Lydia didn’t care.
He slid one arm around her waist to move her body away from the wall and closer to his, so that her head could fall backwards.
If there’d been a bed she would have been on it.
If there’d been a room they would have closed the door.
Yet there wasn’t, and so he halted them—but only their lips.
Their bodies were heated and close and he looked her right in the eye. His mouth was wet from hers and his hair a little mussed from her fingers.
‘What do you want to do?’ Raul asked, knowing it was a no-brainer.
It was a very early bedtime and that suited him fine.
But the thought of waltzing her past Bastiano and Maurice no longer appealed.
A side entrance, perhaps, Raul thought, and went for her neck.
She had never thought that a kiss beneath her ear could make it impossible to breathe, let alone think.
‘What do you want to do?’ he whispered to her skin, and then blew on her neck, damp from his kisses. He raised his head and met her eye. ‘Tonight I can give you anything you want.’
‘Anything?’ Lydia checked.
‘Oh, yes.’
And if he was offering perfection, then she would take it.
‘I want to see Rome at night—with you.’
‘It’s not dark yet.’
He could suggest a guided tour of his body—a very luxurious one, of course—but then he looked into her china-blue eyes.
‘I want some romance with my one-night stand.’
‘But I don’t do romance.’
‘Try it,’ Lydia said. She didn’t want some bauble in the morning and so she named her price. ‘For one night.’
And Raul, who was usually very open to experiments, found himself reluctant to try.
Yet he had cancelled his flight for this.
And she had had the most terrible time here on her last visit, Raul knew.
The bed would always be there.
And he had invited her to state her wants.
He had known from the start that Lydia would make him work for his reward.
‘I know just the place to start,’ Raul said. ‘While it’s still light.’
THIS WAS ROME.
He would have called for a car, but she hadn’t wanted to go to the front of the hotel and risk seeing Maurice.
And so Raul found himself in his first taxi for a very long time.
He would not be repeating it!
Still, it was worth it for the result.
He took her to Aventine Hill. ‘Rome’s seventh hill,’ he told her.
‘I know that,’ Lydia said. ‘We came past it on a bus tour.’
‘Who were you sitting with?’ Raul nudged her as they walked.
‘The teacher.’
‘They really hated you, didn’t they?’
But he put his arm around her shoulders as he said it, and it was something in the way he spoke that made her smile as she answered.
‘They did.’
And then they stopped walking.
‘This is the headquarters of the Order of the Knights of Malta,’ he told her. ‘Usually it is busy.’ But tonight the stars had aligned, for there was a small group just leaving. ‘Go on, then.’
‘What?’
And she waited—for what, she didn’t know. For him to open the door and go through?
They did neither.
‘Look through the keyhole.’
Lydia bent down and did as she was told, but there was nothing to see at first—just an arch of greenery.
And then her eye grew accustomed to the view and she looked past the greenery, and there, perfectly framed in the centre, was the dome of St Peter’s.
He knew the moment she saw it, for she let out a gasp.
It was a view to die for.
The soft green edging framed the eternal city and she bent there for a while, just taking it in.
It was a memory.
A magical one because it made Rome a secret garden.
Her secret garden.
By the time she stood there were others lined up, all waiting for their glimpse of heaven, and her smile told them it would be worth the wait.
Raul refused to be rushed.
‘Don’t you want a photo?’ he asked. Assuming, of course, that she would.
‘No.’
She didn’t need one to remember it.
Even if Raul took her back to the hotel now, it would still be the best night ever.
In fact if Raul were to suggest taking her back to the hotel she would wave the taxi down herself, for he was kissing her again—a nice one, a not-going-anywhere one, just sharing in her excitement.
He did not take her back yet.
They walked down the hill, just talking, and he showed her the tiny streets she would never have found. He took her past the Bocca della Verità sculpture—the Mouth of Truth—though he did not tell her the legend that the old man would bite off the hand of liars.
For perhaps she might test him.
Though Raul told himself he did not lie.
He just omitted certain information.
And he continued to do so, even when the opportunity arose to reveal it.
They were now sitting on a balcony, looking out to the Colosseum, and a waiter placed their drinks down on the table.
Cognac for Raul and a cocktail that was the same fiery orange as the sky for Lydia.
He didn’t assume champagne, as Bastiano had.
Like this morning at breakfast, she let her eyes wander through the menu selections.
She chose hers—he knew his.
Raul gave her choice at every turn, and that was something terribly new to Lydia.
Finally she had good memories of Rome.
‘Salute,’ Raul said, and they clinked glasses.
Wonderful memories, really.
It wasn’t the sight of the Colosseum that brought a lump to her throat but the fact that now there were candles and flowers on the table, and that at every turn Raul had surprised her with his ease and enjoyment.
He did not sulk, nor reluctantly trudge along and put up with things before taking her to bed.
Raul led.
But she must remember it could never—for her—be the City of Love.
Raul