standing by the door, the sight of his easy smile took away her ability to breathe.
When he tossed the magazine aside to rise lithely to his feet she knew she had got herself into deep trouble here because everything about him was drawing her to him, like that old magnetic pull they used to share. He’d changed his suit for casual dark grey trousers and a soft black leather jacket worn over a wine-red shirt. In sharp suits he was expensive and dynamic; in casual clothes he became—dangerous.
And now he had gone still—other than for slumber-dark eyes, which were roaming over her as if he too were only just seeing her for the first time this week.
‘Quite an exquisite transformation,’ he murmured softly, and began walking towards her.
Shannon watched him come through guarded eyes because she knew what he was thinking. He was thinking—mine—sex—I want. She recognised the sensually possessive gleam. Her stomach muscles gave an agitated tingle, the tips of her breasts stirring in their old electric response to him.
‘Beautiful,’ he murmured, then bent to touch her mouth with his and maintained the light contact until he felt her lips quiver before he lifted his head again. ‘Ready to go?’ he enquired with subtle innocence.
Her uncertain nod came with an equally uncertain frown because she knew that kiss had been a deliberate gesture—like a warning foretaste of what was to come.
Did she want what was to come? She didn’t know yet—she didn’t even know if she wanted to leave here at all feeling as unsettled and confused as she did.
‘Then let’s do it,’ he said, as if he were answering the questions she was asking of herself.
They drove into the centre of Florence, winding through the back streets until they reach the pedestrian zone where Luca parked the car. It was warmer than it had been since she’d arrived in Italy and the sun was bright so she left her coat in the car and they set out walking.
Luca settled a hand at her waist as if it had every right to be there. The top of her head reached to just above his shoulder; every time he spoke to her he turned to look her deep in her eyes. She could feel herself becoming mesmerised yet couldn’t seem to do anything about it. Even though she knew he was deliberately building the intimacy between them, she was just too susceptible to slap him down.
That was the trouble with tragedy and grief, she excused her own weak behaviour—it sapped your strength to fight.
They turned heads as they walked together. It had always been this way for them because they made such a striking contrast—he the tall, dark man of Florence and she the white-skinned slender creature with hair that flamed.
A man stopped to utter something candidly naughty about them to Luca in Italian and when Shannon made the translation she couldn’t resist an impulsive laugh. Luca grinned, white-toothed and wicked. The stranger looked momentarily shocked at Shannon’s laughing response, then he was grinning as he went on his way leaving them to do the same.
They reached the great Duomo cathedral with its gleaming white ribs set against terracotta tiles. As they walked beneath its mighty shadow Shannon did what she knew she had been aching to do and slipped her arm around Luca’s lean waist.
Luca didn’t want it to stop. He did not want to take her into one of the élite shops on Via dei Tornabuoni and snuff out her lingering smile by shrouding her in black mourning clothes. So he diverted them into the elegant café Giacosa and ordered cappuccino and pastries, which they shared while he carefully set her talking about her life in London and her graphic design business until she was talking away with all her old zest and enthusiasm, shooting him questions, picking at his brains—and other parts of him, just as she used to do.
It was mad, he knew it. Allowing himself to become bewitched again was a fool’s way to go. But he had plans for Shannon and if those plans were a poor excuse for letting her inch her way back into his system then he was ready to fool himself that he was in control.
Shopping in Florence was a serious occupation. No one knew how to shop better than the Italians. They were born with an innate sense of class and unquestionable style. Luca was no different, so it was he that decided on a suit because of the sleek, timeless classicism of its beautiful fabric and wonderful cut. After buying the suit they window-shopped on Via dei Tornabuoni, stopping to buy bag and shoes, before moving on to Via dei Pecori to select the rest of the things she required. The moment an assistant settled the first black veil on Shannon’s head Luca saw the change come over her face and knew she’d remembered why they were doing this, so he distracted her with an extravagant showering of expensive lingerie, which made her blush, then smile.
They took her purchases back to the car, then Luca suggested that they walk down to the river to watch the sun go down. Shannon agreed, aware that he was peeling back the years to a different time when everything was wonderful and they used to do this kind of thing often. Luca was as irresistible as he had been back then. Smiling, talking naturally with him while holding hands as they strolled along the Lungarni and onto the Ponte Santa Trinita to watch the sunset on the Arno, was like dipping her hand into very hot water—and discovering that she liked it.
‘Oh, just look, Luca …’ she prompted softly as the river turned into a silk ribbon of fire and warmed the famous face of the Ponte Vecchio—the next bridge in the line. ‘How do you ever get used to looking at this?’
They were standing shoulder to shoulder against the bridge looking down the river, but he turned at her words to run his gaze over her face tinted golden by the sun and her hair shot with flames. ‘I don’t,’ he said.
Inner flutters took flight in her stomach because she knew he was referring to her, not the view. She glanced at him. ‘Now that was corny,’ she chided, ‘and very un-Italian of you.’
‘It is the truth—why pretend?’ He shrugged lazily.
She was suddenly racked by a cold shiver as the cool water rising from the river touched her skin. ‘I’m cold,’ she said and pushed away from the bridge to begin walking back the way they had come, aware that she’d left Luca still leaning there absorbing the change in mood.
He soon caught up with her, though, his leather jacket arriving across her shoulders along with his arm to hold it there. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured a trifle stiffly.
‘Prego,’ he drawled with a lightness that told her he was going to ignore the mood change and his arm remained where it was across her shoulders, casual yet intimate and possessive.
‘Where shall we eat?’ he asked after a moment.
‘It’s too early for dinner.’ For an Italian, anyway.
‘You prefer to go back to the apartment now?’
No, she didn’t. Going back meant making a decision about what came after they got there and she knew she wasn’t ready to do that yet. But she was also remembering his liking for the super-smart restaurants frequented by the Florentine élite. Etiquette was everything in those places, along with a seriously adhered-to code of dress.
‘Somewhere small and casual, then,’ she said carefully.
He smiled. ‘The prompt was not necessary, cara.’ It was his turn to chide. ‘I was thinking of that little place we used to go to off Via Delle Belle Donne—you loved the panzanella there, if I recall …’
Its
