Lucy Gordon - The Rinuccis - Carlo, Ruggiero & Francesco

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have you tracked Rinucci down yet? George

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

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

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

‘What did I do to merit that?’

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

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

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

‘So you came down to audition me?’

‘Not exactly that,’ she said uneasily.

‘How would you describe it?’

‘I wanted to meet you, and—and—’

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

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

‘You sure as hell should.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was gone, closing the door behind him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

At this point she found herself smiling wistfully.

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

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

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

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

‘Who is it?’

‘Room Service.’

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

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

‘Scusi, signora.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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