2
Rome, 1952
Niccolò held out his hand to her. Tentatively, Ruby rested her fingers in the fold of his palm, setting off the sizzle that coursed through her every time she touched him. Instead of giving their lire to street vendors for hot paninis made from the finest thin-sliced prosciutto, the freshest tomatoes and basil, and the creamiest mozzarella and then nursing small, strong espressos at a café where they could sit for hours and watch people, he’d suggested a surprise.
“Do you trust me?” Niccolò’s vivid blue eyes sparkled with mischief, and his subtle, melodic accent mesmerized her.
For some reason she couldn’t fathom, Ruby nodded. “Where are you taking me?”
Shifting the cloth bag he had thrown over his shoulder, Niccolò grinned. “I want to show you the very best performance i
