Last of the Summer Vines: Escape to Italy with this heartwarming, feel good summer read!. Romy Sommer
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the room appeared reasonably clean, and the bed was freshly made, with new bedding; grey and masculine-looking pillows and duvet.
Kicking off my shoes, I climbed under the duvet, pulled it up over my head, and let sleep take me away – away from the strangeness of Italy, this silent house and its memories, back to the only place I’d ever felt truly at home: that sixth floor corner office in Cheapside from which I’d been banned for four interminable months.
When I woke, disoriented, and with my empty stomach complaining, reminding me I hadn’t eaten anything since the quickie pain au chocolat and coffee in the airport that morning, the room was in pitch darkness. Silence reverberated in my ears. No distant hum of traffic, no muted sounds of the neighbours’ telly, none of the small, comforting sounds of my housemates moving in the house. I couldn’t remember when last I’d felt so utterly alone. Probably not since the last time I was in this house.
Somewhere in the house something creaked, and I shot up off the bed.
The castello felt very big and very empty. How far away were the nearest neighbours? Was there anyone else on the property at night, any workers, or a night watchman? Would anyone hear if I screamed for help? I hadn’t thought to ask Luca.
Barefoot, I tiptoed to the bedroom door and pressed my ear against it, but there were no other sounds. The door squeaked as I opened it, making me jump.
This is stupid. You’re a grown woman. You’re a competent, successful, twenty-first-century woman who can take care of herself. And I was hungry.
The kitchen hadn’t seemed so far away when I was a kid. I made my way down through the darkened house, not switching on any lights. Even if I could remember where the switches were, I didn’t want to turn myself into a target on the off-chance there was an intruder.
The vast kitchen with its high-beamed ceiling was eerily full of looming shadows, and the yellow lamplight spilling from the single overhead lamp did nothing to dispel the gloom. I filled the electric kettle, then rinsed out the teapot to brew a fresh pot. But tea wasn’t going to be enough to silence my grumbling stomach. Had the considerate person who’d left milk and made up my bed also left food?
There was nothing in the kitchen itself, but John always loved biscuits with his tea. That would be better than nothing. So I headed into the pantry, and was still groping for the light switch when I heard a sound that turned my veins to ice. I froze. The outer kitchen door creaked open.
The wind blowing open an unlatched door? Ghosts?
But it was worse than ghosts. The high-pitched creak turned into an ominously final bang as the door shut again, and then there were heavy, booted footsteps across the kitchen floor.
My heart leapt into my throat. It was beating so hard, I was sure I was at serious risk of a coronary. Forget the stress of a corporate job. This was a million times worse.
With my heart thudding loudly enough against my ribs that the intruder could probably hear it on the other side of the pantry door, I clung to the door handle, steadying myself, relieved to be hidden here in the pitch dark. With my free hand, I groped behind me, and my fingers hit cold iron, rounding on a solid, heavy handle.
The door handle twisted unexpectedly beneath my fingers and I squealed, louder even than the handle had, giving myself away.
The pantry door swung open, and all my blood drained to my toes.
‘Sarah?’ He was a big man, tall, broad-shouldered, and built like a bouncer.
He reached past me, and I flinched back, swinging with all my might just as the tiny pantry flooded with cold white light.
In the moment before my weapon connected with solid flesh, I glimpsed the intruder. He was dark-haired, bearded, and terrifying. He grunted and staggered back, clutching his head.
‘What the hell?!’ His accent was thick, not immediately traceable, but he spoke in English without even thinking, I noted, as I gripped the heavy metal object close to my chest.
And he knew my name. Oh heavens.
Probably not a burglar after all.
The man glowered at me, still holding his head. ‘Why are you hiding in here?’
‘I wasn’t hiding. I was looking for biscuits.’
‘In the dark?’ He removed his hand from his forehead and there was a streak of blood on his fingers, and even more on his brow where a long gash oozed.
‘You’re bleeding!’
He scowled. ‘Of course I am. You’re lucky I’m not bloody unconscious, or worse.’
I glanced at the weapon in my hand. I held an old-fashioned iron for pressing clothes, one of those solid antique cast-iron types that opened up to place hot coals inside. A formidable weapon indeed. ‘I am so sorry! I thought you were a burglar.’
He moved to lean against the scarred Formica kitchen counter, as if unable to stand without help, and I hurried to his side to offer support, even though I still felt as shaky as a budding spring leaf.
He brushed me away, irritable. ‘How can I be a burglar when I live here?’
‘You live here?’ Oops. Luca hadn’t mentioned anyone living here. I took a wild guess. ‘You’re Tommaso?’
‘Of course. Who else would I be?’ he snapped. I could hardly blame him for his surliness. The blood was trickling now down his temple, and his face was paler than it had been when he’d loomed over me in the pantry door.
I felt a tad pale too. The bedding upstairs was masculine. Had I pulled a Goldilocks and slept in Baby Bear’s bed? Not that this man could be remotely confused with a baby bear. More like a great big, angry Papa Grizzly.
Until he swayed on his feet.
‘You need to sit.’ I set down the old iron and pulled out a chair from the kitchen table. Casting me another annoyed glance, he slid into it. Satisfied that at least he wasn’t likely to collapse on the floor, I hurried to the cracked sink and wet a tea towel, which I used to dab at his forehead until the blood stopped trickling and the wound looked relatively clean. Thankfully it was a shallow cut and shouldn’t need stitches. I just hoped the iron wasn’t rusty enough to cause an infection. ‘You’ll need antiseptic and a band aid, to keep the cut clean. Where will I find them?’
‘Under the kitchen sink.’
I found a first aid box under the sink and set it on the kitchen table, rooting through its jumbled contents for band aids and antiseptic. He flinched when I dabbed iodine on the cut but didn’t make a sound. Done at last, I moved back to the kettle and set it going again. I needed tea more than ever. In fact, I could do with a shot of brandy, but I wasn’t brave – or stupid – enough to ask my host where to find his liquor cabinet.
‘Tea?’ I offered, bringing the filled teapot and two mismatched cups to the table.
‘Yes, please.’
While I poured, I sneaked a surreptitious look. He wasn’t as old as the beard had at first made him appear, nor quite as rough and threatening as he’d first seemed. His thick hair was long, almost to his shoulders, though not as shaggy as I’d first thought.
But even if he wasn’t a terrifying burglar, he still wasn’t Baby Bear. He was the rightful owner of this castello, I was his guest, and probably a very unwelcome one at that – now more than ever.
‘Shall we start over?’ I infused as much good cheer into my voice as my still jittery nerves could manage. ‘I’m Sarah Wells, John’s daughter, and I’m very grateful you’re letting me stay in the house.’
He said nothing, just eyed me with a cool, grey gaze that was more than a little hostile. Okay, so I wasn’t going to get the red carpet rolled out for me any time soon.
I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘Luca didn’t tell me you were living in the house.’
He