She sighed. ‘It’s not going to be here, not any time soon. Working in Italy isn’t as easy as it used to be. It’s the very reason I came here, remember? In case I could get my birth father to acknowledge me and pave the way.’ Her shoulders rose and fell on another, gustier sigh. ‘I hadn’t realised it would turn into a series of dilemmas.’

‘About your Italian family?’ He lifted a hand and cupped her face.

The insect life around them had broken into full song to welcome the approach of night-time and Zia felt as if the thrum was the pulse of this place, passing through her, reminding her how much she wanted to belong. Still, she forced herself to remain pragmatic. ‘Biologically they’re my family. In reality, I’m a blank in most of their lives. It’s not a nice feeling. But maybe I’ll at least fill in some of the gaps in my history, particularly the English part, if I can talk to Harry Anstey.’

‘But will that help you know how to feel about the Costas?’ he asked.

Again, she realised how he was reading her, demonstrating understanding on a level she hadn’t experienced with other men. ‘I don’t know but talking to Harry is something I can do and be fairly comfortable that nobody will be hurt.’ She sighed. ‘Here in Montelibertà I feel as if I have to tread softly … and not just because it’s earthquake country.’

Chapter Sixteen

Less than twenty-four hours later Zia unlocked the door of her Brighton apartment and paused. She could hear a noise exactly like someone having enthusiastic sex.

She must be hearing things. She was fuddled from the journey. Her flight had been delayed and passport control had been a frustrating test of patience. The express train out of Stansted had been OK but then she’d had to stand on both the tube across London and the train to Brighton.

The noise became louder. Banging – in all senses of the word – panting, groaning. Her heart went trippy. Had squatters moved in? Randy squatters, by the sounds of things? She glanced at the open exit behind her, checking she had a quick escape. The door of her bedroom stood ajar too, all-too obviously the source of the bumps and moans. Sweat cold on her spine, she crept a few feet nearer. The rhythmic thumping sped up, heading towards its crescendo. When Zia steeled herself to peep around the doorway, she got an eyeful of pumping hairy male buttocks and female legs and arms wrapped around the body that came along with it.

One of those female arms wore a familiar sleeve of tattoos.

‘URSULA!’ Zia cried in outrage.

The buttocks halted, mid-pump.

‘Zia?’ Ursula’s panicky voice emerged from beneath the male body.