want you all to myself.’
‘Fabio can’t be cool about this. It’s your wedding anniversary, isn’t it?’
‘He’ll be away for it on some business trip,’ said Charlotte miserably. ‘Besides, he doesn’t know about the hotel yet. But I’ve already booked, so there’s nothing he can do about it—not that he would, of course.’
Rose wasn’t so sure. A possessive husband like Fabio Vilari would surely be anything but cool if his wife took a hotel break in Florence without him, even if it was with her lifelong friend and the bridesmaid at their wedding. But from the moment Rose had said a reluctant yes to the trip Charlotte rang every day to make sure that she hadn’t changed her mind, and in her final call sprang a surprise with instructions to take a taxi from Santa Maria Novella railway station to the hotel. ‘I’ll meet you there later in time for dinner, Rose. I can’t wait!’
Money, if the hotel brochure was anything to go by, was obviously not part of Charlotte’s problem, but if something was going wrong with her marriage Rose couldn’t see what earthly help a single parent like herself could give her friend, other than to provide a sympathetic ear. Still, the note of tearful desperation in her friend’s voice had been so worrying that Rose had enlisted her mother’s willing help, covered her child’s face with kisses and made for Heathrow with her shoulder ready for Charlotte to cry on.
On terra firma in Pisa Airport, Rose concentrated on collecting her luggage and finding the train for Florence, but once she’d boarded it the Tuscan scenery passed her by almost unnoticed in her worry about possible problems left behind and the all-too-probable ones awaiting her at journey’s end. Her daughter was used to spending time with her beloved gramma while Rose went out to work, but Mummy had always been home before bedtime. Rose blinked hard. The thought of her darling Bea crying for her in the night was unbearable. Yet Charlotte had been there for Rose through thick and thin in the past, and now her friend was the one needing help and support for once Rose had no option but to get to her as quickly as possible to provide it.
Rose came to with a start as the train pulled into Santa Maria Novella and was soon wheeling her suitcase through the heat and bustle of the crowds streaming from the lofty station into the late afternoon Florentine sunshine, so very different from the cool mists left behind. The taxi driver who eventually picked her up took a look at her hotel brochure and whisked her on a fast, chaotic drive past tall old buildings in narrow streets filled with honking cars and scooters en route to the banks of the River Arno. Rose stared, impressed, when they reached the hotel. Charlotte was certainly pushing the boat out for her. A flight of stone steps with a red carpet runner led up to an arched doorway crowned by a fabulous Venetian glass fanlight. Rose paid the driver, wishing she’d worn something more elegant than denim jeans and jacket for her red carpet entrance as she trailed her suitcase past marble statues and urns of flowers in the vaulted foyer. She approached the man behind the reception desk at the foot of a sweeping staircase and gave him her name.
‘Buonasera,’ he said courteously, but to her relief continued in English. ‘Welcome to Florence, Miss Palmer. If you will just sign the register? I am to inform you that Signora Vilari has ordered dinner for two in the hotel restaurant this evening.’
Rose smiled gratefully. ‘Thank you.’
‘Prego. If you require anything at all, please ring. Enjoy your stay.’
A porter took charge of the luggage to escort Rose to a lift rather like an ornate brass birdcage. It took them up two floors at such a leisurely rate she could have walked up faster, but she was utterly delighted when she reached her room. She tipped the porter and went straight out onto a balcony looking down on the River Arno, her feelings a heady mix of trepidation and excitement as she recognised the sun-gilded bridge farther upstream as the famous Ponte Vecchio. She was actually, unbelievably, here in Florence at last. She sent a text to Charlotte to confirm her arrival, and then rang her mother.
‘No problems, darling; Bea’s as happy as a lark,’ Grace Palmer assured her. ‘She’s playing with Tom in the garden before her bath. Do you want to speak to her?’
‘I just long to, Mum, but I won’t in case it upsets her. If she’s happy let’s keep her that way.’
‘She’ll be fine. You know we’ll take good care of her, so for heaven’s sake, relax and enjoy yourself.’
Rose promised to try, said there was no news from Charlotte yet, but would report tomorrow. She chose a tonic from the minibar and sat back on one of the reclining chairs on the balcony to breathe in the scents and sounds of Florence as she watched the traffic stream past across the river. For the first time in for ever at this time of day she had absolutely nothing to do—but missed her child too much to enjoy it. Stop it, she told herself irritably. Now she was here it was only sensible to make the most of her short break in this beautiful city. But what on earth was going on with Charlotte and Fabio? Could Fabio be cheating on her? Rose glowered. In the unlikely event that she ever acquired a husband herself her gut reaction would be grievous bodily harm if the man started playing away. She checked her silent phone again, took a last look at the sparkling waters of the Arno and went inside to soak in the bath for as long as she liked for once.
With still no word from Charlotte, the uneasiness grew as Rose got ready for the evening. To keep occupied, she took longer over her appearance than she ever had time for normally and even coaxed her newly washed hair into an intricate up-do. She nodded at her reflection in approval. Not bad. Her long-serving little black dress looked pretty good now she’d lost a pound or two. Charlotte’s clothes were always wonderful, courtesy of a wealthy, besotted husband—Rose bit her lip, wondering if there lay the problem. Maybe Fabio Vilari was no longer so besotted. Or, worst scenario of all, was now besotted with someone else.
She leapt away from the mirror as the phone rang. At last!
‘Hello,’ she said eagerly, but her face fell at the news that a letter had arrived for her.
A letter?
‘Thank you. I’ll come down for it right away.’ And wait for Charlotte downstairs with a drink.
Too impatient to wait for the lift, Rose hurried down the imposing staircase as fast as she could in her kept-for-best heels and crossed the foyer to the reception desk. The bulky envelope, addressed in Charlotte’s unmistakable scrawl, was handed to her, along with the information that the gentleman who’d delivered it wished to speak with her.
‘Buonasera, Rose,’ said a voice behind her. ‘Welcome to Firenze.’
Her heart, which had taken a nosedive at the sight of Charlotte’s handwriting, flew up to hammer Rose in the ribs. To hide her horrified reaction, she turned very slowly to confront a tall, slim man with dark curling hair and a face that could be straight out of a Raphael portrait. A face she had never forgotten, though heaven knew she had tried. Here in the handsome, irresistible flesh was her reason for refusing all invitations to Tuscany—to avoid meeting up with her daughter’s father again.
‘Good heavens—Dante Fortinari,’ she said lightly when she could trust her voice. ‘What a surprise!’
‘A pleasant one, I hope?’ He took her hand, a light in his blue eyes that made her want to turn tail and run. ‘I am so very happy to see you again, Rose. Will you have a drink while you read your letter?’
Her first reaction was to refuse point-blank and tell him to get lost, but after a pause she nodded warily. ‘Thank you.’
‘Come.’ He led her to a table in the hushed
