Page 6 of The Italian


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“I prefer Italy. I travel around Europe regularly, but Australia is a long way from here. How long does it take to travel there by plane?”

“Twenty-one hours.”

“Twenty-one hours,” he scoffs. “On a plane? You must be crazy, woman.”

I giggle at his horror. “We’re used to it. Australia is on the opposite side of the world from everywhere. If we want to travel, it’s a twenty-four-hour plane trip to most places. That, combined with the terrible jetlag from time zones, it turns a lot of people off.”

He frowns and sips his drink. “Do you work at home?”

“Yes, I’m a fashion designer.”

He smiles, as if surprised. “Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What do you design?”

I shrug, embarrassed. “Well, I’m designing pyjamas at the moment for Kmart.”

“Kmart?” He frowns.

“It’s a department store.”

“What pyjamas would you put me in?” he asks. I watch his tongue dart out as he sips his drink, and my sex clenches in appreciation.

“I don’t think pyjamas would do you justice. I imagine your birthday suit is enough.”

His eyes have a tender glow to them as he watches me, and my heart constricts in my chest. He really is a beautiful man.

Embarrassed by my forwardness, I change the subject. “But it’s only temporary. I would love to work in fashion one day. That’s the ultimate dream.”

“Who’s your favorite designer?”

“Umm, let’s see.” I narrow my eyes. “Valentino or Dolce and Gabbana.”

“And you’ve applied to both of those houses?”

“Yes. Nothing back from them yet, though.”

“One day,” he replies.

I smile. “One day.”

“Finish your drink, bella. I’m taking you dancing.”

“Bella?” I frown. God, he doesn’t even remember my name.

He takes my hand over the table and lifts it to his mouth. “Bella means beautiful.”

He kisses my fingertips. “And you really are very beautiful, Olivia. I can’t take my eyes off of you.”

Oh, I like him.

“To be honest, I’m having a hard time staying on my side of the table. I want us to dance so I can have you in my arms,” he says softly.

Nerves dance in my stomach. “Then take me dancing, Mr. Ferrara,” I whisper.

He smiles darkly, tips his head back, and he drains his glass. “Let’s go.”

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