Книга - The Italian’s Wife By Sunset

The Italian's Wife By Sunset
Lucy Gordon


Intelligent, sensible Della Hadley should've known better than to embark on an affair with a playboy Italian six years her junior, but vibrant and sexy Carlo Rinucci was just too hard to resist….Della knows that a fiery passion so quick to ignite should be fast to die out, despite Carlo's vow that their love is forever. But Carlo is Italian through and through, and determined to win his woman–and make Della his bride before the sun sets on their affair.









The Italian’s Wife by Sunset

Lucy Gordon















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




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


THE picture on the computer screen seemed to fill the room with humour and good cheer. It showed a young man of strikingly attractive looks, fair, shaggy hair, dark blue glowing eyes and a smile that hinted at mischief.

‘Oh, wow!’ Jackie sighed. ‘Just look at him!’

Della chuckled indulgently. Her secretary was young and easily moved by male beauty. She, herself, tried to be more detached.

‘He’s not bad,’ she conceded.

‘Not bad?’ Jackie echoed, scandalised. ‘He’s a dream.’

‘But I need more than a pretty face. I need a man who really knows his stuff, preferably one who’s already made a name for himself.’

‘Della, this is a TV series you’re producing. It matters how he looks.’

‘Yes, it matters that he looks like a serious expert and not a mere boy. Carlo Rinucci can’t be more than about twenty-five.’

‘According to his data he’s thirty,’ Jackie said, thumbing through papers. ‘And he has a big reputation in ruins and bones and things like that.’

‘But he’s Italian. I can’t have him fronting an English television series.’

‘Some of which will be based in Italy. Besides, it says here that he speaks perfect English, and you’ve said yourself that you have to sell the series internationally if it’s to make any money.’

This was true. In the world of television Della was a big shot, with her own production company and a brilliant reputation. Her programmes were in great demand. Even so, she had to consider the practicalities.

She studied Carlo Rinucci’s face again, and had to admit that he had a lot going for him. He wasn’t merely handsome. His grin had a touch of delightful wickedness, as though he’d discovered a secret hidden from the rest of the world.

‘I had an uncle once,’ Jackie said. ‘He was a travelling salesman with a girl in every town and a line in flattery that would charm the birds off the trees. And no matter what he did everyone forgave him, just for the sake of his smile. Dad used to say Uncle Joe hadn’t just eaten the Apple of Life, he’d gone to live in the tree.’

‘And you think he’s the same?’ Della mused, scrutinising Carlo’s laughing face.

‘I’d take a bet on it.’

Privately Della agreed, but she kept that thought to herself. Her hard-won caution was warning her not to go overboard for this young man just because he looked good. Very good. Marvellous.

His resumé was certainly impressive. George Franklin, her assistant, who was helping to research this series, had e-mailed her.



Don’t be misled by his youth. Carlo Rinucci is the up-and-coming man in his field. He’s done some impressive work and written a couple of books that have attracted attention. His opinions are often unorthodox, but his work is sound.

He’d added a few notes about Carlo Rinucci’s current project at Pompeii, the little town just south of Naples, buried long ago in the lava of the erupting volcano Vesuvius, and he’d finished with the words: Believe me, he’s worth investigating.

‘Worth investigating,’ Della murmured.

‘I’ll investigate him for you,’ Jackie said eagerly. ‘I could get the next plane to Naples, look him over and report back.’

‘Nice try,’ Della said, amused.

‘You mean you’ve already bagged him for yourself?’

‘I mean,’ Della said severely, ‘that I shall consider all the options in a serious and practical way, make my evaluation, and decide what is best for the programme.’

‘That’s what I said. You’ve bagged him for yourself.’

Della laughed and dropped her formal tone.

‘Well, there has to be some advantage in being the boss,’ she said.

‘No kidding! If you use him the ratings will go through the roof. Every country will want to buy the programme. You’ll have a great reputation.’

‘Some people think I already have a reputation,’ Della said in mock offence.

‘Not like the one you’ll have if he’s working for you.’

‘So you think I should hire him to make my name for me? Thanks a lot, but I don’t need help from him or any other pretty boy getting through life on his charm.’

‘You don’t know that he’s char—’

‘Just look at the time! You should be going home.’

Jackie departed, but not without one final lingering look at the computer screen.

‘Behave yourself,’ Della commanded, laughing. ‘He’s not that gorgeous.’

‘Oh, yes, he is,’ Jackie sighed as she retreated and closed the door.

For Della there was no journey to and from work, as she ran her business from her own home—a houseboat moored on the Thames, near Chelsea. She treasured it, not only for its own sake, but also as a symbol of the distance she’d travelled since the day she’d started out with almost nothing.

Now that it was six o’clock her working day hadn’t ended, merely moved into a new phase—making calls to the other side of the world in different time zones. She kicked off her shoes and settled down.

Carlo Rinucci’s face was still on the screen, but she refused to allow him to distract her. She reached out for the mouse, ready to click him into cyberspace, but her hand paused of its own accord.

Right from the start she’d insisted that the presenter for her series about places of great historical events must be someone with an impressive academic name.

‘I don’t want a handsome talking head who’s going to reveal himself as a dumb cluck the minute he doesn’t have a script,’ she’d said. ‘In fact, I’ll expect him to write a lot of the script.’

She’d reviewed a host of possibilities, both male and female, all serious people with impressive reputations. One woman had aroused great hopes, but in the audition she became pompous. One man had seemed a real possibility—in his forties, elegant, serious, yet attractively suave—until he stood in front of a camera and became tongue-tied.

‘I’ll bet you’re never lost for words,’ she said, addressing the screen. ‘Just looking at you, I know that. You can talk the hind legs off a donkey, which probably helped you get some of those fine-sounding qualifications.’

Then she stopped and stared. She could have sworn he’d winked at her.

‘Enough of that,’ she reproved him sternly. ‘I know your kind. My second husband was just like you. Talk about charm! The trouble was, charm was all Gerry had—unless you include a genius for spending other people’s money.’

She poured herself a drink and leaned back, contemplating the face with reluctant pleasure.

‘Am I being unreasonable?’ she asked him. ‘Am I against you just because other people are for you? I know I’m a bit contrary. At least, folk claim that I am. They say I’m difficult, awkward, stubborn—and that’s just my friends talking. But I’ve got a good life. I have a career that gives me all I want, and I’m immune to male attraction—well, sort of immune. Most of the time. You do nothing for me. Nothing at all.’

But he didn’t believe her. She could see that in his face.

She gazed at him. He gazed back. What came next hovered inevitably in the air between them.

‘So I guess,’ she said slowly, ‘there’s no reason why I can’t set up a meeting and look you over.’



‘This place looks as though a bomb had hit it,’ Hope Rinucci observed.

She was surveying her home: first the main room, then the dining room, then the terrace overlooking the Bay of Naples with a distant view of Vesuvius.

‘Two bombs,’ she added, viewing the disarray.

But she did not speak with disapproval, more like satisfaction. The previous evening there had been a party, and in Hope’s opinion a party that didn’t leave the surroundings looking shattered was no party at all.

By that standard last night had been a triumphant success.

Ruggiero, one of her younger sons, came into the room very carefully, and immediately sat down.

‘It was a great night,’ he said faintly.

‘It was indeed,’ she said at once. ‘We had so much to celebrate. Francesco’s new job. Primo and Olympia, with Olympia’s parents over from England, and the news that she’s going to have a baby. And then Luke and Minnie saying that they’re going to have a baby, too.’

‘And then there’s Carlo,’ Ruggiero mused, naming his twin. ‘Mamma, did you ever work out which of those three young ladies was actually his girlfriend?’

‘Not exactly,’ she said, taking him a black coffee, which he received gratefully. ‘They all seemed to arrive together. If only Justin and Evie could have been here as well. But she is so heavily pregnant with the twins that I can understand her not wanting to travel. She promised to bring them to see us as soon as possible after they arrive.’

‘So we can have another party,’ Ruggiero said. ‘Perhaps by then Carlo will have managed to divide himself into three.’

‘Do you know which lady he went home with?’

‘I didn’t see him leave, but I have the impression that they all went together,’ Ruggiero said enviously. ‘Mio dio, but he’s a brave man!’

‘Who’s a brave man?’ Francesco asked, coming carefully into the room.

Hope smiled and poured another coffee.

‘Carlo,’ she said. ‘He brought three young ladies last night. Didn’t you see?’

‘He didn’t notice anything but that exotic redhead,’ Ruggiero said. ‘Where did you find her?’

Francesco thought for a minute before saying, ‘She found me—I think.’

‘We were wondering which of his dates Carlo took home to his apartment,’ Ruggiero said.

‘He didn’t go back there,’ Francesco observed.

‘How can you possibly know that?’ Hope asked.

‘Because he’s here.’

Francesco pointed to a large sofa facing the window. Leaning over the back, the others saw a young man stretched out, blissfully asleep. He was in the clothes he’d worn the previous night, his shirt open at the throat, revealing smooth, tanned skin. Everything about him radiated sensual contentment.

‘Hey!’ Ruggiero prodded him rudely.

‘Mmm?’

His twin prodded him again, and Carlo’s eyes opened.

It was a source of intense irritation to his brothers that Carlo didn’t awake bleary-eyed and vague, like normal people. Even after sleeping off a night of indulgence he was instantly alert, bright-eyed and at his best. As Ruggiero had once remarked, it was enough to make anyone want to commit murder.

‘Hallo,’ he said, sitting up and yawning.

‘What are you doing there?’ Ruggiero demanded, incensed.

‘What’s wrong with my being here? Ah, coffee! Lovely! Thanks, Mamma.’

‘Take no notice of this pair,’ Hope advised him. ‘They’re jealous.’

‘Three,’ Ruggiero mourned. ‘He had three, and he slept on the sofa.’

‘The trouble is that three is too many,’ Carlo said philosophically. ‘One is ideal, two is manageable if you’re feeling adventurous, but anything more is a just a problem. Besides, I wasn’t at my best by the end of the evening, so I played safe, called a taxi for the ladies and went to sleep.’

‘I hope you paid their fares in advance,’ Hope said.

‘Of course I did,’ Carlo said, faintly shocked. ‘You brought me up properly.’

Francesco was aghast.

‘Of all the spineless, feeble—’

‘I know, I know.’ Carlo sighed. ‘I feel very ashamed.’

‘And you call yourself a Rinucci?’ Ruggiero said.

‘That’s enough,’ Hope reproved them. ‘Carlo behaved like a gentleman.’

‘He behaved like a wimp,’ Francesco growled.

‘True,’ Carlo agreed. ‘But there can be great benefits to being a wimp. It makes the ladies think you’re a perfect gentleman, and then, when next time comes—’

He drained his coffee, kissed his mother on the cheek, and escaped before his brothers vented their indignation on him.



The Hotel Vallini was the best Naples had to offer. It stood halfway up a hill, looking down on the city, with a superb view across the bay.

Standing on her balcony, Della kept quite still, regarding Vesuvius, where it loomed through the heat haze. There was nowhere in Naples to escape the sight of the great volcano, with its combination of threat and mystery. Its huge eruption nearly two thousand years ago, burying Pompeii in one day, had become such a legend that it was the first site Della had chosen when she was planning her series.

The three-hour flight had left her feeling tired and sticky. It had been a relief to step under a cool shower, wash away the dust, then dress in fresh clothes. The look she’d chosen was neat and unshowy, almost to the point of austerity: black linen pants, and a white blouse whose plainness didn’t disguise its expensive cut.

Businesslike, she told herself. Which was true, but only partly. The outfit might have been designed to show off her tall, slim figure, with its small, elegant breasts and neat behind. Just how much satisfaction this gave her was her own secret.

Her face told a subtly different story, the full mouth having a touch of voluptuousness that was at variance with her chic outline. Her rich, light brown hair was sometimes pulled back in severe lines, but today she’d let it fall about her face in gentle curves, emphasising the sensuality of her face.

The contrast between this and the plain way she dressed caused a lot of enjoyable confusion among her male acquaintances. And she didn’t mind that at all.

She had told nobody that she was coming, preferring to take her quarry unawares. She didn’t even know that Carlo Rinucci would be at Pompeii today, only that he was working on a project that concerned the place, investigating new theories.

She hurried downstairs. It was early afternoon, and just time enough to get out there and form the impressions that would help her when she went into action next day.

Taking a taxi to the railway station, she bought a ticket for the Circumvesuviana, the light railway that ran between Naples and Pompeii, taking about half an hour. For most of that time she sat gazing out of the window at Vesuvius, dominating the landscape, growing ever nearer.

From the station it was a short walk to the Porta Marina, the city gate to Pompeii, where she purchased a ticket and entered the ruined city.

The first thing that struck her was the comparative quiet. Tourists thronged the dead streets, yet their noise did not rise above a gentle murmur, and when she turned aside into an empty yard she found herself almost in silence.

After the bustle of her normal life the peace was delightful. Slowly she turned around, looking at the ancient stones, letting the quiet seep into her.

‘Come here! Do you hear me? Come here at once.’

The shriek rent the atmosphere, and the next moment she saw why. A boy of about twelve was running through the ruins, hopping nimbly over stones, hotly pursued by a middle-aged woman who was trying to run and shout at the same time.

‘Come here!’ she called in English.

The youngster made the mistake of looking back, which distracted him enough for Della to step into his path and grab him.

‘Lemme go!’ he gasped, struggling.

‘Sorry, no can do,’ she said, friendly but implacable.

‘Thank you,’ puffed the teacher, catching up. ‘Mickey, you stop that. Come back to the rest of the class.’

‘But it’s boring,’ the boy wailed. ‘I hate history.’

‘We’re on a school trip,’ the woman explained. ‘The chance of a lifetime. I’d have been thrilled to go to Italy when I was at school, but they’re all the same, these kids. Ungrateful little so-and-sos!’

‘It’s boring,’ repeated the boy sullenly.

The two women looked at each other sympathetically. Quick as a flash the lad took his chance to dart away again, and managed to get out of sight around a corner. By the time they followed he’d found another corner and vanished again.

‘Oh heavens! My class!’ wailed the teacher.

‘You go back to them while I find him,’ Della said.

It was easier said than done. The boy appeared to have vanished into the stones. Della ran from street to street without seeing him.

At last she saw two men standing by a large hole in the ground, evidently considering the contents seriously. The younger man looked as though he’d just been working in the earth. Through his sleeveless vest she could see the glisten of sweat on strong, young muscles, and he was breathing hard.

In desperation she hailed them.

‘Did a boy in a red shirt run past? He’s a pupil escaping from a school party and his teacher is frantic.’

‘I didn’t see anyone,’ the older man remarked. ‘What about you, Carlo?’

Before she could react to the name the young man with his back to her turned, smiling. It was the face she’d come to see, handsome, merry, relaxed.

‘I haven’t noticed—’ he began to say, but broke off to cry, ‘There!’

The boy had appeared through an arch and started running across the street. Carlo Rinucci darted after him, dodging back and forth through archways. The boy’s scowl vanished, replaced by a smile. Carlo grinned back, and it soon became a game.

Then the other children appeared, a dozen of them, hurling themselves into the game with delight.

‘Oh, dear!’ sighed the teacher.

‘Leave them to it,’ Della advised. ‘I’m Della Hadley, by the way.’

‘Hilda Preston. I’m supposed to be in charge of that lot. What am I going to do now?’

‘I don’t think you need to do anything,’ Della said, amused. ‘He’s doing it all.’

It was true. The youngsters had crowded around the young man, and by some mysterious magic he had calmed them down, and was now leading them back to the teacher.

Like the Pied Piper, Della thought, considering him with her head on one side.

‘OK, that’s enough,’ he said, approaching. ‘Cool it, kids.’

‘Whatever do you think you’re doing?’ Hilda demanded of the youngsters. ‘You know I told you to stay close to me.’

‘But it’s boring,’ complained the boy who’d made a run for it. ‘I don’t care if it is,’ she snapped, goaded into honesty. ‘I’ve brought you here to get some culture, and that’s what you’re going to get.’

Della heard a soft choke nearby, and turned to see Carlo fighting back laughter. Since she was doing the same herself, a moment of perfect understanding flashed between them. They both put their hands over their mouths at the same moment.

Predictably, the word culture had caused the pupils to emit groans of dismay. Some howled to heaven, others clutched their stomachs. One joker even rolled on the ground.

‘Now she’s done it,’ Carlo muttered to Della. ‘The forbidden word—one that should never be spoken, save in a terrified whisper. And she said it out loud.’

‘What word is that?’

He looked wildly around, to be sure nobody was listening, before saying in a ghostly voice, ‘Culture.’

‘Oh, yes, I see.’ She nodded knowingly.

‘You’d think a modern schoolteacher would know better. Does she do that often?’

‘I don’t know—I’m not—’ she began, realising that he thought she was one of the school party.

‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘It’s time for a rescue operation.’ Raising his voice, he said, ‘You can all calm down, because this place has nothing to do with culture. This place is about people dying.’ For good measure he added, ‘Horribly!’

Hilda was aghast. ‘He mustn’t say things like that. They’re just children.’

‘Children love gore and horror,’ Della pointed out.

‘It’s about nightmares,’ Carlo went on, ‘and the greatest catastrophe the world has ever known. Thousands of people, living their ordinary lives, when there was an ominous rumble in the distance and Vesuvius erupted, engulfing the town. People died in the middle of fights, of meals—thousands of them, frozen in one place for nearly two thousand years.’

He had them now. Everyone was listening.

‘Is it true they’ve got the dead bodies in the museum?’ someone asked, with relish.

‘Not the actual bodies,’ Carlo said, in the tone of a man making a reluctant admission, and there was a groan of disappointment.

Bloodthirsty little tykes, Della thought, amused. But he’s right about them.

‘They were trapped and died in the lava,’ Carlo continued, ‘and when they were excavated, centuries later, the bodies had perished, leaving holes in the lava of the exact shapes. So the bodies could be reconstructed in plaster.’

‘And can we see them?’

‘Yes, you can see them.’

A sigh of blissful content showed that his audience was with him. He began to expand on the subject, making it vibrantly alive. He spoke fluently, in barely accented English, with an actor’s sense of the dramatic. Suddenly the streets were populated with heroes and villains, beautiful heroines, going about their daily business, then running hopelessly for their lives.

Della seized the chance to study him in action. It went against the grain to give him top marks, but she had to admit that he ticked every box. The looks she’d admired on the screen were enhanced by the fact that his hair needed a trim, and hung in shaggy curls about his face.

He looked like Jack the Lad—a brawny roustabout without a thought in his head beyond the next beer, the next girl, or the next night spent living it up. What he didn’t look like was an academic with a swathe of degrees, one of them in philosophy.

‘History isn’t about culture,’ he finally reassured them. ‘It’s about people living and dying, loving and hating—just like us. Now, go with your teachers and behave yourself, or I’ll drown you in lava.’

A cheer showed that this threat was much appreciated.

‘Thank you,’ Hilda said. ‘You really do have a gift with children.’

He grinned, his teeth gleaming against the light tan of his face.

‘I’m just a born show-off,’ he laughed.

That was true, Della mused. In fact, he was exactly what she needed.

Hilda thanked her and turned to shepherd the children away. Carlo looked at her in surprise.

‘Aren’t you with them?’ he asked.

‘No, I just happened along,’ she said.

‘And found yourself in the middle of it, huh?’

They both laughed.

‘That poor woman,’ Della said. ‘Whoever sent her here on a culture trip should have known better.’

He put out his hand.

‘My name is Carlo Rinucci.’

‘Yes, I—’ She was about to say that she knew who he was, but hastily changed it to, ‘I’m Della Hadley.’

‘It is a great pleasure to meet you, signorina—or should that be signora?’

‘Technically, yes. I’m divorced.’

He gave her a gentle, disarming smile, still holding her hand.

‘I’m so glad,’ he said.

Watch it, warned a voice in her head. He plays this game too well.

‘Hey, Carlo,’ called the other man, ‘are you going to give the signora her hand back, or shall we put it in the museum with the others?’

She snatched her hand back, suddenly self-conscious. Carlo, she noticed, wasn’t self-conscious at all. He just gave a grin that he clearly knew would always win him goodwill.

‘I forgot about Antonio,’ he admitted.

‘Don’t mind me,’ Antonio said genially. ‘I’ve just been doing the work while you do your party tricks.’

‘Why don’t we finish for the day?’ Carlo said. ‘Time’s getting on, and Signora Hadley wants a coffee.’

‘Yes, I want one desperately,’ she said, discovering it to be true.

‘Then let’s go.’ He looked her in the eye and said significantly, ‘We’ve lost too much time already.’




CHAPTER TWO


DELLA waited while he showered at top speed, then emerged casually dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt and fawn trousers. Even in this simple attire he looked as though he could afford the world, and she guessed that he’d had a privileged upbringing.

‘Let’s get that coffee,’ Carlo said.

But when they reached the self-service cafeteria they both stopped dead. The place was packed with tourists, all yelling with raucous good cheer.

‘I think not,’ he said firmly.

He didn’t wait for her answer, but simply took her hand and walked away, adding, ‘I know lots of better places.’

But then, abruptly, he stopped.

‘Where are my manners?’ he demanded, striking himself on the forehead. ‘I didn’t ask if you wanted to go into that place. Shall we turn back?’

‘Don’t you dare,’ she said at once.

He grinned, nodding, and they went on in perfect accord.

His car was just what she would have expected—an elegant sports two-seater in dashing red—and, also as she would have expected, he ushered her into it with a flourish. His whole body was a clever combination of different effects. Built like a hunk, yet he moved with subtlety and grace. His hands on the steering wheel held her attention, lying there lightly, barely touching, yet controlling the powerful machine effortlessly.

Della’s mind was reeling.

Just what I need, she thought. He’s ideal—for the programme. Handsome, charming, never at a loss for words—he won’t suddenly become tongue-tied in front of a camera, or anywhere else. The perfect—She paused in her thoughts and tried to remember that she was a television producer. ‘The perfect product. Yes, that’s it.

She felt better once she’d settled that with herself.

‘Do you live around here?’ Carlo asked.

‘No, I’m just visiting. I’m staying at the Vallini in Naples.’

‘Are you planning to stay long?’

‘I—haven’t quite decided,’ she said carefully.

He swung onto the coast road and they drove with the sea on their left, glittering in the late-afternoon sun. Naples lay ahead, but when they reached halfway he turned off into a tiny seaside village. Della could see fishing boats tied up at the water’s edge, and cobbled streets stretching away between old houses.

He parked the car and made his way confidently to a small restaurant. As soon as they entered a man behind the counter yelled joyfully, ‘E, Carlo!’

‘Berto!’ he yelled back cheerfully, and guided Della to a table by a small window.

Berto came hurrying over with coffee, which he contrived to pour while chattering and giving Della quick, appraising glances.

I’ll bet they see him in here with a new companion every week, she thought, with an inner chuckle.

The coffee was delicious, and she began to relax for the first time since she’d awoken that morning.

‘It was so good to get off that plane,’ she said, giving herself a little shake.

‘You just arrived from England?’

‘You could tell because I’m speaking English, right?’

‘It’s a bit more than that. My mother is English, and there’s something in your voice that sounds a little like her.’

‘That explains a lot about you, too.’

‘Such as what?’ he asked curiously.

‘You speak English with barely an accent.’

He laughed. ‘That was Mamma’s doing. We all had to speak her language perfectly, or else.’

‘All? You have plenty of brothers and sisters?’

‘Just brothers. There are six of us, related in various ways.’

‘Various?’ She frowned. ‘I thought you just said you were brothers.’

‘Some of us are brothers, some of us are “sort of” brothers. When Mamma married Poppa she already had two sons, plus a stepson and an adopted son. Then they had two more.’

‘Six Rinucci brothers?’ she mused.

‘It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?’ he said solemnly. ‘It’s just terrible.’

His droll manner made her chuckle, and he went on, ‘Even the most Italian of us are part English, but some are more English than others. The differences get blurred. Poppa says we’re all the devil’s spawn anyway, so what does it matter?’

‘It sounds like a lovely, big, happy family.’ She sighed enviously.

‘I suppose it is,’ he said, seeming to consider. ‘We fight a lot, but we always make up.’

‘And you’d always be there for each other. That’s the nicest thing.’

‘You said that like an only child,’ he observed, regarding her with interest.

‘Is it that obvious?’ she asked.

‘It is to someone who has many siblings.’

‘I must admit that I really envy you that,’ she said. ‘Tell me some more about your brothers. You don’t fight all the time, surely?’

‘On and off. Mamma’s first husband was English, but his first wife had been Italian—a Rinucci. Primo is the son of that marriage, so he’s half-Italian, half-English. Luke, the adopted son of that marriage is all English. Are you with me?’

‘Struggling, but still there. Keep going.’

‘Primo and Luke have always traded insults, but that means nothing. It’s practically a way of communicating—especially while they were in love with the same woman.’

‘Ouch!’

‘Luckily that didn’t last very long. Primo married her, and Luke found someone else, and now their wives keep them in order, just as wives should.’

‘Oh, really?’ she said ironically.

‘No, really. Any man who’s grown up in this country knows that when the wife speaks the husband stands to attention—if he’s wise. Well, it’s what my father does, anyway.’

‘And when your turn comes you’ll choose a woman who knows how to keep you in order?’

‘No, my mother will choose her,’ he assured her solemnly. ‘She’s set her heart on six daughters-in-law, and so far she’s only achieved three. Every time a new woman enters the house I’ll swear she checks her for suitability and ticks off a list. When she finds the right one I’ll get my orders.’

‘And you’ll obey?’ she teased.

His answering grin was rich with life, an invitation to join him in adventure.

‘That’s a while off yet,’ he said contentedly. ‘I’m in no rush.’

‘Life’s good, so why spoil it with a wife?’

‘I wouldn’t exactly put it like that,’ he said uneasily.

‘Yes, you would,’ she said at once. ‘Not out loud, perhaps. But deep inside, where you think I can’t hear.’

His answer was unexpected.

‘I wouldn’t bet against your being able to hear anything I was thinking.’

Then he looked disconcerted, as though he had surprised even himself with the words, and his laugh had a touch of awkwardness that affected her strangely.

Berto came to their table to tell them that the day’s catch of clams was excellent, and that spaghetti alle vongole could be rustled up in a moment.

‘Clam pasta,’ Carlo translated.

‘Sounds lovely.’

‘Wine?’ Berto queried.

Carlo eyed her questioningly, and she hastened to say, ‘I leave everything to you.’

He rattled off several names that Della didn’t recognise, and Berto bustled away.

‘I took the liberty of ordering a few other things as well,’ Carlo explained.

‘That’s fine. I wouldn’t have known what to ask for.’

His eyes gleamed. ‘Playing the tactful card, huh?’

‘I’m a newcomer here. I listen to the expert.’

Berto returned with white wine. When he had poured it and gone, Carlo said, ‘So, you reckon you can see right through me?’

‘No, you said I could. Not me.’

‘I have to admit that you got one or two things right.’

‘Let’s see how well I manage on the rest. I know Italian men often stay at home longer than others, but I don’t think that you do, because Mamma’s eagle eye might prove—shall we say, inhibiting?’

‘That’s as good a word as any,’ he conceded cautiously.

‘You’ve got a handy little bachelor apartment where you take the girls you can’t take home because they wouldn’t tick any of Mamma’s “suitability” boxes, and that’s just fine by you—’

‘Basta!’ He stopped her with a pleading voice. ‘Enough, enough! How did you learn all that?’

‘Easy. I just took one look at you.’

‘Obviously I don’t have any secrets,’ he said ruefully.

‘Well, perhaps I was a little unfair on you.’

‘No, you weren’t. I deserved it all. In fact, I’m worse. My mother would certainly say so.’

She chuckled. ‘Then think of me as a second mother.’

‘Not in a million years,’ he said softly.

His eyes, gliding significantly over her, made his meaning plain beyond words, and suddenly she was aware that she looked several years younger than her age, that her figure was ultra-slim and firm, thanks to hours in the gym, that her eyes were large and lustrous and her complexion flawless.

Every detail of her body might have been designed to elicit a man’s admiration. She knew it, and at this moment she was passionately glad of it.

It might be fun.

He was certainly fun.

Berto arrived with clam pasta, breaking the mood—which was a relief, since she hadn’t decided where she wanted this to go. But a moment ago there had been no choice to make. What had happened?

He was watching her face as she ate, relishing her enjoyment.

‘Good?’

‘Good,’ she confirmed. ‘I love Italian food, but I don’t get much chance to eat it.’

‘You’ve never been here before?’

‘I had a holiday in Italy once, but mostly I depend on Italian restaurants near my home.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘In London, on a houseboat moored on the Thames.’

‘You live on the water? That’s great. Tell me about it.’

At this point she should have talked about her serious day-to-day life, with its emphasis on work, and the occasional visit from her grown up son. Instead, unaccountably, Della found herself describing the river at dawn, when the first light caught the ripples and the banks emerged from the shadows.

‘Sometimes it feels really strange,’ she mused. ‘I’m right there, in the heart of a great city, yet it’s so quiet on the river just before everywhere comes alive. It’s as though the world belongs to me alone, just for a little while. But you have to catch the moment because it vanishes so quickly. The light grows and the magic dies.’

‘I know what you mean,’ he murmured.

‘You’ve been there?’

‘No, I—I meant something else. Later. Tell me some more about yourself. What sort of work do you do?’

‘I’m in television,’ she said vaguely.

‘You’re a star—your face on every screen?’

‘No, I’m strictly behind the scenes.’

‘Ah, you’re one of those terrifyingly efficient production assistants who gets everyone scurrying about.’

‘I’ve been told I can be terrifying,’ she admitted. ‘And people have been known to scurry around when I want them to.’

‘Maybe that’s why I thought you were a schoolteacher?’

‘You’ve got quite a way with youngsters yourself.’

But he dismissed the suggestion with a gesture of his hand.

‘I’d be a terrible teacher. I could never keep discipline. They’d all see through me and know that I was just one of the kids at heart.’

‘You had them hanging on your every word.’

‘That’s because I’m crazy about my subject and I want everyone else to be crazy, too. I believe it can make me a bit of a bore.’

‘Sure, I’m sitting here fainting with boredom. Tell me about your subject.’

‘Archaeology. No, don’t say it—’ He interrupted himself quickly. ‘I don’t look like an archaeologist, more like a hippie—’

‘I was thinking a hobo myself,’ she said mischievously. ‘Someone not very respectable, anyway.’

‘Thank you. I take that as a compliment. I’m not respectable. I don’t pretend to be. Who needs it?’

‘Nobody, as long as you know your stuff—and you obviously do.’

Carlo grinned. ‘Why? Because I kept a few youngsters quiet? That’s the easy part, being a showman. It’s not what really counts.’

She’d actually been thinking of his string of qualifications, but remembered in time that she wasn’t supposed to know about them.

‘What does really count?’ she asked, fascinated.

That was all he needed. Words poured from him. Some she understood, some were above her head, but what was crystal-clear was his devotion, amounting to a love affair, to ancient times and other worlds.

All his life he’d had soaring ambitions, hating the thought of being earthbound.

‘I used to play truant at school,’ he recalled, ‘and my teachers all predicted I’d come to a bad end because I was bound to fail my exams. But I fooled ’em. I used to sit up the night before, memorising everything just long enough to pass with honours.’ He sighed with happy recollection. ‘Lord, but that made them mad!’

She couldn’t help laughing at the sight of him, transformed back into that rebellious schoolboy.

‘I couldn’t face anything nine-to-five,’ he said. ‘Not at school, not at work. The beauty of being in my line is that you get to fly.’

‘And you really have to fly,’ she teased. ‘I guess when you get near the earth you crash.’

‘Right. That’s why I could never be a teacher, or a museum administrator. I might have to—’ He looked desperate.

‘Might have to what?’ she asked through her laughter.

He glanced over his shoulder and spoke with a lowered voice.

‘Wear a collar and tie.’

He sat back with the air of one who had described unimaginable horrors. Della nodded in sympathy.

‘But doesn’t it ever get depressing?’ she asked. ‘Spending so much time surrounded by death, especially in Pompeii—all those people, petrified in the positions they died in nearly two thousand years ago?’

‘But they’re not dead,’ he said, almost fiercely. ‘Not to me. They’re still speaking, and I’m listening because they have so much to say.’

‘But hasn’t it all been said? I mean, they finished excavating that place years ago. What more is there?’

He almost tore his hair.

‘They didn’t finish excavating. They barely started. I’m working on a whole undiscovered area—’

He stopped, and seemed to calm himself down by force of will.

‘I’m sorry. Once I get started there’s no stopping me. I told you I’m a bore.’

‘I wasn’t bored,’ she said truthfully. ‘Not a bit.’

In truth, she was fascinated. A fire was flaming within him and she wanted to see more, know more.

‘Go on,’ she urged.

Then he was away again, words pouring out in a vivid, passionate stream so that she caught the sense even of the bits she didn’t understand. After a while she stopped trying to follow too closely. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he could make her see visions through his own eyes. It was like being taken on a journey into the heart of the man, and it was exhilarating.

‘You’ve let your food get cold,’ he said at last.

At some point they had passed onto the next course, and it had lain uneaten on both their plates while he took her on a journey to the stars.

‘I forgot about it,’ she said, feeling slightly stunned.

‘So did I,’ he admitted.

The voice of caution, which normally ruled her life, whispered, A practised charmer, but the warning floated away, unheeded. Something more was happening—something that would make her get up and leave now, if she had any sense.

But she didn’t want to be sensible. She wanted to go on enjoying this foolish magic, as crazy as a teenager. No matter how it ended. She would relish every moment.

Carlo watched her without seeming to. It was becoming important to him to ‘capture’ her in his mind, as though by doing so he could fit her into some niche where he would know what to make of her. Luckily the hours stretched ahead, full of time to get to know her better.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Carlo saw an acquaintance come into the restaurant, and he cursed silently. The man was well-meaning but long-winded, and if he didn’t act fast his evening would be in ruins.

‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ he said hurriedly, leaving the table.

His worst fears were fulfilled. His friend greeted him with bonhomie, and a determination to join him at all costs. Carlo just managed to head him off at the pass, and finally made his way back to the table, determined on escape.

Della was talking on her cellphone as he approached, and he heard her say, ‘It’s lovely to talk to you, darling.’

It wasn’t so much the word that troubled him as the soft adoration in her voice, the glow in her eyes.

For pity’s sake, he chided himself. You’ve only known her a few hours. What do you care who she calls darling?

He wished he knew the answer.

She was laughing, her face alight with affection.

‘I’ve got to go now. I’ll call you again soon. Bye, darling.’ She hung up.

A moment later Carlo reached the table, showing no sign that he’d heard the call or even knew she’d made one.

‘Perhaps we should move on?’ he said.

She nodded. She had seen him talking urgently with a man, blocking his way so that he could not disturb them.

Outside, he took her hand and headed for the car, but then stopped suddenly, as though something had struck him.

‘No—wait! The time’s just right.’

‘Right for what?’

‘I’ll show you.’

He turned and began to lead her in the opposite direction. Gradually the houses fell away and they were going towards the shore, reaching the road that ran beside it and crossing over onto the beach.

‘Look,’ he said.

The tide had gone out, leaving the fishing boats lying lopsided on the wet sand. Water lay in the ridges and the tiny pools, and the last rays of the setting sun had turned it deep red.

She gazed, awestruck, at so much dramatic beauty before finally breathing, ‘It’s magic.’

‘Yes, it is. Not everyone sees it, but I thought you would because of what you told me about dawn on the Thames. To some people it’s just wet sand and a few boats. If you see them by day they’re old and shabby. But like this—’

He stopped, almost as if hoping that she would finish his thought.

‘Another world,’ she said. ‘A special world that only appears for a short time.’

She thought he gave a little sigh of pleasure.

‘Just a short time,’ he agreed. ‘Soon it will be dark, and the special world will vanish.’

‘But it’ll return tomorrow.’

‘It may not. It isn’t always like this, only when everything is right. It’s like you said: you have to be ready to catch the moment before it vanishes.’

He was leading her out in the direction of the sea, leaving the conventional safety of the land behind, taking her into an unfamiliar world.

‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Let me take off my shoes before they get wet.’

She did so, shoving them into her capacious shoulder bag. He removed his own and she grabbed them, putting them, too, into the bag, and taking his hand again.

Not speaking, they walked towards the horizon, until the shallow water just covered their feet.

‘This is when it’s at its best,’ he said quietly.

The setting sun covered the beach and the film of water with blazing red in all directions, so that they might have been standing in a fire. It drenched them with its mysterious violent light.

Carlo looked at her, smiling, and she braced herself, knowing that this was exactly the right moment for a skilled charmer to kiss her, and that he, who clearly knew all the moves, would be bound to make this one. But then she saw that there was something awkward, almost shy, about his smile. While she was trying to puzzle it out, he raised her hand and rubbed the back of it against his cheek.

She stared, too dumbfounded to react. According to the script he should have kissed her, and if he’d done so she would have known how to ‘place’ him. But the closest he came was to press his lips gently where his cheek had touched a moment earlier. And when she met his eyes she saw that he was as disconcerted as she.

The next moment the light changed. Something brilliant faded. And it was over.

‘It’s gone,’ she said, disappointed.

‘It’s gone for now,’ he agreed. ‘But there are other things. Let’s go.’

As twilight fell Carlo drove along the coast until they reached the outskirts of Naples.

‘Shall I take you to your hotel?’ he asked.

‘Yes, please. I need to talk to you where we won’t be disturbed.’

She knew she couldn’t put the moment off any longer. Something had started to happen, and if it were to flower she must be honest with him first.

As they went up in the elevator at the Vallini she was planning how she would explain that their meeting had not been an accident. Such was his good nature that she had no fears about his reaction.

The last of the light faded as they entered her room and shut the door. Before she could reach for the switch she felt his arms go around her, drawing her close, fitting her head against his shoulder.

At once she relaxed. This was what she’d wanted for at least the last hour. Why deny it? It was undignified to have fallen so easily into the trap, especially as she had seen it from a distance, but that was what had happened.

But the trap wasn’t the one she’d armed herself against. A glib tongue and an easy manner—those she could cope with. But the uncertainty in his eyes when they’d met hers had caught her unawares

It was the worst moment for her cellphone to buzz. Groaning, Carlo released her, and she turned away, walking to the window as she reached into her purse. Taking out the phone, she discovered a text message.

‘Shall we have champagne?’ came Carlo’s voice from behind her.

She hadn’t realised that he was so close, and jumped sharply enough to drop the phone.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ll get it for you. It went under that chair.’

He dropped to his knees and reached for it. Then, as he drew it out, Della saw his smile fade. In silence he handed it to her. Her blood ran cold as she saw the words on the illuminated screen.



Have you tracked Rinucci down yet? George



Looking up, she saw Carlo standing back, regarding her. On the surface his good humour seemed unruffled, but she could see the distance in his eyes.

‘You came to “track me down”?’ he asked coolly.

She sighed. ‘Yes, I did come here looking for you.’

‘What did I do to merit that?’

‘If you’d let me explain in my own way—’

‘Just tell me.’ His voice was ominously quiet.

‘You’re ideal for a television show I’m planning. I’ve got my own production company, and I’m setting up a series about places of great dramatic events in history. I need a frontman, and someone told me you’d be ideal.’

‘So you came down to audition me?’

‘Not exactly that,’ she said uneasily.

‘How would you describe it?’

‘I wanted to meet you, and—and—’

‘And get me to jump through some hoops to see if I was up to your standard? And I obliged, didn’t I? I jumped through them all, and then some!’

‘Carlo, please—all right, I should have told you before.’

‘You sure as hell should.’

‘But I couldn’t predict what was going to happen. When I saw you with those kids, you were so perfect for my purpose that I couldn’t believe my luck—’

‘Perfect for your purpose?’ he echoed, in a soft, angry voice. ‘Yes, it’s all been about your purpose, hasn’t it? You pulled the strings and I danced.’

‘Is it so terrible that I wanted to consider you for a job?’

‘Not at all, if you’d been up-front. It’s the thought of you peering at me from behind a mask that I can’t stand. All the time we’ve been together I thought—well, never mind what I thought. Just tell me this. Did you plan every single detail?’

‘Of course not. How could I? You know that things happened that nobody could have planned.’

‘Do I? I’m not sure what I understand any more. I know that you’ve been clever—subtle enough for an Italian. I congratulate you. It was a masterly performance.’

‘It wasn’t all a performance,’ she said swiftly.

‘You know, I think I’d rather believe that it was. It makes things simpler. I was a fool, but at least I found out before any real harm was done.’

‘Carlo, please—if you’d just listen to me—’

‘I’ve done enough of that,’ he said, in a deceptively affable tone. ‘Let’s call it a day. You’d better text George back and tell him that you tracked me down and I said to hell with you. Goodbye.’

He was gone, closing the door behind him.

She wanted to scream with frustration and hurl the phone against the door. Instead she turned out the light and went onto the balcony. From there she could see Carlo’s car, parked in front of the hotel, then Carlo himself, hurtling out of the front door and leaping into the driver’s seat.

She drew back in case he looked up and saw her, but he only sat for a long moment, hunched behind the wheel, brooding. When at last he roused himself, it was to give the wheel a sharp thump that made the horn blast. After his ironic restraint the sudden spurt of temper was startling.

Then he fired the engine, swung out of the forecourt and vanished down the road. He hadn’t once looked up at Della’s window.




CHAPTER THREE


AT SEVENTEEN she might have wept into her pillow. At thirty-seven she lay staring into the darkness, sad but composed, before finally nodding off.

She even managed a prosaic, unromantic night’s sleep. But next morning Della awoke early and the memories came flooding back, bringing regretful thoughts.

It would have been nice, she thought. We could have been fond of each other for a while, before he found someone his own age. But, oh boy, did I ever make a mess of it! If there were a prize for handling things as badly as possible, I’d win the gold. I should have known better than to hide the truth, but I wasn’t thinking straight.

At this point she found herself smiling wistfully.

But had any woman ever thought straight in his company? She doubted it. Not guilty on the grounds of impaired judgment. She’d wanted to make the moment last, and she had never thought how it would seem to him.

What now? Return to Pompeii and try to find him? After all, he’s ideal for the programme.

Nuts to that! She just wanted an excuse to see him again. He was like a light coming on and then going out too soon. But what was done was done. She’d just chalk it up to experience and leave Naples today.

It was a relief to have made up her mind. Jumping out of bed, she stripped and headed for the shower, running it very cold to infuse herself with common sense. She was just drying off when there was a knock on the door.

‘Who is it?’

‘Room Service.’

She hadn’t ordered anything, but perhaps this was courtesy of the hotel. Huddling on a silk dressing gown, she opened the door.

Outside stood a tall man, dressed as a waiter. That was all she could tell, as he was holding the tray high, balanced on the fingers of one hand, at just the right angle to conceal his face.

‘Scusi, signora.’

He seemed to glide into the room, contriving to keep his features hidden as he headed for the little table by the window and set down the tray.

Della’s heart began to dance. He might hide his face, but his hair was unmistakable. Instinctively she pulled together the edges of her thin dressing gown, conscious of how inadequately the silk covered her.

‘Orange juice,’ he said, turning to her with a flourish. ‘Fruit? Cereal?’

‘So you’re not still angry with me?’ she asked, laughing.

‘No, I got over my sulk fairly quickly. Forgive me?’

It was so good to see Carlo standing there that she forgot everything else and opened her arms to him. He took two swift steps across the room, and the next moment she was enfolded in an embrace that threatened to crush the breath out of her.

‘I was afraid you’d have packed your bags and left last night,’ he said between kisses.

‘I was afraid I’d never see you again. I’m sorry. I never meant it to happen the way it did—it just sort of—’

‘It doesn’t matter. It was my fault for making a fuss about nothing.’

‘I always meant to tell you, but things just happened, and I lost track of what I was supposed to be thinking—’

‘Yes,’ he said with meaning. ‘Me too.’

He kissed her again before she could speak, moving his mouth hungrily over hers, pressing her body close against his own. Now she could feel everything she had suspected yesterday, the hard, lean length of him, muscular, sensuously graceful, thrilling.

But it was dangerous to hold him like this when she was nearly naked. The gossamer delicacy of her gown was no protection against the excitement she could sense in him, nor against her own excitement, rising equally fast. Nearly naked wasn’t enough. Only complete nakedness would do, for herself and him.

There was an increasingly urgent sense of purpose in the movements of his hands, and her answering desire threatened to overwhelm her. She wanted this. She wanted him.

It was the very power of that wanting that made her take fright. Twenty-four hours ago she hadn’t met this man. Now she was indulging fantasies of fierce passion, desire with no limits. She must stop this now. She forced herself to tense against him, drawing her head back a little so that he could see her shake it from side to side.

‘No—Carlo—please—’

‘Della—’ His voice was edgy, and it seemed as though he couldn’t stop.

‘Please—wait—’

She felt his body trembling against hers with the effort of his own restraint, and at last he was still. Now he would think her a tease. But when she looked into his eyes she saw only understanding.

‘You’re right,’ he whispered.

‘It’s just that—’

‘I know—I know—not—not yet.’

He spoke raggedly, but he was in command of himself. Della only wished she could say the same about her own body, which was raging out of control, defying her wise words. She pulled herself free, grabbed some clothes, and vanished into the bathroom.

When she emerged, safely dressed, he had discarded his waiter’s jacket and was sitting at the table by the window, pouring her coffee. He seemed calm, with no sign of his recent agitation—except that she thought his hand shook a little.

‘Here’s food,’ he said, indicating rolls and honey. ‘But if you need something more substantial I’ll buy you a big lunch after we’ve been to Pompeii.’

‘We’re going back there?’

‘Just for an hour, while I give my team their instructions. Then we’ll have the rest of the day free.’

His manner was demure while he served her, as if their moment of blazing physical awareness had never been. But then she glanced up to find him watching her, and it was there in his eyes, memory and, more than that, an anticipation amounting to certainty.

‘I’m sorry for what happened,’ she said again. ‘I was going to tell you last night, but—’ She made a helpless gesture.

‘It was mostly my fault,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I just talked about myself all the time, which is a fault of mine. Mamma always says if I’d shut up now and then I might learn something.’

‘But you’ve never taken her advice long enough to find out if she’s right,’ Della chuckled.

He grinned. ‘You really do sound just like her. Besides, I know now that she was right. Today you’re going to do all the talking, and I won’t say a single word.’

‘Hmm!’ she said sceptically.

He looked alarmed. ‘You understand me too well.’

‘In that case we have nothing left to say to each other.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, isn’t that every man’s nightmare? A woman who understands him?’

‘I’m getting more scared of you every minute.’

‘Then you’d better steer well clear of me. If I call the airport now there’s bound to be a plane back to London today.’

At once his hand closed over hers, imprisoning it gently but firmly.

‘I never run away from danger,’ he said lightly. ‘How about you?’

There was a moment’s hesitation, because something told her that never in her life had she met a danger like this. Then, ‘Me neither,’ she said.

‘Good. In that case…’ He paused significantly.

‘In that case—?’

‘In that case I suggest we hurry up and finish our breakfast.’

She choked into her coffee. She had always been a sucker for a man who could make her laugh.

At Pompeii, his team was waiting for him in the canteen. A brief time in his company had made her more sharply aware of things she had overlooked before, and now she saw at once how the young women in the group brightened as soon as he appeared, and flashed him their best smiles.

She couldn’t blame them. There was a life-enhancing quality to him that brought the sun out, and made it natural to smile.

Della lingered only a short while as he talked to them in Italian, which she couldn’t understand, then wandered away to the museum.

Here she found what she was looking for—the plaster casts of the bodies that had lain trapped in their last positions for nearly two thousand years. There was a man who’d fallen on the stairs and never risen again, and another man who’d known the end was coming and curled up in resignation, waiting for the ash to engulf him. Further on, a mother tried vainly to shelter her children.

But it was the lovers who held her the longest. After so many centuries it was still heartbreaking to see the man and woman, stretching out in a vain attempt to reach each other before death swamped them.

‘There’s such a little distance between their hands,’ she murmured.

‘Yes, they nearly managed it,’ said Carlo beside her.

She didn’t know how long he’d been there, and wondered if he’d been watching as she wandered among the ‘bodies’.

‘And now they’ll never reach each other,’ she said. ‘Trapped for ever with a might-have-been.’

‘There’s nothing sadder than what might have been,’ he agreed. ‘That’s why I prefer these.’

He led her to another glass case where there were two forms, a man and a woman, nestled against each other.

‘They knew death was coming,’ Carlo said, ‘but as long as they could meet it in each other’s arms they weren’t afraid.’

‘Maybe,’ she said slowly.

‘You don’t believe that?’

‘I wonder if you’re stretching imagination too far. You can’t really know that they weren’t afraid.’

‘Can’t I? Look at them.’

Della drew nearer and studied the two figures. Their faces were blurred, but she could see that all their attention was for each other, not the oncoming lava. And their bodies were mysteriously relaxed, almost contented.

‘You’re right,’ she said softly. ‘While they had each other there was nothing to fear—not even death.’

How would it feel to be like that? she wondered. Two marriages had left her ignorant of that all-or-nothing feeling. What she had known of men had left her cautious, and suddenly it occurred to her that she was deprived.

‘Are you ready to go?’ he asked.

He drove back to the little fishing village where they had eaten the day before. Now the tide was in, the boats were out, and the atmosphere was completely different. This was another world from that sleepy somnolence, as he proved by taking her to the market, where the stalls were brightly coloured and mostly sold an array of fresh meat and vegetables.

The ones that didn’t offered a dazzling variety of handmade silk.

‘The area is known for it,’ Carlo explained. ‘And it’s better than anything you’ll find in the fashionable shops in Milan.’

As he spoke he was holding up scarves and blouses against her.

‘Not these,’ he said, tossing a couple aside. ‘Not your colour.’

‘Isn’t it?’ she asked, slightly nettled. She had liked both of them.

‘No, this is better.’ He held up a blouse with a dark blue mottled pattern and considered it against her. ‘This one,’ he told the woman running the stall.

‘Hey, let me check the size,’ Della protested.

‘No need,’ the woman chuckled. ‘He always gets the size right.’

‘Thank you,’ Carlo said hastily, handing over cash and hurrying her away.

‘You’ve got a nerve, buying me clothes without so much as a by-your-leave,’ she said.

‘You don’t have to thank me.’

‘I wasn’t. I was saying you’re as cheeky as a load of monkeys.’

‘Slander. All slander.’

To Della’s mischievous delight he had definitely reddened.

‘So you always get the size right, just by looking?’ she mused. ‘I mean, always as in always?’

‘Let’s have something to eat,’ he said hastily, taking her arm and steering her into a side street where they found a small café.

There he settled her with coffee and a glass of prosecco, the white sparkling wine, so light as to be almost a cordial, that Italians loved to drink.

‘So now,’ he said, ‘do what I wouldn’t let you do yesterday, and tell me all about yourself. I know you’ve been married—’

‘I married when I was sixteen—and pregnant. Neither of us was old enough to know what we were doing, and when he fled in the first few months I guess I couldn’t blame him.’

‘I blame him,’ he said at once. ‘If you do something, you take responsibility for it.’

‘Oh, you sound so very old and wise, but how “responsible” were you at seventeen?’

‘Perhaps we’d better not go into that,’ he said, grinning. ‘But he shouldn’t have simply have walked out and left you with a baby.’

‘Don’t feel sorry for me. I wasn’t abandoned in a one-room hovel without a penny. We were living with my parents, so I had a comfortable home and someone to take care of me. In fact, I don’t think my parents were sorry to see the back of him.’

‘Did they give him a nudge?

‘He says they did. I’ll never really know, but I’m sure it would have happened anyway. It’s all for the best. I wouldn’t want to be married to the man he is now.’

‘Still irresponsible?’

‘Worse. Dull.’

‘Heaven help us! So you’re still in touch?’

‘He lives in Scotland. Sol—that’s Solomon, our son—visits him. He’s there now.’

Light dawned.

‘Was Sol the one you were talking to on the phone last night?’

‘That’s right.’

So there was no other man in her life, he thought, making urgent calculations: her son might be twelve, if she’d been so young at his birth. He was almost dizzy with relief.

‘What made you go into television?’ he asked, when he’d inwardly calmed down.

‘Through my second husband and his brother.’

‘Second—? You’re married?’ he demanded, descending into turmoil again.

‘No, it didn’t work out, and there was another divorce. I guess I’m just a rotten picker. Gerry ran off leaving a lot of debts, which I had to work to pay. The one good thing he did for me was to introduce me to his brother, Brian, who was a television producer. Brian offered me a job as his secretary, taught me everything he knew, and I loved it—the people I met, the things it was possible to do, the buzz of ideas going on all the time. Brian loaned me some money to start up for myself, and he recommended me everywhere.’

‘So now you’re a big-shot,’ he said lightly. ‘Dominating the schedules, winning all the awards—’

‘Shut up,’ she said, punching his arm playfully.

‘You’re not going to tell me you’ve never won an award, are you?’

His eyes warned her that he knew more than he was letting on.

‘The odd little gong here and there,’ she said vaguely.

‘You’re not the only one who knows how to use the internet, you know. You won the Golden World prize for the best documentary of the year—’





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