In the Italian's Sights. HELEN BROOKS

Чтение книги онлайн.

       She felt his fingers release the clip holding her hair, and as it fell about her shoulders Cherry jerked away.

      ‘Don’t,’ she said sharply, holding out her hand for the fastener. ‘It’s too hot to wear it down today.’

      ‘And is this the only reason you hide such beauty from me?’ he said, ignoring her outstretched fingers.

      She stared at him, wondering if he was making fun of her. Her hair was ordinary. She was ordinary.

      ‘My hair is nothing special.’ She fixed him with her most severe look. ‘And how I choose to wear it has absolutely nothing to do with you.’

      He smiled faintly, which Cherry found incredibly irritating. ‘Do not deny once again there is not a man behind your sojourn in my country,’ he said with unforgivable audacity. ‘A man who is stupid enough to let you slip through his fingers does not deserve you anyway.’

      About the Author

      HELEN BROOKS lives in Northamptonshire, and is married with three children and three beautiful grandchildren. As she is a committed Christian, busy housewife, mother and grandma, her spare time is at a premium, but her hobbies include reading, swimming and gardening, and walks with her husband and their two Irish terriers. Her long-cherished aspiration to write became a reality when she put pen to paper on reaching the age of forty and sent the result off to Mills & Boon.

       Recent titles by the same author:

      THE BEAUTIFUL WIDOW

      SNOWBOUND SEDUCTION SWEET SURRENDER WITH THE MILLIONAIRE THE MILLIONAIRE’S CHRISTMAS WIFE THE BOSS’S INEXPERIENCED SECRETARY

       Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

      In the

      Italian’s Sights

      Helen Brooks

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CHAPTER ONE

      HOW had she got herself into this position? It was ridiculous, stupid—she wouldn’t let herself think dangerous—and not at all like her. She was sensible, methodical—she didn’t do the rushing off in an impetuous tantrum thing. She never had. Mind you, the impetuous tantrum depiction was her mother’s definition of her actions, not hers.

      Cherry Gibbs shielded her eyes as she stared up and down the narrow country road bordered by drystone walls with miles of olive groves stretching away as far as the eye could see in either direction. Then her gaze returned to the hire car, sitting stolidly in the warm May sun, the driver’s door hanging open. For the umpteenth time in the last hour she climbed back in to the vehicle and tried the engine. Nothing. Not a murmur.

      ‘Don’t do this to me.’ She pushed back a strand of silky brown hair from her hot face. ‘Not here, not now. Please, please, please start this time.’

      Holding her breath, she turned the key in the ignition. As dead as a dodo. The car clearly wasn’t going to go anywhere. OK, what to do now? She couldn’t sit here all day, hoping someone might come along. It wouldn’t have been a problem if she had kept to one of the motor ways or main roads, but after leaving the town where she’d stayed overnight she’d made the decision to get off the beaten track for a while. Italy, she’d found, was different from England in many respects—most of them good. But not with regard to driving.

      In an unofficial sense, and to all intents and purposes, there were no rules of the road. Driving in the towns was a nerve-racking experience, and she’d found she needed her wits about her every second she was behind the wheel. Locals tended to pull out suddenly and without warning, overtake at hairpin bends, turn left or right on red lights if they saw an opportunity, keep bumper to bumper in their lane rather than give way to other drivers, and blast their horns incessantly if she sat at a green light for a split second.

      She’d been in the region of Puglia, the southern ‘heel’ of Italy, for five days, and was in danger of developing a permanent stress-related headache. Somewhat ironic as she’d fled the UK to escape just that very thing. Hence the decision to give herself a break from the towns. Not that she hadn’t enjoyed the last few days overall.

      Since she’d arrived at the airport in Brindisi, and picked up the hire car she’d arranged to have waiting, she had explored the southern tip of Puglia, taking in Lecce and the Salentine Peninsula—which was undeniably beautiful. The compact, meandering Old Town of Lecce was a paean to Baroque artistry, every church façade positively dripping with stone representations of foliage, animal life and religious imagery, and when she had followed the coast road to the very tip of the land’s end she’d felt as though she was on the edge of the world as she’d looked out from Santa Maria di Leuca across to the distant mountains of Albania. That had been a good day. She hadn’t thought of Angela and Liam more than a dozen times.

      After shutting her eyes tightly for a moment, she opened them and climbed out of the car. No self-pity. She gazed up into the brilliant blue sky. She had done enough crying over the last months to last a lifetime. This trip was all part of beginning her life anew—and that included no dwelling over the past or grieving for what she’d lost.

      Reaching through the open passenger window she fetched out the map she’d bought at the airport and pored over it. She had left the little pensioni on the outskirts of Lecce after a late breakfast of cappuccino and sweet pastries, driving up the coast for some thirty-five miles or so before turning inland. She had stopped for diesel for the little Fiat in a town called Alberobello, famous for its gathering of quirky trulli houses—small limestone buildings with squat whitewashed walls and domed stone roofs. They were truly magical little houses, and she had seen others scattered here and there in the region. She had spent some time looking at them before buying a bag of figs and a panetto—a cake made with raisins, almonds, figs and wine—from a local market.

      At least she wouldn’t starve. She glanced at the purchases on the back seat of the car. It was beginning to feel like a long time since breakfast.

      She’d left Alberobello some twenty minutes ago, and almost immediately had found herself in the heart of a traditional southern Italian lifestyle unchanged for decades, its landscape dotted with pine, almond and prickly pear trees and endless olive groves and vineyards. Alberobello had begun to batten down the hatches and shut up shop for the siesta as she had driven away, and she knew within minutes the place would resemble a ghost town, with empty streets and echoing alleyways bereft of any human activity. She would have been hard put to it to find anyone to help her in the town, much less out here in the middle of nowhere. She’d been following country roads and dirt lanes for a while and had no clear idea where the nearest village was.

      Tossing the map back through the window, she sighed deeply. She had her mobile phone but who the heck could she call to get her out of this fix? No one at home could help, and there were no foreign embassies in Puglia—although she had taken the precaution before leaving the UK to get the number of the nearest embassy in Rome and the number of the British Honorary Consul in Bari. Neither of which were any use now, because she didn’t have a clue where she was. Southern Italy had a justified СКАЧАТЬ