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Antonio took a sip of his wine, to swallow down the ache in his throat, and was distracted by the sight of a slash of vibrant red. Even before he could see what it was, it made him think of Ivy.
Her favourite colour.
And as he remembered that, he also recalled how she’d rubbed her temple the night before. How she had thought it was dark when the sun was still in the sky—low, but still there. Strange.
The slash of red appeared in his peripheral vision again, distracting him, and several male tourists, from the looks of things. Heads turned, eyes peered, following the glimpse of crimson, the same way he did. And then the crowds parted and his hand jerked, sloshing wine over the rim and onto the cloth.
Ivy’s hair fell in loosely curled layers around her face, shoulders and arms.Barearms that held a camera up to her eye. A straight, low neckline between two solid red straps pressed against breasts that arced near indecently over the top and Antonio had to work harder than he’d care to admit to avert his gaze. The corset hugged her torso lovingly and the skirt flared from her waist, falling elegantly to a mid-calf point that seemed only to emphasise the shape of her legs in a way that Antonio had never seen before.
Dio mio.
Arousal hit him so hard, and so fast, that he was simply unprepared for the assault. Need surged throughout his entire body from a single pump of his heart. Breath punched from his lungs from a strike to the gut so hard, so deep it left bruises. He hadn’t been expecting it.
Not the red. He’d thought that a trip to the salon would make Ivy more presentable, less…librarian. Not a siren, not sensual, not irresistible.
The waiter who had served him earlier was frozen, gawping, as Ivy approached their table, having returned her camera to the small bag hanging from the crook of her arm, apparently ignorant to the trail of near destruction she was leaving in her path.
As she came closer to the tables, one hand hovered outstretched by her thigh as if unconsciously balancing herself as she slowly wove between the tables.That was new. One of the things he’d remembered—almost against his will—was how Ivy had woven between the tables of Affogato, taking orders and sweeping away used coffee cups as if it were a performance. She’d beengraceful.
Perhaps it was the shoes, he thought, taking in the thin four inches of matching red stilettos on her feet. His gaze zeroed in on her heels, wondering about the plaster he had given her yesterday…until those same feet came to a stop beside the table.
Following, at his leisure, the turn of her ankle, the shape of her calf, the warm cream tone of her skin, bright against the shocking carnal red—innocence and sin—and skating over the span of her waist and the press of her chest against a neckline he struggled not to find fascinating, he finally reached her face, catching on her concerned expression.
‘Do I look okay?’ she asked self-consciously.
Antonio cleared his throat. ‘No,cara. You do not look “okay”,’ he replied truthfully. ‘You look magnificent.’
Ivy’s heart lurched.
Foolish, she called herself, as she sat in the chair the waiter had pulled out for her. They were in public on purpose, she had been made over, on purpose. All this was part of the plan toshowMs Quell that they were giving their marriage a go. ‘Date night’ had been Antonio’s idea, and he was simply following what normal date etiquette was, she presumed. She’d never actually been on a date.
Perhaps if he’d held her gaze she’d have been able to see in his eyes whether it was the truth or an exaggeration. It might have given her some of the confidence she’d felt at the salon, where the team hadoohedandaahedat her appearance from the dressing room.
After nearly four hours in their company, she had relaxed enough to enjoy the process, and been talked into a suitcase full of clothes that she would never be able to wear in England but had been informed were mandatory while in Italy.
But, of all the things that had happened that afternoon, it was her hair and make-up that actually struck her the most. She’d taken the time, in the privacy of the dressing room, to close one eye and inspect herself closely. The make-up was perfect. A smoky eye that the artist had made her copy until Ivy was accomplished to their satisfaction. And a stained lip that was more durable for the day to early evening, Ivy had been assured, than lipstick.
But it was the soft highlights put in her hair, which enriched copper undertones she’d not even known were there, that really caught her attention. Instead of drawing on the cooler tones of the blue in her eyes like the grey top had, now even she could see the gold flecks that glittered in her irises. They made something so damaged look so beautiful.
She swallowed. ‘Thank you,’ she said to Antonio, sitting across the table from her, flicking his gaze between her and the menu.
‘For?’ he said, almost dismissively.
She bit back a sigh of impatience. He’d done this. He’d given her something. That it didn’t mean anything to him was fine, but it didn’t give him the right to diminish what it did mean to her.
‘For supplying me with the accoutrements required for the job you have hired me for,’ she bit out impulsively. She was blaming the dress. Apparently, the red was impacting her self-control.
Antonio raised an eyebrow, and honestly Ivy was half convinced she heard a female customer behind her sigh, enraptured by the sight.
‘You don’t like it?’ he asked, pushing the menu aside.
‘I love it,’ she insisted truthfully.
‘Then what is the problem?’
It was a good question. But how could she even begin to explain the twists and turns of the emotional rollercoaster she’d been on in the last twenty-four hours? Was it normal for a librarian from south London, used to storebought clothes and charity shops, to feel overwhelmed at being transported to the most beautiful places in Tuscany, styled and clothed by creative geniuses and forced to eat with an Italian billionaire who looked like some Adonis?
She rubbed at her temple, her left eyelid flickering unconsciously.