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Not that having her in his sight was a hardship. Far from it. He indulged in another leisurely perusal. In her mid to late twenties, and above average height, she had sultry dark eyes and flawless skin. Her hair was constrained in a loose braid that fell almost to her waist, its colour a rich deep brown, glinting with auburn highlights in the sun. He wanted to free it from its restraint and see the thick, lustrous waves in all their glory. Her facial features were strong yet feminine: a well-defined jawline with a hint of stubbornness in the set of her chin, high cheekbones, small, straight nose, and the kind of mouth that could tempt a man to wickedness.. .pouting, rosy-red lips demanding to be kissed with thorough abandon.

He was bored with the artificiality and falseness of the women he usually came into contact with, and this woman's natural freshness and apparent-lack of affectation appealed to him. So did her shapely figure. Here was a woman with generous curves. Curves that were all her own, not fashioned on an operating table. She was voluptuous, earthy, comfortable in her skin. No wedding or engagement rings, he noticed, disconcerted by the rush of male satisfaction and possessiveness that observation brought. Indeed, she wore no jewellery or adornments at all...save for a simple narrow-banded silver watch around her right wrist.

Totally feminine, she stirred his interest as no other woman had ever done. But was she genuine? Could he trust her? Time would tell. For now, he wasn't anywhere near ready to let her go. Until he knew for sure who she was and what she wanted he would follow the maxim of keeping his friends close and any possible enemies closer.

Seb would have enjoyed a much longer inspection of her delectable body, but she readjusted the position of her canvas shoulder bag, then turned and headed towards the age-old steps cut into the cliff that led back up to the villa. Seb followed, appreciating the back view nearly as much as the front. Her faded denim shorts were cut well enough for him to enjoy the delicious swell of her rear, and short enough to allow a generous view of smooth, pleasingly rounded thighs. She moved a few steps up ahead of him, and he could admire gently muscled calves and trim ankles. Closing the distance between them, lured by the sway of her hips and the gentle bob of the plait hanging down her back, he resisted the temptation to brush his fingertips across the tantalising band of golden skin exposed between the low-slung shorts and the hem of her short-sleeved top. He was further intrigued by the small tattoo of a leaping dolphin at the base of her spine.

They were not quite halfway up the rough climb when a loose patch of ground came away under the woman's foot. Seb reacted instinctively to her startled cry, thankful he was close enough to catch her as she slipped precariously towards the edge. His heart was thudding as he dragged her back with him, holding her close as they leaned on the cliff wall for a moment, catching their breath.

'Thank you,' she gasped, resting against him, one fist closed around the strap of her bag, her other hand clinging to the rock face.

'Are you all right?'

She nodded. 'I'm fine.'

Still neither of them moved. Enjoying the feel of her in his arms, Seb was in no hurry to let go. One forearm rested under the lush fullness of her breasts, their plumpness, firm but soft, pressing against him. He could feel that the rapid thud of her heart matched his own. And as he breathed in, he inhaled the scent of vanilla and sweet, sun-warmed woman. Sexy and arousing. Her body was athletic, strong, yet softly feminine. His free hand had settled at her bare navel, his fingertips brushing the silkiness of her skin.

Loosing her hold on the rock, she turned in his arms, on a level with him due to the incline of the steps. Their gazes locked. Time stopped. Seb's gaze dropped to her mouth. The urge to kiss her was almost irresistible. Almost. But suspicions still nagged at him. He didn't yet know if he could trust this woman. It took a huge effort of will to control his compulsive rush of desire, but he reluctantly released her and put a few inches of distance between them.

'We should move on,' he told her, cursing the unevenness of his voice.

Sooty lashes lowered to hide the expression in dark brown eyes. 'Yes.'

'Be careful how you go.'

As she turned from her rescuer and began making her way up the remainder of the steps to the top of the cliff, Gina intended to heed the warning. And not just in terms of watching her footing. Her reaction to the man himself was troubling. Her heart hammered and every particle of her thrummed—more from the feel of his body pressed against hers than from her stumble on the uneven ground. His strength, his heat, the male scent of him, had combined to make her light-headed. The warmth of his palm and the touch of his fingers on her bare skin had set her aflame. For one wild moment, when she had looked into those inscrutable eyes, she had thought he was going to kiss her. Even more disturbing was her yearning for him to do so. How long had it been since she'd been kissed?

Grateful to reach the safety of the path, she headed back towards the villa, conscious of his presence behind her. She felt shaken by her intense and instant attraction to the stranger who had emerged so unexpectedly from the sea. A tremor rippled through her as he rested a hand at the small of her back and guided her towards the expansive rear terrace with its incredible views.

'Make yourself comfortable,
signorina.'
His voice was polite but guarded as he gestured towards the chairs. 'Excuse me while I change. When I return, we will talk.'

'And you'll help me get in touch with the villa's owner?' she interjected, reminding him of her purpose, determined not to be defeated.

A smile played at his mouth, but suspicion still lurked in his eyes. 'We will see.'

The comment made Gina realise that she might have to confide more than she had intended if she hoped to gain his co-operation.

She watched him stride to the villa and disappear through a doorway. A sigh escaped her. She felt edgy, unsettled, and whilst she knew in part it was because of the importance of her mission here, she also knew that most of her jitters were due to the immediate desire she had experienced the moment she had met her enigmatic host. There was no denying her response to him, nor the masculine interest in his eyes as he had looked at her. She was shocked, because those few moments of mutual interest had cracked open a shell she had thought firmly constructed, awakening things she had tamped down and rejected for herself when she had made the decision to put her grandparents' needs before her own. Maybe she was allowing the setting and the fairytale of their romance here to go to her head. That was all it was, she consoled herself. When she saw the man again things would be fine, the momentary aberration would have passed.

Unable to keep still, she set her bag on the table, then walked to the balustrade wall, leaning on it to admire the sweep of coast laid out before her. Curiosity bettered her, and she moved along to the artist's easel she had noticed earlier, stepping closer to inspect the canvas. The work was unfinished but impressive, the style unusual. She was no expert, but the clever use of abstract blocks making up the seascape appealed to her. She wondered if her sea-god was the artist, or if someone else lived here with him. A woman?

A noise alerted her that she was no longer alone. Embarrassed at being caught snooping, she spun round. Several things hit her at the same time. Any hope that her reaction to him had been a passing fancy was instantly discounted. Dressed in leg-hugging jeans and a black T-shirt, the man was darkly attractive and dangerously exciting, his impact no less disconcerting now he was fully dressed. He had taken time for a quick shave, but he was just as ruggedly appealing as before, with an untamed air that did strange things to her hormones. Hormones that were meant to be in retirement, or at least a long hibernation.

Carrying two glasses containing some kind of fruit drink, he was frowning as he approached. Instead of setting them both down together, he put the glass in his left hand on the table before transferring the second from his right hand to his left. Puzzled by his awkwardness, she noted the way he attempted to flex his right wrist, index finger and thumb, as if experiencing problems with movement, maybe numbness or pain. It was as she neared him that she noted for the first time the fresh scars that marred his skin.. .three across the palm, heel and wrist of his right hand, one on his left forearm near his inner elbow.

Her caring nature rose to the fore, and she wanted to help, to comfort, but one look at the challenge and flare of angry pride in his eyes kept her questions and her concern unspoken. Experience as a trauma nurse helped her mask her emotions and interested speculation. Ignoring what she suspected he would see as his weakness, she made no comment and sat down.

'Thank you for the drink,
signor.'
She smiled, taking a sip of the tangy mixed berry juice from the glass nearest her. 'It's very refreshing. The weather is still so warm here.'

He inclined his head, a momentary flash of puzzlement crossing his expression before he drew out the chair next to her and sat far too close, heightening her intense awareness of him. 'You are welcome. And now that you are officially my guest, and I am to try to help you, we should introduce ourselves.'

'Yes, of course.' Setting down her' glass, suppressing a shiver of anticipation at the thought of touching him again, she held out her hand. 'My name is Gina. Gina McNaught.'

'I am pleased to meet you, Gina.'

The way he said her name caused a fresh tingle of desire to chase along her spine. Then his hand sought hers, and every nerve-ending was focused on his touch, on the way his strong but graceful fingers curled around her own, the pad of his thumb brushing across the back of her hand like a caress. As her palm was all but swallowed up in his, she felt the jagged lines of the scars he had suffered, wondering again what had happened to him.

'And your name is...?' She faced him, hoping her voice had been steady and he wouldn't realise the effect he had on her.

For a moment he returned her gaze in silence, the expression in his eyes unreadable save for a glimmer of that masculine pride and challenge. 'I am Sebastiano Adriani.’

Not
a flicker of recognition showed in Gina's eyes at the mention of his name, Seb noted. Either she genuinely had no idea who he was, or she was an exceptionally good actress. He was not prepared to take any chances. Why had she come here?
Was
she a journalist out for an exclusive story? Or a woman on the make, wanting to use his name, his money, to further her own ends?

When he had gone inside to change his clothes, he had glanced out the front door, expecting to find the car Gina had arrived in. Hoping for clues, maybe a Florentine number plate that could suggest she had followed him here, he had been surprised to discover instead a rented tourist bike propped against the wall. It added to the woman's mystery. And it crossed his mind that the bike could be a crafty prop. Life had taught him to be cynical and untrusting.

Gina refused to fit into a convenient box in his head. Nothing about her and her sudden appearance on the beach made sense. Nor could he explain her reaction to his awkwardness with the drinks. He knew she had noticed the scars that reminded him at every moment of how his life had changed. Most people in the last weeks had shied away from touching him—even talking to him. They either refused to mention what had happened, as if that would make it go away, or they patronised him, treating him like an invalid. Gina was different. She had not fussed, had not been embarrassed, and had not hesitated in instigating the handshake.

Needing time to think how to handle this situation, how to draw out the. information he needed to know from her while giving nothing of himself away, he followed her lead and settled back to enjoy the view. But as he reached out to pick up his drink his hand locked again. It happened sometimes, often when he was least prepared for it. He hated it. Hated even more for his clumsiness to be witnessed.

As he cursed under his breath, Gina calmly rescued the glass and set it back on the table. Seb froze as she boldly took his right hand in both of hers. Since the incident that July night in Florence, people had pitied him, or smothered him, unable to face the reality. He braced himself, but Gina surprised him by tackling the issue head on.

'How long has it been, Sebastiano?' she asked, stripping away his defences with the exquisite gentleness of her touch, the understanding, concern and complete lack of pity in her eyes.

'Seb,' he corrected, thrown off balance by this woman. His voice sounded rough, and he tried to shut his mind to the vivid memories of that night. 'Seven weeks.'

Gina refused to back down. 'What happened?'

Unable to comprehend why he was telling her anything at all, he found himself playing down his role in the incident, passing off his injuries as an accident while going to the aid of the woman being attacked. From her expression, Gina knew there was more to it, but she didn't press him. Dark thoughts assailed him as he recalled how he had staved off blows to his face and body, but at the expense of the knife slicing through his hand and arm. The resulting loss of sensory and motor function, while not impacting significantly on his normal daily existence, was sufficient to prevent him from carrying out the intricate surgery that was his life.

In his heart he had known from the moment he had knelt on that dark street as the police had arrived and the frightened woman had fussed over him that he was finished as a surgeon. All he had been able to focus on was his hands, and the fear that no matter how quickly he got to hospital the damage was done. He had been right. He would never operate again.

Throughout his time in plaster he had gone along with family and colleagues who had assured him everything would be all right. Inside he had known it would not. His moment of selflessness had robbed him of the thing that mattered to him most. His career was over. Many other things were over, too, he allowed with cynicism. How many so-called friends had faded away these last weeks? How many celebrity clients had blanked him now he was no longer of use to them? How many women, like vain, fickle Lidia di Napoli, once eager for the kudos of being associated socially with him, had vanished-like rats deserting a sinking ship? He was no longer the darling of Florentine society. Only the media, eager to capture the gory details of his descent from the pinnacle of his profession, still chased him.