Runaway Love

Runaway Love

By

Nicole W. Lee

Copyright

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission  of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding, or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright: Nicole. W. Lee

For my Children

Chapter One

A wet, snuffling sound wrenched Genie Hamilton out of her exhaustion-laden sleep.  From her hiding place, buried beneath a pile of straw, it sounded alarmingly close.   Breathing on pause, she lay perfectly still.  Rustling straw was a dead giveaway.  Snuffles would be on to her in a second. 

She worked on regaining control over her heart.  It was pounding loud enough to shake the walls of the barn.

There's that snuffling again.  What on earth is it? 

Certainly not one of the cows.  The pair cosseted in their stalls certainly weren't snuffling wetly last night.  Mind you, the roar of the raging blizzard and rattling
doors muffled every other sound inside the barn.  Perhaps the cows caught a cold in the night?

Unli
kely.  The barn was too warm. Centrally heated, she supposed. No doubt it was a winter requirement this high in the Italian Alps.  Lucky for her. This centrally heated barn probably saved her life.

Snuffles was on the move again. 

A sudden cluck-clucking told her it had invaded chicken territory. 

Actually, as far as she could make out, the entire barn was chicken territory.  Their noisy demands made her cut short her quick recce on arrival the evening before.  The c
hickens were all over the place. Many were tucked up fast asleep in what must be their favourite spots.

Others stirred as she moved about.  They probably heard her chattering teeth.  They fixed her with their nearest eye suspiciously and warned her off with low-level clucks.  She backed away slowly, fanning her hands in a gentle downward motion and 'shushing' them back to sleep.  The last thing she needed was a chorus of operatic clucks waking up her unsuspecting host.

Fat chance of that with the howling gale outside.  

But, just in case...

Snuffles jerked her back to the present.  It was very close.  

Suddenly the straw directly in front of her face rustled and began to move.

“Domino, che cè?”

That was a man’s voice. 

Genie's heart made a hard thump in her chest, then, together with her lungs, went on strike. 

Snuffle, snuffle, grunt.

Could it be them?  How could they have tracked her in that blizzard?  Why didn't they just take the Merc?  All they had to do was, get it out of the ditch and drive away.  Why bother to chase after her as well?

I can recognize them, that's why.

Genie released her breath slowly.  What about this place? Could this be their hideout?

I've walked into a trap.

Stop being so paranoid, Hamilton.  This is a farm.  There's cows and chickens

“Cosa hai la?” said the voice.

Me.  That's what he has here.  Please let this man be just a regular, old Italian farmer.

“Cè un topo?”

Topo?  Topo? Genie searched frantically for a translation.  Topo?  Rat.  That's it.   Topo's Italian for rat.

The icy hand of hear gripped her stomach.  Don't they shoot rats? 

Hey, Signore.  She projected her thoughts in the direction of the voice. I'm not a rat.

Would this Italian farmer shoot up all his straw for a rat?  He must need the straw for something.  That's why he piled it up so nicely. Better to let a rat have its way than destroy a mountain of straw.  The rat couldn't eat it all.  

Did rats eat straw?

A black bulbous thing burst through the straw and wetly impacted against Genie's forehead.  Then, it backed off a millimetre or two and made a rapid tour of Genie's face with a series of intermittent snuffles.  After a brief pause, it shook violently, throwing aside the straw surrounding it to reveal a huge brown, black and white face with droopy eyes.  A tongue the size of a cricket bat flopped out the side of its mouth  

Oh my...a dog.

A giant dog.

A surge of adrenaline hiked Genie's heartbeat up to the rhythm and volume that would have made a Jazz drummer proud.  The blood retreated from her face to take up a defensive position elsewhere in her body. 

Dogs and her... 

Her flight instinct kicked in.  She had to get away – right away. 

But, there's the farmer - or whatever he was - out there.  If he's one of them... 

Even if he isn't - what do Italian farmers do to trespassers?  

The dog indulged in a few more snuffles, his cold nose stamping more impressions around Genie's face.  Then he pulled back once more. 

Perhaps he'd go away now he'd identified her as unsuitable for breakfast. 

The droopy eyes blinked. 

What did that mean?  Was he about to drag her out and lay his new trophy at the feet of his master? 

Suddenly, the tongue slid around to the centre of his mouth, flipped forward and slapped against her face. 
It proceeded to deliver a gooey full facial. 

Genie pinched up her face in disgust.  The earlier nose job had been bad enough, but this..?  This was not the way she would have chosen for a morning wash.  And that doggy breath.  It swept up her
nostrils, causing her to recoil with its force and pungency. 

When did this animal last clean his teeth? 

“Enough,” she yelled and jumped to her feet, bursting out of straw like a Burlesque dancer from a cake. "Get him away from me,” she squealed.

"Cosa?" the silhouette said.

“I'm sorry I don't speak...,” Genie began, squinting at the man-shaped shadowy figure standing in the barn doorway.  She cleared her throat. “Mi dispiace.  Non parlo Italiano. Io sono Inglese.”

She’d said those phrases so often the past few weeks, they were almost second nature to her.  

A wild rustling of the straw close to her feet distracted her momentarily.  The broad brown and white back wriggled like a belly dancer as the dog shifted into reverse.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“You speak English.”

The man advanced on Genie, stepping into a shaft of light beaming from a window high in the barn wall.  It instantly transformed him from an Italian silhouette to an Italian Adonis. 

Genie's jaw bounced off her Valentino Studded Winter Boots.  This is a farmer?  The ripples of excitement coursed up and down her body several times.  She capped it off with an involuntary intake of breath and a brief shudder.

This
is
a farmer
?

He looked more like a young Sean Connery.  A good six feet tall, a wild, collar-tickling mass of  raven-black hair blown into disarray by the wind and a face that'd cause women to swoon in the old days.

Old days, nothing.  She jerked her hand to her throat, preparing herself to swoon, right now, in the 21st Century. 

Control yourself, Hamilton.

But he's so lovely.  Please don't let him be in those other men's gang...please. 

"I asked you--" he demanded, ebony eyebrows mashed together and shadowing his dark eyes.

“Yes, sorry.” Genie drew herself up to her full five foot seven and thrust forward her chin to give the appearance of confidence. “I'm sorry if I startled you,” she said slowly in case Signor Gorgeous had trouble translating. “I came here to shelter from the storm.”

"In my barn?  How did you get here?"

He said that in snappy English.  Perhaps he not only looked good, he also spoke English good...well. “I found your gate unlocked – thank goodness.  I was sort of blown in.” She swept her arm in an arc from the direction of the barn door to the nominal poultry territory.  “The blizzard, you know.” 

Genie gave a nervous laugh and brushed aside a tendril of rich bronze-gold hair that fell in front of her face.  A few strands of straw came away in her hand and dropped to the floor.  She must look a mess. 

A great first impression.  

He shook his head with a single flip. “No, non mi capisce--” Another head shake.  “Scusi.  My English.  I have not spoken it for a long time.”

“You’re scusied.”

“I meant to say, how did you get here, to my farm?”

Oh dear, he's a rattled, gorgeous Italian farmer. 

“Oh.  Uh...I drove some of the way,” she said. “My car skidded off the road.  It's stuck in a ditch.” She turned on her wide-eyed 'waif' look.  It usually worked on men. 

This one didn't even flinch.  

She persevered nevertheless, adding her little-girl-lost voice to boost the effect.  “I didn't know what to do.  The storm and everything - you must have heard it. It got so bad, I had to find shelter.”

"It would have been easier for you to go down to San Rafaele," he said.

“San Rafaele is..?”

“The village in the valley.”  He jerked his head in what must be the direction of the valley. “Easier than climbing the hill to my barn.”

“The snow storm...I lost my sense of direction,” she lied.  Just in case he's in it with them.  Maybe they haven't told him yet.

She shrugged. “When my car went in the ditch, I carried on walking in the same direction...and here I am.”  She threw him her best winning smile.

The dog started to nose around Genie's feet and legs.  She tried, unsuccessfully, to push him away with her foot.  His olfactory research continued without
as much as a blip.  A bulldozer might have managed the job - if there'd been one handy.

Genie prayed his devotion to her leg wasn't a prelude to a less savoury wash - the kind dogs are inclined to do when they mistake one for a tree.  

“I haven't disturbed anything,” she said, casting an occasional glance at the activity around her legs. “I was so tired.  All I did was snuggle down in this warm bed and fall asleep.” She kicked at the straw, more to send a signal to the dog than to the stunning specimen of the male species standing before her.

The man looked around as if to verify her confession, his expression softening.

Genie took heart.  Taking a deep breath to boost her courage, she said, “I wonder if you'd mind...”  She stepped to the side in an attempt to put some distance between her and Snuffles.  It failed.  He moved in unison as if he and her leg were grafted together. “This...this Hound of the Baskervilles down here,” she continued.  “He's paying too much attention to my leg.  Makes me nervous.”

“That 'hound' is a St. Bernard.  He's very friendly.”

“A friendly St. Bernard.  Nice.” Genie said. “Shouldn't he be out finding lost people, or something?”

"He was too busy finding you this morning," he said with a flicker of a smile.

The smile, though brief, affected Genie's heart dramatically.  She spoke louder to cover the drumming.  “I think he's still checking me out to see if I was worth all that effort.”

Genie's lungs ceased to function as his smile locked in place.  She was sure she heard a low chuckle.  She liked this face.  It was a friendly roguish face.   Much better than his teed-off roguish face.  She could even put up with the dog for more of that.

Well, perhaps not.

“Um, Signore...do you think you could get...um...does he have a name?”

“Si.  Certo.  It's Domino.”

“Domino.  Yes.” She looked down at the dog.  “Nice Domino.” 

His big brown sad eyes glanced at her momentarily, and then returned to his investigation of her English leg.

“Do you think you could get dear Domino away from me?” She shook her leg to move it away from Domino's nose. “I'm not sure what his intentions are, and I'd rather not find out.” She puffed out a short sigh. “Besides, dogs make me a tad uncomfortable.”

“You're frightened of dogs?”

“Well...not frightened exactly.”  She grimaced. “Yes, frightened.  Sort of.  I can just about manage little dogs.  Elephants in dog's clothing - like Domino here - are very much a different matter.

"He won't harm you," he said, flicking his smile on and off again. 

Although fleeting, his quick smile demonstration sent her insides into an instant quiver.   Only her heart survived to beat on and repair the internal devastation. 

Don't smile, please Signor Farmer.  I like it too much. “I'm sure you're right, but...”

"Domino, qui," he commanded.

Domino indulged in two more snuffles at Genie's leg, then, with a last sad glance up at her, he lumbered away, turned and flopped down at his master's feet.  Once settled, he fixed Genie with a steady gaze.

“Thank you,” Genie said, nervously running through options for the meaning of Domino's gaze.  It looked sort of friendly. 

Sort of.

“Very obedient, your Domino.”

The man gave a single nod and then surveyed her intently.  She had experienced this characteristic male Italian toe-to-head check-up more times than she could count during the past few weeks.  Her usual response was to laugh it off and accept it as a testosterone-induced compliment.