The Undoing of de Luca (6 page)

‘I’m sorry.’

Ellery whirled around, her thoughts lending the movement a certain fury. Larenz stood in the doorway of the kitchen; he’d removed his boots and there was something almost endearing about seeing him in his socks. One of them sported a hole in the toe.

‘You’re sorry?’ she repeated, as if the words didn’t make sense. They didn’t really, coming from Larenz. It was the last thing she’d expected him to say.

‘Yes,’ he replied quietly. ‘You’re right. I shouldn’t be giving you advice. It’s none of my business.’

Ellery stared at him; his eyes had darkened to navy and he looked both serious and contrite. The sudden about-face disconcerted her, made her wonder about her own assumptions. Now she was left speechless and uncertain, not sure if his words were sincere.

‘Thank you,’ she finally managed stiffly. ‘I’m sorry, as well. It’s not my usual practice to insult my guests.’

A smile quirked Larenz’s mouth and his eyes glinted again, as sparkling and blue as sunlight on the sea. The transformation made Ellery’s insides fizz, and she felt faint with a sudden intense longing that she could not, for the life of her, suppress. It rose up inside her in a consuming wave, taking all her self-righteous anger with it. ‘I’m not really a usual guest, am I?’ he teased softly.

‘A bit more demanding,’ Ellery agreed, and wondered if she was actually flirting.

‘Then I must make up for my deficiencies,’ he replied. ‘How about I make us lunch?’

His suggestion caused another frisson of wary pleasure to shiver through her. Ellery arched her eyebrows. ‘You can actually cook?’

‘A few things.’

She hesitated. They were stepping into new territory now, first with the little flirtatious exchange and now with the idea of Larenz actually making lunch—cooking—for her. Dangerous ground.

Exciting ground. Ellery hadn’t felt so alive in ages, not since she’d first buried herself here in the far reaches of Suffolk, and probably far before that, too. She sucked in a slow breath. ‘All right,’ she finally said, and heard the mingled reluctance and anticipation in her voice. Larenz heard it, too, or she assumed as much from the wicked little smile he gave her.

‘Fantastic. Where are your cooking pots?’

Smiling a little bit, a bubble of laughter threatening to rise up inside her and escape, Ellery showed him where everything was. Within a few minutes he was playing at executive chef, dicing a few tomatoes with surprising agility as a big pot of water bubbled on the stove. Ellery knew she should go upstairs and make the beds, but instead she found herself perched on the edge of the table, watching Larenz move around the kitchen with ease and grace. He was wonderful to watch.

‘How did a man like you learn how to cook?’

His shoulders seemed to stiffen for a single second before he threw her a questioning glance. ‘A man like me?’ he repeated lightly. ‘Just what is that supposed to mean?’

Ellery shrugged. ‘You’re wealthy, powerful, entitled.’ She ticked the words off on her fingers, not meaning them as insults although, from the still stiff set of Larenz’s shoulders, she had the uncomfortable feeling that he took them as such.

‘Entitled?’ he repeated wryly. ‘I’m afraid not. You’re the one with the title.’

Was she imagining the bitter undercurrent in his voice? Surely she was. ‘I don’t mean an actual title,’ she said. ‘Useless as they are—’

‘Are they?’

‘Mine is.’ She swept an arm to encompass the whole Manor, her whole life. ‘It’s just a courtesy anyway, because my father was a baron. Besides, what’s good about being Lady Maddock, besides having to pay death in taxes?’

‘Nothing is certain except death and taxes,’ Larenz murmured as he minced two fat cloves of garlic.

‘Exactly.’ Ellery paused, both unable and unwilling to voice how this new side to Larenz had surprised and even unsettled her. ‘Men like you don’t usually learn basic life skills,’ she finally said.

‘Men like me,’ he echoed thoughtfully. ‘And that’s because someone is always doing it for us, I suppose?’ He paused in his slicing and dicing. ‘Fortunately, my mother had a more prosaic view. She made sure I learned all of life’s necessary skills.’ He slid her a sideways smile that did strange things to her middle; it was as if something were opening and closing inside her, like a fist.

‘I see,’ Ellery murmured. She felt herself blushing, her whole body heating from just a single look. Suddenly the kitchen felt very warm.

‘We can eat as soon as the pasta is done,’ Larenz told her. ‘No more than a simple tomato sauce, I’m afraid. My skills are indeed basic when it comes to the kitchen.’ Yet his playful emphasis suggested that his skills were both more advanced and adept outside of the kitchen.

Such as in the bedroom.

Or was that where her own desperate thoughts were taking her? She was mesmerised by the way his hands moved so quickly and skilfully as he prepared their lunch; she watched the sunlight play on his dark curls as he bent his head to his task and felt nearly dizzy with need.

She needed to stop this, Ellery told herself. She had no intention of getting involved—in any way—with Larenz de Luca. She might feel a brief and admittedly intense attraction for him—intense simply because she’d denied her body for so long—yet she had absolutely no interest in acting upon it. She couldn’t.

The thought of being intimate—vulnerable—with someone like Larenz actually made her shudder. She would not be beholden to a man like Larenz de Luca, a man who would surely turn his back on her without a second thought. A man who, by all evidence, treated women as playthings, as amusements. And surely he was merely amusing himself with her in an effort to while away a long lonely weekend. Was that why he had stayed? For his own bored amusement? Surely the supposed business proposition was no more than a pretext.

Larenz peered into the pot. ‘I believe it’s done.’

Ellery forced her thoughts—and their natural direction—away. ‘Isn’t it supposed to stick to the wall?’ she asked, half-teasing, and he grimaced.

‘Foolish folk tales. An Italian knows when the spaghetti is done simply by looking.’

‘Where did you grow up in Italy?’ Ellery asked. It was an impulsive question, breaching the wall she’d erected between servant and guest. Tearing down the self-defences she’d made despite her resolve not to be involved. Interested.

Yet somehow she kept asking the questions, somehow she stayed. Her mind and body were clearly at war.

Larenz drained the pasta and ladled it into two bowls before replying. ‘I’m originally from Umbria,’ he finally said. ‘Near Spoleto, but really in the middle of nowhere.’

‘Your family is still there?’ Ellery asked.

Another pause. She felt as if the questions were becoming intrusive, although she’d meant them to be innocuous. ‘Not any longer,’ Larenz finally answered, and brought the bowls to the table. ‘Now let’s eat.’

He’d placed the bowls on one end of the table, leaving Ellery little choice but to sit next to him instead of her earlier, safer place at the far end. It would surely be offensive—and obvious—to move her bowl to the other end of the table.

Still, Ellery hesitated and Larenz glanced at her, clearly amused. ‘I don’t bite, you know. Unless asked, of course.’

Ellery rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, please.’ She sat down and, from the fleeting little grin he gave her, she knew he’d been outrageous on purpose; it had, strangely, put her at ease.

They ate for a few moments in a silence that was surprisingly companionable. Larenz’s knee occasionally pressed against hers, and Ellery wondered if it was accidental. He seemed unaware of the times when they touched, although surely he could see how those brief brushes affected her? Several layers of fabric separated their skin and yet, every time his knee pressed against hers, her whole body tensed as though preparing to resist an assault.

And it was an assault, an onslaught of the senses, for each time he touched her she felt her body—and her resolve—weakening further. She felt pleasure and need flood her body, overwhelm her senses, so that she couldn’t think about anything but the purely physical joy of being touched.

She wanted this. To be touched, desired, loved, even if it was only for a moment’s amusement.

No.
The realization was far too shaming. She could not allow herself to think this way. Feel this way. Yet her body disagreed; every nerve blazed to life, every sinew singing with reawakened awareness. Her body wanted more.

And so her body betrayed her. Without being even fully cognizant of what she was doing, she moved her foot so it brushed against Larenz’s leg. She felt taut muscle under her toes. He didn’t even pause, and Ellery felt a ridiculous flaring of disappointment. What on earth was she doing? Was she actually playing footsie under the kitchen table?

And the most galling part was Larenz didn’t even notice.

Maybe he really hadn’t meant to touch her, the brushing of their knees no more than an accident. Perhaps his attraction, just like her own need, was all in her head. In her body, now stirring to life with suppressed longings and taking over her common sense. Larenz looked as if he felt nothing at all. And while that should relieve her—keep her safe—Ellery discovered, to her annoyance, that it simply made her feel frustrated.

He raised his head to smile at her, and Ellery knew she’d been caught staring. She turned resolutely back to her pasta. ‘So tell me about this business proposition of yours, if there really is one at all.’

‘You doubt me?’ Larenz asked, sounding amused. Ellery shrugged. ‘As a matter of fact, I own a chain of department stores—De Luca’s.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve heard of them?’

Ellery nodded. Of course she’d heard of them; there was a De Luca’s in nearly every major European city. She’d hardly call it a department store, though. It was too upmarket for that. She certainly couldn’t afford anything there. She supposed she should have made the connection earlier, when she’d learned what Larenz’s last name was. Yet, even though she’d known him to be rich, she hadn’t quite realized just how powerful and wealthy he truly was.

He really was slumming here, staying at the Manor, flirting with her. Amusing himself, and that only a little.

‘Amelie scouted your Manor for a fashion shoot,’ Larenz continued. ‘The shoot will launch a new line of haute couture I’ve commissioned, and I’d like it to be done here.’

Ellery stared at him in disbelief, her lunch—and even her longings—momentarily forgotten. ‘You want to stage a fashion photography shoot here?’

Larenz smiled, steepling his fingers under his chin. ‘Is that so strange?’

‘As a matter of fact, yes. There are dozens—hundreds—of manor houses in this country, houses that are in better shape than Maddock.’ It hurt to say it, even though it was glaringly obvious. ‘Why would you choose a third-rate place?’

He was still smiling that faint mocking little smile that drove her just about crazy. Ellery bit the inside of her cheek. ‘You don’t think much of your home.’

‘I’m honest,’ Ellery returned flatly. ‘Something I don’t think you’re being.’

‘Maddock Manor has a certain…ambience…we’d like for the photo shoot.’

Ellery stared at him for a full minute, trying to grasp what he was saying. She was missing something, she was sure of it, because there was no way one of Europe’s most elite stores would want to market their new high-end fashion label at a falling-down wreck of a house in deepest Suffolk. Was there? She narrowed her eyes. ‘This is pity, isn’t it?’

‘Pity?’ Larenz repeated questioningly, as though the word was unfamiliar to him. Before Ellery could make any kind of reply, he reached over and touched his thumb to the corner of her mouth, pressing lightly against her skin.

Ellery’s lips parted instinctively and she heard her breath escape in a tiny, soft sigh that betrayed her utterly. Larenz’s smile deepened and he murmured, ‘You had a bit of sauce there.’

Ellery felt a flush burn its way up her body, right to the roots of her hair. She’d always blushed easily and she hated it especially now, for surely Larenz saw how he’d affected her—how he’d meant to affect her, touching her so provocatively.

Or perhaps it hadn’t been provocative; perhaps he’d merely been wiping away a dab of sauce, and she’d read more into it because she was so desperate with longing.

She rose from the table, reaching for the dishes almost blindly and bringing them to the sink, her back to Larenz.

‘Ellery?’ he asked, his voice mild yet questioning.

Ellery dumped the dishes into the sink and watched almost impassively as a bowl broke cleanly in half. She hated how confused she felt, sensuality and self-protection warring within her while Larenz seemed completely unaware of the pitched battle going on.

She heard him rise from the table; she sensed him standing close behind her, felt his heat and his strength. She even inhaled the now familiar tang of his aftershave. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked in a low voice. She realized she no longer cared if she embarrassed herself. She needed to know why. Was he even aware of how much he affected her? Surely he had to be. Surely he was enjoying this little game.

‘Doing what?’ Larenz asked. His voice was carefully bland.

Ellery turned around. ‘Teasing me,’ she said, her voice still low. ‘With this ridiculous business proposition, with—’ She swallowed, unwilling even now to admit how much his careless little touches and flirtations affected her. ‘Are you amusing yourself for the weekend because your lover left early? Since nobody else is available, you’ve decided I’ll do?’ The accusations poured out, scraping her throat raw. ‘I don’t need your pity, Mr—’

He pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her. ‘You think I pity you?’

‘I know you do.’ She drew in a ragged breath; his finger was still on her mouth, and she tasted the salt of his skin. ‘I see it every time you look around this place. You think it’s a hovel, a mouldering wreck like your…your
mistress
called it last night!’ Ellery was breathing hard and fast now; she was angry, angrier than the situation merited, and she knew why. Larenz reminded her of her father. Larenz treated Amelie—and her—like her father had treated her mother. Someone to take or leave, as he desired, with no regard for the sorrow or heartbreak he caused. Fresh rage poured through her.