Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Sophie
The helicopter touches down on a private helipad carved into the hillside above the lake, and even before the rotors begin to slow, I understand why Julian had looked almost amused when I asked how long the drive would take.
Lake Como stretches below us in a sweep of deep blue framed by mountains, villas, terraced gardens, and clusters of pale stone buildings tucked into the green slopes.
From this height, boats leave narrow white trails across the water, and sunlight flashes against the lake with enough force that I have to narrow my eyes when I step out.
Julian comes around the helicopter before I can reach for anyone else’s assistance.
“Watch your step,” he says, extending his hand.
I place mine in his.
His fingers close securely around mine as I step down, and the contact sends a familiar warmth up my arm. He keeps hold of me until both of my feet are firmly on the ground, his other hand briefly settling against my waist when the uneven surface throws off my balance.
“I’ve got you,” Julian says.
“I’m fine.”
“I know.”
He releases me only after I am steady. The words are ordinary. His hand against my body is considerably less so.
I smooth my blue sheath dress and follow him toward a waiting vehicle that takes us down a narrow private road toward the water.
Julian says very little during the short ride.
He checks one message, responds to it, then puts his phone away and leaves it there.
I notice because I have grown accustomed to seeing the device somewhere within reach of his hand.
At the bottom of the hill, a polished wooden speedboat waits at a private landing.
“This keeps getting more subtle,” I say.
Julian glances toward the boat.
“You preferred the helicopter?”
“I’m still processing the helicopter.”
“You survived.”
“Barely.”
His mouth curves.
The boat captain takes our luggage while Julian steps aboard first. He turns immediately and offers me his hand again. This time I hesitate for half a second before taking it. Julian notices. His eyes lift to mine, but he says nothing.
I step onto the boat, and his hand shifts from mine to my waist as the hull rocks gently beneath my feet.
My body tightens at the contact. The breeze carries the clean, masculine scent of him toward me, and for one dangerous second, I am aware of almost nothing except his palm against the side of my body.
Then he lets go.
“Sit,” Julian says. “It gets faster once we clear the dock.”
I lower myself onto the leather seat and look toward the lake before my expression can give me away.
The boat cuts across the water minutes later, the wind pulling loose strands of hair from around my face as we move between steep green hills and villas that seem to rise directly from the shoreline.
Some are ornate and theatrical, others nearly hidden behind stone walls and cypress trees.
Julian sits across from me, one arm stretched along the back of the seat. He has taken off his jacket, and the white shirt beneath it pulls across his shoulders whenever he shifts. Every few minutes, I catch him looking at me. Neither of us comments on it.
The Blackwell estate does not appear all at once.
At first, I see only the edge of a stone wall through the trees. Then the boat changes direction, and the property opens slowly along the waterfront.
My breath catches.
The villa rises several levels above the lake, its warm ivory stone softened by age and framed by tall cypress trees, clipped hedges, and terraces spilling down toward the water.
Dark green shutters flank rows of tall windows, while climbing vines soften portions of the facade without hiding the scale of the house.
A broad terrace stretches across the lake-facing side, and beyond it I can make out gardens disappearing behind another wing.
The property is grand without looking new enough to have been designed for photographs. It has the settled permanence of something that has belonged to the same family long enough to stop needing to prove its value.
“You grew up coming here?” I ask.
“Summers, mostly,” Julian replies.
I glance at him.
“This was your summer house?”
“One of them.”
I stare at him.
He looks back at me without smiling.
“That might be the most billionaire thing you’ve said since I met you.”
This time he laughs.
The sound disappears beneath the engine as the boat slows near a private pier.
Julian gets out first. When I stand, he reaches for me again.
“I can manage,” I tell him.
“I’m sure you can.”
He takes my hand anyway. I step toward the dock, but the boat shifts beneath me at the last second. Julian’s arm comes around my waist, lifting more than guiding me until my heels land securely on the wooden pier.
For a moment, I am against him. His chest is solid beneath my palm. His hand remains at my waist. Our faces are close enough that I can see the pale blue of his eyes change with the light coming off the water.
“Still fine?” he asks.
His voice has dropped slightly.
“Yes.”
Neither of us moves immediately. Then footsteps sound farther up the pier, and Julian releases me.
Two men are waiting near the stone steps leading toward the house. One is dressed in a charcoal suit despite the summer heat, silver threaded through his dark hair. The second moves toward the luggage as soon as we approach.
“Mr. Blackwell,” the older man says warmly.
“Welcome back.”
“Good to see you, Clive.”
They shake hands with the familiarity of people who have known each other for years.
Julian turns toward me.
“Sophie Callahan, this is Clive Bennett, the estate manager.”
Clive offers his hand.
“Ms. Callahan, welcome. We’re very pleased to have you.”
“Thank you,” I say. “It’s beautiful.”
Clive smiles. “You’ve only seen the outside.”
The other man takes my suitcase while Clive begins updating Julian on something involving the grounds and a delivery expected later in the afternoon. Their conversation becomes specific almost immediately, and I take the opportunity to look toward the house again.
Julian catches my eye before walking away with Clive.
“Lucia will get you settled,” he says.
“Take your time. Meet me downstairs in the main living room in about an hour.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll come find you if you get lost.”
“I’m a journalist. We’re trained to find exits.”
His eyes warm briefly. “An hour, Sophie.”
He turns back toward Clive, and the two men continue toward another side of the property. A woman in her fifties appears at the top of the stone steps, dressed in a cream blouse and dark trousers.
“Ms. Callahan?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“I’m Lucia. I’ll be looking after you while you’re here.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
She smiles and gestures toward the house.
“Come. You’ve had a long trip.”
The entrance opens into a soaring central hall where sunlight pours through tall windows facing the lake.
Pale stone floors reflect the light beneath a sweeping staircase, while old paintings and carved furniture sit comfortably beside newer pieces that keep the house from feeling preserved rather than lived in.
Fresh flowers fill a massive ceramic vase near the stairs, and somewhere deeper inside, I hear the muted movement of staff.
Lucia leads me through an arched corridor lined with artwork and family photographs, then into a quieter wing of the house.
“How has your trip been?” she asks.
“Busy,” I tell her.
“I think I’ve forgotten what time zone I’m supposed to be in.”
Lucia laughs softly.
“Then you should rest whenever Mr. Blackwell gives you the opportunity.”
“I’m beginning to suspect he doesn’t understand the concept.”
“Oh, he understands it,” she says.
“He simply doesn’t practice it very often.”
That makes me smile.
We turn down another corridor and climb a smaller staircase.
“If you need anything while you’re here, you call me directly,” Lucia says.
“Bath prepared, clothes pressed, meals brought upstairs, anything at all. If you’re tired this evening, we can bring dinner to you.”
“That’s incredibly kind.”
“It’s what we’re here for.”
She opens a set of double doors.
I stop.
The suite is enormous.
A king-sized bed sits beneath a tall upholstered headboard, dressed in white linen that looks impossibly soft.
Beyond it, floor-to-ceiling windows open onto an uninterrupted view of the lake, framed by long cream curtains and heavier blackout drapes.
A fireplace occupies one wall opposite a sitting area with a sofa and chaise, while French doors lead onto a private balcony.
Someone has placed fresh roses on a table beside a chilled bottle of champagne, fruit, cheese, and pastries.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I say before I can stop myself.
Lucia smiles.
“The bathroom is through there.”
I walk far enough to see pale marble, a deep soaking tub beneath another window, and a glass shower large enough to qualify as its own room.
“This is my room?”
“Yes.”
“For three days?”
“Yes.”
I turn toward her.
“I’m going to have difficulty returning to normal life.”
“That happens.”
Lucia gives me her number and reminds me again to call if I need anything before leaving me alone. The second the door closes, I drop my handbag onto the chaise and walk straight toward the windows.
The lake fills almost the entire view. Boats move quietly in the distance, while sunlight shimmers against the water below the terrace. From here, the rest of the world feels very far away.
I turn toward the bed. Then I do something I would never admit in an interview. I kick off my shoes, throw myself backward across the mattress, and stretch my arms over the sheets. The bed gives beneath me like a cloud.
“Oh, this is ridiculous.”
I sweep my arms once across the duvet like a child making a snow angel, laugh at myself, then force myself upright before I become too comfortable to move.
I have less than an hour. I unpack quickly, freshen my makeup, run a brush through my hair, and replace my ballet flats with a pair of heels. The blue dress survives the journey well enough that I only need to smooth the fabric before collecting my notebook and laptop.
When I reach the main living room downstairs, a staff member is arranging a small tray of hors d’oeuvres beside two glasses of champagne.
“Ms. Callahan,” she says.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Champagne would be lovely. Thank you.”
She hands me a glass and leaves me near the open terrace doors.
I take one sip before Julian walks in. His jacket is gone, and the sleeves of his white shirt are rolled neatly to his forearms. My gaze catches there before I drag it back to his face.
He notices. I know he notices because his eyes hold mine for half a beat longer.
“I hope the room is acceptable,” Julian says.
I take another sip of champagne.
“It’s terrible.”
His eyebrows lift.
“I’m considering filing a formal complaint about the lake view.”
The corner of his mouth pulls upward.
“I’ll speak to management.”
“Please do.”
Julian walks closer, stopping beside the table.
“Are you hungry?”
“Not really. Breakfast was enough for now.”
“Ok. Well, lunch will be ready in about an hour anyway. We’re early.”
“No problem.”
He picks up the second champagne glass, then looks toward the corridor behind him.
“I thought I’d show you around myself before we start anything formal.”
I glance at the notebook in my hand.
“Should I bring this?”
Julian looks at it, then at me.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you’re planning to interview me or actually look at the house.”
I close the notebook.
“Fine.”
His gaze drops briefly to my hand as I set it beside the laptop.
“Come on,” Julian says.
I follow him toward the corridor, the champagne warm in my chest and his presence close enough beside me that the house suddenly feels much less enormous.