CATHERINE GEORGE - An Italian Engagement

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.