Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection. Barbara Taylor Bradford

a good story, and telling it well. ‘I like the sound of your Emma Harte,’ he said, when she had finished. ‘I’ve always been partial to strong, independent and determined women. I can’t stand clinging violets.’ He winked. ‘They’ll never cling to me.’

      Francesca’s eyes were watchful. ‘Most men feel threatened by a strong woman.’

      ‘Not this man.’

      She said nothing, smiled enigmatically, and tucked this bit of information away to add to her store of knowledge about him.

      After they had finished the prosciutto and figs, Victor cleared the plates, and before Francesca had time to blink he returned, pushing the trolley into the room in front of him. The cart was stacked with an array of silver serving dishes, and she said, ‘Goodness, it looks as if you’ve made enough to feed an army!’

      Victor nodded, laughter rippling across his wide mouth. ‘Yes, I know, and I always do, I’m afraid. I’m sure the tendency springs from once being very poor. I’m over-compensating now, I guess. But, Jeez, I can’t stand empty cupboards or an empty refrigerator either. They’ve got to be stacked to overflowing to satisfy me, to make me feel good.’ He hovered over the trolley, removed various lids with a flourish, beamed at her and went on, ‘Fettuccine Alfredo, exactly the way they make it at Alfredo’s in Rome. His recipe by the way, and he gave it to me as a special favour.’ Victor served the pasta expertly, handed her the plate, took another larger one, and explained, ‘And it’s accompanied by a veal chop, pink and succulent and tender. I hope. There you are.’ He put the veal chop in front of her. ‘How does that look to you?’

      ‘Everything looks absolutely marvellous, Victor. Thank you.’

      ‘I’ve also made a salad of basil leaves, tomatoes and mozzarella cheese, but let’s tackle this first.’ He served himself, sat down and lifted his glass of white wine.

      Francesca followed suit and they clinked glasses, and before he could propose a toast, she exclaimed, ‘To the chef!’

      ‘Grazie.’ He tasted the Soave. ‘Mmmm. Not bad, not bad at all,’ he said, savouring it. He touched her glass with his again. ‘And here’s to my beautiful patient. Fortunately fully recovered.’

      Francesca inclined her head. ‘Why thank you, Victor.’ She was relieved she could accept this compliment without blushing.

      As the meal progressed Francesca realized he had not exaggerated about his talents in the kitchen, and she was impressed. The food, which he had prepared so painstakingly, and apparently so lovingly, was delicious. The pasta was cooked to perfection, the sauce creamy without being over rich, whilst the veal chop was as tender as he had hoped and her knife slid through it as though cutting butter.

      ‘I’m really staggered,’ she told him at one moment. ‘Where did you learn to cook like this?’

      ‘The best place, the only place. At my mother’s knee.’ He drank some of his wine, and told her, ‘I love cooking. It helps me to unwind, and there’s nothing I like better than pottering around in the kitchen at the ranch. And I want you to know I’m pretty versatile.’ His black and brilliant eyes danced. ‘I can rustle up terrific steaks on the barbecue, and I make the best chicken and dumplings you’ve ever tasted. They’re out of this world.’

      ‘I don’t doubt it,’ she laughed, enjoying him, revelling in his company. In the past they had never once been alone, had always been accompanied by Nick and Katharine, and surrounded by a tribe of other people as well. She was delighted to have him to herself, to see a wholly different side of him.

      Victor talked a lot during dinner, and about a variety of things, but mostly he talked about his ranch near Santa Barbara, his love of horses and the outdoor life, the quiet and essentially private existence he led when he was not working in a picture. But he did touch on the professional side of his life several times, regaling her with funny anecdotes about his early years in Hollywood and stories about some of the crazy characters who were his friends. He was witty and amusing and he kept her laughing and vastly entertained.

      For his part Victor was enjoying himself as much as Francesca. She was an avid listener, the best captive audience he had ever had, and when she did ask questions these were intelligent or pointed, and usually pertinent. Her comments ran from acerbic to the hilarious. He began to realize he had not had such a good time for months, maybe even years.

      Victor Mason was very much the domesticated male animal who had always preferred to relax in the luxury and privacy of his own home, rather than gallivanting in public. It suddenly occurred to him that this type of intimate evening was the one thing he had missed with his last two wives. Both had been perpetual and tireless party-goers, social butterflies of the most relentless kind, and they had wearied him to a point of suffocating boredom, as had the endless parties to which they had dragged him, invariably protesting.

      But mostly, he knew, it was Francesca’s presence which was making the evening so pleasurable for him. She was companionable, and lots of fun, and tranquil to be with. Victor discovered he was drawn to her more than ever and for a variety of reasons. Prominent amongst these were her sweet disposition and her natural manner, coupled with her ingenuousness and straightforward honesty. He could not abide women who were crafty or coy or coquettish, who played oblique sexual games, and it was a relief to him to be with someone who was so utterly without guile, who was not out to set a trap for him. Because of her intelligence, her intellectual promise, her many lightning perceptions and her unusual self-confidence, Victor was beginning to forget about her extreme youth, that singular and most disconcerting fact which had continually nagged at him for weeks. And in so doing he set a trap, albeit unwittingly, for himself.

      After dinner they seated themselves in front of the blazing fire, sipping coffee and chatting desultorily. Victor was ensconced in the wing chair, nursing a cognac and smoking one of the Earl’s best cigars, both of which Francesca had brought to him, once he had finished clearing away the dishes and the remnants of their meal. She sat opposite him, curled up in one of the large easy chairs, her feet tucked under her.

      A silence had fallen between them, yet it was a compatible silence. Victor eased back in the chair and stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. He puffed on the cigar contentedly, regarding her through the haze of the smoke.

      She smiled at him. ‘When do you actually start shooting in Yorkshire?’

      ‘Some time in May or June. We must be certain of good weather. But we start principal photography at Shepperton Studios the first week of April. That’s a firm date, and we’ll get as much footage in the can as possible, before going on location. Why do you ask?’

      ‘I’d like to give my father a tentative date for the weekend house party.’

      ‘I’ll check it out with Jake Watson on Monday, and let you know before I leave. I’m going away next week.’

      Francesca felt the muscles in her face tighten. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I … I didn’t know.’ She fiddled with the fastening on her chain belt and ventured quietly, ‘Are you going back to Hollywood?’

      ‘Nope. I’m going to Switzerland. To Klosters. It was a trip I’d planned to take with Nicky, and since he’s no longer available, I was going to cancel it. But then I decided I might as well go off by myself. I need a few days’ break before plunging into the picture. I’m leaving this coming Wednesday, for about five days. It’s the last chance I’ll have before I’m firmly battened down by Jake.’

      ‘How lovely. I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time,’ she said with as much enthusiasm as she could manage.

      Victor took a mouthful of the brandy, and then stared deeply into the glass, asking himself whether he would enjoy the trip without Nick. He never travelled unless Nick was able to accompany him and, unexpectedly, the prospect of five days alone, even in Klosters, did not seem appealing.

      He put the brandy on the table and leaned forward. ‘Listen, Francesca, I’ve just had a terrific idea. Why don’t you come with me?’ He sat back, not sure he had heard himself correctly.