it too.
‘You mean when you were cavorting semi-naked in the lake.’
‘Yes. I was quite shameless,’ she murmured, finishing off her cake and licking the sticky sweetness off her fingers, unwittingly unaware of how this simple childish gesture warmed Max’s blood.
‘I agree, you were. You see, life in Italy has the Italian woman living under close scrutiny of family members. Her acquaintances with the opposite sex are selected and chaperoned, and if she were to be seen swimming almost naked with two young men, her reputation would be ruined and she would in all probability see out the rest of her life in a convent.’
A note of reproach hardened his voice and Christina wondered why, but quickly dismissed it as of no importance. ‘Dear me! I find that a bit extreme, but then—I’m not Italian,’ she remarked airily. ‘You seem very at home here, Mr Lloyd.’
‘Max—please call me Max.’
‘Very well. Mister Lloyd does seem rather formal, and I positively refuse to call you Count. You must call me Christina. Tell me what it’s like where you come from?’
‘In Tuscany?’
She nodded.
‘It’s very beautiful. Enchanting. Timeless. It is a different way of life altogether. You have to see it to appreciate it.’
‘What is it you do there?’
‘Why should I do anything? Being a count, I might be extremely rich and not have to work.’
‘You don’t strike me as a gentleman of leisure—no matter how rich you are.’
‘You’re right. I’m not. I like to be busy.’
‘So, what do you do?’
‘I grow grapes—as my family has done for centuries.’ He went on to talk about his vineyards, of which he was inordinately proud. He was full of enthusiasm and talked vividly about the Tuscan climate and the effect it had on the grapes, and how the weather could be one’s best friend or a grape grower’s worst enemy, and how they prayed for warm, dry summers before the vendemmie, the grape harvest, in the autumn. Christina proved to be an avid listener.
‘So you are very rich,’ she remarked when he fell silent.
‘My prosperity is largely due to my ancestors and in particular to my grandfather. He was a superb businessman.’
‘I suspect you take after him.’
‘I’d like to think so.’
‘How interesting you make it sound.’
‘It is. I—would like for you to see it,’ he said, watching her expression carefully. ‘Would you like to?’
She nodded emphatically. ‘But it’s just not possible.’
‘It might be. You would be made most welcome, Christina,’ he said, using her name for the first time and sending an unexplainable thrill of pleasure through her.
‘Are you married?’ she asked impulsively, wanting to know all there was to know about this strange foreign man who had unexpectedly appeared in their midst.
‘No.’
‘Are you likely to be?’
‘Why?’ he asked, his dark eyebrows drawing together over his incredulous blue eyes. ‘Would you like to marry me?’
His question spoken in jest caused her to laugh out loud and brought a sparkle to her eyes, yet somewhere deep inside her she could feel the first stirrings of discomfort. ‘Of course not. What I mean is,’ she said when he shot her a thoroughly amused look, ‘is there a woman in your life—someone special?’
‘You’re very inquisitive, Miss Thornton.’
Her eyes glowed mischievously. ‘It’s in my nature. I can’t help it.’
‘Then the answer to your question is that there are many women in my life.’
‘Any one in particular?’ she persisted, letting her eyes drift over his thick, smoothed-back black hair to his face, noting the Italian nobility and pride stamped on his bronzed features.
He met her eyes and the line of his mobile mouth quirked in a half-smile. ‘There might be.’
She glanced at him obliquely, a warmth beginning to suffuse her face that had nothing to do with the heat of the day. His voice was low pitched and though she wasn’t used to men like Max Lloyd—Marchesi, she knew it was sensual and was unsure how to respond to it. ‘You’re very secretive. In fact you’re as mysterious to me now as you were before I met you.’
‘Which adds to my appeal, I hope.’
‘Appeal? Now that’s a strange word to use. I don’t find you in the least appealing.’
‘You don’t?’ he asked with mock disappointment.
‘No, of course I don’t.’
His eyes narrowed and darkened, becoming warm and seductive. ‘And you are sure about that, are you, signorina?’
‘Yes.’ Christina was glad he had called her signorina. It sounded alien to her, emphasising the difference between them and reducing the effect his blatant masculinity was beginning to have on her, bringing her drifting spirit back to reality. Her dawning response to him was solid enough reason to end the visit immediately. ‘I think I’d better be going. I’ve been here long enough and there must be things you have to do.’
‘Why are you nervous all of a sudden?’
His penetrating blue eyes were searching her face. She was not imagining his interest in herself. She might have no experience of men, but she was perfectly able to recognise admiration in a man’s eyes. Suddenly it was like being on an obstacle course of emotions that left her confused. Without warning she had passed from the love she bore James to the more dangerous ground on to which this stranger sought to entice her.
She made absorbing work of putting on her bonnet. Until she’d come into the garden she had known exactly what she wanted, but now her dream was clouded with uncertainty. Now there was something else, something dark and secret stirring inside her that had nothing to do with James, and she didn’t like it, not one bit.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, avoiding his eyes.
‘That’s a pretty bonnet you are wearing. Would you like to know what I see when I look at you?’
‘Not if you’re going to sound like some amorous Latin lover I don’t.’
He laughed softly, noting the tremulous brightness in her eyes and the way her fingers trembled as she tied the bow beneath her chin. ‘We Italians are born with the ability to make love. Are you not curious to know more, Christina?’
She swallowed convulsively, her cheeks having turned a glorious shade of pink. ‘Yes,’ she whispered with all the honest innocence of youth. ‘Of course I want to know more, of course I want to know what it feels like to be kissed, but certainly not by some Latin Lothario.’
Inexplicably, Max threw back his head and shouted with laughter, the sound disturbing the quietness of the garden and causing startled birds to take flight. At one and the same time this delightful girl managed to be an intriguing, alluring young woman and an enchanting young girl. In the course of three days she had treated him with outright anger and rebellion, cold disdain, and now with a sprightly impertinence and lightheartedness that he found utterly exhilarating. Still chuckling, he shook his head slowly, his eyes sparkling with humour, his teeth gleaming white between his parted lips.
‘I am immensely flattered that you should liken me to Rowe’s libertine, but let me assure you, my dear Christina, that I am nothing like that reprobate. However, it is clear to me that I have made an impression on you and it warms my heart to know it.’
‘You