snail.
‘Five foot one and a half,’ Lily muttered, as he withdrew a chequebook from one of the desk drawers and began to write.
He slid the cheque over the desktop, his eyes lifting as he enumerated, ‘Big grey eyes, small nose…’ he drew the line at voicing that, come to think of it, she had a totally luscious pink mouth. ‘Hair the colour of—caramella.’ He almost smiled before inborn practicality and self-possession kicked in. ‘Arrivederci, Lily Frome.’ He extracted car keys from the pocket of his beautifully tailored suit trousers. ‘I have a flight to catch. Miss Fleming’s somewhere around. She will look after you.’
And he was gone. Leaving Lily staring at his cheque for five thousand pounds and wallowing in the sense of unreality which was swamping her, because the happenings of the last twenty minutes were totally weird.
Two weeks later, at just after ten o’clock, Lily gave her last passenger a cheery ‘Goodnight!’ after seeing her safely inside her home—one of a pair of former labourer’s cottages—and clambered back into the people carrier, expelling a sigh of exhaustion.
It had been a long day, following a long night spent trying to put the accounts in order. She started the engine and set off through the dark lanes for home. The usual sort of day. Organising the two willing volunteers, visiting the housebound, doing chores they couldn’t manage themselves, drinking tea and chatting, driving old Mr Jenkins to his doctor’s appointment.
It was worth it, though. Even if ferrying eleven senior citizens with no transport of their own to the monthly whist drive in Market Hallow’s sports centre and back to their homes again was time consuming, the pleasure the old people got from the outing, from socialising with friends over tea and biscuits, made every minute special. After all, one of the charity’s main aims was to alleviate loneliness and isolation.
And thanks to Paolo Venini’s generous cheque—plus the jumble sale, which had raised a record level of funds—they were managing to carry on. At least the financial crisis was over for the time being. But they would have to advertise for more volunteers in the parish magazine. She and their two part-time volunteers couldn’t do everything.
Shelving that downbeat observation, she wondered how Paolo’s mother was, if the operation had been a success, and immediately conjured up an image of his spectacular, totally unforgettable features. He often occupied her thoughts—which was natural, she excused herself. Without that strange encounter the charity would probably have folded.
And it was not, definitely not because she fancied him, as Penny Fleming had dryly commented when, driven by something more than mere nosiness, Lily had bombarded her with questions about her boss.
‘Females have a habit of going weak at the knees around him,’ Penny had cautioned. ‘But there’s no mileage in it. He’s the take ’em and leave ’em type. With one broken engagement behind him he upped and married a French actress, but got rid of her before their first anniversary. I don’t know the ins and outs, but my guess is he was bored. That’s my opinion anyway, because no woman’s lasted more than a few weeks since then. His dumped wife died of an overdose a couple of months later, poor thing. If you fancy him you’re on a hiding to nothing, believe me!’
‘I don’t fancy him!’ Chilled by that last revelation, Lily had protested tartly. ‘In any case, I’ll never set eyes on him again!’
The obvious truth of that state of affairs had left her feeling oddly regretful—a feeling that stubbornly persisted. Which was why when, yawning widely, she finally let herself into the cottage and found Paolo Venini sitting with Great-Aunt Edith in front of the parlour fire, her heart felt as if it was exploding within her under-endowed breast.
‘Miss Frome—’ He rose to his feet, spectacular in a beautifully tailored pale grey suit, crisp white shirt and dark grey tie, the image of the highly successful merchant banker detailed on the internet. Handsome, powerful, charismatic. And heartless?
Her knees weakening shamefully, swamped by the effect he always seemed to have on her, she got out thinly, ‘What are you doing here?’ and received her great-aunt’s curt rebuke.
‘Manners, Lily. Manners! Our benefactor has introduced himself to me and has been waiting for you.’ She heaved her solid tweed and twin-setted bulk out of the armchair. ‘Signor Venini has a proposal which, in my firm opinion, is the generous answer to all Life Begin’s future difficulties. Listen to what he has to say. It will mean changes.’ She smiled at the tall Italian. ‘But then nothing stays the same. Onward and forward—or stagnate!’
On which typical rallying cry the old lady excused herself and retired for the night, leaving Lily wondering what the strictly principled lady would say if she knew exactly why their ‘benefactor’ had made that hefty donation.
And his new proposal—whatever it was—would have heavy strings attached. Strings her upright great-aunt would have no knowledge of! If the hard-nosed banker gave he would undoubtedly want something in return.
‘So?’ Suspicion glinted in her eyes, and her slender frame was rigid—until he smiled. It was like a bolt of lightning, setting up a tidal wave of tingling reaction. His impossible sexiness, sinful sexiness, took her breath away, and made her deeply ashamed of reacting like all those other gullible females Penny had talked about.
‘We shall sit,’ he announced, with infuriatingly cool calm, looking incredibly exotic against the old-fashioned background of the shabby parlour with its Victorian clutter.
Sinking into the armchair her elderly relative had recently vacated—not because he’d told her to but because in his vicinity her legs felt disgracefully wobbly—she found her breath hard to catch, because his sheer presence seemed to suck all the air out of the room. His gaze held her mesmerised as he took the chair on the opposite side of the dying fire, leaning back, elbows on the arms, lean hands steepled in front of his handsome mouth, those golden eyes still smiling with speech-stealing warmth at her.
‘Your great-aunt has quite the reputation,’ he stated. ‘A formidable woman with admirable charitable ethics, yes? Tirelessly working for the benefit of others over the years. She now deserves to rest. Yes, again?’
The softly accented flow of words reached a pause. He was obviously waiting for her response, her full agreement. Lily pressed her lips together. She would be a fool to trust a purring tiger!
Paolo lowered his hands, dropped them loosely between his knees and leaned forward. His slow smile was decidedly dangerous.
Lily’s tension level racked up a few more notches. He didn’t have the look of a recently bereaved loving son. Her suspicions hardened.
‘Nothing to say? As I recall, on our previous encounter you were—to put it politely—remarkably chatty.’
Gabby, he had mentally named her. In less fraught circumstances he might even have found her chatter amusing. But now she was as animated as a stone, her small triangular face pale, dark smudges of fatigue beneath wary grey eyes, her slight body, clad in well-worn denims and a tired-looking fleece, tensely held. Her hair, scraped back in an unflattering ponytail, made her look younger than what he now knew to be her twenty-three years.
He gave her an encouraging smile, confident that, as always, he had reached the right decision and that, having done so, his strength of character and dominant will would prevail.
In receipt of another of those nerve-tingling smiles, Lily felt her mouth run dry, but she finally managed, ‘Why are you here?’
‘Of course—the proposal I put to your great-aunt,’ he slid in smoothly. ‘You may not know it, but I, both personally and corporately, donate huge sums to worthwhile charities. Now, Life Begins is worthwhile, but it is seriously underfunded and understaffed. You stagger from one financial crisis to another, and your great-aunt is no longer young enough to do much. You rely on two part-time volunteers. The rest you somehow manage yourself—cleaning, shopping, driving the old and infirm to hospital appointments, organising outings. Need I go on?’
Lily’s chin