“I was trying to make out what it said,” she grumbled. “My Italian needs work.”
“The setting was commissioned for my grandparents’ wedding by my great-grandmother.” He touched different pieces of cutlery as he translated the various words etched upon each. “Respect, honesty, trust, loyalty. The foundation of a strong marriage.”
Don’t read anything into it, Amy ordered herself, but couldn’t help the way her pulse quickened and her cheeks grew warm with self-consciousness.
“My grandmother always used it when she had private luncheons with her women friends.” He touched a fork to minutely adjust its position. “So did my mother.”
“What a lovely tradition.” Her heart twisted as she realized she was being very firmly friend zoned. “It puts a literal spin on women coming together to dish the dirt, doesn’t it? I’m honored you would share it with me.”
“I’m sure it made the women feel privileged to hear palace gossip from the queen herself, but if we’re being honest?” He gave the knife with Lealtà scrolled upon it a sardonic nod. “I think it was also a reminder that the secrets she revealed were meant to be kept.”
“The qualities of any good relationship, then.” Amy spoke with casual interest, but her veins stung with indignation. She wasn’t going to tell anyone that they’d kissed, if that’s what he was worried about. “I’ve signed a nondisclosure contract,” she reminded him, chin coming up a notch. “You don’t have to drive it home with a golden spike.”
“I thought you’d think they were pretty,” he said in a blithe tone that disconcerted her because why would he care what she thought about anything? “The dishes and the courtyard.”
“They are,” she allowed, feeling awkward now. Privileged and entrusted.
He nodded past her and staff approached to seat them. Wine was poured, and as they took their first sips, her gaze clashed with his over their glasses. His expression was inscrutable, but the impact of looking him in the eye caused her to rattle the rim of her glass against her teeth. Her throat contracted on the wine, so she choked a bit, which she tried to suppress. The burn of alcohol seared a path behind her sternum.
An antipasto course was served. The staff didn’t leave so they spoke of general things. Luca asked about the rest of her presentation, and Amy managed to say something lucid.
“What drew you to public relations as a career?” he inquired.
“Dumb luck. I was serving drinks at a pub. They had a band coming in, and I put it on my social media feeds. My circle was quite posh from school, daughters of celebs and such. One was a girl from a movie that was a cult favorite. She came out, and it turned the pub into that summer’s hot spot. Another pub asked me to put them on the map, and word got out on the music circuit. Instead of serving drinks, I started planning and promoting events. The more people I knew, the more I got to know.”
“I presumed you’d taken a degree, not learned on the job.”
“I’ve since taken a vocational qualification.” She didn’t have to elaborate on why she hadn’t gone to uni. Rice and fish were served, delicately spiced with saffron and scallions.
While they enjoyed it, he told her some more history about the palace and his country.
By the time they’d finished with a custard tart topped with whipped cream and fresh berries, they had discovered they both enjoyed mind-teaser puzzles, horseback riding—though they found little time to pursue it—and shared a fascination with remote places on Earth.
Amy had forgotten who he was and why she was here. This had become the most effortless, enjoyable date she’d been on in ages.
Then Luca told the server, “We’ll take coffee in my drawing room,” and Amy crashed back to reality. This wasn’t a date.
She found a smile and said, “Coffee sounds good.”
A few minutes later, they walked down the hall to the room where they’d kissed last night. The drapes were open, allowing sunshine to pour into the expansive space, but it still felt intimate once the espresso had been served and they were alone.
She understood the expression “walking on eggshells” as she approached the sofa. Each step crushed something fragile underfoot. Should she acknowledge last night? Express regret and move on? Ignore it completely and see if he brought it up?
“I saw your press release this morning,” she said, deciding on an oblique reference to the phone call that had pulled them apart last night. “I’m glad things weren’t more serious.”
After a brief pause, he drawled, “You ought to defuse bombs for a living.”
“I do,” she replied mildly, obeying his wave and sinking onto the cushion. “Proverbial ones.” She felt as though a sizzling string was running toward a bundle of dynamite sitting beneath her.
She added a few grains of raw, golden sugar to her coffee. He took his black.
“It’s fine if we’re not going to talk about it,” she said in the most unconcerned tone she could find, sitting back and bringing her cup and saucer with her. “I respect boundaries. Yesterday’s evidence to the contrary,” she added with a wince of self-recrimination. “I don’t make a habit of behaving so unprofessionally.”
“My behavior was wildly inappropriate, given my title and the fact I’ve hired you. I want to be clear that I expect nothing from you beyond the work I’ve commissioned from London Connection. If our contract is something you’d prefer to dissolve now, I would understand.”
Weren’t they the most civilized people on the planet? And why did it make her feel as though she was swallowing acid?
“We bear equal responsibility.”
“Do we?” He sounded so lethal, it struck her as an accusation. Her heart lurched.
“I’m not a victim.” Conviction rang in her tone. She refused to be one ever again. “I don’t think you are, either. Are you?” It took everything in her to hold his gaze and not shake so
