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They entered through a side door. ‘We’ll deal with the paps later,’ Vicè said, his hand locking with hers.
It was lucky for him that he was holding her hand so tightly, otherwise she would have scuttled back to the villa. Even without the paparazzi, the experience of walking into this hotel was intimidating. The beautiful decor was the embodiment of relaxed chic, a perfect mix of retro glamour and contemporary cool, but it was still overshadowed by the fame of the guests.
In the space of a minute she counted at least five A-list film stars, two motor racing drivers, a tennis champion and a disgraced former Italian prime minister—and all of them seemed to know Vicè and wanted to offer their congratulations. Even those who didn’t were nearly falling over to catch a glimpse of him.
‘They’re bored with me,’ he murmured.
‘What?’ She glanced up at him in confusion.
‘It’s you they’ve come to see.’
Wrong, she thought as they sat down at their table in the restaurant. He was so devastating you could gaze at him for several lifetimes and not get bored.
He was a gracious, natural host, and a master of sprezzatura—that ability to make things happen seemingly without effort or any apparent thought. And he liked people...accepted them for who they were.
Watching him stop to speak to a middle-aged couple who were celebrating their wedding anniversary, she felt her pulse slow. Vicè was turning out to be an enigma. And, even though she knew that feeling this way wasn’t clever, he was a mystery she found herself wanting to solve.
The view from the panoramic terrace was legendary, and she could see why. In the fading light of the setting sun the curve of the town’s pastel-coloured houses looked like something from a dream.
But if the view was enchanting, the food was sublime. She chose paté di seppia followed by zembi au pesto and savoured every mouthful.
‘So you’ve found your appetite?’
Looking up, Imma blushed.
‘It’s fine,’ he assured her. Leaning forward, he took her hand. ‘It’s been a long day. You need to eat.’
Watching him kiss her hand, she wondered if it would feel different if he meant it. ‘The food is delicious,’ she said.
‘I’m glad you like it.’
She met his gaze. ‘I didn’t think it would be so...’
‘So what?’
His expression hadn’t changed, but she could sense the tension around his eyes.
‘So magical here. You’ve made something remarkable, and you’ve done it on your own. Your family must be very proud.’
He nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘So why did you choose Portofino?’
He shrugged. ‘I didn’t. It chose me.’
It was a perfectly reasonable reply, but she couldn’t shift the feeling that there was more to it than what he was saying. But if there was, he wasn’t sharing it. He talked easily and amusingly about anything and everything except himself. Then he either made a joke or changed the subject.
When the meal was over Vicè caught her hand.
‘Let’s get this done.’ He eyed her sideways. ‘You know we’re going to have to kiss? Nothing beyond the call of duty—just enough to make it look real. Are you okay with that?’
She nodded. ‘For the cameras, yes.’
She had been expecting a couple of photographers, but as they walked down the steps of the hotel a crowd of paparazzi rushed forward.
‘Vicè, is it true you two only met twenty-four hours ago?’
‘Give me a break. I’m good—but not that good.’ He grinned. ‘It was at least forty-eight.’
