Francesca cringed at the sound of flesh hitting flesh.
Gabe's head flew back and he stumbled; Luca shook his hand out and muttered a spate of curses in Italian. She rushed over to check on Gabe, secretly pondering the stupidity of men. She lifted her hand to his jaw, but he caught her wrist before she could touch him.
Beneath the anger in his gaze, she saw the hurt, and though she had her own reasons to be angry, she couldn't bear knowing that she'd hurt him—no matter how inadvertently. "Idiota," she said softly. "Luca is my cousin."
The fierceness in his gaze faded as it shifted to Luca, who was flexing his fingers and grumbling about hard-headed Americans.
Gabe closed his eyes. "I am an idiot. And I'm sorry."
She touched her cool fingers to the redness of his jaw. He winced slightly, and she turned to glower at her cousin. But before she could say anything more, her grandparents were there.
"What's going on here?" Nonno demanded.
The two men eyed one another warily but remained silent.
"Francesca?" Nonna prompted.
"A misunderstanding," she hedged. "This is Gabe Palermo, a friend of mine from Charisma. Gabe—these are my grandparents, Enzo and Allegra Sacchetti. And my cousin, Luca."
"You're a long way from home." Both Nonno's tone and his posture conveyed suspicion.
"And probably hungry," Nonna said, because she didn't believe there was any problem so big it couldn't be solved with food. "Come and have lunch with us."
Francesca set an extra plate out and they sat at the table—Gabe holding a bag of frozen corn to his jaw; Luca with another of frozen peas on his hand—to enjoy a meal of baked chicken and creamy risotto with roasted peppers.
Her grandmother was a wonderful cook and mealtimes around the big wooden table had always been one of the highlights of Francesca's trips to Italy. But today, with Gabe seated beside her, her head and her heart were both too confused to allow her to fully appreciate the meal.
"Where are you staying?" Nonno asked Gabe, when everyone had eaten their fill and Francesca started to clear the dishes away from the table.
"I'll figure that out when I go back into town."
"You flew from America without first arranging a hotel?"
"He was eager to see Francesca," Nonna said. "And he doesn't need a hotel—he can stay here."
Her grandfather responded to that with an immediate and vehement, "No way in hell," which didn't sound any less fierce for its delivery in Italian.
"We have enough room," his wife replied in the same language. "And it will be easier to keep an eye if he is close by."
"And easier for them to sneak off together, if they have a mind to do so."
"If they have a mind to, it will not matter where he is sleeping," Allegra pointed out. "Young love will not be denied."
"It will be denied under my roof," her husband insisted, his expression dark.
"I guess they don't realize I understand every word they're saying?" Gabe asked Francesca.
"They don't care," she said.
Then Luca interrupted the grandparents' bickering to say, "He could stay at my place."
"Because that wouldn't be awkward," Francesca said dryly.
"I don't hold a grudge," her cousin said.
"You're not the one who was sucker-punched," Gabe noted.
Luca shrugged. "Do you want to bunk in the barn or not?"
She had to fight the smile that tugged at her lips when she saw the look on Gabe's face. He obviously didn't relish the idea but he didn't want to offend her cousin, either.
"The barn has been renovated into an apartment," Francesca explained.
"In that case, I do," Gabe said to Luca. "Thank you."
Nonno didn't look thrilled with the arrangement, but he offered no further protest, only saying, "I'm going out to check the vines."
"I'll go with you," Luca decided.
Gabe helped Nonna hobble into the living room to prop her foot up. After she was settled, he came back to the kitchen, where Francesca was filling the sink to wash up the dishes.
"Are you happy to see me?" he asked her. "Or do you wish I hadn't come?"
She was feeling a lot of things, none of them clearly. Once she got over the initial surprise, her instinctive response had been joy—pure and simple. Being with him made her happy. She'd felt more than guilt over sneaking out of his bed and his apartment—her heart had actually ached.
"I wish I understood why you did," she said, because she knew that their time together was merely a brief interlude from his ordinary life.
"Because I couldn't bear to be away from you," he said, then he kissed her.
The sincerity in his tone made her heart flutter; the passion in his kiss made her knees tremble. She wanted to tell him that she'd hated being away from him, too, but she didn't want to mislead him. Despite the incredible night they'd shared, there was no future for them together. There couldn't be.
She reluctantly ended the kiss. "I'm glad you came—but it doesn't change anything. When I leave here, I'm not returning to Charisma—I'm going to Denver."
"When are you leaving?"
"Saturday," she told him.
"Then I guess I have six days to change your mind."
*
The next day, Gabe awoke conscious of the fact that he had only five days left to persuade Francesca to return to Charisma with him. But for now, he focused on enjoying the time that they had together in Italy. They drove into Florence so that he could play tourist, although he was less interested in the sights than spending time with Francesca away from the speculative glances and probing questions of her family.
They went into the city center, starting where Francesca declared all visitors should start: at Santa Maria del Fiore. It had taken more than two hundred years to complete construction of the cathedral that had begun at the end of the thirteenth century. It was at that time—and continued to be—the tallest building in the city, and the views from the top were reputed to be amazing.
So they started up to the top. It was worth the climb for a closer view of the frescoes of The Last Judgment and to see the intricate pattern in the marble floor below. It was also worth the effort because as he walked up the 463 steps, Gabe had a delectable view of Francesca's perfectly-shaped derriere every step of the way. When they finally reached the top, the sight of the city spread out below was absolutely breathtaking.
"This has always been one of my favorite places in Florence," she confided. "When I was a little girl, I imagined getting married in this church one day."
"You don't imagine getting married here anymore?"
Her gaze shifted away. "I haven't dreamed about getting married in a long time."
"Why is that?"
She shrugged. "None of the guys I dated turned out to be my Prince Charming."
"Until now, you mean."
She smiled. "You might have been perfect—except for the lawyer thing."
"Glass houses," he said pointedly.
Her smile slipped. "What?"
"I saw the graduation photo in your grandparents' living room and recognized the Ricketson Building in the background. Of course, the picture didn't tell me that you graduated summa cum laude from Sturm Law School—your grandmother shared that information."
She shrugged. "I was always a bit of a geek when it came to school."
He knew that she wouldn't have finished law school with highest honors unless she was also incredibly smart and driven, but obviously there was more to the story than she was saying. "So you come from a family of attorneys and went to law school yourself, but opted not to practice."
"That about sums it up," she agreed.
"Everything except the 'why.'"
"I got caught up in the race for a while," she acknowledged. "But when I reached the finish line, I realized I didn't want to spend the rest of my life at Smythe & Wilson."
His brows lifted. "You turned down a job at Smythe & Wilson?"
She wasn't surprised that he'd heard of the firm that had offices in New York, Washington, San Francisco and Denver. But he probably didn't know that Gerald Wilson—one of the founding partners—was her maternal great-grandfather.
"The day I graduated from law school, after the ceremony, my parents took me to the office to show me the door with my name on it—directly across the hall from Kyle's office."
She winced at the slip even before he asked, "Who's Kyle?"
"My fiancé."