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She loaded the slurry tank to spray the meadow field before her father could complain about how far behind she was with the spring schedule. Archie leapt into the tractor cab with her and sat panting by her side. He still wore the old leather collar punched with his name that he had arrived with. When she had found him wandering the fields, hungry and bedraggled, Lizzie had reckoned he had been dumped at the side of the road and, sadly, nobody had ever come looking for him. She suspected that his formerly expensive collar revealed that he had once been a much-loved pet, possibly abandoned because his elderly owner had passed away.
When he’d first arrived, he had hung out with their aging sheepdog, Shep, and had demonstrated a surprising talent for picking up Shep’s skills so that when Shep had died even Brian Whitaker had acknowledged that Archie could make himself useful round the farm. Lizzie, on the other hand, utterly adored Archie. He curled up at her feet in bed at night and allowed himself to be cuddled whenever she was low.
She was driving back to the yard to refill the slurry tank when she saw a long, sleek, glossy black car filtering off the main road into the farm lane. Her brow furrowed at the sight. She couldn’t picture anyone coming in a car that big and expensive to buy the free-range eggs she sold. Parking the tractor by the fence, she climbed out with Archie below one arm, stooping to let her pet down.
That was Cesare’s first glimpse of Lizzie. She glanced up as she unbent and the limo slowed to ease past the tractor. He saw that though she might dress like a bag lady she had skin as translucent as the finest porcelain and eyes the colour of prized jade. He breathed in deep and slow.
His driver got out of the car only to come under immediate attack by what was clearly a vicious dog but which more closely resembled a scruffy fur muff on short legs. As the woman captured the dog to restrain it and before his driver could open the door for him Cesare sprang out and instantly the offensive stench of the farm yard assaulted his fastidious nostrils. His intense concentration trained on his quarry, he simply held his breath while lazily wondering if she smelt as well. When his father had said the Whitaker family was dirt-poor he had clearly not been joking. The farmhouse bore no resemblance to a picturesque country cottage with roses round the door. The rain guttering sagged, the windows needed replacing and the paint was peeling off the front door.
‘Are you looking for directions?’ Lizzie asked as the tall black-haired male emerged in a fluid shift of long limbs from the rear seat.
Cesare straightened and straight away focused on her pouty pink mouth. That was three unexpected pluses in a row, he acknowledged in surprise. Lizzie Whitaker had great skin, beautiful eyes and a mouth that made a man think of sinning, and Cesare had few inhibitions when it came to the sins of sexual pleasure. Indeed, his hot-blooded nature and need for regular sex were the two traits he deemed potential weaknesses, he acknowledged wryly.
‘Directions?’ he queried, disconcerted by the disruptive drift of his own thoughts, anathema to his self-discipline. In spite of his exasperation, his mind continued to pick up on the fact that Lizzie Whitaker was small, possibly only a few inches over five feet tall, and seemingly slender below the wholly dreadful worn and stained green jacket and baggy workman’s overalls she wore beneath. The woolly hat pulled low on her brow made her eyes look enormous as she stared up at him much as if he’d stepped out of a spaceship in front of her.
One glance at the stranger had reduced Lizzie to gaping in an almost spellbound moment out of time. He was simply...stunning from his luxuriant black hair to his dark-as-bitter-chocolate deep-set eyes and strong, uncompromisingly masculine jawline. In truth she had never ever seen a more dazzling man and that disconcertingly intimate thought froze her in place like a tongue-tied schoolgirl.
‘I assumed you were lost,’ Lizzie explained weakly, finding it a challenge to fill her lungs with oxygen while he looked directly at her with eyes that, even lit by the weak spring sunshine, shifted to a glorious shade of bronzed gold. For a split second, she felt as if she were drowning and she shook her head slightly, struggling to think straight and act normally, her colour rising steadily as she fought the unfamiliar lassitude engulfing her.
‘No, I’m not lost... This is the Whitaker farm?’
‘Yes, I’m Lizzie Whitaker...’
Only the British could take a pretty name like Elisabetta and shorten it to something so commonplace, Cesare decided irritably. ‘I’m Cesare Sabatino.’
Her jade eyes widened. His foreign-sounding name was meaningless to her ears because she barely recognised a syllable of it. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that...’
His beautifully sensual mouth quirked. ‘You don’t speak Italian?’
‘The odd word, not much. Are you Italian?’ Lizzie asked, feeling awkward as soon as she realised that he somehow knew that her mother had been of Italian extraction. Francesca had actually planned to raise her daughters to be bilingual but Brian Whitaker had objected vehemently to the practice as soon as his children began using words he couldn’t understand and from that point on English had become the only language in their home.
‘Sì, I’m Italian,’ Cesare confirmed, sliding a lean brown hand into his jacket to withdraw a business card and present it to her. The extraordinary grace of his every physical gesture also ensnared her attention and she had to force her gaze down to the card.
Unfortunately, his name was no more comprehensible to Lizzie when she saw it printed. ‘Your name’s Caesar,’ she pronounced with some satisfaction.
A muscle tugged at the corner of his unsmiling mouth. ‘Not Caesar. We’re not in ancient Rome. It’s Chay-zar-ray,’ he sounded out with perfect diction, his exotic accent underlining every syllable with a honeyed mellifluence that spiralled sinuously round her to create the strangest sense of dislocation.
‘Chay-zar-ray,’ she repeated politely while thinking that it was a heck of a fussy mouthful for a first name and that Caesar would have been much more straightforward. ‘And you’re here because...?’
Cesare stiffened, innate aggression powering him at that facetious tone. He was not accustomed to being prompted to get to the point faster and as if the dog had a sensor tracking his mood it began growling soft and low. ‘May we go indoors to discuss that?’
Bemused by the effect he was having on her and fiercely irritated by his take-charge manner, Lizzie lifted her chin. ‘Couldn’t we just talk here? This is the middle of my working day,’ she told him truthfully.
Cesare gritted his perfect white teeth and shifted almost imperceptibly closer. The dog loosed a warning snarl and clamped his teeth to the corner of his cashmere overcoat, pulling at it. Cesare sent a winging glance down at the offending animal.
‘Archie, no!’ Lizzie intervened. ‘I’m afraid he’s very protective of me.’
Archie tugged and tugged at the corner of the overcoat and failed to shift Cesare an inch further away from his quarry. To the best of his ability Cesare ignored the entire canine assault.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Archie!’ Lizzie finally exclaimed, crouching down to physically detach the dog’s jaw from the expensive cloth, noting in dismay that a small tear had been inflicted and cherishing little hope that the damage would not be noted.
Whoever he was, Cesare Sabatino wore clothing that looked incredibly expensive and fitted too well to be anything other than individually designed for its wearer. He wore a faultlessly tailored black suit below the coat and his highly polished shoes were marred only by the skiff of mud that continually covered the yard at damp times of the year. He looked like a high-powered businessman, tycoon or some such thing. Why on earth was such a man coming to visit the farm?
‘Are you from our bank?’ Lizzie asked abruptly.
‘No. I am a businessman,’ Cesare admitted calmly.
‘You’re here to see my father for some reason?’ Lizzie prompted apprehensively.
‘No...I’m here to see you,’ Cesare framed succinctly as she scrambled upright clutching the still-growling dog to her chest.
‘Me?’ Lizzie exclaimed in astonishment, her gaze colliding with glittering eyes that gleamed like highly polished gold, enhanced by the thick black velvet fringe of his long lashes. Below her clothes, her nipples pinched almost painfully tight and a flare of sudden heat darted down into her pelvis, making her feel extremely uncomfortable. ‘Why on earth would you want to see me? Oh, come indoors, if you must,’ she completed wearily. ‘But I warn you, it’s a mess.’
Trudging to the side of the house, Lizzie kicked off her boots and thrust the door open on the untidy kitchen.
Cesare’s nostrils flared as he scanned the cluttered room, taking in the pile of dishes heaped in the sink and the remains of someone’s meal still lying on the pine table. Well, he certainly wouldn’t be marrying her for her housekeeping skills, he reflected grimly as the dog slunk below the table to continue growling unabated and his reluctant hostess removed her coat and yanked off her woolly hat before hurriedly clearing the table and yanking out a chair for him.
‘Coffee...or tea?’ Lizzie enquired.
Cesare’s entire attention was still locked to the wealth of silver-coloured silky hair that, freed from the woolly hat, now tumbled round her shoulders. It was gorgeous in spite of the odd murky brown tips of colour that damaged the effect. Dip-dying, he thought dimly, vaguely recalling the phrase being used by one of his team who had showed up at the office one day with ludicrously colourful half-blonde, half-pink locks. He blinked, black lashes long as fly swats momentarily concealing his bemused gaze.
‘Coffee,’ he replied, feeling that he was being very brave and polite in the face of the messy kitchen and standards of hygiene that he suspected might be much lower than he was used to receiving.
In a graceful movement, he doffed his coat and draped it across the back of a chair. Lizzie filled the kettle at the sink and put it on the hotplate on the ancient coal-fired cooking range while taking in the full effect of her visitor’s snazzy appearance. He looked like a city slicker who belonged on a glossy magazine cover, the sort of publication that showed how fashion-conscious men should dress. To a woman used to men wearing dirty, often unkempt clothing suitable for outdoor work, he had all the appeal of a fantasy. He really was physically beautiful in every possible way and so unfamiliar was she with that level of male magnetism that she was challenged to drag her eyes from his lean, powerful figure.
Dredging her thoughts from the weird sticking point they had reached, she went to the door of the lounge. A businessman, she reminded herself doggedly. Successful businessmen—and he looked very successful—were cold-blooded, calculating individuals, ready to do anything for profit and divorced from sentiment. He certainly emanated that arrogant vibe with his polished image that was so totally inappropriate for a male visiting a working farm. ‘Dad? We have a visitor. Do you want tea?’
‘A visitor?’ Brian Whitaker rose with a frown from his chair and came with shuffling, poorly balanced steps into the kitchen.
Lizzie removed mugs from the cupboard while the two men introduced themselves.
‘I’m here about the island that Lizzie and her sister inherited from your late wife,’ Cesare explained calmly.
The silence of astonishment engulfed his companions. Lizzie studied him wide-eyed while her father turned his head towards him in a frowning attitude of incredulity.
‘It’s a rubbish inheritance...nothing but a bad joke!’ Lizzie’s father contended in a burst of unrestrained bitterness. ‘It stands to reason that an inheritance you can’t use or sell is worthless... What use is that to anyone? So, that’s why you’re here? Another fool chasing the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?’
‘Dad!’ Lizzie exclaimed in consternation at the older man’s blatant scorn.
She wished she had guessed why the Italian had come to visit and scolded herself for not immediately making the association between his nationality and the legacy left to her and Chrissie by their mother. Over the years the island that couldn’t be sold had been a source of much bitterness in her family, particularly when money was in such short supply. She lifted the kettle off the range and hastily made the drinks while she wondered what on earth Cesare hoped to achieve by visiting them.
‘I’ll put your tea in the lounge, Dad,’ she said, keen to remove her father from the dialogue, afraid of what he might say in his blunt and challenging way.
Brian Whitaker stole a glance at the Italian’s shuttered dark face, not displeased by the effect of having had his say. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then. After all, the only reason he could be here is that he’s coming a-courting!’ he completed with a derisive laugh that sent a hot tide of colour flaring below Lizzie’s pale skin. ‘Good luck to you! Lizzie was ditched by the neighbour a couple of years ago and she hasn’t been out on a date since then!’
CHAPTER TWO
LIZZIE WANTED THE tiled floor to open up and swallow her where she stood. Being humiliated in front of a stranger felt even more painful than the snide comments and pitying appraisals from the village locals that had followed the ending of her engagement to Andrew Brook two years earlier. A month later, Andrew had married Esther, who had already been pregnant with their son. She stiffened her facial muscles, made the tea and the coffee and even contrived to politely ask if the visitor took sugar.
Wide, sensual mouth set in a grim line, Cesare surveyed Lizzie’s rigid back view, noting the narrow cut of her waist and the slender, delicate curves merely hinted at by the overalls. Her father had been cruel taking her down like that in front of an audience. Not a date since, though? He was astonished because, unflattering as her clothing was, Cesare had immediately recognised that she was a beauty. Not perhaps a conventional beauty, he was willing to admit, not the kind of beauty that set the world on fire but certainly the type that should make the average male look more than once. What was wrong with the local men?
‘Sorry about Dad,’ Lizzie apologised in a brittle voice, setting the coffee down carefully on the table in front of him, catching the evocative scent of some citrusy cologne as she briefly leant closer and stiffening as a result of the sudden warmth pooling in her pelvis. Never had anyone made her feel more uncomfortable in her own home.
‘You don’t need to apologise, cara,’ Cesare parried.
‘But I should explain. My parents resented the will—personally, I never think about it. Unfortunately, the island was a sore point in our lives when I was a child because money was tight.’
‘Have you ever visited Lionos?’
‘No, I’ve never had the opportunity. Mum went once with one of her boyfriends and stayed for a week. She wasn’t too impressed,’ Lizzie revealed ruefully while she scanned his lean, strong face, taking in the high cheekbones, straight nose and hard, masculine mouth before involuntarily sliding her gaze upward again to take another sweep of those absolutely devastating dark golden eyes of his. ‘I think Mum was expecting luxury but I believe the accommodation was more basic.’
‘The will endowed the island with a trust and I understand a caretaker and his family live nearby to maintain the property.’
Lizzie cocked her head to one side, her shattered nerves slowly stabilising at his lack of comment about her father’s outburst. Pale, silky hair slid across her cheekbone and Cesare looked up into those wide hazel-green eyes framed with soft honey-brown lashes, and suddenly he was aware of the heavy pulse of heat at his groin and the muscles in his broad shoulders pulled taut as ropes as he resisted that sirens’ call of lust with all his might.
‘Yes. But the trust only covers maintenance costs, not improvements, and I understand that the house is still firmly stuck in the thirties. Mum also assumed that the caretaker would cook and clean for them but instead the man and his wife told her that they weren’t servants and she had to look after herself,’ Lizzie volunteered wryly. ‘All in all she found it a very expensive jaunt by the time they’d paid someone to take them out to the island and deliver food while they were there.’
‘Naturally you want to know what I’m doing here,’ Cesare murmured smoothly.
‘Well, I don’t think you’ve come a-courting,’ Lizzie fielded with a shrug that dismissed her father’s gibe but completely failed to hide her discomfiture at that crack.
‘Not in the conventional sense,’ Cesare agreed, lean fingers flexing round the mug of coffee. It was barely drinkable but he doubted if she expended much concern when it came to the domestic front, which was hardly surprising when it was obvious that she was struggling to keep the farm afloat single-handedly. She was leaning back against the cooking range with defensively folded arms, trying to appear relaxed but visibly as tense as a bow string. ‘But I do think we might be able to come to a business arrangement.’
Lizzie frowned, dragging her wandering gaze from his lean, extravagantly handsome features with a slight rise of colour, scolding herself for her lack of concentration, questioning what it was about him that kept her looking back at him again and again, long after curiosity should have been satisfied. ‘A business arrangement?’
‘I don’t think your sister enters this as she’s still a teenager. Obviously as co-owner of the island, you would have to confer with her, but I’m willing to offer you a substantial amount of money to go through a marriage ceremony with me.’
Her lashes fluttered in shock because he had knocked her for six. Inexplicably, his cool sophistication and smooth delivery made the fantastic proposition he had just made seem almost workaday and acceptable. ‘Seriously? Just a marriage ceremony? But what would you get out of that?’
Cesare told her about his grandmother’s deep attachment to the island and her approaching surgery. As she listened, Lizzie nodded slowly, strangely touched by the softer tone he couldn’t help employing when talking about the old lady. His screened gaze and the faint hint of flush along his spectacular cheekbones encouraged her scrutiny to linger with helpless curiosity. He was not quite as cold and tough as he seemed on the surface, she acknowledged in surprise. But she could see that he was very uncomfortable with showing emotion.
‘Isn’t circumventing the will against the law?’ she prompted in a small voice.
‘I wasn’t planning to publicise the fact. For the sake of appearances we would have to pretend that the marriage was the real deal for a few months at least.’
‘And the “having a child” bit? Where does that come in?’ Lizzie could not resist asking.
‘Whether it comes into our arrangement or not is up to you. I will pay generously for the right to take my grandmother to the island for a visit and if we were to contrive to meet the full terms of the will, you and your sister would stand to collect a couple of million pounds, at the very least, from selling Lionos to me,’ he spelt out quietly. ‘I am an extremely wealthy man and I will pay a high price to bring the island back into my family.’
Millions? Lizzie’s mouth ran dry and she lost colour, eyes dropping to focus on the long, lean brown fingers gracefully coiled round the mug of coffee. For a split second she saw her every hope and dream fulfilled by ill-gotten gains. Her father could give up the farm tenancy, and she and Chrissie could buy him a house in the village where he would be able to go to the pub quizzes he loved and meet up with his cronies. Chrissie would be able to chuck in her two part-time jobs, concentrate on her studies and pay off her student loans. Being freed from the burden of the farm would enable Lizzie to go and train for a job she would enjoy. Archie could get some professional grooming and a new collar and live on the very best pet food...
It became an increasingly stupid dream and she reddened with mortification, hands clenching by her side as she suppressed her wild imaginings in shame at how susceptible she had been when tempted by the equivalent of a lottery win.
‘I couldn’t have a child with a stranger...or bring a child into the world for such a purpose,’ she confided. ‘But if it’s any consolation, just for a minute there I wished I was the sort of woman who could.’
‘Think it over,’ Cesare suggested, having registered without surprise that the suggestion of oodles of cash had finally fully engaged her in their discussion. He rose fluidly upright and tapped the business card he had left on the table top. ‘My cell number.’
He was very big, possibly a foot taller than she was, with broad shoulders, narrow hips and long, powerful legs.
‘Yes, well, there’s a lot to think over,’ she muttered uneasily.
He reached for his coat and turned back to her, dark eyes bright and shimmering as topaz in sunshine. ‘There are two options and either will bring in a profit for you.’
‘You definitely talk like a businessman,’ she remarked, unimpressed by the statement, ashamed of her temporary dive into a fantasy land where every sheep had a proverbial golden fleece. Could it really be that easy to go from being a decent person to a mercenary one? she was asking herself worriedly.
‘I am trying to negotiate a business arrangement,’ he pointed out drily.
‘Was it your father who once asked my mother to marry him?’ Lizzie could not stop herself from enquiring. ‘Or was that someone from another branch of your family?’
Cesare came to a halt. ‘No, that was my father and it wasn’t a business proposal. He fell hard for your mother and they were engaged when she came over here on holiday. Having met your father, however, she preferred him,’ he advanced without any expression at all.
But Lizzie recognised the unspoken disapproval in the hard bones of his lean, strong face and she flushed because her mother had been decidedly changeable in her affections and there was no denying the fact. Predictably, Francesca had never admitted that she had actually got engaged to their father’s predecessor. But then every man that came along had been the love of Francesca’s life until either he revealed his true character or someone else seized her interest. Her mother had always moved on without a backward glance, never once pausing to try and work on a relationship or considering the cost of such continual upheaval in the lives of her two young children.
‘I’m afraid I’m not a sentimental man,’ Cesare imparted. ‘I’m innately practical in every way. Why shouldn’t you make what you can of your inheritance for your family’s benefit?’
‘Because it just doesn’t seem right,’ Lizzie confided uncertainly. ‘It’s not what my great-grandfather intended either when he drew up that will.’
‘No, he wanted revenge because my grandmother’s brother jilted his daughter at the altar. My great-uncle was in the wrong but plunging the island into legal limbo simply to keep it out of my family’s hands was no more justifiable,’ Cesare countered with complete assurance. ‘It’s been that way for nearly eighty years but I believe that we have the power to change that.’
‘The ethics involved aren’t something I’ve ever thought about,’ Lizzie admitted, resisting the urge to confess that the island still seemed no more real to her than that fabled pot of gold at the end of the rainbow that her father had mentioned.
Cesare smiled with sudden brilliance, amused by her honesty and her lack of pretence.
His smile almost blinded her, illuminating his lean, darkly handsome face, and she wanted so badly to touch him for a disconcerting moment that she clenched her hands into fists to restrain herself. She was deeply disturbed by the effect he had on her. Indeed, she feared it because she recognised her reaction for the fierce physical attraction that it was. And nobody knew better than Francesca Whitaker’s daughter how dangerous giving rein to such mindless responses could be for it had propelled her mother into one disastrous relationship after another.