Summer Romance With The Italian Tycoon. Jessica Gilmore
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village square, with the church at one end and the magnificent wooden town hall at the other, passing through the narrow streets on autopilot. It wasn’t until she found herself back on the lake path that Maddie realised that she’d missed the turning, which took her around the back of the castle and in through the discreet staff exit, and instead she was heading towards the much grander—and private—gated driveway. She stopped, irresolute. It would take longer for her to turn around and go the right way and it wasn’t as if staff were actually forbidden from using the main entrance.
The fact this path would take her past the small cove where the mystery man was bathing had nothing to do with her decision to carry on. She focused on the path ahead, determined not to look to the right at any point, yet unable to stop her gaze sliding lakewards, just a little, as she approached the cove.
Nothing. No one. No piles of clothes. No bathers. Just a small curve of sand and the water.
That couldn’t be disappointment tightening in her chest, could it? Because that would be ridiculous. If things had come to such a pass that voyeurism was how she was getting her admittedly very few kicks then maybe she should just admit defeat and start creating memes of kittens.
Putting her head down, Maddie trudged determinedly on, only to stop with a shocked gasp as she ran straight into something hard. Something that emitted an audible ‘oof’ as her head rebounded off it. Maddie stepped back, embarrassed heat flooding her as she looked up, an apology spilling from her lips, only for the words to dry up as she looked into a pair of steely blue eyes. Eyes fixed directly on her.
‘Trovi bella la veduta?’ the owner of the eyes enquired sharply.
Maddie spoke fluent Italian, but every word she had ever known deserted her. ‘I... I’m sorry?’ She cringed as her words emerged, brisk and clear and so utterly English she sounded like Lady Bracknell opining on handbags.
‘I asked,’ and she cringed further as the man switched to perfect English, ‘if you were enjoying the view?’
Oh, no—oh, absolutely no way was this happening. Maddie stepped back and took in the man properly. Tall, dark-haired, looked as if he was sporting a decent pair of shoulders under the white linen shirt, hair ruffled and still wet. Still wet...
The swimmer.
* * *
Dante raised an eyebrow, but the slim, blonde woman didn’t say anything further, fixing her gaze firmly on the second button of his shirt. He raked her up and down assessingly—tall, with a willowy grace when she wasn’t running into people—her long, silky blonde hair twisted into a smooth ponytail. She didn’t look like one of the wedding guests who trooped through the castle gates with clockwork regularity to swill Prosecco and party into the early hours, rarely taking the time to notice the exquisite setting, but who else could she be? So few tourists found their way to the small San Tomo lake, most preferring the well-trodden loveliness of the more famous Garda and Como or to head deeper into the mountains.
The woman’s pale cheeks flushed a deep rose-pink as she finally lifted her head and met his gaze full-on. Her own gaze was steady, strengthened by a pair of cool grey eyes which reminded Dante of the lake on a winter’s day; almost silver, tinged with a darkness that spoke of hidden depths.
‘I wasn’t looking where I was going—please forgive me,’ she said, her voice clear and bell-like.
‘Distracted, maybe? The views can quite take one’s breath away.’ He allowed a knowing intonation to creep into his voice but, although her colour heightened, her expression stayed cool.
‘The mountains are magnificent, aren’t they? I can’t imagine ever taking them for granted, ever not being overawed.’
‘Glad to hear they’ve made an impression, signorina...’ He paused and waited, watching her torn between good manners and reluctance to prolong the conversation.
‘Fitzroy, Madeleine Fitzroy.’ She smiled then, the kind of polite smile which was clearly a dismissal. ‘I am so sorry again. It was nice to meet you.’ And with that she turned and walked away, back along the path. A calm, collected walk as if she was not at all flustered. Dante stayed still for a moment, enjoying the sway of her hips, the curve of her waist, set off by her neat linen shift dress.
The ping of his phone reminded him of his duties. He couldn’t stand here for ever, no matter how pretty the view. Tomorrow he would go for a long hike, up into the mountains, just as he had when he was a boy. But today he needed to catch up with paperwork, get to know any new staff who had started in the last few months, settle back into the castle after far too many months since his last fleeting visit.
The woman had disappeared around the curve of the lake path and Dante set off in the same direction. The path was as familiar as his own reflection, memories around every turn. Even now, after all these years, after all these regrets, he had to stop the moment Castello Falcone came fully into view. Had to admire the way the natural stream had been diverted to create a continuous cascade through fountains and ponds to fall down the terraced slopes. Appreciate how the natural and formal so seamlessly blended together in the landscaped gardens—and, rising above it all, the many spires of Castello Falcone. The setting was more fairy-tale than any movie-set designer could imagine, centuries of scandal and secrets locked up inside those walls. His own included.
His phone pinged again, this time telling him he had a call, and he pulled it from his pocket, frowning. He’d promised Arianna he’d try and take a break this summer, but he could never truly switch off. Too much rested on him. He flipped the phone over, his mood lightening when he saw his sister’s name on the screen, mentally calculating the time difference. It must be midnight in New Zealand.
‘Ciao, Luciana. E tutto okay?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
Dante suppressed a smile at the familiar voice. After a decade on the other side of the world his sister had an accent that was a unique mixture of her native Italian and a New Zealand twang, and she usually spoke English, even to him, liberally strewn with Italian endearments and curses. His chest tightened. How he wished she were closer, were here to help him raise Arianna.
‘It’s late,’ he pointed out mildly. ‘I’m surprised to hear from you, that’s all.’
‘I just want to make sure that you’re okay, mio fratello. Are you at the castello?’
‘Arrived this morning,’ Dante confirmed as he resumed his walk up the sweeping driveway, reaching one of the sets of stone steps flanking the terraces. ‘Arianna’s au pair will bring her along in a couple of days when I’ve made sure everything is ready.’
‘Good; it’s time she returned there. It’s not healthy to keep away. For either of you.’
Dante did his best to bite back his curt reply, but the words escaped regardless. ‘Her mother died thanks to the treacherous mountain roads. I was on the other side of the world. Arianna was left all alone...’
‘The roads didn’t kill Violetta,’ his sister cut in. She knew her cue; after all, they’d had this conversation more times than Dante could remember. ‘The mountains didn’t kill her...not even the ice on the road was responsible. It was the driver of the car she was in. It was the drink and drugs. Arianna was safe enough with her nanny, with all the rest of the staff. Stop torturing yourself, Dante. It’s been over five years.’
Over five years? What did years matter when the end result was the same? His daughter left motherless, his wife’s death a dark stain on his soul.
‘I know how long it’s been, Ciana.’ How long to the day, to the hour. Just as he knew how unhappy his wife had been. How, once she’d got over the initial excitement at living in a castle, she’d felt caged in by the mountains, isolated by San Tomo’s remote location, how much she resented him for travelling so much, working so much—although that work paid for her extravagant lifestyle. That unhappiness, that resentment, that isolation had killed her—and Dante knew exactly who was to blame.
It