Between the Italian's Sheets. Natalie Anderson

the space upon which they were so clearly meant to recline stood a large basket. Luca had knelt beside it already and pulled out wine. As he poured into the crystal glasses Emily decided she’d entered paradise.

      Unhesitatingly she sat on the rug, accepted the glass he gave her and looked across the view of the impeccably maintained garden, needing a moment to recapture her sanity before she tossed all caution aside.

      ‘This is incredible.’

      ‘The best of Italy.’ He smiled, as if he knew she’d already lost it. ‘Here for you.’

      ‘The basket doesn’t look big enough.’

      ‘I wasn’t referring to the basket.’

      ‘Very sure of your own worth, aren’t you?’

      ‘Down to the last euro, yes. But we’re not talking money now.’

      ‘No?’

      ‘We’re talking pleasure. And you can’t put a price on absolute pleasure.’

      * * *

      Luca couldn’t look away from her. Her expression of delight was so genuine, so pleased, it made him feel guilty. ‘I didn’t pick all this, or lay it out.’

      She laughed. ‘I know. But it was your idea.’

      It was. And now he felt even more guilty—he wanted to wine, dine and woo her. For one night only. And for all her fiery eyes and flirting she was more sweet than sophisticated. Really, he had no right to mess with her, not unless she wanted it too. Not unless she understood the rules. A one-off, holiday fling. ‘The hotel prepared the food.’

      ‘So I get the five-course feast.’

      ‘You do.’

      ‘How come you have connections at the opera?’

      ‘My company is a corporate sponsor.’

      ‘Your company?’

      ‘Mine.’ It was all his and it was all his life. He had spent almost the entire decade dedicated to it. Getting his education, the experience and growing the private finance firm into the extreme success it was. He had taken no help from his father. He didn’t need his uninterested parent throwing him nothing but pretty patterned paper. He could make his own money, prove his own worth. ‘I often take valued clients and their wives.’

      ‘Their wives?’

      ‘Sì.’ He suppressed a smile. So she’d wondered about the woman with them last night. Yes, she was the wife of a client and, no, he wasn’t interested. He sent her a meaningful look, but saw she was checking out his left hand. He tensed. He’d worn a ring on that finger once. He’d kept it on for some time after—using it like a talisman to ward off women. But every time he’d looked at it he’d been reminded. Nikki hadn’t had the strength to push it on and he’d had to do it himself. And despite its tiny circumference, the ring he’d given her had hung loose, threatening to slide over her bony knuckle. There hadn’t been an engagement ring. There hadn’t been time.

      Eventually he’d taken his ring off and allowed the sun to brown the pale mark. But even so he couldn’t forget. Even now, when he was plotting a moment of madness, the memory clung to him, reminding him of what not to do: don’t ever get attached.

      ‘What does your company do?’

      ‘Hedge funds.’ Good, when painful thoughts impinged he turned back to work—that was the way Luca liked it.

      ‘Hedges?’ Her nose wrinkled. ‘So it’s like gardens?’

      He hesitated, unwilling to launch into a detailed explanation of the complex transactions he managed, so he fudged it instead. ‘I like making things grow.’

      ‘Money trees.’ Her eyes were sparkling with amusement.

      He laughed—her naiveté had been a ploy and she was teasing him. ‘Right.’

      ‘And you like the opera?’

      Why did she think that was a surprise? ‘I’m Italian, of course I like the opera.’

      ‘You don’t sound all that Italian.’

      ‘The curse of my education—boarding school in England from the age of seven. Over a decade ’til I emerged from the system. But I guess I inherited my appreciation of the opera from my mother.’ But more painful memories lurked with the mention of her so he moved the conversation back to Emily. ‘Do you like Italy?’ He didn’t need to hear her answer, already had it as her face lit up and it was his turn to tease. ‘Your first visit, right? Is it everything you hoped it would be?’

      ‘Actually it’s better.’

      There was that genuine, warm enthusiasm again. Her anger had risen from that last night—based on the desire to enjoy herself, to make the most of the moment she’d obviously been waiting a while for. The freshness was tantalising. ‘Are you enjoying the food?’

      She nodded.

      ‘Have you tried some of the local specialities?’

      She looked vague so perhaps not. Of course, budget was an issue. He could help out with that today. ‘Italian cuisine isn’t just buffalo mozzarella and sun-dried tomatoes, you know.’

      ‘No?’ She pouted. ‘But I love buffalo mozzarella and sun-dried tomatoes.’

      He chuckled. ‘Come on, try some more with me now.’

      He delved deeper into the basket. The hotel had done a fabulous job, filling it with many small containers, each holding samples of this and that. Some were simple, just a few olives, other were complex miniatures of great dishes.

      He lifted them out and explained them to her, where each came from, made her say the Italian name for them and then watched as she tried each, waiting for her reaction before tasting them himself. And all the while, his appetite grew.

      Emily licked the sweet oil from her lips. Yes, she loved sun-dried tomatoes but, my goodness, the nibbles in those containers were out of this world. By now, eating as much as she had, under the shade of the trees, in this warmth, she would ordinarily have been overcome with laziness. But his presence, so close, precluded that. He was stretched out, propped up on one elbow, his long, athletic length stretching from one end of the blankets to the other. Relaxed.

      Emily ached to touch him now—one appetite filled, another starving. Instead she took a breadstick from the box, needing something to fiddle with.

      ‘Tell me about your life.’ He looked across the small gap between them now littered with lids and containers, to where she sat up, legs curled beneath her.

      She wrinkled her nose. ‘There’s really not that much to tell.’ There really wasn’t, certainly nothing glamorous or exciting.

      ‘Where are your parents?’

      As she broke the grissini in two the shadow on her heart must have crossed her face.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘Will you tell me what happened?’

      ‘Of course.’ She smiled the moment away. ‘It was a long time ago.’ She broke one half of the grissini into quarters and gave him the potted summary. ‘Mum died in a car crash when I was fifteen. After the accident Dad went into a decline. He drank a lot. Smoked. Stopped eating.’ She rubbed the crumbs between her fingers and looked down at the trees. ‘I think with her gone he lost the will to live.’

      ‘Even though he had two beautiful daughters to look after?’

      She could understand the question, perceived the faint judgment. Hadn’t she thought the same in those moments of anger that had sometimes come in the wee small hours? But she also knew the whole story; things never were black and white—shades of grey all the way. And so she shared a part of it.

      ‘He was driving the car, Luca. He never got