a stepfather to the mix could have caused problems, I suppose. But as far as I know the question never arose. Did you resent your stepfather?’ she added.
He shook his head. ‘I never thought of Enzo in that way because I lived with my own father in London. I just stayed at the Villa Falcone for the obligatory holiday every summer.’
‘Is that the most your father would allow?’
‘It was the most I would agree to at first.’
‘You didn’t like it there?’
‘It wasn’t the house. My feelings towards my mother were the problem.’ He paused, his eyes on the road, then glanced at her briefly and went on. ‘Luisa took a trip home alone to Todi just after my tenth birthday, met up with Enzo, childhood sweetheart transformed into wealthy businessman, and never came back.’
‘And you never forgave her?’
His mouth tightened. ‘I turned against her completely. I kicked up a terrible fuss when I eventually saw her again, because by then she had a new husband and a new baby.’
Abby kept quiet for a while, but curiosity eventually got the better of her. ‘If you don’t get on with your mother why did you build your retreat in Italy?’
‘I didn’t build it, exactly. I just designed the plans to put it back together. It had once been the home of Enzo Falcone’s great-grandparents, and during those long summer holidays he used to take us up there for picnics. I loved the place so much he made me a present of the property when I was eighteen.’ Max smiled crookedly. ‘He liked me. Against all odds I liked him, too. And, stranger still, so did my father. Whenever Enzo came on business to London, as he did quite frequently, he’d take us both out to dinner. And because I was studying architecture Enzo trusted me to transform his old ruin into something beautiful one day.’
‘You certainly did that. It’s a magical place.’
‘I’m glad you see it that way. Aldo the builder was all for knocking it down and starting from scratch, but to retain its character I wanted to incorporate as much of the original building as possible into my plans.’
‘Was your stepfather pleased with the result?’
‘Unfortunately, he died before it was finished. I miss him.’ Max’s face shadowed for an instant. ‘Next time you come I’ll show you the rest of it. I’ve converted the old threshing ground into a long, narrow pool, and the covered terrace outside the master bedroom looks out on the best view in the house.’
‘Which is saying something,’ said Abby, liking the sound of ‘next time’.
Visited by a sudden, vivid picture of Abigail Green in the master bedroom, sharing it with him, Max slanted a glance at her. ‘How did your sister come to marry an Italian?’
‘Laura went to Venice on holiday. Domenico was asked to meet her at the airport and they are now living happily ever after.’
‘Will that last?’
Abby nodded firmly. ‘In spite of gloomy statistics, I’m certain it will.’
‘Would you like something similar yourself?’
‘Maybe. One day.’
‘So there’s no man in your life right now?’
‘No.’ Abby shrugged. ‘Relationships tend to fall by the wayside because of my job. The most recent came to an end partly because the man wanted a woman he could see on Saturday nights without the drag of sitting through an easy-listening type of concert beforehand. Silas thought there was no other god but Mozart.’
Fool, thought Max with scorn. ‘My tastes are a shade wider than that. I never tire of listening to Gianni, but I own up to a taste for the odd spot of jazz—even a burst of heavy metal on wilder days.’
‘Do you have those often?’
He shot a glance at her. ‘You’d be surprised.’
She laughed. ‘I pictured you as another Mozart man.’
‘Only when Gianni’s performing it.’
They reached the colonnaded portico of Fontivegge station with an hour to spare before the train was due. Max went inside with Abby to confirm the change en route to Pisa, punched the ticket Domenico had bought for her into one of the yellow machines near the entrance to validate it, and then took her to the café to eat ham paninis with their espressos.
‘Right,’ said Max briskly, when it was time to make a move. ‘At this point we exchange phone numbers, addresses, and any other pertinent information, Abigail Green.’ He entered her number into his phone, then waited while she did the same with his, handed her a card with his address and home number, scrawled hers on the back of another and tucked it into his wallet.
‘You’ve been such an enormous help,’ said Abby, smiling at him gratefully. ‘I’ve run out of ways to thank you.’
Max could think of several that would suit him down to the ground. ‘Here’s one. I’ll be back in the UK at the weekend, so have lunch with me on Sunday. Say yes. Your train leaves soon.’
‘Then, yes. I’d like that very much. Thank you—’ She broke off with a laugh. ‘There I go again!’
He smiled. ‘Thank me again by reporting in tonight.’
‘I will,’ she promised, and looked at her watch. ‘I’d better be on my way.’
‘And I’d better get into my jacket and put this blasted tie on, ready to meet with my lady mother’s approval.’
Max hefted her bag, his tall, lean body looking good to Abby in the kind of suit Italian tailors cut to such perfection. He took her hand in his as they walked along the concourse, and she liked the touch of it on her skin. She’d liked it the night before on their stroll round Todi, and suddenly wished quite violently that she wasn’t about to say goodbye to Max Wingate. When her train was ready to board he reminded her to change in Florence, then took her in his arms.
‘This is another way you can thank me.’ He kissed her very thoroughly, holding her so tightly she was hot and breathless when he let her go. ‘Arrivederci,’ he said huskily, and trailed a finger down her flushed cheek. ‘Safe journey, Abby. Talk to me tonight.’
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