She found herself a table with a good view of the busy street, and sat down to wait to be served. She was so engrossed in watching an enormous woman dressed in black, berating a man tall enough to tower over her, who none the less looked petrified, that she didn’t notice the man standing over her until he spoke.
‘Excuse me?’
She looked up quickly, slightly unsure. ‘Are you the waiter?’ she asked tentatively.
He gave a laugh at this, a deep throaty laugh, and she knew immediately that her question had been utterly ridiculous, for this man was no waiter.
‘No,’ he smiled. ‘I am not the waiter. But I can order you a drink, if you like. I could even join you for one—if you would not object?’ The dark eyebrows were raised quizzically.
She looked at him carefully. Very tall. Far too good-looking. Hair the colour of a raven’s wing. Olive skin. Deep brown eyes fringed by lashes any woman would kill for. Obviously Italian, but with English that was faintly accented, but unusual. He was dressed in a superbly cut dinner suit, with a shirt so white that it could have been featured in a soap-powder commercial! Waiter, indeed! Anyone less like a waiter she’d never seen!
He seemed to find her hesitation amusing, and spread his hands out in the very expansive way that was so curiously continental. ‘You are worried, yes, that you will not be safe with me? But let me tell you, English rose, that you would be far safer with me than on your own. To your left I see a group of young men who are eyeing you shamelessly. To your right is a gentleman, no longer in the first flushes of youth, but who still, it is easy to see, fancies himself as something of a ladies’ man.’
Catriona looked both ways, unable to stop herself from smiling. He was perfectly right.
‘So, you see, you would do far better to have me as your protector, wouldn’t you?’ The brown eyes twinkled disarmingly.
Ironically, it was the very role that Glenn had been offering her earlier, and which she had so disdained. That same offer from this man was quite a different kettle of fish. Sensible Catriona Bellman in cold and rainy Leeds would probably have told him just where to go, but the sun-warmed and relaxed Catriona Bellman found herself charmed, flattered, and more than a little intrigued.
She looked up at him. ‘Please do sit down. I’d be delighted for you to join me.’
‘Thank you.’ He pulled the chair further back to accommodate very long legs, and sat down. A waiter appeared immediately. ‘Now what will you have to drink?’ the dark man queried.
She had already had half a bottle of wine at dinner, and was feeling quite mellow. The most prudent thing to have would be another of those small black coffees. Such a pity that she wasn’t feeling in the least bit prudent!
‘You choose,’ she declared impetuously.
He smiled, and inclined his dark head graciously. ‘Of course! Now let me see. All the English come here and they drink sambuca—which does not have a particularly wonderful bouquet, in my opinion. In fact, the only things to commend it are the flaming coffee beans floating on the top, which always produce a gasp of surprise—so predictable, and far too predictable for you, I think. No, you shall have something very special indeed.’ And with this he spoke in a torrent of Italian, of which Catriona understood not one word.
The waiter scurried off, and the man surveyed her, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. ‘Now we must introduce ourselves, since I cannot call you English rose all night. What is your name?’
‘It’s Cat.’ She saw the dark eyebrows raised in surprise, and hastened to explain. ‘Well, I was christened Catriona, but everyone calls me Cat.’
‘Cat!’ He eyed her speculatively. ‘Yes, Cat is good. You have eyes like a cat.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Do you purr like a cat when you’re happy? Do you scratch like a cat when you’re mad?’
His words brought faint colour to her cheeks. There was nothing too wayward or shocking in what he’d said, but the deep, soft, faintly accented voice was having a remarkable effect on her pulse-rate. She knew that he’d noticed her blushing, and, feeling unusually gauche, she strove to give her voice its normal cool assurance. ‘And you are?’
‘Nico,’ he smiled, looking as if he was about to say more, when the waiter appeared with the drinks.
It was hard to define what the drink tasted of. It was cool, but it warmed her. Tangy, yet at the same time sweet, and smooth. It slid down her throat with velvet ease, and she gave a small sigh of satisfaction.
‘Do you like it?’ he asked.
‘I love it,’ she replied fervently.
‘Do you, now?’ he murmured. ‘And what else do you love?’
She met his eyes. Green stared into fathomless darkness. I could love you, she thought. Quite easily. ‘I love Italy,’ she told him.
‘I know you do. Tell me what you love about it.’
She felt as though he’d put a spell on her, enchanted her. Words seemed to spill from her lips as never before. He asked her questions, but not about her life—about her thoughts, her fears, her dreams. She felt as if he could read her very mind itself, and then thanked goodness that he couldn’t, for then he would have known how much she was wondering what it would be like to be kissed by him.
‘There is music inside.’ He inclined his head towards the direction of the interior of the café. ‘Would you like to dance?’
This was crazy, she thought. Sheer madness. Even as she thought it, she found herself nodding, allowing him to pull her chair back and lead her through.
There was, indeed, music. To Cat it sounded like a heavenly choir. He took her into his arms, and she felt as though she’d come home after a long, long journey.
She didn’t know how long they danced for, she only knew that there had never been a dance like it. She seemed to fit so perfectly into his arms, her head gently resting against the broadness of his chest. She was floating, dreaming—she must be. Things like this just didn’t happen to girls like her.
She didn’t remember at which point he suggested they leave. She didn’t say anything as they walked through now deserted streets to his car. There was an air of magic surrounding them. He drove her through unfamiliar streets, which became more imposing and more tree-lined with each moment, drawing up at last outside a white house, where the scent of some shrub filled her senses with its fragrance.
He led her inside. She was aware of opulence and faded splendour. He didn’t put any lights on, but instead took her through to a room whose uncurtained windows let in the bright silvery light of the moon. The moonlight, with its surreal glow, only added to her feeling of unreality. Somehow she was in his arms, where she belonged, and he was whispering to her.
‘Do you want to dance some more?’
Her voice sounded heavy, drowsy. ‘No.’
‘A drink, then? Some more grappa?’
‘No.’
‘What, then? This. . .?’ And he bent his head and started to kiss her. ‘Is that what you wanted all the time, my little Cat?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she breathed against his parted lips. ‘Yes. Yes.’
The sweetness of his breath was more intoxicating than the grappa she had drunk. Cat had been kissed before, naturally, but this might just as well have been the first time, for it made every other kiss fade into insignificance.
His mouth was firm, hard, insistent yet gentle. She felt his tongue begin to explore first the warm outline of her lips, investigating every