She turned into him, her cheek moving against his shoulder as she shrugged. ‘No, but they weren’t hanging about so I don’t think they liked what they saw.’

‘Shit,’ he murmured impotently, a horrible, hollow fear taking over his insides at the thought of Lucia being seriously ill. He’d never known her suffer anything worse than a cold. Sliding his other arm about Zia he held her, her hair tumbling silkily over his hands, her breast pressing against his pounding heart, seeking comfort as much as offering it.

Despite his chilly anxiety he became aware of heat. Not just from the sun pounding down on them but from Zia. Her trousers had probably been suitable for the aircraft but were asking for trouble in the Umbrian sun in the third week of July. Temperatures soared into the thirties every day. He dropped a kiss on her hair. ‘Let’s get you in the shade.’ Their hands somehow linked naturally as they turned and headed back towards the house. He grabbed bottles of cold water and, seeing Zia’s pallor and dazed expression, guided her towards a terrace chair to drink.

‘It was horrible,’ she murmured between sips.

He sat down and rested his hand comfortingly on her thigh. ‘I’m sure.’

‘I knew she was still poorly but I didn’t expect to come back to this. My flight was delayed and there was a hold-up on the road. Another two minutes and I would have missed them.’

He let her talk, understanding the human need to express what had just happened, search for answers and check for errors.

Finally, she began to blink her way out of her shock. She gestured towards the valley turning hazy in the late afternoon. ‘I’ve missed this.’

‘Good.’ He felt immeasurably reassured by her simple statement but at that moment the awaited guests arrived in a dusty blue SUV, a man and woman with an adult daughter who tried valiantly to communicate in laboured Italian until Zia said, ‘We speak English, if that’s easier.’

The young woman fanned her face with relief. ‘Awesome! We’re booked into Villino Il Pino.’

While Zia got them settled in the cottage Piero jogged home, showered, changed, then returned with a chicken pasta dish he’d prepared before leaving for work this morning in the hopes he might have the opportunity to share it with Zia. He’d slipped it into the oven and was wrapping garlic bread in foil by the time Zia returned.