Lucy Gordon - The Rinuccis - Carlo, Ruggiero & Francesco

What’s in store for this set of tall, rich, Italian and handsome Rinucci brothers? Love, marriage and a family reunited!

Lucy Gordon triumphs again-this RITA ®award-winning author’s popular Rinucci Italian men are just irresistible!

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LUCY GORDONcut her writing teeth on magazine journalism, interviewing many of the world’s most interesting men, including Warren Beatty, Richard Chamberlain, Sir Roger Moore, Sir Alec Guinness and Sir John Gielgud. She also camped out with lions in Africa and had many other unusual experiences which have often provided the background for her books. She is married to a Venetian, whom she met while on holiday in Venice. They got engaged within two days. Two of her books have won the Romance Writers of America RITA ®award, Song of the Lorelei in 1990, and His Brother’s Child in 1998, in the Best Traditional Romance category.

You can visit her website at www.lucy-gordon.com.

THE picture on the computer screen seemed to fill the room with humour and good cheer. It showed a young man of strikingly attractive looks, fair, shaggy hair, dark blue glowing eyes and a smile that hinted at mischief.

‘Oh, wow!’ Jackie sighed. ‘Just look at him!’

Della chuckled indulgently. Her secretary was young and easily moved by male beauty. She, herself, tried to be more detached.

‘He’s not bad,’ she conceded.

‘Not bad?’ Jackie echoed, scandalised. ‘He’s a dream.’

‘But I need more than a pretty face. I need a man who really knows his stuff, preferably one who’s already made a name for himself.’

‘Della, this is a TV series you’re producing. It matters how he looks.’

‘Yes, it matters that he looks like a serious expert and not a mere boy. Carlo Rinucci can’t be more than about twenty-five.’

‘According to his data he’s thirty,’ Jackie said, thumbing through papers. ‘And he has a big reputation in ruins and bones and things like that.’

‘But he’s Italian. I can’t have him fronting an English television series.’

‘Some of which will be based in Italy. Besides, it says here that he speaks perfect English, and you’ve said yourself that you have to sell the series internationally if it’s to make any money.’

This was true. In the world of television Della was a big shot, with her own production company and a brilliant reputation. Her programmes were in great demand. Even so, she had to consider the practicalities.

She studied Carlo Rinucci’s face again, and had to admit that he had a lot going for him. He wasn’t merely handsome. His grin had a touch of delightful wickedness, as though he’d discovered a secret hidden from the rest of the world.

‘I had an uncle once,’ Jackie said. ‘He was a travelling salesman with a girl in every town and a line in flattery that would charm the birds off the trees. And no matter what he did everyone forgave him, just for the sake of his smile. Dad used to say Uncle Joe hadn’t just eaten the Apple of Life, he’d gone to live in the tree.’

‘And you think he’s the same?’ Della mused, scrutinising Carlo’s laughing face.

‘I’d take a bet on it.’

Privately Della agreed, but she kept that thought to herself. Her hard-won caution was warning her not to go overboard for this young man just because he looked good. Very good. Marvellous.

His resumé was certainly impressive. George Franklin, her assistant, who was helping to research this series, had e-mailed her.

Don’t be misled by his youth. Carlo Rinucci is the up-and-coming man in his field. He’s done some impressive work and written a couple of books that have attracted attention. His opinions are often unorthodox, but his work is sound.

He’d added a few notes about Carlo Rinucci’s current project at Pompeii, the little town just south of Naples, buried long ago in the lava of the erupting volcano Vesuvius, and he’d finished with the words: Believe me, he’s worth investigating.

‘Worth investigating,’ Della murmured.

‘I’ll investigate him for you,’ Jackie said eagerly. ‘I could get the next plane to Naples, look him over and report back.’

‘Nice try,’ Della said, amused.

‘You mean you’ve already bagged him for yourself?’

‘I mean,’ Della said severely, ‘that I shall consider all the options in a serious and practical way, make my evaluation, and decide what is best for the programme.’

‘That’s what I said. You’ve bagged him for yourself.’

Della laughed and dropped her formal tone.

‘Well, there has to be some advantage in being the boss,’ she said.

‘No kidding! If you use him the ratings will go through the roof. Every country will want to buy the programme. You’ll have a great reputation.’

‘Some people think I already have a reputation,’ Della said in mock offence.

‘Not like the one you’ll have if he’s working for you.’

‘So you think I should hire him to make my name for me? Thanks a lot, but I don’t need help from him or any other pretty boy getting through life on his charm.’

‘You don’t know that he’s char—’

‘Just look at the time! You should be going home.’

Jackie departed, but not without one final lingering look at the computer screen.

‘Behave yourself,’ Della commanded, laughing. ‘He’s not that gorgeous.’

‘Oh, yes, he is,’ Jackie sighed as she retreated and closed the door.

For Della there was no journey to and from work, as she ran her business from her own home—a houseboat moored on the Thames, near Chelsea. She treasured it, not only for its own sake, but also as a symbol of the distance she’d travelled since the day she’d started out with almost nothing.

Now that it was six o’clock her working day hadn’t ended, merely moved into a new phase—making calls to the other side of the world in different time zones. She kicked off her shoes and settled down.

Carlo Rinucci’s face was still on the screen, but she refused to allow him to distract her. She reached out for the mouse, ready to click him into cyberspace, but her hand paused of its own accord.

Right from the start she’d insisted that the presenter for her series about places of great historical events must be someone with an impressive academic name.

‘I don’t want a handsome talking head who’s going to reveal himself as a dumb cluck the minute he doesn’t have a script,’ she’d said. ‘In fact, I’ll expect him to write a lot of the script.’