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he assured her.

      With the fragment of her brain that was still functioning Eloise registered that he spoke in Italian—then simultaneously registered that his gaze was as focused on her as hers was on him. She saw his eyes narrow minutely, as though studying her in great detail. Studying her and finding that she was entirely to his liking...

      She felt colour run up into her cheeks, and as it did so she saw a glint spark in his gorgeous dark eyes. It was a subtle message between them that only heightened her colour and made her suddenly, piercingly, aware of her body and its reaction to being looked at with such intensity.

      Oh, my God, what is happening?

      Because never, never had she felt such an immediate overpowering response to a man. She gave a silent gulp of awareness. He was speaking again, and she dragged her fragmenting mind to order.

      ‘Tell me, which gate are you heading for?’

      Belatedly Eloise recalled what had been uppermost in her head until a few moments ago. Her eyes shot to the display by the gate further down the concourse, which now read, ‘Flight Closed’.

      ‘Oh, no!’ she said with a wail. ‘I’ve missed my flight!’

      ‘Where were you travelling to?’ he asked her.

      ‘Paris...’ she answered distractedly.

      Something flickered in the man’s eyes. Then, in a smooth voice, he said, ‘What an extraordinary coincidence. I’m on my way to Paris myself.’

      Was there the slightest hesitation in his voice as he named his destination? She had no time to think as he continued to speak.

      ‘Since it was my fault you missed your flight, you must allow me to take you there myself.’

      She stared, her mouth opening and then closing like a fish. A fish that was being scooped up, effortlessly, by someone who was—and the fact came to her belatedly—a very, very accomplished fisherman.

      ‘I couldn’t possibly—’ she began.

      The dark, beautifully arched eyebrows above the dark, deep eyes rose. ‘Why not?’ he said.

      ‘Because—’ She stopped.

      ‘Because we don’t know each other?’ he challenged, again with that querying lift of his brows. Then his slanting smile slashed across his features. ‘But that is easily remedied.’

      His mouth quirked, making her stomach give a little flip.

      ‘My name is Vito Viscari, and I am entirely at your service, signorina—having caused you to miss your flight.’

      ‘But you didn’t,’ Eloise protested. ‘I did. I skidded. Crashed my bag into you.’

      He lifted his free hand dismissively. ‘We have already agreed that that is of no account,’ he said airily. ‘But what is of account is finding a medic to check your foot. There’s plenty of time before our Paris flight leaves.’

      Eloise looked at him dazedly. ‘But I can’t just swap flights—my ticket won’t let me.’

      The amused look came again. ‘But mine will. Do not worry.’ He paused a moment, then said, ‘I have frequent flyer miles to use up. If I don’t use them they’ll be wasted.’

      Eloise looked at him. Whatever else there was about him, he was not someone who looked as if he gave the slightest consideration to something as money-saving as air miles. Everything about him, she registered, from the tailored suit that fitted his lean body like a hand-made glove, to the gleaming black hand-stitched shoes and the monogrammed leather briefcase he was carrying told her that.

      But he was talking again as he helped her forward. Looking down at her with that warm, admiring look in his eyes that made her forget everything except the quickening of her pulse, the heady airiness in her head.

      ‘So,’ he was saying, and his Italian accent was doing wonderful things to her, as well as the effect his warm, admiring eyes was having on her, ‘am I to call you only bella signorina? Though if I do,’ he murmured, his lashes sweeping over his eyes as his gaze dipped to meet hers, ‘it would be nothing but the truth. Bellissima signorina...’

      She took a breath. The air seemed to have too much oxygen in it suddenly. ‘It’s Eloise,’ she said. ‘Eloise Dean.’

      He smiled again, warm and intimate, and she felt breathless.

      ‘Come,’ he said again, and there was that low husk in his voice again, ‘lean on me, Signorina Eloise Dean. I’ll take care of you.’

      She gazed up at him. He seemed very tall, she realised. And absolutely devastating...

      Her breath caught, her lips parting softly, her eyes wide as she just stared up at him, drinking him in. The sculpted mouth quirked again. Long lashes swept down over deep dark eyes.

      ‘Oh, yes,’ he said softly, ‘I’ll take care of you...’

      * * *

      And Vito Viscari had done just that ever since. It had only been much later that Eloise had learnt that Vito hadn’t been travelling to Paris at all. He’d been heading for Brussels. He’d swapped his destination to Paris for one reason and one reason only, he’d openly admitted to her, with a caressing, bone-melting smile. To woo her. And win her.

      And he had succeeded. Succeeded quite effortlessly.

      She hadn’t put up even a token reluctance at being wooed and won by Vito Viscari. In fact, Eloise thought with rueful admission, she had participated in the process with every sign that being whisked away to Paris and romanced in the most romantic city in the world by the most gorgeous, devastating man she had ever met was in the nature of a dream come true!

      And it still felt that way all these weeks later. Weeks that had passed in a complete haze, her feet hardly touching the ground, as Vito had whisked her across Europe from one luxurious hotel to another—each and every one a Viscari Hotel, one of the world’s great hotel chains, owned by his family.

      He had told her he was making an inspection of all his European hotels, of which it seemed there were a great many, situated in Europe’s most beautiful, vibrant and historic cities from Lisbon to St Petersburg. And as Eloise had travelled with him, cocooned in a haze of romantic bliss, all thoughts of returning to the UK to start work again had begun to fade. How could she think of giving up Vito? Being with him was as intoxicating as champagne.

      Yes, but even champagne runs out in the end—and in the end we always wake from our dreams...

      That was what she had to make herself remember.

      Now, as she stood beside him in this glittering environment of luxury hotels and high society, she could hear that voice inside her head. For, however intoxicatingly romantic it had been to waft across Europe in Vito’s arms, feeling herself headily on the brink of something she had never before felt for a man, there were still questions she could not blind herself to.

      Can I trust my own feelings? How real are they? And what does he feel for me?

      Oh, he desired her—there was no doubt about that, no doubt at all! But was that all he felt? Certainly now, as he glanced down at her, she saw the warm glint in his eyes and knew that desire was real, burningly real—in her, as well as in him. Desire such as she’d never felt before for a man.

      ‘Eloise?’

      Vito’s voice, his soft, oh-so-sexy Italian accent that always made her breath catch, set aside her thoughts.

      ‘They’re serving supper—let’s go through.’

      Together they walked into the adjoining salon, where a lavish buffet supper had been laid out. A woman glided up to Vito—a few years older than Eloise, more Vito’s age, immaculately gowned in a clinging designer number in blonde satin that matched the pale blonde of her hair. It was their hostess, holding this evening party at the Viscari Nice to which, of course, Vito had

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