From Florence With Love. Lucy Gordon

      She laughed softly. ‘I can imagine. Who’s Anita?’

      ‘The daughter of our neighbours. She and Gio had a thing a while back, and my mother keeps trying to get them together again. Can’t see it working, really, but she likes to try.’

      ‘And how do they feel?’

      He laughed abruptly. ‘I wouldn’t dare ask Gio. He has a fairly bitter and twisted attitude to love. Comes from being a lawyer, I suppose. His first line of defence is always a prenuptial agreement.’

      She raised an eyebrow. ‘Trust issues, then. I can understand that. I have a few of my own after Russell.’

      ‘I’m sure. People like that can take away something precious, a sort of innocence, a naivety, and once it’s gone you can never get it back. Although I have no idea what happened to Gio. He won’t talk about it.’

      ‘What about Anita? What’s she like?’

      His low chuckle made her smile. ‘Anita’s a wedding planner. What do you think?’

      ‘I think she might like to plan her own?’

      ‘Indeed. But Gio can’t see what’s under his nose, even if Mamma keeps putting her there.’ He tipped his head on one side. ‘It could be an interesting evening. And if you’re there, it might take the heat off Gio, so he’ll probably be so busy being grateful he’ll forget to quiz me about you, so it could be better all round!’

      She started to laugh at that, and he joined in with another chuckle and topped up her glass.

      ‘Here’s to families and their politics and complications,’ he said drily, and touched his glass to hers.

      ‘Amen to that,’ she said, remembering guiltily that she’d meant to phone Jen again. ‘I heard from Claire, by the way—she’s back home safely, and she said Jo’s ecstatic about winning.’

      ‘How’s your sister about it?’

      She pulled a face. ‘I’m not sure. She was putting on a brave face, but I think she’s gutted. I know none of us expected me to win but, you know, it would have been so nice.’

      He nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

      ‘Don’t be. You’ve done more than enough.’ She drained her glass and handed it to him. ‘I’m going to turn in. I need to rest my leg properly, and tomorrow I need to think about arranging a flight back home.’

      ‘For tomorrow?’ He sounded startled, and she shook her head.

      ‘No. I thought maybe the next day? I probably ought to phone the hospital and get the go-ahead to fly.’

      ‘I can take you there if you want a check-up.’

      ‘You’ve got so much to do.’

      ‘Nothing that’s more important,’ he said, and although it wasn’t true, she knew that for him there was nothing more important than making sure there wasn’t another Angelina.

      ‘I’ll see what they say,’ she compromised. There was always the bus, surely? She’d ask Carlotta in the morning.

      She got to her feet, and he stood up and took her hand, tucking it in the crook of his arm and helping her to the French doors. Quite unnecessarily, since she’d been hobbling around without help since the second day, really, but it was still nice to feel the strength of his arm beneath her hand, the muscles warm and hard beneath the fine fabric of his shirt.

      Silk and linen, she thought, sampling the texture with her fingertips, savouring it.

      He hesitated at the door, and then just when she thought he was going to walk away, he lowered his head and touched his lips to hers, sending rivers of ice and fire dancing over her skin.

      It was a slow kiss, lingering, thoughtful, their mouths the only point of contact, but then the velvet stroke of his tongue against her lips made her gasp softly and part them for him, and everything changed.

      He gave a muffled groan and deepened the kiss, searching the secret recesses of her mouth, his tongue finding hers and dancing with it, retreating, tangling, coaxing until she thought her legs would collapse.

      Then he eased away, breaking the contact so slowly so that for a tiny second their lips still clung.

      ‘Buonanotte, Lydia,’ he murmured unevenly, his breath warm against her mouth, and then straightening slowly, he took a step back and turned briskly away, gathering up the glasses and the bottle as he went without a backwards glance.

      She watched him go, then closed the curtains and undressed, leaving the doors open. The night was warm still, the light breeze welcome, and she lay there in the darkness, her fingertips tracing her lips, and thought about his kiss …

      He must have been mad to kiss her!

      Crazy. Insane. If he hadn’t walked away, he would have taken her right there, standing on the terrace in full view of anyone who walked past.

      He headed for the stairs, but then hesitated. He wouldn’t sleep—but what else could he do? His office was next to her room, and he didn’t trust himself that close to her. The pool, his first choice of distraction for the sheer physical exertion it offered, was too close to her room, and she slept with her doors open. She’d hear him, come and investigate, and …

      So not the pool, then.

      Letting out a long, weary sigh, he headed slowly up the stairs to his room, and sat on the bed, staring at the photograph of Angelina on his bedside table.

      He’d loved her—really, deeply and enduringly loved her. But she was gone, and now, as he looked at her face, another face seemed superimposed on it, a face with laughing eyes and a soft, full bottom lip that he could still taste.

      He groaned and fell back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. The day after tomorrow, she’d be gone, he told himself, and then had to deal with the strange and unsettling sense of loss he felt at the thought that he was about to lose her.

      She didn’t sleep well.

      Her dreams had been vivid and unsettling, and as soon as she heard signs of life, she got up, showered and put on her rinsed-out underwear, and then sat down on the edge of the bed and sighed thoughtfully as she studied her clothes.

      She couldn’t join them for dinner—not if their neighbours were coming. She’d seen Elisa, seen the expensive and elegant clothes she’d worn for travelling back home from her daughter’s house, and the only things she had with her were the jeans and top she’d been wearing now for two days, including all the cooking she’d done yesterday.

      No way could she wear them to dinner, even if she’d earn Gio’s undying gratitude and give Elisa something else to think about! She put the clothes on, simply because she had absolutely no choice apart from the wedding dress Carlotta had stuffed in a bag for her and which she yet had to burn, and went outside and round the corner to the kitchen.

      Carlotta was there, already making headway on the lunch preparations, and the children were sitting at the table eating breakfast. For a slightly crazy moment, she wondered if they could tell what she’d been dreaming about, if the fact that she’d kissed their father was written all over her face.

      She said good morning to them, in her best Italian learned yesterday from Francesca, asked them how they were and then went over to Carlotta. ‘Buongiorno, Carlotta,’ she said softly, and Carlotta blushed and smiled at her and patted her cheek.

      ‘Buongiorno, signorina,’ she said. ‘Did you have good sleep?’

      ‘Very good,’ she said, trying not to think of the dreams and blushing slightly anyway. ‘What can I do to help you?’

      ‘No, no, you sit. I can do it.’

      ‘You know I can’t do that,’ she chided softly. She stuck a mug under the coffee machine, pressed the button and waited,