In the Italian's Sights by Helen Brooks

Author:Helen Brooks
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781408974155
Publisher: HarlequinUKLtd
Published: 2012-04-30T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHERRY found one of the charms of Locorotondo was the approach to the town as they drove through the Valle d’Itria, a striking Italian landscape of luxuriant vineyards sleeping in the hot sun and traditional trulli houses, where the sweet aroma of the mint growing by the roadside filled the car with its perfume.

Vittorio told her that the dry white spumante wine which was a speciality of the area had given the town its nickname and was of the highest quality, but as they got nearer, and she could see the domes of the cathedral, she realised it was an outstandingly beautiful town too. Blindingly white limestone houses and narrow alleyways bedecked with geraniums and citrus plants wound in true Italian style around squares and tiny palm-sheltered courtyards, and by the time Vittorio had parked the Range Rover and they’d wandered on foot deeper into the town and made their way to the cathedral Cherry was smitten.

The cathedral was as magnificent as she had expected, but when they left its confines and Vittorio casually took her hand as she stumbled over some ancient cobbles all she could think about was his fingers holding hers. And he didn’t seem inclined to let go. She felt dwarfed by his solid maleness as they walked, but it was an intoxicating feeling, and just for a while—she told herself—she’d enjoy the sensation. It didn’t mean anything, she was fully aware of that, so no harm done.

They found a small trattoria—an informal restaurant serving simple meat and pasta dishes—and ate sitting outside under a large umbrella, sipping glasses of spumante wine. Cherry kept darting quick glances at Vittorio from under her eyelashes, unable to believe she was sitting in the sunshine enjoying a meal with one of the most gorgeous men she had ever seen in her life when just a couple of days before she had been very much on her own. This was the sort of thing that happened to other people, not to her. And it wasn’t as if Puglia was a beach resort type of place, where romances were more likely to occur.

Not that this was a romance, she reminded herself firmly. Not remotely. She’d made up her mind before leaving England that it would be a very long time before she made the mistake of trusting a man again. It had been one of the reasons she’d decided to spend some months exploring archaeological sites and museums on the continent—places that recalled days of Greek and Roman inhabitants, medieval castles and fortresses, the breathtaking artistry of eighteenth-century Baroque architecture and the rest of the wealth of history countries like Italy, Greece and Turkey contained. She’d wanted to immerse herself in the past and forget the disappointments of the present and the uncertainty of the future, and definitely—definitely—steer clear of the male of the species.

She suddenly became aware that Vittorio was sitting gazing at her, having finished his meal, his grey eyes thoughtful. ‘You are thinking of this man again.’ It was a statement, not a question.

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