Read the book: «From Florence With Love»

CAROLINE ANDERSON Caroline Anderson has the mind of a butterfly. She’s been a nurse, a secretary, a teacher, run her own soft furnishing business, and now she’s settled on writing. She says, ‘I was looking for that elusive something. I finally realised it was variety, and now I have it in abundance. Every book brings new horizons and new friends, and in between books I have learned to be a juggler. My teacher husband John and I have two beautiful and talented daughters, Sarah and Hannah, umpteen pets and several acres of Suffolk that nature tries to reclaim every time we turn our backs!’ Caroline also writes for the Mills & Boon Medical Romance series.

CHAPTER ONE

WHAT on earth was she doing?

As the taxi pulled up in front of the Jet Centre at London City Airport, he paused, wallet in hand, and stared spellbound across the drop-off point.

Wow. She was gorgeous.

Even in the crazy fancy-dress outfit, her beauty shone out like a beacon. Her curves—soft, feminine curves—were in all the right places, and her face was alight with laughter, the skin pale and clear, her cheeks tinged pink by the long blonde curls whipping round her face in the cutting wind. She looked bright and alive and impossibly lovely, and he felt something squeeze in his chest.

Something that had been dormant for a very long time.

As he watched she anchored the curls absently with one hand, the other gesturing expressively as she smiled and talked to the man she’d stopped at the entrance. She was obviously selling something. Goodness knows what, he couldn’t read the piece of card she was brandishing from this distance, but the man laughed and raised a hand in refusal and backed away, entering the building with a chuckle.

Her smile fading, she turned to her companion, more sensibly dressed in jeans and a little jacket. Massimo flicked his eyes over her, but she didn’t hold his attention. Not like the blonde, and he found his eyes drawn back to her against his will.

Dio, she was exquisite. By rights she should have looked an utter tramp but somehow, even in the tacky low-cut dress and a gaudy plastic tiara, she was, quite simply, riveting. There was something about her that transcended all of that, and he felt himself inexplicably drawn to her.

He paid the taxi driver, hoisted his flight bag over his shoulder and headed for the entrance. She was busy again, talking to another man, and as the doors opened he caught her eye and she flashed a hopeful smile at him.

He didn’t have time to pause, whatever she was selling, he thought regretfully, but the smile hit him in the solar plexus, and he set his bag down on the floor by the desk once he was inside, momentarily winded.

‘Morning, Mr Valtieri. Welcome back to the Jet Centre. The rest of your party have arrived.’

‘Thank you.’ He cleared his throat and glanced over his shoulder at the woman. ‘Is that some kind of publicity stunt?’

The official gave a quiet, mildly exasperated sigh and smiled wryly.

‘No, sir. I understand she’s trying to get a flight to Italy.’

Massimo felt his right eyebrow hike. ‘In a wedding dress?’

He gave a slight chuckle. ‘Apparently so. Some competition to win a wedding.’

He felt a curious sense of disappointment. Not that it made the slightest bit of difference that she was getting married; she was nothing to him and never would be, but nevertheless …

‘We asked her to leave the building, but short of escorting her right back to the main road, there’s little more we can do to get rid of her and she seems harmless enough. Our clients seem to be finding her quite entertaining, anyway.’

He could understand that. He was entertained himself—mesmerised, if he was honest. And intrigued—

‘Whereabouts in Italy?’ he asked casually, although the tightness in his gut was far from casual.

‘I think I heard her mention Siena—but, Mr Valtieri, you really don’t want to get involved,’ he warned, looking troubled. ‘I think she’s a little …’

‘Crazy?’ he said drily, and the man’s mouth twitched.

‘Your word, sir, not mine.’

As they watched, the other man walked away and she gave her companion a wry little smile. She said something, shrugged her slender shoulders in that ridiculous meringue of a dress, then rubbed her arms briskly. She must be freezing! September was a strange month, and today there wasn’t a trace of sunshine and a biting wind was whipping up the Thames estuary.

No! It was none of his business if she hadn’t had the sense to dress for the weather, he told himself firmly, but then he saw another man approach the doors, saw the woman straighten her spine and go up to him, her face wreathed in smiles as she launched into a fresh charm offensive, and he felt his gut clench.

He knew the man slightly, more by reputation than anything else, and he was absolutely the last person this enchanting and slightly eccentric young woman needed to get involved with. And he would be flying to his private airfield, about an hour’s drive from Siena. Close enough, if you were desperate …

He couldn’t let it happen. He had more than enough on his conscience.

The doors parted with a hiss as he strode up to them, and he gave the other man a look he had no trouble reading. He told him—in Italian, and succinctly—to back off, and Nico shrugged and took his advice, smiling regretfully at the woman before moving away from her, and Massimo gave him a curt nod and turned to the woman, meeting her eyes again—vivid, startling blue eyes that didn’t look at all happy with what he’d just done. There was no smile this time, just those eyes like blue ice-chips skewering him as he stood there.

Stunning eyes, framed by long, dark lashes. Her mouth, even without the smile, was soft and full and kissable—No! He sucked in a breath, and found himself drawing a delicate and haunting fragrance into his lungs.

It rocked him for a second, took away his senses, and when they came back they all came back, slamming into him with the force of an express train and leaving him wanting in a way he hadn’t wanted for years. Maybe ever—

‘What did you say to him?’ Lydia asked furiously, hardly able to believe the way he’d dismissed that man with a few choice words—not that she’d understood one of them, of course, but there was more to language than vocabulary and he’d been pretty explicit, she was sure. But she’d been so close to success and she was really, really cross and frustrated now. ‘He’d just offered me a seat in his plane!’

‘Believe me, you don’t want to go on his plane.’

‘Believe me, I do!’ she retorted, but he shook his head.

‘No. I’m sorry, I can’t let you do it, it just isn’t safe,’ he said, a little crisply, and she dropped her head back and gave a sharp sigh.

Damn. He must be airport security, and a higher authority than the nice young man who’d shifted them outside. She sensed there’d be no arguing with him. There was a quiet implacability about him that reminded her of her father, and she knew when she was beaten. She met his eyes again, and tried not to notice that they were the colour of dark, bitter chocolate, warm and rich and really rather gorgeous.

And unyielding.

She gave up.

‘I would have been perfectly safe, I’ve got a minder and I’m no threat to anyone and nobody’s complained, as far as I know, but you can call the dogs off, I’m going.’

To her surprise he smiled, those amazing eyes softening and turning her bones to mush.

‘Relax, I’m nothing to do with Security, I just have a social conscience. I believe you need to go to Siena?’

Siena? Nobody, she’d discovered, was flying to Siena but it seemed, incredibly, that he might be, or else why would he be asking? She stifled the little flicker of hope. ‘I thought you said it wasn’t safe?’

‘It wasn’t safe with Nico.’

‘And it’s safe with you?’

‘Safer. My pilot won’t have been drinking, and I—’ He broke off, and watched her eyes widen as her mind filled in the blanks.

‘And you?’ she prompted a little warily, when he left it hanging there.

He sighed sharply and raked a hand through his hair, rumpling the dark strands threaded with silver at the temples. He seemed impatient, as if he was helping her against his better judgement.

‘He has a—reputation,’ he said finally.

She dragged her eyes off his hair. It had flopped forwards, and her fingers itched to smooth it back, to feel the texture …

‘And you don’t?’

‘Let’s just say that I respect women.’ His mouth flickered in a wry smile. ‘If you want a reference, my lawyer and doctor brothers would probably vouch for me, as would my three sisters—failing that, you could phone Carlotta. She’s worked for the family for hundreds of years, and she delivered me and looks after my children.’

He had children? She glanced down and clocked the wedding ring on his finger, and with a sigh of relief, she thrust a laminated sheet at him and dug out her smile again. This time, it was far easier, and she felt a flicker of excitement burst into life.

‘It’s a competition to win a wedding at a hotel near Siena. There are two of us in the final leg, and I have to get to the hotel first to win the prize. This is Claire, she’s from the radio station doing the publicity.’

Massimo gave Claire a cursory smile. He wasn’t in the least interested in Claire. She was obviously the minder, and pretty enough, but this woman with the crazy outfit and sassy mouth …

He scanned the sheet, scanned it again, shook his head in disbelief and handed it back, frankly appalled. ‘You must be mad. You have only a hundred pounds, a wedding dress and a passport, and you have to race to Siena to win this wedding? What on earth is your fiancé thinking of to let you do it?’

‘Not my fiancé. I don’t have a fiancé, and if I did, I wouldn’t need his permission,’ she said crisply, those eyes turning to ice again. ‘It’s for my sister. She had an accident, and they’d planned—oh, it doesn’t matter. Either you can help me or you can’t, and if you can’t, the clock’s ticking and I really have to get on.’

She didn’t have a fiancé? ‘I can help you,’ he said before he could let himself think about it, and he thrust out his hand. ‘Massimo Valtieri. If you’re ready to go, I can give you a lift to Siena now.’

He pronounced it Mah-see-mo, long and slow and drawn out, his Italian accent coming over loud and clear as he said his name, and she felt a shiver of something primeval down her spine. Or maybe it was just the cold. She smiled at her self-appointed knight in shining armour and held out her hand.

‘I’m Lydia Fletcher—and if you can get us there before the others, I’ll love you forever.’

His warm, strong and surprisingly slightly calloused fingers closed firmly round hers, and she felt the world shift a little under her feet. And not just hers, apparently. She saw the shockwave hit his eyes, felt the recognition of something momentous passing between them, and in that crazy and insane instant she wondered if anything would ever be the same again.

The plane was small but, as the saying goes, perfectly formed.

Very perfectly, as far as she was concerned. It had comfortable seats, lots of legroom, a sober pilot and a flight plan that without doubt would win her sister the wedding of her dreams.

Lydia could hardly believe her luck.

She buckled herself in, grabbed Claire’s hand and hung on tight as the plane taxied to the end of the runway. ‘We did it. We got a flight straight there!’ she whispered, and Claire’s face lit up with her smile, her eyes sparkling.

‘I know. Amazing! We’re going to do it. We can’t fail. I just know you’re going to win!’

The engines roared, the small plane shuddering, and then it was off like a slingshot, the force of their acceleration pushing her back hard into the leather seat as the jet tipped and climbed. The Thames was flying past, dropping rapidly below them as they rose into the air over London, and then they were heading out over the Thames estuary towards France, levelling off, and the seat belt light went out.

‘Oh, this is so exciting! I’m going to update the diary,’ Claire said, pulling out her little notebook computer, and Lydia turned her head and met Massimo’s eyes across the narrow aisle.

He unclipped his seat belt and shifted his body so he was facing her, his eyes scanning her face. His mouth tipped into a smile, and her stomach turned over—from the steep ascent, or from the warmth of that liquid-chocolate gaze?

‘All right?’

‘Amazing.’ She smiled back, her mouth curving involuntarily in response to his, then turning down as she pulled a face. ‘I don’t know how to thank you. I’m so sorry I was rude.’

His mouth twitched. ‘Don’t worry. You weren’t nearly as rude to me as I was to Nico.’

‘What did you say to him?’ she asked curiously, and he gave a soft laugh.

‘I’m not sure it would translate. Certainly not in mixed company.’

‘I think I got the gist—’

‘I hope not!’

She gave a little laugh. ‘Probably not. I don’t know any street Italian—well, no Italian at all, really. And I feel awful now for biting your head off, but … well, it means a lot to me, to win this wedding.’

‘Yes, I gather. You were telling me about your sister?’ he said.

‘Jennifer. She had an accident a few months ago and she was in a wheelchair, but she’s getting better, she’s on crutches now, but her fiancé had to give up his job to help look after her. They’re living with my parents and Andy’s working with Dad at the moment for their keep. My parents have got a farm—well, not really a farm, more of a smallholding, really, but they get by, and they could always have the wedding there. There’s a vegetable packing barn they could dress up for the wedding reception, but—well, my grandmother lived in Italy for a while and Jen’s always dreamed of getting married there, and now they haven’t got enough money even for a glass of cheap bubbly and a few sandwiches. So when I heard about this competition I just jumped at it, but I never in my wildest dreams imagined we’d get this far, never mind get a flight to exactly the right place. I’m just so grateful I don’t know where to start.’

She was gabbling. She stopped, snapped her mouth shut and gave him a rueful grin. ‘Sorry. I always talk a lot when the adrenaline’s running.’

He smiled and leant back, utterly charmed by her. More than charmed …

‘Relax. I have three sisters and two daughters, so I’m quite used to it, I’ve had a lot of practice.’

‘Gosh, it sounds like it. And you’ve got two brothers as well?’

‘Si. Luca’s the doctor and he’s married to an English girl called Isabelle, and Gio’s the lawyer. I also have a son, and two parents, and a million aunts and uncles and cousins.’

‘So what do you do?’ she asked, irresistibly curious, and he gave her a slightly lopsided grin.

‘You could say I’m a farmer, too. We grow grapes and olives and we make cheese.’

She glanced around at the plane. ‘You must make a heck of a lot of cheese,’ she said drily, and he chuckled, soft and low under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear.

The slight huff of his breath made an errant curl drift against her cheek, and it was almost as if his fingertips had brushed lightly against her skin.

‘Not that much,’ he said, his eyes still smiling. ‘Mostly we concentrate on our wine and olive oil—Tuscan olive oil is sharper, tangier than the oil from southern Italy because we harvest the olives younger to avoid the frosts, and it gives it a distinctive and rich peppery flavour. But again, we don’t make a huge amount, we concentrate on quality and aim for the boutique market with limited editions of certified, artisan products. That’s what I was doing in England—I’ve been at a trade fair pushing our oil and wine to restaurateurs and gourmet delicatessens.’

She sat up straighter. ‘Really? Did you take samples with you?’

He laughed. ‘Of course. How else can I convince people that our products are the best? But the timing was bad, because we’re about to harvest the grapes and I’m needed at home. That’s why we chartered the plane, to save time.’

Chartered. So it wasn’t his. That made him more approachable, somehow and, if it was possible, even more attractive. As did the fact that he was a farmer. She knew about farming, about aiming for a niche market and going for quality rather than quantity. It was how she’d been brought up. She relaxed, hitched one foot up under her and hugged her knee under the voluminous skirt.

‘So, these samples—do you have any on the plane that I could try?’

‘Sorry, we’re out of wine,’ he said, but then she laughed and shook her head.

‘That’s not what I meant, although I’m sure it’s very good. I was talking about the olive oil. Professional interest.’

‘You grow olives on your farm in England?’ he asked incredulously, and she laughed again, tightening his gut and sending need arrowing south. It shocked him slightly, and he forced himself to concentrate.

‘No. Of course not. I’ve been living in a flat with a pot of basil on the window sill until recently! But I love food.’

‘You mentioned a professional interest.’

She nodded. ‘I’m a—’ She was going to say chef, but could you be a chef if you didn’t have a restaurant? If your kitchen had been taken away from you and you had nothing left of your promising career? ‘I cook,’ she said, and he got up and went to the rear of the plane and returned with a bottle of oil.

‘Here.’

He opened it and held it out to her, and she sniffed it slowly, drawing the sharp, fruity scent down into her lungs. ‘Oh, that’s gorgeous. May I?’

And taking it from him, she tipped a tiny pool into her hand and dipped her finger into it, sucking the tip and making an appreciative noise. Heat slammed through him, and he recorked the bottle and put it away to give him something to do while he reassembled his brain.

He never, never reacted to a woman like this! What on earth was he thinking of? Apart from the obvious, but he didn’t want to think about that. He hadn’t looked at a woman in that way for years, hadn’t thought about sex in he didn’t know how long. So why now, why this woman?

She wiped up the last drop, sucking her finger again and then licking her palm, leaving a fine sheen of oil on her lips that he really, really badly want to kiss away.

‘Oh, that is so good,’ she said, rubbing her hands together to remove the last trace. ‘It’s a shame we don’t have any bread or balsamic vinegar for dunking.’

He pulled a business card out of his top pocket and handed it to her, pulling his mind back into order and his eyes out of her cleavage. ‘Email me your address when you get home, I’ll send you some of our wine and oil, and also a traditional aceto balsamico made by my cousin in Modena. They only make a little, but it’s the best I’ve ever tasted. We took some with us, but I haven’t got any of that left, either.’

‘Wow. Well, if it’s as good as the olive oil, it must be fabulous!’

‘It is. We’re really proud of it in the family. It’s nearly as good as our olive oil and wine.’

She laughed, as she was meant to, tucking the card into her bag, then she tipped her head on one side. ‘Is it a family business?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, most definitely. We’ve been there for more than three hundred years. We’re very lucky. The soil is perfect, the slopes are all in the right direction, and if we can’t grow one thing on any particular slope, we grow another, or use it for pasture. And then there are the chestnut woods. We export a lot of canned chestnuts, both whole and puréed.’

‘And your wife?’ she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. ‘Does she help with the business, or do you keep her too busy producing children for you?’

There was a heartbeat of silence before his eyes clouded, and his smile twisted a little as he looked away. ‘Angelina died five years ago,’ he said softly, and she felt a wave of regret that she’d blundered in and brought his grief to life when they’d been having a sensible and intelligent conversation about something she was genuinely interested in.

She reached across the aisle and touched his arm gently. ‘I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have brought it up if …’

‘Don’t apologise. It’s not your fault. Anyway, five years is a long time.’

Long enough that, when confronted by a vivacious, dynamic and delightful woman with beautiful, generous curves and a low-cut dress that gave him a more than adequate view of those curves, he’d almost forgotten his wife …

Guilt lanced through him, and he pulled out his wallet and showed her the photos—him and Angelina on their wedding day, and one with the girls clustered around her and the baby in her arms, all of them laughing. He loved that one. It was the last photograph he had of her, and one of the best. He carried it everywhere.

She looked at them, her lips slightly parted, and he could see the sheen of tears in her eyes.

‘You must miss her so much. Your poor children.’

‘It’s not so bad now, but they missed her at first,’ he said gruffly. And he’d missed her. He’d missed her every single day, but missing her didn’t bring her back, and he’d buried himself in work.

He was still burying himself in work.

Wasn’t he?

Not effectively. Not any more, apparently, because suddenly he was beginning to think about things he hadn’t thought about for years, and he wasn’t ready for that. He couldn’t deal with it, couldn’t think about it. Not now. He had work to do, work that couldn’t wait. Work he should be doing now.

He put the wallet away and excused himself, moving to sit with the others and discuss how to follow up the contacts they’d made and where they went from here with their marketing strategy, with his back firmly to Lydia and that ridiculous wedding dress that was threatening to tip him over the brink.

Lydia stared at his back, regret forming a lump in her throat.

She’d done it again. Opened her mouth and jumped in with both feet. She was good at that, gifted almost. And now he’d pulled away from her, and must be regretting the impulse that had made him offer her and Claire a lift to Italy.

She wanted to apologise, to take back her stupid and trite and intrusive question about his wife—Angelina, she thought, remembering the way he’d said her name, the way he’d almost tasted it as he said it, no doubt savouring the precious memories. But life didn’t work like that.

Like feathers from a burst cushion, it simply wasn’t possible to gather the words up and stuff them back in without trace. She just needed to move on from the embarrassing lapse, to keep out of his personal life and take his offer of a lift at face value.

And stop thinking about those incredible, warm chocolate eyes …

‘I can’t believe he’s taking us right to Siena!’ Claire said quietly, her eyes sparkling with delight. ‘Jo will be so miffed when we get there first, she was so confident!’

Lydia dredged up her smile again, not hard when she thought about Jen and how deliriously happy she’d be to have her Tuscan wedding. ‘I can’t believe it, either. Amazing.’

Claire tilted her head on one side. ‘What was he showing you? He looked sort of sad.’

She felt her smile slip. ‘Photos of his wife. She died five years ago. They’ve got three little children—ten, seven and five, I think he said. Something like that.’

‘Gosh. So the little one must have been tiny—did she die giving birth?’

‘No. No, she can’t have done. There was a photo of her with two little girls and a baby in her arms, so no. But it must have been soon after.’

‘How awful. Fancy never knowing your mother. I’d die if I didn’t have my mum to ring up and tell about stuff.’

Lydia nodded. She adored her mother, phoned her all the time, shared everything with her and Jen. What would it have been like never to have known her?

Tears welled in her eyes again, and she brushed them away crossly, but then she felt a light touch on her arm and looked up, and he was staring down at her, his face concerned.

He frowned and reached out a hand, touching the moisture on her cheek with a gentle fingertip.

‘Lydia?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m fine. Ignore me, I’m a sentimental idiot.’

He dropped to his haunches and took her hand, and she had a sudden and overwhelming urge to cry in earnest. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to distress you. You don’t need to cry for us.’

She shook her head and sniffed again. ‘I’m not. Not really.

I was thinking about my mother—about how I’d miss her—and I’m twenty-eight, not five.’

He nodded. ‘Yes. It’s very hard.’ His mouth quirked in a fleeting smile. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve neglected you. Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee? Water? Something stronger?’

‘It’s a bit early for stronger,’ she said, trying for a light note, and he smiled again, more warmly this time, and straightened up.

‘Nico would have been on the second bottle of champagne by now,’ he said, and she felt a wave of relief that he’d saved her from what sounded more and more like a dangerous mistake.

‘Fizzy water would be nice, if you have any?’ she said, and he nodded.

‘Claire?’

‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’

He moved away, and she let her breath out slowly. She hadn’t really registered, until he’d crouched beside her, just how big he was. Not bulky, not in any way, but he’d shed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, and she’d been treated to the broad shoulders and solid chest at close range, and then his narrow hips and lean waist and those long, strong legs as he’d straightened up.

His hands, appearing in her line of sight again, were clamped round two tall glasses beaded with moisture and fizzing gently. Large hands, strong and capable, no-nonsense.

Safe, sure hands that had held hers and warmed her to the core.

Her breasts tingled unexpectedly, and she took the glass from him and tried not to drop it. ‘Thank you.’

‘Prego, you’re welcome. Are you hungry? We have fruit and pastries, too.’

‘No. No, I’m much too excited to eat now,’ she confessed, sipping the water and hoping the cool liquid would slake the heat rising up inside her.

Crazy! He was totally uninterested in her, and even if he wasn’t, she wasn’t in the market for any more complications in her life. Her relationship with Russell had been fraught with complications, and the end of it had been a revelation. There was no way she was jumping back into that pond any time soon. The last frog she’d kissed had turned into a king-sized toad.

‘How long before we land?’ she asked, and he checked his watch, treating her to a bronzed, muscular forearm and strong-boned wrist lightly scattered with dark hair. She stared at it and swallowed. How ridiculous that an arm could be so sexy.

‘Just over an hour. Excuse me, we have work to do, but please, if you need anything, just ask.’

He turned back to his colleagues, sitting down and flexing his broad shoulders, and Lydia felt her gut clench. She’d never, never felt like that about anyone before, and she couldn’t believe she was reacting to him that way. It must just be the adrenaline.

One more hour to get through before they were there and they could thank him and get away—hopefully before she disgraced herself. The poor man was still grieving for his wife. What was she thinking about?

Ridiculous! She’d known him, what, less than two hours altogether? Scarcely more than one. And she’d already put her foot firmly in it.

Vowing not to say another thing, she settled back in her seat and looked out of the window at the mountains.

They must be the Alps, she realised, fascinated by the jagged peaks and plunging valleys, and then the mountains fell away behind them and they were moving over a chequered landscape of forests and small, neat fields. They were curiously ordered and disciplined, serried ranks of what must be olive trees and grape vines, she guessed, planted with geometric precision, the pattern of the fields interlaced with narrow winding roads lined with avenues of tall, slender cypress trees.

Tuscany, she thought with a shiver of excitement.

The seat belt light came on, and Massimo returned to his seat across the aisle from her as the plane started its descent.

‘Not long now,’ he said, flashing her a smile. And then they were there, a perfect touchdown on Tuscan soil with the prize almost in reach.

Jen was going to get her wedding. Just a few more minutes …

They taxied to a stop outside the airport building, and after a moment the steps were wheeled out to them and the door was opened.

‘We’re really here!’ she said to Claire, and Claire’s eyes were sparkling as she got to her feet.

‘I know. I can’t believe it!’

They were standing at the top of the steps now, and Massimo smiled and gestured to them. ‘After you. Do you have the address of the hotel? I’ll drive you there.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’d hate you not to win after all this,’ he said with a grin.

‘Wow, thank you, that’s really kind of you!’ Lydia said, reaching for her skirts as she took another step.

It happened in slow motion.

One moment she was there beside him, the next the steps had disappeared from under her feet and she was falling, tumbling end over end, hitting what seemed like every step until finally her head reached the tarmac and she crumpled on the ground in a heap.

Her scream was cut off abruptly, and Massimo hurled himself down the steps to her side, his heart racing. No! Please, she couldn’t be dead …

She wasn’t. He could feel a pulse in her neck, and he let his breath out on a long, ragged sigh and sat back on his heels to assess her.

Stay calm, he told himself. She’s alive. She’ll be all right.

But he wouldn’t really believe it until she stirred, and even then …

‘Is she all right?’

He glanced up at Claire, kneeling on the other side of her, her face chalk white with fear.

‘I think so,’ he said, but he didn’t think any such thing. Fear was coursing through him, bringing bile rising to his throat. Why wasn’t she moving? This couldn’t be happening again.

Lydia moaned. Warm, hard fingers had searched for a pulse in her neck, and as she slowly came to, she heard him snap out something in Italian while she lay there, shocked and a little stunned, wondering if it was a good idea to open her eyes. Maybe not yet.

‘Lydia? Lydia, talk to me! Open your eyes.’

Her eyes opened slowly and she tried to sit up, but he pressed a hand to her shoulder.

‘Stay still. You might have a neck injury. Where do you hurt?’

Where didn’t she? She turned her head and winced. ‘Ow … my head, for a start. What happened? Did I trip? Oh, I can’t believe I was so stupid!’

‘You fell down the steps.’

‘I know that—ouch.’ She felt her head, and her hand came away bloodied and sticky. She stared at it. ‘I’ve cut myself,’ she said, and everything began to swim.

‘It’s OK, Lydia. You’ll be OK,’ Claire said, but her face was worried and suddenly everything began to hurt a whole lot more.

Massimo tucked his jacket gently beside her head to support it, just in case she had a neck injury. He wasn’t taking any chances on that, but it was the head injury that was worrying him the most, the graze on her forehead, just under her hair. How hard had she hit it? Hard enough to …

It was bleeding faster now, he realised with a wave of dread, a red streak appearing as she shifted slightly, and he stayed beside her on his knees, holding her hand and talking to her comfortingly in between snapping out instructions.

She heard the words ‘ambulanza’ and ‘ospedale’, and tried to move, wincing and whimpering with pain, but he held her still.

‘Don’t move. The ambulance is coming to take you to hospital.’

‘I don’t need to go to hospital, I’m fine, we need to get to the hotel!’

‘No,’ Massimo and Claire said in unison.

‘But the competition.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said flatly. ‘You’re hurt. You have to be checked out.’

‘I’ll go later.’

‘No.’ His voice was implacable, hard and cold and somehow strange, and Lydia looked at him and saw his skin was colourless and grey, his mouth pinched, his eyes veiled.

He obviously couldn’t stand the sight of blood, Lydia realised, and reached out her other hand to Claire.

She took it, then looked at Massimo. ‘I’ll look after her,’ she said. ‘You go, you’ve got lots to do. We’ll be all right.’

His eyes never left Lydia’s.

‘No. I’ll stay with you,’ he insisted, but he moved out of the way to give her space.

She looked so frail suddenly, lying there streaked with blood, the puffy layers of the dress rising up around her legs and making her look like a broken china doll.

Dio, he felt sick just looking at her, and her face swam, another face drifting over it. He shut his eyes tight, squeezing out the images of his wife, but they refused to fade.

Lydia tried to struggle up again. ‘I want to go to the hotel,’ she said to Claire, and his eyes snapped open again.

‘No way.’

‘He’s right. Don’t be silly. You just lie there and we’ll get you checked out, then we’ll go. There’s still plenty of time.’

But there might not be, she realised, as she lay there on the tarmac in her ridiculous charity shop wedding dress with blood seeping from her head wound, and as the minutes ticked by her joy slid slowly away …

CHAPTER TWO

THE ambulance came, and Claire went with Lydia.

He wanted to go with her himself, he felt he ought to, felt the weight of guilt and worry like an elephant on his chest, but it wasn’t his place to accompany her, so Claire went, and he followed in his car, having sent the rest of the team on with a message to his family that he’d been held up but would be with them as soon as he could.

He rang Luca on the way, in case he was there at the hospital in Siena that day as he sometimes was, and his phone was answered instantly.

‘Massimo, welcome home. Good flight?’

He nearly laughed. ‘No. Where are you? Which hospital?’

‘Siena. Why?’

He did laugh then. Or was it a sob of relief? ‘I’m on my way there. I gave two girls a lift in the plane, and one of them fell down the steps as we were disembarking. I’m following the ambulance. Luca, she’s got a head injury,’ he added, his heart pounding with dread, and he heard his brother suck in his breath.

‘I’ll meet you in the emergency department. She’ll be all right, Massimo. We’ll take care of her.’

He grunted agreement, switched off the phone and followed the ambulance, focusing on facts and crushing his fear and guilt down. It couldn’t happen again. Lightning didn’t strike twice, he told himself, and forced himself to follow the ambulance at a sensible distance while trying desperately to put Angelina firmly out of his mind …

Luca was waiting for him at the entrance.

He took the car away to park it and Massimo hovered by the ambulance as they unloaded Lydia and whisked her inside, Claire holding her hand and reassuring her. It didn’t sound as if it was working, because she kept fretting about the competition and insisting she was all right when anyone could see she was far from all right.

She was taken away, Claire with her, and he stayed in the waiting area, pacing restlessly and driving himself mad with his imagination of what was happening beyond the doors. His brother reappeared moments later and handed him the keys, giving him a keen look.

‘You all right?’

Hardly. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, his voice tight.

‘So how do you know this woman?’ Luca asked, and he filled him in quickly with the bare bones of the accident.

‘Oh—she’s wearing a wedding dress,’ he warned. ‘It’s a competition, a race to win a wedding.’

A race she’d lost. If only he’d taken her arm, or gone in front, she would have fallen against him, he could have saved her …

‘Luca, don’t let her die,’ he said urgently, fear clawing at him.

‘She won’t die,’ Luca promised, although how he could say that without knowing—well, he couldn’t. It was just a platitude, Massimo knew that.

‘Let me know how she is.’

Luca nodded and went off to investigate, leaving him there to wait, but he felt bile rise in his throat and got abruptly to his feet, pacing restlessly again. How long could it take?

Hours, apparently, or at least it felt like it.

Luca reappeared with Claire.

‘They’re taking X-rays of her leg now but it looks like a sprained ankle. She’s just a little concussed and bruised from her fall, but the head injury doesn’t look serious,’ he said.

‘Nor did Angelina’s,’ he said, switching to Italian.

‘She’s not Angelina, Massimo. She’s not going to die of this.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. Yes, I’m sure. She’s had a scan. She’s fine.’

It should have reassured him, but Massimo felt his heart still slamming against his ribs, the memories crowding him again.

‘She’s all right,’ Luca said quietly. ‘This isn’t the same.’

He nodded, but he just wanted to get out, to be away from the hospital in the fresh air. Not going to happen. He couldn’t leave Lydia, no matter how much he wanted to get away. And he could never get away from Angelina …

Luca took him to her.

She was lying on a trolley, and there was blood streaked all over the front of the hideous dress, but at least they’d taken her off the spinal board. ‘How are you?’ he asked, knowing the answer but having to ask anyway, and she turned her head and met his eyes, her own clouded with worry and pain.

‘I’m fine, they just want to watch me for a while. I’ve got some bumps and bruises, but nothing’s broken, I’m just sore and cross with myself and I want to go to the hotel and they won’t let me leave yet. I’m so sorry, Massimo, I’ve got Claire, you don’t need to wait here with me. It could be ages.’

‘I do.’ He didn’t explain, didn’t tell her what she didn’t need to know, what could only worry her. But he hadn’t taken Angelina’s head injury seriously. He’d assumed it was nothing. He hadn’t watched her, sat with her, checked her every few minutes. If he had—well, he hadn’t, but he was damned if he was leaving Lydia alone for a moment until he was sure she was all right.

Luca went back to work, and while the doctors checked her over again and strapped her ankle, Massimo found some coffee for him and Claire and they sat and drank it. Not a good idea. The caffeine shot was the last thing his racing pulse needed.

‘I need to make a call,’ Claire told him. ‘If I go just outside, can you come and get me if there’s any news?’

He nodded, watching her leave. She was probably phoning the radio station to tell them about Lydia’s accident. And she’d been so close to winning …

She came back, a wan smile on her face. ‘Jo’s there.’

‘Jo?’

‘The other contestant. Lydia’s lost the race. She’s going to be so upset. I can’t tell her yet.’

‘I think you should. She might stop fretting if it’s too late, let herself relax and get better.’

Claire gave a tiny, slightly hysterical laugh. ‘You don’t know her very well, do you?’

He smiled ruefully. ‘No. No, I don’t.’ And it was ridiculous that he minded the fact.

Lydia looked up as they went back in, and she scanned Claire’s face.

‘Did you ring the radio station?’

‘Yes.’

‘Has …’ She could hardly bring herself to ask the question, but she took another breath and tried again. ‘Has Jo got there yet?’ she asked, and then held her breath. It was possible she’d been unlucky, that she hadn’t managed to get a flight, that any one of a hundred things could have happened.

They hadn’t. She could see it in Claire’s eyes, she didn’t need to be told that Jo and Kate, her minder, were already there, and she felt the bitter sting of tears scald her eyes.

‘She’s there, isn’t she?’ she asked, just because she needed confirmation.

Claire nodded, and Lydia turned her head away, shutting her eyes against the tears. She was so, so cross with herself. They’d been so close to winning, and if she’d only been more careful, gathered up the stupid dress so she could see the steps.

She swallowed hard and looked back up at Claire’s worried face. ‘Tell her well done for me when you see her.’

‘I will, but you’ll see her, too. We’ve got rooms in the hotel for the night. I’ll ring them now, let them know what’s happening. We can go there when they discharge you.’

‘No, I could be ages. Why don’t you go, have a shower and something to eat, see the others and I’ll get them to ring you if there’s any change. Or better still, if you give me back my phone and my purse, I can call you and let you know when I’m leaving, and I’ll just get a taxi.’

‘I can’t leave you alone!’

‘She won’t be alone, I’ll stay with her. I’m staying anyway, whether you’re here or not,’ Massimo said firmly, and Lydia felt a curious sense of relief. Relief, and guilt.

And she could see the same emotions in Claire’s face. She was dithering, chewing her lip in hesitation, and Lydia took her hand and squeezed it.

‘There, you see? And his brother works here, so he’ll be able to pull strings. It’s fine, Claire. Just go. I’ll see you later.’ And she could get rid of Massimo once Claire had gone …

Claire gave in, reluctantly. ‘OK, if you insist. Here, your things. I’ll put them in your bag. Where is it?’

‘I have no idea. Is it under the bed?’

‘No. I haven’t seen it.’

‘It must have been left on the ground at the airport,’ Massimo said. ‘My men will have picked it up.’

‘Can you check? My passport’s in it.’

‘Si.’ He left them briefly, and when he came back he confirmed it had been taken by the others. ‘I’ll make sure you get it tonight,’ he promised.

‘Thanks. Right, Claire, you go. I’m fine.’

‘You will call me and let me know what’s going on as soon as you have any news?’

‘Yes, I promise.’

Claire gave in, hugging Lydia a little tearfully before she left them.

Lydia swallowed. Damn. She was going to join in.

‘Hey, it’s all right. You’ll be OK.’

His voice was gentle, reassuring, and his touch on her cheek was oddly comforting. Her eyes filled again.

‘I’m causing everyone so much trouble.’

‘That’s life. Don’t worry about it. Are you going to tell your family?’

Oh, cripes. She ought to phone Jen, but she couldn’t. Not now. She didn’t think she could talk to her just yet.

‘Maybe later. I just feel so sleepy.’

‘So rest. I’ll sit with you.’

Sit with her and watch her. Do what he should have done years ago.

She shut her eyes, just for a moment, but when she opened them again he’d moved from her side. She felt a moment of panic, but then she saw him. He was standing a few feet away reading a poster about head injuries, his hands rammed in his pockets, tension radiating off him.

Funny, she’d thought it was because of the blood, but there was no sign of blood now apart from a dried streak on her dress. Maybe it was hospitals generally. Had Angelina been ill for a long time?

Or maybe hospitals just brought him out in hives. She could understand that. After Jen’s accident, she felt the same herself, and yet he was still here, still apparently labouring under some misguided sense of obligation.

He turned his head, saw she was awake and came back to her side, his dark eyes searching hers.

‘Are you all right?’

She nodded. ‘My head’s feeling clearer now. I need to ring Jen,’ she said quietly, and he sighed and cupped her cheek, his thumb smoothing away a tear she hadn’t realised she’d shed.

‘I’m sorry, cara. I know how much it meant to you to win this for your sister.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said dismissively, although of course it would to Jen. ‘It was just a crazy idea. They can get married at home, it’s really not an issue. I really didn’t think I’d win anyway, so we haven’t lost anything.’

‘Claire said Jo’s been there for ages. She would probably have beaten you to it anyway,’ he said. ‘She must have got away very fast.’

She didn’t believe it. He was only trying to make it better, to take the sting out of it, but before she had time to argue the doctor came back in, checked her over and delivered her verdict.

Massimo translated.

‘You’re fine, you need to rest for a few days before you fly home, and you need watching overnight, but you’re free to go.’

She thanked the doctor, struggled up and swung her legs over the edge of the trolley, and paused for a moment, her head swimming.

‘All right?’

‘I’m fine. I need to call a taxi to take me to the hotel.’

‘I’ll give you a lift.’

‘I can’t take you out of your way! I’ve put you to enough trouble as it is. I can get a taxi. I’ll be fine.’

But as she slid off the edge of the trolley and straightened up, Massimo caught the sheen of tears in her eyes.

Whatever she’d said, the loss of this prize was tearing her apart for her sister, and he felt guilt wash over him yet again. Logically, he knew he had no obligation to her, no duty that extended any further than simply flying her to Siena as he’d promised. But somehow, somewhere along the way, things had changed and he could no more have left her there at the door of the hospital than he could have left one of his children. And they were waiting for him, had been waiting for him far too long, and guilt tugged at him again.

‘Ouch!’

‘You can’t walk on that ankle. Stay here.’

She stayed, wishing her flight bag was still with her instead of having been whisked away by his team. She could have done with changing out of the dress, but her comfy jeans and soft cotton top were in her bag, and she wanted to cry with frustration and disappointment and pain.

‘Here.’

He’d brought a wheelchair, and she eyed it doubtfully.

‘I don’t know if the dress will fit in it. Horrible thing! I’m going to burn it just as soon as I get it off.’

‘Good idea,’ he said drily, and they exchanged a smile.

He squashed it in around her, and wheeled her towards the exit. Then he stopped the chair by the door and looked down at her.

‘Do you really want to go to the hotel?’ he asked.

She tipped her head back to look at him, but it hurt, and she let her breath out in a gusty sigh. ‘I don’t have a choice. I need a bed for the night, and I can’t afford anywhere else.’

He moved so she could see him, crouching down beside her. ‘You do have a choice. You can’t fly for a few days, and you don’t want to stay in a strange hotel on your own for all that time. And anyway, you don’t have your bag, so why don’t you come back with me?’ he said, the guilt about his children growing now and the solution to both problems suddenly blindingly obvious.

‘I need to get home to see my children, they’ve been patient long enough, and you can clean up there and change into your own comfortable clothes and have something to eat and a good night’s sleep. Carlotta will look after you.’

Carlotta? Lydia scanned their earlier conversations and came up with the name. She was the woman who looked after his children, who’d worked for them for a hundred years, as he’d put it, and had delivered him.

Carlotta sounded good.

‘That’s such an imposition. Are you sure you don’t mind?’

‘I’m sure. It’s by far the easiest thing for me. The hotel’s the other way, and it would save me a lot of time I don’t really have, especially by the time I’ve dropped your bag over there. And you don’t honestly want to be there on your own for days, do you?’

Guilt swamped her, heaped on the disappointment and the worry about Jen, and she felt crushed under the weight of it all. She felt her spine sag, and shook her head. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve wasted your entire day. If you hadn’t given me a lift …’

‘Don’t go there. What ifs are a waste of time. Yes or no?’

‘Yes, please,’ she said fervently. ‘That would be really kind.’

‘Don’t mention it. I feel it’s all my fault anyway.’

‘Rubbish. Of course it’s not your fault. You’ve done so much already, and I don’t think I’ve even thanked you.’

‘You have. You were doing that when you fell down the steps.’

‘Was I?’ She gave him a wry grin, and turned to look up at him as they arrived at the car, resting her hand on his arm lightly to reassure him. ‘It’s really not your fault, you know.’

‘I know. You missed your step. I know this. I still …’

He was still haunted, because of the head injury, images of Angelina crowding in on him. Angelina falling, Angelina with a headache, Angelina slumped over the kitchen table with one side of her face collapsed. Angelina linked up to a life support machine …

‘Massimo?’

‘I’m all right,’ he said gruffly, and pressing the remote, he opened the door for her and settled her in, then returned the wheelchair and slid into the driver’s seat beside her. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Good. Let’s go.’

She phoned Claire and told her what was happening, assured her she would be all right and promised to phone her the next day, then put the phone down in her lap and rested her head back.

Under normal circumstances, she thought numbly, she’d be wallowing in the luxury of his butter-soft leather, beautifully supportive car seats, or taking in the picture-postcard countryside of Tuscany as the car wove and swooped along the narrow winding roads.

As it was she gazed blankly at it all, knowing that she’d have to phone Jen, knowing she should have done it sooner, that her sister would be on tenterhooks, but she didn’t have the strength to crush her hopes and dreams.

‘Have you told your sister yet?’ he asked, as if he’d read her mind.

She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t know what to say. If I hadn’t fallen, we would have won. Easily. It was just so stupid, so clumsy.’

He sighed, his hand reaching out and closing over hers briefly, the warmth of it oddly comforting in a disturbing way. ‘I’m sorry. Not because I feel it was my fault, because I know it wasn’t, really, but because I know how it feels to let someone down, to have everyone’s hopes and dreams resting on your shoulders, to have to carry the responsibility for someone else’s happiness.’

She turned towards him, inhibited by the awful, scratchy dress that she couldn’t wait to get out of, and studied his profile.

Strong. Clean cut, although no longer clean-shaven, the dark stubble that shadowed his jaw making her hand itch to feel the texture of it against her palm. In the dusk of early evening his olive skin was darker, somehow exotic, and with a little shiver she realised she didn’t know him at all. He could be taking her anywhere.

She closed her eyes and told herself not to be ridiculous. He’d followed them to the hospital, got his brother in on the act, a brother she’d heard referred to as il professore, and now he was taking her to his family home, to his children, his parents, the woman who’d delivered him all those years ago. Forty years? Maybe. Maybe more, maybe less, but give or take.

Someone who’d stayed with the family for all that time, who surely wouldn’t still be there if they were nasty people?

‘What’s wrong?’

She shrugged, too honest to lie. ‘I was just thinking, I don’t know you. You could be anyone. After all, I was going in the plane with Nico, and you’ve pointed out in no uncertain terms that that wouldn’t have been a good idea, and I just don’t think I’m a very good judge of character.’

‘Are you saying you don’t trust me?’

She found herself smiling. ‘Curiously, I do, or I wouldn’t be here with you.’

He flashed her a look, and his mouth tipped into a wry grin. ‘Well, thanks.’

‘Sorry. It wasn’t meant to sound patronising. It’s just been a bit of a whirlwind today, and I’m not really firing on all cylinders.’

‘I’m sure you’re not. Don’t worry, you’re safe with me, I promise, and we’re nearly there. You can have a long lazy shower, or lie in the bath, or have a swim. Whatever you choose.’

‘So long as I can get out of this horrible dress, I’ll be happy.’

He laughed, the sound filling the car and making something deep inside her shift.

‘Good. Stand by to be happy very soon.’

He turned off the road onto a curving gravelled track lined by cypress trees, winding away towards what looked like a huge stone fortress. She sat up straighter. ‘What’s that building?’

‘The house.’

‘House?’ She felt her jaw drop, and shut her mouth quickly. That was their house?

‘So … is this your land?’

‘Si.’

She stared around her, but the light was fading and it was hard to tell what she was looking at. But the massive edifice ahead of them was outlined against the sunset, and as they drew closer she could see lights twinkling in the windows.

They climbed the hill, driving through a massive archway and pulling up in front of a set of sweeping steps. Security lights came on as they stopped, and she could see the steps were flanked by huge terracotta pots with what looked like olive trees in them. The steps rose majestically up to the biggest set of double doors she’d ever seen in her life. Strong doors, doors that would keep you safe against all invaders.

She had to catch her jaw again, and for once in her life she was lost for words. She’d thought, foolishly, it seemed, that it might shrink as they got closer, but it hadn’t. If anything it had grown, and she realised it truly was a fortress.

An ancient, impressive and no doubt historically significant fortress. And it was his family home?

She thought of their modest farmhouse, the place she called home, and felt the sudden almost overwhelming urge to laugh. What on earth did he think of her, all tarted up in her ludicrous charity shop wedding dress and capering about outside the airport begging a lift from any old stranger?

‘Lydia?’

He was standing by her, the door open, and she gathered up the dress and her purse and phone and squirmed off the seat and out of the car, balancing on her good leg and eyeing the steps dubiously.

How on earth—?

No problem, apparently. He shut the car door, and then to her surprise he scooped her up into his arms.

She gave a little shriek and wrapped her arms around his neck, so that her nose was pressed close to his throat in the open neck of his shirt. Oh, God. He smelt of lemons and musk and warm, virile male, and she could feel the beat of his heart against her side.

Or was it her own? She didn’t know. It could have been either.

He glanced down at her, concerned that he might be hurting her. There was a little frown creasing the soft skin between her brows, and he had the crazy urge to kiss it away. He almost did, but stopped himself in time.

She was a stranger, nothing more, and he tried to ignore the feel of her against his chest, the fullness of her breasts pressing into his ribs and making his heart pound like a drum. She had her head tucked close to his shoulder, and he could feel the whisper of her breath against his skin. Under the antiseptic her hair smelled of fresh fruit and summer flowers, and he wanted to bury his face in it and breathe in.

He daren’t look down again, though. She’d wrapped her arms around his neck and the front of the dress was gaping slightly, the soft swell of those beautiful breasts tempting him almost beyond endurance.

Crazy. Stupid. Whatever was the matter with him? He gritted his teeth, shifted her a little closer and turned towards the steps.

Lydia felt his body tense, saw his jaw tighten and she wondered why. She didn’t have time to work it out, though, even if she could, because as he headed towards the house three children came tumbling down the steps and came to a sliding halt in front of them, their mouths open, their faces shocked.

‘Pàpa?’

The eldest, a thin, gangly girl with a riot of dark curls and her father’s beautiful eyes, stared from one of them to the other, and the look on her face was pure horror.

‘I think you’d better explain to your children that I am not your new wife,’ she said drily, and the girl glanced back at her and then up at her father again.

‘Pàpa?’

He was miles away, caught up in a fairy-tale fantasy of carrying this beautiful woman over the threshold and then peeling away the layers of her bridal gown …

‘Massimo? I think you need to explain to the children,’ Lydia said softly, watching his face at close range. There was a tic in his jaw, the muscle jumping. Had he carried Angelina up these steps?

‘It’s all right, Francesca,’ he said in English, struggling to find his voice. ‘This is Miss Fletcher. I met her today at the airport, and she’s had an accident and has to rest for a few days, so I’ve brought her here. Say hello.’

She frowned and asked something in Italian, and he smiled a little grimly and shook his head. ‘No. We are not married. Say hello to Miss Fletcher, cara.’

‘Hello, Miss Fletcher,’ Francesca said in careful English, her smile wary but her shoulders relaxing a little, and Lydia smiled back at her. She felt a little awkward, gathered up in his arms against that hard, broad chest with the scent of his body doing extraordinary things to her heart, but there was nothing she could do about it except smile and hope his arms didn’t break.

‘Hello, Francesca. Thank you for speaking English so I can understand you.’

‘That’s OK. We have to speak English to Auntie Isabelle. This is Lavinia, and this is Antonino. Say hello,’ she prompted.

Lydia looked at the other two, clustered round their sister. Lavinia was the next in line, with the same dark, glorious curls but mischief dancing in her eyes, and Antonino, leaning against Francesca and squiggling the toe of his shoe on the gravel, was the youngest. The baby in the photo, the little one who must have lost his mother before he ever really knew her.

Her heart ached for them all, and she felt a welling in her chest and crushed it as she smiled at them.

‘Hello, Lavinia, hello, Antonino. It’s nice to meet you,’ she said, and they replied politely, Lavinia openly studying her, her eyes brimming over with questions.

‘And this is Carlotta,’ Massimo said, and she lifted her head and met searching, wise eyes in a wizened face. He spoke rapidly to her in Italian, explaining her ridiculous fancy-dress outfit no doubt, and she saw the moment he told her that they’d lost the competition, because Carlotta’s face softened and she looked at Lydia and shook her head.

‘Sorry,’ she said, lifting her hands. ‘So sorry for you. Come, I help you change and you will be happier, si?’

‘Si,’ she said with a wry chuckle, and Massimo shifted her more firmly against his chest and followed Carlotta puffing and wheezing up the steps.

The children were tugging at him and questioning him in Italian, and he was laughing and answering them as fast as he could. Bless their little hearts, she could see they were hanging on his every word.

He was the centre of their world, and they’d missed him, and she’d kept him away from them all these hours when they must have been desperate to have him back. She felt another shaft of guilt, but Carlotta was leading the way through the big double doors, and she looked away from the children and gasped softly.

They were in a cloistered courtyard, with a broad covered walkway surrounding the open central area that must cast a welcome shade in the heat of the day, but now in the evening it was softly lit and she could see more of the huge pots of olive trees set on the old stone paving in the centre, and on the low wall that divided the courtyard from the cloistered walkway geraniums tumbled over the edge, bringing colour and scent to the evening air.

But that wasn’t what had caught her attention. It was the frescoed walls, the ancient faded murals under the shelter of the cloisters that took her breath away.

He didn’t pause, though, or give her time to take in the beautiful paintings, but carried her through one of the several doors set in the walls, then along a short hallway and into a bedroom.

He set her gently on the bed, and she felt oddly bereft as he straightened up and moved away.

‘I’ll be in the kitchen with the children. Carlotta will tell me when you’re ready and I’ll come and get you.’

‘Thank you.’

He smiled fleetingly and went out, the children’s clamouring voices receding as he walked away, and Carlotta closed the door.

‘Your bath,’ she said, pushing open another door, and she saw a room lined with pale travertine marble, the white suite simple and yet luxurious. And the bath—she could stick her bandaged leg up on the side and just wallow. Pure luxury.

‘Thank you.’ She couldn’t wait. All she wanted was to get out of the dress and into water. But the zip …

‘I help you,’ Carlotta said, and as the zip slid down, she was freed from the scratchy fabric at last. A bit too freed. She clutched at the top as it threatened to drift away and smiled at Carlotta.

‘I can manage now,’ she said, and Carlotta nodded.

‘I get your bag.’

She went out, and Lydia closed the bedroom door behind her, leaning back against it and looking around again.

It was much simpler than the imposing and impressive entrance, she saw with relief. Against expectations it wasn’t vast, but it was pristine, the bed made up with sparkling white linen, the rug on the floor soft underfoot, and the view from the French window would be amazing in daylight.

She limped gingerly over to the window and stared out, pressing her face against the glass. The doors opened onto what looked like a terrace, and beyond—gosh, the view must be utterly breathtaking, she imagined, because even at dusk it was extraordinary, the twinkling lights of villages and scattered houses sparkling in the twilight.

Moving away from the window, she glanced around her, taking in her surroundings in more detail. The floor was tiled, the ceiling beamed, with chestnut perhaps? Probably, with terracotta tiles between the beams. Sturdy, simple and homely—which was crazy, considering the scale of the place and the grandeur of the entrance! But it seemed more like a farm now, curiously, less of a fortress, and much less threatening.

And that established, she let go of the awful dress, kicked it away from her legs, bundled it up in a ball and hopped into the bathroom.

The water was calling her. Studying the architecture could wait.

CHAPTER THREE

WHAT was that noise?

Lydia lifted her head, water streaming off her hair as she surfaced to investigate.

‘Signorina? Signorina!’

Carlotta’s voice was desperate as she rattled the handle on the bathroom door, and Lydia felt a stab of alarm.

‘What is it?’ she asked, sitting up with a splash and sluicing the water from her hair with her hands.

‘Oh, signorina! You are all right?’

She closed her eyes and twisted her hair into a rope, squeezing out the rest of the water and suppressing a sigh. ‘I’m fine. I’m OK, really. I won’t be long.’

‘I wait, I help you.’

‘No, really, there’s no need. I’ll be all right.’

‘But Massimo say I no leave you!’ she protested, clearly worried for some reason, but Lydia assured her again that she was fine.

‘OK,’ she said after a moment, sounding dubious. ‘I leave your bag here. You call me for help?’

‘I will. Thank you. Grazie.’

‘Prego.’

She heard the bedroom door close, and rested her head back down on the bath with a sigh. The woman was kindness itself, but Lydia just wanted to be left alone. Her head ached, her ankle throbbed, she had a million bruises all over her body and she still had to phone her sister.

The phone rang, almost as if she’d triggered it with her thoughts, and she could tell by the ringtone it was Jen.

Oh, rats. She must have heard the news.

There was no getting round it, so she struggled awkwardly out of the bath and hobbled back to the bed, swathed in the biggest towel she’d ever seen, and dug out her phone and rang Jen back.

‘What’s going on? They said you’d had an accident! I’ve been trying to phone you for ages but you haven’t been answering! Are you all right? We’ve been frantic!’

‘Sorry, Jen, I was in the bath. I’m fine, really, it was just a little slip on the steps of a plane and I’ve twisted my ankle. Nothing serious.’

Well, she hoped it wasn’t. She crossed her fingers, just to be on the safe side, and filled in a few more details. She didn’t tell her the truth, just that Jo had got there first.

‘I’m so sorry, we really tried, but we probably wouldn’t have made it even without the accident.’

There was a heartbeat of hesitation, then Jen said, ‘Don’t worry, it really doesn’t matter and it’s not important. I just need you to be all right. And don’t go blaming yourself, it’s not your fault.’

Why did everyone say that? It was her fault. If she’d looked where she was going, taken a bit more care, Jen and Andy would have been having the wedding of their dreams in a few months’ time. As it was, well, as it was they wouldn’t, but she wasn’t going to give Jen anything to beat herself up about, so she told her she was fine, just a little twinge—and nothing at all about the head injury.

‘Actually, since I’m over here, I thought I’d stay on for a few days. I’ve found a farm where I can get bed and breakfast, and I’m going to have a little holiday.’

Well, it wasn’t entirely a lie. It was a farm, she had a bed, and she was sure they wouldn’t make her starve while she recovered.

‘You do that. It sounds lovely,’ Jen said wistfully, and Lydia screwed her face up and bit her lip.

Damn. She’d been so close, and the disappointment that Jen was trying so hard to disguise was ripping Lydia apart.

Ending the call with a promise to ring when she was coming home, she dug her clean clothes out of the flight bag and pulled her jeans on carefully over her swollen, throbbing ankle. The soft, worn fabric of the jeans and the T-shirt were comforting against her skin, chafed from her fall as well as the boning and beading in the dress, and she looked around for the offending article. It was gone. Taken away by Carlotta? She hoped she hadn’t thrown it out. She wanted the pleasure of that for herself.

She put her trainers on, managing to squeeze her bandaged foot in with care, and hobbled out of her room in search of the others, but the corridor outside didn’t seem to lead anywhere except her room, a little sitting room and a room that looked like an office, so she went back through the door to the beautiful cloistered courtyard and looked around for any clues.

There were none.

So now what? She couldn’t just stand there and yell, nor could she go round the courtyard systematically opening all the doors. Not that there were that many, but even so.

She was sitting there on the low wall around the central courtyard, studying the beautiful frescoes and trying to work out what to do if nobody showed up, when the door nearest to her opened and Massimo appeared. He’d showered and changed out of the suit into jeans and a soft white linen shirt stark against his olive skin, the cuffs rolled back to reveal those tanned forearms which had nearly been her undoing on the plane, and her heart gave a tiny lurch.

Stupid.

He caught sight of her and smiled, and her heart did another little jiggle as he walked towards her.

‘Lydia, I was just coming to see if you were all right. I’m sorry, I should have come back quicker. How are you? How’s the head?’

‘Fine,’ she said with a rueful smile. ‘I’m just a bit lost. I didn’t want to go round opening all the doors, it seemed rude.’

‘You should have shouted. I would have heard you.’

‘I’m not in the habit of yelling for help,’ she said drily, and he chuckled and came over to her side.

‘Let me help you now,’ he said, and offered her his arm. ‘It’s not far, hang on and hop, or would you rather I carried you?’

‘I’ll hop,’ she said hastily, not sure she could cope with being snuggled up to that broad, solid chest again, with the feel of his arms strong and safe under her. ‘I don’t want to break you.’

He laughed at that. ‘I don’t think you’ll break me. Did you find everything you needed? How’s your room?’

She slipped her arm through his, conscious of the smell of him again, refreshed now by his shower and overlaid with soap and more of the citrusy cologne that had been haunting her nostrils all day. She wanted to press her nose to his chest, to breathe him in, to absorb the warmth and scent and maleness of him.

Not appropriate. She forced herself to concentrate.

‘Lovely. The bath was utter bliss. I can’t tell you how wonderful it was to get out of that awful dress. I hope Carlotta hasn’t burned it, I want to do it myself.’

He laughed again, a warm, rich sound that echoed round the courtyard, and scanned her body with his eyes. ‘It really didn’t do you justice,’ he said softly, and in the gentle light she thought she caught a glimpse of whatever it was she’d seen in his eyes at the airport.

But then it was gone, and he was opening the door and ushering her through to a big, brightly lit kitchen. Carlotta was busy at the stove, and the children were seated at a large table in the middle of the room, Antonino kneeling up and leaning over to interfere with what Lavinia was doing.

She pushed him aside crossly, and Massimo intervened before a fight could break out, diffusing it swiftly by splitting them up. While he was busy, Carlotta came and helped her to the table. She smiled at her gratefully.

‘I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble.’

‘Is no trouble,’ she said. ‘Sit, sit. Is ready.’

She sniffed, and smiled. ‘It smells wonderful.’

‘Buono. You eat, then you feel better. Sit!’

She flapped her apron at Lydia, and she sat obediently at the last place laid at the long table. It was opposite Francesca, and Massimo was at the end of the table on her right, bracketed by the two younger ones who’d been split up to stop them squabbling.

They were fractious—overtired, she thought guiltily, and missing their father. But Francesca was watching her warily. She smiled at the girl apologetically.

‘I’m sorry I kept your father away from you for so long. He’s been so kind and helpful.’

‘He is. He helps everybody. Are you better now?’

‘I’m all right. I’ve just got a bit of a headache but I don’t think it’s much more than that. I was so stupid. I tripped over the hem of my dress and fell down the steps of the plane and hit my head.’

Behind her, there was a clatter, and Francesca went chalk white, her eyes huge with horror and distress.

‘Scusami,’ she mumbled, and pushing back her chair, she ran from the room, her father following, his chair crashing over as he leapt to his feet.

‘Francesca!’ He reached the door before it closed, and she could hear his voice calling as he ran after her. Horrified, uncertain what she’d done, she turned to Carlotta and found her with her apron pressed to her face, her eyes above it creased with distress.

‘What did I say?’ she whispered, conscious of the little ones, but Carlotta just shook her head and picked up the pan and thrust it in the sink.

‘Is nothing. Here, eat. Antonino!’

He sat down, and Lavinia put away the book he’d been trying to tug away from her, and Carlotta picked up Massimo’s overturned chair and ladled food out onto all their plates.

There was fresh bread drizzled with olive oil, and a thick, rich stew of beans and sausage and gloriously red tomatoes. It smelt wonderful, tasted amazing, but Lydia could scarcely eat it. The children were eating. Whatever it was she’d said or done had gone right over their heads, but something had driven Francesca from the room, and her father after her.

The same something that had made Massimo go pale at the airport, as he’d knelt on the tarmac at her side? The same something that had made him stand, rigid with tension, staring grimly at a poster when he thought she was asleep in the room at the hospital?

She pushed back her chair and hopped over to the sink, where Carlotta was scrubbing furiously at a pot. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t eat. Carlotta, what did I say?’ she asked under her breath, and those old, wise eyes that had seen so much met hers, and she shook her head, twisting her hands in the dishcloth and biting her lips.

She put the pot on the draining board, and Lydia automatically picked up a tea towel and dried it, her hip propped against the edge of the sink unit as she balanced on her good leg. Another pot followed, and another, and finally Carlotta stopped scouring the pots as if they were lined with demons and her hands came to rest.

She hobbled over to the children, cleared up their plates, gave them pudding and then gathered them up like a mother hen.

‘Wait here. Eat. He will come back.’

They left her there in the kitchen, their footsteps echoing along a corridor and up stairs, and Lydia sank down at the table and stared blankly at the far wall, going over and over her words in her head and getting nowhere.

Carlotta appeared again and put Francesca’s supper in a microwave.

‘Is she coming down again? I want to apologise for upsetting her.’

‘No. Is all right, signorina. Her pàpa look after her.’ And lifting the plate out of the microwave, she carried it out of the room on a tray, leaving Lydia alone again.

She poked at her food, but it was cold now, the beans congealing in the sauce, and she ripped up a bit of bread and dabbed it absently in the stew. What had she said, that had caused such distress?

She had no idea, but she couldn’t leave the kitchen without finding out, and there was still a pile of washing up to do. She didn’t know where anything lived, but the table was big enough to put it all on, and there was a dishwasher sitting there empty.

Well, if she could do nothing else while she waited, she could do that, she told herself, and pushing up her sleeves, she hopped over to the dishwasher and set about clearing up the kitchen.

He had to go down to her—to explain, or apologise properly, at the very least.

His stomach growled, but he ignored it. He couldn’t eat, not while his daughter was just settling into sleep at last, her sobs fading quietly away into the night.

He closed his eyes. Talking to Lydia, dredging it all up again, was the last thing he wanted to do, the very last, but he had no choice. Leaning over Francesca, he pressed a kiss lightly against her cheek, and straightened. She was sleeping peacefully now; he could leave her.

Leave her, and go and find Lydia, if she hadn’t had the sense to pack up her things and leave. It seemed unlikely, but he couldn’t blame her.

He found her in the kitchen, sitting with Carlotta over a cup of coffee, the kitchen sparkling. He stared at them, then at the kitchen. Carlotta had been upstairs until a short while ago, settling the others, and the kitchen had been in chaos, so how?

‘She’s OK now,’ he said in Italian. ‘Why don’t you go to bed, Carlotta? You look exhausted and Roberto’s worried about you.’

She nodded and got slowly to her feet, then rested her hand on Lydia’s shoulder and patted it before leaving her side. ‘I am tired,’ she said to him in Italian, ‘but you need to speak to Lydia. I couldn’t leave her. She’s a good girl, Massimo. Look at my kitchen! A good, kind girl, and she’s unhappy. Worried.’

He sighed. ‘I know. Did you explain?’

‘No. It’s not my place, but be gentle with her—and yourself.’ And with that pointed remark, she left them alone together.

Lydia looked up at him and searched his eyes. ‘What did she say to you?’

He gave her a fleeting smile. ‘She told me you were a good, kind girl. And she told me to be gentle with you.’

Her eyes filled, and she looked away. ‘I don’t know what I said, but I’m so, so sorry.’

His conscience pricked him. He should have warned her. He sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair.

‘No. I should be apologising, not you. Forgive us, we aren’t normally this rude to visitors. Francesca was upset.’

‘I know that. Obviously I made it happen. What I don’t know is why,’ she said, looking up at him again with griefstricken eyes.

He reached for a mug, changed his mind and poured himself a glass of wine. ‘Can I tempt you?’

‘Is it one of yours?’

‘No. It’s a neighbour’s, but it’s good. We could take it outside. I don’t know if it’s wise, though, with your head injury.’

‘I’ll take the risk,’ she said. ‘And then will you tell me what I said?’

‘You know what you said. What you don’t know is what it meant,’ he said enigmatically, and picking up both glasses of wine, he headed for the door, glancing back over his shoulder at her. ‘Can you manage, or should I carry you?’

Carry her? With her face pressed up against that taunting aftershave, and the feel of his strong, muscled arms around her legs? ‘I can manage,’ she said hastily, and pushing back her chair, she got to her feet and limped after him out into the still, quiet night.

She could hear the soft chirr of insects, the sound of a motorbike somewhere in the valley below, and then she saw a single headlight slicing through the night, weaving and turning as it followed the snaking road along the valley bottom and disappeared.

He led her to a bench at the edge of the terrace. The ground fell away below them so it felt as if they were perched on the edge of the world, and when she was seated he handed her the glass and sat beside her, his elbows propped on his knees, his own glass dangling from his fingers as he stared out over the velvet blackness.

For a while neither of them said anything, but then the tension got to her and she broke the silence.

‘Please tell me.’

He sucked in his breath, looking down, staring into his glass as he slowly swirled the wine before lifting it to his lips.

‘Massimo?’ she prompted, and he turned his head and met her eyes. Even in the moonlight, she could see the pain etched into his face, and her heart began to thud slowly.

‘Angelina died of a brain haemorrhage following a fall,’ he began, his voice expressionless. ‘Nothing serious, nothing much at all, just a bit of a bump. She’d fallen down the stairs and hit her head on the wall. We all thought she was all right, but she had a bit of a headache later in the day, and we went to bed early. I woke in the night and she was missing, and I found her in the kitchen, slumped over the table, and one side of her face had collapsed.’

Lydia closed her eyes and swallowed hard as the nausea threatened to choke her. What had she done? Not just by saying what she had at the table—the same table? But by bringing this on all of them, on Claire, on him, on the children—most especially little Francesca, her eyes wide with pain and shock, fleeing from the table. The image would stay with her forever.

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he said gently. ‘You weren’t to know. I probably should have told you—warned you not to talk about it in that way, and why. I let you walk right into it.’

She turned back to him, searching his face in the shadows. She’d known something was wrong when he was bending over her on the tarmac, and again later, staring at the poster. And yet he’d said nothing.

‘Why didn’t you tell me? I knew something was wrong, something else, something more. Luca seemed much more worried than my condition warranted, even I knew that, and he kept looking at you anxiously. I thought he was worried about me, but then I realised it was you he was worried about. I just didn’t know why. You should have told me.’

‘How could I? You had a head injury. How could I say to you, “I’m sorry, I’m finding this a bit hard to deal with, my wife died of the same thing and I’m a bit worried I might lose you, too.” How could I say that?’

He’d been worried he could lose her?

No. Of course he hadn’t meant that, he didn’t know her. He meant he was worried she might be about to die, too. Nothing more than that.

‘You should have left us there instead of staying and getting distressed. I had no business tangling you all up in this mess—oh, Massimo, I’m so sorry.’

She broke off, clamping her teeth hard to stop her eyes from welling over, but his warm hand on her shoulder was the last straw, and she felt the hot, wet slide of a tear down her cheek.

‘Cara, no. Don’t cry for us. It was a long time ago.’

‘But it still hurts you, and it’ll hurt you forever,’ she said unevenly.

‘No, it just brought the memories back. We’re all right, really. We’re getting there. Francesca’s the oldest, she remembers Angelina the most clearly, and she’s the one who bears the brunt of the loss, because when I’m not there the little ones turn to her. She has to be mother to them, and she’s been so strong, but she’s just a little girl herself.’

He broke off, his jaw working, and she laid her hand gently against it and sighed.

‘I’m so sorry. It must have been dreadful for you all.’

‘It was. They took her to hospital, and she died later that day—she was on life support and they tested her brain but there was nothing. No activity at all. They turned off the machine, and I came home and told the children that their mother was gone. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life.’

His voice broke off again, turning away this time, and Lydia closed her eyes and swallowed the anguished response. There was nothing she could say that wouldn’t be trite or meaningless, and so she stayed silent, and after a moment he let out a long, slow breath and sat back against the bench.

‘So, now you know,’ he said, his voice low and oddly flat.

Wordlessly, she reached out and touched his hand, and he turned it, his fingers threading through hers and holding on tight.

They stayed like that for an age, their hands lying linked between them as they sipped their wine, and then he turned to her in the dim light and searched her face. He’d taken comfort from her touch, felt the warmth of her generous spirit seeping into him, easing the ache which had been a part of him for so long.

How could she do that with just a touch?

No words. Words were too hard, would have been trite. Did she know that?

Yes. He could see that she did, that this woman who talked too much actually knew the value of silence.

He lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips, then smiled at her sadly. ‘Did you eat anything?’

She shook her head. ‘No. Not really.’

‘Nor did I. Shall we see what we can find? It’s a very, very long time since breakfast.’

It wasn’t exactly haute cuisine, but the simple fare of olive bread and ham and cheese with sweetly scented baby plum tomatoes and a bowl of olive oil and balsamic vinegar just hit the spot.

He poured them another glass of wine, but it didn’t seem like a good idea and so she gave him the second half and he found some sparkling water for her. She realised she’d thought nothing of handing him her glass of wine for him to finish, and he’d taken it without hesitation and drunk from it without turning a hair.

How odd, when they’d only met a scant twelve hours ago. Thirteen hours and a few minutes, to be more exact.

It seemed more like a lifetime since she’d watched him getting out of the taxi, wondered if he’d be The One to make it happen. The guy she’d been talking to was funny and seemed nice enough, but he wasn’t about to give her a lift and she knew that. But Massimo had looked at her as he’d gone into the Jet Centre foyer, his eyes meeting hers and locking …

She glanced up, and found him watching her with a frown.

‘Why are you frowning?’ she asked, and his mouth kicked up a fraction in one corner, the frown ironed out with a deliberate effort.

‘No reason. How’s your head now?’

She shrugged. ‘OK. It just feels as if I fell over my feet and spent the day hanging about in a hospital.’ It was rather worse than that, but he didn’t need to know about every ache and pain. The list was endless.

She reached out and covered his hand. ‘Massimo, I’m all right,’ she said softly, and the little frown came back.

‘Sorry. It’s just a reflex. I look after people—it’s part of my job description. Everyone comes to me with their problems.’

She smiled at him, remembering her conversation with Francesca.

‘I’m sorry I kept your father away from you for so long. He’s been so kind and helpful.’

‘He is. He helps everybody.’

‘You’re just a fixer, aren’t you? You fix everything for everybody all the time, and you hate it when things can’t be fixed.’

His frown deepened for a moment, and then he gave a wry laugh and pulled his hand away, swirling the wine in her glass before draining it. ‘Is it so obvious?’

She felt her lips twitch. ‘Only if you’re on the receiving end. Don’t get me wrong, I’m massively grateful and just so sorry I’ve dragged you into this awful mess and upset everyone. I’m more than happy you’re a fixer, because goodness only knows I seemed to need one today. I think I need a guardian angel, actually. I just have such a gift for getting into a mess and dragging everybody with me.’

She broke off, and he tipped his head on one side and that little crease between his eyebrows returned fleetingly. ‘A gift?’

She sighed. ‘Jen’s accident was sort of my fault.’

He sat back, his eyes searching hers. ‘Tell me,’ he said softly, so she did.

She told him about Russell, about their trip to her parents’ farm for the weekend, because Jen and Andy were going to be there as well and she hadn’t seen them for a while. And she’d shown him the farm, and he’d seen the quad bike, and suggested they went out on it so she could show him all the fields.

‘I didn’t want to go with him. He was a crazy driver, and I knew he’d want to go too fast, so I said no, but then Jen offered to show him round. She wanted to get him alone, to threaten him with death if he hurt me, but he hurt her instead. He went far too fast, and she told him to stop but he thought she was just being chicken and she wasn’t, she knew about the fallen tree hidden in the long grass, and then they hit it and the quad bike cartwheeled through the air and landed on her.’

He winced and closed his eyes briefly. ‘And she ended up in a wheelchair?’

‘Not for a few weeks. She had a fractured spine, and she was in a special bed for a while. It wasn’t displaced, the spinal cord wasn’t severed but it was badly bruised and it took a long time to recover and for the bones to heal. She’s getting better now, she’s starting to walk again, but she lost her job and so did Andy, so he could look after her. He took away everything from them, and if I’d gone with him, if it had been me, then I might have been able to stop him.’