CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CLAUDIA NOTICED TWO THINGS when Stavros returned, fifteen minutes before six.
He’d taken the concept of ‘dressing for Church’ to a whole new level. He wore a dark blue suit that showed off the depth of his tan, with a crisp white shirt and a grey tie. He looked impossibly handsome.
And he had a duffel bag over his shoulder.
A collection of fabric, stitched together, and yet it switched something inside of her on. A bag was a sign of something. Something like a promise. Something that spoke of intention.
“Hi.” She said, the word still tense, uncertain. Not trusting anyone had become a habit, one she didn’t feel sure she knew how to break.
His eyes glittered. “Where is your bedroom?”
Her breath hitched in her throat. “Why?”
“Because, agape mou, I need to store this somewhere.” He lifted the bag, as if she hadn’t already clocked it.
“Upstairs. First door on the right.”
He nodded, and made to walk past her, but then paused abruptly. His kiss was light. Almost a kiss of greeting. But her stomach lurched and twisted.
She wanted more.
So much more.
Suddenly the idea of waiting was an agony.
“You look beautiful,” he said softly, his eyes running over Claudia’s simple black knit dress. It fell to her ankles and she’d teamed it with a pair of soft leather boots.
“Thank you.”
He looked at her as though there was more he wanted to say, but after a moment, he continued upstairs. She watched him disappear, her mind struggling to comprehend this turn of events.
The last time she’d seen him, Claudia had been certain it would be the last time. Their fight had been awful. She’d lied to him to make him angry, to push him away, and yet he’d come back.
Because he’d worked out the truth.
Was this just guilt? Sympathy?
She was frowning when he reappeared, and he caught her hand, lifting it to his lips.
“Shall we?”
She nodded, but the seed of doubt was working its way deeper into her mind. She wanted, so badly, to believe that he loved her. Why was it so hard?
“I organized the snow. Just for you,” he teased, as they stepped out of her house.
She blinked up at him, and then to the inky evening sky which was speckled with little dots of white.
“Oh.” A shivering acknowledgement. “It’s so…”
“Beautiful,” he agreed.
A bright light greeted them and Claudia froze, then immediately put some distance between them.
“New lover boy, eh, Claudia?” It was only one photographer, leaning against a tree, huddled inside a leather jacket.
It was on the tip of her tongue to deny it when Stavros put his arm around Claudia and pulled her tighter to his side. He even dredged a smile to his lips as they passed the photographer, and the light flashed once more.
At the corner of the block, Claudia risked a look at him. “I’m sorry.”
He pulled a face. “Why?”
“I know how much you hate the thought of being in the papers.”
He arched a brow. “I suspect I’ll have to get used to it.”
“Why?”
“Because you are photographed and I intend to be with you often.” He shrugged. “It’s a small price to pay.”
It was a joke, but Claudia’s heart dropped lower. “Another sacrifice.”
“No.” They crossed the street together, his arm still around her shoulders, holding her to him, warming her with his body’s heat. “A privilege.”
He kissed the top of her head and her stomach lurched. Hope flared.
Carols reached their ears when they were still a block away from the church.
“How long have you been coming here?”
“Since I moved to London.”
“Ah! Here she is, our guardian angel,” Sister Connelly greeted Claudia with an extravagant hug and smile before lifting her eyes thoughtfully to the man beside her.
“You were on the footpath with Claudia this afternoon.”
“I was,” Stavros nodded. “Stavros Aresteides.”
Sister Connelly lifted her brows with obvious speculation. “A friend?”
“More than that,” he grinned and the Sister’s smile widened.
Claudia’s cheeks flamed.
“You know then what Claudia has done for us,” Sister Connelly linked one arm through Claudia’s and one arm through Stavros’s as they made their way up the steps of the church. “Without her generosity and fundraising efforts, we’d be hard-pressed to offer the services we do.”
“Which services in particular?” Stavros asked conversationally, but there was an undercurrent to the question that had Claudia’s feet stumbling slightly.
“Oh, everything, dear. From feeding the homeless and poor, which we do every Sunday lunch, to the children’s gifts we hand out at Christmas,” she gestured towards a large green tree ahead of them, covered in gifts at its base. “She won’t let me thank her publically, of course, but a good friend of hers should know what a unique soul she is.”
Claudia cleared her throat. “Thank you, Sister.”
Sister Connelly grinned. “Thank you, dear.” She pressed a kiss to Claudia’s cheek and then disappeared into the crowds.
Claudia watched her bustling rear and then turned, with a bemused expression, towards Stavros. “It appears she’s decided to play matchmaker.”
But the look on his face stole whatever else she’d been about to say.
“All the money you spend at Christmas… that’s on these gifts?”
Claudia’s face paled for a moment and then she tilted her chin defiantly. “Yes. I know it might seem like reckless spending but…”
He lifted a finger and pressed it to her mouth, his eyes sparking with hers.
“It seems,” he spoke softly, the words husked with emotion, “nothing like it.”
They stood like that for a moment, surrounded by people arriving, without realizing there was anyone else present at all. It was just the two of them, and the truth of their feelings clicking into place.
It was just a moment.
Someone recognized Claudia and came to speak to her, and then another person arrived, and then the service was beginning. They took two seats at the back.
The whole time, Claudia was conscious of Stavros beside her. Though she loved the Christmas service, she barely heard it this year.
There was no room left in her heart or mind – every part of her was absorbed by Stavros. By their afternoon. By what he’d said.
By trying to analyse what it meant, and what it meant for her future.
So many things in Claudia’s life had been out of her control. Her mother and father’s disinterest in parenting, and each other. Her mother’s death. Her father’s death.
Stavros becoming her guardian. Her eyes flicked sideways and a whole kaleidoscope of butterflies rampaged her stomach at the sight of him, staring straight ahead, so watchfully intent on the sermon.
Her dyslexia had been out of her control.
She’d made the best of her life regardless, learning the important lesson very early on that worrying about what she couldn’t control was a waste of energy. She didn’t have the energy to bemoan her failings or the fact she didn’t have the close-knit family she’d always wanted.
But now? Stavros claimed to love her. To have always loved her. This was in her power. She could reach out and grab the only thing she’d ever wanted in life. If she could just let go of her fears.
The service ended and Claudia blinked as though waking from a dream. Usually, she would stay afterwards and socialize, but a sense of urgency had her standing as soon as it was polite to do so.
“Let’s go.”
He nodded, understanding, putting a hand in the small of her back and propelling her towards the door before any well-intentioned parishioner could stop them.
The snow had thickened while they’d been inside, leaving a delicate coating on the cars outside. They walked in silence, their steps quick, until they reached her door.
The photographer had gone.
Claudia unlocked the front entrance and pushed it open, and Stavros was behind her.
“Did you mean what you said this afternoon?”
He didn’t misunderstand. He knew what she needed to know. “Absolutely, one hundred percent. I love you.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“I loved you when I thought you were only interested in partying and tanning and getting your name in the papers. Can you imagine how I feel about you now?” He cupped her face, brushing his lips against hers.
“The question is if you love me?” He asked it softly, gently, his eyes scanning hers. “Can you love me after what I’ve put you through? How I’ve treated you? Can you love me when I am so much older? Can you forgive me for not doing better by you?”
Claudia sobbed, and she wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her head to his chest. “I can’t not love you,” she groaned. “It’s just the way I’m wired.”
He laughed, but it was a shaking, trembling sound. “Thank God. I seriously thought you might be trying to work out how to get rid of me.”
She shook her head and moved apart a little, just enough to look into his eyes. “But Stavros? I’m not … I meant what I said. I’m never going to be able to keep up with you. I’m …I’m worried you’ll get bored of me.”
“Bored of you? Not possible.” He dropped his arms and moved towards the stairs. “Wait.”
She watched as he took them two at a time, turning into her bedroom and reappearing a moment later with a present in his hands.
She knew, instinctively, what it was. The shape was one she had long feared.
A book.
She shook her head and spoke with a slow insistence. “You can’t change me. You can’t fix this.”
He handed it to her and she stared at him with frustration before ripping the wrapper off. It was, indeed, a book, with a pretty, old-fashioned cover.
She pushed it back at him.
“I can’t read that.”
“I know.” He caught her hands and held them in his. “Which is why I’ll read it to you.”
She blinked at him, a frown on her face. “Why?”
“Because I want to. Because I want to share everything with you. Because you will love the story and I want you to hear it. I want to be the one to tell it to you.”
Her heart turned over in her chest. This, total acceptance, was unexpected. He wasn’t trying to change her. He was trying to find a way to give her everything.
She let out a juddering sigh and bit down on her lip.
“I love you,” he said simply. “And I always will.”
The butterflies in her tummy took over her whole body, weakening her knees and strengthening her resolve.
“I love you back.” She lifted up on tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his lips.
“Will you come home now?”
“I am home,” she said softly.
“Your London home,” he said with a shrug. “But you belong at Barnwell. With me, and that enormous tree.”
And finally, everything clicked together, locking intention and certainty into place, welding them alongside hope and heart. “Home,” she nodded. “Yes. Let’s go home.”
THE END
Following is an excerpt from by CLARE CONNELLY.
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS SO, SO much worse than she’d anticipated.
Elizabeth couldn’t help the gasp of horror that escaped her lips as she slowly cast her lavender blue eyes over the now-dilapidated ruins of the once-grand Bashir Hall.
“Oh, Marianne,” she said weakly, pressing her manicured fingers into her mother-in-law’s forearm. “I can’t believe it.”
Marianne, to her credit, maintained her effortless expression of poise. Not a single hair in her elegantly styled chignon was out of place. “I’m afraid it’s quite a state, darling. Nothing that can’t be fixed, with time, of course.”
Elizabeth’s laugh was manic. “Time? What time? Oh, God! The Ball is in less than a month. I have sponsors coming out of my backside, A-list guests from all over Europe confirmed to attend, and a venue that’s almost completely burned to a crisp.”
Lady Marianne Sanderson lowered her darkly tinted Gucci sunglasses onto her face. It had less to do with shielding her eyes from the cold late November wind that was buffeting the whole of Somersetshire, and more to do with needing a disguise for her inspection. Her late son’s wife (even now, almost five years after his death, it was still impossible to think of dear Alastair as ‘late’.), Bessie, was looking thin. Too thin. She’d always erred on the side of ethereal, wispy beauty, but there was a frailty to her now that brought a small frown to Marianne’s pink lips.
With her Danish heritage, Elizabeth was as stunningly beautiful as always. Even in the depths of one of the coldest British winters on record, her skin had a honey glow to it. Her eyes were the brightest blue she’d ever seen, and her hair, naturally as blonde as gold, she wore long. Marianne supposed it was fashionable, but it looked like it would take a lot of effort to keep it so beautifully maintained, and yet Elizabeth never failed to look elegant and somehow neat, despite the long, hair that fell half way down her back in big, loose waves. No, it was the slender figure that worried Marianne. Life as a single parent was wearing her daughter in law down, and she worried now that she should have been doing more to help.
“You’ve taken on so much, Bess. Are you sure you won’t relinquish some of the organisational control?”
Elizabeth glared at Marianne with staunch, ferocious pride, as Marianne had known she would. “No. This is Alastair’s legacy, and nobody but me is qualified to oversee it.” A becoming blush hinted at her cheeks, as she added, quickly, “Except you and Rupert, of course.” Her parents in law were the only people in the world who felt Alastair’s loss as keenly as she did. The only people who still grieved his passing as though it were a fresh hurt. Even Rose, their beautiful daughter, thought of Alastair as a being of fascination rather than affection. He was an abstract concept. The man who had given her life, but who she had never known. His photograph was beside her bed, and she was told stories of him every night, before falling into the land of nod, but she’d never heard his laugh. Never seen the way his whole face lit up with mirth as he launched scathing reviews of the political pieces in the weekend Guardian. The very kernel of vitality that had died with Alastair was missed most by three people, and Elizabeth was one of them.
“I’ll sort it out,” she said with a confidence she was far from feeling. Her eyes scanned the stately home once more, arresting on a badly charred beam across the sixteenth century tiled floor.
Marianne hated being the bearer of bad news, or at least reality, but she was forced to tuck her hand through the crook of Elizabeth’s designer-coat clad elbow now. She tapped on it slowly, warningly. “It’s a disaster, Bess. It will take a lot of time to repair. The damage is structural, and it’s through the whole darn place.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I know.” She threw the older woman a small smile then turned to survey the country fields that had long-surrounded the estate. “There’s always a marquee…”
“On Christmas Eve? Your guests will not thank you, dearest.” Marianne grimaced at the very thought. In the four years since its inception, The Alastair Sanderson Ball had become a premiere event on the society calendar. It was an affair that was synonymous with glamour and style, comfort and country charm. A marquee on a snow-drenched field would simply not do.
“What a dratted mess,” Elizabeth commented unnecessarily, and it was such a close approximation of Alastair’s well-worn expression that Marianne couldn’t help but smile.
“We’d been meaning to replace the wires for years,” Marianne observed, stepping away from Elizabeth to inspect a tumble of blackened electricity cables.
“I should have done it,” Elizabeth demurred. “It just felt strange to change a damned thing about the place now Al’s gone. Stupid sentimentality. Can you imagine how cross he’d be?” She winced. “He loved this place.”
“He loved you, Elizabeth, and you know as well as I do that he could never have been cross with you.”
It was a fact. Alastair and Elizabeth’s relationship had been one of calm respect and an affection borne out of the deepest friendship. They’d never quarrelled. Neither had so much as raised their voices at the other. It had been a perfect union, but for the terribly short duration.
“Well, I’m sure he’d have pointed out how ludicrous I was being to put off making any changes to his beloved Bashir House.” She shivered as a gust of freezing cold tore through the home, making a pane of glass rattle precariously in its sooty frame. “Marianne, let’s go. I’m not sure we’re safe here.”
To underscore her point, a section of the wall at the other end of the parlour crumbled and fell to the flagstone floor, spreading chalky dust throughout.
“Right you are, dearest.” Marianne nodded, linking arms with her daughter in law once more and moving quickly towards the opening. The tape left by the first responders to the blaze was still strung along the perimeter of the home, and Elizabeth lifted it gingerly, waiting for Marianne to ease herself underneath it before following suit.
Outside, the weather was even wilder than when they’d arrived. The sky was thick with heavy grey clouds, and rain was surely not far off.
Marianne’s jet-black Range Rover was only a stone’s throw from the house; Elizabeth’s convertible just behind it.
“A fleet of lovely little cars at your disposal, and I still can’t believe this is the car you choose to drive,” Elizabeth teased as Marianne climbed into the beast of a thing.
“If it’s good enough for Her Royal Highness, it’s certainly fine for me.”
Elizabeth’s grin changed her whole face, making it seem lit with a thousand bulbs somehow. “Yes, it’s just so very big, and you’re so very… neat.”
Marianne shrugged her slender shoulders. “I like it. You should see the way people get out of my way on the Motorway.”
Elizabeth shook her head with a rueful laugh. “You’re turning into a hoon, I know it. The next thing you’ll be telling me, you’ve lined up to watch a filming of Top Gear.”
“Top what, darling?”
Elizabeth shook her head, distractedly. “Just a show.” But now, her attention was firmly elsewhere. Elizabeth could have saddled up a multi-coloured unicorn for all she cared. In the distance, she could see dark plumes of smoke rising. There was only one other house for miles; perhaps the only house grander than Bashir House. In fact, its proportions and lineage had made Bashir House look like a servants’ hall, at times.
“Marianne, didn’t you tell me cranky old whatsisface had sold Ravens Manor?”
Marianne cast her eyes towards the palatial home. “Yes. About a year ago.”
Elizabeth leaned through the window, her eyes earnest. “Who to?”
Marianne pressed her lips together in a gesture Elizabeth knew meant she disapproved. “An Italian chap, I believe. Hell bent on destroying the grounds, and himself, by all accounts. He’s turned the old horse paddocks into a race track for his Italian speed cars. You can imagine how the locals view him.” She shrugged. “I can’t quite bring his name to mind, darling, but you’d know him, of course. He’s one of those stinking rich old-money types. I think the family business is shipping, or real estate, or something. Darn it, why can’t I recall?”
“His name doesn’t matter,” Elizabeth breathed on a whoosh of excited realisation. “Don’t you see? Ravens Manor could accommodate our affair. It’s gorgeous, grand and enormous. It’s near enough that none of the guests and suppliers will be too inconvenienced by the transfer. It’s perfect!”
“You’re forgetting that it belongs to someone else. What if he doesn’t want five hundred strangers trampling through his gardens and home on Christmas Eve? Most people don’t, you know, Bess.”
Elizabeth waved her hand through the air, causing her diamond bangle to make a tinkling noise. “That’s not important. I’m sure he’ll come around once he understands the importance of the work we do.”
Marianne scanned her daughter in law’s face dubiously. She really was incredibly beautiful, even more stunning than she knew, for Elizabeth didn’t have a vain bone in her perfectly honed body. At twenty-six, she was older now, and wiser, than the joyous twenty year old Alastair had brought home. Life had given her some hard knocks, as it had done them all, but there was an irrepressible sweetness in her nature that conveyed itself through her sparkling eyes, and full, pink lips that were always quick to turn up at the edges in a captivating hint of a smile.
“I’m sure you’ll persuade him, Bess. Only take care. The word around the village is that he’s quite a prickly sort. Not at all well-tempered. You might have your work cut out for you.”
“I don’t care. It’s important. I’ll make it work.”
And, as Marianne watched Elizabeth slip into her bright red sports car, waving her slender hand out the window in a gesture of farewell, she was absolutely sure that the young woman would achieve it. Her tenacity was never in doubt, particularly when it came to honouring Alastair’s memory. Marianne just hoped remembering wasn’t all the living that Elizabeth was capable of doing these days.
A young woman of twenty-six needed more in life than the grief and tragedy of burying a spouse.
*
The housekeeper at Ravens Manor was every bit as imposing as such a house deserved. The woman was tall and wiry, with round-rimmed spectacles perched on the tip of her autocratic nose. Her skin, so pale it was luminescent, was covered in a road map of spidery veins, and her grey hair was dragged up into a severe top knot. Her eyes, dark brown and suspicious, raked over Elizabeth in a style that was clearly designed to intimidate.
She got the message. Intruders were not expected, and certainly not welcome.
Despite having grown up in a perfectly ordinary middle-class family, marriage to dear Alastair, or Lord Sanderson to the rest of the world, had given her five years of pretending to fit in with these hoity toity snobs. She dressed the part, not because she particularly liked getting around in expensive suits and dresses, but because it aided her charity work if she seemed able to parry on a level with the country’s elite. Besides, Alastair had left her with a disgusting fortune in a Swiss bank account. Only the thought of Rosie’s future kept her from giving it all to his foundation.
Elizabeth returned the housekeeper’s impertinent inspection, slowly moving her stormy blue eyes from the tip of the woman’s lacquered, flat shoes, up her stockinged legs, so slender they were almost skin and bone, to the drab house coat and apron, finally arresting on the older woman’s face.
“I’m here to see the owner.”
The housekeeper’s lips twisted in a small, sceptical smile. “The Signore does not like to be disturbed.”
Elizabeth knew how he felt. She loathed unexpected company. Her home life and time with Rose were sacrosanct. She felt a pang of compunction, and might have backed off, but the ball was just around the corner and she needed to discover an alternative venue.
“It is important. Please go and advise him that Lady Sanderson would like a moment of his time.”
The Sandersons had held a country seat in the area for centuries, and the name engendered great respect in the local community. Elizabeth did not mind invoking it now. The effect was immediate. Cranky Housekeeper actually forced a smile through her thin lips, making a small hiss of approval at the same time. “Lady Sanderson, of course. Won’t you come in and wait? It’s frightfully cold this afternoon.”
Elizabeth didn’t lower her defences. Lady Sanderson was the part she had assumed, and she needed to maintain her character. Though her feet were pinched in the slim Louboutin heels she’d slipped on that morning, she didn’t so much as wince as she strode confidently into the magnificent entrance hall.
And it was magnificent.
Truly, unmistakably extravagant.
If she had to guess, she’d say the recent acquisition of the property had led to extensive renovations and repairs. Everything gleamed with a shiny newness, despite the fact the home had been, in part, constructed under the reign of Henry the VIII.
“Signore Casacelli has undertaken the remodelling of the home. Where possible, the architect has retained original features, but much of the interior has been replaced. Though with the greatest sensitivity to the period and décor that is appropriate, of course.”
“Of course,” Elizabeth agreed quietly, running her hand over the intricately carved timber banister at the base of the wide staircase.
“If you’ll excuse me, Lady Sanderson, I’ll go and advise the Signore that you’re here.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Elizabeth’s throat was parched, and she didn’t have anything with her. She swallowed, and realised that she was actually nervous. If this Signore Casacelli denied her request, then she’d really be in a spot. She ran her fingers down the white leather pencil skirt she was wearing and straightened her coat. She couldn’t resist fluffing her hair with her fingers, too. She wanted to look her best when meeting this man who held the future of this year’s Gala in his hands.
“Who are you?” She spun around, inexplicably guilty, at the sound of the deep, accented question.
It must have been the mysterious Signore Casacelli, if the hovering housekeeper’s look of pride and awe was anything to go by.
A tiny voice in Elizabeth’s head was telling her not to stare, but her eyes didn’t seem to heed its warning. This man was quite possibly the most devastatingly handsome person in the entire history of the world. Even if he hadn’t been standing half way up the staircase, he would have had a height and physical strength worth noting. The fact he was wearing only a pair of snugly fitted denim jeans did little to ease the rampant way her heart was beating against her breast. The jeans were low-slung, and sat on his body like a second skin, displaying his long, muscled legs, and a bulge in his crotch region that she had to drag her eyes away from. But it got worse from there! His chest wasn’t flat and pale, it was all bronzed and sculptured, defined pecs that made her fingers tingle with a desire to touch. It was completely, terrifyingly unexpected.
She cleared her throat and moved her attention to his face, but even that was breath taking. Strong, angled cheekbones, a chin with a perfect dimple, curved, full lips and even white teeth, and eyebrows that seemed to frame his amber coloured eyes, making him look both imposing and desirable at the same time. His hair, she had to guess, would have been shoulder length, and wavy. It was hard to tell as he wore it pulled up in a loose topknot.
“I…” She tried to speak but her body, so reliably disinterested in the opposite sex, was having some kind of sensual meltdown in response to this veritable Greek God come to life.
“I said,” he spoke slowly, only a hint of amusement in his eyes at her obvious discomfort. “Who are you?”
“Who am I?” She frowned, running her fingers through her hair, combing it back from her face. The slightest hint of the fragrance of her shampoo travelled the distance to Antonio and he felt an odd kick of awareness at the scent of coconuts and limes.
“Yes. And, more importantly, what do you want?”
Elizabeth blinked, trying to take control of her wayward senses. “Is there somewhere we can speak? In private?”
Antonio was intrigued. He’d fled to Ravens Manor to lick his wounds. It was the last place his brothers would think to look for him, given his famous hatred for the British winter, and what he wanted most in the world was to be alone. The shock of discovering his mother’s depth of deception had left him reeling, and adrift. Yet it had been a long time since he’d enjoyed the pleasure of a beautiful woman. Over a month, at least, since the shocking revelation that Umberto Casacelli, who had loved and raised him, had not actually been his father. He could think of worse things than being alone with this rather sexy woman for a while.
He watched from narrowed eyes as her fingers unconsciously toyed with the enormous diamond bauble she wore on her ring finger. He got it. She was married. Attractive, and married. And attracted to him. Just the kind of woman he should avoid.
If he had to use one word to describe her, it would be expensive. Everything from the hairstyle that screamed, ‘Beauty Salon Dishevelled’, to the clothes that were obviously from a high-end designer, to the six inch spike heels that made him wonder about what her height would be without them. He was intrigued by her, despite the fact warning bells were sounding in his mind.
“I’m hungry. Come into the kitchen and we can speak privately.”
The housekeeper, Agnes, who had come with the house, was hovering behind him. Presumably she thought it a discreet distance, but her presence, always lingering, obsequiously waiting to be of service, was starting to wear thin.
“You’re not needed, thank you,” he addressed her coolly.
“Yes, sir.” She disappeared so swiftly and silently, he wondered if she was actually a little bit magical.
Antonio took the steps slowly, and Elizabeth watched. Her whole body was alert and energized, as though an electrical current was running just beneath her skin. Once he reached the hallway, he moved towards her. In fact, he stood so close that his naked torso was brushing against the expensive wool of her coat.
“I’m Antonio,” he said, and up close, she saw that there was a fine dusting of freckles across his tanned nose. His eyes were lighter in colour than she’d appreciated, as well. More of a honey color than dark brown. He was holding his hand out for her to shake, she realised belatedly, extending her own hand and placing it in his.
The response was automatic. Her fingers seemed to throb with recognition, so strong that her eyes flew, startled, to his. Antonio’s reaction was unreadable, but how could he fail to feel what she felt?
A picture of Alastair came to mind, with his intelligent eyes and sweet smile, and she yanked her hand free, rubbing it against the back of her skirt to remove any hint of the treacherous and strange whirlpool of desire that had overtaken her.
Was he laughing at her? His eyes seemed to mock her reaction and Elizabeth’s cheeks warmed with embarrassment.
“This way,” he drawled, almost sounding impatient.
The kitchen was down another flight of stairs, and it was as cavernous and enormous as it was well-equipped. Mentally, she added a tick to the column she was making in favour of holding the Ball at Ravens Manor. A large kitchen like this would easily accommodate the caterers. Her eyes scanned the facilities until they landed on the electric dumb waiters in the center. Undoubtedly they would convey meals to a large banquet room upstairs. Perfect for the function.
“Are you hungry?” Her host asked, his voice muffled by the refrigerator. He was rifling through containers and bottles, and as he bent to pull something out, muscles she hadn’t even known existed rippled on his back. She flicked her eyes back to the dumb waiter. Much safer.
“No, thank you.”
She didn’t see the way Antonio’s lips curved into a sneer of derision. He was used to women who starved themselves to fit into couture. His mother had been one of them, and many of the women he’d taken to his bed, also. Strange then, that he was now so sick of such a stupid vanity. This woman was so slim she looked as though she might blow away in the breeze. If ever he’d seen someone in need of a meal, it was her.
“You will eat,” he said, pulling another tub out of the fridge. “If you want my attention, that is.”
Elizabeth was taken aback. Even during her medical studies, she’d never been spoken to like that. As the lowliest intern at the hospital on Brompton Road where she’d met newly diagnosed Alastair, she’d been met with respect. Never, not once, had she had to deal with such imperious bad manners.
“I said I’m not hungry,” she responded haughtily, tilting her head so that she could stare at him down the length of her nose.
“And I said that you’ll have a meal with me, if you want another moment of my time.” His eyes were steel-like with determination and Elizabeth forced herself to see the bigger picture. The Ball was all that mattered. If she had to put up with this arrogant man, then so be it.
“Are you going to force feed me?” She couldn’t resist asking, moving to the island bench and perching her rear on a timber stool.
“If I have to,” he responded, dropping his eyes to her lips. His insolent inspection should have angered her, but it just made that strange lurching in her tummy all the more noticeable.
“I’ll eat,” she rushed to assure him, watching as his fingers arranged various antipasti on a wooden board.
“We’ll see.” His grin was strange, like he was judging her, or angry with her. It was a dark emotion; one that she, who had been adored her whole life, couldn’t possibly comprehend.
Elizabeth had to start again. She forced a smile to her face, unconscious of how the expression made his gut clench with a strong force of attraction. He lowered his eyes to the ring she wore, reminding himself that his mother had spent her whole life disregarding the vows of marriage. He was not like her. Nicoletta hadn’t cared about anyone, especially not her children. And nor had the men she’d slept with. He wasn’t going to become one of those men to this woman, no matter how damned attractive she was.
“My name is Lady Sanderson,” she began, looping a finger through her pearl choker and fingering the shiny orbs thoughtfully. “And I need your help.”
Antonio raised his eyebrows, curious despite himself. “You need my help?”
“Yes.”
Antonio speared a piece of bocconcini and lifted it towards her. When Elizabeth didn’t take the fork, he pushed it further forward, pressing the creamy morsel against her equally rich looking mouth.
Elizabeth gasped, her eyes wide, and her mouth open, so that Antonio was able to press the cheese inside. It was delicious, but she hardly tasted it. Her insides were churning with a strange mix of emotions, and a moist heat had formed in her most private core. His eyes held hers as she chewed and swallowed the circle.
And despite his best intentions, which really were honourable, Antonio reached across the bench and caught a tiny drip of oil that had escaped from the corner of her mouth with the pad of his thumb. She was quite stunningly gorgeous, he thought, as he ran his thumb along her soft skin, chasing the drop back to her mouth.
“This is quite inappropriate,” Elizabeth remarked, her voice thin as she pushed to her feet.
“I don’t disagree.”
Elizabeth stalked a few paces, away from him, and his seductive near nakedness. “This is a professional matter,” she said angrily, injecting as much coolness into her voice as possible, given she was completely awash with an out-of-nowhere lust.
“And are you professionally desirable, Lady Sanderson?” He asked mockingly, his frustration directed at her as well as himself.
“Stop it,” she implored, once more fingering her wedding ring. “I didn’t come here to be hit on.”
“Then why did you come to my house, looking like that?”
Her frown was infinitesimal. “Like what?”
“Like you’ve just walked out of a fashion shoot. Dressed to impress.”
Elizabeth’s laugh crackled through the electricity that was arcing between them. “Most certainly not for your benefit.”
He shrugged, then lifted a piece of bocconcini to his mouth and bit into it. Elizabeth watched as he ate, grappling with the impact he was having on her.
“You might have noticed the house next door has burned to a crisp?”
“The house next door? Bashir?” Antonio nodded grimly. “I thought your name was familiar. You’re one of the people responsible for letting that historic property go up in flames?”
“Yes,” she said simply. For she was. “It was an electrical fault.”
“Not surprising. I heard some of the wires dated back to the turn of the twentieth century.”
She grimaced. “It was on my list of things to do,” she said.
“You’re as rich as Croesus, or so I’ve been told. Why the hell didn’t you get it seen to sooner?”
She thought of sweet Alastair, who’d adored the home just as it was, even with its buzzing electricity and slow-to-respond lights, and a wistful smile blew across her face. “Silly reasons, really, in retrospect.” She wrapped her arms around her waist now, staving off the coldness of the kitchen and the grim chill of her thoughts.
“In any event,” she said with a small shake of her head, “the charity Ball I host every year will need a new venue.”
He had listened to her patiently, a little distracted, actually, by the way her breasts were pressed against the fabric of her coat, and the way her face infused with passionate colour as she spoke, but now, he forced himself to pay closer attention. “Surely you can’t be suggesting Ravens Manor as an alternative?”
“Actually,” she said with a wry smile, “that’s exactly what I’m suggesting. And I should warn you, I don’t intend to take no for an answer.”
CHAPTER TWO
ANTONIO LEANED BACK AGAINST the fridge, crossing his legs at the ankles. “I don’t like the idea of opening my property, and life, to strangers. I can’t help you, Lady Sanderson.”
“Call me Elizabeth,” she said automatically. The title had always felt heavy around her neck. She used it only as needs must, such as she had done that day.
“Elizabeth,” he repeated, his accent slight as he repeated her name. “It is quite impossible.”
She had expected objections. She was not deterred. “You haven’t even heard me out,” she said reasonably.
“I don’t need to,” he said, his eyes boring into hers. “The last thing any of us need is an army of attention seeking socialites dragging the spotlight onto the Casacellis. Again. This family has had enough drama for a lifetime.”
Elizabeth had no recollection of any such fuss. Then again, raising her daughter and running Alastair’s foundation had taken up most of her free time. She wasn’t sure she even knew who the president of the United States was. Whatever scandal had attached itself to this Adonis – and she was in no doubt women, and therefore all sorts of broken hearted mess – had paved his past, she didn’t frankly care.
“It won’t involve drama. I’ll keep your name out of it.”
His smile was derisive. “Hardly possible.”
She arched a perfectly sculpted brow. “You obviously think rather highly of yourself and your importance.”
He narrowed his laser like stare. “I was raised a Casacelli. I’ve never doubted the interest our family generates. It is a double edged sword. One I’m sure you’re familiar with.”
She dipped her head in silent concession to the point he had made. She used her title and status as a society princess to further the aims of Alastair’s foundation though. Which made any inconvenience associated with her high-profile totally tolerable.
“It’s for a good cause,” she said, trying another tack. Surely a man such as this would have a conscience somewhere beneath his chiselled chest?
He made a grunt of disdain. “I’m sure. Women like you always have a good cause to rally behind.” He pushed up from where he was leaning, a study of casual elegance. “Does it make you feel good about an otherwise vapid existence? To put your name behind a charity or something?”
A cold stone of pain lodged somewhere in Elizabeth’s ribcage as she digested his words. “You think I’m just a bored housewife, looking for a bit of feel-good titillation?”
He walked with a languid grace, slowly bringing himself within a few feet of her. “You tell me.”
“It’s not like that.” She tried to focus on the prize. She needed a venue. Arrogant piece of judgemental meanie aside, Ravens Manor was still the best option. Her voice was shaky when she spoke. Elizabeth had never enjoyed confrontation, but that didn’t mean she’d shy away from a fight. “You must have heard of the ball? It’s an institution.”
Up close, she couldn’t help but be mesmerised by his face. It really was spectacularly unfair that someone with such a horrible personality should be so stunningly blessed in the looks department. Unconsciously, she stepped back a little.
Antonio’s smile was pure hot lava. “I live in Rome. British society events don’t hold much sway for me.”
She sighed exasperatedly. “It’s not a society event. Well, not simply a society event. It raises hundreds of thousands of pounds. It’s a dinner and an auction, attended by the crème de la crème of European celebrities and dignitaries. Even people from Rome,” she drawled pointedly. “And it’s beautiful. A truly lovely evening.”
“You said you raise funds for a good cause. What is it?” He asked seriously, his eyes unreadable as he studied her face.
“Cancer research.” Her words were steady but the loss she’d endured never failed to make her ache deep inside.
“And what is your interest in cancer research?” He asked with an almost undetectable sneer. “Or is it just the most fashionable cause to parade under the banner of?”
Her mouth dropped open. Clearly she’d underestimated just what kind of bastard she’d be dealing with. If he hadn’t hoodwinked her with his astounding good looks, she would have seen it sooner. He was horrible!
“I’m a doctor,” she said quietly. “Or rather, I was. Oncology was my area of study.”
Antonio was rarely surprised, and yet now, he felt oddly disconcerted. He had not expected her response. “I see,” he said with a small nod.
“Do you?” She narrowed her eyes. “Somehow, I doubt it.”
“Why did you stop studying medicine?” He asked, honing in on her use of the past tense.
“I got married,” she said simply, forgetting for a minute that this man seemed to want to see only the worst in her.
Sure enough, his lips curled in a sarcastic grimace. “And you thought becoming Lady Sanderson was more desirable than getting your hands dirty with a real job?”
Elizabeth took in a deep breath, trying and failing to quell her temper. “What the heck happened in your life to make you such a cynical bastard?”
Again, she had surprised him, and he fought the urge to recoil at her words. “I am simply observing what I see,” he responded throatily.
“Yeah? You know what I see?” She dragged her eyes up the length of his body, and it occurred to her to wonder why the heck he wasn’t wearing a shirt on a freezing cold November day. But she pushed the irrelevant query from her mind. “I see a man who is small-minded, judgemental and ignorant. Someone who is determined to see the worst in everyone. How can you turn my work into something trivial and selfish? And to reduce my marriage to a… a… social advancement!” She spun her diamond ring around her finger, praying for the sense of closeness to Alastair that it usually afforded.
“You have just admitted as much yourself. You were a doctor, or on your way to becoming one, and you quit to marry a man with a title. Or am I wrong?”
He wasn’t. But what he didn’t understand was that she’d met Alastair when he was already terminal. She’d loved him instantly, and her medical degree hadn’t seemed to matter as much as spending every moment she could with him. There would be time, she had reasoned then, afterwards, to return to her vocation. Only Rose had happened instead, and the hours required to establish a medical career had felt untenable, even with the help of her parents in law. None of these facts were things she was at all tempted to share with this man. He deserved no such enlightenment.
“The Ball is Christmas Eve. I have everything organised. Caterers, accommodation in the town, or transportation back to London, insurance, advertising. Obviously, we don’t pay a hire fee for the use of Bashir, but I have a little room in the budget if you require a fee for the use of your venue.” She reached into the lining of her coat and fished out a business card. “Let me know by the end of the week what you decide.”
Antonio tossed the card onto the kitchen bench. “I can tell you right now, Lady Sanderson, the answer is absolutely no.”
*
It wasn’t Agnes’s fault. She was simply mopping the tiled floor outside his office. He appreciated the glean of the floor. This is what she was paid to do. But the sound of the water slopping against the floor was frustrating. It was incessant. With a muffled curse, he unfolded his six and a half foot height and strode to the door of his office.
“Agnes?”
“Sir?”
He felt a strange stab of guilt. The housekeeper he’d inherited with the purchase of Ravens Manor had to have been in her sixties. She had told him, in those first few days, as he was deciding which staff to keep and which to let go, that it was the only job she’d ever had. And though he didn’t possess a remotely sentimental bone in his body, he had felt pity for her. Besides, she was good at what she did.
He compressed his lips. “You don’t have to do that now, do you?”
“Am I disturbing you, Signore Casacelli?”
“Yes.” He shaped his lips into a smile to soften his curt response. It wasn’t Agnes that had him feeling restless and bad-tempered. Nor was it the embarrassment with his mother. And it wasn’t even his oldest brother Marcos’s irritating ability to call when it was least convenient, that had got Antonio riled. After all, as far as Marcos and Niko were concerned, Antonio had simply dropped off the face of the earth. He’d seen no reason to enlighten them to more of his spectacular personal drama than was necessary.
No. This was something else entirely. A short, slender, shockingly beautiful woman, with eyes the colour of the azure ocean had been haunting him for three days, since she’d stormed out of his home in high dudgeon.
“Agnes,” he ran a hand through his hair, wondering absentmindedly when he had last cut it. “Lady Sanderson, who was here the other day. What do you know of her?”
Agnes brought a whole new scope to the phrase ‘a stiff upper lip’. She was so quintessentially British, completely unemotional, yet he knew his request had surprised her.
“Not much, sir. Just the basic facts, of course. She’s of a high profile family, and so one can’t help but hear bits of information from time to time. I’ve never cared much for local gossip, of course.”
“Of course,” he conceded, fully aware he was asking her to enter into idle gossip now. “What of her husband?”
Agnes pressed the mop into the stainless steel bucket then took great pains to wring her hands on the soft linen of her apron. “Such a sad story. Lord Sanderson. Alastair was his name. A kind man. I met him myself a few times.”
“Was?”
“Sir?”
“You said it was his name?” Antonio probed impatiently.
Agnes tutted wistfully. “Yes. I suppose he would have passed several years ago now. Amazing how that time has gone.”
“He’s dead?”
“Yes. Cancer. Dreadful sudden, it was. His poor parents were so heartbroken they couldn’t stay in the area. They moved to the Lakes just afterwards.”
Antonio focussed on a point in the wall behind Agnes’s bony shoulder. An odd sensation, something akin to remorse, frothed in his gut. He’d thought she was just a bored society wife, and he’d been wrong. For one thing, she was no longer married. Which meant she was available.
He made a sound of angry frustration, at his own insensitive desire for the woman. How had he gone from hearing she had been widowed to deciding that made her available in the space of three seconds flat? Had he no morals? Apparently not.
With a short nod of dismissal, he moved back into his office and closed the door, so that he didn’t hear Agnes ask if she should continue mopping the floor or not.
Antonio hadn’t felt like himself since learning of his mother’s deceit.
His reaction to Elizabeth was just another example of how off-base he was at the moment.
There was only one course of action to clear his mind.
He needed to open his Ferrari up on the track.
But even the feel of the powerful beast of an engine throttling beneath him, moments later, didn’t shake the strange sense of regret at having been so quick to judge the woman. He revved the car, as always feeling a spike of heavenly adrenalin as it tore through a corner and wound around the inside leg of the custom designed course. The engine sounded like a hungry lion on the prowl as he sped past the starting line and began the second lap.
It was a passion that should have become a career. But his father, or the man he had believed to be his father, had staunchly disapproved. While Antonio didn’t cow tow to many, he had always sought Umberto’s approval, and actively run from his disapproval. So he’d agreed to keep the pursuit as a part-time hobby. But it was his life’s passion, and it wasn’t a conceit to admit that he could have become a champion, had he pursued it fully.
Instead, he’d bought a team, and contented himself with the business machinations of a racing group, instead of the actual victory on the track.
Days later, when the gnawing sense of regret hadn’t eased, he ran his fingers over the business card she’d given him. It was a flatter rectangle than most, lending it an elegance that was appropriate for a woman such as Elizabeth Sanderson. The card itself was a good quality cream, recycled, he’d guess, with silver and turquoise print. There was something beautiful about the card, though he wondered if it was simply that it reminded him of her.
He punched her number into his phone, hard, then switched the speaker phone on and reclined in his chair. To an onlooker, he seemed relaxed and nonchalant, but there was an odd sense of excitement inside of him. It forced him to acknowledge, to himself at least, that he wanted her. Really wanted her.
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