Flirting with Italian by Liz Fielding

Author:Liz Fielding [Fielding, Liz]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-1-4089-2079-4
Publisher: HarlequinUKLtd
Published: 2011-09-25T04:00:00+00:00

She would have to delete it. In a minute. Just in case there was someone out there, besides a neurotic Louise, who was actually reading her blog.

If only it was that easy to eradicate Matteo. Delete, expunge, obliterate the memory of a touch, a kiss, a summer afternoon. Eradicate it with one click of the mouse.

She was sitting on her terrace. Below her the great monuments of Rome were lit up and the traffic flowed around them in a hectic, never-ending sparkle of diamond and ruby lights but she was too angry to see any of it.

Savour the moment! If she’d savoured it any more they’d have been in the deep grass, ripping their clothes off.

Her phone bleeped, warning her that she had an incoming text. She reached for it, anticipating yet more silliness from Pippa.

Not Pippa …

‘I’ve only this minute seen your card. Dinner tomorrow? Matteo.’

Bad timing.

A couple of hours ago she would have been all tingling excitement at receiving a text from him. Thrilled to know that the lemon thyme had been a spontaneous gesture and not simply a polite response to her card.

To think that she’d imagined he’d be interested enough to read her blog.

Clearly, the lack of any contact details on his card meant that the gift, charming as it was, had been more in the nature of a polite not interested.

But if he’d only just seen her card, then the one was not connected with the other. And his swift response implied that he was. Interested as hell.

All the delight in knowing that was tempered with the hot edge of anger that had been threatening to boil over ever since she’d discovered that, despite his formal introduction, he had omitted one very important detail.

That he was Conte Matteo di Serrone.

Anger that she’d had to keep tightly under wraps with a careless, ‘I didn’t know Italians did titles,’ until she had managed to get Pippa off the phone.

Angelo, it seemed, hadn’t confused the difference between celebrity and high society—and thank goodness she hadn’t tried to put him straight on that one—but had known exactly who he was.

Her relief did nothing to lessen the ‘idiot’ tag lighting up over her head when Pippa passed on that little nugget of gossip, courtesy of her boyfriend.

It wasn’t even as if he didn’t use the title. She’d checked. Who wouldn’t?

Google had obliged with images of the ‘Conte’ escorting actresses, models, glamorous females with matching titles to parties, galas, first nights.

Stunning in a dinner jacket.

Beyond belief desirable in white tie and tails with an order ribbon across his shoulder, hobnobbing with the great and good at some diplomatic function.

With all that driving her, she didn’t stop to think, but thumbed in her reply: ‘Great. Shall I wear my tiara? Sarah.’

She regretted it the moment she’d hit Send. When had she morphed from Miss Sensible into …

‘I don’t know. Do you usually wear it in the kitchen? M’ came right back at her.

… Miss Idiot?

Before she could think of a face-saving comeback, the phone rang.

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