‘So, how did you Bianca get together? She told me she only came out to Italy quite recently, when she learned of her uncle’s diagnosis.’ He shook his head. ‘Bad business, that, Luca—life can be totally bloody sometimes.’ Then his voice lifted again. ‘But maybe if it’s catalysed you and Bianca getting serious…?’
‘Something like that,’ Luca said tersely.
He was giving, by implication, the impression that he and Bianca went back a while, but because she was based in the UK their relationship had not shown up on his friends’ radar. That was all he was prepared to say, and though he knew Pietro and everyone else in his circle wanted to know more, he was not going to oblige.
His friends could think what they liked. Whatever they came up with, it would not be the truth.
The band at the far end of the terrace was keeping to old-fashioned melodies and the number was ending. Pietro’s father was bringing Bianca back to Luca and Pietro.
‘I have indulged myself sufficiently,’ he informed Luca, relinquishing Bianca with a flourish. ‘Yourfidenzatais beyonddelightful, and has borne with me bravely, but I know there is only one man in whose arms she wishes to be!’
He took his son’s arm. ‘Come, Pietro, leave the lovebirds to each other.’
He drew him away, heading back to his wife, who was talking to Matteo.
For a moment Luca didn’t move, and nor did Bianca.
‘I’ll go and see how my uncle is doing,’ she said. Her voice was abrupt. ‘I don’t want him getting too tired.’
Luca stayed her. ‘Matteo is fine—Pietro’smammahas been keeping an eye on him.’
He reached for Bianca’s hand. All evening she had haunted him, tormented him. From the moment he had set eyes on her in her bedroom, in that gown, only one impulse had filled him. And now everything that he had felt as he drove away from the villa two weeks ago was overwhelming him.
Six years ago he had set Bianca aside.
No more.
Certainty filled him. Desire… A desire he would not deny, nor suppress, nor walk away from.
And nor will she.
He knew that—knew it with every fibre of his being. All evening he had been conscious of it…conscious of how she was conscious ofhim. Trying not to be—and failing. She was as aware of him as if she were a compass needle seeking north. His north.
Oh, she might have deliberately kept a space between them as she’d stood beside him, with Matteo on her other side, as they’d received his godfather’s guests in thesaloni, not wanting his sleeve to brush her arm, or any smile to be exchanged with him, and barely addressed him except when social necessity demanded it as they’d conversed in niceties with Matteo’sinvited friends. But it had been in vain. The very air between them was charged…
And here it was again, as he took her hand…took her into his arms…into the dance.
They had danced once already this evening. Matteo had insisted they open the dancing, having made a speech—brief, but emotional—telling his good friends how blessed her was that his dear godson and his dearest niece were to be married. He had implied that he’d always known of her existence, corroborating, even if unintentionally, Luca’s similar implication about himself and Bianca. Then Matteo had urged them on to the dance floor and they had complied, even though Bianca had been stiff as a board. They’d kept their dance as short as possible, and the moment other couples joined them Bianca had loosed herself, left the dance floor.
But now he would not permit that. He would ignore, deliberately, the stiffening in her body as he walked her into the strains of the slow, seductive waltz that the band had struck up, with other couples doing the same.
‘This isn’t necessary, Luca,’ she gritted, gazing fixedly over his shoulder, which she was barely touching with her hand. ‘We’ve already done our duty dance.’
He ignored the tension in her voice. He knew the reason for it. He only slid his arm around her slender waist, resting his hand at her back. He could feel the warmth of her body through silk of her gown. His other hand tightened a fraction on hers.
‘We have to put on a show, Bianca,’ he said,sotto voce.
His voice was husky, and he knew the reason for that too. Knew, too, with a self-mockery that was wry, but mordant, that even though he wanted to draw her tight against him, to do so would be…unwise.
Instead, he gave himself to the lilting music—a familiar Italian favourite—letting his hold on her relax, his hand splay over thearch of her spine like a caress. He felt a fine subliminal tremor go through her, as if she was using the last of her strength to resist him. To resist what was happening.
And then…
He felt her resistance fade.
He felt her hand fold over his shoulder, and she drew back her head so that her eyes were looking into his. Looking—and melting…
He saw it happen…felt it happen. His eyes held hers, and hers held his, at the still point between them as they moved in the dance, impelled by the music, slowly, ineluctably, the familiar, seductive, hypnotic rhythm of the music weaving about them. It was drawing them closer to each other, their gazes entwined.