look down, look out,’ he said quickly, and moved closer to her—so close she could smell the spicy citrus of his aftershave and something else freed by the warmth of his body that made her ache to bury her face in his throat and breathe him in—and turning her with the pressure of his body, his other hand light on her arm, he pointed out the landmarks amongst the higgledy-piggledy terracotta roofs of all the buildings laid out below them.
A waste of time, because all she could feel and smell was him, all she could see was his hand, strong and steady, the long, square-tipped fingers and the light scatter of hair on the olive skin of his wrist tantalising her. What would it feel like to be touched by that hand, to feel it on her skin?
Stifling a whimper, she swayed, and his other arm circled her instantly and hooked her up tighter against him. ‘Steady,’ he murmured, but her heart just beat faster, because his body was rock-solid and very male, and she just wanted to turn in his arms and kiss him.
‘OK?’ he asked, and released her carefully, as if he wasn’t sure if she’d fall over.
‘I’m fine—it’s just the height,’ she lied, shocked at her reaction, and he slid his fingers through hers and held her hand firmly until they were back inside.
‘Have we got time to see the real David?’ she asked once they were safely back down, trying to concentrate and not squander the whole day like a lovestruck teenager, and he grinned.
‘Feet not tired yet?’
She laughed. ‘Don’t be silly—I’m a midwife. I put a pedometer on one day and did over nineteen thousand steps. I can walk forever. How about you?’
‘Ditto. I’m fine, let’s do it,’ he said. ‘I’d love to show you and we’ve probably got time. You’ll be blown away.’
She was. ‘The anatomical detail’s amazing,’ she said, staring in awe at the statue—the real one, the one Michelangelo’s hands had carved lovingly and incredibly skilfully five hundred years ago. ‘It’s so accurate!’
‘Did you know he used to buy corpses and dissect them so he could learn what happened under the skin? That’s why his work is so lifelike—because it’s based on real anatomical knowledge. Except the genitalia, of course,’ he added softly in her ear, his grin mischievous. ‘Pre-pubescent, so as not to shock the matrons and terrify the virgins.’
She suppressed a laugh, and they moved on, but the gallery was closing and they were turned out into the cold and dark of the January evening—and her wonderful day with him was over. She turned to him, hugely reluctant to let it end, needing to show her gratitude somehow.
‘Luca, I’ve had the best day and I’ve taken so much of your time—would you let me buy you dinner?’ she said softly. ‘Just as a thank you?’
His mouth twitched. ‘You’re welcome to my time, cara—but I’ll buy the dinner. I was going to suggest it anyway. Do you want to go back to your hotel and change?’
He’d agreed? Her heart soared and she beamed at him. ‘Actually, I’m starving, so if I’m OK as I am…?’
He laughed softly, sending a delicious shiver down her spine. ‘No, you’re fine. Better than fine. Most of the women in my life would need at least two hours to get ready, and they’d never confess to hunger.’
‘You obviously mix with the wrong sort of women,’ she teased, and was surprised by the thoughtful look on his face.
‘Maybe I do,’ he murmured, and offered her his arm. ‘Shall we go?’
She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and they turned into the wind, but the cold air struck her face and slid down her neck and she shivered and huddled down into her coat. ‘Oh, that’s icy. I didn’t realise it would be so cold. I should have brought a scarf.’
‘Here—have mine,’ he said, and draped it round her neck.
‘Oh—you’ll get cold now!’ she said, and then caught the scent of his body on the fine, soft wool and nearly moaned out loud.
‘I’m sure I’ll survive. It’s not far to the place I want to take you, just round the corner.’ And it was worth giving up his scarf just to watch her snuggle down inside it with that sensual sigh. ‘Here, this is it.’
He opened the door and ushered her in, and the tempting aromas made her mouth water. They’d paused for a light lunch, but it and their coffee this morning were just a distant memory now, and she was more than ready, but it was heaving.
‘It’s too busy,’ she said, disappointed, but Luca just shook his head and looked up, catching the eye of a man with a white apron wrapped around his ample middle, and he beamed and came over to them, arms extended.
‘Luca! Buona sera!’
‘Buona sera, Alfredo. Come sta?’
Isabelle listened to the warmly affectionate exchange but only caught the odd recognisable word, such as bambini, and then Luca switched to English. ‘Alfredo, do you have a table?’
‘Si, si! Of course, for you, my friend. Always.’
And with a bit of shuffling and rearranging, he fitted them in, dragging a table out of the corner and finding another chair.
They sat down, but because they were squeezed in, her leg was jammed against Luca’s hard, muscular thigh. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t move out of your way,’ she said, but he just smiled.
‘Don’t apologise!’ he said softly, and she felt heat flood through her. Good grief, what on earth was happening to her? It was only a leg, and yet since the first touch of his knee against hers in the café this morning, every fleeting contact had been enough to send her heart into hyperdrive.
All day she’d been trying to forget it, but he’d made it impossible, constantly brushing into her, touching her—nothing in the least bit questionable, but it had kept her senses simmering all day, and then he’d offered her his arm and wrapped his scarf around her neck, still warm and heavy with the very male scent of his body, enclosing her in his essence, and the small amount of common sense she’d talked into herself had been wiped out in an instant. And now the heat of that solid, well-muscled leg against hers was setting it on fire and burning away the last fragments of reason.
‘Relax, bella,’ he murmured, his teasing eyes dancing. ‘I won’t eat you.’
Shame, she thought, and shut her eyes briefly at the images that leapt into her mind. Good heavens, this wasn’t like her! She’d never felt like this, never reacted so violently, so completely to a man’s touch.
But it wasn’t just his touch, it was his presence, too. She’d felt him at the café before she’d seen him, felt his eyes through the window stroking over her like little fingers of fire. And now, every time he looked at her, there was something there, something hot and dangerous and unbelievably tempting. And she was totally out of her depth. It had been so long since she’d dated anyone she’d forgotten how to do it, and a bit of her wanted to stop the clock and breathe for a few minutes, just to settle everything down again and remind herself why she didn’t do this.
But the clock didn’t stop, and Alfredo was coming back, weaving between the tables, a bottle of Prosecco in one hand, two menus in the other, and he filled their glasses with a flourish. Luca lifted his and smiled at her. ‘Welcome to Firenze, Isabelle.’
‘Thank you.’ She clinked her glass against his and sipped, the bubbles tickling the back of her throat as she met those hot, dark eyes. ‘And thank you for bringing it to life for me. It was fabulous. Much more fun than trailing round alone.’
‘My pleasure,’ he murmured, his eyes locked on hers.
Oh, help. ‘So—what should we eat?’ she asked lightly, trying to break the tension, but it lingered for another second.
‘The special’s always good,’ he said after a slight pause, and she dragged her mind back