***
Entering the palazzo, Dante tossed the warm loaf of bread from hand to hand. White doves waddled across the pink cobblestones. Between the green flames of the cypress trees on his left, tourists crowded around patio tables and dined on ropes of pasta. Gray stone storefronts lined the square on the right, selling trinkets, jewelry and offerings for Cupid’s Temple. Bracketed by towering pine trees, the temple’s bright white columns glowed in the afternoon sunshine.
Mounting the worn steps, Dante smiled at the little girl blowing red heart-shaped bubbles from a pink wand. He paused in the portico as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Roses, jasmine and carnations scented the air, no doubt from the heaps of flowers hiding the waist-high altar.
A little boy picked through the offerings. Holes poked through places in his gray toga, and the green trim was worn off the hem. Sharp collarbones showed through the dirt on his tan skin. His dark eyes fixed on the bread in Dante’s hands, and he licked his lips.
For a moment, Dante’s fingers sank into the offering. Hunger? Here in Amores? Had things changed so much since he’d been gone? He loosened his grip on the round loaf. The bread had been made to win Cupid and Psyche’s help in wooing Lia, but…
The little boy wiped the drool glistening at the corners of his mouth.
“Here.” Dante held out the loaf.
The child remained frozen for a moment then, in the blink of an eye, leapt forward, snatched the bread and dashed for the columns. His bare feet slapped the marble as he slipped outside.
“I don’t think Cupid will count that as an offering.” Lia’s chuckle echoed around the rectangular portico. “If you’d wanted a twofer, you should have touched it to the altar first.”
Dante inhaled deeply. His heart refused to settle in a normal tempo. It never did when she was around. Or when he thought of her.
Biding time, he strolled around the altar. He stopped in front of the oak doors to the temple’s interior. In the dim light, he could picture waking up in bed next to her, making love to her just as dawn broke the horizon.
He adjusted the folds of his toga, hiding his body’s reaction. What had she said? Ahh, now he remembered.
“I’ll get another loaf.” It wouldn’t be as perfect, but he hoped the gods appreciated the thought. “The boy looked like he could use it more.”
He turned. His muscles lost cohesion at the sight of her, and he stumbled against the doorjamb. How was it possible that she was lovelier than when he’d seen her just hours ago?
“I just hope he eats it slow enough to enjoy it.”
Her gown swayed with her hips as she joined him next to the altar. The thin green fabric molded her pert breasts before being gathered by a gold belt at her trim waist. She’d tamed her brown locks into corkscrew curls falling from an amber-and-gold wreath. Onyx bangles slid over her slim wrists as she wedged her terracotta bowl within the mound of flowers.
Leaning forward, Dante inhaled the heat from her skin and the tang of cream sauce. A pebble nestled in the ribbons of pasta, and black dotted the background. Somehow, he didn’t think that was fresh-ground pepper.
“What recipe adds dirt to pasta?”
“Don’t be silly.” She elbowed him in the ribs. “Signora Canis dropped her husband’s lunch while taking it to him, so we swapped.”
“With that offering, Psyche might help old man Sienestra draw your name tomorrow.” He cupped her elbow before she could jab him again.
“Like you, I was hoping it was the thought that counted.” She grinned, reached into her bodice and pulled out a slip of paper. “Besides, I have a written request as well.”
What was she asking the gods for? If it was love, couldn’t she see she had his? He felt it practically seep out his pores every time she came near.
Instead of snatching the note from her fingers, he steered her into the cella. Bad mistake. A statue of Cupid fondled his wife’s alabaster breast, while Psyche’s fingers had disappeared under her husband’s fig leaf. A half-eaten round of bread and an empty pasta dish sat at their bare feet. That bread looked like his offering. Could the boy have been the god in disguise?
Color bloomed in Lia’s cheeks when she spied the couple. She quickly turned her head and focused on the fire blazing in the center of the square room.
“Those two are going to give the tourists ideas about Italians.”
They were certainly giving him ideas. Although he might be up for it, he seriously doubted Lia would appreciate being ravished. He tugged his own request out of his belt. He stared at the words painstakingly written in Latin.
Give me the means to make Lia happy for the rest of our lives. Was it too much to ask?
Psyche slipped out of her spouse’s arms and sashayed across the marble floor. After adjusting his fig leaf, Cupid sidled closer to Lia. She unfolded her note and held it up for the god to see before tossing it onto the fire.
Damn. Maybe if he’d gotten closer, he could have read it, too. He flashed his own wish to Psyche before feeding it to the flames.
“Want to tell me what you asked for?”
Cupid rolled his eyes, shook his head and shadowed Lia’s movements.
“It won’t come true if I do.” Shaking out her skirt, she stopped in front of Dante.
Don’t look down. Don’t…
His gaze dropped to the swell of her breasts. Beautiful, lush breasts. His palms itched with the need to touch them. Gods! He cleared his throat. “So, where are you off to now?”
“Well, I— Oh!” She jumped and bumped into him.
Dante caught her around the waist, steadying her. The heat of her skin pulsed through her thin dress, arrowing straight to his loins. A heartbeat later, her nipples pebbled against his chest. He swallowed a groan. If he could feel that, she undoubtedly felt his erection. He studied her face. Dilated pupils swallowed her hazel eyes.
“Are you alright?”
Her hands slipped up his torso and eased around his neck before her fingers teased the short hair curling at his nape.
“Cupid just pinched my bottom.”
“He is Italian.” Too bad the mischievous god couldn’t have poked her with a gold-tipped arrow. Then she’d fall in love with the first thing she saw—him.
Dante’s gaze dropped to her mouth—the bow-shaped top lip, the full bottom one. Would she taste like pasta or ambrosia? He held his breath.
Only one way to find out.
He lowered his head, nudged her nose, urging her to tilt her head just a bit. As she complied, her lids fluttered closed, and her fingers held the base of his skull. A soft kiss first. Then he’d deepen it, and when he was done, she’d be his forever.
He dipped his head. Light as a butterfly he swept across her mouth, felt the soft give, the heady elixir of Chianti. He shifted for another taste and—
“Kissing must be the Italians’ favorite pastime!” The nasal voice cut like a chainsaw through soft cheese.