On the Friday, Nicoletta snatched a half-hour at lunchtime for a sandwich in her office. She was immersed in the designs Rossi had prepared for a new brochure, her eyes scanning the elegant flourishes of type and layout, when her cellphone rang.
She eyed it for a moment, lips tightening. Adeiana's new idol probably had clay feet. Again. With a sigh, she pressed the button.
"Nicoletta?" said a voice with an unmistakable French cadence. "Julien De La Roche."
To her annoyance her heart missed a beat, then she tensed, suddenly afraid he was going to pull out of the deal. "Hello. How are you?"
"Very well. I wish to confirm our appointment tomorrow."
Nicoletta let out a silent breath of relief. "Good. Actually, I'm glad you rang. I can't make it to the house until noon. Does that suit you?"
"It would suit me better to drive you there myself, Mademoiselle Nicoletta."
A little thrill of excitement ran through her veins. Practical, she told herself firmly. Entirely practical. Her car was still out of action, and the alternative was a train at the crack of dawn, then a taxi up to Castello dei Fiori. She would be mad not to accept.
"You are still there?" Julien teased gently. "If you have an appointment tomorrow night, do not worry. I will drive you back in time. Or are you only content when driving yourself, Nicoletta?"
"No, of course not. Thank you. What time do you want to leave?"
"I shall pick you up at nine. Where do you live?"
She hesitated, then gave him her address.
"I look forward to seeing you again. À demain, Nicoletta."
***
Saturday dawned with skies the colour of lapis lazuli, the kind of brilliant blue that painters spent their lives trying to capture. Nicoletta rose early. Assuming Julien might want another climb down to the cove, she dressed in sensible shoes, a black sweater, black needlecord trousers, and her amber fleece jacket. Rossi would have teased her mercilessly for the extra care she had taken with her hair and make-up, but Rossi wasn't here.
Shivering a little with combined cold and anticipation, she waited on the pavement outside her apartment block. When a dark Renault glided to a halt at the kerb, Julien jumped out, smiling.
"Signorina Nicoletta—you should not be standing outside in such weather."
"Buona mattina (Good morning)," she returned his smile. "I thought I'd save some time."
Julien was dressed casually again, in a suede windbreaker, cashmere sweater, and elegantly battered cords. On another man it might have looked careless; on him, it was effortless. The difference, she decided, lay not in the clothes but in the man himself—his nationality, his breeding, his air of unshakable self-confidence.
"You look delightful this morning," he remarked as he drove off. "Did your week go well?"
"Socially and professionally, very well indeed," Nicoletta said wryly. "The only blot was my car. The repairs were more than expected."
"Ah." Julien shot her a gleaming look before negotiating a roundabout. "So this is why you so meekly allow me to drive you today?"
"Yes," she said demurely.
"You are so cruel to my pride, Nicoletta Bianchi. Could you not at least pretend you joined me for the sake of my company?"
"I don't do pretence," she retorted, but softened it with a smile. "Though I am grateful for the lift. I didn't enjoy the drive home last Sunday."
The conversation drifted easily—business, current affairs, a few observations about local politics. Nicoletta found it refreshing. Most male client she knew could not wait to talk about themselves; Julien revealed little, and what he did say was laced with understated charm.
The drive itself was intoxicating. The cliffs plunged into a sea shimmering silver-blue, fishing boats swayed gently on the waves, lemon groves clung to the terraces. The air smelled of citrus and salt, and with every bend in the road a new vista unfolded, more dazzling than the last. The journey felt far too short, and all too soon they reached the crossroads and took the fork to Castello dei Fiori.
When the castle came into view, Julien slowed instinctively. Its pale stone walls rose above the cove, veiled in cascades of bougainvillea, its turrets sharp against the dazzling sky. A flight of worn steps descended toward the sea, where waves foamed white against the rocks.
It was beautiful. And faintly forbidding.
Nicoletta hugged her jacket around her. "It needs trees in pots, tubs of flowers to soften the brickwork. My nonna has the most beautiful azaleas at her shop. Imagine them here—terracotta against stone, scarlet and cream blossoms."
Julien glanced at her with quiet amusement. "Perhaps I should put you in charge of its rebirth."
This time, with Julien beside her, it was easier to unlock the door and step inside. Nicoletta flicked on the lights quickly, but before she could move further, Julien returned to the car. He came back carrying two folded director's chairs and, to her surprise, a wicker picnic basket.
"This time," he announced with a grin, "we drink our coffee here. And later, my business partner will join us for the final inspection."
Nicoletta's breath caught. Coffee. Company. And a business partner. She had not expected that.
Their eyes met in the cavernous silence of the Castello. For one suspended moment, the salt air and the fragrance of bougainvillea seemed to press closer, binding them in a tension she could neither deny nor explain.
The weekend at Castello dei Fiori had begun.
Julien placed the chairs near the tall window that looked out across the gardens and the restless sea beyond. With unhurried grace he opened the wicker basket and poured steaming coffee into fine porcelain cups, adding milk to Nicoletta's before handing it to her with a little bow.
"Voilà. Exactly as you like it?"
Nicoletta accepted the cup, her fingers brushing his. The touch was brief but sent a ripple through her. "Yes. Perfect. Thank you." She sank into the chair, watching him over the rim of her cup. "So—do you need me for measurements or something useful like that?"
Julien smiled, indulgent. "Non. But it is charming of you to offer."
"Then why am I here?" she asked lightly, though her eyes were questioning.
"If you were not with me, I could not legally enter Castello dei Fiori," he replied. His tone was casual, but the gleam in his eyes was anything but.
Nicoletta raised a brow. "Monsieur De La Roche—"
"Julien," he corrected at once.
"Julien," she amended, lips curving. "I've given up my Saturday, so I think I'm entitled to know what exactly you expect of me."
"But I told you before."
"You've brought me all this way just to discover why I dislike the Castello?"
He shrugged, smiling. "Partly. But surely it is obvious, by now, that I also desire your company?"
Nicoletta's pulse jumped. She masked it with a sip of coffee. "You could have had that in Naples—."
"Could I?" His eyes sharpened. "If I had invited you to dine with me—only socially—would you have accepted? Non. This way you are obliged to endure me, and keep your word."
She hesitated, then looked directly at him. "I told you—I don't do pretence. It's not a case of enduring your company."
His smile deepened, warm with triumph. "That was not easy for you to say, Nicoletta."
"No," she admitted, and her own smile flickered. "And it won't be easy to tell you what you want to know either. So I require something in return."
"Anything," he said swiftly, leaning forward.
"Why are you buying Castello dei Fiori?"
He grinned. "Better still, you may guess."
Lightness stirred in her. "You're getting married, planning to fill the place with children?"
"Wrong, mademoiselle."
She tried again, teasing. "You want the cove as a retreat. A romantic hideaway, perhaps? Somewhere to grow old in?"
Julien's laugh was low, intimate. "Wrong again."
She threw up her hands. "I give up."
"It will be an annexe to my family's hotel. Furore Grand Hotel has too many guests for its rooms. Here there will be space, privacy, the sea. Families will love it."
Nicoletta's face lit with delight. "That's perfect, Julien! Exactly what the house needs—life, movement, people."
"I'm glad you approve." He stood, offering his hand. "Come. Let us walk through once more. This time you shall see it as a guest." Then, softer, with a note of promise: "Afterwards—I shall keep you to your promise."
They wandered through the rooms, the light shifting across bare stone walls. Nicoletta grew animated, suggesting ideas for bedrooms, playrooms, terraces filled with flowers. Stray curls escaped around her face as she gestured, her voice quick with excitement.
Julien listened at first—but gradually he was simply watching her.
She faltered. "What? Am I talking nonsense?"
"Non." His voice was rougher than before. "Your ideas are excellent. But it is not that." He hesitated, then gave his little shrug. "It is that you are beautiful like this, Nicoletta. Alive. Like a sculpture that has stepped down from its pedestal."
Her breath caught. The compliment was too direct, too dangerous. He grimaced. "I should not have said it. Now you will demand I take you back to Naples."
"No," she said softly. "I won't do that. And besides—you haven't seen everything yet."
He raised a brow. "Ah. And after you show me, you will share the picnic with me?"
"Yes." She smiled, teasing. "I'm hungry."
Julien's eyes darkened; he stepped toward her, then stopped, restraint pulling at him. "Perhaps we should eat at Furore Grand Hotel. Or the inn."
"No." Her eyes held his. "Here. It would be a pity to waste the basket."
In the kitchen, she helped him unpack it: bread rolls, cheeses, silver cutlery wrapped in starched napkins. From one flask rose the fragrant steam of lobster bisque.
"I remembered you ordered lobster last time we had lunch," Julien said quietly. "So I asked for this."
Nicoletta's heart gave a betraying lurch. He remembered. He noticed.
They ate by the window, the sea framed behind them. Conversation faltered; silences grew longer, weighted with things unsaid. When she reached for a piece of bread at the same time he did, their fingers brushed again—and this time neither moved away.
Her breath caught. The world seemed to shrink, the silence growing thick and golden between them.
Julien leaned closer, his gaze fixed on her lips. "Nicoletta…" His voice was barely more than a whisper.
Her heart hammered. She should stop this, she told herself—but she didn't move. Couldn't.
Their lips hovered, a breath apart—
—and at that moment the crunch of tires on gravel split the moment.
Julien stilled, frustration flickering across his face. Nicoletta pulled back, heat rushing into her cheeks.
"Your partner?" she asked faintly.
Julien exhaled, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. "My partner." He brushed his fingers lightly over hers before rising. "Timing, it seems, is not on my side."
Nicoletta stared down at her cup, her hands trembling ever so slightly. The moment had shattered—but its sweetness lingered, richer than any coffee or bisque.
From outside came the slam of a car door, footsteps on the gravel, approaching the arched doorway of the Castello.