21
IVY
At the edge of the Piazza Navona in Rome, a pitcher of Prosecco in front of us, his gaze was soft as a caress across the table from me. I’d never get used to his height, how handsome he was, or his perfectly proportioned body.
It was our last night together in Italy, and we sat facing a Baroque fountain, the sound of splashing water, puttering pigeons, and children at play fell on our shoulders like a light rain.
Rupert hadn’t touched his food.
“You’re not hungry?” I asked.
The mystery in his gaze beckoned me irresistibly. He was a complex man, and it pleased me how he grew more familiar to me every day. “I’m hungry for something on my tongue which can’t be found in any restaurant.” His mellow baritone danced on the ledge of control, and there was a hint of danger to it as his
