Moth to the Flame by Sara Craven

Santino began to question her on the subject? She would be
    bound to make all sorts of glaring errors, and his suspicions would
    be aroused at once. He was no doubt already thinking that it was
    odd that a girl who worked in Rome should .have next to no
    knowledge of the Italian language, unless he had simply concluded
    that she was too lazy to learn it.
    Juliet found herself wishing that she had made her identity known at
    the very start, and steadfastly denied all knowledge of Mario and
    his involvement with her sister. She could have pretended that Jan
    had sub-let the apartment to her—all kinds of explanations and
    excuses, some more convincing than others, were coming to mind.
    Anything, she thought ruefully, would probably have been better
    than the web of deceit she had started to spin. It would only take a
    little judicious probing from the brooding man beside her, and her
    whole fragile fabrication would come tumbling down.
    She hoped apprehensively that the restaurant would not be too
    fashionable. The fewer people she was seen by the better. And the
    darker the restaurant was the better too, she told herself. By
    candlelight, in a secluded corner, she might just be able to pass for
    Jan if she was seen at a distance by someone who actually knew her
    sister.
    But her hopes were dashed when they finally reached their
    destination. Santino had chosen a restaurant right on the outskirts of
    the city. It was large, popular and quite clearly expensive, and their
    table, far from being hidden in some dark corner, was almost in the
    centre of an enormous terrace, overlooking exquisite formal
    gardens, and with a panoramic view of the city itself.
    Juliet found herself the cynosure of all eyes as she walked to the
    table, and she had not been in Rome long enough to be untroubled
    by the frankness of some of the masculine glances and sotto voce
    remarks which pursued her. She sank rather thankfully into the
    chair the waiter was holding for her, and hoped she had managed to
    mask her embarrassment at the small ordeal. It was the kind of
    situation that Jan would have revelled in, she supposed, being
    escorted by someone as dark and devastating as Santino Vallone. It
    was quite a relief to shelter from prying glances behind the huge
    menu that she was handed. She wondered with dismay if she was
    supposed to appear knowledgeable about the choice of food being
    offered, and heard her companion give a low-voiced order to the
    waiter for two dry Martinis to be brought to them.
    He leaned back in his chair and gave her an enquiring look. 'What
    do you wish to eat, Janina? A simple steak and a salad, perhaps?'
    'Certainly not,' she denied indignantly, her eye focussing on a
    magnificent trolley laden with hors d'oeuvres which a waiter was
    steering between the tables.
    He raised his eyebrows slightly. 'You do not fret perpetually about
    your weight? Meraviglioso!'
    Juliet suddenly found herself thinking of the idle remark she had
    made to Jan—a lifetime ago, it seemed. Could it really be only
    twenty-four hours? She flushed a little.
    'No,' she said with constraint, 'not at the moment.' She glanced
    about her, casting round for a change of subject, wanting to get
    away from any personal element. 'What a magnificent view!'
    'Have you never been here before?'
    She lifted one shoulder casually. 'I don't think so. I don't
    remember...'
    'One goes to so many places,' he finished for her, rather mockingly.
    'You are a true Roman, Janina. I am surprised that you still find the
    skyline romantic.'
    'I didn't say that,' she said stiffly.
    'No,' he agreed. 'You said "magnificent", but I saw a dream in your
    eyes.'
    She looked down embarrassed at the polished wood of the table in
    front of them. It seemed she would have to guard her eyes now, as
    well as her tongue.
    He went on rather drily, 'I see what you see, and yet my vision is
    filled with roofs and towers and domes. They do not belong to my
    own concept of magnificence.'
    'Which