In the Italian's Sights. HELEN BROOKS
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Think of all the red tape and paperwork if it got stolen.
Cherry sighed again. The olive groves either side of the road were picturesque, the warm balmy air was scented with summer, and the only sound was the lazy humming and buzzing of insects and the odd bird call; normally she would have drunk in such serenity.
Stupid car. She glared at it. But she wasn’t going to panic. She would eat her lunch—it would be one less thing to carry, after all—and then start walking back whence she’d come. It was the only thing she could do. It might be hours, days, before someone came down this road, for all she knew, and the thought of staying with the car and it getting dark was a bit scary. She’d seen too many horror movies that didn’t end well to do that. She smiled wryly at herself.
Cherry was sitting perched on top of the drystone wall eating the cake when she heard the sound of a vehicle. Narrowing her eyes, she peered into the distance, her heart pounding. She saw a cloud of dust first, on the road in front of her. If it was one of the local farmers he was going to be thrilled to bits with the roadblock she’d inadvertently caused. Nevertheless, a middle-aged fatherly farmer would be preferable to one of the many Don Juans she’d encountered since being here, who clearly considered a young English girl on her own fair game. It didn’t help that she looked so much younger than her twenty-five years either. Small at five-foot-four, and naturally slender, she was resigned to being taken for seventeen or eighteen. Liam had often pulled her leg about it, saying he was aware everyone would think he was cradle-snatching when she was constantly asked for her ID at nightclubs.
She could see a car now, and all thoughts of Liam went out of her head as she surveyed the midnight-blue Ferrari nosing its way towards her. Hell. Definitely one of the local Lotharios. And no doubt one who’d think he was doing her a great honour by brightening up her sad existence and offering to sleep with her—like the one a couple of days ago, who’d asked her if she’d like some real Italian loooove. She’d actually laughed at the way he’d drawn out the last word, before refusing his generous offer as politely as she could. He’d taken the rebuff with the lazy, philosophical good humour most young Italian males exhibited towards the opposite sex, joining his friends after blowing her a theatrical kiss. Not for the first time since she had been in Italy, she’d thought the outrageous flirting was just a game. Albeit an ever hopeful one.
Cherry clambered down from the wall, brushing crumbs of cake from her T-shirt. She had reached the Fiat by the time the approaching car drew to a halt. The tinted windows made it difficult to see the occupant, and as the driver’s door opened she braced herself, trying to gather her composure. It was one thing dealing with over-confident and amorous males in the safety of crowded streets or market places—quite another on a lonely stretch of road without a soul in sight. For a split second all the stories she’d ever heard about women tourists abroad getting raped or murdered were as one in her mind.
The man who uncoiled himself with leisurely ease from the Ferrari was no youth. Cherry had a quick impression of height—at least six foot—breadth—his shoulders were broad and strong—and a handsome dark face which had lines of experience carved into it, before he drawled something in Italian. She didn’t understand any of it beyond the signorina at the end.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian,’ she said quickly.
She thought he sighed before he said, ‘You are English?’
It was said with an air of resignation. He didn’t actually add, Another stupid tourist, but he might as well have. Cherry felt her hackles rising and her nod was curt.
‘So.’ He surveyed her through dark sunglasses. ‘There is a problem, signorina?’
Yes—and she had the feeling she was looking at it. With a calm she was far from feeling, Cherry gave a cool smile. ‘I’m afraid my car has broken down.’
‘And your destination?’ he asked smoothly.
‘I don’t know.’ That sounded ridiculous, and she hastily added, ‘I was just exploring. I wasn’t making for anywhere specific.’ That didn’t sound too great either.
‘Where are you staying?’
This time she kept her voice firm and precise when she said, ‘I’ve been staying in Lecce, but I decided to come up the coast for a while. To do a bit of sight seeing,’ she added defiantly.
‘This is not a coast road, signorina.’
Sarcastic swine. ‘I’m aware of that,’ she said crisply. ‘Someone told me about the medieval castles of Puglia, and in particular the Castel del Monte. I—I was going in that direction, but I wanted to see a bit of the country side.’
‘I see.’ The two words told her exactly what he thought of her decision to turn inland. ‘And now you are blocking my road.’ He moved slightly and every nerve in her tensed.
‘Your road?’ she asked warily.
‘Si,’ he said with silky gentleness. ‘This is my estate you are on, signorina. Did you not see the sign some distance back, telling you you were on private land?’
Oh, great—perfect. No, she hadn’t seen his stupid old sign. ‘There was no gate,’ she said defensively, skirting his question.
‘We have no need of gates. In Italy we respect one another’s property.’ The message was abundantly clear.
She really didn’t like this man. ‘Well, I’m sorry,’ she said tersely. ‘I can assure you that if I had known it was your land I wouldn’t have set foot on it.’ The words themselves could have been an apology. Her inflexion made them anything but.
To add insult to injury, she was sure she saw the stern, faintly sensual mouth twitch with amusement before he walked over to her, saying, ‘So, let us see if we can persuade your car to continue its journey. The keys?’
‘They’re in the ignition.’
In spite of her predicament, Cherry found she was praying the car wouldn’t make her look even more of a fool by starting immediately—but she needn’t have worried. After a moment or two he released the bonnet and peered in, then tried the engine again. Still nothing, she thought gratefully.
Sliding out of the car with the natural gracefulness all Italian males seemed to have, he said mildly, ‘When was the last time you filled up with petrol, signorina?’
Ha! She had him there. She wasn’t so dopey she’d run out of fuel. ‘Today,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Before leaving Alberobello. I’ve got a full tank.’
‘And after you had bought the fuel? Did you leave the town immediately?’ he asked quietly.
She stared at him. She had no idea what he was getting at. ‘No. I filled up with diesel and then explored a bit.’
‘On foot?’ And, as she stared at him, ‘On foot, signorina?’
Was that a crime? ‘Yes, on foot.’ Now he was closer she was finding his maleness somewhat intimidating. The sculptured bone structure of the handsome face, the thick, dark hair slicked back in a severe cut and the clearly expensive clothes he was wearing all contributed to a slightly predatory arrogance that was unnerving in the present circumstances.
He nodded slowly. ‘I think, perhaps, you have been the victim of one of the—how do you say in England?—the scams that are prevalent in the cities and towns. A full tank of fuel is worth stealing.’
‘Stealing?’ she echoed. Even to herself she sounded witless.
‘Si, signorina. It is relatively easy to make a small hole in the petrol tank and syphon off the liquid into a suitable container.’ He shrugged, Latin-style. ‘It is an inconvenience.’
And how. Glaring at him as though he’d done the deed himself, Cherry said acidly, ‘So in Italy this respect of property you talked about doesn’t extend to cars, Signor…?’
‘Carella.