‘When you’ve finished, I’d like to do some work,’ he said tightly. ‘It’s a very short flight and there are some things we need to run through before we land.’
‘Of course.’ His observation seemed to have killed her appetite and her eyes were downcast as she pushed away the plate and the stewardess came in to clear the table.
He pulled a sheet of paper from his briefcase. ‘Vero.Let’s run through the people I’ll be meeting. Who’s Hamish McDavid?’
‘He’s the government minister for climate action.’
‘What about Angus Stewart?’
‘He’s the Laird whose land we rent.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Does everyone in Scotland have a name straight out of Central Casting?’
‘Is that a serious question from a man called Vito Monticello?’
He smiled.
She smiled back.
For a moment their eyes locked and Vito’s hard rush of desire was superseded by an equally powerful rush of resentment. What the hell was happening here?
She wasn’t his type—not in any way, shape or form.
His gaze skated over the tartan miniskirt and clinging scarlet sweater.
Except that today, maybe she was.
He shifted uncomfortably, acknowledging the heavy heat in his groin which seemed to taunt him. Yet maybe his response wasn’t so surprising. Grief and guilt were powerful drivers—powerful enough to push sex to the sidelines—which was why he’d been celibate for over a year. And a manneededsex, he reminded himself grimly—in the same way that he needed sustenance and exercise and work. It wasn’t exactly rocket science. His phone book was full of numbers of women who conformed to his chosen ideal. Beauty, brains and authority were his jam. He liked blondes who were in love with their job—mostly because it meant they wouldn’t fall in love with him. He liked sex which was shallow and wild—and there were plenty of females who liked the same.
But strangely, the idea of sex as a form of physical release suddenly seemed an almostemptyconcept and Vito was glad when the plane began to descend, meaning he didn’t have time to ask himself why. Beside him he heard Flora gasp as she looked out of the porthole window and he could no longer resist the temptation to look, his eyes irresistibly drawn to her.
‘Ooh, look! It’s snowing,’ she breathed, and something in his heart twisted as he observed her almost childlike appreciation.
He followed the direction of her gaze. Illuminated by the aircraft’s powerful lights, flurries of giant flakes were hurling themselves like golden arrows towards the plane’s windows. ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t get heavier and cause any unnecessary delay to my flight,’ he said repressively.
He really could be a misery guts at times, thought Flora as they were whisked through airport security and into the waiting four-wheel vehicle, their passage shielded from the swirling flakes by large umbrellas held by two young women who were staring at Vito with unashamed interest. Perhaps that was the answer. Maybe he was used to constant adulation and she hadn’t been paying him enough attention. Perhaps her no-small-talk strategy had backfired and that was why he was so grumpy. So chat to him. Put him in a good mood before he meets all the crofters.
‘Ever been to Scotland before?’ she enquired breezily, sliding onto the back seat beside him as the powerful car left the confines of the airfield and a screen silently descended, isolating them from the driver.
‘Once,’ he answered shortly.
‘Holiday?’
‘Work.’ His lips twisted. ‘My mother was an actress.’
‘Ooh, would I have heard of her? Is she famous?’
‘She’s dead, but no, she wasn’t famous.’ His voice was harsh and, Flora thought—totally devoid of grief. ‘Although she did everything in her power to make that happen.’
‘How do you mean?’ she asked, genuinely interested now.
The glitter of his eyes was as cold as the snowy day outside as he gestured towards the papers on his lap, his words cool and dismissive. ‘What’s with the sudden interrogation, Flora?’ he snapped. ‘Haven’t you got something better you could be occupying your time with? There’s plenty of work which needs my attention.’
So much for trying to get to know him a bit better. Flora fished around in her own briefcase. Fine! Who wanted to spend a two-hour journey talking to Mr Miserable, especially when it was like getting blood out of a stone? Instead, she busied herself by telephoning Hamish’s secretary to check the arrangements, then stared out of the window at the falling snow, while the man across from her worked steadily, without once lifting his head.
She stared out of the window as the snowfall grew steadier. Thick clouds of flakes were tumbling down in slow motion as the car left the main road and headed towards the more desolate countryside. Soon the ancient mountains had become so blurred by white that very soon she couldn’t see them at all. She was amazed that the driver could find his way, but eventually the car slowly drove up the snowy track towards the wind farm. She saw people getting out of their parked cars, rubbing their hands together and shivering beside the giant turbines as they waited for Vito to arrive.
She sneaked a glance as he got out of the car in his dark coat, the soft grey scarf around his neck making him look effortlessly elegant and very Italian. And gorgeous, she thought longingly, before she could stop herself. Tantalisingly and tauntingly gorgeous.
