The Italian's Wife By Sunset. Lucy Gordon
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‘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.’