Something warm and soft touches my lips and moves insistently against them. It feels so delicious as it gently wakes me from my sleep. I moan softly, the heavenly sensation goes away, and I reluctantly open my eyelids. A pair of whiskey eyes gaze down at me.

Sensuous lips curve upwards. Jesus, does the man have to be this sexy so early in the morning?

“You make me feel like the Prince who woke Sleeping Beauty,” he drawls.

If there’s one thing I don’t feel like first thing in the morning, it’s Sleeping Beauty. I rub my eyes. He went home last night. I heard the door close. I stop rubbing my eyes and stare at him. “Dante? How did you get in?”

“Since you haven’t had the good sense to entrust me with a key, I had to ask your landlord, the owner of the pizzeria, to open your door.”

My eyes pop open with surprise. “He did?”

“Of course. This is Italy, the land of passionate lovers. Only a smitten fool would come bearing coffee and cannoli this early in the morning.”

I scowl. “He shouldn’t have done that. You don’t have a key because I don’t want you to have a key. I’m not Italian. I’m English and we value our privacy.”

Dante grins. “Good luck with convincing him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll find out when you go have a pizza.”

I think of pizza, all that melted cheese, and suddenly my stomach swirls.

“Now how about some breakfast?” Dante offers cheerfully.

I scrunch my face. “Oh, God. I feel sick. I think it must be morning sickness.”

His eyes widen. “Charming. I bring you your breakfast in bed and you experience your first bout of morning sickness.”

With a groan I push him away and dash toward the toilet. Thank heavens, I make it in time. I lean back against the tiles. Dante comes and crouches next to me.

“This is all your fault,” I grumble.

“I’ll go down the street and get something to make you feel better.”

“Knowing my luck, I’m going to be nauseated for the rest of my pregnancy. Just see yourself out and leave me to my misery.” I close my eyes.

He stands. “Be right back.”

I make it to the bed feeling horrible. I lie back on the pillows and close my eyes. The sensation of wanting to throw up doesn’t go away. I don’t even open my eyes when I hear Dante running up the steps, and feel my bed depress with his weight.

“Sit up and take a bite,” Dante says.

I reluctantly open my eyes. Of course, he looks as fresh as a daisy. “What is it?”

He grins. “It’s a magic potion.”

“Uh huh, your magic potion looks a lot like stale biscuits.” I observe as I take one from him and nibble at it. “Yuck, it tastes as old as Rome.”

“Magic potions have to be old,” Dante replies sagely. I can see he is making a great effort to keep from laughing. “Soon your stomach will settle.”

“It doesn’t feel like it will ever stop,” I mutter as I take a second bite, and make a face.

“Oh, ye of little faith.”

“Are you just going to sit here and watch me eat these biscuits?”

“Yeah,” he says, folding his arms and making himself more comfortable.

I carry on nibbling the biscuit even though I can’t imagine how it is going to help.

To my surprise though, half-way through my second biscuit I realize the queasy feeling is going away. “Hmmm.”

“Yes?”

I brush the breadcrumbs still clinging to my lips and lean over to kiss Dante. “There might be a little bit of an old witch buried deep down inside of you, after all.”

He shoots his cuffs and looks pleased with himself.

“How did you know to get those biscuits?” I ask curiously.

“I told you Parenting Magazine.”

“You were serious about that?” I ask, staring at him in surprise.

“I’m serious about our baby, Rosa.”

I try not to show how confused I feel. It’s true for most part I can’t think straight around him, but what if …

“Get ready, bella mia. I’m taking you to the cemetery in Testaccio.”

My jaw drops. “You are?” I told him while we were out at dinner that I loved walking through old cemeteries, but I never expected a Casanova who lives in a hotel suite to take me to one.

“Yes, I am,” he says briskly. “A pregnant woman should never be denied anything her heart desires.”

As hard as I try to dampen it, I can’t help the flush of warm pleasure surging through my body. Hmmm … it is going to be very hard to resist him if he is going to be this nice and thoughtful. “Er … why don’t you wait in the living room while I get ready?”

“You mean I can’t stay and watch?” he asks incredulously.

I widen my eyes meaningfully.

“Probably best anyway. I’ll just get turned on and you’re obviously not in the mood,” he says with a rueful shrug. Then adds hopefully, “Or are you?”

I shake my head in wonder. “Have you shake me around like a bottle of hot sauce when I feel this way? No thanks.”

I watch him walk out of the bedroom with a little sigh. That’s one sexy man-butt.

* * *

“Vespa again?” I ask pretending to be disapproving, but secretly pleased.

“It’s the best way to see the sights in this city, and it’s perfect for parking.” Dante hands me a helmet. “Although, it is a shame to hide that beautiful red hair of yours. I love to see it glow like a flame in the sunlight.”

“You didn’t by any chance stay up reading poetry?”

“Why do you ask?” Dante says, putting on his helmet.

“Your choice of words.”

“Well, if one is going to visit Keats’s grave, one must get in the mood.”

I stare at him. “You know the location of John Keats grave?”

“Of course. As well as the grave of my favorite poet, Percy Bysshe Shelley.”

“I should be surprised, but I’ve learned from watching American Gigolo that playboys must have a certain amount of culture.”

He looks amused. “Isn’t that movie about a male prostitute?”

“Frivolous playboy, male prostitute, what’s the difference?” I say airily.

Dante gives the little scooter enough throttle to lift the front wheels clear off the pavement as we lurch forward suddenly.

I scream and he laughs.

“You do that again, Dante, and you’ll be lying next to Percy Bysshe Shelley’s bones!”

That makes him laugh even harder.

I try not to join him, but his laugh is infectious and it is impossible not to give in as we zip down the narrow streets on the Vespa. Before I realize it the side of my cheek is once again pressed against his back. Contentedly, I watch the buildings flash past in a blur of sun-warmed ancient stone.

Dante parks the Vespa under the leafy canopy of a large tree. “We walk from here.”

As I climb off the back of the scooter, I glance around taking in the gnarled trees and the weathered gravestones nestled between shrubs and bushes. I beam at him. “What a great last resting place. Cemeteries make the most peaceful gardens.”

“You weren’t joking when you said you liked cemeteries, were you?”

“No, I wasn’t. I love beautiful old graves. I don’t know exactly why. Perhaps it is the wonder I feel that the nameless skeletons underneath were once flesh and bone like me. I guess it reminds me that time is short and I must leave my mark on the world in some manner, or another.” I shrug. “Maybe a hundred years from now a stranger will visit my grave and say what a fantastic fashion editor I was,” I joke.

Under the dappled shade of the tree we are standing Dante smiles indulgently, but his eyes are serious. “Actually, I bet lots of people will visit your grave.”

I look at him curiously. “Why do you say that?”

“I’ll tell you another time.”

“Tell me now,” I insist.

“Soon.”

“Fine. Dante, the man of mystery.”

“Come on,” he says, taking my hand, and heading purposely down a path. We move from gravestone to gravestone stopping to read the inscriptions on the grander ones. “How surprising to see so many Russians and Englishmen buried here.”

“It’s a Protestant cemetery,” he explains.

Quite close to the pyramid, Dante stops in front of a large rectangular gravestone with an arched top, and motions at it. “Keats.” He says the name quietly with respect.

I move closer and read the inscription aloud. “‘This grave contains all that was mortal, of a young English poet, who on his death bed, in the bitterness of his heart, at the malicious power of his enemies, desired these words to be engraven on his tombstone:

Dante rubs my back. “Did I just see you shiver?”

I nod slowly. “I felt as if Keats had reached from beyond the grave and touched my soul.” I look up at him. “Dante, why do you live in a hotel suite?”

He shrugs. “I move around a lot, and living in hotels mean I don’t have to keep households full of staff everywhere I go.”

I stare into his eyes. “Are you happy?”

“I thought I was.” For a second something throbs between us. It could be the stillness of the cemetery, the strange expression on his face, or the way my heart thuds loudly against my ribcage, then the moment is gone when he grins and says, “Come, I have more graves to indulge your morbid tastes.”

“Lead the way,” I say, but as we walk away from Keats grave I can’t help glancing back as though I’m leaving a precious moment behind.

“I’m getting hungry. How about you?” Dante asks.

My stomach rumbles. “Yes, but the thought of a real meal still makes me queasy.”

“After we are done with the graves we’ll go to the market and I’ll buy some bread, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar for us. It will settle your stomach.”

“Actually, that does sound very good,” I surprise myself by saying.

I realize that we are back at the entrance and heading towards an area densely populated with headstones. “I present you the ashes of Percy Bysshe Shelley,” Dante says gravely.

I walk closer to the plain headstone. “Percy Bysshe Shelley,” I read out the name carved at the top of the headstone. I turn to face him. “How on earth does someone like you become a fan of Shelley?”

He laughs. “I wasn’t until my uncle brought me a leather-bound collection of his complete works for my sixteenth birthday and told me he would buy me the latest sports car if I got through the collection. As you can imagine, I considered it a particularly vicious form of punishment, but by the second volume I had become a devoted fan.”

“Are you from a very rich family?”

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

“My Latin is rusty. What does ‘Cor Cordium’ mean?” I ask peering at the letters.

“Heart of hearts.”

“What does that mean?”

“Legend has it that only his heart is buried here. While his body was being cremated on the beach, his friend, who lies in that grave next to him, snatched his heart out of the flames, and gave it to his wife who kept it for thirty years,” Dante explains.

“That’s a very romantic story.” To my surprise, my eyes suddenly fill with tears for the man. “I don’t know why, but ever since I got pregnant I seem to cry for the least thing,” I sniff.

Dante takes my hand. “I love it when you are emotional. It is so rare for you to show your true self that these little outbursts are precious. Anyway, that is probably just a myth. What really happened is not so pretty. By the time Shelley’s body was washed up it was so badly decomposed they could only identify him by his socks, trousers, and a volume of Keat’s poetry in his pocket. The body was covered in quicklime and temporarily buried in a shallow grave until permission for his cremation could be acquired. Mary did not attend the cremation. Byron was there, but became so nauseous he had to leave. If anything was snatched out of the ashes and given to Mary it was his liver which is the most moisture leaden organ in the human body and so least likely not to burn.”

For a few seconds, I’m lost in his gorgeous eyes. “Deep down inside you are more than just eye-candy, aren’t you?” I whisper.

Dante laughs. “Eye candy? Oh, Rosa, there is just no one else like you in the world.”

I try not to show how pleased I am by that compliment. “Now, how about the bread with olive oil with balsamic vinegar you promised me.”