CATHERINE GEORGE - An Italian Engagement

‘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.’