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THE NEXT MORNING the town house was silent as Allegra made her way downstairs, but after a few seconds she heard the quiet clink of china from the dining room and saw Stefano in the mahogany-panelled room, drinking a cappuccino, his head bent over the newspaper.

She watched him silently for a moment, the hard plane of his cheek and jaw, the soft sweep of his hair, the way he absently ran his long-fingered hand through it before turning a page.

Looking longer she saw lines of strain on either side of his mouth, shadows of fatigue under his eyes.

What had kept him up last night? she wondered. His own behaviour, or hers? The past or the future?

It was wrong of me.

She’d heard him through her door, as she huddled on her bed. She’d heard the regret in his voice, but it barely made a dent in her hardened heart.

He’d treated her like an object. A possession. He’d revealed himself in that one cold, calculated caress—what he thought of her, what he couldn’t forget.

And even though the light touch of his fingers had made her tremble, had made her want, she wouldn’t let it weaken her will.

She was not Stefano’s possession. She would not let him treat her as one. Ever.

And, Allegra resolved as she stood in the doorway of the dining room, she would tell Stefano so. Now, not with whispered words of regret through a closed door, but face to face, eye to eye.

‘Stefano.’

His head jerked up, his eyes wary, hooded before he smiled. ‘Buon giorno.’

‘Buon giorno.’ She sat at the table and picked up a cornetti, taking a knife and buttering it with fingers that only trembled a tiny bit. ‘We need to talk.’

He folded his paper and placed it on the table, a look of polite expectancy on his face. ‘Of course. What is it?’

She shook her head slowly. Was he going to pretend that last night hadn’t happened? That the truth, painful and broken as it was, hadn’t been revealed?

‘When we both agreed to this business arrangement,’ she began, keeping her voice firm and purposeful, ‘you told me that we were different people. That the past didn’t matter.’

‘Yes,’ Stefano confirmed, a touch of coolness in his voice. He took a sip of his coffee and Anna bustled in from the kitchen with a cappuccino for Allegra.

‘Grazie,’ she murmured, her gaze still fastened on Stefano’s. ‘But that wasn’t true, was it, Stefano?’ she asked softly when Anna had left. ‘The past does matter, and perhaps we haven’t changed as much as we think we have. As much as we want to have changed. And I won’t allow the past to affect the present or the future. Not my future, not yours, and certainly not Lucio’s.’

‘I wouldn’t expect it to,’ Stefano drawled. He sounded bored.

‘You may have hired me,’ Allegra continued, her voice still thankfully firm, ‘but I’m not your possession. I won’t be treated like one—’

‘Allegra, I apologised for my behaviour last night,’ Stefano cut her off coldly. ‘I was angry with what had happened, not seven years before, but a few hours ago. You behaved in a childish way at the dinner, and I responded by behaving in a childish manner here. Again, I’m sorry.’ He gave her a tight, perfunctory smile that sent fury coursing through her in a cleansing stream.

‘I’d accept that,’ she said, ‘if you’d called me names or thrown a tantrum. Childish behaviour. But that wasn’t it, was it, Stefano? It was something more.’ She paused, took a breath. Stefano waited, one eyebrow raised in scathing scepticism. ‘The truth is,’ Allegra continued, ‘you can’t forget the past, you can’t pretend it doesn’t affect the present and any future. I believed we could because I wanted to believe it, because it was easier. But in the end ignoring it will only make it more difficult, for you, for me, and for Lucio—’

‘That’s quite an interesting load of psychobabble,’ Stefano cut her off. ‘Did you learn it on your art therapy course?’

‘No, I learned it through dealing with you,’ Allegra snapped. ‘The way you treated me—’ She stopped, pressed her lips together and refused to think about how his fingers had sought her, punished her, thrilled her. And then, worst and most hurtful of all: the blazing look of contempt, cruelty in his eyes. ‘But last night proved to me that you’re the same man you were seven years ago, treating me the same way.’ The words rang with contempt and condemnation, but Stefano didn’t react. He merely stilled, his face blank, his eyes hard. Silence. Yet again the only response to her words, her plea for understanding, was silence.

She heard the ticking of the clock, the clink of china as Stefano carefully, slowly stirred his coffee. ‘Think what you like,’ he finally said. He looked up, smiled in a way that was utterly chilling to Allegra. It was the smile, she thought numbly, of a person who didn’t care at all. And, she realized, even now she wanted him to care.

‘It doesn’t really matter. I apologised for my behaviour, and it won’t happen again. As you said,’ Stefano continued in a voice of determined pleasantness, ‘you’re here to help Lucio. We don’t need to deal with each other at all.’

‘It’s not that simple—’

‘It will be,’ Stefano said, and there was hard finality to his words, his face. ‘It will be.’

Allegra tried once more. ‘Unless we deal with it, with our feelings—’

Stefano laughed. Allegra didn’t like the sound. ‘But I don’t have feelings for you, Allegra, remember? I bought you. I treated you like a possession. I thought of you as a possession … you told me so yourself. Why should I have feelings for an object?’

Allegra opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. ‘But …’

‘So if I didn’t have feelings for you then,’ he continued, cutting across her useless, incoherent denial, his voice horribly soft, ‘why should I now?’

But he wasn’t finished. His eyes glittered as he leaned forward, his voice thrumming with power and knowledge. ‘You want to talk about feelings, Allegra?’ he challenged. ‘What about yours?’

Allegra drew back. ‘What about mine?’

‘You think I’m the only one who doesn’t like to talk about the past? What about you? What about the fact that you haven’t seen your mother or your father since that night you ran away?’

‘My father’s dead,’ Allegra said. ‘Stefano, this has nothing—’

‘To do with it? Perhaps it does. You don’t want to face what you’ve done. Well, neither do I.’ His voice was quiet and controlled, yet Allegra felt as if he were shouting. She felt as if he were shouting at her. ‘Why did you cut off all contact with your family? You stayed at your father’s funeral for less than an hour. I know. I was there.’

Her mouth opened, yet no words came out. He gave her a faint feral smile, yet she saw a bleakness in his eyes, a bleakness Allegra felt herself.

‘I watched you from afar. You never saw me.’

‘Why did you come?’

‘I knew your father too, Allegra. I shared in the guilt for his death. He was a foolish man, even an immoral one, but no one deserves to suffer such despair.’

Allegra held up one hand as if to ward off his words, as if they were blows. ‘Don’t—’

‘It hurts, doesn’t it?’ Stefano said softly. ‘To remember.’

‘Stefano—’

‘You cut yourself off from everything and everyone you’d ever known, Allegra,’ Stefano said, every word a condemnation. ‘Even yourself.’

‘You don’t know—’

‘Because you couldn’t face it. You don’t want to face it. So don’t ask me to face anything, when you’ve been running from the past for seven years, and you still haven’t stopped.’

‘This is not about me!’ Allegra shrieked. Her voice felt as if it had been ripped from her lungs and her chest, heaving with emotion, hurt. ‘This is not about me,’ she said again, and this time her voice cracked.

‘No? None of it’s about you?’ Stefano rose from the table, his face harsh, his voice utterly merciless. ‘What about your father, Allegra? Did he have nothing to do with you? I know he was crushed by your betrayal. I know it was one of the reasons he killed himself.’

‘No.’ She wouldn’t think of it. She wouldn’t allow him to make her think of it. Like a steel trap, the lid of the box Stefano had ripped open snapped shut. Allegra felt herself go numb—numb and cold, blessedly blank. She rose from the table too, curling her hands around the back of her chair to steady herself. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said in a flat, cold voice quite unlike her own.

Stefano laughed shortly. ‘I think I know all too well. But it’s better this way, isn’t it? For both of us.’ He turned away. ‘We leave for Abruzzo within the hour.’

‘Fine.’ Allegra nodded, still numb. It was so much easier not to feel. Not to feel anything.

Yet, as he left, she found her legs going weak and it all came rushing back, a tide of emotion she couldn’t deal with. Wouldn’t deal with. Allegra sank into her chair, dropped her head in her hands.

Whatever either of them tried to believe, the past was not forgotten. It was alive and well and vibrating between them with a thousand torturous memories.

The sun was high and bright in the sky when they pulled away from the narrow street and into the clogged city traffic. Stefano was dressed casually in jeans and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled back against his forearms.

‘I think you’ll like Abruzzo,’ he said when they’d cleared the traffic and the road stretched endlessly ahead of them, winding through dusty brown hills and fields of sunflowers ready for harvest. He spoke in a pleasant, impersonal tone that Allegra knew she should be thankful for but instead it grated on her nerves, made her hands clench in her lap. ‘It’s very relaxing there, very quiet. A good place for you to work with Lucio.’

‘I look forward to it,’ she said tersely, her face averted.

‘Good.’

They’d silently agreed on a tense truce, and Allegra wondered how long it would last. For Lucio’s sake, she couldn’t be distracted by Stefano when she worked with him. She knew that, saw it as her first consideration, and she knew Stefano did as well.

At least on that point—the only point, it seemed—they were in agreement.

They both lapsed into silence and drove that way for an hour as the plains and fields around Rome turned hilly, and then mountainous. In the distance Allegra glimpsed rolling fields of saffron, the small purple flowers with their distinctive red-gold stigma stretching to the craggy, snow-topped peak of Gran Sasso.

Stefano turned off the motorway and they drove on a small winding road through several hill towns, huddled against the unforgiving landscape as if they had but a desperate, precarious hold on this earth.

Allegra glimpsed an old woman, dressed from head to toe in black, leading a bony cow along the road. She grinned toothlessly at them, her eyes lost in wrinkles, and Stefano raised one hand in greeting as the car passed by.

There could be no mistaking that this region of Abruzzo was impoverished. Although she’d seen signs on the motorway for ski resorts, spas and luxury hotels, here the hill towns showed no signs of such wealth. The streets were narrow and near empty, the few houses and shops sporting peeling paint and crooked shutters. It was as if time had simply passed by these places, Allegra thought, and no one living there had even noticed.

They drove through another town and out into the countryside again, the rolling, rocky hills leading to mountains, a few falling down farmhouses huddled against the hillside, half a dozen sheep grazing on the desolate landscape.

‘What made you buy a farmhouse out here?’ Allegra asked, breaking an hour long silence.

Stefano’s fingers flexed on the wheel. ‘I told you, it’s my home.’

‘You mean you grew up here? I always thought you were from Rome.’

‘Near Rome,’ Stefano corrected, his eyes on the twisting road. ‘We’re less than a hundred kilometres from Rome, believe it or not.’

Allegra couldn’t believe it. The harsh beauty of this landscape was so different from the ostentatious wealth and glamour of the Eternal City.

She also couldn’t imagine that Stefano came from this place. She’d always assumed he was urban, urbane, born to wealth and luxury if not aristocratic pedigree and privilege.

‘Your family had a villa here?’ she asked cautiously and he gave a short laugh.

‘You could say that.’

He swung sharply on to an even narrower road, little more than dirt and pebbles, and they drove in silence for a few minutes more before coming to a sleepy village with only a handful of shops and houses. A few old men sat outside a café, playing chess and drinking coffee, and they looked up as Stefano drove through. They squinted at the car before cheers erupted from the café crowd and Stefano slowed the car to a stop.

‘Just a moment,’ he said, and Allegra watched in bemusement as he climbed out of the car and approached the men. They were impoverished old farmers, their remaining teeth tobacco-stained, greasy caps crammed on their heads.

Allegra watched as the men embraced Stefano in turn, kissed his cheeks and clapped him on the back. She looked on with growing surprise and wonder as Stefano kissed them back, held them by the shoulders and greeted them with the respect and love of a beloved son.

They talked for a few moments, loudly and with much excitement and agitation, and then Stefano turned to her, his expression tense and still, and beckoned for her to come out of the car.

Slowly Allegra did so. She was not a snob, and she’d certainly been among the lowest of society’s offerings in her seven years in London.

Yet, she realized, she’d thought Stefano was a snob. After all, he’d wanted to marry her for her social connections. He’d married someone else for them.

He put paid to that assumption by the way he laughed and smiled with these men, old and incredibly poor. He looked upon them as if they were his family, Allegra thought. As if he loved them.

‘Por Lucio,’ Stefano said. ‘She is going to help him.’

Allegra heard a chorus of grateful and delighted cries. Fantastico! Fantastico! Grazie, grazie, magnifico! And then she was embraced as he’d been, her face cradled by weathered hands as kisses were bestowed on each cheek, and she heard the men murmuring ‘Grazie, grazie’ in a heartfelt chorus of thankfulness.

Tears stung her eyes at their easy affection, their unsullied joy. She smiled back, found herself laughing, returning the warm embraces even though she knew not one person’s name.

She felt rather than saw Stefano watching her, felt both his tension and approval. The men wouldn’t let them go back in the car until they’d drunk a toast, the conversation continuing with a round of questions.

Would she stay long? Did she know Lucio—such a wonderful child? And Enzo—a man with such wisdom, such kindness! It was a tragedy, such a tragedy …

Allegra listened, nodding with deepening sympathy for this close community and the sorrow that had ripped it apart.

And yet Enzo’s death hadn’t ripped it beyond repair, she realized. If anything, it had made these men, this community, stronger. Closer. They clearly all cared deeply about Lucio, about Bianca … about Stefano.

She thought of her own family, the sorrow and betrayal which had left it in shreds. She thought of Stefano’s words only this morning, You haven’t seen your mother or your father since that night you ran away, and then her mind slid gratefully away.

She turned her thoughts back to Stefano, saw him smiling and laughing good-naturedly, his arm around the shoulders of one of the men who looked at him with the love of a father shining in his eyes.

Finally Stefano made his excuses and they returned to the car. People crowded around the windows, women in black and ragged children who laughed and slapped the windows in excitement.

Stefano honked the horn a few times to many more delighted cries, and then they drove off.

They drove in silence for a few minutes. Allegra’s mind whirled with questions. She hadn’t expected Stefano to act like that, to have such a genuine camaraderie with a bunch of poor farmers.

She glanced at him, saw his eyes on the road, and ventured cautiously, ‘Those men loved you.’

‘They are fathers to me,’ Stefano said. He spoke in a voice that brooked no questions, no comments. Allegra nodded even though her mind seethed with both.

She was ashamed to realize she knew nothing about Stefano’s family. Where was his own father, mother? Did he have brothers or sisters? What kind of childhood, what kind of life, had he had?

She didn’t know.

And, she realized with a rush of surprise, she wished she did. She wished she’d asked when she’d had the chance.

It was too late for that, she thought. Too late for both of them. The only relationship that could exist between them was one of distant professionalism. It was what she’d wanted all along, what she’d insisted on, yet now it made her sad.

Stupid. How could she be wanting something from Stefano now—now—when it was so clear that he wanted to give her nothing? Nothing she needed, anyway.

Finally Stefano turned into a long dirt drive, twisted oak trees shading the lane. Allegra glimpsed a farmhouse on one side of the road, a crude place with its roof caving in. She wondered why Stefano left such an eyesore on his property before her sights and senses were taken with the villa in front of them.

It was not ostentatious, Allegra saw at once, but it possessed every comfort. Begonias and geraniums spilled from hanging baskets and terracotta urns that lined the flagstone path up to the front door.

A young woman with luxuriant dark hair caught up in a bun opened the door and called a welcome. A little boy with the same dark, glossy hair stood next to her, keeping himself close to his mother yet also strangely, inexorably apart.

‘My housekeeper, Bianca,’ Stefano said quietly, ‘and that is Lucio.’

Allegra nodded, saw the boy stare into an unknown—and safe—middle distance. They climbed out of the car and she noticed that the air was sharp and cool, scented with pine and cedar.

‘Bianca.’ Stefano greeted her warmly and Allegra was ashamed to feel a piercing little stab of jealousy. ‘Hello, Lucio.’ He ruffled the boy’s dark hair, but Lucio didn’t look at him, didn’t say a word.

Stefano introduced her to Bianca, who shook her hand and smiled with hopeful gratitude. Allegra crouched down so she was eye-level with Lucio. His eyes didn’t meet hers, but still she smiled as if he were looking at her.

‘Hello, Lucio,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m happy to meet you.’

Lucio didn’t look at her, didn’t acknowledge her at all. It was as if she hadn’t spoken, or even as if she wasn’t even there.

Allegra hadn’t expected him to speak or even look at her, yet his utter indifference betrayed by not even one flicker of understanding was discouraging. Still she remained there, crouched down, for several long moments. She knew Lucio had to be aware of her on some level, and that would have to be enough. For now.