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‘You are feeling better now you are out of the glare of the sun and under the shade of the trees?’ he drawled softly. ‘The English skin is sensitive, si? It burns easily.’
It wasn’t what he had meant, and he knew that she knew it. She could tell from the wicked amusement in his eyes. Struggling for composure, she told herself not to rise to his bait. ‘I’ve been in Italy for a few days now. My skin is beginning to acclimatise. Besides which I’m fortunate in that I go brown very easily and rarely burn.’
‘This is good.’ He patted the sun-lounger next to his. ‘Come and enjoy your cocktail and relax before you change for dinner.’
Relaxing so wasn’t an option. Not with acres of hard male flesh causing difficulty with her breathing. And Vittorio was so very much at ease with his body, which didn’t help. He made her feel gauche in the extreme. No doubt the women he’d spoken of earlier would have been quite in command of themselves and the situation, and more than willing to flaunt themselves.
Somehow she found the aplomb to walk over to the sun-lounger and sit down with a certain grace, a polite smile on her face as she a
ccepted the cocktail he handed her. In any other circumstances, with any other man, she would be enjoying this brief interlude out of real life, she thought regretfully, as she took a sip of her drink.
‘Wow!’ As the cocktail hit her tastebuds she gasped. ‘Whatever’s this?’ It was delicious but lethal.
‘It is called “Love in the Afternoon”,’ said Vittorio, deadpan. ‘Do you like it?’
She stared at him suspiciously. ‘Is it really called that?’
‘But of course.’ He smiled. ‘It is one of my own concoctions for lazy summer afternoons like this one.’
That explained it. She’d dare bet he never sat here drinking it by himself! She had to swallow hard before she said primly, ‘It’s very nice, but it tastes rather potent.’
One male eyebrow slanted provocatively. ‘As one would expect, surely?’
He smiled that sexy smile but she refused to respond.
His shoulders were muscled and wide. He was muscled all over, but without an inch of fat on his lean frame. He hadn’t moved since passing her the cocktail, but ridiculously Cherry felt she wanted to edge away. She didn’t of course.
Clearing her throat, she took another tentative sip. ‘What’s in it?’
‘Gin, dry orange curacao liqueur, chilled champagne, fresh lime juice and pressed pineapple. Little more than a fruit punch, really,’ he said gently.
A fruit punch guaranteed to do exactly what the name suggested after a glass or two, she’d be bound. Cherry eyed him severely. ‘Hardly your average fruit punch. In England—’
‘Ah, but you are not in England now, are you, mia piccola?’ he murmured. ‘England is such a cold country, I have found. Even your summers are full of rain and chilly winds, and you need the fire to keep you warm. I have no doubt your English punch lacks the passion and heat of Italy.’
He made it sound as though everyone and everything in England was as cold as ice, and she had no doubt he was having a none too subtle dig at her. She knew she ought to leave it, but somehow she couldn’t. ‘I can assure you English people are just as impassioned as Italians about things that matter,’ she said tightly. ‘Admittedly we don’t wear our hearts on our sleeves all the time, but that doesn’t mean we don’t feel deeply.’
‘I thought we were talking about punch?’
‘Punch and other things.’
His frown smoothed to a quizzical ruffle. ‘I see. So, while we are on the subject, are you passionate about things that matter, Cherry? And, if so, what makes your heart beat faster?’
She took a long sip of her drink, needing its boost. ‘All sorts of things.’ She eyed him warily.
He swung his legs on to the floor, finishing his cocktail in a couple of gulps and putting the glass on the tray before he sat studying her with unnerving concentration. ‘Name one.’
His change of position had brought him so close she felt enveloped by his body warmth even though he wasn’t touching her. He was so near that she could see the tiny black hairs under his skin on the hard jawline, the amazing thickness of his long lashes. He had the most beautiful mouth, she thought dazedly. Firm, strong, sensual.
Blaming the thought on the cocktail, she made a Herculean effort to pull herself together. ‘I love animals,’ she said weakly. ‘Reading, eating out with friends—’
He interrupted her with scathing abruptness. ‘I did not ask for the sort of details you put on a CV. I asked about the real you.’
She glared at him. ‘That is the real me.’ Part of the real her anyway. The only bit she was prepared to share with him.
‘And what about love? Romance? Is there anyone special at home in your cold England? A sweetheart waiting for you?’
She wasn’t aware of the stiffening of her expression, the blink of her eyes, the slight lift of her chin, but the piercing grey gaze took in every nuance of her body language. ‘No.’ It was too abrupt and she realised it immediately, adding in what she sincerely hoped was a light voice, ‘Not at the moment.’
