back to her with businesslike seriousness. ‘Is it sore?’
‘What?’ Oh. Her knee. ‘My embarrassment has numbed my knee.’
She snatched a breath and tried to look anywhere but at him again. Except he was so close and so good looking, her attention was the iron filing to his magnetism.
‘How helpful,’ he commented dryly. ‘Ice will bring out the bruising.’ He strode over to the gleaming fridge and pushed some buttons.
‘Because I want a purple knee,’ she muttered.
He didn’t respond as he walked back, holding ice in a glass and a clean cloth.
‘That’s an impressive fridge. The whole place is impressive,’ she babbled. ‘This kitchen is bigger than our one at the bakery and that’s a commercial operation. You could cook enough in here to feed an army. Though you’d need an army to use all the appliances at once.’
He still didn’t respond, just neatly wrapped some ice in the cloth. She shivered before he got the cold pack anywhere near her, but at the same time was still sweltering with embarrassment. And awareness. And yet more embarrassment.
She stared hard at her lap as he bent before her.
‘You’re not supposed to be here.’ She winced, desperately trying to ignore the brush of his fingers on her skin as he pushed up her skirt to reveal her grass-stained, bruised knee. ‘The villa was supposed to be empty until tomorrow. That’s what I heard.’
‘You talk all the time when you’re nervous too?’ He held the ice to her knee.
‘This isn’t usual,’ she muttered. Usually she went silent. She’d learned long ago that talking too much meant secrets might slip out and that habit was surprisingly hard to break. She preferred not to tell people about her upbringing now out of choice, rather than necessity. The difference of it made people awkward. ‘You know, it’s not that bad. You can stop with the ice now,’ she gasped. ‘I’m fine.’
He ignored her and increased the pressure even more. ‘Here. Hold it firmly.’
Mortified at the realisation that the last thing the man wanted was to press an ice pack against her leg, she slapped her hand down to hold it in place, inadvertently hitting his hand in the process.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered, dying all over again. If she were a cat, she’d be down to her last life by now.
She pushed back a wet ribbon of hair and tried to ignore the fact that Rafael Vitale was unfastening his wet shirt. Ten timeless seconds later he wasn’t wearing said shirt. Her mouth dried as her brain shorted out. His chest was bronzed and, as she’d suspected, his muscles were ultra-defined. Furthermore, he had the finest trail of hair leading to the waistband of his perfectly tailored black trousers. He was officially a living freaking angel. When he turned away, she quickly pressed the wrapped ice against her burning cheeks instead of her knee and racked her brains for what Francesca had told her about him.
Rafael Vitale had made billions from the kinds of financial transactions Gracie had no desire to ever understand and now he was amassing a property empire. Another thing she’d never understand. She wanted only the one place to call home—that would make her happier than anything.
And if Francesca’s favourite websites were to be believed, the guy dated models and aristocrats—as in the aristocrats who were models. He had an endless supply of stunning well-connected women to warm his bed. Seeing him in the flesh—indeed seeing most of his flesh—Gracie could totally understand why.
She pressed her legs together, primly rejecting the insidious warmth and restless kick deep within. The sooner she got away from here, the better. She’d embarrassed herself enough. She didn’t need to drool over a man who was so far out of her league and who’d never send her a second look in ordinary circumstances. But his kitchen was totally droolworthy—she could make amazing things in this kitchen.
‘Why did you take a photo?’
Startled, she glanced at him, registering the distance in his demeanour as he waited for her answer. She’d taken that snap before she’d started watering the roses, so for how long had he been watching her? ‘I wanted to show him they were fine.’
‘Show who what were fine?’ He stepped closer.
She chose to focus on the smooth marble pastry bench on the opposite side from her and think about cold, cold things so she could speak without stuttering. ‘Alex. The roses.’
‘Who’s Alex?’
‘You don’t know?’ She glanced at Rafael again before remembering the searing impact on her senses.
‘I assume he’s a caretaker? This is my first visit to the villa,’ he said briefly, his intense gaze not leaving her face.
Caretaker? The man had worked on this estate for the last forty years!
‘You’ve not been here before?’ She wrinkled her nose in confusion. ‘Did you buy it without even seeing it and having that restoration work done?’
His lack of response confirmed it.
‘Wow,’ she muttered.
‘This really is about the roses?’
‘Of course it’s about the roses. Why else would I be here?’
He didn’t answer. She stared at him suspiciously. ‘Did you think I was here to, what...hope to meet you?’ The guy was unbearably arrogant.
She dragged her gaze back up from his chest to his eyes and didn’t really blame him. But still.
‘You wouldn’t be the first woman to break into one of my properties.’ A faintly amused look crossed his face as he regarded her damp blouse and skirt.
‘I didn’t break in,’ she said spiritedly.
‘Semantics.’ He leaned back against the opposite bench, that hint of amusement making him even more fascinating. ‘Mostly they try to find my bedroom.’
‘I’m not a stalker.’ At the thought of his bedroom her skin crisped.
‘I’m relieved to hear it.’ He angled his head and studied her.
Awareness rippled down Gracie’s spine. She wasn’t sure she trusted that new look in his eyes and she certainly didn’t trust her own suddenly frantic pulse.
‘You’d better go and get changed,’ she said brightly, hoping he’d take the hint and cover up quickly. ‘You obviously had somewhere to be and I need to get back to the village.’ She wriggled forward to the edge of the table, preparing to put weight on her wretched knee.
‘What’s your name?’
His question was a perfectly innocuous, normal one, yet her heart thundered. She’d given so many variations as an answer to this in her childhood. For over a decade she’d not been able to tell anyone her real name. Lying, lying, lying.
It’s for your safety, sweetheart. So we can stay together.
Hiding had meant constantly moving. She breathed in and shook off the whisper of the past. Now she’d chosen her own name—a family name too—so answering this question now shouldn’t be stressful. Yet for a reason she couldn’t quite identify, she didn’t want to tell him.
For the first time, he actually smiled. It transformed him from moody fallen angel to silver screen hero in a heartbeat. There was no way she could answer him now. She couldn’t actually speak.
‘What does it matter?’ he queried her reluctance with even more of a smile. ‘You’re never going to see me again.’
‘Right. Right, of course... The thing is...’ She bit her lip and decided to brave up. ‘You’re going to have to see me. I’m doing Alex’s job for a few days.’
That smile