Page 34 of My Fake Italian Marriage

“You should have set him straight!”

“I tried,” he protested feebly. “But isn’t it better he thinks that you’re here withme, rather than word getting out that the vineyard is in financial trouble?”

Her eyes narrowed but she didn’t contradict him. He blew out a breath, though there was little relief in it.

By the time the waiter wheeled over the dessert trolley, she appeared to have forgiven him the deception, enough to agree to share a Mont Blanc pavlova dessert, chestnut cream over a mountain of chocolate meringue. Watching Cleo eat was as pleasurable as watching her taste wine. The way her eyes fluttered closed, her moan of pleasure as she savoured the sweetness on her tongue.

The music had grown livelier, the piped piano music replaced by a live band, and several couples moved onto the dance floor inside the restaurant. Cleo’s foot tapped out a rhythm under the table.

They emptied the wine bottle, and the waiter cleared away their empty plates, but neither moved to leave, not ready yet for the evening to end. Or, perhaps more accurately, not ready yet to be alone in the intimacy of their honeymoon suite, with this desire simmering between them.

As she watched the dancers, Cleo’s expression reflected the same suppressed excitement as when she’d asked to drive his car.

“Would you like to dance?” He rose and held out a hand to her.

“I thought you said no dancing was required tonight?” But she smiled, a flirty light in her eyes.

“Not required, but desired.”

She looked at his outstretched hand with a mix of reluctance and anticipation, then placed her hand in his and let him pull her to her feet.

He led her through the wide glass doors and onto the dance floor, where a light breeze drifted in from the lake. As the music flowed into a famous Dean Martin number, he took her in a loose hold, one hand on her waist, the other wrapped lightly around her fingers. “Do you know how to mambo?”

“Moira and I went to dance lessons about a hundred years ago.”

“It’s not something you forget.”

Their first steps together were hesitant, a little awkward, but Cleo was light on her feet and responsive to his lead. She danced the way she ate, living into it, using her whole body, with strong hip movements and quick footwork, well able to keep up with him in the fast-paced dance.

“Why did you and Moira learn to dance?” he asked as one song bled into another, and they moved into a more complicated Cha Cha.

She laughed. “We wanted to meet men.”

“And did you?”

“The only man our age was the very gay and very married dance instructor.” She smiled at the memory. “But he was a great teacher.”

He stepped up their dance, swaying them apart and together, adding in more complicated moves. The band shifted into an upbeat Camila Cabello song, a faster Cha Cha rhythm, and she kept right with him. Soon they’d carved out a small circle in the centre of the dance floor, the other dancers moving aside to give them space.

The song ended, the other dancers applauding the band, and Cleo collapsed against his chest, her cheeks flushed, tendrils of hair plastered to her neck. “I haven’t had this much fun in ages!”

He grinned. “Didn’t I tell you there were much more fun ways to exercise than running?”

The music changed to a more sedate, slow-paced song, and he moved them into a seductive rumba. Cleo glanced over his shoulder at the other couples around them on the dance floor. “Is this an Italian thing? Are all the men here taught to dance properly? Because in England I’ve barely met a handful who can do more than bounce to the music.”

He shook his head. “I can’t speak for other men, but my mother insisted we learn to dance.”

“We?”

Dio, why had he let that slip? He’d grown so comfortable in her presence that he’d forgotten to watch his tongue. He swept her into a spiral turn to distract her. When they came together again, he drew her against him, hip to hip, chest to chest. She lifted her heart-shaped face to his, her eyes hazy with desire. His heart pounded a staccato rhythm in his chest, and it took everything in him not to bend his head to kiss that lush mouth. He was the one who needed the distraction now.

And he got it. Over Cleo’s shoulder he spotted Vincenzo, seated at a table with a number of other cronies of his father. A cold chill skittered over his skin. He’d intended to allay any suppositions they might have about Cleo’s presence at the wine show, not to start a fire.

He created space between him and Cleo, though his body wanted nothing more than to pull her even closer. “It’s hot in here. Should we get some air?”

She nodded, and they slipped off the dance floor, heading for the outdoor deck which was deserted now, apart from a couple of waiters clearing tables and stacking chairs. The air was cool, chilly where it touched the sheen of sweat on his skin, and the voices and music were muted.

Luca leaned against the stone parapet surrounding the deck, looking out over the still, black water of the lake. The fairy lights circling the deck reflected on its obsidian surface.

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