LITMIR.BIZ

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was still apparent in this old beauty.

      It made Miranda’s blood tick in her veins. What a gorgeous old place for Leandro to inherit. It was a piece of history. A relic from an enchanted time when the aristocracy had flaunted their wealth by hiring architects to design opulent villas with every imaginable embellishment: faux stonework, figureheads, frescos, friezes, decorative ironwork, ornamental stucco work, cupolas, painted effects, garlands and grotesques. The aristocracy had indulged their taste for the exotic, with Italian and Classic influences as well as Gothic, Eastern and Moorish.

      And he was packing it up and selling it?

      Miranda looked up at him as he opened her car door for her. ‘Leandro, it’s amazing! What a glorious building. It’s like a time capsule from the Art Nouveau period. This was your childhood home? Really?’

      He clearly didn’t share her excitement for the building. His expression had that closed-off look about it, as shuttered as the windows of the villa they were about to enter. ‘It’s very run-down,’ he said.

      ‘Yes, but it can be brought back to life.’ Miranda beamed at him, clasping her hands in excitement. ‘I’m so glad you asked me to come. I can’t wait to see what’s inside.’

      He stepped forward to unlock the door with the set of keys he was holding in his hand. ‘Dust and cobwebs mostly.’

      Miranda’s gaze went to his tanned hand, that funny fluttery feeling passing over the floor of her belly as she watched the way his long, strong fingers turned the key in the lock. Who was the last woman he’d touched with those arrantly masculine but beautiful hands? Were his hands smooth or rough or something deliciously in between? She couldn’t stop herself from imagining those strong, capable hands exploring female flesh. Caressing a breast. Gliding down a smooth thigh. Touching the silken skin between her legs.

      Her legs?

      Miranda jerked back from her wayward thoughts as if a hand had grabbed and pulled on the back of her clothing. What was she doing thinking of him that way? She didn’t think of any man that way.

      That way was over for her.

      It had died with Mark. She owed it to his memory, to all he had meant to her and she to him.

      Miranda could not allow herself to think of moving on with her life. Of having a life. A normal life. Her dreams of normal were gone.

      Dead and buried.

      Leandro glanced at her. ‘What’s wrong?’

      Miranda felt her face flame. Why did she always act like a flustered schoolgirl when she was around him? She was an adult, for God’s sake. She had to act mature and sensible. Cool and in charge of her emotions and her traitorous needs. She could do that. Of course she could. ‘Erm...nothing.’

      His frown created a deep crevasse between his brows. ‘Would you rather go to a hotel? There’s one a couple of blocks down. I could—’

      ‘No, of course not.’ She painted on a bright smile. ‘Don’t spoil it for me by insisting I stay at some plush hotel. This is right up my alley. I want to be in amongst the dust and cobwebs. Who knows what priceless treasures are hidden inside?’

      Something moved at the back of his gaze, as quick as the twitch of a curtain. But then his expression went back to its default position. ‘Come this way,’ he said.

      Miranda followed him into the villa, her heels echoing on the marbled floor of the grand foyer. It made her feel she was stepping into a vacuum, moving back in time. Thousands of dust motes rose in the air, the sunlight catching them where it was slanting in from the windows either side of the opulently carved and sweeping staircase.

      As Leandro closed the door, the central chandelier tinkled above them as the draught of the outside air breathed against its glittering crystals.

      Miranda felt a rush of goose bumps scamper over every inch of her flesh. She turned a full circle, taking in the bronze, marble and onyx statues positioned about the foyer. There were paintings on every wall, portraits and landscapes from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries; some looked even older. It was like stepping into a neglected museum. A thick layer of dust was over everything like a ghostly shroud.

      ‘Wow...’ she breathed in wonder.

      Leandro merely looked bored. ‘I’ll show you to your room first. Then I’ll give you the guided tour.’

      Miranda followed him upstairs, having to restrain herself from stopping in front of every painting or objet d’art on the way past. She caught tantalising glimpses of the second floor rooms through the open doors; most of the furniture was draped with dust sheets but even so she could see in times gone past the villa had been a showcase for grandeur and wealth. There were a couple of rooms with the doors closed. One she assumed was Leandro’s bedroom but she knew it wasn’t the master suite as they had passed it three doors back. Did he not want to occupy the room his father had slept in all those years?

      Miranda felt another prickle of goose bumps.

      Had his father perhaps died in there?

      Thankfully the room Leandro had assigned her had been aired. The faded formal curtains had been pulled back and secured by the brass fittings and the window opened so fresh air could circulate. The breeze was playing with the gossamer-sheer fabric of the curtain in little billowy puffs and sighs.

      ‘I hope the bed’s comfortable,’ Leandro said as he placed her bag on a velvet-topped chest at the foot of the bed. ‘The linen is fresh. I bought some new stuff when I got here yesterday.’

      Miranda glanced at him. ‘Did your father die at home?’

      His brows came together. ‘Why do you ask?’

      She gave a little shrug, absently rubbing her upper arms with her crossed-over hands. ‘Just wondering.’

      He held her look for a beat before turning away, one of his hands scoring a pathway through the thickness of his hair. ‘He was found unconscious by a neighbour and died a few hours later in hospital.’

      ‘So you didn’t get to say goodbye to him?’

      He made a sound of derision. ‘We said our goodbyes a long time ago.’

      Miranda looked at the landscape of his face—the strong jaw, the tight mouth with its lines of tension running down each side and the shadowed eyes. ‘What happened between the two of you?’ she said.

      His eyes moved away from hers. ‘I’ll leave you to unpack. The bathroom is through there. I’ll be downstairs in the study.’

      ‘Leandro?’

      He stopped at the door and she heard him release a ‘what now?’ breath before he turned to look at her with dark eyes that flashed with unmistakable irritation. ‘You’re not here to give me grief counselling, okay?’

      Miranda opened her eyes a little wider at his acerbic tone. She had never seen him even mildly angry before. He was always so emotionless, so neutral and blank...apart from that frown, of course. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

      He scrubbed his hand over his face as he let out another whoosh of air. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a weighted tone. ‘That was uncalled for.’

      ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘I realise this is a difficult time for you.’

      His mouth twisted but it was nowhere near a smile, not even a quarter of one. ‘Let me know if you need anything. I’m not used to catering for guests. I might’ve overlooked something.’

      ‘Don’t you have visitors come and stay with you at your place in London?’ Miranda said.

      His eyes were as unfathomable as ever as they held hers. ‘Women, you mean?’

      Miranda felt another blush storm into her cheeks. Why on earth was she was discussing his sex life with him? It was crossing a boundary she had never crossed before. She’d thought about him with other women.

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