Italian Escape: Summer with the Millionaire / In the Italian's Sights / Flirting with Italian. Liz Fielding

she taunted softly.

      Slowly, with almost cat-like grace, Luca pushed himself away from the tree on which he’d been leaning and leant down, loosening the ties on his boot before slipping it off, casually kicking it off his foot. His eyes fixed on Minty’s face, he slid his sock off his foot, tucking it neatly into a boot. It should have looked ridiculous, he should have looked ridiculous, like a still from a fifties seaside advertisement: father relaxing at the beach. But there was something so deliberate, so assured in his movements, Minty could only stand and watch, her mouth dry.

      Now the other shoe, the other sock. His eyes still on hers, he pulled up his T-shirt, flashing a glimpse of toned stomach. He loosened his belt and then slowly, far, far too slowly, worked the buttons at his fly before pulling off the jeans and laying them neatly on the ground.

      Minty stared at his legs, her mouth dry. They were, she thought, rather nice legs; very nice indeed. Defined; definitely legs that had known manual work, legs with lean, muscular strength, but not bulky. They had a shapeliness that any regency buck would have been glad to slip into a pair of skintight breeches. They were less tanned than his hands and his face, more a burnt-gold colour, lightly dusted with silky dark hairs.

      Her eyes skated back up over the crisp, blue boxers, up that narrow waist and the disappointingly hidden abdomen she’d caught such a tantalisingly small glimpse of earlier. Up to the comforting width of his shoulders and his strong, golden arms.

      Minty swallowed. As Luca advanced over the grass, his eyes fixed on her face, she wanted to retreat, wade backwards through the icy water, flee to the safety of the other bank. But she was paralysed. The sun was behind him, casting a glow to that golden flesh. His amber eyes were lit up with amusement, with challenge. With desire. She wanted to speak, to break the spell, but she was caught; there was nothing she could do.

      Tension mingled with the sweet ache of desire twisting in her chest, spreading outwards, downwards. She swayed helplessly as he slid one foot into the water. His expression didn’t change, didn’t register the cold. Her heart raced, the beat so loud, thrumming in her ears. It was as if the countryside marched to the beat of her desire. Slowly, so very slowly he advanced, wading effortlessly through the shallow depths.

      Minty licked her lips, desperately trying to get some moisture back into her dry mouth. A flicker of his eyes showed his register of the movement—and his approval. Her hands, shaking, damp, twisted convulsively.

      Luca stood before her, impossibly tall, imposing. Infinitely fascinating. She wanted to lean bonelessly into him, be absorbed by him—by his strength, by his goodness, by his loyalty. She couldn’t help herself. She raised one hand to his sculpted cheek and traced a feather-light path down, past the indention of the dimple, onto his lips. How could anything be simultaneously so hard and yet so soft? She ran her finger wonderingly along his smooth lower lip, coming to rest on his jaw.

      There it was, faint but determined, the muscle tensing: a give-away that he was not as calm as he seemed. She took one tiny step closer, the water swirling round her ankles, the sharp cold a welcome relief on her sensitised skin. That one tiny step brought her into full contact with him. Her breasts, swollen, aching, pressed against his chest. Leg against leg, arm against arm. Minty looked up at him and saw such unfettered desire swelling in the tawny depths of his eyes that she was undone.

      ‘Luca,’ she said hoarsely.

      He didn’t answer but looked down at her searchingly. What the question was she did not know, but her face must have signalled an answer because with a muttered groan Luca pulled her close, moulding her long curves against his hard body, one hand tilting her chin up as his mouth came down upon hers.

      The urgency of his embrace took her by surprise. This was no teasing kiss but a wholesale assault on her weakened defences. His mouth was hard and sure on hers, his hands holding her close, caressing. He was in control, completely in control, and she was being swept away. She pressed harder against him, one hand clutching at his shoulder, the other slipping behind his head to bury into the thick, dark hair.

      Time came to a standstill. All she knew was this: his mouth on hers; the sure, steady hands tracing such long, languorous circles on her back setting her skin on fire beneath the fine material of her dress. The thin layer of cotton felt as thick as a blanket separating her thirsty skin from his touch. Unsteadily she pushed him away, pulling her dress over her head, ready to fling it down. She looked wildly around for somewhere safe, somewhere dry, to put it, her fingers itching to start pulling at Luca’s shirt. There must be somewhere...

      Then it hit her. They were standing in the middle of a stream and, despite her earlier protestations, a cold stream. She looked ruefully up at Luca. ‘Nowhere to put this.’

      He looked back at her, the heat still blazing in his eyes. ‘Not a problem,’ he said and, before Minty could move, he swooped her up and carried her to the bank, stepping out of the stream and laying her underneath a wide-spread tree. Luca stood looking at her for one long, torturous moment. She met his gaze fearlessly, openly letting her need and want shine out. And then he covered her body with his. Her mouth was his and she was swept away in a tangled heat of kisses and caresses. There was nothing but him and the heat blazing between them. There was no sound but their gasps and moans. Nothing but the here and the now. Nothing but them.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      LUCA DI TORE strode up the narrow alleyway, scrutinising the numbers on the walls on either side. It was typical of Minty, he thought, to do Florence in her own idiosyncratic way, turning down both the Conte’s offer of hospitality and Luca’s own suggestion that they enjoy the privacy of a hotel.

      Staying separately wasn’t all bad, though. There were bound to be rumours if they were spotted together and he wasn’t ready for that. They weren’t ready for that. It was too new, too fragile, too unknown. And that was scary. Luca didn’t really do unknown.

      For eighteen years he had been solid, dependable, safe. Standing ankle-deep in a stream wasn’t skydiving but it was a start. It was unplanned, spontaneous.

      Being with her was unplanned, was spontaneous.

      There were so many reasons that it was wrong. So many reasons not to continue. But standing by that stream he had been utterly helpless. He might have turned her down once before, resisted her once before, but he only had so much willpower. He had used it all up where Minty Davenport was concerned.

      So this was a diversion and that was fine. This time he was not going to plan ahead, look for troubles that might never even arise. This time he was going to go along for the ride and see where the road took him.

      It wasn’t as if there was any future together; they both knew that. She would get bored soon enough, be on to the next thing; long term he wanted, he needed, stability.

      As he reached the end of the alleyway it opened out, not into the street but into a small square of three-storey painted buildings. It should have felt overcast, claustrophobic, but, set about with vibrant pots of coloured flowers, hanging baskets on every wrought-iron balcony, it was welcoming and eclectic. Very Minty.

      A narrow stone staircase curved up the side of the nearest building, the number on the side corresponding to that of the paper in his hand. Luca straightened his bow tie. All he knew about Magdalena was that Minty had stayed with her the summer she’d spent in Florence.

      The summer before Rose had died.

      He sensed Minty didn’t give her affection that easily but she obviously adored this woman. Luca wanted to make a good impression.

      ‘Luca!’ Looking up, his heart jolted. It was less than twenty-four hours since they had arrived in Florence, less than twenty-four hours since he had dropped her off in a square north of the Arno, at her insistence. She’d had a couple of things to get, she had insisted; she would walk over to the Oltrarno district where she was staying, just the other side of the River Arno.

      ‘It’ll be nice to have a wander after being cooped up in the car,’ she’d