1

"Sophie?"

Matteo's voice rouses me from the light slumber into which the monotonous sound of the car engine had lulled me. I bolt upright. It takes me a moment to get my bearings, and then I realise, to my surprise, that we're surrounded by heavy traffic. When I shut my eyes, we were still cruising along the M20 from Dover to London - so I must have been out for quite a while. I can't usually sleep like that on a journey, and I was way too nervous this time. But the long stretch of road behind us has clearly taken its toll on me.

"I'm sorry, I .," my voice is hoarse. I have to clear my throat before I can carry on speaking. "I didn't mean to fall asleep." I hastily sit up, run a hand through my long, dark hair in an attempt to give it some semblance of order, and readjust my dress. But I still feel dishevelled and a little disconcerted. I hope I wasn't snoring, I think, slightly horrified. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

Matteo looks over from the driver's seat and smiles in amusement, and my heart contracts with longing. Which it shouldn't. But I just can't help myself.

"What do you think I'm doing right now?" he says, and I curse my sleepy brain for not having thought of a more intelligent question. "According to the GPS, we're not far from your auction house. And you wanted to let your father know when we'd be there."

"Oh." I've only just begun to pay attention to our surroundings and, to my surprise, I realise that we're already on the South Circular. It's only another twenty minutes at most from here to Kensington. So it probably would be a good idea to warn Dad, since he's going to be surprised. He definitely won't be expecting us so soon.

After all, it's over two thousand miles from Rome to London - a considerable distance that I wasn't expecting us to cover in just one and a half days. But Matteo has always been a fast driver and an astonishingly proficient one, too. On Monday evening, after he stopped me at the airport in Rome and told me he was going to accompany me to London after all, we made it all the way up to Florence. Following a brief overnight stay at a hotel, we set off again early yesterday morning and drove through Switzerland and France to Lille. We started early again this morning and reached the ferry at Calais. So now, at just after one o'clock, we've already hit London.

Which is a good thing. The fact that we couldn't fly here already cost us quite a lot of time. And every minute is precious.

I hastily find the auction house phone number on my mobile. Dad answers immediately. It's as if he's been waiting for my call.

"Sophie! Good to hear from you. Where are you?" His voice sounds calm, but I know him very well, and I can detect a slight tremble. I know he's worried, so I'm happy to be able to reassure him about one thing at least.

"We'll be at Battersea Bridge any minute now. It'll be another twenty minutes at most."

"Already? Oh, that's great." He breathes a sigh of relief. Then I hear a rustling sound and muffled conversation. His hand is cupped over the receiver.

"Dad?"

"Sorry," he says, suddenly loud and clear again. "Nigel's here. We were having lunch together. He'll stay until you arrive. He'd like to meet your guest of honour, too."

Nigel, I think with a sudden lump in my throat. I wasn't expecting to encounter him again so soon. But I should have known he'd be waiting for my return, just like my father.

"OK. Well . see you shortly." I end the call and slip the mobile back into my pocket.

Things are getting serious now, I think, a little apprehensively, as Matteo swings out onto the next roundabout.

I still can't quite fathom the fact that he's really here with me. Suddenly I feel gripped by nerves. I have no idea what's going to happen over the next few days. All I know is that it all depends on Matteo. He could save us or ruin us. And, if I don't watch out, he'll also break my heart once and for all, I think, observing him out of the corner of my eye.

There must be women who don't find Matteo attractive - but there can't be many, and I'm definitely not one of them. I like everything about him. His hair, which is unusually light for an Italian. That irresistible, charming smile behind which he so often conceals what he's really thinking or feeling. His well-honed physique and broad shoulders, accentuated by his effortlessly elegant fashion sense - I don't know anyone who looks as relaxed and at ease in a suit as he does. Even his one flaw - the broad, jagged scar that begins at his neck and, as I now know, extends far across his chest - just makes him all the more interesting. It's insanely easy to lose yourself in the unusual golden hue of his amber-coloured eyes. And that's exactly what happens to me yet again when Matteo notices that I'm observing him and flashes a smile.

"What did your father say?"

"He's already looking forward to meeting you," I tell him, happy that he has to look ahead at the street again. Then I realise with a start that I haven't even asked him if he's OK with the visit, after the long drive. "But we don't have to stop by the auction house, if you're too tired and would rather rest before we drive to Lord Ashbury's."

Matteo's smile intensifies. "A few minutes either way won't make much difference anymore. Or do I look as if I'm about to collapse?"

No, he really doesn't, I think, and I smile back at him, happy not to have to disappoint Dad. "OK then ." My eyes widen in horror. "Watch out!"

A white Ford Focus pulls out of a side street into our lane directly in front of us, ignoring the fact that we have right of way. It happens so fast that I don't even have time to scream. I'm quite sure we're only seconds away from a collision with the other vehicle.

But I've underestimated Matteo's driving skills. He reacts at lightning speed, yanking his convertible Alfa Romeo sports car so violently to the right that my shoulder is pressed against the door. The tires squeal in protest. We've made such a sharp turn that they've probably lost contact with the ground. It's a close call, really close, but somehow Matteo manages to pass the Focus unharmed. When he steers just as sharply to the left, to avoid oncoming traffic, I'm flung in the opposite direction, and this time his shoulder cushions my fall. The car fishtails for a moment because of all the centrifugal forces working on it, but then Matteo gets it under control and is driving in his lane again.

"Cretino!" he swears, casting an angry look into the rear-view mirror as a horn blares from behind - the other driver clearly thinks it was our mistake.

I'm still so shocked that I can't say a thing. I'm just grateful when I notice Matteo stopping the car at the side of the road at the first available opportunity. I need a moment to catch my breath.

He's shaken up, too, I can tell from his left hand, which is gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his white knuckles are protruding from beneath the skin. But he's more in control of himself than I am. My hands are shaking as I tuck a lock of hair behind one ear. A fact that doesn't escape Matteo's attentive gaze.

"Is everything OK?" he asks with concern, placing a hand on my cheek. It's just a spontaneous gesture. But when his fingers touch my skin, for a moment I can't breathe.

No, I think. Nothing's OK. Absolutely nothing.

Because suddenly it's back, all of it. I can't just feel his hand on my cheek, I also feel his lips on mine, and his hard, hot body pressing against me. I can almost taste him. I'm melting inside at the memory of the hours I've spent in his arms. And I immediately want him again with a ferocity I've never known before.

That will probably never change, I think in dismay. But we're not in Rome anymore, and the time I was able to spend with him is over. He said it himself. Those few weeks we shared were all he could give me. He's not ready for more - and I can't make any compromises for his sake, either.

I had plenty of time to think everything over on the journey and, no matter how much it hurts: there's no place for Matteo in my life - or for me in his. The distance between us is too great - and not just geographically. It's impossible. So I'm going to have to find a way to get my feelings under control.

But that's only going to be possible if he keeps his distance - as he did on the way here. We had separate hotel rooms, and when we said goodnight to each other in the evening, he didn't even give me a kiss on the cheek, which is customary in Italy. He hasn't touched me the entire time - until now. And now, I honestly wish he hadn't. Then at least I might have fostered the hope of not always treading on thin ice around him.

"Yes, everything's fine," I lie, hating myself for being disappointed rather than relieved when he withdraws his hand...