Page 30 of My Fake Italian Marriage

“What time is it?” he asked groggily.

“Six o’clock.”

“Then why are we awake? Our first meeting is only at eight thirty.”

“Are you always this grumpy in the morning?”

“This isn’t grumpy. This is me not having slept all night.”

Cleo sat on the coffee table in front of him. She wore nothing more than a pair of skin-tight black leggings and a cropped, burgundy sports top which revealed a whole lot of smooth, bronzed skin. As it was still early, she wore her glasses in place of her contact lenses. He had a thing for women in glasses, and grumpy definitely wasn’t what he was feeling now, that was for sure.

He swallowed. “You are not planning to go to breakfast in the hotel dressed like that?”

“No, I’m heading out for a run. I don’t suppose you’d like to join me?” She pulled her hair back into a ponytail, securing it with a hairband, and it took all his effort to keep his gaze on her face rather than on the breasts stretching taut at his eye level.

“No, thanks. I can think of much more fun ways to exercise.”

She set her hands on her hips. “I was feeling sorry enough for you that I planned to let you have the bed tonight, but if you keep making comments like that, you’re sleeping on the couch again.”

He made his eyes wide and innocent. “What do you mean? I merely meant that I prefer playing football to running.”

“Yeah, right.” She picked up one of the sofa scatter cushions from the floor and tossed it at him. “I have brothers, remember? I recognise innuendo when I hear it.”

He laughed. “Enjoy your run. And thank you for the coffee.”

While she was out, he had a not-so-quick shower, shaved and dressed, hid the evidence that he’d slept on the sofa to avoid the housemaids’ gossiping, and was seated on their private terrace, with his feet up on the metal railing overlooking the lake, a second cup of coffee in his hands, by the time Cleo returned.

“You look more like your normal self,” she commented as she jogged on the spot, breasts bouncing. Was she deliberately teasing him, or was she unaware of what she did to him? He shifted in his seat, dropping his legs to the ground.

“Get dressed.” His voice came out gruffer than he intended. “Or we won’t have time for breakfast before our first interview.”

She laughed, bending to stretch out her calves. “Has anyone ever told you you’re cute when you’re bossy?”

She had to know what she was doing to him. Was this punishment for something he had—or hadn’t—done? “I’m not being bossy. It’s called leadership. Now please get dressed.”

Clearly his desperation finally registered because her eyes widened and she blushed. “Give me ten minutes.”

True to her word, ten minutes later she was ready to leave, dressed in far more appropriate clothing, and with her face made up. They followed the paved pathway to the main building, around the pool deck where a few sunbathers had already staked out their lounge chairs for the day. “Perhaps we should hold hands, in case The Arse is around,” Luca suggested. Not that he gave a damn about Evan The Arse. He was remembering their walk hand in hand along the lakeside last night … or was it early this morning?

She sent him an amused glance. “That won’t be necessary.”

They entered the breakfast room from the terrace overlooking the lake. He held open one of the French doors, then followed her into the bright, high-ceilinged room, startled when she suddenly clasped his hand, threading her fingers through his. “Maybe it is necessary, after all,” she muttered.

Evan and his fiancée sat at a table in front of one of the tall windows. Evan, looking over his fiancée’s shoulder, spotted them immediately, and even across the wide space of the sunlit room his scowl was evident.

“He’s jealous. He’s thinking he made a big mistake letting you go.” Luca raised her hand to his mouth, brushed a kiss across her knuckles, felt her shiver. The man had good reason to envy him. It was Luca holding her hand, Luca making her pupils dilate and her breath catch. “Not only him, but every other man in the room envies me right now.”

She rolled her eyes and pulled her hand away. “Do you practise those lines to get them that perfect?”

He chuckled. “I told you, it’s genetic.”

Pretending he hadn’t seen the other couple, Luca chose a table on the farthest side of the room. “He’ll give me indigestion with that glare,” he grumbled under his breath as they sat.

“He’s probably giving himself indigestion with that glare,” she responded, and he laughed.

After breakfast, their first meeting, with a vineyard manager from a small winery near Arezzo, took place on the terrace where the sun was already high and they could hear the splashes and laughter from the holidaymakers in the hotel pool. It took all Luca’s concentration to focus on the man they were interviewing and resist the temptation of that pool.

“Not a chance,” he said when the man left. “He’s nothing more than a bean counter.”

---