He looked across at her. Was it the candlelight, or the wine, or the stars still dim in the sky above? Whatever it was there was something in his face, in his eyes, that had not been there before. Something in his gaze.
‘You are right—we must,’ he said. ‘For their sakes as well as ours. The good memories—yes, those we must remember and cherish.’
He held her gaze. Then, lifting his wine glass, he titled it at her. The ruby wine caught the candle flame, reflected it in its depths. It was reflected in the depths of his dark eyes too, lightening them.
‘And this will be one of them,’ he said. His voice was different now. Lighter, like the expression in his eyes. ‘So let’s drink to it.’
She reached for her glass, not dropping his gaze, letting him touch her glass with his.
‘Saluti,’he said. ‘To a good day, a relaxing gourmet evening—and to all that is yet to come.’
For a moment—just a moment—she felt something flicker deep inside her, as if the flame reflected in the wine and in his dark eyes were flickering inside her as well.
Then he was taking a mouthful of the wine, draining his glass. He lifted a hand, summoned a waiter to their table with an easy gesture, asked for the dessert menu.
‘The dulce here are famed!’ he told Lana smilingly. ‘And since you are off your model’s diet you can indulge to the max. Indulge,’ he said, and his long lashes swept momentarily down over his eyes, ‘in everything...’
Was there a husk in his voice? She was imagining it, surely. There was no need for her to hear one. No need for anything, in fact, except to take the gilt-edged menu card being presented to her by the returning waiter and put her mind to the tempting task of selecting something highly calorific and even more delicious.
The dulce, after all, were all that she must be tempted by.
Dulce... she thought driftingly, as she made her choice—a rich, caramel-based crema that Salvatore had recommended as a speciality of the house and which she had been happy to agree to—dulce meant ‘sweet’. Her gaze went back to Salvatore as he relayed their identical choice to the waiter, who disappeared off.
And this is sweet—this whole evening with him. Sweet to sit here, high over this fabled city, wining and dining, just us, together, not on show, not pretending to be what we are not—just being who we are.
The wine was sweet in her veins, the air sweet in her throat, and the sight of Salvatore, so incredibly good-looking, so impossible to tear her gaze from, so sweet to gaze at...
She knew she was a little intoxicated—knew it and didn’t mind...didn’t care. Knew that it was good—sweet—just to sit here, in this beautiful place, with the ambience, the view, the warmth all around her and Salvatore to gaze at...
He met her gaze. Smiled.
And it seemed very good to her.
Sweet.
I don’t want this to end. The thought moved through her head. I want to go on sitting here, gazing at him, because it’s all I want to do.
It was strange... Strange because a stranger was what he was to her. What else could he be?
It was a question she should not have asked. Because it came with an answer that was impossible. Just impossible.
He is no longer a stranger to me.
The lights of the palazzo were welcoming in the velvet night as Salvatore got out of the car, turning back to help Lana out. She did not take his outstretched hand, merely stepped out with the natural elegance with which she always carried herself. Salvatore closed her door and nodded goodnight to his chauffeur. The car crunched slowly away around to the garages at the rear. As it departed Salvatore glanced at Lana, ready to usher her indoors, but she was standing gazing upwards.
‘What a glorious starry night!’ she exclaimed. ‘We couldn’t see it nearly as well in Florence, with the city lights.’
Salvatore followed her gaze. It was, indeed, a glorious starry night, with the Milky Way sweeping over the palazzo. Then his eyes dropped to Lana. Her uplifted face, the long, graceful line of her exposed throat and the soft contour of the plaited coil of her hair at the nape of her neck were all dimly lit by starlight and the few lights showing inside the palazzo, giving her an ethereal quality.
Instinct took over. Impulse. He stepped towards her.
All evening his consciousness of her had been growing and growing. To sit with her on the Falcone’s rooftop terrace, bathed in soft light, catching her fragrance in the warmth of the evening as the light dimmed and the city took on the glow of the night, its monuments bathed in iridescent up-lights... With no one but themselves to pay attention to, for all the other diners had only had eyes for each other in that most romantic of locales.
And I had eyes only for her—for her exquisite beauty.
And there had been something else too, he knew. Something that had come as they had touched upon the strange circumstances of their lives that were shared, each of them having lost their parents to tragic accident.
He felt emotion—alien, but present—move in him. Desire, yes, but something else, too. Something that had started to form, to flow between them. Something he was not used to.