The Italian's Love-Child. Sharon Kendrick

on celluloid, but he didn’t have the self-conscious vanity which usually accompanied an actor. Though he certainly had the ego. And the indefinable air that said he was definitely a leader. ‘I’d say you’re a successful businessman.’

      ‘Nearly.’ He let his eyes rove over her parted lips, wishing he could push the tip of his tongue inside them. ‘I’m a banker.’ ‘Oh.’

      ‘Boring, huh?’ he mocked.

      She met the piercing black stare with a cool look. ‘Not for you, I presume—otherwise you wouldn’t do it.’

      ‘Luca!’ protested Lizzy. ‘Stop selling yourself short!’ She leaned across the table towards Eve and gave the champagne-softened, slightly delighted smile of someone who had landed a lunch guest of some consequence. ‘Luca isn’t your usual kind of banker. He owns the bank!’

      Eve felt faint. He owned a bank? Which didn’t just put him into the league of the rich—it put him spinning way off in the orbit of the super-rich and all the exclusivity which went with that. And there she had been thinking that he might have been impressed with her small-town media status!

      She knew he was watching her, wanting to see what her reaction would be. That type of position would be isolating, she realised. People would react differently to him because of it, just as they did with her—only on a much larger scale, of course. On camera she had learned not to react, a skill which came in very useful now.

      ‘I didn’t realise that individuals could own banks,’ she said interestedly. ‘Isn’t that rare?’

      He felt as if she was interviewing him! ‘It’s unusual,’ he corrected. ‘Not exactly rare.’

      ‘It must be heady stuff—having that amount of power?’

      He met her eyes. ‘It turns women on, yes.’

      She didn’t react. ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

      He ran a finger idly around the rim of his glass. ‘It is like everything else—there are good bits and bad bits, exciting bits and boring bits. Life is the same for everyone, essentially—whether you clean the bank or own the bank.’

      ‘Hardly!’

      The black eyes gleamed. ‘But yes,’ he corrected softly. ‘We all eat and sleep and play and make love, do we not?’

      She willed herself not to blush. Only an Italian could come out and talk about making love at a respectable family lunch! ‘That’s certainly something to consider,’ she mused. ‘How long are you staying?’

      This was interesting. So what had made her soften? The mention of sex or the fact that he was in a position of power? ‘I haven’t decided.’ His eyes sparked out pure provocation. ‘Why? Are you going to offer to show me round?’

      ‘Of course I’m not! You already know the Hamble, don’t you?’ she reminded him sweetly. ‘No, I just thought that maybe you might like to come into the studio one morning—I’m sure our viewers would be interested to hear what life as a bank-owner is like!’

      The jet eyes iced over. So she was inviting him onto her show, was she? As if he were some second-rate soap star! ‘I don’t think so,’ he said coldly.

      She had offended him when she had only meant to distance herself, and suddenly Eve knew that she had to get out of there. He didn’t live here. He owned a bank, for heaven’s sake—and he had the irresistibly attractive air of the seasoned seducer about him. Achievable goal, he most definitely was not!

      ‘Pity,’ she murmured. ‘Well, any time you change your mind, be sure and let me know.’ She pushed her chair back. ‘Lizzy, Michael—thank you for a delicious lunch. Kesi,—do I get a hug and a kiss?’ She enveloped her god-daughter, then took a deep breath. ‘I’ll say goodbye then, Luca.’

      He rose to his feet and caught her hand, raising it slowly to his lips, his eyes capturing hers as he brushed his lips against her fingertips in a very continental kiss.

      Eve’s heart leapt. It felt like the most romantic gesture she had ever experienced and she wondered if he was mocking her again, with this courtly, almost old-fashioned farewell. But that didn’t stop her reacting to it, wishing that she hadn’t said she would leave, wishing that she could stay, and…then what?

      He’s passing through, she reminded herself and took her hand away, hoping that the smile on her face didn’t look too regretful.

      ‘Goodbye, everyone,’ she said, slightly unsteadily.

       CHAPTER THREE

      ONCE outside, Eve felt a sense of relief as the cool air hit her heated cheeks. Her pulse was racing and her stomach felt as churned as if she had been riding a roller coaster at the fairground. Though maybe that was because she had only picked at the delicious lunch at Lizzy and Michael’s.

      But deep down she knew that wasn’t true. It was simply a physical reaction to Luca, and in a way it was a great leveller. She wasn’t any different from any other woman and she defied any other woman not to react in that way, especially if he had been flirting with you. And he had, she was acutely aware of that. She might not be the most experienced cookie in the tin, but she wasn’t completely stupid.

      She walked over the rain-slicked cobblestones towards her cottage, listening to the sound of the masts creaking in the wind and thinking how naked they looked without their sails. It wasn’t that she didn’t meet men—she did—she just rarely, no, never met men like that. Which wasn’t altogether surprising. Outrageously rich, sexy Italians weren’t exactly turning up in the quiet streets of Hamble in their hundreds—or even in the TV studio.

      She would go home and do something hard and physical—something to bring her back down to earth and take her mind off him. What did her mother always used to say? That hard work left little room for neurotic thoughts!

      She changed into her oldest clothes—paint-spattered old khaki trousers and an ancient, washed-out T-shirt with ‘Hello, Sailor!’ splashed across the front. Then she put on a pair of pink rubber gloves, filled up a bucket with hot, soapy water and got down on her hands and knees to wash the quarry tiles in the kitchen.

      She had just wrung out the cloth for the last time when the doorbell rang, and she frowned.

      Unexpected callers weren’t her favourite thing. She liked her own space, and her privacy she guarded jealously, but that came with the job. One of the reasons she had never moved away from the tiny village she had grown up in was because here everyone knew her as Eve. True, local television wasn’t on the same scale as national—she had never been pestered by the stalkers who sometimes threatened young female presenters—but she was still aware that if your face was on television then people felt a strange sense of ownership. As if they actually knew you, when of course they didn’t.

      She opened the door and her breath dried her mouth to sawdust. For Luca was standing there, sea breeze ruffling the dark hair, his hands dug deep into the pockets of his jeans, stretching the faded fabric over the hard, muscular thighs.

      ‘Luca,’ she said. ‘This is a surprise.’

      ‘Is it?’

      The question threw her. Helplessly she gestured to her paint-spattered clothes, the garish pink gloves, which she hastily peeled from her hands. ‘Well, as you can see—obviously I wouldn’t have dressed like this if I was expecting someone.’

      The black eyes strayed and lingered on the message on her T-shirt and he expelled an instinctive little rush of breath. ‘And there was me, thinking that you had worn that especially for me,’ he murmured.

      ‘But you don’t sail much, any more, do you?’ she fired back, even though her breasts were tingling and tightening in response to his leisurely appraisal. ‘And strangely enough—the shop was right out of T-shirts bearing