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ONE SUMMER IN ITALY
LUCY GORDON
MILLS AND BOON
1
ONE SUMMER IN ITALY
LUCY GORDON
CHAPTER ONE
Not much longer—if I can just hold out—please, please, don’t let them catch me…
The soft vibration of the speeding train seemed to be part of her thoughts. It was five minutes late but she should still reach
Rome in time to get to the airport and catch her plane home.
Just a hundred miles to Rome—that’s not much really—unless the police saw me get on this train…
Had anyone seen her? She’d hurried, keeping her head down, trying to get lost in the crowd. Nobody had troubled her so
far, but it was too soon to feel safe.
Perhaps she would never feel truly safe again. The man she had loved and trusted had betrayed her, throwing her to the
wolves to save his own skin. Even if she managed to keep her freedom, the world had changed, becoming ugly and bitter, like the
inside of her own mind.
Somebody eased past her in the corridor and she turned hastily away, staring out of the window to conceal her face.
Outside, the Italian countryside, bathed in the glowing colours of summer, rushed by, but she was barely aware of its beauty. Only her
fear existed.
When she next looked, she could see two uniformed men at the end of the corridor.
Police!
She must escape before they reached her.
Edge away slowly. Don’t attract attention. Try to look casual.
She wondered exactly what kind of description of her they had: Name, Sarah Conroy, but answers only to Holly; a young
woman in her late twenties, tall, perhaps a little too slim, with light brown hair, cut short, blue eyes and a face with nothing special
about it: a face that hadn’t lived very much.
Nondescript. Yes, that was the word for her, and for the first time she was glad. It might save her now.
Here was the end of the carriage. A short step and she was in the next one. It was first class, divided into compartments.
But each one had the blinds down and it was too risky to take shelter in one of them without some idea of what she would find.
Without warning, the blind beside her flew up and she found herself staring straight at a little girl. She was about eight
years old and in a childish temper. That was all Holly had time to take in before making a lightning decision.
It took a split-second to open the door, dart inside and pull the blind down again.
In the corner a young woman looked up from her book and opened her mouth, but Holly just managed to get in first.
‘Please don’t make a sound. I need your help desperately.’
She realised too late that she was speaking English. They wouldn’t understand a word. But before she could call on her
unreliable Italian the child broke in speaking English.
‘Good afternoon, signorina,’ she said with quaint formality, ‘I am very happy to meet you.’
Her temper had vanished as if by magic. She was smiling as, with perfect self-possession, she offered one small hand.
Dazed, Holly took it in her own.
‘How—how do you do?’ she murmured mechanically.
‘I am very well, thank you,’ the child responded carefully. ‘My name is Liza Fallucci. What is your name, please?’
‘Holly,’ she said slowly, trying to understand what was happening.
‘Are you English?’
‘Yes, I am English.’
‘I am very glad you are English.’
She was beaming as though she really was glad, as if someone had given her a big, beautiful gift.
The train slowed suddenly and the child nearly fell. The young woman put out a hand to steady her.
‘Careful, piccina. You’re still not steady on your feet.’
Now Holly saw clearly what she had missed before. The little girl was unable to walk properly. One leg was encased in a
support, and as she moved she reached out to hold on to the seats.
‘I’m all right, Berta,’ she insisted.
Berta smiled. ‘You always say that, but you want to do too much too soon. I’m here to help you.’
‘I don’t want to be helped,’ Liza told her stubbornly.
She tried to haul herself up onto a seat, but slithered off and was only saved from falling by Holly’s hand. Instead of
throwing it off, Liza used it to steady herself, and even allowed Holly to assist her as she wriggled to safety.
Berta gave a wry grimace, but the child’s snub did not seem to trouble her. She was in her twenties, robustly built with a
cheerful, good-natured face.
‘I’m sorry,’ Holly began to say.
‘Is all right,’ Berta assured her in careful English. ‘The piccina is often cross with me, but—she hates to be an invalid. I am
her nurse.’
‘I don’t need a nurse,’ Liza insisted. ‘I’m well now.’
Her chin set mulishly, and even in her agitation Holly knew a flash of amusement. This little one had a will of her own. But
for the moment she was a lifeline.
Berta began to protest. ‘Forse, ma—’
‘Berta, why do you speak Italian?’ Liza demanded. ‘This lady is English and she doesn’t understand you.’
‘I understand some Italian,’ Holly began to say, but Liza interrupted her too.
‘No, no, the English never understand foreign languages,’ she declared imperiously. ‘We will speak English.’ She scowled
at Berta, evidently commanding her to keep quiet.
‘How do you know English people are no use at foreign languages?’ Holly asked.
‘My Mamma told me so. She was English and she could speak Italian but only because she’d been here for so long. She
and Poppa spoke both languages.’
‘That must be why your English is so good.’
ONE SUMMER IN ITALY
LUCY GORDON
MILLS AND BOON
2
Liza beamed.
‘Mamma and I used to speak it all the time.’
‘Used to?’
‘The Signora dead,’ Berta said softly.
Liza did not reply to this in words, but Holly felt the sudden tightening of the little hand on hers, and she squeezed back.
After a moment, Liza said, ‘She promised to take me to England. I mean to go one day.’
‘I think you’ll like it,’ Holly assured her.
‘Tell me about England. What is it like? Is it very big?’
‘About the same size as Italy.’
‘Do you know Portsmouth?’
‘A little. It’s on the south coast and I come from the Midlands.’
‘But you do know it?’ Liza persisted eagerly.
‘I’ve spent some time there.’
‘Did you see the boats?’
‘Yes, and I went sailing,’ Holly replied.
‘Mamma lived in Portsmouth. She liked sailing. She said it was the loveliest feeling in the world.’
‘It is. Having the wind in your face, feeling the boat move under you—’
‘Tell me,’ Liza begged. ‘Tell me all about it.’
It was hard to speak light-heartedly when she was full of dread, and her mind was on whatever was happening further
down the train. But she forced herself to do it. It was her only chance, yet it was more than that. The child’s shining eyes showed that
this meant the world to her, and Holly was swept by a sudden determination to give her whatever happiness she could.
Her memories were vague but she embellished them, inventing where she had to, trying to bolster the illusion that the little
girl wanted. She had found someone who reminded her, however tenuously, of her dead mother and happier times. Not for anything
would Holly have spoiled it for her.
Now and then Liza would interrupt, asking about a new word, and practising until she was sure she had it. She was a quick
learner and never needed to be told twice.
Suddenly Berta began to grow agitated, looking at the door. Seeing her, Holly too began to worry.
‘I was just wondering when the judge would be returning,’ Berta said.
Holly grew tense. ‘Judge?’ she asked.
‘Liza’s father is Judge Matteo Fallucci. He is visiting a friend in another compartment. I thought he—’ she struggled for
the words ‘—perhaps—return by now. I can’t wait. I need,’ she dropped her voice to a modest whisper, ‘gabinetto.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘You will stay with the piccina per un momento, si? Grazie.’
She rushed out as she spoke, leaving Holly no option but to stay.
She began to feel desperate. How long would she be trapped here? She had hoped to be safe, but it seemed she’d jumped
out of the frying-pan, into the fire.
‘You will stay?’ Liza echoed.
‘Just for a moment—’
‘No, stay for always.’
‘I wish I could, I really do, but I have to go. When Berta comes back—’
‘I hope she never comes back,’ Liza said sulkily.
‘Why? Is she unkind to you?’
‘No, she means to be kind, but…’ Liza gave an eloquent shrug. ‘I can’t talk to her. She doesn’t understand. She thinks if I
eat my food and do my exercises—that’s all there is. If I try to talk about…about things, she just stares.’
That had been Holly’s impression of Berta too; well-meaning but unsubtle. It hadn’t seemed to occur to her that she should
not have left the child with a stranger, even for a moment.
But perhaps she’d hurried and, even now, was on her way back. Meaning just to take a quick look, Holly turned to the door
and ran straight into the man standing there.
She hadn’t heard him enter, and didn’t know how long he’d been there. She collided with him before she saw him, and had
an instant impression of a hard, unyielding body towering over her.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded sharply in Italian. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Signore—’ Suddenly she couldn’t breathe.
‘Who are you?’ he said again in a harsh voice.
It was Liza who came to her rescue, limping forward and saying hurriedly, ‘No, Poppa, the signorina is English, so we only
speak English.’ She took Holly’s hand, saying firmly, ‘She comes from Portsmouth, like Mamma. And she’s my friend.’
A change came over him. With an odd feeling, Holly remembered how Liza, too, had changed. She had become joyful,
while this man seemed to flinch. Yet they were reacting to the same thing. It was a mystery.
Liza drew her back to the seat, keeping hold of her hand as if to say that her new friend was under her protection. Even
though she was so young, her strength of will was clear. She had probably inherited it from her father, Holly thought.
He eyed Holly coldly.
‘You turn up in my compartment, and I’m expected to accept your presence with equanimity?’
‘I’m—just an English tourist,’ she said carefully.
‘I think I begin to understand. There’s a commotion further down the train. But I imagine you know that.’
She faced him. ‘Yes, I do know.’
‘And no doubt it has something to do with your sudden appearance here. No, don’t answer. I can make up my own mind.’
‘Then let me go,’ Holly said.
‘Go where?’
His tone was implacable. And so was everything else about him, she realised. Tall, lean, hard, with dark, slightly sunken
eyes that glared over a prominent nose, he looked every inch a judge: the kind of man who would lay down the law and expect to be
obeyed in life as well as in court.
ONE SUMMER IN ITALY
LUCY GORDON
MILLS AND BOON
3
She searched his face, trying to detect in it something yielding, but she could find no hope. She tried to rise.
‘Sit down,’ he told her. ‘If you go out of that door you’ll run straight into the arms of the police, who are examining
everyone’s passports.’
She sank back in her seat. This was the end.
‘Are you a suspicious person?’ he asked. ‘Is that why Berta has vanished?’
Liza giggled. ‘No, Berta has gone along the corridor for a few minutes.’
‘She asked me to look after your daughter while she was away,’ Holly said. ‘But now you’re here—’
‘Stay where you are,’ he ordered.
She had half risen in her seat, but his tone of command was so final that she had no choice but to fall back.
‘Are you really running away from the police?’ Liza asked her. ‘How exciting!’
Her father closed his eyes.
‘Is it too much to hope that you’ll remember I am a judge?’ he asked.
‘Oh, but that doesn’t matter, Poppa,’ the child said blithely. ‘Holly needs our help.’
‘Liza—’
The child scrambled painfully out of her seat and stood in front of him, taking his outstretched hand for support and
regarding him with a challenging look.
‘She’s my friend, Poppa.’
‘Your friend? And you’ve known her for how long?’
‘Ten minutes.’
‘Well, then—’
‘But who cares?’ Liza demanded earnestly. ‘It doesn’t matter how long you’ve known someone. You used to say that.’
‘I don’t think I actually said—’
‘You did, you did.’ Liza’s voice rose as she began to be upset. ‘You said, with some people you knew at once that they
were going to be terribly important to you. You and Mamma—’
Without warning she burst into tears, drowning out the rest of her words.
Holly waited for him to reach out and hug his child, but something seemed to have happened to him. His face had acquired
a grey tinge and was suddenly set in forbidding lines, as though the mention of his dead wife had murdered something inside him. It
was like watching a man being turned into a tombstone.
Liza’s tears had turned into violent sobs, yet still he did not embrace her. Unable to bear it any longer, Holly scooped her
up so that the little girl was sitting in her lap, her face buried against her.
At that moment the door of the compartment slid back. Holly drew in a sharp breath as the full horror of her position
crashed over her. The police were coming in. And she was in the hands of a judge. Now there was no hope.
A man in a police uniform entered, and immediately froze at the sight of the judge, whom he clearly recognised. He spoke
in Italian, which Holly just managed to follow.
‘Signor Fallucci, forgive me, I did not know—a small matter.’
‘What is this small matter?’ The judge sounded as though speaking was suddenly an effort.
‘We are searching for a woman who, we have reason to believe, is on this train. Her name is Sarah Conroy.’
He was forced to raise his voice to be heard above Liza’s sobbing, and turned to Holly.
‘Signorina, is your name—?’
But before he could complete the question Liza raised her head. Her face was red and tears streamed down her face as she
cried,
‘Her name is Holly and she’s my friend. Go away!’
‘I only—’
‘She’s Holly,’ Liza screamed. ‘And she’s mine, she’s mine!’
‘Hush,’ Holly whispered. ‘Hold on to me.’
Liza was already clinging around her throat with arms so tight that Holly was almost choking. She stayed holding the little
girl, offering what comfort she could.
If she’d been thinking clearly she would have realised that Liza was obscuring her face from the policeman, and her noisy
sobs were covering any suspicious Englishness in Holly’s voice. But right now she was beyond understanding. She cared only for
Liza’s shattering grief and whatever she could do to ease it.
So she gathered her in an even tighter embrace, murmuring words of comfort and tenderness until the sobbing little girl in
her arms grew less tense.
The judge had seemed almost in a trance, but now he roused himself with an effort.
‘I think you should go now,’ he said. ‘My daughter is not well, and it isn’t good for her to be upset.’
By now the young policeman had noticed the wheelchair and the supports on Liza’s legs. He nodded to show his
understanding.
‘I’ll leave you in peace. Forgive me. Good day, signore, signorina.’
He couldn’t get out fast enough.
For a while they travelled in silence. Holly met the judge’s eyes, trying to read them, but found them cool and
impenetrable.
‘Why did you do that?’ she asked.
He glanced at his little daughter, as if to say she was answer enough. Which was true, Holly thought. He had had no choice,
and yet—
‘Would you have preferred the alternative?’ he asked.
‘Of course not, but you don’t know me—’
‘That will be remedied when I’m ready.’
‘But—’
‘It will be best if you say no more,’ he replied in a voice that brooked no argument. ‘We shall soon be in Rome, and later I
will tell you as much as you need to know.’
‘But when we get to Rome I shall be leaving—’
ONE SUMMER IN ITALY
LUCY GORDON
MILLS AND BOON
4
‘I think not,’ he said in a tone of finality.
‘Is Holly coming home with us?’ Liza asked, smiling at the prospect.
‘Of course,’ he told her.
‘But—my plane—’ Holly tried to say.
This time he did not answer in words, but the flicker of his eyes was enough to inform her that he, not she, was calling the
shots.
Liza showed her happiness by twining her hand in Holly’s and beaming at her father.
‘Thank you, Poppa,’ she said, as though he had just bought her a precious gift.
The compartment door slid back and Berta entered, looking nervous at the sight of her employer.
‘You should not have left Liza alone,’ he growled.
‘Scusi, signore—but she was not alone.’
The judge seemed disposed to argue, but then he looked at his little daughter, snuggling happily in Holly’s arms, and the
sight seemed to strike him silent.
Now that Liza had secured her object her tears dried like magic.
‘You’ll like our house,’ she told Holly. ‘I’ll show you all over the gardens and…’
She chattered on and Holly tried to keep up with her, putting in the odd word, although her mind was whirling. While she
smiled at Liza she was intensely aware of the man in the opposite seat, watching her with sharp, appraising eyes.
He was sizing her up, she guessed, mentally taking notes, trying to come to a decision. In other words, he was behaving
like a judge deciding the verdict, with the sentence to follow.
He might have been in his late thirties, although his stern face and haughty demeanour made him seem older. He was
handsome in a fierce, uncompromising way that had more to do with something in his eyes than with the shape of his features.
Suddenly he spoke, indicating the small bag that hung from her shoulder. ‘What do you have in there?’
‘My passport,’ she said, ‘and papers generally.’
‘Let me see.’
She handed him the bag and he glanced through briefly, examining the papers until he came to her passport. Without
hesitation he took it, placing it in an inside pocket of his jacket.
Holly opened her mouth to protest but was checked by his glance. It was hard, forbidding, and it compelled her silence.
‘Good,’ he said, handing the bag to her. ‘You have all you need.’
‘I need my passport.’
‘No, you don’t. Do it my way and don’t argue.’
‘Now, look—’
‘Do you want my help or don’t you?’
‘Of course, but I—’
‘Then take my advice and stay as quiet as you can. From now on, not a word. Try to look stupid. Practise that if you have
to, but don’t speak.’
‘But I had to leave a suitcase further down the train,’ she burst out. ‘I must get it.’
‘Why?’
‘My clothes—’
‘You don’t need them. And trying to recover your possessions would lead you into danger.’
Into the arms of the police, he meant, and she realised he was right. Holly would have been grateful for his warning but for
a feeling he was chiefly concerned about the inconvenience to himself.
The train was slowing, gliding into Rome railway station, coming to a halt. Immediately a man appeared wearing the
uniform of a chauffeur and signalled through the window. The judge signalled back, and a moment later the man entered the
compartment.
‘The car is waiting, signore,’ he said, bestowing only the briefest glance on Holly.
Liza immediately put her hand in Holly’s and stood up.
‘I think you should use the wheelchair,’ her father said.
Liza thrust out her lower lip and shook her head. ‘I want to go with you,’ she said, looking up at Holly.
‘Then I’ll take you,’ she said. ‘But I think you should go in the wheelchair.’
‘All right,’ Liza said, docile as long as she had what she wanted.
The platform was the last on the station. Beside it was a wall, with a large archway almost opposite their carriage. It took
only a few moments to leave the train and move beneath the arch to where a limousine was waiting. Liza sat contentedly in the
wheelchair while Holly pushed her, praying that this would give her an extra disguise against any police eyes that were watching.
At the car door the chauffeur took the chair and packed it into the trunk. The judge got into the front, while Holly and Berta
sat in the back with Liza between them.
Holly tried to believe that this was really happening. Even the noiseless, gliding movement of the car, as it left the station,
couldn’t quite convince her.
A moveable glass screen divided the front from the back of the car, and the judge pulled this firmly across, shutting them
off from each other. Holly saw him take out a mobile phone and speak into it, but she couldn’t hear the words.
They turned south and sped smoothly on until the crowded city fell away behind them, the road turned to cobblestones and
monuments began to appear along the way.
‘They’re ancient tombs and this is the Via Appia Antica,’ Liza told her. ‘We live further down.’
About half a mile further on they turned through a high stone arch and began the journey along a winding, tree-lined road.
The foliage of high summer was at its most magnificent, so the house came into view piece by piece, and it wasn’t until the last
moment that Holly saw its full glory.
It was a mansion, obviously several hundred years old, made from honey-coloured stone.
As the car stopped a middle-aged woman emerged, making for the rear door, to open it, while the chauffeur opened the
front door for the judge.
‘Good evening, Anna,’ the judge said briefly. ‘Is everything ready for our guest?’
‘Yes, signore,’ the housekeeper said respectfully. ‘I personally attended to the signorina’s room.’
ONE SUMMER IN ITALY
LUCY GORDON
MILLS AND BOON
5
So she was expected, Holly thought, remembering the phone call in the car. This and the smoothly efficient movements of
the servants increased her sense of well-oiled wheels, which might be conveying her away from danger, but would roll over her just as
easily.
He had called her his guest, but the judge did not welcome her as one. It was Liza who took her hand, drawing her into the
house and displaying her home with pride. Inside the hall there were more servants, all giving her the controlled curious glances of
people who had been warned ahead of time, then hastily looking away.
‘I will take the signorina to her room,’ Anna said. ‘Follow me, please.’
The way led up a grand staircase that curved to the next floor, ending in luxurious marble tiles on which her heels echoed
up to the door of her room.
The room itself was startling, with a marble floor and an exposed stone wall that gave it an air of rustic charm without
lessening its elegance. Two floor-length windows flooded the room with light. The bed, which was large enough to sleep three, was a
four-poster, hung with ivory net curtains.
The rest of the furniture was in dark wood with a rich sheen, and ornately carved. To Holly’s eye the items had the look of
valuable antiques. She had reason to know this, having recently received a terrifying education in antiques.
‘Are you sure this is the right room?’ she asked, overwhelmed.
‘Signor Fallucci insisted on the very best guest room,’ Anna replied. ‘He says that every attention must be paid to you.’
‘That’s very kind of him,’ she murmured.
‘If you will follow me, signorina…’
Anna showed her through a door to a bathroom with walls also of exposed stone, an antique marble basin and hand-painted
tiles. Thick ivory towels hung on the walls.
‘If the signorina is satisfied—’
‘Yes, it’s lovely,’ Holly said mechanically. She could feel a net closing about her.
‘If you would care to rest now, a meal will be sent to you here.’
When she was alone she sat down on the bed, feeling winded. On the face of it she’d fallen on her feet, but that wasn’t how
it felt. The more she was welcomed and pampered, the more unnatural it all seemed, and the more nervous she became.
Everything made it clear to her that Judge Fallucci was a supremely powerful as well as a wealthy man. He was using both
to prepare a niche for her, so comfortable that she wouldn’t want to leave.
But the fact was that she could not leave, even if she wanted to. He’d taken her passport; she had little money and no
clothes. Now she had to depend on this stranger, who had seized control of her for his own purposes.
Despite the luxurious surface of her surroundings, she was a helpless prisoner.
CHAPTER TWO
SUPPER, when it arrived, was a feast for the gods. Soup made with ray fish and broccoli, lamb roasted in a sauce of garlic,
rosemary, vinegar and anchovy, followed by tozzetti, sweet cookies made from sugar, almonds and aniseed.
With every course came the proper wine, rough red, crisp white or icy mineral water. Everything was perfect. Nothing had
been left to chance.
When she had finished eating Holly went to the window and watched the last rays of the sun setting over the garden, which
stretched out of sight, a maze of pines, Cyprus trees and flowers, threaded by paths, along which a tall man was strolling.
‘Signor Fallucci walks there every evening,’ Anna said, just behind her. She had come into the room to collect the tray.
‘Always he goes to visit his wife’s grave.’
‘She’s buried here?’
‘In a patch of ground that was specially consecrated.’
‘How long has he been a widower?’
‘Eight months. She died in a train crash, last December, and the little girl was badly hurt.’
‘Poor little mite.’
‘You can just see the monument, there—where the setting sun just touches the tip. Every evening he stands before it for a
long time. When it’s dark he walks back to the house, but here there is only more darkness for him.’
‘I can imagine,’ she breathed.
‘He says he will see you in his study in twenty minutes,’ Anna added, departing with the tray.
Earlier, the high-handed message would have annoyed her. Now, watching him moving in the dusk, she realised that there
had been a subtle change. He looked lonely, almost crushed. She began to feel a little more confident. Perhaps he wasn’t so fearsome
after all.
At the exact time she knocked on the study door, and received a cool, ‘Avanti!’
Entering, she found herself in a room, dominated by a large oak desk, with a table lamp that provided the room’s only light.
Outside its arc she was dimly aware of walls lined with leather-bound books.
He was standing by the window, looking out, and turned when she entered. But he didn’t move out of the shadows, and she
couldn’t make out much more than his outline.
‘Good evening, signorina.’ His voice seemed to come from a distance. ‘You would prefer that we talk in English?’
‘Yes, thank you, Signor Fallucci.’
‘Your room is to your liking?’
‘Yes, and the meal was delicious.’
‘Of course.’ His tone suggested this was the natural order of things. ‘Otherwise my staff would have heard my displeasure.
Would you care to sit down?’
He indicated the chair facing the desk. It was a command, not a request, and she sat.
‘I know something about you from my daughter,’ he said, seating himself opposite her. ‘Your name is Holly, you are
English and you come from Portsmouth.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Didn’t you tell Liza that you lived in Portsmouth?’ he said sharply. ‘She thinks you did.’
‘That’s a mistake, and I’ll explain if you’ll let me finish.’ For all her resolution to tread carefully she couldn’t keep an
annoyed edge out of her voice. She was damned if she’d let him cross-examine her as though they were in court.
He leaned back in his chair and made a gesture that meant, ‘Go on.’

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