The Italian Next Door. Anna Cleary

her eyes, she made herself concentrate on the future.

      Beautiful Positano, where no one knew that eleven months ago in the Balmain branch of the Unity Bank a man in a ski mask had shoved a gun into the side of her head and made her believe she was going to die.

      Thank heavens for this opportunity to escape to a place where no one would ever dream how for a time that little drama had changed her entire life. What a wimp she’d been for months. One minute there she’d been, swanning through her reckless life with total disregard for what was around the corner, taking pleasure in her man, her friends, her blossoming work, her growing reputation, while the next minute …

      Until then she’d never known a thing about stress. It had come as a complete shock to her when, after the incident at the bank, all her mild little anxieties and cautions, the same ones everyone needed to keep themselves alive and well, had crept out of the woodwork and morphed into monstrous great phobias.

      Who’d ever have guessed it could happen to a cool sassy femme like herself? Unbelievably, she’d lost her renowned chutzpah and become scared of falling, drowning, crossing the road, being poisoned by unwashed lettuce, eaten by dogs and dying young. And, of course, big strong men in ski masks.

      Imagine her, Pia Renfern, up-and-coming landscape painter and portraitist, accepted as a bona fide exhibiting member of the Society, giving into fear. But to be struck by the worst tragedy of all and lose her ability to paint.

      As always when she thought of it, her stomach churned into a knot. But with a determined effort she fought the nauseous feeling. She needed to be positive and see the glass as half full. The horrible time was past. She was strong again and most of her anxieties had retreated back to their lairs. Only occasionally did one still leap out and surprise her.

      Now she only had her painting block to contend with, and, thanks to Lauren, Positano would give her the kick-start she needed. Once there, faced with all that beauty, she felt sure she’d be inspired to paint again.

      She’d barely managed five dozy minutes of concentrating on the positive before she felt a looming presence.

      She knew who it was. Even before she looked her pulse started an erratic gallop.

      She opened her eyes, then had to narrow them to shut out as much of the view as possible. How could black hair, strong brows and deep, dark, glowing eyes be so dazzling?

      Her wild pulse registered his mouth. Michelangelo might well have taken pride in having chiselled those meltingly stern, masculine lines. For a second her resolution to only consider slighter, more sensitive men wavered.

      Until she remembered. She frowned, then sat up with graceful unconcern. ‘Oh, it’s you. The man who interferes.’

      He inclined his head. ‘Valentino Silvestri.’

      His eyes were serious now, cool, and though he curled his tongue around the r with devastating charm, his manner was brisk. A charged purposeful energy buzzed in the air around him.

      ‘I’m about to leave for Positano.’ He glanced at his watch. A telling movement, because it required him to push up the sleeve of his shirt and reveal his bronzed sinewy wrist. ‘Depending on the traffic, I expect to arrive there soon after midday.’

      There were black curly hairs on the wrist, and more poking from beneath his cuff. It wasn’t too much of a stretch to imagine there might be more on his chest.

      With an effort she dragged her glance away. ‘Why are you telling me?’

      ‘You need the transportation. I am Italian, and it is the desire of our nation to welcome visitors and make them happy. So …?’

      ‘I doubt if you could make me happy.’

      He relaxed and laughed, a low sexy laugh, his white teeth contrasting with his olive tan. ‘Ah, signorina. You so encourage me to try.’ He produced a set of car keys from his jeans pocket and dangled them in front of her. ‘At least allow me to make some amends for spoiling your chances to hire the car.’

      Ah, now that was better. She started to feel slightly more forgiving. Still, though her body was giving her chaotic signals and her travel options were nil, her response was immediate.

      ‘No, thanks.’

      ‘No? You’re sure? Fast car, good driver, safe trip?’

      She shook her head.

      He was silent a moment, frowning, then a gleam shone in his eyes. ‘Did I mention that my uncle, aunt and cousin will be coming along?’ With a gesture he directed her gaze to the family group she’d seen hugging him a few minutes earlier. They stood several metres away by the escalator with a pile of luggage, looking her way with avid curiosity. Even the sullen boy seemed halfway interested.

      ‘Oh, them?’ Pia appraised them, doubtfully at first, then with her heart leaping up in sudden hope. ‘Really?’

      A few months ago being crammed into a car with a bunch of strangers, forced to make small talk, would have been her idea of hell, but today … The family looked to be the essence of safe, solid respectability. Was this her chance to escape from the airport and break out into the world of grass, sky and fresh air?

      She eyed Valentino, awaiting her response with apparent patience. What was his motive? Remorse? Something else? ‘I don’t know … Though I guess … Are you sure—it wouldn’t be an intrusion?’

      He made an amused grimace. ‘It would be a relief.’

      ‘They won’t mind?’

      ‘They’ll be fascinated.’

      ‘I wouldn’t want to impede your conversation with your family, or … or your—your privacy in any way.’

      ‘You couldn’t if you tried.’

      ‘Oh, well, then. Thanks.’ She stood up, smoothed down her clothes, picked up her bag. ‘Thanks very much. Though you—you do know this is just a lift, er—Valentino. Nothing more than that.’

      His brows lifted. ‘Scusi, signorina? What else would it be?’ He tilted his head with an expression of polite inquiry, and she felt a pang. Had she been crass to spell it out?

      ‘I was just—ensuring that you—understand …’

      His expression grew grave and quite dignified, as if she was insulting his honour, his reputation, his very heart and soul. She nearly had to pinch herself. Wasn’t this the same bold devil who’d been flirting with her only half an hour since?

      ‘Look, I—I just need to be clear you know that … this is not a pick-up.’

      Looking totally mystified, he drew his black brows together. ‘A pick-up. What is this pick-up? Is it an Australian thing?’

      She flushed and shook her head. ‘No, no. It’s. Look, it’s when …’

      It homed in on her at last that despite his beautiful accent up until now he had really quite excellent English. She stared suspiciously at his solemn, intent face, noting the sly glint in his brilliant dark eyes. ‘You know exactly what I mean, don’t you?’

      He grinned in acknowledgement, then broke into a laugh, his eyes lighting with amusement at her chagrin.

      ‘I might know, signorina.’

      ‘Fine.’ She let out an exasperated breath. ‘Well. So long as you understand I’m accepting this lift purely as a—a—an emergency and I have no intention of being taken for a ride. And it’s Pia.’

      He shot her a keen glance, then his luxuriant black lashes swept smilingly down.

      ‘Pia,’ he echoed. ‘Bella. I am charmed.’

      He was charmed. Well, she might have been a little that way herself, although at the same time she was churned up, confused and irritated. Did he think a woman’s concern for her personal safety was a joke?

      She