She wrinkled her nose as she tilted her face to his. ‘I’ve never been to Venice.’
‘No?’
She shook her head. ‘In fact, I haven’t been to Italy in a long time—fourteen years. But as a girl, I always loved it.’
‘Where, in particular?’
‘Florence. Rome.’ She sighed, as memories tugged at her. It had been a different time of life. A better time, in some ways, and their occasional holiday abroad had been an escape from the doom and gloom and oppressive resentment that lived within the walls of Hughenwood.
‘Did you buy other clothes, at Harrods?’
Her skin paled and he regretted having asked the question immediately. ‘No. Why?’ She looked down at the dress, and when she lifted her eyes to his face and he saw the shame lining her features, he could have kicked himself for being so insensitive.
‘I know, my wardrobe isn’t exactly...sophisticated. You’re probably embarrassed to be seen with me.’
Idiot. He shook his head, moving towards her. ‘No.’ He pressed his finger to her chin, ignoring the blade of white heat that speared his side at the innocuous contact. ‘I didn’t mean that.’ Didn’t you? What had you meant, then? ‘I intended for you to have new clothes because I presumed you’d like it. I gather your finances have been straitened in recent times, and that your wardrobe reflects that. The account was set up at Harrods for this purpose, not just for a wedding dress.’
‘Oh, I see.’ She swallowed, pulling free of his contact, looking beyond the windows, her delicate features concealing a storm of emotions he couldn’t interpret. ‘Shall we go?’ The forced brightness in her tone made him want to eat his stupid question right back up, but instead, Luca nodded, gesturing towards the door.
Out in public was definitely better than here, alone. ‘Yes. Andiamo.’
The hotel restaurant was beautiful, the food beyond compare, but instead Luca chose a small trattoria a five-minute speedboat ride away, and spent the entire trip trying to ignore the way Olivia’s hair whipped her face and her hands flailed to catch it, tried to ignore the desire to reach out and help her, to offer to hold her hair for her, a fist wrapped around those silky blonde ends until the boat stopped and he could tilt her head to his, capturing her mouth once more...
Hell.
The trattoria was busy, just as he’d hoped, the lighting hardly what could be described as ‘ambient’. The owner had run the same fluorescents for as long as Luca had been coming here, but the meals were exceptional, proper local cooking, hearty and plain. No fuss, no Instagram-worthy presentation or indoor plants, just good, old-fashioned food, wine and service. As a result, the tourist trade largely bypassed the trattoria, leaving a swell of locals, so the voices that reached his ears were unmistakably Italian. But as they were led to their table, Luca realised the error of his ways. The restaurant was so crowded that there was anonymity in every corner.
‘This is nice.’ Olivia sounded surprised, and amusement crested inside Luca.
‘It’s quite ordinary actually. Hardly a romantic honeymoon destination.’
‘But this isn’t a real honeymoon,’ she rushed to remind him. ‘Romance definitely isn’t necessary. Just a few photos.’
‘Of course.’ Had he seriously forgotten? Or just been playing along?
The waiter appeared, brandishing two laminated menus and a wine list. Luca scanned the drinks and flicked a gaze at Olivia, who was determinedly staring at the menu. He wished she wouldn’t do that. It made him want to resort to underhanded techniques for attracting her attention, like brushing his feet against her ankles as he had at the restaurant, right after their wedding. He took a perverse pleasure out of watching her responses to him, out of seeing the way her cheeks darkened or her eyes exploded with sensual curiosity. But it was playing with fire, and surely he was smarter than that? ‘Wine? Champagne?’
‘Bubbles, yes. That Prosecco this afternoon was lovely.’
Luca didn’t tell her that the bottle had cost almost a thousand euros. He ordered another and handed the wine list back to the waiter, then gave the full force of his attention to his wife. The word shuddered through him like a sort of nightmare. But Olivia was nothing like Jayne, and their marriage was nothing like his first had been.
‘Would you like help with the menu?’
She chewed on her lower lip and he wanted to reach across and wipe his thumb over her skin to stop the gesture—it was too sensual, too distracting. ‘I should be able to read this better than I can. Even though mum’s Italian, she rarely spoke her native language at home.’
‘Why not?’
Because Dad didn’t like it. She swallowed the acerbic response, reminding herself that their deal included not getting too personal. ‘Just easier that way,’ she said with a lift of her shoulders.
‘Easier?’
‘We lived in England,’ she reminded him. ‘We all spoke English.’
‘I grew up bilingual despite the fact both my parents were Italian, and I was mostly raised in Italy.’
She dismissed him with a tight smile, but Luca didn’t want to be dismissed. ‘She didn’t cook Italian food?’
‘She didn’t cook at all,’ Olivia responded with a natural smile. ‘We had staff for that, until...’