From the Baroness’s Diary III

Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

After another call to Salvatore’s home—who is still in England, of all places!—and a long talk with Collette, I decide that it can’t hurt to have dinner with Enzo. And if the worst thing happens and Salvatore rejects me, I might stay here and find more about my attraction to this man. Maybe it can be a delicious backup plan, although it’s starting to feel like a royal mess.

To my astonishment, Enzo has behaved very properly the whole night. He hasn’t put his hand on my thigh, nor even over my own hand. He hasn’t make any s****l innuendos or tried to seduce me, as I thought he would.

Nothing.

He took me to a local restaurant about thirty minutes from Mario’s villa. The owner and his wife came to receive him at the door and when Enzo introduced me, explaining away my tight-lipped smiles and nods by saying that I am French. Their smiles to me told me I was about to gorge on special delicacies.

It’s not posh or refined, but it’s clean, familiar looking even, including me with my new, practical, modern clothes and clean face. And intimate. Very intimate.

But not Enzo. Oh, non, not him.

It’s not that he’s crude, distant, or a snob. Much to the contrary.

He wears a combination of casual and class as a second skin.

He is dressed in a white button-down shirt, opened to the second button which lets me peek at his sculptured and tanned chest, with the sleeves rolled up to show his strong forearms, black slacks, and leather loafers without socks, which I find super sexy.

He is confident, but not cocky. It’s clear he is a man who is used to dominating every situation. He knows what he wants and he takes it.

Everything about him screams sexy, even the way he walks, as if he owns the place. He carries himself with a self-confidence that oozes raw power and masculinity.

But there’s something else.

Something shadowy and serious and solemn.

He is talkative, but not too much, and a very good listener.

Of all the things that have happened in my life over the past four years, this is the thing I find strangest: a man who is not interested only in himself and in his businesses or his hobbies or his own interests. He asks me about my time at the convent and about my life in England. When it becomes clear I am being reticent, he modifies his questions which allows me to give him the most truthful answers I can. It almost makes me feel guilty for not telling him my real first name is Chloé. But it’s not like Fleur is completely fake. After all, my maiden name is Chloé de la Fleur.

His attention is totally devoted to me, making me float as his deep, velvet voice make me wet and weak in the knees.

“Sugar?” he asks me when coffee is served.

His hands mesmerize me, so large and strong and yet careful, as he drops a sugar square in the black liquid and stirs it.

“Cream?”

Is it my imagination, or is his voice a notch huskier? Imagination or not, it sends tendrils of warmth down my spine.

I nod, and he takes the lid off the little silver pot of fresh dairy creamer, his hands almost too big for the delicate spoon and so tan in contrast with the white cream.

I have little experience with men, whether they are big and confident like Enzo—or Salvatore—or even the wiry thin and polite to a fault gentlemen, like my husband.

And I am not one to trust men so easily now. But somehow I don’t think he’ll hurt me.

Maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Or…perhaps he’s an illusion.

If I pinch myself, will I open my eyes and find myself back in Beardley Manor, shrinking of loneliness?

So, I decide to not pinch myself.

If he’s a mirage, it can’t hurt worse than the truth. If he isn’t…I shudder, not wanting to think about my suspended reality.

I wrap my hands around the delicate china.

“Want my jacket?” he asks, as he notices I am trying to soak up the warmth of the coffee cup.

He’s been doing these small gestures since we met and tonight they have been even more flagrant with the two of us dining alone.

It’s as if he really cares whether I am liking the food; if I am comfortable or not; if I am enjoying the most I can.

Every small thing he does makes me like him more, want him more. But that’s so wrong! “No.”

But my fingers itch to touch the ink-black strand of hair that is falling over his forehead.

“Rather, yes.” On an impulse, I reach for the jacket. He hands it to me and I’m bathed in his rugged scent as I wrap it around my shoulders. “Thank you.”

Amusement flickers over his rugged features. “I didn’t have to ask twice.”

“No, you didn’t.” My laugh comes out unsteady, almost breathy. Afraid. “I’m…easily persuaded…sometimes.”

Although I haven’t said these words to shock him, he sobers as he hears them. He tilts his head to the side and stares at me for a long moment, before he shakes his head and gives me a small smile. “Somehow, I can’t see you being pushed around. More like a woman who orders others around…gently, though.”

I shift on the soft cushion of the chair. This conversation is getting a little too serious for my tastes. I don’t want to think of the past. But my past is intrinsically entwined with my future. And that brings me to my present and what I am doing here in Sicily. I came to look for Salvatore, not to find another lover.

I shouldn’t have accepted his invitation. Besides, there is something in his demeanor that frightens me a bit—and at the same time, excites me. It’s not his beauty, or his delicious male scent, or his clear need for power or control.

My issue with him is that his energy, his words, his…all of him, it makes my insides tighten to the point of pain with forbidden desire.

I guess he notices me retreating into myself, because he tactfully says, “Shall we go?”

When I look at my watch I am surprised to see it’s way past midnight. We have been talking for more than four hours already.

As Mario’s driver takes us back home, I realize he has talked very little about himself and made me tell a lot about myself. Despite myself, I would like to know more about him.

I look at his profile as the car arrives at Mario’s villa and he thanks the driver not only with words but with a hefty tip he discreetly passes to the man in a handshake.

He’s like a gemstone, attractive yet hard, sharp-edged, and impenetrable. I am like the air…voluble, inconsistent, and free.

And I am already blowing away.