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The only time she’d been silent was when he’d whipped his classic Vespa through the streets of Florence with her clinging on like a limpet. Which had brought back another more visceral memory of that first wild ride aboard his motorbike.
After that he’d needed a distraction. Her warm breasts pressing against his back had not done a great deal for his self-control. So he’d had the inspired idea of taking her on a private tour of the Uffizi while he cooled off. But as they’d walked hand in hand through the darkened Vasari gallery and she’d peppered him with questions, a strange thing had happened. He’d watched Issy’s face light up when she took in the Renaissance splendour of Boticelli’s Primavera, heard her in-drawn breath at the ethereal beauty of Titian’s Venus, and he’d really started to enjoy himself.
He’d taken a few dates here before, but none of them had been as awestruck and excited by the beauty of the art as Issy.
When they’d got to Latini for a late dinner, Issy had devoured the rich, succulent Tuscan speciality with the same fervour. But, as he’d watched her lick the rich gravy from her full bottom lip, enjoyment and nostalgia had turned sharply to anticipation.
As much as he’d enjoyed Issy’s company over the last few hours, her avid appreciation of the art and her entertaining abilities as a conversationalist, he didn’t want to talk any more. And especially not about his least favourite subject.
But before he could think of a subtle way to change the subject, she started up again.
‘You’re always so adamant you don’t do permanent. You don’t do the long-haul,’ she said, looking him straight in the eye. ‘Don’t you think that’s a bit peculiar? Especially for a man of your age?’
‘I’m only thirty-one,’ he said, annoyed. It wasn’t as if he were about to pick up his pension.
‘I know, but isn’t that when most men are thinking of settling down? Having kids?’
That did it. Forget subtle—he wasn’t having this conversation. No way. ‘Why do you care? Unless you’re angling for a proposal?’ he said, a bit too forcefully.
Instead of looking hurt or offended, she laughed. ‘Stop being so conceited. A man with your commitment problems is hardly the catch of the century.’
‘That’s good to know,’ he grumbled, not as pleased as he would have expected by the off-hand remark.
Propping her elbow on the tab
le, she leaned into her palm and gazed at him. ‘I’m just really curious. What happened to make you so dead set against having a proper relationship?’
‘I have proper relationships,’ he said, not sure why he was defending himself. ‘What do you call this?’
She giggled, her deep blue eyes sparkling mischievously in the candlelight. ‘An improper relationship.’
‘Very funny,’ he said wryly as blood pounded into his groin.
Signalling the waiter, he asked for the bill in Italian. As the man left, laden with their empty plates, Gio topped up their wine glasses. ‘Let’s go back to the villa for dessert,’ he said. Time to stop debating this nonsense and start debating which part of her he planned to feast on first. ‘And discuss how improper.’
Seeing the heat and the determination on his face, Issy struggled to keep the simmering passion at bay that she was sure he’d been stoking all evening.
Every time his fingers cupped her elbow, every time his palm settled on the small of her back, every time his breath brushed across her earlobe as he whispered some amusing story or anecdote in her ear, or his chocolate gaze raked over her figure, her arousal had kicked up another notch. And she was sure he knew it.
But she wasn’t going to be distracted that easily. Not yet anyway.
‘What’s the matter, Gio. Don’t you know why you can’t maintain a relationship?’
He drummed his fingers on the table, the rhythmic taps doing nothing to diminish the intensity in those melted chocolate eyes. ‘It’s not that I can’t,’ he replied. ‘It’s that I don’t want to.’ He leaned forward, placed his elbows on the table, a confident smile curving his lips. ‘Why would I bother if it will never work?’
‘What makes you think that?’ she asked, stunned by the note of bitterness.
‘People get together because of animal attraction,’ he said, adding a cynical tilt to his smile. ‘But that doesn’t last. Eventually they hate each other, even if they pretend not to.’ He took her wrist off the table, skimmed his thumb across the pulse-point. ‘It’s human nature. Relationships are about sex. You can dress it up with hearts and flowers if you want. But I choose not to.’
Issy sucked in a breath, shocked by the conviction in his voice and a little hurt by the brittle, condescending tone.
The evening so far had been magical. So magical she had been lulled into a false sense of companionship to go with the heady sexual thrill.
From the moment Gio’s vintage scooter had careered down the steep cobbled hill into the city, his rock-hard abs tensing beneath her fingertips and the wind catching her hair, the sexual thrill had shot into her bloodstream like a drug. She was in Florence with a devastatingly handsome man who knew how to play her erogenous zones like a virtuoso. Why not ride the high?
But as the evening wore on it wasn’t just the promise of physical pleasure that excited her.
Their first stop had been the world-famous Uffizi art gallery, where an eager young architectural student who worked as a night-guard and obviously idolised Gio had ushered them into a veritable cave of wonders of Italian art treasures.
