“The storm should clear soon.”
“It won’t. It isn’t blowing out to sea, it’s settling in.”
“How do you know?” She looked towards the ocean so he had a glimpse of her elegant, swan-like neck, the skin there smooth and golden.
“I know.” He gestured to his house once more. “Come and wait it out.”
She looked at him thoughtfully, hesitantly. It was an unusual response. Nico was used to women tripping over themselves to be alone with him, but this woman seemed to be genuinely uncertain.
“It’s a simple neighbourly invitation,” he heard himself promise. “Nothing sinister whatsoever.”
“How do I know that?” Her arched brow held a challenge.
“That I don’t have any nefarious intent?”
“Right.”
“You don’t.” His own grin was unknowingly charming. “You’ll have to trust me.”
“I don’t trust easily.”
Admiration shifted inside of him; he recognised the trait and appreciated it. He’d trusted easily once and it had burned him. He didn’t make a habit of it anymore. “Nor do I.”
Her eyes shone like the sea on a sunlit day but when she spoke, the words were swallowed completely by the storm.
“Better to trust me than this weather,” he shouted to be heard.
She bit down on her lower lip then jumped as another slash of lightning burst through the sky. A few seconds later, the accompanying rumble of thunder burst overhead and a strong wind threatened to blow the hat right off her head.
“Just until it passes.”
“Bene.” He nodded approvingly at her common sense, leading the way back to the house. The timber deck was a little slippery so he held a hand out in an offer of support. She ignored it, side-stepping the boots and Dante’s leash with grace and ease, pausing just inside the door while she looked around. Her eyes spun through the hall and into the living area, which caused him to do the same, viewing it as she must be. It was unmistakably grand. White marble flooring that gave way to walls of glass framing spectacular views of the ocean in one direction and the countryside in the other. A grand piano sat down the far side of the room, and priceless art adorned the walls.
“Nice place to wait out a storm,” she quipped, lifting her hat off and holding it in her hands. Her nails were bare of colour and cut short.
“Grazie.” The door blew closed with a fierce bang before he could catch it and she flinched, whipping around to face him as though he’d purposefully made the noise. “Sorry,” he lifted his hands, her actions reminding him a little of Dante when he’d first inherited the dog and he’d been wary as a default setting.
“What for?” She covered it so quickly that he wondered if he’d invented her response.
“You’re soaking. Let me get you some clothes,” he offered.
“Thank you.”
He was glad she didn’t refuse, because he didn’t really want to argue with her, nor did he want her pneumonia on his conscience. He had only his own clothes to offer and there was a substantial size difference between them. He pulled out a sweater and a pair of board shorts that had a drawstring waist, as well as some socks. When he returned to the lounge room, she was staring at one of the paintings – a landscape of the area that had been done by a well-known impressionist. It had been turned into a print at some point, and was sold all over the world.
Her eyes flicked to his. “I’m making a puddle.”
“Di niente. I have towels.”
Her eyes held his in a way that was compelling and unnerving. “This is beautiful.”
“Si.” He moved towards it. “It captures Ondechiara well.”
She nodded. “It’s the original?”
“Si.”
“Wow.” The word escaped her lips so softly he barely heard it.