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‘But surely men say that kind of thing to you all the time, especially if you blush so enchantingly in response.’
‘Not really.’
‘No? Oh, come on, Cassandra—I can’t believe there isn’t a long line of men beating a path to your door.’
Cassie supposed it would sound shaming to admit that few men of her acquaintance had offered little more in the way of flattery than a terse ‘not bad’ when she’d dressed up for a date. But then most of the men she met were those she’d grown up with who felt more like brothers—or married men who came into the shop accompanied by their wife and two toddlers. Tentatively, she raised her eyes to meet the mocking question in his. ‘I don’t think Englishmen are quite as…well, as…verbal as Italians.’
He smiled. ‘Ah, so now we’re talking national stereotypes, are we? You prefer the Italian male with his innate ability to charm women?’
‘That sounds more like boasting than charming to me!’
His eyes glittered. ‘And that sounds as if you’re laying down a challenge, my beauty.’
Cassie swallowed as he made that silky declaration—aware that the strangest sensations were washing over her and there didn’t seem to be a thing she could do to stop them. She wanted him to kiss her—and they hadn’t even finished their main courses. And wasn’t there also another characteristic attributed to Italian men—that they didn’t respect women who gave into them too easily?
‘I think…I think that champagne is going to my head. May I have a glass of water, please?’ she questioned weakly, because why on earth was she leaping ahead of herself like this and thinking about ‘giving in’ to him? As if it would take any persuasion at all! Again, she could feel the heated prickling of her skin—and if Giancarlo Vellutini had the slightest inkling what was going on inside her head he would think her insane!
‘Of course.’ Reading the darkening of desire in her eyes, Giancarlo poured her a glass, approving of the fact that she wasn’t much of a drinker. He didn’t want alcohol blurring her reactions or influencing her judgement tonight—or any sense of false outrage in the morning. He wanted her and she wanted him—the only question was whether she was honest enough to admit it. ‘You haven’t eaten very much.’
‘No. I’m not really hungry. What a terrible dinner guest I am.’
‘I’m certainly not complaining,’ he murmured. ‘Do I take it you’re not in the market for dessert?’
Cassie shook her head. Normally, she loved puddings—the sweeter and creamier, the better—but right now she felt as if anything else to eat might choke her. ‘Not really. Well, not just yet. I hope it won’t offend Gina.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t employ Gina to get offended. Maybe a walk might give you an appetite?’
‘A walk? Where would we walk?’
He pointed to the shadows falling over the lawn, which was now growing white with frost. ‘If you look outside there’s a great big garden at our feet.’ His eyes glanced down at the vertiginous heels which made her fragile ankles look almost impossibly slender. ‘Though speaking of feet—I don’t think those shoes were made for walking.’
She followed the direction of his gaze. ‘No. I think you could be right.’
‘Pity. You should have worn trainers.’
‘Trainers would have looked terrible with this dress.’
He laughed. ‘True. Never mind, bella—perhaps I will take you for a walk another time.’
But Cassie felt as if a wonderful opportunity was slipping away from her. Suddenly, she became aware that this evening would never happen again—hadn’t the way he’d said ‘perhaps’ driven that simple fact home? That it didn’t matter where she went in life or what she did—there would never be another frosty December evening in Kensington with this particular man.
He was the most captivating person she’d ever met and he had liked her enough to ask her to dinner. And nothing was certain. After tonight, she might never see him again. And if that were to be the case, then wouldn’t she have wasted the most wonderful opportunity to see how the other half lived? Too choked up with nerves to be able to enjoy herself properly—and too constrained by her impulsive shoe purchase to be able to appreciate the beautiful gardens of his home.
‘Oh, I’m not going to be put off by a stupid pair of high heels!’ she declared. ‘Haven’t you got an old pair of wellington boots that I could borrow?’
Impulsively, she bent and untied the ankle strap, slipping off one of the shoes in a move which left her curiously lopsided. Smiling up at him, she reached for the other strap but something stopped her. Or rather—someone.
