time to ensure she enjoyed herself.
Donato didn’t care about keeping up appearances like her father. All morning he’d helped her fossick amongst collectables and downright junk. He hadn’t blinked when he’d got dust on those exquisite casual clothes or she’d asked him to heave furniture out of the way.
Ella wondered what he’d make of her choice for the afternoon. She led him through the gate of the National Trust property and into the garden.
‘More antiques?’ He looked around with interest.
‘You haven’t been here?’
‘I’m from Melbourne, remember.’
Ella felt a fillip of pleasure at introducing him to one of her favourite places.
‘It’s a heritage house and garden.’ Said like that it sounded boring and she’d thought hard about bringing Donato here.
But the Everglades was special. When she’d first visited she’d been young enough to wonder if there were fairies in the wide sweep of bluebells that clustered here in spring. Later she’d been enchanted by the peace and beauty of the rambling gardens. After the fraught atmosphere at home, this had seemed like Paradise.
‘You’ll enjoy the house. I know you like art deco.’
‘I sense a theme. It seems a favourite of yours too.’ Ella heard his smile but didn’t look up. Already she spent too much time under Donato’s spell.
Ella shrugged. ‘My mother’s aunt lived in a nineteen-thirties house. I loved it.’ Actually, she’d loved the peace and sense of acceptance, so different from her own home. Eventually that had translated into an appreciation of the house and its style.
Her great-aunt had brought Ella on trips here. She hadn’t worried that her niece preferred to celebrate her birthday quietly instead of at a catered party for a hundred. Ella’s father had thought her mad. Aunt Bea had encouraged her.
‘She was important to you.’
Ella swung round. ‘How did you know?’
‘You sounded wistful.’ His fingers brushed her cheek in a gesture that felt alarmingly tender. Ella was used to passion or provocation. Tenderness was usually reserved for the bedroom.
But this weekend there’d been more. His expression made her throat tighten.
‘She was important,’ Ella said eventually. ‘My mother died when I was young and Aunt Bea was...special.’ Ella had felt closer to the old lady than to her father. It didn’t matter if Ella had puppy fat or a boring penchant for books. Or that she didn’t sparkle in company. Aunt Bea had loved her, and through her Ella had learned to respect herself. ‘She brought me here.’
‘In that case I’m glad you chose to share it with me.’ He threaded his fingers through hers in a gesture that seemed as intimate as the sex they’d shared this morning. Her tight throat constricted further.
Ella reminded herself that Donato was clever and perceptive. It was obvious the place was important to her.
Yet not even logic shattered the sensation of closeness, of understanding.
As if she understood Donato! He still wouldn’t stop her father’s nonsense about a wedding.
‘Come on, there’s a lot to see.’ Ella stepped forward, under the spreading boughs of the ornamental trees. But she didn’t shake off Donato’s grip. There was something comfortable about simply holding hands, something...appealing.
They explored the garden theatre, the landscaped terraces and the lookout across the cliffs to the wilderness beyond. It was as they meandered back, past the house and a section where plants were being propagated, that she noticed Donato’s abstraction.
He paused, surveying a bed of freshly turned soil and tiny plants. To Ella’s inexperienced eye the scene wasn’t as interesting as the rest of the grounds.
‘Are you a gardener?’ Why hadn’t she thought of that? She’d been explaining what she knew of the garden design. Maybe he knew more than her, given his choice to live in a home with beautiful grounds rather than an easy-care apartment. ‘You should have stopped me. It didn’t occur to me—’
‘I’m no expert,’ he said, eyes still fixed on the garden bed. ‘It just reminded me of something.’
‘Really?’ Ella moved closer. ‘What does it remind you of?’
‘Smell that? Fresh turned soil and compost.’
Ella inhaled. ‘It’s...earthy.’
‘Good, rich soil. Someone has put in a lot of effort here.’
‘What does it remind you of?’
He bent to pluck a couple of tiny weeds out of the carefully tended bed. ‘When I was a kid we had a big vegetable garden. It smelled like this. Of earth and growing things.’
He straightened and turned, moving briskly away. Ella hastened after him. ‘You enjoyed gardening?’ It was the first glimpse he’d given of his past except for the few bare answers to her probing about his prison sentence.
Donato shrugged. ‘It was a chore, that’s all.’
Yet he’d taken time to pull out the weeds amongst the tiny seedlings. ‘You didn’t like it?’
Again that lift of broad shoulders. ‘It had to be done. It supplied a lot of our food.’
‘Whose garden was it? Your mother’s or your father’s?’ Ella knew nothing about his family and suddenly the need to know more about him was overwhelming.
‘You’re curious all of a sudden.’
‘Why not? You’ve got nothing to hide, have you?’
Donato stopped beneath the shade of an overhanging tree. ‘Everyone has something to hide.’ In the relative gloom he looked bigger than ever, his broad chest and shoulders imposing. But it was his voice that sent a ripple of warning through her. There was steel in that tone, telling her she’d trespassed too far.
This from the man who’d upended her calm, orderly life! So much for believing they’d begun to build something new this weekend.
‘You’re scared to tell me even that?’ She shook her head. ‘Is it so secret?’
He folded his arms. It made him look more impressively masculine and annoyingly attractive.
‘Says the woman who refuses to mention she works in case I find out too much about her.’ At her stare he nodded. ‘Of course I know. You’re never available during the week before six at night. I may be busy with my own business but I notice these things.’
Heat rushed up Ella’s throat and into her cheeks. He was right. She’d avoided talking about herself, except at the most superficial level—food, music, books, sex. Nothing about her family or career. Nothing emotionally intimate. Until today when she’d told him about Aunt Bea. It had seemed such a huge concession—revealing even that tiny snippet.
She’d understood from the first that Donato was dangerous. Instinct had warned not to let him close. When she’d been unable to resist him physically, she’d worked to isolate him from the rest of her life. He didn’t even know where she lived.
But he’d been no more forthcoming. She refused to feel guilty.
‘I hardly think talking about your childhood chores constitutes an invasion of privacy.’ She crossed her arms, imitating his challenging stance. All it got her was a heavy-lidded glance at her plumped-up breasts that sent traceries of fire through her belly.
Ella’s instantaneous response to Donato was so predictable and so profound it unnerved her. She was torn between wanting more and wanting nothing to do with him. Because above all she wanted to discover what made him tick.
With a huff of self-disgust