in her life so far had let her down. Her father, her fiancé …
She was tempted to make an excuse, however flimsy. Tell him she was tired. That way, she wouldn’t risk getting closer to him.
Yet there was something about Rico that drew her. She enjoyed his company. And these three nights in Rome were meant to be fun. Given that neither of them had any ties, then maybe she should take the risk. Say yes.
‘OK,’ she said finally. ‘It’d be nice to have dinner with you.’
‘Are you vegetarian, or is there anything you don’t like to eat?’
‘No. And I don’t have any food allergies, either.’
‘Good. Then I’ll meet you at the hotel,’ he said. ‘I’ll call for you at eight.’
CHAPTER TWO
BACK at the hotel, Rico saw Ella into Reception, and then went through the back into his office. His PA was tidying her desk, clearly just about to leave for the evening. ‘Lina, I know it’s late and I’ve given you absolutely no notice, but can you clear my diary for the next three days?’ he asked.
‘Of course. Is something wrong? Your grandfather’s ill?’ she asked, looking concerned.
‘No, he’s fine.’
‘Your father?’
No, and Rico certainly wouldn’t drop everything to rush to his father’s bedside. He was well aware that Lina knew it, too; she’d worked for the Rossi chain for longer than he had, long enough to know exactly why Rico had no time for his parents and never would. ‘I’m just taking some time off.’
She blinked. ‘Are you ill?’
‘Very funny.’ He glowered at her briefly. ‘I’m not that driven.’
‘Actually, you are, Rico.’ She patted his arm to soften her words. ‘Look, nobody’s going to be around at this time of the afternoon, so there’s no point in making any calls now. I’ll deal with it first thing tomorrow and move all your meetings.’
‘Thank you. I’ll have my mobile with me if you need to get in touch. Text or voicemail, that is,’ he added.
‘I’m not going to call you. It’ll do you good to have a break.’ She paused. ‘So are you going anywhere special?’
‘Maybe.’
She gave him a wry smile. ‘I should know better than to ask you a personal question.’
He grimaced. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.’
‘But everything personal is off limits. I know.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Tell me again why I put up with you?’
‘Must be my charm,’ he teased back. Then he grew serious again. ‘Thank you, Lina. I do appreciate you.’
‘I know you do, tesoro. It’s why I put up with all your impossible demands.’ But she was smiling. ‘Go and have some fun.’
‘I will.’ His step already felt lighter. Which was crazy. There wasn’t any future in this; Ella Chandler was a tourist, only here for a couple of days. But maybe, just maybe, Lina was right. Having a little fun in his life would do him good.
Rico left his office and headed for the butcher’s. It had been a long time since he’d last gone shopping, and it felt odd to be so domesticated. He came home via the greengrocer’s, the baker’s and the deli; then rolled up his sleeves and began preparing dinner, humming to himself as he worked.
What did you wear for dinner in Rome? Ella wondered. She’d expected to find a little trattoria somewhere and just watch the crowds as she ate, or maybe study the more detailed guidebook to Rome she’d brought with her. She’d packed a pretty, floaty summer dress at the last minute; hopefully that would be smart enough, especially if she put her hair up. She knew it wouldn’t be smart enough if Rico took her somewhere seriously posh; then again, he knew the city better than most, so he was more likely to take her to a small, out-of-the-way place with amazing food and where it didn’t really matter what you wore.
At precisely eight o’clock, there was a knock on her door.
She opened it, and he smiled at her. ‘Ella, bellezza. You look lovely.’
He was wearing a different white shirt, this time teamed with faded jeans; he looked utterly gorgeous and her heart skipped a beat.
Reminding herself that this was just dinner, she asked brightly, ‘So where are we going?’
‘I thought I’d cook for you.’
She blinked. ‘You cook?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s not that difficult.’
True. Though Michael had never cooked. He’d always left it to her. And she’d been fool enough to let him get away with it.
‘You have a very expressive face,’ Rico said. ‘It looks to me as if you’ve been dating the wrong kind of man.’
He could say that again. ‘Perhaps,’ she said. This definitely wasn’t the time or the place to moan about her ex. ‘But I’m over him.’ And she was following the old saying to the letter: the best revenge was living well. Thanks to her lottery win, she was going to follow every single dream she’d ever had. Ones that Michael most definitely wouldn’t have shared.
Rico took her to the end of a corridor, then tapped numbers into a small, discreet keypad to open the door. She followed him up the stairs and they ended up in the most enchanting roof garden she’d ever seen. There were tiny fairy lights twined through the greenery, and one corner was draped in wisteria.
‘Oh, this is beautiful,’ she said in delight.
He looked pleased. ‘I’m glad you like it.’
There was a table laid for two in the centre of the garden, with a candle on the table and wine chilling in an ice bucket. And she had the clearest view of the Colosseum, with the three lowest tiers lit from the inside and the moon rising above it. ‘This is just amazing. Is this your place?’
Yes. But, if he told her that, then she’d know he’d been economical with the truth about being a tour guide. And he liked the fact that she was responding to him as a man, not as the head of the hotel chain; he still wasn’t quite ready to give that up. ‘It’s borrowed,’ he said. Which was an equivocation: he was borrowing it from himself.
She looked slightly worried. ‘Are you sure the owner doesn’t mind?’
‘The owner definitely doesn’t mind,’ he reassured her. ‘Please, take a seat. May I pour you some wine?’
‘Thank you.’
He held her chair out for her, then poured them both a glass of wine. ‘I’ll just go and get our antipasti.’
He brought out a platter of bruschetta to share.
‘Wow, this is fabulous,’ she said after the first taste.
‘Thank you.’ He inclined his head, playing it cool, but inside he was pleased. Particularly as she ate without fussing about carbs or calories; the last three women he’d dated had toyed with their food, and it had irritated him hugely. He loathed pretence.
And the fact that right now he was pretending to be something he wasn’t … He pushed that aside. It was only a tiny white lie. And it meant he could be himself with her, instead of the man everyone expected him to be.
She complimented him on the pasta Alfredo he served for the next course, and on the spring lamb served with rosemary potatoes and garlicky spinach.
‘It’s very simple Roman food,’ he said with a smile.
‘And you’ve taken the time to make it. To spoil me. I appreciate that,’ she said.