phone still went on ringing; maybe it was the hotel reception desk asking if she was staying another night. Slowly, reluctantly, she crossed the room and stretched out a shaky hand.
‘Hello?’ Her voice was low, husky.
‘Signorina Brooks?’ an Italian voice asked.
‘Yes.’ She was waiting on tenterhooks.
‘A Signor Giovio to see you, signorina.’
She let out a quivering breath, closing her eyes in sick relief. It was only Paolo; he had got her card already and understood its message. She had known he would—he was much too quick not to have got it at first glance. ‘Oh…my cousin, yes; tell him I’ll be down in a moment.’
She brought her tray into her bedroom, then closed the balcony doors and almost flew downstairs. Paolo was waiting for her in the lounge which led out on to the garden terrace.
The room was enormous, with high ceilings from which glittered chandeliers and marble floors across which deep white sofas were scattered. One end was entirely made up of windows, stretching from ceiling to floor, draped in the same white gauze curtains as those which hung in her room; through them you could see the hotel gardens leading down to the lake and they allowed the sun to flood the great room with light.
Paolo stood by them, gazing out. She stopped to stare at him while he was unaware of her. He hadn’t changed much since they’d last met although he was clearly a few years older. He was still a slight figure, his face in profile bony and memorable—not handsome but striking, his sallow skin deeply tanned and his hair jet-black, softly waving down to his shoulders. He was wearing a lightweight pale blue suit; elegantly casual, it looked expensive. Did he buy designer clothes now?
As if becoming aware of her presence he turned, their eyes met and a smile lit his thin face. ‘So, there you are!’ he said in Italian, holding out both hands, and she ran to take them.
‘I knew you’d understand the card.’
‘Of course,’ he dismissed, shrugging. His slanting eyes skimmed her face. ‘You don’t look as terrible as you sounded last night. Sleep well?’
She nodded but perhaps the memory of her bad dreams showed in her face, because Paolo frowned.
Some other guests wandered into the room, giving them curious looks. Gabriella opened the tall glass door into the garden.
‘Let’s walk by the lake. I’m dying to get a closer look at it. Isn’t it breathtaking? How long have you been here?’
‘A couple of weeks.’ Paolo fell into step beside her as she began to descend the stone steps towards the lakeside. ‘Are you going to tell me about it?’
She stopped on the jetty and leaned on the wooden rail, staring out towards another town on the far side of the lake. ‘Where’s that?’ she asked, pointing.
‘Varenna,’ Paolo said in a dry tone, knowing that she was delaying any more intimate talk.
‘Is it worth visiting?’
‘It’s small but pretty; there are some nice gardens to see. Are we going to talk about the scenery or are you going to tell me why you ran away?’
She went on staring across the lake and didn’t answer.
Paolo drew a folded newspaper from under his arm and offered it to her. Frowning, Gabriella took it, looked at the front page and with a leap of the nerves saw that it was an English paper.
‘Page five,’ he said.
Hands trembling she turned the pages and saw her own face, grey and blurred, in a photo which she didn’t remember being taken—she and Stephen arriving at a theatre for a very starry first night. Feverishly she skimmed the story; it was short on facts but those it had were mostly about Stephen and it pretended sympathy for him at being left at the altar.
Somehow the reporter made her sound like a bimbo—a gold-digger who had probably run off with an even richer man, although none was actually suggested. The story did, however, claim that she had not sent back her engagement ring, which was worth hundreds of thousands of pounds, and added that she had got other valuable jewellery out of Stephen, all of which she had also kept.
She crushed the paper in her hands and looked at Paolo, stricken. ‘You bought this here?’
He nodded. ‘There’s a good newsagent who sells a few foreign newspapers. This was the only popular English paper on sale this morning but he said he’d had half a dozen copies of this one. If you look at the date you’ll see that it was out in England yesterday.’
Pale, she said, ‘So others may have read the story.’
Paolo nodded grimly and took the screwed-up paper, smoothing it out again to study Stephen’s face in the grey photo. ‘Is it a good likeness?’
She glanced at the hard face, the fleshless cheekbones, the cool grey eyes, that insistent jawline. A little shiver ran through her.
‘Yes.’
Paolo screwed the newspaper up again and tossed it into a nearby refuse bin.
‘What did he do to you?’
She gave a choky little sigh. ‘Nothing—nothing at all. Poor man, he must be utterly bewildered—that’s why I couldn’t tell him face to face.’
‘That would have been an idea,’ Paolo said without inflexion.
She flinched as if from an accusation, guilt in her eyes, and shot him a distraught look. ‘I know—I know I should have, but I couldn’t, I just couldn’t talk to him. He would never have understood unless I told him…and I couldn’t talk about it, Paolo; I still can’t talk about it.’
‘Ah,’ he said on an indrawn breath. ‘So. That is what it is all about.’
She turned to look at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. ‘Oh, you’re so quick; you always know what I’m talking about. That’s why I came here to find you—at least you’ll understand. I can talk to you without having to dot every I and cross every T.’
He touched her cheek with one fingertip. ‘I had a suspicion that this might be behind it, but it’s years ago—you should have had therapy, you know, talked it out with a professional.’
‘I couldn’t.’ Her pink mouth was stubborn, unhappy. The breeze blew her black hair across her cheek and she brushed it away angrily.
‘That’s just why you ought to try!’
‘Anyway, nothing really happened. I’m not the victim of some horrible crime.’
‘Crimes of the heart can be as disastrous.’
Another sigh shook her. ‘Yes. Don’t let’s talk about it.’
He grimaced. ‘OK. Tell me how you met this guy Stephen Durrant, then—tell me about him. He didn’t make a great impression on me on the phone.’
She turned and walked further along the lake, under a line of magnolia
