‘So have you changed your mind about going out? Can you think of anywhere prettier to eat?’ he questioned, glancing at the waterfall of blonde hair which was rippling down her narrow back.

‘I guess I can’t. Not really. But who’s doing the cooking?’

‘Well, not me, that’s for sure!’ Walking back over to the table, he pulled the bottle of champagne from the bucket and removed the thick foil with his thumb. ‘Drink?’

‘Lovely,’ she said lightly, taking the flute of pale fizz from him and giving a little squeak as she sipped it.

‘Bubbles up your nose?’ he murmured.

‘Every time,’ she agreed sanguinely, as if she drank champagne every day of her life. ‘So who does do your cooking?’

‘I have staff.’ His tone was casual. ‘A cook. A housekeeper. A gardener.’

‘Gosh. How very indulgent.’

He flicked her a glance. Wealth did strange things. It opened up the world like an oyster—and closed off other parts of it for ever. It isolated and enclosed you in a rarefied and gilded existence. It meant that people sometimes looked at you with envy—or avarice. But that was the price you paid. And what would this little shop-girl know of his life unless he told her? ‘More a necessity than an indulgence. I travel a lot for work and my hours are long. So I don’t have time for all the maintenance stuff.’

‘And even if you did—maybe you still wouldn’t do it? I can’t really imagine you peeling potatoes or hammering a nail in a wall.’

‘The former is what I’d expect a woman to do,’ he said, with a faint glimmer of a smile. ‘The hammering part of the equation wouldn’t be a problem.’

Cassie nearly choked on the mouthful of champagne she was drinking. ‘You’re not serious?’

‘About the nail? Sure I am. I’m pretty good with a hammer.’

She blushed—because the soft mockery in his voice made it sound as though he was referring to something other than DIY skills. ‘I meant your remark about peeling potatoes being women’s work.’

‘Are you going to subject me to a lecture about sexual stereotypes, bella?’ he mocked. ‘Because let me save you the time. I know it off by heart.’

Cassie stared at him, her heart beating very fast. ‘Some people might describe that as arrogance, Giancarlo.’

‘Guilty as charged,’ he said silkily.

Cassie stared at him and their eyes clashed—fighting a sudden silent battle which had nothing to do with potatoes or sexual stereotypes. A battle which was completely alien to her—and yet one for which she was suddenly discovering an instinctive knowledge.

Yet another type of intuition was telling her that she was in danger—a subtle and insidious kind. The kind of danger which was making her want to behave with an abandon she wasn’t even aware she possessed. She knew exactly what she should do. Turn around and walk right out of there. Away from the temptation of an arrogant and heartbreakingly handsome man with his servants and his wealth and his crushing contempt for women.

But something stopped her. The same thing which had first made her heart leap with some kind of primitive recognition the first time she’d set eyes on him. An attraction which wasn’t based on intellect or reason or understanding—but on something much more fundamental.

Desire.

Shakily, she put her glass down on the table. ‘I don’t think I’d better have any more to drink on any empty stomach,’ she said.

Giancarlo had seen the darkening of her eyes, felt the unmistakable crackle of tension between them and known that there had been a moment when she had longed for him to take her in his arms and kiss her. The moment was lost—but almost certainly there would be another. ‘Then let’s eat. Are you hungry?’

‘Starving,’ she said, without much enthusiasm.

Cassie watched as he walked back over to the French windows and, reaching inside, rang some sort of bell. He’s ringing a bell to summon his servants! she thought. Once again, she could feel a slightly hysterical sense of being divorced from reality—as a dark-haired woman he introduced as Gina carried out a dish and laid it in the centre of the table, soon followed by a bowl of potatoes and platter of green beans.

‘Just something simple,’ he said softly as he pulled out a chair for Cassie. ‘Which will leave you plenty of room for dessert.’

Cassie didn’t know whether she was imagining sensual imagery at every corner and whether he was intending for that to happen. All she did know was that the woman called Gina was making her feel uncomfortable. Tall and slim, with a pair of trendy black-rimmed spectacles perched on her nose, she was aged about forty and spoke briefly to Giancarlo in Italian.

So was it the language exclusion which made Cassie feel so out of place—or the fear that Gina might be judging her? Maybe it was her own guilty conscience making her feel awkward as she wondered just how many women had sat where she was sitting, dining with a wealthy Italian they’d only just met. Did any of them stay the night, she wondered—and did Gina serve coffee and breakfast in the morning as if nothing had happened?

‘Cassie?’ Giancarlo’s voice broke into the swirl of her thoughts.

‘Sorry?’ Biting her lip, she looked up at him to find his ebony gaze washing over her. What on earth was she doing—thinking about women staying the night here?

‘You were miles away.’

‘Was I?’ She helped herself to a portion of chicken from the dish he was holding towards her. ‘Sorry, I was just thinking…’

‘What were you thinking?’

Hastily, Cassie reassembled her thoughts, glad that the candlelight hid her sudden rise in colour. ‘That I’ve never met anyone who has staff before. Gina’s Italian, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, she is.’

‘And what about the others that you mentioned—the cook and the gardener—are they all Italian?’

‘Do you want me to go through the CVs of my entire staff?’ he questioned softly, taking the bowl from her and placing it in the middle of the table. ‘Yes, they are all Italian. They’ve been with me a long time and know my tastes. Now relax, bella—and eat your dinner. I’m much more interested to hear about you and how you came to be working at the store.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’

‘Well, I live in Cornwall—I may have mentioned that.’

‘And what is it like, living in Cornwall?’ he murmured.

She shot him a shy look. ‘Oh, it’s gorgeous—with the most beautiful beaches and the biggest waves you’ve ever seen. It’s a surfers’ paradise and does the best cream teas in the world—have you never been there?’

‘No, I haven’t.’ His lips curved, because her enthusiasm was really very sweet. ‘Tell me more.’

‘I live close to the sea—in Trevone,’ she said.

‘On your own?’

‘No, with my mother. She runs a B&B—that’s bed and breakfast—though there are hardly any guests during the winter. My father…’ She swallowed. ‘Well, my father died a couple of years ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you.’ Cassie put her fork down. People always said that. I’m sorry. As if somehow they were responsible for the death of a stranger. She guessed it was just what people said when they didn’t really know what to say—though she couldn’t imagine that Giancarlo Vellutini was often stuck for words. She shot him a quick glance as he ate a mouthful of chicken and pushed a bit more food around on her own plate. ‘I suppose you’re shocked that a woman my age is still living at home?’

He shook his head and shrugged. It meant that there would be no liaisons in her home town—but so what? He wasn’t planning long-term.

‘I am from Italy,’ he said softly. ‘Where such a scenario is common. Living with your parents has many advantages—for both parties—although, naturally, it can curtail individual freedom.’

She couldn’t have put it better herself. ‘Exactly!’

‘Is that why you came to London, Cassandra? Because you wanted to be free?’