Modern Romance February 2020 Books 5-8. Natalie Anderson

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      Tonino, Orla decided, was some kind of mind guru. For the third time in two days he’d steamrollered her into doing something she’d thought she would never agree to, in this case, leaving Finn with the duty nurse and letting him take her out to dinner.

      He’d had those powers over her from the beginning. When he’d knocked on her hotel door four years ago and asked if he could take her out for coffee the next morning, the automatic refusal that had formed on her tongue had turned into a beaming, ‘I would like that.’

      She hated that the same excitement thrummed through her veins as it had then. She hated that she’d found herself trying over and over to capture the memories of them making love. And she hated that whenever she caught Tonino’s gaze, his knowing glimmer suggested he knew exactly what she was thinking.

      She especially hated that she’d spent an age getting ready. This was not a date. This was dinner. A chance for them to talk with privacy about how they were going to manage the future. She’d still spent an inordinate amount of time dithering over what to wear. In the end she’d settled on a pretty long-sleeved rust-coloured blouse and smart, fitted navy trousers, the two items separated by a chunky belt. She’d forgone her usual flat shoes for a pair of black heels. Outfit decided on, she’d then spent an even longer amount of time dithering over how to wear her hair and how much make-up to apply. She’d ended up leaving her hair loose and applying a little eyeliner and mascara, a touch of blusher and a nude lipstick. Dressed up but not overdone. There was no way Tonino could look at her and think she was dressing to attract him.

      And yet, the appreciation in his eyes when she’d greeted him at the front door had almost had her running back up the stairs to change into a nun’s habit. Only the fact that she didn’t actually possess a nun’s habit had stopped her.

      ‘Where are we going?’ she asked when she realised they’d left the city and were driving through Ireland’s beautiful countryside. That was one thing she missed about her old home in Kerry—the scenery. The home she’d spent her life in had backed onto forest. They had awoken every morning to the sound of birds chirruping. Now she awoke to the sounds of cars hooting impatiently at each other.

      ‘You will see.’

      Soon they’d turned up a narrow road lined with woodland. A mile later, the trees thinned and somehow curved into an arch to reveal a sprawling stone structure and immaculately kept sweeping gardens artfully filled with stone and marble benches and ornaments, a vast beautiful pond filled with waterlilies and with a wooden bridge traversing it. Dotted around the main structure were small cottages…

      Her heart fluttered with excitement as she asked the question she already knew the answer to. ‘Is this Bally House?’ The pictures she had seen did not do it justice. It was like driving into a magical fairy tale.

      His answering smile was definitely smug. ‘Sì.’

      The driver pulled up in the large courtyard. As she climbed out, Orla noticed with a pang the young couple holding hands as they walked slowly over a meandering path, oblivious to anyone but each other under the setting sun.

      Her fingers felt as if they’d had magnets inserted into the tips, pulling them towards Tonino’s hands. She folded her arms across her chest and rammed her hands between her sides and her arms.

      They stepped into a large reception area. Three people working at the desk clocked their entrance and, in unison, straightened. The shortest of them, a middle-aged woman, hurried over to greet them.

      ‘Would you like a drink in the bar or to go straight to your table?’ she asked.

      ‘We’ll go straight to our table,’ Tonino replied. ‘Thank you, Lorna.’

      He’d been there one night. How could he be on first-name terms with the hotel staff already? Orla wondered in amazement. And, as she followed him over polished-oak flooring through a warren of further reception rooms filled with artful antique furniture and dark leather sofas, she wondered how he knew his way around so well. Did he have an inbuilt satnav?

      When they reached the huge dining room, the maître d’ greeted Tonino by name and bowed his head respectfully to Orla before leading them to a corner table.

      Exposed stone walls, giant fireplaces and thick carpet all drove the feeling of the finest of luxury and yet the restaurant managed to contain the rustic appeal of its setting within it. Each table was set with its own candelabra and she counted six chandeliers hanging from the beamed ceiling.

      ‘Your casement of wine arrived this afternoon,’ the maître d’ said as he placed leather-bound menus before them. ‘Shall I bring you a bottle of it?’

      ‘Yes, and anything Miss O’Reilly wants.’

      ‘Just still water for me, please,’ she said.

      ‘Very good.’ With another bow, the maître d’ turned on his heel and vanished.

      Immediately, Orla stopped pretending to read her menu and leaned forward to ask conspiratorially, ‘You had your own wine delivered here?’

      He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Do you remember that business trip to Tuscany I took four years ago?’

      ‘On my last day in Sicily?’ An image flashed in her head of her sitting on the steps of her father’s villa. She’d been waiting…

      Waiting for what?

      Tonino nodded. ‘I went to see a run-down monastery ripe for conversion.’

      The image disappeared. Orla swallowed moisture into her dry throat. ‘Oh?’

      ‘I bought it. I converted it into a hotel and spa and turned the land into a vineyard. Our first wine bottles have just been produced.’

      ‘That’s what you’ve had delivered here?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Wow. I’d heard the management here tried to cater to all their guests’ whims but allowing you to have a crate of your own wine…’

      ‘I’m the management, Orla.’

      Confusion creased her brow.

      ‘I bought Bally House three years ago.’ Tonino had no idea why he held his breath after this confession.

      A long time passed where all Orla did was stare at him with open-mouthed shock. Then she leaned forward. ‘You own Bally House? But how? Why? When we met you’d never been to Ireland.’

      ‘The way you described your country intrigued me. When Bally House came up for sale, the details were sent to me—I have scouts who look worldwide for investment opportunities—I visited, saw its potential and put an offer in.’

      The maître d’ returned to the table with the wine bottle in hand. A waiter followed with a bottle of still water.

      ‘Try some of the wine,’ Tonino urged. ‘Please. I would like to hear your thoughts.’

      She pulled a forlorn face. ‘Alcohol СКАЧАТЬ