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childhood—that kind of thing.’
    She shrugged. ‘I was brought up in London,’ she began hesitantly. ‘And my mother lives in Brighton now.’
    ‘And your father?’
    ‘I don’t know where he is. He left when I was eleven and he didn’t come back.’
    ‘Not even to see you?’ Marco frowned.
    ‘My dad was a bit of a complex character,’ she murmured non-committally.
    ‘Which is code for the fact that he was a dreadful parent, I take it?’
    It was really strange, but she found she didn’t want to tell Marco that he was right. Why was that? she wondered. Was it because she remembered that Marco was the man who had sacked her father from the job he’d loved at the factory? Did she still feel some kind of loyalty towards her dad? The discovery surprised her, because her dad certainly didn’t deserve any kind of loyalty after the way he’d behaved… Maybe that old saying about blood being thicker than water was true!
    ‘Let’s just say he had problems. Everyone can’t get a best parent award, I suppose.’ She reached and took a sip of her wine. He was looking at her with that close attention that unnerved her so much—as if he were interested in her—as if he cared about what she was telling him.
    He was just practised in that kind of concerned attitude, she told herself quickly. It came under the heading of charm.
    But even so, those dark eyes were incredibly warm as they held hers…
    They were interrupted by Marco’s cook, who came to put some plates of prosciutto on the table, accompanied by ciabatta bread. She was a large lady in her fifties, and obviously couldn’t speak much English—because Marco introduced her in French, and the conversation stayed in that language for a few minutes as the woman put some bowls of olives on the table. There was a lot of laughter and what sounded like light-hearted banter, and Isobel was glad of the interlude.Glad to switch her thoughts away from old memories and the new challenge of not getting drawn in by Marco’s smooth charisma.
    ‘Stella says that our starter for this evening is Italian, in my honour, and that our main course is British, in your honour,’ Marco told her as they were left alone again. ‘But apparently the dessert is French, in honour of the fact that French food is the best—not that she is biased at all.’ He laughed.
    ‘No, obviously not.’ She smiled. ‘She seems a nice lady.’
    ‘Yes, she is—and as a rule she is very reliable… However, all is not as it seems.’
    ‘Oh?’ She looked over at him intrigued, thinking he was serious. But then she saw the gleam of humour in his eyes.
    ‘I have a feeling these olives are not truly Italian,’ he said seriously. ‘I believe they come from a grove down the road.’
    ‘No!’ She played along with him and looked suitable horrified. ‘That’s very underhand of her, isn’t it?’
    ‘Absolutely. You can’t trust anyone nowadays.’ He reached and took one of the plump green olives from the bowl to examine it closely. Then he put it into his mouth.
    ‘So what’s the verdict?’ she asked with a smile.
    ‘Not so sure I can tell you…’ He looked at her with a raised eyebrow. ‘I don’t want my views splashed all over the papers tomorrow. The olive world in Italy could be in uproar.’
    She giggled.
    ‘You may laugh, but we take our food very seriously in Italy.’
    ‘Don’t worry—you’ll find I am the soul of discretion. Sensitive, responsible journalism is my speciality.’
    ‘Hmm…well, as I said earlier I’ll reserve judgement on that for a while.’ Their eyes held for a moment. Then he smiled at her and slid the bowl a little closer to her. ‘Try one—they are very good.’
    They
were
good she thought, as was the warm bread and the prosciutto. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was untilnow. But when she thought about it she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
    ‘So, moving on from your childhood, tell me about the guy who broke your heart?’ Marco asked