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It was all too ridiculous.
She pushed her chair back without warning, standing abruptly. Luca, with his ingrained good manners, echoed her movement.
“I’m – just going – to get some fresh air.”
“I’ll come with you.”
She wanted to tell him ‘no’. That she wanted ‘fresh air’ was a euphemism for space from him, his masculinity, his nearness, his intoxicating cologne, but her parents were looking at them, and Bronte was conscious of the lie she’d walked them into.
“Fine.”
She forced herself to smile, but when his arm came around her waist casually, the smile slipped, just for a second. Her pulse went into overdrive.
“You’re behaving strangely,” he cautioned, as they left the table, guiding them through the restaurant – the same restaurant they’d been in that morning, but decorated now for the evening, with crisp white tablecloths, flower arrangements and candles. A dull hum filled the air as people made polite conversation, and the music – gentle jazz – played over the speakers.
“Can I help you with anything?” Jane, one of the owners, appeared from the side of the restaurant, wearing a white blouse over dark denim jeans, her blonde hair braided around her head like a crown.
“Just grabbing some fresh air,” Bronte repeated.
“Ah. Feel free to head out onto the terrace,” she gestured to a pair of wide glass doors. “Or go for a wander through the rose garden, perhaps. Dinner’s about twenty minutes off.”
Bronte dipped her head in acknowledgement, pushing out of the restaurant.
It was a perfect mid-summer night. The stars twinkled overhead, each like a diamond against the velvet of the sky.
“You’re a really bad liar.”
She jerked her eyes to his face. “What?”
“You stiffen every time I touch you. You can’t come up with an easy answer to any question. You’re a terrible liar.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Like being honest is a problem.” She was being snappy and she knew he didn’t deserve that, but her blood was zinging through her body, making her temper skyrocket.
“You are not being honest though. Having committed to the lie we’re telling, you need to do it better.”
She stopped walking, all of her frustrations rushing to the fore. “I just don’t find this as easy as you, okay?”
His eyes darkened and for a second she wondered if he was feeling something like she was; Bronte could have sworn there was an emotion like anger in the depths of his dark eyes.
“You think I am finding this easy?”
He grabbed her hand, pulling her with him, away from the dimly lit terrace and down into the formal garden, boxed hedges forming rectangles on either side of a gravelled path at the end of which there was a red brick wall partially hidden by ivy. At its centre, at the end of the footpath, was a circular void, an ornate metalwork gate creating a wall. He pushed on it and because, she supposed, he was Luca Montebello and everything he wanted came to pass, the gate opened with only a slight creaking noise of resistance. A tendril of ivy dropped down, brushing him across the face.
Once in the walled garden, he stopped walking, turning to face her, standing so close they were toe to toe, just as they’d been in the hotel room earlier.
“This was supposed to be a favour for someone I respect and instead I find that all I want to do is kiss you. You think it’s easy for me to ignore that?” His words landed with a thud against her chest. “You think lying to your parents is easy? You think fantasising about making love to you right here, right now, knowing that I’d be using you for my own selfish desires is easy?”
She stared at him in complete shock but adrenaline was already firing through her, making her want everything he spoke of. “So what are you so afraid of?”
His laugh was a harsh bark, lacking humour. “Afraid of? Nothing, Bronte, and everything. I’m afraid, most of all, that I’ll hurt you, because that’s what I’m good at, and women like you don’t mix with men like me.”
“Who says?”
“I say.”
“Based on what?”
“Experience. Far greater experience than you, so just leave it.”
