It wasn’t, of course. In fact Cherry couldn’t believe what Sophia had accomplished in such a short time. Her hair was caught in a soft loose style that emphasised her slender neck without being too formal, cleverly held in place with the pins which were now invisible and the odd shining coil emphasised by the crystal clips which glittered in the light. It was the sort of feminine modern hairdo Cherry had seen in glossy magazines and imagined it would take hours and cans of hairspray to accomplish, but Sophia had worked her transformation in minutes.
Throughout her childhood and youth Cherry had never been one to make close girlfriends—Angela had always poached them immediately if she thought they preferred Cherry to her—and she wasn’t used to the way females could support members of their own sex when called to do so. She had got used to keeping herself to herself, she supposed, but Sophia’s genuine affection and friendliness touched something deep inside that brought tears to her eyes.
‘It’s wonderful.’ She turned on the stool, smiling, blinking the telltale moisture away. ‘You’re a marvel.’
‘No, I think it is you who is the marvel for staying to help me,’ Sophia said softly. ‘And I know Vittorio thinks so too, although being a man he probably would not say.’ She took Cherry’s hands, drawing her up from the stool. ‘Now, go and have a lovely time, Cherry, and dance the night away.’
Feeling ridiculously shy, Cherry followed Sophia out of the room and down the stairs to where Vittorio was already waiting in the vast hall. He had dressed up too—black dinner jacket and tie—and he dominated the light-coloured surroundings with his dark brooding attractiveness. He moved to meet her at the bottom of the stairs, his grey eyes hot and glittering but his voice deliberately gentle as he said, ‘You look quite beautiful, mia piccola. I am honoured to be accompanying you this evening.’
It was so Italian, so different from what a date in England might say, that curiously it relaxed her. This was a brief, enchanting interlude in her life, something that wouldn’t—couldn’t—last, but enchanting nonetheless, and just for tonight she was going to enjoy herself. She didn’t know it but her smile was radiant.
‘Thank you.’ Turning to Sophia at the side of her, she gave Vittorio’s sister a hug. ‘See you tomorrow.’
Sophia hugged her back. ‘Arrivederci—and, remember, have a good time.’
Once in the Ferrari, Cherry turned to look at Vittorio as the engine sprang into life and he negotiated the powerful car in a semi-circle and away from the villa. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Not too far.’ He glanced at her before returning his attention to the road. ‘I have a friend who owns a nightclub in Altamura. It is a town eight or nine miles from here.’
‘I think I’ve heard of it. Isn’t that where they recently discovered a prehistoric man in a cave, dating back some four hundred thousand years, as well as various megaliths?’ Cherry asked interestedly. It had been on her list ‘to see’ before she left the region.
‘Uomo di Altamura, si. But we will not be visiting the cave tonight,’ Vittorio said drily. ‘Perhaps another time.’
She nodded. ‘I’d like that.’
He flashed a smile. ‘Then it is a date. Altamura, like so much of Italy, has lived many lives and died many deaths, first dominated by one culture and then another, with much blood spilt. But it is this which gives my country its diversity and love of independence, so it is not a bad thing, I think.’
She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the proud, autocratic profile. ‘You love this country, don’t you?’ she said softly.
‘It is my blood, my bones, my heart.’ Again the dark eyes raked her face for a moment. ‘But it is this way with most people of every nation, is it not?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ she disagreed thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps it was once, but not now. Modern society seems intent on ripping itself to pieces from the inside out, from what I can see, never satisfied with its politicians or lifestyle, always wanting more, whatever the cost to community or family life.’
‘It is not this way in Puglia,’ Vittorio said firmly.
She agreed with him. It wasn’t. The slow pace of life and sleepy ambience was seductively sweet, and within a day or two of being in the region it had become apparent to her that Italians in this part of the world very much worked to live, rather than the other way round. Along with the custom of the siesta, she’d been charmed by what the Italians called the passeggiata—an evening stroll taken by whole families through the streets as the towns and villages awoke and people came together for coffee, an ice cream and a gossip. It was a charming way of life and would be a deeply satisfying environment in which to bring up children.
Determinedly wrenching her mind from following that path, Cherry settled in her seat and looked out of the window, trying to ignore what the faint scent of clean, sharp aftershave combined with a hint of primitive, virile male was doing to her senses. It was a glorious evening, and as the journey got underway the road wound through the inevitable olive groves and vineyards, along with cherry and almond orchards and walnut trees. The sun-baked landscape was peaceful and serene—sunstruck white-walled villas and the odd trulli house or two dozing in the warm air, kinder now the fierce heat of the day had mellowed.
She didn’t want to leave this heavenly part of the world. Cherry’s mind was whirling behind her calm façade. And she didn’t want to leave Vittorio either. Admitting that to herself was half the battle in dealing with the emotions he’d aroused.
‘You are very quiet.’ His smoky voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘I have not forgotten our agreement, if that is what is worrying you.’
‘I’m not worried,’ she returned swiftly. ‘I’m just admiring the view.’ In more ways than one. He looked good enough to eat normally, but tonight he was devastating. All men seemed to acquire a certain something in a dinner jacket and tie but Vittorio took it to a new dimension; forget James Bond, she thought wryly. He
wouldn’t have stood a chance with the ladies tonight.
‘This is good. I want you to appreciate my beautiful country and forget anything that is not Italian from henceforth.’
Cherry glanced at him to see if he was joking, but the handsome face was perfectly serious. ‘That wouldn’t be very practical. I do have to go home eventually, you know.’
‘Why?’ he asked with deceptive mildness. ‘To watch your troubled sister wreck more lives? I do not think you wish this. Do you, Cherry?’
She fiddled with her bracelet. She had known this man only a week or so and yet here he was asking personal, probing questions which he must know she couldn’t answer. Yet what was even more disturbing was that she wanted to answer him, to pour out her thoughts and feelings, to tell him all about herself. Which would be utter emotional suicide. ‘I don’t normally have anything much to do with Angela or my mother,’ she hedged carefully.
‘So you have no real ties in England?’
That wasn’t what she’d meant. ‘I have friends, aunts, uncles, cousins,’ she answered slowly. ‘OK?’