‘Thanks… and for the water, Dario,’ she said in a rasping whisper, leaning against a car bonnet to steady her. ‘You saved my…’
Her words were drowned out by the high-pitched whine of an alarm ripping through the star-studded sky.
‘Sorry,’ she squeaked, jumping aside, despairing of her clumsiness.
‘I sort it out,’ he said, his voice teasing, but not unkind. ‘But before you go…’
Handing her a tissue, he indicated her panda eyes.
‘Aargh. What must I look like? Thank you,’ she said, blindly wiping away the black smears under her lashes. ‘Better?’
His intense gaze roamed around her face. He leaned towards her and wiped away the last smear with his thumb. He stood back and smiled. ‘Bellissima.’
Bellissima.Her heart quickened. What was it about the Italian language? Even the word for cheese –formaggio– or socks– calzini –sounded sexy. No wonder Italian men had a reputation for being Romeos. Huh. But she wasn’t so naive as to fall for that. No way.
He fired her a lopsided grin, eyes gleaming wickedly.‘Vai! Go!’
‘Yes. Of course. The haggis!’
‘Vai!’
Dario watched her disappear across the car park.
It was no use; he thought he’d come to terms with the fact that there would never be anything more than friendship between them, but watching her sail around the dance floor earlier, had reawakened those forbidden feelings he’d fought so hard to ignore.
‘Ready?’
Stefano nodded. Lucy signalled to Alfonso, who rang the large antique buffalo bell hanging above the reception desk.
‘Signore e signori!Attenzione prego!’
Turning to the enormous plasma screen behind him, he then gestured to Jamie. ‘Maestro!’
The wailing notes of the bagpipes swelled and soared up into the exposed wooden beams, filling every crack and crevice of the factory walls. The crowd parted, to reveal a dashing young man with sleek, ebony-black hair, wearing a crisp white shirt and bow tie, his kilt swaying gently as he strode into the room in time to the music, proudly holding aloft a silver platter.
Elena gasped, as if she’d seen a ghost. Tears swam in her eyes. She fought them, not wishing to upset Alfonso. But he knew what she was thinking.
Elena rested her head on his shoulder, lightly touching her silver locket; the one Giancarlo had given her the day Stefanowas born. The words ‘Insieme per sempre’ were engraved on the back.Together forever.
A hush fell over the room. Sucking in a shaky breath, Lucy took hold of the strategically placed knife in one hand and the microphone in the other. ‘Address to a haggis…
‘Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin’-race!
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace
As lang’s my arm.’
Robert Burns’ words had been drummed into Lucy at school. Funny, she couldn’t remember what she’d eaten for yesterday’s breakfast, yet this poem flowed out of her as if she were back in the classroom. She hadn’t had a clue what the words meant back then, and to be honest, she still wasn’t completely sure. But no matter. It all added to the atmosphere and the drama.
Carefully placing Stefano’s hand over her own, she raised the knife, Stefano gave another Jamie-Fraser war cry, and together they plunged it into the haggis, to rapturous applause and flashing camera lights.
To say Italy is all about food is an understatement, and while she wasn’t expecting an appreciative chorus of ‘Mmmm!’, ‘Spettacalore!’, ‘Squisito!’,she hoped the reaction wouldn’t echo the dreaded bushtucker eating challenge onI’m a Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here.
