A Taste Of Italy: Midwife, Mother...Italian's Wife. Fiona McArthur

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      The contact hadn’t been what she expected and the dancing had increased her need to distance herself from this haughty stranger even more. It had been ridiculous the way they’d danced together as if they’d spent years, not seconds, training to synchronise. Not a common occurrence with her local partners but maybe she was imagining it just because he was taller and stronger, and decidedly more masterful, than most men she danced with.

      Or maybe the strength of her disquiet about him had made her more aware. Either way she wasn’t interested and needed to get away from him to her friends.

      ‘Thank you.’ She didn’t meet his eyes and instead glanced around at the crowded dance floor. ‘Everyone seems to be up now. If you’ll excuse me?’

      Leon raised one sardonic eyebrow at her apparent haste. ‘You have somewhere you need to run off to?’

      She opened her mouth to fabricate an excuse when the glowing bride, her best friend, Emma, dragged her smiling new husband across to his brother. ‘Tammy! You and Leon dance wonderfully together.’ She beamed at her husband, and the look that passed between them made Tammy glance away with a twist of ridiculous wistfulness.

      ‘Almost as good as us,’ Emma went on. ‘Isn’t my wedding beautiful?’

      ‘Truly magnificent,’ Leon said, and glanced at Gianni. ‘Your organisational skills exceed even what I expected.’

      ‘Nothing is too perfect for my wife.’ Gianni, tall and solid like his brother, stroked Emma’s cheek, and then looked across at Tammy. He smiled. ‘And your partner for tonight?’ He kissed his fingers. ‘Bellissimo. You, too, are blessed, brother. Tammy is another of the midwives here. Has she told you?’

      ‘We’ve had little time for discussion.’ Leon leaned forward and unexpectedly took Tammy’s hand in his large one again. He held it firmly and the wicked glint in his eyes when he looked at her said he knew she wouldn’t quibble in front of her friend. ‘I was just going to find us a drink and sit down for a chat.’

      Dear Emma looked so delighted Tammy didn’t have the heart to snatch her fingers free, so she smiled, ignored the restart of the buzz in her fingers and wondered bitterly if her teeth would ache tonight from all the clenching she’d done today.

      The music started and Gianni held out his hand to his wife. Emma nodded. ‘I’ll see you back at the bridal table, Tammy, after this dance. I want to tell you something.’ Then Emma smiled blithely at them, sighed into her husband’s arms and danced away.

      Tammy looked around for escape but there was none. Trapped by her friend. Great. Leon held firmly on to her hand and steered her off the floor towards the official table. Unobtrusively Tammy tugged at her fingers and finally he let her hand free. She leaned towards him with a grim smile and, barely moving her lips, let him have it. ‘Don’t ever do that again or you will get more than you bargained for.’

      ‘Tut. Temper.’ He glanced down at her, amused rather than chastened by her warning, which made her more cross.

      She grimaced a smile again and muttered, ‘You have no idea,’ as he pulled her chair out. She slipped into the chair and shifted it slightly so that it faced towards the dance floor and her shoulder tilted away from him.

      When he returned with two tiny champagne flutes Leon was fairly sure she didn’t realise the angle she gave him lent a delightful view of her long neck and the cleft below the hollow of her throat…and there was that incredible drift of scent again.

      He controlled his urge to move closer. This woman had invaded his senses on many unexpected levels and here he was toying with games he hadn’t played since his amorous youth.

      ‘Drink your wine,’ he said.

      She turned to him and her eyes narrowed blue fire at him. ‘Were you born this arrogant or did you grow into it?’

      So, her temper remained unimproved. She amused him. He shrugged and baited her. ‘Bonmaritos have been in Portofino for six generations. My family are very wealthy.’

      She lifted one elegant shoulder in imitation. ‘Big deal. So were mine and my childhood was less than ideal.’

      ‘And you are not arrogant?’ To his surprise she looked at him and then smiled at his comment. And then to his utter astonishment she threw back her head and laughed. A throaty chortle that had his own mouth curve in appreciation.

      Her whole face had softened. ‘Actually, I’ve been told I am.’

      When she laughed she changed from being a very attractive but moody woman into a delightful seductress he could not take his eyes off, and when she shuffled her chair back and studied him for a change, he felt the shift in their rapport like a fresh breeze. A dangerous, whimsical, warning breeze that he should flee from.

      He shifted closer. ‘So tell me, Tammy, is this your full name?’

      ‘Tamara Delilah Moore, but nobody calls me that.’

      ‘Delilah I believe. Tamara?’ He rolled the name off his tongue as if sampling it, found the taste delightful and he nodded. That suited her better. ‘There was a famous noblewoman called Tamara in Roman mythology. She, too, was tall and apparently rather arrogant. How ironic.’

      ‘Really?’ She raised those stern eyebrows of hers and Leon realised he liked the way she responded fearlessly to his bait. ‘What if I say you’re making that up?’

      The music lilted around them playfully and helped the mood stay light. ‘I would have to defend myself.’

      She glanced down at her hands and spread them to look at her fingertips as if absorbed in her French manicure. He almost missed her comment. ‘You nearly had to defend yourself in a more physical way earlier.’

      So. More fire. He straightened and met her eyes with a challenge. ‘I had the utmost faith in your control. You’d exhibited control all day. It’s a wonder your teeth aren’t aching.’

      She blinked, glanced at him with an arrested expression and then laughed again. He felt the smile on his face. A deeper more genuine smile than he’d had for a long time. It felt surprisingly good to make her laugh.

      Not something he’d been known for much in the past but her amusement warmed him in a place that had been cold for too long. ‘Of course I also have a slight weight advantage.’

      ‘And I have a black belt in karate.’ She picked up one of the biscotti favours from a plate on the table and unconsciously broke a piece off, weighing it in her hand before putting it to her mouth. That curved and perfect mouth he’d been trying not to look at for the past ten minutes.

      Karate. He searched for an image of sweating women in tracksuits he could call to mind, or the name of the white pyjamalike uniform people wore for martial arts, anything to take his mind off the sight of her lips parting as she absently turned him on.

      ‘How long are you staying before you head back to Italy?’ she said carelessly as she raised the biscuit shard. His gaze followed her fingers, drawn by invisible fields of magnetism and, unconsciously, he held his breath. Gi. The uniform was called gi.

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