1

I’m floating. And, although I know that I need to get myself out of this state, I can’t. Not yet. First, I need to calm my heart, which is beating alarmingly fast. Just a second ago, I was about to break my neck, falling down those stairs.

I need to breathe, to take a few deep breaths, since I’m OK. But I can’t. Somehow I seem to have forgotten how to fill my lungs with air. All I can do is stare at the man who is looking down at me with a frown.

His dark blonde hair shimmers like gold in the evening sunlight streaming in through the window. It complements his unusual eyes, which glow a warm amber. And that face — was it chiselled out of stone? High cheekbones, a straight nose, rounded lips. Like one of those male statues made of marble that are so plentiful here in Rome. Maybe his hair is a little too long. It’s falling into his eyes. But still … no one looks that amazing in real life. For a moment, I’m afraid that I really did fall, and have been in a coma ever since.

“Tutto a posto?” the man asks in a deep and very real voice, turning his head slightly to peer down at me — probably in order to convince himself that I really am OK. As he does, I notice a scar on the side of his neck. It’s pale and jagged and begins just above his collarbone. I can’t see how far across his chest it extends because it disappears into the open neckline of his white shirt — but the wound that caused it must have been no laughing matter. I wonder what happened. In any case, the scar doesn’t disfigure him. It actually makes him more real.

He is real, Sophie. I tell myself, as feeling suddenly returns to my body, after the brief numbness of the shock. Suddenly I feel the man’s large hands on my back, and I notice for the first time that my own hands are intuitively gripping the sleeves and lapel of his beige suit jacket.

After a few seconds, I realise exactly what happened and how reckless I was, going onto tiptoes on the step, without holding on to anything. I wanted to take a closer look at the picture hanging on the wall, but when I took another little step forward, my foot snagged on the fabric of my long dress, causing me to topple over. And now, I’m lying in the arms of the man who was coming up the stairs behind me and who, luckily, caught me before anything worse could happen. In the arms of thisstranger, so disturbingly close to him that he can look right down my cleavage. The thought helps me catch my breath again.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I mumble. My cheeks are burning as I try to get to my feet again. He helps me