Tall, Dark and Italian. Carol Marinelli

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      ‘Ashley’s sister,’ he said mildly and she sighed.

      ‘That’s the least of it and you know it.’ She paused. ‘I don’t fit the image of the kind of woman you obviously prefer.’

      He glanced her way then, and Tess was intensely conscious of the intimacy of his gaze. ‘And that image would be?’ he said, causing her no small measure of uneasiness. ‘Come, Tess, you cannot say something like that without elaborating. So tell me. What kind of woman do you think I like?’

      She bent her head in confusion. As usual, he was determined to have the last word. ‘Someone more sophisticated; someone more elegant,’ she muttered at last, lifting her hands and cupping the back of her neck almost defensively. Then, exasperated, ‘How do I know? I’m just guessing that your companions don’t usually wear shorts.’

      The car slowed then and for a moment she thought he was stopping so that he could continue the argument more forcefully. But, instead, he pulled onto a gravelled headland overlooking the beach below. There was a van parked there, too, the kind that supplied snacks and sandwiches to weary travellers, and, after turning off the engine, he said, ‘I think it is time for lunch, no?’

      Chapter Seven

      RAFE could see she was surprised by his choice of venue. It made him wish he had asked his housekeeper for a packed lunch that they could have eaten in more salubrious surroundings than this. But then, he hadn’t known he was going to ask Tess to join him when he’d left the villa that morning, he reflected drily. That impulse, like the impulse he had now to comb his fingers through the silky tangle of her hair, was not something he should consider repeating.

      Now, however, she looked at him out of the corners of those limpid green eyes of hers and he realised she had misread his intentions. ‘Do you usually patronise sandwich bars, signore?’ she asked tightly. ‘Or do you gauge your eating habits according to the sophistication of your companion?’

      Rafe pulled a wry face. ‘You are offended because I have not taken you to an expensive restaurant?’ he queried innocently, and saw the familiar colour darken her cheeks.

      ‘You know that’s not what I meant,’ she declared hotly, pushing her back against her seat. ‘But if you’re only stopping because of me, don’t bother. I rarely eat lunch anyway. I can wait until we get back to San Michele.’

      ‘Well, I cannot,’ he retorted, pushing open his door and getting out of the car. ‘And contrary to popular supposition, plenty of good food can be found at roadside kiosks, no?’

      ‘I can’t see you eating a burger, signore,’ said Tess, pushing open her own door and joining him. The brilliant noonday sun immediately burned on her uncovered head and shoulders, and she caught her breath. ‘Goodness, it’s hot!’

      Rafe studied her bare arms with some concern. ‘Perhaps you should stay in the car,’ he said, resisting the desire to smooth his fingers over her soft skin. ‘It is cooler there.’

      ‘What? And miss the chance to see what the chef has on offer?’ she asked lightly, and his pulse quickened at the unexpected humour in her face.

      ‘Okay.’ He saw her looking at the curving line of the shoreline that fell away below the promontory. ‘Let us get something to eat and drink and find somewhere more private to enjoy it, no?’

      Tess caught her breath. ‘You mean, go down to the beach?’ she asked, viewing the precipitate descent with some concern. ‘Isn’t it too steep?’

      ‘Do not tell me you are afraid of heights, cara.’ He teased her mercilessly. ‘Where is your sense of adventure?’

      Tess shook her head. ‘I don’t think I have one, signore,’ she murmured unhappily. ‘But—if you can do it—’

      ‘An old man like me, you mean?’ he queried wryly, and she turned to give him an impatient look.

      ‘You’re not old, signore,’ she protested, and he sighed at her continued use of the formal means of address.

      ‘Then why do you persist in calling me signore?’ he countered, his eyes intent on her flushed face. ‘You know my name, Tess. Use it.’

      ‘I—I don’t think I should call you Rafe,’ she exclaimed, and he had the impression that she found it difficult to drag her gaze away from his.

      ‘Why not?’

      He couldn’t prevent himself from pursuing it and this time she succeeded in breaking the connection. ‘Because—well, just because,’ she mumbled lamely. Then, in an effort to divert him, she added, ‘Oughtn’t we to choose a sandwich or something? The owner will think we’ve just stopped here for the view.’

      ‘Works for me,’ murmured Rafe before he could stop himself, and she cast one astonished look in his direction before moving away towards the van.

      Rafe was pleased to see that the man who ran the booth was offering cheese-filled panini and steaming slices of pizza as well as the more common tramezzini or sandwiches. There were ready-made salads, too, in foil-wrapped containers, and spicy bruschetta, spread with olive or tomato paste.

      It was obvious Tess didn’t know what to choose, so he took it upon himself to place two orders for pizza and salad, and a slice each of tiramisu for dessert. Sealed cups of black coffee completed the meal and he was aware that Tess looked at him rather doubtfully as he carried his purchases back to the car.

      ‘I—how do you propose to carry all that?’ she asked, and he remembered that she still thought he intended to scale the cliff to reach the beach.

      ‘You will see,’ he said, opening the boot of the Ferrari and putting the bags and containers inside. He smiled to himself at the thought of what his mother would think of him—as she would put it—abusing the automobile in this way. Tess hadn’t been far wrong. He wasn’t in the habit of eating the food from roadside kiosks. But that was not to say he wasn’t going to enjoy it this time.

      Tess was frowning now, and circling the car, he swung open her door. ‘Get in, per favore.’

      Tess hesitated. ‘I thought you said—’

      ‘Just get in,’ he urged her softly, and, although he could see the uncertainty in her face, she was too polite to refuse.

      He watched as she swung her legs inside, assuring himself he was only waiting to close the door when in his heart of hearts he knew he had a more personal reason. He enjoyed watching her, enjoyed disconcerting her. However much he might regret his impetuosity tomorrow, for today he intended to live each minute as it came.

      A moment later, he slid in beside her, instantly aware of the feminine aroma of her heated skin. It was a disturbing scent, unfamiliar and definitely sensual. It aroused him as nothing had that he could remember, and the urge to touch her was almost overwhelming.

      But he controlled himself, consigning the insistent pull of attraction to the back of his mind. All right, he sensed she was aware of him, too, but she’d probably run a mile if he acted on it. Apart from anything else, they hardly knew one another. So why did he feel as if he’d known her for half his life?

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