After enjoying their fill of orecchiette with zucchini, goat roasted over coals, garlicky potatoes and a spicy tomato salad, they were sated, and made their way to the water’s edge.
The natural curve of the shore allowed them to watch on as much of Impastino partied around them.
‘Look who’s here . . .’ Francesca’s chin flicked in the direction of the cliff-face stairs. Elio and his Da Martino crew had arrived, along with Sebastiano and some of the staff from Lu Ientu. All shirtless, all ripped, and all emanating egocentric vibes.
They made their way down to the sand, and their mere presence drew most of the crowd’s attention. A number of young women gravitated to Elio’s side, giggling and vivaciously flirty.
‘Gotta give it to them, they know how to hold their own,’ Alessio commented.
‘Ughh!’ Her eyes narrowed on the fire-silhouetted Elio. ‘It’s nearly ten. They’re here for the volleyball competition. Anything they have the opportunity to win, basically.’
Right on cue the men were corralled by some of the others who had already gathered at the party, and they all made their way further up the beach.
‘Where are they going?’
Francesca gestured along the shore. ‘There’s a floodlight over the pier. They twist it around to the sand where they set up the net so they can see better.’
‘Did you want to . . .?’
‘No, no!’ She tensed beside him. ‘Not at all.’ Francesca pivoted a little to face him and asked, ‘What do you think? Stronzi aside.’
‘It’s exactly how I pictured it. Lively. Fun. Delightful . . . like the company.’ His eyes locked with hers, reflecting the burnished flickering flames of the falò. ‘Stunningly beautiful.’
That was all it took to shift the energy between them.
‘Do you mean that?’ Her cheeks warmed against the cool night’s breeze off the water.
‘You know I do.’ He hesitated a moment, and Francesca watched his lips quiver. ‘And if you didn’t know, let me make it clear.’ He dropped his lips close to her ear. ‘You are . . . perfetta.’
‘Aless—’ She tried to pull away, but he reached out and took her by the wrist.
‘You are. In every way.’
Now, there was no mistaking it. Standing there in the sand, side by side, his eyes traced desire-filled lines over her lips. Alessio dipped lower again and all Francesca wanted in the moment was to concede and welcome the kiss. To let him in. To devour him.
But the tug of reason stayed her hand.
No. Don’t. You can’t. Too much relies on this charade. It can wait. It has to. Papà’s legacy is counting on it.
She couldn’t hide the defeat in her words as she gave them voice. ‘We can’t. We just can’t.’
He pressed his forehead to her temple and she felt his slow, disappointed exhalation.
‘I know,’ he said in a low voice.
Suddenly, feeling her fight-or-flight response engage, Francesca took a step back. Perhaps Alessio had seen her shiver, because he undid his shirt, slipped it off and wrapped it around her shoulders. Its effect was immediate. Francesca felt warm cocooning safety under the linen, and again caught the crisp freshness of his aftershave.
‘Grazie,’ she said, wrapping her arms around herself. But what she hadn’t expected was the way he drew her close to his chest and put his hands on her shoulders, rubbing her sweetly to keep warm. From the outside, it looked protective.
But what was happening under the cover of Alessio’s shirt was anything but innocent.
Francesca had gone from shivering to gripped by heat. It radiated from Alessio’s naked chest, and Francesca let her fingers trace a line from his collarbone past his pecs, down his torso to the waistband of his shorts.
She could feel his breathing deepen and her fingers rose again, this time meeting his chef’s knife tattoo, and she pressed a moist-lipped kiss against it.
Alessio’s breath caught. ‘Francesca . . . please . . . you said we shouldn’t . . .’
‘I know what I said. But no one can see this.’
