Free The Italian Girl by Lucinda Riley Page A

problem with those who employed him. When he’d been at the music school, he’d done himself few favours by sending a stream of distraught female students in the direction of their tutors. His reputation as a Casanova had not endeared him to anyone, and Paolo de Vito, not only a director of the school but also artistic director at La Scala, had heard of his antics.
    Last year he’d had an affair with a guest soprano, who’d gone running to Paolo when Roberto had unceremoniously dumped her. He’d had a major dressing-down for that, Paolo pointing out that it wasn’t good for La Scala’s reputation to have an up-and-coming young soprano swearing never to return.
    After the great soprano debacle, a chastened Roberto had apologised to Paolo and promised it wouldn’t happen again. He’d desperately tried to discipline himself for the rest of the season, his ambition to succeed at La Scala and to appease Paolo subduing his more hedonistic tendencies.
    Roberto had often wondered whether it was purely a clash of personalities, or something deeper. Paolo was a well-known homosexual and Roberto was sure his handsome good looks and success with women were not qualities that would naturally endear him to the maestro, however well he behaved. And he had behaved . . . at least, until Tamara had arrived, fresh from Russia. She’d been impossible to refuse.
    Roberto rolled out of bed and walked into the bathroom to take a shower. The season at La Scala finished in September. Then he was off to sing in Paris for a couple of months. He would return to Milan in November for the final year of his contract and, if he didn’t get the roles he wanted in the new season, he’d vowed to give up and go abroad permanently. Until then, he’d have to sit it out.
    That evening, Roberto sang to an audience worth several billion lire.
    Afterwards, there was a reception in the foyer of La Scala to which the entire opera company was invited. As Roberto sipped a glass of champagne, he decided he’d leave as soon as possible. This kind of event bored him: there were too many over-made-up wives glittering with the fruits of their ageing husbands’ wealth.
    He watched morosely as the young Spanish tenor, who had given, in his opinion, such a mediocre Otello, was fêted by the Italian Prime Minister and other well-known dignitaries.
    ‘Good evening. I enjoyed your performance tonight.’ Roberto heard a female voice behind him and turned without enthusiasm, prepared for a tedious five minutes of being polite.
    ‘Donatella Bianchi. I am pleased to meet you,’ ventured the woman.
    Roberto shook her outstretched hand. Donatella Bianchi had a head of the most glorious curly, ebony-coloured hair, green eyes that sparkled brighter than the priceless emeralds around her throat, and the most sensational cleavage. Although certainly past forty, she oozed sex appeal. Her long, perfectly manicured fingernails lingered on Roberto’s palm for a little longer than necessary.
    ‘I’m pleased to meet you too.’ Roberto gave her a genuine smile.
    ‘I’ve seen you perform many times before. My husband is a very generous patron of the company. And I think you are a very talented . . . performer.’
    ‘You’re most kind.’ The conversation was outwardly formal, but the eye contact between them was electric.
    Donatella reached into her Gucci evening bag and drew out a card. ‘Give me a call tomorrow morning, Roberto Rossini. We need to discuss your future. Ciao .’
    Roberto slipped the card into his pocket as he watched her make her way through the crowd and slip her arm round the considerable waist of a short, balding Italian.
    Minutes later, Roberto left. As he walked across the Piazza della Scala, he pondered whether he would give Signora Bianchi a call. Older paramours were not usually his thing, but Donatella was obviously no ordinary woman.
    And, when he found himself undressing her in his mind as he climbed into bed that night, he knew that, despite