Savannah’s buxom figure belies her inexperience – she’s not quite sure how to handle her fierce protector! But when he whisks her to his palace deep in the Tuscan hills, she sees a glimpse of the magnificence beneath his flaws. This is a man with a darkened heart in need of salvation – and only an innocent in his bed can bring it...
She refused to let the supporters down. She carried on regardless as more pins followed the first. She was expected to reflect the hopes and dreams of a country, and that was precisely what she was going to do- never mind the wretched dress letting her down. But as she prepared to sing the last few notes the worst happened- the final pin gave way and one pert breast sprang free, the generous swell of it nicely topped off with a rose-pink nipple. Not one person in the crowd missed the moment, for it was recorded for all to see on the giant-sized screen. As she started to shake with shame, the good-natured crowd went wild, applauding her, which helped her hold her nerve for the final top note.
Thrust from his seat by a rocket-fuelled impulse to shield and protect, Ethan was already shedding his jacket as he stormed onto the pitch. By the time he reached Savannah’s side the crowd had only just begun to take in what had happened. Not so his target. Tears of frustration were pouring down her face as she struggled to re-pin her dress. As he spoke to her and she looked at him there was a moment, a potent and disturbing moment, when she stared him straight in the eyes and he registered something he hadn’t felt in a lifetime, or maybe ever. Without giving himself chance to analyse the feeling, he threw his jacket around her shoulders and led her away, forcing the Italian tenor to launch into Canto degli Italiani- or ‘Song of the Italians’, as the Italian national anthem was known- somewhat sooner than expected.
There was so much creamy flesh concealed beneath his summer weight jacket it was throwing his brain synapses out of sync. Unlike all the women he’d encountered to date, this young Savannah Ross was having a profound effect on his state of mind. He strode across the pitch with his arm around her shoulders while she endeavoured to keep in step and remain close, whilst not quite touching him. As he took her past the stands the crowd went wild. Viva, l’Orso! the Italian’s cried, loving every minute of it: ‘hurrah for the Bear’. The England supporters cheered him just as loudly. He wondered if this compliment was to mark his chivalry or the fact that Ms Ross could hardly conceal her hugely impressive bosom beneath a dress that had burst its stitches. He hardly cared. His overriding thought was to get her out of the eye line of every lustful male in the Stadio Flaminio, of whom there were far too many for his liking.
It crossed his mind that this incident would have to happen in Italy, the land of romantic love and music, the home of passion and beauty. He had always possessed a dark sense of humour, and it amused him now to think that in his heart, the heart everyone was so mistakenly cheering for, there was only an arid desert and a single bitter note.
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