was in luck. The maître d’ also agreed to let him settle most of the bill beforehand and give Ella a much smaller bill at the end of the night, to Rico’s relief. No way was he letting her pay for a meal that costly, lottery win or no lottery win. And sorting this out beforehand meant that he was still in control. No surprises.
‘The good news is, I have a reservation for us at eight tonight,’ he said when he’d finished the call. ‘The bad news … Do you have a little black dress with you?’
She grimaced. ‘No.’
‘It might be an idea to buy one.’ Normally, he’d just go to the Via Condotti with his current girlfriend and let her loose in the designer shops with his credit card. But he had a feeling that Ella would refuse to let him buy her a dress and shoes. And if he explained that he could afford it—and could more than afford to take her out to one of the fanciest restaurants in Rome every night of the week—he had a feeling that she’d react badly. She’d told him at the park that she didn’t like lying or game-playing. Though he wasn’t playing games—merely taking the chance to be seen for who he was, for once, rather than for what he stood for. And surely one little white lie wasn’t that bad?
‘Can you recommend any shops?’ she asked.
‘It depends what you want. The big designers have shops on the Via Condotti.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Sorry, I’m not really a designer person. How about something … well, not cheap and cheerful, but not ridiculous designer prices, either?’
He loved the fact that she was so no-nonsense. And he’d just bet that she shopped efficiently, rather than dragging round every shop and then going back to the first one at the end of a long, miserable day. ‘Sure. Let’s go.’
Rico discovered that he’d underestimated her on the efficiency front. ‘Colour me impressed,’ he said. ‘I’ve never met a woman who could choose a dress and shoes all within the space of twenty minutes.’
Ella frowned. ‘That’s incredibly sexist.’
‘No. It’s based on painful experience,’ he said with a grimace.
‘You’ve been dating the wrong kind of woman,’ she teased.
Now he’d met Ella, he was beginning to think that himself. Which was ridiculous. He didn’t want a relationship; he’d seen first-hand just how messy things could get, and he never wanted to be in that position himself. But there was something about Ella Chandler. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. Something that drew him and scared him at the same time.
They bought cold drinks at a caffè and sat watching the world go by for a while, relaxing in the sun.
‘Our table’s booked for eight,’ Rico said. ‘So I’ll have a taxi ready for us at seven-thirty and I’ll pick you up at your room.’
‘That’d be great. Thanks.’
He saw her back to the hotel, then sat on his terrace for a while, thinking about Ella. It would’ve been nice to share the fading afternoon with her here, but the explanations would be way too complicated.
He showered, shaved and changed into a suit, then went to meet Ella. When she opened the door to him, he whistled in appreciation. She’d chosen a very classic black dress and plain high-heeled court shoes: simple, but very effective. ‘You look lovely.’
‘Thank you.’ She blushed prettily. ‘You look nice, too.’
‘Mille grazie.’ He bowed his head in acknowledgement of the compliment. ‘Shall we go?’
At the restaurant, he had a rapid conversation with the maître d’ in Italian to make sure that what he’d arranged that afternoon still stood; and then they were shown to their table. Just what he’d asked for; it was right by the plate-glass windows with a view over the city.
Watching her pay the bill didn’t sit well with him, but he could see that she wanted to do something nice for him, so he smiled. ‘Thank you. That was a real treat.’
‘My pleasure. I’m glad I shared it with you. And the food was fabulous.’
Rico itched to take her to his rooftop garden again and dance with her in the starlight, but he contented himself with taking a taxi back to the hotel and making love to her in the big, wide bed of the honeymoon suite until they were both satiated and drowsy.
‘So tomorrow, you go home,’ he said, lying with her curled in his arms.
‘My flight’s at four in the afternoon.’
‘Which means you need to check in by two, so you need to leave here at, say, one,’ he mused aloud. ‘You can leave your luggage here—the staff can put it in secure storage until you’re ready to collect it—and I’ll drive you there myself.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Very sure.’ He kissed her. ‘And maybe tomorrow I can show you a bit of underground Rome.’
‘The catacombs, you mean?’
‘They’re a bit of a way out of the city. No, it’s a church just round the corner from the Colosseum. There’s a Roman house in the basement, and you can actually hear the river running past as you walk through the rooms.’ He smiled. ‘And then I guess you’d like a last look at the Colosseum before we go to the airport and grab something to eat.’
‘That all sounds great.’
‘And I’d better let you get some sleep. Buona notte, bellezza. Sleep well.’
He lay awake that night, thinking about Ella. On paper, he knew it was completely crazy; they lived in different countries and she was just about to start a business venture that would take up all her time and then some. But she’d made him feel like nobody else had made him feel, and he wanted to get to know her more. To explore where all this was coming from. To find out why she was affecting him this way.
He just had to find the right words to tell her who he really was, and that he’d been a little economical with the truth. Hopefully she’d understand that he hadn’t been trying to hurt her or cheat her; he’d just wanted her to see him for himself, not as Rico the hard-headed businessman or Rico the boyfriend with deep pockets. Then maybe, just maybe, they could find the time to explore where this was taking them.
After breakfast, Ella finished packing and headed down to the hotel reception area to organise leaving her luggage in their secure storage area. Rico was already there, though he was busy talking to some of the other hotel staff. They were speaking rapid Italian, so she didn’t have a clue what they were saying; but something struck her as odd. The hotel receptionist seemed very deferential when she was talking to him. Given that Rico was a tour guide, surely his status would be the same as that of the receptionist? They were colleagues, not boss and employee.
And then she heard the receptionist say, ‘Sì, Signor Rossi.’
That was definitely deferential. Why wasn’t the receptionist calling him by his first name?
‘May I help you, signorina?’ the other receptionist asked.
‘I—um,
