The Rinuccis: Carlo, Ruggiero & Francesco. Lucy Gordon

wish I could believe that you are right.’

      ‘Come to bed.’

      Myra, Sol’s girlfriend, whom Della met next morning, proved to be much as expected: pretty, empty-headed, slightly grasping, but mainly good-natured. She was a native Neapolitan, and greeted the announcement that she was to go to the Villa Rinucci with a wide-eyed delight that said everything about the reputation of the Rinucci family.

      As Carlo’s car only seated two, a vehicle was sent down from the villa to collect Sol and Myra, which was a relief even to Della. It gave her a chance to talk to Carlo on the drive.

      She was wearing the black cocktail dress, and knew she looked her best. Carlo was smarter than she had ever seen him, in a dinner jacket and black bow tie, his shaggy locks actually reduced to some sort of order. He explained this aberration by saying that otherwise his mother would make him sorry he’d been born.

      ‘Don’t tell me you’re scared of her?’ Della laughed.

      ‘Terrified,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We all are. We were raised to be under a woman’s thumb, never to answer her back, always to let her have the last word—that sort of thing. I come “ready-made hen-pecked”. You’ll find that very useful.’

      Since this was a clear reference to a future marriage, she diplomatically made no direct reply.

      ‘Tell me about your family,’ she said.

      ‘You wouldn’t be changing the subject, by any chance?’ he asked lightly.

      ‘I might be. Maybe a man who’s ready-made hen-pecked doesn’t appeal to me.’

      ‘You’d prefer to do your own hen-pecking?’

      ‘Any woman would. That way she can ensure that the product is customised to her personal requirements.’

      ‘True. I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose reducing him to a state of total subjection is half the fun.’

      ‘Absolutely.’

      ‘In that case, my darling, you may find me a bit of a disappointment. I’ve been your devoted slave from the start, and I don’t think I could manage anything else.’

      ‘But suppose one night you come home disgracefully late and I’m waiting with a rolling pin? Surely you’re going to defend yourself?’

      ‘The situation would never arise. If I was out late you’d be with me, and we’d be disgraceful together.’

      ‘You mean you’re not going to fight me?’ she demanded in mock horror.

      ‘I don’t think I’d know how,’ he replied meekly. ‘I was raised not to stand up to the boss lady.’

      ‘So you won’t be my lord and master?’

       ‘Mio dio, no!’

      ‘Come, come! Be a man.’

      ‘If that’s what “being a man” means, I’ll settle for being a mouse—as long as I’m your mouse.’

      There was simply no way of answering this lunatic, she thought, her lips twitching. He could make her laugh whenever he pleased, reducing her defences to nothing.

      But then he added quietly, ‘I’ve never had much use for the kind of man who feels he has to bully a woman before he can feel manly.’

      His answer brought her right back into the danger area from which she’d tried to escape with humour, reminding her that it was his combination of quiet strength and gentleness that she found truly irresistible. The blazing sexual attraction that united them was only a cover. If it should die, the love would live on.

      Glancing at his profile as he drove, she saw things she had missed before. The angle emphasised the firmness of his jaw, so intriguingly at odds with the meek character he’d teasingly assumed. It was at odds, too, with his easygoing nature, which she now realised was deceptive. They had never quarrelled beyond small spats that lasted five minutes, and she had almost come to think that he could never quarrel, never be really angry. The contours of his face told a different story, of a man with the self-control and generosity to keep his temper in check. But the temper was there.

      The car slowed to let somebody cross ahead of them, and he took advantage of the moment to glance at her. What he saw brought a smile to his face, and she realised with a qualm that it was the smile of a supremely happy lover, full of confidence, with no doubts of his coming victory.

      If she could have stopped the car and disillusioned him before his blissful dream grew stronger, she would have done so. But that was impossible, so she merely said, ‘Tell me about the people I’m going to meet tonight.’

      She was an only child, as both her parents had been. So she had no experience of a large family, and was curious about Carlo’s. He’d previously told her about them, making them sound like a big, booming clan who were fun to be with. Now he observed that they would have dominated every part of his life if he’d allowed it.

      ‘That’s why I have my own apartment,’ he said. ‘So has Ruggiero, and so did Primo and Luke before they married. I adore the lot of them, but I need a place where I can behave as badly as I like.’

      He spoke of the whole family, but one look at Carlo’s mother told Della whose scrutiny he was really avoiding.

      As they turned into the courtyard people streamed out of the villa to stand on the terrace, watching the car. Studying them quickly, Della saw a man and woman in their sixties, five younger men and two young women. They were all smiling broadly, and the smiles changed to roars of approval as Carlo waved at them.

      ‘So you came back,’ yelled one of the men. ‘We thought you’d vanished for ever.’

      ‘You mean we hoped he’d vanished for ever.’

      More laughter, back-slapping. The man who’d said this bore a definite resemblance to Carlo, and Della guessed that this was his twin, Ruggiero.

      Hope and Toni Rinucci came forward, and Della knew that she was under scrutiny. Hope saw everything. Although she did nothing so rude as to stare. Her welcome to Della was courtesy itself, her smile perfect, exactly judged.

      And yet there was something missing, some final touch of warmth. Della returned her greeting, said what was proper, but her heart was not engaged any more than Hope’s.

      She wasn’t sure if Carlo had noticed this, for everyone’s attention was distracted by the arrival of Sol and Myra, who’d been travelling just behind them.

      Della introduced her son, and caught Hope’s startled expression at the sight of this grown up young man. After one quick glance at Della her smile became determinedly empty, as though she would die before letting the world know her real feelings.

      Myra caused a sensation, being eye-catchingly attired in a dress that was low at the front, lower at the back, and high in the hem. It practically wasn’t there at all, Della thought, amused, and what little there was shrieked ‘good-time girl’.

      More relatives appeared—Toni’s brothers and sisters, aunts, cousins—until the whole world seemed to be filled with Rinuccis. Carlo gave her a glance in which helplessness and amusement were mixed, before seizing her hand and plunging in.

      Della knew she was under inspection. Everyone behaved perfectly, but there was always that little flicker of interest at the moment of introduction. She became adept at following the unspoken thoughts.

       So this is the woman Carlo’s making a big deal about.

       Not bad looking in that dress—but surely too old for him?

      Once she found Hope’s eyes on her, full of anxiety. The older woman lowered her eyelids at once, but the truth could not be concealed.

      A few minutes later she sought Della out, placed a glass of champagne in her hand, and said, laughing, ‘I’ve