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She had to pull herself together—because it was pointless to feel things which would only be thrown back in her face, to want things which could never be hers.
Cesare glanced down at the hands which were clasped in the lap of her dress—at the way her fingers interlocked, the way they gripped when the music reached a crescendo—and he bit down on his mouth, hard, in an effort to dispel his own frustration.
Because unless he stopped imagining himself pulling over into a lay-by and slipping his fingers between her legs, this was going to be a very long and uncomfortable drive.
The car drew up outside the only hotel in the village—the Urlin Arms, which was run by a slightly dotty ex-admiral who rated eccentricity over efficiency. It was his old family home, which had been converted, and the fact that the place had 'character ' compensated in a small way for the constant stream of junior staff who were always flouncing out in a huff and leaving the Admiral in the lurch.
'You know this place?' asked Cesare as he opened the car door for her.
She clambered out of the low car and stood beside him, looking up at it. 'Yes. Of course. I remember when it was first converted. ’
'Do you like it?'
'I love it. It's just...'
'Surprising that I've chosen to stay here?' he observed wryly.
'A bit.'
His black eyes mocked her. 'You thought I would have rented a glass and chrome extravaganza in London, did you?'
"Why, Cesare—are you a mind-reader?'
'No, I'm just good at reading body language/ he murmured. 'Especially yours.'
But Sorcha's poise was in danger of slipping as she followed him inside—where the Admiral was having his customary gin and tonic and regaling a tyre salesman from Humberside with the problems in the modern Navy.
'Evening, Admiral’ said Sorcha, forcing a smile and hoping that he was as man-of-the-world as he always claimed and wouldn't mention to her mother or Rupert that she'd been caught sneaking up to a hotel bedroom with Cesare di Arcangelo. Why?
Because it felt wrong?
Because he was her boss?
They went upstairs to where he had obviously rented the best room. There were some fine pieces of furniture—a grandfather clock with a sonorous chime, a beautiful sandalwood chest, and faded silk rugs sprawled on polished floorboards.
Sorcha walked in and felt frozen to the spot, not sure what she was expected to do or say as Cesare pushed the door shut and leaned on it, studying her. And then his eyes narrowed and he turned and began walking towards a wooden drinks cabinet. 'Drink? ' he called over his shoulder.
'Drink? ' she echoed blankly.
He reappeared at the door. "Wine? Or did you think I was going to leap on you as soon as you set foot inside the door?'
Sorcha swallowed. 'How would I know? I've never been in this kind of situation before.'
Their eyes clashed. 'Me neither’ he said softly.
Some of the tension eased out of her. "Wine, please.' She walked around the room, picking things up without really looking at them, trying not to look nervous when inside her stomach was tied up in knots.
Cesare came over and handed her a glass of red wine.
Thanks. ’ She sipped it, and then took
a bigger mouthful. 'Gosh—it's delicious. The Admiral must have better taste than I thought!'
He smiled. 'Actually, it's mine. My wine, that is. It is made from grapes which are grown in my own vineyard. The vines will be growing heavy now—with great clusters of grapes growing darker under the sun.'
His voice was dreamy enough to hurt, and suddenly Sorcha couldn't bear it. If she had married him she would have been mistress of those vineyards, too—as proud of their yield as he was—while instead she was standing awkwardly in a slightly scruffy hotel room, making small-talk while the real agenda simmered away unspoken. The elephant in the sitting room.
She put her glass down with a hand which she was suddenly afraid was going to start shaking. And he must not sense her reservations or her nervousness—because that
