In the Italian's Sights. HELEN BROOKS
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Italian names were so beautiful, so romantic.
‘Cherry?’
He frowned slightly and she found herself wondering what colour his eyes were behind the dark glasses. Brown, she guessed. Or deep ebony. Possibly hazel. She’d seen quite a few Italians with hazel eyes over the last days.
‘Like the fruit?’ he asked softly.
She inclined her head. ‘My mother apparently had a craving for cherries all the time she was carrying me, and so…’ She’d often thought she ought to be grateful it hadn’t been bananas or strawberries. She didn’t add that her second name was Blossom—something her mother had thought extremely witty at the time, apparently, but which had caused her to be endlessly teased at school. Parents never seemed to think of things like that.
‘You do not like your name?’ he said, in response to her tone of voice. ‘I think it is charming.’
He took off his glasses as he spoke and she saw she’d been wrong about his eyes. They were grey. A deep, smoky grey framed by thick curly lashes that might have looked feminine on a less masculine man but on him were positively spellbinding.
‘So, Cherry, I think we have established your little car is going nowhere for the present. Is there someone you wish to call to come and pick you up? Your parents, perhaps?’
Before she had considered her words, she replied, ‘I’m not here with anyone.’ Then wished she’d bitten her tongue.
The beautiful eyes narrowed. ‘No?’ He was clearly shocked. ‘You are a trifle young to be abroad on your own.’
Same old syndrome. He clearly thought she was just out of gymslips. ‘I am twenty-five,’ she said crisply. ‘More than old enough to go where I want, when I want.’ She could see she had surprised him. But then to be fair, she reasoned, today—with her hair loose and tousled, and dressed in old cotton trousers and a baggy T-shirt—she looked even younger than usual.
He recovered almost immediately. ‘You clearly have good genes,’ he said smoothly. ‘My grandmother is the same.’
Cherry found she didn’t like being compared with his grandmother, although she couldn’t have said why.
‘You have the number of the hire company?’ he said practically.
She nodded. It was in her bag, with her passport and other papers. It took her a minute or two to dig it out. She found she was all fingers and thumbs with those grey eyes trained on her. Eventually she had it. The number was engaged.
‘No matter.’ It was impatient. ‘You can try again from the house. What do you need to bring with you?’
‘The house?’ She was doing the parrot thing again.
‘Si, my house. You cannot stay here.’
She wasn’t going anywhere with him. ‘Look, I’m sorry I’m blocking your road,’ she said quickly, ‘but once I get through to the hire company they can send someone to collect the car and give me a different one. Is—is there another way for you to get out?’ she finished hopefully.
He didn’t answer this. What he did say—and with an air of insulting patience—was, ‘It could be hours before you are in a position to leave, Cherry. They may not have another vehicle available or be in a position to collect this one. It might be tomorrow before this can be arranged. Do you intend to spend the night in the car?’
That was infinitely preferable to spending it in his house. ‘I wouldn’t dream of imposing on you,’ she said stiffly. ‘I’m sure I can find a small hotel or guest house somewhere close.’
The grey gaze took in her bulging suitcase and the equally bulging shoulder bag. ‘It could be a long hot walk,’ he said silkily, ‘with nothing at the end of it. I would not recommend putting yourself in such an unnecessarily vulnerable position when there is no need.’
No need was relative. The way he’d said her name, in that delicious accent, and the fact that he was easily the most attractive man she’d seen since she couldn’t remember when, as well as being the most arrogant, was acutely disturbing. It was ridiculous, but the sooner she was well clear of Vittorio Carella the better she’d feel.
On the other hand the suitcase weighed a ton, the sun was beating down, and once she was clear of the Carella estate she’d be at the mercy of any Tom, Dick or Harry she happened to meet. Or the Italian equivalent. ‘I’ll try the number again,’ she prevaricated. It was still engaged.
Vittorio was leaning against the car’s little bonnet, his arms folded and the sunglasses in place once more. She wondered how such an outwardly relaxed stance could express so much irritation. He clearly relished this situation as little as she did. Forcing herself to speak calmly, she said, ‘Perhaps if I could take advantage of your hospitality for an hour or two while I sort things out?’
‘Of course.’ Within moments he had transferred the luggage to the Ferrari, locking the Fiat and then opening the passenger door of his car for her to slide in.
Conscious that she was riding in a Ferrari for the first—and probably the last—time in her life, Cherry sank down in the cream leather seat. The car was sleek and magnificent—much like its owner, Cherry thought with a touch of hysteria. When he joined her in the car her senses went into overdrive. The muscled body was big, he was wearing an aftershave which was sex in a bottle, the gold Rolex on one tanned wrist shouted wealth and authority, and she had never felt so out of her depth in all her life. It was an acutely uncomfortable sensation.
‘OK?’ He glanced at her as the car’s engine purred into life like a big cat, and then they were travelling backwards far too fast—in Cherry’s opinion, at least—there being no room to turn round in the narrow, dusty road.
Her heart in her throat, she watched the drystone walls flash past and prayed she’d live to see another day. He was a madman. He had to be. Or a racing driver? No, a madman.
It was another few minutes before a passing place in the road enabled Vittorio to turn the car round in the most perfectly executed three-point turn Cherry had ever seen, and by then she had realised Vittorio wasn’t a madman—just the best driver she had ever come across. It was as though he was part of the powerful machine as he handled the Ferrari with a skill which was breathtaking. But then if anyone should be at home in a Ferrari it was an Italian.
‘You—you like driving?’ she croaked out once they were facing the right way and she’d managed to unclench her hands.
‘Si,’ he agreed easily as the car leapt forward. ‘It is one of the pleasures of life that carries no sting in the tail.’
She would have asked him what he meant by that, but she’d just caught sight of the incredible house in the distance, nestled within an expanse of century-old olive groves. She had found since being in the region that this land of olive groves and vineyards, surrounded on all sides by a balmy if slightly craggy coastline, held whitewashed buildings on the whole, which glistened in the sunshine. The house they were approaching was built of a honey-colored stone, however, its pale walls glowing in the afternoon sun and its grey stone roof benign and tranquil. Balconies, bright with trailing bougainvillaea, surveyed the olive groves with sleepy ambience, and several large pine trees stood as sentinels either side of the sprawling building.
‘Casa Carella,’ Vittorio drawled lazily, noticing her rapt gaze. ‘One of my ancestors built the main house in the seventeenth century and subsequent Carellas have added to it.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ she breathed softly. As they came closer she could see just how beautiful. And how large and imposing.
Vittorio brought the Ferrari to a stop and smiled as he turned to face her. She wondered if he knew how that smile affected the opposite sex and then decided that of course he did.
‘Grazie.’ His eyes moved from her face to the languid villa. ‘I, too, think my home is beautiful and have never wished to live anywhere else.’