The Italian's Love-Child

He shook his head. ‘Forgive me, but—’

‘You bought me a ticket for a dance.’

Something stirred on the outskirts of his mind. A hazy recollection of a sweet, clumsy girl who was trying to look too old for her age. His eyes widened ever so slightly. How little girls grew up! He nodded slowly. ‘Yes. I remember now.’

‘And I never got the chance to thank you. So thank you.’ She smiled, the brisk, charming smile she used to such great effect in her professional life.

‘You’re welcome,’ he murmured, thinking how time could transform. Was this sleek, confident woman really one and the same person?

His dark eyes gleamed and suddenly Eve felt vulnerable. And tired. She didn’t want to flirt or make small talk with him—for there was still something about him which spelt danger and unobtainability. A gorgeous man who was passing through, that was all, same as last time. Stifling a yawn, she glanced at her watch. ‘Time I was going.’

Luca’s eyes narrowed in surprise. This was usually his line and never, ever had a woman yawned when he had been talking to her—not unless he had spent the previous night making love to her. ‘But it’s only nine o’clock.’ He frowned. ‘Why so early?’

‘Because I have to work in the morning.’

‘I am not sure that I believe you.’

‘That, of course, is your prerogative, Mr Cardelli,’ she returned sweetly

He stilled. ‘So you remember my surname, too?’

‘I have a good memory for names.’

‘Unlike me.’ He glittered her a smile. ‘So you had better remind me of yours.’

‘It’s Eve. Eve Peters.’

Eve. It conjured up a vision of the first woman; the only woman. It was a small, simple and yet powerful name. It spoke of things lush and coiling. Of a fallen woman, driven by lust and the forbidden. He wanted to make a mocking joke about serpents, but something in those intelligent eyes stopped him. ‘So what kind of job gets you up so early, Miss Peters? You’re a nurse?’ he guessed. ‘Either that, or you milk cows?’

Eve laughed in spite of herself. ‘Wrong!’ She didn’t want to be charmed by him, or made to laugh by him. She wanted to get away and she wanted it now. He unsettled her, made her feel like the woman she wasn’t. She liked to be in control. She was calm, and considered and logical, and yet right now she was having the kind of fantasy which was more suited to the naïve adolescent she had abandoned that night along with the borrowed dress. Wondering what it would be like to be in Luca Cardelli’

s arms and to be made love to by him.

The filmy cream shirt meant that she could faintly see the whorls of hair which darkened the tight, hard chest and for one wild and crazy moment she imagined herself pressed against him, the strong arms enfolding her in a magic circle from which no woman would ever want to escape.

Luca saw her green-grey eyes momentarily darken and he felt an unexpected answering ache. ‘Don’t go,’ he urged softly. ‘Stay a little while and talk to me.’

His body had tensed and a drift of raw, feral male scent began to intoxicate her. ‘I can’t,’ she said, with a smile she hoped wasn’t weak or uncertain. She put her glass down on the window-ledge. ‘I really must go.’

‘That, of course, is your prerogative,’ he said mockingly.

Her resolve was beginning to fail her. ‘Goodbye,’ she said. ‘It was nice to see you again.’

‘Arrivederci, cara.’ He stood and watched her weave her way through the room, his face giving nothing away. And maybe the blonde had been watching, for she reappeared by his side, looking like a tiny, overstuffed cushion in comparison to Eve’s slender height and suddenly her simpering presence was cloying and not to be endured.

‘I thought you were going to make a phone call, Luca,’ she pouted.

Did she spend her whole life pouting? he wondered with a faint air of irritation.

‘I was distracted,’ he drawled. ‘But thank you for reminding me.’

It hadn’t been what she had meant to happen at all, and the blonde’s mouth fell open in protest, but Luca had gone, pulling his mobile phone out of his pocket, and he went to stand outside, for privacy and for a better signal.

And better to watch the shadowy figure of Eve Peters as she walked down the path with the moonlit water dappling in the soft night air behind her.

CHAPTER TWO

EVE knew that people thought that working in television was glamorous, but people were wrong. Waking up at three-thirty had never been easy and the following morning was no exception, made worse by a foul, chill wind blowing in, which had the kind of drizzle which could turn the straightest hair into a frizzy cloud.