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and adventure too. And the thrill of passion and pleasure.
    Isobel
closed her eyes. The room spun gently about her, setting up a whirring in her
stomach.
    If
only she didn’t have to return to dreary London and her parents’ expectations.
If only she could stay here in Italy, wandering the sun-dappled olive groves
with her sketch pad, or reading poetry … find herself an Italian husband, as
Stefano had suggested.
    She
giggled and opened her eyes to reality.
    Mother’s
views of foreigners coincided with Christopher’s. She would not allow Isobel to
marry an Italian, not unless he were the King of Italy himself.
    But
before she returned to England, and marriage, she would make the most of every
experience. She would taste and explore and live while she could. And
tomorrow she would go alone to meet Stefano.

Chapter Five
     
    The
narrow path wound away from the house, down through the dappled light of the
olive groves, through steep terraces of lemon and orange trees, to the low wall
that edged the property. From here, Isobel could no longer see the sea. It was
early enough for the rest of the household to still be asleep, but already the
sun was high in the cloudless sky. She pulled the wide brim of her straw hat
low over her face to protect her fair skin. She was glad she’d worn nothing
more than a loose cotton dress. Already the sheer fabric clung damply to her
curves.
    The
morning bells echoed around the mountains, calling the faithful to mass. Back
home in Shropshire, her sisters would be walking across the sodden fields to the
parish church, under the watchful eye of the servants and their mother. And
she?
    She
was in Italy, breathing in the heavy fragrance of lemon and flowers, springy
grass beneath her feet. And walking alone. Not to worship, but to meet a man.
With not an ounce of guilt or shame.
    The
path dropped steeply and there below her was the road. Her heart began to
pound. What if he hadn’t come?
    But
he had.
    Stefano
sat on an enormous boulder above the road, his back to her, and though she made
no sound, he turned, looking for her. His quick smile lit up his eyes, and that
burning look, so full of pleasure at sight of her, made her feel like a
Goddess. As though she could do anything; be anything.
    He
rose and held out a hand to her. “You came.”
    “I
wouldn’t miss seeing Giotto’s frescoes.”
    “But
of course.” The corner of his mouth twitched. She didn’t fool him. He knew she
would have walked twice the distance to see him.
    He
helped her down the bank to the road, then loosed her hand as they headed
towards the sun, following the dusty, meandering road as it curved around
cliffs and chasms. They walked side by side, not close enough to touch, though
the air between them crackled with awareness.
    She
sneaked a look at him. He was bare-headed, and the breeze ruffled his hair. Her
fingers itched to brush aside the wayward lock that fell forward over his
forehead. He was dressed with a casual elegance that surprised her, a stark
contrast to the plain working clothes he’d worn before. The cut of his grey
flannel trousers looked tailored, and the soft-collared shirt, which he wore
open at the neck, was of finely textured fabric. His Sunday best?
    He
was a mystery, this man who dressed as a fisherman one day, yet wore
gentleman’s clothing another. Yet he wore them like no gentleman she’d met
before in her sheltered life.
    She
glanced sideways again, glimpsing hard muscle beneath the shirt, and her heart
did another dance.
    Christopher
Barrett would not dream of going outdoors, even on such a day as this, without
a blazer and tie. The thought made her smile.
    Stefano
turned and caught her looking at him. His crinkling eyes dropped to her mouth
and heat washed through her, flushing her cheeks and leaving her emotions
transparent.
    She
looked away.
    They
strolled in comfortable silence, the only sound the cicadas humming in the
trees. After less than half a mile they turned off the road,