Heather got to her feet, smiling at the thought of Lorenzo Martelli, the light-hearted, handsome young man who had swept into her life a month ago and made her head spin.

‘I didn’t know you knew Lorenzo by sight,’ she told Sally.

‘I don’t, but he asked for you. Besides, he looks just like a Sicilian should: incredibly sensual, as if he’d take a woman to bed as soon as look at her. Hurry up and get out there, or I’ll have him myself!’

Heather chuckled and returned to her counter, eager to see Lorenzo. He’d come to England on a business trip that was supposed to last two weeks, but he’d been enchanted by Heather’s quiet charm and stayed on, unable to tear himself away from her. They were going out together tonight. Now she was delighted at the thought of seeing him early.

But it wasn’t Lorenzo.

Lorenzo was tall, fair, curly-haired, in his late twenties. This man was past thirty. There was a slight scar on one side of his face and his features, which were too irregular to be handsome, were marred by a touch of harshness.

He was tall and heavily built, his shoulders wide, his hair black. He had the dark eyes and olive skin of the southern Italian, but he had something more. Heather couldn’t put a name to it, but she knew at once why Sally, who judged each man by his bedworthiness, had reacted strongly. It was because he judged every woman the same way. It was there in his eyes, that were lazy without ever quite being off guard: the instinctive question-do I want to sleep with her? Yes? No? Probably yes. How much of a challenge would she be?

Heather was startled to receive such a look. Her fine features were pretty without being beautiful. Her hair was very light brown, but not exactly blonde, and although her slim figure was graceful it wasn’t voluptuous. At twenty-three she’d never known the tribute of a wolf whistle, and no man had ever raked her up and down as this one was doing.