of the issues his staff faced and could see where things could be improved for the customers.
‘Do you have family here?’ she asked.
‘Some.’ Again, it depended on how you defined family. His parents lived in Rome, but he wouldn’t class either of them as family. Not after his upbringing.
He could see her slight frown at his evasiveness, and added, ‘My grandparents live here.’ They’d rescued him from the mess of his parents’ marriage and kept him safe. They were the only ones in his life who hadn’t wanted him for what he could give them. Or maybe even that wasn’t strictly true; after all, his grandfather had groomed him to take over the business, knowing that it would be a total disaster in the hands of his only child, Rico’s father. In Rico’s hands, the business was safe. To the point where he was planning to expand it outside Italy.
Rico managed to keep the conversation light for the rest of lunch—and he was pleased to notice that Ella ate with enjoyment, rather than picking at her food and being boring about calorie and carb intake.
And then it was time for the next ace up his sleeve. He’d taken her on the route where she would see the back of the Pantheon first, a squat building with moss creeping over the patched brickwork; he could see from her face that she thought the building a little dingy and dowdy, and was expecting to be disappointed.
Until they came into the square and she saw the front, the huge triangle with its inscription commemorating Agrippa and the enormous columns supporting the porch.
‘Oh, my God—that’s just what I expected a real Roman temple to look like! And those doors are just huge,’ she said, wide-eyed.
‘Allegedly they’re the originals, though they’ve been restored so much that there isn’t actually much original material left.’
Inside, Ella looked overawed as she stared up at the dome and the enormous opening in the centre that was the building’s only source of light. ‘This is stunning. I can’t believe this building is nearly two thousand years old, and they built that huge dome without any of the equipment that construction companies take for granted nowadays. I mean, just how did they do it?’
That expression of wonder was back on her face. Although Rico had been to the monument countless times, enough to be almost immune to its beauty, seeing it with her was like seeing it with new eyes; he, too, caught the wonder, as if it were the first time he’d ever seen it. And how amazing it was. It made him want to hold her, feel a physical connection between them as well as a mental one.
Though he could see the disappointment on Ella’s face when they reached the Spanish Steps and she stared up the white marble steps to the balustrade and the obelisk, framed by the white church at the top.
‘Give it a couple of weeks for all the azaleas to come out and it’ll look a bit prettier,’ he said.
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Sorry. I guess I expected the Spanish Steps to be a bit more … well …’ Her voice tailed off and she gave an apologetic grimace.
Special, he guessed. ‘They’re just steps,’ he said gently. ‘Where tourists sit to take a rest. Though the square at the top by the Trinità is pretty at weekends; it’s full of artists sketching.’
She looked up, as if imagining it.
‘Come on. You’ll love the Trevi. That definitely lives up to its reputation.’
They could hear the water gushing before they even got into the square, and when they managed to skirt the crowds he could see from the look on her face that the fountain was everything she’d expected. ‘Wow. It’s huge,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe how white it is, and how clear and blue the water is. And look at the way it’s carved.’ Her eyes glittered with delight. ‘The horses—their manes look as if they’re real, not stone, and they’re billowing in the breeze, and the water sounds like the thundering of their hooves.’
Rico normally thought of the Trevi Fountain simply as a tourist trap; but right then he could see what she saw. And he was surprised by how stunning it was.
The steps leading down to the fountain were thronged with tourists; Rico managed to shepherd Ella to the front, where she could sit on the edge of the fountain and he could take a photograph of her throwing a coin over her shoulder as a promise to herself that she’d come back to Rome.
‘Is it supposed to be three coins?’ she asked.
He smiled. ‘No. If you’re thinking of the film, that’s referring to three different people throwing a coin in.’
‘I thought I read somewhere …’ She flapped a dismissive hand. ‘Never mind.’
He knew exactly what she meant—he’d read it, too. Throw in one coin to return to Rome, two for a new romance, and three for a marriage. Was that what she was looking for? he wondered. Marriage or romance?
Though it was none of his business. And he definitely wasn’t looking for either marriage or romance. No way was he repeating his parents’ mistakes. He kept his relationships short and sweet, ending them before they stopped being fun.
‘The fountain was built at the end of Agrippa’s Acqua Vergine. It’s meant to have the sweetest water in Rome—though I wouldn’t try drinking it,’ he added hastily, ‘and people are definitely discouraged from trying to paddle in it.’
‘La Dolce Vita, right?’ She smiled. ‘My best friend’s an English teacher and a film buff. She told me about it.’
He could just imagine Ella standing under the fountain the way Anita Ekberg had, letting the water pour down on her. Making her T-shirt cling to her body like a second skin. And then he’d have the pleasure of peeling it off later …
Right now, he thought wryly, he could do with some cold water himself. Ella Chandler was making him seriously heated.
Officially, this was the end of what she’d asked to see. He knew he ought to ask her if she wanted him to escort her back to the hotel or put her in a taxi; but he found himself reluctant to let her go. Weirder still, he found himself actually giving into the impulse to keep her with him a little longer. What the hell had happened to his self-control?
‘Time for a rest,’ he said, and found them a quiet table at one of the little caffès in the nearby streets. When she’d chosen what she wanted from the menu, he ordered her a glass of spremuta, freshly squeezed ruby orange juice, and an espresso for himself. He gulped it down in one mouthful, then gave a rueful smile as he caught her raised eyebrows. ‘Sorry. It’s one of my bad habits.’
There was a tiny glitter of teasing in her eyes when she said, ‘Dare I ask what the others are?’
‘No.’ But the coffee hadn’t restored his common sense. The words came out of his mouth before he could stop them. ‘Do you have plans for tonight?’
‘Why?’ She sounded wary.
‘I wondered if you might have dinner with me. If you weren’t doing anything else?’
She blinked. ‘Dinner?’
‘Something simple. Traditionally Roman.’ Or maybe he could cook for her. He knew the perfect place to set a table. Even the swishest restaurant in Rome didn’t have a
