Gemma Townley - When in Rome...

“Well, it all comes down to money in the end. If you can trace where the money is and what’s being done with it, you can track down the people. Now, some wine for the lady?” David attempts an Italian accent, and hands me the plastic rose that is adorning our table. “Ees, nice, yes?” he grins.

We order more wine and giggle as the singer wiggles his hips to “Staying Alive.”

“David, you never really talk about your work.”

“Yes, and for very good reason. It’s dull as ditchwater. Why on earth would you want to hear about my days in an accountancy firm?”

“But all this stuff. Carlo’s nightclub. Prostitution rings. Why didn’t I know about any of this before?”

“Look, it’s mostly pretty boring stuff,” shrugs David. “And the bits that are more interesting are usually either very sensitive or slightly dangerous. A lot of the work I do involves some pretty horrible people. And I don’t want you exposed to that again.”

“Again?” I ask indignantly. What does he mean “again”? I don’t remember being exposed to any horrible people.

David looks annoyed with himself. “At all. I meant at all.”

I look at him accusingly. “David, don’t lie to me. What do you mean, you don’t want me exposed to that again? Tell me!”

“Oh, I suppose it won’t hurt,” he sighs. “About a year ago I was working on a case involving dodgy mini-cab drivers. I got a note saying that they knew who you were and that I should stop my investigations or you were going to be in real trouble. And then you were really late coming round to see me . . . and I panicked.”

“You mean the time you freaked out and went and bought me a mobile phone?”

David smiles sheepishly. “Yes, I suppose I did freak out a bit. It’s a bit of a special phone actually. It means that if anything happens to you, we can track you. I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to have to deal with any of this rubbish.”

I can’t decide whether to be flattered, excited, scared, or concerned. “You mean you know where I am all the time?”

“God no,” David laughs. “But if you did go missing, or if anything happened, we would be able to find you.”

No wonder Nigel was so excited by the phone. I better not tell him why David gave it to me; he’d probably think David was one of “them” and was using me to spy on Nigel.

“When you say ’we,’ do you mean your accountancy firm?” I’m confused. None of this really makes much sense.

“Not the firm, no. A lot of the work I’m doing now relates to government agencies. Organized crime, that sort of thing.”

“So you’re kind of like a spy?” I ask hopefully. I sawTrue Lies with Arnie and Jamie Lee Curtis the other day and rather like the idea of going out with my very own action man.

David laughs. “I’m afraid I’m not James Bond,” he says slowly. “In reality, the vast majority of my work involves digging around and going through people’s financial affairs. It isn’t at all glamorous and usually isn’t dangerous at all; it just gets difficult if people know you’re on to them. No one likes getting caught out. But I thought we came here to dance?” He grabs my hand and leads me to the dance floor.

David has never been that great at dancing. We went to Starsky and Hutch, the seventies nightclub, once a couple of years ago and he was dreadful—funny, but dreadful. But our Italian singer has finished with the Bee Gees and is now crooning Frank Sinatra numbers.

I don’t know how he does it, but with his hands holding me tightly round the waist David soon has me moving all over the floor, spinning around and everything. It’s intoxicating. I feel like I’m in a Sophia Loren movie, with the man of my dreams smoldering at me as I glide around the dance floor.

I say glide, in reality I’m not actually the best dancer, but I’m definitely getting the hang of it.

And to be honest, I think if I practiced I could be really good. Maybe David and I could go to classes when we get back home. And when we get married we can impress everyone with our amazing dancing—all our guests will just stand round the dance floor watching and clapping, and we’ll smile modestly and say “Well, we do like going out dancing. . . .”

I let go of David’s hands to twirl round, and when I spin round again I feel some unfamiliar hands round, my waist. It’s Carlo.

“You come to Carlo’s, you ’ava to dance with Carlo,” he grins. As we dance, I look at David watching us. He’s smiling broadly and winks at me when I catch his eye. What is he thinking, I wonder. What do I really mean to him?

When the singer starts on “That’s Amore,” I break off from Carlo and walk back to David.

“You looked beautiful dancing,” he tells me as I wrap my arms around his neck.

“Why don’t you take me home,” I say simply.

“Home?” David says, surprised.

“Home as in your hotel. I don’t want to dance with my clothes on anymore.”

“Just what I was thinking,” murmurs David and places his hand firmly on my bottom, leading me to the door. Carlo meets us with our coats and puts us in a cab. “You’ll sort out the Vespa for us?” David asks him.

“Of course!” He grins, then winks at me. “Too dangerous for a beautiful young lady like you to be on a scooter, no? I think a car is better.”

I smile politely. To be honest, I’m a teensy bit disappointed. I was looking forward to jumping on the Vespa and putting my arms around David again. Still, I suppose a luxurious cab isn’t too bad either.

“Hotel Inghilterra,” David says to the driver and turns to look at me. He stares into my eyes as if looking for something.

“So, did today meet with your expectations?” he asks me.

I kiss him. “It did much more than that.”

“And you’re happy?” He is still looking at me intently. As if he wants to ask me something important. He couldn’t be about to pop the question, could he?

“David, I’m always happy when you’re around.” I take his hand and look up expectantly.

“I don’t want to lose you,” David says softly.

Lose me? What’s he talking about.

“David, you’re not going to lose me,” I whisper in his ear, then kiss him, nibbling his earlobe.

He kisses me back urgently, wrapping his arms around me. Then he pulls back slightly.

“Darling, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Mmmm?”

Before he can answer, the cab draws up in front of an impressive-looking hotel. David pulls away and gets some money out of his pocket for the driver.

As we walk into the hotel, I nestle my head in his shoulder.

“What was it you wanted to tell me?”

“Oh, nothing. It can wait,” David says, stroking my head.

As we walk into the hotel, I stifle a yawn.

“Oh no you don’t,” David says firmly, and picks me up over his shoulder.

“David! Put me down!” I yelp. There are a few people in the reception area looking rather taken aback.

“Room number Thirty-four,” David says calmly to the concierge as if it was completely normal to have a girl hanging over his back.

“Put me down!” I squeak as we move toward the lift, but David just pats me on the bottom and presses the button.

“I am not having you yawn, Miss Beauchamp,” he says sternly. “I have a number of activities planned for this evening and I think you need to conserve your energy.”

As the lift doors open, David concedes defeat and puts me down again.

“No yawning?” he asks.

“No yawning,” I agree. David picks me up again, but this time he has his arms securely under my bottom and my legs wrap round him. I can feel his slight stubble graze my cheeks as we kiss, our tongues exploring each other’s mouth.