But I want to fulfil my part of our bargain and, in order to show I’m taking our dates seriously, I’m going to have to make an effort.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask, hoping for some sort of clue about to how to pitch the outfit.
‘Out for dinner, and then who knows?’ he says with a twinkle in his eye.
Okay, that’s really not very helpful. I’ll just have to wing it.
I nod and smile anyway, not wanting to appear difficult and needy. ‘Give me twenty minutes.’
He flashes me one more of his heart-stopping smiles then exits the room, leaving me wondering how I’m going to pull ‘Italian chic’ out of the bag.
Mercifully, it seems I don’t need to worry on that score. When I appear in front of him twenty minutes later in the only smart black dress I own – which is about as far from fashionable as you can get, with its high neck and mid-calf-length skirt – and with my hair in a neat, high bun, he gives me an approving look.
‘You hungry?’ he asks.
I nod, realising I’m actually ravenous.
‘Good. Then let’s eat.’
* * *
The restaurant he’s chosen is in the Piazza Santa Croce, right next to the basilica, which regally presides over the wide paved square and turns out to be only a short walk from where we’re staying.
As we stroll up to the buttery yellow frontage of the eatery, with its canopy shielding the patrons from the low, setting evening sun, I realise it has a long line of people waiting outside. I’m about to suggest we try somewhere else nearby when Sandro takes my hand and breezes past everyone, striding straight up to themaître d’at the door and introducing himself in Italian. As they talk, I notice a movement in my peripheral vision and glance round to see a man standing a few feet away, holding up a professional-looking camera with a huge lens that he’s pointing right at us. Instinctively, I shudder and squeeze Sandro’s hand. He looks round, spotting the guy, and immediately draws me closer to him, sliding his free arm around my shoulders and pulling me against his hard, muscular body as if to protect me. He leans in to nuzzle my ear. ‘Just ignore him.’
Lust overrides my discomfort at being photographed as I breathe in his alluring scent and feel his warm breath glide along my neck.
Drawing back to look me in the eye, he shoots me a reassuring smile and I grin right back, feeling safe enveloped in his arms. A flash goes off and when I turn to look the guy is already scurrying away towards a motorbike parked nearby.
‘Don’t worry,’ Sandro mutters. ‘He’s probably taking photos of everyone he sees here in case they turn out to be newsworthy.’ He gives me a small squeeze, which only presses me closer to him, and my heart thumps with pleasure. ‘Let’s go inside – they have a table for us,’ he says, releasing me from his protective embrace and gesturing towards themaître d’who’s patiently waiting for our attention.
‘But what about those people waiting in the queue? Aren’t we pushing in ahead of them?’ I ask, nodding towards them.
‘It’s okay, the owner is a friend of my father’s. He always has a table for a Ricci.’
‘Oh. I see. Okay,’ I say, smiling apologetically at the people still waiting as we stride into the restaurant in front of them, feeling a sting of shame. Using my name to get a jump on others really isn’t my style.
‘This is the hottest place to eat at the moment,’ Sandro says as we’re led to a table positioned next to one of the windows that looks out onto the grand square. ‘That’s why there was paparazzi outside. They often hang around there in case anyone of note turns up.’
I guess with Sandro being part of the Italian aristocracy, albeit a younger son and therefore an untitled member, he’s probably a person of real interest here in Italy. Plus, he’s such a good-looking man, women will no doubt buy a magazine with him in it just to be able to gaze at his handsome face. I’m actually feeling pretty lucky right now to have the real thing sitting right there in front of me. He’s wearing an open-collared black shirt tonight, which works beautifully with his tanned skin and dark hair. He looks so delicious I could eat him up.
The succulent-looking wild boar fettuccini we ordered has just arrived when we’re approached by a short, stocky man who is clearly ‘somebody’, judging by the way he swaggers over to us.
‘Giorgio,’ Sandro says when he sees him, standing up to give the man a hug and a clap on the back.
‘Alessandro – good to see you,’ the man says in Italian, returning Sandro’s effusive physical greeting.
It’s unusual to see men embrace like this in England so I’m always a little taken aback by how physical they are with each other in other parts of Europe.
‘This is Juno,’ Sandro says in English, sweeping his hand towards me.
‘Juno, wonderful to meet you,’ Giorgio says, taking my hand and kissing the back of it.
I can’t help but grin at the pomposity of the gesture.
Sandro and Giorgio exchange pleasantries about their families for a minute or so before Giorgio says, ‘You’ve heard about my new club opening up in the city tonight, right?’ He looks between us expectantly.
‘We hadn’t,’ Sandro says.