was hot, tired, late for an appointment, and in no mood for a lecture. ‘If this road is Mr Falcone’s private property are you a fan, or just a trespasser?’
‘For your information,’ he drawled, ‘it’s not Gianni’s private road. It’s mine.’
‘Oh.’ Abby’s hot face reddened in embarrassment. ‘Then I apologise. I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.’
‘Obviously. Let’s take a look at your car.’
Abby raked the bonnet up again and stood back. He hooked his sunglasses in his belt and bent over the engine to investigate. She looked on without much hope, but when he straightened to wipe sweat from his forehead she frowned in surprise. The tanned, saturnine face looked familiar. She could have sworn she’d seen him before—Oh, come on, Abigail. How likely was that? Stress and heat were frying her brain.
‘Your radiator’s sprung a leak,’ he informed her. ‘A stone probably pierced it from underneath. You wouldn’t have noticed on this surface. My apologies.’
Abby smiled graciously. ‘Hardly your fault.’
‘The apology is for my suspicions. I took it for granted the breakdown was staged.’ His smile set her teeth on edge. ‘Gianni’s fans can be amazingly creative in their attempts to get at him.’
She needed this man’s help, she reminded herself. ‘I assure you that Mr Falcone is expecting me.’ She looked at her watch in dismay. ‘In fact I’m due to meet him in twenty minutes, but I can’t get a signal to tell him I’m delayed.’
‘You won’t in this spot. I’ll drive you back to my place to ring Gianni. He can send someone to pick you up.’ A pair of hard, deep-set eyes gave her a look she didn’t care for very much. ‘Were you expecting to stay at his house overnight?’
‘No,’ she said coolly. ‘I’m booked in at a hotel in Todi. After my meeting with Mr Falcone I’ll get back there by taxi.’
For the first time he gave her a genuine, megawatt smile. ‘Right, let’s go, then. My name’s Wingate, by the way.’
‘Abigail Green,’ she said, dazzled by the smile. ‘I appreciate your help, Mr Wingate.’ She collected her belongings from the car and locked it, wiped her hands on a tissue, jammed her panama low on her forehead and got into the passenger seat of what she could now see was a Range Rover sports car. The perforated leather of the passenger seat supported her in pure comfort after the cramped little hire car, but Abby sat rigid, eyes firmly averted from the drops below, while her reluctant Samaritan turned the car in a skilled, terrifying manoeuvre, then took off up bends which grew more hair-raising the higher they climbed. At last, to her infinite relief, they passed through a gap in weathered walls into the courtyard of a house built of pale, sun-washed stone.
‘Oh, how lovely,’ she said involuntarily. The infrequent windows were of different sizes and set in the walls with no apparent eye for symmetry, but the effect was utterly captivating. When she got out she could see that each window had been placed to look down on a different view of wooded hills and vineyards, interspersed with cultivated fields protected by serpentine rows of tall cypresses.
‘What a fantastic panorama,’ she said, impressed. ‘It’s almost worth the drive up here to look down at it.’
‘Not many people agree with you on that—fortunately.’ He ushered her into the house through a porch with greenery twining round its pillars. ‘Come inside out of the sun.’
Abby followed him across a cool hall to a living room with exposed beams and massive stone fireplace.
‘Sit down,’ he invited. ‘I’ll fetch you some fruit juice.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled a little. ‘But I’ve been sitting all day, one way and another. Would you mind if I just stand at the windows to look at the view?’
The hard eyes softened as he gave her the smile again. ‘Feel free. Where did you hire the car?’
‘The hotel arranged it—the Villaluisa.’
‘Right. I’ll ring them after I get hold of Gianni.’
Alone with the view, Abby could hear him talking in rapid-fire Italian in another room, presumably with Giancarlo Falcone. She fervently hoped so. Otherwise she’d come a long way for nothing. When she’d begged time off to fly to Venice to meet her brand-new nephew, her boss had agreed as long as she made a detour to Todi on the way back to finalise details for the young tenor’s first British concerts.
‘Arrangements made,’ said her host, returning with a tray. He poured fruit juice into a tall, ice-filled glass and handed it over. ‘I’ll drive you to the Villa Falcone myself.’
Surprised, Abby thanked him and drank thirstily. ‘That’s extremely kind of you,’ she said after a moment. ‘But I must be holding you up. You were on your way somewhere earlier.’
‘I cancelled.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is someone waiting for you at the hotel?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m flying home tomorrow to get back to work on Monday. Thank you,’ she added as he refilled her glass.
‘What do you do?’
Abby gave him a brief description of her job as assistant to an impresario. ‘I help organise various events. In summer it’s mostly open-air picnic concerts in picturesque venues. A major part of my job involves looking after the performers, which is why I’m here right now. Giancarlo Falcone is a big draw, but he’s been hard to pin down to an actual date, and brochure deadlines are looming.’
‘So your boss thought the feminine touch would bring him to heel?’
‘Only because I happened to be travelling to Venice to see my new nephew. My sister’s husband is in the hotel business there.’
‘He’s Italian?’
She smiled a little. ‘I think Domenico looks on himself as Venetian.’
‘Then he must be elated to have a son.’
‘He was, once he was sure that all was well with Laura. But he’s equally besotted with the daughter who arrived first, two years ago.’
‘You like children?’
‘Of course.’ Abby drained her glass. ‘May I tidy up before we go?’
She took her bag into the cool marble interior of her host’s ground-floor bathroom, wishing that her blue chambray shirt dress had survived her adventure rather better. She smoothed it down as best she could, unloosened the plaited leather belt a notch to lie lower on her hips, and went to work on her face with soap and water, followed by some copious moisturiser and her emergency supply of cosmetics. She used a scent spray sparingly, unfastened the denim barrette at the nape of her neck, brushed her hair out to curl loosely on her shoulders, then grinned cheerfully at her reflection. If the singer needed persuasion, it was only common sense to use whatever ammunition she had on hand to get him to sign.
Her rescuer was waiting for her in the cool, high-ceilinged hall, looking dauntingly immaculate now in a handkerchief-thin white shirt, beautifully tailored cotton trousers, and a leather belt and shoes obviously bought somewhere in Italy. And, she
