LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘Your mother still sings, doesn’t she?’ Rebekah said. ‘I read that Isabella Lombardi is regarded as one of the greatest sopranos of all time. Will she be at your house in Tuscany?’

      ‘No. She lives in Rome, but I think she might be on tour at the moment.’ Dante shrugged. ‘To be honest, I don’t see her very often.’

      ‘What about your father—are you close to him?’

      ‘Not at all. We meet for lunch three or four times a year, but really from the age of eight I lived pretty independently from both my parents. I was at school, my mother was always travelling the world for performances and my father was busy with his own life.’

      ‘I can’t imagine not being part of a close-knit, loving family.’ Rebekah pictured her parents at their remote farm and felt a sharp pang of homesickness. ‘I love knowing that, whatever happens, if ever I have difficulties, I can rely on my family to help me.’ She glanced at Dante. ‘Who do you turn to when you have problems?’

      He gave her a quizzical look. ‘I don’t have problems, and if I did I would deal with them on my own. I’m a big boy of thirty-six,’ he said mockingly.

      ‘Everyone needs to have someone they can rely on,’ she said stubbornly.

      The image of his grandmother flashed into Dante’s mind, and he felt a dull ache beneath his ribs. Nonna Perlita had helped him through his darkest days after Lara had left him and all he had wanted to do was drink himself into oblivion. But that had been a long time ago, and he would never put himself in a position where he could be hurt again.

      ‘I don’t need anyone, so stop trying to analyse me.’ He lifted his hand and undid the clip that secured her hair on top of her head, grinning when she gave him an angry glare. ‘Leave it loose,’ he said, when she began to bundle the long silky mass back up into a knot. ‘You look very sexy with your hair down.’

      She was so lovely, he mused, feeling a curious tug on his insides as he studied her face. There was something about her, a gentleness that touched him in some way he did not understand. She was surprisingly easy to talk to. He had revealed things about himself and his childhood that he had never mentioned to anyone else. But the kind of women he tended to be associated with only showed a superficial interest in him and were far more interested in his wealth and social status, Dante thought with a flash of cynicism.

      Unable to stop himself, he leaned towards her and captured her mouth in a long, slow kiss that heated his blood. He was conscious of the laboured thud of his heart when after a few seconds her lips parted beneath his.

      She should not be responding to him, Rebekah thought frantically, as Dante brushed his warm lips over hers and probed his tongue between them to explore the moist interior of her mouth. She had told herself that she would keep him at arm’s length; that she would be coolly polite and professional so that he would quickly lose interest in her—which she assured herself she hoped he would do. He might even allow her to leave her job without completing her notice and she would be able to return to England and get on with her life.

      The sweet seduction of his kiss and the ache of longing he evoked inside her made a mockery of her intentions. But when he had told her about his unhappy childhood she had glimpsed a hint of vulnerability in him that he kept hidden beneath his self-assured, sometimes arrogant persona, and she had not been able to resist him.

      ‘Tell me about your grandparents,’ she said huskily when he eventually ended the kiss and she drew a ragged breath. ‘It was lovely that your grandmother finished renovating the house she and your grandfather had planned together. She must have loved him very much.’

      ‘They adored each other,’ Dante agreed. ‘They met during the war and were married for many years.’

      ‘So, not all marriages in your family are doomed to failure. Doesn’t the fact that your grandparents were happily married for so long make you think you should reassess your attitude towards marriage?’

      He laughed, but his eyes were hard as he said, ‘If that’s a roundabout way of asking whether there’s any possibility of our affair leading to a permanent relationship then let me make it crystal-clear there’s absolutely no chance.’

      Rebekah ruthlessly quashed the sharp little pain his words induced. ‘I hope one day to meet the right man, and we’ll fall in love and decide to spend the rest of our lives together,’ she told him, wondering if she would ever really have the courage to risk her heart again. ‘But he won’t be anything like you.’

      Why not? What the hell was wrong with him? Dante wondered, feeling an inexplicable surge of annoyance at her casual dismissal of him as prospective husband material. Not that he had any ideas on that score, of course. But he wouldn’t make a bad husband. In fact he had been a damn good one. He had done his best to make Lara happy, but the bitter reality was that his best hadn’t been good enough.

      He stared moodily out of the plane window and was glad when the flight attendant came to serve them coffee and his conversation with Rebekah ended.

      ‘It was once a Benedictine monastery,’ Dante explained as the car rounded a bend and a huge house built of pale pink brick and darker terracotta roof tiles came into view. ‘Parts of the original building date back to the eleventh century. It was renovated at various times over the years, but my grandparents—well, my grandmother mainly—turned it into the beautiful house it is now.’

      ‘It looks amazing.’ Rebekah was stunned by the size of the building and impressed by its history. The monastery stood on a hill overlooking rolling green fields and others filled with golden sunflowers and scarlet poppies. In the distance was the distinctive semi-desert landscape of the area known as the Crete Senesi. A narrow road wound past olive groves and tall cypress trees up to the Casa di Colombe—The House of Doves.

      A few minutes later Dante drove through the gates into the courtyard, where it was easier to appreciate the huge amount of restoration work that had been done on the ancient monastery. On three sides of the courtyard the cloister had been fitted with arched glass windows which gleamed in the bright sunlight. In one corner was an ancient well, and all around the courtyard stood terracotta tubs planted with lavender, lemon and bay trees and a profusion of different herbs.

      The splash of a fountain was the only sound to disturb the silence. As Rebekah climbed out of the car she was struck by the serene atmosphere. It was not difficult to imagine the Benedictine monks who had once lived here going about their daily lives with quiet devotion to their religious beliefs.

      ‘Nonna Perlita was a keen gardener,’ Dante told her when she admired the plants. ‘The knot garden on the other side of the house was her pride and joy. There is also a swimming pool, and in the grounds of the estate there’s a lake, although I wouldn’t recommend you swim in it. I used to catch newts in it when I was a boy.’

      ‘Who looks after the place now that your grandmother is no longer here?’

      ‘I employ staff from the village—a couple of grounds-men tend to the gardens and carry out any maintenance work, and two women come regularly to clean the house.’

      Dante opened the heavy oak front door and gave a deep sigh of pleasure as he ushered Rebekah into the cool stone-floored hall. ‘For me this is home. One day I intend to move back here permanently.’

      Rebekah gave him a surprised look. ‘Did you used to live here? I thought you grew up in England.’

      ‘I was born here—much to my father’s displeasure. He wanted his heir to be born in England, at the Jarrell estate. But my mother went into labour early while she was visiting my grandparents, and so this house is my birthplace.’ He gave a wry laugh. ‘Apparently my father accused my mother of giving birth early on purpose because she wanted me to be born in Italy. It was just one of many things they could not agree on—as was the language I should be brought up to speak. My father only spoke English to me and my mother taught me Italian, so I grew up bilingual.

      ‘I went to school in England, but spent most of the holidays here with my grandmother,’

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