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“Sì. The best you have ever tasted.”
Caroline laughed. “You mean, the only pasta with walnut sauce I’ve ever tasted.”
“You have led a life of deprivation, cara.” Nicolo grinned. “And it is my duty to change it.”
They smiled at each other, and Caroline felt a strange tightening within her breast. That was just what she was afraid of, she thought suddenly; he had already wrought too many changes, not just in her life, but—but…
“Well?” Nicolo put his hands on her shoulders. “What do you think?”
Drinks and dinner, that was all they’d be sharing. And why not, when the afternoon had gone so well?
Caroline took a deep breath. “What I think,” she said lightly, “is that I’m starving.”
Smiling, Nicolo put his arm around her shoulders and led her back to where they’d left the Ferrari.
* * *
NICOLO WATCHED as Caroline spooned the last bit of tiramisu from her dessert plate. When she’d finished, he put down his cup of espresso, propped his elbow on the table and put his chin in his hand.
“Anna would be proud of you,” he said, “Antipasto misto, the pasta with walnut sauce, saltimbocca…”
“And each bit probably contained a thousand calories.”
He nodded. “At least.”
“You’re not supposed to agree with me, Nicolo!” She grinned. “You’re supposed to roll your eyes and assure me that I just had the low-cal, spun-out-of-air version of—whatever all that incredible stuff was.”
Nicolo laughed as he lifted his cup of espresso to his lips.
“I always imagined models lived on lettuce leaves and iced water.”
“They do. Well, I do, anyway. The first agency I went to sent me to a photographer to have some pictures taken for my portfolio. He told me to come back after I’d starved off ten pounds.”
“A man?”
She nodded. “He was right, too. You photograph better when—”
“Surely no man—not even a fashion photographer—would want to take away any of those lovely curves.”
Nicolo was still smiling, but his voice had become husky. Caroline cleared her throat.
“Actually—actually, that was the first time it occurred to me that no one was designing clothes—beautiful, well-tailored clothes—for real women. And—”
“Is that what you are interested in, cara?” He put his cup down again and ran his finger around its thin gold rim. “Being a real woman?”
“I am a real woman,” she said with a puzzled smile. “I’ve told you, I hate those insane things people like Fabbiano design, and—”
“I meant, do you hope some day to marry? To have a husband and babies?”
She stared at him. How had the conversation suddenly become so personal?
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I mean, I’ve never really thought about it.”
“Why haven’t you?” He smiled very gently. “Surely, a woman as beautiful as you had proposals.”
Her head came up sharply. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Nicolo’s brows lifted. “Only that I cannot believe no man has yet asked you to marry him.”
“Oh.” Caroline looked down at the table. “Sorry,” she said with an apologetic little laugh, “I thought—”
“But there have been men in your life, Caroline. Haven’t there?”
She looked at him. He was smiling still, but there was something about the smile that sent a warning tingle dancing along her spine.
What kind of questions were these to ask her? A real woman, indeed! Did he think she was just a face and body, a woman so enamored of herself and her career that she had no emotions?
“Of course there have been men,” she said with a toss of her head.
And there had been. One or two, anyway. None who’d ever meant anything, but what business was that of his?
Nicolo leaned forward. “Men,” he said pleasantly. “But no commitment.” He nodded, as if she’d told him something very clever. “Why is that, hmm?”
The answer was almost painfully simple. Because she’d never fallen in love, the head-over-heels, with-all-your-heart kind of love that made a woman’s world center on one man for the rest of her life.
She looked at Nicolo. Why was he looking at her like that, with that little smile that suggested he knew something she did not? She had no wish to strip herself bare for his amusement.
“Well,” she said with a shrug, “I’ve been busy, building my career. I told you, someday I want to be a designer, and—”
“And that is more important than anything else.”
Her eyes swept across his face, and suddenly she had the almost overwhelming desire to tell him that it wasn’t important at all, that she was, inside, what he’d call a real woman, one who wanted a home and children to fill it, and most of all a husband, a man who would take her in his arms and kiss her until nothing mattered except him, kiss her as Nicolo had, make her want him as she’d wanted Nicolo…”
The suddenness of the realization stole her breath away. What was happening to her? She barely knew this man, and yet—and yet…
“Of course,” she said quickly. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Why, indeed?” His voice was cool, with amusement or perhaps derision. She thought it might be either, but when she looked up, he was smiling pleasantly. “Well.” He took some bills from his pocket and tossed them onto the table, then rose to his feet. “I think we’ve made enough of this day to satisfy even la Principessa. Shall we leave?”
They drove back in silence. Something had gone out of the day, Caroline thought, but what? Nicolo had seemed so relaxed; now, he sat beside her, his body stiff with tension. Or with anger, although she coul
dn’t imagine at what.
The palazzo was silent when they reached it. Good, Caroline thought. She was in no mood to see Anna; all she wanted was to go to her room and be alone, to think about this strange day and the stranger way it had ended.
“Good night,” she said. Her voice quavered a little, and she cleared her throat. “Thank you for—”
Nicolo put his hand on her arm. “Not yet.” His voice was tight with tension, but he smiled. “I just remembered—we promised Anna we’d see the piazza by moonlight.
“No. No, it’s much too late, Nicolo.”
“A drink, then. A very small cognac.”
“Thank you, but—I just want to go to my room.”
His arm slid lightly around her. “Then I’ll take you there.”
“It isn’t necessary…”
But he was already leading her to the stairs. Her heart hammered in her throat. Something was very wrong, she could feel it in her bones, but what was it? At the door, she turned and held out her hand.
“Well, here we are,” she said. “Thank you again, Nicolo, for—”
“Did you really enjoy yourself, cara?”
“Yes.” She smiled a little. “The day couldn’t have been lovelier.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
She nodded. “Well, good—”
“Caroline.” He reached out and touched her hair lightly. “Your hair is like silk, cara. Soft, golden silk.”
Her heart leaped against her ribs. “Nicolo. It’s late. And—”
“And your eyes.” He cupped her face in his hands. “They are the color of the sea off the Greek Islands.”
“Nicolo.” Was that tiny voice hers? “Nicolo,” she said, “listen—”
“But your mouth…” His thumb traced across her lips, and they parted at his touch. “Ah, cara, that perfect mouth.”
“Don’t, please,” she whispered.
“Would you tell me not to touch the little Degas horse that stands on my desk?” His hands slid into her hair and he lifted her face to him. “Then how can you tell me not to taste your mouth, when it is so full and beautiful, when it waits for my kiss.”
He bent his head and touched his lips to hers. The kiss was gentle, so soft she barely felt it.
