In the Italian's Sights. Helen Brooks

ago, when women had no rights nor voice of their own.

      Cherry sat and brooded for another ten minutes, absent-mindedly eating three more of the delicious cakes and pastries, which were the best she’d tasted since arriving in Italy. The scents of a thousand flowers drifted into the room from the open windows. The patio area was bright with huge terracotta pots of lemon-scented verbena, pink begonia, brilliant red geraniums, salvias, pelargoniums and other flowers she didn’t recognise but which all added to the dazzling display of summer colour. Suddenly she wanted to be outside, despite the afternoon sun. A dip in that magnificent pool would be sheer heaven.

      Decision made, she left the drawing room and found her way to her bedroom, where she changed into the modest black one-piece swimming costume she’d brought with her. She had also packed two brightly coloured bikinis, both of which were on the skimpy side, and she balked at wearing those here. It was silly, but somehow the thought of appearing half-naked anywhere within a ten-mile radius of Vittorio was out of the question. To that end she pulled on a brightly coloured sarong which went with one of the bikinis for good measure, feeling better once her legs were covered.

      She sat down on the bed once she was ready, gazing round the room as she admitted to herself she was feeling a mite guilty about the way she’d behaved. It had been good of Vittorio to offer her refuge the way he had, and she didn’t think she had actually thanked him once. She bit her lip, her small white teeth gnawing at the soft flesh. It wasn’t like her to be so antagonistic—just the opposite, in fact.

      She shook her head at herself, her shoulder-length brown hair, which the Italian sun had bleached almost blonde in places, shining like raw silk.

      But it was him. Vittorio. He’d rubbed her up the wrong way from the minute she’d laid eyes on him—or certainly from the first time he’d opened his mouth. He was so arrogant, so sure of himself, so very male. But that didn’t excuse her ingratitude. She’d have to apologise and thank him properly for coming to her rescue. She groaned softly, wriggling off the bed and standing up. But after her swim. Maybe tonight during dinner? And then once the replacement car arrived tomorrow she’d thank him again for his hospitality and put as many miles between them as she could.

      She slipped on the daisy flip-flops she’d bought for the beach and walked to the door, turning round and looking at the sumptuous room again before she left. The whole situation she found herself in seemed quite surreal: one of the most—if not the most—handsome men she’d ever seen in her life, a house and gardens straight out of the pages of a glossy magazine featuring millionaire lifestyles, servants, wealth, splendour, and here she was, bang-smack in the middle of it. Even if it was just for a night. She almost felt like pinching herself to make sure it wasn’t a dream. It would be something to tell her friends.

      Once downstairs, Cherry stood uncertainly, wondering which was the accepted way to the pool. A door at the far end of the hall opened and a severe-looking woman with iron-grey hair and dressed completely in black appeared. The housekeeper, Cherry surmised—rightly. And straight out of a Dickens novel.

      On seeing her, the woman came gliding forward, a polite smile on her somewhat formidable face. ‘Si, signorina? Can I help you? There is something you require?’

      Not sure if the housekeeper knew the circumstances, Cherry said quickly, ‘Mr Carella said I could use the pool. I’m staying here overnight. My car—’

      ‘Si, si, signorina.’ It was slightly impatient. ‘I know of this. The signore—he has informed me of your situation. You have everything you need in your room?’

      ‘Yes—yes, thank you.’ Cherry thought the housekeeper fitted in well. She was every bit as intimidating as her indomitable employer. Poor, poor Sophia.

      ‘You please to follow me, signorina.’ Without further ado the woman turned and retraced her steps, stopping at a door which led into a sunny breakfast room which again had doors leading to the garden. The housekeeper opened a cupboard stocked with massive fluffy beach-towels, taking two and handing them to Cherry as she said, ‘The pool, si?’ She pointed into the distance. ‘I will send Gilda or Rosa with the iced drink shortly, signorina.’

      ‘Oh, no, please don’t go to any trouble on my account,’ Cherry said hastily. ‘I’ll be fine, really.’

      ‘Is no trouble, signorina.’

      The stern face hadn’t mellowed an iota, and feeling as though she was five years old and back in school again, being reprimanded by a teacher for some misdemeanour, Cherry thanked the housekeeper again and stepped out into the hot sunshine.

      The quality of light and the intensity of colour she’d noticed since arriving in Italy seemed even more pronounced in the beautiful gardens she walked through to reach the pool. She breathed in the scented air, taking it deep into her lungs. The pool was huge, the water crystalline under the clear blue sky, and on the surrounding tiled area there were several sun-loungers, hammocks and exterior sofas dotted round marble tables—some in the shade of magnolia, oleander and orange trees, and others under parasols. But a number were in the full glare of the sun. It was the perfect place for an afternoon siesta.

      Throwing her towels on to a hammock in dappled shade, Cherry slipped off the sarong and walked to the edge of the pool, diving into the deep end without hesitation. The water felt icy to her heated skin, but exhilarating, and she cut through the water with powerful strokes, feeling tinglingly alive. She had always loved swimming since a small child. It was the only sport she had excelled at—unlike Angela, who had been good at everything.

      Annoyed with herself that she’d let thoughts of Angela intrude, Cherry cleared her mind of everything but the sensation of the cold water and the heat of the sun above, swimming back and forth at a punishing pace until after ten minutes she was exhausted. Climbing out, she wrapped one of the towels around her middle and positioned the other one in the hammock—just as Rosa appeared with a tray holding a jug of iced fruit juice and a plate of small sugared biscuits.

      After thanking the maid she drank a glass of the fruit juice, ate three of the biscuits, and then positioned herself carefully in the hammock, intending to go straight to sleep. Instead she was suddenly reliving the last ugly scene with Angela and Liam, the suddenness of the onslaught taking her completely by surprise. Sitting up so quickly she was almost tipped out on to the hot tiles, she brushed wet hair out of her eyes, angry and upset at her weakness. It was over—done with. You’ve moved on, she told herself fiercely. You wouldn’t have Liam back if he came giftwrapped, so no more dredging up the past. You’re finished with all that—and, anyway, they’re not worth it.

      ‘Cherry?’ The soft female voice brought her out of the maelstrom of emotion, and as her eyes focused she saw Sophia was standing in front of her, her voluptuous curves accentuated by the scarlet bikini she was wearing. ‘Are you unwell?’

      Hastily composing her face into a smile, she said, ‘No, no, I’m fine. I was just thinking, that’s all.’

      Sophia sat down on a sun-lounger, a few feet from the hammock. ‘Unpleasant thoughts?

      ‘You could say that.’

      ‘Oh, scusi. I do not wish to pry,’ Sophia said quickly, clearly taking Cherry’s reply as a rebuff.

      ‘No, it’s all right.’ Cherry felt sorry for this beautiful girl who was a prisoner in her own home. ‘I was in love with someone and he dumped me for someone else. It’s as simple as that,’ she said lightly.

      ‘Is never simple.’ Emerald eyes surveyed her compassionately.

      ‘No, you’re right. It never is.’

      ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

      Surprisingly, Cherry found she did—probably because until this point she hadn’t opened up to anyone. She had never been one to wear her heart on her sleeve. All her life the more something hurt her, the more she put on a brave face and carried on. ‘I worked with Liam,’ she said quietly, ‘and we were good friends before we started going out together. I—I thought he was different