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He kept the tour brief and factual, opening doors and listing rooms.
‘That’s it for this level.’ He gestured towards the staircase. ‘Shall we?’
For a moment she stared warily back at him, as though he was Bluebeard, inviting her to see where he kept his other wives, and then, averting her gaze, she stepped past him. His chest tightened first and his groin next, as he caught the scent of her perfume, and he took a moment to steady himself before following her upstairs.
‘There are no guest rooms,’ he said. ‘Not that we need any.’ He gave her a slow, teasing smile. ‘Guests on a honeymoon would be a little de trop, don’t you think, cara?’
‘Not on this one,’ she said sweetly.
Touché, he thought, holding her gaze. He liked it that he could get under her skin—metaphorically speaking. Of course, what he’d like more would be to actually strip her naked and lick every centimetre of her smooth, satiny body.
They had reached the top of the stairs.
The large, beautiful bedroom stretched the whole length of this floor, and it was filled with light and the scent from the honeysuckle that grew prolifically in the gardens below. Strangely, though, he could still smell Imma’s perfume.
He watched as she stopped and turned slowly on the spot, stilling as she caught sight of their bags sitting side by side at the end of the bed.
‘What did you say about the other bedrooms?’
‘There are none.’
Catching sight of the vibrant aquamarine sea, he walked towards the French windows and opened them, blinking into the sunlight as he stepped onto the balcony.
‘You know, sometimes you can see dolphins swimming in the bay. When the Romans came here there were so many of them they named it Portus Delphini—that’s why it’s called Portofino.’
Imma came and stood beside him. She was frowning.
‘Say that again?’
‘Portus Delphini—it means Port of the Dolphins—’
‘I meant about the bedrooms.’
He dropped onto one of the chairs that were scattered casually around the balcony, extending his legs and stretching his arms above his head. He was fully aware that she was watching him, waiting for his reply, and the tension in her body made his own body grow taut.
‘Oh, that...’ he said casually. ‘I said this is the only one. This is our bedroom.’
‘No.’ She shook her head, her green eyes narrowing. ‘This is your bedroom. I will take a room at the hotel.’
Now he frowned. ‘At the hotel? How is that going to work?’
She was looking at him as if she wanted to take off her shoes and throw them at his head.
‘Very simply. You sleep here. I sleep there.’
He shook his head. ‘You’re not making sense, cara. We’re supposed to be crazily in love. People who are crazily in love don’t sleep in separate beds—never mind separate rooms in a different building.’
Eyes narrowing, she put her hands on her hips. ‘But we’re not in love, Vicè.’
Her voice was tense, and he heard the depth of her hurt and anger.
‘Oh, I’m sorry—did you start to believe your own lies? I suppose that’s what happens when you never tell the truth.’
His jaw tightened. ‘You don’t get to lecture me about the truth. Not after that show you put on in your bedroom the other night.’
For a moment he thought she was going to slap him again and knew on some level he would deserve it. Knew also that he didn’t like this version of himself. Worse, he knew his father would be appalled. Alessandro had been a gentiluomo. He had treated everyone with the same quiet courtesy, but had reserved a special respectful tenderness for his wife.
‘At least it was only one night,’ she said acidly. ‘Your whole life is a show, Vicè.’
