‘I can see why you like to come here. Quiet. Alone.’
‘Just me, myself and I.’ Off in the distance a gull called loudly. ‘And them, of course.’ She waved Alessio out of the water. ‘Come. This is what I wanted to show you.’
The moment her back was turned Alessio couldn’t help but allow his eyes to roll over her from head to toe. The wild tresses that usually sprang from her crown were soaked through, dripping long water lines down her olive-skinned back. Her simple black bikini accentuated all her curves – natural, full and feminine. Alessio felt desire rise within him at the sight of her middle; the way her waist narrowed just before her hips, and the muscular pull along her spine. The breeze flowing off the sun-kissed water dotted her skin with goosebumps. Alessio checked himself. Stop it. That’s not helpful, least of all when I’m in wet bathers.
She turned towards him with a smile. It was then that the outline of her nipples, pert against the black Lycra of her bikini top, cast whatever questions he had about his attraction to her to the depths of the sea.
She’s so fucking amazing. Arrrghhh.
‘Here,’ she beckoned with her hand, ‘look.’
Alessio crunched across the pebbly sand and took stock of the spindly-looking plant she pointed to. ‘What is it?’
‘Finocchio di mare. You may also see it referred to as finocchio marino. Sea fennel. It grows all along the coast, no? But for some reason, along our coast here . . .’ She pointed back beyond the cliff face. ‘. . . This is the only place it grows. This little hidden inlet. And no one ever comes here except me, I’m sure.’
‘What do you use it for?’
‘Tantissime cose! Think salads. As a side dish simply dressed. In stews and soups. Tossed through orecchiette and cavatelli. I like it just like this.’ She reached across and plucked some of the meaty succulent-like lengths from the longer stalks, avoiding the seasonal yellow flowers. ‘Try it.’
Wiping his sandy fingers on his bathers, he accepted the finocchio di mare and brought it first to his nose, catching only the scent of his own sea-soaked skin.
He nibbled one length and closed his eyes.
Bright.
Citrus overtones.
Savoury.
Earthy.
A mix between normal fennel and . . . celery.
Peppery.
‘I like that.’ He nibbled another globe. ‘Needs olive oil. Sea salt. Black pepper.’
‘I dress it with succo di clementina.’
Bang! She’s nailed it.
‘Yes, clementine juice! The floral kiss to the citrus . . .’
She winked. ‘You like it?’
‘Love it.’ He reached for more. ‘Who uses it?’
She shrugged, and her abdominal lines tightened. ‘Just me, I think. I come here with a zip-lock bag. Seal the finocchio inside, then swim back under.’
‘Smart.’
‘I used to do it with Papà. We would come here together to gather the finocchio, then just stay and relax. When I was younger we even made castelli and torri out of the rocks and pebbles. It was our special hideaway. And Mamma would get so mad because we were late back for service.’ She smiled through her nostalgia. ‘He was birichino. You know, cheeky?’
And there it was. The heart of the story.
She’d gone out of her way to share this treasured private place with him. It wasn’t really about the sea fennel; it was so much more. This sacred private cove along the Adriatic symbolised the unique bond she’d shared with her father. And she had welcomed Alessio to it with open arms and an open heart.
‘I imagine he’s where you get your cheekiness from.’ Alessio grinned.
