Olivia Gates - One Night In…

A current that, like the falls, had been manufactured, created by an impossible and unreal situation.

Currents like that couldn’t last. What was once a torrent would become a trickle, turned off at the source, by the source.

Alessandro. This was his game, she knew, and he was calling all the shots. He was in control.

Just one day, she reminded herself. One day couldn’t be dangerous.

Except perhaps it could, with Alessandro.

‘Come on.’ Alessandro put an arm around her shoulders easily, as naturally as if he’d done it many times before. ‘We can have lunch in Montefranco.’

Back in the car, he gave her a knowing glance. ‘Still disappointed the falls aren’t real?’

She shrugged. ‘I can’t deny they were beautiful.’

‘Do you know the story behind them? Nera was a wood nymph who fell in love with a shepherd boy. The goddess Juno was jealous, so she turned Nera into a river.’

‘The River Nera,’ Meghan surmised. ‘Bad luck for her, falling in love with the wrong man.’

‘Perhaps,’ Alessandro conceded with a wry smile. ‘But do you know what her shepherd Velino did?’

‘Found a shepherdess?’

He chuckled softly. ‘No, he was so anguished at the loss of his love, he threw himself off the Marmore Cliff. His tears became the waterfall, and so they are joined for ever, the Rivers Velino and Nera. Their love lasting into eternity.’

Meghan smiled tightly. ‘A sweet story.’

‘You don’t believe in lasting love?’ There was a cynical edge to his voice that was impossible to miss.

‘No, I don’t,’ Meghan said baldly. ‘Do you?’

Something flickered in his eyes—disappointment? Relief? Who knew? Meghan looked out of the window, refusing to be drawn in. It didn’t matter what Alessandro thought about everlasting love, because there was nothing lasting about their situation.

‘No,’ he said after a moment. ‘No, Meghan. In that respect I’m like you.’

And, strangely, Meghan suddenly felt sad for them both.

Two people together, bound by desire and disillusion.

Montefranco was one of Umbria’s classic hillside towns, its houses and churches perched on the green slopes as if they’d sprung up from the soil. Alessandro led her to a little trattoria tucked away on a narrow cobbled street, and the proprietor, a jolly man in an apron-covered suit, greeted him like a friend. After speaking briefly in his usual rapid-fire Italian, Alessandro slowed down to introduce Meghan.

‘Antonio—my friend from America—Meghan Selby.’

He made her sound like a pen-pal. Smiling, Meghan shook the older man’s hand. Yet how else could he possibly explain her presence?

It didn’t make sense. This entire day didn’t make sense. It was something out of a story, a fantasy, and it would end tonight.

Meghan’s mouth turned dry. Tonight … when she walked away with a wave and a smile. If she could.

And if she couldn’t…?

‘You know what they say,’ Antonio said, ‘a friend of Alessandro di Agnio’s is a friend of mine.’ He turned to Alessandro, still speaking slowly for Meghan’s benefit. ‘So good to see you! It’s been too long.’

‘I’ve been busy, Antonio,’ Alessandro said as he clapped the older man on the shoulder.

‘I know! I know! All this work in the city—no time for rest, for play. I never thought I would say that to you, of course …’ His chuckle faltered at Alessandro’s wintry look.

‘You along with many others.’ He smiled, but it was as if a light had gone out in his eyes, turning them from blue to lifeless black.

‘The poached cod is delicious,’ Alessandro told her after they’d both silently perused the menus. ‘If you care for fish.’

Meghan grimaced. ‘Sorry, I’m a smalltown girl from the Midwest. I’m not much of a one for seafood.’

He chuckled. ‘How about the strascinati with black truffle sauce? The truffles are famed in this region. It’s a long- guarded secret where you can find them.’

‘Do you know?’ she asked, and Alessandro gave an eloquent, arrogant shrug that forced an unwilling laugh from her lips.

‘Of course. You must try the vino santigrano as well. It’s made locally, from some of the best vineyards in all of Italy.’

‘Sounds like you know the menu,’ Meghan commented. ‘Do you come here often?’

‘Do you mean, do I bring all my women here?’ Alessandro said, his eyes alight with rueful humour.

‘Something like that.’ She smiled in admission, a tell-tale blush stealing across her cheeks.

‘I told you—I like food.’

It was, she realised, not an answer to her question. How many women had he had? He was a man who knew women, who understood them, who was made for lovers … if not for love.

Alessandro steered the conversation into calmer waters, regaling her with tales and antics of the Umbrian locals, peppered with the mythology of the region.

Antonio himself brought the food and poured the wine, and Meghan could feel herself relaxing, enjoying. Laughing. Flirting.

‘Try this.’ Antonio had laid a sumptuous-looking rolled pastry on the table between them, and now Alessandro lifted a forkful to Meghan’s lips.

Closing her eyes, she opened her mouth, and Alessandro slid a forkful of heaven inside.

The taste of chocolate, raisins and walnut melted onto Meghan’s tongue. It was delicious. It felt like a sin. ‘Mmm … what is this?’

‘Attorta … a speciality of Umbria.’

Meghan opened her eyes to find Alessandro smiling at her, his gaze heavy-lidded, languorous. Sensual.

The pastry turned tasteless in her mouth, her throat so dry she could barely swallow.

Desire pulsated between them, coiled around Meghan’s heart, her lungs, until she found she couldn’t breathe. When she finally managed to drag air in, her breath came out in a shudder.

Alessandro smiled. ‘Have another bite.’

Obediently, Meghan opened her mouth, and Alessandro slid in another forkful. She could feel a drip of chocolate on the corner of her mouth and, mesmerised, watched as Alessandro wiped it before licking it off his own finger.

‘Mmm.’

She closed her eyes briefly. ‘What’s going on here?’ she whispered.

‘We’re eating dessert.’

‘Alessandro, you know what I mean.’

He shrugged, though his eyes blazed into hers. ‘I want you. You want me.’

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘Isn’t it?’

Meghan shook her head. ‘I wish it were.’ She gazed down at the crumbled remnants of their shared feast, delicious while it lasted but gone so quickly. She’d travelled that route before.

She would not do it again.

She looked up, her eyes wide and bleak. ‘I won’t sleep with you.’

‘So you’ve said.’ Alessandro took a sip of wine, looking amused.

Meghan sighed wearily. ‘I know you think you’ll wear me down eventually, and in truth you might get close. You might even win.’

‘Is this a battle?’ he murmured.

‘You know it is. If I sleep with you I’ll lose my self-respect, my dignity. I’ll have given into desire, and I’ll hate myself for it.’

‘Why couch it in those terms? Why can’t we love each other as two responsible, mature adults?’

Meghan laughed without humour. ‘Because it’s not about love.’

‘You said you didn’t believe in love.’

There was no mistaking the look of surprise on Alessandro’s face, the heavy-lidded languor replaced with a wary tension.

‘I don’t. That doesn’t mean I’m going to give myself to every— any—man I’m attracted to. I don’t operate that way. Sorry.’

‘So. You don’t believe in love, but you won’t make love with someone out of simple desire. What are you going to do? Become a nun?’