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

Christian, I didn’t mean to sound rude or disrespectful about Princess Hetti.’

      Diana and Christian smiled at her affectionately. The air miraculously cleared, and Victor looked at Francesca, who nodded imperceptibly, as if she was saying everything was now all right. Diana got up and brought the bottle of champagne, refilling their glasses. ‘But it does happen to be the truth, Cheska.’ She glanced at Victor. ‘You should have heard how Grandmother carried on when I opened my first boutique here. “Going into trade!” she kept repeating over and over again, making trade sound like a life of ill repute.’

      There was more laughter and Christian said, ‘Poor old thing, living in the past, I’m afraid, but she has a certain sweetness, even if she is a bit dictatorial, and she loves us dearly, wants only the best for us.’

      Victor nodded. ‘Naturally she does.’ He directed his attention to Diana and went on, ‘Francesca tells me you’ve been very successful with your business venture. Congratulations.’

      ‘Thank you.’ She smiled at him, liking him, hoping to communicate this with her eyes, wanting him to feel comfortable and at ease with them again.

      The warmth flowing out of her registered with Victor, and he returned her smile. ‘You’ve also done a fantastic job on this house. There’s something quite magical about it, and the tranquillity is just out of this world.’

      ‘I’m glad you feel that way,’ she responded with quickness. ‘And when you go for a walk with Francesca later, you’ll be even more conscious of the peacefulness here, and the views from the mountain are quite spectacular.’

      Manfred came in, announced quietly that lunch was ready to be served, and disappeared. Diana led the way into the dining room.

      This adjoined the sitting room and was long and narrow in shape, with a stone fireplace on one wall, and a large window at the opposite end overlooking the snow-covered sloping lawns, and a panoramic vista of distant mountains. The room, with its white stucco walls, bare polished floor and dark wood furniture in Bavarian style, was somewhat masculine in overtone. But the basic austerity that prevailed was softened by a number of lovely floral arrangements in huge copper jugs, a collecting of green plants grouped in one corner, and a series of striking wood figures, intricately carved and painted in bright colours. These graced the tops of two long chests and the mantelpieces above the roaring log fire.

      Christian propelled himself to the head of the refectory table that stretched down the centre of the floor, and said, ‘Sit wherever you want, old chap, no formality here.’

      ‘Thanks,’ Victor said, sliding into the chair opposite Francesca. Diana took a seat at the other end of the table. ‘I hope you like the first course, Victor,’ she remarked, indicating the small covered bowl in front of him. She lifted the lid off her own, and went on, ‘It’s lentil soup, a local speciality, and very tasty.’

      ‘I love any kind of soup,’ he answered. ‘And I don’t mind telling you, I’ve worked up quite an appetite by now.’

      ‘Good. Bertha, Manfred’s wife, is a superb cook, and she’s prepared a typical Bavarian lunch for us today. Well, for you really.’

      ‘That’s nice,’ he said, picking up his spoon. ‘You must make a point of introducing me to her later, so that I can thank her personally.’

      ‘She’ll be thrilled.’

      Whilst they were eating their soup, Manfred and Clara came in carrying huge platters of steaming sauerkraut, red cabbage, boiled potatoes, and a large serving plate of Bratwurst, thick veal sausages browned to perfection and topped with rich gravy. They placed the dishes on the sideboard, and then Manfred hurried to the table, where he poured local white wine, chilled and sparkling, into long-stemmed, green crystal glasses.

      Christian said, ‘Lunch is always buffet style, Victor,’ and swung his chair over to the adjacent sideboard. ‘Come along, help yourself.’

      Victor and Francesca rose together and followed him. As they filled their plates, Victor leaned forward and murmured in her ear, ‘It smells as good as my Italian dinner, doesn’t it, kid?’

      She looked up at him carefully, smiling a knowing smile and said nothing. But her eyes did not leave his face and eventually she said, in a low voice of unmistakable intimacy, ‘There’ll never be a meal comparable to that one, at least not for me. It was especially delicious, and in more ways than one.’

      The look she now gave him was lingering, appraising, and of such intensity Victor was momentarily dazzled by it, found he was unable to tear his gaze away from those topaz eyes. He felt a sudden tightness in his throat as he thought: She’s flirting with me. By God, she really is. I’ll be damned.

      When they had returned to the table and were eating lunch and chatting, Victor remembered a comment Nick Latimer had made to him weeks ago, something about there being more to Francesca than met the eye. Perhaps Nicky, the soothsayer, had been right. This thought stayed with him throughout the meal, during which he spent a great deal of time studying her, was most attentive to every word she uttered, whether to himself or her cousins. He was totally tuned-in to her, conscious of every nuance in her voice, her every gesture. At one moment he asked her an innocuous question, and her reply was casually couched and utterly proper, but her expression was inviting, her eyes reflecting a hidden sexuality he had not seen there before. That’s a come-hither look, if ever I’ve seen one, he thought, amused. But a surge of excitement ran through him, one so forceful he was unable to ignore it. Unexpectedly, he was hot under the collar and below the belt, an unprecedented reaction for him across a dining table, at least these days. Well, well, well, so much for the little lady, he commented inwardly. She’s full of surprises.

      Later, when they were back in the sitting room, drinking coffee and sipping Obstler, Victor had completely readjusted his thinking about Francesca, and he saw her in an entirely different light. Earlier in the day, on the car ride from the airport, he had finally admitted his attraction to her. Now there was no question in his mind that she felt exactly the same way as he did. But was he prepared to do anything about it? Probably not, under the circumstances. Don’t kid yourself, old buddy, he reproved silently, coming to grips with his emotions. You know damn well she’s under your skin, and has been since the first moment you met her.

      Diana walked abreast of Christian, who was slowly wheeling himself down the gallery. She was thoughtful, her eyes subdued, her expression serious. She said quietly, ‘I do wish Dieter Mueller hadn’t come today.’

      Christian brought the chair to a stop and swung his head. His eyes searched her face, and he reached out and touched her hand. ‘Yes, in a way so do I. He upset you very much, and I hate to see that.’

      ‘His information is so sketchy, I can’t take him seriously. Actually, I haven’t been able to for a long time. Personally, I think he’s merely clutching at straws. He believes every little rumour, every little story, because he wants to believe them.’

      ‘Perhaps.’

      ‘Did he say anything else, after I left you alone?’

      ‘Not very much. He did suggest we put the pressure on again. In Bonn.’

      ‘Oh God, Christian, that won’t do much good. It hasn’t in the past. Why should it now?’

      ‘There’s always the chance that something might give on the other side. It might be worth a stab … just one more time. I told him I’d think about it.’

      ‘You’re not going to mention anything to Mummy, are you?’ she asked worriedly.

      ‘No, of course I’m not. There’s no point. It would only agitate her more than ever. Please relax, Diana, and forget about Dieter.’

      ‘Yes, I will. Life must go on, as I’ve been saying for the past few years, and as normally as possible. I don’t know why I let him get to me today. Stupid really.’ She shook her head, and a smile sprang easily to her lips. ‘Dieter Mueller is already forgotten, my darling, I promise you.’

      Christian’s