Modern Romance March 2019 5-8

CHAPTER FOUR

IVO HAD EVENTUALLY fallen asleep at about four a.m., and when he woke it took him a few moments to realise what was different and then it came to him—it was the absence of noise.

It was totally silent.

The light shining through the edges of the closed blackout blind revealed a room he hadn’t been in any mood to appreciate last night. The colour scheme was pale and soothing, shades of white and grey with splashes of colour in the art on the walls, which looked to be original. Besides the very comfortable and adequate-sized oak platform bed, the furniture was an eclectic mix of old and new. The exposed oak boards looked original and were softened by hand-woven rugs. A massive hand-thrown pot set on a slate washstand was filled with artistically arranged driftwood.

It was all a million miles away from the sleek modernity and uniformity of the professionally staged luxury hotel rooms he usually used as he travelled the world.

But unlike last night, this morning he was able to see the appeal. It was not hard to see why this place was popular, an opinion based not just on the ambience but the financial accounts his grandfather had acquired. It had a lot going for it, but Bruno had made the classic mistake of overextending himself. He’d left very little wriggle room, which meant the moment the unexpected had happened there had been a domino effect.

The unexpected had been a rise in the interest rates and—well—the fatal accident.

The place had closed for several weeks after the accident, which had punched a massive hole in the fragile cash-flow, and the situation had rapidly gone from bad to worse. Customers put off by the idea of new management had started cancelling their bookings.

The reputation could, of course, be rebuilt but not without a healthy cash flow. Without a massive injection of capital the place would go under; it was inevitable. Ivo was not sentimental about such things but he suspected, actually he was relying on the fact, that Flora Henderson was.

It seemed a safe bet.

An image of her expressive face drifted into his head.

More, it was a sure thing, he decided, a hint of disapproval turning down the corners of his mouth as he stretched to relieve the kinks in his spine and curved one hand above his head. It was a comfortable position to go over the events of last night, supported by a very comfortable mattress and safe this morning behind the wall of emotional isolation that had taken him years to build.

And one moment, one tear, one sniff, one trembling lip, to knock down.

He pushed the thought away.

It had been a perfect storm moment, and he wasn’t going to make the mistake of reading too much into it. He left that to people who thought there was more to attraction than chemistry. He was not one of those people, and this morning his mind was functioning with its usual clarity and his objectivity was in place.

Lucky, because if the plan is to work you’ll need to keep an emotional distance from the redhead!

* * *

It took Flora ten indulgent minutes to blur the worst of the ravages left by a sleepless night...only thirty seconds to scrub it all away; after all, she had nothing to prove to anyone, least of all a guest.

She was on her second cup of coffee when the kitchen back door opened. The farmer from the neighbouring farm stood there, a ladder casually balanced on his shoulder.

‘Rough night.’

She started guiltily, the horror in her eyes giving way to embarrassment as she realised what he meant. ‘Oh, the weather, you mean.’

‘You’ve got a few slates loose, lass.’

The comment drew a laugh from Flora. ‘You’re not the first to suggest it.’

He grinned and half turned. ‘Won’t take long. See you’ve got a guest.’ He nodded towards the small car park where a top-of-the-range car splattered with mud and complete with some spectacular scratches to the paintwork was parked beside her own battered four-wheel drive, which had so many dings that a few more weren’t to be noticed.

Flora nodded.

‘Ah, well, it all helps.’

Flora nodded again and wondered if everyone on the island knew about her financial problems. The answer, she knew, was probably. There were advantages and disadvantages to living in such a small community; secrets were a very rare commodity.

But when you needed help you didn’t have to ask, she mused, deciding to delay ringing her mum until later—she might be having a lie-in.

She walked out into the bar area carrying cutlery to lay up a breakfast table, mentally practising the smooth, professional, just a little bit distant attitude she would take with her guest this morning.

She had no idea what she’d been thinking about, spilling everything like that. The memories made her cringe. The only solution to her embarrassment she had come up with was to pretend selective amnesia.

Well, what choice did she have? The option of taking the moral high ground was obviously off the table because if he had crossed any line she had virtually invited him to!

She squeezed her eyes closed in an effort to shut out the mortifying memories of her emotional outpouring and the strange intimacy of those moments.

Like the forced intimacy of two people with nothing in common, who were shipwrecked and...hell, there was no forced about it! Grimacing, she opened her eyes just in time to stop herself colliding with the tall figure from last night.

Standing with his back to her, he didn’t immediately react to her exclamation; when he did turn around she saw what he was holding.

‘That’s my sister and her husband. Jamie was just hours old.’ She held out her hand for the framed photo, resisting the impulse to snatch it from him.

‘They look happy.’ Ivo put the framed photo of the smiling couple holding a newborn in her hand and watched as she stroked the frame before replacing it on the shelf where he had seen it when he’d walked into the room.

Flora swallowed, feeling the anger rise up inside her like a wave. It was unfair—just so unfair. Why them? Her chest heaved with the silent effort of pushing those feelings back down. Newsflash: life wasn’t fair—it sucked, end of story. She didn’t have time to be bitter and twisted; she had a baby to care for and a business to save.

She felt those dark eyes on her and unconsciously straightened her shoulders before turning around. ‘They were,’ she said softly. ‘I think they were the happiest people I know.’ She made a throat-clearing sound before adding formally, ‘So sorry we disturbed you last night, Mr Rocco.’ But not as much as you disturbed me, she thought as an image floated into her head of him standing there in the doorway like a bronzed statue. Tthe memory was enough to create a rippling sensation low in her pelvis.

‘It’s Ivo.’

She acknowledged this with a slightly wary tip of her head, her brow furrowing as she wondered why that name seemed familiar. The answer was right there, then he spoke, and it vanished.

Ivo’s dark brows drew into a critical dark line above his aquiline nose as he took in her pallor, and the dark shadows. ‘Did you get any sleep?’ The flash of concern in his head was filtered into accusation by the time it left his lips.

Her lips tightened under his critical scrutiny. So she looked like a wreck—did he imagine she needed telling? He, of course, looked as though he’d had a full eight hours; you could almost feel the vitality he oozed from every perfect pore. He was probably one of those irritating people who only needed an hour’s sleep, she decided, nursing her resentment.

‘Yes, thank you,’ she lied, experiencing a flash of shame as she recalled the very little sleep she had had. Luckily for her peace of mind, only snatches of the dreams remained. A girl can’t take responsibility for her unconscious mind, she reminded herself.

The excuse didn’t really stand up to scrutiny when a moment later she found herself studying him through the sweep of her lashes. Her conscious mind was definitely in control as she took in the length of his legs in a pair of dark jeans and the lean, whipcord strength of his upper body showcased in a close-fitting steel-grey cashmere sweater. He looked good with clothes on too.

Head bent to hide the shamed flush that burned her smooth cheeks pink, she fiddled with the breakfast menu she had inserted into the basket of cutlery, before formally motioning him to a table beside the window that had the best view of the loch, blue, calm and beautiful on the morning that was clear enough to see the distant mainland shore.

She cleared her throat. This was always going to be awkward but she could cope. ‘Or you could eat in the dining room if you prefer.’ She gave a too bright smile and nodded towards an open door to her left.

It was a strange feeling to look around and think of his high-powered executive brother living here. Had he been content, happy? Had he regretted his decision to give up everything for love?

Ivo felt the flash of something that he refused to acknowledge, even to himself, was anything even vaguely related to envy as he looked around the place that had been his brother’s home.

‘Where would you prefer?’

At the sound of Flora’s voice the ghost images of his imagination faded.

From what he could see of the room she indicated it was less dining room and more alcove, but like the rest of the place it was tastefully and eclectically furnished, the walls lined with original local artwork that had adorned all the walls he’d seen. The note beneath the ones in his bedroom had bios of the artists, and sale prices.

‘Here will be fine.’

‘There might be a bit of noise.’

He glanced at the road. So far this morning he’d seen more sheep wandering along it than cars—at last count two and a tractor.

‘The sheep?’

Her lips tightened at the sarcasm. ‘Gregory is on the roof.’

His brows lifted. ‘Did he forget to take his meds or is this a quaint local custom?’

Distracted by the drift of clean male scent that tickled her nostrils, she failed to react to his attempt at humour.

‘Storm damage.’

Not the only sort of damage, he thought as he studied the extent of the violet shadows of exhaustion under her beautiful eyes. The sunlight exaggerated the pallor of her skin; by contrast it made her burnished hair shine like a beacon. The combination of fragility and heat shook some nameless feeling loose in his chest.

Nameless or not, it made him uneasy...in a different way from the unease, not to mention frustration, the blind primal lust he’d experienced last night had made him feel.

‘We lost a few slates last night, it seems,’ she explained.

She felt a tiny spurt of relief when her brief explanation drew his glance towards the window. In her book anywhere that wasn’t her face was good or at least an improvement; good would be when this disturbing guest had got into his top-of-the-range car and driven away.

It was really weird that when he looked at her with those dark eyes she felt naked... Or was that she thought about getting naked? asked the sardonic voice in her head.

Ivo took a step closer to the window. It overlooked the same view as the one he’d lifted the blinds to in his bedroom earlier, but from a slightly different angle.

This morning it was easier to see why this island was such a popular tourist destination. There was no doubt the scenery was stunning in an untamed way.

Hard to believe that this was even the same planet, let alone the same godforsaken spot on the map he had driven to the previous night through what had seemed like a barren moonscape of mist and rock.

The crashing waves had gone; the whirls of light mist that, with the curlew cries, had given the scene an eerie quality earlier had gone. Now the tranquil waters of the loch were totally still. The surface so mirror calm that the sentinel purple-tinged mountains to the west were reflected on the surface.

There was little to show that there ever had been a storm except for one of the branches and collective detritus along the middle of the narrow single-track road—presumably the meandering line marked the level the waters had eventually reached last night.

‘Do you ever flood here?’

He was looking at her again but Flora was ready and she gave a smile that was almost cool and collected. She was in charge of very little in her life at the moment but she was damned if she’d allow her renegade hormones to get the better of her.

‘Every ten years or so.’

His elevated brows suggested scepticism but Flora felt on safe ground. Bruno and Sami had needed a report on flooding risks before they’d got planning permission. They had also needed an archaeological survey, which had suggested that people had lived in this spot for centuries.

‘So is there much storm damage to the building?’

‘I haven’t looked yet but the place is pretty solid.’

‘You just took a passing tradesman’s word that you’re missing slates. Did you even get a quote for their work?’ His frown deepened as he considered her appalling naivety. Of course, that same flaw was going to make his task easier. Or maybe not, he thought as he watched her chin go up at a pugnacious angle.

‘He’s not a passing anything, he’s a neighbour and a friend. Not all people put a price on everything,’ she informed him scornfully. Gregory would be offended if she offered to pay him but he would take one of the jars of honey from their bees.

‘Boyfriend?’ he speculated.

The suggestion drew a gurgle of laughter from her throat. ‘Gregory is married,’ she retorted, more amused than huffy this time, and when she grinned the little cleft in her chin deepened in a way he found he quite liked. He couldn’t remember the last time that he’d seen a woman with no make-up at all. He admired her soft creamy skin. He decided that the sheer novelty value alone would account for his fascination with the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

How far do those freckles go? he wondered as his eyes slid as though drawn by a magnet to the neckline of her top, to the striped sweater that clung to her soft curves.

‘Can I get you tea or coffee?’

His eye lifted, the thin stripes of colour banding his cheekbones hardly visible as his nostrils flared as he breathed in the aroma coming from the kitchen.

‘Coffee.’ He watched as she bustled away, enjoying her rear view but in a much less pure way than he had enjoyed the view from the window.

When the coffee came he was prepared for the worst but it was better than awful, which was a plus.

‘I need to talk to you.’

Flora froze in ‘deer in the headlights’ mode, only just biting back the Oh, God, no! ‘Last night was not...me...nothing...’

‘I do not wish to discuss what happened or, rather, didn’t happen last night.’

Flora knew this draw-a-line-in-it attitude should have been a relief, but instead she felt the mortified colour fly to her cheeks. Chances were he’d forgotten last night, not that there was anything to forget. Humiliated, she wished that the floor at her feet would open up to swallow her, or, failing that, that she could think of a flippant comeback line.

‘I wish to discuss why I am here.’

‘I thought that was a state secret, all very “need to know”.’ The irritable retort came out before she could stop it. ‘Sorry!’

‘Once more with feeling...?’ he suggested drily. ‘Has it occurred to you,’ he drawled, ‘that you’re not really cut out for this sort of work?’

‘It’s not the work, it’s—’ She stopped herself, but not soon enough to prevent his smug I-told-you-so retort.

‘Point proved, I’d say and, as they say, the customer is always right.’

‘Or a pain in the—’ She bit her lip and forced a stiff smile while continuing to dodge his eyes. ‘What can I do for you?’

Next time you feel the urge to insult paying guests, Flora, just think of the accounts, she told herself while she waited for his response. The moment stretched.

‘This might be easier if I tell you my full name.’

This conversation, she decided, was getting a bit Twilight Zone. Was she meant to recognise him? Did he have some sort of celebrity status, a Hollywood A-lister she was meant to know? He certainly looked the part.

‘You mean you signed an alias—you’re not Mr Rocco?’

‘My name is Ivo Rocco Greco.’

There was a twenty-second time delay before she sat down with a bump, her eyes not leaving his face as she gripped the edge of the table, not even noticing when the tablecloth slipped and sent a jug of milk onto the stone floor.

‘Bruno’s little brother?’ she whispered hoarsely.

He blinked—no one had called him that in a long time—before tipping his dark head in a slow acknowledgement.

Denial lingered; it still wasn’t sinking in. ‘You...?’ she gasped, her voice breathy and faint as her eyes flickered over his lean muscle-toned six-foot-five frame.

He tipped his dark head for a second time in confirmation.

‘This is...why on earth didn’t you say so earlier?’ she exploded, then a moment later, struggling to channel calm, admitted, ‘This is just so weird. You’re not...’

She was looking embarrassed and anywhere but at him. ‘So, Bruno mentioned me?’ He felt another stab of fresh guilt. From the day he had decided his brother had deserted him Ivo had never spoken his brother’s name again.