Sometime in the minutes after the door had closed behind Duke, after Caitlyn had sunk weakly into the chair at the desk, her pulse slowed enough for her to think—really think—about where she was and what she was doing with this man.She was supposed to have been in Italy on her second honeymoon. Only her husband, and actually, her only true friend—the person who knew her best in the world— was dead. Yet even when they’d both known he wasn’t going to make it, he’d made her promise that she would go on the trip.In the long, depressed days after Alex’s passing, she’d wondered why he’d asked such a thing of her. What she had understood was that he’d never know whether or not she went. She harbored no delusions that he’d never again care whether she kept her promise or not. And as such, she hadn’t felt honor-bound to abide his dying wish.So why had she bothered to come?If she was honest with herself, she’d come because she wanted to. Because her own curiosity had demanded it and her hea

With one hand tucked snugly into Duke’s and her other trailing her scarf behind her, Caitlyn followed him down the wide avenue blocked at the near end with road barriers. Despite the dark, her eyes were turned upwards, examining the dark brown columned building beside her, trusting him to guide her safely. “What is this place? Why is it blocked off?” “The mercato. And it’s only blocked to vehicle traffic. During the daytime, this place is packed with people.” He rounded a corner to the right as they passed the last column, dragging her with him. “There.” As if to reinforce the idea of an enchantment, the Fontana del Porcellino rested to one side of the small court of closed shops, its snout gleaming brightly in the dim light. Despite the noise of the city, Caitlyn could clearly hear the trickle of the fountain’s water, a thin stream that dribbled from the boar’s opened mouth between its curved tusks. Unlike the rest of the bronze statue, the snout was

It was the last thing that Caitlyn had expected to hear thousands of miles away from home on a piazza in Italy, but there was no mistaking the familiar tune and the lyrics of the sultry songstress singing Ella Fitzgerald. Grinning like the cat that swallowed the canary, Duke dragged her with him through the loose crowd, to an empty spot beneath the illuminated fountain of Neptune. There, he pivoted, his open palm sliding around her waist to her lower back to press her against him while his free hand lifted hers. “Let’s dance.” “There’s no one dancing!” she sputtered in a near-panic. He merely grinned, politely refusing to accept her refusal. “There will be.” “I—no! Duke—I—can’t!” Stumbling over the cobblestones, she clung to him, tripping over her own feet and his. “Sure, you can,” he encouraged, reluctantly allowing some space between their bodies and directing her attention to his feet. “It’s a two-step. Easy-peasy for a woman with your IQ.

The words were simple enough. The concept too. In theory. But Caitlyn found herself at a loss to actually accomplish what he’d asked. How could she ask him for something she’d never experienced? Something she’d only read about in foolish stories and didn’t even know whether it was true? In truth, he already knew her body better than she did. Uncertain what else to do, she nodded mutely. “Good,” Duke purred, smiling that lady-killer smile of his. Then he dipped his head again and layered a sizzling trail of kisses from her ear to her collarbones. Walking backwards on his hands, he positioned himself over her breasts, then leaned down to tease first one tip with his tongue, then the other. She gasped softly as he lowered himself to his forearms, the hot steely length of him brushing along her thighs. Yielding to his unconscious suggestion, she opened them and Duke settled his hips between her knees and pressed a kiss to her soft belly. “Ooh!” sh

Caitlyn’s eyes flew open wide as a warm mouth closed over the puckered tip of her breast, sending her body rocketing into the stratosphere. She arched, trying to focus, driving away the bewilderment. Her confusion retreated as she concentrated. Not Alex. Alex had never touched her breasts with his lips, never teased the tip with his hot mouth. And the fingers inside her were longer, surer and so so much more skilled. The forearm clutched by her desperate palm was thicker, stronger and more powerful. An outdoorsman, not an academic. Beneath her seeking, trembling hand, the hair she stroked was thick and curling, not straight and short and bristly. She felt like a cheat. Like some shameless, adulterous whore, imagining how devastated Alex would have been to know she’d been with another man, pretending to herself that it was him. How crestfallen would Duke be to know she was dreaming of herself with her long-lost husband? “Duke, I—.” she gasped, then arc