The Italian's Christmas Miracle. Lucy Gordon

      To her surprise he hesitated before taking it, as though at the last minute he was unwilling to face the man his wife had loved. Then he took it quickly and studied it, his mouth twisted, so that his turbulent emotions were partly concealed.

      ‘Pretty boy,’ he said contemptuously.

      ‘I suppose he was,’ Alysa said. ‘I used to be proud to be seen with him, because all the other women envied me. They would try to get his attention and they never did because he always kept his eyes on me. That was part of his charm. He had beautiful manners—until the end, anyway. Maybe that’s why I didn’t see it coming.’

      ‘Tomorrow I’ll show you where he lies, a place where nobody is competing for him,’ Drago said with grim satisfaction. ‘But I dare say you don’t need a grave to tell him you hate him.’

      ‘I don’t hate him any more.’

      ‘You’re fortunate, then. I don’t believe you for a moment, but perhaps even the illusion is useful—until it collapses.’