Lucy Gordon: The Rinuccis: Carlo, Ruggiero & Francesco: The Italian's Wife by Sunset

‘I’ll bet you’re never lost for words,’ she said, addressing the screen. ‘Just looking at you, I know that. You can talk the hind legs off a donkey, which probably helped you get some of those fine-sounding qualifications.’

Then she stopped and stared. She could have sworn he’d winked at her.

‘Enough of that,’ she reproved him sternly. ‘I know your kind. My second husband was just like you. Talk about charm! The trouble was, charm was all Gerry had—unless you include a genius for spending other people’s money.’

She poured herself a drink and leaned back, contemplating the face with reluctant pleasure.

‘Am I being unreasonable?’ she asked him. ‘Am I against you just because other people are for you? I know I’m a bit contrary. At least, folk claim that I am. They say I’m difficult, awkward, stubborn—and that’s just my friends talking. But I’ve got a good life. I have a career that gives me all I want, and I’m immune to male attraction—well, sort of immune. Most of the time. You do nothing for me. Nothing at all.’

But he didn’t believe her. She could see that in his face.

She gazed at him. He gazed back. What came next hovered inevitably in the air between them.

‘So I guess,’ she said slowly, ‘there’s no reason why I can’t set up a meeting and look you over.’

‘This place looks as though a bomb had hit it,’ Hope Rinucci observed.

She was surveying her home: first the main room, then the dining room, then the terrace overlooking the Bay of Naples with a distant view of Vesuvius.

‘Two bombs,’ she added, viewing the disarray.

But she did not speak with disapproval, more like satisfaction. The previous evening there had been a party, and in Hope’s opinion a party that didn’t leave the surroundings looking shattered was no party at all.

By that standard last night had been a triumphant success.

Ruggiero, one of her younger sons, came into the room very carefully, and immediately sat down.

‘It was a great night,’ he said faintly.

‘It was indeed,’ she said at once. ‘We had so much to celebrate. Francesco’s new job. Primo and Olympia, with Olympia’s parents over from England, and the news that she’s going to have a baby. And then Luke and Minnie saying that they’re going to have a baby, too.’

‘And then there’s Carlo,’ Ruggiero mused, naming his twin. ‘Mamma, did you ever work out which of those three young ladies was actually his girlfriend?’

‘Not exactly,’ she said, taking him a black coffee, which he received gratefully. ‘They all seemed to arrive together. If only Justin and Evie could have been here as well. But she is so heavily pregnant with the twins that I can understand her not wanting to travel. She promised to bring them to see us as soon as possible after they arrive.’

‘So we can have another party,’ Ruggiero said. ‘Perhaps by then Carlo will have managed to divide himself into three.’

‘Do you know which lady he went home with?’

‘I didn’t see him leave, but I have the impression that they all went together,’ Ruggiero said enviously. ‘Mio dio, but he’s a brave man!’

‘Who’s a brave man?’ Francesco asked, coming carefully into the room.

Hope smiled and poured another coffee.

‘Carlo,’ she said. ‘He brought three young ladies last night. Didn’t you see?’

‘He didn’t notice anything but that exotic redhead,’ Ruggiero said. ‘Where did you find her?’

Francesco thought for a minute before saying, ‘She found me—I think.’

‘We were wondering which of his dates Carlo took home to his apartment,’ Ruggiero said.

‘He didn’t go back there,’ Francesco observed.

‘How can you possibly know that?’ Hope asked.

‘Because he’s here.’

Francesco pointed to a large sofa facing the window. Leaning over the back, the others saw a young man stretched out, blissfully asleep. He was in the clothes he’d worn the previous night, his shirt open at the throat, revealing smooth, tanned skin. Everything about him radiated sensual contentment.

‘Hey!’ Ruggiero prodded him rudely.

‘Mmm?’

His twin prodded him again, and Carlo’s eyes opened.

It was a source of intense irritation to his brothers that Carlo didn’t awake bleary-eyed and vague, like normal people. Even after sleeping off a night of indulgence he was instantly alert, bright-eyed and at his best. As Ruggiero had once remarked, it was enough to make anyone want to commit murder.

‘Hallo,’ he said, sitting up and yawning.

‘What are you doing there?’ Ruggiero demanded, incensed.

‘What’s wrong with my being here? Ah, coffee! Lovely! Thanks, Mamma.’

‘Take no notice of this pair,’ Hope advised him. ‘They’re jealous.’

‘Three,’ Ruggiero mourned. ‘He had three, and he slept on the sofa.’

‘The trouble is that three is too many,’ Carlo said philosophically. ‘One is ideal, two is manageable if you’re feeling adventurous, but anything more is a just a problem. Besides, I wasn’t at my best by the end of the evening, so I played safe, called a taxi for the ladies and went to sleep.’

‘I hope you paid their fares in advance,’ Hope said.

‘Of course I did,’ Carlo said, faintly shocked. ‘You brought me up properly.’

Francesco was aghast.

‘Of all the spineless, feeble—’

‘I know, I know.’ Carlo sighed. ‘I feel very ashamed.’

‘And you call yourself a Rinucci?’ Ruggiero said.

‘That’s enough,’ Hope reproved them. ‘Carlo behaved like a gentleman.’

‘He behaved like a wimp,’ Francesco growled.

‘True,’ Carlo agreed. ‘But there can be great benefits to being a wimp. It makes the ladies think you’re a perfect gentleman, and then, when next time comes—’

He drained his coffee, kissed his mother on the cheek, and escaped before his brothers vented their indignation on him.

The Hotel Vallini was the best Naples had to offer. It stood halfway up a hill, looking down on the city, with a superb view across the bay.

Standing on her balcony, Della kept quite still, regarding Vesuvius, where it loomed through the heat haze. There was nowhere in Naples to escape the sight of the great volcano, with its combination of threat and mystery. Its huge eruption nearly two thousand years ago, burying Pompeii in one day, had become such a legend that it was the first site Della had chosen when she was planning her series.

The three-hour flight had left her feeling tired and sticky. It had been a relief to step under a cool shower, wash away the dust, then dress in fresh clothes. The look she’d chosen was neat and unshowy, almost to the point of austerity: black linen pants, and a white blouse whose plainness didn’t disguise its expensive cut.

Businesslike, she told herself. Which was true, but only partly. The outfit might have been designed to show off her tall, slim figure, with its small, elegant breasts and neat behind. Just how much satisfaction this gave her was her own secret.

Her face told a subtly different story, the full mouth having a touch of voluptuousness that was at variance with her chic outline. Her rich, light brown hair was sometimes pulled back in severe lines, but today she’d let it fall about her face in gentle curves, emphasising the sensuality of her face.

The contrast between this and the plain way she dressed caused a lot of enjoyable confusion among her male acquaintances. And she didn’t mind that at all.

She had told nobody that she was coming, preferring to take her quarry unawares. She didn’t even know that Carlo Rinucci would be at Pompeii today, only that he was working on a project that concerned the place, investigating new theories.