She rolled her lips between her teeth, trying to contain her laughter, but it was no use. Alec shot her an irritated look but he, too, was fighting back a smile.

“You might want to apologize to the young lady. I see a great future for you here, working alongside Signore Garda.”

Alec raised an eyebrow, amused. “Is that so?” He rubbed his jaw in mock consideration. “I suppose there are some similarities between espionage and innkeeping.”

“You must admit, it would be an excellent cover.”

“That is true. You’d be surprised by how useful innkeepers are.”

Her smile faded at the unintended implication of his words. “Yes. I can imagine.” Alec must have questioned the innkeeper in Florence, a sharp-eyed British emigre. Lottie had taken pains to avoid the older man when she slipped away from the pension, but perhaps she had not been so careful.

He seemed to guess at her thoughts. “You take your time here,” he said, gesturing to the bath. “I’ll go see about our dinner. Make sure that door stays locked.”

Then he was gone before Lottie could manage another word.

By the time Alec returned, Lottie had washed, dried, and changed. After a bit of dithering she had donned a pale blue tea gown, as her sensible skirt and blouse were dusty from the road. If she had still been in her cottage, she wouldn’t have given it a thought, but the lacy gown was designed for more intimate company and meant to be worn without a corset. Lottie then chided herself for even worrying about such a thing. It seemed unlikely that Alec would be scandalized, if he even noticed.

Lottie sat in a chair by the window plaiting her damp hair and watching the sky turn ever deeper shades of pink when she heard the key in the lock. The door swung open, and Alec bent down to retrieve the tray he had brought up with him. As he entered, a heavenly smell filled the room, and Lottie’s stomach quietly rumbled. It had been hours since their respite by the river, though it felt far longer.

“I’ve brought provisions,” Alec announced as he moved to set the tray down on the table bearing two plates of food, a small pitcher of water, and two glasses. “Roasted chicken. Signore Garda assured me they still use their nonna’s recipe. I—” He glanced up as she stood and paused.

His eyes moved steadily down her form with such deliberateness that it nearly felt like a caress. Lottie stood a little straighter and tried to ignore the growing appreciation in them. It did not matter. And she did not care. When she took a step forward, Alec’s eyes leapt back to her face before he immediately looked away.

“I—here,” he mumbled as he set the tray down on the table. “Here it is.”