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 growled overhead and a strong wind threatened to blow the hat right off her head.
“Just until it passes.”
“Bene.” He nodded approvingly at the resurgence of 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 attention moved through the hall and into the living area, which caused him to do the same, viewing it as if through her eyes. 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.
“That’s very thoughtful of you. Thanks.”
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, before his family’s acquisition, and the replication 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.
“Here. There’s not much but at least it will keep you warm for now.”
“Thanks.” She looked around. “Is there somewhere…?”
“Of course,” he nodded crisply. “The door on the left.” He gestured down the corridor. As she walked towards the powder room, he found his eyes following her without his knowledge, studying the lithe grace of her step, the gentle curve of her rear, her neat waist. He dragged his gaze away with effort, turning his attention to the water she’d leaked onto the marble floor. Grabbing a towel from the linen press, he’d just finished drying it when she returned.
Seeing her dressed in his clothes was his undoing. She was so petite and feminine, she was dwarfed by his shirt, and his socks came halfway up her calves, all wrinkled and thick. Out of nowhere, he imagined the feel of his fabric on her body and his whole body tightened in response. His desire now was no stealth-like whisper. It was a throb, a drum beating intensely in his gut, pulsing through his body in a way that was unsettling, given the promise he’d rendered in order to convince her to take shelter.
“What are you doing so far from la villetta?” His voice was a little unnatural. He silently cleared his throat.
“I told you,” she smiled, her wet clothes clutched in front of her. “Exploring.”
He moved towards her, noting more details up close. She wore no make up – or perhaps she had at some point that day, but it had all been washed off now. She didn’t need cosmetics. She had a beauty that was completely natural, her bone structure so fine, her complexion stunning. She’d towel-dried her hair and pulled it over one shoulder and the size of his shirt meant the fine bones of her décolletage were displayed to him.
“Can these go in the machine?” He gestured to her clothes.
She pulled a face that was borderline teasing. “Yeah. But you don’t need to bother…”
“We’re stuck here til the storm passes. It’s no trouble.”
“If you’re sure.”
He held a hand out by way of acceptance and she placed the clothes in them. The gesture was unconscious but it brought them nearer; up close, there was a hint of citrus surrounding her, as though she’d been kissed by the grove to the east of the house. Her eyes flared wide, as though she too felt this zip of awareness, this hum of need, and neither of them moved for several seconds. They stared at each other so he caught every detail of her response. Her lips parted and her breath was warm, fanning against his Adam’s apple. A hint of colour flared in her cheeks, and the fine pulse point at the base of her throat trembled visibly.
Curiosity strangled him.
“I…” Her voice was soft. She swallowed, as if struggling to grab the threads of her thoughts. “I didn’t realise this was a house. I wouldn’t have encroached on your privacy…”