DELLA waited while he showered at top speed, then emerged casually dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt and fawn trousers. Even in this simple attire he looked as though he could afford the world, and she guessed that he’d had a privileged upbringing.

‘Let’s get that coffee,’ Carlo said.

But when they reached the self-service cafeteria they both stopped dead. The place was packed with tourists, all yelling with raucous good cheer.

‘I think not,’ he said firmly.

He didn’t wait for her answer, but simply took her hand and walked away, adding, ‘I know lots of better places.’

But then, abruptly, he stopped.

‘Where are my manners?’ he demanded, striking himself on the forehead. ‘I didn’t ask if you wanted to go into that place. Shall we turn back?’

‘Don’t you dare,’ she said at once.

He grinned, nodding, and they went on in perfect accord.

His car was just what she would have expected-an elegant sports two-seater in dashing red-and, also as she would have expected, he ushered her into it with a flourish. His whole body was a clever combination of different effects. Built like a hunk, yet he moved with subtlety and grace. His hands on the steering wheel held her attention, lying there lightly, barely touching, yet controlling the powerful machine effortlessly.

Della’s mind was reeling.

Just what I need, she thought. He’s ideal-for the programme. Handsome, charming, never at a loss for words-he won’t suddenly become tongue-tied in front of a camera, or anywhere else. The perfect-She paused in her thoughts and tried to remember that she was a television producer. ‘The perfect product. Yes, that’s it.

She felt better once she’d settled that with herself.