grew up here?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I left a few years ago.’
‘For how long?’
‘Five years,’ Antonietta said. ‘And though it was wonderful, I came to realise that you cannot drift for ever. Home is home—though it is very different now, and the hotel has changed things. There are more people, more work...’
‘Is that why you came back?’
‘No,’ Antonietta said, and cut that line of conversation stone-cold dead.
It usually took an hour and fifteen minutes to service the suite to standard. Today it took a little longer, although they did not talk non-stop, just made gentle conversation as Antonietta got on with her work, diligently ticking off items in turn to ensure that nothing had been missed.
‘Do you have family here?’ Rafe asked, curious despite himself.
‘Yes.’
Again she closed the topic, and headed into the lounge and dining area. There had been no fire lit last night, and no meal taken, but she dusted the gleaming table, then topped up the cognac decanter and replaced the glasses.
Tick.
He was leaning on the doorframe, watching her. Usually to have a guest watching her so overtly would be unsettling, yet it didn’t feel that way with Rafe. She found him relaxing. Oh, her heart was in her throat, and beating way too fast, but that was for other reasons entirely.
She liked it that he did not demand elaboration. So much so that as she put the stopper in the decanter she revealed to him a little of her truth.
‘We are not really speaking.’
‘That must be hard.’
‘Yes.’
The candles in the heavy candelabra were new, and didn’t need replacing.
Tick.
She checked that the lighter worked.
Tick.
But she paused for a moment and wondered how used to luxury he must be not to light them each night. Not to need the stunning suite bathed in candle and firelight.
‘The August Suite is my favourite,’ Antonietta admitted. ‘You should use these candles. I am sure it would look beautiful.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
‘I mean...’ She was flustered, for she was not used to idle conversation. ‘I’ve always wondered what it must look like.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Rafe said again, and this time she flushed. ‘Which is your favourite view?’ he asked.
‘The one from the dining room. From there you can see the valley.’
‘Show me.’
As easily as that, he joined her at the window.
‘When I left,’ Antonietta said, ‘that whole stretch of valley was black and scorched from wild fires.’ She pointed to a large clearing atop a hillside. ‘My family’s property is up there.’
‘Was it razed in the fires?’
‘No, the fires stopped short of Silibri, but in the next village, where I also have family, there was a lot of damage. It’s hard now to remember that it was so dead and black. I came back in spring, for Nico and Aurora’s wedding, and the whole valley was a riot of colour. I have never seen it so alive. I find the view soothing. It reminds me that, as terrible as the fires were, they were good for the land.’
‘So you stayed on after the wedding?’
‘No,’ Antonietta said. ‘I went to Rome for a year, but I wanted to be back here for Christmas.’ She gave him a tight smile. Certainly, she was not going to reveal that right now a happy family Christmas was looking less and less likely. ‘I had better get on.’
‘Of course.’
Nothing was left unchecked.
No cushion left unturned or unplumped.
And still Rafe did not go for his run. Instead he made a couple of phone calls, and it turned her insides to liquid to hear his deep voice flow in the language she loved.
‘You are French?’ she asked, after the second call had ended, although usually she would not pry.
‘No,’ Rafe said. ‘But it is the language of my home.’
‘Oh?’
‘Tulano,’ he added. ‘It is between Italy and France...’
‘I know where it is,’ Antonietta said. ‘I visited there once. Only briefly, though.’
His eyes narrowed a touch. In truth, Rafe did not believe she didn’t know who he was. The maid yesterday had slipped up and called him by his full first name—Rafael—and the concierge had done the same when recommending a trail to run.
Soon, he was sure, his location would be leaked and the press would be here. The brief respite from the world would be over.
He asked her a question. ‘Do you speak French?’
‘Some—although not as much as I would like. I was there for four years,’ she said, and then switched to French and told him that his Italian was better than her French. ‘Votre Italien est meilleur que mon Français.’
And he responded. ‘Ta voix est délicieuse dans les deux langues.’
She had been away from France for over a year, and it took her a moment to translate it, but as she did a heated blush crept up her neck.
Had he just said that her voice was delightful in both languages?
Were they flirting?
And if they were then why wasn’t she halting it?
Why wasn’t she running for cover, as she usually did whenever a man, let alone a guest, got a little too close?
Only Rafe wasn’t too close for comfort. And Antonietta looked at the eyes that held hers as she responded. ‘Ainsi est le tien.’
So is yours.
It was the tiniest nod to his effect on her, and yet it felt rather huge to Antonietta.
There was another phone call for Rafe, and this time he answered in Italian, taking it out on the balcony.
Though she did not eavesdrop, his low voice reached her and it was clear that he was speaking with Nico. She felt a little flip of disappointment when she heard him state that he would not be staying for much longer.
The call ended and she looked over to where he sat, his long legs stretched out on another chair, his dark eyes scanning the grounds as a prisoner’s might, as if looking for a way to escape. She could almost feel his restlessness, Antonietta thought as she headed out onto the balcony to finish her work.
‘That was Nico,’ he said, though he had absolutely no need to do so. ‘Checking that I’m being looked after. He suggests that I take a wander into the village.’
‘There are nice cafés there,’ Antonietta said, and deliberately kept her voice casual. But there was a flip in her stomach at the thought he might be bored. ‘Have you been down to the temple ruins?’
‘No—that is where Pino suggested I ran.’
‘And the ocean is glorious,’ Antonietta said, and then stopped herself. It was not her job to sell the village to a reluctant guest.
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