Under a Siena Sun (Escape to Tuscany #1) - T.A. Williams Page 0,63

removed the page with the article, and dumped the rest of the paper. After folding the article and stuffing it into the back pocket of his jeans, he took her arm and led her away.

‘He’s good, your friend.’

‘My ex-friend.’

‘He hasn’t had much time, but he’s managed to dig up almost all the dirt. I particularly like the rogues’ gallery of possible sexual partners. He got that straight out of the National Enquirer and who knows who dreamed it up before them? I’ve only ever met one of those girls and that was among a group of journalists at a news conference. Still, all’s fair in love and the media, as long as it sells newspapers.’ Although he was trying to sound blasé, she could hear the hurt all too clearly in his voice. He paused by the front of a sports shop and stared in through the window at a full-size cardboard cut-out of himself advertising tennis racquets. He gave a heartfelt sigh and turned towards her. ‘You mustn’t believe everything you read in the papers. That’s what my agent’s been telling the sponsors for two years now.’

Lucy felt sure he was telling the truth. He certainly sounded very convincing and she found herself really hoping somebody would be able to prove that he wasn’t after all cut from the same cloth as Charles or Tommy, and restore his good name. She reached across and gave his forearm a supportive squeeze.

‘Sticks and stones, David. Just try to ignore it. For what it’s worth, I believe you.’ And she realised that she did.

He looked down and gave her a little smile. ‘You do? Well, that’s all that counts to me.’ The smile was still on his lips as he led her off up the road again.

Ten minutes later they were standing in front of the Duomo. As with the cathedral in Siena, Lucy just stared in awe for a good few minutes. Although her mind was still churning at the thought of the ramifications of the newspaper article, the sheer outstanding beauty of the building cut through her concerns.

The soaring white marble façade, interspersed with narrow lines of deep green stone and studded all over with statues, was as imposing and fascinating as ever. The paved piazza in front of the cathedral was already crowded with tourists milling around and taking photos, although the presence of an armoured car and armed police and soldiers was a reminder of the ever-present terrorist threat that existed all over Europe these days. She intercepted a few smiles and interested glances from passers-by as they recognised David and she knew his secret was now well and truly out there. To her mortification, she also felt a number of people subject her to curious and, in a couple of cases, downright intrusive stares and her sense of not belonging in this scenario strengthened.

Inside the Duomo it was pleasantly cool in spite of the numbers of people already in there. The walls rose up immensely high and the cupola with its viewing gallery hundreds of feet above them already had energetic tourists visible up there, their heads little more than dots from down below. It was almost unbelievable to think that this magnificent edifice had been built without the help of modern engineering and machinery. They found the memorial they were looking for almost immediately, just on the left as they went inside. The sign alongside it informed them that it had been specially commissioned back in the middle of the fifteenth century and it was the work of the famous Tuscan artist, Paolo Uccello.

It was a predominantly deep ruby red and cream fresco of a serious-looking man with a strong face and long nose, holding what looked like a baton in his hand. He was seated on a magnificent white warhorse and he looked every inch the successful general he had been in real life. They stood and studied it and they both took a few surreptitious photos, even though there was a sign informing them that photography was forbidden. Very few of the hundreds of tourists milling around them appeared to have read the sign either – or if they had done, they had chosen to ignore it.

As they were standing there, Lucy heard an American woman’s voice alongside them and her heart sank once more.

‘Excuse me, but aren’t you David Lorenzo, the tennis ace?’

Without batting an eyelid, David shook his head and smiled down at her. ‘That’s my cousin. I’m little Albert. I can’t