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The waiter approached, profferingl’addizionediscreetly in a leather folder. Rafaello signed it off with a careless hand. Then he turned to smile at his guests, encompassing them both.
‘I’m so glad to have met you again, Connie—it has been such a delight.’
He helped himself to Connie’s hand, and before she’d quite realised what he was intending he lifted it to his lips, kissing it with a Latin flourish before releasing it.
‘And I very much hope that my old friend appreciates just what a gem he has in you.’ His voice was drier now, and she saw him throw a challenging glance at Dante. ‘I own I was concerned for him at first, having to make such a marriage, but no longer. You are doing him a great deal of good—more than he realises, I suspect.’
She could see Dante was glowering, but whether it was because of the hand-kiss or what his friend had just said, she didn’t know. In either case there was no need for him to look so dark, surely?
Then Rafaello was getting to his feet, taking his leave of them with a gracefulbuono notte.
When he had gone, Dante turned to Connie, taking her hand. His grip was enfolding.
‘Raf can push my buttons sometimes,’ he said tightly. ‘He likes to think he knows me better than I know myself. As if!’ His voice changed, and there was an apology in his eyes now. ‘I’m sorry about Bianca,’ he said frankly, with a rueful twist to his mouth.
Immediately Connie softened, felt the unease that Dante’s tension had engendered in her dissipating. ‘No need,’ she assured him. ‘I didn’t understand what she was saying anyway.’
Dante gave a wry laugh. ‘Just as well—she was referring to times past.’
Connie made herself give him an understanding look, to show she was not in the least embarrassed by this collision of Dante’s past and his present. The blonde, ballistic Bianca would not be his only ex in Milan...
‘But I could have done without Raf damn well shooting his mouth off.’ Dante’s voice had formed an edge again.
‘Does...does it matter? Him saying that you’re married to me?’ Connie asked.
Uncertainty was filling her. Confusion. She wanted him to say something reassuring, but his expression flickered, then became veiled.
‘It’s no one’s business,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ve never worn a wedding band and nor have you. Our marriage and our reasons for marrying are private—our concern only, not anyone else’s.’
Questions stabbed in Connie’s head. Questions that were hardly formed, barely shaped, that could only articulate themselves into one single thought.
But everything’s changed now—hasn’t it?
Dante was getting to his feet and she did likewise, a sense of unease still plucking at her though she couldn’t really say why. Surely there was no need for it?
He guided her out on to the pavement, where the restaurant’s doorman was pulling a taxi over for them. As they got in, Dante took Connie’s hand again, pressing it warmly, his thumb smoothing across her palm in a seductive manner.
His mood was clearly lifting, so Connie’s did too.
‘I can’t wait to get home,’ he said, turning to her, his voice low, with a rasp to it that Connie had learnt to recognise.
She gave a delicious shiver of anticipation and her sense of disquiet dissolved. Even in the intermittent streetlight she could see the way his lashes were sweeping down over his eyes, and the equally tell-tale glint of gold in their depths. All her questions—unformed, unshaped, unspoken—vanished from her head. All there was in her consciousness was the knowledge that she was as eager as he was to get back to his apartment, be swept into his arms and into his bed. To experience the ecstasy that awaited her there.
The most blissful place in the world to be...
Connie was chopping vegetables again, and this time she was not interrupted by Dante. Instead, he was overseeing her progress through the latest recipe she was happily trying out, reading the instructions to her in instant translation.
Happiness filled her. This undemanding, unglamorous domestic scene was dearer to her than all the indulgent luxury of shopping for designer clothes, even though that came with her still incredulous delight at seeing admiration for her transformed appearance in Dante’s eyes. It was dearer to her than all the pleasurable excitement of him taking her sightseeing, speeding them away in his scarily fast supercar, which he obviously got a boyish kick out of driving, to while away the hours exploring the lushly scenic countryside, soaking up the atmosphere of the historic towns and medieval cities with which Italy was so richly endowed.
Just doing something as simple, as easy-going, as chopping vegetables, with Dante reading her a recipe, made her feel supremely satisfied.
It’s all I want—just to be with him. I don’t need anything more. I don’t need designer clothes, or lavish sightseeing, wonderful though all that is. All I want is...Dante.
At some point she must go back to thinking about a career of some sort—or she might be able to do a Master’s out here in Italy, for all she knew, or perhaps even teach English Literature to Italian students? It was all to find out...all to discover. But there was no rush, no urgency. For now she was content—oh,socontent—simply to be here with Dante like this.
Her eyes went to him now, absorbed in flicking lazily through some other enticing recipes on the website, leaning against the breakfast bar, his free hand casually curved around a beer glass from which he drank from time to time. A lock of stray hair had fallen over his brow, and his sculpted cheekbones caught the light from one of the kitchen’s ceiling spots. He’d changed out of his business suit, and the soft cashmere of his sweater lovingly moulded his torso...casual chinos emphasised the length of his legs.
Her breath caught—how fabulous he looked, and how wonderful it was just to stand here and look at him and know that she was with him.
