An Italian Engagement. CATHERINE GEORGE

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      ‘Your eyes lit up like lamps just then,’ commented Max as they were shown to a table beside a screen of greenery. ‘What—or who—were you thinking about?’ He hoped like hell it wasn’t some man.

      ‘Marco, my nephew, and his sister Isabella,’ said Abby, smiling. ‘It was hard to tear myself away from them this morning.’

      ‘The only baby I’ve ever had much to do with was Gianni. But I was ten when he was born, and resented him pretty fiercely at the time. What sort of wine do you like?’ Max added as a waiter handed out menus.

      ‘Something dry and white, please—and some mineral water on the side.’ Abby smiled crookedly as the waiter hurried off. ‘This afternoon, stranded on your terrifying road, Mr Wingate, I would have sold my soul for water—for me and the car.’

      His mouth tightened. ‘In the circumstances it’s lucky I’d arranged to play chess with Aldo Zanini. What the hell would you have done if I hadn’t turned up?’

      A chess game, then, not a date with some local signorina. Taken aback by how much that pleased her, Abby shrugged. ‘Not much choice. I would have hiked—or climbed—the rest of the way. I had no idea I was on the wrong road, remember. What would you have done if I’d collapsed at your door, gasping for water?’

      ‘Counted my blessings,’ he assured her, giving her that smile again. ‘Other than Renata on her bicycle, no woman ever makes it up to my place. But you’re welcome any time, Abigail Green.’

      The smile faded to something which made her pulse race as the dark eyes held hers, then the waiter arrived with wine and Max turned back to the menu. ‘What would you like to eat? They do a good tagliatelle al tartufo here—pasta with truffles.’

      ‘Sounds wonderful,’ she said promptly. ‘Though I’d probably fancy anything they cared to put in front of me—I had to skip lunch.’

      ‘Truffle pasta for two, then.’

      After some olives and a mouthful of cold dry wine Abby felt considerably better, and settled down to enjoy the kind of evening which rarely came her way during the summer season. ‘So, Mr Wingate. When you’re not on retreat in your eagle’s nest where do you live?’

      ‘In Gloucestershire, in a town called Pennington. I own a house within walking distance of my office building—why the smile?’

      She chuckled. ‘Would you believe I went to school in Pennington? I was brought up not far away from there in Stavely.’

      Max shook his head in wonder. ‘So you’re a girl from the Shires—small world. But you’re obviously based in London now.’

      ‘And run home to Stavely every chance I get! You told me you’re an architect, but what kind of work does your firm do?’ asked Abby.

      ‘We design large-scale buildings, mainly, but we also do individual work for people with specific requirements, like a recent client left partially paralysed after a road accident. I worked with him to modify his house, and now he can cope with everything in it from his wheelchair.’

      ‘That must be a very satisfying thing to do,’ she said, impressed.

      ‘It is.’ He smiled wryly. ‘But I also do an increasing amount for clients brave—or mad—enough to invest in romantic ruins. My house out here is a good advertisement,’ he said, topping up her glass. ‘What led you into your kind of work?’

      She shrugged. ‘Fate, I suppose—coupled with a love of music. I read English at university, took a further business studies course after that, and while I applied for jobs I worked at the local stately home.’

      ‘Do they get many graduates on their staff?’

      Abby nodded. ‘Quite a few in summer. But I had a foot in the door because I’d worked there before in vacations. The summer I graduated I helped out with a series of open-air concerts at the house, and got on very well with Simon Hadley, the events organiser. His permanent assistant left to have a baby before the end of the season and to my surprise he asked if I’d like the job. But after four seasons I feel it’s time to move on. I finish in a couple of weeks.’

      He eyed her narrowly. ‘I thought you promised to see Gianni next summer!’

      She flushed. ‘I will see him. I’ll be there at the concerts, but someone else will take care of him.’

      Max shook his head in mock reproof. ‘You mean you strung him along to make him sign on the dotted line.’

      ‘I was acting under instructions from Simon,’ she said firmly. ‘But I wasn’t lying. I’ll definitely be in the audience when he sings.’

      ‘But you won’t be Gianni’s nursemaid.’ He leaned nearer. ‘How do you know I won’t betray your secret?’

      She met his eyes squarely. ‘I don’t. Will you?’

      He shook his head. ‘I shall leave my little brother in blissful ignorance.’

      ‘Thank you.’ Abby sniffed rapturously as her truffle pasta was set before her. ‘Grazie,’ she said to the waiter with a warm smile. ‘Delizioso!’

      ‘The lad’s gone off in a daze,’ said Max, after the waiter had provided them with everything he could think of. ‘He thinks you’re delizioso too.’

      ‘Rather sweet, isn’t he?’

      ‘I didn’t notice. Eat. You can give me the rest of the Abigail Green life story afterwards.’

      ‘Only if you tell me Max Wingate’s in return,’ she retorted, and smiled very deliberately into his eyes. ‘Or should I call you “Massimo”?’

      CHAPTER TWO

      ‘GIANNI’S little joke,’ Max said, resigned. ‘My mother insists on calling me that because it was her father’s name, but legally, and to everyone else, I’m Max.’

      The waiter interrupted them to refill glasses with wine, but after a word from Max he left them in peace.

      ‘I don’t know what you said, but the poor boy looked really hurt,’ said Abby reproachfully.

      Max shrugged, unrepentant. ‘Don’t worry—the “poor boy” will be back the minute you swallow your last mouthful.’

      She laughed, and went on with her meal with concentration which amused her companion. She set down her fork at last with a sigh. ‘That was wonderful.’

      ‘How about dessert?’ said Max, rolling his eyes as the waiter hurried to their table.

      ‘No room,’ she said, trying not to laugh.

      ‘Then it’s back to your hotel. Unless you fancy another stroll around town?’

      ‘It’s certainly a delightful place,’ she said obliquely, wishing now that СКАЧАТЬ