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He could think of many other reasons why Sir Charles would have suggested she go. ‘You have good communication skills.’

‘Or you’re just easy to talk to.’

‘Believe me,’ he said, and as naturally as breathing he put his arm around her shoulders, not in a sensual way, more just to bring her closer in, as if sharing a secret. ‘Usually, I’m not.’

‘You are to me.’ She was considerably shorter than him and when she looked up and smiled the effect broke his stride.

And if he lowered his head he could kiss her, right here on this Sant Lavia street, and lose himself a while longer in her gentle ways.

Then hurt her.

He knew that as fact.

It would not end with just a kiss because it never ever did. They would end up in bed, because it always did, and by tomorrow she would regret it. Stella would find out for herself the cold bastard he usually was, then research him just to have it confirmed.

His grandfather had once accused him of being a playboy.

‘Perhaps they’re playing me,’ Gabe had countered. After all, women were drawn to him like moths to a flame, though it could hardly be down to his air of joie de vivre, when in fact he was taciturn and closed-off.

Possibly his dark good looks played a part, and he always dressed well, but he couldn’t imagine suffering someone based on looks alone.

Money. Oh, yes. He had more than enough.

But it was the title they really wanted and some, such as Donatella, would play devious games even for the slightest stab at that.

Stella wasn’t devious and nor was she playing him.

And so, with his arm still around her, he resumed walking, feeling the slight slump of disappointment in her as he denied them that kiss.

It was because he actually cared about her that he resisted.

He would, Gabe decided, help her with her work instead.

‘Is there a hotel prominent in the movie?’ he asked as he brought her outside the Bella Vista.

‘There is.’

He stared up at the stunning old building and then turned and looked at the palazzo that loomed over them, clearly thinking what might work.

‘Maybe you could take a look at Vellascura,’ he suggested. ‘Is that on your list?’

‘No.’

‘It’s a town near Positano, and has a beautiful villa—you can see Capri in the distance.’

‘Thank you, I’ll go tomorrow.’

‘If you do, you shall need…’

‘I know,’ she said, anticipating what he might say because her shoulders were gently stinging from the day’s sun—or was it his touch? ‘I shall smother myself in sunblock.’

‘Good,’ he said, turning her around, and beneath the streetlight he wanted to capture her cheek, just stroke the soft skin, linger in her kiss, take her to bed, rather than return to the palazzo for death watch. But he kept to his decision. ‘But I was about to say insect repellent.’

She pulled a face. ‘That’s not very…’ Her lips snapped closed. She’d been about to say, That’s not very romantic.

And that was not a thing to say.

That was not even a thing that applied here, surely.