An Italian Engagement. Catherine George

you can. And the name’s Max,’ he added. ‘Do I call you Abigail?’

      ‘I prefer Abby.’ She sat, white-knuckled, while he inched the Range Rover past the abandoned hire car. ‘What made you build a house in a location like this?’ she asked when she could breathe again. ‘It needs nerves of steel just to get to it.’

      ‘There’s an easier road at the back of the property. My cleaner Renata goes up that way on her bicycle.’

      ‘So why don’t you use it?’

      ‘I do sometimes, but it leads in the opposite direction from the Villa Falcone and Todi so it was back to the scenic route for this trip.’ He shot her a glance. ‘I didn’t choose the location, by the way. I was given the property as a gift when I was a budding architect.’

      Abby began to relax as the road levelled out into the leisurely winding route she’d found so pleasant earlier on. ‘Did you become a full-blown architect?’ she asked politely.

      ‘Eventually, yes. This must be where you went wrong,’ he added as they turned off on another road. ‘Coming from Todi, you should have taken a right at this point.’

      ‘A really stupid mistake,’ she said in disgust. ‘This would have been a much easier drive.’

      ‘But then we might never have met,’ he pointed out.

      Not sure how to take that, Abby focussed her attention on the road winding up ahead through a grove of chestnut trees. Max Wingate halted at gates set between high stone walls, spoke into a microphone in one of the pillars, then drove up through formal gardens towards a house much older and bigger than his own hilltop retreat. Venetian windows, rose-coloured walls and an arcaded loggia were exactly how Abby pictured an Italian villa.

      A familiar figure came hurrying out to greet them, smiling broadly.

      ‘Benvenuto; com’ estai, Massimo?’

      ‘I’m good, Gianni. Speak English. This is Miss Abigail Green, all the way from England just to see you.’

      Giancarlo Falcone was familiar to Abby from his publicity stills, but in the handsome flesh his looks had far greater impact. He had so far avoided the excess weight of many of his profession, and in black T-shirt and jeans he looked more like a sexy rock star than an operatic tenor. He bent over Abby’s hand, his eyes bright with open appreciation as he straightened to smile at her. ‘Welcome to my home, Miss Green.’

      She returned the smile warmly. ‘Thank you. I’m so sorry I’m late. My car broke down.’

      ‘Che peccato! It is lucky that Max was on hand to rescue you.’

      ‘Very lucky,’ she agreed thoughtfully, looking from one man to the other. Max Wingate was several inches taller, and his thick sleek hair and eyes were the dark brown of bitter chocolate. Gianni Falcone’s brilliant eyes and mane of waving hair were true Mediterranean black, but olive skin, aquiline features and slanting eyebrows were a common denominator on both faces. The resemblance was unmistakable.

      ‘You’ve guessed our dark secret,’ said Max, resigned.

      ‘Secret?’ queried Gianni.

      ‘I neglected to mention that we’re related.’

      The singer’s smile flashed white, his eyes dancing as he shook his head in mock sorrow. ‘So. I am the skeleton in the cupboard. Max is ashamed of his little brother, Miss Green.’

      ‘Half-brother,’ corrected Max. ‘Is Luisa here, by the way?’

      ‘No.’ Gianni gave him a wry look. ‘Mamma is at home in Venezia.’

      To Abby’s surprise Max visibly relaxed. ‘Oddly enough your visitor has travelled here from Venice today,’ he told his brother.

      ‘You were there on holiday, Miss Green?’ asked Gianni.

      ‘A very brief one,’ she said, smiling. ‘A flying visit to meet my brand-new nephew.’

      ‘Ah, a joyous event—my felicitations.’ He took Abby by the hand. ‘Come. Let us go to the music room. Do you come too?’ he asked his brother.

      Max shook his head. ‘I’ll chat with Rosa in the kitchen while you get down to business, then I’ll drive Miss Green to Todi afterwards.’

      Gianni’s eyebrows rose. ‘I could have done that.’

      Max snorted. ‘No, you couldn’t. If you set foot anywhere near the place you cause a riot these days. Abby’s been travelling all day. She needs a peaceful evening.’

      The emphasis in his voice brought an unholy gleam to his brother’s eyes.

      ‘Va bene—I understand. Perfectly! We shall be a few moments only while I sign whatever Miss Abby wishes me to sign. Allora,’ he added, taking Abby’s arm to lead her away. ‘You shall have some tea to drink while we do this.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Ask Rosa to bring it, Max, per favore, and for you whatever you wish.’

      Gianni Falcone showed his visitor into a vast, high-ceilinged room dominated by a grand piano with an open opera score propped on it.

      ‘I thought your agent would be here today, Signor Falcone,’ said Abby, taking a contract from her bag.

      ‘Gianni, please!’ He shrugged. ‘Luigi has already settled the terms with Signor Hadley. We do not need to bring him back from holiday just for the signing. I am happy to sing at two concerts next June as requested.’ He gave her the megawatt smile familiar from his publicity stills. ‘You will be there?’

      ‘Yes, I’ll be there,’ she assured him, and gave him details of the hotel and travel arrangements she would arrange for him.

      ‘I trust your choice, Miss Abby. And because it means we shall meet again I look forward to the concerts with much pleasure.’

      ‘I notice you’re working on Puccini’s Bohème,’ commented Abby. ‘It’s a favourite of mine.’

      The black eyes gave her a melting look. ‘Then I shall sing an aria from it just for you.’

      While Gianni was reading through the contract, his brother came in with a tray, followed by a small woman carrying a coffee pot.

      ‘I decided to join you for tea,’ said Max.

      Gianni looked up with a smile. ‘Bene. You are just in time to witness my signature—ah, Rosa mia, you have brought coffee just for me.’

      The small plump woman smiled at him fondly, and said something rapid in Italian as she left.

      ‘She’s been with him since he was born,’ Max informed Abby. ‘She knows what he wants before he asks for it.’

      ‘This is true,’ admitted Gianni. He gave his brother a sly smile. ‘But when I go to sing in London this lovely lady says she will look after me.’

      Max shot a look at Abby. ‘Is that part of the service?’

      She nodded briskly. ‘It’s my job. I look after all the artists.’

      Abby spent a very interesting half-hour with the two men, who, though related by blood, were so different otherwise they might have been from a different species. Gianni Falcone was outgoing and charming and all Latin. In contrast the saturnine good looks of his self-contained brother were very British, but Max Wingate made it so clear he was no more immune to her charms than his brother that Abby was sorry when it was time to leave.

      Gianni presented her with a compact disc of operatic arias as he walked with them to the car. ‘It is my latest recording, with my compliments,’ he told her, then kissed her on both cheeks and held the passenger door open as he teased his brother about the brand-new Range Rover.

      ‘Vesuvius orange—a hot colour but a very cool car, Max. He has a great weakness for cars, you understand,’ he informed Abby.

      His brother hooted in derision.