She groaned under her breath at the very idea. Her hands, curved around his chest, wanted to drop lower. To find the hem of his shirt and push it up so that her fingertips could connect with bare flesh.
This was a nightmare.
No way could she act on these feelings! Apart from anything, she’d feel as if she was letting herself down. Where could this go? She was lying to him—pretending to be someone she wasn’t. A secret she absolutely had to keep!
It wasn’t just the money Cressida had paid, though that was a huge part of it. Cressida had begged her to play along, and not for the first time in Tilly’s life she’d felt sorry for the glamorous heiress.
‘I have a wedding to go to. Mum and Dad would never approve. It’s really important, Tilly, or I wouldn’t have asked.’
Matilda suspected that Art and Gloria would indeed have disapproved, but that wouldn’t have stopped Cressida from going. It just would have led to yet another loud shouting match, resulting in Cressida storming out and Art fretting for days over how he could handle his wayward daughter more effectively.
Having worked for Art for four years, Tilly had seen enough of those confrontations to know they were best avoided. Art wasn’t in great health, and every time he lost his temper with Cressida, Tilly worried.
No, she’d saved everyone a whole heap of trouble by coming to Prim’amore in Cressida’s place. After all, it was only a week. Cressida would attend the wedding, Tilly would stay on the island, and then they’d get back to their normal lives with no one ever knowing they’d performed a switcheroo.
She ignored the niggle of disquiet over that—and the inevitable conclusion that after this week she would never see Rio Mastrangelo again.
He turned the bike around a corner, leaning into it, and she leaned with him, holding on tight as the bike seemed to dip close to the grass on one side. He straightened, but she kept on holding him tight. Finally he brought the bike to a stop, pressing one powerful leg down to kick the stand.
‘This is where the path stops.’ His words were accented.
Belatedly, Tilly realised she was still gripping his waist and that there was no reason to do so. She jerked her arms away and fumbled her way off the back of the bike, scratching her calf in the process.
He had no such difficulty. He lifted himself off as though he’d been riding bikes all his life.
‘You’re a natural at that,’ she said, the words thick.
He lifted his helmet off and placed it on the seat, the turned to unclip hers. ‘It’s not rocket science.’
‘Still...’ She held her breath as his fingers brushed against the soft flesh under her chin.
He reached for the clasp and pressed it; the helmet loosened and she reached up to dislodge it at the same time he did. Their fingers tangled but he didn’t pull away, and nor did she. His eyes held hers for a beat longer than normal, and her stomach swooped up and then down.
She cleared her throat, pulling her hands away and smiling awkwardly. Yeah, great. Just what Cressida would have done, she thought with an inward groan of mortification.
He didn’t seem to realise. He pressed the helmet onto the seat and then reached back towards her.
His hand in her hair was like the start of her dream coming true. She watched, mesmerised, as he studied the red lengths, pulling his fingers through it, a slight frown on his face. Her breath hitched in her throat and anxiety began to perforate that strange mood.
Had he recognised who she was? Or rather who she wasn’t?
‘Do you dye this?’
She pulled a face, not comprehending why he’d ask such a question. ‘No!’
‘I didn’t think so.’ His frown deepened. ‘It’s like copper and gold.’
‘Yes.’ She nodded, stepping backwards and almost tripping on a rock that jutted out of the ground. His hand on her elbow steadied her, then dropped away again. ‘I hated it, growing up. I used to get teased mercilessly.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
Strangely, it was something that Cressida and Tilly had in common. They’d discussed the dislike they’d felt as children, for having such unique colouring.
‘Yes, well—says you, who’s probably always looked like a mini-Greek god.’
The words were out before she could stop them.
‘I’m Italian,’ he pointed out, his grin doing strange things to her blood pressure. ‘And there is nothing miniature about me.’