Between the Italian's Sheets. Natalie Anderson

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      ‘Sì.’ He nodded, smiling like the Cheshire cat. ‘I need a new wallpaper photo for my phone. And this is such a spectacular view, don’t you think?’

      ‘I think the “view” is behind you. You know, the stage, the set, the orchestra.’

      ‘Oh, no, you’re wrong. The beauty of the night is right in front of me.’ As he put the phone thing in his pocket he held her gaze with a long, lazy, unmistakably challenging stare that she felt from the top of her head to her fingertips and all the way to her toes. And in all the secret spaces in between she burned. Spitting hot became unbearable—she was melting, literally melting at his feet. And stupidly she wished she were wearing something a little more glam than her cheap cotton skirt and tee combo. Why couldn’t she have a gorgeous black gown, some serious bling and ice-queen sophistication to set it off?

      She choked for real then—half giggling, half spluttering on a speck of something in her throat.

      Eyes watering, she heard his call to the passing waiter. He spoke rapidly in Italian. She didn’t catch a word of it. Only glimpsed the smile pass between the two men and then the money. He took the step separating where he stood and she sat, and handed her the bottle of water he’d just bought.

      ‘For your throat.’ Dry amusement was all obvious and all aggravating. ‘Please.’ He held the bottle a little closer, right in her face, and she knew he wasn’t going to remove it.

      What could she do? Act the totally irritated diva? She couldn’t, not when the opera hadn’t actually started, and he’d put the phone away and was suddenly smiling. It was some smile.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said, mentally blaming the breathiness of her reply on the awkward angle of her neck as she craned it right back to look at him.

      He sat in the gap next to her. ‘You’re looking forward to the opera?’

      ‘Yes.’ Where was Kate? Where was the conductor? But time was playing tricks and the tiniest of moments became eons.

      He nodded. ‘It is a good one. They perform it every year here.’

      ‘I know.’ She’d read it in the tourist books she’d devoured from the library. Right now her eyes were devouring something else. Up close he wasn’t just good-looking, he was incredible-looking. While his physical presence had been noticeable from a distance, nearer it was his expression that arrested her attention.

      He was tall, he was dark, he was handsome. So far, so cliché. Like almost every man she’d seen in this city he was immaculately groomed. But there was so much more. There was the strong, angled jaw and the faint shadow of stubble. And in the heart of that was his mouth—wide and full—contrasting with the steep planes of his cheekbones. That mouth raised questions that Emily wanted to answer—was it as smooth as it looked? Warm or cool? It was certainly infinitely touchable. Utterly inviting.

      Vying for first place with his lips were his eyes. Deep chocolate-brown, they were set off by the requisite thick, long lashes. But the chocolate didn’t have the dull, matte quality of a solid block. It was warm and glossy and liquid, the dark variety—there was no diluting milky sweetness. And at the very centre there was a hardness—a ‘don’t go there’ dangerous quality that totally aroused the curiosity of Pandora in Emily. It was like the bitterness at the bottom of a strong coffee or the darkest of dark chocolate that her taste buds both desired and recoiled from.

      ‘Aren’t you going to have your drink?’ He didn’t seem fazed by her scrutiny, instead seemed quite content to sit and study her right back. Closely.

      She remembered the bottle and marvelled that steam wasn’t rising from it. Surely the water should be boiling from the red-hot elements that were her hands?

      ‘I think you should,’ he spoke easily. ‘You seem thirsty.’

      That smile had broken the arrogant set to his features once more. A wide, sensual slash, his lips were surprisingly soft-looking, and framed white, straight, strong teeth. Oh, he had it all, didn’t he? The height and body of a champion athlete, and the full features of a sensuous lover.

      He glanced at the cheap cloth bag beside her, so obviously empty. ‘You have no picnic? No lover to share the music and the magic of the night with you?’ He gestured around them where many in the audience were snacking on treats stored in small baskets. Most were paired off, couples sitting close, the scent of romance heavy in the atmosphere.

      ‘I’m here with my sister. She’s just gone to get something.’ Emily’s defence mounted.

      ‘Ah, your sister.’ He nodded, tone cryptic.

      For want of something, anything to stop her staring at him, she flipped the lid on the water bottle.

      ‘Where are you from?’

      It was obvious to him that she was foreign. He’d spoken in English to her from the off. She figured it was the travel garb, the ancient clothes that had left that budget chain store many seasons ago and hadn’t ever seen an iron. She was no fabulous Italian fashionista.

      ‘New Zealand.’ She tossed her head, scraping for some pride.

      A hint of surprise lifted his expression. ‘You’ve come a long way. No wonder you’re looking forward to the music.’

      ‘Yes. I’ve wanted to come here for years.’ It had been her fantasy escape. Now she wanted to know if Italy was as warm and flavoursome a country as she’d always imagined. The opera had been the way to convince Kate to stop here en route to London.

      If Emily had both the choice and the money, she’d travel on to Venice, Florence, Rome…everywhere. Countless times she’d watched every Italian movie they had at the DVD store where she’d worked. She even had a few phrases to try out on friendly looking faces. She looked down at the stage, where the lights were gleaming and the orchestra was now waiting quietly. It was the realisation of a dream.

      Her irritation melted away and she drank from the water bottle—a long, deep swig that ended with an unstoppable sigh of satisfaction.

      Light, cool, strong fingers took her chin, and he turned her face back towards his. Stunned, she let him, silently absorbing the intensity of his expression, feeling it draw her even closer to him. And then it was only his index finger touching her, carefully sliding with gentle but firm pressure along her lower lip, rubbing the droplets of water into her dry lips.

      ‘Very thirsty,’ he said softly.

      As his fingers caressed sensations surged within her—the sparks of bliss in her nerve endings, the devilish desire to flick out her tongue and taste him.

      The audience of thousands was silent with expectation but it was nothing compared to the anticipation enthralling her. She didn’t want him to break the delightful contact. Rather the wish for more rocketed. This was crazy. She couldn’t want a complete stranger to kiss her, could she? To touch his lips to the spot where his finger now stroked?

      But yes. Emily, who had never been one for flings, let alone one-night stands, was almost overcome by the urge to lie back and let him do as he pleased—right here, right now, in an amphitheatre filled to capacity. The water bottle slid from her weak grasp to the stone seat beside her as she mumbled, ‘You realise it’s about to start?’

      His СКАЧАТЬ