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‘Are you trying to tell me you think he’s autistic?’ Stefano demanded.

‘It’s a possibility,’ Allegra replied. ‘A misdiagnosis among professionals is rare, Stefano. Psychiatrists aren’t just slapping a label on a child without care or reason. They draw on extensive evaluation and data—’

‘I thought you’d had experience with a child who was misdiagnosed,’ Stefano replied coolly.

‘Yes, one. One child in hundreds, thousands. And it simply happened that he responded to art therapy, and I happened to be his art therapist.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not a miracle worker, Stefano. If you want to hire me to prove Lucio isn’t autistic, then I can give you no guarantees.’

‘I don’t expect guarantees,’ Stefano replied. ‘If, after extensive work, you come to the same conclusion as the other medical professionals, then Bianca and I will have no choice but to accept it. However, before that time, I want to give Lucio another chance to heal. For the last several months, the doctors involved have been treating him for autism. What if his real problem is grief?’ He lifted his bleak gaze to meet hers and Allegra felt a wave of something unfamiliar, something tender, sweep over her.

‘It is possible,’ she allowed, ‘and I couldn’t really say any more until I saw his case notes. Why do you think art therapy in particular might help Lucio?’

‘He always loved to draw,’ Stefano said with a little smile. ‘I have a dozen thirty-second masterpieces by my desk. And while I’ll admit I was sceptical with the idea of creative therapy—’ he shrugged, his mouth quirking cynically ‘—at this point, I’m willing to try anything. Especially when I heard about your success with a similar case.’

‘I see.’ She appreciated his honesty, and it was no more than what most parents initially expressed. ‘So Lucio lives in Abruzzo?’

‘Yes, and I won’t move him. Bianca had to take him out of nursery because he couldn’t abide strange places any more. Regular trips to Milan or further afield would not be possible.’

‘So,’ Allegra surmised slowly, ‘you need an art therapist—me—to come to Abruzzo.’

‘Yes, to live there,’ Stefano completed without a flicker. ‘For at least a few months initially, but ideally …’ he paused ‘… as long as it takes.’

He poured them both wine from the bottle the waiter had uncorked and left on the side of the table. Allegra took a sip, letting the velvety-smooth liquid coat her throat and burn in her belly.

Several months in Abruzzo. With Stefano.

Professional.

‘That’s quite a commitment,’ she said at last.

‘Yes. I imagine you have some cases you’d need to deal with, business that would have to be wrapped up. I’m returning to London in a fortnight. You could be ready by then?’ There was a slight lilt to his voice, but Allegra knew it wasn’t really a question.

Stefano wasn’t even asking her to come to Abruzzo. He was expecting her. Telling her.

As high-handed as ever, she thought. As arrogant and presumptuous as he’d been when he’d patted her on the head and told her to go to bed.

Dream of me.

What more is there?

She shook her head, a tiny movement, but one Stefano still noticed. ‘Allegra?’ he queried softly. ‘Two weeks surely is enough to do what you need to do here?’

Questions clamoured in her throat. ‘What if I can’t come to Abruzzo, Stefano?’ she asked, and heard the needling challenge in her voice. ‘What if I say no?’

Stefano was silent, his eyes blazing into hers for a long, heated moment. ‘I didn’t think,’ he said finally, quietly, enunciating every syllable with chilling precision, ‘that you would allow the past, our past, to threaten the future of an innocent child.’

Allegra’s face flushed with anger. ‘This isn’t about the past, Stefano! It’s about the present, and my professional life. I’m not your star-struck little fiancée to order about at will. I’m a qualified therapist, a professional you are seeking to contract.’ She broke off, letting her breath out sharply.

An all too knowing smile flickered across Stefano’s face and died. ‘Are you sure it’s not about the past, Allegra?’ he asked softly, and at that moment Allegra wasn’t.

Their second courses arrived, and she looked down at her succulent steak with absolutely no appetite.

‘Let’s eat,’ Stefano suggested. ‘You can take the time to consider any more questions you might have regarding this situation. I’m happy to answer them.’

‘Will you be in Abruzzo for the entire time?’ Allegra asked abruptly. Stefano stilled, and she felt exposed, as if she’d revealed something too intimate by that simple question.

Perhaps she had.

‘No,’ he answered after a moment. ‘I’ll divide my time between Abruzzo and Rome. You’ll deal mostly with Lucio’s mother, Bianca, although, of course, I will continue to take an interest.’

‘I see.’ Relief and disappointment coursed through her, each emotion irritating in its complexity.

They ate then and Allegra found, a bit to her annoyance, that her appetite had returned and the steak was delicious.

By the time their meal was finished, she felt her calm, cool, impersonal demeanour return. She was grateful for it; it gave her armour. ‘I’ll need to see Lucio’s case notes, of course,’ she said as the waiter took their plates. ‘And speak to Dr Speri, and anyone else who has interacted with him.’

‘Of course.’

Allegra glanced at Stefano and saw, despite his carefully neutral expression, the hope in the brightness of his eyes, the determined, drawn line of his mouth. ‘I’m not a miracle worker, Stefano,’ she reminded him gently. ‘I may be no help at all. As I said before, you have to contend with the possibility that Lucio is indeed autistic.’

A muscle bunched in Stefano’s jaw and he gave a little shrug. ‘Just do your job, Allegra,’ he said, ‘and I’ll do mine.’

Allegra nodded, slightly stung by his tone, although she knew she shouldn’t be. ‘I’ll need a few days to look over all the material on Lucio’s case,’ she said after a moment. ‘I’ll let you know my decision by the end of this week.’

‘Wednesday.’

She wanted to protest, felt a cry clamour up her throat, straight from her gut, her heart. She wanted to tell him he couldn’t order her around her any more, that she knew—she knew what kind of man he was.

Yet she pressed her lips against such useless retorts. The past was forgotten. She just seemed to keep having to forget it.

Besides, Stefano’s behaviour was only that of a concerned adult. He wanted answers, and he wanted them quickly.

‘Wednesday,’ she repeated with a small, brisk nod. ‘I’ll do my best, Stefano, but there is no point rushing me. You’re asking a lot of me, you realize, to give up my entire life in London for an extended period—’

‘I thought you’d appreciate a professional challenge,’ Stefano countered. ‘And a few months is hardly a long time, Allegra. It’s not seven years.’

She glanced at him sharply, wondering what he meant by such a comment. She didn’t feel like asking. She didn’t want to fight.

‘Even so, this is a decision which should be considered carefully on both sides. As you reminded me yourself, it’s Lucio we have to consider foremost.’

‘Of course.’ He spoke as if it were assumed, automatic. As if he hadn’t considered anything else, hadn’t for one second been caught up in the emotions that Allegra felt swirling around and through her, making her think, wonder.

Remember.

‘Will you be having dessert?’ The waiter had come to their table, and they ordered dessert, a chocolate gateau for Stefano and a sticky toffee pudding for her. When the waiter had gone and the menus were cleared Stefano faced her again, brisk and businesslike.

‘I’ll ring you on Wednesday, then.’

‘Yes, fine.’ Allegra licked her lips, felt the deepening pang of doubt. ‘Stefano, perhaps you should consider another art therapist. There are plenty available, and even though the past is forgotten, it still exists.’ She toyed with her fork, unable to quite meet his eyes as she confessed quietly, ‘It could be difficult at times for both of us.’