Though I hadn’t fancied the thought of getting on a Vespa the first time, I now look forward to it. I’ve grown to love the feel of fresh air blowing against my body and the sensation of being a part of the environment rather than just an observer enclosed inside a metal box. Okay, I admit, it’s also an extremely erotic thing to be nestled close to Dante’s hard, muscular body and feel the sure confidence flowing from it.

In anticipation of the ride in the wind I’d dressed in cream Capri pants, a lavender jersey top, and sensible pumps. The jersey top is a bit risqué, since it’s tight and low cut, but I figure I better wear this sort of thing now before my belly gets too big.

The doorbell rings at five minutes to 1.00 p.m.

Grabbing my purse, I run lightly down the stairs and open the door. Dante is in a beautifully cut dove-grey suit with a black shirt open two buttons down. His hair falls adorably over his forehead.

“How do you feel?” he asks with a captivating smile.

My heart actually skips a beat. I hold up my crossed fingers. “So far so good.”

His eyebrows rise. “No more morning sickness?”

“Yes, but I ate the rest of your magic biscuits and they worked a treat.”

He flashes another megawatt smile. “I’m glad. I’ll get you some more later.”

“Where’s the scooter?” I ask looking around.

Laughing he steps forward and brushes his lips lightly with mine. “I thought we’d try a different mode of transportation today, and maybe from now on.” He takes my hand and draws me to his side facing the street. “M’lady,” he says in a fake English accent, “your chariot awaits.”

The chariot is a shiny red Ferrari. Talk about playboy clichés. “Wow! It’s obviously not the one your uncle gave you for reading Shelley.”

Dante laughs. “No, this one is a 488GT. 570-horsepower and probably the best V8 ever produced. It’s a hell of a lot faster than the one my uncle gave me, but it’s kind of wasted on the streets of Rome.”

“It’s a supercar.”

“I’m glad you approve.” He takes my arm, leads me to the door, and opens it.

I hesitate. “Dante?”

“Yes.”

“Are we going somewhere really fancy?” I look down at my clothes. “I thought we doing cemeteries and crypts. I can go back upstairs and change.”

His eyes flash with something fierce and possessive. It makes them look like liquid gold. “There’s not a place in this world you couldn’t go just as you are,” he says. “Now get in before I change my mind and take you upstairs to show you just how fucking edible you look.”

With a happy smile I quietly slip into the seat. When he closes the door and goes around the back to the driver’s side, I reach down and touch the exquisite tan-colored, leather seat. It is as soft as butter.

Dante gets in beside me, making the space feel very small.

“Ready?”

“Uh … huh,” I reply, and instantly the powerful engine roars to life. It’s a throbbing sound that fills me with excitement.

Dante steps on the gas pedal, and all of a sudden the red car is screeching at breakneck speed down the narrow streets of Rome.

“Dante! Dante, slow down!” I shout in a panic, but he puts his hand on my leg and says, “Rosa, Ferraris are meant to be driven fast. Relax and enjoy the ride.”

After that he continues to zip in and out of traffic as though we’re in a chase scene from a Fast and Furious movie. Gripping my purse tightly, I watch him barely miss colliding with other motorists who to my surprise, seem utterly unfazed by his erratic driving. One or two even take time to gaze approvingly at Dante’s car.

“Where are we going?” I ask trying to distract myself from the fact that we must be going at what feels like 200 kilometers per hour.

Dante glances at me. “It’s a surprise.”

By the time the white knuckle ride comes to a neck-snapping stop in front of a restaurant, I’m almost ready to make the sign of the cross.

“Here we are,” he announces.

I look at the unobtrusive front. “Hmmm … a restaurant called Luigi’s.”

“Remember what I told you about judging the book by the cover.”

“I’m not judging,” I defend. “Merely making another valid observation.”

He touches my nose with his finger. “Well, bella mia, let me tell you, the other Luigi’s can’t even begin to compare with this one.”

A young man dressed in black approaches. “May I, sir?” he asks in Italian.

Dante slips out of the car, hands him the car key, and comes around to my side. Laying his hand on the small of my back, he leads me towards the glass entrance.

“By the way,” I say quietly, “if you plan to drive home the way you drove here, kindly call me a taxi.”

Dante laughs. “You’ll get used to my driving.”

He holds the door while I enter. A young woman sitting behind a desk nods at Dante. A man in a suit opens an inner door, and the interior of the restaurant nearly takes my breath away. No cheap, checkered tablecloths, or dripping candles stuck in Frascati bottles either. Rather, the décor is elegant and understated with dark leather and wood—the way a British gentlemen’s club might look. The air is cool and hushed. There are customers eating, but they are screened by potted palms. I gaze at the fine oil paintings decorating the walls.

“Told you this place is different from any other Luigi’s,” Dante murmurs in my ear.

A maître d’ approaches us with a welcoming smile and shows us to our table. The whitest of cloths covers it, and monogrammed white linen napkins rest by each place.

“Do you trust me to order?” Dante asks.

“Sure,” I murmur, a little overwhelmed by my surroundings.

A waiter approaches with two menus, which Dante waves away, and beckons him to come closer instead. He inclines his head toward Dante, and the two confer for a minute or two. Dante calls the man Guissepe, and he in turn addresses him as Signore Dante.

“I’m starting to believe that you know the names of all the waiters in Rome,” I say once Guissepe leaves the table.

His eyes crinkle at the corners with amusement. “But, of course. Isn’t that part of a playboy’s job—to get everyone on his side.”

“They all know you because you are such a big spender?”

His smile broadens. “That would be a safe assumption to make.”

I nod. “So what did you order?”

“For the first course we are having a variation of Cacio e pepper.”

“I’ve never had it. What is it?”

“Pecorino Romano cheese and fresh black pepper pasta are swirled with cooking water from the pasta to make a creamy sauce. Then pasta, smoked pork jowl, and egg are added. It is an extremely simple and light dish, but superb when well done. They do it perfectly here. Our second course is oxtail slow-cooked with San Marzano tomatoes in a stew until the meat is so tender it falls right off the bone.”

“You’re making my mouth water.”

At that moment Guiseppe arrives with the wine. Respectfully, he shows the label to Dante, who approves with a slight nod. He begins to pour a glass for me. “Not for me—,” I say.

“Yes, you will have one mouthful today,” Dante interrupts. “This is very good wine and we are toasting to our first born.”

I stare into his eyes. Firstborn: the first of many. His eyes are veiled and watchful. The thought of being part of a family with him makes my head swim.

He raises his glass. “To our baby.”

“To the baby,” I echo faintly before taking a sip. The wine is cool and delicious on my tongue. I watch him over the rim of my glass. It still feels strange to think that I’m carrying his baby. That this man I thought I would never see again, is the father of my child. He puts his wine glass down. There is an unusually serious look on his face.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I have a confession to make.”