He said slowly, ‘I wonder if you will ever forgive me for that.’
‘Who knows?’ She shrugged. ‘And why does it matter anyway?’ She hesitated again. ‘After all, you’ll be going back to Italy quite soon—won’t you?’
‘I have fixed no time for my return.’ He smiled at her. ‘My plans are—fluid.’
‘Your boss must be exceptionally tolerant, in that case.’ She heard and hated the primness in her tone.
‘We work well together. He does not grudge me a period of relaxation.’
He was silent for a moment, and Flora, conscious that he was studying her, kept her attention fixed firmly on the rosy liquid in her glass. At the same time wondering, in spite of herself, exactly what Marco Valante did for relaxation…
He said, at last, ‘So what made you change your mind?’
She gave a slight shrug. ‘My—plans didn’t work out, that’s all.’
‘Ah,’ he said softly.
She eyed him with suspicion. ‘What does that mean?’
‘How prickly you are.’ His tone was amused. ‘Does it have to mean anything?’
She spread her hands almost helplessly. ‘How can I tell? I don’t seem to know what’s going on any more—if I ever did.’ She made herself meet his gaze directly. ‘And what I really can’t figure out is why you’re here this evening.’
‘Because it’s one of my favourite restaurants in London.’ The green eyes glinted.
‘That isn’t what I meant,’ Flora said. ‘And you know it.’ She paused. ‘Clearly you know London well, and your cousin lives here and probably leads a hectic social life. I’m sure she could introduce you to dozens of single girls.’
‘She has certainly tried on occasion,’ he agreed casually.
‘Exactly,’ Flora said with some force. ‘So why aren’t you dining with one of them instead?’
He said reflectively, ‘Perhaps, cara, because I prefer to do my own—hunting.’
She stiffened, eyes flashing. ‘I am—not—your prey.’
He grinned unrepentantly. ‘No, of course not. Just an angel who has taken pity on my loneliness.’
Her face was still mutinous. ‘I’d have said, Signor Valante, that you’re the last person in the world who needs to be lonely.’
‘Grazie,’ he said. ‘I think.’
‘So why, then?’ Flora persisted doggedly. ‘How is it that you’re so set on having dinner with me?’
‘You really need to ask?’ His brows lifted. ‘Are there no mirrors in that apartment of yours?’ His voice dropped—became husky. ‘Mia bella, there is not a man in this restaurant who does not envy me and wish he was at your side. How can you not know this?’
Her skin warmed, and she took a hasty sip of her drink. She said stiltedly, ‘I wasn’t—fishing for compliments.’
‘And I was not flattering.’ He paused. ‘Is the truth so difficult for you to acknowledge?’
She gave a small, wintry smile. ‘Perhaps it convinces me that I should have stayed at home.’
‘But why?’ He leaned forward. Flora thought, crazily, that his eyes were filled with little dancing sparks. ‘What possible harm can come to you—in this crowded place?’
She made herself meet his glance steadily. ‘I don’t know. But I think you’re a dangerous man, Signor Valante.’
‘You’re wrong, cara,’ he said softly. ‘I am the one who is in danger.’
‘Then why were you so insistent?’
‘Perhaps I like to take risks.’
‘Not,’ she said, ‘a recommendation in an accountant, I’d have thought.’
His grin was lazy. ‘But I am only an accountant in working hours, carissima. And now I am not working but relaxing—if you remember.’
Flora bit her lip, conscious of the fierce undertow of his attraction, how it could so easily sweep her out of her depth. If she wasn’t careful, of course, she added hastily.
Thankfully, at that moment the waiter reappeared to tell them their table was ready.
And once the food was served, and the wine was poured, she would steer the conversation into more general channels, she promised herself grimly as she accompanied Marco sedately into the main restaurant.
She was faintly ruffled to discover that they were seated side by side on one of the cushioned banquettes. But to request her place to be reset on the opposite side of the table would simply reveal that she was on edge, she reflected as she took her seat.
There was a miniature lamp on the table, its tiny flame bright, but safely confined within its glass shade.
A valuable lesson for life, she thought wryly, as the waiter shook out her napkin and placed it reverently across her lap. She needed to keep the conflict of emotions inside herself controlled with equal strictness.
But she was already too aware of his proximity—the breath of cologne, almost familiar now, that reached her when he moved—the coolly sculptured profile—the dangerous animal strength of the lean body under the civilised trappings. The sensuous curve of the mouth which had once so briefly possessed hers…
This, she was beginning to realise, was a man to whom power was as natural as breathing. And not just material power either, although he clearly had that in plenty, she realised uneasily. His sexual power was even more potent.
She was glad to be able to focus her attention, deservedly, on the food. The delicate and creamy herb risotto was followed by scallops and clams served with black linguine, accompanied by a crisp, fragrant white wine that she decided it would be politic to sip sparingly.
The main course consisted of seared chunks of lamb on the bone, accompanied by a rich assortment of braised garlicky vegetables. The wine was red and full-bodied.
‘I’m not surprised you come here,’ Flora said after her first appreciative mouthful. ‘This food is almost too good.’
He smiled at her. ‘I’m glad you approve. But save your compliments for Pietro himself,’ he added drily. ‘He lives in a state of persistent anxiety and needs all the reassurance he can get.’
‘You know him well?’
‘We were boys together in Italy.’
‘Ah,’ she said.
‘Now you are being cryptic, mia bella,’ he said softly. ‘What does that mean?’
She shrugged. ‘I was just
