‘I always thought it was girls who couldn’t throw, not boys. I’m sure this little lesson is supposed to be the other way round,’ she said.
‘Are you questioning my masculinity?’ Cristiano asked. His face was flushed from the cheese and red wine. They’d both indulged a little too freely, resulting in Cesca feeling a rush of drunkenness every time she bent down.
She shook her head, feeling the dizziness again. ‘Not at all, I’m just questioning your throwing skills. Didn’t you learn to do this when you were a kid?’
‘I grew up in the city, there wasn’t a lot of opportunity to throw stones,’ he told her, reaching out and taking a lock of her hair between his fingers. For some reason the gesture confused her, made her feel uncomfortable. She shuffled her feet, kicking at the shingle beneath her sandals.
She laughed again, but this time to disguise her embarrassment. ‘I grew up in the city, too. But throwing stones is a rite of passage. I feel as though you’ve missed out on an important development milestone.’ She stepped back, her hair pulling away from his hold. She sensed his frown, but couldn’t quite bring herself to meet his eyes. Cesca had never been very good at flirting, not even after a few glasses of the red stuff. She always felt slightly awkward whenever she sensed a man’s interest in her, as if she couldn’t work out what they wanted.
‘You have a very beautiful laugh,’ he told her. Though he kept his distance this time, Cesca felt a shot of warmth in her veins. Who didn’t like being told something like that?
‘You’ve been drinking too much.’
‘Not at all.’ He smiled again. ‘You’re not very good at accepting compl
iments, are you? I’ve found that with English women before. It’s as though you’re brought up believing the worst about yourself.’
She tipped her head to the side, pondering his words. ‘Are Italian girls brought up any differently?’
It was his turn to laugh, deep and low. ‘Being a man, I can’t say from experience. But I can tell you my sister was always complimented, always loved. Girls in this country grow up knowing there’s beauty in every size, every shape, and every shade of hair. Women are worshipped here in Italy, not criticised.’ His voice was soft as he spoke, his stare intense. Cesca could feel her heart start to race.
‘That sounds like a lovely way to grow up.’
‘I was taught from the earliest age to show women respect and adoration. It begins with our mothers, of course, but then we learn to appreciate the femininity that surrounds us as we get older. It makes me sad when women don’t understand their beauty and power. Especially one as lovely as you.’
Was it possible to be seduced by words alone? Cesca wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the wine again, sending shivers down her spine. Making her skin fizz and pop as if she’d just been doused in soda.
Her voice was raw when she spoke again. ‘That’s very kind of you.’ That was the best she could do. After a lifetime of turning away from compliments about her looks, she couldn’t change overnight.
‘It’s a start.’ He gave her a soft smile. ‘But if you’re going to spend time with me, you’ll have to learn to accept compliments all the time. A girl like you deserves them.’ His blue-eyed stare seemed to pierce her, and again she could feel the embarrassment suffusing her. He poured another glass of red and she accepted it gratefully, pleased to have something to do other than try to hide her red cheeks.
‘Shall we change the subject?’ he asked, clearly noticing her self-consciousness. ‘Why don’t you tell me what brought you to Italy? You said you were here on a working holiday.’ He took her hand, helping her to sit down on the soft shingle. He climbed down beside her, stretching his feet out until his bare toes touched the softly lapping water. Cesca did the same, though her legs were shorter, and the lake was still almost a foot away from her pink painted toenails.
‘I was offered a job. The people who own the villa – the Carltons – they’re friends of my godfather.’
‘That was nice of them to give you a job. Have you known them long?’
‘I’ve never met them,’ she told him. ‘Hugh, that’s my godfather, he’s in the theatre industry, just like Mr Carlton. They’ve run in the same circles for years, I think. And when I lost my job Hugh suggested this one, he thought I needed to get out of London.’
‘Because of the weather?’ Cristiano asked.
His question made her laugh. ‘No, not the weather. In fact it was very nice the last time I was there. It’s just I’d been having a bit of a bad time and he thought getting away would be good for me.’ Way to play things down. ‘A bit of a bad time’ didn’t really capture the lows of the last six years.
His features softened with concern. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Would it be wrong of me to ask what sort of bad time?’
Cesca was torn. This wasn’t the sort of conversation she had with just anybody. ‘I used to be a writer,’ she finally said, her voice quiet. ‘But then something happened and I had this terrible block. It made me get very low and depressed, and I couldn’t snap out of it.’ If this had been a real first date, and not some holiday conversation with a handsome neighbour, maybe she’d have glossed over her problems, and pretend to be all sweetness and light.
Thank goodness this wasn’t a first date then.
‘I knew there was something about you.’ He leaned closer. She could smell the woody fragrance of his cologne. ‘You have this lost look about you that makes me want to know more. It’s very enticing.’
He was close enough for Cesca to feel his breath against her cheek. Her heart almost stopped beating in her chest. She felt frozen to the ground. Was he going to kiss her? More importantly, did she want him to? He was very handsome, after all, and wasn’t afraid to show his interest in her. Something was missing, though, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
‘Can I kiss you?’ She felt his words brush against her skin. He cupped her neck with his hand, his fingers curling around her nape. It was only when she felt the softness of his lips brushing hers that she realised it wasn’t a question. It was a statement of intent.
Cesca closed her eyes, feeling his hand pulling her closer, his lips pressing harder against her mouth. She waited for that familiar warmth, for the butterflies, for that desperate need to kiss him back. Waited and waited.
But it didn’t come.