raven head tilted as he considered. ‘I think so,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I’ve always lived in Italy, of course, but several times a year I’ve taken trips to America to see my maternal grandparents and aunts and uncles and so on. It is certainly my second home. But Italy is my lifeblood; it sings through my veins like rich red wine. You know?’
Maisie shook her head. ‘Not really. I’m just an ordinary English girl,’ she said, half jokingly.
He frowned. ‘Do not say that. That you are ordinary.’
She looked at him in surprise. ‘But I am.’
‘I do not think so.’ The greeny-blue eyes were almost luminescent. ‘The other friend of Jackie, the girl who was with us in the coffee bar, her name escapes me—’
‘Sue.’ It felt indescribably good that he’d forgotten Sue’s name, which she knew was horribly bitchy.
‘Ah, yes, Sue. Now Sue is an ordinary girl. Articulate, attractive, independent, successful—’
He needn’t spoil it.
‘But without that spark.’
‘Spark?’ She didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you fishing for compliments?’
‘No.’ She glared at him over her wineglass. ‘Of course not. I don’t know what you mean, that’s all.’
‘Perhaps that’s the secret.’
He was talking in riddles and her stomach was rumbling. She’d discovered since she had been in the inn and smelt the food that she was, in fact, ravenously hungry. Her brow wrinkled. ‘Secret?’
‘No matter.’ He looked at her quietly as a waiter appeared at their elbow with two menus. Once he had departed and she gazed helplessly at the writing, which was all in Italian—only to be expected, of course—Blaine said, ‘Would you like me to choose something delicious for you? As I said, I eat here fairly often and I’m used to the various dishes.’
‘Thank you.’ He probably knew she couldn’t speak a word of his language, so Maisie said, ‘I was never any good at languages at school; it was the sciences that grabbed me.’
‘Interesting.’ His eyes laughed at her. ‘And lucky sciences.’
Was he flirting with her? Maisie stared at him uncertainly. But then Italian men flirted all the time, didn’t they? Of course Roberto didn’t but he was Jackie’s father and therefore relegated into a different strata. She gave a tentative smile.
‘I will have to teach you some basic Italian while you are here, yes?’
Umm, probably no.
‘Polite words, of course—thank you, please, how to ask for directions if you are lost, that sort of thing. And the casual brush-off to unwanted suitors. That might not be quite so polite.’
He was definitely flirting with her. Maisie refused to acknowledge how captivating it was to have a man like Blaine flirting with her, telling herself that as she was the only woman present it wasn’t quite such a triumph. Any port in a storm sort of thing.
The waiter appeared again and Blaine fired off an order in rapid Italian, which still managed to sound utterly soft and enchanting. It really was a gorgeous language. Like the country. And the men. The last thought jolted Maisie into realising she hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast—thanks to the euphoria of losing six pounds in as many days she’d been motivated to starve herself some more—and the glass of wine in her hand was empty. She had also had two gin and tonics on the plane to steady her nerves—perhaps not such a good idea with hindsight.
Another glass of wine appeared in front of her like magic. Obviously Blaine had seen her empty glass when he had ordered the food. Not wishing his mother’s first impression of her to be one where she was carried into the house like a sack of coal, Maisie left it exactly where it was, saying, ‘What is it we’re eating?’
‘We are making the most of the fresh fish by having two courses where seafood features. Not exactly the done thing, I know, but …’ He gave another of his Latin shrugs and she wondered if he knew quite what it did to her. ‘We begin with carpaccio di tonno, which is essentially cooked peeled crayfish and very thin slices of fresh raw tuna on a bed of lemon iced salad sprigs. Following this I have chosen linguine all’aragosta because the lobster here is second to none. In most restaurants you would be lucky to get a few mouthfuls of lobster with the pasta but here even I am satisfied.’
Maisie nodded as though she knew exactly what he was talking about.
‘Ah, the appetisers.’ As the waiter reappeared with several small plates holding delectable-looking morsels, Blaine thanked him, adding to Maisie, ‘The Italian word for appetiser is antipasto, sì? This is your first lesson, mia piccola.’
He was becoming more Italian by the moment. And more irresistible. Something told her not to ask what the last two words meant. Instead she tucked into the appetisers and discovered they were absolutely delicious. As was the rest of the meal when it came.
Maisie had always liked her food and made no apology for it, although she would have loved to wave a magic wand, of course, and eat what she wanted without it showing on her waistline. Somehow she had never quite managed the knack of surviving on lettuce leaves and brown rice and all the other things which were devoid of cream and butter and everything that made life worth living, though. Halfway through the meal she decided to put the diet on hold until she was back in England. Time enough then for being miserable. She was well overdue a bit of pleasure with all she’d gone through in the last few weeks.
She did refuse dessert though. Not through any misguided and belated feeling of guilt but simply because she couldn’t eat another thing after the most wonderful lobster since the beginning of time.
‘You eat like a true Italian.’
They were sitting having coffee and Maisie was wondering how she was going to waddle out to the car when Blaine spoke. She looked at him warily. ‘Meaning?’
‘You enjoy your food. I cannot bear to sit and watch a woman move the food about her plate as though it is going to poison her.’
But he had probably been sufficiently attracted by their slim nubile bodies to take them out in the first place. Maisie acknowledged the waistband of her skirt was threatening to split. She had been thrilled to bits to find she could actually fit into a size twelve for the first time in years when she had gone on her shopping spree, even though it had been a bit of a near thing between that and the size fourteen. She wrinkled her small nose. ‘I’m not fashionably thin,’ she said, stating the obvious. ‘Jeff, my ex, went off with a size eight blonde who’s recently had breast enhancements.’ And then she wondered why on earth she had told him that.
He folded his arms over his chest, studying her with an air of quiet interest. ‘That must have been hard for you.’
In a nutshell, yes. She tried to inject a note of nonchalance into her voice. ‘It obviously wasn’t meant to be.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’
Not into comforting words and polite platitudes, then. Although he had
