The Italian’s Wife by Sunset

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THE picture on the computer screen seemed to fill the room with humour and good cheer. It showed a young man of strikingly attractive looks, fair, shaggy hair, dark blue glowing eyes and a smile that hinted at mischief.

‘Oh, wow!’ Jackie sighed. ‘Just look at him!’

Della chuckled indulgently. Her secretary was young and easily moved by male beauty. She, herself, tried to be more detached.

‘He’s not bad,’ she conceded.

‘Not bad?’ Jackie echoed, scandalised. ‘He’s a dream.’

‘But I need more than a pretty face. I need a man who really knows his stuff, preferably one who’s already made a name for himself.’

‘Della, this is a TV series you’re producing. It matters how he looks.’

‘Yes, it matters that he looks like a serious expert and not a mere boy. Carlo Rinucci can’t be more than about twenty-five.’

‘According to his data he’s thirty,’ Jackie said, thumbing through papers. ‘And he has a big reputation in ruins and bones and things like that.’

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