were wide and gorgeous, and appeared much more innocent, sans makeup. That should have quieted his libido.
It did not. Quite the opposite.
He purposefully took a step back, tipped his head and said, “Dinner is ready. I hope you like fish.”
He didn’t wait for a response but simply spun around and made his way back to the kitchen where he poured himself a large glass of wine and drank most of it before Jasmine made her appearance.
Jesus.
If he’d thought she looked good enough to eat wearing nothing but a towel and the scent of his soap, he was mistaken. The sight of her in his too-big clothes was—fuck—an instant and immediate turn-on.
“Whatever it is, it smells wonderful,” she said, softly. Shyly.
Seriously, she was killing him.
“It’s sole meunière. Very simple. Just fish, lemon, butter and parsley. Oh, and potatoes.”
She sat down at the counter and shrugged. “Sounds good to me.”
Luca took the plates from the oven and set them on the counter. He slid cutlery across, refilled her water glass and went around the counter to join her on the other side. Ten minutes ago he had been famished. Now, sitting within touching distance of the American woman, Luca’s senses were so enraptured by her that his hunger for food was displaced by an even stronger hunger. Her skin was still warm from the bath, so warm he could feel heat radiating off her. With the heat came the scent of his toiletries but somehow feminized when combined with her own natural scent.
Then there were her eyes.
Whenever their gazes met, he found himself captivated by her large brown eyes, as if sinking into them in a wonderful way, like Charlie at the river of chocolate in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. He wanted to stay there, drinking it in, forever.
It was Jasmine who broke his stare, turning her attention to the food in front of her. She delicately cut off a piece of fish and placed it on her tongue.
“Mmm...my God.” She closed her eyes while her fork was still aloft. “That is so good.” Opening her eyes, she smiled at him. “That’s more than just fish and lemon and parsley.”
“Non. That’s all it is. But everything is fresh, of course.”
“Of course.” She took another bite. “You French really know how to cook.”
Luca grinned. It was a cliché, and yet coming from this woman her remark pleased him. They finished their meal in relative silence—except for the odd sound of orgasmic enjoyment, which was not helping to cool his libido in the least—and once their plates were clean, Luca took them to the sink and washed them.
“Thank you.”
He looked up. “You don’t need to thank me every five minutes.”
“I know but...” She played absently with a strand of hair. “Your kindness means so much...” Her voice caught but she recovered quickly. “Particularly when I’m a complete stranger to you.”
“Really, it is nothing.”
She exhaled softly. “Can I ask you a question?”
He glanced up. “Of course.”
Her fingers strayed to the lump on her head. “Is there anything else you can tell me about how you found me?”
Luca pulled in his lower lip. His new beard felt strange against his mouth. “Non. I found you passed out on the road.”
“Where?”
“Not far from here. Maybe seven or eight blocks away.”
She touched her head. “And I was alone? No bag, no shoes?”
“Yes.”
“Was I mugged?”
“Perhaps. I really don’t know.” Liar. But something in his gut told him that the less anyone knew about this whole ordeal, including her, the better. She might be trustworthy, but he didn’t know for sure. Jogging her memory might be like opening Pandora’s box, unleashing a situation he couldn’t handle right now. He’d let her stay the night, then tomorrow morning he’d figure out his next move.
“God, I wish I could remember.”
“Mmm.” Luca cut some more slices of cheese and added them to the platter from earlier. Not because they needed more cheese or more food, but to give him something to do during this conversation.
“I’ve tried to remember, but...”
“It’s normal.” Luca pushed the platter closer to the woman. “To have a lapse in memory. It will return. Sometimes the more you try to concentrate, the harder it is. You need to rest. Tomorrow you will remember and be able to go back to your old life.”
“You speak as if from experience.”
Luca broke a piece of cheese and ate it, considering his answer. “I have had a concussion before.”
“How did you get yours?”
“I—” Luca paused, only for a second “—have ridden motorbikes since I was eight years old. I have had a few accidents.” The last of which ended his career. A ninety percent recovery wasn’t enough when it was your gear foot.
“Don’t you wear a helmet?”
“Of course. Helmets have saved my life. But you can still get a concussion with a helmet.”
She tilted her head as she gazed at him. Her brows drew together as if a thought—or a memory—had just come to her.
“What is the last thing you remember?”
Jasmine plucked a piece of cheese from the plate. She had nice hands, her fingers slim and delicate, her nails painted a neutral color.
“I remember flying to Paris. This was supposed to be—” She glanced up. “A girl’s trip with my best friend, but she’s expecting a baby—unexpectedly—and...”
Luca waited silently for Jasmine to continue.
“Anyway, I decided to come by myself.”
“Sometimes traveling alone is the best way.” Luca had enjoyed a few trips to Greece on his own. Just to get away from...everything.
Jasmine took a sip of water. And then another. She had one more before finishing. “Anyway, I drank a lot on the flight. And...” She massaged her neck. “I may have drunk a lot in the twenty-four hours before that.” She glanced his way. “Not sure I ate a whole lot during that time.” She rolled her shoulders and sighed. “I also haven’t slept very much. So it’s possible my head injury was simply a result of me passing out from exhaustion, hunger or the world’s worst hangover. Likely a combination of all three.”
“It is possible,” he said slowly. “But by the look
