‘Not from Lasserno—ergo, a tourist.’
He crossed his arms. Her golden gaze followed the move and a pleasant warmth seemed to glow in his chest, a balm against the cold outside. Clearly the grappa was finally doing its job. He might even be able to remove his sweater soon.
He ran his finger around the neck. Its wool was suddenly overheating him, even in the bitter breeze.
The woman—Lucille—bit into her plump bottom lip. That warm glow inside him ignited and caught fire. Those perfect white teeth were torturing her delicate flesh. He saw how it blanched a pale rose, then flushed into something darker. It must sting, what she was doing... How he’d like to soothe it for her...
‘I sent a letter. Since you don’t have a public email...which is very old school and kind of like my grandfather was...but I suppose you do live in a castle.’
His head spun at the tumble of words spilling from her unchecked, but he understood one of them loud and clear. Had she said he was like hergrandfather? Something about that comparison punctured an ego he hadn’t realised he still possessed. Stefano couldn’t understand the sensation at all. She looked young and, sure, at thirty-one he might be a little bit older. But why did it matter to him?
He didn’t dwell on it. She wouldn’t be here long enough for him to need to, or care.
‘I have received no letter, Signorina Jamieson.’ Though a small stack of mail, including some official and ignored pieces of correspondence from the palace,didsit in a drawer of his desk. He was waiting for an opportune time to open them, because pieces of correspondence like that never contained good news... ‘You must leave. There’s apensionein the village where you can stay.’
A flurry of snow fell behind her, soft and white. The narrow roads here would soon become treacherous for anyone inexperienced in driving on them.
He’d loved snow as a child, until he’d realised the danger when you didn’t pay careful attention. If he hadn’t found Emilia that dark night long ago, when she’d run away to catch a last glimpse of their mother in her fairy-tale gown on the way to yet another ball, he’d have lost his younger sister for ever...
That was the moment he decided that if his parents weren’t going to care for his siblings, he had to.
‘I’m booked in there, but there’s been some mix-up and they aren’t ready for me. The owner told me to go sightseeing for a while, and drive towards the castle since they knew I was looking to come here...eventually.’
Her mouth began to tremble now, but her eyes remained clear and warm. No hint of tears. He’d know if there were. Celine had given him enough whenever she hadn’t got her own way for him to recognise the early signs. Signorina Jamieson’s shoulders had slumped again, like a plant wilting for lack of water. Then her gaze drifted behind him with a look almost like pain. Her eyes wide with longing.
‘Please. M-my car b-broke down. I’ve w-walked a l-long way and it’s s-started s-snowing.’
Her teeth were chattering. This woman, Lucille Jamieson, was cold, and he knew how dangerous hypothermia was if it set in. He gritted his teeth, a curdle of dissatisfaction stewing in his gut. No matter how little he wanted this stranger in his home, he couldn’t send her away with no transport. He had no choice.
Stefano stepped back and gestured behind him, beckoning her in. ‘The broken-down car should have been where youstartedour conversation.’
She stood seemingly frozen on the doorstep, framed as a bright, vibrant splash against the grey and white world behind her. Her eyes widened, her gaze slowly tracking down his body. All of him tightened at her thorough perusal.
‘Y-you confuse me,’ she said.
‘There is no confusing my invitation. Come in.’
The inertia that had gripped her slowly lifted and she half wheeled, half dragged her bag over the threshold. She hadn’t moved far when it listed to one side and the wheel fell off with an undignified clatter on the mosaic floor. She looked at it, and let out a noise almost like a whimper.
That small, defeated sound tugged at something inside of him he’d thought long dead. A shred of empathy.
He sighed. Reached out his hand. ‘Let me take that.’
Then at least he could get her in front of the fire and start to thaw her out. Her lips had taken on an alarming bluish tinge, almost the same frigid colour of her travesty of a jacket. Not that he had been staring at her lips again. It was normal concern, that was all.
In response, she dropped the handle of the wheelie bag, but clutched the other case tight to her body as if it held the Crown Jewels. ‘Thank you. I’ll carry this one.’
He shrugged, shut the door on the rapidly plummeting temperature behind them and grabbed her bulging suitcase. Whilst he considered himself strong enough—he was spending more time than usual in his gym of late, when he couldn’t sleep—even he could tell this luggage required an excess baggage warning.
‘Dio, what do you keep in here?’
‘Oh, you know...’ She shrugged. Her windblown cheeks darkened, her gaze darting around the space. ‘Crucifix. Garlic. Wooden stakes.’
Stefano tensed. He dropped the bag back to the floor, where it landed with an impressive thud. ‘You’re carryingwhat?’
She gave a trilling kind of laugh which sounded as musical as it did nervous.
Whowasthis woman? Someone who wrote him letters and drove to his castle in an impending snowstorm. He might almost be concerned, except standing here, in this vast entrance hall, Lucille Jamieson didn’t appear to pose any threat. She simply looked sad and somehow...crushed.