spite of her predicament, Cherry found she was praying the car wouldn’t make her look even more of a fool by starting immediately—but she needn’t have worried. After a moment or two he released the bonnet and peered in, then tried the engine again. Still nothing, she thought gratefully.
Sliding out of the car with the natural gracefulness all Italian males seemed to have, he said mildly, ‘When was the last time you filled up with petrol, signorina?’
Ha! She had him there. She wasn’t so dopey she’d run out of fuel. ‘Today,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Before leaving Alberobello. I’ve got a full tank.’
‘And after you had bought the fuel? Did you leave the town immediately?’ he asked quietly.
She stared at him. She had no idea what he was getting at. ‘No. I filled up with diesel and then explored a bit.’
‘On foot?’ And, as she stared at him, ‘On foot, signorina?’
Was that a crime? ‘Yes, on foot.’ Now he was closer she was finding his maleness somewhat intimidating. The sculptured bone structure of the handsome face, the thick, dark hair slicked back in a severe cut and the clearly expensive clothes he was wearing all contributed to a slightly predatory arrogance that was unnerving in the present circumstances.
He nodded slowly. ‘I think, perhaps, you have been the victim of one of the—how do you say in England?—the scams that are prevalent in the cities and towns. A full tank of fuel is worth stealing.’
‘Stealing?’ she echoed. Even to herself she sounded witless.
‘Si, signorina. It is relatively easy to make a small hole in the petrol tank and syphon off the liquid into a suitable container.’ He shrugged, Latin-style. ‘It is an inconvenience.’
And how. Glaring at him as though he’d done the deed himself, Cherry said acidly, ‘So in Italy this respect of property you talked about doesn’t extend to cars, Signor…?’
‘Carella. Vittorio Carella.’ He smiled, apparently not in the least put out by her sarcasm. ‘And your name, signorina?’
‘Cherry Gibbs.’ It sounded dull and terribly English in comparison. Italian names were so beautiful, so romantic.
‘Cherry?’
He frowned slightly and she found herself wondering what colour his eyes were behind the dark glasses. Brown, she guessed. Or deep ebony. Possibly hazel. She’d seen quite a few Italians with hazel eyes over the last days.
‘Like the fruit?’ he asked softly.
She inclined her head. ‘My mother apparently had a craving for cherries all the time she was carrying me, and so…’ She’d often thought she ought to be grateful it hadn’t been bananas or strawberries. She didn’t add that her second name was Blossom—something her mother had thought extremely witty at the time, apparently, but which had caused her to be endlessly teased at school. Parents never seemed to think of things like that.
‘You do not like your name?’ he said, in response to her tone of voice. ‘I think it is charming.’
He took off his glasses as he spoke and she saw she’d been wrong about his eyes. They were grey. A deep, smoky grey framed by thick curly lashes that might have looked feminine on a less masculine man but on him were positively spellbinding.
‘So, Cherry, I think we have established your little car is going nowhere for the present. Is there someone you wish to call to come and pick you up? Your parents, perhaps?’
Before she had considered her words, she replied, ‘I’m not here with anyone.’ Then wished she’d bitten her tongue.
The beautiful eyes narrowed. ‘No?’ He was clearly shocked. ‘You are a trifle young to be abroad on your own.’
Same old syndrome. He clearly thought she was just out of gymslips. ‘I am twenty-five,’ she said crisply. ‘More than old enough to go where I want, when I want.’ She could see she had surprised him. But then to be fair, she reasoned, today—with her hair loose and tousled, and dressed in old cotton trousers and a baggy T-shirt—she looked even younger than usual.
He recovered almost immediately. ‘You clearly have good genes,’ he said smoothly. ‘My grandmother is the same.’
Cherry found she didn’t like being compared with his grandmother, although she couldn’t have said why.
‘You have the number of the hire company?’ he said practically.
She nodded. It was in her bag, with her passport and other papers. It took her a minute or two to dig it out. She found she was all fingers and thumbs with those grey eyes trained on her. Eventually she had it. The number was engaged.
‘No matter.’ It was impatient. ‘You can try again from the house. What do you need to bring with you?’
‘The house?’ She was doing the parrot thing again.
‘Si, my house. You cannot stay here.’
She wasn’t going anywhere with him. ‘Look, I’m sorry I’m blocking your road,’ she said quickly, ‘but once I get through to the hire company they can send someone to collect the car and give me a different one. Is—is there another way for you to get out?’ she finished hopefully.
He didn’t answer this. What he did say—and with an air of insulting patience—was, ‘It could be hours before you are in a position to leave, Cherry. They may not have another vehicle available or be in a position to collect this one. It might be tomorrow before this can be arranged. Do you intend to spend the night in the car?’
That was infinitely preferable to spending it in his house. ‘I wouldn’t dream of imposing on you,’ she said stiffly. ‘I’m sure I can find a small hotel or guest house somewhere close.’
The grey gaze took in her bulging suitcase and the equally bulging shoulder bag. ‘It could be a long hot walk,’ he said silkily, ‘with nothing at the end of it. I would not recommend putting yourself in such an unnecessarily vulnerable position when there is no need.’
No need was relative. The way he’d said her name, in that delicious accent, and the fact that he was easily the most attractive man she’d seen since she couldn’t remember when, as well as being the most arrogant, was acutely disturbing. It was ridiculous, but the sooner she was well clear of Vittorio Carella the better she’d feel.
On the other hand the suitcase weighed a ton, the sun was beating down, and once she was clear of the Carella estate she’d be at the mercy of any Tom, Dick or Harry she happened to meet. Or the Italian equivalent. ‘I’ll try the number again,’ she prevaricated. It was still engaged.
Vittorio was leaning against the car’s little bonnet, his arms folded and the sunglasses in place once more. She wondered how such an outwardly relaxed stance could express so much irritation. He clearly relished this situation as little as she did. Forcing herself to speak calmly, she said, ‘Perhaps if I could take advantage of your hospitality for an hour or two while I sort things out?’
‘Of course.’ Within moments he had transferred the luggage to the Ferrari, locking the Fiat and then opening the passenger door of
