sprinting after the last pair of scooter riders, who were making off with her bag.
As he drew level he seized the man by the scruff of the neck and hauled him off the scooter, which, after one drunken swerve, kept going.
The ensuing scuffle was brief but fierce. A moment later a blow to the jaw had sent the burly youth sprawling on the pavement and the tall dark man was returning with her bag. A man who was no stranger.
‘Are you all right?’ Andrew demanded urgently.
When she merely goggled at him, he repeated the question, stooping to retrieve her sunglasses and hand them, and her bag, to her.
Somehow she found her voice and stammered, ‘Y-yes, I’m quite all right,’ just as rapidly retreating footsteps indicated that the youth was making good his escape.
The passersby who had seen what was taking place and had stopped to stare began to walk on, and the next second it was as if nothing untoward had happened.
His eyes travelling over her with the proprietorial air that was becoming only too familiar, Andrew remarked, ‘You’ve cut your knee.’
Removing a spotless white handkerchief from his trouser pocket, he crouched on his haunches to stanch the warm trickle of blood that was running down her slim tanned leg.
Staring at the top of his dark head, she wondered with a kind of stunned disbelief what he was doing in Rome, and how, in a city of over three million inhabitants, she’d been unlucky enough to run into him.
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