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‘He is.’ Vittorio hesitated for a second. ‘The Italian girl I spoke of earlier—the one I was betrothed to—she married Lorenzo after we had gone our separate ways.’
She wanted to ask if he’d minded, although it was too personal. She asked anyway. ‘That must have been difficult for you.’
‘It was awkward for a time.’
When he didn’t elaborate, she felt compelled to say, ‘She is very beautiful.’
‘Si, Caterina is beautiful.’ There was another silence.
His attitude was confirming all her fears, but now a welcome flood of pride was welling up, stiffening her back and banishing the momentary weakness of tears. She was blowed if she was going to ask him anything more. He clearly didn’t want to talk about it and that was fine—just fine. She was just the hired help after all, and—as he’d already made clear—outings like this one were payment for her services to his sister.
She raised her head, glancing round the room as she said, ‘This is a fabulous place. Domenico has clearly made a success of the business.’
‘Cherry—’
Whatever Vittorio had been about to say was interrupted by the waiter bustling up to their table, exchanging pleasantries with Vittorio, who clearly was a regular visitor, then placing two embossed menus in their hands, before topping up their glasses although Vittorio had barely touched his.
Feeling in need of some sustenance, Cherry took a healthy gulp. She was going to get through this evening with a smile on her face and dignity intact, no matter what, she told herself grittily. She couldn’t compete with an out-and-out beauty like Caterina and she wasn’t going to try.
She was facing the table where Lorenzo and Caterina were sitting. Lorenzo was sideways on, but Cherry noticed Caterina had positioned herself so she had a clear view of them, and that the Italian woman had barely taken her eyes off her since she’d sat down. Deliberately now she glanced across the room and met the amber-brown gaze. She didn’t smile, and neither did Caterina, and for a few moments their gaze interlocked. Then Lorenzo’s wife lowered her eyes, her face stormy.
It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. The waiter had made himself scarce presumably to give them time to choose, and Vittorio said quietly, ‘Would you like me to order for you?’
She glanced at the menu. It was in Italian and there were no prices. Great. ‘Thank you.’ She kept her voice polite and light. This evening was just getting better and better, she thought a trifle hysterically. It only needed Angela and her mother to appear like genii out of a bottle to emphasise she was totally out of her depth and didn’t belong here.
She found she had drained her glass without meaning to, and as Vittorio filled it with the sparkling champagne she warned herself to restrain from drinking any more until she had had something to eat. If ever she needed to keep her wits about her, it was tonight.
‘Perhaps cannelloni ripieni to begin with,’ Vittorio suggested. ‘It is particularly good here. Or parmigiano di melanzane—aubergine baked with cheese and tomato sauce. It is a local speciality. And lobster to follow I think.’
Cherry nodded. She didn’t care what she ate. Since Caterina had arrived she’d lost her appetite.
The waiter reappeared with a plate of olives and anchovies, warm bread and fine olive oil for dipping for them to share, and then bustled off again after taking their order.
A small band was playing melodious Latin music at the back of the dance floor on a tiny raised stage, and already a few couples were dancing. Everyone was having a wonderful time, she thought bitterly—and then she froze in horror as Vittorio stood in one fluent movement and held out his hand to her.
‘Shall we?’
She stared at him, knowing it was quite beyond her to be on show to the rest of the diners—something the couples who were dancing seemed to be enjoying. She wasn’t Italian. She didn’t know all the Latin moves. But neither could she leave Vittorio standing there.
Somehow she found she was on her feet, and immediately Vittorio’s arm was round her waist and he had pulled her into him, holding her firmly and confidently as they began to dance. ‘Relax,’ he murmured softly against her hair. ‘It is not difficult. Just follow my lead. OK?’
So not OK. She was going to make a fool of herself. She knew it. And then the fact that she was in his arms, her body moulded to his like a second skin, took over. Her reactions came automat
ically, naturally, and the feel and smell of him took her into a sensually satisfying world where the couples around them ceased to exist.
Vittorio was an excellent dancer in every way. No woman could fail to look graceful as his partner. It was the easiest thing in the world to follow his lead as he’d asked. She just let the powerful masculine body move and guide her. A slow, dreamy number began and he drew her closer still, her face nestled under his chin, and her arms sliding up around his neck. She breathed him in, intoxicated not by the champagne but by his nearness. She could stay like this for ever, she thought wildly.
She felt the unmistakable hardening of his body and knew he was as aroused as she was, but his control was absolute. He didn’t falter in his steps, whereas by the time they had reached their table and he had gently delivered her into her seat her legs felt like jelly.
Their first course was waiting for them; Vittorio had obviously seen the waiter bring the dishes to the table, but for a moment Cherry stared at the aubergine blankly, her breathing still heavy and slow and her body aching with desire.
How could this man inspire such a flood of blistering sensation just by holding her in his arms? she asked herself faintly. He hadn’t been making love to her, they had been dancing, and yet…
‘Try it. It is good.’
His deep voice interrupted her chaotic thoughts, and when she lifted her head and looked at him she saw he was tucking into his meal with every appearance of enjoyment. For a moment it took all her will-power not to kick him—hard. Here was she, in a state of virtual collapse, and he was sitting there filling his belly as if nothing had happened.
And then he looked straight at her and she read a hunger in the glittering grey eyes which had nothing to do with food—something the slash of red colour across the high chiselled cheekbones confirmed. He wanted her. He was merely better at hiding it than she was. For the life of her she didn’t know if that made her feel better or worse.
