‘True,’ Gino agreed. ‘But then, all Florence is miraculous. Sixty per cent of the great art in the world is in Italy, and fifty per cent of that is in Florence. Because for the last few centuries-’

Alex hardly heard what he was saying. She was fascinated by him. Where else, she wondered, would a farmer lecture her about art?

But this was Florence, home of the Renaissance, which had produced men who were many sided, with subtle, wide-ranging minds.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said suddenly. ‘Am I becoming a bore?’

‘Not at all. You made me think of Renaissance man. I guess he’s still around all these generations later.’

‘Of course. That is our pride. Not that Rinaldo thinks so. He never raises his head from the land. But I think a man should have the soul of an artist even if he does get his hands dirty.’

She smiled, wondering exactly how dirty Gino’s hands ever were. With Rinaldo she could believe it. He seemed to be a part of the very earth itself.

Gino regarded her sympathetically. ‘I had thought to show you the Duomo after lunch, but-’

‘Could we do that another time?’ she begged. ‘I couldn’t cope with a cathedral just now.’

‘Fine, let’s find something less virtuous but far more fun.’

‘Such as what?’ she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

‘Horse riding?’ he asked innocently. ‘Why, what did you think I meant?’

Her lips twitched. ‘Never mind. I’d love to go riding.’

Gino’s glance met hers. His eyes flashed with humour, seeming to say that, yes, he’d been thinking exactly what she thought he was thinking. But that could come later.

Since she had no riding clothes a quick shopping trip was necessary. Gino had a nice eye for women’s fashion, and refused to let her make a final choice until he had approved it.

At last, when she was wearing olive green trousers and a cream shirt, he nodded, saying, ‘Perfect with your colouring. That’s the one.’