“I’ve hired another lawyer.”

“It won’t help.” Carlo had lost weight; a lot of weight. His once virile figure had been reduced to a bag of ill-shaped bones. His face was sallow, his beard grey.

“Dad, you’re innocent. Prisons are not for the innocent.”

“Innocence is a matter of perspective,” he said gruffly. “Besides, I don’t think I could exist out there after what life’s been like in here.”

Beneath the stainless steel table, Benedetto squeezed his hands together. “You have to stay strong. I’m going to fix this.”

“You have always said that,” Carlo’s smile was loaded with grief. “Even as a boy, you were able to see a problem and fix it. Do you remember when that feral cat loped into the lake? You saw it from your bedroom and ran, full pelt, to save it. I have never seen anything so heroic.”

“It was a stupid cat,” Benedetto said, but a smile twitched on his lips. Stupid or not, they’d kept that cat for years, until finally old age had claimed it.

“You have been the greatest gift in my life, Ben. You must forget about me. Forget about this.”

“I’m getting you out of here.”

“You can’t. It’s not possible. That judge will never allow it.” Carlo reached a frail hand across and put it on Ben’s arm. “And even if he did, the men who wanted me here would never let me go.”

Benedetto groaned. “You don’t know that.”

“Son, I got out. I did what no man has ever done. At least, I thought I did. I left one of the most vicious gangs so that you could live a good life.”

“Your new lawyer is lodging a claim to have you moved from this jail urgently.”

Carlo’s smile was tired. “It will be no different elsewhere. Men who murder little girls are never viewed well in prison. You know that.”

Benedetto’s stomach turned. Anger, rage and hate filled him. “I’m going to fix this.”

He woke from the dream, as he always did, in a cold sweat. He stared at the peeling paint on the ceiling and waited for his heart rate to slow. It took several minutes for his body to calm down and for him to remember where he was.

As soon as it came flooding back to him, he reached first for Kate. Only she wasn’t there. Her side of the bed was cold. He frowned and sat up, then grabbed at his phone. When he swiped it to life, he saw the text message was still loaded.

He paused only long enough to type: Your daughter is lovely … Benedetto Arnaud before sending it to Augustine’s cell phone. Once he was certain it had sent, he turned the phone off and stood.

He should have been thrilled, but the dream had filled him with darkness. His father had endured unimaginable treatment in prison and Benedetto had been forced to sit by and wait. For a man who had made a billion-dollar empire from dust alone it had been almost impossible.

“Kate?” He pulled his tuxedo pants on, wondering what clothes were stored in the cupboards. It had been so long since he’d been at the farmhouse that he had no clear recollection of what was there anymore.

The house looked different in the day. He walked slowly down the hallway, taking in the dirt and dust, the peeling paint, the chipped lampshades, the shabby furniture and the general air of disuse.

“Kate?” The kitchen was empty. He frowned as he scanned the lounge, and then the terrace that overlooked the rolling hills of Tuscany. A pebble of unpleasant awareness rolled through him as he took in the view that he’d adored as a child, when life had been simple.

His car was parked out the front, so she couldn’t have gone anywhere.

He thought, with an accelerating pulse, of the lake, and wondered if she’d wondered that way and lost her footing? Worse, were the old bear traps still set?

“Hell,” he muttered, pulling boots onto his feet and moving quickly into the gardens. They were woefully overgrown. The hedges had become walls, towering over him. The roses were struggling under the weight of branches, and they had begun to form a low ceiling from where they’d reached to join together and knotted their verdant limbs.

“Kate!” He stood with his hands on his hips and turned a complete circle, slowly, scanning the gardens for her. There were too many places she could be. If she’d woken early and gone for a walk to explore — which somehow he just knew she would have been tempted to do— she could have fallen into the well, or sprained her ankle on uneven ground, or even wandered onto a country road without realising it and been hit by a car.

The extent of his fear should have surprised him, but he had no time to analyse the finer points of his emotions. He turned around again, and a movement caught his eye. He had to squint, but sure enough, it was a fast moving shape, with a very blonde head.

Kate! On a bicycle? He frowned as she turned off the road and began to ride up the driveway. As she came closer he recognised that it was indeed one of the bikes that had been on the farm forever. He thought it might have belonged to his mother. It was pale green and had a wicker basket in the front. As she rode closer, from a distance of perhaps only a football field away, she lifted a hand in the air and waved at him. She was wearing his white shirt, and she’d cinched his belt around the waist, turning it into a dress. The sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and her feet were bare. She’d plaited her hair over one shoulder.

He watched her pull up beside him, and by the time she’d arrived he had made sure his face was carefully blanked of emotion. “You were gone,” he said, his words giving nothing away.

“Uh huh.” She flicked the foot brake down and lifted one leg over with ease. “Did you know you have no tea in this place?” She wrapped her arms around his waist as though it were the most natural pose in the world.

“Tea? I do not drink tea.”

She lifted a hand to her chest, feigning pain. “Travesty. A complete oversight.”

The sun had crested over the hills, and Kate appeared to glow like an angel. Despite the hatred he felt for her father and her eyes, he lifted a hand and braced her face. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.” And not just because she had afforded him a chance for the sweetest revenge of his life.

“Shucks. I bet you say that to all the girls you buy at auction,” she said, but her voice shook a little.

“Only the tea-drinkers,” he shrugged.

She held him tight. “I had a great time last night. Thank you.”

“Thank you?” He asked, surprise obvious in the question, guilt hot on its heels.

“Yeah.” She stroked his cheek. “I haven’t been with anyone in a really long time.”

He folded the statement away to explore later. “What’s in the basket?” He looked over her shoulder at the bike, which he now saw was overburdened with weight in the front, and had a bag strapped precariously to the back. “Did you ride into town?”

She nodded.

“It’s ten miles.”

“It’s not that far,” she laughed.

“I’m telling you, it’s ten miles. I know this to be a fact. What the hell time did you wake up?”

“I always wake at sunrise,” she said factually. Then she smiled awkwardly, as if realising the admission was strange. “It’s a hangup from my childhood.”

Another statement he wanted to prod further. She lifted the bag off the bike and he took it from her instinctively. “Thanks,” she murmured, pulling the second bag from the basket. “It’s gorgeous here. If I was you I’d never go anywhere else.”

He shook his head. “It’s a little far from the civilised world. Hard to run a business from here.”

“Yeah, I guess.” She studied him thoughtfully then blinked. “Anyway, I just got some essentials.”

“I could have done that with you. Later today. By car.”

“What’s wrong with bikes?” She grinned up at him. “I love to ride. The wind in my hair, with this beautiful countryside at my feet. It’s perfect.”

She was perfect.

The words came to him fully formed and he had to swallow them back.

The most perfect thing about her was that she was Augustine’s daughter, followed swiftly by the willingness she’d shown to fall into his bed.

She walked ahead of him into the townhouse and looked around. “This place is …”

“I know.” How would the daughter of a man like Beauchamp take to the rustic surrounds? “It needs a lot of work.”

“Oh, no!” She gasped, putting the bag down at her feet so that she could lift her hands to his chest. “You can’t be serious? You can’t change it. It’s so lovely.” She sighed as she angled her head to look at the windows that framed the view of the poppies beyond.

“The paint is peeling. The lights barely work. The floor is faded.”

“It’s authentic!” She challenged.

“It’s filthy.”

“Ah, well, yes.” She reached into the bag and pulled up two matching blue bottles. “But for that I have cleaning spray. We can fix it together.”

We can fix it together.

His dream was still fogged in his brain. Her words punched holes through it. He stared at her as though she was some kind of witch; for surely she was? How else could she know what to say to him to invoke his father.

“I mean, if you want to…” Her hands fidgeted in front of her again. “I didn’t mean to imply that I’m not happy. Oh, no. I’ve been rude.” She frowned. “I’m sorry. I woke up and you were asleep and I did notice that it’s even dustier in the day time and I just thought … It’s not my place though. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, hey.” He took the bottles of detergent from her and put his hands around her waist. “What is going on?”

She shook her head. “I can see this is really special to you. I don’t want you to think that I don’t like it. Or that it’s not good enough. I just wanted to help.”

And now the alarm bells that had been going off the night before were clanging close enough that he could no longer ignore them. “You don’t need to be afraid of me,” he said seriously. “I am very grateful that you can see how special the villa is, even with the cobwebs.”

She swallowed; her neck knotted beneath his thorough inspection. “It was stupid. I should have just stayed here.”

Her happiness was visibly ebbing. He pressed a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face so that he could stare into her enormous eyes. “Thank you,” he said simply, and because she still seemed dubious, he smiled; this time, he made sure it breathed gratitude across his entire face.

“Thank you,” he repeated.

And she nodded, mollified apparently but still reserved.

“Tea?”

He pulled a face. “Is there another option?”

She laughed softly. “There’s coffee as well.”

He breathed a sigh of exaggerated relief. “Excellent.”

Kate walked ahead of him into the kitchen. The sight of his shirt falling almost to her knees made his smile broaden. She had said she hadn’t been with anyone in a really long time. He had. He’d spent the weekend before with Alexandra, the Brazilian supermodel. And yet with all her gorgeous long legs and hours spent beautifying herself each day, she couldn’t hold a candle to Kate’s natural style and grace.

“You didn’t wear shoes,” he remarked, lifting an old pot from beneath the sink and rinsing it before filling it. There was firewood beside the stove. He loaded some into the hearth and then added paper and struck a match. His body remembered the actions from his childhood; he worked on muscle memory and Kate watched, breathless at the beauty of not just this kitchen, but also this man. He was so right in these surrounds. He placed the pot on top of the grill and then looked at her. She was staring at him, her expression unmistakably thoughtful.

“What is it?” He prompted.

“You really suit this. More than the tux and all the money stuff.”

“The money stuff?” He pushed, leaning against the bench beside her as the water began to heat.

“Yeah.” She bumped her hip to his, her smile playful. “You know, the mansion on the river. The priceless art. The fancy car. The spending two hundred thousand euros as though it’s nothing … none of that really fits. This is you. Right here. I feel like you’re more at peace somehow.”

He pierced her soul with his stare. His eyes saw every single bit of her then. “You are different to what I expected.”

A frown tugged at her lips. “Since yesterday? In what way?”

“You looked so untouchable and cold up on that stage. I had you pegged as one of those wealthy, boring society women. You know, daughter of some rich couple. Raised in luxury.”

“You thought I was a snob? Benedetto, I’m a secretary,” she pointed out. “For a charity. I earn practically nothing. I borrowed the dress I was wearing yesterday. I live in a tiny flat that looks out on my neighbour’s washing line from one window and a train station from the other.”

“So why do you seem like you weren't born to that kind of lifestyle?” He pushed, curious at how much she would reveal. Why was she using a different name? Why wasn’t she owning up to the truth of her family?

She stared at him for a couple of silent beats of time. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “This is who I am.”

He let it go. They had time. Eventually she’d answer his questions more truthfully; he was sure of it.

“Anyway, you still bid on me. Even though you thought I was going to be some princess type?”

“I happen to like princess types,” he said with a shrug.

“No, you don’t. They annoy you.” She lifted a finger to his lips. “I don’t know how I know that, but I do. You don’t like the trappings of wealth and yet you live a rarified life. You don’t like expensive women and yet you seek them out. Why aren’t you living your truth, Benedetto Arnaud?”

Her psycho-analysis was oddly accurate. So much so it sent shivers down his spine. He volleyed the question back to her to buy for time. “Are you living your truth?”

Her smile shone with the force of the sun beyond the window. “I am now.”

The pot began to boil. She moved towards it but he caught her wrist and brought her back to his body. “But you weren’t? At some time?”

She thought about obfuscating, but there was no sense in lying to him. She was as far from her father and his life as she could be. Worlds apart. Besides, with Benedetto she felt … safe. It didn’t make sense, but she was completely at ease. “I guess not.” She smiled to brush him off. “Coffee? Black?”

He nodded, rubbing a hand across his stubbled jaw.

He had sent his picture. He had taken the revenge he’d desperately craved for years. Knowledge that Benedetto had slept with Katherine would undoubtedly torment Augustine, as he’d intended. He should, therefore, have made an excuse and ended things. There was no longer a purpose to their time together. And yet he felt an invisible tug towards her, like he was bound to her by a force beyond explanation.

“In what way?”

She stared, midway through emptying coffee into a mug. He tried not to grimace at the fact it was instant. Coffee was coffee.

“Huh?”

“In what way were you not living your truth, as you put it?”

She lifted the pot and was about to tip boiling water into the mug when he made a sound and took it from her gently. “Allow me.”

He lifted the mug over the sink and half filled it with the water before placing it on the bench. “Yours?”

Wordlessly she held her teacup to him and he repeated the action with the water.

She thanked him and poured a splash of milk into it before cradling it in her hands. “It’s cool this morning. You can tell Autumn is on its way.”

He nodded. “It’s always earlier here, too.” He nodded towards the terrace and she followed him silently.

The doors were swollen; again he had to nudge it with his shoulder. The terrace was overgrown, like the rest of the house. “It’s like Narnia,” she said softly then turned to look up at him with eyes that sparkled with magic. “Or the cottage in Hansel and Gretel. Everything all overgrown and whispering secrets of their own. Don’t you feel a bit like an invader? Like the house and the garden have their own little life and we don’t belong?”

He nodded. “It has always been like that. My parents lived here when they were first married. They had no running water. No electricity. It was exactly as it had been for centuries.”

“That must have been so romantic,” she sighed, settling herself into a cane chair and crossing her legs. She sipped her tea and stared out at the view. Perfect clouds drifted slowly before her, their edges rimmed in gold, their faces splashed with peach.

“Perhaps.”

“What happened to your parents?”

He took the seat beside her and sipped his coffee. He turned his head away so she wouldn’t see the way his features contorted in disgust at the taste. “My mother died when I was born. Here. In this house.” He turned his head to look inside the windows. “Labour was sudden. They had no phone. My father could not even get her into the car in time. I was born, and she bled to death in the garden.”

“Oh my God.” Kate stood up and crossed to sit on his lap. She wrapped an arm around his neck and buried her head in his neck. “I am so, so sorry. That’s awful.”

“Yes,” he agreed grimly. “Though romantic, this house and its remoteness, led to her death.”

“I’m so sorry,” she repeated, for lack of anything else to say.

He nodded. “There is no reason to think she would have survived if she’d been in town. In any event, my father modernised the home afterwards. It was painstaking.”

“I’m surprised he stayed, in a way. It must have been hard to be here without her.”

“Yes. Incredibly.” He sighed. “But it was where they’d been their happiest. He was … he met my mother and wanted to change his life completely. He grew up in the south of Italy, and moved here for her.”

“A new life together,” she smiled. “That’s so beautiful. They must have loved one another very much.”

“Yes,” he said simply. “I believe they did.”

“What was your mother’s name?”

“Helena,” he tilted his head to see her face. “Why?”

She shrugged. “Because. It seems weird to be in her home and not know her name. Don’t you think?”

His heart turned over at the simple sentiment. “I think you have the habit of saying what I least expect.”

She laughed unsteadily. “Yes. I’m a bit weird.”

“No, not weird,” he assured her. “Unique. Beautiful.” Perfect. That word again breathed through his mind.

“What about your dad?” She asked, sipping her tea.

Benedetto stiffened imperceptibly. “He died a few years ago. He was in poor health.”

Fortunately, Kate was a romantic soul, and her mind took a different direction from her inquisitive path. “He must have been, in some way, waiting to join her for all those years.”

“Yes,” Benedetto nodded.

“How about your father?” He asked with a degree of assumed nonchalance that almost pained him. “Are you close to him?”

She was nowhere nearly as masterful at covering her emotions as he. “Not really.”

The answer surprised him. He had not known this. In every way he had seen proof of their tightness. In any interviews he’d ever given, Lord Beauchamp had boasted about his daughter; his protégé.

“No?” He sipped his coffee, hoping he seemed only casually interested in her revelation.

“We’re different people,” she said with finality. The conversation, so far as Kate was concerned, was over. She placed her tea cup down on the table in front of them and stood. “And we have a house to clean. Come on.”