Maddie stilled. He’d asked her something similar the first day they’d met and she’d resisted answering. She didn’t want to keep secrets from Nico though. Not more than she had to. “I’d seen a picture.” She lifted her eyes to his face, scanning his handsome features. “A print of the painting you have by your door, actually.”
“Really?” His expression showed surprise. “That’s a coincidence.”
“I guess it’s a well known painting,” she turned away from him, studying the vines. “Anyway, I loved it. From the first moment I saw it I felt…peace. There’s something about it, the colours and atmosphere, it called to me. Like somehow I knew that if I came here everything would be okay.”
“And it wasn’t before?”
Damn him. He read between every single one of her lines. She shook her head slowly.
“But you don’t want to talk about it?”
She lifted her lips into a smile, but it was brief. Distracted.
“I was silly to think it would be a magic bullet. It takes time to move on, and yet every morning, walking by the beach, feeling the sun on my skin, salt water beneath my feet, running my fingers over the hot sand, I’ve begun to feel more and more like myself.” She didn’t add that Nico was a part of that. The pleasure he’d given her had been a balm to her body, a beautiful, necessary restoration.
They walked in silence the rest of the way, through the vines and back to his house. It was late in the afternoon and Maddie was putting off returning to La Villetta, though having spent two full days with him, she suspected they both knew they had to take a break to keep their boundaries strong and enforced.
But it was so tempting to stay one more night and forget about the rest of the world for a little longer.
“Have a glass of wine with me?”
If she was hesitant to leave then he was equally so.
“Only if it’s your viognier…”
“I think that can be arranged.”
A moment later he appeared with two fine crystal glasses, each half-filled with the buttery white wine. She took a sip, her eyes closed so she could focus on each flavour as it burst through her. A small moan escaped her lips. “It’s perfect.”
“I’m glad you think so.” His eyes met hers over the rim of his glass. He took another sip. She matched his gesture and then put her glass down on the table beside her, except she misplaced it ever so slightly and it wobbled, teetering on the edge as if in slow motion. She reached out, but wasn’t quite quick enough. It fell to the ground, smashing into a thousand pieces, the delightful boutique wine spilling over the terracotta tiles.
“You idiot! That was one my favourite glasses. Why didn’t you look what you were doing?”
“I’m sorry, Michael. I must have brushed it with my hand.”
He reached out, grabbing her fingers and bending them backwards so she winced, her face draining of colour. “Clean it up. Now.”
“I’m so sorry.” She fell to her knees and began to push at the pi
eces of glass, tears filling her eyes. “I didn’t see where I put it. I was looking at you. I’m so sorry.”
“Basta. Stop. Immediately.” But she didn’t, because she felt Michael looming over her, watching her clean as he’d had a habit of doing. “Maddie, stop, madre di Dio, you’re going to cut yourself.”
He scooped down, pressing his hands to her arms and lifting her. Sure enough, there were tiny pricks of blood on her fingertips from where shards of glass had scraped against her skin.
“Stop, cara.” His eyes bore into hers and then he lifted her, carrying her away from the wreckage, placing her safely on a chair across the terrace. Her eyes were heavy on the mess she’d made and she found it impossible to stop trembling. “Do you think I care about a glass? About wine? Look at your fingers; they’re scratched, Maddie.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again, because she didn’t know what else to say.
He focussed on the job of cleaning up but his mind was ticking over a number of incidents, cataloguing them and reordering them, factoring in her over the top reaction to a simple slip of the hand now. There was the way she’d asked permission to make a tea on her first day in his home, the way she’d apologised for keeping her tomatoes in the fridge, the way she’d flinched when his front door hand banged shut. She was timid, just like Dante – how often had he thought that? And Dante had been abused in his short life, his previous owners seeing fit to treat him in a way that should have had them thrown into prison.
An angry burst of heat spiralled through him. His eyes flashed with white. But he betrayed nothing with his body language, continuing to clean the broken glass and spilled wine before moving into the kitchen and retrieving her a fresh glass, as well as a damp, clean cloth.
She smiled at him when he returned to the terrace, but her eyes were troubled and her features looked tight.
Certainty gripped at his gut.
“So this guy,” he handed her the wine glass, moving to the railing with an appearance of calm he didn’t feel, lifting one of her hands and wiping it gently with the cloth, checking each fingertip for the tiny shards of glass. “Did you leave him, or did he leave you?”