In the years since she’d last seen him she’d persuaded herself he couldn’t possibly be as gorgeous as she remembered. And she was right. Now Dante was in his early thirties maturity had added an extra dimension to his dark good looks—something her wilful hormones responded to even while the rest of her disapproved. So since a capricious fate—or Charlotte—had brought them together again, she would make use of his escort for a day and then tomorrow, back home in the real world, erase him from her life. Once again.
Dante had worn a suit cut by some Italian master of the craft the evening before, so if he’d decided to stay on the spur of the moment it seemed likely he’d have to wear the same thing again today. With that in mind, Rose went for pink cotton jeans instead of the denims worn for travelling. With a plain white cotton tee, small gold hoops in her ears and her hair caught back with a big tortoiseshell barrette, she slid her feet into the flats brought for sightseeing with Charlotte and felt ready to take on the day.
Dante was waiting in the foyer when she went downstairs shortly before nine, his look of gleaming appreciation worth all her effort. ‘Buongiorno, Rose. You look delightful!’
So did Dante. She raised an eyebrow at his pale linen trousers and crisp blue shirt. ‘Thank you. You’ve been shopping?’
He shook his head. ‘It is my custom to keep a packed bag in the car.’
Her lips twitched. ‘Ready for unexpected sleepovers?’
He grinned, looking suddenly more like the youthful Dante she remembered. ‘You are thinking the wrong thing, cara. I do this to impress the clients. Here in Italy, image is everything.’ He looked at her feet with approval. ‘Bene, you are prepared for walking.’
‘Always.’ As they left the hotel she looked at the sparkling river in delight. ‘Though my daily walks at home are in rather different surroundings from these.’
‘But the town you live in is a pleasant place, yes?’
She nodded. ‘Still, it’s good to take a short break from it. My only time away from home before was in university.’
‘I remember your pleasure at doing well in your final exams, and the celebrations which followed them.’ He frowned as they began to walk. ‘But you did not continue with the accountancy.’
‘No, I didn’t.’ She waved a hand at the beautiful buildings they were passing. ‘So talk, Signor Guide. Give me names to go with all this architecture.’
Dante obliged in detail as they walked with the river on one side and tall, beautiful old buildings on the other. But eventually he steered Rose away from the Arno to make for the Piazza della Signora with its dominant fifteenth century Palazzo Veccio that still, Dante informed her, served as Town Hall to Florence. He steered her past the queues for the famous Uffizi Gallery and the statues in the Loggia dei Lanzi on their way to the Caffe Rivoire. ‘You may look at all the sculpture you wish later,’ he said firmly and seated her at an outdoor table with a view of the entire Piazza. ‘But now we eat.’
Rose nodded. ‘Whatever you say. Breakfast is a rushed affair at home, so I shall enjoy this.’ In the buzz of this sunlit square packed with people—and pigeons—she could hardly fail. She sat drinking it all in to report on later.
‘I will buy you a guidebook so that you may show your mother what you have seen,’ said Dante as the waiter brought their meal. ‘You will take orange juice?’
‘Thank you.’ As she sipped, her eyes roved over the statuary she could see everywhere, and felt a sudden stab of envy for the man sitting so relaxed beside her.
‘That is a very cold look you give me,’ commented Dante, offering a plate of warm rolls.
‘I was thinking how privileged you are to live in a place like this. You probably take all this wonderful sculpture for granted.’
‘Not so. I do not live in the city,’ he reminded her. ‘Therefore, I marvel at it every time I return. And, Signorina Tourist, these statues were erected for more than decoration. The big white Neptune in the fountain with his water nymphs commemorates ancient Tuscan naval victories.’
‘How about the sexy Perseus brandishing Medusa’s severed head over there? Just look at those muscles!’
Dante laughed, his eyes dancing at the look on her face. ‘He is a Medici warning to enemies, while the replica of Michelangelo’s David represents Republican triumph over tyranny.’ He shook his head. ‘Enough of the lessons. What would you like to do next?’
‘Could we just sit here for a while, Dante?’ Rose refused to feel guilty because she was enjoying herself so much. She could go back to resentment and hostility later.
‘Whatever you wish.’ He beckoned to a waiter for more coffee.
Rose tensed as her phone beeped; she read the text, replied to it quickly and put the phone away. ‘Sorry about that—one of my clients.’ She smiled radiantly at the waiter who topped up her cup. ‘Grazie.’
‘Prego!’ The man returned her smile with such fervour Dante frowned.
‘It is good I am here with you,’ he said darkly when they were alone.
‘Why?’
‘To keep my beautiful companion safe from admirers.’
Rose shook her head impatiently. ‘Hardly beautiful—I’m just reasonably attractive when I make the effort.’ But sometimes the effort was hard.
‘You are far more than just attractive, Rose,’ he said with emphasis, and signalled to the offending waiter. ‘I will pay, and then we shall see more of Firenze.’
‘Dante,’ she said awkwardly, ‘could I pay, please?’
He stared at her in blank astonishment. ‘Cosa?’
She felt her colour rise. ‘You’ve given up your time to show me round. I can’t expect you to feed me as well.’
‘It is my privilege,’ he said, looking down his nose. ‘Also a great pleasure.’
‘But I feel I’m imposing.’
Dante shook his head. ‘You are not.’ He took her hand and stayed close enough to make himself heard as they threaded their way through the crowds in the Piazza. ‘I was forced to rush away from you last time, Rose, with only a brief apology. This time perhaps you will think better of me after we say goodbye tomorrow.’
Less likely to murder him, certainly. ‘When you’ve been so kind, how could I not?’ she said lightly. She stood looking up in wonder as they reached Perseus and his grisly trophy. ‘Wow! I’ve seen Renaissance art in books but the bronze reality is something else entirely.’
‘Cellini was a master,’ he agreed, and moved on to the next, graphic sculpture. ‘So was Giambologna, yes? You like his Rape of the Sabine Women? It is carved from a single block of marble, but it is flawed, as you see.’
Rose wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m not so keen on that one.’
‘Then let us go to the Bargello, which was once a prison, but now houses sculpture. Donatello’s bronze David from a century earlier is there. You will like that, I think. Then you cannot leave Firenze without a visit to the Accademia to gaze in wonder at the greatest statue of all—the marble David by Michelangelo.’
Rose found that Dante was right when they arrived at the rather forbidding Bargello. On the upper loggia, it needed only one look at Donatello’s jaunty David, nude except for stylish hat and boots, for Rose to fall madly in love.