‘That tracksuit was hurting my eyes,’ she replied primly. ‘Up to you. But they’re there if you want them. I’ll be downstairs. I’ve got a bottle of wine if you fancy a glass.’
She ran downstairs before he could object to anything else. She knew the local men were prickly buggers when you tried to offer them anything they might construe as charity. It seemed Leonardo had inherited that tendency. But how the hell was he going to buy anything for himself? He would just have to wear it. Literally.
She poured herself a glass of Merlot and she was sitting on the broad windowsill, sipping it and looking out into the weedy front garden, when Leonardo came into the room.
She almost double-took.
Jesus, he scrubbed up well. He scrubbed up a lot more than well.
His hair shone like polished conkers, matching his melting eyes. She wanted to go over and bury her nose in it, knowing it would smell divinely of her expensive shampoo. But that wasn’t all she wanted to do. His face, now clean and shaved, seemed to actually shine. It was pale but as full-lipped and high-cheekboned as some exotic, angelic creature painted by a Renaissance master. He reminded her of a portrait she’d seen by Pietro Perugino – an older version of that melancholy-eyed young man.
But he was taller, and broader, and undoubtedly fully developed, and she found herself transfixed by his forearms, sinewy and powerful – one of them sporting an amateurish tattoo that she couldn’t quite make out from this distance.
The clothes fitted well, having that tell-tale recently unfolded look such new garments always did. He had not put any socks on, though, and stood in the doorway barefoot, gripping the top of the splintering frame so that she could see his long, surprisingly delicate fingers splayed across the peeled paintwork. His nails still bore little crescents of black deep down – paint, she supposed.
His stance was almost aggressively masculine, and she had to remember to breathe before saying, ‘Help yourself to wine.’
‘I’ll do, then, will I?’ he said, staying put for another moment.
She thought that he was displaying himself to her, but then she dismissed it. He was young and unearthly beautiful. What would he want with her?
‘The clothes fit well,’ was all she could come up with.
‘Yeah. Not sure they’re my style but …’
‘What is your style?’
She smiled and he walked over to where the wine bottle stood on the floor with an empty glass beside it.
‘Ghetto,’ he said shortly, picking up the bottle. ‘Not so fabulous.’
I don’t know about that.
‘I’m not sure if I like wine,’ he said, sniffing at the bottle neck. ‘Never had it before.’
‘Never? Seriously?’
‘Nope. I’m a superstrength lager man, myself. As long as it’s on special.’ He poured himself a glass. ‘Gets you the most pissed for the cheapest price,’ he elaborated, with a combative look in her direction.
He was trying to tell her who he was, she realised. He was giving her a get-out clause. I am who I am. Take it or leave it.
‘Wine is nice. I don’t usually indulge, but I can call this a housewarming, I suppose. Try it. Go on.’
‘Why don’t you?’ he asked, filling his glass to the brim. ‘Don’t you like drinking?’ He had to sip a bit off the top to prevent spilling it.
‘I like it. I just try not to like it too much.’
She came over and sat on the mattress, hoping he would do the same.
He did.
‘Oh yeah, you’re into all that Hollywood shit, I suppose?’ he said. ‘Stupid diets and all that. Mountains of speed so you’re never hungry.’
‘I don’t take drugs,’ she said, primly. ‘You see a lot of what they can do in my line.’
‘My line too. Funny, that.’ He sounded angry, but he mellowed a little in continuing. ‘I’m with you, mind. Can’t be arsed with ’em. They’ve got half the lads round here walking about like zombies. We don’t need zombies round here. We’re fucked enough as it is.’
He looked sad and haunted, more like the renaissance picture than ever.