Книга - Married Under The Italian Sun

Married Under The Italian Sun
Lucy Gordon


The world knew her as a glamorous, glitzy blonde, famous for being famous. Until her unfaithful husband divorced her…and Angel Clannan was glad to be a nobody once again. She couldn't wait to start her new life in Italy, in the Villa Tazzini on the Amalfi coast.Nobody could care about the villa more than Vittorio Tazzini. It broke his heart to see it sold to someone like Angel. Except the dark, brooding Italian hadn't even met her yet. Getting to know the real Angel Clannan, the one she'd almost forgotten herself, would change his mind. And, if he let her, she might just change his entire life….









“Angel,” Vittorio whispered. “Angel, what are you trying to do?”


She shook her head. She didn’t know.

He released her carefully, half expecting her to fall, but she stepped back and looked at him with the bleakest expression he had ever seen. He couldn’t bear to look at her.

“Why do you want me to think badly of you?” he asked.

“You will anyway, whatever I do,” Angel said sadly. “It’s safer this way. Go on thinking the worst of me, Vittorio. It’s probably true.”

She walked out of the room, leaving him stunned.

He tried to tell himself that everything was very simple. She’d just confirmed his worst suspicions. But he couldn’t make himself believe it.


Harlequin Romance®

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international bestselling author

LUCY GORDON

Readers all over the world love Lucy Gordon for powerful emotional drama, spine-tingling intensity and Italian heroes! Her storytelling talent has won her countless awards—including two RITA® Awards!

Escape to the beauty of Rome with Lucy Gordon’s upcoming story:

One Summer in Italy… (#3933)




Married Under the Italian Sun

Lucy Gordon





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Lucy Gordon cut her writing teeth on magazine journalism, interviewing many of the world’s most interesting men, including Warren Beatty, Richard Chamberlain, Roger Moore, Sir Alec Guinness and Sir John Gielgud. She also camped out with lions in Africa, and had many other unusual experiences that have often provided the background for her books. She is married to a Venetian, whom she met while on holiday in Venice. They got engaged within two days.

Two of her books have won the Romance Writers of America RITA® Award: Song of the Lorelei in 1990, and His Brother’s Child in 1998, for the Best Traditional Romance category.

You can visit her Web site at www.lucy-gordon.com.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE




CHAPTER ONE


‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, here we are again with your favourite TV programme, Star On My Team, when the famous—and sometimes the infamous—ha-ha!—team up with you to win fabulous prizes…’

Sitting backstage, Angel prayed for the burbling introduction to be over soon. In fact, she thought, please let the whole mindless business be over. Just as her marriage was over, and only awaited a decent burial.

The presenter was getting into his stride.

‘On my right, Mr and Mrs Barker, and their famous team member—’He named the star of a minor soap opera. Watching the backstage screen, Angel saw him enter, flashing his teeth and grandstanding to the audience.

Nina, her personal assistant, surveyed her with critical approval.

‘You look perfect,’ she said.

Of course she did. Angel always looked perfect. That was her function. Long blonde hair, large, dark-blue eyes, slender figure encased in a tight gold dress, cut teasingly low. Masses of glittering, tasteless jewellery. Bling, bling!

‘And now, the lady I know you’re impatient to see—’

Not as impatient as I am to finish this, she thought wryly, while trying to remain good-tempered. Time to get out there. Big smile!

‘The one we’ve all been waiting for…’

Especially since my husband plastered my face all over the front pages, trying to divorce me on the cheap. Never mind. Smile!

A look in the mirror, a final adjustment of her dress to ensure that her assets were displayed to advantage, mouth widened just so far, no further. And now for the last walk to where the lights beckoned and the cameras preyed on her. It felt like a walk to the guillotine.

‘Here she is. The beautiful, the fabulous—Angel!’

She’d done this a hundred times before, and it should have been easy, but as she emerged and the applause washed over her, something terrible happened. The lights seemed to dim, and suddenly her mind was filled with darkness and panic.

Please, not now! I thought those attacks were over!

Mercifully, the dreadful moment passed swiftly. She could cope again, just.

She advanced on the suicidally high heels, hands outstretched, voice tuned to a note of artificial ecstasy to greet the presenter.

Her fellow contestants were Mr and Mrs Strobes. She’d met them in the hospitality room before the show and it had been an endurance test.

‘We’re so sorry about your divorce,’ Mrs Strobes had said. ‘We think it’s just terrible the way he threw you out.’

‘Parting was a mutual decision,’ Angel had hastened to say.

But what was the point, with Joe flaunting his new companion at every party and nightclub?

The audience was agog to see her, so she smiled and waved, turning this way and that so that they shouldn’t be disappointed. She could almost hear the comments.

‘A right sexy little piece—a bit of all right.’

That was what her husband had wanted from her. For him she’d been a ‘right sexy little piece’ for eight years, and suddenly eight years felt like a very long time.

The show started. The questions were ridiculously easy, but even so she gave a performance of racking her brains, giggling at her own ‘ignorance’. They wanted ‘dumb blonde’ so that was what she would give them.

The soap actor on the other side seemed to be genuinely dumb, and Angel’s team was soon in the lead. The clincher came when the host burbled, ‘And now, Angel, here’s a real tough one for you. Who painted the Sistine Chapel? Was it a) Maisie the Mouse, b) Michelangelo, or c) Mark Antony?’

She did her bit, putting her dainty fingertips to her mouth and giving an ‘Angel’ giggle.

‘Ooh, dear! I don’t know. I never studied music.’ Roars of laughter from the audience. ‘Could you repeat the question, please?’

He did so and she gave a little squeal.

‘You always give me the hard ones. I’ll have to guess. Michelangelo.’

‘Michelangelo is right, and you have won.’

Cheers, applause, her team mates bouncing with joy. It would be finished soon. Cling to that thought.

At last it was over and she could escape. Nina was waiting for her with the car, so that she could make a speedy escape from all the prying eyes.

Nina had been with her for eight years, secretary, maid, gofer and good, solid friend. She was a little younger than Angel, plain, funny, and a rock to cling to.

When they were on their way, Angel let out a long sigh of relief.

‘At least that’s over,’ Nina said. ‘With luck you’ll never have to do another one.’

‘Not once I’m living in Italy,’ Angel agreed. ‘Amalfi, here I come.’

‘I really wish I could come with you.’

‘So do I,’ Angel said, meaning it. ‘I’ll miss you, but I shan’t need a secretary, even if I could afford one now. I’m going to live a very quiet life.’

‘Joe called me today and asked me to go back to work for him. He said “darling Merry” needs me. Merry! I ask you. Her name’s Meredith.’

‘And mine’s Angela, but I let him rename me Angel for the sake of his image.’

‘I told him I’d found another job. As though I’d work for him again—a great, stupid vulgarian who thinks he’s somebody because he’s rich.’

‘Mind how you talk about my ex-husband,’ Angel said mildly.

‘You object?’

‘Certainly. “Great, stupid vulgarian” doesn’t begin to do him justice.’

‘How about, “coarse, spiteful, bullying thug”?’

‘That’s much better,’ Angel said with a wry little laugh.

‘You’re well shot of him. And, even if he did cheat you out of a proper settlement, you got an Italian palace out of it.’

‘The Villa Tazzini isn’t a palace. If it had been, “Merry” would have wanted it. He bought it for her, but without letting her see it first. It was to be a wonderful surprise. But when she realised it wasn’t palatial, just a large country house, she didn’t think it was wonderful at all.’

‘Rumour says it cost him a million.’

‘A palace would have cost at least five million. I heard he showed her a lot of pictures he’d taken, and she ripped them up.’

‘I suppose Freddy told you that,’ said Nina, naming Joe’s PA, who was secretly on Angel’s side, as was everyone who’d worked for her.

‘That’s right. Apparently her language would have made a stevedore blush.’

‘And Joe let her talk to him like that?’

‘She’s twenty, and sexy. It boosts his ego to flaunt her—’

‘Next to his fat, forty-nine-year-old self?’

Angel laughed. ‘Next to his fifty-two-year-old self, actually. But that’s a secret. Even I only found out by accident. But the point is that as long as Merry does him proud, she can talk to him how she likes. Anyway, he finally tossed the place to me and said, “You can have that as your divorce pay-off. Take it or leave it.”’

‘And that’s all?’

‘I get a lump sum as well, but I’ll have to be careful with it. It’ll cover my expenses until the lemon harvest comes in. Part of the estate is an orchard, and when I sell the crop I’ll have enough to get by.’

‘Even so, you could have fought Joe for a fair share. With his millions he’s got off cheap.’

‘I know, but he could have tied me up for years, fighting him and his army of lawyers. I simply felt very tired, so I took it. After all, I’ve always loved Italy.’

Once, she’d planned to study art at college, then go on to Italy to study some more. She’d even learned Italian. But that dream had come to nothing, when her beloved grandfather had fallen ill and needed her.

Now, ironically, she was going to Italy after all. But not to Rome or Florence, the centres of art. Her new home was a villa on the Amalfi coast where the cliffs plunged dizzyingly down to the sea.

Anything was worth it, she told herself, if she could still take care of the old man who had offered her a home after her parents died when she was eight. They had been strangers, not having seen each other for five years.

‘Hello, I’m Sam,’ he’d said, refusing to have any truck with that ‘talking down to kids nonsense’, as he had called it. And Sam he’d been ever since.

They had been poor, and life had been a struggle, but they loved each other, and when Sam’s health had failed all she’d cared about was looking after him. For a while she had had a boyfriend, Gavin, who had dazzled her with his handsome looks, but she had broken up with him when he made it clear there was no place for Sam in their lives.

Hoping to win a little money, she had applied to enter a television quiz show. That was how she had met Joe Clannan, a shareholder in the production company that made the show. He was a property millionaire, and, when he had proposed, she had accepted for Sam’s sake.

Joe wanted a young sexy trophy wife, and he made her change her name. To him, ‘Angela’ was dull and provincial, but ‘Angel’ was the sexy, young ‘bit’ that he wanted.

He took her to every film premiere, every fashionable restaurant opening, and she was always dressed to the nines and dripping with jewels. The idea was to show the world that coarse, vulgar Joe Clannan had a wife that other men envied him for.

She did what pleased him because she was grateful that Sam now had a comfortable life with her, cared for by two nurses. Often he didn’t know who she was, but he seemed happy, and that was all she asked.

She became a minor celebrity, famous for being famous, appearing on reality TV, fluttering her eyelashes, giggling and doing all she could to make Joe proud.

But when she became pregnant Joe showed his true colours. He already had two grown sons from a previous marriage, and he wasn’t keen on Angel losing her figure. He even suggested that there was ‘no need to have it’. That provoked a fierce row in which she stood up to him so determinedly that he never mentioned it again.

But it was all for nothing. Two days later, she miscarried. In the weeks of depression that followed, she became, as he put it, poor company. He found a younger woman, a girl of twenty. He reckoned Angel was past her best, at twenty-eight.

She had always known that beneath the surface bonhomie Joe could be a very unpleasant man. Just how unpleasant she discovered during the divorce, when he drove her and Sam out of the house and gave her as little as he could get away with.

She cared nothing for the money. If it weren’t for her grandfather, she would have thought herself well rid of Joe.

After the hideously gaudy mansion in the heart of London’s West End where she’d once lived— ‘Nothing too good for my Angel!’—she now rented a small house on the edge of town, just big enough for herself, Sam and the two nurses. She’d taken it on a short-term lease, and in a few weeks she must have the Villa Tazzini ready for them all.



On the night before she left for Italy, she dropped in to Sam’s room.

‘I’ll be leaving very early tomorrow,’ she told him.

‘Why are you going away?’ he asked, puzzled.

‘Darling, I told you. I’m going to Italy, to see this house where we’re going to live. It’s my divorce settlement from Joe.’

‘Joe who?’

‘You remember Joe—my ex-husband.’

He frowned. ‘What became of Gavin?’

‘We quarrelled. Never mind all that now. We’re going to have a new home in Italy. Look, here are the pictures of it that I brought you. You’ll come and join me as soon as possible.’

He fixed her with the smile she loved, full of warmth and affection.

‘Why are you going away?’ he asked.



Vittorio Tazzini was waiting at the window, watching the street for the moment when his friend appeared. As soon as he saw Bruno he was at the door, almost pulling him inside.

‘Have you got it?’ he asked eagerly.

‘Vittorio, my friend, I’m still not sure this is wise. You’re obsessed, and that isn’t good.’

‘Obsessed! Of course I am. I’ve been cheated by two men: the first was one I called a friend, until he stole from me and vanished, forcing me to sell my home to pay his debts. His debts, Bruno, that he had persuaded me to sign for. The other was Joseph Clannan, who saw my desperation and used it to beat me down on the price. I sold for much less than the place is worth because I needed money quickly. If I could have got a fair price I’d have had enough to give me some hope for the future. I wouldn’t be penniless and living here.’ He cast a scornful look around the shabby rented room that was his home now.

Bruno regarded him with pity, which he was careful to conceal. They were both thirty-two, and had been friends since their first day at school. Nobody knew the fierce, embittered Vittorio better than his gentle friend. Nobody understood him as deeply, or feared for him more.

He was silent, watching Vittorio pace the narrow confines of the room, his tall, rangy body looking so out of place in it, after the spaciousness of the Villa Tazzini, that it was like seeing a wild animal trapped in a tiny cage. Sooner or later the animal would go mad.

Vittorio wasn’t a handsome man. His face was too harsh for that, his cheeks too gaunt, his eyes too fierce. His nose was irregular, so that people meeting him for the first time wondered if it had been broken. His wide, firm mouth suggested an unyielding nature, one that could love or hate with equal ferocity, and never forgive an injury from foe or lover alike.

Even Bruno, his closest friend, was slightly afraid of him, and pitied anyone who got on Vittorio’s wrong side.

‘Won’t you forget that man for a moment?’ he begged now.

‘How can I forget him?’ Vittorio asked savagely. ‘He forced the price down until he practically stole the estate from me! And do you know why? To impress a woman. To make her a gift of my home at the least possible expense to himself.’

‘You don’t know that,’ Bruno pleaded.

‘But I do. As I showed him round I heard him say, “My pretty lady will just love this. It’s just what she said she wanted.” All for a woman. So now I want to see that woman. You said your friends in England could send you something that would show her to me. Do you have it or not?’

‘Yes,’ Bruno said, reluctantly unwrapping the small parcel he carried. ‘This is a video of a television show called Star On My Team. It was shown last week, and they taped it for me. But I still wish you’d drop this. Hate the man if you must, but why blame her?’

‘Do you think they can be separated? Do you think I don’t know the kind of woman who puts a price on the bedroom door, and then ups the price again and again? We all know them. Give me the tape.’

Taking it, he pressed it into an ancient video recorder that stood in the corner of the room, poured two glasses of wine, and the two of them sat down to watch.

‘Here she is. The beautiful, the fabulous—Angel!’

Vittorio never took his eyes off the ravishing blonde, with her long hair, luscious make-up and a sexy pout, as she sashayed out to meet her audience.

Flaunting herself, he thought cruelly, taking in the golden figure-hugging dress and flashy jewels. A woman used to being waited on, who demands the best, and gets it.

‘Putana,’ he muttered. Prostitute.

‘That’s going too far,’ Bruno protested.

‘You think a wedding ring hides what she is?’

‘She may not be wearing it any more. My friends say there is talk of a divorce.’

‘So she demanded my home as her parting present? Is that supposed to make me feel better?’

At that moment, Angel gave her famous inane giggle. It went up the scale, growing more lush and significant with every teasing note. She put her fingertips daintily over her lips, looking from side to side as if to say, Silly me.

A perfect performance, Vittorio thought. Apparently fatuous, but actually calculated to tempt a man through his weakness. Even he had felt a faint tingle up his spine, and it served to increase his rage.

Bruno stared at Angel’s polished beauty.

‘She may be all you say,’ he mused, ‘but you can see why—’

‘Oh, yes,’ Vittorio said contemptuously. ‘You can see why!’

There was a tinkling sound as his wine glass broke in his hand, crushed by the cruel pressure of his fingers. He seemed unaware of it. His eyes were fixed on the screen, and the beautiful, provocative woman laughing as though she didn’t have a care in the world.



The journey began with a flight to Naples. It would have been easy to call the villa and ask for someone to collect her from the airport, but getting there under her own steam seemed a good way to start her new, low-profile life. Besides, Angel liked the idea of arriving unexpectedly and seeing the house as it was naturally.

It was an impulse she soon regretted. Being independent was fine if you had only a few bags. But if you were carrying all your worldly goods it was a pain in the neck to have to load them into a taxi at Naples airport, unload them again at the railway station, then onto the train to Sorrento, followed by a bus to Amalfi. By the time she was in the last taxi, to the villa, she was frazzled.

But she forgot the feeling as she gained her first glimpse of the dramatic Amalfi coast. She’d heard of it, and studied pictures, but nothing could have prepared her for the dazzling reality of the cliffs swooping down, down, down into the sea.

‘They’re so high,’ she said in wonder. ‘And those little villages clinging to the sides—how come they don’t slide down into the water?’

‘They are protected by a great hero,’ the driver announced proudly. ‘The legend says that Hercules loved a beautiful nymph, called Amalfi. When she died, he buried her here, and placed huge cliffs all around to safeguard her peace. But then the fishermen protested that they would starve because now they couldn’t get to the sea, so he built them villages on his cliffs, and vowed that he would always keep them safe. And he always has.’

Looking down, Angel found the pretty tale easy to believe. What else could explain how the little towns clung on to the steep sides, rising almost vertically, white walls blazing in the sun?

‘Is the Tazzini estate up there?’ she asked.

‘Right on top, although the lemon orchard stretches down the cliff face, in tiers, to catch as much sun as possible.’

‘Are the lemons good?’ she asked, trying to sound casual.

‘The best. The makers of limoncello always compete to buy Tazzini lemons.’

‘Whatever is limoncello?’

‘It is a liqueur, made with lemons and vodka, straight out of heaven.’

So she had a ready market for her produce, she thought, with a surge of relief.

‘There they are,’ the driver said suddenly, pointing as they rounded a bend. ‘Those are lemon flowers.’

Angel gasped and sat totally still, riveted by the sight that met her eyes. It was as though someone had tossed a basket of white blooms from the top of the cliff so that they cascaded down, shimmering, gleaming, dazzling in the sun, awesome in their beauty.

On the last stretch she took out a mirror and checked her appearance. She’d resolved that those days were behind her, and in future she would worry less about her appearance. But she simply couldn’t let her first entrance be less than perfect, and so she checked her mascara and refreshed her lipstick. Now she was ready for the fray.

They were approaching a large pair of wrought-iron gates which were closed but not locked, so the driver was able to open them and go through. Another few minutes and she could see the villa.

As she’d told Nina, it wasn’t a palace but a large country house, although built on impressive lines. Made of pale grey coloured stone, it reared up three floors, with a flight of stairs running up to the second floor from the outside, where a covered balcony ran the length of the building. Down below there was a riot of decorations. Little half-fountains appeared out of the walls, watched over by stone animals carved to incredible perfection. Angel found herself smiling.

Three broad steps led up to the double doors that formed the entrance, and which stood open. She went right in, followed by the driver, who was hauling her many bags. Looking around, she saw a hall that was spacious yet strangely domestic, even cosy. Warm red tiles stretched away across the floor, leading to archways that seemed to invite her in. Incredibly, she felt welcome.

She tried to be sensible. This feeling of having come home to the place where she belonged was the merest sentimentality, sugar coated with wishful thinking. Yet the sensation pervaded her, despite her efforts to resist it. It was almost like being happy.

She paid the driver, refusing his offer to carry the bags further. She wanted to be alone to enjoy her first minutes in this lovely place.

From the hall a flight of stone stairs with wrought-iron banisters streamed upwards, beckoning her. Angel began to climb it slowly, feeling as though she were moving in a dream. Halfway up she stopped to look out of a window, and realised that the house was close to the edge of the cliff, directly overlooking the sea. From here she could see the water stretching into the distance, incredibly blue, shining serenely under the clear sky. The window was open and she stood there a moment, breathing in the clear air, listening to the silence.

When had she last heard silence? When, in her rackety life, had there been such peace, such potential for tranquil joy? If she hadn’t come here, how much longer would she have survived?

Soon she began to climb again. After the heat outside, the house was blessedly cool, protected by the thick stone walls. She emerged onto a large landing, leading to a corridor with several doors. One in particular attracted her attention, because it was the only double door. No doubt this would be the master bedroom, and the one she would take as her own.

Eager to see it, she pushed open both doors and walked in.

For a moment she could discern nothing, as the wooden shutters at the three windows were mostly closed. Then the gloom cleared slightly and she saw that one of them was open a few inches, and a man was standing there, looking out through the narrow gap.

At first Angel could make out little of him, except that he was tall and lean. Then, as her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she saw that he was dressed in old jeans and a frayed denim shirt, with scuffed shoes to complete the picture. Probably the gardener, she thought. But what was he doing here?

‘Hello?’ she said.

He turned quickly.

‘Who are you?’ they both said together, in Italian.

Angel gave a brief laugh, realising that her indignation was a tad illogical.

‘I’m sorry, this is my fault,’ she said, ‘for not letting anyone know I was coming today.’

He pushed the shutters further open so that light streamed into the room, falling directly onto her like a spotlight as she moved towards him. She saw him grow suddenly tense, his face harden, but he didn’t speak.

‘I’m the new owner of the estate,’ she said.

‘The Signora Clannan.’

Angel had reverted to her maiden name, but she let it go for the moment.

‘That’s right. Obviously you’ve been expecting me.’

‘Oh, yes, we’ve all known you were coming, although not exactly when. You kept that detail to yourself, so that you could catch us unawares. Very shrewd. Who knows what discoveries you might have made?’

She could see him better now, and thought she’d never come across any man who looked so hard and unyielding. There was a gaunt wariness about him, not just in his face, but in his tall, angular shape, the way he crossed his arms defensively over his chest, telling the world to keep its distance.

He might as well have warded her off with a sword, she thought.

‘I wasn’t trying to catch anyone out,’ she said, trying to remain good-tempered. ‘It was an impulse decision.’

‘And you couldn’t even have made a phone call from the airport to give Berta a chance to be ready for you? She’s your housekeeper, and a more faithful, hard-working soul never lived. She deserves better.’

Angel had a faint sense of remorse, but it was quashed in the rush of indignation. What the hell did he think gave him the right to talk to her like this?

‘Look,’ she said, ‘I presume you’re one of my staff, so let me make it clear right now that you don’t speak to me like that. Not if you want to go on working for me.’

‘Is that so? Then how fortunate that I don’t work for you, or I’d be shaking in my shoes now.’

‘Don’t be impertinent. If you’re not one of my employees, what are you doing in this room, where you most decidedly have no right to be?’

She thought he grew a little paler, the twist to his mouth a little more sardonic.

‘True,’ he said. ‘I have no right. Not any more.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘My name is Vittorio Tazzini, and I used to own this place.’




CHAPTER TWO


‘YOU?’ The word had an unflattering tone that came out before Angel could stop it.

‘Yes,’ he said, looking down at himself. ‘A scarecrow like me. This used to be my room, and I returned to search for something I left behind. I apologise for being here when the new padrona arrived. If I’d been warned, I’d have cleared out and not troubled you.’

She was disconcerted, not so much by his words as by the way his eyes flickered over her. There was nothing new in that. For years men had gazed at her with admiration, even frank lust, trying to strip her in their thoughts. She had thought she was bored by it, but it might have been better than the contempt in this man’s gaze.

‘There’s no need to be melodramatic,’ she said coolly.

‘Is it melodramatic to call you padrona? Isn’t that what you are? The new mistress to whom everyone will now defer? I’m merely recognising reality.’

‘No, you’re trying to make me feel uncomfortable, as though I should be ashamed of being here.’

‘It never occurred to me that you would feel ashamed of anything.’

‘Look, this won’t work. I’ve seen off sharper men than you.’

‘I don’t doubt it. Your very presence in this place is a triumph. But what will you do now you’re here? I’ll wager you haven’t given it a thought. Not a serious thought, anyway. But why should you care? Those huge alimony payments will take care of all problems.’

‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ Angel said, her eyes beginning to sparkle with anger, ‘but I intend to make my own way. I understand the estate is profitable. Everyone assures me that Tazzini lemons are second to none.’

He regarded her sardonically.

‘So, you’ve heard about the lemons and now you think you know everything.’

‘No, but I know about limoncello.’

A grin spread over his face, suggestive of derision rather than amusement. It made her uneasy.

‘Truly,’ he said, ‘your knowledge is awesome. But how far does it go? For instance, what kind of lemons are grown in this place?’

‘What kind? Lemons are lemons, aren’t they?’

‘You instruct me. How foolish of me not to think of that.’

‘Now, look—’ she began hotly.

‘Lemons, as you so expertly say, are lemons. But are they Meyer lemons, Eureka lemons, Lisbon lemons?’

‘All right. I didn’t know there was more than one type,’ she said, facing him squarely.

‘No, and you don’t know which kind is the best for limoncello. In fact, you know nothing.’

‘Well, I’m not planning to tend them myself. I’ll employ someone who knows what to do. In fact, there must already be someone working here.’

His grin became a little wild.

‘You have nobody who can care for those lemons so that they’ll get the best price,’ he said flatly.

‘There are gardeners, aren’t there?’

‘There’s one. He’s a good workhorse, but he’s not an artist. You’ll have to explain everything to him.’

‘But surely there’s a head gardener, who doesn’t need to be have things explained?’

‘The only one who knows is me, and I’m out of here since you seized my home.’

‘You’re blaming me? You’ve got a nerve. Is it my fault you chose to sell?’

‘I did not—’ He stopped himself with a sharp breath. ‘Don’t trespass on that situation. You know nothing.’

‘Then don’t throw accusations at me. I didn’t seize your home—’

‘No, your husband did. But who ended up owning it?’

‘And that makes me a criminal, does it? I have no desire to “trespass on that situation” as you call it. I just want to take over my new home and settle in.’

He drew a sharp breath.

‘As you say,’ he said coldly. ‘Welcome to your home. I’ll inform your staff that you’re here.’

He walked out, followed by her glare. If there had been anything to throw, she would have thrown it.

She was furious with him for ruining the first special moments here. Everything had been peaceful and beautiful, until she’d walked in and found him waiting, almost as if trying to spring a trap for her.

It was no use telling herself that it had been pure accident. That was common sense, and she wasn’t in the mood for it.

In fact, she was annoyed with herself for acting like Angel at her most queenly and petulant. She’d believed that was part of the old life, left far behind. But years of being pampered and deferred to had left their mark, despite her best intentions.

I have not allowed Joe to turn me into a spoilt brat, she reassured herself. I have not.

Well, perhaps just a bit.

Angel strode to the other two windows and pushed the shutters wide open so that sunlight streamed in everywhere, like a benediction. Now she could look around the room, which was like no bedroom she had encountered before. Like the rest of the house that she had so far seen, the floor was covered in dark red flagstones. The bed was almost seven feet wide, with a carved walnut headboard and matching foot.

Trying it cautiously, she found that the mattress was firm almost to the point of hardness, but when she stretched out for a moment it was curiously comfortable. The lamp on the bedside table was defiantly old-fashioned, with a carved stand and a parchment shade.

There were two wardrobes, also of walnut, standing in the spaces between the windows. Ornate on the outside, they were basic on the inside, with rails and wire hangers, so unlike the padded satin hangers on which her elegant clothes normally hung. A large chest of drawers stood against one wall.

And that was it.

And yet she felt at home. The very starkness and simplicity of the room was peaceful.

Angel delved further into one of the wardrobes, realising how old it was, and how much in need of repair. The floor actually had a hole. Reaching into her bag, she took out a small torch that she carried everywhere and trained it on the hole. The light went right through to the floor, showing her something small and green.

Reaching under the wardrobe, she managed to grasp the object, which turned out to be an address book. Perhaps this was what he’d lost. He must have left it in a trouser pocket, from where it had fallen out of sight.

From down below she heard a woman’s voice, sounding worried, almost tearful, then Vittorio Tazzini’s, seeming to comfort her. She just managed to get to her feet and brush her clothes down before the door opened and a powerfully built middle-aged woman entered, with Vittorio’s arm about her shoulder.

‘This is Berta,’ he explained in English. ‘She looks after the house and does a wonderful job.’ He translated this for the woman before reverting to English to say, ‘Unfortunately, she understands very little of your language, and she’s worried in case this counts against her.’

‘Why should it?’ Angel asked. ‘We can speak in Italian.’ She crossed her fingers and spoke slowly. ‘Berta, I’m sorry that I did not warn you I was coming. It was rude of me.’

To her relief, Berta understood, and a smile broke over her broad face. She too spoke slowly.

‘If the signora will come down to the kitchen I will prepare coffee while the room is made ready.’

As they descended the stairs, Angel could see that the household was already alive to her presence. All the staff were buzzing around her bags, beginning to take them upstairs, but not before they’d given her quick looks of curiosity.

She could sense the other woman’s unease, and it touched her heart. She hadn’t come here to hurt anybody.

When Berta served up coffee, Angel thanked her with her warmest smile and said in slow, clear Italian, ‘This looks delicious. I’m sure we’re going to get on really well.’

Berta nodded, looking happier.

‘By the way, is this what you were looking for?’ she asked Vittorio, holding out the little book.

‘Yes, it was. Thank you. Where did you find it?’

‘It had fallen through a hole in the bottom of one of the wardrobes.’

Berta tut-tutted. ‘There now! Such a state some of the furniture’s in! But you’ll be able to see to it, won’t you?’

To Angel’s surprise, this was addressed to Vittorio.

‘Why should you say that?’ she asked. ‘Now that Signor Tazzini’s property has been found I see no reason for him to come here again.’

Berta’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, dear! You haven’t said—’

‘Haven’t said what?’ Angel asked, her eyes kindling.

‘It’s only—you knowing nothing about the estate,’ Berta faltered, ‘and the padrone knowing so much…’

‘Perhaps you’d better leave us for a moment, Berta,’ Vittorio said quietly.

‘Si, padrone.’

It was the word ‘padrone’ that reduced Angel’s patience to danger level. Berta had called him ‘master’ because that was how she still saw him. And the way she scuttled out underlined the unwelcome fact.

‘Do you mind telling me what’s going on?’ Angel said coolly. ‘Because everyone seems to know, except me. In fact, you seem to have made quite a few decisions that I know nothing about. Perhaps it’s time you informed me.’

‘All right, it’s very simple,’ he said in a hard voice. ‘You need an estate manager, a real expert, and that means me. You haven’t a hope of doing it on your own, you’ve already proved that.’

‘Damned cheek!’

‘Well, face facts. You don’t know the first thing about the lemons you grow, not even what type they are. How often do they need watering? How long between planting and harvesting? How often do they flower? The whole prosperity of this place depends on intensive knowledge, or your harvest will fail. And I didn’t spend years working myself to a standstill to see you throw it away.’

‘If that’s your way of asking me to hire you, you’re making a very bad job of it.’

‘Don’t waste my time with that sort of talk. I’m not asking you to hire me. I’m telling you. You don’t have a choice.’

‘The hell I don’t!’

‘That’s right, you don’t. You need me, that’s the plain fact, so why waste time?’

‘And you did it all on your own, did you? Without you there’s no one except the “workhorse” you mentioned?’

‘No, I had a staff of three gardeners, but they’ve gone except for that one. The other two left when the place was sold.’

‘How interesting! They both made the same sudden decision, did they?’

‘They did.’

‘And both left on the same day?’

‘In the same hour.’

‘What a remarkable coincidence! I wonder exactly how it came about.’

Her ironic tone left no doubt of her meaning, and Vittorio’s eyes darkened.

‘You mean, I take it, that I encouraged them, in order to harm you?’

‘It seems pretty clear.’

He moved towards her so suddenly that she couldn’t stop herself from taking a step back, although it maddened her to yield so much as an inch. She found her back against the wall.

‘Listen to me,’ he said, in a soft, deliberate voice, full of menace. ‘You are very confused about what is clear and what is not clear, so I am going to make several things clear to you.’

‘This conversation is over,’ she said, trying to move sideways and away from him.

But he stopped her by placing both hands on the wall, on either side of her.

‘No, this conversation is not over until I say so, and I have decided that there are things you must hear first.’

‘And I say I don’t want to, so you will move away and let me go right now.’

‘Will I, indeed? And who is going to make me? You? Try it.’

She would have been mad to try. Even though he wasn’t actually touching her she had a fierce sense of the wiry strength in his body, and knew that she was no match for him. To fight would merely be undignified.

His eyes were fixed on her face, following her thoughts exactly. He grinned, and it was an alarming sight.

‘Nor will any of the others help you against me. Do you think they will?’

Dismayed, she knew the answer. In the eyes of the household, he was still the master.

‘So you will stay here and listen to me, and when I am quite sure that you have understood I will let you go.’

‘Then get it over with,’ she said through gritted teeth.

‘The first thing is this. You have accused me of being prepared to damage this place because of my contempt for you. I told you before, I put my life’s blood into the estate and hell will freeze over before I do anything to harm it. What you suggested would be an act of petty spite, and it’s an insult that I won’t tolerate.’

‘Then perhaps you should have heard yourself say it,’ she flung at him. ‘You were delighted to have caught me out. Admit it.’

‘Of course I admit it. But I didn’t catch you out. You caught yourself out, thinking you could come out here and take over when you know nothing. Your arrogance is unbelievable. That’s why they left, because they are knowledgeable men and they don’t sell their services to ignorance. Expecting them to do so was your insult to them. They wouldn’t tolerate it, and why should they? You think I drove them away? On the contrary, I begged them to stay. Not for you, but for the estate, for the earth and the things that grow here, that need tending and loving, and which are more important than their pride, or yours.’ He took a shuddering breath. ‘Or mine.’

The last words sounded as though they were wrenched out of him. For a moment his attention seemed to wander, as though he’d side-slipped into another world. Then he forced himself back with an effort.

‘Just so that you understand, I do not descend to acts of spite, and I won’t tolerate the way you just spoke to me. Don’t ever do it again or you’ll be sorry.’

‘And that’s supposed to make me hire you, is it? Threatening me?’

‘You need me, damn you.’

‘I don’t think so. You’ve got the thing you came to find, so now get out of here. Do you hear me? Get off my property.’

Angel spoke bravely but her heart was hammering at what she could see in his face. For a moment she thought Vittorio would lose control, but at the very last second he mastered himself. A shudder went through him. His hands fell from the wall and he moved away from her. She had a strange feeling that his strength had suddenly drained away.

‘Your property,’ he said bitterly. ‘Yes, it’s your property now. I wish you joy of it.’

‘Liar!’ she flung at him in a shaking voice. ‘You wish me nothing but misfortune and misery.’

‘How astute of you!’

‘Get out of here now, and don’t come back.’

He gave her one final look of hatred. Then he was gone.



Angel had expected a disturbed night but, to her surprise, she slept like a log. The apparently hard mattress was the most comfortable she’d ever known.

Awaking early, she found the room still in darkness, but with slivers of light creeping between the cracks in the shutters. Pushing one of them open, she saw the softly growing light of early dawn. Entranced, she watched the sea, so still that it had an unearthly quality.

It was perfect, she thought, smiling.

Almost perfect.

The fly in the ointment was Vittorio Tazzini, a dangerous man who had taken against her in a way she didn’t understand. True, she owned the home that had once been his, but she hadn’t stolen it. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to sell, but had been forced to by debts. Even so, he must have money left over, enough not to have to dress in such a down-at-heel manner.

He was a mystery, but one she didn’t intend to let worry her. She’d thrown him out. Now she must put him out of her mind. It should be simple enough.

But it wasn’t; she knew that already. He had the kind of presence that wouldn’t be easily dismissed. He wasn’t handsome—well, not in the ordinary way, she corrected herself. His nose was too prominent, his mouth too grim, his cheeks too lean for conventional good looks. What he had was all his own, a kind of dark inner force, unforgiving, implacable. He would be a bad enemy.

Yet she wasn’t afraid of him. Far from it. For years the men she’d met had been too much alike—smooth, full of glib talk and meaningless compliments, all seeming to come from the same insipid mould: photographers, television producers, minor actors, models, young men with little personality but the kind of regular features that passed for good looks, flashing cheesy smiles, always performing with one eye on her, the other on the camera, and their inner eye on the impression they were making.

She’d almost forgotten what the genuine article was like until she’d been forcibly reminded by a man who smelled of the earth after rain, and had no pretty speeches, only a blunt ferocity that, however disagreeable, was, at least, honest. Their encounter had left her strangely exhilarated.

By closing her eyes she could conjure him up again, leaning close, his hands pressed against the wall on either side of her. She knew he hadn’t touched her, not by so much as a fingertip. How, then, could she explain the sensation of his hands roving all over her? She could almost feel them now, yet it had all been in her mind.

I’ve got to pull myself together, she thought, almost amused. If my life had been half as colourful as the press thought, I’d be handling this better.

It was too soon to get up for the day. She went back to bed and fell asleep again, but this time she had strange dreams. Footsteps walked through her head, although she could see nobody. She heard the steps going away and knew that she must stop them or something terrible would happen. But, before she could do anything, she awoke.



Breakfast was on a balcony overlooking the sea, a magic place where small birds came daringly close and even landed on her table, demanding crumbs. She became so entranced with them, and the sight of the impossibly tiny boats below, that she almost forgot to eat.

Berta served her delicious coffee and rolls. At first she was reserved, as if her loyalty was still to Vittorio. But gradually she thawed under Angel’s determined friendliness.

They spent the rest of the day exploring the house and Angel’s delight grew. She loved this place. She even loved its slight shabbiness, its lack of pretension.

It had seen better days, as was shown by the light patches on the walls where pictures had been removed. The bathrooms were pure nineteenth century, with pipes that clanked but delivered gallons of hot water. She was entranced.

‘It was built four hundred years ago, for…’ Berta named a once notorious ducal family. ‘Their main residence was a palace, but this was created for a younger son, who brought his bride to live here. After that, it passed to a daughter, then to her daughter. It’s been several generations since anyone with a title lived here, but it’s been a happy family house.’

It was on the tip of Angel’s tongue to ask why Vittorio had had to sell, but she stayed silent, feeling sure Berta would pass the question on to him. Hell would freeze over before she let him guess she was curious about him.

Not every picture was gone. Some of the walls bore murals, and she spent some happy hours studying them, recalling everything she had ever learned about art history.

Angel found a suite of rooms that would be ideal for Sam and his carers. It was downstairs, as climbing was becoming too much for him, and would give him a large, pleasant room looking out onto the garden on the landward side of the house, with his nurses nearby.

She made a mental note of the furniture she would have to buy, and how much redecorating would be needed. For the moment, she told Berta only that the rooms should be spring-cleaned. More detailed explanations could wait until she felt more able to take Berta into her confidence.

She also began to walk her estate, which was more extensive than she had realised. In addition to the lemon orchards, there was a huge garden, stretching away landward, built on several levels, connected by short flights of stone steps. Flowers of every kind grew in profusion—roses, geraniums, magnolias. There were fountains with water plants, and greenhouses with tropical plants. Rico, the only gardener left, came with her, explaining that it was arranged that something different would flower every month.

Angel had begun to understand why Rico, alone among the gardeners, had chosen to stay. He was sweet-natured and always willing to please, but his mind worked at a snail’s pace. He had been born on the estate, lived there his entire twenty-three years, and plainly knew that he wasn’t fit to venture out into the big, bad world.

Vittorio was his god. Angel began to feel that if he said, ‘Il padrone always used to…’ just one more time, she would do something desperate.

Once she caught Rico off-guard, looking about him and clearly wondering how he was going to manage all this alone. Angel felt exactly the same. There was a horrible feeling growing inside her that Vittorio Tazzini was laughing at her. With good reason.

Another day, Angel went walking alone along the cliff top, where an iron rail guarded her from the drop. After a couple of hours she stopped and lingered, enjoying the sun that bathed her and glittered on the sea below. Cautiously, she peered over the rail at the long drop. Far below she could see the beach, with sun umbrellas and boats drawn up at the water’s edge. At this distance the bathers looked no bigger than ants. Fascinated, Angel rested her hands on the rail and leaned forward.

There was no warning of what happened next. She felt the movement of earth beneath her feet and the next moment she was sliding away under the railing, going down, lashing out frantically for something to grab.

For one terrifying moment, she thought there was nothing. Then her fingers touched metal and she tightened, and held on. She managed to reach up her other hand and clench that too on the railing, but her relief lasted only a split second. She’d checked her descent, but she was hanging over a sheer drop.

‘Help!’ she screamed. ‘Help!’

But she might as well have been in the middle of a wilderness. Nobody on the estate knew that she was here, and it was unlikely that anyone could see her from so far below. Even if they could, it would take time for help to arrive, and she wasn’t sure how long she could cling on.

‘Help!’ she screamed again. It might be useless, but she couldn’t stop.

Still, there was nobody to help her.

She fought to get a foothold, but her legs scrambled uselessly in space. She was already running out of energy because, with her arms stretched above her head, it was hard to breathe. Now sheer terror attacked her, making breathing even harder.

She cried out again, but the wind whipped her words away and brought no answer. She would simply hang here for hours, unnoticed by anyone, until exhaustion overtook her and she fell.




CHAPTER THREE


ANGEL CRIED OUT AGAIN, and this time it wasn’t a word but a long scream of agony.

‘All right, I’m coming.’

At first she wasn’t sure she’d heard the words. The wind snatched them away, then returned them in an echo.

‘Help!’ she screamed again, frantic with hope and fear.

But she could hear no reply. She’d imagined it. Nobody was coming to help her, and very soon she would be dead.

‘I’m here.’

The next moment a head appeared above her. She thought she was hallucinating as she saw it was Vittorio, but he dropped to his knees, then lay flat on the ground.

‘All right,’ he called. ‘Don’t panic. Here—’

He was reaching out his hand, wrapping his fingers around her wrist where she was still gripping the iron rail. Then the other hand, so that he held both wrists.

‘You’re going to have to let go of the rail,’ he said.

‘I can’t—’

‘You must,’ he said patiently. ‘I can’t pull you up while you’re holding it. Trust me.’

But her fingers seemed frozen, defying her will to move them. While she fought to make herself do what she must, there was an ominous crumbling sound, and a little more of the cliff slipped away beneath her. Looking up, she saw that most of it had come from the ground where he was lying, leaving a big hole beneath his upper body.

‘Don’t think about that,’ he said, his face just above her.

‘How can I? You’re lying on nothing.’

‘The hole gives me more room to pull you up. Be positive and trust me. Let go of that rail.’

Gasping, she did so, and immediately felt his hands tighten on her wrists, drawing her up, into the gap that crumbled further as she went through. He was inching back slowly—slowly—until he reached a place where he could draw himself up to his knees. As he did so his forearms were forced to take more of her weight, causing his fingers to tighten on her wrists. She gasped at the sheer power of that grip, and, with her eyes fixed on his face, she could see the terrible strain it cost him.

‘One more heave,’ he gasped.

On the words he yanked back sharply, so that Angel slid swiftly through the gap beneath the rail and landed on the ground, feeling it blessedly firm beneath her body.

She was safe, but that was only a word, and it had no power against the gasping and shuddering that seized her.

‘Oh, God,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, God!’

He put his arms right round her, pulling her hard against the length of his body and holding her there without moving or speaking. She clung to him in return, knowing that if he let her go she would start screaming. She tried to stop herself shaking but it was useless. The safety of the ground beneath her was an illusion, and only he could keep her safe.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked after a while.

‘No,’ she said abruptly. ‘I think—I’m going to have hysterics. Sorry about that.’

‘Don’t be sorry,’ he said, almost impatiently. ‘Nothing wrong with hysterics. Have them if you like.’

After that nothing could have stopped her. Her gasps turned into whooping, her shaking became violent tremors, and tears poured helplessly down her face. It didn’t seem to faze Vittorio. He just tightened his arms, so that an already firm grip became one of steel.

There was nothing gentle or tender about this. It was less an embrace than an imprisonment, but that was what she needed to guard herself from the worst, until the world became steady again, the storm passed and she managed to say, ‘Damn, damn, damn! I thought I had more guts than that.’

He loosened his grip just enough to look at her face. His own was close enough for her to feel his breath fanning her lips.

‘Why?’ he asked mildly. ‘You were a hair’s breadth away from falling to your death. Has that ever happened before?’

‘No.’

‘Then why should you think you should cope?’

‘Well, we both know now that I can’t,’ she snapped, furious with herself and, obscurely, with him.

‘So what? Did someone pass a law saying that you had to be a superwoman? Or is that just what the rest of us are supposed to think?’

‘Will you shut up?’ she snapped.

He grinned. ‘That’s better. Come on. You’re ready to stand.’

She didn’t feel ready, but he seemed to know her better than she did herself, so she allowed him to help her to her feet.

‘Where’s your car?’ he asked.

‘I walked.’

‘Then it’ll have to be my car. It’s just over there.’

His car was small and shabby. Angel eased herself thankfully into the front passenger seat, closed her eyes, and didn’t open them again until they pulled up outside the villa.

‘The padrona needs a good, stiff drink,’ Vittorio told Berta, who bustled out.

‘We both do,’ Angel said, leading the way into the large room that opened onto the garden through tall windows.

Berta produced whisky and two glasses, and Vittorio poured for them both. Angel drank hers in one gulp.

‘Do you need another?’ he asked, holding out the bottle.

‘No, thanks. I don’t normally drink spirits at all, but this was different. Thank goodness you were there. How did that happen?’

‘You mean how dare I still be on your property after you ordered me off?’

‘Not exactly. After all, you saved my life. I owe you for that.’

‘You don’t owe me any favours. It wouldn’t have suited me at all for you to die. Everyone would have thought I’d murdered you.’

His brisk, common-sense manner was a relief. There would be no need for melodramatics along the lines of, My hero!

‘Surely not!’ Angel said ironically. ‘Why would anyone think you wanted to murder me? I know you hate the sight of me, but who knows about it—apart from everyone in the area?’

He grimaced. ‘All right, you’ve made your point.’

‘Then tell me, what were you doing there?’

‘I went to look at the cliff.’

‘You knew it was dangerous?’

‘Only since late last night. Rico called me and said he’d noticed that it was dangerous at that point. He didn’t know what to do.’

‘He could have told me.’

He gave her an ironic look.

‘The poor lad is scared stiff of you. He came to me because that’s what he’s always done. I said I’d check it today, and that’s why I was there. I was going to cordon it off, then come to inform you.’

‘Oh, you were going to let me know what was happening? But only after you’d checked it.’

Vittorio let out his breath in exasperation.

‘All right,’ he said, with exaggerated patience. ‘Just tell me what you’d have done. How would you deal with a crumbling cliff?’

The silence was jagged as they faced each other.

‘You want me to say I’d come to you, don’t you?’ she seethed.

‘I don’t care what you say, only what you do. I hope you’d have had enough common sense to call me, but I don’t count on it.’

‘You’ve got a nerve!’

‘It depends whether you love this place more than you resent me.’

She sighed. ‘You’ve got me there, haven’t you? After all, you love it more than you resent me, or I wouldn’t be alive now. I guess I have to respect that.’

‘Much against your will, of course.’

She spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Look, I’m trying.’

‘I know. It’s years since I enjoyed anything so much.’

‘All right, have your laugh. But please come and look after the estate before it goes to rack and ruin. That is—if you can bear to.’

‘I can bear to. I told you once before that taking care of the land is the only thing that matters. Next to that, nobody’s feelings count. I’ll do a good job for you, and get your lemons in prime condition for the harvest, but I must have a free hand, and you have to take my advice.’

She opened her mouth to protest about this high-handed way of putting it, but then closed it again. He was right. She had no choice.

‘All right,’ she said.

‘My first piece of advice is to get the other gardeners back.’

‘No, it’s not fair to leave it all to Rico, is it?’ she agreed. ‘Plus, he helped to save my life.’

‘True. You should give him a bonus. There’s a heavy workload, not just for the lemons, but the rest of the garden. You sell that produce as well, at least you will sell it if it’s properly tended.’

‘Can I leave it to you to contact the other two gardeners?’

‘Certainly. And my second piece of advice is that you need some fertiliser delivered fast.’

‘Please order it. Is this a truce?’

‘I suppose it is.’

‘Don’t strain yourself,’ she said indignantly. ‘We can make it an armed truce if you prefer.’

‘That might work better.’

‘How much do I pay you?’

‘I’ll send you a formal memo.’ He added with a faint smile, ‘Under an emblem of crossed swords.’

‘Surely sheathed swords is more appropriate?’ Angel asked lightly.

Vittorio regarded her, his head on one side, his smile unreadable.

‘Let’s see how things work out before we sheath our swords.’



Angel slept badly that night. As soon as she closed her eyes, she was back hanging over the drop. Somehow she knew that this was a dream, but would struggle to save herself, feeling certain that she could now manage without him. But Vittorio was always there, hauling her back to safety.

Then she was lying on the grass again, held against him, gasping and feeling her heart pounding. That was when she awoke to find it was still happening, and she would have to calm herself down before she could go back to sleep. But she seemed to be stuck in a loop of terror and excitement that repeated again and again, until she faced the truth—that she had wanted to feel his hands on her. In fact, she had wanted it ever since the first day in the kitchen.

‘It ought to be enough that I dislike him,’ she muttered crossly, when she’d woken up for the third time. ‘You’d think that would protect me.’

But there were some things against which there was no defence.

That kind of consciousness, Angel discovered, was an insidious thing. It didn’t leave you alone for a moment. It was there even when a man was talking to you with barely concealed impatience, without even looking at you properly, all his attention directed at the papers he was spreading out. You might try to concentrate on the figures he was explaining, but you couldn’t help noticing the shapeliness of his hands, or remembering their unexpected power. And afterwards you wouldn’t be able to recall any of the figures.



The gardeners were re-employed and Vittorio brought them to be introduced to her. In a private talk afterwards, he told Angel what he had promised them in wages, and what she would be paying him. She had an odd feeling that he was accepting less than he was entitled to, but his distant manner forbade her to mention it.

The gardeners were polite to her, but there was no doubt whom they regarded as their real employer. In fairness, Angel had to admit that they had a point.

‘Is all this agreeable to you, padrona?’ Vittorio finally asked.

‘I’ve put everything in your hands, and I won’t go back on my word.’

He gave a brief, wry smile. ‘Of course not, since it would not be in your own interests to do so.’

‘Meaning that you think I couldn’t be trusted otherwise?’

‘Meaning that I have the highest regard for your intelligence. Now, if you’ll excuse me, your servants will get to work.’

‘Don’t give me that nonsense,’ she exploded. ‘You’re no servant and we both know it. You’re getting a kick out of this, aren’t you?’

‘If you really believe that, padrona, perhaps you’d like to change your situation for mine.’

She had no reply, and after a moment he moved away, leaving her mentally kicking herself.

She watched the three of them walking across the grass, and she couldn’t help but notice how easily he moved. The other men were clodhoppers by contrast, but he was like a prince, with an easy, languid grace that was a pleasure to behold.

But she would still keep out of his way, Angel decided. Every conversation was like duelling with a thorn bush.

Not that she avoided him entirely. It was only sense to watch him at work and learn how the estate functioned. She told herself that she was guarding against the day he would decide to walk out.



Vittorio found himself as content as he could ever be as a servant in the place where he had been master. Angel behaved well, in his opinion, which was to say that she followed his advice, engaged those whom he wished to engage, spent money as he directed, and didn’t argue with him.

Here in the gardens he could find the only peace possible for him. It wasn’t happiness, or even contentment, but it could be merciful oblivion. Nature didn’t change. The trees still needed the same care no matter what.

The same was true of Luca, the huge, shabby dog who had wandered in off the streets and attached himself to Vittorio four years ago, refusing to be dislodged. He had followed his chosen master, without complaint, from the grandeur of the villa to the poverty of the rented house, and today he had followed him back to a small copse of trees, to sit hopefully at the bottom of the ladder at the top of which Vittorio was working.

It was rare for him to make any noise, so, when he gave an excited ‘wuff’, Vittorio looked down.

‘What is it?’ he asked, seeing nothing.

‘Wuff!’ Luca repeated, his eyes fixed on the distance.

Then Vittorio understood. Walking towards them was Angel, wearing a colourful silk top and snowy white trousers.

‘Stay!’ Vittorio ordered hastily.

He was too late. Luca was already bounding away towards her. Vittorio scrambled down the ladder and began to run, but Luca was too fast for him, hurling himself at her, leaving dirty paw marks over the white trousers and clawing the silk blouse until it tore. Vittorio arrived just in time to witness the demolition job.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, almost choking on the words.

‘Oh, forget it,’ she said. ‘He’s only being friendly.’

Astonished, he realised that she was laughing. Nor had she made any attempt to fend off her new friend, but had dropped down beside him, wrapping her arms about him.

‘That’s very generous of you,’ he said reluctantly. ‘But have you seen the state he’s left you in?’





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