She opened her eyes to bright sunshine and the realisation that someone was knocking on her bedroom door.
'Come in,' she called out. It would be the maid with morning coffee.
'You sound cheerful. You must be a morning person.' Luc's deep voice, tinged with laughter, made her spine tingle.
She grabbed the coverlet up to her chin, her blue eyes wide on his handsome face. 'You! I thought it was the maid.'
'My pleasure, Parisa.' And he walked across to the bed, a laden tray in his large hands. With an economy of movement the tray was placed on the bedside table and the coffee poured, his tanned hand holding out the cup and saucer, before she had gathered her scattered wits.
'Thank you,' she murmured, and took the proffered cup, her colour high at the intimacy of the occasion.
'You look adorable when you blush,' Luc said softly, and she turned bright scarlet. He laughed and winked down at her. 'Don't worry—drink your coffee, and meet me downstairs in half an hour. I'm taking you out for the day to avoid the bedlam in the house!'
'Bedlam?' she queried. From what she had seen, his home was run like clockwork.
'The caterers have arrived, the guest rooms are being cleaned—the only place to be is out.' And with that he swung on his heel and left.
Long after he had gone, she held the memory of his tall, virile figure, casually dressed in blue jeans and a dark red Pringle sweater, his dark eyes gleaming with some hidden knowledge she could not quite grasp. Shaking her hair from her face, she drank the coffee and ate a croissant before swinging her long legs out of bed, reminding herself that she had to be on her guard around Luc at all times. She only had to get through one more day, and then go home, a return to her own life. It was that simple.
Standing in front of the long, mirrored door, washed, and dressed in navy gabardine trousers and a matching navy and white wool sweater, she brushed her long pale hair from her face and tied it back with a plain navy scarf.
Luc could really be quite a charming host, Parisa recognised, remembering last night. After his mother had joined them in the study, somehow the fierce tension had evaporated from the room. All three had enjoyed coffee and tiny chocolate choux cakes. The halting English of Signora Di Maggi and her obvious enthusiasm at their engagement had lightened the atmosphere considerably, so much so that when the old lady left, after kissing them both good night, they had spent a surprisingly comfortable hour talking, discussing the relative merits of Pavarotti and Domingo. Luc was an opera fan, like most Italians. They had shared a nightcap. Luc had walked upstairs with her and pressed a soft, almost brotherly kiss on her forehead, and said, 'A truce, Parisa, for a day, hmm?' and she had meekly agreed as he said goodnight with another kiss, outside her door.
Parisa frowned. Luc in a gentle mood was at his most dangerous. Still, she would enjoy her day out, without worrying about the reason for her being here, and, picking up her top coat with one last glance at her r
eflection, she left the room.
It was like a day out of time, a rare cameo. The sun shone with the first warm rays of the year, etching the landscape in bright, clean colours. Luc drove the Ferrari with an easy expertise along winding country roads. They stood at the top of a gigantic cliff and gloried in the perfect view. The waves crashing against the shore, the screaming of the gulls made a concerto all of their own. At noon they drove down the hill to Portofino.
'This is the best time of the year, I think,' Luc said lazily, helping her out of the car.
'Not the summer?'
'No, in the summer it is full of tourists, the marina is full and the place is very cosmopolitan, but now only the locals are around.' And, as he spoke, a young boy, not more than ten or so, shouted, 'Padrone, padrone,' and ran towards them. Luc swept the child up in his arms and swung him around, laughing out loud, then gently set the boy down again.
Parisa watched in amazement and then shock. The boy had only one arm. How sad, and yet the small dark face was wreathed in smiles. She did not understand the rapid-fire Italian that passed between the two males, or why Luc gave him money until, as the young boy shot off in the direction of the dock, Luc took her hand in his and explained.
'Paolo is my friend—I pay him to clean my boat for me. I would take you to see it, but I'm hungry.'
Parisa grinned up into his handsome face. 'And nothing must come between you and food,' she joked.
'You could, if you wanted to,' Luc said softly. 'Any time.'
She flushed at the implicit invitation in his dark eyes. 'Let's eat.'
'Still a coward!' And, lifting her hand to his mouth, he kissed it, and stopped, his fingers tightening. 'Where is your ring?' he demanded curtly.
'I left it in the bedroom.' She couldn't see that it mattered. 'I wanted to enjoy today as myself,' she explained, sure Luc would understand. 'After all, it's only costume for the act tonight.'
'If you say so,' Luc responded enigmatically. She glanced up at him, but he looked past her. For an instant she wondered if she had offended him in some way, but dismissed the thought as he grinned.
'My favourite restaurant,' he announced, and ushered her into a small, dark, typically Italian waterside cafe, where the proprietor greeted him as an old friend.
Parisa could not remember ever having enjoyed a meal so much. She had no idea what she was eating, until Luc said it was some kind of liver.
'But I hate liver,' she exclaimed, and then laughed as Luc pointedly glanced at her almost empty plate.
'So I see, cara,' he mocked, and refilled her wine glass.