The Italian's Wife By Sunset

‘Take no notice of this pair,’ Hope advised him. ‘They’re jealous.’

‘Three,’ Ruggiero mourned. ‘He had three, and he slept on the sofa.’

‘The trouble is that three is too many,’ Carlo said philosophically. ‘One is ideal, two is manageable if you’re feeling adventurous, but anything more is a just a problem. Besides, I wasn’t at my best by the end of the evening, so I played safe, called a taxi for the ladies and went to sleep.’

‘I hope you paid their fares in advance,’ Hope said.

‘Of course I did,’ Carlo said, faintly shocked. ‘You brought me up properly.’

Francesco was aghast.

‘Of all the spineless, feeble—’

‘I know, I know.’ Carlo sighed. ‘I feel very ashamed.’

‘And you call yourself a Rinucci?’ Ruggiero said.

‘That’s enough,’ Hope reproved them. ‘Carlo behaved like a gentleman.’

‘He behaved like a wimp,’ Francesco growled.

‘True,’ Carlo agreed. ‘But there can be great benefits to being a wimp. It makes the ladies think you’re a perfect gentleman, and then, when next time comes—’

He drained his coffee, kissed his mother on the cheek, and escaped before his brothers vented their indignation on him.

The Hotel Vallini was the best Naples had to offer. It stood halfway up a hill, looking down on the city, with a superb view across the bay.

Standing on her balcony, Della kept quite still, regarding Vesuvius, where it loomed through the heat haze. There was nowhere in Naples to escape the sight of the great volcano, with its combination of threat and mystery. Its huge eruption nearly two thousand years ago, burying Pompeii in one day, had become such a legend that it was the first site Della had chosen when she was planning her series.

The three-hour flight had left her feeling tired and sticky. It had been a relief to step under a cool shower, wash away the dust, then dress in fresh clothes. The look she’d chosen was neat and unshowy, almost to the point of austerity: black linen pants, and a white blouse whose plainness didn’t disguise its expensive cut.

Businesslike, she told herself. Which was true, but only partly. The outfit might have been designed to show off her tall, slim figure, with its small, elegant breasts and neat behind. Just how much satisfaction this gave her was her own secret.

Her face told a subtly different story, the full mouth having a touch of voluptuousness that was at variance with her chic outline. Her rich, light brown hair was sometimes pulled back in severe lines, but today she’d let it fall about her face in gentle curves, emphasising the sensuality of her face.

The contrast between this and the plain way she dressed caused a lot of enjoyable confusion among her male acquaintances. And she didn’t mind that at all.

She had told nobody that she was coming, preferring to take her quarry unawares. She didn’t even know that Carlo Rinucci would be at Pompeii today, only that he was working on a project that concerned the place, investigating new theories.

She hurried downstairs. It was early afternoon, and just time enough to get out there and form the impressions that would help her when she went into action next day.

Taking a taxi to the railway station, she bought a ticket for the Circumvesuviana, the light railway that ran between Naples and Pompeii, taking about half an hour. For most of that time she sat gazing out of the window at Vesuvius, dominating the landscape, growing ever nearer.

From the station it was a short walk to the Porta Marina, the city gate to Pompeii, where she purchased a ticket and entered the ruined city.

The first thing that struck her was the comparative quiet. Tourists thronged the dead streets, yet their noise did not rise above a gentle murmur, and when she turned aside into an empty yard she found herself almost in silence.

After the bustle of her normal life the peace was delightful. Slowly she turned around, looking at the ancient stones, letting the quiet seep into her.

‘Come here! Do you hear me? Come here at once.’

The shriek rent the atmosphere, and the next moment she saw why. A boy of about twelve was running through the ruins, hopping nimbly over stones, hotly pursued by a middle-aged woman who was trying to run and shout at the same time.

‘Come here!’ she called in English.

The youngster made the mistake of looking back, which distracted him enough for Della to step into his path and grab him.

‘Lemme go!’ he gasped, struggling.

‘Sorry, no can do,’ she said, friendly but implacable.

‘Thank you,’ puffed the teacher, catching up. ‘Mickey, you stop that. Come back to the rest of the class.’

‘But it’s boring,’ the boy wailed. ‘I hate history.’

‘We’re on a school trip,’ the woman explained. ‘The chance of a lifetime. I’d have been thrilled to go to Italy when I was at school, but they’re all the same, these kids. Ungrateful little so-and-sos!’

‘It’s boring,’ repeated the boy sullenly.

The two women looked at each other sympathetically. Quick as a flash the lad took his chance to dart away again, and managed to get out of sight around a corner. By the time they followed he’d found another corner and vanished again.

‘Oh heavens! My class!’ wailed the teacher.

‘You go back to them while I find him,’ Della said.

It was easier said than done. The boy appeared to have vanished into the stones. Della ran from street to street without seeing him.

At last she saw two men standing by a large hole in the ground, evidently considering the contents seriously. The younger man looked as though he’d just been working in the earth. Through his sleeveless vest she could see the glisten of sweat on strong, young muscles, and he was breathing hard.

In desperation she hailed them.

‘Did a boy in a red shirt run past? He’s a pupil escaping from a school party and his teacher is frantic.’

‘I didn’t see anyone,’ the older man remarked. ‘What about you, Carlo?’

Before she could react to the name the young man with his back to her turned, smiling. It was the face she’d come to see, handsome, merry, relaxed.

‘I haven’t noticed—’ he began to say, but broke off to cry, ‘There!’

The boy had appeared through an arch and started running across the street. Carlo Rinucci darted after him, dodging back and forth through archways. The boy’s scowl vanished, replaced by a smile. Carlo grinned back, and it soon became a game.

Then the other children appeared, a dozen of them, hurling themselves into the game with delight.

‘Oh, dear!’ sighed the teacher.

‘Leave them to it,’ Della advised. ‘I’m Della Hadley, by the way.’

‘Hilda Preston. I’m supposed to be in charge of that lot. What am I going to do now?’