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She felt her skin began to burn as his eyes roamed slowly and appreciatively over the clinging silk, and then she shivered as he slid his hand through the slit in the back of her dress and pressed his cool palm against her hot bare flesh.
‘And I am definitely not going to be able to keep my hands off you in that dress for much longer—’
There was a discreet cough over the intercom.
Gritting his teeth, Massimo looked up sharply towards the front of the car.
‘We’re nearly there, sir,’ said the chauffeur. ‘There are quite a lot of photographers, so do you want me to take you to the front or use the service entrance—?’
‘The front entrance will be fine.’
‘What is this place?’ Flora said shakily. She had never seen so many paparazzi or security guards.
‘The Palazzo del Quirinale. It’s the official residence of the Italian President,’ Massimo said smoothly.
‘I thought we were meeting the Prime Minister?’
‘We are. And the President too.’
She bit her lip. ‘Is that all?’
He hesitated. ‘No. Not exactly.’
She stared at him nervously. ‘How many other people are going?’
‘Not many. Probably about fifty or sixty,’ he said casually. Her mouth fell open, but it was too late to say anything now. They had arrived. The car slid smoothly to a stop and he gave her hand a quick squeeze.
‘I’ll be with you the whole time,’ he said firmly.
As the doors opened she smoothed her dress down over her legs and stepped out onto the road into a roar of sound. Around her camera flashes exploded in every direction, and then Massimo was by her side, his hand locked tightly in hers.
‘Don’t look so worried. Just keep looking at me like you’re crazy about me!’
His eyes gleamed, and she pinched him on the arm. ‘I’m a gardener. Not an actress!’
‘You won’t need to act.’
He grinned at her, that sweet, slow grin that made her skin slip from her bones, and then, lowering his head, he kissed her. Lights flashed. But whether or not they were just inside her head she couldn’t tell. All she knew was that there was nothing and no one that mattered but him and the fierce pressure of his kiss.
He lifted his head. ‘See! No acting required,’ he murmured.
His eyes were the darkest blue, as though he’d swallowed the night sky. She stared at him in confusion, her body tingling, her head still swimming. Behind them the photographers were calling out Massimo’s name, and with shock she realised that it wasn’t just the two of them any more. This wasn’t the kitchen at the palazzo or even his yacht. This was public. It was real.
She felt a sharp stab of longing. Did t
hat mean it was more than sex for him too now?
‘Wh-why did you do that?’ she said shakily.
Taking her hand, he led her along the red carpet, past the lines of security guards.
‘We’re in the city of love, cara. What else could I do?’
She gazed up at him, transfixed by the light in his eyes. ‘I thought Paris was the city of love?’
He frowned and shook his head slowly. ‘A Frenchman told you that, right?’ He sighed. ‘I’d be charitable and say he made a mistake, but I know that guy and he is not to be trusted. Rome is definitely the city of love.’
It was only later that she realised he’d been trying to distract her, no doubt prompted by her poorly concealed panic. But despite her nerves she started to relax—in the main because at every opportunity Massimo materialised by her side and slid his hand into hers. Almost as though he wanted everyone to know she was with him. Although that was most likely wish fulfilment on her part rather than fact.
