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an eye on his other dealings. It all works out very well.’

      ‘Especially for Lorenzo Martelli,’ Helen murmured wrathfully as she knocked on Lorenzo’s door.

      It opened apparently of its own accord. She walked in and found him tucked behind the door, regarding her with apprehension.

      ‘Will you stop playing the fool?’ she said, half laughing, half exasperated.

      ‘It’s nice to see you.’

      ‘You’re just up to your tricks again. Pretending your English is no good, when I know it’s perfect.’

      ‘Is true, is true,’ he clowned in excruciating stage Italian. ‘Me no spikka da English.’

      She just looked at him, trying not to smile, but it was hard to be severe when the dancing light in his eyes was tempting her to dreams of delight.

      ‘I’ve been detailed to assist you,’ she said, trying to sound business like. ‘Shall we discuss the programme for the day?’

      ‘Why don’t you show me the sights?’

      ‘Mr Martelli, I’m a busy woman.’

      ‘OK, OK,’ he said in resignation. ‘It was worth a try. Here’s a list of places I have to visit. There are no other hotels in New York, but several restaurants.’

      ‘None of these are Italian restaurants,’ she objected, studying the list.

      ‘Of course. That’s the idea. I’m out to make converts and Italians already know that Martelli produce is the best.’

      ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’

      ‘True. As a good Sicilian, you should have known.’

      ‘Lorenzo—’

      ‘I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it. Let’s go.’

      Over the next few hours she began to give him a grudging respect. Lorenzo was a first-class salesman who used his charm to get himself into the customer’s good graces before knocking him for six with the quality of his product. By the evening he had a solid wad of orders, all of which he’d promised to fulfil by the next day, having taken the precaution of hiring a warehouse and filling it in readiness.

      ‘And I’m exhausted,’ he complained at last. ‘Let’s go in here and relax.’

      The place he’d chosen at random was called Fives, and it overlooked the Hudson. Darkness had fallen and lights glittered along the river, entrancing Helen, even though she was used to such views. Tonight all her senses seemed heightened. Even edge was a little clearer, each colour a little sharper.

      She felt good. It had been a pleasant day with a delightful companion, for when Lorenzo wasn’t being maddening he was amusing. Recently her life had been all hard work and not enough laughter, she realised.

      ‘I feel as though I’d done a week’s work in one day,’ he observed.

      ‘So do I.’

      ‘I shouldn’t have made you work so hard, should I?’

      ‘Right. I was only supposed to be translating for you.’

      ‘But I don’t need a translator,’ he said innocently.

      ‘No, but you sure needed a dogsbody—make a note of this, jot that down—’

      He blew a kiss at her. ‘You take the best notes in the business. Let’s get them into the computer while they’re still fresh.’ He produced his laptop and studied some scraps of paper. ‘I can’t read your writing.’

      ‘I’ll put them into the computer. You get me something to eat before I faint with hunger.’

      The waiter arrived with the menu. Lorenzo ordered drinks, and when they were alone he made an excited exclamation.

      ‘This is a vegetarian restaurant. Just what I need. We’ll try as many dishes as possible to see where we can improve them.’ He began to read from the menu, pausing at each dish to observe, ‘I’ll bet I can improve on that.’

      The drinks arrived, and between taking sips and tapping into the laptop Helen failed to notice that the waiter had returned, taken an order from Lorenzo, and departed.

      ‘But I didn’t tell you what I wanted,’ she protested.

      He looked awkward. ‘The things is, I thought we should cover as wide a range as possible between us so—’

      ‘So you ordered for me something that suited you?’

      ‘Well—yes.’

      ‘That’s the sort of thing my father would do,’ she said wrathfully.

      ‘Ah, but that’s different. Your father is simply an old-fashioned patriarch. I act from nobler motives.’

      ‘Such as?’

      ‘I’m making money.’

      It was no use trying to out-talk him. She sighed, but her lips were twitching.

      ‘Talking about your father,’ he said, as their starters arrived, ‘I begin to understand what you mean. He’s very traditional, to put it mildly.’

      Helen nodded. ‘In some ways Papa is a wonderful man. He’s kind, and he works long, long hours for his family. But in return he expects to make all the big decisions. Mamma simply has no say.’ Her mischievous spirit made her add, ‘A bit like you just now.’

      ‘No,’ he said seriously. ‘I was nine years old when my father died, but I remember him well, and I’m sure he never spoke to his wife as brusquely as your father does. I’m also sure I’ll never speak to mine like that.’

      She pointed a courgette at him. ‘I’m not marrying you, Martelli.’

      He grinned. ‘Tell your father that. He was practically planning the wedding present last night.’

      ‘You tell him. You’re the man, the authority, the one who speaks while the little woman is silent.’

      ‘Who, me?’ He looked alarmed.

      ‘Yes, you. Are you a man or a mouse?’

      ‘A mouse,’ he said promptly. ‘It’s much safer that way.’

      ‘You mean you don’t have to explain to my father,’ she chuckled.

      He regarded her askance. ‘You’re so contrary you’d refuse to marry me just to annoy him.’

      ‘That and plenty of other reasons,’ she assured him.

      He made a parade of relief. ‘Phew! Then I’m safe!’

      ‘Eat your starter,’ she advised him. ‘The next course will be here soon and I can’t wait to find out what The Great Man ordered on my behalf.’

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