The Italians: Alessandro, Luca & Dizo. Rebecca Winters

tell him, except that would be most unwise. ‘I’ve invited Sophia and Carlo to dinner on Wednesday evening. Are you free to join us?’

      ‘It will be a pleasure.’ His voice held a warm sensuality that sent her pulse-beat into overdrive.

      ‘Seven-thirty, my place.’ She got the details out quickly, adding, ‘Ciao’ before ending the connection.

      There, it was done.

      In his luxurious office Alessandro put down the phone and contained a slight smile. He received many invitations over the course of each year, among them social, and the intimate kind. But none, he mused, that had been issued with such polite reluctance.

      Lily … or Liliana, as he preferred to think of her, was a piece of work. Warm, charming, delightful, when she let down her guard.

      A welcome change from women who played the seductive game for any man sufficiently wealthy to afford the lifestyle they craved. Their bodies sculptured to what they perceived as perfection, their adopted façade so practised they became carbon copies of each other.

      He could name a dozen or more he could call who would drop everything to be by his side.

      Except Lily Parisi, the one woman he wanted, who kissed like an angel and fitted into his arms as if she was meant to be there.

      He intended that she would, eventually. When he’d succeeded in earning her trust.

      Time and patience … he possessed both.

      And he always won.

      The night was busy, with every table filled in the restaurant. Which involved kitchen and wait staff working with maximum efficiency.

      Lily was beginning to feel comfortable and part of a valued team. Any reserve on Giovanni’s part no longer existed, and Cristo, even at his temperamental best, she could usually succeed in making him smile.

      Of the wait-staff, she shared an empathy with Hannah, whose sense of humour and facial expressions on occasion lightened the load. Especially when the occupants of a table chose to place an order and expect a gourmet dish be delivered in a matter of minutes.

      Giovanni, who usually held everyone together with unruffled calm, was known to vent sotto voce, that he ran a first class restaurant, not a franchised fast-food chain.

      As in any restaurant, on occasion, there appeared the guest who felt empowered to impress loudly with his knowledge of wine, assuring anyone who cared to listen that he was a noted connoisseur of fine food, only to view the dish he’d ordered with a disappointed sigh, appear to reluctantly fork a sample taste into his mouth, deliberately test the morsel and give a slight but expressive shrug as if to convey it failed to meet his expectation.

      Then there was the guest who found fault with everything, and made such a production of sending each dish back to the kitchen, after consuming part of it, in a ploy to gain a complimentary meal.

      A good lurk if you could work it, and there were the few who attempted to try.

      Lily reached the end of her shift, removed her apron and tossed it into the laundry bin, and was about to leave when Hannah caught her attention.

      ‘We’re both on the lunch shift tomorrow. What say we share a coffee together when we’re done?’

      ‘Love to.’ Lily gave a quick smile and received an impish grin in response.

      It would be fun, Lily reflected on the edge of sleep. Hannah was of a similar age and they shared the same interests.

      ‘You choose,’ Lily declared as they finished up the following day. ‘You’ve been in Milan longer than I have.’

      ‘One year and counting,’ Hannah agreed. ‘There’s this little café a few streets away that serves divine coffee.’

      ‘Then let’s go.’

      It was small but cosy, and they chose a table, ordered a latte each, and it was Hannah who spoke first.

      ‘Is this where we exchange our life stories, commiserate or rejoice?’ Her eyes gleamed with mischief. ‘Or do we forget all that and discuss something meaningful and dull?’

      ‘What if the life story is dull?’

      ‘Impossible. The kitchen goss pegs you as owning your own restaurant, you’re Italian by birth, and a professional match for Giovanni and Cristo.’

      Lily gave a light laugh and spread her hands. ‘Well, there you have it. Your turn.’

      ‘Uh-huh. More details.’

      ‘Not much to tell. My aunt invited me to visit, and I decided to stay a while.’

      ‘Boyfriend break-up?’

      ‘Something like that.’

      ‘Same goes. Relationship growing stale. Thought if I left London, he’d miss me and follow. He didn’t.’

      Their lattes served, they each took an appreciative sip.

      ‘I’m kind of seeing someone,’ Hannah confided. ‘He’s Italian.’

      Lily smiled. ‘That’s nice.’

      Hannah rolled her eyes and shook her head. ‘His mother wants to see him settle down with an Italian girl, follow tradition and bear him fine sons. Not an English girl who has different ideas and doesn’t speak the language.’

      ‘And what does this man you’re kind of seeing have to say?’

      ‘It’s his life, and he’ll choose his own wife.’

      ‘Sounds as if he knows his own mind.’

      Hannah’s eyes glowed with warmth. ‘Yeah. He does.’

      ‘So what’s the problem?’

      ‘Italian mothers tend to be very protective of their sons,’ she answered drily. ‘Famiglia. I don’t fit in.’

      ‘Simple. You keep him happy and win his mother over with your cooking skills.’

      ‘No problem keeping him happy,’ Hannah assured with a suggestive wriggle of her eyebrows. ‘I can cook. And I’ve been taking lessons in Italian.’

      ‘Well, then, you have nothing to worry about.’

      She brightened a little. ‘What about you? Are you seeing anyone?’

      Lily laughed. ‘Hey, I’ve only been in Milan a short while.’

      ‘There’s a rumour you have connections with Alessandro del Marco, the restaurant’s owner.’

      Lily kept her voice even. ‘He’s a friend of my aunt.’

      ‘He dines at the restaurant occasionally. Prime,’ Hannah accorded with a wicked grin. ‘Bet he’s fantastic in bed.’

      ‘I wouldn’t know.’

      Hannah rolled her eyes in expressive disbelief. ‘And don’t want to?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Shame.’

      They lingered a while, finished their coffee, then they parted as Hannah headed to the rail station and Lily made her way to her car.

      Wednesday she rose early, cleaned the apartment, then she pondered the evening’s dinner menu as she ate breakfast.

      Linguini with a delicate funghi sauce as a starter, she decided, followed by a revered Parisi specialty chicken dish, and a delicate fruit torte as dessert, a mango sorbet to cleanse the palate. Coffee. And wine.

      Simple, not too fussy, good wholesome family food. Not a visual work of cuisine art for clientele.

      Lily checked her pantry, made a comprehensive list, and shopped for the ingredients needed.

      Everything was in place by early evening, the