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Authors: Kathryn Ross
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suddenly.
The question took her completely aback. ‘What makes you think someone has broken my heart?’
‘I don’t know. Call it a wild guess.’ He shrugged. ‘Sometimes I imagine I catch a vulnerable look in your eyes.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m more your practical, pragmatic type.’ She raised her chin.
‘The tough journalist, coolly aloof from emotional ties—that kind of thing?’ He looked vaguely amused.
‘Yes…that kind of thing.’
As their eyes held across the table Marco wasn’t sure what he believed about her. There was something about the hesitation in her reply, that expression in her eye…
‘And, you know, my love-life really isn’t any of your business,’ she continued fiercely.
‘Ah! But in a few moments you will be asking me about
my
love-life won’t you?’ he countered. ‘You’ll be traipsing out all the old tired questions.’
‘I don’t have any old or tired questions; mine are all fresh and full of zing.’
He laughed at that.
‘But actually we
should
move on to that—’
‘So you’ve never been married?’ Marco continued lazily, as if she hadn’t even spoken. ‘Never lived with anyone?’
Why did he keep asking her these personal questions? He was driving her mad. ‘I was engaged for a while. But it didn’t work out and we called it off.’ She slanted him a warning look. ‘I’m over it. There’s no underlying vulnerability to me whatsoever.’
‘And did this happen fairly recently?’
‘About six months ago. Now, can we move on?’ There was an unconsciously pleading look in her eyes.
‘OK, I won’t say another word on the subject.’ He held up his hands.
‘Good—because we are supposed to be talking about you.’
Stella interrupted them to clear away their plates and put out some serving dishes between them.
‘I hope you are not going to be disappointed,’ Marco said as they were left alone again.
‘Why?’ She looked over at him with a frown, thinking he was talking about their interview.
‘Because your British dish…’ he lifted the lid off one of the casserole dishes ‘…is not roast beef.’ He flicked her a teasing look and she couldn’t help but smile.
For a while there was silence between them as he put some food onto her plate. ‘I think it is beef casserole with herbs of Provence,’ he said as he tasted it. ‘Which
I
would think is a French dish.’
‘Whatever it is, it’s very good. I wish I could cook like this.’
She could hear the sound of the sea against the shore beneath them; there was something very relaxing about it, and about the warmth of the air.
She looked down over the garden towards the sea. ‘I can understand why you bought this house. The setting is spectacular. But I’m surprised that you have your main home here in France. I would have thought, being Italian, your home would be in Italy.’
‘Italy will always be my first love, but I have to admit that I’m torn. France is like a very beautiful mistress—compelling and provocative, hard to get out of the system.’
There was a honeyed edge to his voice that made little darts of adrenalin shoot through her.
‘Well, you’d know all about mistresses, I suppose,’ she murmured, trying to ignore the sensations.
‘I know about passion,’ he corrected softly. ‘How it can fire the senses, take you over.’
Something about the way he was looking at her made her feel hot inside…made her wonder what it would be like to be kissed by him, to be held in those strong arms. As soon as the thought crossed her mind she was shaken. She had more sense than to ever be attracted to him, she reminded herself furiously.
‘So, is that what happened with your marriage?’ Desperately she tried to bring herself back to reality by asking the question. ‘Did you go out one night and meet someone, and allow passion to take you over to the point where you allowed yourself to forget that you were married?’
‘Same old tired
The question took her completely aback. ‘What makes you think someone has broken my heart?’
‘I don’t know. Call it a wild guess.’ He shrugged. ‘Sometimes I imagine I catch a vulnerable look in your eyes.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m more your practical, pragmatic type.’ She raised her chin.
‘The tough journalist, coolly aloof from emotional ties—that kind of thing?’ He looked vaguely amused.
‘Yes…that kind of thing.’
As their eyes held across the table Marco wasn’t sure what he believed about her. There was something about the hesitation in her reply, that expression in her eye…
‘And, you know, my love-life really isn’t any of your business,’ she continued fiercely.
‘Ah! But in a few moments you will be asking me about
my
love-life won’t you?’ he countered. ‘You’ll be traipsing out all the old tired questions.’
‘I don’t have any old or tired questions; mine are all fresh and full of zing.’
He laughed at that.
‘But actually we
should
move on to that—’
‘So you’ve never been married?’ Marco continued lazily, as if she hadn’t even spoken. ‘Never lived with anyone?’
Why did he keep asking her these personal questions? He was driving her mad. ‘I was engaged for a while. But it didn’t work out and we called it off.’ She slanted him a warning look. ‘I’m over it. There’s no underlying vulnerability to me whatsoever.’
‘And did this happen fairly recently?’
‘About six months ago. Now, can we move on?’ There was an unconsciously pleading look in her eyes.
‘OK, I won’t say another word on the subject.’ He held up his hands.
‘Good—because we are supposed to be talking about you.’
Stella interrupted them to clear away their plates and put out some serving dishes between them.
‘I hope you are not going to be disappointed,’ Marco said as they were left alone again.
‘Why?’ She looked over at him with a frown, thinking he was talking about their interview.
‘Because your British dish…’ he lifted the lid off one of the casserole dishes ‘…is not roast beef.’ He flicked her a teasing look and she couldn’t help but smile.
For a while there was silence between them as he put some food onto her plate. ‘I think it is beef casserole with herbs of Provence,’ he said as he tasted it. ‘Which
I
would think is a French dish.’
‘Whatever it is, it’s very good. I wish I could cook like this.’
She could hear the sound of the sea against the shore beneath them; there was something very relaxing about it, and about the warmth of the air.
She looked down over the garden towards the sea. ‘I can understand why you bought this house. The setting is spectacular. But I’m surprised that you have your main home here in France. I would have thought, being Italian, your home would be in Italy.’
‘Italy will always be my first love, but I have to admit that I’m torn. France is like a very beautiful mistress—compelling and provocative, hard to get out of the system.’
There was a honeyed edge to his voice that made little darts of adrenalin shoot through her.
‘Well, you’d know all about mistresses, I suppose,’ she murmured, trying to ignore the sensations.
‘I know about passion,’ he corrected softly. ‘How it can fire the senses, take you over.’
Something about the way he was looking at her made her feel hot inside…made her wonder what it would be like to be kissed by him, to be held in those strong arms. As soon as the thought crossed her mind she was shaken. She had more sense than to ever be attracted to him, she reminded herself furiously.
‘So, is that what happened with your marriage?’ Desperately she tried to bring herself back to reality by asking the question. ‘Did you go out one night and meet someone, and allow passion to take you over to the point where you allowed yourself to forget that you were married?’
‘Same old tired
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