beneath the tight-laced bodice just as he was aware of her gaze taking in him, studying his neck and throat where his shirt lay open. This was summer magic at its finest: a beautiful woman in his arms to enjoy the music and dancing with, a starry sky overhead, an arduous journey complete. He felt quite the king in these moments. Archer tilted his head to the sky and gave a howl of primal victory. And he knew.
He knew why he would remember these moments; because he was so alive in them, she was so alive in them. They were breathing hard and laughing, drinking in the simple pleasures of music and dance beneath a starry sky, the summer air warm around them. Did life get any better than this? His hand lingered at her waist in no hurry to set her apart from him and he thought that indeed it just might get better. His eyes drifted across her face, resting briefly on her lips. This woman was no stranger to pleasure, not with that body and those eyes, and the way she looked at him—with boldness and invitation. The rest of the piazza might as well have melted away for all that he noticed anything but her.
Archer’s voice was low and private when he spoke, his gaze lingering meaningfully on the sensual curve of her lips. ‘Who are you, bella signora?’ They were the first words he’d spoken to her. She would know now that he wasn’t Italian. She would hear it in his accent. Not just a stranger, then, from a neighbouring town, but a true outsider. Maybe it didn’t matter where he was from for what they wanted of each other. ‘My name is Archer.’
‘Elisabeta.’ She returned his signals, letting her own eyes wander over his mouth. Arousal stirred hard. She had understood the negotiation. She had consented. They were to be Elisabeta and Archer. No last names, no true way to trace the other once they parted. There would be no strings, no ties that would bind them beyond the immediacy of the affair.
‘Well, Archer...’ she smiled up at him ‘...you are just in time.’
Heat intensified in his groin. ‘In time for what?’
She gave him a coy glance. ‘For strawberries.’ Elisabeta crooked her finger and beckoned with a ‘come-hither’ smile that left him aching. ‘Did I mention there would also be cream?’
The innuendo was not lost on Archer. He was going to come all right. Between the dancing, the warm summer night, the elation of having arrived at his destination at last and the seductive beauty in his arms, his body was fully primed for more intimate thrills. He had every reason to celebrate. It had not been an easy journey from Paris on his own. He’d had to leave before Haviland’s rather sudden wedding. He’d given up the summer in Switzerland with Nolan and Brennan. There’d been no choice. Time had been of the essence if he wanted to make Siena in advance of the August Palio. He’d known from the start he’d never make the first one in July.
Travel had been rough, the Italian inns rougher. But, oh, the journey had been worth it the moment he’d passed through the city gates, seen the town lit up and festivities under way, as if the party was just for him. He’d stabled Amicus, left his bag at the livery and headed for the central piazza, hoping to find someone to direct him to his uncle’s. The piazza had been quiet, but he’d followed the music to this neighbourhood and found more than directions. He’d been in this piazza less than five minutes when this dark-haired beauty had pulled him into the dancing, all fire and beauty in his arms, her quicksilver gaze flashing with life and exuberance, her body moving into his as if they were made for one another. Dancing with her had been effortless, just as following her across the piazza was now. He had no doubts where this was heading: to the food tables and to a quiet space in the dark beyond the lights.
Archer’s stomach growled, and he grinned. There was no choice to ignore it. Elisabeta smiled and passed him a plate. She gestured to each dish and offered an explanation, pleased when he nodded. While all of his friends had been studying French, he’d been studying Italian. His mother had seen to it that he had Italian tutors. It was paying off now, even if it was just to bring a smile to this woman’s face.
‘Risotto alle fragole, polenta con fragole, ravioli...’ She rattled off the dishes, taking a serving for herself as they went. At the end of the table stood an enormous vat-like bowl of strawberries and tubs of cream alongside various tortes. ‘La torta!’ Elisabeta beamed back at him over her shoulder, silver eyes gleaming in delight.
Archer took a healthy helping of everything. The smells alone would have been persuasion enough to try the new foods, but Elisabeta’s smile stole any reservation he might have had. The way she looked at a man, the way her eyes lingered over him in appreciation, he would have eaten slugs for her. There was wine to pour from casks after that and slices of hearty dark country bread to add to his burgeoning plate.
She led him to a quiet spot off the piazza where the lantern lights didn’t quite reach and the music didn’t quite preclude conversation. There was privacy in the darkness. ‘It’s the strawberry festival, in case you haven’t guessed,’ she said between bites. ‘We celebrate it every year. Most of the dishes of the evening are made with strawberries.’
‘It’s delicious.’ Archer took another mouthful of the risotto. It truly was. The food was rich and warm. He’d never tasted anything as good as this, not even the fine food of Paris could compare. He took a swallow of wine, letting his tongue savour the full-bodied flavour, a perfect complement to the meal.
When his plate was nearly empty, she took it from him and set it aside. Her voice was a sultry whisper in the night. ‘Now for la dolce.’ She dipped a strawberry in the small pot of cream and held it to his lips. ‘Lick,’ she commanded as he took the berry between his teeth, laving the sweet cream with his tongue until her eyes locked with his and her lips formed the very erotic word: ‘Bite.’
Two could play this game, as he knew she very well intended. Archer plucked up a berry and swirled it in the cream before he offered it to her, his own voice offering a seductive invitation of its own. ‘Suck.’
She took the berry in her mouth, her tongue flicking across his fingers where he held the fruit, her eyes never leaving his, the message in them plain, you’re next. Archer’s throat went dry. He was going to love Siena, he just knew it.
He would be an exquisite lover, and who would know what they had done? Who would care? He would just be passing through. He could give her something of pleasure to carry into her marriage. Elisabeta leaned towards him on their narrow bench, her eyes caressing his mouth with their gaze, offering him a moment’s preparation before her lips slid over his. She tasted him, tempted him—or was she tempting herself?
His mouth answered hers, hungry for more, his body straining in acknowledgement that they were not private enough for ‘more’. Elisabeta drew back. It would be up to her to initiate, this was her territory. ‘Perhaps a walk? There’s a lovely fountain not far.’ It was a ruse, an excuse to seek that privacy, to be alone, and her heart thundered in knowledge of it. There would be more to come with this man.
‘Which direction? I’ll go first.’ His concern for preserving at least a facade of decency spoke to her. Here was a man of experience.
‘To the right.’ She motioned to the street veering off from the piazza. ‘It’s not far.’ She watched him slip into the night and counted the minutes in her head before following.
He’d gone deeper into the curving street than she’d anticipated. There was a moment when she thought she might have misread him, where she thought he had taken the opportunity to disappear. Then the whisper came in the darkness. ‘Elisabeta!’ An arm reached out to seize her about the waist, dragging her into a curve
