Polly studied him, trying to decide why, despite his air of joy, there was a kind of fierceness about him that defied analysis. He seemed to be uttering a silent warning that Freda belonged to him, and he would defend his ownership with his last breath.

But it hadn’t worked out like that. He had lost her for ever. And soon he would know it finally.

For a long time Polly lay looking at the ceiling, musing.

What am I doing here? I don’t really want to see Ruggiero Rinucci, and I’m sure he doesn’t want to see me.

Maybe I should have written to him first? But I don’t have his exact address. Besides, some things are better face to face. Plus, men are such cowards that if he knew why I was coming he’d probably vanish. Oh, heavens, how did I get into this?

On the edge of Naples stood La Pista Grande, a large winding track that was the scene of many motorbike races.

Here, too, the firm of Fantone & Rinucci tested their motorbikes, with Ruggiero insisting on doing all tests personally, and taking every machine to the limit.

‘If it doesn’t half kill him he thinks there’s something wrong with it,’ one of the mechanics had remarked admiringly, and when Ruggiero was on the track as many as possible of the workforce turned out to watch, cheer and take bets on his survival.

He arrived next morning with Evie, gave her some technical paperwork about the bike and showed her to the best place in the stands, just where the track curved three times in a short space, so that briefly he would be riding straight for her before turning into another sharp bend.

‘If I break my neck, it’ll likely be just there,’ he said, indicating the mechanics who were also there. ‘That’s why they gather in this spot-hoping.’

Evie laughed. There was a sprinkling of women among the mechanics, and she doubted if they’d come hoping for an accident. More likely it was connected to the sight of Ruggiero in tight black leather gear that emphasised every taut line of his tall, lean but muscular figure.