with a gorgeous Italian man intent on sharing the evening with her. He’d said he only wanted her company. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been out with a man and felt like this.
Gran and her knitting buddies had nudged her into a movie or two with men she’d met but each time they’d withdrawn when they’d realised how much time she needed to spend with Annie.
He gestured to the houses and trees around her home. ‘You must love living here.’
‘Yep. I walk around the bay to catch a ferry to the city on my days off. Or just walk around the harbour.’
He leaned forward and started the engine. ‘Your harbour is incredible but I probably see more of it from the hospital windows.’ He shrugged those lovely shoulders of his and she tried not to stare. ‘Except at night before sleep.’
She didn’t want to think of Marco sleeping, or maybe she did, because the picture came anyway. Black boxers? Or those hipster undies the male models wore that clung. Also in black. No shirt. Silk sheets. Stretched out across the mattress. Whoa.
What on earth had they been talking about before her mind had gone AWOL? View watching? ‘Perhaps you should do less work hours.’
He grinned at her. All white teeth and vibrant male who scorned the thought of taking things easy. ‘For what reason? I like to give my job everything.’
‘Um. Life just might speed by.’
He glanced at her as they waited to turn onto a busy road. ‘Has life sped by for you, Emily?’
‘I’m thinking the last sixteen years have.’ She loved the way he drawled her name. Emerrrleee.
The way it rolled from his lips with that sexy undertone. She’d never really felt she’d arrived in the sexy department but, hey, there was a first for everything, and Gran’s blouse was firm across her breasts. Must be why she was so conscious of her curves tonight.
Conversation remained desultory until they arrived. She’d expected a shiny white mini cruise ship like she saw most times ablaze with lights and four decks high with tuxedoed waiters. Five star, sit behind glass, no nasty breeze to muck up your hair. She didn’t get that.
What she got was a hundred-year-old tall ship, three masted and dark polished wood. He ushered her up the wooden gangway on the side of the ship and they were met by a very official-looking captain with a feathered hat.
His staff was dressed in period costume, sailors and maidservants from a bygone era, the few tables grouped in secluded areas of the deck set with lace and crystal and the dull glint of genuine silverware.
Marco watched her. Enjoyed her reaction. Her eyes widened with wonder and she turned to look up at him. ‘Wow …’ The word was soft but his heart warmed at the genuine delight he could see in her face.
‘How did you find out about this? I thought they were only privately hired.’
‘Your Dr Finn. He’s been very helpful.’
Finn helpful? He must have read her face because he smiled and said, ‘He is a man’s man, perhaps.’
She thought of Evie. Or a strong woman’s man. Grumpy Finn even knowing about something like this was hard to take in but she didn’t care.
She much preferred a man who had gentleness and a way that made her feel at ease. Though a little sexual attraction wasn’t going astray. Like Marco? What was wrong with her tonight? She needed to remember where fact lay and fantastic fiction fell. She rested her hand on his arm. ‘This is great. I love it. Thank you.’
His hand came up to cover hers. ‘And I am glad.’ The captain gestured to their table and helped her sit.
The best seats. They were seated at the stern and she could glance behind her to the water slapping gently against the hull. The masts soared into the sky in front of her.
They hadn’t made it with much time to spare. The rattle of the wooden gangplank echoed across the water as it was pulled in. The scurry of sailors as mooring ropes were untied and the boat drifted quietly away from the wharf. She glanced up with amazement as figures overhead leant on cross spars to pull ropes and loosen the smaller topsails.
‘This is incredible.’ Suddenly she was aware she hadn’t eaten since her nibble at the scones that morning.
‘Yes,’ he said, but he was watching her face. A tiny smile on his lips as her gaze darted about, each new sight making her eyes widen and her mouth open.
Champagne appeared on a tray and he took two glasses and offered her one. Absently she smiled and sipped and he could barely contain his amusement to see her so involved in the business of preparing the ship.
‘You really love this.’
Her eyes were shining. ‘Yes.’
He’d thought he had his walls up, solid, impenetrable walls around his heart, around his desire to even acknowledge his heart. He was doing all right on his own, had been on his own since he’d left home not long after his mother had died, but watching Emily, savouring her pleasure, this was different. Different from anything he’d felt before. And it was not possible. Non e’possibile.
‘Aren’t you?’
He’d lost the train of conversation. ‘Scusi?’
‘Aren’t you enjoying this too?’ She tilted her head and her cap of golden hair swung across her cheek. His fingers itched to reach out and brush it back from her face. It looked like silk. It would feel like silk. Such a caring face for one so beautiful.
This was outside his experience. Usually the more beautiful the woman the more shallow the water. Emily was not such a person. She waited for his answer with anticipation clear in her eyes.
‘Si, the night is very special. You are very special.’
She blushed again and glanced out over the water. ‘I wasn’t fishing.’
‘Of course not.’ This he did not understand. ‘You have no rod.’ He glanced around. ‘You wish to fish?’
She laughed. A throaty, infectious giggle she tried to hide behind her hand. Now, why would she try to hide such a thing of joy?
The waiter came. ‘Evenin’, all.’ Dressed like an English officer, he took their orders and refilled their glasses. Emily grinned at him and the waiter grinned back. Marco frowned.
She looked back at him. ‘I mean I wasn’t looking for a compliment. I don’t want to catch a fish.’ She laughed again and he had to smile back at her.
Her face glowed. Like the first time he’d seen her. ‘I see. A colloquialism. You Australians have many of them. Like the English.’
‘My gran married an Englishman. She told me he always said “give me a butcher’s hook” instead of “give me a look”. It was funny when she said it.’ She smiled at the memory. He’d never seen a woman smile so much. It warmed his cold soul.
‘Tell me about your family. Your parents. Your gran.’
She
