Free The Impatient Groom by Sara Wood Page B

full as if demanding kisses. She drew in a long, shuddering breath. She was hopelessly, deeply in lust and she wanted Rozzano with every fibre of her being. But common sense told her that he’d never touch her again.
    So she made herself a cup of tea.
    When she’d stalked up and down and read herself the riot act for a while, she became aware of voices in her sitting room. The escape committee? she wondered. And, glad of anything to distract her simmering passions, she took a deep breath and marched back into the sitting room.
    â€˜Ah, there you are!’ Rozzano gently took her arm and drew her forward while she continued to gape.
    Huge displays of flowers filled the room and several men and women were fiddling with them in a rather pretentious way. ‘Gypsophila is so passé,’ a florist was drawling.
    Sophia blinked at the discarded sprays of tiny white flowers, which she knew as baby’s breath. She didn’t know that flowers could be in or out of fashion. Stepping back, her feet came into contact with a stack of boxes.

    â€˜Hats,’ explained Rozzano.
    â€˜Hats.’
    â€˜And shoes and underwear.’ He grinned. ‘Grab the clothes you think will fit you,’ he urged. ‘You might as well make use of some of this stuff, even if they are a smokescreen.’
    â€˜But—!’
    He beckoned to two women with armfuls of shoeboxes. ‘Trust me,’ he ordered.
    All became clear when they were sneaking through the hotel an hour later. She wore the manicurist’s overall on top of her dress and a baseball cap low on her forehead. Sprays of eucalyptus filled her arms, almost obliterating her view. Somewhere behind her was Rozzano, his distinctive face hidden by the stack of hatboxes he carried.
    Stifling their laughter, she and Rozzano clambered into the back of the florist’s van and sprawled amongst squashed petals and crushed flower stems as it drove off through the traffic. After a decent interval, Rozzano shouted for the driver to pull over and let them out
    â€˜How about that?’ he asked smugly, lifting her down.
    Grinning, she pulled off the cap and overall and pushed them into the back of the van. He thumped on the doors and the driver honked his horn then moved off.
    â€˜Brilliant!’ she said breathlessly, pretending not to notice that he’d kept his hands on her waist. He was a ‘toucher’, she told herself. It was what he did with women. ‘You’re a brilliant organiser,’ she said in awe.
    â€˜Years of practice. Venetians have a reputation for being quick-witted. You don’t build a reputation as a nation of merchant princes without a certain amount of deviousness.’ Rozzano lifted one hand and fiddled with her hair. ‘Gypsophila. Stand still,’ he ordered, when she fidgeted. His eyes twinkled into hers. ‘Must get rid of it. Too,
too passe!’ he drawled, his smiling face wonderfully close.
    Sophia laughed. ‘OK,’ she said, coming back to practicalities, ‘we escaped. But how do we get back?’
    â€˜No idea. I’ll come up with something. In the meantime, after we’ve organised your passport, why don’t we see the sights?’ he suggested, tucking her arm in his. ‘Tony told me there’s a sightseeing bus that takes you to places like the Tower of London and the Houses of Parliament. You can get off wherever you like, and catch a later bus to continue the journey—’
    â€˜You, on a bus?’ This she had to see!
    â€˜I have to admit it’ll be a first,’ he acknowledged, his mouth curving into a self-deprecating smile. ‘I’m rather looking forward to it.’
    Â 
    That evening, in a tiny bistro somewhere in Mayfair, she slipped off her shoes beneath the minute, pleasingly intimate table and decided that this had been one of the happiest days of her life.
    â€˜My feet will never be the same again!’ she groaned,