Vettori's Damsel in Distress. Liz Fielding

       Oh...

      Flustered at being confronted with phrases that hadn’t featured so far on the Italian course she’d downloaded onto her iPod, she took the safe option and, having sucked in a snowflake that was clinging to her lip, she lowered her hood. The chatter gradually resumed and, finally getting a move it message through to her legs, she parked her suitcase and crossed to the bar.

       ‘Cosa prendi, signora?’

      Oh, whew, something she understood. ‘Um... Vorrai un espresso...s’il vous plait...’ Her answer emerged in a mangled mixture of English, Italian and French. ‘No... I mean...’ Oh, heck.

      The blonde grinned. ‘Don’t worry. I got the gist,’ she replied, her English spiced with an Australian accent.

      ‘Oh, thank goodness you’re English. No! Sorry, Australian—’ Achingly conscious of the man leaning against the counter, an impressive thigh stretching the cloth of his jeans just inches from her hip, she attempted to recover the cool, sophisticated woman of the world image with which she’d intended to storm Milan. ‘Shall I go out, walk around the block and try that again?’

      The woman grinned. ‘Stay right where you are. I’ll get that espresso. You’ve just arrived in Isola?’ she asked as she measured the coffee.

      ‘In Isola, in Milan, in Italy. I’ve been working on my Italian—I picked some up when I spent a month in Tuscany as a student—but I learned French at school and it seems to be my brain’s foreign language default setting when I panic.’

      Her brain was too busy drooling over Mr Italy to give a toot.

      ‘Give it a week,’ the woman said. ‘Can I get you anything else?’

      ‘A side order of directions?’ she asked hopefully, doing her best to ignore the fact that it wasn’t just her brain; her entire body was responding on a visceral level to the overdose of pheromones wafting in her direction. It was like being bombarded by butterflies. Naked...

      She was doing her level best not to stare at him.

      Was he looking at her?

      ‘You are lost, signora?’ he asked.

      In Italian, his voice was just about the sexiest thing she’d ever heard, but his perfect, lusciously accented English sent a shiver rippling down her spine that had nothing to do with the snow dripping from her hair. That was trickling between her breasts and turning to steam.

      She took a breath and, doing her best to remember why she was there, said, ‘Not lost exactly...’ Retrieving the apartment details from her tote, she placed it, map side up, on the counter and turned to him, intending to explain what had happened. He was definitely looking and, confronted with those eyes, the questioning kink of his brow, language of any description deserted her.

      ‘No?’ he prompted.

      Clearly he was used to women losing the power of speech in his presence. From the relaxed way he was leaning against the bar, to eyes that, with one look made her feel as if he owned her, everything about him screamed danger.

      First day in Isola and she could imagine having a lot of fun with Mr Italy and, from the way he was looking at her, he was thinking much the same thing about her.

      Was that how it had been for her mother that first time? One look from some brawny roustabout at the annual village fair and she’d been toast?

      ‘I know exactly where I am, signor,’ she said, looking into those lusciously dark eyes. To emphasise the point she eased off the fine leather glove that had done little to keep her hand warm and tapped the piazza with the tip of a crimson nail.

      ‘No,’ he repeated, and this time it wasn’t a question as, never taking his eyes from hers, he wrapped long fingers around her hand and moved her finger two inches to the right. ‘You are here.’

      His hand was warm against her cold skin. On the surface everything was deceptively still but inside, like a volcano on the point of blowing, she was liquid heat.

      She fought the urge to swallow. ‘I am?’

      She was used to people staring at her. From the age of nine she had been the focus of raised eyebrows and she’d revelled in it.

      This man’s look was different. It sizzled through her and, afraid that the puddle of snow melting at her feet was about to turn to steam, she turned to the map.

      It didn’t help. Not one bit. His hand was still covering hers, long ringless fingers darkly masculine against her own pale skin, and she found herself wondering how they would look against her breast. How they would feel...

      Under the layers of black—coat, dress, the lace of her bra—her nipples hardened in response to her imagination, sending touch-me messages to all parts south and she bit on her lower lip to stop herself from whimpering.

       Breathe, breathe...

      She cleared the cobwebs from her throat and, hoping she sounded a lot more in control than she was, said, ‘One piazza looks very much like another on a map. Unfortunately, neither of them is where I was going.’

      ‘And yet here you are.’

      And yet here she was, falling into eyes as dark as the espresso in his cup.

      The café retreated. The bright labels on bottles behind the bar, the clatter of cutlery, the low thrum of a double bass became no more than a blur of colour, sound. All her senses were focused on the touch of his fingers curling about her hand, his molten eyes reflecting back her own image. For a moment nothing moved until, abruptly, he turned away and used the hand that had been covering hers to pick up his espresso and drain it in one swallow.

      He’d looked away first and she waited for the rush of power that always gave her but it didn’t come. For the first time in her life it didn’t feel like a victory.

       Toast...

      ‘Where are you going, signora?’ He carefully replaced the tiny cup on its saucer.

      ‘Here...’ She looked down but the ink had run, leaving a dirty splodge where the name of the street had been.

      ‘Tell him the address and Dante will point you in the right direction,’ the barista said, putting an espresso in front of her. ‘He knows every inch of Isola.’

      ‘Dante?’ Geli repeated. ‘As in the Inferno?’ No wonder he was so hot... Catching the barista’s knowing grin, she quickly added, ‘Or perhaps your mother is an admirer of the Pre-Raphaelites?’

      ‘Are you visiting someone?’ he asked, ignoring the question.

      ‘No.’ Mentally kicking herself for speaking before her brain was in gear—he must have heard that one a thousand times—she shook her head. ‘I’m here to work. I’ve leased an apartment for a year. Geli Amery,’ she added, offering him her hand without a thought for the consequences.

      He wrapped his hand around hers and held it.

      ‘Dante Vettori.’ Rolled out in that sexy Italian accent, his name was a symphony of seduction. ‘Your name is Jelly?’ He lifted an eyebrow, but not like the disapproving old biddies in the village shop. Not at all. ‘Like the wobbly stuff the British inflict on small children at birthday parties?’

      Okay, so she’d probably asked for that with her stupid ‘Inferno’ remark, but he wasn’t the only one to have heard it all before.

      ‘Or add to peanut butter in a sandwich if you’re American?’ She lifted an eyebrow right back at him, which was asking for trouble but who knew if he’d ever lift his eyebrow at her like that again? This was definitely one of those ‘live for the day’ moments she had vowed to grab with both hands and she was going for it.

      ‘É possįbile,’ he said, the lines bracketing his mouth deepening into a smile. ‘But