Chapter Three #3
Flora prayed he didn’t notice the instant flood of col-our to her cheeks as, bizarrely, she found herself wondering what Vito Monticello would look like in a kilt.
‘I really have no idea,’ she said airily, as she pushed open the door to the community centre.
‘But even if it’s true, I think the Scots are made of stronger stuff than that. ’
He gave a low laugh as he followed her inside and Flora felt another disconcerting flare of awareness because sometimes his remarks were a little too much like flirting for comfort.
Did he feel he could afford to let his guard down, now that he was almost over the finishing line—and would soon be safely on his way home to Italy?
It was a good thing he was leaving, she told herself firmly, so that her life could get back to something approaching normality.
Yet she couldn’t help wondering what it would be like once he had gone.
It was funny how you could convince yourself that because someone irritated the hell out of you—which he frequently did—you couldn’t wait to see the back of them.
But deep down Flora knew she was going to miss him.
Vito Monticelli was a larger-than-life character.
A big personality who had imprinted himself so indelibly on her life that, after two short weeks, she couldn’t imagine the office without him.
She’d imagined he might find the community hall event dull and make scant attempt to hide his boredom—but the tycoon defied all her expectations.
He was moving around the rather chilly space as if it were a gilded opera house and for once, his handsome features were curiously relaxed.
He was chatting to the local people who had been hand-picked to meet him as easily as if he had been talking to heads of state.
Flora watched, agog, as old women giggled and young lads listened to him with equal admiration.
The Laird in particular seemed to be laughing uproariously at anything Vito said and Flora blinked in surprise.
Who knew the Italian billionaire could be such a charmer?
The music began and she noticed the Laird hurriedly leaving the community centre—as if he had watched enough of these ceilidhs to last him a lifetime.
A woman on an accordion and a man on a fiddle struck up a tune and Flora couldn’t help losing herself in the music.
Because hadn’t music always been the thing to sustain her during the darkest times, when money had been extra-tight and she’d struggled to find treats which were free?
Her tinny old radio—which she still had—had managed to come up trumps every time and she’d taught Amy the words to different songs—all their cares forgotten as they’d danced around the room, singing enthusiastically into hairbrushes masquerading as microphones.
As her hips started to sway and her booted foot started tapping, Flora found herself smiling properly for the first time all day.
Was it that moment of brief relaxation which made her glance up?
Or some bone-deep instinct which made her realise she was being closely monitored?
Because Vito was watching her. Watching her in a way which was making her feel…
She swallowed and suddenly she couldn’t look away, couldn’t bear to break this moment of connection—as sweet and as delicate as spun sugar.
The blood rushed to her cheeks. To her breasts.
Molten heat pulsed insistently inside her and Flora was grateful for a loud bang which interrupted the jollity and shattered the seductive spell Vito had cast over her.
The music stopped and everyone turned to see the door swing open, their driver stepping inside, shaking snow from his overcoat. His worried expression caused Flora to hurry across the hall and listen to his garbled words, as he explained that the heavy snowfall had effectively left them marooned.
Flora gulped. ‘You’re joking?’
‘I wish I was, lassie.’ The driver expelled a sigh, then shrugged. ‘You’re lucky the Laird lives so close and can offer ye a place to stay. But we need to leave now.’
‘Of course,’ said Flora, swallowing down her apprehension. ‘We’ll be right out.’
Vito’s gaze remained fixed on her as she walked towards him, pushing her way through his admirers, some of whom actually glared as she penetrated the tight circle. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ she said quietly. ‘The roads are blocked.’
‘So what?’
‘We’re going to have to stay up here for the night. The Laird has a place we can use until they can clear the snow.’
‘I am not staying up here. Understand?’ He lowered his head to hiss in her ear. ‘We are travelling in a car which is built like a tank and specifically designed to cope with bad weather. And I have a flight to catch. I’m used to inclement conditions, Flora. We’ll just have to take it slowly.’
‘Well, you’re on your own, then, because I’m not going anywhere in this blizzard,’ she retorted. ‘Anyway, all your objections are academic, I’m afraid. Inverness Airport is closed.’