The sound of English and her touristy clothes brought him up short. Too late, he realised the car’s steering wheel was on the right; the dark woman he’d barked at had been standing at the passenger door. There would probably be a British number plate buried in the lavender.

The dark woman glanced at the blonde. ‘He doesn’t like your parking.’ Though she looked like an Italian businesswoman, she too sounded like a British tourist. Turning back to Piero she lifted one eyebrow in a way that made him wonder whether his collar was askew and his hair tangled by the wind. ‘Lei non parla italiano.’

He switched to English. ‘Sorry. I mistook you for someone else.’

The blonde’s long legs carried her to the front of the car and she blushed as she inspected the lavender bed. ‘Sorry. It’s her car and I keep forgetting how big it is. We’re renting a cottage here and we’re supposed to be asking for Signora Costa or Signor Roscini. We have a mobile number but no one’s answering.’

He exerted himself to create a better impression. ‘The signal’s spotty.’ It wasn’t true but seemed better than saying, ‘The phone’s probably off for siesta.’ He moved towards the terrace steps. ‘Why don’t I show you to a seat? I’ll see if I can locate your hosts.’

He led them up the terrace steps, enjoying the way they halted open mouthed as the swooping rows of vines and purple mountains came into view. Bougainvillea on the rustic rails blazed cerise beneath a perfect blue sky and nowhere was the vista more stunning. He left them lost in admiration.

A drinks fridge stood in the open hallway just inside the terrace doors, access to bottled water being a courtesy extended to guests. He passed out a couple of bottles to the women and left them admiring the landscape while he ventured further within the stone walls, over the tiled floor to the foot of the stairs. He called up, ‘Lucia? Durante? I vostri ospiti sono arrivati.’

An exclamation greeted his words and in a few moments, Lucia peeped over the bannisters, her dark, silver-streaked waves hanging either side of her face. ‘The guests have arrived? They’re early!’ she hissed.

He grinned. ‘I put them on the terrace.’

She blew him a kiss. ‘Grazie mille. Due minuti.’

‘Prego.’ Swooping up a bottle of water for himself, he returned to inform the women that Lucia would arrive in two minutes.

The dark woman just nodded but the blonde smiled and said, ‘Thanks.’

Belatedly, he said, ‘Benvenute in Italia. I’m Piero Domenicali and I live just through the trees. You’re English?’

‘I’m Irish,’ corrected the blonde.

The year he’d spent in the UK learning about the wine trade there had taught him the difference. ‘The Republic?’

Her smile broadened. ‘Yes. I’m Ursula and my friend is Zia.’