An Italian Engagement
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Catherine George
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12
CHAPTER ONE
AFTER travelling the first stages by boat and train it was a relief to take to the road for the last lap of her journey. Abby checked the map, took a minute or two to familiarise herself with the hire car, then set off on a route which meandered through a sunlit Umbrian landscape with postcard views on all sides. But after a few kilometres the surface began to deteriorate. The road grew narrow and hair-raisingly steep, winding up in hairpin bends, each one tighter than the last. Abby crouched over the wheel, praying she wouldn’t meet any oncoming traffic, her eyes too firmly glued to the road to notice the warning light on the dashboard. Suddenly a geyser of steam spurted up from the bonnet, a smell of hot metal filled the car, and a despairing look at the temperature gauge confirmed that it was almost off the clock.
Abby pulled over as far as she could against the hillside, yanked hard on the handbrake to secure the car on the steep incline, released the bonnet switch and got out, eyeing the car with hostility. It was obviously too hot to touch, but in the afternoon sunlight it was unlikely to cool down any time soon, either. Using a clump of tissues to protect her fingers, she raked up the bonnet and jumped back to avoid scalding jets of steam. The radiator obviously needed water more than she did. Great. Abby took her phone from her bag to explain why she was late. And ground her teeth in frustration. No signal. No choice, then, either. She had to walk. She reached in the car for her hat, then shot straight out again as she heard the roar of a powerful engine somewhere up ahead. Acting on instinct, she darted in front of her car, waving her hat in frantic warning as a flame-red vehicle came surging round the bend through a cloud of dust. Abby jumped out of the way at the last minute, her heart hammering at her ribs as the car swerved to halt just a yard or so away, its heavy tyres scattering shale and pebbles in all directions. Shaken and breathless, she stood her ground as six feet of furious male jumped out and bombarded her with a spate of Italian so rapid and incensed she could barely understand a word of it.
Knowing she’d only get another flood in response if she uttered a word of her own very basic Italian, Abby held up her hand like a traffic policeman, took off her dark glasses and smiled ruefully. ‘I’m terribly sorry. My car’s broken down. Do you speak English?’
The man’s eyebrows shot up over aviator lenses. ‘Good God. You’re a Brit?’
‘Yes,’ she said, surprised, because so was he.
‘What the devil are you doing here? I could have killed you! This is a private road.’
Her smile faded. ‘I’m aware of that. I’m on my way to an appointment at the Villa Falcone.’
‘Oh, right. Another of Gianni’s fans,’ he said, in a tone which raised her hackles.
She gave him a frosty look. ‘My appointment with Mr Falcone is strictly business.’
‘That’s what they all say.’ He thrust a hand through his hair, scowling at her. ‘That was a damn stupid thing to do. Be grateful my brakes are efficient.’
Abby was used to dealing with people in her job, but she was hot, tired, late for an appointment, and in no mood for a lecture. ‘If this road is Mr Falcone’s private property are you a fan, or just a trespasser?’
‘For your information,’ he drawled, ‘it’s not Gianni’s private road. It’s mine.’
‘Oh.’ Abby’s hot face reddened in embarrassment. ‘Then I apologise. I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.’
‘Obviously. Let’s take a look at your car.’
Abby raked the bonnet up again and stood back. He hooked his sunglasses in his belt and bent over the engine to investigate. She looked on without much hope, but when he straightened to wipe sweat from his forehead she frowned in surprise. The tanned, saturnine face looked familiar. She could have sworn she’d seen him before—Oh, come on, Abigail. How likely was that? Stress and heat were frying her brain.
‘Your radiator’s sprung a leak,’ he informed her. ‘A stone probably pierced it from underneath. You wouldn’t have noticed on this surface. My apologies.’
Abby smiled graciously. ‘Hardly your fault.’
‘The apology is for my suspicions. I took it for granted the breakdown was staged.’ His smile set her teeth on edge. ‘Gianni’s fans can be amazingly creative in their attempts to get at him.’
She needed this man’s help, she reminded herself. ‘I assure you that Mr Falcone is expecting me.’ She looked at her watch in dismay. ‘In fact I’m due to meet him in twenty minutes, but I can’t get a signal to tell him I’m delayed.’
‘You won’t in this spot. I’ll drive you back to my place to ring Gianni. He can send someone to pick you up.’ A pair of hard, deep-set eyes gave her a look she didn’t care for very much. ‘Were you expecting to stay at his house overnight?’
‘No,’ she said coolly. ‘I’m booked in at a hotel in Todi. After my meeting with Mr Falcone I’ll get back there by taxi.’
For the first time he gave her a genuine, megawatt smile. ‘Right, let’s go, then. My name’s Wingate, by the way.’
‘Abigail Green,’ she said, dazzled by the smile. ‘I appreciate your help, Mr Wingate.’ She collected her belongings from the car and locked it, wiped her hands on a tissue, jammed her panama low on her forehead and got into the passenger seat of what she could now see was a Range Rover sports car. The perforated leather of the passenger seat supported her in pure comfort after the cramped little hire car, but Abby sat rigid, eyes firmly averted from the drops below, while her reluctant Samaritan turned the car in a skilled, terrifying manoeuvre, then took off up bends which grew more hair-raising the higher they climbed. At last, to her infinite relief, they passed through a gap in weathered walls into the courtyard of a house built of pale, sun-washed stone.
‘Oh, how lovely,’ she said involuntarily. The infrequent windows were of different sizes and set in the walls with no apparent eye for symmetry, but the effect was utterly captivating. When she got out she could see that each window had been placed to look down on a different view of wooded hills and vineyards, interspersed with cultivated fields protected by serpentine rows of tall cypresses.
‘What a fantastic panorama,’ she said, impressed. ‘It’s almost worth the drive up here to look down at it.’
‘Not many people agree with you on that—fortunately.’ He ushered her into the house through a porch with greenery twining round its pillars. ‘Come inside out of the sun.’
Abby followed him across a cool hall to a living room with exposed beams and massive stone fireplace.
‘Sit down,’ he invited. ‘I’ll fetch you some fruit juice.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled a little. ‘But I’ve been sitting all day, one way and another. Would you mind if I just stand at the windows to look at the view?’
The hard eyes softened as he gave her the smile again. ‘Feel free. Where did you hire the car?’
‘The hotel arranged it—the Villaluisa.’
‘Right. I’ll ring them after I get hold of Gianni.’
Alone with the view, Abby could hear him talking in rapid-fire Italian in another room, presumably with Giancarlo Falcone. She fervently hoped so. Otherwise she’d come a long way for nothing. When she’d begged time off to fly to Venice to meet her brand-new nephew, her boss had agreed as long as she made a detour to Todi on the way back to finalise details for the young tenor’s first British concerts.
‘Arrangements made,’ said her host, returning with a tray. He poured fruit juice into a tall, ice-filled glass and handed it over. ‘I’ll drive you to the Villa Falcone myself.’
Surprised, Abby thanked him and drank thirstily. ‘That’s extremely kind of you,’ she said after a moment. ‘But I must be holding you up. You were on your way somewhere earlier.’
‘I cancelled.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is someone waiting for you at the hotel?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m flying home tomorrow to get back to work on Monday. Thank you,’ she added as he refilled her glass.
‘What do you do?’
Abby gave him a brief description of her job as assistant to an impresario. ‘I help organise various events. In summer it’s mostly open-air picnic concerts in picturesque venues. A major part of my job involves looking after the performers, which is why I’m here right now. Giancarlo Falcone is a big draw, but he’s been hard to pin down to an actual date, and brochure deadlines are looming.’
‘So your boss thought the feminine touch would bring him to heel?’
‘Only because I happened to be travelling to Venice to see my new nephew. My sister’s husband is in the hotel business there.’
‘He’s Italian?’
She smiled a little. ‘I think Domenico looks on himself as Venetian.’
‘Then he must be elated to have a son.’
‘He was, once he was sure that all was well with Laura. But he’s equally besotted with the daughter who arrived first, two years ago.’
‘You like children?’
‘Of course.’ Abby drained her glass. ‘May I tidy up before we go?’
She took her bag into the cool marble interior of her host’s ground-floor bathroom, wishing that her blue chambray shirt dress had survived her adventure rather better. She smoothed it down as best she could, unloosened the plaited leather belt a notch to lie lower on her hips, and went to work on her face with soap and water, followed by some copious moisturiser and her emergency supply of cosmetics. She used a scent spray sparingly, unfastened the denim barrette at the nape of her neck, brushed her hair out to curl loosely on her shoulders, then grinned cheerfully at her reflection. If the singer needed persuasion, it was only common sense to use whatever ammunition she had on hand to get him to sign.
Her rescuer was waiting for her in the cool, high-ceilinged hall, looking dauntingly immaculate now in a handkerchief-thin white shirt, beautifully tailored cotton trousers, and a leather belt and shoes obviously bought somewhere in Italy. And, she noted, he’d taken time to shave.
‘I was right,’ he said, studying her. ‘One look at you and Gianni will be toast.’
‘Good, if that means he’ll sign,’ said Abby serenely.
The hard eyes narrowed. ‘Be careful, Miss Green. Gianni may sing like an angel, but he’s as human as any other man.’
‘I’m always careful,’ she assured him.
‘Not today. You took a wrong turning somewhere.’
‘I won’t do it again on that road,’ she said with feeling.
‘Pity.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought you objected to trespassers.’
He gave her a direct look as he helped her into the passenger seat. ‘In your case I’ll gladly make an exception. And don’t worry about the car. The hotel manager will send someone to collect it.’
‘Thank you, Mr Wingate. You’re very kind,’ she added stiffly as they left the shelter of the walls for the road.
His lips twitched. ‘You just happened to catch me in a good mood today.’
‘It wasn’t so good when we first met.’
He threw her a wry glance. ‘I was bloody terrified! You do realise I could have killed you?’
‘I do now.’ She shrugged. ‘But I just had to stop you somehow.’
‘And stopped my heart while you were at it, when you jumped in front of me, waving that absurd hat! By the way,’ he added casually, ‘when you’ve sorted things with Gianni don’t bother about a taxi. I’ll drive you to Todi myself.’
Abby stared at him in surprise. ‘I can’t possibly trouble you to do that, Mr Wingate.’
‘Of course you can. And the name’s Max,’ he added. ‘Do I call you Abigail?’
‘I prefer Abby.’ She sat, white-knuckled, while he inched the Range Rover past the abandoned hire car. ‘What made you build a house in a location like this?’ she asked when she could breathe again. ‘It needs nerves of steel just to get to it.’
‘There’s an easier road at the back of the property. My cleaner Renata goes up that way on her bicycle.’
‘So why don’t you use it?’
‘I do sometimes, but it leads in the opposite direction from the Villa Falcone and Todi so it was back to the scenic route for this trip.’ He shot her a glance. ‘I didn’t choose the location, by the way. I was given the property as a gift when I was a budding architect.’
Abby began to relax as the road levelled out into the leisurely winding route she’d found so pleasant earlier on. ‘Did you become a full-blown architect?’ she asked politely.
‘Eventually, yes. This must be where you went wrong,’ he added as they turned off on another road. ‘Coming from Todi, you should have taken a right at this point.’
‘A really stupid mistake,’ she said in disgust. ‘This would have been a much easier drive.’
‘But then we might never have met,’ he pointed out.
Not sure how to take that, Abby focussed her attention on the road winding up ahead through a grove of chestnut trees. Max Wingate halted at gates set between high stone walls, spoke into a microphone in one of the pillars, then drove up through formal gardens towards a house much older and bigger than his own hilltop retreat. Venetian windows, rose-coloured walls and an arcaded loggia were exactly how Abby pictured an Italian villa.
A familiar figure came hurrying out to greet them, smiling broadly.
‘Benvenuto; com’ estai, Massimo?’
‘I’m good, Gianni. Speak English. This is Miss Abigail Green, all the way from England just to see you.’
Giancarlo Falcone was familiar to Abby from his publicity stills, but in the handsome flesh his looks had far greater impact. He had so far avoided the excess weight of many of his profession, and in black T-shirt and jeans he looked more like a sexy rock star than an operatic tenor. He bent over Abby’s hand, his eyes bright with open appreciation as he straightened to smile at her. ‘Welcome to my home, Miss Green.’
She returned the smile warmly. ‘Thank you. I’m so sorry I’m late. My car broke down.’
‘Che peccato! It is lucky that Max was on hand to rescue you.’
‘Very lucky,’ she agreed thoughtfully, looking from one man to the other. Max Wingate was several inches taller, and his thick sleek hair and eyes were the dark brown of bitter chocolate. Gianni Falcone’s brilliant eyes and mane of waving hair were true Mediterranean black, but olive skin, aquiline features and slanting eyebrows were a common denominator on both faces. The resemblance was unmistakable.
‘You’ve guessed our dark secret,’ said Max, resigned.
‘Secret?’ queried Gianni.
‘I neglected to mention that we’re related.’
The singer’s smile flashed white, his eyes dancing as he shook his head in mock sorrow. ‘So. I am the skeleton in the cupboard. Max is ashamed of his little brother, Miss Green.’
‘Half-brother,’ corrected Max. ‘Is Luisa here, by the way?’
‘No.’ Gianni gave him a wry look. ‘Mamma is at home in Venezia.’
To Abby’s surprise Max visibly relaxed. ‘Oddly enough your visitor has travelled here from Venice today,’ he told his brother.
‘You were there on holiday, Miss Green?’ asked Gianni.
‘A very brief one,’ she said, smiling. ‘A flying visit to meet my brand-new nephew.’
‘Ah, a joyous event—my felicitations.’ He took Abby by the hand. ‘Come. Let us go to the music room. Do you come too?’ he asked his brother.
Max shook his head. ‘I’ll chat with Rosa in the kitchen while you get down to business, then I’ll drive Miss Green to Todi afterwards.’
Gianni’s eyebrows rose. ‘I could have done that.’
Max snorted. ‘No, you couldn’t. If you set foot anywhere near the place you cause a riot these days. Abby’s been travelling all day. She needs a peaceful evening.’
The emphasis in his voice brought an unholy gleam to his brother’s eyes.
‘Va bene—I understand. Perfectly! We shall be a few moments only while I sign whatever Miss Abby wishes me to sign. Allora,’ he added, taking Abby’s arm to lead her away. ‘You shall have some tea to drink while we do this.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Ask Rosa to bring it, Max, per favore, and for you whatever you wish.’
Gianni Falcone showed his visitor into a vast, high-ceilinged room dominated by a grand piano with an open opera score propped on it.
‘I thought your agent would be here today, Signor Falcone,’ said Abby, taking a contract from her bag.
‘Gianni, please!’ He shrugged. ‘Luigi has already settled the terms with Signor Hadley. We do not need to bring him back from holiday just for the signing. I am happy to sing at two concerts next June as requested.’ He gave her the megawatt smile familiar from his publicity stills. ‘You will be there?’
‘Yes, I’ll be there,’ she assured him, and gave him details of the hotel and travel arrangements she would arrange for him.
‘I trust your choice, Miss Abby. And because it means we shall meet again I look forward to the concerts with much pleasure.’
‘I notice you’re working on Puccini’s Bohème,’ commented Abby. ‘It’s a favourite of mine.’
The black eyes gave her a melting look. ‘Then I shall sing an aria from it just for you.’
While Gianni was reading through the contract, his brother came in with a tray, followed by a small woman carrying a coffee pot.
‘I decided to join you for tea,’ said Max.
Gianni looked up with a smile. ‘Bene. You are just in time to witness my signature—ah, Rosa mia, you have brought coffee just for me.’
The small plump woman smiled at him fondly, and said something rapid in Italian as she left.
‘She’s been with him since he was born,’ Max informed Abby. ‘She knows what he wants before he asks for it.’
‘This is true,’ admitted Gianni. He gave his brother a sly smile. ‘But when I go to sing in London this lovely lady says she will look after me.’
Max shot a look at Abby. ‘Is that part of the service?’
She nodded briskly. ‘It’s my job. I look after all the artists.’
Abby spent a very interesting half-hour with the two men, who, though related by blood, were so different otherwise they might have been from a different species. Gianni Falcone was outgoing and charming and all Latin. In contrast the saturnine good looks of his self-contained brother were very British, but Max Wingate made it so clear he was no more immune to her charms than his brother that Abby was sorry when it was time to leave.
Gianni presented her with a compact disc of operatic arias as he walked with them to the car. ‘It is my latest recording, with my compliments,’ he told her, then kissed her on both cheeks and held the passenger door open as he teased his brother about the brand-new Range Rover.
‘Vesuvius orange—a hot colour but a very cool car, Max. He has a great weakness for cars, you understand,’ he informed Abby.
His brother hooted in derision. ‘How about that flash toy of yours?’
‘My Lamborghini is not flash. It is bellissima!’ Gianni embraced him affectionately and stood back. ‘I shall see you in London, Miss Abby. You I will see sooner, Max. Arrivederci.’
‘I was right,’ said Max with satisfaction as the gates closed behind them. ‘One look at you and Gianni was putty in your pretty little hands.’
Abby’s eyes flashed as she thanked him punctiliously for driving her to the Villa Falcone.
He chuckled. ‘That’s not what you really wanted to say!’
She smiled reluctantly. ‘True. But if I spoke my mind all the time I wouldn’t last long in my job.’
‘You find the artistic temperament tricky to deal with sometimes?’
‘So far there’s been nothing I can’t handle, mainly because I do my research in advance.’ She eyed him questioningly. ‘The glorious voice apart, I don’t know much about your brother.’
Max shrugged. ‘Gianni’s got his feet firmly on the ground. He enjoys the adulation and the fuss women make over him, but he won’t give you any trouble.’
‘You’re obviously fond of him.’
‘It’s hard not to be fond of Gianni.’ He gave her a sidelong glance as Todi rose into view on its hill. ‘We’re almost there. So, Miss Abigail Green, now you’ve got the business part over, let me show you something of the city tonight. I’ll introduce you to some local cuisine afterwards.’
Abby stared at him in surprise. She had expected him to drop her at the hotel and take to his heels in relief, his rescue mission over. But she was utterly delighted by the idea. A meal alone in her room was no competition for dinner in Todi with a man like Max Wingate. ‘Thank you, I’d love to see something of the town.’
He smiled. ‘Good. Afterwards we can eat formally at the Ristorante Umbria, or more casually over pasta at the Cavour. Your choice.’
‘Casual, please,’ said Abby promptly. ‘But I’ll need half an hour to change.’
‘I’ll wait for you in the bar. Give me your car keys. I’ll hand them over to the manager.’
Max watched her hurry away before he sought out the manager. He chatted with him for a while, and then settled at the bar with a glass of beer, prepared to wait a lot longer than half an hour. Not that he minded. Abigail Green was worth waiting for. When a frantic female had materialised in front of him on a road where he normally never saw a soul, he’d played hell with her from pure fright, because he could so easily have killed her. Then he’d taken a good look at her and thanked God his tirade had been in Italian. If she’d understood a word of it he’d have had fat chance of persuading her to spend the evening with him. And just the short time he’d spent in her company so far had whetted his appetite for more.
* * *
The room Domenico had arranged for Abby looked out over the hotel gardens and swimming pool, but for the moment her interest was centred solely on the bathroom. She showered at top speed, and to save time made brief phone calls to her mother and Laura while she dried her hair and did her face. At last, in a sleeveless black dress as simple as a T-shirt, she hung long amber drops in her ears and went downstairs, prepared to enjoy her evening out in Todi with a man who attracted her far more than any man she’d met in a long time. If ever.
Max walked into the foyer just as Abby appeared, and gave a heartfelt vote of thanks to fate as he smiled down at the glowing face framed in a glossy fall of hair almost as dark as his brother’s. ‘A woman of her word,’ he commented, tapping his watch. ‘Dead on time. Are you still up for a stroll before dinner?’
‘I’m looking forward to it,’ Abby assured him. ‘My brother-in-law says it’s a very interesting city.’
‘He’s right.’ Seized by an overpowering need to touch her, he put a hand under her elbow as they walked to the car, wondering if she felt anything like the same jolt of heat as her bare skin came in contact with his fingers. ‘Todi’s big on walls, three concentric rings of them—medieval, Etruscan and Roman, with some magnificent ancient gates. But the Rome jet-set is fast catching up with Todi. Some of its medieval houses have been restored as weekend getaways.’
‘Your brother didn’t fancy one of those?’
He shook his head. ‘Gianni inherited the Villa Falcone from his father, complete with Rosa and her crew to look after him when he’s home from his travels. And when his presence is demanded in Venice he enjoys more pampering there from his mamma.’ He gave an approving glance at her flat gold sandals. ‘The streets are mostly cobbled, but I see you’re prepared for it.’
She nodded with enthusiasm. ‘The only part of Italy I’ve visited before is Venice.’
He smiled down at her as he held the car door open. ‘You’ll enjoy the contrast. We’ll park near the Piazza Oberdan. From there it’s a short climb to the church of San Fortunato and the best view of the city.’
Abby’s day had started early in Venice, with a ride by water taxi followed by several hours by rail before the ill-fated drive from Todi. But all that seemed a long way behind her as she explored the ancient, beautiful city with Max Wingate. The pace of life there seemed so much slower that Abby could literally feel herself unwinding as they came down from San Fortunato to wander through streets which Max told her had changed little in appearance or purpose for centuries. They looked at so much beautiful architecture as they strolled that by the time they reached the basilica in the Piazza del Populo Abby’s action-packed day had caught up with her and she agreed gratefully when Max suggested they walk down the Corso Cavour in search of dinner.
‘For your information, Todi’s medieval piazza is one of the most famous in Italy,’ he told her as they reached the restaurant.
‘I can well believe it. Todi’s a delightful place. I only wish I could stay here longer,’ she said with a sigh.
‘Come back when you have more time.’
‘I’d certainly like to,’ she said to be polite, but knew that it was unlikely. Any trips to Italy meant Venice and a stay with Laura, Domenico and Isabella. Plus the new baby.
‘Your eyes lit up like lamps just then,’ commented Max as they were shown to a table beside a screen of greenery. ‘What—or who—were you thinking about?’ He hoped like hell it wasn’t some man.
‘Marco, my nephew, and his sister Isabella,’ said Abby, smiling. ‘It was hard to tear myself away from them this morning.’
‘The only baby I’ve ever had much to do with was Gianni. But I was ten when he was born, and resented him pretty fiercely at the time. What sort of wine do you like?’ Max added as a waiter handed out menus.
‘Something dry and white, please—and some mineral water on the side.’ Abby smiled crookedly as the waiter hurried off. ‘This afternoon, stranded on your terrifying road, Mr Wingate, I would have sold my soul for water—for me and the car.’
His mouth tightened. ‘In the circumstances it’s lucky I’d arranged to play chess with Aldo Zanini. What the hell would you have done if I hadn’t turned up?’
A chess game, then, not a date with some local signorina. Taken aback by how much that pleased her, Abby shrugged. ‘Not much choice. I would have hiked—or climbed—the rest of the way. I had no idea I was on the wrong road, remember. What would you have done if I’d collapsed at your door, gasping for water?’
‘Counted my blessings,’ he assured her, giving her that smile again. ‘Other than Renata on her bicycle, no woman ever makes it up to my place. But you’re welcome any time, Abigail Green.’
The smile faded to something which made her pulse race as the dark eyes held hers, then the waiter arrived with wine and Max turned back to the menu. ‘What would you like to eat? They do a good tagliatelle al tartufo here—pasta with truffles.’
‘Sounds wonderful,’ she said promptly. ‘Though I’d probably fancy anything they cared to put in front of me—I had to skip lunch.’
‘Truffle pasta for two, then.’
After some olives and a mouthful of cold dry wine Abby felt considerably better, and settled down to enjoy the kind of evening which rarely came her way during the summer season. ‘So, Mr Wingate. When you’re not on retreat in your eagle’s nest where do you live?’
‘In Gloucestershire, in a town called Pennington. I own a house within walking distance of my office building—why the smile?’
She chuckled. ‘Would you believe I went to school in Pennington? I was brought up not far away from there in Stavely.’
Max shook his head in wonder. ‘So you’re a girl from the Shires—small world. But you’re obviously based in London now.’
‘And run home to Stavely every chance I get! You told me you’re an architect, but what kind of work does your firm do?’ asked Abby.
‘We design large-scale buildings, mainly, but we also do individual work for people with specific requirements, like a recent client left partially paralysed after a road accident. I worked with him to modify his house, and now he can cope with everything in it from his wheelchair.’
‘That must be a very satisfying thing to do,’ she said, impressed.
‘It is.’ He smiled wryly. ‘But I also do an increasing amount for clients brave—or mad—enough to invest in romantic ruins. My house out here is a good advertisement,’ he said, topping up her glass. ‘What led you into your kind of work?’
She shrugged. ‘Fate, I suppose—coupled with a love of music. I read English at university, took a further business studies course after that, and while I applied for jobs I worked at the local stately home.’
‘Do they get many graduates on their staff?’
Abby nodded. ‘Quite a few in summer. But I had a foot in the door because I’d worked there before in vacations. The summer I graduated I helped out with a series of open-air concerts at the house, and got on very well with Simon Hadley, the events organiser. His permanent assistant left to have a baby before the end of the season and to my surprise he asked if I’d like the job. But after four seasons I feel it’s time to move on. I finish in a couple of weeks.’
He eyed her narrowly. ‘I thought you promised to see Gianni next summer!’
She flushed. ‘I will see him. I’ll be there at the concerts, but someone else will take care of him.’
Max shook his head in mock reproof. ‘You mean you strung him along to make him sign on the dotted line.’
‘I was acting under instructions from Simon,’ she said firmly. ‘But I wasn’t lying. I’ll definitely be in the audience when he sings.’
‘But you won’t be Gianni’s nursemaid.’ He leaned nearer. ‘How do you know I won’t betray your secret?’
She met his eyes squarely. ‘I don’t. Will you?’
He shook his head. ‘I shall leave my little brother in blissful ignorance.’
‘Thank you.’ Abby sniffed rapturously as her truffle pasta was set before her. ‘Grazie,’ she said to the waiter with a warm smile. ‘Delizioso!’
‘The lad’s gone off in a daze,’ said Max, after the waiter had provided them with everything he could think of. ‘He thinks you’re delizioso too.’
‘Rather sweet, isn’t he?’
‘I didn’t notice. Eat. You can give me the rest of the Abigail Green life story afterwards.’
‘Only if you tell me Max Wingate’s in return,’ she retorted, and smiled very deliberately into his eyes. ‘Or should I call you “Massimo”?’
