Before long, the motorway gave way to more rural roads, and although it had been over five years since she’d last been here Justina was surprised by how familiar it all seemed. The D’Arezzo home wasn’t immediately visible from the road—mainly because the gardens and estate had been planted so that it would blend into the land around it. A long drive led up to the house and behind it soared more green hills, studded with ancient olive trees and a variety of fruit orchards, and lower down were the prize-winning D’Arezzo vines themselves.

The palazzo grew closer, with its dark golden walls and its shuttered windows. Justina stared up at its clock tower and all the different wings which had been added over the years and couldn’t fail to be impressed—just as she’d been the first time she’d set eyes on it. Here lay centuries of stability and continuity and a definite place in the local community. It was something she’d never had herself, and a lump rose in her throat as she realised that this was not just Dante’s heritage but Nico’s, too. That his blood made him part of this place and she had no right to deny him that heritage.

The big car came to a halt in the courtyard, and she was surprised to see Dante’s mother waiting for them. In the past, the housekeeper had greeted them, and the meeting with Beatrix D’Arezzo had been postponed until the formal pre-dinner drinks.

Justina watched as Dante carried Nico towards his mother and hung back a little as she saw Beatrix lean eagerly towards the baby. Saw her touch his cheek with wondering fingers before exclaiming, ‘Caspita, e uguale a suo padre!’

Justina smiled as Beatrix came forward to greet her. Her crash course in Italian years earlier might have only left her with a rudimentary grasp of the language, but she understood the gist of that. Baby Nico was certainly the image of his father!

‘Justina!’ said Signora D’Arezzo with a smile. ‘Welcome back. And congratulations on the birth of such a beautiful little boy.’

The words sounded genuine and Justina nodded, acutely aware that Dante was watching her.

‘Mille grazie, Signora D’Arezzo,’ she answered, and then she smiled back. ‘He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?’

‘Gorgeous, indeed, and the image of his father at the same age!’ said Beatrix indulgently. ‘But you look tired, Justina. Travelling is always tiring—especially for such a new mother. Would you like to see your rooms, so that you can all settle in?’

Justina gave a grateful smile. ‘That sounds perfect. Thank you.’

‘Dante?’ Signora D’Arezzo turned to her son and said something in Italian before turning back to Justina. ‘We haven’t had a baby here for a long time, but we will do our best to make you feel at home.’

It was Beatrix’s kindness which was affecting her more than anything, Justina realised as she nodded her thanks. Or maybe it was more complex than that—because Signora D’Arezzo was exhibiting a motherliness towards her which she wasn’t used to. Her mother had never been big on hugging—unless it involved a man with a big wallet. She’d treated her daughter more like an adornment than a real person—and hadn’t that been one of the things which had made Justina determined to be as hands-on as possible with her own son, determined that he should feel her love from the start?

She followed Dante as he carried the baby through the winding corridors of the ancient villa before stopping before an enormous set of wooden doors. Inside, the main room was tall and arched, lined with ancient books on one wall and with a huge fireplace big enough to roast a hog in. Windows on three sides overlooked the undulating Tuscan landscape, and Justina gave a sigh of pleasure.

‘Like it?’ asked Dante.

‘Who could fail to like it?’ She looked at the paintings and the dark furniture, the silken rugs on the cool floor. ‘It’s the kind of place people dream of visiting.’

He pointed to an open door through which she could see an antique cot on which sat a battered-looking teddy bear.

‘Nico’s going to go in there. Obviously.’ He smiled. ‘Would you like to see where we’ll be sleeping?’

At first Justina pretended she had misheard him. But her heart started to race as he pushed open an adjoining door, where a large room was dominated by one enormous bed.

‘We’re sharing a room?’ She gave a light laugh. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Totally serious.’ The shrug of his shoulders was unapologetic. ‘My mother is making an effort to be modern, and she has put us in together because she thinks we’re a couple now.’

‘And you haven’t bothered to enlighten her that we’re not?’

‘I haven’t told her that we find ourselves here as a result of a one-night stand, if that’s what you mean.’

His assessment was brutal—was that deliberate?—and it hurt. ‘How ironic that when we were here as a couple we were at opposite ends of the house,’ she observed, swallowing down the sudden lump in her throat. ‘Meaning that you had to come creeping into my room at the dead of night.’

‘I don’t remember you objecting too much at the time, tesoro. As I recall, the subterfuge rather turned you on.’

Justina bit back the objection which had sprung to her lips, because it hadn’t been the subterfuge which had turned her on—it had been him. Dante had only used to look at her and she would be melting with desire. She met the mockery in his eyes and the sudden flip in her stomach made her realise that nothing very much had changed. He could still turn her on with just a look—and wasn’t that dangerous, given this new proximity? On one level she was honest enough to admit to herself that she was desperate to have sex with him again, but on another she knew that it would be complete madness.

Nico stirred and she held out her arms for him, relieved to be able to press her burning cheek onto his downy little head. ‘I’d better feed him,’ she said.

Dante nodded. He had seen the look of confusion which had clouded her amber eyes and he wondered how hard she was going to fight him. And fight herself. ‘Why not go over there?’ he said, indicating an old rocking chair which sat in front of one of the windows. ‘While I unpack.’

Justina carried Nico over to the window, crooning a little as she did so, before unbuttoning her silk shirt and latching him on to her breast. She’d never sat in a rocking chair before, and the creaking rhythm was oddly soothing. It made her feel timeless—and safe. Dreamily, she stroked the baby’s head as he fed, and in the background she could hear the sounds of Dante pulling open drawers and shutting wardrobes.

By the time she was finishing he had returned and was standing watching her. His eyes were as soft and dark as molten jet and suddenly she felt almost shy. But how could she possibly feel shy in view of everything that had happened between them?

She tried for flippant instead. ‘What do you think you’re looking at?’

‘At you. You look unbelievable. Like a Madonna. A Madonna in skinny jeans.’

‘Will you stop it?’ She could feel her cheeks getting hotter by the second. ‘I’m busy feeding your son.’

‘And you do it so well.’

‘It’s a biological function, Dante,’ she said drily. ‘Every woman does it.’

But every woman did not do it. Dante knew that. And once again Justina had surprised him. Hadn’t he thought that she would be itching to wean Nico and leave him in the care of a nanny, so that she could concentrate on her songwriting? But she hadn’t. She had embraced motherhood with an enthusiasm he could never have envisaged. And wasn’t that what made this whole scenario seem almost miraculous? Justina sitting in a rocking chair at the D’Arezzo palazzo, feeding their baby. She looked light years away from the black-eyed temptress who had once strutted the stage to the appreciative roars of thousands of fans.