In The Italian's Bed

She stood for several minutes at the door of the gallery, watching the activities outside, trying not to feel too letdown. She didn’t want to think of what she’d do if Ashley hadn’t turned up by Friday. The prospect of her stepmother flying out here to join the search didn’t bear thinking about.

There was a windsurfer out on the water. He had seemed fairly competent at first, but now she revised her opinion. He was probably a holiday-maker, she decided, trying his hand at sailing the narrow surfboard across the bay. And when an errant breeze caught the craft, he wobbled violently before overbalancing and tumbling head-first into the water.

To her relief, his head bobbed up almost instantly beside the capsized craft, but he couldn’t seem to pull it upright again. She’d seen the experts do it, vaulting onto the board and pulling up the sail, but this poor man could only drift helplessly towards shallower water.

Tess couldn’t suppress a giggle. Everyone on the beach and leaning on the seawall was enjoying his predicament. It wasn’t kind to laugh, but she couldn’t help herself. It was such a relief after the pressures she’d endured.

‘You seem happier, signorina,’ mused a low voice, and Tess turned her head to find Raphael di Castelli propped against the wall beside the door. His dark-complexioned features seemed absurdly familiar to her and she chided herself for the flicker of awareness that accompanied the thought.

‘Signor di Castelli,’ she said, knowing she sounded stiff and unwelcoming, but she hadn’t expected to see him again so soon. ‘You didn’t say you were coming to the gallery today.’

‘It was a sudden impulse,’ he said, straightening away from the wall, and she was instantly intimidated by his compelling appearance. He was dressed less formally this morning, though his black trousers and matching silk jacket were no less exclusive in design. Still, he wasn’t wearing a tie, she noticed, even if the dark curls of hair nestling in the open neckline of his black shirt provided a disturbing focus. ‘And who told you my name was di Castelli? Have you spoken to Ashley, after all?’

‘No, I haven’t.’ Tess was defensive now, backing into the gallery behind her, allowing him to fill the doorway as he followed her inside. Married men shouldn’t be so attractive, she thought, wishing she could be more objective. She didn’t want to prove that she was no better than her sister, wanting something—or someone—she could never have. ‘Besides,’ she added, striving for indifference, ‘that is your name, isn’t it?’ She paused and then went on defiantly, ‘I’m told you’re quite a celebrity around here.’

His eyes narrowed. It was obvious he didn’t like the idea that she had been discussing him with someone else. ‘Is that what your informant told you?’ he asked. ‘I think he is mistaken. Or perhaps you misunderstood.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Tess moved hurriedly to open the blinds, anything to dispel the pull of attraction that being alone in a darkened room with him engendered. She moistened her lips. ‘Did you forget something?’

Castelli arched a mocking brow. It seemed obvious that, unlike her, he had had plenty of experience with the opposite sex. And, just because he was married, he couldn’t help amusing himself at her expense. He must know from her attitude that she didn’t want him there, yet he seemed to get some satisfaction from her unease.

‘As a matter of fact, I was on my way to Viareggio when I saw you standing in the doorway,’ he declared at last, tracking her with his eyes as she moved around the room. ‘You looked—triste.’ Sad.

Tess caught her breath. ‘You don’t need to feel sorry for me, Signor di Castelli,’ she said sharply, resenting his implication. ‘I was just wasting time, actually. While I waited for my coffee to heat.’

Castelli regarded her indulgently. ‘If you say so, cara,’ he said. ‘But I know what I saw in your face.’

Tess stiffened. ‘Actually, I was watching a windsurfer,’ she said. ‘He made me laugh. Perhaps you mistook my expression for your own.’

‘Do not be so defensive, cara. It is natural that you should feel this—excursion—has not been as you planned.’

‘You got that right,’ said Tess, heading towards the office. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me…’

If she’d hoped he would take the hint and go, she was wrong. As she was standing staring down at the unappetising remains of her breakfast a shadow fell across the desk.

‘Come with me,’ he said, startling her more by his words than by his appearance in the office. She looked up to see he had his hands bracing his weight at either side of the door.

His jacket had parted and she noticed his flat stomach and the way his belt was slung low over his hips. Taut muscles caused the buttons of his shirt to gape; tawny eyes, narrowed in sensual appraisal, caused heat to spread unchecked through every pore.

Realising she was gazing at him like some infatuated teenager, Tess dragged her eyes back to the congealing pastry on the desk. ‘I can’t,’ she said, without even giving herself time to consider the invitation. He must have known she’d refuse or he’d never have offered, she assured herself. ‘I’m sorry. But it was kind of you to ask.’

‘Why?’

‘Why—what?’ she countered, prevaricating.

‘Why can you not come with me?’ he explained, enunciating each word as if she were an infant. ‘It is a beautiful day, no?’

‘No. That is, yes—’ Tess knew she must seem stupid, but it wasn’t her fault. He had no right to put her in such a position. ‘It is a beautiful day, but I can’t leave the gallery.’

Castelli’s mouth flattened. ‘Because Ashley asked you to be here?’ he queried sardonically. ‘Si, I can see you would feel it necessary to be loyal to her.’

Tess stiffened. ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic.’ She paused. ‘In any case, I have to be here in case she rings.’

Castelli straightened away from the door. ‘You think she will ring?’

Tess shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

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