“Paperwork.” He finished off his crêpes and eyed hers. “Ugly but necessary. You aren’t eating, Summer.”

“Hmm? No, I guess it’s a touch of jet lag.” She waved at her plate. “Go ahead.”

Taking her at her word, he switched plates. “You solved the problem of Max?”

Absently she touched her arm. The stitches, thank God, were a thing of the past. “We’re managing. Mother came to visit for a while. She always makes an impression.”

“Monique! So, how is she?”

“Married again,” Summer said simply and lifted her coffee. “A director this time, another American.”

“She’s happy?”

“Naturally.” The coffee was strong—stronger than she’d grown used to in America. She thought in frustration that nothing was as it once was for her. “They’re starting a film together in another few weeks.”

“Perhaps her wisest choice. Someone who would understand her artistic temperament, her needs.” He lingered over the perfect melding of spices and fruit. “And how is your American?”

Summer set down her coffee and stared at Carlo. “He wants to marry me.”

Carlo choked on a bite of crêpe and grabbed for his cup. “So—congratulations.”

“Don’t be silly.” Unable to sit, she rose, sticking her hands in the pockets of her long, loose jacket. “I’m not going to.”

“No?” Going to the stove, Carlo poured them both more coffee. “Why not? You find him unattractive, maybe? Bad tempered, stupid?”

“Of course not.” Impatient, she curled and uncurled her fingers inside the jacket pockets. “That has nothing to do with it.”

“What has?”

“I’ve no intention of getting married to anyone. That’s one merry-go-round I can do without.”

“You don’t choose to grab for the brass ring, maybe because you’re afraid you’d miss.”

She lifted her chin. “Be careful, Carlo.”

He shrugged at the icy tone. “You know I say what I think. If you’d wanted to hear something else, you wouldn’t have come here.”

“I came here because I wanted a few days with a friend, not to discuss marriage.”

“You’re losing sleep over it.”

She’d picked up her cup and now slammed it down again. Coffee spilled over the sides. “It was a long flight and I’ve been working hard. And, yes, maybe I’m upset over the whole thing,” she continued before Carlo could speak. “I hadn’t expected this from him, hadn’t wanted it. He’s an honest man, and I know when he says he loves me and wants to marry me, he means it. For the moment. That doesn’t make it any easier to say no.”

Her fury didn’t unnerve him. Carlo was well used to passionate emotions from women—he preferred them. “And you—how do you feel about him?”

She hesitated, then walked to the window. She could look out on Carlo’s garden from there—a quiet, isolated spot that served as a border between the house and the busy streets of Rome. “I have feelings for him,” Summer murmured. “Stronger feelings than are wise. If anything, they only make it more important that I break things off now. I don’t want to hurt him, Carlo, any more than I want to be hurt myself.”