Nanni finished his coffee and sat back in his chair, his belly as round and heavy as a wineskin. ‘I think the intruder is settling in for a long and luxurious summer,’ he said languidly. ‘And I’m going to roll onto a sun-lounger, close my eyes, and reflect on the great philosophers of antiquity.’
‘Don’t work too hard!’ said Ma. ‘You might pull a muscle.’
‘Bella donna!’ Nanni sighed. ‘I would agree with you if it weren’t for the very obvious fact that I have none to pull.’
‘Oh, I’m sure there are one or two little ones hidden away in that skull of yours!’
‘Well, if you find them, do tell me. You’ll make my day.’
Romina shook her head in fond disapproval. ‘If you drank and smoked less, exercised a little and consumed half the quantity of food, you’d find a great deal more than two!’
Nanni sloped off across the terrace. ‘And people wonder why I never married!’
Luca had breakfast at the trattoria but Rosa wasn’t due in until later and Cosima wasn’t expected at all. He wanted to telephone her, but was wary of getting her cousin on the line. He resolved to buy her a mobile telephone when he took the girls to the airport. He wanted to be able to contact her at all times. As charming as Incantellaria was, it was stuck in the past in spite of the attempts to drag it into the modern world with satellite dishes and internet access.
Alone with his croissant and coffee, Luca sat back and relived the previous night, remembering the scent of her, the taste of her, the feel of her, the sound of her sighs and the huskiness of her laugh. He had expected her to be virginal, somehow. She had looked so modest in her black mourning dress. But she had made love with the wantonness of a woman who lives for sensual pleasure and her lack of inhibition had held him captive. He didn’t remember ever having enjoyed a woman so much. She was a creature of many layers, and he could barely restrain his impatience to peel away the next.
His erotic thoughts were interrupted by Stephanie, who had come into town to do some shopping. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’ she said, taking off her sunglasses.
‘Please do. What will you have?’
‘Espresso would be nice. Isn’t it a beautiful morning?’
‘Glorious,’ Luca agreed, raising his hand to attract Fiero’s attention. ‘What have you done with your father?’
‘He’s up at the palazzo.’
‘While the cat’s away . . .’
‘The mouse will shop.’ She laughed, tossing her hair. ‘But I’m doing some culture as well. The church is adorable. I can’t imagine that statue ever weeping blood, though. Looks as solid as every other marble statue I’ve ever seen.’
‘Miracles can’t be explained.’
‘Like magic.’
Luca shook his head. ‘There’s a world of difference between miracles and magic. So, Stephanie Kate, how many hopeful young men have you left behind in Yorkshire?’
Rosa walked down the hill into town. She felt particularly grumpy. The more Cosima laughed and smiled, the more disgruntled Rosa became. How was it possible to change so suddenly, from a woman in mourning to a woman in love? Surely such a dramatic metamorphosis was only possible if her previous state of misery had been a pretence, a passive-aggressive way of getting attention. Alba had come down heavily on her when she had suggested it, defending her niece with the ferocity of a tiger. In her opinion, Cosima had needed a catalyst to propel her out of her grief. Her failed suicide had shown her how much she wanted to live. Luca had demonstrated that it was possible for her to feel attractive again, and attracted. There was no doubt that Cosima was excited by him, but Rosa couldn’t believe, didn’t want to believe, that he could feel the same way about her.
When she reached the trattoria, there he was with his dark glasses, sky-blue shirt and the charisma that surrounded him like a dazzling mist. He was chatting and laughing with a very beautiful young woman she hadn’t seen before. Rosa’s fury dissipated. If he were in love with Cosima he wouldn’t be flirting like that with another woman.
As she came on to the terrace, Luca waved her over. Rosa’s heart flipped. She noticed him run his eyes appreciatively over her clingy red top and tight blue jeans, right down to her pretty scarlet toes peeping out of high-heeled sandals.
‘How do you walk in those?’ he asked.
‘Practice,’ she replied, putting her hands on her hips, striking a provocative pose. ‘My feet aren’t made for flat shoes.’ She turned to his companion, clearly expecting to be introduced.
‘Meet my old friend, Stephanie. She’s from England.’