as she made her escape.
She could smell the pot of coffee as soon as she opened the door. The apartment, which was situated on the second floor of the villa, opened directly into the living room, with the tiny kitchenette occupying an alcove off the living area. A trellis of climbing greenery set in an earthenware container provided an impromptu screen, with a narrow counter at right angles to it where Julia evidently took her meals when she was at home.
Grace found some low-fat butter substitute in the small fridge and spread some on one of the warm rolls. Then, after pouring herself a mug of the strong black coffee, she perched on one of the tall stools that were pushed against the bar to enjoy her meal.
She was flicking idly through an old copy of Figaro when someone knocked at the door. She turned at once, guessing it was a visitor for Julia who didn’t know she was away. Hopefully, not a man, she thought ruefully, wiping a crumb from her lip. If she remembered correctly, Julia was spending the weekend with the current man in her life and, judging by her excitement when she’d mentioned him to Grace, it seemed that she hoped that this might be the one.
Grace grimaced. Her friend was much less cynical than she was. Even with a failed marriage behind her, Julia had still maintained that there was a man out there somewhere just waiting for her to come along. Perhaps this weekend’s amoroso, as they said in Italy, was different. Grace begged leave to reserve judgement until she’d met the man for herself.
But she was wasting time. As another knock sounded at the door, she slid off the stool and crossed the room. It could just be the old caretaker, she surmised. Perhaps he’d smelled the appetising aroma of the coffee, and found some excuse to come up here so that she could offer him a cup. If so, he was going to be disappointed. She had no intention of inviting any strange man into the apartment.
But the man standing outside was not the caretaker. ‘Miss Horton?’ he asked, and although she was sure he was Italian there was no trace of an accent in his low, attractive voice.
There was a suitcase standing beside him, but Grace registered this only peripherally as she gazed at one of the few men who could give her a few inches in height. He was tall, extremely dark both in hair and skin, with a lean yet obviously muscular body. He was certainly one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen, yet no one, not even his mother, could have called him handsome.
His eyes—dark eyes, what else? she mocked herself sardonically—were too deeply set, with hooded lids and thick black lashes hiding their expression. His cheekbones were harshly carved in a face that looked more inclined to severity than humour. Yet his mouth belied that conclusion, she reflected. Thin-lipped, perhaps, but with an obvious tendency towards laughter. Right now, she suspected he was laughing at her, and she felt a sharp tug of resentment at the thought.
‘Yes?’ she said coolly, unhappily aware that she had been staring at him far longer than she should have. She registered the suitcase properly now, propped beside one loafer-clad foot. A foot without any sock, she appended cynically, below loose-fitting cotton trousers that only hinted at the powerful thighs that flexed beneath.
Who was he? she wondered irritably. Surely Julia hadn’t invited someone else to stay to keep her company. Yet how else had he known her name? ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, aware of the violent urge she had to scream.
He bent and picked up the suitcase. ‘I just want to leave this for Julia,’ he said, as Grace was preparing herself to block his way. ‘It’s hers,’ he explained, evidently recognising her hostility. ‘She was my guest last evening and I agreed to deliver it back to her apartment.’
Grace’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean, you’re—’
‘Matteo di Falco,’ he introduced himself easily as she stepped aside to allow him to set the suitcase down inside the door. ‘Unfortunately, Julia was obliged to cut the weekend short. She had to get back to the hotel.’
‘She did?’ Grace knew she sounded blank, but she couldn’t help it.
‘They phoned this morning,’ he agreed, straightening. ‘There has been some illness and they are short of staff. They asked if she could return immediately.’ He shrugged his shoulders, broad beneath the lightweight jacket he was wearing over a white tee shirt. ‘Cosi sia! So be it.’
Grace nodded. ‘Well—thank you for letting me know.’
His thin lips twisted. ‘It was my pleasure.’
She doubted it was, but he was too polite to say otherwise. ‘Um—thanks, anyway. I’m sorry if it’s spoiled your weekend.’
‘I will survive,’ he assured her drily, and she wondered what he really thought of her. ‘Enjoy your holiday, Miss Horton. Arrivederci!’
He turned away without further ado, strolling back along the gallery that overlooked the inner courtyard of the villa with indolent grace. All the apartments opened onto similar galleries, a flight of worn marble stairs giving access to the lower floors, and Grace waited until he’d started down the stairs before going back into the apartment and closing the door.
She leaned against the door for a moment, before taking a deep breath and walking into the kitchen. But as she edged back onto the stool and raised her mug of coffee to her lips she found Matteo di Falco’s image refused to be displaced.
She shook her head, a moan that was half laughter, half disgust escaping her throat. So that was Julia’s latest heartthrob, she thought self-derisively. And she’d behaved as if she’d never seen a man before.
She pushed the half-eaten roll aside and propped her elbows on the counter. She had to admit, Julia hadn’t been exaggerating this time. What was the expression she’d used? Drop-dead gorgeous? Well, he was certainly that, and unlikely to be any more reliable than the rest.
By the time she’d cleared her breakfast dishes away and unpacked, it was nearly midday. She had wondered if Julia might ring to confirm her change of plans, but she didn’t, so after making sure the apartment was tidy Grace decided to go and explore the town.
It was much hotter now, the early summer sun baking the walls of the old buildings so that there was little coolness in their shade. Grace was halfway down to the harbour when she began to doubt the sense in what she was doing, but she decided it would be easier to go on than to turn back.
Besides, there were cafés appearing at every corner, and tables set beneath canvas awnings dotted the small promenade. There were plenty of people about, but it wasn’t difficult to find a table in a shady corner, and she ordered a chilled glass of Campari and soda while she studied the menu.
There was a delightful breeze blowing off the water, and her eyes were continually drawn to the busy quay, where fishing boats vied for space among sleek yachts and sailing dinghies. Enviably tanned men and women were standing about in groups, modelling the latest styles in designer gear, or sunning themselves on the decks of gleaming motor cruisers anchored in the bay.
At the end of a short pier, a ferry was boarding, taking passengers to other resorts along the coast, and Grace mused that the whole scene looked as if it had been lifted from the pages of a glossy holiday brochure. So why was it that when the waiter appeared to take her order she felt so alone suddenly? And why did she find herself wishing that there was still a man in her life, too?
‘I’ll have the risotto salad,’ she told the waiter, pointing out her choice just in case he didn’t understand what she meant
‘Ah,
