The Degas Girl

By AJ Adams

Beautiful, loving Serenity Bishop is stuck in a living nightmare. Having bankrolled her scheming, false-hearted boyfriend, she expected their romantic holiday to end in a marriage proposal. Instead, he gifted her to Angelo Schiavelli, a twisted Mafiosi with a bent for torture.

 

But Serenity's fierce intelligence and iron will are more than her captor bargained for. Despite Angelo having the whip hand, she humiliates him publicly. And her tormentor is about to lose control. 

 

Cold, calculating Zachary Schiavelli is an art thief, forger and remorseless killing machine who removes anyone who gets in his way. When his cousin Angelo insults him, Zachary is bent on revenge. As Angelo is protected by the family, Zachary devises a Machiavellian scheme that starts with claiming Serenity.

 

Brought together in an unlikely alliance, Serenity and Zachary play a deadly game of cat and mouse - and everyone around them is caught up in the crossfire.

 

This is a standalone. No cliffhangers. HEA guaranteed.

 

An action-packed hard-boiled romance, populated with three dimensional, flawed and utterly compelling characters. The Degas Girl shocks and delights in equal measure. You won't be able to put this down!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellen Whyte
• Release date: Nov 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201600549

AJ Adams

AJ Adams writes twisted love stories set in the violent world of the Cartel, Camorra, Belial's MC and Prydain. All AJ Adams novels are self-standing and although some feature the same families, you need not read them all - but it would be awesome if you did. If you enjoy these novels and want to stalk, please know that AJ is the pen name for Ellen Whyte. Ellen married her best friend and moved to the tropics where they are living their own Happily Ever After. When she's not writing, she's cooking and pandering to her rescue cats Target, Swooner and Tic Tac.

Book preview

Chapter One Zachary

He kicked high, his foot scything past my diaphragm. If it had connected, it would have been game over. If. It’s a good thing I’m fast on my feet. Very fast. I drifted backwards so I could keep an eye on him and his buddies. This was getting hairy. I didn’t like it at all.

There were three of them. All tough and well trained. Typical Yakuza. I was seriously pissed off because they should have been downstairs, putting out the fire I’d set in the basement. These bastards weren’t just hard men; they were intelligent. Good for them; fucking disaster for me.

In the samurai films there is a formal challenge and everyone stands back and watches the one on one. These guys clearly hadn’t a clue about Bushido. They leapt at me, all three of them attacking at once, two lashing out with hook kicks and one a brutal reverse roundhouse.

My first bullet took out the closest hook kicker, catching him high in the chest. My second dropped the roundhouser, and as I went down, I got the third one in the face. I don’t stick to any warrior code either. If you’re not going all out to fuck the enemy, you die. Simple as that. I always aim to win, which is why I carry a Px4 Storm Subcompact in an ankle holster where everyone can see the tell-tale bulge, and a backup piece that nobody ever suspects exists, in a nice custom-made holster fitted snug in the small of my back.

My little Beretta is fairly quiet, and as the street was ringing with alarms, I gave myself a minute to recover. Although my calculated retreat had protected me from the bulk of the attack, I’d taken a glancing hit from the roundhouser, and it had landed right in my belly. When you’re dealing with pros, even a partial connect feels like a hammer blow, so I was suffering.

Lying on the floor, I realised that the three dead Yakuza arranged neatly around me made a scene that would rivet a manga audience. I was perfectly unremarkable while the three of them were liberally tattooed. Two displayed the usual brightly coloured geishas, snakes and mountains. Nothing to shout about. But the third had found a real artist to work on him. He had a carp on his arm that was so well done I could see its scales shimmer. It was a crying shame that it would be buried with him. Still, better the carp than me.

My minute was up. It was time to go. I got up, stifling a groan as I forced myself to my feet. I was going to be sore for a couple of days. It didn’t matter; I had the Monet.

It was placed on the floor, leaning up against the wall, sitting right in damaging sunlight. There was dust on it too. The fuckers had no respect for art. The least they could have done was keep it safe.

I picked it up and examined it closely, its beauty sending a chill down my spine and making the breath catch in my throat. The real thing always does that to me. Don’t ask me how I know what’s real and what’s not: I just know. It’s my talent, or rather, one of my talents. I have three, you see.

The first is my innate skill in sensing what’s real and what’s fake. I’m best with paintings but I’m no slouch at sculpture, ceramics and carvings either. I can tell a real Rembrandt from a fake made last week, or last century. In the trade, I’m called a diviner, or divvy for short.

My second talent is that I’m a pretty good painter. Give me a couple of weeks, and I’ll make you a Rembrandt that will fool most experts - unless they happen to have a spectrometer handy.

My third talent is a common one: I’m a thief. A very good one, actually. As I should be, considering I’ve been stealing all my life. I probably nicked my cradle and my dummy. Mind you, I doubt my parents bought me a dummy. My mum was tanked most of the time and my father was more likely to bash me than buy me things.

Anyway, thanks to my talents, I run a lucrative line in fine art theft. My modus operandi is to lift a piece and to leave my copy in place. I don’t do famous works like the Mona Lisa; I specialise in trafficked pieces. Then, if the owner discovers the theft, he or she is unlikely to call in Interpol. I like the quiet life.

I also make new Masters, which my uncle, Vicente Schiavelli, sells on the black market. The average Cartel, Mob and Mafiosi thinks a work of art is a cake with a girl in it but they do understand that art is an investment that appreciates over time while cash depreciates, so we have a nice turnover.

As you can imagine, I get some interesting work. This job for example started about six weeks ago when Vladimir Voyeykov, a Moscow Mafiosi, took a picture of his wife while at a private party thrown by an extremely rich, influential and crooked politician in Cuba. A week later, Voyeykov showed the snap to Vicente. While Voyeykov was boasting about his beautiful and talented wife, Vicente was admiring the picture behind her. It was a Monet. A picture titled ‘Girls in a Park’.

A Gestapo officer with an eye for art looted this painting in Paris in 1942, after which it was nicked in turn by his superior officer and then taken to Berlin where it vanished during the Allied invasion. Everyone thought it had been destroyed but apparently it had made its way safely across the Atlantic - and probably bought some Nazi a nice new identity.

I was in New Zealand doing a bit of ice-climbing and by the time I hiked out of the mountains and back into civilisation, someone had already lifted it. Apparently Voyeykov had shown the picture all over London before hitting Naples and some smart bastard had nipped in quick.

Usually it would have vanished into a collector’s vault, never to be seen again. But when I put out feelers, I heard that the destined collector, one Aoto Tanaka in Tokyo, had collapsed with a heart attack.

Unluckily for him, and luckily for me, he caught some kind of super bug while under the knife and was now in ICU, fighting for his life. As the painting was worth forty million, the agents were holding it, and no doubt praying for Tanaka’s swift recovery. And that’s where I came in.

Now I had the Monet in my hands, all I had to do was get it and me out in one piece. I had a plan that would allow me do just that.

I wrapped the picture in a white canvas bag and slung it over my shoulder. Then I picked up the bucket and squeegee and stepped out of the window and onto the boson’s chair I’d rigged up. With my white overalls and orange cap, I was now a window washer. The black wig, brown coloured contacts and some carefully applied invisible tape around the eyes, made me Japanese.

I moved up a storey, cleaning as I went, and then leisurely moved up another, right next to the roof. A quick heave and I was over the top, crossing to the other side. Ditching my white shiny overalls left me wearing my almost invisible black jeans and T-shirt. I clipped my belt to the line I’d left, and jumped. Three seconds later I was landing on the building next door. Two more jumps, and I was half a block away.

In the fourth building, a popular shopping centre, I picked up the bright blue shirt and blue baseball cap that I’d stashed, discarded the wig, removed the tape, and lost the contacts. The canvas went into a Sogo bag that already held three other parcels. Then I took the stairs down to the fifth level, and joined a crowd of shoppers. Now I was a blond European tourist, out shopping in Tokyo.

An hour later, I’d checked out of my hotel, and was on my way to the airport where Vicente’s Bombardier BD-700 Global Express sat waiting for me. It had been there three days which is not bad considering I’d estimated five days to get into the Yakuza’s headquarters.

I was feeling pretty pleased with myself and the flight was a dream. Being the only passenger, I was the focus of Vicente’s stewardess who just couldn’t pour enough champagne or serve too much fillet mignon. Having the Monet all to myself was icing on the cake. I love luxury, and one day I will be so fucking rich that I have my own plane. One day.

After expenses and everything, this job was going to net me around three million. It would pay for the little Degas that was sitting in a vault in Prague. I had intended to swap it for a Faberge egg but now I’d pay cash and keep the egg. It’s a lovely little number in white gold that has a jade ballerina doing a little dance to the nutcracker suite. It’s not on any list but I’ll swear it’s the work of Peter Carl Faberge, probably around 1910 or so.

I picked the egg up in Beijing three months ago while recovering a stolen Da Vinci for a Texan millionaire who had fallen for the wrong girl. It often happens that way: I’ve picked up some lovely things on the side over the years I’ve been in this business.

If I’d wanted to I could have had an extra bonus and taken the girl out but I don’t kill unless it’s personal. The cowboy was pissed off but when it came to the crunch, he decided the painting was more important than revenge. Sensible bloke. Now he had his treasure back, he could always have the girl bumped off later.

So I sat in that plane, revelling in the Monet, and looking forward to a few days with Vicente. It’s become a tradition: every time I come home from a long trip, I stay at his place for a few days and we go over his treasures. There aren’t many people who share our feelings for art, and practically none who know what Vicente has hidden away in his secret basement, so it’s something we both enjoy.

I’d been away on several jobs and I’d taken a holiday so when I added it all up, I realised I’d been away for the best part of four months. Now I had a nice bank balance I could stay home six months and get down to some work of my own.

My feel-good time ended abruptly when I arrived at the Schiavelli estate. Instead of being taken to Vicente’s house, a surly guard sent us to his son’s place: Angelo Schiavelli. He’s my cousin but I don’t like him; he has no appreciation for beauty. Angelo loathes me too. I’m not sure why; I don’t care enough to ask.

There was a pile of luggage in the hallway. From the look of it, Angelo was back from a jaunt abroad. Paris, by the luggage labels. I knew he was in his office but he kept me waiting. It’s his idea of showing people who’s boss.

I didn’t care because I had the Monet to keep me company. Just as well because Angelo’s house is an eyesore. Red velvet curtains, gold shag pile fitted carpets, cream walls, scarlet ceilings, modern chrome lights, brown leather sofas and gilding everywhere. The wall behind his desk is lined with cabinets that are stuffed with ceramics and porcelain. Angelo thinks collecting is about quantity, not quality. Ten minutes in that place and I want to heave.

When his goons finally slouched back and told me ‘the boss’ would see me now, I almost turned around and left. The thought of Angelo as a boss made me sick but I stayed because I wanted my money. When I walked in, I regretted not turning away. He was sitting behind a desk, pulling the most ridiculous faces. I soon saw why: he was shoving his cock into a blonde. I could only see the back of her head but by the sound of her coughing, choking and retching, he was reaming her throat.

I could see that Angelo was hoping I’d leave, and that would give him an excuse not to pay me, so I sat down and waited. It didn’t take long. From what I hear, he’s coked up pretty much all the time so he’s a quick shooter.

When he was done, he shoved the girl to the floor and stood up, grabbing for his zip. I could see he wasn’t exactly built. More Angelito than Angelo.

You got it? he growled. The Monnet?

Fucking heathen couldn’t even say the name right. Wordlessly, I put the picture on the desk.

I’ll send the mil over once it’s been authenticated.

I picked up the painting again. It’s three mil and you pay now.

The deal has changed. I’m in charge now, and it’s one mil.

Don’t fuck with me, I told him coldly. Pay up or I walk.

Instantly he was on his feet and screaming. Who the fuck do you think you are? I’ll fucking kill you!

I was still speaking quietly but Angelito was bellowing like a bull. His best pal, Pietro, who also acts as bodyguard, came running in but I didn’t care. Angelito surrounds himself with yes men whose main job is to fawn over him when he goes clubbing. They’re fat, slow, lazy and incompetent. I knew Pietro was no threat.

You fucking homo, Angelito hissed. I’m going to teach you a lesson.

He raised his hand, as if to hit me. This wasn’t good. There was no way he could touch me but if I had to put him down, Vicente was going to be pissed off. He wouldn’t like me beating the crap out if his son, especially in front of a witness.

Pietro was looking anxious. Angelo, what will your father say?

Of all the things to say, it was the worst. Angelo hated that fact that Vicente and I were close. Vicente is my uncle but he treats me like a son.

Shut up! Angelo snarled.

I decided to give fair warning. Not my usual style but what the hell. Don’t push me. I’ll kick your fat, lazy arse.

I could see in his eyes that he was going to take a swing. I sighed and shifted my weight to the balls of my feet. When he swung, I just moved aside. He stumbled past me, and turned, snarling furiously. He swung again, and again I moved out of the way. I didn’t even try to hit him. It was too much fun seeing him make a fool of himself.

Pietro moved to interfere but Angelito waved him away. He’s mine.

Yeah. Right.

The third time he took aim, I shifted and put out my foot so he went sprawling, flat on his face in the gold shag pile. There was a moment’s silence, and then laughter. It was the blonde, crawling out from under the desk. I couldn’t help staring at her. She was nude, showing off a too-thin body with a solid bum and generous breasts, shoulder length blonde hair, large grey blue eyes, and perfect, plump lips with little arched tips.

Her wrists were tied with thin rope, with a loop tethering them around her neck. It made her look as if she were praying. A holy harlot.

Just looking at her made me hard. I wanted to throw her over the table and have her. She knew it too. She looked at me and moved away, shrinking against the desk. It surprised me. Women are usually drawn to me.

She stood up and I could see her properly. I have an artist’s eye, so I could see underneath the cuts, grazes and bruises. She wasn’t beautiful: her nose was too thin and straight, and her chin was too sharp. She was better than beautiful; she was interesting. She looked at me, and then glanced again at Angelito.

Time someone decked you, she snarled. And a pretty boy too.

She spoke in English. A London accent. Raucous, vulgar and familiar. I lived in Soho for eight years, and she would have fitted right in with the tarts who worked there. This one had come in her hair and over her face. She smelled of sex and sweat. She needed a bath and a good scrub. It didn’t make any difference: I wanted this dirty little whore.

Shut up, cunt!

Apparently Angelito spoke English too. That was a surprise. I didn’t think he had the brains to learn a second language; he barely speaks Italian.

The girl shrugged. Fuck you! she drawled.

Angelito bounced up and slapped her hard across the face. The blow sent her flying across the room, into a fake Louis XV table. A blue and white fake Ming vase sitting on top rocked precariously but sadly didn’t fall and shatter. While Pietro grabbed the girl and held her, Angelito turned on me and pulled out a gun. Clearly he’d decided he couldn’t take me without help.

For a moment I considered shooting him but then my good sense pitched in. I’d have to take out all three of them, which was no problem but then I’d have Vicente out for my blood and I’d lose the comfortable life I’d built. It was better to wait.

With a gun in his hand Angelito was feeling confident again. He gave me a filthy look. Think you’re something, huh?

I didn’t say a word, and it drove him crazy. He started swearing at me, calling me a cocksucker and a fag before rehashing my past life and suggesting I’m selling my arse to the highest bidder. The words finnocchio, culattone, and ricchione, all vulgar and biological variations on rent boy echoed around the room. At that point, Angelo ran out of steam. I still wasn’t reacting because I knew my indifference would infuriate him.

The stupid bastard aimed his gun at my feet and pulled the trigger. I could see he’d miss by a mile and so I didn’t move. The shot rang through the room, startling Pietro, the girl and Angelo but I stood like a rock. I’m very annoying when I try.

Pay what you owe.

Angelito stared at me. He couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t afraid and it made him furious. He leaned forward, put the gun at my head and slapped me. I don’t allow anyone to slap me. Not ever. For a moment I almost lost it. He must have seen the rage in my eyes because he leaped back. I could see the gun shake in his hand and his fingers whiten. He was expecting me to jump him. Oddly enough, it settled me. I vowed to make an example of him. All in good time, I promised myself. I would wait and take him carefully so I didn’t jeopardise my own situation.

You’ll take a mil, he repeated. After I check it out.

I turned around and left without answering. He was a dead man.

As the front door closed behind me, I decided the best way would be to cut him out of the pack at one of those busy clubs later that night. There were plenty of places nearby for us to be quite alone while I took my revenge. Angelo had so many enemies that it would be impossible to pin anything on me, especially if there was no body to find, which meant Vicente might suspect me, but he wouldn’t have proof. I could gamble on the fact that our friendship and blood relationship meant he wouldn’t kill me unless he was certain.

I was out of the door, and figuring out details of how my plan could become foolproof, when a black Cadillac swept up and stopped. Instantly a gardener who was busy clipping hedges looked up and saluted. There’s only one man the staff do that for.

Zachary!

It was Vicente. I didn’t want to talk to him, not now I was planning to kill his son, but good sense said I had to, if only to prevent him from being on his guard. I smiled but Vicente wasn’t fooled. He got out of the car, waved the driver to go on, and stood in front of me, blocking my way.

Angelo, he said. Angelo has fucked up.

He has indeed.

Vicente took my arm. I apologise. I’ve been in Rome and the meetings went on longer than I anticipated so I asked Angelo to pay you, and ask if you would mind waiting for me. His manners are terrible. Please, let’s go take a look at the Monet.

Better not.

Vicente froze. He looked at me again carefully. What has he done, this foolish son of mine?

He is refusing to pay.

Vicente groaned. This is my fault. I’m sorry. Come, I’ll pay you now. And then come and stay with me. Your room is prepared already, and I’ve picked up a lovely little Picasso sketch I want you to see.

I deliberated a moment, and then turned with him. At least this way I’d get my money. Before I killed Angelito.

I didn’t hear what Vicente was saying as we walked back to the house. It was some sort of drivel about a wedding. Angelo’s wedding. I vaguely remembered that he was supposed to get hitched soon but I wasn’t really listening. Frankly, I was still seething. Only the thought of getting my money before I took revenge was keeping me at Vicente’s side.

He is obsessed with this woman, Vicente was saying. It must stop. Marie won’t marry him if she finds out Angelo’s got a woman in his house and we need this marriage. The feud is killing us.

The second he opened the front door, screams filled the hallway. By the sound of it, Angelito was killing the girl. I would have walked away but Vicente held on to my arm and dragged me inside. When he threw open the office door, the screams reached a crescendo.

The girl was hanging by the window; her wrists tied to the iron curtain rails so she couldn’t move as Angelito beat her with a riding crop. Her skin was striped with welts that were rapidly turning blue and black. Pietro was nowhere to be seen. This was a private party.

Enough!

Vicente spoke quietly as he always does but Angelito jumped in fright, bumping into the girl. His added weight proved too much for the curtain rail and it came down with a shower of plaster.

When Angelito grabbed for the girl, she snapped back her head, crashing the back of her skull into his face. There was an audible crack as his nose broke. He screamed and let go of her. That was a mistake. The girl turned, kicked him in the shin and then kneed him in the balls. It was beautiful to watch.

As Angelito collapsed with a whimper, she reached for the blue and white vase. Vicente swore and leapt for her but he was too slow to stop her from smashing it to the ground. Grinning evilly at a furiously yelling Vicente who was now hampered by Angelo clutching at his legs, the girl picked up the table and threw it at a cabinet filled with Lladro porcelain.

I would watch her level the place, but not the Monet. I picked it up hastily and held it carefully. It was unharmed. The girl was now systematically destroying everything within her reach: a large mirror in a Baroque frame, a shelf of Dresden figurines and a crystal chess set were quickly smashed beyond repair.

Vicente tried to reach her but with the desk in his way, and Angelito refusing to let go of his trouser leg, he was stuck.

Zachary! For God’s sake stop her!

I ignored Vicente’s anguished cry. As far as I was concerned, she could trash the place. Then my eyes fell on a little Chinese Foo. It was the real deal. Pure Ming. I handed Vicente the Monet and reached swiftly for the dog. She got to it first, but I grabbed her hand, cupping it between my own, before she could smash it.

She looked at me, her eyes narrowed with rage. There was a cut on her lower lip from where Angelito had hit her.

Not this, I said quietly.

She hesitated, glancing at Angelito. Then she shrugged and let me have the Foo. Two seconds later, Angelito’s collection of Roseville pottery bit the dust. It’s collectable, barely, but I’m not fond of it.

Vicente though, was upset. Stop her! he shouted. Why don’t you stop her?

Angelito was finally getting to his feet. Fucking cunt! Fucking cunt!

Like I said, he’s a useless bugger.

His collection was now in smithereens, the shag carpet layered with slivers of glass and porcelain. There being nothing left to smash, the girl just stood there looking around as if she was surprised at the chaos. I don’t think she even realised that her feet were bleeding from trampling on the shards.

I’ll kill the bitch! Angelino sobbed. I’ll fucking kill her!

She shivered when he spoke but her voice was loud and fearless. Fuck you!

Enough! It was Vicente, finally angry enough to shout. Enough! Enough! Enough!

There was a dead silence.

I have had it! Vicente snarled. This has got to stop.

Papa! Angelito whined.

She goes, Vicente said loudly, and you marry Marie.

Now I remembered. Angelito was to marry Marie Coniglio, the eldest girl of a rival family. It was a dynastic partnership that would settle a longstanding and bloody feud. I’d heard Marie was quite a terror herself and an ugly cow too. No wonder Angelito was dragging his feet. Thinking of him being shackled for life to a bitch cheered me up. Maybe I should let him live after all. A living hell might be as satisfying a revenge as death.

While Vicente was talking, I put the Foo on the desk, reached round the girl and picked her up. I half expected her to struggle but she didn’t resist. She still smelled awful but when I saw the pulse beating in her neck, a little raised vein under the pearly white skin, I was rock hard again. For a moment I had the wild idea of just walking out of there. Of taking her with me. It was ridiculous.

I put her down on a clear bit of shag and tried to figure out what it was about her that got to me. It was something about her eyes. I put a finger under her chin, moving her head to see what it was. She was breathing fast but stood totally unmoving, staring at me as I looked her over.

Suddenly it came to me: she had the eyes of the Degas girl, the one waiting for me in Prague. It was a portrait of one of the girls who’d posed for the bathing pictures. An unknown whore who’d earned a bit of extra cash as a model. Her eyes were tired, haunted, and vulnerable, just like this girl’s.

You did what? Vicente’s voice was loud, high and tense with worry.

He dissed me!

Vicente looked over at me, his face white. Zachary. Angelo hit you?

He had reason to worry because Vicente knows I don’t allow people to push me about. He was probably thinking of that Arab princeling who’d slapped me for not bowing and scraping when I presented him with a Van Gogh I’d sourced for him. I’d taken him somewhere quiet and had explained at great length that I didn’t like his manners. It had taken two days, and he’d screamed the entire time. Being flayed alive is a nasty way to go. Vicente had seen the coroner’s report so I guess he was worried I’d take Angelo for a chat about etiquette too.

I knew then that one of two things would happen: I’d kill them all and leave, taking my chances with the rest of the family, or I had to let Vicente talk me out of killing his son. If anything happened to Angelo now, Vicente would know I was at the bottom of it. Vicente loved his worthless son and he’d kill to protect him. Unlike Angelo, Vicente was a man to reckon with.

Angelito was glaring at me, sullen and furious because I was controlling his slut so easily. He had no idea he was an inch away from death. I looked at his narrowed eyes, pinched mouth and knew how to take delicious revenge.

I looked at Vicente, put my hands on the girl and named my price. I’ll take her.

Vicente nodded with relief. She’s yours.

Chapter Two Serenity

It was going to be the best Valentine’s Day ever because Ross was taking me for pizza - to Naples! When he told me, I was so excited that I couldn’t sleep or eat. I went around in a haze of happiness. Shelley, my sister, was jealous as hell and that made it even better.

Oh God, I’m such a bitch. When I get back I’ll never be mean to her again. Not even when she steals my new top and spills ketchup all over it. Or when she borrows money and then forgets to pay it back. I won’t even be jealous when she chats up Ross. She fancies him, you see, and she’s always trying to steal him from me.

Actually, before Ross told me he was taking me to Naples, I was getting worried that he was going off me. I mean, I’m a size 18. Okay, if I breathe in I’m an 18, and I’ve cut the labels out of all my clothes, so - Where was I? Oh yeah, I thought Ross was going off fat, size 20 me, and falling for thin, sexy Shelley who’s a size 8. Ross said he preferred brains over looks anytime but I was having a crisis of confidence.

It all came to a head one afternoon when I found Shelley and Ross drinking tequila slammers in the living room. They were fully dressed but Ross was wearing Shelley’s lipstick. I had a fit of jealousy, and after I threw a coffee cup at him (and smashing a mirror with it but that was a mistake, honest) I stormed out.

Ross came to find me the next day to say nothing had happened but that he was sorry anyway. He confessed he’d been terribly uptight because there was a big deal he wanted to put together and it was all turning sour. Ross is a trader, picking up lots of T-shirts one day, and china the next, and flogging it on markets and to small shop owners. He’s dying to make it big, so he’s always working on a bigger, better deal. This time he needed fifty thou and he was short of cash. Worse, he’d signed some sort of contract so he now found himself having to pay interest for delaying the deal.

I couldn’t understand why he would commit to an arrangement like that but Ross was a bit touchy about it so I didn’t push it. Actually, I was so relieved that he wasn’t going off me that I gave him the five thousand quid I had stashed away for a rainy day. Apparently it was just what was needed because the very next day he was all smiles and telling me that he was taking me away.

So we went to Naples, and I was in seventh heaven. Ross was really sweet and loving and it was all so romantic that I was convinced he was going to ask me to marry him.

When we arrived it was lunchtime so instead of checking into the hotel, he took me straight out to this fantastic little place for pasta and gelato, that’s what they call ice cream