Nor did it tonight and nor did the company. Or the ambience. As the meal progressed he made a focussed effort to set Lana at her ease. To put aside the tensions that had inevitably surrounded their time in Rome, where it had been essential she play her part to perfection.
Here, now, it was different.
Not having to act—play the bride and groom to everyone. Just being ourselves instead...
Relaxing after an enjoyable day. Setting aside any consciousness of the fact that they were married, because here, and now, it was completely irrelevant. Because here and now, as dusk faded and night gathered, the city lights pricking out beneath the unseen stars, only one thing mattered. Just as it had from the very first.
The fact that he desired her.
And the fact that she was also, as it happened, his wife, for the purposes for which he’d married her and for no other reason at all, was of no account at all.
There was wedding her and there was bedding her—and they were completely separate.
Lana drained the last of her wine, setting the glass back on the damask linen tablecloth. Her mood was strange. She had spoken the truth when she’d told Salvatore she’d enjoyed the day—how could anyone possibly not enjoy a day in Florence?
And with him to show it to me.
Her eyes went to him now, as he sat relaxed back in his chair, looking as lethal as ever. Somehow even more so, she thought, lounged back as he was, his wine glass held between long fingers, the open collar of his shirt framing the strong column of his neck, dark glasses casually pushed back on his sable hair. At his jaw the very faintest shadowing was visible, giving him a raffish allure. An allure of which two glasses of wine and an aperitivo was making her more than ever aware.
She was also all too conscious that it was enhanced by where they were—dining up here amongst the rooftops of Florence, beneath the stars. So ridiculously romantic...
Except that she must not think of it that way.
No, they were simply having dinner together, and the fact that they happened to be in such a ridiculously romantic location was nothing to do with them. Salvatore had chosen the spot because of the view and the excellence of the food. Their conversation over the meal had been innocuous, nothing personal—only about what they’d seen and what there was yet to see, both in Florence and in Tuscany further afield. It could have been a conversation between any two people, not herself and Salvatore. Not between two newlyweds.
But the marriage is irrelevant. It has nothing to do with us as people. It isn’t real at a personal level—how could it be?
There was nothing personal between them at all.
She dragged her gaze away from him, back over the rooftops of Florence. A much safer view than gazing at Salvatore.
She realised Salvatore was speaking again, diverting her thoughts from where it was pointless for them to go.
‘Do you know the story of how the architect Brunelleschi won the competition for constructing what was then the biggest dome in the world for the basilica?’
She frowned slightly, looking across at him as she answered. ‘My father explained it to me once—something about there being two domes, one inside the other, and the smaller one helped support the larger one?’ she ventured.
‘Essatamente,’said Salvatore.
‘My father always wanted to come and see it for himself. He and my mother were planning a holiday here when—’ She broke off, giving a slight shrug. ‘Well, they never made it here.’ Her voice was flat.
Her gaze went out over the rooftops again, towards the floodlit basilica with its famed octagonal cupula. Her throat had tightened. Painful emotion bit as she thought of her parents and their untimely deaths.
Then suddenly she felt her hand, lying on the tabletop, being pressed lightly.
Sympathetically.
‘Then they’ll be glad, won’t they, your parents, that you are here to see it for them?’ Salvatore said quietly.
Lana turned her head back. The look on his face was one of understanding, and she felt herself blink unaccountably. Then it was his gaze that was looking away. Far away...
‘My mother always loved Firenze,’ he said slowly, automatically giving the Italian name for Florence, Lana realised. ‘It gave her so much inspiration for the palazzo. She loved to browse here in all the antiques shops, buying furniture and art. It kept her occupied when—’
He broke off, made a slightly apologetic face at Lana. ‘I’m sorry. Ancient history.’ He reached for the wine bottle, pouring a little into Lana’s glass and into his, finishing the bottle.
‘Please don’t apologise,’ Lana said, her voice low and full of emotion. ‘Our memories are all we have and we must treasure them.’
She had heard the affection in his voice as he’d spoken of his mother, and knew without him telling her that she had been loved by him. She felt emotion come again—but this time for him, not for herself. Because he, like she, had suffered so grievous a loss.