The Italian Next Door. Anna Cleary

gave her hope that her creative flow was on the verge of recovery. She’d had glimmers lately, though so far none had carried through into any successful work. As for her desire …

      Irresistibly her gaze was drawn to linger on Valentino’s long, smooth fingers tightening around the gear lever, the powerful thigh muscles stretching the fabric of his jeans.

      That burning little question was now wide open.

      He turned his dark gaze on her. ‘Where does she live, your cousin?’

      ‘In the Via del Mare. She scored a fantastic contract with a television company, so she bought an apartment. Do you know the street?’

      His brows lifted. ‘Must have been a fantastic contract. I know it well. You and I could be neighbours. Convenient, wouldn’t you say?’ He cast her a gleaming glance that seeped into her tissues like absinthe. ‘Do you like to travel?’

      ‘I’m almost ashamed to confess this is my first time. Overseas, that is.’ She cast him a glance.

      ‘Your first?’ Both his hands lifted from the wheel. Briefly again, thank goodness. ‘Molto bene. You chose the best place to visit. Your first time needs to be—exceptional. Don’t you agree?’

      She looked quickly at him, met his gleaming glance, seduction in the smile lurking at the corners of his mouth, and her heart jolted. It had barely slotted back into place when he said, ‘What sort of work do you do?’

      ‘All sorts. Part-time mainly.’ She started to wonder if there was ever a stone he left unturned when he met someone for the first time. ‘Is—is this air conditioning working?’ She moistened her lips. She felt his dark questioning gaze turn her way and added quickly, ‘What’s your work, Valentino?’

      He reached to change the air setting, and his eyes were all at once screened by his luxuriant black lashes. ‘I work for a multi-national company. We do many things … communications, data collection and analysis … We liaise with local companies to help them maximise the success of their operations.’

      Whatever that meant. There was something smooth about the words, as if he’d said them exactly the same way a hundred times. Pia eyed him. He was so fit and athletic, he exuded the coiled energy of an action man rather than some desk jockey.

      ‘In an office, you mean?’

      His reply was immediate. ‘Sometimes. Mostly I’m required to travel.’

      ‘Where are you based?’

      ‘Lyon, though it changes. Milano, Roma, Athens. What did you say is the part-time work you do?’

      Back to that. He wasn’t just gorgeous, he was tenacious. And there she’d been, hoping he wouldn’t besiege her with questions. ‘Oh, you know. Office work, restaurants when I have the need for extra cash. You—you must spend a lot of time away from home. Don’t you miss Positano?’

      ‘Every day. I wish I could be there more. Though perhaps I enjoy it the more because I see so little of it.’ He glanced at her, his dark disturbing gaze caressing her face. ‘It is a pity to tire yourself of something you love, don’t you think?’

      She sighed. ‘That’s not how life works for me. I always throw myself into the things I love to the max.’ Overboard, some people had accused her of being. No doubt it was true. She always had to love things too much. People. Loving them. Trusting them. Believing they loved her. At least, that was how she used to be. Before the bank incident.

      ‘Usually, that is,’ she amended, not wanting to give a false impression of her current state.

      ‘Ah. The best kind of woman.’ His eyes met hers, sensual, teasing. ‘What are they, then? Your passions?’

      She took a moment to think, then counted them off on her fingers. ‘Beauty. Art. Music.’ She shrugged. ‘Friendship, of course.’

      He grinned. ‘Add food and wine to the list and you’ll be talking like an Italian.’

      She laughed, carried along by his good humour and with the sudden hopeful conviction that passion must still survive intact somewhere, in some part of her.

      ‘And you, Valentino? Tell me yours.’

      His thick lashes flickered and he inclined his head a little. ‘Beauty, certainly. Honesty. Integrity in public life. Ah, let me think. The sea.’

      ‘The sea?’

      ‘Sì.’ He gestured. ‘I was a carabiniere attached to the navy before … what I am doing now.’

      She glanced at him in surprise. ‘Isn’t the Carabinieri the police?’

      ‘It is and it isn’t. It is a—military service in its own right. Have you heard of the US marines?’

      She nodded. ‘Of course.’

      ‘Well, some carabinieri are a part of the military forces—similar to the marines. I was with the navy. At heart I am a sailor.’

      Wow. She could see why he was built like an athlete. In spite of her inclination to only admire gentle, more artistic men from now on she couldn’t help feeling impressed. The very name carabinieri had such a swashbuckling ring to it.

      ‘A simple sailor.’ She flashed him a smile.

      ‘Very simple.’ The glance he flashed back was anything but simple. Sophisticated, perhaps. Experienced. Steeped in the seductive arts, definitely. But simple? No.

      All at once she was finding it hard to breathe, but in a pleasant way. An exhilarated way. She reflected that pre-bank she’d always enjoyed a flirty conversation with a lovely guy. It was one of the pleasures of life, sussing out the romantic attitudes of the other species. But post-bank …

      It was as if that part of her had closed down, the flirty part that loved playing the game of advance and retreat in the war of the sexes. With a sudden surge of excitement she realised that today she was reacting quite like her old self. The old Pia Renfern was alive and well, though maybe a little dusty from disuse. Perhaps it just needed a certain kind of stimulus to activate it.

      The sort who kept the adrenaline charge in her bloodstream and made her toes curl up.

      The fantastic realisation she was back to normal, she was actually enjoying a man’s company and feeling like a sexual being again at long, long last, might have gone to her head. She couldn’t deny feeling pleasantly dizzy and powerfully feminine. She wanted to stretch all her muscles and purr like a cat. How gorgeous was it to be a woman?

      ‘Are you so passionate, then, Pia?’ He didn’t look at her, his eyes were on the road, but the velvet challenge in his voice told her what their expression was likely to be.

      ‘When I truly want something.’ She half lowered her lashes. ‘And you?’

      ‘Very passionate,’ he said, his voice deepening while the hot gleam in his dark eyes melted her to her ankles. ‘Molto molto appassionato.’

      The music of his rich musical Italiano oozed down inside her like an aphrodisiac. Heat washed through her along with sudden thrilling visions of being wrapped in his powerful arms on some lamplit bed, his sleek bronzed body locked with hers, hot, hard and virile.

      In chaos she turned her face away, breathless, her heart thumping. She mustn’t get carried away. What if she inadvertently encouraged him to expect something?

      He said casually, ‘Do you have connections in Positano, apart from your cousin?’

      ‘Not really. Oh, there are some friends of Lauren’s who live on Capri who might look me up, if they remember. It would be lovely if they did. Capri.’ She gave a little shiver. To think she might meet actual residents of that fabled island. ‘Is it as lovely as they say?’

      He hesitated, and his brows lowered slightly. ‘It is—bella, certainly.’

      He