made her way up. The gloom was intensified by a gossamer net of cobwebs suspended from the ceiling, and the only sound besides her own breathing was the resentful squeak of the steps as she made her way upwards.
She passed a dark, silent floor of closed doors and more shrouded furniture and then went up to the top floor, gazing in dismay at the four rooms available there. Each one was small and depressing, containing only a chest of drawers and a narrow bed whose mattress was questionable in both comfort and hygiene.
It was also stiflingly hot.
‘At least the view is good,’ she muttered, as she forced open a pair of peeling shutters and gazed out at the terraced gardens that ran down directly to the lake. The gardens were in as much disrepair as the villa, but they showed it less. Bougainvillea run rampant, Zoe decided, was pretty. Dust run rampant was not.
With a sigh she turned back to survey the room. Sweat trickled down her back and between her breasts, and with sudden clarity and determination Zoe decided she was not going to suffer up here while a dozen bedrooms below went unused.
Leandro Filametti be damned. She deserved a little comfort if he expected her to tackle this lot.
Twenty minutes later Zoe had settled on one of the more modest bedrooms on the second floor. Painted in a faded lemony yellow, it was a smaller room, whose shuttered windows afforded a stunning view of Lake Como. After locating a dented bucket and an old mop in one of the kitchen’s many cupboards, Zoe spent most of the afternoon cleaning her own bedroom, airing the mattress and scrubbing and dusting what looked like a dozen years’ worth of dust and dirt.
Why was this villa such a mess? she wondered more than once. It was a prime piece of property, yet it looked as if it had been empty for years.
She felt as dirty as the room had been by the time she’d finished cleaning, and she seriously doubted the villa was equipped with a decent shower.
The sun was starting its descent towards the lake, but the air was still sultry and warm. With a defiant shrug Zoe decided she’d make use of the natural resources on hand, and after slipping on a bikini she made her way downstairs.
All was silent, and Leandro was nowhere to be seen. Just as well, Zoe decided grimly. If she saw him, she might give him a piece of her mind—and that could get her fired.
She picked her way through the overgrown gardens to a set of stone steps that led directly to an old jetty. The water shimmered with late-afternoon sunlight and after a second’s hesitation Zoe dived in, gasping as the shock of surprisingly cold water hit her near-naked body. She swam underwater for a few lengths, before surfacing and flipping onto her back, her eyes closed.
She floated pleasantly in an almost half-doze before she became conscious of another presence. She didn’t know what alerted her, but something prickled along her skin entirely separate from the cool water. She lifted her head, treading water, as her eyes scanned the shoreline and came in direct contact with Leandro Filametti.
His expression was neutral, his eyes narrowed against the sun, his hands fisted on his hips. Even so, Zoe’s heart slammed in her chest and she found herself strangely conscious of everything: her own rather bare body, the coolness of the water, the brilliance of the sun. And the cold, hard look she could now see in Leandro’s eyes—could feel emanating from him just as if she were standing in front of a freezer.
He didn’t speak, and Zoe forced a breezy laugh as she raised an arm in greeting. ‘Come on in. The water’s lovely.’
Wrong thing to say, she decided, as Leandro’s neutral expression darkened into a scowl.
‘I see you are availing yourself of the comforts of my home,’ he said after a moment, and before she could stop herself Zoe gave a little laugh of disbelief.
‘Comforts? I’m afraid, Signor Filametti, that your home affords very few comforts.’
In answer he arched one eyebrow, coldly sceptical. Zoe was getting tired of treading water, so she swam to the side of the jetty and hauled herself up. Sitting on the sun-warmed stone, dripping wet, she felt Leandro’s gaze rove over her, and was conscious yet again of the skimpiness of her bikini. She was also aware that she didn’t have a towel.
‘What have you been doing this afternoon?’ Leandro asked, his tone one that suggested Zoe had been lolling by the lakeside for hours, eating bonbons and reading novels.
‘Making a bedroom habitable,’ she replied sharply. ‘When an ad says “room and board provided” it usually means just that. But none of the bedrooms in your villa were fit for human habitation, Signor Filametti, so I spent the afternoon making sure I had a place to sleep tonight.’
Leandro was silent for a long moment, and when Zoe glanced at him she saw his expression was as dark and foreboding as ever.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said finally, surprising her. ‘I didn’t think … I am involved in important research at the moment, and such considerations escaped my notice.’
Zoe jerked her head in a nod of acceptance. ‘I couldn’t find any sheets,’ she added, a bit petulantly.
Leandro’s mouth quirked upwards in an unexpected glimmering of a smile. ‘Or towels, I suspect. Those I have, I brought with me. Although if I recall the beds on the top floor are single—’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem,’ Zoe replied, ‘because I chose a bedroom on the second floor.’ She glared at him, ready for a battle, but after a tiny pause he just shrugged.
‘As you wish. When you come up to the house I’ll provide you with some sheets.’ His disapproving glance took in her wet length once more before he added, ‘And a towel.’
He shouldn’t have gone down to the lake, Leandro knew. He was angry with himself that he had. He hadn’t made the decision until he’d heard the sound of splashing and realised Zoe Clark must be down there. Swimming. In a swimming costume.
This realisation had presented his tired mind with far too many intriguing images that he’d pushed resolutely away. He’d been without a woman for too long— without companionship of any kind for too long. Normally a woman like Zoe Clark would disgust him. Bold, obvious, inappropriate, cheap. All the qualities he despised in a woman.
The few women he’d taken to his bed had been sophisticated, classy and most importantly discreet. They’d understood the nature of short-term, expedient affairs and they’d wanted the same thing. Pleasure. Satisfaction. And a painless goodbye.
Not, he thought grimly, money. Or, worse, love.
He didn’t know what Zoe wanted, but he knew what women like her were capable of. And even if they weren’t, he knew what the tabloids were capable of. He’d seen firsthand how whispers could destroy a person. Already he imagined the headlines if someone got hold of his situation: Like father, like son. Leandro Filametti in a flagrant affair with his housekeeper.
He pushed the thought—and the temptation—away.
Upstairs in the villa Leandro dug through the supplies he’d brought to the villa from his flat in Milan and found a set of clean sheets and a couple of towels. He should have considered the whole matter of her bedroom, but he hadn’t wanted to consider her at all. Thinking about a housekeeper meant thinking about the villa, and even though he’d spent every day of the last month within its walls he didn’t want to think about it.
He didn’t want to remember.
As he headed downstairs his stomach gave a growl, reminding him that it was nearing suppertime and the only thing in the fridge was half a portion of pasta, left over from the restaurant where he’d eaten last night. He’d brought it home for lunch and forgotten about it completely. Somehow he didn’t think Zoe Clark would consider it suitable fare—and she would be quick to point out that room and board meant feeding her too. He knew her type; she would insist on her rights.
The only option was to take her out to a restaurant. Of course there was always the danger of being recognised, but Lornetto