Italian Escape: Summer with the Millionaire / In the Italian's Sights / Flirting with Italian. Liz Fielding

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      There was no time to talk to Minty alone after the meeting. It wasn’t until Luca’s head of sales had left his office, armed with the relevant information, that Luca was able to catch her. ‘Just a minute, Minty,’ he said, his voice deceptively calm. ‘I just want a quick word.’

      She was already at the door, holding on to the handle as if it were her only hope. As well she might, he thought grimly. Luckily for Minty, several hours had given him the chance to cool down. A little bit.

      ‘Sit down,’ he invited, still silkily calm. For a moment he thought she might defy him, insist on standing just because she could, just because she was Minty Davenport and always had to be contrary. But, after a long moment’s silent contemplation, she folded herself gracefully into a chair, limpid eyes fixed on his.

      He continued to look at her levelly and had the satisfaction of seeing her squirm under his regard. Minty loved a bit of drama; a good argument didn’t faze her at all. But the silent treatment, ignoring her? That had always proved far more effective.

      ‘Gio’s offered to give me a lift back to the house,’ she said at last, caving in, breaking the silence first. ‘He’s going to let me have his keys for now, and he still has your old Fiat, which he’s happy for me to borrow while I’m here. I wouldn’t want to be dependent on you—I mean, I’m sure you would find that annoying.’

      ‘He’s pleased to see you. He always wanted you to be involved.’ The rebuke was subtle but as pointed as he could make it, and by the flush that crept over her cheeks it had hit home.

      Good.

      ‘It’s lovely to see him, although a bit of a shock; he seems so much older.’ An anxious expression shadowed her face. ‘In some ways I barely recognised him. Is he okay?’

      Luca didn’t reply. If she really cared about Gio she would have written. Or phoned, emailed, faxed, texted, tweeted. In this day and age there were no excuses for six years’ silence. She could have hauled her party-going ass onto a plane and come to visit. The righteous anger fuelled him, made it easy to ignore the concern in her eyes.

      ‘I don’t know why you are here or what you want,’ he said finally. ‘Regardless of your little stunt in the boardroom, my conditions still stand. I have your schedule here.’ He passed her a sheet of paper and she took it wordlessly, her blue eyes huge as she stared across at him. She looked tired, vulnerable, every bit the penniless adventurer who had risen at the crack of dawn to try to seek out her fortune.

      She was quite the actress.

      ‘I’m sorry if you didn’t like what I had to say—’ she began. Luca cut her off ruthlessly.

      ‘No you’re not.’

      She blinked at him. ‘Not what?’

      ‘You’re not sorry. Not at all. You wanted to come in here and make a big splash. Minty Davenport wins the day. Your clothes, your hair...’ His words were tumbling out now in anger, frustration, all the negative emotions this dammed woman stirred up in him. ‘It’s just the same as when we were kids. You always had some new role, some new drama. Remember the summer you decided to be an eco-warrior? Lectured us the whole time on our food, our cars, our clothes. Then you turned up again nine months later, clad in leather and guzzling up as much hot water as possible.’

      ‘I was fifteen...’

      ‘Your artist stage,’ he continued ruthlessly. ‘How much did you spend on lessons and supplies? I bet you haven’t picked up a brush in years.’

      ‘That has got nothing to do with—’

      ‘And this is your latest fantasy: running a company, making presentations, wearing a suit and coming into an office every day? Not in my company, Minty. I will not allow my hard work to be a backdrop for your latest role. I will not allow it.’

      When had he risen to his feet? Leant over his desk? Why was it he only lost control of his emotions when she was around? Luca took a deep breath, tried to still the adrenaline swirling around his body, the blood thumping in his ears. She was staring at him, eyes still wide but now with shock. ‘Your points were valid, Minty,’ he said more calmly. ‘If you had come to me earlier, told me your thoughts, I would have listened, incorporated them. We could have gone to the board together with a final plan, costings. You didn’t need to make such a drama out of it. You don’t need to make such a drama out of everything.’

      Were those tears swimming in her eyes? She blinked rapidly and the shine was gone. Maybe he’d imagined it, had seen what he wanted to see.

      She had always played him—as a child, a teenager. It looked like nothing had changed. ‘It ends here,’ he added more calmly. ‘Understand? Or you can leave right away. You have something to say? Talk to me. Work with me. I’m open to suggestion, ask anyone.’

      His eyes continued to bore into her, to pin her down. ‘But if it’s not business then I don’t want to hear it. Gio may be glad you’re back.’ He leaned on his desk, eyes boring into hers. ‘But I’m not. Stay out of my way, Minty. That’s a warning.’

       CHAPTER THREE

      EVERY LIMB WAS HEAVY; her head was not just foggy but filled with a traditional London pea-souper straight from the nineteen-thirties. Minty wasn’t sure she could even stagger down the driveway, let alone open the front door and flop her exhausted body inside when she got there.

      ‘Ciao, Gianni; ciao Alfonso. Grazie; a presto,’ she said, feebly pushing the heavy lorry door shut, managing a small wave at the grinning drivers as she did so. How did they manage to stay awake? And so cheerful. Forty-eight hours of helping to deliver ice cream and other frozen desserts to restaurants, on a circular route that had taken in three countries and given very few opportunities for sleep, had taken every ounce of zest out of her.

      She turned away from the lorry and, on the third attempt, hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and set off along the cypress-tree-lined path that led to the farmhouse.

      Minty had spent every summer in Oschia since she’d turned seven and yet, on evenings like this, with the sunset beginning to turn the countryside red-gold, the landscape still had the power to make her stop and stare, drink it in. It was an idyllic setting.

      The old stone house was positioned in the middle of a row of terraced plateaux that climbed down the hillside. At the top of the hill the small Oschian town clung on precariously. To one side she saw the medieval town walls gleaming gold in the evening sun, the tower of the medieval church jutting high above; in every other direction were a hundred different shades of green, as far as the eye could see.

      It was only a couple of hundred yards down the driveway yet every weary step felt like a mile. Luckily the front door wasn’t locked. Minty didn’t think she was capable of finding her keys, hidden as they were somewhere amongst the tangle of essential toiletries, changes of underwear, sweet wrappers and other items she had considered necessary for her road trip. She turned the big wooden doorknob and almost fell into the large, marble-tiled hallway, dropping her bag with a relieved sigh.

      ‘Honey, I’m home,’ she called out, then sniffed. What was that smell? Onions, garlic, tomatoes, herbs, some kind of fish: the smell of a proper Italian kitchen. Her stomach rumbled painfully. It had been a while since the last food stop. СКАЧАТЬ