The following morning, news of the sale of Castello dei Fiori rippled through the offices of Costa d'Amalfi Properties like a sudden sea breeze. Her colleagues received it with playful disbelief, while Rossi—still pale, her eyes rimmed from a lingering cold—regarded Nicoletta with something close to reverence.
"I thought we'd never get rid of that place," Rossi sighed, as though a ghost had finally been exorcised. She placed a tiny porcelain cup of espresso before Nicoletta, the crema shimmering in the morning light, and leaned against the desk with unabashed curiosity. She clearly expected every juicy detail before turning back to the stack of letters and valuations Nicoletta had prepared for her the week before.
All before she had ever heard the name Julien De La Roche, Nicoletta thought wryly.
"The client insists I return to the house this weekend," she explained.
"Was his wife with him?" Rossi asked, arching an eyebrow.
"No. He isn't married."
"In that case," Rossi sniffed, "I had better come with you."
"There's no need," Nicoletta replied quickly, softening her refusal with a smile. "But grazie for the offer."
"I thought Signor Mateo always escorted clients round Castello dei Fiori," Rossi persisted.
"Monsieur De La Roche insists on my personal attention for the transaction," Nicoletta answered. And for reasons she preferred to keep buried, she wanted this client entirely to herself.
She glanced at the clock and sprang up. "Dio mio, is that the time? I'm due at Mergellina Waterfront in ten minutes to sell a cottage to your favourite soap queen."
When Mateo returned from his skiing holiday the next day, sun-burnished and still smelling faintly of mountain air, he was incredulous.
"You sold Castello dei Fiori? While I was away?" His laugh rang with astonishment. "Though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Julien De La Roche probably took one look at you and said sì to anything you suggested."
Mateo, stocky and sandy-haired, had a rugged kind of charm—solid, unpretentious, but effective. He had a gift for moving properties: cliffside villas with lemon groves, Capri hideaways, penthouses with terraces that seemed to float above the Gulf of Naples. Yet Castello dei Fiori had eluded him, as though it resisted any owner not chosen by fate.
"You know him, then?" Nicoletta asked.
He nodded. "I sold a villa in Posillipo Hill to his company recently. They know one of us is always on call for weekend viewings."
"Then why didn't you tell me he was coming?"
Mateo frowned, flipping open his leather-bound diary. "He wasn't meant to arrive until next Saturday. See? If he'd come then, I would have shown him round—as I always do." The significance in his tone was unmistakable.
Nicoletta's lips softened into a smile. "Yes, I know. But he arrived early, and now insists on my presence again next weekend. So, caro, you owe me."
Costa d'Amalfi Properties thrived on glamour. Its portfolio shimmered with villas spilling down lemon-scented cliffs, discreet townhouses hidden in the Spanish Quarter, and retreats perched above glittering bays where the sea kissed the sky. Their clients were actors, designers, aristocrats, football stars—people who purchased homes with the same spontaneity others reserved for silk scarves. Nicoletta's days were rarely predictable, and never dull.
The week swept on, only disrupted by a hiccup with her car. The garage informed her it needed new parts, unavailable until Monday. With a sigh, she surrendered to the Metropolitana, pressed between commuters, lulled by the salt-bright breeze sneaking in from the sea.
Except for one evening. That night she slipped into the velvet glow of Naples' streets, the air heavy with basil and frying garlic, to dine with Gino D'Amico.
Gino, a property developer she'd met during her MBA, was as ambitious as he was charming. With his dark hair, his irreverent jokes, and his vow never to marry before forty, he had a way of making a trattoria supper feel like an escapade. They laughed over pasta alle vongole, shared a bottle of Falanghina, and lingered until the waiters began stacking chairs on tables.
It was an arrangement that suited them both: easy, witty, with no strings tangled around their wrists.
With Adriana distracted by her own love affair, Nicoletta let her other evenings remain quiet. She craved rest, conserving her energy.
Because she would need it.
Another weekend at Castello dei Fiori awaited.
Another encounter with Julien De La Roche.
And this time, she admitted to herself, she was looking forward to it far more than she cared to confess.
She tried not to dwell on him, but found herself replaying their first meeting all the same. His manner had been courteous, yet watchful; his gaze, intense without being intrusive, as though he carried entire histories behind his eyes. He had spoken Italian with a soft French cadence, turning even the simplest words into something intimate.
Nicoletta shook herself and laughed. Dio mio, she was behaving like a schoolgirl. She was a professional, and he was a client. Nothing more.
Still, she couldn't deny the quickening in her chest when she thought of seeing him again.