Page 4 of Sunrise over Strawberry Hill Farm

They both glanced over at her pile of clothes, still lying on the boulder at the side of the lake, before looking back up at each other.

He guessed that the water must be absolutely freezing cold, considering it was April, and finally stopped teasing her. After all, he did try to be a true Italian gentleman, despite his infamous surname.

‘It’s okay. Come on out,’ he called. ‘I’ll turn my back to give you what’s left of your dignity.’

He did as he had promised, turning away to head around the car and open the door. He reached in to find a towel from the bags that filled the space behind the driving seat. In fact, every nook and cranny of the Ferrari was crammed with as many of his possessions as he’d been able to pack. He then checked his mobile, and by the time he had done all that, he was aware that the woman had come to stand on the other side of the car now fully dressed.

He straightened up and looked across the bonnet at her. Even from that distance, he could see the flash of her green eyes and the water droplets on her thick dark eyelashes. Her face glowed from a life seemingly spent outdoors, he thought. Her skin still gleamed wet from the water as she stood there in a jumper and jeans, holding a wax jacket.

‘Here,’ he said, holding out the towel for her to take. ‘I thought you might need this.’

She hesitated before taking it from him, shooting him a look of distrust as she did so. ‘Thank you,’ she said, before using the towel to dry her face and hands.

‘I apologise for disrupting your wild swim,’ he said, digging a hand into his jeans pocket. It really was quite cold in the morning air. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’ He looked around. ‘I must confess that I didn’t think fairy-tale glades like this even existed. I can see why Nonno raved about the place so much over the years.’

‘Nonno?’ she said, with a confused frown.

‘My grandfather. Lorenzo Rossi.’ He moved around the car to stand in front of her. ‘Nico Rossi,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Buongiorno.’

‘I’m Flora Barton,’ she told him, taking his hand to give it a firm shake. ‘Helen Barton’s granddaughter.’

Up close, she was even more beautiful than he had initially thought, although those incredible green eyes were still flicking him sceptical glances.

‘Well, Flora,’ he said. ‘Now that you’ve had your morning swim, how about we get in my car and you can introduce me to your grandmother?’

‘Go? In this?’ she asked, staring down at the Ferrari with incredulity.

‘If you’re going to go anywhere in life, why not do it in style?’ he said, giving her a smile as he walked back around to the driver’s door.

But she still didn’t seem keen and remained hovering next to the car. ‘I can walk back instead. I’m soaking wet,’ she reminded him. ‘I’m sure you don’t want me to ruin your fancy car.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s over forty years old and used to be owned by one extremely disreputable playboy,’ he told her. ‘I’m sure it’s seen a lot worse over the years than a few drops of water.’

Not waiting for her answer, he climbed inside behind the wheel. He couldn’t blame her for being a bit amazed at the car. He had been the same the first time his father had brought it home. To a six-year-old boy, it had been amazing to be driven around in a supercar on the narrow lanes of Tuscany. Now, all these years later and at the age of thirty-four, it belonged to him. Sort of.

The passenger door finally opened and Flora sat down next to him, having placed the towel on the seat first to protect the leather from her wet jeans.

The engine started with a throaty roar and he managed to complete a three-point turn, avoiding the many trees and boulders that surrounded them.

‘Back up the track, I presume?’ he asked, as they slowly drove through the woods.

Flora nodded, still staring around the inside of the car in amazement. ‘Yes.’

‘You’ve never been in a Ferrari before?’ he said. ‘It’s very nice, don’t you think?’

‘If you like that kind of thing,’ she told him, turning away to look out of the window.

He was getting the impression that Flora Barton wasn’t impressed by anything, least of all him.

In a way, it was somewhat refreshing. Most of the women he came into contact with were starstruck by the association with his famous father. All the romances had been short-lived once he realised that all they wanted was a piece of fame. He had long since given up dating anyone over the last couple of years.

‘And you don’t like that kind of thing?’ he prompted, slowly driving out of the woods.

‘I don’t suppose it’s any good at ploughing fields,’ she replied.

He glanced out of the window at the couple of fields in front of him up the hill. One appeared to have been left to run wild. The other much smaller field had rows of tiny green plants, but that was it. He wondered why it was so quiet. It was April and surely the place should be buzzing with activity?

His own family vineyard back in Tuscany had come alive in the spring. There had always been much to do at that time – preparing the vines and ensuring the coming harvest would be as good as it could be.