From Florence With Love. Lucy Gordon

corridor outside didn’t seem to lead anywhere except her room, a little sitting room and a room that looked like an office, so she went back through the door to the beautiful cloistered courtyard and looked around for any clues.

      There were none.

      So now what? She couldn’t just stand there and yell, nor could she go round the courtyard systematically opening all the doors. Not that there were that many, but even so.

      She was sitting there on the low wall around the central courtyard, studying the beautiful frescoes and trying to work out what to do if nobody showed up, when the door nearest to her opened and Massimo appeared. He’d showered and changed out of the suit into jeans and a soft white linen shirt stark against his olive skin, the cuffs rolled back to reveal those tanned forearms which had nearly been her undoing on the plane, and her heart gave a tiny lurch.

      Stupid.

      He caught sight of her and smiled, and her heart did another little jiggle as he walked towards her.

      ‘Lydia, I was just coming to see if you were all right. I’m sorry, I should have come back quicker. How are you? How’s the head?’

      ‘Fine,’ she said with a rueful smile. ‘I’m just a bit lost. I didn’t want to go round opening all the doors, it seemed rude.’

      ‘You should have shouted. I would have heard you.’

      ‘I’m not in the habit of yelling for help,’ she said drily, and he chuckled and came over to her side.

      ‘Let me help you now,’ he said, and offered her his arm. ‘It’s not far, hang on and hop, or would you rather I carried you?’

      ‘I’ll hop,’ she said hastily, not sure she could cope with being snuggled up to that broad, solid chest again, with the feel of his arms strong and safe under her. ‘I don’t want to break you.’

      He laughed at that. ‘I don’t think you’ll break me. Did you find everything you needed? How’s your room?’

      She slipped her arm through his, conscious of the smell of him again, refreshed now by his shower and overlaid with soap and more of the citrusy cologne that had been haunting her nostrils all day. She wanted to press her nose to his chest, to breathe him in, to absorb the warmth and scent and maleness of him.

      Not appropriate. She forced herself to concentrate.

      ‘Lovely. The bath was utter bliss. I can’t tell you how wonderful it was to get out of that awful dress. I hope Carlotta hasn’t burned it, I want to do it myself.’

      He laughed again, a warm, rich sound that echoed round the courtyard, and scanned her body with his eyes. ‘It really didn’t do you justice,’ he said softly, and in the gentle light she thought she caught a glimpse of whatever it was she’d seen in his eyes at the airport.

      But then it was gone, and he was opening the door and ushering her through to a big, brightly lit kitchen. Carlotta was busy at the stove, and the children were seated at a large table in the middle of the room, Antonino kneeling up and leaning over to interfere with what Lavinia was doing.

      She pushed him aside crossly, and Massimo intervened before a fight could break out, diffusing it swiftly by splitting them up. While he was busy, Carlotta came and helped her to the table. She smiled at her gratefully.

      ‘I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble.’

      ‘Is no trouble,’ she said. ‘Sit, sit. Is ready.’

      She sniffed, and smiled. ‘It smells wonderful.’

      ‘Buono. You eat, then you feel better. Sit!’

      She flapped her apron at Lydia, and she sat obediently at the last place laid at the long table. It was opposite Francesca, and Massimo was at the end of the table on her right, bracketed by the two younger ones who’d been split up to stop them squabbling.

      They were fractious—overtired, she thought guiltily, and missing their father. But Francesca was watching her warily. She smiled at the girl apologetically.

      ‘I’m sorry I kept your father away from you for so long. He’s been so kind and helpful.’

      ‘He is. He helps everybody. Are you better now?’

      ‘I’m all right. I’ve just got a bit of a headache but I don’t think it’s much more than that. I was so stupid. I tripped over the hem of my dress and fell down the steps of the plane and hit my head.’

      Behind her, there was a clatter, and Francesca went chalk white, her eyes huge with horror and distress.

      ‘Scusami,’ she mumbled, and pushing back her chair, she ran from the room, her father following, his chair crashing over as he leapt to his feet.

      ‘Francesca!’ He reached the door before it closed, and she could hear his voice calling as he ran after her. Horrified, uncertain what she’d done, she turned to Carlotta and found her with her apron pressed to her face, her eyes above it creased with distress.

      ‘What did I say?’ she whispered, conscious of the little ones, but Carlotta just shook her head and picked up the pan and thrust it in the sink.

      ‘Is nothing. Here, eat. Antonino!’

      He sat down, and Lavinia put away the book he’d been trying to tug away from her, and Carlotta picked up Massimo’s overturned chair and ladled food out onto all their plates.

      There was fresh bread drizzled with olive oil, and a thick, rich stew of beans and sausage and gloriously red tomatoes. It smelt wonderful, tasted amazing, but Lydia could scarcely eat it. The children were eating. Whatever it was she’d said or done had gone right over their heads, but something had driven Francesca from the room, and her father after her.

      The same something that had made Massimo go pale at the airport, as he’d knelt on the tarmac at her side? The same something that had made him stand, rigid with tension, staring grimly at a poster when he thought she was asleep in the room at the hospital?

      She pushed back her chair and hopped over to the sink, where Carlotta was scrubbing furiously at a pot. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t eat. Carlotta, what did I say?’ she asked under her breath, and those old, wise eyes that had seen so much met hers, and she shook her head, twisting her hands in the dishcloth and biting her lips.

      She put the pot on the draining board, and Lydia automatically picked up a tea towel and dried it, her hip propped against the edge of the sink unit as she balanced on her good leg. Another pot followed, and another, and finally Carlotta stopped scouring the pots as if they were lined with demons and her hands came to rest.

      She hobbled over to the children, cleared up their plates, gave them pudding and then gathered them up like a mother hen.

      ‘Wait here. Eat. He will come back.’

      They left her there in the kitchen, their footsteps echoing along a corridor and up stairs, and Lydia sank down at the table and stared blankly at the far wall, going over and over her words in her head and getting nowhere.

      Carlotta appeared again and put Francesca’s supper in a microwave.

      ‘Is she coming down again? I want to apologise for upsetting her.’

      ‘No. Is all right, signorina. Her pàpa look after her.’ And lifting the plate out of the microwave, she carried it out of the room on a tray, leaving Lydia alone again.

      She poked at her food, but it was cold now, the beans congealing in the sauce, and she ripped up a bit of bread and dabbed it absently in the stew. What had she said, that had caused such distress?

      She had no idea, but she couldn’t leave the kitchen without finding out, and there was still a pile of washing up to do. She didn’t know where anything lived, but the table was big enough to put it all on, and there was a dishwasher sitting there empty.

      Well, if she could do nothing else while she waited, she could do that, she told