realised it was the third time that day he’d walked away and left her standing alone.
He was playing with fire. Touching her. Needing to touch her. And enjoying it.
Leandro flung himself into his desk chair and closed his eyes, but he couldn’t banish the image of Zoe Clark at dinner, wearing that silky top, her hair dark and soft around her face. He pictured the way her eyes had danced with amusement, the way those silly little straps had slipped off her tanned shoulders. The way he’d wanted to push them off.
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.
CHAPTER THREE
ZOE 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.
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Кейт Хьюит
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Italian Boss, Housekeeper Mistress, электронная книга автора Кейт Хьюит на английском языке, в жанре современная зарубежная литература