Italian Escape: Summer with the Millionaire / In the Italian's Sights / Flirting with Italian. Liz Fielding

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      Underneath the article were headshots of several young men the newspaper had thoughtfully collated for her, ranging from minor European royalty to an Eton-educated Shakespearian actor.

      Minty glanced at the pictures over Luca’s shoulder. ‘That’s the best they can do? At least two of these men are gay and one is married. Their researchers are terrible. It’s a good thing they don’t know I’m here; a successful businessman under thirty and the grandson of a conte, you’d be at the top of the list.’

      She’d wiped the shock off her face; all she showed was mild amusement. If Luca hadn’t heard the muffled cry of anguish, he wouldn’t have thought she was affected at all.

      ‘Is it true?’

      She shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’ She shook her head. ‘Probably. Clara was always around, although Joe swore they were just friends. Obviously. They were at Cambridge together, and her father was party royalty; together they’ll be unbeatable.’

      She reached over and grabbed the iPad from him. ‘I told you, I’m a starter fiancée; they all meet their perfect match after we split up.’ She scrolled down the article then tilted the screen towards him to show photos of two very different men, each with a female companion. The younger of the two men was posed with his arm stiffly round a woman in her early twenties. She had a haughty, well-bred air, her long, straight hair held back from her high forehead with a thick Alice band.

      ‘She really dresses like that,’ Minty said. ‘I think she was born in tweed and wellies.’ She looked wistfully at the photo. ‘They look good together, don’t they?’

      Luca murmured noncommittally. So this was Barty, the boy she had become engaged to so soon after fleeing from his bed? He looked...nice, affable: floppy hair, nice smile, laid-back. Unthreatening. He was just a boy.

      But she had been just a girl.

      ‘I never really fit in,’ Minty continued. ‘I tried, but I just don’t have the whole pony club, hunt balls thing going for me. Taffy is a natural. They have three children already; can you imagine?’ She slanted a glance at him. ‘Shame you didn’t meet her first.’

      ‘She looks a little stern for me,’ Luca said, studying the picture.

      ‘Oh, yes, she rules poor Barty with a rod of iron. Not that he seems to mind.’

      Luca moved the screen to enlarge the photo of the second man. A good twenty years older than Luca, he had a mass of long, greying hair, his skinny body squeezed into tight, black leather trousers. He was gazing adoringly at the much younger, taller, glossy, high-cheekboned woman on his arm with a look that suggested all his Christmases had come at once. ‘This must be Spike?’

      Minty nodded. ‘Yes, bachelor number two. Actually, I think Spike has split up with his supermodel wife already. He’s turning into a parody of an aging rock star. But Barty’s still happily married. I must send Joe a card, and maybe flowers. Remind me, will you?’

      She was magnificent. All signs of pain had been wiped away; anyone walking in would think she really only felt mild interest in her ex-fiancé’s very public new relationship. But Luca knew differently. And that knowledge changed everything. It was time to armour up, to grab his sword and shield. Luca Di Tore was going to play the knight yet again.

      Maybe this time it would all be different

      ‘Let’s do something wild and crazy—go in a couple of hours late. Do you want to take a walk?’

      Minty stared at Luca in astonishment. ‘Go in late?’ she repeated. ‘Won’t there be a national panic if you’re not there on the dot of nine? They’ll send the air force and the army here to make sure you’re okay. Special Branch will abseil through the windows; there will be camera crews stampeding the house. But sure, I’d love to.’

      Luca didn’t respond to her nonsense. Instead he was staring at her shoes with undisguised disapproval. ‘Do you need to change those?’ Minty swallowed back a smile. She’d only brought ballet flats and flip-flops with her. Luca seemed fixated on the unsuitability of her footwear; it was as if she was wobbling along on six-inch bondage heels.

      She was tempted to buy some, just to see his face.

      ‘As long as you don’t expect me to wade through fords or climb mountains, I think these will survive.’ Minty strode over to the door, then turned back to say with perfect, limpid innocence, ‘I am beginning to think you have some kind of anti-shoe fetish. You disapprove of every pair I own.’

      ‘I took Francesca to Roma once,’ Luca said. ‘She brought two large bags for a three-night stay and only the most ridiculously high heels. She then complained bitterly the whole time about her feet, about blisters, and when I offered to buy her some walking shoes she cried.’

      Minty bit back a smile. ‘I’m beginning to sympathise with poor Francesca. Was that the last straw?’

      ‘Scuzi?’

      ‘Your break-up. Was it over shoes or over your lack of sympathy?’

      His mouth quirked. ‘Maybe it was both. It should have been a romantic weekend. We had a five-star hotel right by the Spanish steps, the weather was perfect, but we fought the whole time. I had a much better time when I took you.’

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