‘It’s all arranged,’ he said, as if brooking no contestation of what he wanted.
‘Then of course...’ Lana said acquiescently.
She wasn’t dressed for somewhere as swanky as the Falcone was obviously going to be, but if that didn’t bother Salvatore it need not bother her. He was casually dressed himself, in an open-neck shirt and linen jacket, with light trousers and, like her, comfortable walking shoes. She gave an inward sigh. He looked as drop-dead gorgeous in this outfit as he did in every other. Wearing dark glasses, as he had for much of the day, only added to it.
What am I going to do about this...?
The troubling thought plucked at her. She needed to stop being so aware of him physically the whole time. She had a whole year to get through, after all.
Perhaps, after a few weeks—a few months—the constant awareness would wear off.
It was a frail hope, but the only one available.
Salvatore sat back in his chair at their table on the roof terrace of the Falcone and looked across at the woman he was dining with. She looked as effortlessly beautiful as ever. Her dress might be casual, her hair drawn back in a plait that she’d wound around itself at the nape of her neck to keep it out of the way and her make-up nothing more than mascara and lip gloss. But that did not detract from her allure one iota.
She possessed a naturally bestowed beauty that had had male heads turning all day. She’d seemed oblivious to it—or perhaps, given her career, simply indifferent. He was glad of it. There was only one man he didn’t want her indifferent to.
Except... His face tightened minutely. That seemed to be exactly what she was to him. Even after spending a day with her he saw nothing in her behaviour that had not been there before. She’d shown interest in what he was telling her, asked pertinent questions, displayed an informed level of general knowledge about the Renaissance. But nothing more than that.
She was civil and polite, but...
Guarded. Was that the word for the way she was with him?
Perhaps, though, he only had himself to blame for that. His state of tension when he’d first arrived in Rome had made him, he acknowledged, less than relaxed with her. He’d needed her to get it all right, what he required of her, to perform the way he’d wanted her to do.
Now, though, with mission accomplished—Giavanna stymied and her father perforce accepting his ambitions had been thwarted—away from the fishbowl and gossip hive of Rome, he could afford to be more relaxed.
And so could she.
He’d chosen the rooftop restaurant of the Falcone hotel for its famous vista over the rooftops of Florence, looking towards the basilica. The evening was warm, the lights low, and the candles on the tables were throwing a soft glow over the scene. It had been a long day, and both of them had been glad to sit down and make their choices from the superb menu. Now, as they sipped their aperitivos, Salvatore’s eyes went to Lana, who was gazing appreciatively out over the city. For himself, he was gazing appreciatively over her.
‘So, have you enjoyed today?’ he asked.
She turned back at his question, a smile on her face. ‘Yes, indeed. How could I not? It’s been very good of you.’
He made a negating gesture with his hand. ‘I was happy to do so,’ he said.
There was a hint of brusqueness in his voice—impatience, even, and he was aware of it. Aware of why it was there. She didn’t have to tell him it had been ‘good’ of him, as if he were doing her a favour he did not need to. Or want to.
‘Next time,’ he went on, ‘you shall see the Uffizi. A private tour would be best.’
She shook her head. ‘Oh, no, please don’t. That’s quite unnecessary. A timed booking to avoid the queues would be fine, and much less expensive.’
He raised an eyebrow. She came from a different world from him. It had been easy to forget that this last week, showing her off in Rome, couture-gowned and wearing jewellery she’d never be able to afford in all her life.
And now she is my wife.
Except that had it not been for the necessity of spiking Roberto’s guns she would not be his wife at all. She’d be here as his latest inamorata—nothing more than that. He found his gaze slipping down to where her wedding band glinted in the candlelight as she lifted her glass to her lips. His own glinted too.
He drew a breath, not wanting to think about it. Marriage had been necessary—that was all there was to it. It was irrelevant, therefore, that it had not been by choice.
When would it ever be by choice?
The caustic words shaped in his head, long familiar to him.
‘A private tour is far preferable,’ he said, closing the subject. ‘I’ll arrange it for next time we come here.’
The waiter was hovering to take their order, and he turned his attention to that instead. Thecuisineat the Falcone was first class, and never disappointed.