“What about your dad?” She asked, sipping her tea.
Benedetto stiffened imperceptibly. “He died a few years ago. He was in poor health.”
Fortunately, Kate was a romantic soul, and her mind took a different direction from her inquisitive path. “He must have been, in some way, waiting to join her for all those years.”
“Yes,” Benedetto nodded.
“How about your father?” He asked with a degree of assumed nonchalance that almost pained him. “Are you close to him?”
She was nowhere nearly as masterful at covering her emotions as he. “Not really.”
The answer surprised him. He had not known this. In every way he had seen proof of their tightness. In any interviews he’d ever given, Lord Beauchamp had boasted about his daughter; his protégé.
“No?” He sipped his coffee, hoping he seemed only casually interested in her revelation.
“We’re different people,” she said with finality. The conversation, so far as Kate was concerned, was over. She placed her tea cup down on the table in front of them and stood. “And we have a house to clean. Come on.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“You must get the most incredible fruit out here.” Kate reached up and plucked a single orange blossom to her nose. It was sweetly fragrant, a heady mix of sunshine and joy.
Beside her, Benedetto walked, hands stuffed in the pockets of the faded jeans he’d found in the wardrobe. His jumper was a dark grey and dressed like this, casually, he looked completely like himself. Kate knew the moment he appeared in this outfit that she had been right.
He might wear suits and tuxedos in his day to day life, but that was a costume. He was this person.
This outdoorsy, rugged, wild type of man.
“I would pick it, growing up, so that my father could make jam.”
“Your dad made jam?” She asked, picking another blossom and joining it to the other in her hand.
“The best,” his smile was teasing. “Don’t tell me you’re going to find that strange? And here I had you pegged as a feminist.”
“I don’t find it strange,” she laughed. “I like it. I especially like the thought of you wearing a cute little kiddy apron and helping him stir it.” She sobered. “It’s just … I can’t imagine my dad ever doing anything so domestic.” She pulled a face.
Benedetto nodded. “Tell me about him.” Only he didn’t want to know. The day they’d shared had shocked him for its easiness. They’d cleaned the house and she’d sung, showing that her voice was beautiful and melodious. They’d made love after lunch and dozed in the faded hammock that had once hung with splashes of bright colour between the fig and the olive tree in the front garden. And now, as the sun was dipping down over the surrounding hills, they walked side by side as though they’d known one another for years, not a day and a half.
The mention of Augustine Beauchamp filled him with a river of ill-will. It reminded him that he was full of hatred and anger. It reminded him that this woman was just a means to an end and that he was foolish to be getting to know her so well. It reminded him that he had used her for sex and sent proof of that act to the one man who would understand what he’d done, and why.
His face paled beneath his tan.
“And ruin this paradise?” She said with forced-lightness, grabbing another blossom and pinched all three between her fingers. “Look.” She held it out to him; he saw only a collection of tiny flowers. “It’s a fairy bouquet.”
He arched a brow sardonically and she burst out laughing.
“I used to make them when I was little. Hundreds of them. One time, I picked all of the blossoms off our pear tree and made strands and strands and strands of white ribbons. It took me a whole day, but it was so beautiful.” She sighed at the memory. “Of course I was in so much trouble when my father found out. The tree hadn’t borne fruit for three years so I’d sort of ruined something special.” She shook her head.
“How old were you?”
She frowned. “I don’t know. Six or seven perhaps.”
“Too young to understand what you were doing,” he pointed out, taking the bouquet from her and twirling it in his own fingers. His eyes latched to hers and something sharp and bright flared between them.
Kate looked away from him, her eyes seeking out something — anything — that would distract her.
“What other fruits do you grow here?”
He was happy to let her move their conversation along. He draped an arm casually around her shoulders, though his brain was shouting at him to stop this madness. He had done what he’d set out to do and now he should have been driving her back to Rome and forgetting he ever knew her.
