She felt herself reel inwardly.
What is happening to me? I get chatted up by some guy strolling up to me in a bar at a casino hotel and suddenly I feel like I’m eighteen again. Not a sober-minded post-doc on the far side of twenty-five, who writes abstruse scientific papers on cosmology at a prestigious West Coast university.
Hard-working research academics didn’t go doolally because some muscled hunk smiled at them. And nor, came the even more sobering thought, did the woman who was her identity as well as Dr Fran Ristori.
Donna Francesca di Ristori. Offspring of two noble houses—one Italian, one English—both centuries old, with bloodlines that could be traced back to the Middle Ages, and estates and lands, castles and palazzos. She was the daughter of Il Marchese d’Arromento, and granddaughter of one of the peers of the British realm, the Duke of Revinscourt.
Not that anyone here in the USA knew that—or cared. In academia only the quality of your research counted, nothing else. It was something that her mother—born Lady Emma, now Marchesa d’Arromento—had never really understood. But then her mother had never really understood why Fran had turned away from the life she’d been born to in order to follow her deep love of learning to the halls of academia.
It had caused, Fran knew, something of a rift between them, and it was only because Fran had agreed to marry into the Italian aristocracy that her mother had been reconciled to her research career.
But last year Fran had broken up with Cesare, Il Conte di Mantegna, whom she had long been expected to marry, and now her mother was barely speaking to her.
‘But he was perfect for you!’ her mother had cried protestingly. ‘You’ve known each other all your lives and he would have let you continue with all this star-gazing you insist on as well as being his Contessa!’
‘I got a better offer,’ was all Fran had been able to say.
It had been an offer her mother could never have appreciated—the exciting invitation to join the research team of a Nobel Laureate out in California.
Fran had been relieved to take the offer, and not just for herself. Cesare was a friend—a good friend—and he would always be a friend, but it had turned out that he was actually in love with someone else and had since married her.
Fran was glad for Cesare, and for Carla, his new bride, and the baby that had been born to them, and wished them every happiness.
She had moved out to the West Coast, rented an apartment, and was revelling in the heady atmosphere of one of the world’s most advanced cosmology research centres. Although it was strange not to have Cesare in her life any longer—even long-distance, across the Atlantic—she had joyfully immersed herself in her work, thrilled to be assisting the famous Nobel Laureate.
Except that this last semester her revered professor had suffered a heart attack and retired prematurely, and his successor wasn’t a patch on him. Already Fran had resolved to seek another post, another university. She would see out this conference and then start actively looking.
‘OK—I fold.’ The man blatantly chatting her up held up a large, square-palmed hand to indicate defeat. ‘You called my bluff.’
The flashing smile came again, and yet again Fran felt her heart give a kick. Tomorrow’s plenary session, the poster session she was giving—both vanished.
She gave a laugh. She couldn’t help it. The guy was so sure of himself. Usually that put her right off, but somehow, in this man, it was simply one more part of his appeal. As to why he had that appeal to her—she just could not analyse that. It was beyond rational thought.
‘Well, we had the conference dinner tonight, so we’re all togged up in our best bib and tucker,’ she answered him. ‘None of us are looking like nerdy scientists right now!’
Blue, blue eyes swept over her. Open in their admiration for her.
‘Sicuramente no.’ Definitely not.
The murmured syllables were audible, and Fran’s expression changed automatically. He wasn’t Hispanic after all...
‘Sei Italiano?’
The question came from her before she could stop himself. The man’s expression changed as she asked it. Slight surprise and then clear satisfaction.
Fran realised she’d just given him a whole new avenue to chat her up with. And she found she didn’t mind at all.
She didn’t notice the slight flicker in his expression as he answered her, nor the very slight air of evasion in his voice.
‘Many Americans are,’ he said, speaking English now. ‘E sei?’ And you?
‘Italian on my father’s side. English on my mother’s,’ answered Fran.
With every passing exchange she could feel herself simply giving in to this—whatever it was—and still not really knowing why it was happening. Why she should be giving the time of day—make that the time of nearly midnight!—to a muscled hunk who was blazingly sure of himself, blatantly chatting her up, when she really ought to be heading back to her room to go through her presentation for tomorrow.
She only knew a sense of heady breathlessness that had come from nowhere the moment he’d spoken to her. Knew that he was suddenly making her feel so, so different from the sober-minded research academic she knew herself to be—so, so different from the stately Donna Francesca she had been born to be.
He was speaking again. ‘English, huh? I thought you were from the East Coast.’