Maybe nowhere. Maybe just away from the chaos of the pool, whatever abysmal judgment had caused him to tackle her famous cousin.

She met Win’s eyes. “Sorry,” she said quietly.

His shoulders rose and fell, his jaw hard.

So, maybe it was too soon for apologies.

Turning, she ran after York, down the cobblestone steps to the flower garden.

He was facing the water fountain, sopping wet, his short dark-blond hair standing on end, his jaw tight as he stared out, past the olive trees, to the horizon. Or wherever. Maybe he was caught inside a vision of whatever had made him take down Win.

“York?”

“What is he doing here?”

He didn’t look at her, just stood, his fists tight, his chest rising and falling. He looked rough, frankly. As if he’d been in another tussle as he called it, a bruise on his chin, lines under his eyes, ripped jeans. Clearly, he’d had the same rough five days she’d had.

Maybe rougher.

“He’s scouting a film based on a memoir. It’s located here, so he came to see if they could film on location.”

She’d asked Win the exact same question—although with more cheer, and minus the hint of accusation and suspicion—when he’d arrived, after he’d turned and called her Couz.

And after the embracive hug he’d swept her in, as if they were old friend. No, more--family. He looked every inch the fabulous movie star, with the white linen attire, the aviator sunglasses.

“I’m thinking about directing a movie. An epic World War Two movie about the Italian resistance.” He’d then reached into the car and grabbed a worn paperback. “It’s a memoir by the woman who used to own this estate.”

Huh. “I’m reading it right now, actually.”

“Then you know why —”

“Don’t tell me.” She held up her hand, then glanced at Tessa who smiled at her.

His bodyguards had arrived in a car right behind him, but by then Win had started the tour of the grounds with Tessa and Santini.

She tagged along, learning much of what she already knew about the history, the architecture of the summer kitchen, even the darkened grotto which they illuminated with a giant switch on the wall. Indeed, lighting hung from the ceiling deep into the tunnel.

“Of course, if you keep going, that’s where you’ll find the chamber where the Jews hid.” Tessa said. “There’s a hidden doorway on the far end, after the bend, where they sneaked in and stayed on their way out of the country.”

So that’s what Angelica was hiding. The Mattucci family were conductors on their own Italian resistance railroad, secreting their Jewish countrymen out of Italy.