‘Where was home?’

‘In Yorkshire, in the north of England.’

‘How much do you know of what happened between her and me?’

‘You met in a bar in a London hotel, and you were together for two weeks.’

‘You could put it like that,’ he said slowly. ‘But the truth was so much more. What we had was there from the first moment. I looked at her, and I wanted her so badly that I was afraid it must show. I even thought I might scare her off. But nothing frightened her. She was brave. She went out to meet life-she came to me at once.’

There was an aching wistfulness in his voice that saddened Polly. She knew the truth behind her cousin’s ‘bravery’. She hadn’t had much time to pursue her object. That was the ugly fact, and it was painful to see this blunt, forceful man reduced to misery by her ruthless tactics.

‘I remember being surprised that she was English,’ Ruggiero continued. ‘I thought English women were prim and proper. But not her. She loved me as though I was the only man on earth.’

‘Didn’t you think it strange that she wouldn’t tell you her full name?’

‘At the time it almost seemed irrelevant-something that could be sorted out later. What she gave me-I’m not good with words, I couldn’t describe it-but it made me a different man. Better.’

There was something almost shocking in the quiet simplicity of the last word. Hesitantly, Polly asked, ‘How do you mean, better?’

Slowly he laid his fingers over his heart.

‘What’s in here has always been just for me,’ he said. ‘I’ve kept it that way. A man’s safer that way.’

‘But why must he always be safe?’ she ventured to ask.

‘That’s what she made me ask myself. It was like becoming someone else-ready to take risks I couldn’t take before, glad of it. I even enjoyed her laughing at me. I’ve never found it easy to be laughed at, but she-well, I’d have accepted anything from her.’

Against her will Polly heard Freda’s voice in her head, chuckling.

‘The tougher they are, the more fun it is when they become my slaves.’

And this was the result-this bleak, desolate man holding onto his belief in her like a drowning man clinging to a raft. What would become of him in a few moments when that comfort was finally snatched away?

‘What happened after she left me?’ he asked.

Polly took a deep breath.

‘She went back to George, and nine months later she had a baby.’

He stared at her. ‘Are you saying-?’

‘Your baby.’

He hauled himself up again, waving her away so that he could sit on the edge of the bed, his back to her.

‘How can you be sure it’s mine?’ he demanded harshly.

‘It isn’t George’s. It couldn’t be.’

‘But why didn’t she tell me? I never concealed where I lived. Why didn’t she come to me? She couldn’t have thought I’d turn my back on her. She knew how much I-She knew-’

‘She didn’t want you told.’

‘But-’

‘She wanted to stay married to George, so she had an affair hoping to get pregnant.’

For a moment he was as still as if he’d been punched over the heart.

‘Shut up!’ he said at last in a fierce voice. ‘Do you know what you’re saying about her?’

‘Yes,’ she said, with a touch of sadness. ‘I’m saying that she planned everything.’

‘You’re saying she was a calculating, cold-hearted bitch?’

‘No, I’m not,’ she insisted. ‘She could be warm and funny and generous. But when she came to London that time she wanted something, and it turned out to be you.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he snapped. ‘You don’t know how it was with us when we were together-how could you understand-?’

She remembered George when he’d learned the truth, wailing pitiably, ‘I thought she really loved me.’

The mood hadn’t lasted. He’d become vicious and vengeful, but she’d briefly glimpsed the devastation that Freda could cause. She’d been a genius at inspiring love by pretending love, and she’d obviously done it well with both men.

‘Did her husband think the child was his?’ Ruggiero asked.

‘At first, yes. Then he found out by chance that he had a very low sperm count, and he began to doubt. He demanded a test, and when he discovered that he wasn’t the father he threw Freda and the baby out of the house.’

‘When was this?’

‘Almost a year ago.’

‘Why didn’t she come to me then?’

Because she’d hoped to entice George back, was the truthful answer. But Polly couldn’t bring herself to hurt him more, so she softened it.

‘She was already growing thin from illness. She said she’d contact you when she got well. But she never did. She came to live with me. I nursed her as best I could, but it was hopeless. She made me promise to find you afterwards-to tell you that you have a son.’

‘She’s dead,’ he murmured. ‘Dead-and I wasn’t with her.’

In the face of his pain there was nothing she could say.

‘Why didn’t I know?’ he demanded. ‘How come I didn’t sense it when we were so close?’

Polly was silent, knowing that Freda had never felt close to him.

‘You should have found a way to contact me while she was alive,’ he insisted.

‘I couldn’t. She wouldn’t tell me where to find you. I didn’t even know that you lived in Naples. I found out that and the name of this villa in a letter she wrote me, to be opened when she was dead.’

‘I would have looked after her,’ he said in a daze.

‘She didn’t want you to see her. She hated not being beautiful any more.’

‘Do you think I’d have cared about that?’ he flashed, with a hint of ferocity. ‘I wouldn’t even have seen it. I lo-’

He stopped himself with a sharp breath, like a man pulling back from the brink. His haggard eyes met hers.

‘It’s too late,’ he said, like a man facing the bleak truth for the first time. ‘Too late.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. She reached for him but he flinched away.

‘I want you to go,’ he said.

‘But-’

‘Get out, for pity’s sake!’ he said in agony.

She rose, reaching out for her copy of the picture, but he took it, saying curtly, ‘Leave that.’

At the door she glanced back at him. He was holding both pictures, looking from one to the other as though in this way he might discover a secret. He didn’t notice as she left.

Polly understood his need to be alone. She shared it. The conversation had been even harder than she’d expected. She’d been fooled by Freda’s ‘love-’ em-and-leave-’em’ description of Ruggiero, thinking he might take the news in that spirit.

Instead, his explosion of emotion had astonished her. Suddenly she saw the chasm yawning at her feet. From the first moment everything about Ruggiero had been a surprise-starting with the discovery that her cousin haunted him. She should have been prepared for tonight, but she’d sensed the danger almost too late.

‘You’re saying she was a calculating, cold-hearted bitch?’

He’d spoken as though the mere thought was outrageous, but it was an exact description of Freda. In the great days of her beauty she would have taken it as a compliment.

‘It’s such fun to make them sit up and beg,’ she’d once trilled. ‘You can make a man do anything if you go about it the right way.’

Later, talking about Ruggiero, with his baby in her arms, she’d said, ‘He was the best-know what I mean? Well, no-maybe you don’t.’

‘I certainly don’t have your wide experience for making comparisons,’ Polly had replied, trying to speak lightly.

‘Well, take my word for it. Ruggiero was really something in bed.’ She had given a luxurious gurgle. ‘Every woman should have an Italian lover. There are things about passion that only they understand.’

There had been no affection in her voice. Freda had taken what she wanted from her lover, then dispensed with him. She’d appreciated his technical skills, but she’d never thought of him as a person.

And in that she’d lost out, Polly realised. Clever as she was, Freda hadn’t discovered the things that made Ruggiero truly fascinating: the contrast between the contrived self that he showed to the world and the true self that he hid as though alarmed by it, the mulish stubbornness that collapsed into unexpected moments of self-deprecating humour. He was intriguing because everything about him contradicted everything else. A woman could spend years trying to understand him, enjoying every moment of the challenge, and Freda hadn’t suspected it.

I’ve seen it, Polly thought suddenly. But I didn’t want to. Heaven help me, this is no time to be falling into that trap! I’m just here to do a job.

She’d been clumsy tonight-hinting that his goddess had had feet of clay, which he hadn’t been ready to hear. He’d loved Sapphire, perhaps without fully realising it until that moment. If so, it was a cruel discovery made in the cruellest possible way.

She’d wanted to escape him before-but now she wanted to be with him, consoling him.

She went out into the corridor, pausing outside his door, her hand raised to knock. But then she heard a soft, rhythmic sound coming from inside the room, as though a man was thumping the wall in rage and misery.

She turned away.

Polly spent the rest of the night sitting up by the window, thinking of him, alone in his suffering, because that was how he preferred it. The thought of that appalling bleakness made her shudder, and her heart reached out to him. But she wasn’t the one he wanted.

At last, as dawn began to break, there was a soft knock at her door. He was standing there, a cotton robe over his pyjamas. The anger had gone from his face, leaving only weariness.

‘Come in,’ she said quietly.

But he didn’t move, only looked at her with a kind of desperation.

‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Can’t I help you?’

‘I’m not sure-perhaps I should-’

‘Why don’t you come in and talk about it?’