‘What time?’
* * *
At half-past ten Italian time, thirty minutes after she and Rico had been due to meet, Carla grabbed her suitcase and stepped off the water taxi she’d caught at the airport.
She was still barely able to believe she’d actually made it, she thought dazedly, heading for the restaurant he’d named. None of this felt real. Not the racing from Oxfordshire to her flat to the airport. Not the packed two-hour flight for which she’d been on standby and which she’d caught by the skin of her teeth. Not even the buzzing energy and the anticipation and excitement that were crashing around inside her.
The energy was a relief, but she had no business feeling excited about anything, least of all seeing Rico again. Wary? Definitely. Determined to find out why he’d run and then complete her mission? Absolutely. Anything else? Out of the question. Because this wasn’t a date. Or a minibreak in a romantic city she’d never visited before. This was going to be a conversation, a retrieval of information, possibly a negotiation, nothing more, which she simply could not forget.
With her suitcase stowed in the cloakroom, Carla took a deep, steadying breath and followed the waiter out onto the terrace, channelling cool, calm control and reminding herself of the goal with every step, but no amount of preparation could have braced her for the impact of seeing Rico again.
He was lounging at a table in a far, shadowy corner of the terrace, impossibly handsome and insanely sexy in the candlelight, and when his gaze collided with hers it was as if the world suddenly skidded to a halt. Her surroundings disappeared, the twinkling fairy lights winding over and around the pergola, the clink of cutlery, the chatter of the clientele and the dashing around of the waiters gone in a heartbeat. All she could hear was the thundering of her blood in her head. All she could feel was the heavy drum of desire. All she could do was weave between tables covered with red cloths and flickering candles, as if tied to the end of a rope he was slowly hauling in.
She tried to convince herself that the flipping of her stomach was down to hunger or stress or relief that he hadn’t given up on her and gone home, but she had the unsettling feeling that it was entirely down to the darkly compelling man now slowly unfolding himself and getting to his feet without taking his eyes off her for even a second.
When she reached his table, he leaned forwards, dizzying her with his spicy, masculine scent, and for one ground-tilting, heart-stopping moment she thought he was going to put his hand on her arm and drop a kiss on her cheek. In a daze, she went hot, her heart gave a great crash against her ribs and her gaze automatically went to his lips. How would they feel on her skin? Hard or soft? Would they make her burn or shiver or both?
But with a quick frown and a minute clench of his jaw he straightened at the last minute, and the searing disappointment that spun through her nearly knocked her off her feet. Her response contained none of the relief she should have felt at the fact that he hadn’t kissed her, and the realisation hit her like a bucket of icy water.
God, she had to be careful here. She was miles out of her comfort zone and on his territory. It would be so easy to lose control and herself in the highly inconvenient and deeply unwanted desire she felt for him. One slip and everything she’d worked so hard to achieve could be destroyed. One slip and she’d have more than a mistake to rectify.
She had to focus on why she was here and keep it at the forefront of her mind at all times. She had to get a grip on her reaction to him and remain composed, no matter how powerful the attraction, which surely had to lessen with familiarity.
‘Buonasera,’ she said, her voice thankfully bearing no hint of the struggle going on inside her.
‘You’re late,’ he said with a smile so easy it made her wonder if she’d imagined his discomposure a moment ago.
‘The traffic was terrible.’
‘The canals can get busy at this time on a Saturday night. How was your journey?’
‘Tight,’ she said with a thank-you to the waiter who whipped out the chair opposite him so she could sit down. ‘As you knew it would be when you told me it was Venice or nothing.’
Rico lowered himself into his own seat and sat back, the smile curving his mouth deepening. ‘Yet here you are.’
‘Here I am,’ she agreed, hanging her bag on the back of her chair before making herself comfortable and then fixing him with an arch look. ‘As are you, which is a surprise.’
‘Why would you say that?’
‘You don’t do waiting, do you?’
He frowned for a moment, as if he had no idea to what she was referring, and then the frown disappeared and the smile returned. ‘I decided to make an exception for you.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘Drink?’
God, yes. ‘That would be lovely.’
‘What would you like?’
‘Whisky, per favore. Could you make it a double?’
‘Certo.'
‘Grazie.'
* * *