* * *
Rose would have jumped ten feet in the air if Zac hadn’t been holding onto her hand and looking at her as if she’d just stolen the Crown Jewels. Shock and fright at his sudden and overwhelming proximity made her yank her injured hand back and place it under the cold water again.
‘I just burnt my hand on a baking tray. I was making dinner... Maria left me instructions.’
Thankfully Zac was no longer touching her, but he was still too close and all but breathing fire down her neck.
She wasn’t prepared to see him like this. She’d been vacillating all day between telling herself that she had to be honest with Zac now, in light of what he’d revealed, and then remembering the signed contract and its non-disclosure agreement, and her father...still so vulnerable.
She couldn’t trust Zac—no matter what he’d told her. He hated her so much... Why wouldn’t he take an opportunity to punish her by allowing her father to suffer? Even though deep down she suspected that he couldn’t possibly hurt an innocent person, still it was too great a risk.
‘Maria left you to cook dinner? She usually just leaves food in the fridge.’
Water splashed from the tap onto Rose’s dress and she was very aware of her casual attire and bare feet next to his suited glory. He must have been in business meetings...
She struggled to focus. ‘I told her I’d look after it— I wanted to try her lasagne recipe.’
She felt embarrassed now—exposed. As if it might be obvious that she’d been indulging in an extended version of that illicit little daydream she’d had, pretending that this was her home and she was cooking for people who loved her. This wasn’t her home and never would be. This was just a relocation of her gilded prison.
‘Is your hand okay?’
Zac’s voice broke through her fevered recriminations. She lifted it out from under the water and could see that the red was dying down to a faintly throbbing pink line. She turned off the tap. ‘It’ll be fine. The lasagne is almost cooked, if you want some—’
‘I didn’t bring you here to be my cook, Rose.’
She wrapped a damp towel around her hand and glared at him, hating his effect on her. ‘I know exactly why I’m here, Zac. I like cooking and I was making dinner for myself—and possibly you if you wanted it—that’s all.’
His eyes swept over her in a searing glance and she felt every particle of her skin prickle in reaction. And then he backed away, almost as if something about her was contagious. No doubt she presented a pretty picture: sweaty, burnt, smelling of food...
‘I’ve got tickets to the opera in Siena this evening. You eat, and we’ll leave in an hour.’
Rose opened her mouth to reject Zac’s non-offer, but he was already walking away from her before she could respond. And then she thought mutinously: Hang Zac Valenti. For whatever reason, he was offering her a night at the opera. She wouldn’t let him ruin a chance for her to get out and see more of this amazing country.
And as for her ridiculous daydreams of cooking for loved ones...? Well, cooking for one wasn’t so bad, and the rest of the lasagne would freeze well.
The fact that this brought back painful memories of the period after her mother’s death, when her father had taken to working late in order to avoid coming back to the house that reminded him of his wife’s absence, wasn’t so welcome. Because Zac Valenti was the last person who should be inspiring feelings of want
ing to nourish and connect.
* * *
Zac had expected some equanimity to be restored once he’d got out of that kitchen and away from all the delicious smells of home cooking, and the even more tantalising and earthy image of Rose, fairly glowing with a kind of erotic domesticity that Zac had never encountered before.
He could remember stumbling into the kitchen of his grandparents’ house one day when he’d been about six and looking around in wonder at this alien place full of delicious smells and people and things. Until his nanny had come and scolded him for wandering off. That had literally been the first time he’d seen a kitchen.
For Rose to unlock some dark, repressed erotic kitchen fantasy was disturbing in the extreme.
He’d only invited her to the opera to shatter that image of her in the kitchen. Anything to put her back in an environment where he’d feel more in control.
But in spite of his best efforts, a sense of control eluded him. Rose sat beside him in the VIP section of Siena’s stunning opera house. It had undergone massive reconstruction in recent years—thanks to a major investment from him—and now the roof was open to the elements and the moon lit up the stage as the opera Tosca was performed.
Rose was wearing a black silk dress. The neckline was scooped, showing what appeared to Zac to be acres of soft pale cleavage, and then it fell from under her bust to the floor. Short capped sleeves drew the eye to her toned upper arms. On any other woman Zac would suspect they came from hours being honed at a gym, but he knew she’d earned them from hours of arduous menial work. As much as he’d prefer to think of her as being lazy or idle, he couldn’t fault her that.
For the first time, Zac had to admit to understanding a sliver of why someone like Rose might seize on a chance to get out of her situation. Yet he still hadn’t seen evidence of someone who was overly avaricious or greedy.
She’d refused to tell him anything about her agreement with his grandmother, so he had no way to know what she’d been promised. If she told him then he could negotiate. On the other hand, if she wanted to pit him against Jocelyn wouldn’t she have told him everything? Perhaps she’d been offered such a huge amount of money that she genuinely believed he couldn’t top it?
The circling questions irritated him intensely, because he was a man who dealt in knowns. Not unknowns. And worse than the questions circling in his head was the burning awareness of her. Her scent...those curves, more pronounced with her pregnancy. And this primal thing he felt—stronger every time now when he saw her belly. Mine.