‘You must thank God every day that you live here.’

‘All day long,’ he said.

‘Mmm, yes. How amazing to call this home.’

‘Third home,’ he corrected. ‘I live in London and Rome. But this is my favourite family retreat.’

‘Of course,’ she said, continuing to snap pictures with her camera. She turned to take one of him. ‘It’s like being on holiday in heaven.’

‘Avanti,’ he said. ‘There will be plenty time to take pictures of heaven later.’

‘Hang on. Is that Salvatore?’ She had stopped again and was pointing out to the bay.

Their yacht, Silver Spirit, was berthed some way off, tagged by the trail of a speedboat. Salvatore’s speedboat. He had stopped and was waving up at him.

‘Si. The man himself. He’ll be heading over to meet the team. Let’s go, Coral.’

She had her hand to her eyes and with the other began to wave back at Salvatore.

‘Coral,’ he said again, more sharply.

‘Sorry!’ She laughed.

As he started down the path, he struggled again to place just who it was she reminded him of. She had such an Italian look—wide-eyed, wide-mouthed, with auburn hair and creamy skin. An exotic, sensual cocktail. He couldn’t think of any famous starlet that she resembled, now or in the past, but there was something, someone that jarred in his mind.

‘Just getting some background,’ she said suddenly, jolting him out of his reverie. ‘It’s not every day you get to wander along the cliffs of Hydros.’ She grabbed up her bag and ran to catch up. ‘Does Salvatore have a third home here too?’

‘Salvatore would count here as his fifth home, I think. At a push. Kyla has plans for it. I don’t think they will be here much, though. They prefer Sydney, where she is from.’

‘You don’t like her, do you? This Kyla? I can tell. I’m getting a definite vibe that she’s not your cup of tea.’

They’d reached the paved area that marked the boundary of the old villa. He stopped, and she almost ran into the back of him.

‘Oh—sorry!’

She stumbled into his chest. He scooped his arm around her and held her against his side until she’d regained her balance. She tucked neatly under his arm, soft and warm and...

Not yet, Raffaele. Take it easy.

He let her go.

‘OK. Before we take another step—the ground rules.’

‘Right,’ she said, smoothing the wide skirt of her dress and looking up at him, those big dark eyes so earnest, so honest. Unflinching. He was used to people looking away from him, nervously avoiding eye contact. So many men were intimidated and so many women coquettish. She was unashamedly neither.

‘Professional questions only from now on. And keep your personal opinions to yourself.’

‘You don’t, do you?’

What was it with this girl? Why did she speak to him like this?

‘Coral, what I think about Kyla or anyone else is not your business and should not even enter your head. You’re here to do a job. Capisce?’

She nodded. ‘Si—capisco.’

‘Parli italiano?’

‘No, not really. I’ve picked up a few words from films.’

He looked at her again and frowned.

‘We will meet Salvatore and Kyla. You will propose your ideas, chat them through with the team, and I will give you the final decision.’

‘You do know that Mariella has already decided that the shoot with Kyla will be done on the loggia? That does limit our options.’

‘She has? We’ve spent over an hour discussing this and you didn’t think to say?’

‘You were a little busy biting off my head,’ she said, smiling.

This woman was beyond infuriating. No one ever spoke back to him and here she was, staring him down and firing back with the most exhilarating confidence. She was easily the most attractive woman he’d met in a very long time.

‘Are you normally this difficult?’ he asked, turning back to the path.

‘I’m normally honest, if that’s what you mean. It wasn’t my idea to play it safe.’

They emerged from the cliff path onto the driveway. Before them stood the old villa in all its majesty, its secrets about to be shared with the public for the first time ever. A Di Visconti home for centuries, but now just the backdrop for Kyla’s vanity.

He led on across the terrace, helping Coral to step carefully on the worn marble. He knew too well the feeling of the hard slap of bone on stone, the trickle of blood from split knees, the sound of Salvatore’s voice, laughing. He knew the feeling of the housekeeper’s arms around his young shoulders and the ache of wanting to be comforted. Wanting but never having. Because his own mother hadn’t been able to.

Sometimes he felt as if his heart was as cold and hard as that marble.

He pushed the heavy door open, feeling the calming press of the brass handle on his palm. The relief of air-conditioning washed over his skin, cool and fresh. A buzz of voices caught his ear and he frowned, turning to catch the source.

Behind him the squeak of Coral’s sandals told him she was right at his back.

‘Sounds like it’s all kicked off without us.’

He led on through the lounge areas that led from the pool into the main part of the villa.

Kyla had changed too much already. The oil paintings and eighteenth-century Italian furniture—heirlooms that as an eight-year-old boy he’d been taught to treat with respect—had all been replaced with squat sofas in white leather and black and white portraits of supermodels in various poses.

On through the house, he heard the buzz and thump growing louder as they passed stucco-panelled walls, repainted cream over the elegant duck-egg-blue that he and Salvatore had been warned never to touch with muddy fingers.

Salvatore.

Since Giancarlo’s death their relationship had been more and more strained, and disputes about the will were adding to that. It had been such a blow for Salvatore to learn that Giancarlo had left Raffaele in charge of the cruise line. It had been the last thing he’d wanted too, and as the empire’s main trustee he would do his best to pass it on to Salvatore when the time was right.

‘Darlings! She’s here! We have our photographer!’

They stepped out on to the loggia and there was the team, flanked by muslin-draped walls and a haze of chatter and noise. On one side rails of clothes and racks of shoes waited to be rifled through. On the other side lights, screens and men on ladders attaching flowers to the loggia’s ancient columns.

And, in the middle of it all, Kyla.

‘Raffa! You’ve kept this angel all to yourself!’

Raffaele felt his jaw clench as Kyla walked towards him, fluttering her fake lashes and pouting. She was hot for him and made no attempt to conceal it—even in front of her fiancé.

And he, Raffaele, was going to be part of this charade.

He should be at work, focussing on Argento instead of slumming it with the B-list. Raffaele felt his patience snap. He wanted the whole thing to end. Now.

‘Keeping to what we agreed, Kyla. I see you’ve made some interior design choices already. I assume they’re temporary?’

She looked hurt, but that was an irrelevance. She was wearing a four-carat diamond and in less than a week would be joint owner of this ancient home. That would salve any wound.

He felt the light touch of a hand on his arm and a whisper in his ear.

‘I’d be happy to get involved from here. It’s all looking good so far, and I guarantee that everyone will be happy with the results.’

He looked down at Coral’s face, the un-made-up, unflinching eyes gazing up at him. Again he felt the tug of something he knew, something he trusted. He thought of her confidence during their little interview, her direct, no-nonsense attitude. He thought of the stills that had excited Mariella so much that she’d dreamed up this commission as a prize. She’d rarely seen talent like it—sympathy with the subject, intelligence with the design. Exactly what Kyla needed to bring her back down to earth.