If she hadn’t heard his English accent, she would have assumed him to be Italian. He still could be. A bilingual one. A hot, sexy bilingual Italian, who was staring at her with appreciation in his gorgeous eyes.
Giselle wasn’t often moved by male beauty, but she was earth-quaked by this specimen.
While she’d been drooling, the waiter had whisked the fallen cutlery away and was now sweeping up the glass shards using a pan and a long-handled brush.
Abruptly, she realised she was still holding the euro notes, and she closed her fist, crumpling them in her hand.
‘Do you usually keep your money down there?’ the guy asked.
Giselle’s already warm face flamed. ‘Sometimes.’
‘Join me for a drink.’ It wasn’t an invitation; it was more of a command.
‘Why?’ Her tone was suspicious.
‘Because you look hot and bothered.’
Nuh-uh,hewas the hot one. ‘I’ve got a drink, thanks,’ she said. Letting her long hair fall forward to cover her face, she rooted in her bag and brought out the bottle of water with a flourish. There was only a mere thimbleful left in the bottom.
Feeling even more embarrassed, she peered at him through a veil of silver strands, wondering just how red her face was.
The guy pulled out a chair and lifted an eyebrow.
Giselle melted. Oh crumbs, he could do the one-eyebrow thing. There was no hope for her. She was lost.
She sank onto the seat.
He smiled, a slow curve of his lips, and signalled to the waiter, who had reappeared with fresh cutlery and glasses.
‘Wine? My name’s Rocco, by the way.’
‘Giselle. Er, just water please.’
‘Make that two.’
The waiter nodded and handed them a menu each. Giselle only took a quick glance at it, but it was enough to tell her she could barely afford the water. Anyway, she still had half a sandwich left, although it had lost its appeal a couple of hours ago.
‘Hungry?’ Rocco asked.
Rocco… Was that an Italian name? ‘Not really.’
‘Do you mind if I order some food?’
‘This is your table, not mine.’ She was acutely aware she was gate-crashing his meal.
He said something to the waiter. She caught one word:bruschette.
‘Are you Italian?’ she asked.
‘My grandmother was. I’m only a quarter Italian.’
‘Do you live here?’
‘No, London. Holland Park. You’re Scottish, I take it?’
‘What gave it away?’ she joked, beginning to relax. ‘I live in East Kilbride. Near Glasgow,’ she added, in case he’d never heard of the place. ‘Are you here on holiday?’
‘Gap year. Or should I say, a gap six months. I’ve got a job lined up for January.’
