One of those colours that changed with the light or her mood. Eyes that shoved the rock out of the mouth of the cave inside him he’d had sealed up for many years. Eyes and a mouth, and a soft, yielding body which she had taken away from him when he had needed it most.
Her features coalesced around those unusual eyes and the impact fairly slammed into him. The other part of his brain was free-falling.
‘You!’
His sentiments exactly.
The softer note in her voice long gone, she leapt back in horror. But he noticed at the same time that she wrapped her hand around his arm, as if anchoring herself to him. Which struck him as entirely ironic, given the last time he’d laid eyes on this girl she’d been so anxious to escape from his bed she’d left her shoes behind in her rush.
From nowhere a resentment he hadn’t known he was carrying ricocheted like a stray bullet around his body.
What in the hell was she doing back in Rome? Back in his life?
His eyes narrowed on her.
‘Are you following me?’ she accused swiftly.
‘Si.’ He was not going to deny it. Why would he?
The look on her face was priceless.
‘You appear to be lost, signorina,’ he observed smoothly, raking his gaze over her eyes, her mouth, the amazing clarity of her skin. ‘And as we already know one another—’
If anything the rapt horror on her face only increased, heightening his sense of satisfaction.
‘Allow me to offer some more assistance.’
She tugged self-consciously at the atrocious silk shirt and stood a little straighter, sticking out that chin.
He was going to enjoy making her squirm, and then he would let her go.
‘Is this a profession for you? Following women around the city, pushing help on them whether they want it or not?’
‘You appear to be the exception to my rule to let a woman struggle on alone.’
‘Do I appear to be struggling to you?’
‘No, you appear to be lost.’
She pursed her lips, staring rather pointedly at the map. She was torn—it was all over her expressive face. The indecision and—more satisfying to his ego—anxiety.
Gianluca told himself a sensible man would walk away. Anything between them now was beneath him. He’d made the identification. He knew exactly who this woman was—or who she purported to be. Seven years ago he’d entwined all kinds of ridiculous romantic imaginings around this girl, none of them bearing scrutiny in the harsh light of day.
Besides, on this day she was proving entirely ordinary—a little frumpy, in fact. Certainly not a woman he would glance at twice. Which didn’t explain why he’d turned the Jota around and right now was unable to take his eyes off her.
‘It’s too late now anyhow,’ she muttered to herself.
Si, far too late. Although unexpectedly he was fighting a very Italian male need to assert himself with this woman.
‘I’ve missed the start of the tour,’ she said, as if it was somehow his fault.
Gianluca waited.
She stared holes in the map.
‘We’re supposed to be meeting at the Spanish Steps,’ she added grudgingly.
‘I see.’ Not that he did see.
He decided to cut to the chase and draw down the time this was taking.
‘The Spanish Steps are straight down here.’ He pointed it out. ‘Make a left and then a second right.’
She was trying to follow his directions, which meant she was forced to look at him, and at the same time she was fumbling to put on her ugly sunglasses. Seeing as the sky was overcast, it was clearly a clumsy attempt at disguise.
Something about her hasty and long overdue attempt to hide irritated him. She clearly wasn’t very good at subterfuge, and yet she had been a true genius at escape seven years ago. Gianluca found he was tempted to confiscate the glasses.
Safe behind the shaded lenses, she tipped up her glorious cheekbones. ‘I suppose I should thank you.’
‘Don’t feel obligated, signorina,’ he inserted softly.
Those lips pursed, but nothing could destroy their luscious shape.
Pushing aside the knowledge that this promised endless complications, he reached into his jacket and took out a card, took hold of her resistant hand and closed her fingers over it. They felt warm, smooth and surprisingly delicate.
She snatched her hand back and glared at him as if he’d touched her inappropriately.
A far cry from the last time he’d had his hands on her.
‘If you change your mind about thanking me, signorina, I’ll be at Rico’s Bar tonight around eleven,’ he said, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing. ‘It’s a private party but I’ll leave your name at the door. Enjoy your tour.’
‘You don’t even know my name,’ she called after him, and it sounded almost like an accusation.
His gut knotted.
Exactly. If he’d known her name seven years ago this little piece of unfinished business would have been forgotten.
Just another girl on another night.
But it hadn’t been just another night.
It was a night scored on his soul, and the woman standing in the square was a major part of that. Si, it explained why his chest felt tight and his hands were clenched into fists by his sides.
Ruthlessness was in his blood, and Gianluca never forgot he was a Benedetti. In this fabled city it was impossible to forget. His ancestors had led Roman legions, lent money to Popes and financed wars down the ages. There was enough blood flowing through the family annals to turn the Tyrrhenian Sea red.
It enabled him to look at her with detachment.
‘How about Strawberries?’ he drawled. The quiet menace in his tone was usually enough to send CEOs of multinational corporations pale as milk.
She lowered the sunglasses and those green eyes skewered him.
A dark admiration stirred. This woman had the makings of a formidable opponent.
He could enjoy this.
Basta! This was no vendetta. She was, after all, a woman, and he—naturally—wasn’t that kind of man. He was a chivalrous, civilised, honourable member of Roman society. This was merely an exercise in curiosity, in putting a footnote to a certain episode in his life. The first and only time a woman had run from
