Page 14 of My Fake Italian Marriage

He turned to her, the moonlight casting the planes of his face into a play of shadow and light. “Where are you from?”

“England,” she answered, her tone curt. She’d heard that question enough times to know that it meant “You don’t belong here”.

Luca looked baffled. “You told me you grew up on a wine farm. England is not known for its vineyards—at least not until recently, with climate change making the temperatures more conducive to grapes.”

She released a pent-up breath. “I grew up in the town of Stellenbosch in South Africa.”

His eyes lit up. “Good white wine terroir.”

“And good reds too.” She might not be a wine expert, but she’d helped pick enough pinot noir grapes in her childhood to know that much.

“Are your parents still there?”

She shook her head. “My family emigrated to the UK a few years after I did. They have a farm in Dorset now. I visit as often as I can, but…” She shrugged.

“But you’re a big city banker now,” he finished for her. Then he grinned. “Do you ever make time for fun?”

She heard the suggestive emphasis he placed on the word “fun”, the opening move in a game she didn’t want to play. She twirled the stem of the rose he’d given her between her fingers, careful not to prick herself on the thorns. “You’re wasting your time.”

“Oh?” He arched an elegant eyebrow.

“Your attempted seduction won’t work on me. Whatever you and your parents hope to gain from me, you’re not going to get it with moonlight and roses and an impressive lineage.”

He smiled. “Then how will we get it?”

“Be honest with me. That’s all I ask.”

“That’s all?” His gaze held hers, then he nodded. “And you will be honest with me?”

It was her turn to arch an eyebrow. She was always honest. Brutally so, she’d been told on more than one occasion.

“Why will you not be seduced?”

Drat. Did she really have to answer that? Couldn’t he have asked something simpler, like the vineyard’s debt-to-equity ratio? But as much as she didn’t want to bare her soul, this honesty thing had to be a two-way street to work. She blew out a breath. “Because I’ve encountered your type before.” And no way on earth was she going back there. Nope, she was too smart to make that mistake again.

Luca laid a hand over his heart, feigning a wounded look. “I am hurt that you believe I would break your heart just because another man did.”

“Why do you think I had my heart broken?”

“Because when a woman says she doesn’t trust a ‘type’, it is always because someone broke her heart.”

She laughed. “Did you study pop psychology in law school too?”

He shrugged. “I have known many women. Who is he, this man who hurt you?”

Nothe, butthey. And she doubted that the third time would be the charm. But she wasn’t ready to be so honest with Luca that she’d reveal her embarrassing past. Since she hated to lie, avoidance was her best strategy. She resumed her walk, slower and more deliberate now, placing a bed of roses between them. “For the record, I broke up with Evan, not the other way around. I was tired of being treated like I wasn’t worthy.” Not worthy of being introduced to his friends or his family, and she’d realised too late that he would never be serious about her because she wasn’t in his “class”. She’d learned that the class divide in England was far more rigid than it had ever been in South Africa. Despite a fancy education and a successful career, to men like Evan—and the Fioravantis—she would always carry the taint of the working class.

“That was his loss.” Luca used his gravelly voice again. He couldn’t lay off the seduction routine, could he?

Then he laughed. “You wanted to roll your eyes at me again, didn’t you? But it’s not just a line. You are a beautiful woman, and clearly intelligent and successful. Any man would be lucky to be with you.”

Another line she’d heard before.

“My mother grows flowers too.” It wasn’t a change of subject as much as a reminder to herself of the gulf between them. Signora Fioravanti did not grow these roses to sell at the flower market as her mother did. That difference alone was enough to make her impervious to Luca’s attempts at flirtation. With a shake of her head, she turned her back on him and re-traced their footsteps back to the house.

ChapterSeven

Chi ha buona cantina in casa non va pel vino all’osteria.

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