Chapter Three #2
Flora needed no second bidding. Her stomach had been rumbling with nerves about the trip since the previous evening.
She was absolutely starving and these smelt so good.
‘You aren’t having any?’ she questioned, biting deeply into a croissant and sighing with deep pleasure as some almond paste oozed out.
It took a couple of seconds before Vito could focus on the question because his senses were in a state of overdrive, much to his irritation.
How long since he had felt such a powerful punch of lust—as if he were emerging from a dreamless sleep into bright and vivid life?
Suddenly his fractured night of guilt and regret was forgotten.
And even though Flora Greening was the least likely candidate to have initiated such a wild beating of his heart, wasn’t he momentarily grateful that she had taken his mind off the heartbreak of his brother’s death—a few short weeks after his father’s demise—which hit him at times when he was least expecting it?
‘No,’ he answered, his throat thickening. ‘I’m not…hungry.’
He was trying not to stare but where else was he supposed to look?
What the hell had happened to her?
Since when had his rosy-cheeked secretary decided to morph into some sort of siren?
Since he’d foolishly suggested that she might want to rethink her wardrobe choices.
He had expected her to turn up in something smart and sensible, not…
Not this.
He narrowed his eyes. The length of her skirt wasn’t particularly controversial and was tempered by thick black tights, but the over-the-knee boots had kick-started some primitive male fantasy, as did the distracting view of her thighs.
Surprisingly firm and strong thighs. Must be all that cycling, he thought unnecessarily, his mouth growing dry.
She was covered from neck to waist in a red sweater which wasn’t actually revealing very much.
Except of course that it did, but in the most subtly provocative way imaginable. Her breasts were…
Sensational.
Full and pert and feminine. She was all firm curves and soft lines. His gaze drifted upwards, grateful that her attention was focused solely on her meal, which she was tucking into with enthusiasm, allowing him to study her unobserved.
But suddenly she lifted her head and he became aware of the glossy ringlets which framed her face and the green-gold beauty of her eyes.
Fragments of croissant were clinging to her lips and he found himself wanting to brush them away.
Did he automatically touch his fingertips to his own lips, causing her to dab at the crumbs, with a self-conscious flourish of her linen napkin?
Furiously, he willed the heat in his blood to subside. It didn’t matter what she wore or didn’t wear. She was his secretary, for god’s sake!
‘When you’ve finished, I’d like to do some work,’ he said tightly. ‘It’s a very short flight and there are some things we need to run through before we land.’
‘Of course.’ His observation seemed to have killed her appetite and her eyes were downcast as she pushed away the plate and the stewardess came in to clear the table.
He pulled a sheet of paper from his briefcase. ‘Vero. Let’s run through the people I’ll be meeting. Who’s Hamish McDavid?’
‘He’s the government minister for climate action.’
‘What about Angus Stewart?’
‘He’s the Laird whose land we rent.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Does everyone in Scotland have a name straight out of Central Casting?’
‘Is that a serious question from a man called Vito Monticello?’
He smiled.
She smiled back.
For a moment their eyes locked and Vito’s hard rush of desire was superseded by an equally powerful rush of resentment. What the hell was happening here?
She wasn’t his type—not in any way, shape or form.
His gaze skated over the tartan miniskirt and clinging scarlet sweater.
Except that today, maybe she was.
He shifted uncomfortably, acknowledging the heavy heat in his groin which seemed to taunt him.
Yet maybe his response wasn’t so surprising.
Grief and guilt were powerful drivers—powerful enough to push sex to the sidelines—which was why he’d been celibate for over a year.
And a man needed sex, he reminded himself grimly—in the same way that he needed sustenance and exercise and work.
It wasn’t exactly rocket science. His phone book was full of numbers of women who conformed to his chosen ideal.
Beauty, brains and authority were his jam.
He liked blondes who were in love with their job—mostly because it meant they wouldn’t fall in love with him.
He liked sex which was shallow and wild—and there were plenty of females who liked the same.
But strangely, the idea of sex as a form of physical release suddenly seemed an almost empty concept and Vito was glad when the plane began to descend, meaning he didn’t have time to ask himself why.
Beside him he heard Flora gasp as she looked out of the porthole window and he could no longer resist the temptation to look, his eyes irresistibly drawn to her.
‘Ooh, look! It’s snowing,’ she breathed, and something in his heart twisted as he observed her almost childlike appreciation.
He followed the direction of her gaze. Illuminated by the aircraft’s powerful lights, flurries of giant flakes were hurling themselves like golden arrows towards the plane’s windows. ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t get heavier and cause any unnecessary delay to my flight,’ he said repressively.
He really could be a misery guts at times, thought Flora as they were whisked through airport security and into the waiting four-wheel vehicle, their passage shielded from the swirling flakes by large umbrellas held by two young women who were staring at Vito with unashamed interest. Perhaps that was the answer.
Maybe he was used to constant adulation and she hadn’t been paying him enough attention.
Perhaps her no-small-talk strategy had backfired and that was why he was so grumpy.
So chat to him. Put him in a good mood before he meets all the crofters.
‘Ever been to Scotland before?’ she enquired breezily, sliding onto the back seat beside him as the powerful car left the confines of the airfield and a screen silently descended, isolating them from the driver.
‘Once,’ he answered shortly.
‘Holiday?’
‘Work.’ His lips twisted. ‘My mother was an actress.’
‘Ooh, would I have heard of her? Is she famous?’
‘She’s dead, but no, she wasn’t famous.’ His voice was harsh and, Flora thought—totally devoid of grief. ‘Although she did everything in her power to make that happen.’
‘How do you mean?’ she asked, genuinely interested now.
The glitter of his eyes was as cold as the snowy day outside as he gestured towards the papers on his lap, his words cool and dismissive.
‘What’s with the sudden interrogation, Flora?
’ he snapped. ‘Haven’t you got something better you could be occupying your time with?
There’s plenty of work which needs my attention. ’
So much for trying to get to know him a bit better.
Flora fished around in her own briefcase.
Fine! Who wanted to spend a two-hour journey talking to Mr Miserable, especially when it was like getting blood out of a stone?
Instead, she busied herself by telephoning Hamish’s secretary to check the arrangements, then stared out of the window at the falling snow, while the man across from her worked steadily, without once lifting his head.
She stared out of the window as the snowfall grew steadier.
Thick clouds of flakes were tumbling down in slow motion as the car left the main road and headed towards the more desolate countryside.
Soon the ancient mountains had become so blurred by white that very soon she couldn’t see them at all.
She was amazed that the driver could find his way, but eventually the car slowly drove up the snowy track towards the wind farm.
She saw people getting out of their parked cars, rubbing their hands together and shivering beside the giant turbines as they waited for Vito to arrive.
She sneaked a glance as he got out of the car in his dark coat, the soft grey scarf around his neck making him look effortlessly elegant and very Italian. And gorgeous, she thought longingly, before she could stop herself. Tantalisingly and tauntingly gorgeous.
‘Halo agus fàilte,’ he began in Gaelic, raising his voice against the wind as the snow peppered his ebony hair and everyone clapped like crazy as he told them how happy he was to be bringing employment to the area.
Mindful of the weather, he kept it short, the Scottish minister said a few words before cutting the ribbon which flapped like crazy in the wind and, after a couple of minutes, the vast blades began to turn and everyone cheered and then began to move back towards the cars.
Vito dipped his head to hers so that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her ear. ‘Now where is everyone going?’
‘I told you. They’ve arranged a buffet lunch in the village hall followed by a ceilidh.’
‘What the hell’s a ceilidh?’
‘Dancing. All very traditional and jolly, with lots of lovely Gaelic music.’
‘Do we have to stay?’
She offered him a reproving glance. ‘We definitely should. People would find it very disappointing if you didn’t even put in an appearance.
But of course, you’re the boss,’ she amended lightly.
‘Nobody’s forcing you. You can leave any time you like.
Use the weather as an excuse—nobody will think any worse of you, I’m sure. ’
‘If your intention was to make me feel guilty, Flora, then you’ve succeeded,’ he observed dryly. ‘As long as I’m on that plane by four.’
‘I’ll make sure of it. Oh, look, the Laird’s coming over to have a word with you.’
‘The guy in the skirt?’
‘It’s a kilt.’
‘Didn’t I read somewhere that they don’t wear anything underneath? He must be freezing.’