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beauty in everything he saw.”
    He
was no longer talking about the paintings or a long-dead nobleman. Once again,
the bare skin of her arms prickled where his gazed touched her.
    Needing
a respite from the simmering tension beneath the surface of her skin, Isobel
walked away down the length of the chapel, eyes turned to the ceiling. She
marvelled at how beautifully preserved the paintings were, how fresh the
colours. Whoever the di Cilento family were, they took care of this place. The
appreciation of art was clearly still a family trait.
    The
stillness seemed unnatural though. The churches she knew were community places,
alive with the small sounds of life passing through. This church felt like a
museum, beautiful, revered but unlived in.
    “Is
the chapel still in use?”
    “Not
for a long time. The family use it for marriages and christenings, but the di
Cilentos have had neither in many years.”
    “That’s
sad. This was a place built for celebration, for family and friends.” For
laughter and exuberance and life, all the things that Italy had come to
represent for her.
    His
eyes burned. “Yes.”
    If
she could choose any place in the world to be married, it would be here. Too
easily could her vivid imagination paint the scene. Afternoon light falling
through the high windows; the blur of a congregation she could not see, for her
eyes were only for the man who waited before the altar for her. In her imagination,
the man turned to look at her as she walked down the aisle, and her heart
soared.
    The
face that turned to her was Stefano’s.
    She
swallowed against the sudden constriction in her throat and resumed her stroll
around the nave. When she reached the pulpit, a plain raised dais carved of the
same cedar wood as the circle outside the church, she paused to look up again.
    Though
she did not hear him move, she knew that Stefano had come to stand behind her.
Then his hands were on her arms, holding her safe and tilting her body back so
that she could look up at the ceiling without straining her neck.
    “She
prays for what her heart desires.” His voice brushed against her cheek, soft as
silk. “And the angel grants her prayers, as he grants the prayers of everyone
who is brave enough to ask for what they want. What do you pray for, Bella?”
    Her
voice was little more than a whisper. “I don’t know.”
    She
turned in his arms. Though she wasn’t yet sure what she wanted for her future,
she knew what she wanted right now. She dragged her gaze away from his mouth,
aware of the heat flushing her cheeks as their gazes caught.
    The
chapel faded away and she was aware of nothing but his darkening eyes, bright
as though illuminated from within. She was sure her breathing must be as
unsteady as her hammering heart.
    “I
know what I pray for.” He leaned close, reaching up to slide his hands into her
hair, slowly unpinning the weight of it until it spilled around her shoulders.
Hair pins clattered to the uneven floor.
    “ Bellissima .”
His voice was low, reverent. “The colour of spun gold.” He ran his fingers
through the loose curls that fell around her face. She resisted the mad urge to
close her eyes and arch her head back.
    Then
his hands cupped her face, drawing her inexorably closer, and she was helpless
to resist. No, not helpless. She smiled to herself. She didn’t want to
resist. Inspired perhaps by his vision of her, she boldly lifted her chin.
    As
his lips touched hers, her eyes drifted closed. Her entire body, all her
senses, focussed on that one point of contact, the slow, soft brush of his
mouth across hers.
    The
pressure of his lips deepened, and she sighed, opening her mouth. His tongue,
as though awaiting the opportunity, slid into her mouth. Her eyelids fluttered
in surprise, but she could not open them, so deliciously heavy did they
suddenly feel.
    She
laid her hand on his chest, fingers spread as if to push him away. The warmth
of his body seeped through her fingers, and unbidden her