There was no point telling the man who’d married someone else how the family tragedy had interfered with her plans to be with him. Why whip him with it just to leave herself exposed?

And she had something more precious to lose than mere pride.

As if in mockery of her inner struggle, he took her arms in his strong, gentle grip. ‘I am so sorry about your father, Larissa.’

Her senses plunged into uproar. Oh, the temptation to melt against him and soak up the comfort of his arms. With his use of the affectionate name he used to call her, his dark eyes glowing with such genuine concern, he was almost the sincere, charming man she’d fallen in love with.

He could do that so well, her brain reminded itself, make a woman believe he cared, such beautiful manners, while on another level some primitive part of her was alive to something else in those dark eyes. Some hot, fiery spark in their depths that had nothing to do with the conversation.

Her heart skipped up a gear. A kiss was in the offing. More than a kiss. If she once glanced at his mouth, it would happen, the moment would intensify, and then…

‘It was a-a tragedy,’ she acknowledged, stiff in her effort not to let her eyes stray. ‘But Mum and I got through it. We had each other. We had-good things to live for,’ she added hoarsely, disengaging herself in time.

Was he aware of the galloping vibrations, her voice, the sudden tension? He walked silently for a few metres, then gave her a long, subtle glance, brimming with sensuality, his gorgeous sexy mouth not quite edging up at the corners, and her insides did a slow flip.

He knew. Of course he knew.

They turned the street corner into the main shopping precinct. As always any time of the day or night, Newtown was humming with its own offbeat energy. Patrons thronged the bars and theatres, spilled onto the pavement from the multicultural mix of cafés, protected from the chill night air by clear plastic walls, while late shoppers still lingered at the delis and the organic green co-op. In the doorway of the Friends’ Design Gallery, a dreadlocked man with a sax sat before a brazier playing ‘Unchained Melody’, in competition with the sound of bouzoukis issuing from the Greek restaurant further along the street.

She shoved her hands in her pockets and hugged the coat to herself. She wasn’t so aware of being cold. Nerves and the excitement of being out in the night air were making her tremble on the inside of her skin. Or perhaps it was what she had to tell him.

She hoped he was in a mood for revelations.

The brasserie had awnings on the windows and a softly lit bar at one end, with tall bar stools and a couple of tables in inviting little alcoves with plush banquette seats. Logs blazed in a giant fireplace set into the middle of the floor, screening most of the bar area from the main restaurant. It was inviting, and in one of the alcoves a group lingered over their pre-dinner drinks, soaking up the warmth.

Alessandro steered her to the other table. She slipped off her coat and sat down, and he slid into the seat at right angles to hers. He picked up the wine list, and with a glance at her edged a little closer so she could examine it with him. She scanned the list, aware of feeling the heat from his body, intensely conscious of their arms touching, his ribs just a few inches away from hers.

The bartender was doubling as waiter in the restaurant, so they had plenty of time for consultation. Not that she knew anything about wine, and throughout the discussion she sensed another kind of communication between her and Alessandro that kept her heart drumming. Made her careful to avoid too much eye contact.

Eventually the waiter materialised and Alessandro ordered a merlot, then lounged back against the banquette, his eyes making occasional flickering glances to her face and hands, lingering on her throat. She’d rarely felt more conscious of her body. Was it like this for everyone who met an ex-lover? Once having been activated, were those old triggers for ever present and at risk of causing their owners to burst into flame?

When the rich crimson wine was before them, he clinked glasses with hers.

‘Salute.’

She met his eyes, and they were veiled, with golden shimmers of heat in their dark depths that she recognised with a deep pang of response. His movements were measured, his mouth relaxed, and so stirringly sensual and evocative of past pleasures, she had to lower her gaze.

This was how he’d looked before, when love was on the menu. When he’d been confident of her. He was at his most devastating, but it was important she keep command of herself. Not allow herself to be seduced.

She thought of Vivi. How warm would he be when she told him?

He watched her take a sip, the firelight reflected in his eyes, then he angled his body a little further her way. ‘So fill me in on your little life. Is there a guy?’

The question sounded lazy, but despite his sleepy eyelids and relaxed tone there was a stillness in him as he awaited her response. It was tempting to lie, tease him a little. Pretend she was as desirable to other men as she’d once been to him. But how sad would that be? It had been her choice to lead the celibate life. The search for a partner was too hard. A series of uncles while she reviewed their qualifications was not what she’d planned for her daughter.

‘Not currently.’

His black brows lifted. ‘Why not?’

She swirled the wine in her glass, then sipped, welcoming its rich mellowness on her dry lips, aware of his glance drifting to her mouth. ‘Is there ever an answer to that question?’ She lowered her lashes, then looked up again, directly at him. ‘What about you? Is there a woman?’

He shook his head. ‘No woman in particular.’

‘But-you had a woman,’ she said silkily. ‘Your wife.’

He frowned down at the table. ‘For a very short time. That was-a mistake. We married each other for-reasons we shouldn’t have.’ He looked grim all of a sudden, and she felt a little flare of anger. The thought came to her, not for the first time, that he should never have married that woman. He’d belonged to her.

‘You must have already known her when you were here before,’ she said lightly. ‘With me.’

He gave a shrug. ‘Since childhood.’

She felt a sort of helplessness, imagining their intimacy, the shared experiences of long acquaintance. How could she ever have competed with that?

‘Did you tell her about-me?’

He met her gaze steadily. ‘Everything.’

‘And she still went ahead with the wedding?’

His eyelids flicked down, and she thought suddenly she would never understand. Never be able to guess how aristocratic Venetians and their wealthy connections thought about such things as love and marriage, and little flings on the side.

It cost her some pride, but she had to ask. ‘Did you love her?’

He scanned her face, his dark eyes glinting. ‘Whatever I say to that you will hold against me, one way or another.’

‘Then you did.’ She smiled, though it scraped her heart.

‘I’m beginning to feel flattered. What do you care?’

‘I don’t care,’ she said fiercely, her voice shaking all at once. She set down her glass with a snap.

Unexpectedly, he leaned over, tilted up her face and took her lips in a hot, hungry little kiss. The contact with his sensuous mouth was electrifying. While her mind reeled in shock, her parched lips responded to the delicious friction like the desert earth drinking in the rain. As he intensified the connection, gripping her with one lean hand on her ribs, fiery tingles set her mouth alight, and a hot, sweet, overwhelming rush of desire whooshed straight to her nipples.

She should have resisted, but he slipped his tongue inside her mouth with the clever old artistry, tangling it with hers and igniting the tender tissues inside. As his hot breath mingled with hers she could have swooned with all the fantastic sensations, not least being the inflammatory effects on her erotic imagination.

While the masculine taste and scent of him flooded her starved senses, her breasts warmed and strained against the fabric of her bra, all her erogenous zones bursting into vibrant, throbbing life.

Just when she was ready to climb on his lap, wrap herself around him and make the leap to the next steamy level, a background noise impinged on her ears, and, as if suddenly mindful of the place, Alessandro released her and they jolted apart.

Barely awake to the real world, she glanced about, but to her relief no one was in direct view, other drinkers having long vacated the bar, and the bartender/waiter busy in the restaurant. Hot, flushed and aroused, she turned a reproving glance on Alessandro, and felt scorched by the desire in his wolfish gaze.

Oh, God. Her racing heart started to thunder a warning. It was happening again. The most dangerously seductive man on the planet, and here he was, sweeping her along again, hypnotising her until her brain cells spun into cotton candy and her responsibilities all floated out the window.

Overloading her senses. Fogging her brain.

Wasn’t this the same pattern, unfolding just as it had before?

A conversation. A pleasant walk. Those first light touches-the casual brushing of shoulders, hand to cheek, hand to hand. A soft stroke of her hair.

That first tender kiss.

Then the deeper kisses. The hotter, more passionate kisses. The wild, hungry, desperate kisses with the insane, thirsty cravings for skin contact…

The hotel room…Oh, God, the hotel room.

And then the obsession.

And this time, this time, he’d omitted some steps to jump straight in at hot and sexy. Except this time she had more than just herself to think about and she really did need to resist.