pigeons to marvel at sights familiar from art books and television, but most of all from a favourite film: A Room With a View. Making a mental note of every detail to report back later, she headed at last for the famous Caffe Rivoire. But as she dodged like a rugby fly-half to avoid a pair of kissing lovers, she dropped her bag and lunged after it in such panic only the lightning reflexes of the man she collided with saved her from falling flat on her face as she snatched it up.
‘Mi dispiace!’ said a voice as hard, safe hands held her steady.
Flushed with embarrassment, Alicia looked up into a striking, honey-skinned face crowned by black curling hair, a face so familiar that every Italian phrase she’d tried to learn vanished from her brain as she stared, dazed, at her rescuer.
‘I’m so sorry, it was my fault,’ she managed, when she could trust her voice.
Her rescuer smiled. ‘Ah! You are English. And you are trembling, piccola. Are you hurt?’
‘No.’ Just knocked sideways by meeting the man whose photograph lived on her bedroom wall.
‘But you had the shock, no? Come. You need a cold drink,’ he said firmly. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Francesco da Luca.’
Was this was really happening? She took in a deep breath to steady herself. ‘How do you do? My name’s Alicia Cross.’
In the shade of an awning at one of Rivoire’s outdoor tables, she took off her huge sunglasses and brand-new white cricket hat and smiled shyly as she asked for hot chocolate instead of something cold. ‘I was told it’s a speciality here. I was on my way to treat myself when I ran into you…’ She trailed into silence as she met the arrested look in Francesco da Luca’s eyes.
He blinked, murmured an apology, gave the order to a waiter, then leaned back in his chair. ‘So. You are in Firenze on holiday, Miss Alicia Cross?’
‘Yes.’
He arched a dark eyebrow. ‘Alone so young?’
‘No.’ Just how young did he think she was? ‘I’m here with my best friend. Megan was airsick on the flight this morning, so she’s sleeping it off at our hotel. But she insisted I come out to explore on my own.’ Alicia smiled. ‘And gave me a long list of instructions before I left.’
‘I can guess one of these.’ His answering smile set her pulse racing. ‘You must not talk to strangers.’
Twin dimples flickered at the corners of her mouth. ‘Top of the list.’ Her smile faded as his eyes lit with the unsettling look again. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.’
‘I am not offended—I am charmed by the fossetti,’ he said softly.
The word hadn’t come up in Alicia’s phrase book, but she was pretty sure he meant her freckles. ‘I hate them,’ she said passionately, then smiled as the waiter set her chocolate in front of her and thanked him with the one word of Italian she could remember.
Francesco leaned nearer. ‘You should not hate them,’ he informed her. ‘They are enchanting.’
Alicia sipped some of her chocolate. ‘Not to me,’ she said, resigned. ‘I’ve tried all sorts of things to get rid of them, but nothing works.’
He frowned. ‘I think we have a language problem. Smile again for me, per favore.’
Alicia obeyed, her smile widening as she realised he meant her dimples. Not that she was hugely keen on those, either. She brushed a finger over her cheekbones. ‘I thought you meant the freckles.’
‘They also are charming,’ he informed her gravely.
Not sure how to answer that, Alicia took refuge in her chocolate, which went down like liquid gold as she marvelled at her wonderful luck. She was here at last in Florence, with all the world going by in the afternoon sun in this famous piazza full of statues and wonderful architecture. And to top that she was actually, unbelievably, doing all this in the company of Francesco da Luca.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked at last.
‘That you speak very good English, Signor da Luca.’ With a slight accent that sent shivers down her spine.
‘Grazie, but I am Francesco, please. And I speak English,’ he added, ‘because it is a great advantage in my business.’
His sporting career had been so brief Alicia had never discovered anything about his private life. ‘What do you do?’ She flushed. ‘I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer that.’
Francesco shook his head, amused. ‘What man does not like to talk about himself?’
Alicia beamed. As far as she was concerned he could talk about himself as long as he liked.
Francesco sat back in his seat, apparently happy to oblige her. ‘I studied law, but although the knowledge I gained is useful to me I do not practise it.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘For me life is wine, olives and marble. And responsibilities.’ He shot her a searching look. ‘And you, Miss Alicia; you are still in school?’
‘No. Though I was until last week,’ she added honestly. ‘I’ve just finished my exams. If my grades are good enough, I go on to university in October.’
‘Then you are not as young as I thought,’ he said, surprised, and leaned forward again. ‘So. How old are you, Alicia?’
‘Eighteen.’ She hesitated, then smiled, for once deliberately bringing her dimples into full play. ‘Today, in fact.’
His heavy-lidded eyes opened wide and her heart skipped a beat as she saw they were a translucent shade somewhere between green and blue; improbable and unexpected in such a masculine face.
‘It is your birthday!’ Francesco exclaimed. ‘Buon compleanno!’
‘Thank you.’
‘But instead of chocolate to celebrate you should have champagne, or a glass of our own prosecco. Now you are a grown-up lady this is allowed, no?’
She smiled. ‘Will you laugh if I say I’m not very keen on champagne?’
‘No,’ he said very softly. ‘I will not laugh.’
Silence fell between them as the spectacular eyes held hers. Alicia gazed at him, mesmerised, then blinked at last and braced herself to confess ‘Actually, I know who you are.’
He nodded, smiling. ‘Because I told you my name.’
‘No. I mean that I once saw you play rugby.’
‘Davverro?’ he exclaimed, astonished.
She nodded and named the tournament in which she’d seen him play.
‘Few people remember that! I was injured soon afterwards and never played at that level again.’ Francesco shook his head in wonder. ‘You were just a child—also a girl. I am amazed.’
‘That I remember you, or that I’m a girl who likes rugby?’
