Giancarlo would be turning in his grave.

‘You’re in charge. You have the veto—whatever you say goes.’

‘You’re clear that this must—?’

‘Reflect well on the Di Visconti name? Absolutely. There is nothing I understand more than that. The lineage, the heritage, the legacy—I’m all over it.’

‘“All over it” is not what I want to hear. That sounds messy.’

She swallowed and closed her eyes as if—damn her—she were dealing with a recalcitrant toddler.

‘I know what you want to hear. I’ve figured it out. Your family brand is “class”.’ She walked around him where he stood in the centre of the melee, lowering her voice. ‘Kyla’s is “trash” and you want me to change that. You want the bored housewives and the media snoopers to open up their copies of Heavenly and see nothing but a perfect airbrushed and back-lit image of the ancient famiglia Di Visconti. An illusion.’

‘La famiglia Di Visconti is not an illusion. It is solid and serious.’

‘It’s classy. I will deliver classy. That’s what the readers want, too. They want a glimpse into this fairytale world. They want to see beauty and elegance and style. They want to feel as if you’ve welcomed them into that world for the five minutes it takes them to read the feature.’

She was electrifying in her pitch. As he watched her he knew that he could stand her in front of any board of directors and they would hang on her every word. Whatever happened with these photographs, this young woman had a fire in her that would light up more than just this photo shoot. She had a fabulous career ahead of her. He recognised the signs.

‘And I will deliver that. I will.’

He folded his arms over his chest, looked down at her upturned, earnest face. ‘Yes, you will,’ he said.

‘Si, signor!’

And, dammit all, he found himself smiling. Just for a second. Caught up in her infectious words.

Then he watched as she headed straight for Kyla, greeting her like some long-lost sister. Beaming round at Mariella. Quirky. Confident.

That hair... Those curves...

Yes, maybe this would all turn out OK.

All around about him people got busier and busier. Raffaele wandered outside to take some calls and keep an eye on Salvatore. Every five minutes or so he’d glance over his shoulder to see what was happening inside.

He shouldn’t have to do this. He should be able to let Salvatore run his own life. They were the same age, had more or less had the same upbringing, but they were miles apart in terms of values. In terms of direction.

If he could walk away from all this right now he would. But he’d made a promise. He didn’t need a penny from Argento. He had more than enough from Romano. But Giancarlo hadn’t been stupid. He’d known exactly how quickly it would all unravel as soon as Salvatore was let loose with all those millions. Tying him in through the will had been a cast-iron guarantee of keeping Argento afloat.

But how much more of this could he stomach? He couldn’t watch over every move Kyla made. He’d have to let them sink or swim some time. Legally, he was tied to Giancarlo for three more years. But morally he had him for life.

He glanced back inside the loggia. It seemed that order was descending.

The adorable Coral was looking through the clothes rails with Kyla and Mariella. Then she was organising assistants to move screens and lights. Laughing with the hair guy, consulting with the fashion editor as clothes were ruthlessly discarded. She was ‘all over it’ and no mistake.

‘Is everything all right?’

He was still standing at the side, checking his emails, when she walked towards him, a glass of water in her hand.

‘Only you look at little preoccupied.’

‘Just waiting to hear good news, Coral.’

‘OK. I think I’ve got it down. It’s not going to be a pastiche or a pantomime. It’s a simple studio shoot—nothing too exciting. I’m afraid you were right about the princess trope. That’s what Kyla wants to be. But I’ve talked her into nineties glamour rather than eighties pop. Those prints we passed in the hallway—the Testinos—gave me an idea. I said I’d do an homage to the supermodel. She loved it.’

She was chatting to him as if he was an old friend. The glints in her hair were warm and rich and he itched to feel the heavy tresses in his hand.

‘The team are amazing. I can’t believe how fluidly they work together. I’m learning so much. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for this.’

She dipped her head and looked at him with those bewitching eyes. Those bewilderingly familiar, bewitching eyes.

‘OK, so I’d better get back to work. Phew. It’s hot.’

She reached her arms up and twisted her hair into a knot. Her breasts thrust forward and his groin was shot with pleasure at the sight.

‘Come here,’ he said, putting his hand around her arm and drawing her towards him.

He took her jaw in his hand, gently moving her face this way and that.

‘What is it about you? I can’t take my eyes off you. There’s something so familiar... Have we met before?’

It was possible. Shorter hair? Different clothes? He looked at her again. There was something so engaging and compelling about her—and, still at the back of his mind, something so familiar.

She stepped back out of his reach and he dropped his hand.

‘Sorry, but I don’t think so.’

He had to laugh at that. ‘You don’t think you’d remember?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not sure.’

Her eyes dipped, and for the first time he thought he saw the coquette. She was either the most naturally sensual woman he’d ever met or she was playing little games. Either way, he was beginning to get more and more turned on by her.

‘Look at me.’

She lifted her eyes slowly, flicked him a quick glance and then dropped her gaze to the side.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’m sorry, but would you mind if I got back to the shoot? I’ve only got one shot at this and I don’t want to blow it.’

He put his hand on her jaw again and her eyes widened.

‘You really are genuine, aren’t you? You’d rather hang out at the pantomime than flirt with me.’

‘Signor Rossini, my future is in photography—not in flirting.’

At that he laughed. A proper laugh. The sound of it startled him.

‘I like you flirting. You have a very promising career in flirting.’

She smiled too. And it was beautiful. So beautiful that he couldn’t stop himself. He wanted this woman. Now.

‘Come here. I want to show you something.’

At the far end of the loggia a short flight of steps led down to a sunken courtyard garden—private and tucked away. It was the perfect place for what he had in mind.

He clasped his fingers round hers and escorted her through the glare of lights and pounding music, driven by an ache that had to be assuaged. He led her down the marble steps, walking briskly, barely aware of the sun splattering flower shadows on each side of the path, until finally spinning her round in the archway that looked out onto the jewel-bright sea. He could hold back no longer.

He clasped her face in his hands and stared down into those eyes. ‘You beautiful girl.’

But as he moved to kiss her she squealed and stepped out of his grasp.

‘I—I have to get back. They’ll be waiting for me.’

He smiled with casual confidence. ‘You can take ten minutes to check out the view.’

‘That’s kind, but it will set tongues wagging. They’ll all think I’m down here getting it on with you.’

‘That doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.’

But she stepped further away, looking horrified.

‘OK, Miss Dahl. If you insist.’

‘I’m sorry, but I really want to make a good impression on everyone. This is so important for me. I need to network with these people. Some of them could open doors for me. The last thing I want is anyone thinking I’ve been on some kind of casting couch.’

He looked at her. She was serious.