in recognition the moment he saw her. He quickly picked up the telephone and started speaking into it.
By the time she had reached the desk he had finished his call and was glancing down at a notepad in front of him. He smiled at her.
‘Ah, Signorina Cooper,’ he purred.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘You know my name?’
The smile widened. ‘But of course! Signor Masters asked me to telephone him the moment you arrived.’
Well, that was something. At least he hadn’t imagined that she’d just disappeared into the sunset with his money.
She quickly took the envelope from her handbag. ‘Can I just leave this here for him?’ she said breathlessly. ‘I won’t stay. I’m—’
‘Not planning on running away from me, are you, Miss Cooper?’ came a deep voice from just behind her, and Sabrina turned round to find herself caught in the hard, grey crossfire of his eyes. And she was lost. Utterly lost.
‘Hello, Guy,’ she said weakly.
‘Hello, Sabrina,’ he mocked, his gaze running over her with pleasure, thinking that she had dressed up for him, and the rapid beat of his heart told him exactly what that meant.
‘I brought your money back.’ She held the envelope out.
‘So I see.’
‘I can’t thank you enough for coming to my rescue. I don’t know how I would have managed otherwise.’ She swallowed down the constricting lump which was affecting her ability to breathe. ‘Anyway, I’d better go—’
But he cut her words short with the restraining touch of his fingertips on her bare arm—a feather-light and innocent enough touch, but one which made sensation skate erotic little whispers all over its surface. He felt suddenly breathless. Reckless.
His eyes darkened. ‘Why go anywhere?’ he questioned softly. It’s a beautiful day. We’re both on our own. Why don’t we go sightseeing together?’
‘Together?’
He paused for a dangerous beat, giving her the unthinkable opportunity of saying no. ‘Unless you’d rather be on your own?’
Well, that was why she had come to Venice, wasn’t it? To get away and escape. To throw off the shackles of anxious eyes which followed her every move.
But Sabrina didn’t want to get away. Not from Guy. She tried to keep her voice casual. ‘Not especially.’
Guy almost laughed aloud at her lukewarm response. He wondered if she did this all the time—sent out these conflicting messages so that while that flushed look of anticipation and the bright sparkle of her eyes were like a sweet invitation to possess her, the somewhat indifferent responses to his questions were a slammed door in the face. Perplexing. And he hadn’t been perplexed by a woman in a long time.
‘So is that a yes or a no?’
It was an I’m-not-sure-whether-I’m-doing-the-right-thing, Sabrina thought, but she smiled anyway. ‘It’s a yes,’ she said.
He watched the way she flicked her hair back over her shoulder. The movement made her breasts dance beneath the thin cotton dress, and Guy felt the primitive urge to take her somewhere and impale her and make her his. He hardened his mouth, appalled at himself.
‘Why don’t you tell me what you’ve seen already?’ he suggested unevenly. ‘And where you’d like to eat lunch?’
Sabrina noticed the sudden tension around his mouth, the way his eyes had darkened into a hungry glitter, and while she knew that she ought to be intimidated by the sheer potency of his masculinity she had never felt less intimidated in her life.
‘I’ve seen the Basilica di San Marco,’ she said. ‘Of course! And the Golden House and the Doges Palace. But that’s all. Lunch—I wouldn’t have a clue about.’ Her budget was tight and she’d been skipping lunch. But that had been no hardship.
Guy noticed the shadowed hollows beneath the high sweep of her cheekbones and wondered if she had been eating properly. ‘Then let’s go and find the rest of Venice,’ he suggested softly.
But it took an effort for Sabrina to concentrate on her surroundings as they walked out into the sunshine. Yesterday the city had seemed like the most magical place on the planet, while today it was difficult to think about anything other than the man at her side.
At least she had some idea of what she was supposed to be looking at. She’d spent the preceding weeks reading every book about Venice that she could lay her hands on—it had been a good kind of displacement therapy—but Guy could more than match her.
‘Did you know that the humorist Robert Benchley sent a telegram when he arrived in Venice?’ Guy murmured. ‘Saying, “Streets full of water. Please advise.”’
Sabrina thought that his grey eyes looked soft, soft as the cream silk shirt he wore. ‘No, I didn’t know that. But Truman Capote said that Venice was like eating an entire box of chocolate liqueurs in one go.’
‘Oh, did he?’ He liked the quickness of her mind, the way her thoughts matched his own. Liked the fact that she’d researched the place so thoroughly. He felt his heart begin to pick up its beat as he stared down at her, at the strawberry-blonde hair which gleamed like bright gold in the midday sun and the slim, pale column of her neck. There was a fragility about her which was rare in a modern woman, he thought, and wondered what it would be like to take her in his arms. Take her to his bed. Whether she would bend or break…
He realised that they had spent the best part of two hours together and she hadn’t asked him a single question about his life back in England. And he noticed that she’d been quietly evasive on the subject of her own life.
But why not? he thought with a sudden sense of liberation. Wasn’t anonymity a kind of freedom in itself? Didn’t he live the kind of life where people judged him before they had even met him, depending on what they’d heard about him?
The bell of San Marco rang out twice, and Guy looked at his watch. ‘We’d better try and find a table for lunch while there’s still time.’
Sabrina stared up into dark grey eyes and felt her skin prickle in heated reaction. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Is that why you’re so thin?’ he demanded. ‘Because you skip lunch?’
‘Thanks very much!’
‘Oh, I’m not complaining,’ he murmured, as his eyes drifted over her. ‘Your cheekbones are quite exquisitely pronounced and your legs are just the right side of slender. I suppose you have to work at it, the same as every other woman.’
Sabrina let her gaze fall from his face, staring instead at the pink-tipped toes which peeped through her strappy sandals, remembering how she’d forced herself to paint them, telling herself that out of such small, unimportant rituals some kind of normal life would be resumed.
‘Sabrina,’ he said softly. ‘What’s the matter? It was supposed to be a compliment. Have I insulted you? Embarrassed you?’
She
