The Italian's Love-Child. Sharon Kendrick

kind of drizzle which could turn the straightest hair into a frizzy cloud.

      On automatic pilot, she showered and drank strong black coffee, and when the car arrived to collect her to take her to the studio she sat in the back with the newspapers as usual, only for once it was hard to concentrate on the day’s news.

      The truth was that she had had a disturbed night and that it had been disturbed by Luca Cardelli. He had burst into her dreams like a bright, dazzling meteorite, his brilliant black eyes mocking her and tantalising her and making her feel that she had missed an opportunity by leaving the party early.

      But dreams were curious and capricious things, and unlike life you had no control over them. All he had done was to awake something in her subconscious, some forgotten teenage longing which had never quite gone away.

      And dreams were soon forgotten. They weren’t real. Neither was the ridiculous fluttery feeling she felt at the base of her stomach when she thought of him and there was a simple solution to that. She tried her best not to think of him but he stubbornly stayed on her mind.

      She wished now that she had asked Michael how long he was here for—but surely it would be a flying visit? His life wasn’t here, was it? His life was in Italy—a different, unknown life in a country as foreign to her as he was.

      That morning’s show contained the usual mix of items, including a dog which was supposedly able to howl in time to the national anthem. Unfortunately, the animal refused to perform to order—the poor thing cowered and was terrified and then was sick in a corner of the studio. Johnny, her co-host, threw a complete wobbly afterwards, and Eve was relieved to get away after the post-show breakdown.

      The car dropped her off just after eleven and she closed the door of her tiny cottage with a sigh of relief. She went upstairs, wiped off all her heavy studio make-up, stripped off her clothes and took a long, hot shower, blasted her hair dry and knotted it into one thick plait.

      Feeling something close to human again, she put on a pair of black jeans and a charcoal-grey sweater, aware that she would have grubby little fingers crawling all over her, then set off for Michael and Lizzy’s, stopping off on the way to buy a colouring book and some crayons for Kesi.

      She rang the bell and Lizzy answered it, a look of repressed excitement on her face, as though the party were just about to happen, rather than having taken place the night before.

      ‘Eve! You look gorgeous!’

      ‘No, I don’t. No make-up and slouchy old jeans.’

      ‘Well, you looked pretty amazing on the box this morning!’

      ‘Ah, but that’s the magic of the make-up artist. Did you see the sick dog?’

      ‘Did I? Michael recorded it for me. Poor thing! Come on up. He’s taken Kesi out, but he shouldn’t be too long.’

      ‘And how is my gorgeous little god-daughter?’ asked Eve as they walked into the bright, first-floor sitting room. ‘I thought—’ But what she had been thinking flew completely out of her mind, for sprawled on one of the long sofas, reading a newspaper, was Luca Cardelli.

      He glanced up as they entered and his dark eyes glittered with what looked like mischief, but underpinned with something else, something which Eve couldn’t quite work out. Something which made her wary and excited all at the same time. She found herself wondering whether he looked at every woman that way, and whether it had the same disconcerting effect on them. Probably.

      But even so, tiny goose-bumps still prickled at the back of her neck.

      ‘We thought we’d invite Luca, too,’ smiled Lizzy.

      Luca rose to his feet, observing the startled look on Eve’s face change into one of suspicion. Was she so prickly with all men, he wondered, or just him? He smiled, her frozen face presenting him with a challenge which stimulated him. He threw her a lazy look. ‘You didn’t mind me gatecrashing your lunch?’

      What could she say? That she did? And that wouldn’t be entirely truthful, would it? Because her heart was racing with something which felt very close to elation. For here he was, only this time without the hoardes of people there had been last night.

      ‘Of course not,’ she said calmly.

      Lizzy frowned, as if sensing that something was up and not quite able to work out what it was. ‘Um, can I get you both a drink? There’s loads of champagne left.’

      Eve opened her mouth to ask for something soft and then shut it again. She felt wired up. At a loss. And curiously incomplete. She, who felt at ease in almost any social gathering, suddenly felt an urgent need for something to help her loosen up. ‘That would be lovely.’

      ‘Luca?’

      ‘Please.’ But he barely heard his hostess speak. He wanted to be alone with Eve, to break down the armoury he had seen her begin to construct from the moment she had walked into the room.

      He rose to his feet, with all the grace of some lithe, dark panther and as he moved towards her Eve thought that there was something of the predator in him today. And how did vulnerable animals cope with predators in the wild? They didn’t run away, that was for sure. They stood their ground and faced them.

      But, dear Lord in heaven—they surely didn’t share her feelings that this predator—if indeed predator he was—looked good enough to eat.

      Like her, he was wearing jeans—faded and washed out and clinging to the hard shaft of his thighs—the pale sweater emphasising the glowing olive skin and the jet-dark eyes. His black hair was ruffled and he was smiling and Eve was aware that, while she had been fiercely attracted to him a decade ago—then she had been teetering on the brink of womanhood with precisely no knowledge of men and their power over women. But now she was experienced enough to know that there were few men of Luca’s calibre around.

      Achievable goals, she reminded herself and flashed him a bland, pleasant smile.

      ‘So, Eve,’ he began. ‘Did you make work on time?’

      ‘I did.’

      ‘But you didn’t sleep.’

      Her eyes widened, for one crazy moment imagining that he had witnessed her fretful night. ‘Yes, yes, I did,’ she denied automatically.

      ‘Liar,’ he murmured as without warning he lifted his hand to lightly touch the delicate skin beneath her eyes. ‘This gives you away. Dark shadows, like the blue of an iris, so dark against your pale skin.’

      The invasion of her personal space was both unexpected and inappropriate and yet his touch made her tremble, the innocent contact feeling as highly charged as any intimate caress. She wanted to tell him to stop it, to ask him what the hell he thought he was playing at, but she was mesmerised by him, lulled by the deep, honeyed Italian accent. She felt like a weak, tiny kitten, confronted by the blazing strength of a lion. And Italians were tactile, she told herself—that was all.

      ‘I’m not wearing any make-up,’ she said, as if that explained everything, bizarrely missing the contact as he moved his hand away.

      ‘I know you’re not.’ And her scrubbed, pure face intrigued him, too. She must be very assured not to wear any cosmetics, and self-assurance was a potent sexual weapon in itself. ‘I didn’t sleep myself, if it makes any difference.’

      ‘Should I be interested?’

      ‘Maybe you should, since it was for exactly the same reason as you.’

      She pulled herself together. Pretend he’s one of those men who plague you, she thought. One of those boring, vacuous men who are attracted to you simply because you’re beamed into their homes every morning.

      ‘Lumpy mattress?’ she guessed. ‘Or simply indigestion after a late night and too much party food?’

      He laughed. ‘No.’

      And then she found herself saying, ‘Perhaps there were rather more enjoyable reasons for your