Durante looked pleased as he removed Ursula’s passport and reached for hers. Zia held her breath so hard her heart knocked on her breastbone but Durante turned to the correct page and placed the passport face down on the glass plate with barely a glance. ‘Umbria is called “the green heart of Italy”, yes? We are born in Montelibertà, down in the town, and go to school there. In the past, I work in town and Lucia close to Deruta, where the transport links are good. But this is our home and the cottages our retirement business. Just a little work to keep us from trouble.’ He twinkled at her.

It was impossible not to smile back as she took back her passport, not sure whether to be glad or sorry at Durante’s lack of reaction. ‘Have you visited England? Ursula and I live on the south coast.’

‘Yes, I visit a few times. Lucia, many times, on business, selling to the UK.’

They ambled together to the terrace door, passing the opening to a salon, its furniture old and eclectic, dark varnished wood or painted green and cream and decorated with pink roses. Polish scented the air. ‘You have a lovely home. Traditional and elegant.’

‘We love it. It’s a big house for just two but we like the space.’ And Durante heaved a sigh.

Zia wondered at that but his smile returned as she said goodbye. She retraced her steps, drinking in the hum of bees and the dance of butterflies around the lavender. Ursula was waiting on a lounger in the uber-posh gazebo, gazing out over the valley. Zia settled next to her murmuring, as if they were secret agents, ‘Lucia’s out so I saw Durante. He scanned my passport without really looking at it.’

‘No further forward then,’ Ursula murmured back absently without removing her gaze from the panorama. The vines were taking on a sepia cast as the sunset painted the landscape from its own palette, the nearest mountain dark green, the next purple and the most distant lavender-blue. Cicadas whirred and a bird of prey rode the wind on outstretched wings.

Zia inhaled the woodsy smell of the sun-warmed gazebo and, transferring her gaze right, tried to see where Piero Domenicali might live. The last cottage, Villino La Quercia, blocked her view even before the trees and bushes. She winced at the memory of the door to Villino Il Pino swinging open to leave him staring at her legs before she’d yanked down her hem … but she also remembered his eyes were like chocolate flecked with demerara sugar.

‘I really want some of that wine.’ Ursula sighed.

Zia glanced at her. ‘We can fetch it.’

‘No, you know I’ve put myself on a self-imposed alcohol ban since falling prey to hen-party cocktails and that white knight delivering me home, paralytic.’