From Florence With Love. Lucy Gordon

Isabelle said, leaning her head against Luca’s shoulder and smiling up at him. ‘The family couldn’t have been kinder.’

      ‘That’s not true. I tried to warn you off,’ Gio said, and Luca laughed.

      ‘You try and warn everybody off,’ he said frankly, ‘but luckily for me she didn’t listen to you. Lydia, this dessert is amazing. Try it, cara.’

      He held a spoonful up to Isabelle’s lips, and Lydia felt a lump rise in her throat. Their love was so open and uncomplicated and genuine, so unlike the relationship she’d had with Russell. Isabelle and Luca were like Jen and Andy, unashamedly devoted to each other, and she wondered with a little ache what it must feel like to be the centre of someone’s world, to be so clearly and deeply loved. That would be amazing.

      She glanced across the table, and found Massimo watching her, his eyes thoughtful. He lifted his spoon to her in salute.

      ‘Amazing, indeed.’

      She blinked. He was talking about the dessert, not about love. Nothing to do with love, or with her, or him, or the two of them, or that kiss last night.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said, a little breathlessly, and turned her attention to the sickly, sticky white chocolate sauce. If she glued her tongue up enough with that, maybe it would keep it out of trouble.

      ‘So how much of that was you, and how much was Carlotta?’

      It was midnight, and everyone else had left or gone to bed. They were alone in the kitchen, putting away the last of the serving dishes that she’d just washed by hand, and Massimo was making her a cup of camomile tea.

      ‘Honestly? I gave her a hand.’

      ‘And the dessert?’

      ‘Massimo, she was tired. She had all the ingredients for my quick fix, so I just improvised.’

      ‘Hmm,’ he said, but he left it at that, to her relief. She sensed he didn’t believe her, but he had no proof, and Carlotta had been so distraught.

      ‘Right, we’re done here,’ he said briskly. ‘Let’s go outside and sit and drink this.’

      They went on her bench, outside her room, and sat in companionable silence drinking their tea. At least, it started out companionable, and then last night’s kiss intruded, and she felt the tension creep in, making the air seem to fizz with the sparks that passed between them.

      ‘You don’t have to go tomorrow, you know,’ he said, breaking the silence after it had stretched out into the hereafter.

      ‘I do. I’ve bought a ticket.’

      ‘I’ll buy you another one. Wait a few more days.’

      ‘Why? So I can finish falling for you? That’s not a good idea, Massimo.’

      He laughed softly, and she thought it was the saddest sound she’d ever heard. ‘No. Probably not. I have nothing to offer you, Lydia. I wish I did.’

      ‘I don’t want anything.’

      ‘That’s not quite true. We both want something. It’s just not wise.’

      ‘Is it ever?’

      ‘I don’t know. Not for us, I don’t think. We’ve both been hurt enough by the things that have happened, and I don’t know about you but I’m not ready to try again. I have so many demands on me, so many calls on my time, so much duty.’

      She put her cup down very carefully and turned to face him. ‘We could just take tonight as it comes,’ she said quietly, her heart in her mouth. ‘No strings, just one night. No duty, no demands. Just a little time out from reality, for both of us.’

      The silence was broken only by the beating of her heart, the roaring in her ears so loud that she could scarcely hear herself think. For an age he sat motionless, then he lifted a hand and touched her cheek.

      ‘Why, cara? Why tonight?’

      ‘Because it’s our last chance?’

      ‘Why me?’

      ‘I don’t know. It just seems right.’

      Again he hesitated, then he took her hand and pressed it to his lips. ‘Give me ten minutes. I need to check the children.’

      She nodded, her mouth dry, and he brushed her lips with his and left her there, her fingers resting on the damp, tingling skin as if to hold the kiss in place.

      Ten minutes, she thought. Ten minutes, and my life will change forever.

      He didn’t come back.

      She gave up after half an hour, and went to bed alone, humiliated and disappointed. How stupid, to proposition a man so far out of her league. He was probably still laughing at her in his room.

      He wasn’t. There was a soft knock on the door, and he walked in off the terrace. ‘Lydia? I’m sorry I was so long. Are you still awake?’

      She propped herself up on one elbow, trying to read his face, but his back was to the moonlight. ‘Yes. What happened? I’d given up on you.’

      ‘Antonino woke. He had a nightmare. He’s all right now, but I didn’t want to leave him till he was settled.’

      He sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes shadowed in the darkness, and she reached for the bedside light. He caught her hand. ‘No. Leave it off. Let’s just have the moonlight.’

      He opened the curtains wide, but closed the doors—for privacy? She didn’t know, but she was grateful that he had because she felt suddenly vulnerable as he stripped off his clothes and turned back the covers, lying down beside her and taking her into his arms.

      The shock of that first contact took their breath away, and he rested his head against hers and gave a shuddering sigh. ‘Oh, Lydia, cara, you feel so good,’ he murmured, and then after that she couldn’t understand anything he said, because his voice deepened, the words slurred and incoherent. He was speaking Italian, she realised at last, his breath trembling over her body with every groaning sigh as his hands cupped and moulded her.

      She arched against him, her body aching for him, a need like no need she’d ever felt swamping her common sense and turning her to jelly. She ran her hands over him, learning his contours, the feel of his skin like hot silk over the taut, corded muscles beneath, and then she tasted him, her tongue testing the salt of his skin, breathing in the warm musk and the lingering trace of cologne.

      He seemed to be everywhere, his hands and mouth caressing every part of her, their legs tangling as his mouth returned to hers and he kissed her as if he’d die without her.

      ‘Please,’ she whispered, her voice shaking with need, and he paused, fumbling for something on the bedside table.

      Taking care of her, she realised, something she’d utterly forgotten, but not him. He’d remembered, and made sure that she was safe with him.

      No strings. No repercussions.

      Then he reached for her, taking her into his arms, and as he moved over her she stopped thinking altogether and just felt.

      He woke to the touch of her hand on his chest, lying lightly over his heart.

      She was asleep, her head lying on his shoulder, her body silvered by the moonlight. He shifted carefully, and she sighed and let him go, so he could lever himself up and look down at her.

      There was a dark stain over one hipbone. He hadn’t noticed it last night, but now he did. A bruise, from her fall. And there was another, on her shoulder, and one on her thigh, high up on the side. He kissed them all, tracing the outline with his lips, kissing them better like the bruises of a child.

      It worked, his brother Luca told him, because the caress released endorphins, feel-good hormones, and so you really could kiss someone better, but only surely if they were awake—

      ‘Massimo?’