Handing over the drink she’d poured to the customer who’d ordered it, she had then turned her full attention on the man she wanted to pay attention to. Asking him what he’d like to drink…mixing and pouring it. Handing it to him and not minding that his fingers briefly touched hers as she slid it towards him, sending a quiver of awareness through her, quickening of her already quickened pulse. Letting him engage her in conversation—she asking what part of Europe he came from, with that giveaway accent of his, him answering and then, nodding at the name tag which all the bar staff wore on their shirts, murmuring something soft and fluid in Italian. And she’d given a laugh, saying with a half-toss of her head that her name was the only Italian thing about her…
Her thoughts slewed away. Her name had not been the only Italian thing about her after all. And it was because of that that she was sitting here now, with Luca, doing what they were doing.
Heaviness weighed her down, pressed upon her. Somehow—somehow—she had to cope with this.
She made her eyes focus on the menu, making her selection, closing it with a click and putting it back on the tablecloth. White linen, posh cutlery, tall-backed chairs—it was an upmarket restaurant. But then, what else would Luca patronise?
Memory came again, whether she wanted it to or not. She’d got such a kick out of being taken to all those posh places in London with him, gazing around, revelling in the expensive classiness of it all. He’d been amused. Indulgent. And she’d been open about how impressed she was by it all.
I never hid who I was from him. Never tried to be anything else. What he saw was what he got.
Except that what he’d got was not what he’d wanted—not for anything more than a fling.
I was a novelty act. That was all. And I have to accept it.
The waiter was returning with her mineral water and a glass of white wine for Luca, plus a bowl of salted almonds, olives and savoury biscotti. They gave their respective selections from the menu—they’d both gone for fish, she realised.
‘You won’t have wine?’ Luca asked, civilly enough.
She shook her head. ‘Not for lunch. I’ll just fall asleep.’ She drank some of her mineral water instead, feeling the fizzing bubbles effervescent in her mouth.
‘Have you had much opportunity to see anything of Pavenza?’ Luca was asking her.
He was still being civil, and she might as well be too. After all, how else were they to endure each other’s company, minimal though she wanted that time to be. Luca had said they should behave as strangers thrown together—maybe he was right. It would be less painful.
She made an effort to reply in kind.
‘I’ve been here a couple of times—just to shop. Matteo’s chauffeur drove me. I don’t dare drive in Italy, and certainly notin a town—least of all a town like this, with such narrow streets. And all those deadly scooters cutting up the cars!’
Luca gave a wry laugh. It did things to her she didn’t want it to. Didn’t want to be reminded of.
‘Pedestrianised zones are the answer…especially in historic town centres,’ he went on. ‘Andzonas silencios—you’ll see the sign with the old-fashioned motor horn crossed through—are another advance. Essential, too, given the Italians’ twin love of both noise and protest!’
She laughed. Almost unconsciously she felt the net of tension that had wrapped her ever since seeing Luca appear back in her life like the demon king in a pantomime lessen minutely. For Matteo’s sake they should do this with the least ill grace possible. Let the past go.
Yet even as she made that resolve memory struck—not from six years ago, but from last night. That kiss…that clinch on the terrace. For a moment, hot and humid, the memory scalded her, a perilous reminder of how vulnerable she was. She steeled herself. It had been a warning to her—one she’d learn from. One Luca had better learn from too.
In her head she heard the sharp crack of her palm against his cheek. That slap had been as instinctive as it had been essential—but she must never,neverbe caught out again. Not like that…
The waiter was back with theirprimo. She’d gone for salad leaves, and helped herself to some of the olives and biscotti to bulk it up. Luca had chosencarpaccio, the ultra-thin slices dark red in the shaded light.
She forked up some leaves, glancing out across the busy piazza lined with old buildings, an imposing church at its far end. ‘It’s very atmospheric,’ she remarked. ‘I can see why tourists flock here.’
‘It’s better in the winter, perhaps, for that very reason,’ Luca commented.
‘I’m not sure I’ll find out.’ There was a bleakness in her voice as she spoke. ‘I don’t think my uncle has that long.’
There was a pause as they both went on eating. Then Luca spoke again, and Bianca heard reluctance in his voice.
‘What do you plan to do—afterwards?’
‘Go back to the UK,’ she said.
He frowned. ‘Why? What is for you there?’ His frown deepened. ‘Or should that bewhois there for you?’
She shook her head, then immediately regretted it. She should have let him think she had a man to go back to. It would have created another barrier between them—another safeguard for herself. Too late now, though.
‘No one special?’ he probed.