I spun on my heel, took the elevator to the ground floor, and headed toward the exit. I needed some fresh air and to take a breath. I had to get in the right headspace, and feeling consistently frustrated at Allegra wasn’t helping.

I smiled at a few of the staff, then pushed through the double doors onto the sidewalk. The main street of Via Nazionale was lively and packed, with crowds meandering in and out of the shops, laughing, and talking in Italian. Darkness only accented the landscape, with the buildings lit up and the earthy smells of the city drifting to my nostrils. Cars beeped and zigzagged down the road. I ducked into a darkened doorway, seeking a few minutes of solace. Tipping my head up toward the midnight sky, I prayed this trip would give me back the balance in my life I’d been missing.

The sweet scent of smoke hit me before the voice did.

“Did you at least have the pasta?”

I whirled my head around. Our tour guide stood a few inches away. Had he followed me? Legs crossed at the ankles, back resting against the building, he gave me a lazy smile while he inhaled from the cigarette clasped in his elegant hand. Odd, but I always checked out a man’s hands first. There was something about the firm strength, the tapered fingers, the sinewy wrists, that fascinated me. Maybe it was all the things a man could do with good hands—from fixing a car or leaky pipe to cradling and protecting a baby to stroking a woman straight into orgasm.

Maybe I was just crazy.

“Yep. My willpower didn’t extend that far tonight.”

“Italy is about pleasure. Not willpower.”

I lifted a brow at the intimate comment. His tongue practically sang the word pleasure. I ignored the slight dip of my stomach as he said it. Now I knew what the game was. Maybe he wasn’t married and he enjoyed delving into affairs with the tourists. My back straightened; I was angry he figured I’d be such an easy target. “Too many pleasurable things are bad for you.”

He grinned, flicking an ash on the sidewalk. “Americans,” he murmured. “So very focused on what is good and bad.”

“Italians. So quick to dismiss heart attacks and cancer for the lure of a meal or a smoke.”

He laughed then, loud and long. Again, he caught me off guard with the ability not to take himself seriously. “Mi dispiace, perhaps you are right. Though now I only indulge in one cigarette per day, after dinner.”

I frowned. “Statistics show even one cigarette raises your odds of getting lung cancer just as much as a regular smoker. You need to give your body space and time to clean itself out.”