Bound To The Tuscan Billionaire. Susan Stephens
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same...the scent of blossom coming in through the open window was the same...even the birds carolling in the crisp morning air was reassuringly the same. But everything had changed, because of Marco.
Forget the boss! She should be up and out, and working in the garden by now.
Forget him?
She would forget him, Cass determined—until she threw off the bedclothes, leapt out of bed, and rushed across to the widow, looking for him. Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. Tall, dark strangers with bodies made for sin had never once flown into her life in a sinister black helicopter, demanding that she feed them.
He’d demanded and she’d fed him. Would she handle that situation any better today?
Could anyone handle Marco di Fivizzano?
Opening the shutters, she was just in time to see him stride across the courtyard. He looked better each time she saw him—dangerous and more ruthless, more stand-well-back-unless-you-want-your-fingers-burned, in a really serious way. Especially this morning when, like last night, he’d consigned his city look to history. The men in her fantasies were always rugged and tough, but Marco made her imaginary men seem pathetic. His well-packed jeans and heavy-duty belt added fuel to her already overheated fantasies. There wasn’t a spare inch of flesh on him. In jeans and a chequered shirt with the sleeves rolled back to reveal his powerful forearms, he appeared to be made entirely of hard muscle. And she would have to be made of wood not to wonder what it would be like to be in his bed.
She didn’t have time for this!
Just as well, Cass thought, ducking back behind the window as Marco stared up.
Could he feel her looking at him? Were his animal instincts switched to super-alert this morning? She would have to be more discreet if she stood a chance of keeping this job.
Once she was out of the shower and wrapped in towels, she considered her vast selection of clothes. These amounted to one summer dress, ‘just in case’, a couple of pairs of shorts and half a dozen tops. She’d packed two pairs of jeans and a fleece in case the evenings turned cold...
And why was she taking such trouble over the selection of clothes to garden in?
Any other day and she would have grabbed the first thing to hand—shorts and a clean top. She was working with the soil, not auditioning for the role of the next notch on Marco di Fivizzano’s bedpost.
So what underwear should she choose?
She scanned the unpromising heap.
Something comfortable, obviously! Did it matter, so long as she could work all day and not feel as if she was in danger of splitting her difference?
She chose her biggest knickers and a sports bra that supported her full breasts properly.
Maria and Giuseppe were back, so she dropped in a few casual questions over breakfast. They knew about as much as she did about their boss’s plans for the next few days. Giuseppe mentioned something about a visit to the Fivizzano vineyards to choose some wines for an important party in Rome, but that was the only nugget she managed to glean before she went back to work.
* * *
A few days passed and then a few days more, and she barely caught a glimpse of The Boss. She kept telling herself that this was great—no pressure—but she was always on the lookout for him. She couldn’t help herself. Marco di Fivizzano was a once-in-a-lifetime attraction. She gathered from Maria that he spent a lot of time inspecting his estate. It certainly felt as if she was very much ‘below stairs’, while he was the master of the house, whose daily life was none of her business. There was no common ground between them, no reason for them to meet—but she could dream, Cass consoled herself ruefully as she collected up her tools to go to work.
Dreams were free, and dreams were safe—or they were until Marco emerged from the house. He only had to glance her way for her heart to go crazy. He was formally dressed and had brought up the Lamborghini.
Was he going out on a date?
And why should she care?
Because smart chinos and an ice-blue shirt pointed up his pirate tan?
Lame.
But he’d teamed them with a casual, beautifully tailored taupe coloured linen jacket, and if she could just see his face...
Nope. He had lowered his sunglasses and his expression was hidden from her.
Good. Did she want him to think she was interested?
She returned to digging the trench she had started to protect her seedlings if the rains came. And those rains would come. Straightening up, she tested the air like a hound on point.
Maria had told her that although the house and estate seemed ageless and indestructible to Cass, it was, in fact, as vulnerable to the elements as any other ancient structure. The path of the river had changed over the centuries and it now presented a danger to the house. Maria had also said that in the fierce storm of 2014 trees had been uprooted and the river had flooded its banks. It was unusually still today...ominously so. Even the birds had stopped singing. She noticed Marco was also glancing at a sky tinged with acid yellow and streaked with angry clouds. She wondered briefly if he’d remembered an umbrella, and then accepted with a grin that men like Marco di Fivizzano never got wet because divine alchemy would ensure that rainclouds blew away from him.
So it fell on poor saps like me, Cass reflected wryly as she thrust her spade vigorously into the moistly yielding earth.
* * *
She was doing it again—driving him crazy with that ripe, mud-streaked body. No other woman had ever come close to affecting him the way she did. He doubted any of them had ever held a spade. They certainly didn’t possess Cassandra’s nonchalance when it came to using her body to the fullest. She was a very physical woman...and complex. How could she be otherwise with her past? He’d read every newspaper article he could find detailing the horrific tragedy. He knew how badly she’d been neglected until her godmother had adopted her. The media had speculated, as he was bound to, on how her parents’ debauched lifestyle might have affected a young girl. His need for caution when it came to women was heading for overdrive where his new young gardener was concerned.
But since when had he been a cautious man?
Gunning the engine of his Lamborghini, he glanced across the garden to where Cassandra was swinging her spade. Her top looked as if it had shrunk in the wash and revealed inches of taut, tanned belly. He imagined dropping kisses on that smooth, silky skin and then working his way down—or up. Either way would be a pleasure for him.
He powered out of the gates, trying to distract himself from thoughts of Cassandra by thinking about all the other women he could have—maybe should have—brought along to entertain him while he was in Tuscany. Women were always eager to share his Tuscan bed, because they knew it was his private retreat, which gave it added mystery. He could think of several cute women who made him laugh—until he tired of their endless quips. There were clever women who challenged him—and gave him earache, he remembered, and beautiful women who could capture his attention and hold it for a night, but no longer. They all wanted the same thing—that his power would rub off on them, and, after that, money and sex. He had even identified a few women who would make ideal wives, but he doubted they could dig a trench, let alone turn that horticultural activity into a pornographic work of art.
Casandra’s bare limbs gleamed with effort as they would after sex, and his groin tightened at he watched her thrusting her spade into the soil. She was giving it everything she’d got, as he imagined she would in bed.
* * *
Why was Marco staring at her? Cass wondered as he sped away in a storm of dust and gravel.
Why was she staring at him?
He was probably just checking she was doing her work, she reasoned sensibly. And she wouldn’t look at him ever again.
That was what you said the last time.