The Italians: Rico, Antonio and Giovanni. Kate Hardy

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      Ella could tell her best friend was still suspicious of Rico, though the fact that he was helping to clear up without being asked had redeemed him a bit in Julia’s eyes.

      ‘Is there anything else that needs doing?’ he asked when he’d finished drying the crockery and Julia had put it away.

      ‘No.’

      ‘Good.’ He rinsed out the sink. ‘Can I give you a lift home, Julia?’

      ‘No, I’m fine—I’m only two stops away on the Tube.’

      Ella blinked at him. ‘You drove here?’

      ‘No, I don’t have a car in London. I called a taxi.’ Rico flicked open his phone and speed-dialled a number. ‘Address?’ he asked.

      ‘Here?’

      ‘No. Your address.’

      Of course. She was too tired to think straight. And that kiss earlier hadn’t helped. She couldn’t stop thinking about it, about the way he made her feel. Bad, bad idea. She mumbled her address at him.

      ‘The taxi will be here in a quarter of an hour,’ he said.

      It gave them enough time to lock up.

      ‘I think,’ he said softly when they were inside her flat, ‘you’re too tired to talk tonight.’

      ‘I am.’

      ‘You look all in.’ He rummaged in her fridge.

      She frowned. ‘What are you doing?’

      ‘Making you something to eat.’

      ‘I’m not hungry.’

      ‘Tough. You need to eat to keep your strength up. Especially if you’re working crazy hours.’

      He made her an omelette, then sat opposite her with his arms folded until she ate it. The food was surprisingly good, but then she already knew he could cook. One thing he hadn’t lied about.

      ‘Aren’t you having anything?’ she asked.

      ‘I’ll eat later.’ He flapped a dismissive hand. ‘I don’t usually eat until late anyway.’

      He washed up her empty plate and cleared up in the kitchen. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow. We can do lunch, or dinner—whatever fits in your schedule.’

      ‘What about yours?’

      ‘I can be flexible.’ He touched her cheek gently with the backs of his fingers, a sweet and cherishing gesture. ‘Goodnight, Ella bellezza. I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Sleep well.’

      She was pretty sure she wouldn’t. He’d just turned her upside down all over again.

      And yet she was out like a light the second her head hit the pillow. The next thing she knew, her alarm was beeping crazily.

      She showered and washed her hair, and was halfway through drinking a mug of coffee when the phone rang. She grabbed it without looking at the display. ‘Ella Chandler.’

      ‘Buongiorno, Ella bellezza.’’

      That sexy, melted-chocolate voice undid all the good that the caffeine had done in sharpening her brain again. And she hated the way her libido betrayed her like this, turning her into a puddle of hormones. A pushover. ‘Good morning.’

      ‘So, are you having lunch with me today or dinner?’

      ‘Do we really have anything to say to each other?’

      ‘I think we do.’

      She sighed. ‘Dinner, then.’

      ‘Good. I’ll pick you up at eight.’

      Before she could protest, the line went dead.

      She replaced the receiver. God only knew what she was getting herself into, agreeing to have dinner with him and talk. And yet there was a frisson of excitement running down her spine, and the world suddenly seemed a brighter, more vibrant place than it had since she’d come back from Rome.

      ‘Just remember that he’s a liar,’ she told herself. ‘OK, so he’s gorgeous and I have the hots for him. But he’s still a liar, first and foremost.’ And she had no intention of getting hurt again. Which meant most definitely not getting involved with Rico. Not now, not ever.

       CHAPTER SIX

      ELLA managed to keep her mind on her work—just—but by half-past seven she was antsy. Rico hadn’t given her any idea about where they were going, so she had no idea what the dress code was. She didn’t possess a little black dress; the one she’d bought in Rome had gone straight to a charity shop as soon as she’d washed and ironed it.

      In the end, she decided to wear one of the suits she’d worn in her office job. Formal and smart might be the way to go. A suit of armour would be better still, but a work suit would have to do.

      He was as prompt as he’d been in Rome, ringing her doorbell at exactly eight o’clock. It was the first time she’d seen him wearing a suit, and he looked absolutely stunning. The dark grey material, teamed with one of his trademark crisp white shirts and a silk tie, emphasised his good looks. He was utterly breathtaking—and she wanted.

      ‘You look very nice,’ he said, disarming her.

      ‘Thank you.’ And why was it that, even though she knew what a liar he was, her knees still went weak when he smiled? Cross with herself for being such a pushover, she asked, ‘Where are we going?’

      ‘My hotel.’

      Somewhere private. Oh, help. She remembered what happened when they were in private hotel rooms together.

      ‘We’ll talk in my room. And then we’ll order dinner,’ he said.

      ‘And I get no say in this?’

      He spread his hands. ‘I just said we’ll talk in my room.’

      She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘You’re being bossy.’

      He shrugged. ‘We agreed to talk. And it makes sense for it to be the hotel; it’s neutral ground, and somewhere we won’t be overheard.’

      She locked the door behind her and followed him out to the taxi. He didn’t start a conversation, and she didn’t have a clue what to say without making a fool of herself, so they remained in silence until the taxi pulled up outside a boutique hotel in Bloomsbury.

      ‘Fountain Hotel’ was etched into the glass of the doors. Definitely a link with Rome, she thought.

      ‘Is this the hotel you’re thinking СКАЧАТЬ