Italian Boss, Housekeeper Mistress

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 was small enough and its few residents were close-mouthed and loyal. Annoyed, Leandro realised he was almost looking forward to the prospect of the evening ahead. He was being so weak … as his father had been weak. Grimacing, he headed for the kitchen.

He found Zoe dripping and shivering by the range, her arms wrapped around her sides. She dropped them as soon as she saw him.

‘This kitchen is huge,’ she remarked. ‘I’m not sure where to begin.’

Leandro shrugged. ‘You just need to clean it.’ He thrust the sheets and towels into her arms. He couldn’t keep himself from noticing the lithe perfection of her body, tanned and taut and so very bare. She wasn’t curvaceous, but she had enough of a rounded shape to please a man and make his mid-section tighten uncomfortably. ‘Once you’re dressed, we’ll go out to eat. Perhaps tomorrow you can go to the shops for food and whatever else you’ll need. Do you cook?’

Zoe raised an eyebrow. ‘That wasn’t in the job description, but I can rustle up a few meals, if that’s what you’re asking. Is it just the two of us here?’

Although the question was basic, it seemed to reverberate through the air, conjuring up an uncomfortable intimacy, and Leandro instinctively sharpened his tone. ‘Yes. I’ll see you in a few minutes.’ He turned on his heel, striding quickly out of the room before Zoe had a chance to say another word.

CHAPTER TWO

SHE shouldn’t be looking forward to sharing a meal with as ornery a creature as Leandro Filametti, yet Zoe was honest enough to acknowledge that she was. She gazed briefly at her reflection in the tarnished mirror in her bedroom, happy enough with her appearance. No need to impress her employer, she decided, knowing that any attempt to do so would most likely achieve the opposite effect. She’d settled on a pair of jeans and a yellow silky top with skinny straps. She left her hair loose and damp, and eschewed any makeup. Leandro was waiting, probably counting the minutes or seconds to determine how tardy she was. He seemed the type.

Humming under her breath, Zoe headed downstairs. Just as she’d expected, Leandro was waiting in the foyer, and Zoe saw immediately that he’d changed. He wore a cream-coloured button-down shirt and tan trousers—a boring outfit if there ever was one. And yet on him it looked far too appealing. The sleeves were rolled up to expose strong, tanned forearms—how did someone closeted all day doing research get tanned?—and the trousers emphasised a trim waist and long, well-muscled legs.

Zoe tore her gaze away; there was no point ogling her employer. She didn’t want to get involved with someone like Leandro Filametti, who could only see her as the hired help—a drudge to be treated with disdain or at best grudging respect. She knew how that scenario played out. But he was nice to look at.

‘There is a restaurant in Lornetto, the nearby village,’ Leandro told her. ‘We can walk, if you like.’

‘Sounds great,’ Zoe replied breezily, causing a brief frown to pass over Leandro’s face like a shadow. What a stickler, she thought, with a little burst of annoyed amusement. She wondered what kind of research he was doing. He was probably an accountant, or something equally dull.

Yet there was nothing dull about the flash of awareness that tingled up her arm when he took her elbow and guided her down the crumbling steps of the portico. He dropped it as soon as they’d navigated the wrecked stone, but Zoe was still conscious of a strange, shivery warmth where he’d touched her.

She shrugged the feeling away, determined not to be distracted. She hadn’t come to Italy for a relationship; she’d come to get away from one, and she’d do well to remember that.

The sun set as they walked down the lane, leaving vivid violet streaks across the sky, and although the air was still warm and scented with lavender there was a hint of coolness too, as the evening breeze rolled in from the mountains.

They walked in companionable enough silence for a few moments along the lake road—La Ancina Strada, from Roman times, according to the guidebook Zoe had leafed through—until a village—no more than a huddle of stone buildings along a narrow cobblestoned street—came into view.

There was certainly something charming about the scattering of tables under a faded striped awning, Zoe reflected as Leandro guided her to an outdoor café along an even narrower side street. Dusk had fallen, and the night cloaked them in cool softness as he pulled out her chair. There was, she thought with an uneasy sort of pleasure, something almost romantic about the situation.

That notion was quickly dispelled as Leandro took a seat across from her, folded his hands in businesslike fashion and launched into an extensive list of her duties.

‘I’m selling the villa,’ he stated bluntly, ‘as soon as it’s in decent condition. You are required to keep it as neat and clean as possible. I understand the difficulty, since so much of it is in disrepair, but there will be workmen coming in to deal with much of the damage, and as their work continues so yours should become easier.’

Zoe nodded, although she hardly thought navigating workmen, falling plaster and all manner of unknown hazards would make her job easier.

A waiter came, and without a glance at her Leandro ordered for both of them. Annoyance prickled along her spine at this presumption—although she recognised fairly that she knew an appallingly little amount of Italian.

‘What did you order?’ she asked after the waiter had left. ‘Just out of curiosity.’

‘A local pasta dish,’ Leandro replied with a shrug. ‘Made with tomatoes and basil—simple enough.’

Zoe nodded. She wasn’t about to kick up a fuss over something so small, yet it still irritated her that Leandro had ordered for her without even asking. It spoke volumes about how he viewed his station in life … and hers.

And yet, she asked herself, determined to be honest, why should she care? She’d had years of experience in menial work; her impressive listing of chambermaid and waitressing jobs was undoubtedly what had secured her this position in the first place. Yet for some reason, in the enforced intimacy of their situation, it rankled.

‘May I have a drink?’ she asked a little pettishly, and Leandro’s eyes narrowed, his lips thinning in obvious disapproval.