The sun was going down when Scarlett drove out to Florence.

True to its name, the villa was buried in late-summer bloom. Branches heavy with pale pink flowers bowed against the garden walls, weighed down by their own beauty, and from distance the whole place looked like a sea of soft rose. It was the most tender thing she had ever seen.

Nothing like Damien's old taste at all.

The gardener was working when she arrived. He must have been briefed long ago, ...