The Italian Girl by Lucinda Riley Page A

girls are so mature, even though they’re the same age as me. And the clothes they wear! I think some of them must be very rich . . . and my singing tutor, Professor Poli, he’s so stern and . . . Luca’ – Rosanna stopped and stared at him – ‘are you okay?’
    ‘Yes, I’ve never felt better. Why do you ask?’
    ‘Oh, it’s just that you . . . well, you look different somehow. A little pale, perhaps.’
    ‘I promise, piccolina , that I am . . .’ Luca tried to find a word to describe how he felt. ‘Radiant!’ He laughed as he steered her across the busy road and they headed home arm in arm. They reached the apartment, short of breath from the stairs, and Luca unlocked the door, mentally noting that the peeling paintwork could do with some attention.
    ‘You go and take a shower before the hot water runs out, Rosanna,’ Luca suggested. ‘I’m cooking something special for supper tonight.’
    Rosanna stared at the small sitting room in delight. Since she’d left that morning, the last vestiges of unpacking had been tidied away. The threadbare sofa in the corner had been covered by a colourful blanket so that it now looked cosy and inviting. The rickety table by the window was disguised with a fringed pink cloth, on which stood a blue and white striped jug of fresh flowers, along with two candles placed in saucers.
    ‘You’ve worked so hard. Thank you!’ she exclaimed. Despite the shabby, pock-marked walls and the grimy windows that Luca hadn’t yet had time to clean, the overall impression was cheerful and homely.
    ‘It’s a special night – for both of us,’ Luca replied from the tiny kitchen, from which the mouth-watering aroma of fresh garlic and herbs was already emanating.
    ‘Yes, Luca, it is,’ said Rosanna, her eyes dancing. ‘I won’t be long, then I’ll come and help you.’ She retrieved her towel and washbag from her bedroom and, putting the apartment door on the latch, made her way down the dim corridor to the communal bathroom.
    Later, after a supper of mushroom risotto and salad that Rosanna pronounced excellent, they sat back nursing their wine glasses and watching dusk fall across the rooftops of Milan.
    Rosanna yawned, then smiled at her brother. ‘I feel so tired.’
    ‘Then you must go to bed. It’s the excitement, I expect.’
    ‘Yes. Do you know, I didn’t think it was possible to feel this happy ever again after Mamma died,’ she mused.
    Luca studied his sister across the table, then shook his head. ‘Neither did I, Rosanna, neither did I.’
    The wrought-iron gates slid open noiselessly and Roberto drove his Fiat slowly up the tree-lined drive. Negotiating the oversized fountain that played in an ornamental pond, Roberto brought his car to a halt.
    Although he’d often passed through Como and had twice picnicked by the lake, he’d never been able to see anything more than the chimneys of the residences that lay cocooned behind their leafy green barricades.
    Now in front of him stood a grand palazzo. Its graceful white frontage rose from the ground, the sun glinting off the tiers of neat windows, each one aproned with a balcony fashioned delicately out of wrought iron. In the centre, above the front door, was a circular stained-glass window, framed by an elegant cupola.
    Roberto stepped out of his Fiat and shut the door behind him. He walked towards the palazzo and slowly made his way up a staircase to the enormous front door set between pillars of Angera stone. He couldn’t see a bell and didn’t feel that knocking was the correct way to alert the occupant to his arrival. As Roberto was wondering if there was another entrance, the door opened.
    ‘ Caro , I’m so glad you could come.’
    Donatella was wearing a flimsy white robe. Her hair was wet and her face devoid of make-up. She looked incredible. ‘I was showering after a swim in the pool. You’re a little early.’
    ‘I . . . sorry, yes.’ Roberto gulped, doing his best to avert his eyes from her