As at lunchtime, they ate near the river. Now the daylight was fading, the lamps were coming on, reflected in the water, and there was a new kind of magic.

Gino was also a perfect host, surrounding her with a cocoon of comfort and consideration, entertaining her with funny stories.

She made him talk about the farm and his life there, while she ate her way through chicken liver canapés, noodles with hare sauce, and Bistecca al la Fiorentina, a charbroiled steak.

‘It’s been cooked this way since the fourteenth century,’ Gino explained. ‘The legend says that the town magistrates used to cook it themselves in the Palazzo Vecchio, if it was a busy day. It saved going home for lunch.’

‘You made that up.’

‘I swear I didn’t. I don’t say that it’s true, but it’s the legend.’

‘And a good legend can be as powerful as the truth,’ Alex mused.

He nodded. ‘More. Because the legend tells you what people want to believe.’

She gave a little laugh. ‘Like your brother wants to believe in me as a Wicked Witch.’

Gino regarded her wryly. ‘Do you know how often you do that?’ he asked.

‘Do what?’

‘Bring the conversation back to Rinaldo. You’ve convinced yourself that he’s pulling my strings, and I feel as though you don’t really see me at all. You’re looking over my shoulder at him all the time.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to sound like that. It’s just-well, perhaps you should blame him. I’m sure he likes to think of himself as pulling your strings-everyone’s strings. Somehow, one takes him at his own estimation.’

‘That’s true,’ he said with a rueful sigh. ‘Let’s have some champagne.’

He turned to call the waiter, leaving Alex to reflect. She was shaken by the realisation that Gino was right. While she smiled and flirted with him, Rinaldo seemed to be constantly there, an unseen but dominant presence.