A game, experience told her, that she would tire of long before he did.
In spite of a breeze from the sea, there was real heat in the sun today, and she moved her shoulders pleasurably inside her thin shirt as she walked along the edge of the water, watching the golden light dance on its ripples.
When Poco returned from his umpteenth foray, once more dropping his stick expectantly at her feet, she picked it up and, slipping off her espadrilles, ran laughing into the shallows, splashing along regardless of the soaking of her white cut-offs as the dog chased her, yapping excitedly, leaping up to retrieve his treasure which she was holding teasingly just out of reach.
Suddenly she felt exhilarated, the sense of freedom she’d longed for actually within reach as she danced in and out of the water, singing to herself.
When eventually, she turned to run back the way she’d come, something made her glance up at the promenade, and, in the blinding dazzle of the sun, she seemed to catch a glimpse of a man’s dark figure standing there motionless, as if watching her.
Blinking, she put up a hand to shield her eyes, but when she looked again there was no-one there.
I can’t sleep, she thought in self-derision, and now I’m seeing things.
Time to get a grip, Ellie my dear.
She threw the stick for Poco one last time, then called him to heel and went home.
The trattoria was busy that evening, enjoying its usual brisk local trade.
Ellie made her way to her corner table, acknowledging the smiling greetings from other diners, and sat down, in the comfortable certainty that Santino would soon appear with her Campari and soda.
The plate of mixed meats that would precede her asparagus risotto had just been placed in front of her when she became aware that the hum of conversation around her had suddenly stilled—that something like a frisson had run through the crowded room.
She looked up and saw the reason, her eyes widening involuntarily.
He was standing in the doorway, glancing round him, relaxed and faintly smiling as he took in his surroundings.
Assured and undeniably good-looking, she summarised him objectively, as if completing some mental check list.
Casually but expensively dressed.
And sexy in a way that transcended mere looks.
Even across a crowded room.
Someone she’d never seen at Santino’s before—or anywhere else in Porto Vecchio for that matter, otherwise she’d have remembered, along with every other woman in the room.
But however memorable, he was simply not her type, she told herself, dismissively.
Experience, it seemed, had the distinct advantage of conferring immunity.
Although, to give him his due, the newcomer seemed oblivious to the effect he was having on the female clientele at large.
Ellie decided that he must be staying at the big white hotel on the promontory, which was pricey and fairly formal and had just re-opened for the summer.
Quite a few of its residents, especially the foreign tourists, eventually found their way down to the port in search of less stuffy surroundings.
But not usually so early in their stay, she thought drily, then realised with shock that he was strolling towards her corner.
Oh, no, she thought with sudden breathlessness.
This couldn’t be happening.
It wasn’t possible …‘Buona sera, signorina.’ The swift charm of his smile touched her like a finger stroking her cheek as she looked up, stiffening defensively.
‘As we are both unaccompanied tonight, I hope you will allow me to join you.’‘No! I mean—I don’t think so.’ She set down her glass with something of a jerk.
‘I’d prefer to be alone, thank you.’His shrug was graceful.
‘Che peccato.
I am desolated.’ He paused.
‘Do you think you might relent by the time coffee is served?’She swallowed.
‘I’m afraid I won’t be staying that long, but—but have a pleasant meal,’ she added almost wildly.
‘I am sure I will,’ he returned.
‘But it could have been a delight.’Very smooth, Ellie thought stonily, as he walked away and she addressed herself to the Parma ham on her plate.
But cuts no ice with me.
All the same, she’d found the incident disturbing, even though she felt she’d handled it well, letting him see that any approach was unacceptable.
But it was annoying that the only free table was right in her sightline against the opposite wall, so that she only had to look up to see him there.
And to find that, most of the time, he was looking right back at her, his gaze intent, even considering.
He has no right to do that, she thought smouldering.
No right at all.
Why couldn’t he have stayed where he belonged—up at the hotel or—wherever?However, she was careful to complete her meal without undue haste, choosing panna cotta served with a fruit coulis for dessert, then paid her bill and left, staring rigidly ahead to ensure there was not one more atom of eye contact.
Safely outside, she was almost tempted to run, but told herself she was being ridiculous.
For one thing, the newcomer was far too occupied with Santino’s pollo Milanese, while, for another, and more importantly, he had almost certainly got the message by now.
For his kind, making a beeline for any single woman in his orbit was a mere reflex action like breathing, and she’d be stupid to read any more into it than that.
It was just that it had been—so unexpected.
Nothing like it had ever happened to her before.
And she could not risk getting involved.
The wisest course would be to pretend it had never happened at all.
Anyway, if he began to be a real nuisance, she would only have to tell Santino, and he would be instantly warned off.
Porto Vecchio, after all, was full of people who remembered Nonna Vittoria with deep affection.
But it would not come to that.
He was probably not used to rejection, especially in public, she thought as she let herself into the house, but it would do him a world of good.
So, tomorrow night, with luck, he would eat back at his hotel, giving up as a bad job any random thoughts he might still be harbouring about her.
Although she hadn’t the least idea why he should, she thought, examining herself critically in her bedroom mirror.
She hadn’t changed and suddenly become a beauty—an object of desire to an attractive man.
And it wasn’t as if she’d looked affluent wearing an old blue dress, much loved but faded by the sun, and with plain silver studs in her ears.
So there’d been no reason for him to wish to spend even five minutes with her.
It makes no sense, she told herself.
No sense at all.
But it’s over, so what does it matter?She considered eating at home the following night, but told herself she’d be stupid to allow herself to be pressured out of her favourite restaurant on the off-chance some visiting glamourboy might be present.
And even if he did dine at Santino’s, he would be unlikely to try again and risk a further snub.
And, in the event, he did not turn up, so she’d been worrying—if that was the word—about nothing.
Though that had not prevented her looking up nervously each time anyone came into the trattoria.
Behaving like a cat on hot bricks, she derided herself, over someone who’d probably moved on by now to look for more excitement.
But she was mistaken as she discovered the following morning when she was on the beach with Poco and saw him walking towards them, long muscular legs and bronze arms displayed in shorts and a polo shirt.
‘Buongiorno,’ he greeted her pleasantly as he halted, looking up at the sky.
‘They say it will rain later.