Sara Craven Tribute Collection

Sara Craven Tribute Collection Sara Craven In tribute this is a re-release of the Sara Craven Summer CollectionWED TO THE ITALIAN: Bartaldi's Bride; Rome's Revenge; The Forced MarriageHER GREEK GROOM: The Tycoon's Mistress; Smokescreen Marriage; His Forbidden BrideHIS RELUCTANT BRIDE: The Marchese's Love-Child; The Count's Blackmail Bargain; In the Millionaire's PossesionMARRIAGE RECLAIMED: Marriage at a Distance; Marriage Under Suspicion; The Marriage Truce Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country. Sara Craven Tribute Collection Wed to the Italian Her Greek Groom His Reluctant Bride Marriage Reclaimed Sara Craven www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) Table of Contents Cover (#uea701ed4-8634-583c-ac45-32a2cb8b3e27) About the Author (#ub0043a8c-1c12-5f71-a2bc-15db03b0d9fd) Title Page (#u49a86d8f-826b-54d7-9879-2a770f1df461) Wed to the Italian (#litres_trial_promo) Bartaldi’s Bride (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_3107b538-7c64-5c57-8d1b-aca54c98960d) CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_2ca07f6c-0657-5a90-a923-2a820f643057) CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_e513a28c-4455-5692-a056-4e5c78679365) CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_fd02b3dc-20ca-5b1d-b33e-e78d5098f641) CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_b9bcf093-cf6b-5087-b2aa-d5b333af85d8) CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_962fdaba-d26f-58db-a86f-0622270f9aed) CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_33438d36-3e0a-5eab-b7fd-f2c74256018a) CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_cc51ffb1-2437-5294-b14f-de5f03890e1d) CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_b6875453-5ae4-59d9-b882-4e939a775dad) CHAPTER TEN (#ulink_0f2420ce-a756-5054-87cf-e59f0f47a92b) CHAPTER ELEVEN (#ulink_ec9fa9a4-675c-5049-80ee-a59d0200f909) Rome’s Revenge (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_7660b4ea-87e7-52bd-a11c-4bde64948c2c) CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_e330b7ba-6a1b-57ff-a750-8a6f4ffa25bd) CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_257162be-bb0a-50b2-889c-5a6d9f6a780a) CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_2495992c-befb-5615-9fb3-e0286dd46ee3) CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_998e65fa-98c4-5533-850b-b8651fe23d2d) CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_82d77e60-234f-56a4-8634-6d32a1b2ad75) CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_320962ee-753b-5d68-b756-77f3d78a6e15) CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_fc79159c-3fe7-54e0-bb4b-14dcefe720e2) CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_e0433fdb-f800-5b9a-a647-51a9ead197ab) CHAPTER TEN (#ulink_9be7ffea-a54a-545a-8293-1953909fe49e) CHAPTER ELEVEN (#ulink_f92b931d-00e3-5da6-845d-c10404eb4729) CHAPTER TWELVE (#ulink_df6cad3c-6bbc-5fe8-9487-a5994f1ae5f5) The Forced Marriage (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_ed16027b-0776-53ba-8ed1-ff71297367aa) CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_3f3a4cd2-0c6f-53e8-a545-398bd527228a) CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_a070ce2d-c86b-50b1-a0f4-fc844fb1ba3e) CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_8043159f-96c2-5fc3-aa4c-2a63062befce) CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_3302b72a-cdb3-5f42-a490-cfdf481a75a4) CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_8e2c32fd-0b3a-5193-9f6e-7e398f58503a) CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_ad435b46-6607-5f3f-8db8-b1113d109139) CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_14656b2b-bc05-58bc-a859-6df5f014ff0a) CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_b7dab5b3-910c-5e03-97f8-5e3538d69517) CHAPTER TEN (#ulink_2e67b836-2845-52dd-a22b-5ee01dab0ef6) Her Greek Groom (#litres_trial_promo) The Tycoon’s Mistress (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) Smokescreen Marriage (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo) His Forbidden Bride (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) His Reluctant Bride (#litres_trial_promo) The Marchese’s Love-Child (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo) The Count’s Blackmail Bargain (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo) In the Millionaire’s Possession (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo) Marriage Reclaimed (#litres_trial_promo) Marriage at a Distance (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo) Marriage Under Suspicion (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo) EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo) The Marriage Truce (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#u93194149-f890-59a8-915b-50b9177c6e90) Wed to the Italian (#ulink_f39d3535-9d51-5099-83f2-3857eaae6f42) SARA CRAVEN SUMMER COLLECTION WED TO THE ITALIAN Bartaldi’s Bride © 1999 Sara Craven Rome’s Revenge © 2001 Sara Craven The Forced Marriage © 2002 Sara Craven HER GREEK GROOM The Tycoon’s Mistress © 2000 Sara Craven Smokescreen Marriage © 2001 Sara Craven His Forbidden Bride © 2003 Sara Craven HIS RELUCTANT BRIDE The Marchese’s Love-Child © 2004 Sara Craven The Count’s Blackmail Bargain © 2005 Sara Craven In the Millionaire’s Possession © 2005 Sara Craven MARRIAGE RECLAIMED Marriage at a Distance © 1998 Sara Craven Marriage Under Suspicion © 2002 Sara Craven The Marriage Truce © 2002 Sara Craven Published in Great Britain 2016 by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental. By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. 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ISBN: 978-1-474-05666-3 Version: 2018-02-12 www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) Bartaldi’s Bride (#ulink_54d12f91-a5b6-5557-a756-320dc03f16d5) CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_9eaab372-ff1f-5028-84be-74670c8e2ff6) THE weather in Rome had been swelteringly hot, with clear blue skies and unremitting sunshine, but, as she drove north, Clare could see inky clouds massing over the Appenines and hear a sour mutter of thunder in the distance. Out of one storm, straight into another, she thought ruefully, urging the hired Fiat round a tortuous bend. The first storm, however, had been of human origin, and had brought in its wake an abrupt termination to her contracted three months in Italy teaching English to the children of a wealthy Roman family. And all because the master of the house had a roving eye, and hands to match. ‘It is not your fault, signorina,’ Signora Dorelli, immaculate in grey silk and pearls, had told her that morning, her eyes and mouth steely. ‘Do not think that I blame you for my husband’s foolish behaviour. You have conducted yourself well. But I should have known better than to bring an attractive young woman into my home. ‘At least you may have taught him that he is not irresistible,’ she’d added with a shrug. ‘But, as things are, I have no choice but to let you go. And the next tutor will be a man, I think.’ So Clare had packed her bags, said a regretful goodbye to the children, whom she’d liked, and expressionlessly accepted the balance of her entire fee, plus a substantial bonus, from a sullen Signor Dorelli, his elegant Armani suit still stained from the coffee she’d been forced to spill in his lap at breakfast. If it had been left to him, Clare reflected, she’d have been thrown, penniless, into the street. But fortunately his wife had had other ideas. And no doubt the enforced payment had been only the first stage of an ongoing punishment which could last for weeks, if not months. Signora Dorelli had had the look of a woman prepared to milk the situation for all it was worth. And he deserves it, Clare told herself. She’d spent a miserable ten days, at first ignoring his lascivious glances and whispered remarks, then doing her damnedest to avoid him physically altogether, thankful that her bedroom door had had a lock on it. But, however spacious the apartment, she’d not always been totally successful in keeping out of his way, and her flesh crawled as she remembered how he would try to press himself against her in doorways, and the sly groping of his hands whenever he’d caught her alone. Even his wife’s suspicions, expressed at the top of her voice, hadn’t been sufficient to deter him. And when he’d found Clare by herself in the dining room that morning, he’d not only tried to kiss her, but slide a hand up her skirt as well. So Clare, outraged, had poured her coffee over him just as the Signora had entered the room. Which was why she now found herself free as a bird and driving towards Umbria. That hadn’t been her original plan, of course. Common sense had dictated that she should return to Britain, bank her windfall, and ask the agency to find her another post. And this she would do—eventually. After she’d been to see Violetta. A smile curved her lips as she thought of her godmother, all fluttering hands, scented silks and discreet jewellery. A wealthy widow, who had never been tempted to remarry. ‘Why confine yourself to one course, cara, when there is a whole banquet to enjoy?’ she had once remarked airily. Violetta, Clare mused, had always had the air of a woman who enjoyed the world, and was treated well by it in return. And, in the heat of the summer, she liked to retire to her charming house in the foothills near Urbino and recuperate from the relentless socialising she embarked on for the rest of the year. And she was constantly pressing Clare to come and stay with her. ‘Come at any time,’ she’d told her. ‘I so love to see you.’ She had wiped away a genuine tear with a lace handkerchief. ‘The image of my dearest Laura. My cousin and my greatest friend. How I miss her. And how could your father have put that terrible woman in her place?’ But that was a well-worn path that Clare, wisely, had not chosen to follow. Laura Marriot had been dead for five years now, and, whatever Clare’s private opinion of her stepmother, or the undoubted difficulties of their relationship, Bernice seemed to be making her father happy again, and that was what really counted. Or so she assured herself. But John Marriot’s remarriage had put paid to their cherished plan of Clare joining him as a partner in the successful language school he ran in Cambridge. Bernice had made it clear from the first that this was no longer an option. She wanted no inconvenient reminders of his previous marriage in the shape of a grown-up daughter living close at hand. Perhaps the physical resemblance to her mother, which was such a joy to Violetta, had been one of the main factors of her resentment. Every time Bernice had looked at Clare, she’d have seen the creamy skin, the pale blonde hair, the eyes, dark and velvety as pansies, flecked with gold, and the wide mouth that always looked about to break into a smile that Laura had bequeathed to her daughter. And her possessive streak had been equally unable to handle the closeness between John and Clare. The fact that they were friends as well as father and child. It had not been easy for Clare to swallow her disappointment and hurt and strike out for herself as a freelance language teacher, but she’d been fortunate in finding, almost at once, her present agency. Resolutely putting the past behind her, she’d worked with total commitment, accepting each job she was offered without comment or complaint, establishing a track record for reliability and enthusiasm. The Dorellis had been her first real failure, she acknowledged with a faint sigh. Now, she felt she deserved a short break before plunging into another assignment. It was nearly two years since she’d had a holiday, and at her godmother’s house she’d be petted and cherished in a way she hadn’t known for years. It was a beguiling thought. A more ominous rumble of thunder made her glance skywards, grimacing slightly. She was still miles from Cenacchio, where Violetta lived, and there was little chance of outrunning the storm. She knew how fierce and unpredictable the weather could suddenly become in this region. Even as the thought formed, the first raindrops hurled themselves against her windscreen. Seconds later, they’d become a deluge with which the Fiat’s wipers were clearly reluctant or unable to cope. Not conditions for driving on unfamiliar roads with severe gradients, Clare decided, prudently pulling over on to a gravelled verge. She couldn’t beat the storm, but she could sit it out. She’d bought some cartons of fruit juice at the service station where she’d stopped for lunch, and petrol. Thankfully, she opened one of the drinks, and felt its chill refresh her dry mouth. The rain was like a curtain, sweeping in great swathes across her vision. She watched the lightning splitting the sky apart, then zig-zagging down to lose itself in the great hills which marched down the spine of Italy. The thunder seemed to echo from peak to peak. Son et lumi?re at its ultimate, thought Clare, finishing her drink. She leaned forward to get a tissue to wipe her fingers, and paused, frowning. Impossible as it might seem, she would swear she had just seen signs of movement straight ahead through the barrage of rain. Surely not, she thought incredulously. No one in their right mind would choose to walk around in weather like this. She peered intently through the windscreen, realising she hadn’t been mistaken. Someone was coming towards her along the road. A girl’s figure, she realised in astonishment, weighed down by a heavy suitcase, and limping badly too. Clare wound down her window. As the hobbling figure drew level, she said in Italian, ‘Are you in trouble? May I help?’ The girl hesitated. She was barely out of adolescence, and stunningly pretty in spite of the dark hair which hung in drowned rats’ tails round her face, and an understandably peevish expression. She said, ‘Please do not concern yourself, signora. I can manage very well.’ ‘That’s not how it seems to me,’ Clare returned levelly. ‘Have you hurt your ankle?’ ‘No.’ The sulky look deepened. ‘It’s the heel of this stupid shoe—see? It broke off.’ Clare said crisply, ‘If you plan to continue your stroll, I suggest you snap the other one off, and even things up a little.’ ‘I am not taking a stroll,’ the younger girl said haughtily. ‘I was driving a car until it ran out of petrol.’ Clare’s brows lifted. ‘Are you old enough to drive?’ she asked, mindful that Italian licences were only issued to over-eighteen-year-olds. There was a betraying pause, then, ‘Of course I am.’ The girl made a face like an aggravated kitten. ‘It is just that the car never has a full tank in case I run away.’ Clare gave the suitcase a thoughtful glance. ‘And isn’t that precisely what you’re doing?’ The girl tried to look dignified as well as drenched. ‘That, signora, is none of your business.’ ‘Then I’m going to make it my business.’ Clare opened the passenger door invitingly. ‘At least shelter with me until it stops raining, otherwise you’re going to catch pneumonia.’ ‘But I do not know you,’ the other objected. ‘You could be—anybody.’ ‘I can assure you that I’m nobody. Nobody that matters, anyway.’ Clare’s voice was gentle. ‘And I think you’d be safer in this car than out on the open road.’ The girl’s eyes widened. ‘You think I could be struck by lightning?’ ‘I think that’s the least that could happen to you,’ Clare told her quietly. ‘Now, put your case in the back of the car and get in before you drown.’ As the newcomer slid into the passenger seat, Clare could see she was shivering. Her pale pink dress, which undoubtedly bore the label of some leading designer, was pasted to her body, and the narrow strappy shoes that matched it were discoloured and leaking as well as lop-sided. Clare reached into the back of the car and retrieved the raincoat she’d thrown there a few hours before. She’d left the Dorellis in such a hurry that she’d almost forgotten it, and their maid had chased after her waving it. She said, ‘You need to get out of that wet dress. If you put this on and button it right up, no one will notice anything.’ She paused. ‘I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything hot to drink, but there’s some fruit juice if you’d like it.’ There was an uncertain silence. Then, ‘You are kind.’ Clare busied herself opening the carton, tactfully ignoring the wriggling and muttered curses going on beside her. ‘My dress it ruined,’ the girl announced after a moment or two. ‘It will have to be thrown away.’ Clare swallowed. ‘Isn’t that rather extravagant?’ she asked mildly. ‘It does not matter.’ The girl shrugged, pushing the pile of crumpled pink linen away with a bare foot. ‘What about your car?’ Clare handed over the drink. ‘Where did you leave that?’ Another shrug. ‘Somewhere.’ A swift, sideways glance. ‘I do not remember.’ ‘What a shame,’ Clare said drily. ‘Perhaps we’d better introduce ourselves. ‘I’m Clare Marriot.’ The girl stared at her. ‘You are English? But your Italian is good. I was deceived.’ Clare smiled. ‘My mother was Italian, and it’s one of the languages I teach.’ ‘Truly? What are the others?’ ‘Oh, French, Spanish—a little German. And English itself, of course.’ ‘Is that why you are here—to teach English?’ Clare shook her head. ‘No, I’m on holiday.’ She paused. ‘What’s your name?’ ‘It is Paola—Morisone.’ Again, the brief hesitation wasn’t lost on Clare. But she didn’t query it. Instead, she said, ‘It looks as if the storm could be passing. If you’ll tell me where you live, I’ll take you home.’ ‘No.’ The denial was snapped at her. ‘I do not go home—not now, not ever.’ Clare groaned inwardly. She said quietly, ‘Be reasonable. You’re soaked to the skin, and your shoe is broken. Besides, I’m sure people will be worried about you.’ Paola tossed her head. ‘Let them. I do not care. And if Guido thinks I am dead, then it is good, because he will not try to make me marry him any more.’ Clare stared at her, trying to unravel the strands of this pronouncement and absorb its implications at the same time. She said ‘Guido?’ ‘My brother. He is a pig.’ Clare felt dazed. ‘Your brother?’ Her voice rose. ‘But that’s absurd. You can’t…’ ‘Oh, he is not a real brother.’ Paola wrinkled her nose dismissively. ‘My father and his were in business together, and when my father died, Zio Carlo said I must live with him.’ Her face darkened. ‘Although I did not want to. I wished to stay with my matrigna, and she wished it too, but the lawyers would not permit it.’ At least Paola seems to have had more luck with her stepmother than I did, Clare thought, wryly. Bernice couldn’t wait to get me out of the house. But she had other problems. She said, feeling her way. ‘And is it Zio Carlo’s wish that you should marry this Guido?’ ‘Dio, no. He is also dead.’ Paola heaved a sigh. ‘But he said in his will that Guido should be my guardian until I am twenty-five, which is when my money comes to me. Unless I am married before that, of course. Which I mean to be. Although not to Guido, whom I hate.’ Clare felt as if she was wading through linguine. She took a deep breath. ‘Aren’t you rather young to be thinking about marriage—to anyone?’ ‘I am eighteen—or I shall be very soon,’ she added, returning Clare’s sceptical glance with a mutinous glare. ‘And my own mother was my age when she met my father and fell in love.’ She made a sweeping, impassioned gesture, nearly spilling the remains of her drink. ‘When you meet the one man in the world who is for you, nothing else matters.’ ‘I see,’ Clare said drily, taking the carton and putting it out of harm’s way. ‘And have you met such a man?’ ‘Of course. His name is Fabio.’ Paola’s eyes shone. ‘And he is wonderful. He is going to save me from Guido.’ It was all delicious nonsense, Clare thought, half-amused, half-exasperated. But it was also full time to introduce a note of reality. She said, ‘Paola—it’s nearly the twenty-first century. People stopped forcing others into marriage a long time ago. If Guido knows how you really feel…’ ‘He does not care. It is the money—only the money. My father’s share in the business belongs to me. If I marry someone else, it will be lost to him. He will not permit that. For three years he has kept me in prison.’ ‘Prison?’ Clare echoed faintly. ‘What are you talking about?’ Paola’s delicate mouth was set sullenly. ‘He made me go to this school. The nuns were like jailers. He did this so I could not meet anyone else and be happy.’ It occurred to Clare that the unknown Guido might have a point. Paola clearly had all the common sense of a butterfly. But that didn’t mean he should be allowed to pressure such an immature girl into matrimony for mercenary reasons, she reminded herself. If that was what he was actually doing. She said gently, ‘Perhaps he really loves you, Paola, and wants to take care of you.’ Paola made a contemptuous noise. ‘I do not believe that. He is concerned for his business—for losing control of my share. That is all.’ ‘Oh.’ Clare digested this, then started on a different tack. ‘How did you meet Fabio?’ ‘I was on holiday,’ Paola said dreamily. ‘At Portofino with my friend Carlotta and her family. Guido let me go there because Carlotta’s mother is just as strict as the nuns.’ She giggled. ‘But Carlotta and I used to climb out of the window at the villa, and go into the town at night. One time, we were at a disco, when some men tried to get fresh with us, so Fabio and his friend came to help us.’ She sighed ecstatically. ‘I looked at him—and I knew. And it was the same for him.’ ‘How fortunate,’ Clare said slowly. ‘And you’ve—kept in touch ever since?’ Paola nodded eagerly. ‘He writes to me, and I pretend the letters are from Carlotta.’ ‘You haven’t told Guido about this boy?’ ‘Are you crazy?’ Paola cast her eyes to heaven. ‘Do you know what he would do? Send me to another prison—in Switzerland—so that I learn to cook, and arrange flowers, and be a hostess. For him,’ she added venomously. She paused. ‘And Fabio is not a boy. He is a man, although not as old as Guido, naturally. And far more handsome.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Bello, bello.’ An image of Guido as an ageing lecher, on the lines of the loathsome Signor Dorelli, lodged in Clare’s mind. She could well understand Fabio’s appeal, yet, at the same time, she was aware of all kinds of nameless worries. She said, probing gently, ‘And is that where you’re going now? To meet Fabio somewhere?’ Paola nodded vigorously. ‘Si—and to be married.’ Don’t get involved, said a small voice of sanity in the back of Clare’s brain. Just take her to the nearest service station, and then get on with your own life. This has nothing to do with you. She said, ‘Where is the wedding taking place?’ Paola shrugged. ‘I do not know. Fabio is making all the arrangements.’ Clare looked at her thoughtfully. By her own admission, Paola was barely more than a child, she thought ruefully, yet here she was—about to jump out of the frying pan into the fire. This Guido sounded none too savoury, but she had even less time for Fabio, persuading a young and vulnerable girl, who also happened to be an heiress, into a runaway marriage. ‘And where are you meeting him?’ ‘In Barezzo—at the rail station.’ Paola gave a fretful look at the delicate platinum watch she was wearing. ‘I shall be late. He will be angry with me.’ ‘Are you catching a particular train?’ ‘No—it is just a good place to meet, because there will be many other people doing the same, and Fabio says no one will notice us.’ The more she heard of these arrangements, the less Clare liked them. She said drily, ‘He seems to have it all worked out.’ ‘But of course.’ Paola began to hunt through her elegant kid purse. ‘He wrote to me telling me exactly what I must do. I have his letter—somewhere. Only, if I am late, it will ruin everything.’ Paola paused, directing a speculative look at Clare. ‘Unless, signorina, you would drive me to Barezzo.’ Clare hardened her heart against the coaxing tone and winning smile. She said, ‘I’m afraid I’m going in a different direction.’ ‘But it would not take you long—and it would help me so much.’ Paola laid a pleading hand on her arm. ‘But you have a car of your own. I’ll help you get petrol for it and…’ ‘No, that would take too long. I must get to Barezzo before she realises I am gone, and starts to look for me.’ ‘She?’ Clare was losing the plot again. ‘The Signora. The woman Guido employs to watch me when he is not there.’ ‘Does that happen often?’ ‘Si. He is away now, and I am left with her. She is a witch,’ Paola said passionately. ‘And I hate her.’ Not a very competent witch, Clare thought drily, or she’d have looked into her crystal ball and sussed exactly what her charge was up to. ‘But Guido will return soon—perhaps tomorrow—and try to make me marry him again, so this may be my last chance to escape.’ Paola shivered dramatically. ‘He frightens me.’ Clare’s mouth tightened, as the memory of Signor Dorelli returned. She said slowly, ‘Just what kind of pressure does he put on you?’ ‘You mean does he make love to me?’ Paola shook her head. ‘No, he is always cold. I think I am too young for him.’ She gave Clare a sideways worldly look that she had not learned from the nuns. ‘Besides, he has a woman already. She lives in Sienna.’ It just gets worse and worse, Clare thought, frowning. She took a deep breath. ‘Even so, I really think it would be best for you to stop and consider what you’re doing before you leap into this other marriage. After all, you hardly know Fabio, and holiday romances rarely last the distance…’ ‘You want me to go home,’ Paola accused. ‘Back to that prison. And I will not. If you will not drive me, then I will walk to Barezzo,’ she added, reaching for the damp pink dress. ‘No, you won’t,’ Clare said wearily. ‘I’ll drive you.’ Perhaps, on the way, she could talk some sense into her companion, she thought, without optimism. Or at least warn her gently about the handsome young men who hung round fashionable resorts on the look-out for rich women. And Paola had the additional advantages of being very young and extremely pretty. Fabio must have thought it was his birthday, Clare thought with an inward sigh, as she started the car. She was still trying to work out the most tactful approach when she realised that Paola had fallen deeply and peacefully asleep. The rain had stopped, and the sun was trying to make belated amends when they reached Barezzo about half an hour later. Clare parked outside the station, and looked round her. She hadn’t visited Barezzo before, but its main square seemed pleasant, with a central fountain, and an enormous church dominating all the buildings round it. She leaned towards Paola, and spoke her name quietly, but the younger girl did not stir. But maybe this is for the best, she thought. It gives me a chance to have a look at this guy—ask a few questions. Let him know that I’m aware of what he’s up to. She had no idea why she should be taking all this trouble for a girl who was still a virtual stranger, despite her airy confidences. Except that Paola seemed to need a friend. And I’m all there is, she told herself, as she left the car. Contrary to Paola’s expectations, the station wasn’t crowded with latter-day Romeos passionately greeting their Juliets. In fact, the concourse was all but deserted, the sole exception being a man casually leaning against a stone pillar. He had the air of someone who’d been there for a while, and was prepared to wait all day if necessary, Clare thought as she walked towards him, her sandals clicking on the marble floor. So, presumably, this had to be Fabio. As she neared him, he straightened slowly, like some great cat preparing to pounce, she realised, finding her breath fluttering unevenly as she took her first good look at him. My God, she thought ironically, but with reluctant appreciation, as she halted a deliberate few feet away from him. Sex on legs. And such long legs too, she noted, covered in well-cut and expensive trousers. His casual shirt was navy and unbuttoned at the throat, and a jacket that had to be the work of a top designer hung from his broad shoulders. It was clear why he needed a wealthy wife. It would probably take everything Paola possessed to keep him in the manner he considered his due. He was in his mid-thirties, she judged, and around six foot tall, his black glossy hair reaching almost to his collar in tousled chic. But he wasn’t conventionally handsome, she decided critically, although he had cheekbones to die for. The dark, brilliant eyes, now fixed on her with equal interest, were too heavy-lidded, and his nose and chin too strongly marked. But any impression of austerity was belied by his mouth, firm-lipped yet unashamedly sensuous. Which wasn’t all. There was an effortless confidence about him—an impression of power barely reined in—that she found physically disturbing. Power, she found herself thinking. The ultimate aphrodisiac… No wonder Paola, freed from the restrictions of her convent school, had been swept off her feet with such ease. Men like this should carry a government warning, Clare told herself grimly. She said in Italian, ‘Are you waiting for Paola, signore?’ ‘Si, signorina.’ His voice was low and resonant, his tone courteous, but Clare was sharply aware of a subtle change in his stance. A new tension. There was still a safe distance between them, so it was foolish to feel menaced, but she did. The notion that here was a tiger on a leash became conviction. This, she realised shakily, was a determined and dangerous man, and what the hell was she doing crossing swords with him? Except that Paola needed to be protected, she reminded herself swiftly. The dark eyes were fixed on her. ‘Do you know where she is?’ ‘Naturally,’ Clare said. ‘But I wanted to talk to you about her first.’ He said softly, ‘Ah. And you are…?’ ‘That doesn’t matter,’ she said quickly. ‘I think it does.’ His dark gaze was charged now, taking in every detail from the top of her head to the soles of her feet. She saw his mouth curl slightly, and was vexed to find that she minded. After all, what possible interest could she have for him in her chainstore dress and sandals? She derided herself. She was a working girl, not the kind of rich child he needed to stalk. And, heaven knows, he was the last type of man that she’d ever want to be involved with anyway. So, what was her problem? He said, ‘You’re not what I was expecting.’ Clare lifted her chin. ‘I was thinking the same about you.’ He inclined his head almost mockingly. ‘That I can believe,’ he murmured. ‘So—where is Paola?’ ‘She’s perfectly safe.’ ‘I am relieved to hear it.’ The dark gaze seemed to burn into hers. ‘May I see her?’ ‘Of course.’ Clare nodded, conscious of a faint bewilderment. Even unease. ‘But before that, we really need to talk.’ He was smiling at her. ‘Oh, you will talk, signorina. But not to me.’ He made a slight gesture with his hand, and Clare became suddenly aware of movement beside her—behind her. Men in uniform appearing as if from nowhere. Men with guns which—dear God—they were pointing at her. She felt her arms taken, dragged behind her back. Felt, as she began to struggle, handcuffs snapped on to her wrists. She wanted to scream a protest, but her taut throat wouldn’t utter a sound. All she could do was look back at her adversary with dazed horror as an excited babble of sound ebbed and flowed around her. She said hoarsely, ‘Who are you?’ ‘I am Guido Bartaldi, signorina. And you are one of the creatures who has kidnapped my ward.’ His voice cut into her like the lash of a whip. ‘Now tell me what you have done with her.’ ‘Kidnapped?’ Clare’s voice rose to a shriek. ‘Are you mad?’ The sudden surprised silence, and the expression of frowning incredulity on Guido Bartaldi’s face alerted her to the fact that she’d spoken in English. ‘You are the mad one,’ he returned in the same language. ‘To think that you and your accomplice could get away with this.’ ‘I have no accomplice.’ Reaction was setting in, and Clare was suddenly shaking. Her eyes searched the dark, inimical face pleadingly. ‘I met Paola on the road, and gave her a lift—that’s all.’ ‘Marchese.’ A policeman hurried up. ‘The little one is outside in a car. She is unconscious—drugged, I think—but she is alive.’ ‘She’s asleep, not drugged,’ Clare said desperately, the word ‘Marchese’ echoing in her brain. Paola had failed to mention that her unwanted bridegroom was a marquis. ‘See that she is taken to the local clinic at once,’ the Marchese ordered curtly. His dark eyes seared Clare. ‘As for this one—get her out of my sight—now.’ Her arms were held, and she was turned not gently towards the exit. ‘Please,’ she flung back over her shoulder. ‘You’re making a terrible mistake.’ ‘The mistake is yours, signorina.’ His tone was harsh. ‘But you will pay dearly for it, I promise you.’ And he turned his back in icy dismissal. CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_70eaa2c9-a177-533e-b2ec-327cac74e196) IT WAS a small room she was taken to, with one high, barred window, a table and chairs. On the table there was a plastic bottle of mineral water, and a paper cup. So that I don’t seize the opportunity to slash my wrists, Clare thought, biting her lip. But at least they hadn’t put her in a cell—or at least not yet. And, thankfully, they’d removed the handcuffs. The afternoon heat was turning the room into an oven, but she was shivering just the same. Two men in plain clothes, their faces unsmiling, had asked her some preliminary questions. She’d given her name, age and occupation, and her reason for being in Italy. They had asked where she had been staying, and she’d told them Rome. But she’d hesitated when they’d requested the name and address of her hosts there. Neither of the Dorellis, after all, had any reason to wish her well. She could just imagine the smile of oily triumph on the Signore’s face if he learned she’d been arrested. But she knew that her refusal to answer had been another black mark against her. After that, she’d been left alone. Fabio had not been mentioned, although she was sure that he was the accomplice the Marchese had referred to. What on earth had he done? she wondered. After all, planning an elopement was hardly a criminal offence. Although running off with the Marchese Bartaldi’s intended wife could well be considered a capital crime, she acknowledged, her mouth twisting. She’d seen the deference with which he was treated. Guido Bartaldi, she thought. The name was familiar, but, for the life of her, she didn’t know why. Her tired, scared brain refused to make the connection. All she could be sure of was that she had never, in her life—in her wildest dream or worst nightmare—encountered Guido Bartaldi in person before. That I could never have forgotten, she told herself grimly. His lean hawk’s face with the shadowed, contemptuous eyes seemed to burn in her mind. Paola had said he was cold, but he was worse than that. He was ice—he was marble. He was darkness. But it was no use sitting there hating him. I must think, she told herself, straightening her shoulders and resisting an impulse to put her head down on the table and weep with weariness and fright. So far I’ve let everyone else call the shots. I need to phone the British Consul and tell Violetta as well. I don’t want to worry my father unless it becomes strictly necessary. But it won’t come to that, she tried to reassure herself. Paola has to have woken up by now, so they must know I’m innocent. Unless she’s too scared to tell them the truth, she thought apprehensively, her stomach churning. Unless she decides to pretend she was abducted rather than admit she was running away. Oh, dear God, she could just do that. She also wished she knew more about the Italian legal system, and how it worked, but she’d never needed to before. Should she have asked for a lawyer right away? she wondered. Violetta was bound to know a good one. She also wished she knew what the time was, but they’d taken her watch, as well as her handbag. I seem to have been here for hours, she thought. Her shoulders ached with tension, and her clothes felt as if they were pasted to her damp body. It was hard to raise her spirits and try and think logically when she was, physically and mentally, at such a low ebb. She heard the sound of a key in the lock, and her whole body went rigid as she stared at the door. What now? To her surprise, the Marchese Bartaldi walked into the room. He paused, staring at her, the dark eyes narrowed, his mouth grim and set. She was immediately and startlingly aware of the scent of him, a compound of some faint, expensive cologne, clean male skin, and fresh linen. An evocative mix that stamped its presence on the heavy atmosphere. Angrily aware that she was trembling inside, but determined to make a show of resistance, Clare pushed back her chair and got slowly to her feet, forcing herself to return his gaze. At the same time she registered that he was carrying her bag, which he tossed negligently on to the table between them. Some of its contents—her passport, car keys and wallet—spilled out on to the polished wood. The casual, almost contemptuous actions ignited a small flame of temper deep within her. What was he doing handling her things? He wasn’t a policeman. But he was a rich and powerful man, she thought, feeding her own contempt. Maybe he had the local police force in his pocket. He said, in English, ‘Please sit down.’ Clare put her hands behind her back. ‘I prefer to stand.’ ‘As you wish.’ He paused, looking her over from head to foot, his glance measured, even appraising. Lifting her chin, she endured his scrutiny in silence, bitterly aware that she must look an overheated, bedraggled mess. Not that it mattered. She wasn’t out to make any kind of feminine appeal to him. As far as he was concerned, she’d already been tried and condemned. He said, ‘Be good enough, signorina, to tell me exactly how you and my ward came to encounter each other.’ ‘I would prefer to tell the British Consul,’ Clare said icily. ‘I also wish to make a telephone call to my godmother, and be provided with a lawyer.’ He sighed. ‘One thing at a time, Miss Marriot. Firstly, why was Paola in your car?’ ‘How many more times do I have to say it?’ Clare asked mutinously. ‘I was driving to my godmother’s house at Cenacchio and got caught in the storm.’ ‘Your godmother is whom?’ ‘Signora Andreati at the Villa Rosa.’ He nodded. ‘I have heard of her.’ ‘I’m sure she’ll be overwhelmed.’ His mouth tightened. ‘I advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head.’ ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Clare said. ‘Am I not behaving with sufficient deference, Marchese? It must be a new experience for you.’ ‘The whole situation is one I am not anxious to repeat.’ His tone bit. ‘Please go on with your story.’ Clare sighed. ‘I found Paola on the road, soaked to the skin. She seemed vulnerable, and her story worried me, so I decided to help. She persuaded me to drive her to the station, but when we arrived she was asleep, so I thought I’d have a look at this Fabio for myself. Get rid of him, if I could.’ She shrugged. ‘You were waiting, so I assumed you were Fabio.’ ‘I am not flattered by the mistake,’ he said coldly. ‘Oh, allow me to apologise,’ Clare said scornfully. ‘I, of course, have had a thrilling bloody afternoon. Accused of kidnapping, arrested by armed guards, interrogated, and locked into this oven. Absolutely ideal—wouldn’t you say?’ ‘Perhaps it will teach you in future not to meddle in situations which do not concern you,’ Guido Bartaldi said grimly. He paused. ‘But you will be pleased to know that Paola is awake, and confirms your story.’ ‘Really?’ Clare raised her eyebrows. The firm mouth tightened. ‘You seem surprised, signorina. Not a reassuring reaction.’ ‘I am surprised,’ Clare’s tone was dry. ‘Paola didn’t strike me as a great friend to truth. I thought she’d say whatever was needed to show her in a good light.’ His brows snapped together ominously, and Clare stared at the floor, waiting for the thunderbolt to strike. Instead, there was a brief taut silence, then, incredibly, a low, amused chuckle. ‘You seem a shrewd judge of character, signorina,’ the Marchese drawled, as her startled gaze met his. She shrugged. ‘It hardly needs a degree in psychology to know that Paola’s a girl who’ll react unpredictably, even dangerously, if pushed into a corner.’ She added deliberately, ‘Also, when she’s bored, she’ll look for mischief. She is, after all, very young. You’re going to have your hands full,’ she added with a certain satisfaction. ‘I am obliged for your assessment.’ There was a faint note of anger in the quiet voice. ‘But I am quite capable of making the appropriate arrangements for her welfare.’ ‘Which is why she was trying to run away with some smooth-talking crook, I suppose.’ Clare paused. ‘Incidentally, what became of Fabio? Is he in the next cell?’ Guido Bartaldi shook his head. ‘He has not been arrested.’ ‘I see,’ Clare said unsteadily. ‘That privilege was reserved for me.’ He said coldly, ‘You were arrested, signorina, because the police were not convinced that Fabio was working alone, and your ill-timed arrival gave credence to their suspicions. That is all that happened.’ Clare gasped indignantly. ‘Clearly you think I got off lightly.’ ‘If you had been involved, it would have been the worse for you.’ The words were spoken softly, but Clare felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. She tilted her chin. ‘It doesn’t worry you that I could sue for false arrest?’ ‘When you walked into the station, I did not know what part you were playing. And I could not take any chances. My sole concern in this matter has been for Paola.’ ‘Well, I suppose that’s something,’ Clare said with a touch of austerity, recalling what Paola had told her of the woman he visited in Siena. Perhaps today’s incident might have made him revise his feelings, she thought. Might even have convinced him that he was fonder of Paola than he realised. She found herself frowning slightly. ‘So, where is Fabio?’ The Marchese shrugged elegant shoulders. ‘Who knows? He had the audacity to telephone me and ask how much I would pay him not to marry Paola.’ Clare winced. ‘Poor Paola.’ ‘He believed, you see, that I did not know where to find her, and would be frantic to get her back on any terms.’ ‘How did you know?’ Clare’s curiosity got the better of her. He shrugged again. ‘Unfortunately for him, Paola had left his letter detailing all the arrangements in her bedroom.’ In spite of weariness, strain and anger, Clare’s mouth curved into an involuntary smile. ‘Oh, no. Surely not.’ ‘She is not a very experienced conspirator,’ the Marchese conceded sardonically. ‘When he realised that I knew the time and place of their rendezvous, he decided it was better to be discreet than brave, and rang off in a great hurry.’ He paused. ‘I went to collect Paola—and instead I found you,’ he added softly. ‘Yes, you did.’ Clare gave him a defiant stare. ‘And, even if it was interference, I’m still glad I didn’t just abandon her.’ ‘Would you believe that I am glad too? Even grateful?’ ‘Oh, please don’t go overboard,’ Clare begged sarcastically. She hesitated. ‘What will happen to Fabio? Are you going to pursue him? Charge him with something?’ The Marchese shook his head. ‘He was not a serious kidnapper. Just an unpleasant leech who saw a chance to make himself some easy money at my expense. I imagine it is not the first time he has been paid to go away.’ ‘But this time he misjudged his opponent.’ Clare’s tone was ironic. ‘As you say.’ ‘Congratulations, signore. I hope next time you don’t have to mount a full-scale operation to stop Paola running away.’ ‘There will not be a next time,’ he said curtly. ‘I believed she was sufficiently protected. However, I was wrong, and other steps will have to be taken.’ ‘Not the school in Switzerland, I trust,’ Clare said before she could stop herself. The dark eyes raked her. ‘She seems to have taken you fully into her confidence.’ Clare met his gaze steadily. ‘Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger. Someone you’ll never see again.’ She paused. ‘Talking of which, I hope I’m free to go now.’ ‘Of course.’ ‘Oh, I’m taking nothing for granted.’ Not until I’ve put at least a hundred kilometres between us, she added silently. ‘I regret that your vacation has been interrupted so unpleasantly. Do you intend to journey on to Cenacchio?’ ‘I’m not sure what my plans are,’ Clare said guardedly. Whatever, she wasn’t prepared to share them, especially with an Italian aristocrat who seemed to regard the rest of creation as so many puppets to dance to his tug on the strings. He picked up her bag and replaced the items that had fallen out, with the exception of her passport, which he opened and studied for a moment. Then he looked at her, his lips twisting in a faint smile. He said softly, ‘Your photograph does not do you justice—Chiara.’ It had been a long time since anyone had used the Italian version of her name. Not since her mother… Clare bit her lip hard, staring rigidly at the table. There’d been an odd note in his voice, she realised. Something disturbing—even sensuous—that had prickled along her nerve-endings. ‘Would you like to see Paola?’ he went on in the same quiet tone. ‘I am sure she would wish to thank you.’ The walls of the room seemed to be contracting strangely, startling her with a sudden vivid awareness of his proximity to her. A troubling certainty that she was in more danger now than she had been all day. Or even ever before. She thought, I’ve got to get out of here—away from here… She forced a stiff little smile. ‘I’d prefer to leave things as they are. Please tell her I said goodbye—and good luck,’ she added deliberately. ‘I think she’s going to need it.’ He smiled back at her. ‘Oh, I think we all make our own good fortune—don’t you?’ ‘I—I haven’t given it much thought.’ She put out her hand. ‘May I have my bag, please?’ For an uneasy moment she was sure he was going to make her reach out and take it from him. But he passed it across the table to her without comment. He had good hands, she noted without pleasure, with square, capable palms and long fingers. Strong, powerful hands. But, she wondered, could they also be gentle…? She caught herself hastily. She couldn’t afford to indulge in that kind of speculation. It simply wasn’t safe. Guido Bartaldi wasn’t safe, she thought, making a play of checking the contents of her bag. ‘You will find everything there.’ He sounded amused. ‘As I said, I’m taking nothing for granted.’ She found her watch, and fastened it back on to her wrist, her fingers clumsy with haste as she struggled with the clasp. ‘May I help?’ ‘No—no, thank you,’ she said hastily. The thought of him touching her, even in such a brief asexual contact, was enough to bring warm colour into her face. She kept her head bent as she completed the fastening. And then something else in her bag attracted her attention, and she stiffened. ‘Just a moment.’ She extracted an envelope. ‘This isn’t mine.’ ‘Open it.’ The envelope contained money—lira notes in large denominations. Getting on for a thousand pounds, she thought numbly. She looked up and met his expressionless gaze. She said, ‘What is this? Some kind of set-up?’ ‘On the contrary,’ he returned. ‘Let us call it a tangible expression of my regret for the inconvenience you have suffered.’ ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘The rich man’s solution for everything. Throw money at it.’ ‘I had hoped,’ he said, ‘that it might make you look more kindly on me.’ Clare shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, signore.’ She kept her voice clipped and cool. ‘You may have bought the local police force, but my goodwill isn’t for sale. Not now. Not ever.’ The notes tore quite easily. As Guido Bartaldi watched her, motionless and silent, Clare ripped them across, and across, reducing them savagely to the most expensive confetti in the world, then tossing the fragments into the air. She said, ‘Consider all debts cancelled, Marchese,’ then she walked swiftly round the table and past him to the door. The handle was slippery in her damp hand, but she managed to twist it and get the door open. At any moment she was expecting him to stop her physically from leaving. Waiting for his anger to strike her like lightning over the Appenines. Apart from anything else, defacing a national currency was probably some kind of offence. But there wasn’t a sound behind her, or a movement. Only a stillness and a silence that was ominous in its totality. That followed her like a shadow. But ahead of her was another open door and a sunlit street, and she kept walking, trying not to break into a run. ‘Signorina.’ An officer came out of one of the offices that lined the corridor, and she swung round in panic, feeling a scream rising in her throat, until she realised he was simply telling her where her car was parked. She managed to choke out a word of thanks, and went on, aware of curious glances following her. She found the little Fiat, and got in to the driving seat. For a moment, she stared blindly ahead of her through the windscreen, then she bent and put her head down on the steering wheel, and let the inevitable storm of weeping that had been building steadily over the past hour exorcise her shock and fright. When it was over, she dried her eyes on a handful of tissues, put on some more lipstick, and started the car. The sooner she got on with her life and put today’s shambles out of her mind the better. But it wasn’t so easy to do. She found she was constantly glancing in the mirror, her heart thumping each time a car came up behind her. You’re being ridiculous, she told herself. It’s all over. You’ll never see him again. So, why, in spite of the distance between them, was she conscious of his presence like the touch of a hand on her skin? And his voice saying softly, ‘Chiara’? ‘Mia cara.’ Violetta’s voice was like warm honey. ‘What a nightmare for you. Now, tell me everything. You were actually imprisoned?’ They were sitting in the salone, with the shutters drawn to exclude the late-afternoon sun, drinking the strong black coffee which Violetta consumed at all hours of the day and night and eating some little almond cakes. ‘Well, not in a cell,’ Clare admitted. The warmth and exuberance of her welcome both from her godmother and Angelina, her plump, smiling housekeeper, had been just what she’d needed to heal the wounds of the day. And, now, sitting in this calm, gracious room, able to pour her story into loving, sympathetic ears, she could feel the tension seeping out of her. ‘But it felt as bad.’ She shuddered. ‘I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t think properly. I realise now why people confess to things they haven’t done.’ She frowned darkly. ‘And there was that wretched Guido Bartaldi behaving as if he owned the police station.’ ‘Well,’ Violetta said with a tolerant shrug. ‘He is a great man in this region. His family have been here since the quattrocento.’ She lowered her voice. ‘You realise, of course, who he is?’ ‘He’s a marquis,’ Clare said wearily. ‘That was made more than clear.’ ‘Not just that.’ Violetta spread her hands dramatically. ‘Even you, carissima, who takes no interest in such things, must have heard of Bartaldi’s, the great jewellers.’ ‘My God,’ Clare said slowly. ‘So that’s why the name seemed familiar. It just never occurred to me…’ She shook her head. ‘Maybe I didn’t expect to find an aristocrat running a jewellery business. Isn’t it a little beneath him—that type of thing?’ ‘It is not merely a business, cara.’ Violetta sounded shocked. ‘With the Bartaldis, the working of gold and precious stones has become an art form. It all began in the sixteenth century.’ She shrugged again. ‘There was a younger son—the black sheep, I suppose, of the family. He was sent into exile by his father, after a quarrel, and rather than starve he became apprenticed to one of the great goldsmiths of Siena. He had a flair for design, an eye for beauty and consummate taste, all of which he passed down to future generations. Eventually, he married his master’s daughter, and bought his business.’ ‘And a shrewd eye for the main chance,’ Clare said drily. ‘He seems to have passed that on too.’ ‘And when the main branch of the family became weakened, and died out,’ Violetta went on, ‘his descendants took over the title and estates.’ ‘Now why does that not surprise me?’ Clare muttered. ‘And it is not just gold and jewellery now, you understand, although they remain one of the most prestigious companies in the world. Guido Bartaldi has recently diversified and opened a chain of boutiques selling the most exquisite leather goods, and scent to die for.’ She sighed joyously. ‘His “Tentazione” is quite heavenly.’ And naturally he’d have to call it ‘Temptation’, Clare thought sourly. Named for himself, no doubt. She said drily, ‘I imagine the price will be equally celestial. I remember now—I saw the shop in Rome when it first opened. The window display was one white satin chair, with a long black kid glove draped over it, and a red rose on the floor. The ladies who shop were treading on each other to get in there.’ ‘Hoping that Bartaldi would be there in person, no doubt.’ Violetta’s smile was cat-like. ‘He is not exactly handsome, I think, but so attractive, like il diavolo. And still a bachelor.’ ‘But not for much longer.’ Clare carefully selected another cake. ‘He’s going to marry his ward, poor little soul.’ ‘You pity her?’ Violetta shook her head. ‘Few women would agree, mia cara.’ Clare gave her a straight look. ‘She doesn’t want him, Violetta.’ ‘Then she is crazy.’ Her godmother poured more coffee. ‘It is one thing for a man to be successful and fabulously wealthy. Per Dio, one could almost say it was enough. But when he also has sex appeal—such formidable attrazione del sesso—then he is irresistible.’ She winked. ‘And the little Paola will not resist long, I think. Not when he has her in his bed.’ Clare found she was putting down her cake, not only uneaten, but suddenly unwanted. She said, ‘According to Paola, he has a mistress in Siena.’ ‘Which proves only that he is very much a man,’ Violetta said comfortably. ‘Do not be prim, carissima. It does not become you. And all will change when he marries—for a while at least,’ she added with charming cynicism. ‘But if so many other women want him,’ Clare persisted. ‘Why choose one who doesn’t?’ ‘Who can say? Possibly because she is young and malleable, and comes from good breeding stock. No doubt he wishes for children. And the girl will be a Marchesa. It is a good bargain.’ ‘Well, it wouldn’t suit me,’ Clare said with sudden fierceness. She got to her feet. ‘Darling, would you mind very much if I had a rest before dinner? I—I’ve got rather a headache. All the stress, I suppose.’ ‘Poor little one.’ Violetta’s sympathy was instant and genuine. ‘And I have been bothering you with my chatter. Go and lie down, mia cara, and I will tell Angelina to bring you some of my special drops. Your headache will be gone in no time.’ Her headache, perhaps, Clare thought, as she went slowly up the curving marble staircase. But she was totally unsure what to do about the painful feeling of emptiness which had assailed her with incredible and inexplicable suddenness. Except, she thought wearily, pretend, for all she was worth, that it didn’t exist. But it was not to be dismissed so easily. It was there, within her, like a great aching void. And, as she lay on the bed, staring up at the ornately gilded ceiling fan revolving slowly above her, she was also unable to close her mind against the image of Guido Bartaldi’s eyes burning into hers like a dark flame. Or the caress of his voice saying ‘Chiara’. And that, she thought, was infinitely worse. CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_038f6a1b-f75d-5a73-a8bd-547e6036ecaf) THE headache drops which Angelina had duly brought must have done the trick, because Clare found she had been able to sleep a little, and woke feeling calmer and more composed. A long, scented soak in a warm tub helped restore her equilibrium still further. Afterwards there was the usual array of body lotion, eau de toilette, and scents in the personalised crystal flasks that Violetta favoured. Clare uncapped the body lotion, sniffing it luxuriously, then smoothing it into her skin with sensuous pleasure, breathing in the aroma that the warmth of her body released. Usually she chose very light fragrances, but this one was different—almost exotic with its rich, seductive tones of lily and jasmine. But a little sophistication might make her feel better, she thought. As she dressed, Clare reviewed with satisfaction the hours ahead. Unless guests had been invited, the evenings invariably followed the same pattern. First, she would join Violetta for an aperitivo on the rose terrace which gave the villa its name. Then they would indulge themselves with one of Angelina’s long, delicious dinners. Afterwards, the lamps would be lit in the salone, and they would listen to music and chat while Violetta stitched her petit point. She sighed happily, and skimmed through the clothes she’d brought with her. Her godmother enjoyed investing her evenings with certain formality, so she passed over her casual shirts and skirts, opting for one of her newer acquisitions, a simple ankle-length dress, with short sleeves and a vee neckline, in a silky cr?pe fabric. Its deep ruby colour emphasised the paleness of her hair, and gave added warmth to the cream of her skin. One of my better buys, she thought with satisfaction, taking a long and critical look at herself as she turned slowly in front of the full-length mirror. She darkened her long lashes with mascara, and touched a dark rose colour to her mouth before she went down. As she walked across the salone to the long glass doors which gave access to the terrace, she heard Violetta’s charming throaty laughter. Oh, Clare thought, checking slightly, so she has invited guests after all. She didn’t tell me. She found herself hoping it was the Arnoldinis, because that would mean cards instead of polite conversation after dinner, and she would not be expected to join in. So I can let them get settled into the game, then plead tiredness and have an early night, she thought. Smiling, she walked out on to the terrace, words of greeting already forming on her lips. And checked again, because Violetta’s guest, seated beside her on the cushioned seat in the shade of a big striped umbrella, was Guido Bartaldi. He saw her at once, and, rising, made her a slight bow, the formality of the gesture slightly belied by the spark of amusement dancing in his dark eyes as he observed her shocked expression. And what was she supposed to do in return? Clare wondered, rendered momentarily mute with outrage. Curtsy? At last she found her voice. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, dispensing with any preliminary niceties. ‘Clare, mia cara,’ Violetta intervened with a touch of reproach. ‘The Marchese has called to make sure you completed your journey here in safety. So kind of him,’ she added, bestowing one of her dazzling smiles on their visitor. She was wearing mist-grey chiffon, with a discreet shimmer of diamonds at her throat and in her ears. And the Marchese seemed to have guessed her views on appropriate dress, because the casual clothes he’d been wearing earlier had been replaced by an elegant charcoal suit, set off by an impeccable white shirt and a silk tie in sombre jewel colours. Violetta, Clare realised crossly, was looking at him as if she could eat him. Not that she could wholly be blamed for that, she admitted, her mouth tightening. Earlier that day, even when she’d been scared almost witless, she had been able to recognise that, without even trying, he packed a formidable sexual punch. And this evening, for whatever reason, he seemed to be trying… ‘I have apologised to Signora Andreati for intruding in this way, but I had to set my mind at rest,’ Guido Bartaldi said smoothly. ‘You seemed—overwrought when we parted today.’ ‘Really?’ Clare asked icily. ‘I thought I was perfectly calm.’ ‘Yet your godmother has been telling me you retired with a headache. I hope you are fully recovered.’ ‘My head is fine,’ she said shortly. The pain now seems to be in my neck. ‘Ring the bell for Angelina, dearest,’ Violetta said hastily. ‘The Marchese and I are enjoying a Campari soda. I know that is your favourite too.’ Clare would have given a great deal to say tartly that she didn’t want a drink, or any dinner, for that matter, and then withdraw in a marked manner. But that would only embarrass Violetta, who was clearly thrilled by her unexpected visitor, and Clare was far too fond of her to risk that. And at that moment Angelina, all smiles, came bustling out with her Campari, and a plate of tiny crostini which she placed on the wrought-iron table in front of Violetta. So, Clare would just have to make the best of things. Carefully she chose a chair on the other side of her godmother, deliberately interposing Violetta between herself and Guido Bartaldi, who resumed his own seat with a faint, infuriating smile. He said, ‘I also wished to assure you that your raincoat will be returned to you as soon as it has been cleaned.’ Clare gulped some Campari. ‘Thank you.’ ‘It’s nothing.’ He paused. ‘Paola was sorry not to be able to thank you in person for your care of her.’ ‘That doesn’t matter.’ Clare hesitated, unwilling to prolong the conversation, but not wanting to earn herself black marks from Violetta for being discourteous. She cleared her throat. ‘How—how is she?’ He shrugged a shoulder. ‘Not happy, but that is natural.’ ‘Entirely,’ Clare said with emphasis. ‘But she is young,’ he went on, as if he hadn’t heard. ‘She will get over it. Indeed, I intend to make every effort to see that she does.’ ‘Lucky Paola.’ Clare kept her voice expressionless and her eyes on her glass. ‘I doubt she would agree with you,’ he said softly. ‘But I can appreciate that her social contacts locally are limited, especially when I am away on business so much. And, as I was explaining to the Signora, that is another reason for my visit. I hope you will both be our guests at dinner at the Villa Minerva tomorrow evening.’ ‘And I have told the Marchese that we would be delighted, mia cara. Is it not so?’ Clare put down her crostini untasted. No, she thought furiously, it was not so, and Guido Bartaldi knew perfectly well that she’d rather be boiled in oil than go to dinner at his rotten house. In fact, there wasn’t enough space on the planet to separate them to her satisfaction. I feel a subsequent engagement coming on, she thought grimly. Or at least a migraine. If not a brain tumour. She fought to keep her voice level. ‘Thank you. I—shall look forward to it.’ He said gently, ‘You are too gracious,’ and turned his attention back to Violetta, whom he treated with a charming deference bordering on flirtation. And she, of course, was lapping it up with roguish decorum. Clare sat rigidly in her chair, clutching her glass as if it was her last hold on sanity—or safety. Because she was suddenly frightened again. Because she didn’t believe that he was motivated by any concern for her well-being, or remotely interested in restoring her raincoat to her. There was more to it than that. Back in Barezzo, she’d experienced the power of this man. And she’d dared to antagonise him. The money he’d offered her was the merest drop in the ocean when compared with his total wealth. But that didn’t mean he’d enjoyed seeing it torn in pieces and thrown at him. It had seemed a grand gesture at the time. Now she was afraid she might live to regret it. Because he was not a man to shrug off that kind of affront—especially from a woman. Something warned her that behind the smile and the silken elegance was steel. And beyond the steel lurked pure pagan. She knew it as well as she knew her own reflection in a mirror. And she hoped she would only encounter the steel. Angelina appeared in the terrace. ‘The telephone for you, signora. It is Monsignor Caprani.’ ‘I will come.’ Violetta rose to her feet, and Guido Bartaldi stood up too. ‘No, no, Marchese, please stay. I shall not be long. And in the meantime Clare will be glad to entertain you.’ ‘Alas, I must get back.’ His regret sounded almost genuine, Clare thought, seething. ‘My uncle is expected from Venice some time this evening. But I shall look forward to welcoming yourself and the signorina to my own small world tomorrow. Arrivederci.’ He took Violetta’s hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Until then.’ When she had fluttered back into the house, he turned and looked down at Clare, who stared back inimically. ‘Per Dio.’ His mouth twisted. ‘I think if I was dining here tonight, I would ask to have my food tasted.’ She said huskily, ‘What’s going on? What do you want?’ ‘As to that,’ he said slowly, ‘I do not think I have quite made up my mind. But when I have, Chiara, be assured you will be the first to know. Now, wish me goodnight.’ Before she could resist, he reached down and pulled her up out of the chair and on to her feet in front of him, and only a few inches away. He bent towards her, his gaze travelling from her frightened eyes to her parted lips. She heard herself breathe, ‘No.’ He laughed softly. With his free hand, he touched her cheek, running a questing thumb down the line of her throat, and she shivered and burned under his touch. His fingers reached the neckline of her dress and hooked under it, urging the delicate fabric off her shoulder. Baring it. She felt his breath warm on her skin, then the brief, delicate brush of his lips along her collarbone. He whispered, ‘You are temptation itself, mia bella.’ Then she was free, and her dress was gently replaced. And before she could move or speak Guido Bartaldi had gone, walking away down the terrace steps into the twilit garden. Clare stood, her arms wrapped around her body, her pulses shuddering uncontrollably. He had barely touched her. Her brain had registered that fiercely. But she felt, just the same, as if she’d been branded. That her flesh now bore some mark of his possession. And this, she knew, was only the beginning. In response to some hidden switch inside the house, the shaded lamps on the terrace came on, and instantly moths appeared, drawn by the lights and flinging themselves against them. She thought, I know how they feel… Violetta returned. ‘Has the Marchese gone? Such a pity.’ She sighed. ‘If I were only twenty years younger. Sit down, cara, and Angelina will freshen our drinks.’ Clare sat, principally because her legs were shaking under her. A thought occurred to her. She said, ‘Violetta, what’s the scent that you put in my bathroom? The one I’m wearing?’ ‘But I was telling you about it, dear one. It’s Bartaldi’s own “Tentazione”. Why?’ Her godmother gave her a shrewd glance under her lashes. ‘Did he recognise it?’ ‘Yes,’ Clare said bitterly. ‘Yes. I’m afraid he did.’ Dinner was not the relaxed, comfortable meal that Clare had anticipated after all. For all her very real sophistication, Violetta was clearly thrilled to have received an invitation to the Villa Minerva, and eager to discuss it exhaustively. ‘It is a very old house,’ she said. ‘Parts of it are said to date back to the time of the Etruscans, who, as you know, cara, fought the Romans for supremacy and lost.’ Pity, Clare thought, crumbling her bread. If they’d won the Bartaldis might never have seen the light of day. ‘You’ve never visited there before?’ she asked. ‘No,’ Violetta returned regretfully. ‘But here at Cenacchio we are not exactly near neighbours to Veraggio. We move in our own circles.’ ‘Then it’s a pity we agreed to go,’ Clare argued. ‘Particularly if it’s a long way away.’ ‘The Marchese is aware of the inconvenience, and is sending a car for us.’ Violetta sighed happily. ‘He thinks of everything.’ She sent Clare a twinkling look. ‘I think I have you to thank for this pleasant invitation, dear one.’ Clare bit her lip. ‘I can’t think why,’ she said constrainedly. ‘But naturally he wishes to make amends for all the confusion and unpleasantness of today.’ Violetta nodded. ‘He seems full of remorse for the hasty judgement he made.’ He’s full of something, Clare thought broodingly. But I don’t think it’s repentance. ‘Naturally, I have seen the Marchese at various social functions,’ Violetta continued. ‘But, as he says, he is not in the region very often. Perhaps when he marries, and has a family, that will change.’ She paused. ‘Although his estates are excellently run in his absence, I understand. His manager, Antonio Lerucci, is said to be a charming young man, and most loyal and efficient.’ She chattered on, and Clare responded with interested noises and the occasional nod of her head, while trying to mentally detach herself. She’d planned to stay at Cenacchio for at least two weeks. That might need revision now, she decided unhappily. She’d ring her agency tomorrow, and ask them to find her a job which would necessitate her urgent return to England. And she would let a very long time elapse before she took another job in Italy, she decided broodingly. First she’d had Signor Dorelli to deal with, but, in retrospect, that had been no problem at all compared with Guido Bartaldi. Dorelli had simply been a lecher and a fool. But the Marchese Bartaldi had a very different agenda. She knew it, although she couldn’t even begin to make an educated guess at what it contained. Every instinct, however, was shrieking at her to remove herself immediately from his sphere of influence. I need to put the whole sorry mess behind me, and get on with my life, she thought. So I can’t afford to stay. ‘In the morning we will go into Perugia,’ Violetta planned. ‘And find a dress for you to wear. Something that will show you to your best advantage, carissima. It will be my birthday present to you.’ Clare was taken aback. ‘I’m sure I have something that will do.’ Violetta tutted. ‘When one is dealing with the Bartaldis, there is no question of making do. And you are too modest about your looks. We need something simple yet stunning.’ She looked arch. ‘The right setting for the jewel. Something the Marchese understands very well.’ ‘Violetta.’ Clare was appalled. ‘I don’t know what you’re thinking, but…’ Violetta shrugged. ‘I think only that it would be good for you to be admired by an attractive man.’ She paused. ‘Has there been anyone since—what was his name?— James?’ ‘No,’ Clare said quietly. ‘Nor have I wanted there to be.’ ‘But that is so wrong,’ her godmother protested. ‘You are a warm and lovely girl. You cannot close yourself off from life because one fool preferred someone else.’ ‘I don’t shut myself off,’ Clare denied defensively. ‘I have a job I like—friends—and I travel all over Europe. A lot of people locked into stale relationships would envy me.’ ‘I do not speak of those.’ Violetta waved her hand. ‘I speak of love, silly girl. Of overwhelming and complete love—like Dante felt for Beatrice, and Petrarch had for his Laura.’ Clare sighed. ‘And Romeo for Juliet, I suppose, and we all know what happened to them.’ ‘Oh, when you are in this mood it is impossible to reason with you,’ Violetta said huffily. ‘That’s certainly true if you’re trying to pair me with the Marchese Bartaldi.’ Clare tried to speak lightly, but she could feel the shoulder he’d kissed burning through the soft fabric of her dress. Thank God Violetta didn’t know about that, she thought ruefully. She said. ‘I’m sorry, darling, but the Marchese is the last man in the world I’d ever get involved with. Simply crossing his path has been more than enough, believe me. I’ve no wish to attract any more of his attention.’ She paused. ‘Besides, you seem to forget that he’s already chosen Paola,’ she added carefully. ‘Pah,’ Violetta said. ‘There has been no announcement. No formal engagement.’ She gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘In your shoes, cara, I would not hesitate.’ ‘A couple of hours ago, you seemed to think Paola would suit him ideally,’ Clare said with asperity. Violetta gave her a beatific smile. ‘I had not met him then,’ she said simply. In spite of her tiredness, Clare found sleep frustratingly elusive that night. Her comfortable mattress seemed to have been stuffed with sand, and the big feather pillows moulded from concrete. She tossed from one side of the big bed to the other, seeking a restful spot, while her mind turned endlessly, denying her any peace. And every thought that plagued her seemed to lead inexorably back to Guido Bartaldi. Something else to thank him for, she thought peevishly, punching a pillow into submission. Consequently, it was a wan, rather shadowy-eyed girl who joined Violetta for a breakfast of cold meats, fresh fruit and coffee. Not that she’d done anything to improve her appearance or disguise the ravages of her bad night. If the plan she’d formulated in the small hours was to work, she needed to look fairly deathly. ‘Are you unwell, cara?’ Her godmother, who’d been going through her morning mail, removed her reading glasses and gave her a concerned look. ‘You are so pale.’ ‘I’ll be fine,’ said Clare, adding a brave smile for good measure. ‘You have not forgotten we are going to Perugia this morning?’ ‘I’m looking forward to it,’ said Clare, who had already decided that a refusal to go would only make Violetta suspicious. She would just have to make sure her godmother didn’t spend too much on the promised dress, or choose something out of keeping with her usual lifestyle. They parked at the Piazza degli Invalidi, and rode the escalators up to the Rocca Paolina. Clare always felt it was like rising up from the bowels of the earth, and she found the remains of the Rocca, with its low-vaulted roof and maze of dark passageways, many of them with water dripping down the walls, a disturbing place. Like being in an underground cave, she thought. But this labyrinth of foundations was all the Perugians had left of the mighty Papal fortress intended to subdue their arrogance, and they’d even put up a plaque to commemorate its destruction three hundred years later. Arrogance seemed to be a common trait among the Umbrian population—especially the men, Clare thought broodingly as they emerged into the sunlight of the Corso Vannucci. And tonight she planned to dismantle a few stones from the fortress of self-assurance that the Marchese Bartaldi had built round himself. Like many women for whom money is not an object, Violetta was an exacting shopper, and, after two hours had passed, Clare began to wonder if she intended to visit every boutique in the city. She herself had seen several dresses which would have been a welcome addition to her wardrobe, but Violetta had dismissed them. ‘I know what I’m looking for,’ she had declared, as she’d swept to the door. ‘And that is not it.’ But eventually she said, ‘Ah,’ and nodded. ‘Try this, mia cara.’ It was a slim, fluid full-length sheath in black silk jersey, long-sleeved with a deep square neck. Too deep, Clare thought, viewing with dismay how much it revealed of her small rounded breasts. In fact, it moulded itself completely to her figure, clinging to her narrow waist and slender hips, and the skirt was slashed at one side to well above the knee. ‘Violetta,’ she protested. ‘I can’t wear this. It isn’t—me. And what can I possibly wear underneath?’ But her words fell on deaf ears. Her godmother and the saleswoman merely exchanged speaking glances, and the dress was carried away to be reverently encased in tissue and placed in a carrying box. By the time Violetta’s credit card had financed high-heeled black kid sandals and a matching evening purse it was almost time for the shops to close for the long afternoon break. ‘Most satisfactory,’ Violetta declared with a cat-like smile. ‘And now, mia cara, we will enjoy some lunch.’ But as they walked up the street, Clare was nudged by her godmother. ‘See—across the street? It is Bartaldi’s. Let us look.’ Unwillingly, Clare found herself propelled across the street to the shop. The window display was as expensive and glamorous as she could have imagined—a blaze of exquisitely fashioned gold necklaces, pendants, bracelets and rings, as well as a tempting range of etui and other small, desirable objets. She felt as if she should close her eyes to avoid being dazzled. ‘Beautiful, is it not?’ Violetta breathed. ‘Amazing,’ Clare agreed levelly. ‘If a bit overwhelming.’ Secretly, she preferred the adjoining window, which had a display of semi-precious stones. Her eyes strayed almost covetously from the glow of topaz to the mystery of aquamarine and the brilliance of jade and amethyst, again all set in gold. ‘Many of the designs are drawn from the Etruscan,’ Violetta explained, ‘while others have a truly Renaissance spirit, don’t you think? And they say Guido Bartaldi has been the guiding light behind it all. That he has the soul of a Renaissance prince.’ ‘Really?’ Clare said in a hollow voice. The soul of a condottiere, she thought smoulderingly. A robber baron. She felt strange suddenly—uncomfortable—standing here outside these premises, staring at all this beauty that he’d had a hand in creating. As if she was intruding on something that was deeply personal to him. It was time to act, she realised—in more ways than one. She frowned unhappily. ‘Violetta, I’m not very hungry. Would you mind if we missed lunch and went straight home? I—I’m feeling a little giddy.’ ‘Then we will not consider the escalators,’ Violetta said immediately, snapping her fingers for a taxi to take them down the long hill to the car park. Clare felt like a worm on the drive back to Cenacchio, aware of the anxious glances being directed at her, but that did not stop her from making a strangled request for the car to stop at one point. And when they arrived back at the Villa Rosa, she whispered a strained apology, and made an immediate beeline for her room. She undressed, put on a cotton wrap, and lay down on the bed, watching the sunlight play through the shutters. I’m a wretch, she thought penitently, but it’s in a good cause. Because there’s no way I’m going to the Villa Minerva for dinner tonight. In the end, she dozed a little, only to be rudely awoken by the unexpected arrival of Violetta’s own doctor from Cenacchio. Groaning inwardly, Clare submitted to having her pulse taken, her heart sounded, and her blood pressure checked. ‘I think perhaps it’s stress,’ she ventured in response to his questions, and gave a condensed history of the past thirty-six hours. ‘I had nightmares last night, and I can’t stop thinking about those men with guns.’ She shuddered and put her hands over her face. The doctor made shocked noises, then prescribed rest, quiet, and a mild sedative. All of which Clare agreed to with outward meekness and inward jubilation. ‘Such a terrible pity,’ Violetta said mournfully, after the doctor’s departure. ‘I will phone the Villa Minerva, and tell the Marchese that we are unable to join him for dinner.’ Clare lifted herself on to an elbow. ‘But there’s no need for that,’ she exclaimed. ‘You can go, darling. And I’ll just stay here quietly, as the doctor said.’ ‘But I cannot possibly leave you.’ Her godmother was shocked. ‘You are ill. I must take care of you, cara.’ ‘By sitting here watching me sleep? Because that’s what I shall do once I’ve taken these tablets.’ Clare shook her head. ‘Violetta, that’s just silly and I won’t allow it.’ Violetta protested, but Clare gently but firmly overruled her. ‘You know you’re dying to see the house,’ she said. ‘And you can tell me all about it afterwards. Besides, you can give the Marchese my sincere regrets,’ she added mendaciously. ‘Well, if you are sure,’ Violetta said reluctantly. ‘And, of course, Angelina will be here to keep an eye on you.’ And watch me stage a lightning recovery as soon as the Marchese’s car has departed, Clare thought with guilty relish. When her godmother had gone to dress, Clare got off the bed and went and sat by the open window, watching the late-afternoon sunlight dance on the leaves of the flowering vine that grew up the side of her balcony. She had a good view of the wide gravelled sweep in front of the house, and was able to see when the car from the Villa Minerva arrived, punctual to the minute. What she did not expect was to see Guido Bartaldi emerge from the driving seat, casting an appraising glance at the fa?ade of the house. Hell’s bells, Clare groaned to herself, shrinking back behind the shutter. He’s come to fetch us himself. I hope he didn’t see me. She flew across the room and got into bed, pulling the thin cover up to her chin, as if seeking some kind of sanctuary. With luck Violetta, looking in to say goodnight, would think she was asleep, and leave her undisturbed. But Fortune wasn’t disposed to smile on her. A few minutes later she heard a tap on her door, and Violetta saying softly, ‘You have a visitor, mia cara.’ Clare wanted to shriek, No, but instead she kept her eyes closed, and her breathing soft and regular. She heard footsteps approaching quietly. ‘Ah,’ Violetta whispered. ‘The sedative the doctor left must have done its work.’ ‘So it would seem.’ Perhaps it was Clare’s imagination working overtime, but she could have sworn there was a note of irony—even amusement—in Guido Bartaldi’s deep drawl. ‘Poor little one. She was so distressed to have to excuse herself tonight. She wanted so much to pay this visit.’ ‘I must make sure that there are other opportunities,’ the hated voice said softly. ‘You must let me know if she continues to feel ill. I have an interest in a good clinic near Assisi where she could be admitted for observation. As a precautionary measure, you understand. Now perhaps we should go, signora, and leave her in peace.’ Clare heard Violetta murmur her assent, and move away. A strand of hair was tickling her nose, and she wanted to brush it away, but something—some sixth sense—warned her to keep still. Because Guido Bartaldi was still standing beside the bed, just waiting for her to betray the fact that she wasn’t asleep at all. She could feel the warmth of him, absorb the fragrance of his cologne. The knowledge of his presence made her skin tingle. ‘A great actress has been lost to the stage, mia bella.’ His low-voiced sardonic comment confirmed her worst suspicions. ‘But I will not torment you any longer. Sleep well—and dream beautifully.’ To her fury, she felt his hand smooth away the annoying wisp of hair. Then his fingers took her chin, turning her head slightly on the pillow. And his mouth, briefly and sensuously, kissed her parted lips. It took all the self-control she possessed to go on lying there, unmoving and unmoved, when she longed to leap up and slap him hard across that dark, mocking face. To call him all the names she could lay her tongue to. Instead, eyes tight shut, she heard him walk away, and the bedroom door close behind him. Or had it? Maybe it was another trick. It wasn’t until she heard the sound of the car moving off down the drive that she dared relax her new rigidity and sit up. There were tears of anger in her eyes, and she scrubbed fiercely at her mouth with the back of her hand, as a child might do. ‘Tomorrow,’ she vowed aloud, her voice shaking. ‘Tomorrow I’m going home. And I’m making sure that I never—ever—have to set eyes on that bastard again.’ CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_27b7a4e6-e762-534a-b327-0d66ccfb4adb) VIOLETTA did not return home from the dinner party until well after midnight. Clare, lying sleepless, saw the headlights of the car sweep across her ceiling and tensed, wondering if the Marchese had acted as chauffeur again, and whether she could expect another visit. But, to her relief, she was left undisturbed, even by Violetta. She’d spent a restless evening. In the end, sheer hunger had driven her downstairs, and Angelina, delighted to hear how much better she was feeling, had conjured up a thick bean soup followed by a creamy omelette served with tiny mushrooms and grilled baby tomatoes. Clare had stretched out on one of the sofas in the salone and put on some music, but even this tried and tested procedure had not persuaded her to relax. Her mind had been too full, and revolving almost exclusively around one subject—Guido Bartaldi. It was infuriating to have to acknowledge the hold he’d taken on her imagination. His image seemed locked immutably into her brain, and she resented it. She couldn’t handle his constant and almost casual reappearance in her life. But she couldn’t speak her mind about them for fear of upsetting Violetta, who was clearly happy to accept the Marchese at his own valuation. But a man who was planning to marry, even if it was a marriage of convenience, should not be conducting a flirtation with another girl, she argued, biting her lip. It was a despicable thing to do. After James, she’d made a private vow to avoid any man who wasn’t free to commit himself. And what a lot of them there seemed to be, she thought bitterly. But with Guido Bartaldi it had already gone beyond simple flirtation—because he had touched—and kissed. Her whole body shivered at the memory of his mouth on hers. The worst part of it was her certainty that he knew exactly the effect that his caresses would evoke. It was a delicate, subtle form of torment, devised to punish her. To ensure she didn’t embark on any more grand gestures to annoy him. It was a stupid thing to do, she acknowledged sombrely. I should have seen that he was way out of my league as an adversary. Far better to have thanked him nicely, then stuffed the money in the poor box at the nearest church. Honour would have been satisfied on my part, and he’d have been none the wiser. But it’s too late for regrets. All I can do is cut my losses and go. The shopping trip to Perugia had prevented her phoning the agency as she’d planned, but she’d do it first thing in the morning, she promised herself. And all she had to do then was find herself a flight back to Britain. Any class, any time, any airport, she added, pulling a face. She felt tense, facing Violetta at the breakfast table the next morning, expecting a blow-by-blow account of everything that had been eaten, said and done at the Villa Minerva, but her godmother, surprisingly, said very little about it, apart from acknowledging that the house was indeed beautiful, the food had been delicious, and that she had enjoyed herself. After which she relapsed into an unusually pensive state. While, paradoxically, Clare found she was thirsting to know more. ‘What did you think of Paola?’ she asked, in the end. ‘Paola?’ Violetta echoed. ‘Ah, the young girl. She seemed subdued. I think she was disappointed that you were not there,’ she added after a reflective pause. ‘As, indeed, were they all.’ She gave Clare a kind smile. ‘Are you feeling more yourself today, mia cara?’ ‘Oh, yes.’ Clare flushed slightly. ‘The medication the doctor gave me seems to have worked miracles.’ She gave an awkward laugh. ‘In fact, I’m fighting fit, and I was thinking I really ought to get back to work again.’ ‘And I think you should enjoy your rest here with me,’ Violetta said firmly. ‘There’s nothing I’d like more,’ Clare said quickly. ‘But I haven’t told the agency about the Dorelli fiasco yet, and the chances are they’ll want to reassign me straight away. And I ought to contact Dad too.’ ‘But not for the next two weeks.’ Violetta poured herself some more coffee. ‘He is away, dearest. He has taken her—’ she invested the word with extraordinary venom ‘—on a trip to San Francisco. He told me when I telephoned him last week to ask for your address in Rome, which I had mislaid.’ ‘Oh.’ Clare digested this with dismay, then rallied. ‘All the more reason for me to go back, then. I should be there in case of an emergency with the business.’ Violetta shook her head. ‘His assistant—Tricia, is it not?—is doing that. So there is really nothing to take you away,’ she added dulcetly. ‘Everything has worked for the best.’ ‘Yes,’ Clare said too brightly, as she damned San Francisco, its bay, its hills, and its blameless citizens under her breath. ‘Yes, of course.’ When breakfast was over, Violetta announced that she was driving into Cenacchio to the hairdresser. ‘Do you wish to come with me, mia cara, or shall I ask Giacomo to place a lounger down by the pool for you?’ ‘That would be perfect,’ Clare agreed. If she was forced to be on holiday, she thought, then she would behave like a holidaymaker. When she went down to the pool below the rose terrace about an hour later, she found the lounger already in position, and Giacomo, Angelina’s husband, who looked after the gardens at the villa, fussing with a sun umbrella. He was a small, wrinkled man with grey hair and black twinkling eyes, and he greeted Clare with his usual gap-toothed smile. ‘Ah, signorina, each time you come here you are more like your dear mother, God give her rest.’ He looked at her hands, clearly searching for rings, and tutted. ‘But where is your husband? Where are the bambini?’ Clare laughed. ‘I’m sorry to be such a disappointment, Giacomo, but we can’t all be as lucky as Angelina.’ Giacomo shook his head reproachfully. ‘Such a waste,’ he told the sky, and went off, muttering to himself. It was already bakingly hot, the sun dazzling on the water. It wasn’t a very large pool, just big enough for Violetta to manage a few unhurried, decorous lengths as her token exercise for the day. Clare found it cramped, but it looked inviting just the same, she thought as she discarded her towelling wrap and stretched out on the lounger in her simple black bikini. Now, she thought, shall I swim and then sunbathe, or work on my tan for an hour, then cool off in the water? Decisions, decisions. And if that was all she had to trouble her, how happy she would be. Only, it wasn’t. Because, try as she might, she couldn’t convince herself that she’d seen the last of the Marchese Bartaldi. He was there, all the time, at the back of her mind, like a shadow in the sun. And, more worryingly, he was physically present too, at the Villa Minerva, within driving distance. She picked up the bottle of high-factor sun lotion and began to apply it to her arms and shoulders. Her skin accepted the sun easily, turning a deep, smooth honey colour without soreness, but she still treated the heat with respect. And she must do the same with Guido Bartaldi, she thought, grimacing. Find some way to protect herself against him. Or she could end up getting more badly burned than she’d ever been in her life. Dark glasses perched on her nose, she flicked through some of Violetta’s glossy magazines. It was like peeping through a window into a different world, she thought, smiling. A world where money was no object and your life was designed for you, from the clothes you wore to the glass you drank from. The kind of world where a man like Guido Bartaldi reigned supreme. For a minute, she let her mind dwell on that shop window of jewellery, back in Perugia. There’d been one gorgeous topaz pendant, glowing like a banked-down fire in its heavy gold setting. She tried to imagine herself walking into the shop, and pointing to it. Saying, I’ll have that, without stopping to ask the price. Feeling the cool weight of the stone slipping down between her breasts… Some chance, she thought, her mouth twisting with derision. She was one of the world’s workers, and, though she earned a reasonable living, she’d always have to count the cost of anything she bought. And she wouldn’t have it any other way, she added with a touch of defiance. She felt restless again, the glamour and luxury depicted on the pages in front of her suddenly beginning to pall. Or was it that she was starting to feel a little bit envious? Shaking her head in self-derision, she let the magazine drop to the ground and swung herself off the lounger. It was time for a swim, she decided, discarding her watch. Some hard physical exercise. Far healthier than crying for a moon she didn’t even want. The water felt wonderful, and she covered length after length with her strong, easy crawl. She was breathless when she pulled herself out on to the tiled edge, wringing the excess moisture out of her hair. She towelled herself off, then adjusted the umbrella so that the lounger was completely shaded before she lay down again, turning on to her front and unfastening the clip of her bikini top. Her bad night was catching up with her, she thought drowsily, pillowing her head on her folded arms and letting her body sink down into the soft cushions. The air felt very still, almost watchful, and the scent of the roses on the terrace above her was heavy—almost overpowering. Almost as heavy as her own eyelids, Clare thought, and slept. Something woke her eventually. She lay still for a moment, listening to the silence, wondering idly what had disturbed her. She turned her head slightly, and saw that a small wrought-iron table had been placed beside her, and on it a pitcher of iced fruit juice—peach, judging by its colour—and a glass. Ah, she thought gratefully. Angelina. What a perfect way to be woken. She sat up, pushing her disheveled hair back from her face, still slightly dazed from sleep, narrowing her eyes against the strength of the noonday sun as she reached for the pitcher. And halted, hand outstretched, instinct telling her that the silence had changed in some way. That it contained another element. Slowly, almost warily, she looked round, and felt the breath catch in her throat. Guido Bartaldi was sitting about a couple of yards away from her, very much at ease in a cushioned chair. Long brown legs were revealed by brief navy shorts, and his bare feet were thrust into leather sandals, while a cream polo shirt set off tanned forearms and gave a glimpse of the shadowing of dark hair on his chest. His face was expressionless, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses as he surveyed her. For a moment she was motionless, turned to stone, then she remembered just what he was seeing, and with a choking cry snatched up the towel from beside the lounger and huddled it protectively over her bare breasts. ‘How the hell did you get in here?’ Her voice rasped in shock. Embarrassed colour was flooding her face. His brows lifted. ‘I rang the bell at the entrance, and was admitted like anyone else.’ He pointed at the pitcher of juice. ‘The housekeeper was about to bring you a cold drink, so I volunteered my services instead. Is there a problem?’ ‘Oh, none at all,’ Clare said savagely. ‘Tell me, does the phrase “Peeping Tom” mean anything to you?’ ‘Clearly not as much as it does to you,’ he murmured. Clare lifted her chin. ‘Tell me something else, signore,’ she invited dangerously. ‘How much longer do you intend to maintain this—persecution?’ ‘I am sorry that you regard my visits in that light.’ His own voice was deceptively mild. ‘I am merely anxious to assure myself that you are fully restored to health.’ There were a number of succinct and very rude responses to that, Clare thought, smouldering. But uttering any of them would do her no lasting good. Instead, ‘I am well, as you see, signore,’ she returned coolly. ‘If that’s all you wanted to know, I’d be glad to have my privacy restored.’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘That is not my sole reason for being here. In fact, I came to offer you a job.’ ‘A job?’ she echoed in total disbelief. ‘You want me to work for you?’ ‘Not directly.’ He paused. ‘I believe Paola told you she had an older woman as a companion?’ ‘Yes.’ Clare’s brows drew together. ‘What of it?’ He said curtly, ‘The signora is no longer part of my household. It was foolish to think that a woman of her age and outlook could reach any kind of rapport with a girl of Paola’s temperament. She was not even a successful jailer.’ Clare realised that her towel was slipping and retrieved it hurriedly. She said, ‘and that’s what you’re looking for? A better jailer?’ ‘No, no.’ Guido Bartaldi made a dismissive gesture. ‘That would be futile, even degrading. No, I want a companion for Paola that she can like and trust. Someone she can confide in.’ He looked at her unsmilingly, and she wished she could see what was in his eyes. ‘She talked to you. You seem the obvious choice.’ ‘I don’t think so.’ Clare shook her head vigorously. ‘Apart from anything else, I’m a language teacher, not a chaperon.’ ‘That is all to the good. I have an international business. I travel extensively.’ He paused. ‘My wife will need to be fluent in other languages than her own.’ Clare tried to collect her flurried thoughts. ‘You want me to teach Paola English?’ She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation. That he had the unadulterated nerve—the sheer arrogance—to make such a request of her. ‘Together with some French.’ He nodded, almost casually. ‘I presume you are capable of this?’ She said between her teeth, ‘Capable, yes. Willing, no.’ ‘I see. Have your recent experiences given you a distaste for Paola’s company?’ ‘Paola,’ she said, ‘is not my main consideration.’ He said quietly, ‘Then may I ask that she becomes so? She—needs you.’ Her lips parted in a gasp of astonishment. She said, ‘Oh, this is ridiculous.’ ‘What is so laughable?’ ‘The entire situation.’ She looked down at the towel she was clutching. ‘And this in particular.’ She lay down again, gingerly tugging the towel from beneath her and discarding it. She fitted her bikini top into place, and held it with one hand while she reached behind her back with the other to secure the little metal clip. But, however she struggled, it evaded her best efforts and remained determinedly undone. ‘Allow me.’ There was a ghost of laughter in his voice as he rose unhurriedly to his feet. ‘I can manage,’ she said with breathless haste, aware that she was blushing again. Guido Bartaldi clicked his tongue reprovingly as he strolled to her side. ‘You must learn not to fib, Chiara.’ Clare tensed uncontrollably as he bent over her, expecting to feel the brush of his fingers against her skin. Terrified at her own possible reaction. But his fingers were brisk, almost clinical, as he dealt with the fastening, and stood up. ‘Relax,’ he advised. ‘Your ordeal is at an end.’ ‘Thank you,’ Clare said in a wooden voice, and he laughed openly as he returned to his chair. ‘Do not strain civility too far, mia bella. You’d like to tell me to go to hell.’ She had to fight hard not to smile. ‘That’s the least of it, signore.’ ‘But, just the same,’ he said. ‘I would like you to consider my offer of employment.’ Clare looked back at him in silence, then swung herself off the lounger, picked up her wrap, slid her arms into the sleeves and tied the sash tightly round her waist, with ostentatious care. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that you are making some point.’ ‘How clever of you to notice.’ ‘It was not particularly difficult. Has anyone ever told you, Chiara, that subtlety is not your chief asset?’ He crossed his legs. ‘I infer you think you might find yourself in some kind of danger under my roof.’ ‘You’re implying that I’m not?’ She didn’t disguise the scepticism in her voice, or in the look she sent him. ‘You may not lack subtlety yourself, signore, but some of your behaviour towards me could be described as sexual harassment.’ ‘How clever of you to notice.’ A smile played round the corners of his mouth. ‘But you would have nothing further to fear on that score. Entering my household would act as an immediate safeguard. I am not in the habit of—harassing my employees.’ ‘That’s reassuring,’ she said. ‘But I’m still not tempted.’ ‘You have not asked how much I would be prepared to pay to secure your services.’ ‘I don’t want your money,’ she said sharply. ‘As you have already made clear,’ he murmured. ‘I mean I can’t be bought.’ ‘And I am not looking for a slave.’ His tone was equable. ‘Or is that another reference to my wholesale corruption of public servants?’ Clare bit her lip. ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘But you see how it is, signore. There’s no way that we could co-exist—you and I.’ And I—I couldn’t take the risk, she added silently. ‘We would not have to co-exist,’ he said shortly. ‘I am hiring you to stay with Paola, not myself. My business interests cause me to be away a great deal. We would seldom meet.’ Clare sat down rather limply on the lounger. ‘And how will Paola feel about that? She asked. ‘It’s hardly the ideal way to court your future wife.’ ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You do not think that my absence will make her heart any fonder?’ She said bluntly, ‘I’d say it would convince her that you don’t give a damn about her.’ ‘Then she would be wrong.’ He was unruffled. ‘I care for her very deeply. But I am aware that she does not return my feelings. Or not yet.’ He paused. ‘I hope that you can, perhaps, change that.’ ‘I?’ Clare echoed. ‘How can I do that?’ ‘By bringing her to a more suitable frame of mind. By getting her to recognise that I can make her happy.’ Clare drew a deep breath. ‘Let me understand this,’ she demanded in outrage. ‘You want me to turn a hostile, unruly girl into a submissive bride for you?’ He smiled at her. ‘Exactly.’ There was a brief, fulminating silence, then she said shortly, ‘It can’t be done.’ ‘I think it altogether possible—if you try. Just bend that formidable will of yours to the problem, Chiara mia, and who knows what miracle might not ensue?’ ‘Perhaps it’s not a problem I particularly wish to address.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘Just why do you want this marriage, signore?’ ‘I have a house,’ he said. ‘But it is not a home. I have a great name, but no heir. I have relationships, but not with a woman who can fill my heart to the exclusion of all others. Are those good enough reasons?’ Clare looked down her nose. ‘It all sounds a little cold-blooded to me.’ ‘But you are so wrong,’ he said softly. ‘As my wife will discover for herself once her nights are spent in my arms.’ She looked down at the tiles at her feet, feeling the sudden startled colour flood her face. Aware of the urgent necessity to veil her eyes from him. Feeling some unfamiliar, confused emotion composed of envy and a kind of regret tremble inside her. And trying desperately to crush it down… She said in a low voice, ‘Maybe you should start convincing her of that now.’ ‘That would not be appropriate,’ he told her coolly. ‘We are not even officially engaged to each other.’ Back under control, she looked up, lifting her brows satirically. ‘I did not think you were so conventional, Marchese.’ ‘But then you know so little about me, Chiara,’ he came back at her, sardonically. ‘That,’ she said. ‘Is my choice.’ She rose to her feet again. ‘I won’t do as you ask. Because I can’t understand why you’d want to marry anyone who’s already run away from you once.’ He shrugged as he got out of his chair. ‘Perhaps it is the nature of love—the girl to fly and the man to follow.’ He paused. ‘Is that your only reservation?’ ‘No.’ ‘Ah,’ he said, and was silent for a moment. Then, ‘Paola will be disappointed. It was her idea that you should take the Signora’s place.’ ‘Please tell her I’m sorry.’ ‘I hope you will tell her yourself.’ He paused again. ‘And do not let your dislike for me prevent you from being her friend while you remain in Umbria. She would like very much for you to visit her.’ Clare swallowed ‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.’ ‘Why not?’ Guido Bartaldi spread his hands enquiringly. ‘I have accepted your decision. So, what harm can it do?’ Oh, God, thought Clare, you have no idea. And thank God you haven’t… Aloud, she said, ‘I may not be around for much longer. After all, I have…’ She paused swiftly, realising what she was about to say. ‘A living to earn?’ he supplied silkily, and accurately. ‘And yet you will not take work when it is offered. How strange.’ ‘I’m a grown woman, signore. As I’ve said, I make my own choices.’ ‘A woman?’ he queried thoughtfully. ‘I wonder if it is true.’ ‘How—how dare you?’ She glared at him, shock tightening her throat. ‘My—personal circumstances are nothing to do with you.’ ‘Basta. I am not claiming that you are still physically a virgin,’ he said impatiently. ‘That is immaterial. What matters is that sometimes, when I look at you, Chiara, I see a frightened child hitting out at the world—and hurting only herself.’ She said icily, ‘Thank you for the psychological profile. Remind me to do a run-down on you some time.’ She paused. ‘But tell Paola if she wants to visit me here, I’ll be happy to see her. Maybe we can have a dolls’ tea party.’ She bent and picked up her towel and the magazines. ‘Perhaps you’d excuse me now. I’m sure my godmother will be glad to see you before you go.’ ‘I think she is quite happy talking to my uncle.’ He had the gall to sound amused. ‘He was hoping to meet you, but I see you are not in the mood. He walked over to her, and stood for a moment looking down at her. ‘I have made you angry,’ he said quietly. ‘And also scared you a little, I think. I did not intend to.’ He took her unresisting hand and raised it to his lips, swiftly and gently. ‘Arrivederci, Chiara.’ His voice was low—intimate. She felt the heat of the sun surrounding her like a golden web, closing her in with him as she stared at him mutely, caught in the thrall of the moment. His tone changed—became brisk, almost businesslike. ‘And if you should change your mind about the job I have offered, naturalamente, you have only to let me know.’ The pang of disappointment was so sharp she almost cried out. Instead, she snatched her hand away, offering him a smile that glittered like a razor. She said dulcetly, ‘All hell will freeze over first, Marchese. Goodbye.’ And she walked away, her head held high, up the steps to the rose terrace, and into the house. CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_7081c7da-016b-5261-9c12-852f457f6d32) CLARE made her way into the house by a side door, avoiding the salone. She went straight to her room, where she stripped off her wrap and bikini and showered, revolving slowly under the warm cascade, tilting up her face, eyes closed, to its power, then cupping her hands and pouring water over her hair, and down her breasts and thighs until she felt cleansed and revived. She towelled down slowly and thoroughly, discovering that she was watching her own reflection warily in the bathroom’s long mirror, as if she might find some stranger she did not recognise looking back at her. She put on clean underwear, then slipped into a pair of dark green silky culottes, and a matching sleeveless top with a scooped neckline. As she was brushing her damp hair, she heard voices below her window, and, peeping out cautiously, saw Guido Bartaldi and an older man, tall, grey-haired and handsome, walking towards the chauffeured limousine awaiting them on the drive. She sighed with relief, because she’d feared Violetta might have persuaded them to stay for lunch. And it would be useless to pretend ill health again. She slid her feet into heel-less silver kid sandals, and went downstairs. She found her godmother standing by the long glass doors leading on to the terrace, staring out at the garden, so deep in her reverie that she started when Clare spoke to her. ‘Ah, carissima.’ There was a note of reproach in her voice. ‘I was wondering where you were. I wished to present you to the Conte did Mantelli.’ ‘I’m sorry.’ Clare dropped a penitent kiss on her cheek. ‘I got a little overheated in the garden, and went up to my room to cool off.’ She looked round innocently. ‘Have your visitors gone?’ ‘Yes.’ Violetta gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘But I do not flatter myself that they came to see me.’ She paused. ‘I understand the Marchese had a proposition for you.’ ‘Yes,’ Clare said calmly. ‘He wants me to act as chaperon for his bride-to-be.’ ‘That is what his uncle the Conte told me.’ Violetta sighed. ‘The girl Paola is a big problem to them all, I think. Clearly she needs someone simpatico, but with sense, to be her companion.’ She shot Clare a sideways glance. ‘I told the Conte you would be an ideal choice.’ ‘Does he know that forty-eight hours ago his nephew was trying to have me jailed?’ ‘Ah, but that was just a terrible misunderstanding,’ Violetta protested. ‘So unfortunate.’ ‘Unfortunate for me, certainly,’ Clare agreed. ‘I could have been deported. Unable to work here again.’ ‘But that has all changed now,’ Violetta said coaxingly. ‘And it would mean you would stay in Umbria, as I have always wished. It was always a sorrow to me that I had no children. And a daughter especially. This will allow me to see more of you while you earn a living.’ Clare bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry, Violetta, but I turned the Marchese down. I can’t possibly work for him. You must see that.’ ‘I see nothing of the kind,’ Violetta said with a touch of tartness. ‘You would live in luxury, and be paid a generous salary simply to stop a tiresome girl from causing more trouble. How can you refuse?’ ‘Quite easily. It—it’s not a cause to which I wish to devote a chunk of my life.’ Clare studied the coral enamel on her toenails as if her life depended on it. ‘But it would not even be for very long,’ her godmother urged. ‘The Conte tells me that he hopes Paola’s wedding will take place at the earliest opportunity. Marriage, of course, will settle her.’ ‘So the Marchese Bartaldi intends,’ Clare said evenly, feeling as if an icy fist had clenched inside her. ‘In the meantime, it will do him no harm to act as her simpatico companion himself. Maybe he could start by giving up his mistress in Siena.’ She sent Violetta a taut smile. ‘I wonder what’s for lunch? I’m starving.’ Over the next few days, Clare applied herself to enjoying her holiday with a kind of dogged determination. There was no further communication from the Villa Minerva, so it seemed that the Marchese had decided to accept his dismissal from her life. Which is exactly what I want, Clare told herself robustly. And all I have to do now is put the whole sorry business out of my mind. The weather was glorious, so part of each day was spent by the pool, where she swam and sunbathed, watched indulgently by Violetta, who sat rigorously safe-guarding her complexion with a parasol. On one occasion they drove to Urbino, so that Clare could see the art treasures in the magnificent Renaissance palace that towered over the city. Another day they visited Assisi, where Violetta murmured sorrowfully over the damage caused by the earthquake to the two great basilicas of St Francis and Clare, which stood at opposite ends of the town, both of which were being rapidly restored, however, even down to the famous Giotto frescoes which had suffered so disastrously. ‘Was it very frightening?’ Clare asked. Violetta shuddered. ‘The whole earth seemed to rock, mia cara. But I was so lucky. A few tiles from the roof—some panes of glass—that was all. Elsewhere such hardship and tragedy.’ As they drove back to Cenacchio, Clare found herself looking up at the rugged Appennine hills which provided such a dramatic backdrop to the narrow road they were travelling on. They said wolves still lived on those steep, thickly forested slopes, and she could believe it. There was a wild, almost savage quality about them. At the same time they looked so majestic—and eternal. As if nothing could move them. Yet the earth was such a fragile place, at the mercy of Nature in all kinds of ways, as the recent quakes had proved so drastically. And even when the world seemed at peace, as it did today, there were other more personal storms to endure. Disturbed nights, with too vivid dreams, and, by day, a strange, aching emptiness that she could not escape, she thought, shivering. ‘I need to stop in Cenacchio,’ Violetta announced as they reached the small town. ‘My attorney wishes me to sign some papers over the lease of a field. So tedious. Why don’t you look at the shops, and we will meet at the caffe in the square in a half-hour, cara?’ Clare agreed readily to this plan, wandering happily round the narrow cobbled streets, window-shopping at the boutiques, pausing at a small bookshop to buy a local guide book, and, on impulse, a life of St Clare of Assisi. At the delicatessen, she stared longingly at its mouth-watering displays of cheeses and sausages, and the enormous variety of goodies in jars and bottles. Before she went home she would treat herself to some really good olive oil, she determined. The half-hour was up, but there was no sign of Violetta at the caffe. Unperturbed, Clare seated herself at a table under the blue-striped awning, and ordered a cappuccino. She began to glance through the life of the saint, finding to her amusement that her namesake was the patron of television. Well, I suppose there has to be one, she thought, as she casually turned the pages. When a shadow fell across the table, she assumed it was Violetta, and glanced up with a smile, only to find Paola gazing anxiously at her. ‘Signorina—Clare?’ Her face broke into an uncertain smile. ‘I hoped it was you. Are you alone? May I join you?’ ‘Of course. I’m just waiting for my godmother.’ Clare returned the smile politely but without any particular enthusiasm. ‘Ah, the Signora Andreati. I was so pleased to meet her. Si amabile. Si elegante.’ ‘Yes, she’s all of that,’ Clare agreed, her tone softening, touched by the wistful note in Paola’s voice. The younger girl sat down beside Clare, and put a hand on her arm. ‘I have so much wanted to see you. I wanted to say how sorry I was for all that Guido made you suffer.’ She shook her head. ‘Che bruto. Did I not tell you?’ ‘Yes,’ Clare acknowledged. ‘But I don’t think you should tell me again. Not when you’re talking about the man you’re going to marry.’ ‘Niente paura,’ Paola asserted passionately. ‘It will not happen.’ She gave a wary look around her. ‘But I need your help.’ Clare sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Paola. But that wouldn’t be very wise. And you don’t really need help. You just have to say No and mean it.’ ‘You do not understand.’ Paola lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘His uncle is with us now, and they will force me to do as they say.’ Which pretty well confirmed what Violetta had told her, Clare thought, not without sympathy. ‘Why not talk to the parish priest?’ she suggested. ‘I’m sure he isn’t allowed to marry people against their will.’ ‘He does what Guido tells him,’ Paola said sullenly. ‘As they all do.’ Clare groaned inwardly. I don’t need this, she thought. She said, ‘Then the Marchese is hardly likely to take any notice of what I say either.’ ‘Oh, I do not mean that.’ Paola’s voice was conspiratorial. ‘But if you came to live at the Villa Minerva, you could help me escape.’ ‘If memory serves, you tried that already,’ Clare said drily. ‘And if your fidanzato has all this power, he’d soon find you, like he did last time. Besides, where would you go?’ She leaned back in her chair. ‘Paola, the best thing you can do is try and talk Guido out of this marriage. Convince him that it would be a disaster.’ ‘Or, there is another way.’ There was a glint of triumph in the other girl’s eyes. ‘I could always marry someone else.’ Clare felt her heart sink into her elegant sandals. ‘You have someone in mind?’ She tried to sound casual. ‘You know I do.’ Paola sounded shocked. ‘It is Fabio, of course.’ ‘Naturalamente,’ Clare said in a hollow voice. ‘I didn’t realise he was back in the picture.’ ‘He made contact again through Carlotta.’ Paola lowered her voice mysteriously. ‘Guido accused him of wanting only my fortune—said terrible, threatening things to him. For a while, he was frightened, but now he knows he cannot live without me, and he will risk anything.’ I bet, Clare thought stonily, tempted to take Paola by her pretty shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled. But that would solve nothing. In fact, it would probably harden Paola’s determination to ruin her life. And Clare hadn’t the slightest doubt that would be the outcome if the silly girl wasn’t stopped. She could, of course, dump the whole thing on Guido Bartaldi, but he would probably try and put a stop to the affair by locking Paola in a convent, or something equally mediaeval. And that would simply turn her into a martyr, and make her more stubborn than ever. No, Paola must somehow be made to see Fabio for what he really was. To be disillusioned so deeply that he would never stand a cat in hell’s chance with her again. Nor anyone else of his ilk, she added grimly. But if Paola eluded Fabio’s frying pan, she should not be despatched to the Marchese’s fire either. They’re just so wrong for each other, Clare told herself vehemently. It would be a wretched marriage for both of them. Although there was no reason why she should care what kind of a mess Guido Bartaldi created for himself, she admitted, biting her lip. No, Paola was her concern here. She might be young and giddy, but she didn’t deserve either of the fates that were being wished on her. But, Clare conceded, she needed to learn to grow up, and stand on her own two feet. Become her own rescuer, instead of relying on other people. I wonder if she’s capable of that? Clare thought, stealing a sideways glance at the lovely face with its full, sulky mouth. So far, she’s spent most of her time being handed round like a parcel, and letting men dictate to her. I wonder if I could show her that there’s more to life than that? ‘Clare—you do not speak.’ Paola’s voice was petulant. ‘What are you thinking?’ Clare smiled at her calmly. ‘I’m just trying to decide what the best plan of action might be.’ ‘Then you will help me?’ The younger girl’s face was suddenly transfigured. ‘But how? Guido told me he asked you to take the place of the Signora, but you would not. And it will be hard for us to keep in touch when you are in Cenacchio. I cannot always think of reasons to come here.’ ‘Then I’ll just have to come to the Villa Minerva,’ Clare said resignedly. ‘You mean it? You will tell Guido you have changed your mind? Oh, that is wonderful.’ ‘Yes,’ Clare said, wincing inwardly. ‘I’ll tell him.’ And, as if she’d conjured him up from some dark place in her soul, she saw him walking across the square towards them, with Violetta chatting vivaciously at his side. ‘Guido,’ Paola carolled. ‘Guess what. Clare says she will be my companion after all. Isn’t that good news?’ Guido halted, his brows lifting as his dark gaze swept from Paola’s triumphant face to Clare’s tense figure. ‘I am overwhelmed,’ he said courteously, after a pause. ‘Particularly as you seemed so adamant at our last meeting. May I know what has brought about this change of heart?’ ‘I’ve had time to think things over,’ Clare returned evenly. ‘And I realise there could be mutual advantages in the situation. I planned to spend a few months in Italy, and working locally I can continue to see Signora Andreati in my free time.’ She paused. ‘I presume I shall have free time?’ she added. ‘That you won’t expect me to maintain a round-the-clock watch on Paola?’ He gave her a long, dispassionate look. ‘These are details, signorina. I am sure we can work out an arrangement that will be agreeable to us both.’ ‘Oh, not signorina,’ Paola protested. ‘So dull—so antiquato. You must say Clare, as I do. And she must call you Guido.’ ‘As I’m going to be the Marchese’s employee, maybe a certain formality should be maintained.’ Clare returned his cool look with compound interest. ‘It shall be exactly as you wish—Miss Marriot. And staying in touch with your godmother should not be a problem either, as I hope very much she will consent to be my guest at the Villa Minerva for a few weeks. While you are—finding your feet, shall we say?’ He turned the charm of his smile on Violetta. ‘Well, signora, will you do us all the honour of accompanying the signorina when she joins my household?’ No way, thought Clare. No one’s ever managed to winkle Violetta out of the Villa Rosa at this time of year. And just as well, because I’m going to need somewhere to retreat to. And Paola might need a temporary refuge too. But, ‘How very good of you. I should be delighted, Marchese,’ Violetta proclaimed sweetly, offering him a melting look as he bowed over her hand. ‘Naturally I do not wish to interfere with any plans you have made for her entertainment,’ Guido continued. ‘But it would be helpful if Miss Marriot could take up her duties as soon as possible.’ ‘That will be no problem,’ Violetta assured him serenely. ‘We are at your disposal, signore. Clare, indeed could join you tomorrow, and I will follow as soon as I have made the necessary arrangements at home.’ Clare found she was sitting with her mouth open, and closed it indignantly. ‘Arrange my life, why don’t you’ she muttered under her breath. She had the feeling that she was being swept along on some inexorable tide. That things were already out of her control. And it was not a sensation she relished. She’d allowed her concern for Paola to railroad her into a decision she would certainly regret, she realised with resignation. But it wasn’t irrevocable. She was no longer Guido Bartaldi’s prisoner, and could leave whenever she wanted. She came out of her less than reassuring reverie to the awareness that he was watching her, a faint smile slanting the corners of his mouth, as if his thoughts were providing him with some kind of private satisfaction. She lifted her chin in silent challenge, wishing she could read his gaze. He wasn’t wearing sunglasses today, so there was no artificial barrier between them, but it made no real difference. He was still an enigma to her. A puzzle she had no hope of solving. But maybe that was a good thing, she told herself soberly. Arm’s length, and more, was the safest distance with a man like him. She had already glimpsed what devastation even a fleeting intimacy with him could evoke. Just the memory of his hand—his mouth—on her skin made her tremble inside. She could not afford any more such moments of weakness. ‘Come, Paola.’ Guido Bartaldi extended his hand. ‘We should return home and prepare to receive our guests.’ The other girl pouted, but she rose readily enough and went to his side, sliding her arm through his with a casual familiarity that seemed to belie her earlier protests about their relationship. Perhaps I won’t have to do a thing, after all, Clare thought with an odd pang. Maybe all he needs is to court her properly—gently and romantically—and she’ll forget all that other nonsense and fall into his hand like a piece of ripe fruit. And that would solve a whole lot of problems, she thought, stifling a little sigh, as polite goodbyes were said and the Marchese and his future bride moved away across the square. So why did she feel no happier at the prospect? ‘You will need clothes,’ Violetta planned, over more cappuccinos. ‘I think we’ve been here before.’ Clare gave her a despairing look. ‘I have a perfectly adequate wardrobe already.’ ‘Not for the Villa Minerva,’ Violetta said firmly. ‘For my position there,’ Clare said steadily. ‘You may be a guest, but I’m simply the hired help.’ ‘Why do you speak of yourself in such a way? You are going to be the little Paola’s companion. You will be expected to join in her social life, so—you must dress appropriately.’ ‘I don’t go around in rags now,’ Clare said with spirit. ‘And you’ve already paid for an evening dress for me. I don’t need anything else.’ Violetta expelled a sigh of pure exasperation. ‘Dio, how can you be so stubborn—and so blind?’ she demanded. ‘Don’t you see what an opportunity this is for you?’ ‘It’s just another job, with, hopefully, a decent reference at the end of it,’ Clare said calmly. ‘But in the course of this job you will get to meet many people.’ Violetta made a dramatic gesture that nearly sent her cappuccino flying. ‘It could change your life.’ Clare gave her a level look. ‘The people in question being men?’ she suggested. ‘Well?’ Violetta said defensively. ‘Is it so impossible? You are a beautiful girl. You do not seem to appreciate that.’ ‘Perhaps because I know how little it means.’ Clare tried to speak lightly. ‘James used to tell me I was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen. But I couldn’t compete with Ginny Parrish trailing her father’s millions past him.’ Her smile was crooked. ‘I suddenly found I was being lovely all by myself.’ ‘So that is what happened.’ There was compassion in Violetta’s bright eyes. ‘You never spoke about it before.’ ‘I don’t know why I’m talking about it now,’ Clare said a touch wearily. ‘Unless it’s because I’m watching another merger masquerading as marriage, and it tends to revive unhappy memories.’ ‘Cara, not all men are like this—James. One day you will meet someone who will value you for yourself. Who will not care how much money you have.’ ‘I hope so.’ Clare sighed. ‘But I guarantee I won’t be meeting him at the Villa Minerva. Because that isn’t how it works.’ She paused. ‘Maybe we should be getting back. I need to pack my rags,’ she added, deadpan. ‘Oh, you are an impossible girl,’ Violetta told her crossly. ‘You’re quite tricky yourself,’ Clare countered. ‘What on earth made you accept Guido Bartaldi’s invitation? You never go anywhere in the summer.’ Violetta shrugged. ‘He is not an easy man to refuse—as you have discovered, carissima,’ she said airily. ‘And it means we shall not be separated—which is kind of him.’ ‘Oh, he’s a regular Good Samaritan,’ Clare agreed with irony. ‘And, of course, you’ll be meeting—people too.’ She gave a swift gurgle of laughter. ‘Who knows? Maybe your life will be the one to change.’ ‘Now you are being ridiculous,’ Violetta said with unwonted coolness. ‘You know quite well that I shall never consider another relationship.’ ‘So you’ve always said.’ Clare was taken aback. ‘But surely you can’t rule out the possibility.’ ‘I can and I will.’ Violetta was looking positively ruffled. ‘And I find I do not care for this foolish conversation.’ She picked up her bag. ‘If you are ready, let us go. And do not forget,’ she threw over her shoulder, ‘you were the first to change her mind.’ Clare followed her meekly to the car, bewildered by this sudden display of asperity. It must be the Villa Minerva, she thought. The place has some kind of disruptive, discordant influence on everyone. And tomorrow I’ll be there. So what effect will it have on me? And she found a sudden warning shiver tingling down her spine. CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_a1b27b9a-e721-54c7-b872-20e5762eecd2) CLARE woke with a sudden start, and lay for a moment, staring towards the shuttered window, wondering what had disturbed her. On the last occasion that she’d been startled out of sleep it had, of course, been the doing of Guido Bartaldi. She was almost afraid to turn her head and look round the room, in case she saw the shadow of his tall figure standing in some corner watching her. Now you’re just being paranoid, she told herself derisively. Because there was no sound in the room other than birdsong, and nothing to see either, except the slatted pattern of sunlight falling across the floor. Clare sighed, then took her watch from the night-table and studied it. It was still very early. No one in the house would be stirring yet, and there was no good reason for her to do so either. Except this vague feeling of disquiet assailing her. And it was also too late for further sleep, she decided, drawing up her knees and resting her chin on them. Although she was still tired after another restless, dream-ridden night. What is the matter with me? She asked herself angrily. I’ve always been the soundest of sleepers. And, if I had dreams, I didn’t remember them particularly. And I certainly didn’t carry them, like lumber, into the next day. But here they were, buzzing around her head still, refusing to be dismissed or forgotten. To her irritation, James had been there, of course, his smile charming her, his voice soft and cajoling as he tried to persuade her that the mere fact of his marriage to someone else did not have to interfere with their own relationship. And she’d sat, watching him in disbelief as he sketched out the half-life he had planned for her future. Watching him retreating backwards down some long tunnel of her imagination, getting smaller with every step until he’d finally vanished. The memory of it still had the power to make her shiver. In reality, of course, they’d had a furious row, and he’d stormed out telling her brutally that she was middle class and small-minded, and that he’d come back when she was prepared to be an adult. ‘Don’t you mean an adulterer?’ she’d yelled after him, anger keeping the tears of hurt and shock at bay. But in the dream she’d been unable to speak or move. Only feel the pain of betrayal twisting in her like a knife. The horror of knowing that James, whom she loved—whom she’d believed had loved her—was perfectly ready to sacrifice her and everything they’d had together. To relegate her to some corner of his existence while Ginny’s money bought her the status of wife. ‘Of course, I don’t love her like I love you,’ he’d told her over and over again. ‘You know that, darling. But it’s always been understood we’d marry each other. Fixed up by the families years ago. Her father and mine do a lot of business together, you see. I—I can’t afford to pull out. But it needn’t make any difference—to us.’ And she’d replied, as she always had, ‘It makes all the difference in the world, James. Because I can’t afford to stay.’ In last night’s dream she’d seen James again, standing at the altar in a great Gothic church, with Ginny beside him in her white dress and veil. And she’d tried to reach him—to run up the aisle and prevent the ceremony. To tell him he was making a terrible mistake. But her legs and feet had felt like lead, and the harder she’d tried, the greater the distance had seemed to become between them. And when, eventually, she’d got to his side and seized his arm, forcing him to turn and face her, it hadn’t been James at all who’d stood looking down at her with smiling contempt, but Guido Bartaldi, his eyes like flint. She could explain it all away, of course. The memories of James she’d thought were dead and buried had been revived by her conversation with Violetta. And as for the Marchese—well, he was never far from her thoughts, although it made her cringe to admit it, even to herself. He was there, in her mind, she thought restively, as if he’d been etched there, impossible to erase. But it wasn’t really impossible. Time and distance would make him fade into obscurity, and set her free again. She needed to be rid of him while it was still possible. Before he hurt her—damaged her beyond repair. And taking herself off to live under his roof was quite the worst thing she could do. I should never have agreed, she told herself, swallowing past the sudden tightness in her throat. It was crazy. Because he was another James—the kind of man she most despised. A man marrying for convenience rather than any involvement of the heart. Someone prepared to treat his marriage as a licence to do anything he wanted. And expecting herself, of all people, to reconcile his intended bride to this unenviable fate, she thought furiously. Although he couldn’t know, of course, what an insult this was. The kind of devastating memories it had evoked for her. But it wasn’t an insult she necessarily had to put up with… The thought strayed idly into her mind, then took firmer hold, making her sit bolt upright, her mouth set with sudden determination. ‘I don’t have to do this,’ she said aloud ‘and I won’t. I’m going to cut my losses and get out of here. Back to sanity. Back to safety.’ Although she didn’t want to examine too closely the exact nature of the danger she was in, or its current depth. She pushed back the sheet, and swung her legs to the floor. She could leave right now, before anyone was any the wiser, she told herself. If she was quick—and quiet—she could be miles away before she was even missed. Her packing, after all, was done. All she needed was to put her bags in the rented Fiat—and drive. And Violetta was unlikely to disturb her for several hours. Not when Clare had left her the previous evening with the excuse that she needed an early night to prepare her for the coming ordeal. ‘Such an ordeal.’ Violetta had cast her eyes to heaven. ‘Most girls would give anything to take your place.’ ‘But I’m not most girls,’ Clare had returned, kissing her cheek. She’d been relieved to find that Violetta’s sudden spurt of ill-temper had been short-lived, and that her godmother had soon reverted to her usual charming self once they were back at the Villa Rosa. But I still don’t fully understand what was going on, she admitted frowningly, as she grabbed some undies and a plain cream skirt and top and headed for the bathroom. But Violetta’s vagaries had to take second place in the scheme of things, as Clare showered and dressed and made her plans. Returning to Rome was probably her safest bet, she thought, grimacing. It would be easier to stay hidden in a crowd—always supposing anyone was to come looking for her… There she’d find a travel agent, and buy herself any ticket on any flight back to the UK. She would leave a note for her godmother, saying simply that she’d changed her mind, and gone away to avoid embarrassment. She only hoped Violetta’s invitation to the Villa Minerva would still stand in her absence, as she was clearly looking forward to it with keen anticipation. After all, it’s not her fault that I’m reneging on our bargain, she thought defensively. Although Guido Bartaldi might not see it that way. He would not be pleased to find his arrangements for Paola jettisoned like this. But—in every war there were bound to be casualties. And she regarded her dealings with Guido Bartaldi as war-like in the extreme. But the problem of Paola remained, of course, she admitted, biting her lip. Especially now that Fabio was around again to muddy the waters. Paola was still little more than a child, after all. She didn’t deserve to be left to the tender mercies of a man who was marrying her for commercial reasons—whether he was a confidence trickster, or a member of the Italian nobility, she added with a certain violence. No, she didn’t like the idea of leaving the girl in the lurch, but what choice did she have? Her own peace of mind had to be her priority. I’ll write to Violetta, she promised herself guiltily. Warn her about Fabio. She’s been targeted by men like him ever since she was widowed, and she’s seen them all off. She must be able to find some way of bringing Paola to her senses. As she made her way quietly down the stairs, she could hear faint clattering from the kitchen regions, signalling that Angelina had started her day. She opened the heavy wooden door with exaggerated care, wincing as the hinges creaked, and edged round it into the bright morning sunlight. For a moment she was dazzled, and blinked. When she could see again, she realised there was a car parked at the foot of the steps—something long, dark and sporting. And leaning against its bonnet was someone tall, dark and definitely unsporting. Guido Bartaldi, totally at his ease, and looking as if he had all the time in the world. Shock and disbelief turned her to stone. She stood, staring down at him, lips parted in silent horror. ‘Buongiorno.’ He looked up at her, and smiled, and she felt her heart turn over. ‘It’s a beautiful day.’ She found her voice. It emerged with something of a croak. ‘What—what are you doing here?’ ‘I came to meet you—to escort you to the Villa Minerva.’ He paused, his brows slanting mockingly as he focused on her travel bag. ‘Something told me that you would wish to make an early start—and I see I was right.’ He walked up the steps and took the bag from her unresisting hand. ‘How good to know we are in such accord. It bodes well for the future, don’t you think?’ ‘No, I don’t.’ Clare drew a deep breath. ‘It was—considerate of you to think of me, but I’m quite capable of making my own way to your house.’ ‘I never doubted your capability, mia cara,’ he tossed back over his shoulder. ‘Merely your willingness to comply with our bargain. But perhaps I have a naturally suspicious mind.’ He put her bag in his boot, then walked round and opened the passenger door. ‘Shall we go?’ Clare lifted a defiant chin. ‘I have my own car, thank you.’ ‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘The rented Fiat. It is no longer here.’ Clare swung round and found the parking place next to Violetta’s car was indeed empty. ‘Where is it?’ she demanded. His voice was silk. ‘I arranged to have it collected earlier today, and returned to the hire company’s office in Perugia. And also for the bill to be settled on your behalf. I hope this is agreeable to you.’ ‘It’s far from agreeable,’ Clare said fierily. ‘How dare you make such arrangements without consulting me?’ ‘It is not easy to consult you,’ he said, ‘when you insist on being so determinedly asleep so much of the time.’ He paused. ‘Your godmother thought it was a good idea, when I spoke to her last night, and was happy to hand over the documentation and the keys.’ ‘Quite a little conspiracy,’ Clare said icily. She realised now what had woken her. The sound of the Fiat being removed. ‘I wasn’t aware that hire companies started their activities at dawn.’ ‘They don’t. But my associates do, when necessary.’ He let her digest this, then went on smoothly, ‘Now, shall we drop the subject, or continue this argument on the journey? The choice is yours.’ ‘Really?’ Clare queried bitterly. ‘It seems to me that all my choices have been pre-empted.’ He laughed. ‘Not all of them, cara. Just those that would not be to your advantage—or mine.’ Clare stood her ground. ‘I haven’t said goodbye to my godmother yet.’ ‘I did not realise you had planned to,’ he murmured, his mouth twisting. ‘As it is, she asked last night not to be disturbed, and said she would see you very soon.’ The dark eyes met hers. Held them. ‘Is there another problem, or may we begin our drive?’ Now, if ever, was the moment to tell him she’d changed her mind. That she had no intention of going anywhere with him. This was her chance to go back into the house, shut herself into her room, and tell Angelina that she did not wish to meet the Marchese Bartaldi again while she was under Violetta’s roof. But the words wouldn’t come. Not when he was—looking at her. Making her look back at him. Making her realise that there was no escape. Because Fate had intervened, and the die had been cast for her. She thought, with a kind of frantic calm, It’s too late. It’s all far too late—and—somehow—it always has been. And walked slowly down the steps to the waiting car. ‘You are very quiet.’ Clare, who’d been sitting, staring rigidly through the windscreen, her hands gripped together in her lap for the first fifteen minutes of the journey, started slightly as Guido spoke. ‘I think “stunned” would be a more apposite word,’ she returned constrainedly. ‘Are you a nervous passenger? Am I going too fast for you?’ Now there, thought Clare, was a loaded question. Aloud she said, coolly, ‘I’m not nervous. As I’m sure you already know, Marchese, you’re a very good driver.’ The road they were taking twisted and twined between tall, heavily forested hills, but she’d been aware from the first that the car’s power was being tightly, even ruthlessly controlled. As he controls everything else, she thought tautly. And she was deeply conscious, too, of Guido Bartaldi’s own physical proximity to her in the comparatively confined conditions of the vehicle. Watching his hand change gear only inches from her thigh. The play of muscle in his forearms as he turned the wheel. Each slight action or reaction made its own individual impact on her senses. It was an effort to breathe normally, she realised, swallowing. To ignore the heightened pulsing of her bloodstream. Her whole body’s tense response to his nearness. He shot a glance at her. ‘Then perhaps you’re sulking because I whisked you away with me.’ She gasped indignantly. ‘I don’t sulk. But are you quite so high-handed with all your staff?’ ‘I don’t know.’ There was a note of amusement in his voice. ‘And I am also the wrong person to ask. Maybe you should consult them.’ He paused. ‘But I should make one thing clear, Chiara. I do not regard you simply as a member of staff.’ She stiffened. Her swift sideways glance was wary. ‘I don’t understand. You asked me to work for you. That was the deal.’ ‘Si,’ he agreed. ‘But I would much prefer you to work with me—as a colleague. Even a friend.’ Pain lanced through her. ‘That—can’t happen.’ ‘Why not? After all, while you live under my roof, cara mia, you will be almost a member of the family.’ ‘You’re paying me a salary, signore. In my book that makes me an employee—and I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ she added with emphasis, then hesitated. ‘And while we’re discussing preferences, I’d rather you didn’t use—endearments when you speak to me. I feel it’s—inappropriate.’ There was a silence, then, ‘So what do you wish to be called?’ She bit her lip. ‘I—I don’t know. How did you address Paola’s previous companion?’ ‘As “signora”,’ he said gravely. ‘Then maybe we should be equally formal.’ ‘The two cases are hardly the same. The Signora was a much older woman. And she did not have hair like sunlight and a honey mouth. You see the difficulty?’ ‘If you persist with remarks like that, signore,’ Clare said coldly, ‘working for you will not just be difficult—but impossible. Maybe you should stop the car right here and now.’ ‘Per Dio,’ he said. ‘So I am forbidden even the mildest flirtation?’ ‘By no means,’ Clare returned primly, furiously aware that he was laughing at her. ‘Just as long as it’s directed at Paola.’ ‘How dull,’ he murmured. Clare swallowed. ‘If that’s how you feel, maybe you should think again about being married. It seems to me that you’re heading for disaster.’ ‘And it seems to me,’ he said, ‘that you are very candid—for an employee.’ He allowed the point to register, then continued smoothly. ‘But put your mind at rest. I promise I am becoming more reconciled to my fate with every day that passes.’ ‘But yours isn’t the only point of view that counts. Can you honestly say the same for Paola?’ He shrugged. ‘That is for you to find out.’ ‘And if I can’t do what you want?’ she said slowly. ‘If she won’t accept this marriage—what then?’ He laughed. ‘I have infinite faith in your powers of persuasion, mia bella. Besides,’ he added, his voice hardening slightly, ‘you must see that Paola needs to be married. There are no other options open to her. She is not trained for a career, although she has spoken vaguely of modelling, and she has no qualifications. At school, she was regarded as a charming feather-brain.’ ‘Maybe she’d be very good at modeling,’ Clare suggested, without much hope. ‘She has the looks,’ he agreed. ‘But no discipline. A life that required her to get out of bed before midday would have little appeal. I doubt she has the stamina either. It is a physically taxing existence.’ Clare bit her lip. ‘Poor Paola.’ He shook his head. ‘You need not pity her. Because she will be happy—and safe. She needs above all someone who will look after her, and prevent her from doing something reckless and ruinous.’ ‘Like marrying the wrong man,’ Clare said bitterly. He slanted a smile at her. ‘But by the time the wedding takes place, mia bella, she will not think that. I guarantee it.’ A curious emotion stirred inside Clare, compounded of anger and something perilously like envy. She said, ‘Heaven help her.’ ‘Heaven is where the best marriages are made, Chiara.’ The undercurrent of laughter in his voice goaded her. ‘Isn’t that what they say?’ ‘I think,’ Clare said coldly, ‘that “they” talk an awful lot of nonsense.’ And relapsed into a fulminating silence. The Villa Minerva lay at the head of a small valley, a tawny sprawl of a house, crowned in faded terracotta tiles and enclosed protectively by the encircling arms of the craggy dark green slopes which reared behind it. Like an old, proud lion sleeping in the sun, Clare thought with an involuntary lift of her heart, as she caught her first glimpse of it through the trees that lined its steep, private road. She’d expected something far more stately and grand, even intimidating. But, apart from its considerable size, the villa looked reassuringly home-like. She thought, ‘It’s beautiful,’ and only realised she’d spoken aloud when she caught the flicker of her companion’s smile, and a murmured ‘Grazie.’ Minutes later, the car negotiated a gateway guarded by tall stone pillars, and drove into a large paved courtyard fronting the house, where a fountain in the Baroque style sent lazy arcs of water curving into the sparkling air. Guido had barely stopped the car at the foot of the short flight of steps which led up to a massively timbered front entrance, when Paola came running out to meet them. ‘Clare, you have come.’ Face and voice were stormy. ‘I did not think it would happen—not when Guido has set his other jailer on me,’ she added, giving the Marchese a venomous look as he emerged from the car. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Then Tonio is here. Bene.’ ‘It is not good—’ Paola began rebelliously, but Clare stepped in. ‘Pardon me,’ she said levelly, ‘But I understood I was coming here as your companion, Paola. As a friend. Not a jailer. But if that’s how you see me, I’ll leave now.’ ‘No, I did not mean it.’ Paola put a placatory hand on her sleeve. ‘I spoke hastily. I was just so angry when Tonio arrived.’ ‘I cannot think why,’ Guido said coldly. ‘He is here on estate business to consult with me, and it is more convenient for him to stay in this house. His presence should not affect you. You need not even speak to him.’ ‘Not speak to him?’ Paola’s voice lifted in outrage. ‘Someone I have known my entire life? Of course I shall talk to him.’ She grabbed Clare’s hand. ‘Now come and see your room.’ ‘My luggage,’ Clare began. ‘Matteo will see to that.’ Paola tugged her into the house. ‘Matteo?’ ‘Guido’s maggiordomo. And his wife, Benedetta, is the housekeeper.’ Clare found herself in a big, shadowy entrance hall with a flagged floor. At the far end, a wide stone staircase led the way to the upper floor, its harsh lines softened by a central strip of thick crimson carpet. High, narrow windows admitted slanting pools of sunlight, and as she was whisked towards the stairs Clare noticed a number of double doors spaced at intervals around the hall. But before she could speculate where they might lead, she was halfway to the first floor. ‘Are they the only staff?’ she queried with slight breathlessness. ‘Dio, no.’ Paola gave a little laugh. ‘There is a cook, and two maids, as well as Guido’s driver—and his secretary. Then there is Alberto, the gardener, and the men who work for him. And Franco, who looks after the horses…’ ‘A cast of thousands,’ Clare commented drily. ‘I didn’t realise there’d be horses here.’ ‘Guido likes them.’ Paola’s tone was offhand. ‘When he was younger, of course, he played polo.’ ‘You don’t ride?’ Paola shuddered dramatically. ‘No—nor play tennis, although Guido wishes me to learn.’ Clare smiled. ‘It’s a terrific game. You might enjoy it.’ Paola tossed her head. ‘Oh it is far too hot, and, besides, I do not like to run about. Although sometimes I swim in the pool,’ she added on a note of self-congratulation. The Marchese might have been right about Paola’s lack of stamina after all, Clare thought wryly, following the younger girl along a broad gallery. ‘Do you play tennis—and ride—and go for long walks?’ ‘Why—yes.’ ‘And you truly like these things?’ Paola sighed gustily at Clare’s affirmative nod. ‘I shall never understand—never. But it’s good, because you can be a companion for Guido, and I shall have some peace.’ But that’s not the plan at all, Clare thought, appalled, and was about to say so when Paola announced, ‘You are here,’ and threw open a door with a flourish, allowing Clare to walk past her into the biggest bedroom she’d ever seen. She had always considered that Violetta lived in a fair amount of luxury, but now her eyes widened as she took in the huge bed which dominated the room, its canopy and curtains in ivory silk, and the matching coverlet ornamented with medallions exquisitely embroidered in gold thread. The rest of the furniture was correspondingly large, and made from some dark, heavily carved wood, and the far wall was occupied by tall shuttered windows giving access on to a wide balcony with a delicate wrought-iron balustrade. The chill of the marble-tiled floor was relieved by beautiful tapestry rugs in blue, green and gold. The adjoining bathroom was equally glamorous, tiled in grey and silver, with a sunken bath deep and wide enough for multiple occupation. There were stacks of white linen towels emblazoned with the Bartaldi family crest, and mirrored shelves of toiletries. ‘My room is further down the gallery, and Signora Andreati will be placed next door to you,’ Paola continued, as they returned to the bedroom. ‘Do you think you will be comfortable here?’ Clare drew a deep breath. ‘More than just comfortable,’ she said. ‘It’s all—quite amazing. I can hardly believe it.’ Paola shrugged. ‘It’s old-fashioned. Antiquato,’ she said dismissively. ‘And Guido refuses to change anything.’ Her eyes brightened. ‘You should see my stepmother’s apartment in Rome. Now that is truly elegante—and so modern.’ She sighed, then pointed to a silken rope hanging beside the bed. ‘If you need anything, ring the bell and Filumena, one of the maids, will come. She will also unpack for you if you wish.’ Clare shook her head. ‘I can manage my own unpacking. And I can’t think of a thing that hasn’t been provided already. ‘Well, Guido will wish you to be contented.’ Paola pulled a face. ‘Whatever I may think about him, I cannot deny he is a good host. And I am pleased that he brought you so early—so that we can have breakfast together. Come down when you are ready, and we will eat.’ She walked to the door, then looked back, lowering her voice mysteriously. ‘And later we will talk. Make plans. Ciao.’ And she vanished, leaving Clare feeling winded, and slightly apprehensive. To try and ensure that Paola had a say in her own future was one thing, but plotting with her, especially if Fabio was involved, was something else. She thought, I’m going to have to be very careful. But, in the meantime, she could enjoy herself a little. She took another long, pleasurable look round the room, her gaze coming speculatively to rest on the big bed, wondering if it was really as soft and luxurious as it appeared. Well, there was only one way to find out, she decided gleefully. She took a flying leap and landed in the middle of it, bouncing up and down to test the springs, which met the challenge nobly. She turned over and lay voluptuously, lazily supine, her arms tossed wide, one leg slightly drawn up, staring at the silken canopy above her. This, she thought dreamily, must be what it’s like to float on a cloud. I shall sleep well in this bed. In fact, I could sleep right now. Just—drift away… The tap on the door signalled the end of that particular dream, and the arrival of her luggage. What was the maid’s name? Had Paola said Filumena? Yes, she was sure of it. She called, ‘Come in.’ And, as the door opened, ‘Please leave my bag by the cassetone, Filumena. I’ll see to it later.’ ‘As you wish, signorina.’ The amused drawl which responded had no feminine tone whatsoever. Clare jack-knifed into an upright position, tugging down her rumpled skirt, shocked colour flooding her face as Guido walked across the room and deposited her bag by the chest of drawers. ‘I am sorry to have startled you,’ he went on. ‘I brought your things myself so that I could make sure you had everything you needed.’ Clare swallowed. ‘Yes—I—everything…’ she managed. She couldn’t imagine what he must be thinking, finding her sprawled across a probably priceless bedspread like this. He walked slowly across the room and stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at her, smiling faintly. ‘You like the bed.’ It was a statement rather than a question, and Clare nodded mutely. ‘This was the room my mother used when she came to stay here before her marriage, while my father was paying court to her.’ His voice was almost meditative. ‘It was considered to be a safe distance from his room, on the other side of the gallery, and besides, her mother was next door. ‘But I have often wondered if, during the long, hot Umbrian afternoons, love did not sometimes find a way. ‘It is, after all, a serious temptation to find yourself under the same roof as the one you desire—don’t you think, Chiara?’ ‘I—I don’t know.’ Her mouth was dry, but her body was suddenly melting, stirred into arousal by the images he had created. She could feel a trickle of sweat running down the valley between her breasts, as her nipples swelled uncontrollably into hard peaks against the clinging fabric of her top. The damp, potent heat between her thighs seemed to be spreading through her entire being, engulfing her. Prompting her to madness. To ruin. Because some secret, atavistic wisdom was telling her that all she had to do was reach out a hand to him—draw him down beside her—and her body would be his. She knew it as surely as she knew she must draw air into her lungs to breathe. And, for a few, brief honeyed moments, he would belong to her, too. But only in the most basic, physical sense. There could never be any more to it than that. Whereas she was offering him her heart and soul. The year’s most unwanted gift, she realised with sudden, savage anguish. And only she would ever know how close she had come to betraying her own pride and self-respect. From somewhere, she found a voice. Cool, calm and almost collected. A stranger’s. ‘Those were other times, signore. And other people. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to unpack. Would you tell Paola that I’ll join her in a minute?’ There was a silence, then he said quietly, ‘It will be my pleasure.’ She did not watch him walk away. And she sensed rather than heard the door close behind him. And even when she knew she was alone she did not move, but stayed where she was, crouched tensely on the bed, her arms wrapped round her body. As if remaining quiet and still would somehow shield her from disaster. From the danger she’d sensed in the first moment she saw him. The danger of total self-betrayal. She said with a new and passionate intensity, ‘I shall indeed have to be careful. Very careful.’ And shivered. CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_85cdb125-31f9-5c37-9bd8-521b360eae80) SHE could not, of course, stay where she was, hiding in her room, however much she might want to. Out of the confusion of her thoughts, that much at least was plain. Because to skulk ignominiously upstairs would be a complete give-away. An acknowledgement that he had got to her. Penetrated the guard she had thought virtually indestructible. Set her emotions in turmoil. And she could not allow him such a victory. He had chosen Paola and he intended to marry her, and that was it. That was everything. Anything else was game-playing, probably because he was bored with his tepid courtship. So, she had to fight him—but not by meeting fire with fire. She could see what a perilous course that might be. No, her best—her safest bet was a war of attrition. Following her own rules of play instead of being beguiled by his. Demonstrating politely, even smilingly, that she was totally indifferent to his lethal charm. That he couldn’t reach her any more. It might take time, but he would eventually get the message. He was an experienced, sophisticated man. A one-sided contest would soon hold little interest for him. And for her, the real struggle would be with herself, she acknowledged painfully. Forcing herself to control her vulnerable senses—to subdue every female instinct she possessed. And somehow she had to begin now. She had to walk down that imposing staircase and join Guido Bartaldi and his family in the dining room for breakfast, and it would require every shred of composure in her being. She dived into her travel bag and extracted a dress, straight-cut and businesslike in navy, with short sleeves and a discreetly rounded neck, adding low-heeled navy sandals. She brushed her hair back severely from her face, and confined it at the nape of her neck with a tortoiseshell barrette. That was better, she thought, viewing herself critically in one of the full-length mirrors. She looked quiet and professional, and that was the image she needed to put over. It was an armour that had served her well in the past. She drew a deep, steadying breath, then started downstairs. Matteo was waiting in the hall to conduct her to the dining room. ‘Grazie.’ She returned his smile. ‘So many doors.’ ‘You will soon become accustomed, signorina.’ He nodded. ‘Si, very soon you will be quite at home.’ Which was the last thing she wanted to hear. But it helped that the dining room seemed full of people as he showed her in. She was able to smile round and return the polite chorus of ‘Buongiornos’ which greeted her, and pretend to be unconscious of the tall figure standing by the window at the end of the room. ‘So there you are. What an age you have been.’ Paola came over to her, slipping an arm through hers. ‘Everyone is waiting to meet you.’ She led Clare over to the handsome older man she’d glimpsed outside the Villa Rosa. ‘This is Guido’s uncle, the Conte di Mantelli. May I present Chiara Marriot, who is to be my companion?’ ‘It is a pleasure, signorina. And one too long delayed.’ The Count’s handshake was firm, and his face kind. ‘But I have heard a great deal about you, of course.’ ‘I can’t think that the Marchese can have found to say. After all, we hardly know each other.’ Clare’s tone was repressive, and he looked surprised. ‘Guido? But I was referring to your godmother, the Signora Andreati. She has been my informant.’ ‘Oh,’ Clare said in a hollow voice. ‘I see.’ Well done, she berated herself silently. An own goal in the first minute. She was horribly aware that Guido had heard every word of the little exchange, and was looking frankly amused. She turned with something like relief to meet Tonio Lerucci, introduced by Paola with a casualness that bordered on rudeness. He was younger than she’d imagined, and of medium height, with a charming smile that lit his dark monkey face. ‘It is good to meet you, signorina. Let me get you some coffee.’ She thanked him, chatting lightly while she filled a plate from the display of cold meat, sausage and cheese on the massive sideboard, and took a hot roll from a covered basket proffered by a maid. Guido had taken his seat at the head of the table, so she contrived to manouevre herself into a chair at the other end, finding herself next to the Count. ‘So, signorina, what do you think of the Villa Minerva? Or is it too early to make a judgement?’ ‘By no means. I think it’s—beautiful.’ She glanced up at the exquisitely painted ceiling. ‘That must be very old.’ ‘Nearly four hundred years,’ he agreed. ‘As you see, it is a representation of Leda and the god Zeus who came to her in the guise of a swan.’ He pointed. ‘And there is the goddess Hera, watching jealously.’ ‘As she had to do so often,’ Clare said drily. ‘The painting’s in wonderful condition.’ ‘It has undergone certain restoration work, as most of the house’s treasures have done.’ He turned his head towards the Marchese. ‘I am telling Signorina Marriot, Guido, that you are an excellent guardian of your heritage.’ He nodded. ‘Your son will be a fortunate man.’ Clare, wincing inwardly, saw Paola look up with a mutinous scowl, and hastily intervened with a question about the date of the present house, which the Count was happy to answer. He was clearly an enthusiast, and very knowledgeable, and after a while Clare forgot her self-consciousness in the sheer pleasure of listening to him. During their conversation, she learned that he had been married to Guido’s aunt, but had been a widower for nearly five years. ‘To our sorrow, we had no children,’ he said. ‘So Guido was always more than a nephew to us, and, since I have been alone, he has made sure I continue to be part of his family.’ He smiled faintly. ‘He has a keen sense of his obligations, although, admittedly, he has waited longer to marry than his father would have wished.’ Clare bit her lip. ‘Perhaps he’s been waiting for his bride to grow up,’ she suggested awkwardly. ‘Or maybe he wished to be sure that she was the one woman to fill his life,’ the Count said gently. ‘He has made no secret of desiring a marriage as happy as that of his parents.’ Then why is he marrying Paola? Clare bit back the question. It was not her place to ask, she told herself raggedly. And, if he was determined enough, he could probably salvage something from such an ill-matched relationship, anyway. Breakfast over, Clare found herself commandeered by Paola, on the pretext that she wished to show her the gardens. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘But then we must do some work. After all, I’m here primarily to give you language lessons.’ Paola pulled a face. ‘School. Always it is more school with Guido.’ ‘Well, it’s important that you should be able to talk to foreign clients with him,’ Clare said reasonably. Paola giggled. ‘But that is not going to happen, silly one. And Fabio speaks only Italian, so you can just pretend to give me lessons.’ I think, Clare mused wearily, as she followed the younger girl into the sunlit grounds, that I already have as much pretence in my life as I can handle. In spite of her misgivings, Clare found her first day at the Villa Minerva passing more tranquilly than she could have hoped. She toured the gardens with Paola, turning a partially deaf ear to the torrent of half-formed and generally unworkable plans for her future that the younger girl assailed her with. The villa’s grounds were extensive and immaculately kept, and Clare, who loved plants, and had always worked alongside her father in their own garden, would have liked to have absorbed it all in peace. But, as this was clearly impossible, every so often she tried to introduce a note of sceptical and practical reality by asking what Fabio did for a living, where they would live after they were married, and how their bills would be paid. But Paola was inclined to dismiss all that as irrelevant. ‘All that matters,’ she declared passionately, ‘is our love for each other. And, besides, I shall have money when I’m older. I shall just have to make Guido give some of it to me now.’ Clare raised her brows. ‘After you’ve made a fool of him by running off with Fabio?’ She shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t count on it.’ ‘Ah,’ Paola said triumphantly. ‘But he will not wish it to be known that I have fooled him. Therefore, for the sake of his pride, he will do what I want, so that people will think he does not care.’ In which there was a certain twisted logic, Clare was forced to admit. She said, ‘Well, I hope everything works out for the best. Now, can you tell me the names of these flowers in English?’ But this Paola could not do, cheerfully admitting she didn’t know what they were called in Italian either. ‘Instead, we will go down to the pool and swim a little,’ she announced. ‘Paola, I’m here to work, not vacation.’ Paola pouted. ‘But this is only the first day. And Guido will not know. He and Tonio will be shut up in his study all morning, talking about farms and vineyards and the olive crop. All we need to do is avoid Zio Cesare, who is boring.’ ‘He’s nothing of the sort,’ Clare said roundly. ‘I was fascinated by what he was telling me about the villa.’ Paola gave her a stare of sheer incredulity. ‘Chiara—you like to hear about Etruscans—and architecture—and the school of Raphael?’ She flung her hands in the air. ‘Then there is no hope for you.’ ‘No,’ Clare agreed quietly. ‘I don’t suppose there is.’ In the event, they had the pool entirely to themselves. Clare was about to go back to the house to get her swimsuit, but Paola directed her to the stone-built cabins, on a cypress-sheltered terrace overlooking the water, which served as showers and changing rooms, and told her that there was always a supply of spare swimsuits and towels for guests. Most of those on offer seemed to be bikinis considerably briefer than her own, so Clare opted for a one-piece in a deep bronze colour. It wasn’t really suitable either, she thought grimly, being cut far too high in the leg and low in the neck, and fitting her like a second skin to boot. Paola, she discovered, had simply discarded the cotton shift she’d been wearing to reveal a costume that consisted of a black thong and two minute circles of material that barely covered her nipples. Really, Clare thought wearily, it hardly seemed worth the effort. But the pool itself was wonderful, a great oval of gleaming turquoise water surrounded by tiled sunbathing terraces. She walked to the edge and submerged a foot gingerly. The water felt terrific—cool, but refreshing. She poised herself, then dived in, swiftly and cleanly, completing three lengths without pausing. ‘You are crazy,’ Paola told her severely, as Clare hauled herself out on to the side and wrung the water from her hair. ‘Such exercise cannot be good. You will develop big muscles—like a man.’ Clare grinned. ‘I’ll take that chance.’ She towelled herself down, then stretched out on an adjacent lounger to Paola’s. The morning was still, and would soon be very hot. After a few desultory remarks about her longing to hear from Fabio again, Paola drifted into silence, and then into a light doze. But Clare had her thoughts to keep her awake. She was beginning to think she had bitten off more than she could chew where Paola was concerned. Perhaps it would have been wiser simply to tell Guido Bartaldi that, in spite of everything, his future wife was still planning to elope with her fortune-hunter, and let him deal with the situation in his own way. If he fully appreciated Paola’s determination to be rid of him, he might even abandon the whole idea of marrying her. Or it might make him equally determined to win her over. He wasn’t a man to easily surrender his own will, and his mind was set on Paola. She sighed, and sat up restlessly, swinging her legs off the lounger. She was in no mood to lie around brooding. She said softly, ‘Paola? I’m going up to the house to unpack, and make some notes about the lessons. I’ll see you at lunch.’ The only reply was a sleepy murmur which might have meant anything. Draping her towel round her shoulders, Clare walked up the stone steps between the banks of shrubs towards the changing cabin. The air was full of scent, and busy with the hum of insects. She drew a deep breath, and became suddenly aware of another less agreeable aroma. Somewhere in the vicinity someone was smoking a cigarette. Frowning, she glanced along the row of cypresses, and saw a young man standing between them, leaning on a hoe, the offending cigarette between faintly smiling lips as he stared down at the pool area. Wearing earth-stained jeans, and bare-chested, he was good-looking in an obvious way, and, if Clare was any judge, perfectly aware of his own attractions. One of the gardeners, she thought, biting her lip, taking a sly look at Paola sunbathing, and so engrossed he hadn’t heard her approach. She said in icy Italian, ‘Have you no work to do?’ He started, and turned to look at her. ‘I’m sorry, signorina.’ His tone was polite, even ingratiating, but his eyes were insolent, sliding swiftly and appraisingly over her body, making her regret even more the revealing nature of her swimsuit. ‘I am having my break. I did not realise there was anyone at the pool.’ Clare lifted her chin, giving him a sceptical look. ‘Well, now that you know, go and have your break somewhere else,’ she said crisply. ‘Si, signorina. At once. Naturally. Forgive me. I have not worked here very long, and I did not understand… I—I need this job, signorina. I am Marco’s cousin. He spoke for me to Signor Lerucci.’ Clare didn’t want to hear any more. Pulling the towel more tightly round her shoulders, she started up the steps again. Then paused, as she was struck by the sudden conviction that, despite his grovelling protestations, he was still standing there, laughing at her behind her back. She swung round to challenge him, but apart from the discarded cigarette, burning on the ground, there was no sign of him. She thought, good riddance, and went on up to the cabin. At some point, she thought, stepping under the shower, she would have a word with Tonio Lerucci about this Marco’s precious cousin. She peeled off the borrowed swimsuit, and wrapped another towel around her, sarong-style, as she went to her cubicle to dress. Only to realise when she got in there that she’d made a mistake somehow. Because the dress hanging from the peg bore no resemblance to her navy linen camouflage. Except that it was also blue, a vibrant shade, like lapis lazuli, with the added sheen of silk. She was about to go and search the other cubicles when she realised that the pile of neatly folded underwear on the stool in the corner was certainly hers. And at the same moment she saw that the strange dress had a piece of paper pinned to its filmy drift of skirt. She detached it, and, lips compressed, read the message. ‘Forgive me,’ it ran, ‘but it is clearly time the navy dress was consigned to a well-deserved oblivion. I hope its replacement will give you pleasure.’ No signature, but the initials ‘G.B.’—just in case she was in the slightest doubt over who was responsible for this—this outrage. She said aloud, her voice shaking, ‘How dare he? How dare he do this—presume to criticise me?’ She dismissed from her mind the fact that the navy dress had been the one she liked least in her entire wardrobe, and that she’d chosen to wear it solely as a gesture. And she ignored the sly voice in her head reminding her that all the Marchese had done was recognise what she was up to and respond with his own telling form of provocation. ‘He has no right,’ she stormed on. ‘I’m damned if I’ll wear his bloody dress. I’ll see him in hell before…’ And stopped right there, as she realised the other options open to her. She could either climb back into that damp and clammy swimsuit, or walk around in her undies. And neither alternative held any appeal for her. On the other hand, Guido Bartaldi could not be allowed to get away with this high-handed behaviour. Reluctantly, Clare donned her underwear, and slid the new dress over her head. She was half hoping it wouldn’t fit, although that would mean having to wear her towel back to the house. But of course it moulded itself to her slender curves perfectly, the low, rounded neckline giving just a hint of the swell of her breasts and the folds of the skirt whispering silkily around her slim legs. The colour looked good on her too, she admitted grudgingly. But somehow that made everything worse—implying that he had some in-built intimate knowledge of her—her size, her shape, even her skin tones. She found she was shivering, and shook herself impatiently. She needed to march into this confrontation, not hang back, trembling. But when she got back to the villa, she was halted in her tracks by the realisation that she had no idea where Guido was. And there was no kindly major-domo waiting to point the way, either. As she stood, debating her next move, a door to the rear of the massive hallway opened and Tonio Lerucci appeared. He did not see Clare at once, because he was still looking back over his shoulder into the room he’d just vacated, and apparently finishing a conversation with its occupant. When he turned, his brows lifted in an open surprise. ‘Signorina Marriot?’ He laughed. ‘Forgive me. Almost I did not recognise you.’ Clare smiled sweetly back. ‘Don’t worry about it, signore. Sometimes I hardly know myself.’ She paused. ‘Is our lord and master alone? I’d like to speak to him.’ ‘It will be his pleasure, signorina,’ Tonio returned gallantly. Don’t count on it, thought Clare, briskly obeying his polite indication that she should walk past him into the study. It was a large book-lined room, and rather dark, the low ornamental ceiling of moulded plaster supported on stone pillars. But its traditional formality was offset by the French doors standing open to the sunlit garden beyond, and the very modern desk with its bank of computer equipment. And, not least, by Guido Bartaldi, totally casual in shorts and an unbuttoned shirt in thin cotton, who was perched on the edge of the desk, long legs much in evidence, as he studied the information on the screen in front of him. As she closed the door behind her, Clare said clearly and coldly, ‘I’d like a word with you, signore.’ ‘But not a pleasant one, it seems.’ He lifted his head and subjected her to a long stare which held a measure of frank appreciation. ‘I thought perhaps you had come to thank me.’ ‘To thank you?’ Her voice rose sightly. ‘For what? For insulting me?’ ‘In what way?’ ‘You know perfectly well.’ She took a fold of the dress between thumb and forefinger and held it out with distaste. ‘With—this.’ ‘I am sorry you don’t like it,’ he said, after a pause. ‘But we can always find something else. Is it the colour which offends you, or the fabric?’ ‘Neither.’ Clare bit down hard on her lip. ‘It’s—the concept that you should buy me clothes.’ He looked surprised. ‘I supply uniforms for all the staff in this house. None of them complain.’ She gasped. ‘You call—this a uniform? You must be joking.’ ‘Well, let us compromise and call it work clothing,’ he said smoothly. Clare drew a deep breath. ‘Let us do nothing of the kind,’ she said stonily. ‘In my previous employment I’ve always worn my own clothes.’ ‘And did they all resemble the garment you wore to breakfast—or was that a special choice?’ The note of amusement in his voice did nothing to improve Clare’s temper. Nor the fact that he’d seen so effortlessly through her little ploy. She said tautly, ‘I’m sorry, naturally, if my fashion sense doesn’t meet your exacting standards, but I still prefer to wear my own things. And I’d like my navy dress back, please.’ ‘Ah,’ he said, after a pause. ‘That could be a problem.’ ‘I fail to see why.’ ‘There are several reasons,’ Guido said calmly. ‘Firstly my uncle, who is, you understand, an art historian, and whose sense of the aesthetic was crucified this morning by your decision to shroud yourself in an ill-fitting sack. He’s no longer so young, and I must consider his feelings. You see how it is?’ ‘No,’ Clare said roundly. ‘I don’t.’ ‘Then there is the actual fate of the dress itself,’ he went on musingly. ‘I told Filumena, who made the substitution, to burn it. I am sure she has obeyed me by now.’ Clare stared at him. ‘You—burned my dress?’ she asked with ominous calm. ‘It seemed the easiest solution.’ He nodded. ‘Otherwise I could foresee it would continue to haunt us all during your time here.’ ‘But this is an outrage.’ Her voice shook. ‘You can’t do this.’ ‘Unfortunately, it is already done.’ He paused. ‘Although I cannot pretend my regrets are sincere. Not when you are standing here in front of me, wearing the replacement.’ He swung himself down from the desk. ‘Dio, Chiara.’ There was a sudden fierce, uneven note in his voice. ‘Don’t you know how beautiful you are?’ Clare looked down at the floor, detaching herself from the dark gaze consuming her, feeling her throat close. ‘You have no right to speak to me like that,’ she said quietly. ‘No right to say those things to any woman except Paola.’ ‘There is no need to say it to Paola,’ he retorted harshly. ‘She is already secure in the power of her own attraction. But you, mia bella, are a different matter. And I am not blind.’ ‘You promised you wouldn’t talk like this,’ she said shakily. ‘You said if I came here, I’d be safe.’ ‘And so you are, Chiara.’ His voice was husky—strained. ‘Safer than you will ever know. But I never pretended it would be easy. Or that I would not be tempted.’ ‘I’d better go.’ She still did not dare to look at him. ‘If I must keep this dress, signore, then I insist that you deduct its cost from my salary. No one pays for my clothes except myself.’ ‘As you wish.’ The words were clipped. ‘As for Paola,’ she continued, with a kind of desperation to have the last word, and leave the confrontation on a winning note, ‘she may not be as secure as you think. You see—she knows about your lady in Siena.’ As she turned to the door, she was aware of movement behind her, then her arm was grasped and she was whirled round to face him. ‘What are you talking about?’ he demanded harshly. ‘What has she told you?’ ‘Not the details.’ Clare tried unsuccessfully to free herself. ‘Just that you had another interest.’ ‘And you believed her?’ ‘Why not?’ she countered recklessly. ‘After all, Marchese, there hasn’t been much in your conduct so far to convince me that fidelity would ever be high on your list of priorities.’ The moment she’d said it, she was sorry. But it was too late. She saw his face darkening, the skin tautening over the elegant bone structure. Saw the cold, angry glitter in his eyes. There was ice in his voice. ‘If that is what you think, Chiara, then why should I hesitate any longer?’ With one swift, compelling gesture, he pulled Clare into his arms, grinding her body against his. Forcing her into sudden awareness that he was not merely angry, but strongly aroused too. The stinging heat of his need penetrated the thin layers of clothing that separated them as if they no longer existed, and Clare’s breath caught in her throat as the roughness of his chest hair grazed her breasts. For a long moment he stared down at her, scanning her dilated eyes and vulnerable mouth, the anger and coldness fading from his face to be replaced by a gentler, almost diffident expression, while his hand slowly lifted to tangle in her still-damp blonde hair, forbidding movement, holding her captive for his kiss. She knew that she should make some protest—some attempt, at least, to push him away—but she couldn’t do it. She was too excited by his nearness, every nerve-ending in her skin tingling in anticipation of the touch of his hands, uncovering her. Discovering her. The whimper slowly uncoiling in her throat was one of longing, not outrage. He bent his head, and his mouth began to touch hers, lightly, almost feverishly, his tongue flickering like flame between her parted lips. For a brief moment Clare was passive in his arms, letting the first sharp stirrings of pleasure begin to build deep within her being. Then, as his kiss deepened, she responded, her mouth moving on his with shy ardour, and heard him murmur quietly in satisfaction. His fingertips were stroking the nape of her neck, under the fall of her hair, then sliding down to caress the line of her throat, the curve of her shoulder. Her nipples ached as they pressed against the confines of her dress. Her legs felt too weak to support her, and she was trembling, melting inside, her body electric with the shock of desire. Her hands slid inside the open edges of his shirt to find his shoulders, and cling to them as if she was drowning. Guido tipped her back over his arm, laying a trail of kisses down her throat, then slowly brushing his lips across the first soft swell of her breasts, and a tiny sob of need rose in her throat. The beating of her heart sounded like distant thunder. Only it had been joined, with brutal suddenness, by a very different pounding. The sound, Clare realised, of someone knocking at the study door. As Guido straightened, frowning, she freed herself from his slackened grasp and stepped backwards, pressing the palms of her hands to her burning face, and trying to control her flurried breathing. Guido called, ‘Who is there?’ ‘Matteo, signore, to tell you that Signora Andreati has arrived. Her car is outside at this moment.’ ‘Grazie, Matteo. I will be with you immediately. And inform my uncle, please.’ He looked at Clare, his expression cool—even remote. ‘Your godmother’s timing is impeccable, mia bella. She has saved both of us from a terrible mistake.’ He paused. ‘I am going to greet her now, but you may prefer to go into the garden. I will send one of the maids to find you in a little while.’ ‘Yes.’ Her voice was barely audible. ‘That might be—best.’ She went across to the French windows, almost running. Stumbling a little. She thought she heard him say, ‘Chiara,’ but she didn’t stop or turn. Just kept going, out into the dazzle of the sunlight, her bottom lip caught painfully in her teeth and the phrase ‘a terrible mistake’ reverberating over and over again in her head. CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_5f8c0d97-bac7-5244-9f43-15bfc04efd38) PART of her wanted to die of shame. But another, and more realistic part of her knew that a life in which she’d never again feel his arms round her or taste his kisses would be total desolation anyway. I could survive that—just, she thought. What I can’t bear is that very soon I’ll be leaving here—and I’ll never see him again. Never hear his voice, or see his mouth curve into that slow, amused smile. It was as if she’d been afforded a glimpse of Paradise, then had it taken away for ever. And that was the most devastating realisation of her entire life. It was useless to argue that she and Guido Bartaldi had known each other only a matter of days, and that all she was suffering from was a severe case of physical attraction, which could soon be cured. Her heart told her unequivocally that for her it went much deeper than that. That she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him—laughing with him, fighting the occasional battle with him, making him happy as she knew only she could. Except that wasn’t the way life worked out. Because Guido had his own plans, and they did not include herself. Unless she was content to exist on the margin of his life, like the woman in Siena. Clearly he saw no reason why his private life could not be conducted on two levels. Which was why he planned to marry a pretty girl with whom he hardly shared a thought, while conducting other more fulfilling liaisons at a safe distance. The cynicism of it—and the sadness—made her want to weep, even though she knew she should really despise him. But she couldn’t. ‘Fool,’ she lambasted herself. ‘Sad, pathetic idiot.’ She’d found a secluded bench under a flowering hedge a long way from the house, and she crouched there, her arms hugged protectively round her body, deathly cold in spite of the sun’s heat. Telling herself that Guido would not repeat his ‘terrible mistake’ and that she’d be safe from any further advances from him was poor comfort. It would not save her from hungering for him, she thought drearily. But at least it might leave her with the tatters of her self-respect. She glanced at her watch and got reluctantly to her feet. She’d been missing for nearly two hours, and lunchtime was approaching. She didn’t want search parties being dispatched for her. She’d been in too much emotional turmoil to take note of the exact route to her refuge, but it hardly mattered as all the paths in the grounds would lead back to the villa. But not necessarily to the part she knew, she discovered, as she emerged into a narrow cedar-lined avenue which took her only to a small Romanesque building with a campanile beside it, which she supposed must be the Bartaldi family chapel. The house, she saw, was some distance away to her right, and she’d come out at the rear of it. She checked, shading her eyes as she looked up at the elaborate stone frontage of the chapel. Some of the figures of saints that ornamented it looked as if they had seen better days, and some guttering was hanging loose. Wondering what it was like inside, she tried the handle of the heavy wooden door, half expecting it to be locked, but it opened easily and she went in. The interior was dark, most of the light coming from a round stained glass window above the altar which had been partly boarded up. The smell of incense lingered in the air, along with the more pungent odour of dust, but none of the candles were lit, and there was a down-beat air of disuse about the place which disappointed her. She was turning to go when a door at the side of the sanctuary opened and Tonio Lerucci came into view, carrying a sheaf of papers. He paused in obvious astonishment when he saw Clare. ‘Signorina Marriot—what are you doing here?’ Clare shrugged. ‘I like old churches. Am I trespassing?’ ‘No, no,’ he said hastily. ‘At least not if circumstances were normal. But you see the chapel and, even more, the campanile were damaged during the last earthquake, and we cannot be certain how safe they are.’ ‘But you’re here,’ Clare pointed out. He laughed. ‘Yes, but I am not an honoured guest of the Bartaldi. I’m here to make a preliminary inspection before the architect comes next week to assess what will need to be done to restore the chapel again.’ ‘So it’s going to be repaired.’ Clare looked round again. ‘I’m glad. It doesn’t look too bad. Just neglected.’ ‘I hope not, but we cannot tell until the actual structure is examined. The campanile, I think, will have to be demolished, but perhaps the repairs here will not be too extensive.’ He grinned. ‘If they are, I can see Guido becoming very impatient.’ Clare followed him out, and waited while he locked the door. ‘I didn’t realise he was so religious.’ She tried to keep her tone light. ‘As to that, like most of us, he does his best,’ Tonio said, shrugging. ‘But the restoration of the chapel is close to his heart as he intends to be married there, and soon.’ ‘Oh,’ Clare said in a hollow voice, as sudden pain transfixed her. ‘I—didn’t know.’ ‘Not many people do. It is quite a recent decision.’ ‘Does Paola know?’ Clare strove to keep her voice calm. ‘Because I’d have thought his bride should have some say in the matter.’ A couple of Tonio’s papers fluttered to the ground, and he bent to retrieve them. ‘No doubt he will choose his own moment for that,’ he said vaguely. ‘Maybe it would be best to mention nothing.’ ‘Of course.’ Clare smiled tautly. ‘I hope she’ll find it a pleasant surprise.’ ‘The Marchese Bartaldi’s wife will always have every reason for happiness,’ was the formal reply. Oops, thought Clare. Avoid any hint of criticism when speaking of revered employer. I expect I already have a black mark for steaming in there this morning. It must have been obvious I was spoiling for a fight. In a hurried change of subject, she asked how many people worked on the Bartaldi estates, and was shocked by his answer. ‘That many?’ She swallowed. ‘And do you know them all?’ ‘I hope so. You must understand, signorina, that many generations of the same families have worked here.’ ‘I see.’ Her tone was thoughtful. ‘So, if I said Marco’s cousin, you’d know who I meant?’ He frowned slightly. ‘I might not be able to put a face to him at once. Why do you ask?’ ‘Oh, I came across him earlier today, working in the garden.’ She paused. ‘He’s quite—spectacular. You wouldn’t overlook him very easily.’ ‘Then he does not resemble Marco, who is like a mouse,’ he said drily. ‘You disapprove of him, signorina?’ ‘Oh, please, won’t you call me Clare?’ She smiled at him. ‘After all, we both work for the Marchese,’ she added with a touch of constraint. He hesitated oddly, then made her a slight bow. ‘As you wish—Clare. But we were speaking of Marco’s cousin.’ ‘Yes.’ She bit her lip. ‘He was hanging round the pool area, and there was just something—although I expect I’m being unfair, and he’s a very good gardener.’ ‘Yet he does not feature on the estate roll,’ Tonio said musingly. ‘Perhaps the head gardener hired him as casual labour. I shall enquire.’ ‘Oh, dear,’ she sighed. ‘I hope I haven’t got him into trouble.’ ‘No, no,’ he soothed. ‘At busy times there are always extra people working for the estate. It is nothing.’ I hope so, Clare thought, as he stood back politely to let her precede him into the house. And now for the next ordeal… ‘Carissima,’ Violetta exclaimed reproachfully as Clare entered the dining room. ‘Where have you been? We were beginning to think you were lost.’ Clare coloured faintly, sharply aware of Guido’s unsmiling scrutiny fixed on her from the other side of the room. ‘I was—enjoying the garden, and lost track of time,’ she returned, bending to kiss her godmother’s scented cheek before sliding into the chair next to her. ‘And not alone, I see,’ Violetta whispered, giving her an arch look as Tonio took his place further down the table with a quiet apology. She looked Clare over approvingly. ‘What a beautiful dress, my dear. I don’t think I’ve seen it before.’ ‘It—it’s the first time I’ve worn it,’ Clare returned, helping herself from the tureen of vegetable soup. ‘So, cara, how goes it with the little Paola?’ Violetta was eating her own soup with evident enjoyment. ‘Well, it seems. She looks—radiant.’ Surprised, Clare saw that the younger girl was laughing and talking vivaciously to Cesare di Mantelli. ‘She’s not going to be my easiest assignment,’ she returned quietly. ‘She simply hasn’t any wish to learn any of the things I can teach her. I think she plans to rely on charm to see her through.’ She paused. ‘If I can’t persuade her to buckle down soon, I’ll give up the job. Otherwise I’ll be taking the Marchese’s money under false pretences.’ ‘I think he has plenty to spare,’ Violetta said calmly. ‘So I would not worry too much.’ She gave Clare a measuring look. ‘How do you like working for him, mia cara?’ ‘Not very much.’ Clare put down her soup spoon. ‘In fact I mean to keep out of his way from now on.’ ‘I imagine he can be demanding,’ Violetta conceded. ‘But such charm.’ She cast her eyes to heaven. ‘And you have the future to think of, dear one. Any association with the Bartaldi would be bound to bring its own rewards.’ A lifetime of heartache was hardly a reward, Clare thought wretchedly, giving a constrained smile and murmuring something in reply. When lunch was over, and Violetta was ensconced on the terrace with her coffee, and the Count di Mantelli for company, she sought out Paola. ‘I thought we might walk to the village,’ she suggested. ‘It will give us the chance to practise some English conversation.’ ‘But there is nothing in the village,’ Paola objected instantly. ‘And it is too far to walk in the heat of the day. Besides, I am already getting a headache. I spent too much time in the sun this morning. I am going to take a siesta.’ ‘I see,’ Clare said levelly. ‘In that case I’d better talk to the Marchese and tell him there’s no point in my remaining here.’ Paola’s eyes widened. ‘But you cannot do that,’ she muttered. ‘I need you. You know that.’ ‘But my salary is being paid by the Marchese,’ Clare reminded her. ‘And I have to start earning it. Which I can’t do unless you co-operate.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Suppose we meet here on the terrace at four.’ She gave the younger girl an encouraging smile. ‘I’ll try and make our lessons fun. Not like being in school at all.’ Paola’s look said she was unconvinced, but she gave unwilling agreement to the plan. ‘But it is such a waste of time,’ she hissed as she departed. ‘When we both know these lessons will not be needed.’ Clare sighed, and turned back to find her godmother and offer to stroll round the gardens with her, only to see her walking off with the Count down one of the paths. ‘They make a handsome couple, don’t you think?’ Tonio came to stand beside her. She stared at him. ‘You’re not serious?’ ‘Why not?’ He spread his hands. ‘The Conte is an attractive, vigorous man—and a widower. The Signora is a beautiful, cultivated woman—and a widow.’ ‘Yes,’ Clare said. ‘And she values her independence—as I do.’ He laughed. ‘Then you have come to the wrong place, Clare. For hundreds of years men and women have courted each other here at the Villa Minerva. It is a place for love—for happiness. For coming together. And there is soon to be a wedding here,’ he added, smiling. ‘Such an occasion puts ideas into other people’s heads. Reminds them that it is not good to be alone.’ ‘I don’t agree. Sometimes in your own company is the only safe place to be.’ Out of the corner of her eye, Clare saw a tall figure approaching. ‘Excuse me, please,’ she added hastily. ‘I have to go and make some notes about Paola’s English lesson.’ ‘You really intend to teach her?’ He sounded astonished. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘There’s no other reason for me to be here.’ She turned away, intending to make for the house, only to be halted by Guido’s, ‘One moment Chiara. I wish to speak to you.’ Reluctantly, she turned and came back, noting that Tonio had already made a discreet exit. ‘Is this strictly necessary?’ She lifted her chin. ‘I have—things to do.’ ‘Then they must wait.’ His voice held a touch of grimness. ‘We need to talk about this morning.’ ‘I’d rather not.’ She stared down at the ancient flagstones. ‘There are still things that need to be said.’ He paused. ‘You must understand that I did not intend—that to happen.’ His mouth tightened. ‘I am not accustomed to having the conduct of my personal life challenged in that way. I—lost my temper.’ ‘Yes.’ Her voice was barely audible. ‘It was—an error of judgement on my part—which I deeply regret,’ Guido went on, his voice low and intense. ‘When you came here, I offered you certain safeguards. I have failed to keep my part of the bargain, and for that I ask your pardon.’ ‘You don’t have to apologise.’ She kept her voice steady. ‘You already made your position—perfectly clear. And I was also to blame. I lost my temper too.’ She even forced a small, bleak smile. ‘As you said, it was a mistake. But not a fatal one. We can put it behind us. Pretend it never happened.’ He said quietly, ‘Can you do that, Chiara? Can you deceive yourself—like that? Because I do not think it is possible. I do not believe my memory will allow itself to be cheated in that way.’ Her nails dug into the palms of her hands. ‘Please, signore, don’t take this so seriously. It’s really not important. Men make advances to women who work for them every day.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s an occupational hazard.’ ‘Not,’ he said thinly, ‘in my organisation.’ She swallowed. ‘Then let’s agree that we both got angry, and behaved out of character, and resolve to operate on a more businesslike footing in future.’ She hesitated. ‘Unless you’d prefer me to leave?’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not now. Not yet. Although I see it may become necessary sooner than I thought,’ he added quietly. He held out his hand. ‘So—a new beginning, Chiara?’ After a momentary pause, she put her hand into his, and felt the swift, warm pressure of his fingers. The kind of brief, impersonal contact which was all she could expect from now on, she acknowledged forlornly as he released her. She said with forced brightness, ‘If you’ll excuse me now, Marchese.’ ‘Go in peace, signorina.’ She could hear the undercurrent of amusement as he imitated her own formality. As she turned away, his voice reached her softly, almost tauntingly. ‘But I do not apologise for the dress, Chiara. How could I, when you look so beautiful? A dream of desire for any man’s eyes.’ His words shivered through her being, tapping the turbulent well of emotion he had already created. Clare saw the sunlit day splinter into sparkling fragments as she fought back her tears. Battled with the yearning to go back to him, whatever the cost. ‘You don’t play fair, signore,’ she threw back huskily, keeping her back resolutely turned to him. ‘Has no one ever told you that?’ ‘Many people, mia cara.’ There was a quietly implacable note now. ‘And they will also tell you I always play to win.’ She said coolly and clearly, ‘Then it’s fortunate that your prize is Paola, and not myself, signore, or you’d lose. Good afternoon.’ And, forcing her shaking legs to obey her, she walked into the house, and up to the fragile security of her room. She tried to rest, to sink down into the softness of the big bed and close out the world for a while, but she couldn’t relax. Her mind and body were too much on edge. And even when she closed her eyes, Guido’s image seemed to be stamped inside her eyelids, offering her no escape. But this was the wrong room in which to evade thoughts of passion, she realised unhappily, recalling what he’d said about his own parents, and their long-ago clandestine lovemaking. She’d hung the blue dress in a corner of the wardrobe. She wouldn’t wear it again, but she couldn’t bear to throw it away either. At least not yet. One day there would be a time when she would look back on this Umbrian summer with nothing more than a rueful smile, and then she could get rid of it as just another unwanted souvenir. At least, she prayed it would be so. In the meantime, she had to deal with the sultry heat of the afternoon, the heavy quiet which had descended on the entire household, admixed with the scent of the flowers from the garden below and the drowsy hum of insects. It was not, she thought grimly, the kind of atmosphere for solitude. It was all too evocative of whispered words, stifled laughter, and the slow, languorous movement of bodies reaching a familiar and precious attunement. A time when love was reaffirmed, and babies were made… With a small, stifled sound, Clare swung herself off the bed and went into the bathroom, discarding her underwear on the way. She turned the temperature of the shower to cool, and let it rain down on her until she was half-blinded, half-deafened. Seizing a handful of towels, she blotted the moisture from her body, then rubbed her hair so fiercely that her scalp tingled. Wrapping a dry bath sheet around her, sarong-style, she wandered over to the window and looked out across the shimmering landscape to the dark green hills crowding behind. There would be shade in those trees, she thought wistfully. And space where she could be alone without feeling suffocated. And a walk might clear her mind, as well as giving her something to do before she met up with Paola. Quickly, she donned white broderie anglaise briefs, topping them with crisp turquoise cotton pants and a matching loose shirt, picked up the wide-brimmed straw hat she wore for sightseeing, and let herself quietly out of her room. When she’d been looking at the chapel that morning, she’d noticed there was a gate in the wall at its rear which seemed to allow access straight on to the hills, and she made for that. It opened with a squeal of protesting hinges that cut the somnolent afternoon like a knife. Wincing, she slipped through, and dragged it shut again behind her. There were several paths to choose from, one of which actually skirted the hill, but Clare decided to head up a well-worn but steep track which zig-zagged its way up to the trees. She was soon in their shadow, and glad of it as the gradient increased sharply. From this point, she saw, rough steps had been cut into the rocky ground and rope looped alongside, between the trees to assist in the climb. She went up at a steady pace, only realising how high she had reached when she paused for a breather and saw the Villa Minerva and its gardens laid out beneath her like a child’s dolls’ house. How lovely it looked, she thought, her throat tightening. And how hauntingly, achingly familiar it had become in such a brief time. She resolved that before she left she would come up here with her camera, and get a more tangible picture than the one she would always carry in her heart. In the meantime, she was curious to know where these endless steps were leading. They were obviously well used, demonstrating that visitors to the villa were hardy souls. Maybe you go on climbing till you get altitude problems, then come down again, she thought, her mouth twisting. But, after another five minutes’ climbing, the ground levelled out suddenly, and the path divided. ‘Decisions, decisions,’ she muttered, hesitating. Then, invading the heavy stillness of the afternoon, she heard the distant sound of running water coming from the direction of the left-hand fork, and the choice was made for her. Ahead of her, the trees were thinning out, and she glimpsed the solid grey of rock. She’d picked a cul-de-sac, it seemed, and for a moment she was tempted to turn back. Moments later, she stepped out into what seemed to be a pool of sunlight. The narrow plateau she’d been traversing had opened out into a deep, grassy bowl, bounded by a wall of solid rock soaring high above her. She’d walked straight into a fold of the hills, she thought. And there was the water she’d heard, a tiny, fierce stream bursting out of the wall of stone into a channel of its own making, until it was lost again in a deep fissure at the foot of the rock. But she was wrong to think she’d have this isolated spot to herself. Someone was already there, waiting as she had been over all the centuries in a niche cut in the rock. A statue of a woman in a pleated robe, wearing a war-helmet, with a spear in her hand and a bird like an owl perched on her shoulder. Even the crudeness of the carving could not disguise the power of the figure, or the calm stone eyes looking down on the mortal girl who’d stumbled on her shrine. ‘Minerva, the warrior-goddess of wisdom.’ Clare started violently at the quietly spoken words, as Guido walked out of the sheltering trees and came to her side. ‘And my house’s greatest treasure,’ he added. ‘No jewel, no piece of gold ever compared with this.’ He smiled. ‘I knew she would draw you here.’ Clare swallowed, conscious of the swift thunder of her pulses. ‘Did you follow me?’ she demanded, lifting her chin defiantly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I was here before you. But when I heard you coming, I went away, because I wanted you to discover her for yourself. And you did.’ ‘I just came out for a walk,’ Clare said defensively. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy. And I had no idea that this place or the statue existed. Your uncle never mentioned her when he was talking about the villa’s history.’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘We rarely speak of her openly for security’s sake. And very few who come to the house find their way this far.’ Clare looked back at the stone figure. ‘How old is she?’ ‘Two thousand—three thousand years. No one is sure. But she was well hidden in her shrine. Rocks and stones had been piled up to hide her, probably when the barbarians invaded. Then, five hundred years ago, there was an earthquake, and she was found again. And there she has stood ever since.’ ‘Even through the last earthquake?’ Clare shook her head. ‘Wouldn’t she be safer in a museum.’ ‘Perhaps, but my family have always fought to keep their Minerva here in her own sanctuary. The legend says the house of Bartaldi will stand while she does, so we would not wish to see her go.’ He looked around him. ‘This is her place, Chiara, her first and her last. Can’t you feel it?’ She’d thought that all her awareness was focused on him, yet as he spoke she realised there was another element in the tense atmosphere—another kind of stillness that did not seem to belong to this world at all, but to some distant, primeval time. Dry-mouthed, she whispered, ‘Yes…’ ‘Drink some water.’ His voice was gentle. He walked forward and took down a small metal cup which stood on a ledge at the statue’s feet, holding it under the stream of water. ‘It is safe. See?’ He drank himself, then passed her the cup. The water was like ice, but she gulped it gratefully, and handed the cup back with a murmured word of thanks. ‘Shall we go back to the house?’ Guido poured the last few drops of water on the ground, and replaced the cup on its ledge. ‘Oh, I thought I’d walk on a little further,’ Clare fibbed hastily. ‘I do not advise it.’ She stiffened. ‘Is that an order, signore?’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘Merely some advice. At this level you are safe enough, but these are not gentle English woods. Wild boar have been seen in the locality, and wolves. And you should wear more substantial shoes,’ he added, directing a critical glance at her sandals. ‘There are snakes too.’ ‘Oh.’ Clare bit her lip. ‘In that case, I’ll certainly go back.’ ‘A wise decision,’ he said softly. ‘Minerva’s influence is working already.’ She gave him a mutinous look and started back along the track, keeping a careful eye on the ground for stray vipers. When they reached the steps, ‘Perhaps I should go first,’ Guido suggested. ‘Sometimes it can be treacherous here if there has been recent heavy rain.’ ‘It was perfectly safe coming up,’ Clare began, and immediately slipped on a loose stone, sliding forward to collide heavily with Guido. She cried out in panic, thinking they were both bound to fall, but it was like hitting Minerva’s rockface. He didn’t move an inch, apart from the arm that fastened round her like a vice, preventing her from slipping any further. ‘Thank you,’ she said, when she’d controlled her flurried breathing. She tried to laugh. ‘That was stupid of me.’ He did not share her amusement. Nor did he unclamp his arm from round her waist. His face was grave, almost bitter as he looked down at her. ‘And I am also a fool,’ he said softly, and kissed her. He was not gentle this time. Nor did he hurry. It was a deliberate, totally sensual ravishment of her mouth, as if, she thought dazedly, he was putting his mark on her for all eternity. He pulled her closer, crushing her breasts against him, as if he intended to absorb her into his physical being, while one muscular leg ruthlessly parted her thighs, pressing on her in blatant erotic demand. She gasped, her body convulsing in startled pleasure, her head falling back helplessly. But he captured her face between both hands, bringing her swollen mouth back to his, the subtle thrust of his tongue mimicking the more intimate contact that his thigh was enforcing. His hands left her face, moving slowly down her throat and over her shoulders, in hungry search of her breasts. His fingertips spread the fabric of her shirt, drawing it tight, so that the aroused nipples were clearly visible. For a long moment he stared down at her, then slowly he released the buttons on her shirt, pushing the loosened edges away from her body. His hands moved on her gently, cupping the soft flesh with exquisite, lingering delicacy. His fingers brushed the hard peaks, sending burning shafts of sensation through her body to her loins. Then, he bent his head, and she felt the burning moisture of his mouth moving achingly on her naked, eager body. She was spiralling out of control fast, her hands twisting crazily in his shirt-front, trying to drag it apart so that she could feel his skin bare against hers. A wordless sob was rising in her throat. Sunlight, trees, and the baked stony earth were spinning round her in a dizzying circle. He lifted his head and looked down at her, his face stark, his breathing hoarse. He said, ‘Dio, I meant to be patient, I swear it. To wait for you. But I cannot—cannot. Mia bella, we must not stay here. Come with me now. Let me make you happy…’ The temptation was unbearable. All she wanted in this life was to yield—to go wherever he wished to take her—become whatever he wanted. Only, she realised with heart-numbing suddenness, she would have to live with the consequences for the rest of her life. And that life would be spent alone. ‘No.’ The word was torn from her, hurting her throat. She dragged herself free, backing away across the path, half collapsing against the trunk of a tree as she struggled to pull her shirt across her breasts. A first step on the way to regain sanity and a modicum of self-respect. ‘Chiara.’ His voice broke on the word. ‘You can’t do this to me—to us. I cannot bear it.’ ‘Us?’ she echoed. ‘There is no “us”.’ She invested the tiny word with scorn. ‘And you don’t have to bear a thing, signore. I’m the one who’s going to be left feeling used, and worthless.’ ‘No.’ He took a step towards here, hand outstretched pleadingly. She recoiled. ‘Don’t come any nearer.’ ‘I will stay here,’ he said. ‘I will not move; I swear it. I shall wait for you to come to me.’ ‘Then you’ll wait a long time. Because this is where I belong, Marchese. On the other side of the track. Thank God I remembered in time.’ ‘Mia cara.’ Guido drew a deep breath. She saw the muscles move convulsively in his throat. ‘Listen to me, I beg of you. You don’t understand…’ ‘But I do,’ she said. ‘I understand only too well, and I despise myself for getting into this situation. Because it’s happened to me before. Isn’t that incredible? Isn’t that your actual nightmare?’ She gave a small, harsh laugh. ‘But this time I can step back,’ she went on. ‘Because I decided a long time ago that I was never going to be anyone’s—piece on the side, Marchese.’ She saw him flinch, his mouth hardening in distaste, and pressed on. ‘Oh, I’m sure you could make me forget everything—at least for a while. I don’t doubt your technique is second to none. But in the end my conscience—my sense of honour—would be waiting for me. And it’s easier to run from you than from them. ‘And don’t take my rejection too much to heart,’ she added. She wanted to hurt him, as she herself was wounded. Wanted to use words against him, as if they were stones she had picked up from the ground and thrown. ‘I’m sure you have a waiting list. After all, you’re the man who has everything—looks, brains, and all that wonderful money to buy yourself wives and mistresses by the cart-load. ‘But you forgot one thing. As I’ve said before, I’m not for sale.’ ‘Have you finished?’ The harshness in his voice stopped her dead, the breath catching in her throat. ‘Yes.’ She flung back her head defiantly, when in reality, she wanted to howl like a banshee. ‘I hope I’ve made myself clear.’ His face was a death mask, his eyes like winter. He was no longer the man who’d kissed her into delirium—caressed her to the edge of madness—but a formidable, forbidding stranger. ‘Clear as crystal, signorina. As a first step, I suggest we take our separate ways back to the house.’ He paused. ‘And in future I shall ensure that our paths cross as little as possible.’ He turned and walked away, back up to the plateau and out of her sight. The moan came from deep inside her, filling her head with its animal keening. She had not believed she was capable of such a sound—or of such pain either. Uncaring of her safety, she turned and plunged down the steps, gaining momentum with every step. Suddenly she heard voices, and grabbed at the rope to slow herself, narrowly avoiding crashing into Violetta and the Count, who were preparing to start the ascent. ‘Carissima.’ Violetta’s voice was shocked. ‘What is the matter? Why are you dashing about like a mad-woman?’ ‘You should not run on these steps, dear child,’ the Count added, his face concerned. ‘It is not safe. You could break your neck.’ Under the circumstances, Clare thought, as she muttered an incoherent apology, that would be a bonus. And she began to run again to the villa, leaving them staring after her. CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_220d3e14-7652-5d9a-b34f-74e570f7cfc7) ‘THERE.’ Paola tossed the glossy magazine she’d been reading from on to the tiles beside her lounger. ‘I managed every word. I am so good.’ Clare smiled at her. ‘Yes,’ she agreed gently. ‘You’re doing very well.’ But only when Paola was translating features about fashion and beauty or high-level gossip, she reminded herself wryly. Faced with anything more intellectual, her pupil went into sulky reverse. And she also insisted that lessons were combined with sunbathing by the pool— ‘So that they are not like school.’ ‘The Marchese will be pleased,’ she added with a touch of constraint. Paola tossed her head. ‘Perhaps—but what does it matter? I still shall not marry him.’ She shrugged. ‘And I do not believe he wishes it any longer, either. After all, he is never here.’ It was no more than the truth, Clare acknowledged with an inward sigh. Since that traumatic parting between them on the track below the Minerva shrine three weeks ago, Guido had been as good as his word. Their paths had barely crossed at all, because he had spent minimal time at the villa. And she had never again found herself alone with him, even accidentally. When she did encounter him these days, it was solely on formal occasions in the dining room, or in the salone during the evening, and Clare found herself treated with exquisite but chilling politeness. And no matter how many times she assured herself that it was all for the best—and exactly what she wanted—nothing could dull the pain of longing that drove her early to the silence of her bedroom each night. But not to sleep. That was too much to hope for. Instead, she lay, staring into the darkness, counting the hours, as the slatted moonlight moved slowly across the floor, her whole body aroused and alive, yearning for the surcease of a fulfilment forever denied. The celibacy she’d adopted since James’s departure from her life had never been a particular burden. She’d embraced it with a kind of relief, telling herself it was the only way to protect herself from betrayal and heartbreak. Because physical passion made you vulnerable. Now she knew that all she’d experienced with James was the denting of her self-esteem. That she’d never come close to loving him. She’d learned a hard and bitter way what it was to care in real earnest. To need a man as simply and essentially as she needed to draw breath. She’d tried in vain to argue with herself that she was confusing lust with love. That what she felt for Guido was sheer infatuation—a brief flame that would flicker and die. More importantly that she hardly knew him for God’s sake. In the normal timescale of relationships they were still strangers. And yet—and yet… The first time she’d seen him there’d been a kind of recognition. An immediate shock to her senses. The first time he’d touched her some unbridgeable gulf had been leapt. As if we’d always known, she thought. As if our lives had always been moving towards this moment. Except that it wasn’t true, and hadn’t happened. Except in her own too-vivid imagination. She lashed herself with self-derision. What had passed between Guido and herself was no mating of two souls. He’d made a pass, and she’d stupidly responded, and that was all. Anything further was just a useless attempt to justify her own pathetic foolishness. Guido Bartaldi was an expert at seduction, and she’d almost allowed herself to be seduced. Nearly, but not quite, and it was his turn to have a bruised ego. Every time he set eyes on her the memory of her rejection must be at the forefront of his mind, she reflected without pleasure. The cold civility of his manner was an effective barrier to the anger and resentment that she must have provoked. But how she missed the gleam of laughter in his eyes when he looked at her the teasing note in his voice. The way he said ‘Chiara’. She hadn’t realised how much it all meant to her until it was gone, and she couldn’t call it back. Couldn’t build on that laughter, and the way his voice caressed her. She mourned for them almost more than his kisses. Almost… She said quietly now, ‘I don’t think there’s been any change of plan, Paola. He’s a busy man, that’s all.’ She paused. ‘When he is here, he’s—attentive, isn’t he?’ She knew the answer to that, because she saw it happening. Guido Bartaldi’s wooing of his future wife was lightly and charmingly done. If he was away for more than two days at a time, there was invariably a gift—some expensive trifle. But, physically, he was imposing no pressure at all, and that was clever, Clare admitted with a pang. Because, in spite of her protests, Paola was bound to be just a little intrigued, and would soon start to wonder precisely why he did not try to make love to her. And, once he did make his claim, Clare could not believe that Paola would be able to maintain her resistance for any length of time. Not, she thought unhappily, when she was being manipulated by an expert. She could only hope she’d be long gone by that time. Because she could not bear to watch him coax Paola to surrender. Or any other woman, for that matter. ‘He is generous.’ Paola shrugged again. She sent Clare a sly sideways look. ‘So that I will not guess how much time he spends in Siena. My stepmother says that a man who gives so many presents has a guilty conscience.’ ‘And the renovation of the chapel for the wedding?’ Clare queried coolly, as pain twisted inside her. ‘Is that a sign of guilt too?’ Paola looked mutinous. ‘Guido is not doing that for me. It is part of his precious house, and must be protected.’ ‘Like the Minerva shrine,’ Clare said half to herself. Paola gave her a surprised look. ‘You have seen that?’ Clare bent to put the magazines together and disguise the faint colour that had risen to her face. ‘Why, yes, when I first arrived. I went for a walk and—found it.’ ‘I am surprised Guido allowed it, that is all.’ Paola’s tone was dismissive. ‘Usually he does not permit those outside the family to venture so far. The statue is very old and valuable, as well as ugly, and there are many stories about it—legends.’ She pulled a face. ‘I do not understand the fuss.’ ‘It’s precisely because the statue is very old and valuable,’ Clare said drily. ‘And I think it’s beautiful. It gives off this—aura of quiet and peace.’ She knew by the expression on Paola’s face that she might as well have been speaking Mandarin Chinese. ‘Anyway,’ the younger girl continued after a pause, ‘Guido would not have his wedding hidden away here, when it happens—if it happens—it will be in Rome, and his great-uncle the cardinal will perform the ceremony.’ ‘Is that what you would prefer?’ ‘I?’ Paola asked. ‘I shall not be there.’ She swung her legs to the floor, and began to collect her things together. ‘I am going back to the house now. I have a headache.’ ‘Another one?’ Clare raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s the third this week, Paola. Maybe you should see a doctor.’ ‘I do not need a doctor.’ Her tone was pettish. ‘Just a rest from all this stupid translation. I will see you at dinner, if my head is better. Ciao.’ Clare sighed, and lay back on her own lounger. Paola’s acquaintance with English was improving daily, but the same could not be said about her attitude towards her proposed marriage. And Clare had tried. Each day she tried to sell Paola the charms of the Villa Minerva and its environs, together with the potent advantages of being a rich Marchesa, but the other girl still wasn’t buying. ‘This place is like a graveyard,’ was her usual reply. ‘And I do not need to marry a rich man. I shall have money of my own.’ Stalemate. I can teach, Clare thought, biting her lip. But I’m not so hot on persuasion. But then my heart’s not in it. I’m on her side. I don’t think this wedding should take place either, and for more than just selfish reasons. On the brighter side, at least Paola was not rhapsodising about Fabio with every breath. In fact she didn’t mention him at all, which Clare could only be thankful for. Maybe he’d decided that Paola was too well guarded, and had faded out of the picture. However, that did not mean that Paola would turn to Guido for comfort—especially as he was openly pursuing his own interests, she thought unhappily. And that after she’d warned him that Paola knew about his Sienese lady. She heard someone coming down the steps leading to the pool and looked round, smiling, as Tonio Lerucci came into view. ‘Did I wake you? I’m sorry.’ He gave her his swift, wide smile. ‘I thought Paola was here.’ ‘I wasn’t asleep.’ Clare sat up. ‘And Paola’s gone back to the house to rest. I think she’s feeling the heat.’ He nodded, fanning himself with his hand as he sat down on the vacant lounger. ‘I think the weather will break soon. There are storms forecast.’ ‘The air feels heavy enough,’ Clare agreed. Perhaps Paola’s headache was genuine, she thought, lifting her hair away from the nape of her neck. Tonio was speaking. ‘I came to ask if she wanted another tennis lesson this evening before dinner. When it is cooler.’ ‘I’ll ask her for you when I go up to the house.’ Clare smiled back at him. ‘You’re a miracle worker, getting her to play. I thought she loathed sport.’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘When she was a child, she was very good—very athletic. It is her stepmother in Rome who has persuaded her that it isn’t cool to exert herself.’ There was a certain bitterness in his voice. ‘That she should lie about all day long and live a useless life.’ Clare said slowly, ‘Of course, you’ve known her a long time, haven’t you?’ ‘Yes.’ There was an odd bleakness in his voice that alerted her suddenly. ‘But sometimes she seems to forget that.’ Clare bit her lip. ‘I don’t think she’s in a very easy position. She sees her life being mapped out for her, and she hasn’t been consulted on the route. And she doesn’t like it here.’ ‘She used to.’ There was a wealth of sadness in his voice. ‘I thought she could be happy here again. But now I’m not so sure.’ ‘I think,’ Clare said, picking her way carefully, ‘that marrying the right man would make a difference.’ Tonio spread his hands. He said with a touch of harshness, ‘Then there is no problem. All she has to do is agree, and the wedding could take place tomorrow.’ She said, ‘Unfortunately, it isn’t that simple, and I think you know that. Because she isn’t convinced that he is right for her.’ She swallowed. ‘It would help if Guido—if the Marchese—spent less time—away. In Siena and other places,’ she added constrainedly. He shook his head. ‘At the moment he has no choice. The boutique chain is taking off, and he likes to supervise the details himself.’ ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘And is that all he’s doing? Hasn’t he other more personal reasons for being there?’ Tonio looked uncomfortable. He said, ‘Forgive me, this is not something I can discuss. It is Guido’s private business.’ ‘But no secret,’ she said. ‘As Paola knows all about it.’ ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘She does not. No one does, except the Marchese himself.’ ‘You condone what he’s doing?’ ‘It is not my place to judge.’ He paused. ‘Or to explain. Guido does what he must, he always has.’ ‘You’re very loyal.’ He bent his head. ‘As he is himself. As you will realise one day.’ He smiled awkwardly and rose to his feet. ‘If you would be kind enough to pass my message to Paola?’ Clare was thoughtful as she walked up to the house. She had seen a good deal of Tonio over the past weeks, and liked him more at each encounter. And he had infinite patience with Paola, she reflected ruefully, even when she was at her worst. Nothing she did seemed to faze him. At the same time, she was a little surprised that Guido should allow him to spend so much time in Paola’s company. Apart from the tennis, on most days he came down to the pool to encourage her to swim. And in the evenings he was teaching her backgammon, and dancing with her when there was music after dinner in the salone. Perhaps he was just ensuring that she didn’t become bored—and rebellious again. But Guido should be doing that, she thought. Not appointing a deputy, however faithful and discreet. She knocked softly at Paola’s door on the way to her own room and called her name, but there was no answer. Probably she’d taken some painkillers and gone to sleep, she decided as she turned away. The long shutters had been closed over the window in her room, and she walked across, pushing them ajar to admit some light. Below her the gardens shimmered in the intense sunlight. Clare shaded her eyes, and stared at the wooded slopes in the distance. She thought longingly of Minerva, standing in her rocky niche, with the torrent of icy water falling past her. She’d made several pilgrimages to the shrine over the past weeks, always when Guido was away. And always she’d had the place entirely to herself. She’d sat on the grass going over and over in her mind everything that had transpired between Guido and herself. Trying to see if there was anything she could have done to change things. And having to accept that there was not. Because she and Guido wanted totally different things from their relationships. She needed commitment, whereas he would have settled for transience. She wanted fidelity, but for him variety was the name of the game. For her marriage was about love. For him it involved convenience—a merging of money and interests. And it was better by far to end it as she had done than to risk ultimate heartbreak. She moved her shoulders under the damp cling of her top. Guido was away today, and there was nothing to prevent her making the climb up to the shrine—except the heat. But some brave soul was risking it, she realised, as she sighted a flash of bright yellow moving among the trees. Clare frowned. ‘Who on earth?’ she said aloud. It couldn’t be Violetta, because she’d gone with the Count to have lunch with some friends in Gubbio and had not yet returned. But Paola has a dress that colour, she thought restively. The same Paola who feels the heat so badly, and is allegedly flaked out on her bed at this moment. So why do I know, without checking, that I won’t find her there? She groaned inwardly. Part of her was tempted to let Paola go to the devil in her own way. But she knew in her heart that she had to intervene—to find out what was going on. Because that was what she was being paid for. She was in no good mood when she reached the gate in the wall and wrenched it open. The sun was beating down on her, and her clothes were sticking to her body. She had to force her legs up the steps, the rope rasping on her damp hand. When she reached the place where the track divided, she paused, listening intently, but there was no sound except the distant rush of water. She found Paola standing in front of the shrine, staring up at the statue. She was surprised to see that she was alone—and that she appeared to have been crying. The angry demand for an explanation died unuttered. Instead, she said gently, ‘Paola? Is something wrong? What are you doing here?’ ‘You come here.’ The other’s voice was husky. ‘You said it was peaceful. Perhaps I too wish to be quiet sometimes. To think.’ Clare bit her lip. ‘Then I’m sorry I intruded,’ she returned. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ ‘No—wait. I wish to ask you something.’ Paola paused. ‘Chiara, is it possible to think that you are in love with someone, and suddenly realise it is not true. That you really care for someone else entirely—and have done for a long time—only you have been too blind, too stubborn to admit it? Can that happen?’ Clare was very still. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘I’d say that could happen quite easily.’ Paola sighed. ‘I was afraid of that.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘Chiara—I have been seeing Fabio. He has been here at the villa, pretending to be a gardener.’ Clare closed her eyes for a moment. ‘My God,’ she said. ‘Marco’s cousin.’ ‘You knew it was him?’ ‘Not till now, but I should have done. I knew there was something wrong about him.’ Paola nodded. ‘Si, there was something wrong. He wanted money—only money. At first, he talked of love—how happy we would be. But then he began to change—to plan how to get money from Guido. To ask all the time about my inheritance. And I began to see that was all that mattered to him. ‘At the same time, I realised who I truly loved, even though I have fought against it for so long. And I saw that he is the only man who could make me happy. So today, when I met Fabio, I told him that it was all over—finished.’ ‘And how did he react?’ ‘He was angry. He said I had made a fool of him, and that he would make me sorry for it. And make Guido sorry, too.’ Her eyes met Clare’s apprehensively. ‘Do you think he can.’ ‘No,’ Clare denied robustly. She swallowed past the sudden tightness in her throat. ‘But if you’re worried—talk to Guido about it.’ ‘I cannot.’ Paola shook her head. ‘Not when there is so much else that I must say to him. So much I must explain, and ask him to forgive.’ Clare smiled tautly. ‘I don’t think that will be a problem. I’m sure he’ll meet you more than halfway.’ There were tears in Paola’s eyes again. ‘Oh, you are good to me, Chiara. It was you who first made me doubt Fabio, although I did not wish to.’ She took Clare’s hand. ‘You will stay, won’t you, for my wedding?’ ‘I’ll try, but it may be difficult,’ Clare said huskily. ‘I will need to find another job.’ She paused. ‘Paola—you are sure—you want this marriage…?’ ‘Si.’ Paola smiled almost shyly. ‘I feel as if I have come home. Can you understand that?’ ‘Yes,’ Clare said. ‘I understand perfectly.’ Guido returned to the villa just before dinner that evening. Clare did not see his arrival, but she was aware of it all the same. There was always a new vibrancy in the air when Guido was at home. A tingle in the atmosphere which echoed in her bloodstream, making her heart beat faster. She stood, looking at herself in the mirror. Tonight would be a time for celebration, so she’d put on the dress that Violetta had bought her in Perugia. It seemed a tiny bit looser than it had done, signalling that she’d lost some weight. Her cheekbones were more pronounced too, she thought critically, and there were tense lines along her jaw and throat. Everything was combining to betray her inner turmoil, she thought unhappily. But, hopefully, no one would be looking at her. All attention would be turned to Guido and Paola. She told herself that she should be glad for them. Relieved that Paola had been saved from making a terrible mistake with Fabio. And there was no doubt that she would be pampered and protected for the rest of her life as the Marchesa Bartaldi. But was that enough? Wouldn’t she want to love and be loved in equal proportion? Could Guido’s indulgence ever be enough? She shook her head. She must stop thinking like this. It would soon be none of her concern, anyway. Her job was done and she could hand in her notice. But first she had to get through this evening, which promised to be the most difficult of her life. She went slowly downstairs, and stood, hesitating, listening to the voices coming from the salone. The excitement in the air was almost tangible. She saw that Guido’s study door was standing open, and drew a deep breath. There would never be a better time to tell him she was leaving. The way things stood between them, he could only be relieved to see the back of her. She reached the doorway, and peeped into the room. Guido was there, but not alone. Paola was with him, in his arms, her face buried against his shoulder while his hand stroked her hair with unmistakable tenderness. As Clare stood motionless, lips parted and eyes enormous, he lifted his head sharply and looked at her, and she saw his face, grim, almost haggard, his mouth set, his whole expression at total variance with the gentleness of his embrace. For a long moment they were locked together, in a kind of shocked, bitter awareness, his dark gaze sweeping her, burning her. Until with a small sound between a sob and an apology, Clare turned and sped away. CHAPTER TEN (#ulink_b59f5b21-57bb-58d6-9afb-1fc16647b768) ‘DEAR child.’ Violetta’s voice was full of concern. ‘You look ill. What has happened?’ Clare forced a travesty of a smile. ‘I have this splitting headache. There must be a storm coming. Thunder always affects me like this.’ She hesitated. ‘I was wondering if you had your painkillers with you.’ ‘But of course.’ Violetta produced her leather vanity case. ‘They are in here, cara. Also tissues, and a bottle of my special cologne. Take whatever you need.’ She paused. ‘Is there anything else I can get you? Matteo says you are not coming down to dinner. May he bring you a light supper on a tray, perhaps? Some soup and fruit?’ ‘No—no, thank you.’ Clare bit her lip. ‘I’m really not hungry.’ ‘Such a shame.’ Violetta patted her cheek gently. ‘When there is to be a celebration. And you look so beautiful in that dress, although pale. Paola has told you her news, of course? Such happiness.’ ‘Yes,’ Clare said steadily. ‘Such happiness.’ I meant to be brave, she thought, as she stood at the window in her room, staring rigidly and sightlessly down at the garden, held in the heavy hush of evening. But that was before I saw them together. Before I saw her in his arms. And knew I couldn’t bear it. She’d exaggerated her headache, of course, to avoid having to present herself downstairs, but there was a dull throb above her eyes, and a bitter, shaking emptiness inside her just the same. She had promised Violetta she would take the capsules and go straight to bed, but she didn’t seem capable even of that small amount of effort. When the door behind her suddenly opened, she presumed her godmother was coming to check on her. She said, wearily, ‘Please don’t bully me, Violetta. I’m going to bed right now. ‘It is not the Signora.’ Guido’s voice was harsh, almost inimical. She spun round with a gasp, watching in shock as he kicked the door shut behind him. ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘I am being a good host,’ he said coldly. ‘Asking after the health of one of my guests. A guest, it seems, who prefers sheltering behind minor illnesses to confronting life.’ Angry colour flooded her face. ‘That’s not fair. And I’ve had more than my share of confrontation since we met, Marchese.’ ‘You sought me out earlier,’ he said. ‘What did you want?’ ‘To give you formal notice.’ Her heart was hammering, her breath rasping in her chest. ‘To tell you that I was leaving.’ ‘It is more usual to put such a communication in writing,’ Guido said curtly. ‘In any event, you are wasting your time. I shall not accept your notice.’ ‘My job here has finished,’ she said huskily. ‘You have no reason—no right to detain me any longer.’ ‘Do not speak to me of rights.’ He flung back his head. His eyes blazed at her. ‘This is my house, Chiara. This is my land. And I am Bartaldi. I exercise what rights I choose. As for reasons—you know as well as I do why I wish you to remain.’ ‘You wish—you wish.’ She threw the words at him. ‘And what about my wishes—my feelings? What if I say I can’t bear to stay under the same roof with you a moment longer?’ ‘Tell what lie you please. It makes no difference. There is no escape.’ Hands on hips he regarded her, his mouth twisting sardonically. ‘I have seen your eyes follow me these last three weeks, as mine have followed you. The shadows in your face tell me you have shared my sleepless nights. Until you share my bed, Chiara, I doubt I shall ever sleep again.’ ‘Then enjoy your insomnia,’ she said fiercely. ‘For God’s sake, signore, how many women do you want in your life?’ ‘I need only one, Chiara. I need you.’ He took a step towards her. His voice deepened, gentled. ‘You are tearing me in pieces, mia bella.’ She said hoarsely, ‘Don’t come near me. Don’t say these things. You’re cruel, signore. Cruel.’ ‘Then let us be kind to each other, carissima.’ A small laugh forced itself from his throat. ‘Let us comfort each other for the misery of the last three weeks.’ ‘And what about the wretchedness of the rest of our lives? How do we deal with that?’ She lifted her chin. ‘Oh, I forgot. You have your lady in Siena.’ His mouth tightened. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And no doubt she would give me kindness, if I asked her. Only I shall not do so. I cannot, and one day you will understand why.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t think I’ll ever understand anything that’s happened in these past weeks. All I know is that I wish I was a thousand miles away—and that I’d never set eyes on you.’ Her voice broke on a little wail of pure misery. ‘Go away, Guido, please. Go back where you belong—to the people you belong to. And leave me in peace.’ ‘Peace.’ He laughed harshly. ‘I doubt, mia bella if you and I will ever know peace again. And, unlike you, if I could stretch out this moment when you fill my eyes through all eternity, I would do it. I—do not think you know how beautiful you are.’ Clare saw a muscle move convulsively in his throat. ‘But if you hate the sight of me so much, there is an easy remedy,’ he went on, his voice low and bitter. ‘Just close your eyes, and I will be gone from you. Do it, Chiara. Do it now.’ Almost helplessly, she obeyed. As the blank darkness surrounded her, she was suddenly, poignantly aware of his nearness, then the touch of his lips on her hair, her forehead, and her closed lids. ‘Adio,’ he whispered. ‘My sweet one. My beloved.’ Then there was nothing, and she knew that she was alone. And more lonely than she had ever been in her life. When she could think coherently again, and make her paralysed muscles obey her, she found herself reaching for Violetta’s vanity case, fumbling through its contents for the promised painkillers. As if there was any panacea for the agony that was tearing her apart. I shouldn’t feel like this, she told herself desperately. Because he isn’t worth it. He’s just another love cheat, going into marriage for cynical commercial reasons with no intention of being faithful. I ought to hate him. I want to hate him. But I can’t, and I despise myself for it. Oh, where were those capsules? Her unshed tears were like an iron band tightening behind her eyes. She up-ended the case on the bed, and Violetta’s car keys fell with a clunk on to the floor at her feet. She bent, slowly, and retrieved them. Held them in her hand. Guido had said there was no escape. But here was Fate intervening, and showing her a way out. And she had to take it. Because the simple truth was she did not trust herself to stay another hour where Guido was. And certainly not another night. She shivered, her fingers closing round the keys, digging them into her soft palm. She would drive to the nearest station, she thought feverishly. Catch a train to—anywhere. Cover her tracks so well that even Guido’s power could not follow her. Do what she should have done weeks ago. He’d thwarted her then. Now he would not get the chance. She couldn’t risk taking all her things. Her leather shoulder bag was capacious enough to accommodate a change of underwear and a few essential toiletries, as well as her passport and money. So that would have to do. Besides, if—anyone came searching for her, clothes left hanging in the wardrobe would give the impression that her absence was a temporary one. That she’d gone out for an evening stroll, perhaps. Which would give her some precious leeway. She needed to change now, of course. She rifled along the hanging rail and dragged out a chocolate-coloured shift, and a hip-length cream jacket. She couldn’t afford to look too casual. As she turned away to unzip her dress, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and saw what he had seen. A girl, her blonde hair dishevelled, her dark eyes wide and brilliant, and faint colour emphasising her cheekbones. The black dress hinted discreetly at the slender curves it concealed, down to the deep slash in the skirt, which showed off one slim, black-stockinged leg. ‘Beautiful,’ she whispered, as tears stung her eyes and the image suddenly blurred. ‘He said I looked beautiful.’ She shook her head impatiently. There would be time enough to cry. Now she had to concentrate on her getaway. She was half afraid Guido might have forestalled her by appointing one of the servants to wait outside her door, but the gallery and stairs were deserted. Judging by the hum of voices, they were all now in the dining room. And her quickest route to where Violetta’s car was parked would take her straight past the windows. I can’t risk it, she told herself. I’ll go the long way round. Circle the house. She made herself walk steadily, looking appreciatively around her at the twilit garden. Just as if she was taking an evening stroll. Her steps slowed when she reached the chapel. There was scaffolding round it, and the damaged window had already been replaced. An artist in stained glass from Florence had done the work, and it was magnificent, Violetta had enthused to her. ‘You must go to look at it, mia cara.’ She’d nodded, and smiled, and known she would do no such thing. She didn’t want to see the place where Guido and Paola would be married restored to its former glory. Unless, of course, the wedding took place in Rome after all. The campanile was still out of bounds, however, while its damage was being assessed, but there was real doubt over whether or not it could be saved. It had been a graceful, pretty building before the earthquake. Now its bell had fallen, and its top stones lay in rubble around the base. It was securely boarded up, and as Clare went past she was surprised to see that some of the planks had been torn down, and were propped against the wall. She was even more astonished to see a car parked at the side of it. Maybe the architect had returned for another survey, she thought. But surely he wouldn’t choose to do so in the half-light. Unless, of course, Guido had invited him up to the villa for dinner. But the car didn’t look as if it belonged to a successful professional man. It was too elderly and battered. Frowning, Clare walked over for a closer look. As she reached the driver’s side and looked through the window she heard the sound of voices, and instinctively ducked down, peeping across the bonnet. Two men came out of the campanile, carrying something between them. Something heavy, trussed up in sacking and rope. For a moment she thought it was a body, and clapped a hand over her mouth to prevent a scream. ‘Careful, you fool.’ Although Clare had only met the speaker once, his voice was instantly familiar. My God, she thought. It’s Fabio. ‘If you break it, you’ve lost us a fortune,’ he went on impatiently. They opened the boot and lowered their burden into it, muttering and cursing. Clare stayed where she was. She’d no idea what they were doing, but she’d no wish to be caught watching them do it. After a whispered interchange, they went back into the campanile and Clare straightened. They were clearly up to no good, and she knew she should report them. But going back to the house would give herself away too. And besides, her priority was reaching Violetta’s car. I’ll stop at the first public phone, she promised herself, treading carefully to the back of the car and bracing herself for a swift sprint round the corner of the villa to safety. The boot was open, and she was unable to resist a swift sideways glance. And froze. Some of the sacking had fallen away to reveal the calm stone face of the Minerva. The statue, she thought, suddenly frantic. They’re stealing the statue. ‘Good evening, signorina.’ Fabio’s voice spoke behind her, and she whirled round with a cry. ‘I thought it was you, scrabbling in the dust. Not very dignified for Bartaldi’s woman.’ She said, ‘Don’t you dare to speak to me like that. And what are you doing with the Minerva?’ ‘Oh, we’re just going to keep it safe while your Marchese decides how much it is worth to him. Paola showed me where it was, and told me the legend. If the statue falls, the house of Bartaldi falls with it.’ He smiled unpleasantly. ‘I wonder just how superstitious the Marchese will prove to be?’ ‘I thought you’d already learned that he doesn’t respond to ransom demands.’ Clare’s tone was terse. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘But a piece of stone doesn’t talk too much, or leave letters lying about that it shouldn’t. Paola’s more trouble than she’s worth, but I should end up making more money than I ever dreamed of.’ ‘You’ll never get away with it.’ ‘No?’ His smile widened. ‘And who’s going to tell on us. You, signorina? I don’t think so. Because you’re going to be the icing on a very large cake. I think Bartaldi will pay handsomely to get you back, raggazza.’ He looked past her and nodded, and Clare found herself suddenly enveloped in a blanket, thrown over her from the rear. She kicked and struggled and tried to scream, but the cloth, old and musty, muffled the sound. Meanwhile a cord was being wound round her, pinning her wrists to her body. Still kicking, she was picked up bodily and thrown into the car. For a moment she was winded, and lay gasping. ‘Not as soft as Bartaldi’s bed, eh, pretty one?’ Fabio’s voice was gloating and hateful. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll soon be back in it, once your lover hands over the money.’ She tried to cry out, to tell them they were crazy, that Guido wouldn’t pay one solitary lira for her, but the car engine started with a sullen roar, drowning her words. It was a bumpy, jolting ride, and it seemed to last an eternity. Clare lay still, trying to gulp air through the holes in the blanket and avoid being thrown off the seat at the same time. She was also trying to work out in time and distance how far they travelled, but it was impossible. Being cocooned like this made her totally disoriented. To her own surprise, she felt angry rather than scared. She remembered Guido had not considered Fabio dangerous, just lazy and greedy. On the look-out for easy money. But, by stealing the Minerva, he might have bitten off more than he could chew. She remembered hearing somewhere that if you flexed and relaxed your muscles when you were tied up, the rope became looser, but she’d been tied up like a parcel. The rope bit into her arms and body. She was just becoming seriously uncomfortable when, at last, the car stopped with a squeal of brakes. Wherever they were, Fabio obviously wasn’t concerned about being heard. She heard the car door open, behind her, then she was being tugged out ignominiously. ‘Stand, raggazza,’ she was ordered. ‘Now walk forward.’ They were on each side of her. She gauged their proximity, then kicked out as hard as she could, screaming loudly at the same time. She connected with them both, gasps of pain rewarding her, and for a moment the hands holding her slackened their grip. She tried to run, then something struck her on the head, and the darkness inside the blanket became swirling and dense, and she fell forward into it. Her eyelids seemed to have been glued down, and opening them was a lengthy and burdensome chore. When she managed it, she found herself looking up at the dim light coming from a low-watt bulb guarded by a fluted floral shade. Not a cellar, then, she thought, lifting her aching head and looking round. Nor her idea of a kidnappers’ den—if she’d ever had one. In fact, her prison screamed suburban bedroom. She was lying on a single bed on a thickly woven white bedspread, and she saw that her sandals had been removed, presumably to protect the pristine surface. I’m glad my captors remembered their manners, she thought ironically. But she was still very much a prisoner. Her feet were free, but her hands were tightly secured behind her back. She went on looking round. The floor was polished wood, with a few rugs scattered about, and there were one or two pieces of old-fashioned, highly-polished furniture. Behind the floral curtains were heavy shutters, which common sense told her would be securely locked. So now what? She wondered, relapsing gingerly back on to her pillow. She didn’t even know what time it was, and, even if she twisted herself in half, she couldn’t see her wristwatch. So, all she could do was wait. But she didn’t have to wait long. She heard the sound of a key in the lock, and a young man, presumably her other assailant, came in. He was shorter than Fabio, and stockily built, with a broad face which, she thought, would usually have been good-humoured, but now looked sullenly apprehensive. ‘So you are awake.’ There was a note of relief in his voice which didn’t escape her. Clearly they’d worked out that causing her physical damage was not to their advantage. ‘How do you feel?’ ‘Never better,’ Clare returned with heavy irony. She looked at the strong hands with their callused palms and made a deduction. ‘You must be Marco.’ He flushed, giving her a scared, resentful look. ‘How did you know that?’ ‘Because you look as if you spend your life out of doors—unlike your friend.’ She paused. ‘Will you untie me, please?’ ‘No, that I cannot do, signorina.’ ‘Well, you’ll have to do so eventually,’ Clare said crisply. ‘I need the bathroom.’ He went out, muttering, and returned with Fabio. Together they manoeuvred Clare off the bed, and stood her upright. She was taken out of the room, along a narrow passage, again dimly lit, and decorated with a series of highly coloured holy pictures, to a tiny bathroom, which was really a tiled shower cubicle with extra appointments, including a bidet. And someone’s pride and joy, Clare thought, seeing how it all gleamed with cleanliness. ‘No tricks,’ Fabio warned as he untied her wrists, and pushed her forward, thrusting a thin, rather hard linen towel at her. There was one tiny window, high up, so, unless she was Houdini, it was difficult to see what tricks she could get up to, Clare thought ruefully. She made herself comfortable, then bathed her face and hands with cold water. She looked like hell, she thought, viewing herself critically in the small mirror. She was as pale as death, and there was a bruise on her forehead that was developing into a lump. But common sense told her she’d probably got off lightly. ‘Hurry up.’ Fabio banged on the door. ‘I need my bag,’ she called back. ‘What have you done with it?’ ‘We have it. And we are keeping it. Do you take us for fools?’ ‘I’d better not answer that,’ Clare returned with assumed coolness. ‘Just let me have my cosmetic purse, then, and my comb. I’m hardly going to tunnel my way out with my lipstick.’ There was some more muttering, then the door opened and the required items were pushed at her. Combing her hair, renewing powder and lipstick and spraying herself swiftly with scent wasn’t any real help with her problems, but it gave her a psychological boost, which was invaluable. When she emerged into the passage, she gave them an icy glance. ‘And before you tie me up again, I want a glass of water, and something to eat.’ To her surprise, she got both. Marco brought her a bottle of mineral water and a bowl of savoury bean soup. The tray, she saw, had been clumsily laid with a cloth, and there was an elderly starched napkin too. He stood, shoulders propped against the door, as she ate and drank. ‘That was delicious.’ She smiled at him when she had finished. He reddened, and muttered something defensive. ‘Tell me.’ Clare put the napkin on the tray. ‘Is Fabio really your cousin?’ He shook his head vehemently. ‘No, we met in a bar. He told me he was in love with Signorina Paola, and that the Marchese was keeping them apart.’ ‘Like Romeo and Juliet?’ Clare suggested. He nodded. ‘Si, signorina. My mother is from Verona, and she has told me that story many times. I felt sorry for Fabio, and he said he would pay me when he and the signorina were married. I got him a job on the estate, so that they could meet.’ He hunched his shoulders. ‘Only Signor Lerucci sent for me, and told me that he knew I had no cousin, and I have lost my job.’ He sent her a sullen look. ‘My father worked for the Bartaldi, and his father before him, so this is a great shame for me. When she returns from my sister’s house, my mother will be very angry.’ He paused. ‘And then Signorina Paola told Fabio that she would not run away with him, so it was all for nothing.’ He sighed heavily. ‘But Fabio came up with an alternative plan for making money by stealing the Minerva statue?’ Clare suggested. ‘Si. We all know that the Marchese sets great store by the statue. It is an ancient treasure, and very valuable. And Fabio swore to me he would not damage it.’ ‘And that makes everything all right?’ Clare asked. ‘I don’t think so, Marco.’ ‘Fabio promised me money,’ he insisted. ‘Now I have no job, and my mother is not well. And who will employ me when they know I have been dismissed by the Bartaldi? No one.’ He sounded very young, suddenly. A germ of an idea came to Clare. Her lips were parting to speak when the door opened, and Fabio came in carrying the cord for her wrists. ‘Is that really necessary?’ she asked with distaste. He grinned at her. ‘I think so. You are a valuable property, signorina, and you have the advantage that you are made of flesh and blood, not stone. I need to keep you here.’ ‘Perhaps I’m not worth as much as you think.’ Clare lifted her chin. ‘The Marchese Bartaldi doesn’t respond to blackmail. And he certainly won’t be interested in buying me back. I mean nothing to him.’ Fabio’s smile widened unpleasantly. ‘Good try, signorina. Unfortunately, I know differently. Because I saw you together, near the Minerva shrine one afternoon when I had been meeting Paola. And it looked to me as if you meant a great deal.’ He looked her over, making her feel as if she was coated with slime. ‘You are very pretty under your clothes, signorina. Maybe I should get a camera, and persuade you to undress for me—just to remind the noble Bartaldi what he is missing.’ ‘Don’t be a fool,’ Marco broke in, his voice alarmed. ‘Dio, do not make him angrier than he is already by shaming his woman. You do not know him. You do not know what he might do.’ Fabio shrugged. ‘Maybe. We will see how generous his first offer is.’ He looked back at Clare, who slowly released her painful, indrawn breath. ‘You will have to be patient, signorina. We have decided to let your lover stew for a day or two before we make contact. I think when I talk to him, he will be glad to meet my terms.’ ‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ Clare said glacially, as he retied her wrists. She kept her head high until they left the room, then she collapsed on to the edge of the bed, her legs shaking. The thought that they’d been spied on as Guido brought her to the edge of surrender made her feel nauseous. Her skin crawled at the very idea. She would never convince Fabio that she wasn’t Guido’s mistress, she realised. But Marco might be a different matter. He was clearly uneasy about the situation, and that was what she would work on. She wondered how soon it would be before she was missed. In retrospect, leaving her clothes behind didn’t seem such a good idea after all. Wearily, she swung her legs on to the bed, and made herself as comfortable as possible. Whatever happened, going without sleep would solve nothing. Oh, Guido, she thought as she closed her eyes. Please come to me. Please find me. And, if you want, I’ll stay with you. I’ll do anything—be anything you ask. And for a brief, sweet moment, she imagined she could feel the brush of his lips against her skin, her hair, and her eyelids. And was comforted. CHAPTER ELEVEN (#ulink_d7c42e26-aa0f-5e88-b0cc-c9a9ed9bc63f) WHEN Clare woke, her watch, that she’d removed the previous night, told her it was morning. She slid awkwardly off the bed, and managed to make her way to the door, turning her back to knock at its panels. As she’d hoped, Marco appeared, looking no happier than he had the night before. ‘Buongiorno.’ Clare smiled calmly at him. ‘I’d like the bathroom, and then some coffee.’ He hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. As she washed and cleaned her teeth, Clare heard him go downstairs. Scooping her toilet things back into their bag, she opened the door and peeped out. The passage was empty, and she was sorely tempted to make a dash for it. Except, she reminded herself, that she hadn’t a clue where ‘it’ might be. A familiar sound was coming from a room across the passage, and she trod softly across and pushed open the door, wrinkling her nose at the smell of grappa which assaulted her. Fabio was sprawled across the bed, an empty bottle on the floor beside him, snoring loudly. Out for the count, she thought. And the perfect opportunity to work on Marco. The shutters were open, and she tiptoed across and looked out of the window. As she’d feared, all she could see were fields and trees. The house, which she was certain belonged to Marco’s mother, was in total isolation. But directly below her was Fabio’s car, looking rustier than ever in the sunlight. If I could just get the keys, she thought. We can’t be that far from a main road. Fabio snorted, and turned on to his side. She crept back to the bathroom, closing the door quietly just as Marco came upstairs with her coffee. In addition, there was a plate, with a slice of ham, a piece of cheese, and a sad-looking peach. ‘Thank you.’ She sent him another smile. ‘How well you look after me. Your mother must be proud of you.’ She glanced round her. ‘How beautifully she keeps her house.’ ‘Grazie, signorina.’ He looked faintly gratified. ‘And what a shame she won’t be able to stay here,’ Clare went on, watching him from under her lashes as she sipped her coffee. His brow creased. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Well, she won’t be able to look after her house when she’s in jail.’ ‘Jail?’ He gave her a stony look. ‘My mother will not go to jail. And nor will I. There are many places I can hide—even from Bartaldi.’ ‘But you’ve kept me in her house, which will make her an accomplice. At least that’s how the police will see it.’ ‘But you know differently, signorina. You will speak for her. She is not young, and she has been sick.’ ‘Maybe you should have thought about that before you let Fabio involve you in his get-rich schemes,’ Clare said contemptuously. She leaned forward, fixing his gaze with hers. She said urgently, ‘There is only one person who can speak for you—get you off the hook—and that’s the Marchese. And why should he? You betrayed his trust, and now you’ve stolen from him. You can run, Marco, but he’ll hunt you down. And your mother will suffer too.’ ‘No, that cannot be. Fabio said nothing…’ ‘Well, why should he? It won’t be his mother who’ll be arrested. And I’m sure he isn’t as caring a son as you, anyway.’ Clare shook her head. ‘There’s no help for it, I’m afraid. When the police trace you to this house, as they will, my fingerprints will be everywhere. And your mother will be involved, up to her neck.’ Marco looked as if he was going to burst into tears. ‘I cannot let this happen. What can I do, signorina?’ ‘We-ell.’ Clare hesitated, then plunged recklessly. ‘You could always let me go.’ ‘Let you go?’ He laughed hoarsely. ‘To bring the police down on me and put me in jail? I am not a fool.’ ‘But it doesn’t have to be that way,’ Clare said intensely. ‘Listen to me, Marco. If you help me get away, I’ll tell the Marchese exactly what you did. How kind you’ve been. How you looked after me. What’s more, I’ll remind him how long your family have worked for him. I’ll even ask for your job back. And there might be a reward,’ she added, mentally crossing her fingers. ‘He’s a good man—a fair man,’ she went on quickly. ‘He’ll forgive you—take you back—if I ask him. If you help me now. And you’ll have saved yourself and your mother.’ There was a long silence. Then, ‘But how do I know he will do these things?’ Clare lifted her chin. ‘Because you have my promise,’ she said. ‘Because, as Fabio said, I am Bartaldi’s woman.’ There was another tense silence. She saw him swallow. Then, ‘What do I have to do?’ She couldn’t let him see how relieved she was. Instead she tried to sound brisk and matter-of-fact. ‘I’m going to need the car. Does Fabio have the keys?’ He nodded. ‘He might wake…’ ‘Only if there’s a missile attack.’ ‘But I am not staying here. I am coming with you, signorina. When he does wake, he will be like a crazy man, and I do not want to be here.’ She couldn’t blame him, but she needed him like a hole in the head. She supposed he wanted to be sure she would keep her word. She nodded. ‘Whatever you say, Marco. Get the keys and my bag, and we’re out of here.’ She watched him go into the room where Fabio was still snoring. After a minute, he reappeared. ‘Signorina— I cannot find them. I am afraid to search his pockets.’ Clare bit down on her impatience. ‘Don’t worry, Marco. I’ll look myself.’ There was nothing in his pockets, Clare discovered, rigid with distaste. Then, as he turned his head restlessly, cursing and grumbling obscenities in his sleep, she heard a faint chink of metal and found the car keys under his pillow. ‘Avanti,’ she said quietly. ‘I think he’s coming out of it.’ She waited in agony as Marco, who insisted on driving, fumbled with the ignition and clashed the gears. As they moved off, bouncing down the dusty track, she thought she heard a shout from behind them, and saw that Marco had registered it too, that he was looking in the mirror and braking. She said urgently, ‘Keep going. I told you I’d look after you, and I will. But if you let me down, I’ll throw you to the wolves.’ He sent her a miserable look, his forehead beaded with sweat, then obediently put his foot on the gas. The track bordered fields of sunflowers for nearly a mile. The road, when they found it, was not much better, carving its way through scattered woodland and scrub. But Marco insisted they were going in the right direction. Clare sat forward suddenly with a gasp. ‘Oh, God. The Minerva. I—I forgot about it. Fabio still has it.’ ‘No, signorina. It is still in the boot of this car. Last night he wished only to celebrate—to get drunk—so he left it there.’ They were coming to a junction. Clare said cheerfully, ‘Oh, dear. It just isn’t his day…’ And stopped with a gasp as a police car swung off the major road towards them, effectively blocking their passage. ‘Dio.’ Under his tan, Marco was as white as a sheet, as a second police vehicle followed. ‘They are coming for me.’ ‘It’s all right,’ Clare soothed. ‘Stop the car, and leave all the talking to me.’ But, with a sob of fright, he pulled the wheel over and swung the car off the road into the trees. ‘Marco, this is crazy.’ Clare tried to speak calmly. ‘You can’t drive in this. Now stop the car, and everything will be…’ The words choked in her throat as Marco misjudged the distance between two trees and the offside crumpled on impact with a scream of grinding metal. Clare was thrown forward, but her seat belt held. Marco, who wasn’t wearing his belt, hit himself on the steering wheel and sat back, blood pouring from his nose and a cut on his head. ‘Here.’ She grabbed a handful of tissues from her bag, and held them to his face as the police surrounded the car. She thought hysterically, This can’t be happening. It’s like some ghastly action replay… Her door was dragged open. She was aware of faces staring in at her. A babel of voices. Someone was asking her if she could move. She unfastened her seat belt and got out, steadying herself on the side of the car as the ground suddenly dipped and swayed. Then the crowd around her were falling back, making way, and she saw Guido striding towards her, eyes blazing, face grim. ‘You are hurt?’ he demanded as he reached her, and curtly, over his shoulder, ‘an ambulance—at once.’ She realised there was blood on her hands, and on the linen jacket, and tried to laugh feebly. ‘Guido—it’s not mine. It’s poor Marco’s…’ She got no further. He was looking past her to where Marco had just been pulled from the car, and there was an expression on his face Clare had never seen before—bleak—almost murderous. He reached him in three strides, lifting the younger man as if he’d been a rag doll. Shaking him, his hands gripping his throat. Clare moved then, pushing her way through, throwing herself at Guido, trying to drag him away. ‘Don’t—please don’t hurt him. He helped me. I promised I’d make it all right for him.’ She pummelled him with her fists. ‘Guido—darling—let him go.’ ‘Are you mad?’ His voice was hoarse. ‘He collaborated with that piece of vermin. Why should I spare him?’ ‘Because he’s your man.’ There were tears running down her face. ‘Because his father worked for you—and his grandfather before that. Because it’s your land—your estate—and you are Bartaldi.’ Slowly Guido released his grip, and Marco slid to the ground at his feet, crimson-faced and choking. ‘Yes, he’s been a fool, and worse than a fool,’ she went on quickly. ‘But he’s sorry, and I would never have got away without him. I gave my word that I’d look after him. That I wouldn’t let him be arrested.’ ‘And what gives you the right to make such a dangerous promise?’ His tone lashed her. She looked up at him, longing to kiss the rigidity from his mouth. To smooth away the lines of strain from his dark face. She said quietly, and very simply, ‘Because I’m Bartaldi’s woman. Now take me home—please.’ The silence was electric as he looked into her eyes, then he took her hand and raised it to his lips, before turning to the nearest policeman. ‘Take the lady to my car, if you please, while I see what is to be done here.’ By the time he joined her reaction had set in, and she was shaking like a leaf. He gave her a frowning glance. ‘I should take you to the hospital.’ ‘I hate hospitals,’ she said. ‘And I’ll be fine.’ She paused. ‘Guido, you won’t let them put poor Marco in jail, will you? His mother’s sick, and he is one of your people…’ ‘You’ve made out your case, mia cara.’ There was an odd note in his voice. ‘I can refuse you nothing.’ She leaned back, closing her eyes, as the car moved smoothly forward. Well, the die was cast now. She’d offered herself, and he would take her. She supposed dully that he would buy her somewhere to live—an apartment in Rome, perhaps—and he would visit her there when he was able. She wasn’t altogether sure how these arrangements worked. But she did know that she could only ever occupy a small, separate part of his life, and she would have to make it enough. She said, ‘How did you know where to find me?’ ‘Ever since you told Tonio about “Marco’s cousin” we have had Fabio watched. We thought Paola would be most in danger. I never once thought he would dare to touch you. ‘When you disappeared last night, I thought at first that you had simply—left me. Then we found Violetta’s car keys near the campanile, and realised the Minerva had gone too, and a sighting of Fabio’s vehicle was reported.’ He spoke quietly, without emotion. ‘Marco was merely going to be picked up for interrogation.’ He paused. ‘I hope you did not make any rash promises about helping Fabio to evade justice?’ ‘No,’ she said. ‘I hope they lock him up for ever.’ Then she remembered something completely different, and sat up. ‘Guido—I should have told you—the Minerva—she’s in the boot of that car.’ ‘Someone will find her and return her.’ ‘How can you be so casual about it?’ Clare demanded indignantly. ‘She’s your greatest treasure.’ He said softly, ‘Not any longer.’ And, for one brief, tingling moment, his hand rested on her knee. Everyone was clustered on the steps at the villa to witness their return. Guido opened the passenger door and helped her out. Then, before she could move or protest, he picked her up in his arms and carried her up the steps. In the sea of faces, the one she saw was Paola’s, eyes wide with shock and lips parted. And it brought her to her reeling senses. ‘Guido—put me down,’ she whispered. ‘Are you crazy? What will people think?’ ‘What they wish, as usual,’ he retorted without slackening his grasp, as he walked towards the stairs. He carried her into her bedroom and put her gently down on the bed, then turned, beckoning to the housekeeper who had followed them, giving swift instructions that Clare barely heard. A bath, deep and scented, was run for her, and Benedetta and Filumena were helping her to undress. She sank down into the water, boneless and weightless, and emerged to be wrapped in a warm bath sheet. Filumena dried her hair into a shining curtain, and Benedetta applied some sweet-smelling herbal ointment to the bump on her head. The bed had been turned down, and there was even a nightgown waiting for her, one she’d never seen before, in ivory satin, with narrow straps and a deep plunge of a bodice made almost entirely of guipure lace. One side of the skirt was slashed almost to the thigh, and edged in the same lace. She was suddenly aware of how deferentially they were treating her. And how their eyes slid away when she looked at them. But what did she expect? By carrying her up the stairs like that Guido had put his mark on her. Virtually announced his intentions to the world. She bit her lip. She could only imagine what Paola must be feeling, she thought with remorse. The shutters were closed, reducing the room to discreet shadow, then Benedetta and Filumena withdrew with polite murmurs, and Clare was alone. Or so she thought. But almost immediately the door opened, and Guido came in. He had changed too, she saw, into slim-fitting black pants, that hugged his lean hips, and a black silk shirt. His face was serious, and a little remote. ‘How do you feel?’ He stood at the side of the bed and looked down at her. ‘Much—better.’ She hesitated, her eyes grave and a little disappointed. She’d expected him to behave with more finesse. ‘You don’t waste much time, signore..’ ‘Because I don’t have much time to waste.’ He paused in turn. ‘Do you like the gown?’ ‘It’s exquisite,’ Clare returned with some of her old spark. ‘Do you have a store of them—to meet all eventualities?’ ‘No.’ He smiled at her. ‘You have a lot to learn about me, mia bella.’ Her fingers plucked at the embroidered edge of the sheet. Her mouth felt suddenly dry. ‘And is this going to be the first lesson?’ Excitement warred with shyness inside her. ‘That must wait a little, I think. Because we have to talk.’ He sat down on the edge of the bed, and handed her a flat velvet case. ‘I came to bring you this.’ It was a single diamond—a teardrop of fire on a slender gold chain. ‘I searched for a flawless stone,’ he went on. ‘There is other jewellery, of course, some of it very old. But I wanted to give you something for yourself alone—something no one else had worn.’ She swallowed. ‘It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. But you don’t have to do this, Guido. I—I don’t need jewellery or expensive presents. That’s not it at all.’ ‘Then you will have to steel yourself, beloved. The Marchesa Bartaldi is expected to wear the family jewels on grand occasions.’ She said woodenly, ‘I’m sure Paola will look lovely. And don’t you think you should be with her now?’ Guido fastened the pendant round her neck, adjusting the diamond so that it glittered in the valley between her lace-veiled breasts. ‘The perfect setting,’ he said softly. ‘And is my company so undesirable, mia cara, that you wish to be rid of me?’ ‘No,’ she said almost desperately. ‘It’s just that I want us to do the right thing—even though I know we’re doing the wrong one. But I want us to do it as well as possible. And you’re laughing at me.’ ‘Because you’re talking nonsense.’ He took her hands in his. ‘Chiara—can you be the only person in the world who does not know I have come here to ask you to be my wife?’ She stared at him, her heart pounding suddenly, her lips parting on a soundless gasp. When she could speak, she said huskily, ‘This is some joke. It—must be…’ ‘I have never been more serious.’ He tapped his wristwatch. ‘And I would like an answer, carissima. Every soul in the place is hanging on your word.’ ‘But you’re going to marry Paola,’ she protested wildly. ‘She’s in love with you. She told me so.’ ‘Then that will come as news to Tonio, to whom she’s been engaged for the past forty-eight hours.’ ‘And you don’t mind?’ Her mind was reeling. ‘It was what I always intended,’ he said with a shrug. ‘He has loved her for years, God help him. All that was needed was for Paola to stop falling for unsuitable men and realise she could only be happy with Tonio. Which she’s now done.’ He frowned swiftly. ‘I thought she had told you.’ ‘She said something,’ she returned numbly. ‘But I didn’t understand.’ She shook her head. ‘But why did you bring me here? You said you wanted me to make her into a willing wife for you…’ ‘No, my love. You were the one I always meant to have. And it was yourself that you had to coax into submission. Into acceptance of your fate. There were times when I thought it would never happen,’ he added with feeling. ‘Guido.’ Her voice shook. ‘You—devil.’ She paused. ‘But what about Paola’s money? She said you didn’t want it to go out of the company.’ ‘Paola has no money, mia cara, apart from the settlement I shall make on her when she marries. Her father gambled away everything he had. That was why my father took her into our home—because he felt that he should have stopped him years before.’ ‘And Tonio knows this?’ ‘Naturalamente.’ ‘Then why did you pretend that you were going to marry Paola?’ ‘To keep the undesirables away,’ he returned promptly. ‘Fabio was not the first, you understand. And she had to be protected while she learned the truth of her own feelings.’ He smiled at her very tenderly. ‘As you had to be, also, my stubborn darling. You were always so sure I wanted you to be my mistress. Whereas I simply wanted you.’ He paused. ‘I am not a boy, Chiara, and you are not the first woman in my life. But you will be the last. And I know I am not the first man for you. Violetta has told me something of this James. Is there anything you wish to tell me too?’ ‘He’s not important,’ she said. ‘He’s been history for a long time. Only I thought you were like him—marrying for purely mercenary reasons. And it made me angry.’ ‘We have both had moments of doubt,’ he said quietly. ‘When I saw you on the station at Barezzo that day, I thought, Here she is at last. And then, when it seemed that you were Fabio’s accomplice, I was angry too, and sick with disappointment.’ ‘You looked as if you wanted to kill me. When I saw you go for Marco today, I realised I’d had a lucky escape.’ ‘You’ve escaped nothing, carissima. Not unless you decide you don’t want to marry me after all. That you don’t love me.’ ‘I’ve loved you from the first, too,’ she said. ‘But I told myself I had to fight it.’ She drew a breath. ‘But there is something I have to know, Guido. The truth abut your lady in Siena.’ He was silent for a long moment. ‘Her name is Bianca,’ he said at last. ‘And I knew her first about ten years ago. Yes, we were lovers—then. But we went our separate ways, and I did not meet her again until two years ago, when a mutual friend told me she was back in Siena, and very ill. And that she needed help.’ His mouth twisted. ‘When I went to see her I found that she had contracted multiple sclerosis, and that it had advanced rapidly. She was married when her illness was diagnosed. Her husband could not take the idea of her disability, and walked out on her. ‘I found her an apartment, and arranged for full-time care. The doctors tell me it will not be needed for very much longer. And I go to see her, and we laugh, and talk of old times, and I make sure that I treat her like the lively, beautiful girl I remember. Lately, I have told her about you,’ he added quietly. ‘And she has begged to meet you.’ ‘Oh, Guido.’ Clare swallowed. ‘I’m so sorry. And of course I’ll come with you.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve judged you so harshly. I don’t understand how you can still want me.’ His smile teased her. ‘But you know that I do.’ ‘Yes,’ she said softly, her eyes luminous. ‘I know.’ He leaned forward and kissed her, slowly and thoroughly, his mouth caressing hers with sensuous pleasure. And Clare, her arms round his neck, kissed him back, revelling in her freedom to do so. A freedom all the more precious for having been painfully bought. And between kisses they murmured to each other, and laughed a little, and touched each other in delicate exploration. At some point she found that Guido was now lying beside her, his silk shirt discarded, and that the straps of her nightgown had mysteriously slipped down, freeing her breasts from their little lace cups, and that he was stroking her excited nipples with the tip of a finger. ‘You know how wrong this is, mia bella,’ he whispered, his breath warm against her skin. ‘Your godmother would be shocked. My uncle would be scandalised. I am supposed to wait patiently for our wedding night before I do this.’ He bent and kissed each scented peak. ‘Or this,’ he added, his hand sliding under the slash of her skirt to find her moist silken core. ‘Must we?’ The breath caught in her throat as she arched against his caressing hand in mute demand. ‘Wait, I mean?’ ‘I think we must.’ His hand moved, subtly, wickedly, bringing a small moan from her throat. ‘At least until I have locked the door and taken off the rest of my clothes.’ He paused as his fingertips moved in devastating friction against her tiny centre of sensation. ‘Or after—this.’ She came almost at once, her body pulsating in an eager delight that was close to pain, and he held her close, and kissed her mouth, and her tearful eyes, and murmured how beautiful she was, and how much he loved her. And then he locked the door, and took off the rest of his clothes and her nightgown, and made slow, sensuous love to her, using his mouth and hands in ways she’d never dreamed of, enjoying her body in rapt completeness and teaching her to enjoy his. ‘Tonight,’ he said, when they were lying dreamily sated in each other’s arms, ‘I shall look at you at dinner and smile, and you will know what I am remembering. You—naked except for my diamond pendant.’ ‘This making it impossible for me to eat or drink anything.’ Clare let her hand roam lazily. ‘Anyway, I have my own memories, signore.’ She looked at him from under her lashes. ‘I suppose we shall have to remain celibate now until the ceremony.’ ‘I think we may also have to do penance,’ he said ruefully. ‘And apologise to all our well-wishers downstairs. I think my uncle and your godmother may be angry with us—unless they are too involved with each other to care.’ ‘Are they really fond of each other? That’s wonderful.’ She frowned a little. ‘But Violetta has always vowed she would never get married again.’ ‘I think Cesare has other ideas. He will win her round. He saw at once that I loved you.’ ‘How clever of him.’ ‘We are a clever family, carissima’ He turned her face to his and kissed her lingeringly. ‘I think we should be married as soon as it can be arranged. Perhaps we had better not wait for the chapel to be finished.’ She smiled, pillowing her head on his chest. ‘Are you in such a hurry, Marchese? I rather like being Bartaldi’s woman.’ ‘You will find,’ he said softly, ‘that being Bartaldi’s bride will be infinitely more rewarding.’ And as she walked down the aisle to Guido, waiting for her at the altar just a few brief weeks later, Clare saw the love in his face, and the pride, and the reverence. And she knew, joyously, that he was right. Rome’s Revenge (#ulink_b50530d7-6315-5305-ab4b-1df02f519360) CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_65ab06ce-df07-5d86-b1b9-9e23e750af6a) THE charity ball was already in full swing when he arrived. Rome d’Angelo traversed the splendid marble foyer of the large Park Lane hotel and walked purposefully through the massive archway which led to the ballroom. A security man considered asking for his ticket, took a look at the dark, uncompromising face and decided against it. Inside the ballroom, Rome halted, frowning a little at the noise of the music and the babble of laughter and chat which almost drowned it. In his mind’s eye he was seeing a hillside crowded with serried rows of vines, and a hawk hovering silently against a cloudless sky, all enshrouded in a silence that was almost tangible. Coming here tonight was a mistake, and he knew it, but what choice did he have? he asked himself bitterly. He was gambling with his future, something he’d thought was behind him for ever. But of course he’d reckoned without his grandfather. He accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and moved without haste to the edge of the balcony, which overlooked the ballroom floor. If he was aware of the curious glances which pursued him, he ignored them. By this time he was used to attracting attention, not all of it welcome. He’d soon learned in adolescence the effect that his six-foot-three, lean, muscular body could generate. At first he’d been embarrassed when women had eyed him quite openly, using his broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped frame to fuel their private fantasies. Now he was simply amused, or, more often, bored. But his attention tonight was focused on the several hundred people gyrating more or less in time with the music below him, his frowning gaze scanning them closely. He saw the girl almost at once. She was standing at the edge of the dance floor, dressed in a silver sheath which lent no grace to a body that was on the thin side of slender and made her pale skin look tired and washed out. Like a shinny ghost, he thought critically. Yet she’d probably dieted herself into that condition, boasting about the single lettuce leaf she allowed herself for lunch. Why the hell couldn’t she be a woman who at least looked like a woman? he wondered with distaste. And how was it, with all her money, no one had ever shown her how to dress? For the rest, her shoulder-length light brown hair was cut in a feathered bob, and, apart from a wristwatch, she seemed to be wearing no jewellery, so she didn’t flaunt her family’s money. She was very still, and quietly, almost fiercely alone, as if a chalk circle had been drawn round her which no one was permitted to cross. Yet he could not believe she was here unescorted. The Ice Maiden indeed, he thought, his lips twisting with wry contempt, and definitely not his type. He’d met them before, these girls who, cushioned by their family’s riches, could afford to stand aloof and treat the rest of the world with disdain. And one of them he’d known well. His frown returned. It was a long time since he’d thought about Graziella. She belonged strictly to his past, yet she was suddenly back in his mind now. Because, like the girl below him, she was someone who’d had it made from the day she was born. Who didn’t have to be beautiful or beguiling, which she was, or even civil, which she’d never been, because her place in life was preordained, and she didn’t have to try. And that was why Cory Grant, in turn, could stand there, in her expensive, unbecoming gown, daring the world to keep its distance. Dangerous things—dares, he thought, his firm mouth twisting. Because the challenge implicit in every line of her rigid figure was making him wonder just what it would take to melt that frozen calm. Then a slight movement focused his gaze more closely, and he realised that her hands were clenching and unclenching in the folds of the silver dress. He thought, Ah—so there’s a chink in the lady’s armour, after all. Interesting. And right on cue, as if she was suddenly conscious that she was being watched, she looked up at the balcony and her eyes met his. Rome deliberately let his gaze hold hers for a long count of three, then he smiled, raised his champagne glass in a silent toast and drank to her. Even across the space that separated them he could see the sudden burn of colour in her face, then she turned and walked away, heading for the archway which led to the cocktail bar. If I was still gambling, he thought, what odds would I give that she’ll look round before she gets to the bar? It seemed at first he’d have lost his money, but then, as she reached the entrance, he saw her hesitate and throw a swift glance over her shoulder, aimed at where he was standing. The next second she was gone, swallowed up by the crowd inside the bar. Rome grinned to himself, then drank the rest of his champagne, setting the empty glass down on the balustrade. He took his mobile phone from the pocket of his tuxedo and dialled a number. When his call was answered, he said, his voice cool and abrupt, ‘I’ve seen her. I’ll do it.’ He rang off, and went back the way he’d come, his long, lithe stride carrying him across the foyer and out into the chill darkness of the night. Cory hadn’t wanted to come to the ball. And particularly she hadn’t wanted to come with Philip, who, she guessed, had been set up by her grandfather to bring her. She thought, I really wish he wouldn’t do that, but her inner smile was tender. She knew that Arnold Grant only wanted the best for her. The problem was they’d never agree on what that ‘best’ was. In Arnold’s view it was a husband, wealthy, steady and suitable, who would provide her with a splendid home and, in due course, babies. For Cory it was a career, not even remotely connected with Grant Industries, and total independence. Currently, she drew an over-generous salary as Arnold’s personal assistant, which meant that she organised his diary, made sure his domestic life ran smoothly, and acted as his hostess and companion at social events. She felt a total fraud, knowing full well that all those activities could have fitted easily into her spare time, enabling her to do a job where she earned the money she was paid. But Arnold insisted that he could not do without her, and had no hesitation in playing the old and frail card if he sensed she was near to rebellion. Being allowed to move out of the big family house in Chelsea and rent a modest flat of her own had been a major concession it had taken her nearly a year of argument and cajolery to win. ‘How can you think of leaving?’ he’d protested pitifully. ‘You’re all I’ve got. I thought you’d be here with me for the few years I have left.’ ‘Gramps, you’re a monster.’ Cory had hugged him. ‘You’re going to live for ever, and you know it.’ But although she no longer lived under his roof, he still felt he had carte blanche to meddle in her affairs. And this evening was a case in point. He was a major contributor to the charity in question, and she was there to represent him, accompanied by a man who’d probably been blackmailed into bringing her. Not, she decided, a pretty thought. And so far it was all pretty much the disaster she’d expected. She and her escort had barely exchanged half a dozen words, and she’d seen the fleeting expression on his face when she’d emerged from the cloakroom. You think this dress is bad? She’d wanted to say. You should have seen the ones I turned down. And I only bought it because I was running out of time and desperate, although I recognise a giant sack which also covered my face would have been a better choice. But of course she’d said nothing of the kind. Just steadied her sinking heart and allowed him to take her into the ballroom. And when Philip had dutifully asked her to dance with him she’d rewarded him by stepping on his foot. A painful process when your shoes were size sevens. After which he’d hastily offered to get her a drink, and disappeared into the bar. That had been almost fifteen minutes ago, and it was more than time she went to look for him. For all he knew, she thought, she could be lying on the floor, her face blackened and her tongue swollen with thirst. She sighed under her breath. She always felt such a fool at these events. Such a fish out of water. For one thing, at five foot nine she was taller than most of the women. She was almost taller than Philip, which was another nail in the evening’s coffin. Thank God she’d worn low heels. She was a lousy dancer, too, she acknowledged with detachment. She had no natural rhythm—or even basic co-ordination, if it came to that. If she could find no one else’s feet, she would fall over her own instead. And she could usually manage a maximum of two minutes’ bright social chatter, before her brain went numb and her pinned-on smile began to hurt. At this moment she could only think how much she’d rather be at home, curled up with a book and a glass of good wine. But now she really ought to move, before people thought she’d been actually glued to the spot, and make an attempt to find her unfortunate escort. Maybe she could plead a sudden migraine and let him off the hook altogether, she thought. She wasn’t sure when she first became aware that someone was watching her. Probably wondering if it was just the dress, or whether she’d genuinely been turned into a pillar of salt, she thought, glancing indifferently upwards. And paused, conscious that her heart had given a sudden, unexpected lurch. Because this was not the sort of man to give her even a passing look under normal circumstances. And as their eyes met, some warning antenna began to send out frantic messages, screaming Danger. He was immaculately dressed in conventional evening clothes, but a bandanna around his unruly mane of curling dark hair and a black patch over one eye would have suited him better. Although that was utter nonsense, she castigated herself. He was probably a perfectly respectable lawyer or accountant. Certainly no buccaneer could afford the arm and leg tonight’s tickets had cost. And it was time she stopped goggling like an idiot and beat a dignified retreat. But, before she could move, he smiled and lifted the glass he was holding in a silent toast. Cory could feel one of the agonising blushes that were the bane of her life travelling up from her toes. All she had to do was turn her head and she would find the real recipient of all this attention standing behind her, she thought. Someone blonde and gorgeous, who knew how to wear clothes and probably how to take them off as well. Someone who could make a remark about the weather sound like an explicit sexual invitation. I’m just in the way, she told herself. But there was no one standing behind her. There was herself. And he was looking at her, and only her, smiling, as if he was watching. Waiting for her to do something. Cory felt a sudden drop of sweat slide between her breasts like ice on her heated skin. Was aware of a swift flurry in her breathing. Because she wanted to go to him. She wanted almost desperately to walk across the ballroom and up those wide marble stairs to where he was standing. But, even more potently, she wanted him to come to her instead, and the swift, unexpected violence of that need jolted her out of her unwelcome trance and back to reality. She thought, My God—this is crazy. And, more determinedly, I’ve got to get out of here—now… She wheeled, and walked swiftly towards the cocktail bar and the errant Philip. She risked a quick look over her shoulder and realised with mingled alarm and excitement that he was still there, still watching her, and still smiling. My God, she thought again shakily. Philip might not be very exciting, or even marginally attentive, but at least he doesn’t look like a pirate on his night off. She looked round the crowded bar and eventually spotted him, sitting at a corner table with a bunch of his cronies, and roaring with laughter. It was paranoid to think she might be the subject of the joke. Indeed, all the evidence suggested that he’d completely forgotten about her. So—I’m paranoid, she thought with a small mental shrug. But once bitten… At the bar, she asked for a white wine spritzer, and was just about to take her first sip when someone touched her shoulder. She started violently, sending half the contents of her glass sloshing over the hated silver dress, and turned, half in hope, half in dread. ‘Cory?’ It was Shelley Bennet, an old schoolfriend, who now worked full time for the charity. ‘I’ve been looking all over the place for you. I’d begun to think you’d chickened out.’ Cory sighed, mopping at herself with a minute lace hanky. ‘No such luck. Gramps was adamant.’ ‘But surely you haven’t come on your own?’ Shelley’s frown was concerned. ‘My partner’s over there, taking a well-deserved break,’ Cory said drily. ‘I may have broken his toe.’ She hesitated. ‘Shelley, when you were in the ballroom just now, did you notice a man?’ ‘Dozens,’ Shelley said promptly. ‘They tended to be dancing with women in long frocks. Strange behaviour at a ball, don’t you think?’ ‘Well, this one seemed to be on his own. And he didn’t look as if dancing was a major priority.’ Ravishment, maybe, she thought, and looting, with a spot of pillage thrown in. Shelley’s eyes glinted. ‘You interest me strangely. Where did you see him?’ ‘He was up on the balcony.’ Cory gave a slight frown. ‘Usually you know exactly who’s going to be at this kind of occasion, yet he was a total stranger. I’ve never seen him before.’ ‘Well, he seems to have made quite an impression,’ Shelley said with affectionate amusement. ‘You look marginally human for a change, my lamb, rather than as if you’d been carved out of stone.’ ‘Don’t be silly,’ Cory said with dignity. Shelley’s eyes danced. ‘How much to look down the guest list and supply you with a name, if not a phone number?’ ‘It’s not like that,’ Cory protested. ‘It’s just such a novelty to see a new face at these things.’ ‘I can’t argue with that.’ Shelley gave her a shrewd look. ‘Was it a nice new face?’ ‘No, I can’t say that. Not nice, precisely.’ Cory shook her head. Not ‘nice’ at all. ‘But—interesting.’ ‘In that case I shall definitely be reviewing the guest list.’ Shelley slipped an arm through her friend’s. ‘Come on, love. Point him out to me.’ But the tall stranger had vanished. And, but for the empty champagne glass on the balustrade in front of where he’d been standing, Cory would have decided he was simply a figment of her imagination. ‘Snapped up by some predatory woman, I expect,’ Shelley said with a sigh. ‘Unless he took a good look at the evening’s entertainment potential and decided that charity begins at home.’ Actually, he was taking a good look at me, Cory thought, rather forlornly. And probably writing me off as some sad, needy reject. Aloud, she said briskly, ‘Not a bad idea, either.’ She hailed a lurking waiter, and wrote a brief note of excuse to Philip on his order pad. ‘Would you see that Mr Hamilton gets this, please? He’s at the corner table in the cocktail bar.’ Shelley regarded her darkly. ‘Are you running out on me, too—friend?’ ‘’Fraid so,’ Cory told her cheerfully. ‘I’ve put in an appearance, so my duty’s done and Gramps will be mollified.’ ‘Until the next time,’ Shelley added drily. She paused. ‘And what about your escort?’ ‘He’s done his duty, too.’ Cory smiled reassuringly. ‘And I’d hate to have to fight off a token pass on the way home.’ ‘Maybe it wouldn’t be token,’ said Shelley. She was silent for a moment. ‘Love, you aren’t still tied up over that prat Rob, are you? You haven’t let him ruin things for anyone else you might meet?’ ‘I never give him a thought,’ Cory said, resisting an impulse to cross her fingers. ‘And even if I believed in Mr Right, I can tell you now that Philip doesn’t measure up.’ Shelley’s eyes gleamed. ‘Then why not opt for some good, unclean fun with Mr Wrong?’ For a brief moment Cory remembered a raised glass, and a slanting smile, and felt her heart thump all over again. She said lightly, ‘Not really my scene. The single life is safer.’ Shelley sighed. ‘If not positively dull. Well, go home, if you must. I’ll ring you tomorrow and we’ll fix up supper and a movie. The new Nicolas Cage looks good.’ ‘I had no real objection to the old Nicholas Cage,’ said Cory. She gave Shelley a brief kiss on the cheek, and went. The cab driver was the uncommunicative sort, which suited Cory perfectly. She sat in the corner of the seat, feeling the tensions of the evening slowly seeping away. She needed to be much firmer with Gramps, she told herself. Stop him arranging these dates from hell for her. Because she’d laughed off Philip’s bad manners, and ducked the situation, that didn’t mean she hadn’t found the whole thing hurtful. He’d left her standing around looking stupid, and vulnerable to patronage by some stranger who thought he was Mr Charm. A hanging offence in more enlightened times, she told herself, as she paid off the cab and went into her building. One disadvantage of living alone was having no one to discuss the evening with, she thought wryly, as she hung her coat in the wardrobe. She could always telephone her mother, currently pursuing merry widowhood in Miami, but she’d probably find Sonia absorbed in her daily bridge game. And Gramps would only want to hear that she’d had a good time, so she’d have to fabricate something before she saw him next. Maybe I’ll get a cat, she thought. The final affirmation of spinsterhood. Which at twenty-three was ridiculous. Perhaps I should change my name to Tina, she thought. There Is No Alternative. She carefully removed the silver dress, and placed it over a chair. She’d have it cleaned, she decided, and send it to tonight’s charity’s second-hand shop. It would do more good there than it had while she’d been wearing it. Or had it really been wearing her? Moot point, she thought, reaching for her moss-green velvet robe. And paused… She rarely looked at herself in the mirror, except when she washed her face or brushed her hair, but now she found she was subjecting herself to a prolonged and critical scrutiny. The silver-grey silk and lace undies she wore concealed very little from her searching gaze, so no false comfort there. Her breasts were high and firm, but too small, she thought disparagingly. Everywhere else she was as flat as a board. At least her legs were long, but there were deep hollows at the base of her neck, and her shoulderblades could slice bread. No wonder her blonde, glamorous mother, whose finely honed figure was unashamedly female, had tended to view her as if she’d given birth to a giraffe. I’m just like Dad and Gramps, she acknowledged with a sigh. And if I’d only been a boy I’d have been glad of it. She put on her robe and zipped it up, welcoming its warm embrace. She dabbed cleanser on to her face, and tissued away the small amount of make-up which was all she ever wore. A touch of shadow on her lids, a glow of pink or coral on her soft mouth, and a coat of brown mascara to emphasise the curling length of the lashes that shaded her hazel eyes. Her cheekbones required no accenting. From the neck up she wasn’t too bad, she thought judiciously. It was a shame she couldn’t float round as a disembodied head. But she couldn’t understand why she was going in for this kind of personal assessment anyway. Unless it was Shelley’s reference to Rob, and all the unhappy memories his name still had the power to evoke. Which is really stupid, she thought quickly. I should put it behind me. Move on. Isn’t that what we’re always being told? But some things weren’t so easy to leave behind. She went across her living room into her small galley-kitchen and poured milk into a pan, setting it on the hob to heat. Hot chocolate was what she needed. Comfort in a mug. Not a stony trip down memory lane. When her drink was ready, she lit the gas fire and curled up in her big armchair, her hands cupped round the beaker, her gaze fixed on the small blue flames leaping above the mock coals. One day, she thought, she’d have a huge log fire in a hearth big enough to roast an ox. In fact, if she wanted, she could have one next week. One word to Gramps, and mansions with suitable fireplaces would be laid open for her inspection. Only, she didn’t want. She’d found out quite early in life that as the sole heiress to the Grant building empire the word was hers for the asking. That her grandfather was ready to gratify any whim she expressed. Which was why she’d learned to guard every word, and ask for as little as possible. And this flat, with its one bedroom and tiny bathroom, was quite adequate for her present needs, she thought, looking round her with quiet satisfaction. The property company who owned it had raised no objection to her getting rid of the elderly fitted carpets and having the floorboards sanded and polished to a gleaming honey shine. She’d painted the walls a deep rich cream, and bought a big, comfortable sofa and matching chair covered in a corded olive-green fabric. She’d made a dining area, with a round, glass-topped table supported by a cream pedestal and a pair of slender high-backed chairs, and created an office space with a neat corner desk which she’d assembled herself from a pack during one long, fraught evening, and which held her laptop, her phone and a fax machine. Not that she worked at home a great deal. She’d been determined from the first that the flat would be her sanctuary, and that she would leave Grant Industries behind each time she closed her door. Although she could never really be free of it for long, she acknowledged with a smothered sigh. But she used her home computer mainly to follow share dealings on the Internet—an interest she’d acquired during her time with Rob, and the only one to survive their traumatic break-up. A hobby, she thought, that she could pursue alone. It had never been her parents’ intention for her to be an only child. Cory had been born two years after their marriage, and it had been expected that other babies would follow in due course. But there had seemed no real hurry. Ian and Sonia Grant had liked to live in the fast lane, and their partying had been legendary. Sonia had been a professional tennis player in her single days, and Ian’s passion, apart from his wife and baby, had been rally driving. Sonia had been playing in an invitation tournament in California when a burst tyre had caused Ian’s car to spin off a forest road and crash, killing him instantly. Sonia had tried to assuage her grief by re-embarking on the tennis circuit, and for a few years Cory had travelled with her mother in a regime of constantly changing nannies and hotel suites. Arnold Grant had finally intervened, insisting that the little girl come back to Britain to be educated and live a more settled life, and Cory’s childhood had then been divided between her grandparents’ large house in Chelsea and their Suffolk home, which she’d much preferred. Sonia had eventually remarried, her second husband being American industrialist Morton Traske, and after his death from a heart attack she’d taken up permanent residence in Florida. Cory had an open invitation to join her, but her mother’s country-club lifestyle had never held any appeal for her. And she suspected that Sonia, who was determinedly keeping the years at bay, found her a secret embarrassment anyway. Their relationship was affectionate, but detached, and Cory found herself regarding Sonia very much as a wayward older sister. Most of the mothering in her life had been supplied by her grandmother. Beth Grant had been a serenely beautiful woman, confident in the love of her husband and family. The loss of her son had clouded her hazel eyes and added lines of sadness to the corners of her mouth, but she had given herself whole-heartedly to the rearing of his small daughter, and Cory had worshipped her. However, it hadn’t taken long for Cory to realise there was another shadow over her grandmother’s happiness, or to understand its nature. The feud, she thought wearily. The damn feud. Still alive even after all these years. It had been the only time she’d known her grandparents to quarrel. Seen tears of anger in Beth Grant’s eyes and heard her voice raised in protest. ‘This can’t go on,’ she’d railed. ‘It’s monstrous—farcical. You’re like children, scoring off each other. Except it’s more dangerous than that. For God’s sake, stop it—stop it now…’ Her grandfather’s answering rumble had been fierce. ‘He started it, Bethy, and you know it. So tell him to give it up. Tell him to stop trying to destroy me. To undermine my business—overthrow my companies.’ Arnold Grant had smiled grimly. ‘Because it hasn’t worked, and it never will. Because I won’t allow it. Anything he does to me will be done back to him. And he’ll be the one to call a truce in the end—not me.’ ‘The end?’ his wife had echoed bitterly. ‘What kind of truce can there be when you’re trying to annihilate each other?’ She’d suddenly seen Cory, standing in the doorway, and had hustled her away, chiding gently. ‘Gran,’ Cory had asked that night, when Beth had come to tuck her into bed, ‘who’s Matt Sansom?’ ‘Someone who doesn’t matter,’ Beth had said firmly. ‘Not to me, and, I hope, never to you. Now, go to sleep, and forget all about it.’ Wise counsel, Cory thought, grimacing, but sadly impossible to follow. And, since her grandmother’s death six years before, the enmity between the two men seemed even more entrenched and relentless. Only last week her grandfather had been gloating because he’d been able to filch a prime piece of real estate which Sansom Industries had been negotiating for from under their very noses. ‘But you don’t even want that site,’ Cory had protested. ‘What will you do with it?’ ‘Sell it back to the bastards,’ Arnold had returned with a grim smile. ‘Through some intermediary. And at a fat profit. And there isn’t a damned thing that old devil can do about it. Because he needs it. He’s already deeply committed to the project.’ ‘So he’ll be looking for revenge?’ Cory had asked drily. Arnold had sat back in his chair. ‘He can try,’ he’d said with satisfaction. ‘But I’ll be waiting for him.’ And so it went on, Cory thought wearily. Move and counter-move. One dirty trick answered by another. And who could say what damage was being done to their respective multi-million empires while these two ruthless old men pursued their endless, pointless vendetta? It was a chilling thought, but maybe they wouldn’t be content until one of them had been the death of the other. And then there wouldn’t be anyone to carry on this senseless feuding. Cory herself had always steadfastly refused to get involved, and Matt Sansom’s only heir was the unmarried daughter who kept house for him. There’d been a younger daughter, too, but she’d walked out over thirty years ago and completely disappeared. Rumour said that Matt Sansom had never allowed her name to be mentioned again, and in this case, Cory thought wryly, rumour was probably right. Her grandfather’s enemy was a powerful hater. She shivered suddenly, and got up from her chair. In her bedroom, she tossed her robe on to a chair and unhooked her bra. And paused as she glimpsed herself in the mirror, half naked in the shadows of the lamplit room. She thought with amazement, But that’s what he was doing—the man on the balcony—undressing me with his eyes. Looking at me as if I was bare… And felt, with shock, her nipples harden, and her body clench in a swift excitement that she could neither control nor pardon… For a moment she stood motionless, then with a little cry she snatched up her white cotton nightdress and dragged it over her head. She said aloud, her voice firm and cool, ‘He’s a stranger, Cory. You’ll never see him again. And, anyway, didn’t you learn your lesson with Rob—you pathetic, gullible idiot? Now, go to bed and sleep.’ But that was easier said than done. Because when she closed her eyes, the dark stranger was there waiting for her, pursuing her through one brief disturbing dream to the next. And when she woke in the early dawn there were tears on her face. CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_2f2a40f8-e4ae-59dc-99cb-260cde957d30) ROME walked into his suite and slammed the door behind him. For a moment he leaned back against its solid panels, eyes closed, while he silently called himself every bad name he knew in English, before switching to Italian and starting again. But the word that cropped up most often was ‘fool’. The whisky he’d ordered earlier had been sent up, he noted with grim pleasure. He crossed to the side table, pouring a generous measure into a cut-glass tumbler and adding a splash of spring water. He opened the big sliding doors and moved out on to the narrow terrace, staring with unseeing eyes over the city as he swallowed some of the excellent single malt in his glass. He put up a hand to his throat, impatiently tugging his black tie loose, ignoring the dank autumnal chill in the air. He said quietly, almost conversationally, ‘I should never have come here.’ But then what choice did he have, when the Italian banks, once so helpful, had shrugged regretful shoulders and declined to loan him the money he needed to revitalise his vines and restore the crumbling house that overlooked them? And for that, he thought bitterly, he had Graziella to thank. She’d sworn she’d make him sorry, and she’d succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. He’d intended his trip to London to be a flying visit, and totally private. He’d planned to stay just long enough to negotiate the loan he needed, then leave immediately, without advertising his presence. But he’d underestimated his grandfather, and the effectiveness of his information network, he realised, his mouth twisting wryly. He’d barely checked in to his hotel before the summons had come. And couched in terms he hadn’t been able to refuse. But he couldn’t say he hadn’t been warned. His mother had been quite explicit. ‘Sooner or later he’ll want to meet you, and you should go to him because you’re his only grandchild. But don’t accept any favours from him, caro, because there’s always a payback. Always.’ Yet he still hadn’t seen the trap that had been baited for him. He’d been caught off guard, of course. Because Matthew Sansom had come to him first. Had simply appeared one day at Montedoro right out of the blue. Rome had been shaken to find himself staring at an older version of himself. The mane of hair was white, and the blue eyes were faded, but the likeness was undeniable, and not lost on Matt Sansom either. The shaggy brows had drawn together in a swift glare of disbelief, then he’d recovered. ‘So—you’re Sarah’s bastard.’ Rome inclined his head. ‘And you’re the man who tried to stop me being born,’ he countered. There was a smouldering silence, then a short bark of laughter. ‘Yes,’ said Matt Sansom. ‘But perhaps that was a mistake.’ He swung round and looked down over the terraces of vines. ‘So this is where my daughter spent her last years.’ He sounded angry, almost contemptuous, but there was a note of something like regret there, too. He stayed two nights at Montedoro, touring the vigneto and asking shrewd questions about its operation, and paying a visit to the local churchyard where Sarah was buried beside her husband, Steve d’Angelo. ‘You have his name,’ Matt said abruptly as they drove back to the villa. ‘Was he your father?’ ‘No, he adopted me.’ The pale eyes glittered at Rome. ‘Card-sharp, wasn’t he?’ ‘He was a professional gambler.’ Rome was becoming accustomed to his grandfather’s abrasive style of questioning. ‘He was also a brilliant, instinctive card player, who competed for high stakes and usually won.’ ‘And you followed in his footsteps for a while?’ Rome shrugged. ‘I’d watched him since I was a boy. He taught me a lot. But my heart was never in it, as his was.’ ‘But you won?’ ‘Yes.’ Matt peered through the window of the limousine with a critical air. ‘Your stepfather didn’t invest much of his own winnings in the family estate.’ ‘It came to Steve on the death of his cousin. He’d never expected to inherit, and it was already run down.’ ‘And now you’ve taken it on.’ That bark of laughter again. ‘Maybe you’re more of a gambler than you think, boy.’ He paused. ‘Did your mother ever speak about your real father?’ ‘No,’ Rome said levelly. ‘Never. I got the impression it wasn’t important to her.’ ‘Not important?’ The growl was like distant thunder. ‘She brings disgrace on herself and her family, and it doesn’t matter?’ Just for a moment Rome caught a glimpse of the harsh, unforgiving tyrant his mother had run away from. ‘She was young,’ he said, his own voice steely. ‘She made a mistake. She didn’t have to do penance for the rest of her life.’ Matt grunted, and relapsed into a brooding silence. That was the only real conversation they’d had on personal subjects, Rome recalled. They’d seemed to tacitly agree there were too many no-go areas. His grandfather had sampled the wine from Rome’s first few vintages with the appreciation of a connoisseur, drawing him out on the subject, getting him to talk about his plans for the vigneto, his need to buy new vats for the cantina and replace the elderly oaken casks with stainless steel. Looking back, Rome could see how much he’d given away, in his own enthusiasm. Understood how Matt Sansom had deliberately relaxed the tension between them, revealing an interested, even sympathetic side to his nature. The offer of a low-cost loan to finance these improvements had been made almost casually. And the fact that it wasn’t a gift—that it was a serious deal, one businessman to another, with a realistic repayment programme—had lured Rome into the trap. It had only been later, after the deal had been agreed and his grandfather had departed, that he’d begun to have doubts. But it was finance he needed, and repayments he could afford, he’d thought. And it would be a definite one-off. Once the last instalment had been paid, he would look for future loans from more conventional sources. He remembered a night in Paris when both Steve and himself had emerged heavy winners from a private poker game which had been scheduled to last a week. The other players had been quietly spoken and beautifully dressed, and the air of power round the table had been almost tangible, and definitely menacing. ‘Are we going back?’ he’d asked eagerly, but Steve had shaken his head. ‘Never return to a pool where tigers come to drink,’ he’d told him, and they’d caught the next plane back to Italy. It was a piece of advice that had lingered. But Rome had told himself that his grandfather’s loan was a justifiable risk. The first and last visit to the tigers’ pool. Over the past two years communication between them had been brief, and usually by letter. Rome had assumed that it would remain that way. So the curt demand for his presence had been an unwelcome surprise. Matt Sansom lived just outside London, in a house hidden behind a high stone wall and masked by clustering trees. ‘Disney meets Frankenstein’ had been Sarah d’Angelo’s description of her childhood home, and, recovering from his first glimpse of the greystone, creeper-hung mansion, its bulk increased by the crenellated turrets at each end, Rome had found the description apt. A quiet grey-haired woman in an anonymous navy dress had answered the door to him. ‘Rome,’ she said, a warm, sweet smile lighting her tired eyes. ‘Sarah’s son. How wonderful. I didn’t believe we’d ever meet.’ She reached up and kissed his cheek. ‘I’m your aunt Kit.’ Rome returned her embrace, guiltily aware he’d assume she was the housekeeper. He said, ‘I didn’t believe I’d ever be invited here either. I thought my existence was too much of a blot on the family honour.’ He was waiting for her to tell him that his grandfather’s bark was worse than his bite, but the expected reassurance didn’t come. Instead, she said, ‘He’s waiting for you. I’ll take you up to him. ‘He’s resting,’ she added over her shoulder, as she led the way up the wide Turkey-carpeted staircase and turned left on to a galleried landing. ‘He’s been unwell. I was afraid it was his heart, but the doctor’s diagnosed stress.’ If the house looked like a film set, then Matt Sansom’s bedroom emphasised the impression. It was stiflingly hot and airless. The carpet was crimson, and so were the drapes, while the vast bed was built on a raised dais. And in the centre of it, propped up by pillows, was Matt himself. Like some damned levee at eighteenth-century Versailles, Rome thought, amused, then met the full force of his grandfather’s glare and realised this was no laughing matter. He said, ‘Good evening, Grandfather. I hope you’re feeling better.’ Matt grunted and looked past him. ‘Go downstairs, Kit,’ he directed abruptly. ‘You’re not needed here.’ Rome swung around. ‘Aunt Kit,’ he said pleasantly, ‘I hope you can make time for a talk before I leave.’ She nodded, darting an apprehensive glance at her father, then slipped from the room. ‘You can bring us some coffee in half an hour,’ Matt called after her as she closed the door. Rome’s brows lifted. ‘Is that my aunt’s job?’ ‘It is tonight. I’ve given the staff the evening off.’ Matt gave him a measuring look. ‘And you’re very quick to claim family relationships.’ ‘Are you saying we’re not related?’ Rome asked levelly. ‘No. I’ve decided to acknowledge your existence. But in my own time, and in my own way.’ ‘Am I supposed to be grateful?’ ‘No,’ said Matt. ‘You’re expected to do as you’re told.’ He gestured at the carafe and glass on his night table. ‘Pour me some water, boy.’ ‘As we’re dispensing with common courtesy, may I tell you to go to hell, before I walk out?’ Rome, tight-lipped, filled the glass and handed it to the old man. ‘No,’ Matt said. ‘Because you can’t afford to.’ He allowed Rome to assimilate that, then nodded. ‘Now, pull up that chair and listen to what I have to say.’ He drank some water, pulling a peevish face. ‘What do you know of Arnold Grant?’ Rome paused. ‘I know that you’ve been lifelong business rivals and personal enemies,’ he said quietly. ‘My mother said that the feuding between you had poisoned life in this house for years. That’s one of the reasons she—left.’ ‘Then she was a fool. She should have stayed—helped me fight him instead of disgracing herself.’ He reached under his pillows and pulled out a folder. He extracted a magazine clipping and thrust it at Rome. ‘Here he is.’ Rome gave the photograph an expressionless look. He saw a tall thin man with iron-grey hair, flanked by two prominent politicians. He said, ‘What of it?’ ‘I’ll tell you precisely what.’ Matt thumped the bed with his fist. ‘He came at me again recently. I was negotiating for some land for a shopping development. I’d had plans drawn up, paid for test drilling and consultancy fees—and he did a secret deal—stole it from under my nose. Cost me hundreds of thousands of pounds, and not for the first time either. But, by God, it will be the last. Because I’m going for him, and this time it’s personal.’ Rome was alarmed at the passion vibrating in the older man’s voice. At the veins standing out on his forehead. He said quietly, ‘Someone once said the best revenge was to live well. Have you thought of that?’ ‘I intend to live well.’ Matt’s eyes glittered. ‘After I’ve dealt Arnold Grant a blow he’ll never recover from. And this is where you come in.’ He paused. ‘He has two weak spots—and one of them’s in that photo. See the girl standing on the end?’ Rome gave the cutting a frowning glance. ‘Yes.’ ‘That’s his only granddaughter. She’s not much in the way of looks but he thinks the sun shines out of her, and it’s through her that I’m going to bring him down.’ He paused. ‘With your help.’ Rome put the cutting down, and rose. He said, grimly, ‘Let’s hold it right there. I don’t know what you’re contemplating, and I don’t want to.’ ‘Always supposing you have a choice.’ Matt leaned back against his pillows. ‘Now, stay where you are and listen. You’re going to meet this girl, and you’re going to persuade her to marry you. I don’t care how.’ For a moment Rome stared at him, then he said quietly and coldly, ‘I’m not sure if this is a serious proposition, or a sick joke. If it’s the first, the answer’s no, and if the second, I’m not even marginally amused.’ ‘Oh, I mean it,’ Matt said. ‘And you’ll do it. If you know what’s good for you. Now sit down.’ The threat was unequivocal, and Rome felt tension grating across every nerve. He thought, This is crazy. I have to reason with him… Resuming his seat, he looked back steadily at his grandfather. ‘I make wine. I don’t take part in feuds. And I’m not interested in involvement with some unknown girl. There are plenty of tame studs for hire out there who’ll fulfil your requirements. They might even enjoy it. I wouldn’t.’ ‘You make wine,’ Matt Sansom said softly, ‘only while you still have a vineyard. If I called in my loan, you’d have to sell up. And believe that I’ll do exactly what I need to.’ ‘But you can’t.’ Rome stared at him, horrified. ‘I’ve made every payment…’ ‘But I’m having a cash-flow problem—I’ve just lost out on a big deal and have to recoup my losses.’ Matt allowed himself a thin smile of satisfaction. ‘And think of the consequences,’ he added. ‘Your workers will be out of jobs, your house will crumble into ruins, and you’ll be picking a living from the casinos again. Is that what you want?’ Rome said, between his teeth, ‘No.’ ‘Then be sensible. You’ll have no problem with the Grant girl. There’s no regular man in her life. She’ll fall into your hand like a ripe apple from a tree.’ He laughed hoarsely. ‘She was engaged at one point, but threw her unfortunate fianc?, over a fortnight before the wedding. Nearly broke him up, I gather. You’ll understand that, I dare say,’ he added, darting Rome a lightning glance. Rome was suddenly rigid. He said icily, ‘You have done your homework.’ ‘Knowledge is power. And Arnie Grant doesn’t know I have a grandson—which is his second weakness.’ Rome shook his head in disbelief. He said, ‘You actually expect me to marry this girl—whatever her name is?’ ‘She’s called Cory,’ Matt said. Something flickered in his eyes, then vanished. ‘It’s a family name. But she’s known as the Ice Maiden, because she freezes men off. And you won’t marry her,’ he added with a wheezing laugh. ‘Because when Arnie Grant discovers your real identity—that you’re my grandson and illegitimate at that—he’ll move heaven and earth to stop it. To get rid of you from her life. ‘That’s why a hired stud won’t do. It has to be you. Because Arnie Grant will want you to go away—to disappear before the truth comes out and turns him into a laughing stock, together with his precious child. And he’ll pay you to do just that. ‘But he’ll know that I know,’ he added gloatingly. ‘That I set him up—and he’ll have to live with that humiliation for the rest of his life. It will finish him.’ He nodded. ‘You’ll be able to name your own price, and whatever he offers you, I’ll match. And you can consider the loan paid off, too.’ ‘I could do that anyway,’ Rome flashed. ‘I came over here looking for finance. I can repay you from my new borrowing. I don’t need your dirty bargain.’ ‘Ah,’ Matt said softly. ‘But you may find that money’s not as readily available to you as you thought. That you’re not considered a good risk. In fact, I’d offer generous odds that your luck—and your credit—have run out.’ Rome rose and walked out to the window. Afternoon was fading into evening, and a breeze was stirring the rain-soaked shrubs in the garden below. He thought of the thick autumn sunlight falling on Montedoro, the rich gleam of the earth and the pungent scents of the cantina, and felt a bleakness invade his very soul. The vineyard had become his life. Its workers were his people. He was not prepared to let them go to the wall. He said without looking around, ‘So, you’ve poisoned the wells for me. Did you do the same in Italy?’ ‘I didn’t have to. A man called Paolo Cresti did it for me. He thinks you’re having an affair with his wife.’ Rome swung back to face him. ‘That’s a lie,’ he said coldly. ‘I haven’t set eyes on her since her marriage.’ Matt’s smile was thin. ‘That’s not what she’s let her husband believe. You should have remembered the old saying—hell have no fury like a woman scorned.’ Rome stared at him bitterly. ‘I should have remembered much more than that,’ he said. He walked back to the bed and picked up the cutting. ‘Has it occurred to you that this girl may not find me attractive?’ ‘Plenty of women have, by all accounts. Why should she be an exception?’ ‘And I may not fancy her,’ Rome reminded him levelly. ‘But you’ll fancy the money you’ll get from old Grant.’ Matt leered at him. ‘Just keep thinking of that. And keep your eyes shut, if you have to.’ Rome’s mouth twisted in disgust. He looked down at the photograph. ‘This tells me nothing. I need to see her properly before I decide.’ ‘I can’t argue with that.’ Matt handed him an elaborately embossed card from the folder. ‘A ticket in your name for a charity ball at the Park Royal Hotel tomorrow night. She’ll be there. He won’t. You can look her over at your leisure.’ There was a tap at the bedroom door, and Kit Sansom appeared with a tray of coffee. ‘We shan’t need that,’ her father said. ‘Because Rome is leaving. He’s got some serious thinking to do.’ His smile was almost malicious. ‘Haven’t you—boy?’ Rome hadn’t spent all the intervening time thinking, however. He’d attempted to make contact with some of the financial contacts on his list, but without success, no one wanted to know him, he realised bitterly. Matt Sansom had done his work well. And now, for Montedoro’s sake, he was committed to the next phase of this war of attrition between two megalomaniac old men. He groaned, and tossed down the rest of his whisky. If ever he’d needed to get roaring, blazing drunk, it was tonight. As he walked back inside to refill his glass, someone knocked at the door of his suite. A porter faced him. ‘Package for you, sir. Brought round by special messenger.’ He accepted Rome’s tip, and vanished. Frowning, Rome slit open the bulky envelope. He realised immediately that he was looking at a complete dossier on Cory Grant—where she lived, how she spent her spare time, where she shopped, her favourite restaurants. Even the scent she used. No detail too trivial to be excluded, he acknowledged sardonically. But it was chillingly thorough. Matt must have been planning this for a long time, he thought. And the screwed-up land deal was just an excuse. He poured himself another whisky, stretched out on the bed and began to read. ‘You made me look a complete idiot,’ said Philip. ‘Walking out like that.’ Indignation added a squeak to his voice, Cory thought dispassionately. And who needed a man who squeaked? She kept her tone matter-of-fact. ‘I didn’t think you’d notice I was gone.’ ‘Oh, come off it, Cory. I told you—I ran into some old friends—lost track of time rather. And I’m sorry if you felt neglected.’ He paused. ‘But I’ll make it up to you.’ His voice became chummy, almost intimate. ‘Why don’t we have dinner? I promise I’ll give you my undivided attention.’ Cory gave her cordless phone receiver a look of blank disbelief. She said politely, ‘I don’t think so, thanks. We don’t have enough in common.’ Except, she thought, that your father is one of Gramps’s main sub-contractors, and you realise you may have rocked the boat. ‘Look, Cory.’ He sounded hectoring again. ‘I’ve apologised. I don’t know what else you want me to say.’ ‘Goodbye would do quite well.’ ‘Oh, very amusing. Know something, Cory? It’s time you got off that high horse of yours and came down to earth, or you’re going to end up a sad old maid. Because I don’t know what you want from a man. And I suspect you don’t know either.’ She said, ‘It’s quite simple, Philip. I want kindness. And you just don’t qualify.’ She replaced her receiver, cutting off his spluttering reply. She should have let her answering machine take the call, she thought. She simply wasn’t up to dealing with Philip’s efforts at self-justification after her disturbed night. And she wasn’t up to dealing with the reasons for the disturbed night either. With a sigh, she went into her tiny kitchen, poured orange juice, set coffee to percolate and slotted bread into the toaster. Gramps would be next, she thought, eager to know how the evening had gone, and she’d make up a kindly fib to satisfy him. Only it wasn’t her grandfather who rang almost at once, but Shelley. ‘Cory—are you there? Pick the phone up. I have news.’ Cory hesitated, frowning slightly. Her ‘hello’ was guarded, but Shelley didn’t notice. ‘I’ve found your mysterious stranger,’ she reported happily. ‘I did a quick check, and he bought one of the last tickets. His name’s Rome d’Angelo. So, the ball’s in your court now.’ ‘I don’t see how.’ Shelley made an impatient noise. ‘Come on, babe. You won’t find many men with that name to the square acre. I’d start with directory enquiries.’ ‘Perhaps—if I wanted to find him,’ Cory agreed, her lips twitching in spite of herself. ‘I thought he’d made a big impression.’ ‘But not one I necessarily wish to repeat.’ God, Cory thought, I sound positively Victorian. She hurried into speech again. ‘Thanks for trying, Shelley, but I’ve made a major decision. If I get involved again, I want someone kind and caring, not sex on legs.’ ‘You could have both. Isn’t this guy worth a second look?’ ‘I doubt if he was worth the first one,’ Cory said drily. ‘I’m sorry, love. I’m a hopeless case.’ ‘No,’ Shelley said. ‘You just think you are. So, if you’re not going man-hunting, what do you plan for your day?’ ‘I’m doing the domestic thing.’ Cory narrowed her eyes to stare at a ray of watery sun filtering through the window. ‘And I may go over to the health club for a swim later.’ ‘Well, take care,’ Shelley advised caustically. ‘Too much excitement can be bad for you. I’ll call you next week.’ And she rang off. As Cory replaced her own handset, it occurred to her that the unknown Rome d’Angelo was almost certainly that kind of excitement. Bad for you. And best forgotten, she told herself dismissively. The health club was rarely very busy on Saturday mornings, and today was no exception. Cory found she had the pool virtually to herself. She had always loved swimming, finding her own grace and co-ordination when she was in the water, and she could feel the tensions floating out of her as she cut through the water. Afterwards she relaxed on one of the comfortable padded benches set back around the pool, and read some of the book she’d brought with her, but to her annoyance she found her concentration fragmenting. In spite of herself, she kept thinking of the previous evening, and that brief, disturbing glimpse she’d had of Rome d’Angelo. She found herself trying the name over in her mind, silently cursing Shelley as she did so. I really didn’t need to know his identity, she thought. He was easier to keep at bay when he was an anonymous stranger. Although she’d been aware of a connection between them, as powerful as an electric current. Suddenly, shockingly, she felt her body stir with excitement, as if she’d been touched. As if her mouth had been kissed, and her breast stroked gently to pleasure. Beneath the cling of her Lycra swimsuit her nipples were hardening to a piercing intensity, her body moistening in longing. Cory sat up, pushing her hair back from her face. It’s time I took a shower, she thought, her mouth twisting. And maybe I should make it a cold one. The changing rooms on the floor above were reached by lift. The women’s section was beautifully equipped, with mounds of fluffy towels, gels and body lotions and other toiletries, hairdriers, and a selection of all the popular fragrances in tester bottles for the clients to try. Cory didn’t linger today as she usually did. She showered swiftly, then dressed in her usual weekend uniform of jeans and a plain white tee shirt. She’d have some lunch at the salad bar on the ground floor before it got busy, she decided, as she shrugged on her leather jacket and picked up her tote bag. She was on her way out when she swung round, went back to the vanity unit, and sprayed her throat and wrists with some of her favourite ‘Dune’. And why not? she demanded silently as she made for the wide central stairway. She was two thirds of the way down, head bent, moving fast, when she suddenly felt her warning antennae switch to full alert, and glanced up, startled. She saw him at once, standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her. Recognition was instant, sending her pulses into over-drive. She felt her lips frame his name, then stiffened in sudden, almost violent negation. Because he couldn’t be here—he couldn’t be… Her foot caught the moulded edge of the step, and she stumbled. As she fell, she grabbed at the rail and managed to check her headlong descent, but she couldn’t prevent herself sliding down the last half-dozen steps on her hip, and landing in an untidy huddle at his feet. She lay for a moment, winded, hearing a buzz of comment, aware of shocked faces looking down at her. Of one face in particular, dark and coolly attractive, with vivid blue eyes fringed by long lashes, a high-bridged nose, and a mouth redeemed from harshness by the sensuous curve of its lower lip. She realized too that he was kneeling beside her, and she was lying across his knees, his arm supporting her. His voice was low and resonant with a faint accent she could not place. ‘Don’t try to move. Are you hurt?’ ‘No.’ The denial was swift, almost fierce, and she pushed herself up into a sitting position. ‘I’m fine—really. It was just a stupid accident.’ She was going to have the mother of all bruises on her hip, but she’d deal with that tomorrow. At the moment, her main concern was getting out of the club with what little remained of her dignity. But his hand was on her shoulder, forcing her to stay where she was. ‘Maybe I should take you to the nearest casualty room—get you checked over.’ ‘There’s no need for that. No damage has been done.’ She hunched away from him. She felt dazed, her body tingling, but instinct told her that had more to do with his hand on her shoulder than the tumble she’d just taken. ‘Then perhaps you’d take me instead.’ His face was dead-pan, but there was a glint in those amazing eyes. ‘I’m not used to having girls fall at my feet, and shock can be dangerous.’ ‘Oh, really?’ Cory glared at him as she hauled herself painfully upright. ‘Now, I’d say you’d spent your adult life stepping over recumbent women.’ Oh, God, she thought, appalled. What am I doing? I can’t believe I just said that. His brows lifted. ‘Appearances,’ he said softly, ‘can be deceptive. Something I also need to remember,’ he added quietly as he, too, got to his feet. Cory was almost glad to see one of the physiotherapists hurrying towards them. She answered his concerned questions, declined having her ankle examined, and agreed to fill out an accident report. ‘But later.’ Rome d’Angelo took her arm, and apparent control of the situation. ‘Now the lady needs something to drink.’ Cory hung back, trying not to wince. She was altogether more shaken than she’d realised, but the fall was only partly responsible. Now she needed to get away before she made an even bigger fool of herself. She said, controlling the quiver in her voice, ‘I’m really all right. There’s no need for you to concern yourself any more.’ ‘But I am concerned,’ he said softly, as the crowd began to melt away. ‘You threw yourself, and I caught you. And I’m not prepared to put you down yet. So, are you going to walk to the coffee shop with me—or do I have to carry you?’ Cory heard herself say, ‘I’ll walk.’ And hardly recognised her own voice. CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_83b42b58-2432-5741-b965-485590ee9230) THIS is lunacy, thought Cory, and I should run out of here and have myself committed immediately. But she couldn’t. For one thing, she was too sore to run anywhere. For another, her wallet and keys were in her tote bag, which Rome d’Angelo must have rescued after her fall and which was now hanging from one muscular shoulder as he waited at the counter in the coffee shop. So, she said, perforce, to stay where she was, perched in rigid discomfort on one of the pretty wrought-iron chairs at the corner table he’d taken her to. Round one to him, it seemed. And all she had to do now was ensure there wasn’t a round two. Because every instinct she possessed was warning her yet again that this was a man to avoid. That he was danger in its rawest sense. Anyone with a year-round tan and eyes like the Mediterranean was out of her league anyway, she reminded herself drily. But the peril that Rome d’Angelo represented went far deeper than mere physical attraction. It’s as if I know him, she thought restlessly. As if I’ve always known him… She felt it in her blood. Sensed it buried deep in her bones. And it scared her. I’ll drink my coffee, thank him politely, and get the hell out of here, she thought. That’s the best—the safest way to handle this. She was by no means the only one aware of his presence, she realised. From all over the room glances were being directed at him, and questions whispered. And all from women. She could almost feel the frisson. But then, she certainly couldn’t deny his eye-catching potential, she acknowledged unwillingly. He was even taller than she’d originally thought, topping her by at least five inches. Lean hips and long legs were emphasised by close-fitting faded denims, and he wore a collarless white shirt, open at the throat. A charcoal jacket that looked like cashmere was slung over one shoulder, along with her tote bag. He looked relaxed, casual—and powerfully in control. And she, on the other hand, must be the only woman in the room with damp hair and not a trace of make-up. Which, as she hastily reminded herself, really couldn’t matter less… Pull yourself together, she castigated herself silently. She saw him returning and moved uneasily, and unwisely, suppressing a yelp as she did so. ‘Arnica,’ he said, as he put the cups down on the table. ‘Really?’ Her brow lifted. ‘I thought it was caf? latte.’ ‘It comes in tablet or cream form,’ he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘It will bring out the bruising.’ ‘I think that’s already escaped,’ Cory admitted, wincing. She eyed him as he took his seat. ‘You know a lot about herbal medicine?’ ‘No.’ He smiled at her, his gaze drifting with deliberate sensuousness from her eyes, to her mouth, and down to her small breasts, untrammelled under the cling of the ancient tee shirt, and then back to meet her startled glance. ‘My expertise lies in other areas.’ Cory, heart thumping erratically, hastily picked up her cup and sipped. ‘Yuck.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘This has sugar in it.’ ‘The recognised treatment for shock.’ Rome nodded. ‘A hot, sweet drink.’ ‘I fell down a couple of steps,’ she said. ‘I’m sore, but hardly shocked.’ ‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘But you didn’t see your face just before you fell.’ He paused, allowing her a moment to digest that. ‘How did you enjoy the ball?’ Pointless to pretend she hadn’t noticed him, or didn’t recognise him, Cory realised, smouldering. She managed a casual shrug. ‘Not very much. I didn’t stay long.’ ‘What a coincidence,’ he said softly. ‘Clearly, we feel the same about such events.’ ‘Then why buy a ticket?’ ‘Because it was in such a good cause. I found it impossible to resist.’ He drank some of his own coffee. ‘Don’t you like dancing?’ ‘I don’t think it likes me,’ she said ruefully. ‘I have this tendency to stand on peoples’ feet, and no natural rhythm.’ ‘I doubt that.’ Rome leaned back in his chair, the blue eyes faintly mocking. ‘I think you just haven’t found the right partner.’ There was a brief, seething silence, and Cory’s skin prickled as if someone’s fingertips had brushed softly across her pulse-points. She hurried into speech. ‘Talking of coincidences, what are you doing here?’ ‘I came to look over the facilities.’ ‘You live in the area?’ The question escaped before she could prevent it. ‘I plan to.’ He smiled at her. ‘I hope that won’t be a problem for you.’ Cory stiffened. ‘Why should it?’ ‘My appearance seems to have a dire effect on you.’ ‘Nothing of the kind,’ she returned with studied coolness. ‘Don’t read too much into a moment’s clumsiness. I’m famous for it. And London’s a big place,’ she added. ‘We’re unlikely to meet again.’ ‘On the contrary,’ he said softly. ‘We’re bound to have at least one more encounter. Don’t you know that everything happens in threes?’ Cory said shortly, ‘Well, I’m not superstitious.’ And crossed her fingers under cover of the table. She hesitated. ‘Are you planning to take out a membership here?’ ‘I haven’t decided yet.’ His blue gaze flickered over her again. ‘Although, admittedly, it seems to have everything I want.’ ‘And separate days for men and women,’ Cory commented pointedly, aware that her mouth had gone suddenly dry. ‘Except for weekends, when families are encouraged to use the place.’ His tone was silky. Cory played with the spoon in her saucer. ‘And is that what you plan to do? Bring your family?’ His brows lifted. ‘One day, perhaps,’ he drawled. ‘When I have a family.’ He paused again. ‘I’m Rome d’Angelo, but perhaps you know that already,’ he added casually. Cory choked over a mouthful of coffee, and put her cup down with something of a slam. ‘Isn’t that rather an arrogant assumption?’ she demanded with hauteur. He grinned at her, unabashed. ‘And isn’t that a defence rather than a reply?’ ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Cory said, feeling one of those hated blushes beginning to warm her face. Oh, no, she appealed silently. Please, no. He said, ‘Now it’s your turn.’ ‘To do what?’ Fall over again, send the table crashing, spill my coffee everywhere? ‘To tell me your name.’ She said with sudden crispness, ‘I’m grateful for your help, Mr d’Angelo, but that doesn’t make us friends.’ ‘I’d settle for acquaintances?’ he suggested. ‘Not even that.’ Cory shook her head with determination. ‘Ships that pass in the night.’ ‘But we didn’t pass. We collided.’ He leaned forward suddenly, and, in spite of herself, Cory flinched. ‘Tell me something,’ he invited huskily. ‘If I’d come down to the ballroom last night, and asked you to dance—what would you have said?’ She didn’t look at him, but stared down at the table as, for a few seconds, her mind ran wild with speculation, dangerous fantasies jostling her like last night’s dreams. Then she forced a shrug, only to wish she hadn’t as her bruises kicked back. ‘How about, “Thank you—but I’m here with someone.”?’ Rome’s mouth twisted. ‘He seemed to be doing a great job.’ ‘That’s none of your business,’ Cory fought back. ‘Will you please accept, Mr d’Angelo, that I don’t need a saviour, or a Prince Charming either.’ ‘And your circle of friends is complete, too.’ He was smiling faintly, but those incredible eyes glinted with challenge. ‘So what is left, I wonder? Which of your needs is not being catered for?’ Cory’s face was burning again, but with anger rather than embarrassment. She said, ‘My life is perfectly satisfactory, thank you.’ He was unperturbed by the snap in her voice. ‘No room for improvement anywhere?’ ‘I have simple tastes.’ ‘Yet you wear Christian Dior,’ he said. ‘You’re more complicated than you think.’ Suddenly breathless, Cory reached down for her tote bag, jerking it towards her. Then rose. ‘Thanks for the coffee,’ she said. ‘And for the character analysis. I hope you don’t do it for a living. Goodbye, Mr d’Angelo.’ He got to his feet, too. His smile held real charm. ‘Until next time—Miss Grant.’ She’d almost reached the door when she realised what he’d said, and swung round, lips parting in a gasp of angry disbelief. But Rome d’Angelo wasn’t there. He must have used the exit that led straight to the street, she realised in frustration. Her mouth tightened. So, he liked to play games. Well, she had no intention of joining in—or of rising to any more of his bait. But at the same time she found herself wondering how he’d found out her name. And what else he might know about her. And realised that the swift shiver curling down her spine was only half fear. And that the other half was excitement. ‘You’ve met her? You’ve talked to her?’ Matt Sansom’s laugh rasped down the telephone line. ‘You don’t waste much time, boy.’ ‘I don’t have a lot of time to waste,’ Rome reminded him levelly. ‘I have a life to get back to, and work to do.’ He paused. ‘But believe this. She isn’t going to be any kind of push-over.’ ‘That’s your problem,’ his grandfather snapped. ‘Failure doesn’t enter the equation. What woman can resist being swept off her feet?’ In spite of himself, Rome felt his mouth curve into a reluctant grin as he remembered angry hazel eyes sparking defiance at him from the floor. Remembered, too, how slight she’d felt as he’d lifted her. Felt a small sensuous twist of need uncoil inside him as he recalled her pale skin, so clear and translucent that he’d imagined he could see the throb of the pulse in her throat as he’d held her. As he’d breathed the cool sophisticated fragrance that the heat of her body had released. ‘This one could be the exception,’ he drawled. ‘But I’ve always preferred a challenge.’ ‘So when will you see her again?’ Matt demanded eagerly. Rome smiled thinly. ‘I’ll give her a couple of days. I need the time to find an apartment—establish a base.’ ‘I’ve told Capital Estates to prepare a list of suitable properties,’ Matt barked. ‘They’re waiting for your call. And don’t stint yourself. You need a background that says money.’ And he rang off. Rome switched off his mobile and tossed it on to the bed, frowning slightly. Well, he was committed now, and there was no turning back, he thought without pleasure. But Montedoro was all that mattered. All that could be allowed to matter. And he had somehow to overcome his personal distaste for the means he was being forced to employ to save his vineyard. Although, to his own surprise, not every aspect of the deal was proving as unpalatable as he’d expected. Cory Grant was the last girl he would normally have pursued, but he could not deny she intrigued him. Or perhaps he just wasn’t used to having his advances treated with such uncompromising hostility, he thought, his mouth twisting in self-derision. Whatever, he’d enjoyed crossing swords with her in this preliminary skirmish. The invisible circle still surrounded her, but within it she wasn’t as prim and conventional as he’d thought. Under that ancient tee shirt she’d been bra-less, and at one moment he’d found himself, incredibly, fantasising about peeling the ugly thing off her, and discovering with his hands and mouth if her rounded breasts were as warm, and soft, and rose-tipped and scented as his imagination suggested. But that wasn’t in the equation either, he reminded himself grimly. Because he intended to keep all physical contact between them to an absolute minimum. He’d have quite enough to reproach himself for without adding a full-scale seduction to the total. So, he was planning an old-fashioned wooing, with flowers, romantic dates, candlelit dinners, and a few—a very few—kisses. Not as instantly effective as tricking her into bed, he thought cynically, but infinitely safer. Because sex was the great deceiver. And great sex could enslave you—render you blind, deaf and ultimately stupid. Make you believe all kinds of impossible things. Just as it had with Graziella. He sighed harshly. Why hadn’t he seen, before he’d got involved with her, that behind the beautiful face and sexy body she was pure bitch? Because a man in lust thought with his groin, not his brain, was the obvious answer. And at least he wasn’t still fooling himself that he’d been in love with her. In bed, she’d been amazing—inventive and insatiable—and he’d been her match, satisfying the demands she’d made with her teeth, her nails, and little purring, feral cries. But when he’d asked her to marry him—laid his future and Montedoro at her feet—she’d burst out laughing. ‘Caro—are you mad? You have no money, and the d’Angelo vineyard was finished years ago. Besides, I’m going to marry Paolo Cresti. I thought everyone knew that.’ ‘A man over twice your age?’ He looked down at the lush nakedness she’d just yielded to him, inch by tantalising inch. ‘You can’t do it.’ ‘Now you’re talking like a fool. Paolo is a successful banker, and wealthy in his own right.’ She paused, avid hands seeking him, stroking him back to arousal. ‘And my marriage to him makes no difference to us. I shall need you all the more, caro, to stop me from dying of boredom.’ For a long moment he looked at her—at the glittering eyes, and the hot, greedy mouth. He said gently, ‘I’m no one’s piece on the side, Graziella.’ And got up from the bed. Even while he was dressing—when he was actually walking to the door—she still didn’t believe that he was really leaving her. Couldn’t comprehend his revulsion at the role she’d created for him. ‘You cannot do this,’ she screamed hysterically. ‘I want you. I will not let you go.’ Up to her marriage, and for weeks afterwards, she’d bombarded him with phone calls and notes, demanding his return. Then had come the threats. The final hissed vow that she would make him sorry. Something she’d achieved beyond her wildest dreams, he acknowledged bitterly. At first, he’d thrown himself into life at Montedoro with a kind of grim determination, driven by bitterness and anger. But gradually, working amongst the vines had brought a kind of peace, and a sense of total involvement. And that was something he wasn’t prepared to lose through the machinations of a lying wife and a jealous husband. Since Graziella he’d made sure that any sexual encounters he enjoyed were civilised, and strictly transient, conducted without recrimination on either side. But Cory Grant did not come into that category at all, so it was far better not to speculate whether her skin would feel like cool silk against his, or what it would take to make her face warm with sensual pleasure rather than embarrassment or anger. In fact, he should banish all such thoughts from his mind immediately. Even though, as he was disturbingly aware, he might not want to. For a moment he seemed to breathe her—the appealing aroma of clean hair and her own personal woman’s scent that the perfume she’d been wearing had merely enhanced. He felt his whole body stir gently but potently at the memory. Ice Maiden? he thought. No, I don’t think so. And laughed softly. ‘You’re very quiet today.’ Arnold Grant sent Cory a narrow-eyed look. ‘In fact, you’ve been quiet the whole weekend. Not in love, are we?’ Cory’s smile was composed. ‘I can’t speak for you, Gramps, but I’m certainly not.’ Arnold sighed. ‘I thought it was too good to be true. I wish you’d hurry up, child. Help me fulfil my two remaining ambitions.’ Cory’s brows lifted. ‘And which two are those today?’ ‘Firstly, I want to give you away in church to a man who’ll look after you when I’m no longer here.’ ‘Planning another world cruise?’ Cory asked with interest. Arnold frowned repressively. ‘You know exactly what I mean.’ Cory sighed. ‘All right—what’s your second ambition?’ Arnold looked saintly. ‘To see Sonia’s face when she learns she’s going to be a grandmother.’ Cory tutted reprovingly at him. ‘How unkind. But she’ll rise above it. She’ll simply tell everyone she was a child bride.’ ‘Probably,’ her grandfather agreed drily. He paused. ‘So is there really no one on the horizon, my dear? I had great hopes you’d hit it off with Philip, you know.’ He gave her a hopeful look. ‘Are you seeing him again?’ Cory picked up the cheques she’d been writing for the monthly household bills and brought them over to him for signature. ‘No, darling.’ ‘Ah, well,’ he said, ‘it wasn’t obligatory.’ A pause. ‘What was wrong with him?’ This time she sighed inwardly. ‘There was—no chemistry.’ ‘I see.’ He was silent while he signed the cheques. As he handed them back, he said, ‘Are you sure you know what you want—in a man?’ ‘I thought so, once.’ She began to tuck the cheques into envelopes. ‘These days, I’m more focused on what I don’t want.’ ‘Which is?’ Eyes like a Mediterranean pirate, she thought, and a mouth that looks as if it knows far too much about women and the way they taste. She shrugged. ‘Oh, I’ve a list a mile long. And I need to catch the post with these—and call at the supermarket before I go home. I haven’t a scrap of food at home.’ ‘Then stay the night again.’ ‘Gramps—I’ve been here since Saturday.’ ‘Yes,’ Arnold said. ‘And I’m wondering why.’ ‘Does there have to be a reason?’ Cory got up from the desk, the graceful flare of her simple navy wool dress swinging around her. ‘Usually when you descend like this you have something you want to tell me.’ His eyes were shrewd. ‘Something on your mind that you need to discuss.’ He paused. ‘Or you’re hiding.’ ‘Well, this time it was just for fun.’ Cory dropped a kiss on his head on her way to the door. ‘So, thank you for having me, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’ She couldn’t fool Gramps, she thought ruefully, as she posted her envelopes and hailed a taxi. She’d gone straight home from the health club on Saturday, changed, thrown some things in a bag, and turned up on his doorstep like some medieval fugitive looking for sanctuary. And all because Rome d’Angelo had known her name. How paranoid can you get? She asked in self-denigration. It didn’t follow that he also knew her address—or that he’d seek her out. Although he’d said they would meet again, she reminded herself with disquiet. But perhaps he’d simply been winding her up because she’d made it so very clear she didn’t want his company. Undoubtedly he enjoyed being deliberately provocative, she thought, remembering the considering intensity of his gaze as it had swept over her, making her feel naked—as if all her secrets were known to him. ‘A tried and tested technique if ever I saw one,’ she muttered to herself, and saw the cab driver give her a wary glance in his mirror. For once, the supermarket wasn’t too busy, and she had leisure to collect her thoughts, dismiss Rome d’Angelo from her mind, and concentrate on what she needed to buy. She picked up some bread, milk, eggs and orange juice, then headed for the meat section. She’d buy some chops for dinner, or maybe a steak, she thought, sighing a little as she remembered the clear soup, sole Veronique, and French apple tart that Mrs Ferguson would be serving to her grandfather. She swung round the corner into the aisle rather too abruptly, and ran her trolley into another one coming in the opposite direction. She said, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ then yelped as her startled gaze absorbed exactly who was standing in front of her. ‘You,’ she said unsteadily. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ ‘Buying food,’ Rome said. ‘But perhaps it’s a trick question.’ ‘In this particular supermarket?’ Her voice cracked in the middle. ‘As in—yet another amazing coincidence?’ ‘I told you that things ran in threes.’ He looked understated but stunning, in casual dark trousers and a black sweater, and his smiling gaze grazed her nerve-endings. ‘So you did.’ She took a breath. ‘You’re following me, aren’t you? Well, I don’t know what happens where you come from, but here we have laws about stalking—’ ‘Hey, calm down,’ Rome interrupted. ‘If I’m following you, how is it my trolley’s nearly full, while yours is still almost empty? The evidence suggests I got here first.’ ‘Well, I’m damned sure you’ve never been in this shop before,’ she said angrily. ‘Because you’d remember?’ He grinned at her. ‘I’m flattered.’ ‘Not,’ she said, ‘my intention.’ ‘I believe you. And, actually, I’m here, like you, because it’s convenient. I live just round the corner in Farrar Street.’ ‘Since when?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Since three hours ago.’ ‘You’re telling me you’ve found a place and moved in—all since Saturday morning?’ Cory shook her head. ‘I don’t believe it. It can’t all happen as quickly as that.’ ‘Ah,’ he said gently. ‘That depends on how determined you are.’ His gaze flickered over her, absorbing the well-cut lines of her plain navy coat, the matching low-heeled shoes, and her hair, caught up into a loose coil on top of her head and secured by a silver clasp. ‘Another change of image,’ he remarked. ‘I’ve seen you dressed up at the ball, and dressed down at the club. Now you seem to be wearing camouflage.’ ‘Working gear,’ she said curtly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have my own trolley to fill.’ But he didn’t move. ‘You must take your job very seriously.’ ‘I do,’ she said. ‘I also enjoy it.’ ‘All appearances to the contrary,’ he murmured. ‘I thought British companies were adopting a more casual approach.’ ‘My boss is the old-fashioned type,’ she said. ‘And I must be going.’ Rome leaned on his trolley, his eyes intent as they examined her. ‘I hoped it might be third time lucky,’ he said softly. ‘Tell me something,’ she said. ‘Does the word “harassment” mean anything to you?’ He looked amused. ‘Not particularly. Now, you tell me something. In these politically correct times, how does a man indicate to a woman that he finds her—desirable?’ ‘Perhaps,’ Cory said, trying to control the sudden flurry of her breathing, ‘perhaps he should wait for her to make the first move.’ Rome’s grin was mocking. ‘That’s not an option I find very appealing. Life’s too short—and I’m an impatient man.’ ‘In that case,’ Cory said, having yet another go at tugging her trolley free, ‘I won’t keep you from your shopping any longer.’ Rome propped himself against the end of the shelving, and watched her unavailing struggles with detached interest. ‘Maybe they’re trying to tell us something,’ he remarked after a while. ‘Oh, this is ridiculous.’ Cory sent him a fulminating glance, then shook the entangled trolleys almost wildly. ‘Why don’t you do something?’ His brows lifted. ‘What would you like me to do?’ he asked lazily. ‘Throw a bucket of cold water over the pair of them?’ Cory’s lips were parting to make some freezing remark that would crush him for ever when she found, to her astonishment, an uncontrollable giggle welling up inside her instead. As she fought for control, Rome stepped forward and lifted his own trolley slightly, pulling the pair of them apart. ‘There,’ he said softly. ‘You’re free.’ And he walked away. Cory stood, watching him go. So, that was that, she thought. At last he’d got the message. She knew she should feel relieved, but in fact her reaction was ambivalent. She moved to the display cabinet, took down a pack containing a single fillet steak, and stared at it for a long moment. Then, on a sudden impulse, she followed him to the end of the aisle. ‘Mr d’Angelo?’ He turned, his brows lifting in cool surprise. ‘Miss Grant?’ The faint mockery in his tone acknowledged her formality. She drew a breath. ‘How do you know my name?’ ‘Someone told me,’ he said. ‘Just as someone told you mine—didn’t they?’ Cory bit her lip. ‘Yes,’ she admitted unwillingly. ‘So, now we both know.’ He paused. ‘Was there something else?’ ‘You were very kind to me when I fell the other day,’ she said, stiffly. ‘And I realise that my response may have seemed—ungracious.’ She paused, studying his expressionless face. ‘I hope you’re not waiting for a polite denial,’ Rome drawled at last. ‘Would there be any point?’ Cory returned with a faint snap. ‘None.’ He sounded amused. ‘Is that it—or are you prepared to make amends?’ ‘What do you mean?’ Cory asked suspiciously. Rome took the pack of solitary fillet steak out of her hand, and replaced it on a shelf. He said quietly, ‘Have dinner with me tonight.’ ‘I—couldn’t.’ Her heart was thudding. ‘Why not?’ ‘Because I don’t know you.’ There was something like panic in her voice. He shrugged. ‘Everyone starts out as strangers. I’m Rome, you’re Cory. And that’s where it begins. But the choice is yours, of course.’ She thought, And the risk… In a voice she hardly recognised as hers, she said, ‘Where?’ ‘Do you like Italian food?’ And, when she nodded, ‘Then, Alessandro’s in Willard Street, at eight.’ Cory saw the smile that warmed his mouth, and her own lips curved in shy response. She said huskily, ‘All right.’ ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’ He turned to go, then swung back. ‘And you won’t need this.’ His hand touched her hair, unfastening the silver clasp, releasing the silky strands so that they fell round her face. He said softly, ‘That’s better,’ and went, leaving her staring after him in stunned disbelief. CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_eeaf8a88-df69-5289-a7db-495136fa83b7) ‘YOU don’t have to do this,’ Cory told her reflection. ‘You don’t have to go.’ It was seven-fifteen, and she was sitting in her robe at her dressing table, putting on her make-up. And starting to panic. She couldn’t believe that she’d capitulated so easily—that she’d actually agreed to meet him, against all her instincts—and counter to her own strict code, too. Rule One stated that she never went out with anyone whose background and family were unknown to her. And Rome d’Angelo could be anyone. Except that he was quite definitely someone. Every hard, arrogant line of his lean body proclaimed it. He walked away, she thought. And I should have let him go. It should have ended right there. And it certainly need not go any further. She put down her mascara wand, and thought. Rome d’Angelo might know her name, but that was all, she told herself with a touch of desperation. Her telephone number was ex-directory, and he couldn’t know where she lived—could he? On the other hand, these were obstacles that could easily be overcome by someone with enough determination. So—she needed a contingency plan, she thought, frowning, as she fixed her favourite gold and amber hoops in her ears. Well, she could always sub-let the flat and find somewhere else to live in a totally different part of London. Somewhere she could lie low and wait for Rome d’Angelo to go back to wherever he’d come from. As she realised what she was thinking, Cory sat back, gasping. Was she quite mad? she asked herself incredulously. Was she seriously contemplating uprooting herself—going into hiding to avoid nothing more than a casual encounter? Because Rome d’Angelo wasn’t here to stay. He was just passing through. She knew that as well as she knew the pale, strained face staring back at her from the mirror. And he was clearly looking for amusement along the way. But, on the scale of things, she would never be the number one choice for a man in search of that kind of diversion, she acknowledged with stony realism. So, why had he asked her? Of course he was new in town, and probably didn’t know many people as yet, but that would only be a temporary thing. A single man of his age with such spectacular looks would soon be snowed under with invitations. He wouldn’t have enough evenings—or nights—to accommodate the offers that would come his way. Maybe she was just a stopgap. Cory grimaced as she fastened the pendant which matched the earrings round her throat. For a moment she wished she was Shelley, who wouldn’t hesitate to date Rome d’Angelo, whatever the terms, and who would frankly revel in the situation. And then wave him a blithe goodbye when it was over. ‘You only live once,’ Cory could hear her saying. ‘So, go for it.’ And she wouldn’t be able to credit the kind of heart-searching that Cory was putting herself through. But then Shelley had never had someone like Rob in her life, Cory reminded herself defensively. Had never known what it was like to suffer that level of betrayal. Never needed to armour herself against the chance of it happening again. And yet, as Shelley had warned, Rob was in the past, and she couldn’t use him as an excuse to shelter behind for ever. She had her own private fantasy that some day in the future she’d meet someone kind, decent and reliable, who would love her with quiet devotion, and that she’d make a happy life with him. It was up there with the house in the country and the log fires, she thought with self-derision. But, in the meantime, until that day arrived, maybe she needed to be more relaxed about men in general, so that she’d be ready for the man of her dreams when he showed up. And Rome d’Angelo would be excellent material for her to practise on. To remind her, just for a short time, what it was like to talk, laugh and even flirt a little. Because that was precisely as far as it was going. Flirting was fun—and it was relatively safe, too, because it was conducted at a distance. She gave herself a long look in the mirror, noticing that there was a faint flush of colour in her cheeks now, and that her mouth glowed with the lustre she’d applied. She’d brushed her hair until it shone, and it hung now in a soft cloud on her shoulders. As he’d stipulated, she thought, her mouth curling in self-mockery. For a moment she recalled the swift brush of his hand as he removed the clip, and felt herself shiver with a kind of guilty pleasure. As a gesture, it was pure clich?, of course, but still devastatingly effective. It had been several minutes before she’d been able to stop shaking, gather her scattered thoughts, and finish her shopping in something like normality. So, that was something she definitely could not afford, she thought, biting her lip. To let him touch her again. She got up and slipped off her robe. The simple flared woolen skirt she put on was the colour of ivory, and she topped it with a matching long-sleeved sweater in ribbed silk. She checked the contents of her bag, flung a fringed chestnut-coloured wrap round her shoulders, and left. It was only a five-minute walk to Alessandro’s, and she found her steps slowing as she approached, taking time out to look in the windows of the boutiques and antiques shops which lined the quiet street. The last thing she wanted was to get there first, and let him find her waiting. She might as well have ‘needy’ tattooed across her forehead. Of course, he might not be there at all, she realised, halting a few yards from the restaurant’s entrance. Perhaps he’d instantly regretted his impulsive proposition and decided to stand her up instead. Which would be neither kind nor considerate, but would certainly solve a lot of problems. She peered cautiously through the window, into the black glass and marble of the foyer bar. It was already crowded, yet she saw him at once. He was leaning against the bar, and he wasn’t alone. He was smiling down into the upraised face of a dynamically pretty redhead in a minimalistic black dress and the kind of giddy high heels that Cory had never contemplated wearing in her life. She was standing about as close to him as it was possible to get without being welded there, and one predatory scarlet-tipped hand was resting on his arm. As Cory watched, her whole body rigid, the other girl reached into her bag and produced a card which she tucked into the top pocket of Rome’s shirt. Cory felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. She wasn’t prepared for the pain that slashed at her. Pain that came from anger, and something less easy to define or understand. Her lips parted in a soundless gasp, and for a moment she was tempted to slip away into the night. Then some new arrivals came up behind her, and one of the men was holding the door for her, and smiling, and she was being swept along with the crowd into the restaurant. Rome was looking towards the door, scanning the new arrivals, and when he saw Cory he straightened and, with a swift word to his companion, began to make his way over to her. He was wearing light grey trousers which moulded his lean hips and emphasised his long legs, a charcoal shirt, open at the throat with the sleeves turned back over tanned forearms, and an elegant tweed jacket slung over one shoulder. He moved with a kind of controlled power, and as the crowd parted to allow him through, heads turned to look at him. Cory stood helplessly, staring at him, as the force of his attraction tightened her throat. He said, ‘Mia cara, I thought you would never come.’ And before Cory could move or speak, she found herself pulled into his arms, and his mouth was possessing hers in a long, hard kiss. She was too stunned to struggle, or protest. And if she had it would have made little difference. The arms holding her were too strong. The lips on hers too insistent. All she could do was stand there—and endure… When he let her go at last, there were two angry spots of colour burning in her face. She was aware of amused stares, and murmured remarks around them. She said in a fierce strangled whisper, ‘How dare you?’ He looked amused. ‘It took great courage, I admit, but, as you saw, it was an emergency.’ She said coldly, ‘I imagine you can take care of yourself. You didn’t need to drag me into it.’ ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But the temptation was irresitible.’ ‘Then I hope you find having dinner alone equally appealing.’ Her voice bit, and she half turned. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I should not.’ He made a brief, imperative gesture with one hand, and Cory suddenly found herself surrounded. A hostess appeared beside her to take her wrap, a waiter was asking deferentially what the signorina would like to drink, and Alessandro himself, wreathed in smiles, was waiting to conduct them to their table. Somehow, walking out had become impossible. Unless she made the kind of scene which made her blood run cold. Tight-lipped, she took her seat, and accepted the menu she was handed. He said, ‘Thank you for staying.’ Her voice was taut. ‘You speak as if I had some choice in the matter.’ ‘Is that going to rankle all evening?’ His brows lifted, and he spoke seriously. ‘I’ve made you very angry, and I’m sorry, but it was a situation calling for drastic action. The lady was becoming persistent.’ ‘And you couldn’t cope?’ Cory lifted her eyebrows in exaggerated scepticism. ‘You amaze me. And most men would be flattered,’ she added. ‘I’m not most men.’ ‘I’ve noticed,’ Cory said with faint asperity. ‘Yet you took her card.’ She stopped dead, aghast at another piece of blatant self-betrayal. I should have been cool, she berated herself. Shrugged the whole thing off, instead of letting him know I’d noticed every detail. My stupid, stupid tongue… ‘I was brought up to be polite,’ Rome returned across her stricken silence. He removed the little pasteboard oblong from his pocket and tore it into small pieces, depositing the fragments in a convenient ashtray. ‘But I prefer to do my own hunting,’ he added softly, the blue eyes seeking hers across the table. ‘I’ve noticed that, too,’ Cory said. ‘And you’re also very persistent.’ He sent her a questioning glance. ‘You have a problem with that?’ She shrugged. ‘How you conduct your private life is no business of mine. You’re an available man. You can please yourself whom you see.’ ‘Not always,’ he said. ‘Not when the lady remains evasive. Or even hostile.’ He was silent for a moment, then he said evenly, ‘We haven’t got off to a very good start, Cory. So, if I’ve ruined everything, and you really want to go, I won’t stop you.’ She believed him. But the waiter was bringing their drinks, and a dish of mixed olives, and suddenly it all seemed too complicated. Besides, the performance so far had attracted quite enough attention, she reminded herself wryly. He added, ‘But I hope you won’t.’ ‘Why should it matter?’ ‘As I’ve already indicated, I hate eating alone.’ Her voice was flat. ‘Oh.’ ‘Among other reasons,’ he went on casually. He paused. ‘But perhaps I should keep those to myself, in case I put you to flight after all.’ His gaze captured hers, mesmerising her, then moved with cool deliberation to her mouth. She felt her skin warm under his scrutiny—her pulses leap, swiftly, disturbingly. She managed to keep her voice under control. ‘I suspect I’m actually too hungry to leave.’ His mouth curved into a faint grin. ‘So it’s worth enduring a couple of hours of my company for the sake of Alessandro’s food?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Cory said composedly. ‘They might have changed the chef.’ And she picked up the menu and began to read it. A small victory, she thought, as his brows lifted in amused acknowledgment, proving that she might be reeling, but she wasn’t out. When they’d given their order, Rome said, ‘So—what are the rules of engagement?’ She looked at him questioningly. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Kisses are clearly forbidden.’ He gave a slight shrug. ‘I was wondering whether there are any more taboos you’re meaning to impose.’ ‘I already broke my major rule simply by turning up tonight,’ she said. ‘I think that’s enough for one evening.’ ‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘But this particular night is still very young.’ Cory took a sip of her Campari and soda. ‘Perhaps we could dispense with comments like that.’ He shrugged a shoulder. ‘Very well. Shall I say instead how mild it is for the time of year? Or calculate how many shopping days are left until Christmas?’ Cory bit her lip. ‘Now you’re being absurd.’ ‘And you, Miss Grant, are being altogether too serious.’ He studied her for a moment. ‘Do you behave like this with all your dates?’ ‘I usually know them rather better than I know you.’ Remembering the squeaking Philip and other disasters, Cory surreptitiously crossed her fingers under cover of the tablecloth. ‘Never a move without the safety net in place,’ Rome mocked. She lifted her chin. ‘Perhaps. What’s wrong with that?’ ‘Don’t you ever get sick of security? Tired of measuring every step?’ The blue eyes danced, challenging her. ‘Aren’t you ever tempted to live dangerously, Cory mia?’ She met his glance squarely. ‘I thought that was what I was doing.’ She leaned forward suddenly, clenched fists on the table. ‘Why am I here tonight—having dinner with—a mysterious stranger?’ ‘Is that how you see me?’ he was openly amused. ‘Of course. You appear out of nowhere, and then you’re suddenly all round me—in my face at every turn. I don’t understand what’s going on.’ ‘I saw you,’ he said quietly. ‘I wanted to know you better. Is that so surprising?’ Yes, she thought. Yes. She lifted her chin. ‘Why—because you felt sorry for me—leading contender in the Worst Dressed Woman contest?’ He said slowly, ‘I promise you—pity never entered my mind.’ There was an odd silence, then he went on, ‘So—what can I do to become less of a mystery?’ ‘You could answer a few questions.’ He poured some mineral water for them both. ‘Ask what you want.’ Cory hesitated, wondering where to begin. ‘Why are you called Rome?’ ‘Because I was born there.’ He shrugged. ‘I guess my mother was short on inspiration at the time.’ ‘What about your father?’ Rome’s mouth twisted. ‘He wasn’t around to ask. I never even knew his name.’ ‘Oh.’ Cory digested that. ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘There’s no need,’ he told her levelly. ‘My mother made a mistake, but she had enough wisdom to know that it didn’t have to become a life sentence. That she could survive on her own.’ ‘But it can’t have been easy for her.’ ‘Life,’ he said, ‘is not a cushion.’ He paused. ‘Or not for most of us, anyway.’ Sudden indignation stiffened her. ‘Is that aimed at me?’ ‘Are you saying you’ve grown up in hardship?’ There was a strange harshness in his tone. ‘Materially, no,’ Cory said curtly. ‘But that’s not everything. And you’re not exactly on the breadline yourself if you can afford a place in Farrar Street, over-priced tickets to charity bashes, and the joining fee at the health club.’ He shrugged. ‘I make a living.’ ‘And how do you do that?’ she said. ‘Or is that part of your mystery?’ ‘Not at all.’ Rome smiled at her, unfazed by the snip in her voice. ‘I sell wine.’ ‘You’re a wine merchant?’ Cory was disconcerted. There was something about him, she thought, something rough-edged and vigorous that spoke of the open air, not vaults full of dusty bottles. ‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘Because the only wine on offer is my own.’ She stared at him. ‘You own a vineyard?’ ‘Own it, work in it—and love it.’ His voice was soft, suddenly, almost caressing. This was a man with a passion, Cory realised. And the first chink he’d shown in his armour. Would his voice gentle in the same way when he told a woman he loved her? she wondered. And had he ever said those words and meant them? Instantly she stamped the questions back into her subconscious. These were not avenues she should be exploring. She hurried back into speech. ‘And is that why you’re in London? To sell your wine?’ A selling trip was unlikely to last long, she thought, and soon he would be gone and her life could return to its cherished quiet again, without troubling thoughts or wild dreams. ‘Partly,’ he said. ‘I’m always looking for new markets for my wine, of course, but this time I have other business to transact as well. So my stay will be indefinite,’ he added silkily. ‘If that’s what you were wondering.’ Wine-grower and part-time mind-reader, Cory thought, biting her lip. It was a relief when the waiter arrived to take their order, and there were decisions to be made about starting with pasta or a risotto, and whether she should have calves liver or chicken in wine to follow. When everything, including the choice of wine, had been settled, and they were alone again, he said, ‘Now may I ask you some personal questions?’ ‘I don’t know.’ She could feel herself blushing faintly as she avoided his gaze. ‘Maybe we should keep the conversation general.’ ‘Difficult,’ he said. ‘Unless we sit at separate tables with our backs to each other. You see, mia bella, you’re something of a mystery yourself.’ She shook her head, attempting a casual laugh. ‘My life’s an open book.’ ‘If so, I find the opening chapters immensely intriguing,’ Rome drawled. ‘I keep asking myself who is the real Cory Grant?’ Her flush deepened. ‘I—I don’t understand.’ ‘Each time we meet I see a different woman,’ he said softly. ‘A new and contrasting image. The silver dress was too harsh for you, but tonight you’re like some slender ivory flower brushed with rose. The effect is—breathtaking.’ Cory discovered she was suddenly breathless herself. She tried to laugh again. To sound insouciant. Not easy when she was shaking inside. ‘Very flattering—but a total exaggeration, I’m afraid.’ ‘But then, you don’t see with my eyes, mia cara.’ He paused, allowing her to assimilate his words. ‘So, I ask again, which is the real woman?’ Cory looked down at her glass. She said huskily, ‘I can’t answer that. Maybe you should just choose the image you like best.’ ‘Ah.’ Rome’s voice sank to a whisper. ‘But so far that image is just my own private fantasy. Although I hope that one night it will become reality.’ His eyes met hers in a direct erotic challenge, leaving her in no doubt over his meaning. He wanted to see her naked. She felt her pulses thud as she remembered her certainty that he’d been mentally undressing her at the ball, and her colour deepened hectically. She said unsteadily, ‘Please—don’t say things like that.’ And don’t look at me like that, she added silently, as if you were already sliding my clothes off. His brows lifted. ‘You don’t wish to be thought attractive—desirable?’ ‘Yes, one day—by the man I love.’ Oh, God, she thought. How smug that sounded. How insufferably prim. As if she’d turned into the heroine of some Victorian novel. And waited for him to laugh. Instead he sat quietly, watching her, his expression unreadable. At last, he spoke. ‘Tell me, cara, why are you so afraid to be a woman?’ ‘I’m not,’ she denied. ‘That’s—nonsense. And I really don’t like this conversation.’ Rome’s brows lifted sardonically. ‘Have I broken another rule?’ ‘I’d say a whole book of them.’ She wanted to drink from her glass, but knew that he’d see her hand trembling as she picked it up and draw the kind of conclusions that she could not risk. ‘No kisses and no questions either.’ Rome shook his head. ‘You don’t make it easy.’ She forced a taut smile. ‘But life isn’t a cushion. I’m sure someone said that once. And here comes our first course,’ she added brightly. She hadn’t expected to be able to swallow a mouthful, but the creamy risotto flavoured with fresh herbs proved irresistible, and the crisp white wine that Rome had ordered complemented it perfectly. She said, striving for normality, ‘We should be drinking your own wine.’ ‘Perhaps next time. Alessandro and I are about to strike a deal. I came here early so I could talk to him.’ ‘Until you got sidetracked, of course.’ ‘Ah, yes,’ Rome said meditatively. ‘I wonder if she has a rule book.’ ‘If so, it’ll be the slimmest volume in the western hemisphere,’ Cory said acidly, and stopped, appalled. ‘Oh, God, I sound like a complete bitch.’ ‘No.’ Rome was grinning. ‘Merely human at last, mia cara.’ And he raised his glass in a teasing toast. As the meal proceeded, Cory found to her surprise that she was beginning to relax, and even enjoy herself. The conversation was mainly about food. It was a nice, safe topic, but even so Cory found herself silently speculating about the man opposite her, talking so entertainingly about Cajun cooking. Rome’s life might now be centred on an Italian vineyard, but it was obvious that he was a cosmopolitan who’d travelled extensively. There was still so much she couldn’t fathom about him, she thought restlessly. She wondered about his parentage, too. His mother presumably had been Italian, so he must have derived those astonishing blue eyes from his unknown father. An English tourist, she thought, with an inner grimace, enjoying a holiday fling with a local girl, then going on his way without knowing a child would result. However strong Rome’s mother had been, she would have had to struggle in those early years. And how had an illegitimate city boy ended up growing wine in the Tuscan countryside? No, she thought. There were still too many unanswered questions for her to feel comfortable in his company. So it was as well she had no intention of seeing him again—wasn’t it? The tiny chicken simmered in wine and surrounded by baby vegetables was so tender it was almost falling off the bone, and Cory sighed with appreciation as she savoured the first bite. ‘You are a pleasure to feed.’ Rome passed her a sliver of calves liver to taste. ‘You enjoy eating.’ ‘You sound surprised.’ ‘You’re so slim, I’d half expected you to be on a permanent diet like so many women,’ he acknowledged drily. Cory shook her head. ‘I’m not slim, I’m thin,’ she said. ‘But no matter how much I eat, I never seem to put on weight.’ He said softly, ‘Perhaps, mia cara, all you need is to be happy.’ The words seemed to hang in the air between them. She wanted to protest—to bang the table with her hand and tell him that she was happy already. That her life was full and complete. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she found herself remembering the scent of his skin, the hard muscularity of his chest as he’d held her. The warm seductive pressure of his mouth in that endless kiss… And she felt the loneliness and fear that sometimes woke her in the night charge at her like an enemy, tightening her throat, filling her mouth with the taste of tears. She bent her head, afraid that he would look into her eyes and see too much. She said in a small, composed voice, ‘Please save your concern. I’m fine. And this is the best chicken I’ve ever had.’ She resisted a temptation to refuse dessert and coffee and plead a migraine as an excuse to cut the evening short. Because something told her that Rome would recognise the lie, and realise he’d struck a nerve. And she didn’t want that. Because already he saw too much. Instead she embarked on a lively account of her one and only visit to Italy on a school cultural exchange visit. ‘The school we stayed at in Florence was run by nuns,’ she recalled. ‘And every night we could hear them turning these massive keys in these huge locks, making sure we couldn’t escape.’ She lowered her voice sepulchrally, and Rome laughed. ‘Would you have done so?’ He poured some more wine into her glass. ‘I got to a point where I felt if I saw one more statue or painting I’d burst,’ Cory confessed. ‘I never knew there could be so many churches, or museums and galleries. We never seemed to have a breathing space. And, really, I’d rather have spent every day at the Uffizi alone.’ ‘But you weren’t allowed to?’ She shook her head. ‘The teachers hustled us round the city at light speed. They seemed to think that if we stood still for a moment we might be abducted—or worse.’ ‘Perhaps they were right,’ Rome murmured. He paused. ‘Will you ever go back there?’ ‘Perhaps one day. To wander round the Uffizi at my own pace.’ He was silent for a moment. Then, ‘Florence is a great city, but it isn’t the whole of Tuscany,’ he said quietly. ‘There is so much else to see—to take to your heart.’ He drank some wine. ‘It would make a wonderful place for a honeymoon.’ Cory took a deep breath. ‘I’m sure it would,’ she said coolly. ‘And if I should happen to marry, I’ll keep it in mind.’ ‘You have no immediate wedding plans?’ He was playing almost absently with the stem of his glass. She said crisply, ‘None—and no wish for any.’ ‘How sure you sound.’ He was amused. ‘Yet tomorrow you might meet the man of your dreams, and all your certainties could change.’ The last time I dreamed of a man, Cory thought with a pang, it was you… Aloud, she said, ‘I really don’t think so.’ She picked up the dessert menu and gave it intense attention. ‘I’ll have the peach ice cream, please—and an espresso.’ ‘Would you like some strega with your coffee, or a grappa, perhaps?’ ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘But no.’ Because it’s nearly the end of the evening, and I need to keep my wits about me, she added silently. She ate her ice cream when it came, and sampled some of Rome’s amaretto souffl?, too. Alessandro himself brought the small cups of black coffee. He said something in Italian to Rome, who responded laughingly. Cory was convinced they were talking about her. She was already planning in her mind how to couch her refusal when Rome asked to see her again, which she was sure he would. Alessandro turned to her. ‘You enjoyed your dinner, signorina?’ ‘It was wonderful,’ she said. ‘Absolutely delicious. Far better than the steak and salad I was planning.’ ‘So lovely a lady should never eat alone,’ Alessandro told her with mock severity, and went off smiling. To Rome, she said politely. ‘Thank you. It was a very pleasant evening.’ ‘Pleasant?’ His mouth was serious, but his eyes were dancing. ‘Now, I’d have said—interesting.’ ‘Whatever.’ Slightly disconcerted, Cory reached for her bag. ‘And now I must be going. It’s getting late.’ Rome glanced at his watch. ‘Some people would say the evening was just beginning.’ ‘Well, I’m not one of them,’ Cory said shortly. ‘I have work tomorrow.’ He grinned at her. ‘And anyway, you cannot wait to run away, can you, mia cara?’ He came round the table and picked up her wrap before she could reach it herself. As he put it round her, she felt his hands linger on her shoulders, and the faint pressure sent a shiver ghosting down her spine, which she told herself firmly was nerves, not pleasure. She took a step away from him. Her voice sounded over-bright, and her smile rather too determined as she turned to face him. ‘Well—goodnight—and thanks again.’ His brows lifted mockingly. ‘Isn’t that a little premature?’ he drawled. ‘After all, I have still to see you home.’ ‘Oh, but there’s no need for that,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s only a short distance—’ ‘I know exactly where it is,’ Rome interrupted. ‘And I still have no intention of allowing you to return there unescorted, so let us have no more tiresome argument.’ She stared at him. Her voice shook a little. ‘Is there anything—anything you don’t know about me?’ He laughed softly, ‘Mia bella—I have only just begun, believe me. Now—shall we go?’ And she found herself walking beside him, out into the damp chill—and the total uncertainty—of the night. CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_609cf0f6-3831-58fc-b2a8-60bcd69c8a6c) THEY walked in silence, not touching, but Cory was heart-stoppingly aware of the tall figure moving with lithe grace at her side. She had half expected him to take her arm or her hand, and was grateful for the respite. Which was all it was. Because she had no idea what would happen when they reached their destination. She couldn’t feel shock or even mild surprise that, as she’d feared, he’d discovered where she lived. Not any more. Every defence she had seemed to be crumbling in turn. Which one would be next? she wondered, with a slight shiver. Rome noticed instantly, but misinterpreted her reaction. ‘You’re cold.’ He slipped off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. ‘Thank you.’ Her fingers curled into the warm, soft cloth, gathering it round her like a barricade. Which was a mistake, because inextricably mingled with the smell of expensive wool was the now familiar scent of Rome himself, clean, totally male and almost unbearably potent. Reminding her of those few pulsating moments in his arms when her shocked senses had not just breathed him—but tasted him… She hurried into speech. ‘But you’ll be frozen.’ ‘I don’t think so.’ There was a smile in his voice. ‘I spend too much out of doors in all kinds of weather.’ ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Yes—of course.’ She could hear the click of her heels on the pavement, hurrying slightly to keep up with his long stride. The air was cool, and there was a sharp dankness in the air which made her nose tingle. She told herself, with an inward sigh, ‘It’s going to rain.’ ‘Is that a problem for you?’ His answer, laced with faint amusement, alerted her to the fact she’d spoken aloud. ‘Not really.’ A faint flush warmed her face. She didn’t want him to think she was making conversation for the sake of it. ‘If you live in England, you can’t let rain bother you too much. And when we lived in the country everything—the grass, the leaves—was so washed and—fragrant afterwards, I even began to like it. But here in the city the rain just smells dirty.’ ‘You liked the country best?’ His tone was reflective. ‘Then what made you leave?’ ‘The house wasn’t the same after my grandmother died,’ Cory said, after a pause. ‘Too many memories. So my grandfather decided to sell it and base himself entirely in London. I don’t blame him at all for that, but I miss the old place just the same.’ ‘Where was the house?’ ‘In Suffolk.’ Her voice was soft with sudden longing. ‘There was an orchard, and a stream running through the garden, and when I was a child I thought it was Eden.’ ‘It was the other way round for me,’ Rome said, after a pause. ‘I was brought up in cities, and I have had to wait a long time to find my own particular paradise.’ ‘But you have it now?’ ‘Yes,’ he said, with an odd harshness. ‘I have it, and I mean to keep it.’ Cory turned her head to look at him in faint bewilderment, and stumbled on an uneven paving flag. Instantly Rome’s hand shot out and grasped her arm, steadying her. She felt the clasp of his fingers echo through every bone, sinew and nerve-ending. Was aware of her body clenching involuntarily in the swift, painful excitement of response. Bit back the small gasp that tightened her throat. Turned it into a breathless laugh instead. ‘Oh, God—I’m so clumsy. I’m sorry. Perhaps it was the wine. I’m not accustomed to it…’ ‘You don’t usually drink wine?’ He looked down at her, brows lifting. ‘Rarely more than one glass.’ Her smile was rueful. ‘So I’ll never make your fortune for you. Isn’t that a shocking admission?’ ‘It confirms what I suspected,’ Rome said, after a pause. ‘That you work hard, and take your pleasures in strict moderation.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘That makes me sound very dull.’ He smiled back at her. ‘Not dull, mia cara.’ His voice was suddenly gentle. ‘Merely—unawakened.’ She stared at him, her lips parting in surprise and uncertainty. When he halted, it took her a moment to realise that they’d actually reached the front door of her flat. And some kind of moment of truth, she thought, her heart lurching half in panic, half in unwilling excitement. As she fumbled in her bag for her key, she heard herself say in a voice she barely recognised, ‘Would you like to come in—for some more coffee?’ His hesitation was infinitesimal but fatal, cutting her to the core. ‘I cannot mia bella.’ He sounded genuinely regretful, but it was rejection just the same. ‘I have to go back to the restaurant and close the deal with Alessandro.’ She said, ‘Oh.’ Then, ‘Yes—I see.’ She rallied, fighting down the disappointment that was threatening to choke her. Fighting to conceal from him that he had the power to hurt her. She said brightly, ‘Well—thank you for a lovely meal.’ ‘The gratitude is all mine, Cory mia.’ He took the hand she did not offer and raised it to his lips, turning it at the last moment so that his mouth brushed her inner wrist, where the telltale pulse leapt and fluttered uncontrollably at the brief contact. ‘And perhaps I had better have my jacket,’ he went on conversationally as he released her. ‘Unless, of course, you wish to keep it.’ ‘No—no—here.’ Almost frantically she rid herself of its sheltering folds and pushed it at him. ‘Goodbye.’ She turned away, stabbing her key into the lock. He said softly, ‘I prefer—goodnight.’ As the door opened at last, she allowed herself a quick glance over her shoulder, but he was already yards away, his long stride carrying him back to his own life—his own preoccupations. Cory thought, So that’s that, and went in, closing the door behind her. Rome cursed savagely under his breath as he walked away. What in hell was the matter with him? he demanded silently. His grandfather had been right. She was ready to fall into his outstretched hands. All he’d had to do was walk through that door with her and she’d have been his. Total victory with minimum difficulty, he thought cynically. A victory that he’d wanted, starkly and unequivocally, as the unquenched heat in his body was reminding him. The whole evening had been building to that moment. And yet—unbelievably—inconceivably—he’d held back. Made a paltry excuse about an appointment that was actually scheduled for the next day. And she’d known. The street lighting had taken all the colour from her face and turned her eyes into stricken pools. And suddenly he’d found himself wanting to pick her up in his arms. To hold her close and bury his face in the fragrance of her hair, and keep her safe for ever. Perhaps the wine had affected him, too, he derided himself. Because he’d planned a verbal seduction only, he reminded himself tautly. He’d intended to entice her with spoken caresses and half-promises, and a hint of passion rigorously dammed back. Yet scrupulously ruling full physical possession out of the equation. Probably because he’d never visualised it as a genuine temptation, he acknowledged ruefully. So what had changed—and when? At what moment had she ceased to be a target—and become a woman? It was when I called her ‘unawakened’—and realised it was true, he thought. She’d been engaged to be married. It was unrealistic to suppose she hadn’t been involved in a sexual relationship with her fianc?. Yet his experience told him that, sensually and emotionally, she was still a virgin. That maybe the Ice Maiden image was born from disappointment rather than indifference. That all the potential for response was there, waiting, just below the surface. He’d felt it all evening in the swift judder of her pulses when he’d touched her, in the tiny indrawn breaths she hadn’t been able to conceal. And in the sudden trembling capitulation of her mouth as he’d kissed her. Shock tactics, he’d told himself at the time, when he’d seen her standing there, the wide eyes filling with accusation. An expedient designed merely to prevent her from sweeping out and reducing his chances of saving Montedoro to nil. He hadn’t expected to enjoy it so much. Or to want so much more so soon either. That was an added complication he could well do without. That, indeed, he would do without. Because he wasn’t some adolescent at the mercy of his hormones, he reminded himself bluntly. He had control, and he would use it from now on. But he hadn’t anticipated Cory Grant’s own hunger, he thought, his mouth tightening. He realised now what it must have cost her to issue that faltering invitation. Had seen the shock in her eyes when he’d stepped back. But perhaps in the greater scheme of things that was no bad thing, he told himself tersely. He would stay away for a few days, he decided. Keep her guessing. Allow her to miss him a little, or even a lot, before he made another approach. And then, just when she thought it was safe to go back in the water… Because he couldn’t afford any softening, whatever the inducement. He had to stay focused—cold-blooded in his approach. He had too much at stake to allow any ill-advised chivalrous impulses to intervene. And if he’d created an appetite in Cory Grant, he could use it. Feed it tiny morsels rather than a full banquet. Until she could think—could dream—nothing but him, and the denial he was inflicting on her senses. And that voluptuous ache in his own groin would simply have to be endured for now, he thought grimly. When all this business was behind him, and Montedoro was safe, he would indulge himself. Take a break in Bali or the Caribbean. Find some warm and willing girl looking for holiday pleasure, and tip them both over the edge during long hot moonlit nights. Someone who did not have bones like a bird and skin like cool, clean silk. Or a wistful huskiness in her voice when she spoke of her childhood. He sighed restlessly and angrily, and lengthened his stride. The Ice Maiden, he decided broodingly, would have been altogether easier to cheat. Cory leaned back against the door of her flat, staring sightlessly in front of her, trying to steady the jagged breathing tearing at her chest. ‘I don’t believe I did that.’ Her voice was a hoarse, angry whisper. ‘I can’t believe I said that.’ I’m not drunk, she thought. Therefore I must be mad. Totally out of my tree. And now, somehow, I have to become sane again. Before I end up in real trouble. She shuddered, crossing her arms defensively across her breasts. She’d just issued the most dangerous invitation in her life—and somehow she’d been let off the hook. Rome had turned her down, for reasons she couldn’t even begin to fathom but for which she had to be grateful, she told herself resolutely. Only, she didn’t feel grateful. She felt bewildered, bruised and reeling. Lost, even. And humiliated in a way she’d sworn would never happen again. She eased herself slowly away from the door and fastened the bolt and the security chain before heading for her bedroom. She didn’t put on any of the lights. She just went in and fell across the bed, without removing her clothes or her make-up. Curling up in the dark like a small animal going to earth to escape a predator. And a lucky escape it had been. For all the anguish of emotion assailing her, she could not deny that. Because Rome and she inhabited two different worlds. And the fact that those worlds had briefly collided meant nothing. Because soon he would be gone. Back to his vineyard and his real life. A life that did not include her but which would encompass other women. And she would remain here, and go on working for her grandfather, as if nothing had happened. So it was important—essential—that nothing did happen. Or nothing serious, anyway. She couldn’t afford any regrets when Rome had gone. Although it might already be too late for that, she thought, turning on to her stomach and pressing her heated face into the pillow. Since that night at the ball, she’d scarcely had a quiet moment. He’d invaded her space, filled her thoughts, and ruined her dreams. In the aftermath of Rob, she hadn’t allowed herself to think about men at all. It had been safer that way. But just lately she’d had a few enjoyable fantasies about meeting someone whom she could love, and make a life with, and who would love her in return. But even this cosy daydream had been snatched away. And in its place was a much darker image. One that churned her stomach in scared excitement, and made her body tremble. It wasn’t love, she told herself. It was lust, and she was ashamed of it. She’d believed she wanted Rob, but that had been a pallid emotion compared with this raw, arching need that Rome had inspired. He seemed etched on her mind—on her senses. He was in this room with her now. In this darkness. On this bed. His hands and mouth were exploring her with hot, sensuous delight, and she stifled the tiny, avid moan that rose in her throat. I don’t want this, Cory thought desperately. I want to be the girl I was before. I might not have been very happy, but at least my mind and body belonged to myself alone. She also had to live with the shame of knowing that this need was purely one-sided. Because Rome had been able to walk away without a backward glance. Yet her main concern was her own behaviour. She’d never made the running with men—not even with Rob. She’d allowed him to set the pace throughout their relationship. She was too shy—too inhibited—to set up an agenda that included sex on demand, even with the man she planned to marry. Until now, tonight, when she had suddenly stepped out of character. And much good it did me, she thought bitterly. Although going to bed with Rome would have been an even greater disaster, for all kinds of reasons. When she saw him again—if she saw him again—she would be safely back in her own skin, she told herself, and playing by her own rules. She would take no more risks. Especially with someone like Rome d’Angelo. She would be back in control. And the loneliness of the thought brought tears, sharp and acrid, crowding into her throat. ‘Old Sansom’s playing a cool game over this land deal,’ Arnold Grant remarked. ‘I was sure there’d be an approach from some go-between by now. So what’s the old devil up to? What’s he got up his sleeve now?’ He waited for some response from his granddaughter, and when none was forthcoming swung his chair round to look at her, only to find her sitting staring out of the window, not for the first time that day. ‘What’s the matter with you, girl?’ he demanded. ‘Are you in a trance, or what?’ Cory started guiltily. ‘I’m sorry, darling. I guess I’m a bit tired.’ She forced a smile. ‘I was out on the town last night.’ ‘Quite right, too.’ Arnold surveyed her, narrow-eyed. ‘Although one night shouldn’t put those shadows under your eyes. You look as if you haven’t slept for a week. No stamina, you young ones.’ He paused. ‘So—who were you out with? Do I know him?’ Cory sighed. ‘Yes, Gramps, you do indeed know her.’ She stressed the pronoun. ‘Shelley and I went to the cinema, then had a meal in a Chinese restaurant. I really enjoyed it.’ Which was pitching it a bit high, she silently admitted. The film had been good, the food delicious and Shelley great company, but Cory had been on tenterhooks in case her friend brought Rome d’Angelo into the conversation again, which had rather taken the edge off the evening. I’m being thoroughly paranoid, she thought. Arnold snorted. ‘Well, you don’t look or sound as if you had a wonderful time. You’ve been quiet all week, girl. Not your usual self at all.’ ‘In other words, I’m boring, and you’re going to replace me with a glamorous blonde,’ Cory teased. ‘God forbid,’ Arnold said devoutly. ‘And you’re not boring, child. Just—different.’ He gave her a sharp look. ‘Is it man trouble?’ ‘No,’ Cory said, her throat tightening. ‘No, of course not.’ It wasn’t really a lie, she defended silently. Because there was no man to cause trouble—not any more. She hadn’t heard from Rome, or set eyes on him, all through this endless week. She’d filled her days with activity—work, food-shopping, cooking, cleaning the flat to a pristine shine. But the nights had been a different matter. Sleep had proved elusive, and she’d spent hours staring into an all-pervading blackness, longing for oblivion. She’d used her answering machine to screen her calls, but she could have saved herself the effort because none of them had been from him. On the street, her senses felt stretched to snapping point as she scanned the passers-by, looking for him. As she glanced over her shoulder, expecting to find him there. Only, he never had been. So that particular episode was clearly over and done with almost before it had begun, she told herself determinedly. Rome had found someone else to pursue—metal more attractive. And, in the long term, that was the best—the safest thing. It was the short term she was having trouble handling. ‘Money, then?’ Arnold persisted. ‘Are those sharks of landlords giving you trouble? Do you want my lawyers to deal with them?’ ‘Absolutely not,’ Cory protested. ‘They’re a very reputable property company.’ ‘Hmm.’ Arnold was silent for a moment. Then, ‘If you’ve got yourself into debt, child, you can tell me. I could always raise your salary.’ ‘Heavens, no.’ Cory was aghast. ‘I don’t earn half what you pay me as it is.’ ‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ her grandfather said gruffly. ‘So what’s the problem?’ Cory shrugged. ‘It’s nothing serious,’ she prevaricated. ‘It’s probably all the wet weather we’ve had. I may be one of these people who needs the sun. I’m just feeling in a bit of a rut—not too sure where my life is going. That’s all.’ It was his turn to sigh, his face set in serious lines. ‘Ah, child. You need to go to parties. Meet more people. If my Beth hadn’t been taken, she’d have seen to it. Arranged a social life for you. Made sure you enjoyed yourself.’ He shook his head. ‘But I’m no good at that sort of thing. I’ve let you down.’ ‘Oh, Gramps.’ Cory’s tone was remorseful. ‘That’s not true. And I hate parties.’ ‘Nevertheless, you need a change of air—a change of scenery,’ Arnold said with decision. ‘I’m going down to Dorset this evening, to spend the weekend with the Harwoods. Why don’t you come with me? They’re always asking about you. And that nephew of theirs will be there, too, on leave from the Army,’ he added blandly. ‘You remember him, don’t you?’ Yes, Cory remembered Peter Harwood. Good-looking in a florid way, and very knowledgeable about tank manoeuvres. Keen to share his expertise, too, for hours on end. Not an experience she was anxious to repeat. She said gently, ‘It’s a kind thought, Gramps, but I don’t think so. I—I have plans of my own.’ And now he would ask what they were, and she would be floundering, she thought, bracing herself mentally. But, blessedly, the phone rang, diverting his attention, and the awkward moment passed. As she was preparing to leave that evening, Arnold halted her with a hand on her arm. ‘Sure you won’t come to Dorset?’ ‘Absolutely,’ she said firmly. He nodded glumly. ‘Any message for young Peter?’ Her swift smile was impish. ‘Give my regards to his tank.’ But she would do something positive this weekend, she determined. She wasn’t going to waste any more time phone-watching. Rome had appeared in her life, and now he had gone again, and she should be feeling thankful, instead of this odd hollowness, as if the core of her being had been scooped out with a blunt knife. But I’ll get over it, she told herself resolutely. I did before. I can again. And as a first step, she didn’t go to the health club in the morning. Just in case Rome had decided to use it after all and she ran into him there—literally as well as figuratively, she thought, remembering their previous encounter with a grimace. Instead she’d go to Knightsbridge and indulge in some serious window shopping. Maybe have lunch at Harvey Nicks, and spend the afternoon at the cinema, or a theatre matin?e. Or she might go to a travel agency and book herself some winter sunshine. Except that she already knew what she was going to do. What she always did when she was at a loose end, or troubled. Although she had no real reason to feel like that, she reminded herself. Not any more. Because, with luck, that particular trouble was past and gone. Nevertheless, she would go to the National Gallery and look at the Renaissance paintings. It might be a very public place, but it was her private sanctuary, too. Her comfort zone. And that was what her life needed at this particular moment, she thought. Not shopping, or long-haul holidays, but tranquillity and beauty. She would let those exquisite forms and colours work their magic on her, and then, when she was calm and in control, with her life drawn securely round her once more, she would plan the rest of her day. She dressed swiftly in a simple grey skirt with a matching round-necked sweater in thin wool, tied a scarf patterned in grey, ivory and coral at her throat, and thrust her feet into loafers. Then she grabbed her raincoat and an umbrella and set off for Trafalgar Square. The Gallery was having a busy morning. Cory threaded her way between the school parties and guided groups of tourists until she reached the section she wanted. Thankfully, it was quieter here, as most of the crowds seemed to have been siphoned off to some special exhibition, and she wandered slowly from room to room until she found the Mystic Nativity by Botticelli and a seat on a bench facing it. It had always been her favourite, she thought, as she drank in the clear vibrant colours. She loved the contrast between the earthiness of the kings and shepherds, come to do honour to the kneeling Virgin and her Child, and the ethereal, almost terrifying beauty of the watching angels. Usually just a few minutes in front of it melted away any stress she might be experiencing. But today it wasn’t having the desired effect, and after a while she got up restlessly and walked on. She paused to look at another Botticelli—the great canvas of Venus and Mars—staring for a long disturbing moment at the languid beauty in her white and gold dress, with a world of secret knowledge in her face, and the conquered, sated man next to her. What would it be like, she wondered, to have that kind of sexual power? To bewitch a man, and leave him drained, and at your mercy? Love winning the ultimate victory over war, she thought as she turned away. She would go and get some coffee, she decided, and then probably revert to Plan A and the shopping expedition to Knightsbridge. She was on her way out when she saw the portrait. She’d noticed it before on previous visits—a young man in his shirtsleeves, his curling hair covered by a cap, turning his head to bestow a cool and level glance on his observers. But this time she went over to take a much closer look. She stood motionless, her hands clenched in her pockets, staring at the tough, dynamic face, with the strong nose, the firm, deeply cleft chin and the high cheekbones, as if she was seeing it for the first time. Aware of the slow, shocked beat of her heart. Because, she realised, if Rome d’Angelo had been alive in the sixteenth century, he could have modelled for this portrait by Andrea del Sarto. Since their first meeting she’d had the nagging feeling that she’d seen him somewhere before, and had been trying to trace the elusive resemblance. And now, at last, she’d succeeded. He’d been here all the time. In her sanctuary. Waiting for her. She shook her head, her lips twisting in a little smile. She said softly, ‘Your eyes are the wrong colour, that’s all. They should be blue. Otherwise you could be him—five hundred years ago.’ And heard, from behind her, as she stood, rooted to the spot in horrified disbelief, Rome’s voice saying with cool dryness, ‘You really think so? You flatter me, cara.’ CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_da0f183f-407e-5028-a4cd-5b806fb3d02c) CORY looked down at the polished floorboards at her feet, praying they would open and swallow her. The last time she’d felt such a complete idiot had been standing on her own doorstep as Rome walked away, she thought detachedly, feeling the first scalding wave of embarrassment wash over her. And, before that, when she’d taken that spectacular dive at his feet. Now she’d let him catch her standing there talking to herself, for God’s sake. Speaking her thoughts aloud, as she often did. And this was once too often. She turned slowly, her face still flushed. He was standing about a yard away, unsmiling, the brilliant eyes slightly narrowed, his damp hair curling on to his forehead. He was wearing narrow black trousers, with a matching rollneck sweater, and carrying a russet waterproof jacket over one arm. Cory lifted her chin in challenge. ‘There’s a saying about eavesdroppers.’ Rome nodded. ‘I know it. But your comments were hardly derogatory. And you would never have made them to my face.’ ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘Just like you—looking at Renaissance paintings.’ ‘So, you just happened to—turn up?’ Her tone was incredulous. Rome shrugged a shoulder. ‘I can hardly visit the Uffizi,’ he returned coolly. ‘But it’s true that I hoped I’d find you here,’ he added. She wished she could stop shaking inside. She said haughtily, ‘I can’t imagine why.’ Rome’s brows lifted. ‘No, mia bella? I think you do your imagination less than justice. Except where this portrait is concerned.’ He looked past her, studying it reflectively. ‘Is this really how you see me?’ Cory’s flush deepened. ‘You can’t deny there is a resemblance,’ she said defensively. ‘And he’s not named in the portrait. He could be one of your ancestors.’ Rome’s mouth twisted. ‘I doubt it, but it’s a romantic thought.’ ‘From now on I’ll try and keep them under control,’ Cory told him with bite. ‘Do enjoy your art appreciation.’ As she made to walk past him, he detained her with a hand on her arm. ‘You’re not leaving?’ It was her turn to shrug. ‘I’ve seen what I came to see.’ ‘And so have I,’ he said softly. ‘Another intriguing coincidence. So—now we have the rest of the day ahead of us.’ She said thickly, ‘You take a hell of a lot for granted, Mr d’Angelo. And I have other plans.’ ‘Do they involve anyone else?’ ‘That’s none of your business.’ ‘A simple no would be enough.’ The blue eyes were dancing suddenly, and her mouth felt dry. His voice was suddenly coaxing. ‘Take pity on me, Cory mia. Cancel your arrangements and spend the day with me instead.’ His smile coaxed, too. Disturbingly. ‘Help me play tourist.’ She bit her lip. ‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea.’ ‘You haven’t given it a chance,’ he said. ‘It might improve on acquaintance and—who knows?—so might I.’ In response, her own mouth curved reluctantly. ‘Don’t you ever take no for an answer?’ ‘That, mia bella, would depend on the question.’ His voice was silky. ‘But I promise you one thing, Cory Grant. When you say no to me and mean it, I’ll listen.’ There was a brief heart-stopping pause, then he said abruptly, ‘Now, will you come with me? Share today?’ He held out his hand steadily, imperatively, and almost before she knew what she was doing she allowed him to take her fingers—clasp them. He nodded, acknowledging the silent bargain, then moved off, making for the main exit, sweeping her along with him so fast that Cory practically had to jog to keep up. She said breathlessly, ‘Just a minute—you haven’t told me yet where we’re going.’ ‘First—to the car park.’ ‘You’ve—bought a car?’ ‘No, I’ve leased one.’ ‘And then?’ He gave her a swift sideways glance. He was smiling, but there was an unmistakable challenge in the blue eyes. He said softly, ‘Why, to Suffolk, of course, mia cara. Avanti.’ She said, ‘It is a joke, isn’t it? You’re not really serious?’ They were out of London now, and travelling towards Chelmsford, as Cory registered tautly. ‘Am I going in the wrong direction?’ Rome asked. ‘I was aiming for Sudbury.’ ‘No,’ she said. ‘No—that’s fine. But I still don’t know why you’re doing this.’ The car was dark, streamlined and expensive, and he handled it well on the unfamiliar roads—as she was grudgingly forced to admit. ‘I’m tired of concrete,’ he said. ‘I thought you would be, too.’ ‘Yes—but you don’t just—take off for Suffolk on the spur of the moment,’ Cory said warmly. ‘It’s a long way.’ ‘And we have the rest of the day.’ He flicked a glance at her, a half-smile playing round his mouth. ‘Would you prefer to turn back? Visit another art gallery—or perhaps a museum?’ ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘No—I don’t want to do that.’ She wasn’t sure it was possible to turn back either. Not now. Not ever. She felt as if she’d taken some wild, momentous leap in the dark. She said, almost beseechingly, ‘But it’s all happened so fast…’ ‘I think it was the way you talked about it,’ Rome said, after a pause. ‘I could tell how much it had meant to you. And I was curious to see something that could put that note of yearning into your voice. It made the distance seem immaterial.’ ‘Oh.’ Her throat tightened. ‘And I would do the same for you,’ he added casually. ‘If you come to Italy, I’d show you all the places that were important to me.’ ‘Even your vineyard?’ He laughed. ‘Maybe even that.’ ‘Well, I hope you won’t be disappointed in Suffolk. It’s quite a gentle landscape. There aren’t any towering cliffs or sweeping hills. And the beaches are all dunes and shingle.’ Rome shrugged a shoulder. ‘I’ll chance it.’ Cory watched curiously as he negotiated a busy junction with effortless ease. She said stiltedly, ‘You’re a very good driver.’ ‘I’ve been driving for a long time.’ He slanted a glance at her. ‘You don’t have a car?’ She shook her head. ‘It’s never seemed worth it. Not in the city. For work and shopping I tend to use the Underground, or taxis.’ ‘Unfortunately we don’t have those conveniences at Montedoro, so one’s own transport is a necessity.’ She nodded. ‘Have you visited East Anglia before?’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve only been in London. Why?’ ‘Because you seem to know the way so well. And without any prompting from me.’ There was another slight pause, then he shrugged again. ‘We have road maps even in Tuscany. And I’m capable of working out a route for a journey.’ ‘Which means you must have planned this in advance,’ Cory said slowly. She turned her head, staring at him. ‘Yet you had no means of knowing that we’d meet today. Or ever again, for that matter.’ ‘You’re wrong about that.’ His voice was quiet. ‘Because I knew I would see you again, Cory mia. And so did you. If not today, then at some other time. And I could wait.’ Yes, she thought, with a sudden pang. He would be good at that. Was that why he’d kept away all week? Making her wait—making her wonder? She said bitterly, ‘I don’t think I know anything any more.’ ‘Do you wish you hadn’t come? Perhaps you’d rather be back at your National Gallery, fantasising about an image on canvas.’ His tone was sardonic. ‘Do you prefer oil paint to flesh and blood, mia?’ She flushed. ‘That’s a hateful thing to say. And not true.’ ‘I’m relieved to hear it.’ Cory bit her lip. Glancing up at the sky, she said, with asperity, ‘It seems to have stopped raining. I suppose you arranged that, too.’ Rome laughed. ‘Of course. I want this to be a perfect day for you, cara.’ Cory relapsed into a brooding silence. But it didn’t last long—how could it, when she began to recognise familiar landmarks and favourite bits of countryside? In spite of herself, she felt anticipation—even happiness—beginning to uncurl inside her. ‘We’ll be in Sudbury soon,’ Rome remarked at last. ‘Do you want to stop and look round?’ ‘Gainsborough was born there,’ she said. ‘They’ve turned the house into a gallery for some of his work. But maybe we’ve looked at enough paintings for one day.’ ‘Where do you suggest we go instead?’ ‘Lavenham’s quite near,’ she said. ‘And it’s really beautiful—full of old, timbered houses.’ ‘Is that where you used to live?’ She shook her head. ‘No, our house was nearer the coast—in a village called Blundham.’ ‘I’d very much like to see it,’ Rome said, after a pause. ‘Would you mind?’ ‘No,’ she said. ‘Why should I? But, at the same time, why should you want to?’ ‘To fill in another piece of the puzzle.’ He was smiling again, but his voice was serious. ‘To know you better, mia bella.’ Cory straightened in her seat. She said crisply, ‘Isn’t that rather a waste of time—when you’ll be gone so soon?’ He said softly, ‘At the moment, my plans are fluid.’ And paused. ‘Tell me, is there somewhere in Lavenham that we can have lunch?’ She said huskily, ‘Several places.’ And stared determinedly out of the window as she allowed herself to wonder what he might mean. The bar at the Swan Hotel opened into a maze of small rooms. They found a secluded alcove furnished with a large comfortable sofa and a small table, and a cheerful waitress brought them home-made vegetable soup followed by generous open sandwiches, with smoked salmon for Cory and rare roast beef for Rome. She chose a glass of white wine, dry with an underlying flowery taste, while Rome drank a sharp, icy Continental beer. On their way to the hotel they’d visited the market place and seen the old Corpus Christi guildhall, now a community centre, and the ancient market cross. The rain had well and truly stopped now, and a watery sun was making occasional appearances between the clouds, accompanied by a crisp breeze. Cory was telling him over the sandwiches that a number of the shops they’d passed dated from the Tudor period, when she stopped with a rueful laugh. ‘What am I doing?’ She shook her head almost despairingly. ‘I’m trying to teach history to someone who was born in Rome.’ He grinned. ‘Different history, Cory mia. And don’t stop, please. I’m enjoying my lesson. Why was Lavenham important?’ ‘Because of the wool trade. It was a major centre. Then came the Industrial Revolution, and the power looms, but there was no coal locally to run them, so the woollen industry moved north.’ She smiled rather sadly. ‘We may have missed out on the dark, satanic mills, but now we have nuclear power plants instead.’ ‘So, tell me about Blundham.’ ‘I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.’ Cory finished her wine. ‘It’s just an ordinary little village. We don’t get too many tourists, apart from birdwatchers and walkers.’ ‘I hope our arrival won’t prove too much of a shock,’ Rome said drily, as he paid the bill. But, in the end, the shock was Cory’s. They arrived at Blundham after a leisurely drive through narrow lanes. On the face of it the village, with its winding main street lined with pink-washed cottages, looked much the same. She recognised most of the names above the shops, and the pub, which had been rather run down, had received a much needed facelift, with window boxes, smart paintwork, and a new sign. It all had the same rather sleepy, prosperous air that she remembered. ‘Why are there so many pink houses?’ Rome queried, as he slowed for the corner. Cory shook her head. ‘It’s just a traditional thing. You’ll see it everywhere in Suffolk.’ She pulled a face. ‘My grandfather told me that originally they mixed the plaster with pigs’ blood to get that particular colour, but I don’t know if it’s true or if he was just winding me up.’ She leaned forward eagerly. ‘If you take the left-hand fork down here, it will bring us to the house.’ ‘Who does it belong to now?’ ‘A London couple. He was something in the City, and she wanted to play the country lady.’ Cory frowned slightly. ‘I didn’t like them much, and nor did my grandfather. He said they’d find it too big, and too isolated. In fact, he told them so, and the agents were furious. But they came up with the asking price, so they got it.’ Rome said slowly, ‘Only it seems they didn’t keep it.’ He brought the car to a halt beside a big estate agency sign attached to the front wall with ‘Sold’ blazoned across it. And, in smaller letters, ‘Acquired for the Countrywide Hotel Group.’ ‘A hotel. Oh, no, I don’t believe it.’ Cory sat for a moment, rigid with dismay, then scrambled out of the car. She peered through the tall wrought-iron gates. ‘They haven’t just sold it, they’ve actually moved out and left it empty. Look—the garden’s like a jungle.’ She pushed at one of the gates, and it opened with a squeal of disuse. ‘Countryside Hotels came sniffing around when we put the house on the market, but Gramps turned them down flat. He wanted it to remain a private home. That’s why he sold to the Jessons.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t tell him. He’ll be so upset.’ ‘Perhaps not,’ Rome said quietly as he followed her up the overgrown drive. ‘After all, he said it himself. Too big and too isolated. Maybe the Jessons gave it their best shot.’ He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Cory, are you sure you wish to do this? Shall we go back to the car and drive up the coast?’ Her voice was subdued. ‘We’ve come all this way. So I may as well say goodbye. And it could be worse,’ she added, with a forced smile. ‘It could have been bought by Sansom Industries and pulled down.’ She was half expecting a question or a comment, but Rome said nothing. Just gently removed his hand as they walked on towards the house. It was redbrick, built on three storeys, with tall chimneys and mullioned windows. ‘It’s a good house,’ Rome said, as they walked round to the rear. ‘Simple and graceful. It doesn’t deserve to be empty.’ ‘My room was up there. The window on the end.’ Cory pointed. ‘I chose it because at night I could hear the sound of the sea. Usually it was gentle and soothing, but when there were storms it would roar, and Gramps said it was a monster, eating back the land.’ ‘Didn’t that give you nightmares?’ Rome asked drily. ‘No.’ She shook her head decisively. ‘Because I knew I was safe and loved. And the monster would never reach me.’ Or not then, she thought, with a pang. Her nightmare had begun with Rob… ‘What’s wrong?’ She started almost guiltily. Rome was watching her, frowning a little. ‘Nothing—why?’ She forced a smile. ‘Your face changed,’ he said. ‘One moment you were remembering. The next you looked sad—almost scared.’ Cory paused. Shrugged. She said quietly, ‘Maybe Memory Lane is a dangerous place.’ His mouth twisted. ‘You think the future holds more security?’ There was an odd note in his voice—almost like anger. No, she thought with sudden desolation. Not if it holds you… She said quietly, ‘I try to live one day at a time—and not look too far ahead.’ She moved off determinedly along the stone terrace. ‘Now I’ll show you my grandmother’s sunken garden. She used to grow roses there, and the most marvellous herbs.’ She reached the top of the stone steps and stopped dead, drawing a swift painful breath. Because the garden, with its tranquil paths and stone benches, had gone. In its place was a swimming pool, surrounded by an expanse of coloured tiles. Even the old summer house had been supplanted by a smart changing pavilion. Cory’s throat tightened. She turned and looked up into Rome’s cool, grave face. She said, like a polite child, ‘Thank you for bringing me here, but I’ve seen enough and I’d like to go home, please.’ Then her face crumpled and she began to weep, softly and uncontrollably, the tears raining down her pale face. Rome said something quiet under his breath. Then his arms went round her, pulling her close. His hand cradled her head, pressing her wet face into the muscular comfort of his chest. She leaned against him, racked by sobs. He smelt of fresh air and clean wool, and his own distinctive maleness, a scent that seemed at the same time alien and yet totally familiar. She breathed him, filled herself with him, as her hands clung to his shoulders, her fingers twisting feverishly in the fine yarn of his sweater. As she cried, he murmured to her, sometimes in English but mostly in Italian. While she didn’t understand everything he said, instinct told her they were words of endearment, words of comfort. And she felt his lips brush her hair. She lifted her head and looked up at him, a sob still catching her throat, her eyes bewildered—wondering. The long fingers touched her drenched lashes, then gently stroked her cheek, pushing back the strands of dishevelled hair. And all the time she watched him silently. She felt him straighten, as if he was going to put her away from him, and whispered, ‘Please…’ For a moment he was still. Taut. The dark face was stark, the blue eyes narrowed, suddenly, and burning. And when he moved it was to draw her close again. But not, this time, for consolation. He kissed her forehead, then, very softly, her eyes, as if he was blotting her tears with his lips. She sighed, her body bending like a willow in his arms in a kind of mute offering. And then, and only then, he found her mouth with his. She was more than ready. She was thirsting, starving for him. Her lips parted, welcoming the heated thrust of his tongue. Their mouths tore at each other in a kind of frenzy. She forgot to think, to reason, or to be afraid. There was nothing—nothing—but this endless kiss. This was what she’d been born for, and what she would die for if need be, she told herself, her brain reeling. When he lifted his head at last, she was shaking so violently she would have collapsed but for his arm, like an iron bar, under her back. He said her name swiftly, harshly, then bent his head again. He was more deliberate this time, more in control, his lips exploring her wet cheeks, the hollow of her ear and the leaping pulse in her throat, lingering there as if he was tasting the texture of her skin. Then he kissed her lips again, fitting his mouth to hers with sensuous precision, letting his tongue play with hers, teasing her lightly, wickedly, into uninhibited response. His free hand slid inside her sweater and moved upwards, pushing the encumbering folds away and seeking the soft mound of her breast. Stroking her gently, feeling the aroused nipple hardening against his palm under the thin camisole she wore, as she arched against him. He lifted his head and stared down at her for a long moment, his eyes slumberous, urgent, as he studied the effect of his caress. For a moment she returned his gaze, then her lashes swept down, veiling her eyes, as she waited for him to touch her again. This time she experienced the shuddering thrill of his mouth against her, suckling her scented, excited flesh through the silk covering. Circling the rosebud peak with his tongue, coaxing it to stand proud against the damp and darkened fabric. Cory could feel the heat of him—the male hardness—against her thighs in implicit, primitive demand, and heard herself moan swiftly and uncontrollably in need and surrender. It was a small sound, but it broke the spell. Snapped the web of sensuality which held them. Between one instant and the next Cory found herself released—free. And Rome standing three feet away from her, trying to control his ragged breathing. He said quietly, as if speaking to himself, ‘I did not—intend that.’ Hands shaking, Cory dragged her sweater back into a semblance of decency. She said, in a voice she barely recognised, ‘It was really my fault. You got—caught up in an overspill of emotion, that’s all.’ ‘No,’ he said harshly. ‘It was entirely mutual. Have the honesty to admit it.’ There was a tense silence. Cory looked down at the flag-stones. ‘Are you—sorry it happened?’ ‘No—but I should not have allowed it, just the same.’ He sounded weary, and a little angry. ‘We had better go.’ She was still trembling as they walked back to the car. Her lips felt tender—swollen—and she touched them with a tentative finger. ‘Did I hurt you?’ He noticed, of course. ‘No,’ she said. But it was a lie. Because in those brief rapturous moments in Rome’s arms she had given him the power to hurt her for all eternity. And eternity, she realised painfully, might already have begun. CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_2515dbeb-c4c5-52ca-af97-4b7fd3523df4) THE clouds had returned with a vengeance, and the North Sea was a sullen grey as they drove up the coast road. There was silence inside the car, but not the companionable sort, born of long familiarity. The enclosed atmosphere simmered with tension, and some other element less easy to define. Cory sat huddled into the passenger seat, staring rigidly at the white-flecked waves emptying themselves on to the banks of shingle. She did not dare look at Rome, who was concentrating almost savagely on his driving. The advance and retreat of the sea was like a symbol of her own life, she thought, pain twisting inside her. One moment she was being carried along on an inexorable tide of passion. The next she was abandoned, stranded. Left clinging to some inner emotional wreckage. And she wasn’t sure how much more she could take. Any student of body language, she thought, would take one look at her and say ‘defensive’. But they didn’t know the half of it. The faint lingering dampness of her camisole against her skin was an unwanted but potent reminder of the subtle plunder his lips had inflicted. Her entire being was one aching throb of unsatisfied longing. While being shut with him in this confined space was nothing less than torture. She sat up with sudden determination. ‘Could you stop the car, please?—I’d like to go for a walk—clear my head.’ She shot a swift, sideways glance at his set, remote profile. ‘If that’s all right,’ she added. ‘Of course,’ he said coolly. ‘It’s a good idea.’ He paused. ‘Something we both need, perhaps.’ The wind was freshening, blowing in unpleasant gusts from the sea, and Cory took off the scarf knotted at her neck and struggled to tie it over her hair instead. ‘May I help?’ Rome came round the car to her side. ‘No.’ Her mouth was suddenly dry, her heart pounding as she thought of his fingers touching her hair, brushing against her throat. ‘No, I can manage. Thank you.’ He shrugged on the russet jacket, his eyes hard. ‘As you wish.’ He set off and she followed, picking her way across the sliding shingle, filling her lungs with the cold salt-laden air as she battled with the wind. Apart from clusters of sea birds hunched at the edge of the sea, and a couple exercising a small dog in the distance, they had the long stretch of beach to themselves. Rome strode ahead, apparently impervious to the chill of the wind, or the increasing dampness in the air, and Cory found she was struggling to keep up with him. Hey, she wanted to shout. This is my environment, not yours. How dare you be so at home here, when I feel alienated of—a stranger…? At the top of the shingle bank, the elderly hulk of a fishing boat had been left to end its days, and Rome paused in the shelter of its remaining timbers, shading his eyes as he stared out to sea, watching the progress of a solitary oil tanker on the horizon. As she joined him breathlessly, he gave her an unsmiling glance. ‘How are the cobwebs?’ ‘They didn’t survive the first minute.’ She leaned against the bow of the boat, steadying her flurried breathing and attempting to rearrange her scarf. Rome resumed his scrutiny of the tanker, his expression unreadable. Silence hung between them. Eventually, Cory cleared her throat. She said, ‘I think I owe you an apology.’ ‘For what happened between us earlier?’ Rome shook his head. ‘We must share any blame for that.’ ‘I didn’t mean—the kiss.’ And what a polite euphemism that was, she thought wryly, for all that had really gone on. ‘What, then?’ His mouth was hard and set. She said steadily, ‘For bursting into tears all over you. I’m not usually such a wimp—I hope. It was just such a shock. The village looked just the same, so I’d convinced myself that Blundham House would, too. That it would still be there waiting for me, caught in some time warp, and that all I had to do was show up.’ She shook her head. ‘Stupid, or what?’ ‘Unrealistic, perhaps. But I encouraged that by bringing you here. I should not have done so. I just—needed to get out of London, and I thought you did, too.’ He was still staring at the horizon, and his voice was bitter with self-accusation. ‘This whole day was a bad mistake.’ Hurt twisted inside her. She said quietly, ‘Rome—we both lost our heads for a while. But it’s no big deal, and it certainly isn’t irretrievable.’ His laugh was brief and humourless. ‘You don’t think so?’ He turned to look at her. ‘Cory, you can’t be that na?ve. You must see it has changed everything.’ She tried to look into his eyes, but they were hooded, unfathomable. She forced a smile. ‘Perhaps I’m due for a change.’ ‘That,’ he said, ‘would be unwise.’ ‘Then maybe I’m just tired of being sensible,’ she threw back. ‘But if you’re not—I can learn to live with it.’ His mouth tightened. ‘Dio, I wish it were that simple.’ Cory leaned her shoulder against the boat, needing its support suddenly. She said huskily, ‘Rome—is there some—some reason why we shouldn’t be—together?’ She’d meant to say ‘someone else’, but found she couldn’t speak the words aloud. He said bleakly, ‘Any number of reasons, mia cara. Do you wish me to list them for you?’ No, she thought with swift anguish. Because one of them could be another woman’s name. And more than she could bear. That damned scarf was slipping again. She untied it, thrusting it into the pocket of her raincoat, glad to conceal the fact that her hands were shaking. She said in a low voice, ‘And what if I said I didn’t care? That I want to forget the past and live just for the present?’ She bit her lip. ‘And let the future take care of itself.’ There was a tingling silence. Cory could almost feel the tension emanating from him. He said, ‘You don’t know what you’re saying, Cory. And you deserve better than that. You deserve a future.’ He flung back his head in sudden anger. ‘Dear God—what an unholy mess.’ She could taste blood from her ravaged lip. ‘Then—again—I’m sorry. And I’ll have to stop saying that.’ She looked past him at the sea, iron-dark now, like the sky above it. Saw a cloud advancing across the water, whipping up the surface like cream. She said, ‘We should get back to the car. There’s a squall coming.’ She added carefully, ‘And, however it’s turned out, it was good of you to give me this day. I’ll remember it always. But I don’t think there should be any more of them. When we get back to London, we should say goodbye.’ He said harshly, ‘You think that’s possible?’ ‘No,’ she said. ‘Essential.’ And gasped as the sheet of rain she’d seen approaching arrived in an icy torrent which drenched them relentlessly within seconds. Rome swore, and grabbed her hand. ‘Run,’ he ordered. The rain swirled at them, driven viciously by the wind, as they stumbled back across the treacherous shingle, struggling to keep their footing. They were breathless and half blinded when they reached the car. Rome thrust Cory into the passenger seat, then dived in beside her. They sat for a moment, listening to the roar of the wind and the fierce drumming of the rain on the car roof. Rome reached into the glove compartment and produced a packet of tissues. He said wryly, ‘For the moment, this is the best I can offer.’ Cory used a handful of them to blot the worst of the moisture from her face and hands. But she could do little about her hair, which was sticking to her scalp, and even less about her soaked clothing, now adhering clammily to her skin. Even her eyelashes were dripping, she thought ruefully. And Rome was in no better state. She said doubtfully, ‘It might be quicker to go back by the motorway…’ ‘Perhaps,’ he said, starting the car. ‘But I have a better idea.’ They drove back the way they had come. After a mile or so, Rome turned down a narrow lane. ‘Where are we going?’ Cory was shivering. ‘I saw a hotel signposted on the way here. I’d planned to take you there for tea. We’ll use their facilities to get dry instead.’ ‘But we can’t do that. They won’t allow it.’ ‘We have no choice,’ Rome told her coolly. ‘And nor do they. If we drive back to London in this state, we’re risking pneumonia.’ He drove in between two tall brick pillars and up a winding, tree-shaded drive. Through the rivulets of water still running down the windscreen, Cory got an impression of a large creeper-clad building with lights blazing cheerfully from its mullioned windows. Rome brought the car to a halt in front of the main entrance. He said, ‘Wait here, while I see what can be done.’ Her lips were still framing another protest when he disappeared, leaving her with the beat of the rain for company. Peering out through the streaked and misty windows, she could see a number of other cars parked nearby, and this heartened her. If the hotel was busy, it wouldn’t want extra waifs and strays dropping in because they’d been caught in a storm, she thought, easing her wet skirt away from her legs with distaste. But even if the hotel rolled out the red carpet for them, she still couldn’t go in there. Not with Rome. The journey back to London was going to be difficult enough, and she didn’t want to prolong the remainder of her time in his company. And spending even a few hours with him in a remote country hotel was bound to force on them the kind of intimacy she could never risk again. Pneumonia, she thought, would almost be preferable. She was so deep in her own unhappy thoughts that she was unaware of Rome’s return until her door was opened abruptly. ‘They can take us.’ He handed her a big coloured umbrella. ‘The porter will show you where to go, while I park the car. And I’ll even be the soul of chivalry and let you have the first hot bath.’ Cory stared at him. She said huskily, ‘You mean you’ve reserved a room?’ ‘Naturally. We’ll need some privacy while our clothes are being dried.’ She said fiercely, ‘Our day out is over, Rome. I thought I’d made that clear. And I’m not signing off by joining you in some seedy hotel room that you rent by the hour.’ ‘By the night, actually. Although it’s our own business how long we stay. And I’ve brought you here because we’re both very cold and very wet. This is dire necessity, Cory, not some elaborate seduction ploy.’ Her face warmed. ‘We can’t stay here. I won’t. It—it’s out of the question.’ ‘Then you’re asking the wrong questions. Cory—don’t be difficult. It’s still pouring with rain, and I’m getting soaked again.’ She said stubbornly, ‘I want to go back to London.’ ‘You shall.’ His tone was gritty. ‘But first I intend to have a bath, some food, and my clothes dried and pressed by the hotel valet service. I don’t think that’s unreasonable.’ He paused. ‘However, if you prefer to stay here, alone and dripping, and making yourself ill in the process, that is entirely your own decision. But in that case be good enough not to give me your cold.’ He paused again. ‘Don’t argue any more, carissima. I would carry you in, but the staff might get the wrong impression and give us the bridal suite.’ Cory gave him a fulminating look, and left the car with as much dignity as she could assemble at short notice. The porter, small, balding and jolly, awaited her. ‘Good afternoon, madam, and welcome to Hailesand Hotel. What a shame about the weather.’ He relieved her of the wet umbrella. ‘We’ve put you in the Garden Suite, and it’s just down here.’ Cory found herself squelching down a thickly carpeted corridor. The porter threw open the door at the end with a flourish. ‘This is the sitting room, madam.’ He bustled around lighting lamps. ‘The main bedroom’s through that door on the right, and the bathroom’s opposite, with the other bedroom next to it. Not that you’ll need it, of course, but it’s nice for families.’ ‘Yes,’ was all Cory could manage. ‘I’ll put a match to the fire, shall I? Make things cosier for you,’ he added with satisfaction as flames began immediately to curl round the kindling in the dog grate. ‘And if you leave your wet clothes in the bedroom the housekeeper will collect them for you. You’ll find complimentary robes in the wardrobe, and plenty of nice toiletries in the bathroom, so just relax and make yourself at home. ‘Your husband said you’d be wanting tea,’ he threw back over his shoulder on the way to the door. ‘Just ring down to the desk when you’re ready and I’ll bring it—and some more logs for the fire.’ ‘Thank you,’ Cory said, feeling as if she’d been bowled over by a giant teddy bear. ‘You’re welcome, madam.’ He twinkled at her, and went out, leaving Cory to the confusion of her own thoughts. Her initial reaction was thankfulness that they were in a suite, and not a double room. So at least she’d be able to maintain some kind of distance from him during their brief stay, she told herself painfully. Her second thought was that if they had to stay somewhere while their clothes dried, this would seem the perfect choice. Even without the fire the room would have been cosy, she thought, viewing the thickly cushioned twin sofas with their chintz covers which flanked the fireplace. There was a small round dining table in one corner, and a bookcase crammed with a tempting selection of paperbacks. The walls were hung with watercolours of local scenes, and there were bowls of fresh flowers everywhere. Old fashioned French windows offered access to the gardens beyond. Or would when it wasn’t lashing with rain, Cory amended, with another shiver. Which reminded her what she was there for. She eased her feet out of her shoes and peeled off her sodden tights, then padded across to the bathroom. As she ran hot water into the tub, adding a sachet of freesia bath oil for good measure, she realised the friendly porter hadn’t exaggerated. The pretty basket of toiletries even had toothbrushes and paste. The main bedroom was attractively decorated in blue, the faint severity of the tailored bedspread and plain drapes offset by a cream carpet lavishly patterned in forget-me-nots. Was that a subtle hint? Corey wondered, as she stripped off her wet clothes and put on the smaller of the two cream towelling robes from the wardrobe. If so, it was unnecessary. Eventually, she hoped—she prayed—she would be able to put the events of these few enigmatic days behind her. But not yet. She put her discarded garments in the linen laundry bag she found in a drawer, but decided she would rinse out her own undies and dry them quickly on a radiator. The robe was a perfectly discreet cover-up, but she’d feel awkward and self-conscious being so nearly naked in front of Rome. For her own peace of mind, she needed more than one layer, she thought, her mouth twisting. She took the other robe into the sitting room and draped it over the arm of the sofa, where he would see it, and placed the laundry bag beside it. Then she went to have her bath, carefully turning the little brass bolt on the door first. She lay half submerged in the scented bubbles like a mermaid on a rock. Except she felt that she was the one being lured to her doom, she thought, letting the water lap softly over her breasts and gasping a little at the sensation. She had never been so aware of her own body before, nor of its unexpected capacity for pleasure. But then, she had never before felt such overwhelming physical desire for a man as she did for Rome. Not even Rob, whom she’d believed she loved, had been able to arouse such a fierce, unbridled need in her. Perhaps if he had things would have been different between them, she thought, biting her lip. But all that dizzying, aching passion for Rome had to be counterbalanced by the questions about him that remained unanswered. It troubled her that she still knew so little about him. It genuinely shocked her that she’d been on the point of giving herself to a man who was still virtually a stranger to her. And who—one day, one night—would walk away, back to his own life. Leaving her bereft. So the wise thing was to step back herself before she was tempted again. Before any real harm was done. One of the nuns at her convent school had lectured the girls regularly on avoiding ‘occasions of sin’. And Sister Benedict would have placed Rome in that category without a second thought. He was the occasion, the sin itself, and the ultimate need for repentance all united in one lethal package. She knew the right thing was never to see him again, even if the anguish of it made her want to moan out loud. But she wouldn’t sit at home brooding about what might have been. She would stop being so selective—so reclusive. She would do as her grandfather wanted. She’d go out and meet people, and somehow, sooner or later, she would find someone who would make this deep, aching hollow inside her disappear. It was just a matter of time. She shampooed her hair, rinsed out her camisole, briefs and tights, and folded them in a towel over her arm. She combed her wet hair back from her face, and took a long objective look at herself. The sleeked back hair left her no defences at all, and she was all eyes and cheekbones, and soft vulnerable mouth. But she couldn’t stay in here, as if she was clinging to sanctuary. Somehow she had to endure the next few hours—survive them. And to do that she had to confront the man in the next room, whether angel or demon. And she had to do it now. She took a deep breath, then opened the bathroom door and went into the sitting room. Rome was standing by the French windows, staring into the gathering darkness. He was bare-legged, and the sleeves of the robe were folded back, exposing muscular forearms. His skin looked very dark against the pale fabric. He turned slowly and looked at her, his expression watchful, almost wary. She had the sense of strong emotion rigorously controlled. Of a battle that had been fought and won during her absence. She had to resist an impulse to tighten the sash of her robe—to draw its lapels closer together. Behave calmly, she adjured herself silently. Treat the situation as if it was normal. As if it’s not a problem. She said, ‘I’m sorry I took so long.’ Then, shyly, ‘This—this is a lovely place. Log fires and tea on demand.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Give me ten minutes, then order some.’ He paused. ‘Our clothes will be a couple of hours, so I had them bring us a dinner menu. We can eat here.’ ‘Oh.’ She couldn’t keep the note of dismay out of her voice, and his brows lifted mockingly. ‘The restaurant demands smart casual dress, cara,’ he drawled. ‘I doubt we would qualify. Also, we might be a little conspicuous.’ She said, ‘I was hoping we’d be on our way back to London before dinner.’ ‘How eager you are to be off,’ Rome commented caustically. ‘You have a date tonight, perhaps?’ Cory did not meet his gaze. ‘No—just a life to get back to.’ He said softly, ‘Ah, yes, of course.’ He walked across the room, heading for the bathroom. As he passed Cory he bent, so that his mouth was almost brushing the delicate curve where her neck joined her shoulder, and inhaled with frank appreciation. He said, ‘You smell—exquisite, mia bella. Like some rare flower.’ Her body stiffened with almost unbearable tension. She kept her voice level with an effort. ‘Thank you.’ She remained where she was until she heard the click of the bathroom door signal that she was alone. Then she moved, like an automaton, to one of the sofas, and sank onto the edge of it, staring at the flames that were leaping round the logs. Consuming them. Burning them out. Knowing that this could happen to her, too. She thought, Oh, God, I have to be careful—so careful. And found herself wondering if it was not already too late… CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_d8eb6ee9-1b1d-5b77-a76f-2c88e5fef8d7) ROME tossed the disposable razor into the waste basket and rinsed his face. As he reached for a towel he paused, staring at himself in the mirror above the basin, his eyes bleak with self-condemnation. Yet he couldn’t blame himself totally for the present situation, he argued. He wasn’t responsible for the weather which had stranded them here. And although he’d been desperate to get away from London and out of his grandfather’s aegis, he hadn’t planned to take Cory with him. Not at first. ‘What’s happening with the girl?’ Matt had demanded on the telephone, not for the first time. ‘Why aren’t you seeing her?’ Rome’s brows drew together. ‘Are you having me watched?’ he asked coldly. ‘That’s my business. I’ve made an investment in you, boy,’ Matt barked. ‘And I protect my investments.’ He paused. ‘You took her to dinner, I understand, and that’s good. But why haven’t you followed it up?’ ‘Because I want her to ask herself that,’ Rome said levelly. ‘I want her to miss me.’ ‘Or forget all about you,’ Matt said contemptuously. ‘You could lose all the ground you’ve won.’ ‘You should have used the hired stud.’ Rome’s tone was short. ‘You’d have found him more amenable to orders. I do this my own way. That was the agreement.’ ‘Then do it faster,’ his grandfather snapped. ‘This delay is costing me money. You’d better make some progress this weekend, or you’ll be hearing from me again.’ Rome replaced his receiver with a thud, his mouth grim. The temptation to tell Matt Sansom to go to hell was almost overwhelming. But he couldn’t afford that—yet. He had no plans to contact Cory until the middle of next week. He wanted her intrigued—seriously bewildered—and with her guard down. He retrieved the hated dossier and glanced through it, wondering where she was and what she was doing. An item about the National Gallery caught his eye. It seemed to be one of her favourite weekend haunts, and instinct suggested that it might be the kind of place she’d choose if she was troubled about something. If… When he actually found her there he expected to feel mildly elated that he’d been able to predict her movements—and her mood—with such accuracy. Instead, he felt winded—as if someone had punched him savagely in the gut. He found himself leaning against a doorframe, almost gasping for breath. Even then he didn’t intend to approach her. He was, he told himself, just checking. And she had no idea he was there, watching her. So it would be easy to slip away. Only to find himself walking across to her, as if impelled by some unseen force. He didn’t mean to mention the Suffolk trip either. After all, it was just an idea, still in the planning stage. He was saving it for later, like the cherry on the cake. Proof of how caring he was, he derided himself. So why had he suddenly found himself blurting it out? Almost hustling her out of the Gallery and to his car as if she might suddenly drift through his fingers and vanish? He shook his head in exasperation. He’d given way to a series of crazy impulses—and this was the result. And then he’d compounded all previous errors by kissing her. And not the studied kiss he’d taken in the restaurant, which had been solely intended to rattle her. To teach her in one swift lesson how fragile that cool reserve of hers really was. No, the truth was that he’d wanted to feel that soft mouth of hers trembling under his again. Had needed it with sudden desperation. But he hadn’t anticipated her body’s shaken response—or that she’d—offer herself with such candour. He still wasn’t sure where he’d found the strength to pull back. Perhaps some lurking shred of decency had reminded him that sex was not on offer. His decision. And that he’d be taking her under false pretences. Which she didn’t deserve. He sighed impatiently—angrily. Because, at the same time, a small hard voice in his head was telling him that he was a fool. That this was the perfect opportunity to fulfil his deal with Matt. By dawn tomorrow, he thought cynically, he could persuade Cory to be his wife—or anything else he might ask of her. And then he’d be done with his grandfather’s machinations and free to get on with his own life. Off the hook. Which was what he wanted. All that he wanted. He tossed the towel aside and reached for his robe, tying the belt firmly round his lean waist. And all he had to do, he told himself, was walk back into the next room and take it. Because nothing could be too high a price to pay for Montedoro—could it? He looked back in the mirror, but this time all he could see in his eyes was confusion. Cursing under his breath, he switched off the light and went into the sitting room. Cory was curled up in a corner of one of the sofas, a magazine open on her lap which she was reading with elaborate concentration. On the table in front of her was a tray of tea, newly arrived. Rome halted, his mouth twisting involuntarily. He said softly, ‘How very domestic.’ She looked up at him. Apart from a faint flush in her cheeks, she appeared totally composed. She said sedately, ‘Except that I don’t know if you take milk and sugar.’ He stretched out on the opposite sofa, smiling at her. ‘Just milk, please. But I like my coffee black.’ He paused. ‘Do you think you’ll remember?’ Cory busied herself with the teapot. ‘I can just about manage that—for one evening.’ She put the cup where he could reach it. Poured her own tea. Made a studied return to her magazine. The room was silent but for the splash of rain on the windows and the crackling of the logs in the fireplace. The warmth had dried her hair, turning it into a silken cloud round her face. One strand drifted across her cheek and she pushed it back, knowing, in spite of herself, that the small gesture had not been lost on him. That he was reading her with the same close attention that she was paying her magazine. And probably learning far more. He said, ‘I didn’t know you played golf.’ ‘I don’t.’ ‘Then why read a golfing magazine?’ ‘I—I’m thinking of taking it up,’ she said defensively, and was immediately furious with herself for perpetrating such an obvious and ridiculous lie. ‘You’ve come to the right place,’ Rome said lazily. ‘When I was registering, the place started heaving with frustrated and very damp golfers, all forced off the links by the weather.’ She’d hoped to use the magazine as a barricade, but clearly that wasn’t going to work, so she tossed it aside. She said, ‘When do you think our clothes will be returned?’ He shrugged. ‘What’s the hurry?’ He smiled again, his gaze tracing the open neckline of her robe. ‘I like you better the way you are.’ Cory bit her lip. ‘I don’t,’ she said shortly, resisting an impulse to draw the lapels closer and tighten her sash. ‘I’d prefer to be dressed and out of here.’ ‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Rome advised with a shrug. ‘I gather this is a hotel that prides itself on service. Our clothes will be brought back when they’re ready, and not a moment earlier.’ Cory studied him for a moment, frowning. ‘It’s odd,’ she said, ‘but sometimes you don’t sound Italian at all.’ ‘There’s nothing strange about it,’ he said. ‘I was accidentally born there. But I doubt that I have any genuine Italian blood.’ She said, ‘But surely your mother…’ ‘My mother was English,’ he said. ‘She quarrelled with her family and ran off to Europe, and she happened to be in Rome when I was born. That’s all.’ She said, ‘Oh.’ He grinned sardonically. ‘Disappointed, cara?’ he challenged. ‘Now that you know I can’t be descended from del Sarto’s model?’ She flushed. ‘Don’t be absurd. And please stop calling me cara,’ she added with asperity. ‘Then what shall I call you?’ Arms folded behind his head, fingers laced, he regarded her. ‘Darling—my love—my sweet?’ She did not look at him. ‘No, thank you.’ ‘You make things very difficult.’ He spoke softly, faint laughter in his voice. ‘Italian is such a beautiful language for making love.’ ‘It’s also just a pretence,’ she said quietly. ‘When you’re not Italian.’ There was a silence, then, ‘Touch?,’ he murmured. ‘Which I believe is French.’ He paused. ‘Does it matter so much—my not being Italian?’ ‘It doesn’t matter at all. Except…’ ‘Tell me.’ She smoothed the towelling robe over her thigh. ‘Except that I never seem to get to know you—know who you really are. Or what you want.’ Her voice lifted in a kind of appeal. She felt him hesitate, and waited. But Rome’s eyes were hooded. He said lightly, ‘At the moment, my priority is dinner. Have you looked at the menu yet?’ ‘Yes.’ Cory fought down her disappointment. Whenever she thought she was getting close to him, he retreated to a distance again. But why? She cleared her throat. ‘I thought—the p?t?, followed by the beef in red wine.’ ‘That’s what I’m having.’ His voice was cool. ‘And as we’re clearly soulmates, you can stop wondering about me, mia bella—and worrying.’ But Cory, watching him rise lithely to his feet and cross the room to telephone their order, knew it could never be that simple. Because instinct was telling her that knowledge could be dangerous. And that sometimes it was better—and safer to go on wondering… He said, ‘Tell me about your grandmother.’ Dinner was over, and they were lingering over coffee. The food had been delicious, and, to Cory’s surprise, Rome had ordered a bottle of dark, velvety wine to accompany their meal. As he’d filled their glasses, she’d said doubtfully, ‘Do you think that’s wise?’ ‘You’d have preferred a Bordeaux?’ She’d said, ‘I was thinking about later…’ and had flushed when he’d raised his eyebrows and begun to laugh. She’d said hurriedly, ‘I meant you shouldn’t drink and drive.’ ‘I’m disappointed.’ He had still been grinning. ‘But I promise to stay well within the limit,’ he’d added softly. ‘On all counts.’ Which, Cory thought, smouldering, had been enough to kill anyone’s appetite stone dead. Yet, strangely, she’d eaten every crumb of p?t?, and done full justice to the rich and fragrant casserole. The wine, too, lingered on the palate. Now, the table had been cleared by an efficient young waitress, and the tray of coffee she’d brought had been placed on the table by the fire. Cory would have preferred to stay at the dining table, which had conferred a kind of much-needed formality to the proceedings. She was listening all the time for the knock on the door which would announce the return of their clothing. Her camisole and briefs had quickly dried on the bedroom radiator, and she was now wearing them again under her robe. They were only a fragile form of protection at best, but she felt better—safer with them on. But she wouldn’t really relax until she had the rest of her things back. All through dinner she’d been taking surreptitious glances at her watch as she marked the way time was passing all too quickly. If they didn’t leave here soon, she thought, it might be too late… Then mentally berated herself for being over-fanciful. She had no real reason to feel threatened. Rome had been the perfect dinner companion, chatting with her on all kinds of topics, sounding out her opinions, even arguing lightly at times. So far the conversation had been general. But now Rome’s question about Beth had moved it back to the personal again. She moved restively. ‘My grandmother? Why do you want to know?’ ‘Because the two of you were clearly close, and I’m interested.’ He paused. ‘Does it hurt you to talk about her?’ Cory’s smile was suddenly tender. ‘No, not really. She was just a lovely person—very gentle, and calm, and she and my grandfather adored each other. She told me once it was love at first sight—although when they met she was actually engaged to someone else.’ ‘Who also, presumably, found her gentle and lovely.’ Rome grimaced. ‘It must have been a bitter pill for him to swallow.’ ‘Yes,’ Cory admitted. ‘But Gran had already realised they weren’t right for each other. She was going to break off the engagement anyway. Meeting Gramps was just the final impetus she needed.’ ‘And what about you?’ Rome said. ‘Do you believe in love at first sight?’ She drank some coffee. She said, ‘I suppose there has to be a real initial attraction in any relationship. But on the whole I think love should build up from trust—friendship—respect.’ ‘How very virtuous,’ he said softly. ‘And what about passion—desire—the touch of someone’s hand that tells you the world has changed for ever? Does that mean nothing?’ He paused. ‘Or is that what scares you?’ This, she thought, was what she’d been dreading from the first. He didn’t have to put a hand on her. This line of questioning could strip her naked emotionally. The atmosphere in the room seemed to have thickened suddenly—become electrically charged. The heat from the burning logs had become too intense. The brush of the towelling robe against her bare skin was almost more than she could endure. She said, too vehemently, ‘I’m not scared.’ And wondered precisely whom she was trying to convince. ‘Then why won’t you look at me?’ Somehow, she made herself lift her head. Meet his gaze. His mouth was smiling faintly, making her remember how it had felt on hers. His eyes were caressing her—pulling away the thick enveloping folds of the robe. Uncovering her, she thought dizzily, for his private delight. He hadn’t laid a finger on her, but the mere possibility had the power to make her body moisten and melt. And he had to be aware of it. Had to know what he was doing to her… And she had no defences. Technically, she wasn’t a virgin. Her brief time with Rob had dealt with that on a physical level. But sensually, and emotionally, she was untouched. And she knew it. As he must, too. She said swiftly, huskily, ‘Don’t…’ ‘Why not?’ She could think of a host of reasons, including all the high-flown phrases about respect and trust that she’d already trotted out. But they all seemed unimportant against the burning reality of need. It was crude and it was violent, and it was tearing her apart. So that all she could do was stare at him wordlessly—and wait. He said again, quietly, ‘Why not?’ And this time it was an affirmation of a decision already made. A pact that had been agreed. The tap at the door was a jolt to her senses as sudden and shocking as a blow, so that she almost cried out. Rome got to his feet and went to the door. She heard a murmur of voices, and then the porter was there with their clothes, beautifully pressed under plastic covers, draping them carefully over the arm of a sofa. She thought, My reprieve. And part of her wanted to laugh hysterically, while the other half wanted to cry… She heard a stranger using her voice, thanking him, and asking him politely to take the coffee tray away. ‘Certainly, madam. Is there anything else I can get you this evening—or your husband?’ And heard Rome say, ‘No, that’s fine. We have everything we need, thanks. Goodnight.’ She found she was repeating the words ‘everything we need’ over and over in her head. When Rome came back to the sofa, she began to babble. ‘They think we’re married. Even though I’m not wearing a ring.’ She spread out bare hands. ‘See. Isn’t that absurd?’ ‘Ludicrous,’ he said, and his voice was very quiet. ‘And you were right,’ she hurried on. ‘They’ve made a really good job of the valeting. Everything looks as good as new. And I reckon if we hurry we can still be back in London before midnight…’ Her voice tailed off with a gasp as Rome knelt in front of her, taking her shaking hands in his and holding them. He said gently, ‘Cory, we’re not going anywhere tonight. You know it, and so do I, so let’s stop pretending.’ She heard herself say in a voice she hardly recognised, ‘Yes.’ He got to his feet, drawing her up with him, then lifted her into his arms as if she were some tiny featherweight and carried her into the bedroom. The big shaded lamps were burning on each side of the bed, and the cover had been turned back. Rome put her down gently against the pillows and came to lie beside her. She was trembling, but she made no protest as he undid the sash of her robe and parted its folds. He looked at her for a long moment, the dark face arrested, intent. Then he said huskily, ‘Mia bella.’ He raised her slightly, freeing her arms from the encumbering sleeves, then dropped the robe on to the floor beside the bed. The long fingers trailed slowly across the swell of her breasts above the lace edging of her camisole, then cupped her chin, lifting her face for his kiss. Her lips parted on a small sigh, welcoming him. The pressure of his mouth was slow and sweet as it explored hers, while his hands began their own journey of conquest, stroking the length of her slender body in one considered act of possession. The silk she was wearing shivered against her skin at his touch. She felt him ease the camisole upwards, and closed her eyes as he drew it gently from her body and discarded it. The room was warm, but she was suddenly cold, turning on to her side away from him, wrapping her arms round her body. He put his arm round her, pulling her back against him, and she realised he was naked. And not merely naked, but deeply and powerfully aroused. Rome put his lips against her throat, just below her ear, making the tell-tale pulse leap to the brush of his mouth. His fingers shaped the curve of her shoulder, and she trembled like a frightened bird under his hand. He kissed her throat again, and the sensitive nape of her neck, moving the silky tendrils of hair aside with his lips. He whispered coaxingly, ‘Take your hands away, mia cara. Don’t hide from me. I want to know everything about you.’ ‘There isn’t a great deal to learn.’ She tried to make a joke of it, but her voice was too small and too breathless. ‘Oh, you’re so wrong,’ he told her softly. ‘I have to find out what you like.’ He let his lips travel down her throat to the delicate hollow at its base. ‘And what you may not like.’ He ran a tantalising finger down the centre of the back she kept turned to him, making her flinch and gasp. His hand moved round, closing on her hip for a moment, then drifting down to her slender thigh, where it lingered, warm, sensuous and quite deliberate. ‘And what you might enjoy if you tried,’ he whispered. Her whole body seemed to shudder. Then she twisted away from him, swiftly, almost violently. She said in a suffocated voice. ‘I—I can’t do this. I thought—but I can’t.’ Rome stayed still for a long moment, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the long, vulnerable line of her back. Then he moved, too, taking the pillows and piling them up behind him. He reached for her, ignoring the small stifled sound she made, and drew her back beside him, holding her in the crook of his arm with her face against his shoulder. He pulled the sheet over them, covering himself to the waist and tucking the embroidered hem across her breasts. He said, ‘Is that less threatening?’ She said on a sigh, ‘I suppose.’ She hesitated. ‘You must think I’m a terrible fool.’ He dropped a kiss on her hair. ‘Don’t try to read my thoughts,’ he told her gently. ‘Because you’re way off target.’ ‘Don’t you—mind?’ ‘I’m disappointed, of course,’ he said. ‘But, ultimately, the decision was always yours to make.’ He paused, allowing her to digest that. ‘However, I’d be interested to know why you changed your mind. If you can tell me.’ There was a charged silence, then she sighed again, a small desolate sound. She said, ‘You’ve seen how clumsy I am. I can hardly walk across a room without falling over my feet, or someone else’s.’ ‘I saw you fall once because you were startled,’ he said. ‘That’s all, and scarcely a federal case.’ ‘It’s not all,’ she threw at him. ‘I’m also too tall, too skinny, and my feet are too big.’ He said, ‘If we’re listing faults, my nose is too large, I’m seriously bad-tempered until I get my coffee in the mornings, and I sing in the shower even though I can’t.’ She said passionately, ‘Don’t laugh at me. This isn’t a joke.’ He said slowly, ‘No, I see that. But even if all those claims you make are true, why should that stop you making love with me?’ She buried her face in his shoulder. Her voice came to him muffled. ‘Because I—honestly can’t do it. I’m—useless in bed. A—a freak. I can’t bear you to know it, too.’ His breath caught in sheer astonishment. His hand cupped her chin, forcing her to look at him. He said roughly, ‘What is this nonsense? Never let me hear you say such things again.’ ‘Even when it’s the truth?’ ‘And everything else is an act?’ Rome shook his head. ‘I don’t believe that, Cory. Not when I’ve kissed you—felt your body come alive in my arms.’ She said with difficulty, ‘It isn’t the—wanting. It’s what comes afterwards.’ He said quietly, ‘Didn’t you hear what I said just now—that I want to find what makes you happy?’ ‘But I need to make you happy, too,’ she said. ‘And I can’t.’ Rome stroked the curve of her white, unhappy face with a gentle finger. He said, ‘I’m really not that hard to please, mia cara.’ She said on a whisper, ‘But I wouldn’t want you to be kind either—or to make allowances.’ She thought with a pang of anguish, or laugh about me afterwards… There was a silence, then he said, ‘Who was he, Cory? The man who made you like this? Because there must have been someone, and I need to know all of it.’ He felt her shudder again. She said, ‘Please, I don’t want to talk about it.’ His hand gentled the line of her jaw, traced her throat and shoulder. He said, ‘But you need to be rid of it, mia, before it poisons your whole life. So, you must tell me…’ She was quiet for a while, then she said, ‘We were going to be married. His name was Rob, and he worked for a merchant bank in the City. I—I’d been at school with his sister. I hadn’t liked her much then, but I’d run into her a couple of times in London afterwards, and she was much friendlier. She even invited me to her birthday party.’ ‘And you met him there?’ ‘Yes. He spent a lot of time with me. I’m not much of a dancer, so we sat out on the terrace and talked. He—seemed to like all the things I did, but I realised later that Stephanie must have primed him. He phoned the next day, invited me to dinner. It was a wonderful two months,’ she added stiltedly. ‘We went everywhere together, and then he asked me to marry him. I suppose he—swept me off my feet.’ The arm that held her was like a band of iron. ‘Go on,’ Rome said tersely. ‘But although we spent all that time together, we weren’t lovers. Oh, he’d tried, but I—I suppose I wanted to wait until we were married. Then one evening, a few weeks before the wedding, we were having dinner at his flat, and it seemed silly to go on saying no.’ ‘So, you went to bed with him?’ ‘Yes.’ Her throat tightened uncontrollably. ‘I was incredibly na?ve, but I just didn’t expect it to be like that—so painful and so—quick. I was in love with him, for God’s sake, and I didn’t feel a thing. I just wanted it to be over. ‘When we did it again, I tried to respond—to do what he wanted. I could sense he was disappointed, getting impatient, and that hurt in a different way.’ She paused. ‘After that I—pretended to be asleep. ‘When I woke up in the morning, he wasn’t there, and I supposed he’d gone off to make some coffee. I just wanted to leave—get back to my own place and have a shower. I—I felt dirty somehow—and confused. It was as if Rob had suddenly become a different person—and one I wasn’t sure I liked. ‘He had a phone extension beside his bed. I picked it up to phone for a cab and realised he was on the line in the living room—talking—laughing to some friend. ‘He said, “I tell you, man, bed’s going to be a nightmare. She hasn’t a bloody clue, and it’s like making love to a coathanger anyway. I’ll just have to keep my eyes shut and think of all that lovely money.”’ She felt Rome move swiftly and restively beside her. She risked a swift glance upwards and saw his face, bleak and set, his eyes staring in front of him as if fixed by some troubled inner vision. She said, ‘For a moment I tried to pretend it wasn’t me he was talking about. I couldn’t believe he could be so cruel. I knew I hadn’t been—any good that night, but he’d told me that I’d learn—and it would get better.’ ‘Then he lied.’ Rome’s voice was harsh. ‘It would never have been any better for you, Cory. Not with him.’ She said, ‘I realised for the first time that he’d never actually cared about me at all. That it had just been an act. I got dressed, and left. I could hardly bear to look at him, but I told him that it was all off. That there would be no wedding and I never wanted to see him or hear from him again.’ She shuddered. ‘He got so angry then, and started shouting at me. Telling me I was making a fool of him—of myself, and what made me think anyone else would ever want me, no matter how much money I had. I could hear him all the way down the corridor to the lift. People were opening their doors—staring at me. I—I wanted to die. ‘The wedding was cancelled. I told Gramps that I’d changed my mind, but I never told him why. I—I couldn’t. I’ve never told anyone—until now. Everyone—even my best friend—assumed he’d been unfaithful, and I let them think so. It was—less painful, somehow.’ There was silence, then Rome moved abruptly. Reaching for his robe, he said, ‘I need a drink. Can I get you one?’ She shook her head. ‘No—thanks.’ But her heart cried out, Don’t leave me—stay with me. Even though she knew it was impossible, and that one day soon Rome would go from her life for ever. Leaving her, she realised, a stifled sob rising in her throat, more bereft that Rob ever had, or could have. Condemning her to spending the rest of her life alone—and lonely. CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_70a916ce-4c24-58bb-81b6-7da2129f9488) ROME closed the bedroom door carefully behind him and leaned against it, his breathing as hard and strained as if he’d taken part in some marathon. Saying he wanted a drink had just been an excuse. Suddenly he’d needed to be on his own—to think. To come to terms with what he’d just heard. If he could… He walked over to the French windows, opened them and gulped the chill rain-washed air into his lungs. He felt nauseous—sick to his stomach. And dizzy with the kind of shame that no amount of alcohol could cure. The decent thing, he knew, would be to get dressed and take Cory home before he did more harm. She might be hurt, but that was inevitable. And it was nothing compared with the wound he would almost certainly inflict if they stayed together. As he’d listened to her struggling with the quiet, halting story, he’d been possessed with a savage longing to seek out this unknown Rob and give him the beating of his life. Except, as he’d suddenly realised, he was no better. For wasn’t he deceiving Cory just as viciously—and for money? Cursing under his breath, he leaned against the doorframe, staring up at the scudding clouds. He was caught in this trap, and there was no escape. Whatever he did, the end result would be the same. He would lose her. He wasn’t sure of the precise moment when she’d become essential to him, or how it had happened—or why. He only knew that when he’d gone to her in the Gallery that morning it had been because he couldn’t keep away any longer. He’d been drawn to her, instinctively, involuntarily, knowing that he had to be with her, whatever the eventual cost. He hadn’t, he thought wryly, even had a chance to fight it. In too deep before he knew it, and lost for ever. Yet there was no way they could ever be together. This was the brutal reality he had to face. The anguish that twisted in his gut. If he told her the truth she would turn from him in hurt and disgust. And even if he could prevail upon her by some miracle to trust him again he would have nothing to offer her. Because Montedoro—his home, his livelihood—would have gone. He would be starting again with bare hands, and he couldn’t ask any woman to share that kind of hardship, even if she were willing. While if he simply continued with his grandfather’s plan, let the whole thing run its treacherous course, she would end up betrayed and—hating him. But no more, he thought wearily, than he hated himself. He stepped back into the room and closed the windows. He collected a bottle of mineral water from the bar, and two glasses, and took them back into the bedroom. Cory had not moved. Her eyes were closed, but he knew she wasn’t asleep. And she’d been crying. He could see the marks on her face, and felt the hard knot of reason inside him dissolve into an aching tenderness and, a heartbeat later, into a need that could not be denied any longer. To hell with the right thing, he thought, shrugging off his robe, letting it drop to the carpet. They would have this one night together. A chance, perhaps, for him to undo the harm that Rob had done and prove to her that she was a woman both desirable and capable of desire. Maybe his last chance. While, for a few hours, he in his turn could forget shoddy bargains, threatened ruin, and the inevitability of heartbreak, and think instead of nothing but her. Lose himself completely in the slender paradise of her body. He slid into bed beside her, and drew her gently back into his arms. Her eyelids fluttered and she looked at him, her eyes wide and bewildered. She said, ‘Rome…’ and he laid a quieting finger on her lips. ‘Hush, mia cara,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t speak. Just—feel.’ And he began to kiss her. Even as her lips parted beneath his, Cory knew she should resist. But the urge to yield was too strong, too beguiling, she realised dazedly. His skin smelt cold and fresh, as if he’d been in the open air, and she wanted to ask him about it, only other ideas, other sensations were beginning to press on her, driving coherent thought away. His hands seemed to drift on her, and everywhere they touched her skin sang. She felt her body lift, arching towards him in a silent demand which was almost pleading. He pushed away the concealing sheet and caressed her breasts slowly and very gently, making the rosy nipples soar in proud response. He bent his head, worshipping each small, delicate mound in turn with his lips, letting his tongue flicker over the aroused peaks, forcing a small, frantic sound from her throat. His mouth returned to hers, soothing her. Whispering softly in Italian against her lips, coaxing her to relax—to trust… The fingers that stroked her skin were warm and leisurely, exploring every curve, every plane and angle as they moved downwards, and she felt his touch in her veins, quickening her bloodstream. When his hand reached the silken barrier of her briefs she tensed again, and Rome paused, running a questing finger along the band of lace that circled her hips. He kissed her more deeply, the play of his tongue against hers a heated, wicked incitement. His lips moved to the whorls of her ear, and down to the haywire pulse in her throat. The hot dart of his tongue penetrated the valley between her breasts, licking the salty excited moisture from her skin. His cheek rested against her ribcage, assimilating the flurried thud of her heartbeat, and his hand moved downwards with exquisite deliberation, his fingertips burning through that final fragile barrier, but so slowly that she thought she might not be able to bear it. Because she knew where she needed him—where she craved him—and he was making her wait—dear God—so long. So terribly—agonisingly long. Her thighs were slackening and parting, offering him access in a molten, scalding rush. He touched her through the silk, grazing softly, intimately against her tiny, excited bud. Then delicately increasing the pressure, using that last covering against her to deepen the delicious friction. Creating a rhythm that she could recognise—that she could respond to. The breath caught in her throat as she lifted her hips to thrust herself against his hand in open need. To tell him that she wanted that ultimate obstacle gone—to be as naked as he was himself. Suddenly Cory could feel the velvet hardness of him against her thigh. Her hand cupped him shyly, marking him, measuring him. She heard him groan softly in answer. He moved swiftly then, stripping away her final defence, his fingers reclaiming her with total mastery. Stroking her, circling on her, drawing her into a sudden breathless spiral of sensation. Bringing her with throbbing intensity closer and closer to some undreamed-of edge where all control would be gone. This was uncharted territory, and for a moment she was scared, afraid of ceding him too much. Of losing her identity and becoming some mindless creature of his instead. And, as if he sensed her sudden tension, she heard him whisper against her skin, ‘Don’t fight me, cara. Come with me.’ His hand moved again, and almost at once she was lost, crying out soundlessly, wordlessly, as her body was caught—tossed to heaven and back—in the rippling convulsions of her first orgasm. And Rome held her close and kissed her, and felt her shocked, delighted tears on his lips. When she spoke, her voice was husky, dreaming. She said, ‘I never knew—I never guessed…’ She felt his smile against her hair as she lay, her head pillowed on his chest. He said, ‘And that’s only the first lesson.’ ‘What’s the second?’ ‘This.’ He took her hand and brought it gently to his body again. ‘Ah.’ Her fingers encircled him, softly, teasingly. Caressed him with new knowledge—new wonder. And, she realised, new confidence, as she felt him stir beneath her touch. ‘And only this?’ Rome said thickly, ‘No.’ He turned, tangling a hand in her dishevelled hair, bringing her mouth to his powerfully and urgently while his other hand began a long journey down the length of her spine, tracing the curve of her hip and the taut roundness of her buttocks with sensuous greed. Cory found herself shivering with pleasure under the passage of the long, clever fingers, her body arching—straining towards him—so that the sensitive points of her breasts grazed the hard wall of his chest. She said breathlessly, ‘I want you. All of you.’ ‘Show me.’ The invitation was almost a challenge, delivered huskily. She felt the heat, the potency of him at the apex of her thighs, and, gasping, driven by pure instinct as her body melted—opened, she brought him into her. He entered her slowly, his control absolute, the blue eyes scanning hers for any sign of pain or fear. But her gaze was clouded, sultry with pleasure, her breathing quickening with excitement as his strength filled her. Then, when the union of their bodies was complete, he held her for a long moment, giving her time to accustom herself to this new sensation. Waiting… Her hands touched his shoulders, revelling in their hard muscularity. Her fingers stroked the dark silky hair at the nape of his neck. She placed her hands flat against his chest, feeling the hammer of his heartbeat, revealingly unsteady, against her palms. Her finger brushed his lips and he captured it, biting gently at the soft flesh. Then, gently but deliberately, Cory began to move under him, and he matched her, taking her rhythm, letting her dictate the pace. Carefully reining back his own need for release for her pleasure. Her body rose and fell, answering his measured thrusts. Glorying in them. He kissed her mouth, his tongue hot and demanding against hers, then the arch of her neck, and the small eager breasts, suckling the hard pink nipples, making her moan in her throat, her head turning restlessly on the pillow. He was murmuring to her against her flesh, his voice slurred and heavy. Nothing existed for her in the universe but this man, in her bed, in her arms, in her body. She buried her face against him, breathing him, wanting to be absorbed into him. His hand slipped down between them to the moist centre of her, softly and sensually caressing, and she felt the first quiver of rapture rippling like water across her being. She lifted her legs, clasping them round his lean hips, her hands clinging to his shoulders as Rome began to drive more deeply, more powerfully, inciting her, drawing her on. She said something—sobbed something that might have been his name—and found herself overtaken, her body imploding, fragmenting into ecstasy. She cried out wildly, eyes blind, all her senses consumed by pleasure, and he answered her, his body juddering dangerously in his own climax. Afterwards, when the world had steadied to a semblance of reality, they were very quiet together, lying close, kissing softly. She said wonderingly, ‘I thought I was dying.’ ‘They call it the little death.’ There was a smile in his voice. ‘Do you want me to prove that you’re still very much alive?’ She looked at him demurely from under her lashes. ‘You think you could?’ ‘Not at this moment, perhaps.’ He grinned at her lazily. ‘But soon.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘Rome—is it—always like that?’ ‘It was like it for us,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that all that matters?’ ‘Yes.’ Her voice was quiet. ‘Thank you.’ ‘For what?’ ‘For the lessons—all of them.’ She forced a smile. ‘I think I’ve just undergone a crash course. And I’ll always be grateful.’ He propped himself on an elbow and looked down at her. He said slowly, ‘What we had just now was beautiful, and sensational, and totally mutual—as you must know. So gratitude doesn’t enter into it.’ She played with the embroidered edge of the sheet. ‘But it’s not the same for you. It can’t be. You can’t possibly pretend it was your first time…’ He took her hand and carried it to his lips. He said, ‘It was my first time with you, Cory. And you blew my mind. And if you’ve got it into your head that I made love to you out of sympathy, I have to tell you I’m not that altruistic.’ She said, not looking at him, ‘Would you have made love to me if I hadn’t told you about Rob?’ ‘You hadn’t told me about Rob when we walked home from Alessandro’s—and I could barely keep my hands off you.’ His voice was cool and considering. ‘Nor at Blundham House this afternoon. We went up in flames together, Cory, and you know it. We could fight it as much as we liked, but it was really only a matter of time before we ended up in bed with each other.’ He paused. ‘But, in the interests of frankness, I’ll admit I wanted to make it good for you so that it would drive that poisonous bastard out of your mind, once and for all.’ He framed her face with his hands, speaking very distinctly. ‘He can’t damage you any more, carissima, do you understand? He’s gone—finished with—so forget him.’ He dropped a kiss on her nose. ‘Are you hungry?’ A gurgle of laughter welled up inside her. She said, ‘That’s quite a change of subject.’ ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Because I no longer have to fight to keep my hands off you, and the time is fast approaching when it won’t be enough for me to simply look at you and talk to you.’ He kissed her mouth softly and sensuously. ‘We have a long night ahead of us, mia bella,’ he whispered, ‘and we need to keep our strength up. So—I’ll ask you again—are you hungry?’ And, to her own astonishment, she was. Rome ordered smoked salmon sandwiches and champagne from Room Service, and she ate and drank, propped up on pillows in the crook of his arm, and knew she had never felt so happy or so much at peace. The awkward girl, she told herself, had given way to a woman with her own sexual power. And then, like a frost to blacken her mood, came another thought. How in the world, she asked herself with anguish, was she ever going to live without him? He said, ‘You’re very quiet.’ Cory started slightly, banishing the unhappy reverie that she’d conjured up some five minutes before. She said lightly, ‘Just conserving my energy.’ Rome took her chin between thumb and forefinger and tilted her face so he could look into her eyes. ‘Truly?’ ‘Of course,’ she lied. ‘Try me.’ His face was solemn, but his eyes were dancing. ‘Mia cara, I thought you would never ask. Just let me get rid of these plates.’ When he came back, his expression was oddly brooding, as if he too had been having unpleasant thoughts. She said, ‘Is something wrong?’ ‘I hope not.’ He sat on the edge of the bed, studying her. ‘But I don’t know.’ He was silent for a moment, then said abruptly, ‘Cory, mia—are you on the Pill?’ ‘The Pill,’ she repeated wonderingly, then grasped the implication. ‘Oh.’ She swallowed. ‘No—no, I’m not. I—I never have been.’ ‘That,’ Rome said grimly, ‘is what I was afraid of.’ He shook his head. ‘Dear God, how stupid—how irresponsible can I be?’ She put a hand out to him. ‘It’s not your fault. I’m just as much to blame. I wasn’t thinking…’ ‘Nor was I,’ he said. ‘But I should have been.’ His tone was bitter with self-reproach. ‘I should have taken care of you.’ She watched him in silence for a few moments. She said, her voice quiet, ‘Would it matter so much—if it happened? If I was—pregnant?’ He said roughly, ‘Cory—you’re not a child. You know it would.’ She’d hoped for comfort, and instead there was pain. He was telling her, she realised, that they had no future together. That sex, however wonderful, was not enough to make a lasting relationship—and a baby would just be an unwanted, indeed an impossible complication. And you, she thought, are all kinds of a fool to have hoped for anything different. She found herself praying that she hadn’t given herself away too seriously, and wondering, at the same time, what she could do to retrieve the situation. One thing she was sure of. If this was all she was to have of Rome, then she would make it memorable—for both of them. She lay back against the pillows and smiled at him composedly. She said, ‘If the horse is gone, there’s little point in worrying about the stable door—is there? So why don’t we do as we planned and—enjoy the rest of the night?’ He groaned. ‘Carissima—be sensible.’ She said softly, ‘Oh, it’s much too late for that.’ She let the sheet fall away from her breasts. She heard the small sound he made in his throat, and her smile deepened. ‘Besides—I’m getting impatient…’ Hours—perhaps aeons—later, she lay beside him as the early-morning light began to penetrate the room and watched him sleep. His breathing was deep and peaceful, his skin dark against the white bedlinen. He deserved his rest, she thought, colour warming her face as she remembered how one act of love had seemed to flow naturally into the next. As she recalled the things he’d said to her—the things he’d done. Their bodies had moved together with such harmony, she thought. There’d been laughter too, and, once, tears. And now it was over. Moving carefully, she slid out of bed, collected her clothing and went to the bathroom. She looked in on him again before she left. He was still sleeping, but he’d moved into the space she’d vacated as if unconsciously seeking her. The porter was not on duty when she went down to the foyer, but there was a friendly girl at the reception desk, who told Cory the nearest station with a direct link to London, looked up the time of the next train, and ordered her a taxi to take her there. ‘There’s no need to disturb my husband,’ Cory said calmly. ‘He’s planning to spend the day locally—do some walking. But unfortunately I have to get back.’ ‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ the other woman sympathised. ‘Particularly as it looks like being a nice day. I hope you’ll stay with us again some time.’ Cory made herself smile. ‘Some time—perhaps.’ But she knew in her heart she could never come back. That it would be too painful to relive, even at a distance, the crazy beauty of this night, with its tenderness and its savagery. Now she had to go away, and try to forget. The journey back was a nightmare. Because it was Sunday, there were engineering works taking place, and the train crawled along in between long pauses in the middle of nowhere. It was mid-afternoon before she arrived back in London, and took a cab to her flat. She would change, she thought, and do some food-shopping. Or perhaps even book a table at the neighbourhood French bistro, because it might be better to be with other people. She paid off the cab and turned towards her door. And stopped, a sudden prickle of awareness edging into her consciousness. She turned nervously, and saw him walking up the street towards her. For a moment they stood facing each other. Cory bit her lip, expecting anger—recriminations. But all he said, quite gently, was, ‘Why did you run away?’ ‘Perhaps because I hate saying goodbye.’ ‘Then don’t say it. Unlock your door and invite me in, and listen to what I have to say.’ ‘There’s no need to say anything.’ Bravely Cory lifted her chin. She thought, Don’t apologise. Oh, please don’t tell me you’re sorry, because that I couldn’t bear. ‘It happened,’ she went on, ‘and it was wonderful, and now it’s over. And we both get on with our own lives.’ Rome shook his head. ‘It’s not that simple, Cory.’ ‘If you’re still thinking there might be a baby, it’s my problem and I’ll deal with it.’ She gave him a travesty of her usual smile. ‘There’ll be no paternity suit. I won’t ask you for anything.’ ‘I wasn’t thinking that,’ he said slowly. ‘Of all the many thoughts I had on that hellish, lonely drive back, the prospect of becoming a father didn’t even feature. Not that I’m against it in principle,’ he added. ‘But I feel it would be better for us to have some time just with each other before starting a family.’ She stared at him, her eyes enormous. She said, ‘I think one of us must be going mad. What are you talking about?’ He sighed. ‘I hadn’t planned on doing this in the street,’ he said, ‘but I’m asking you to marry me, Cory. To be my wife. Will you?’ CHAPTER TEN (#ulink_1ab59d18-8f6e-521c-92e3-28bbf6763355) SHE said, ‘I still can’t believe this is happening. We—we’ve only just met…’ Rome pulled her further into his arms. ‘If we’re strangers,’ he murmured. ‘I don’t think I’d survive being a close friend.’ They’d almost fallen into the flat on a wave of joy and laughter that had turned in seconds into a passion that would not be denied. He’d lifted her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom, mouths clinging, hands already beginning to tear at zips and buttons. Now they lay sated and relaxed in each other’s arms. ‘Anyway,’ he added softly, ‘I think that in some way we’ve always known each other. Always been waiting to meet.’ She sighed. ‘Then I’m glad I went to that charity ball. I didn’t want to, you know.’ ‘Nor did I.’ There was an odd note in his voice. ‘And then we kept bumping into each other.’ Cory giggled. ‘Quite literally at times. I should have known it was fate.’ Rome was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘Cory, can I ask you to do something for me? Something a little strange which I can’t explain just now.’ ‘How mysterious you sound.’ She planted a row of tiny kisses on his throat. ‘What is it?’ He hesitated again. ‘I don’t want you to tell anyone about us—at least not for a while.’ Cory looked up at him, her eyes wide with bewilderment. ‘You mean—not even Gramps? But he’ll be so happy for us, Rome. It’s been his dearest wish for me to meet someone and fall in love. And I want the two men in my life to like each other. It’s important to me.’ He said, ‘It matters to me, too. But I have my reasons, even if I can’t tell you what they are.’ He grimaced slightly. ‘And your grandfather may not be as delighted as you think. I’m no great catch for his only granddaughter.’ Cory was silent for a moment. ‘Gramps is quite old-fashioned,’ she said at last. ‘I think he’d like it if you formally asked his permission.’ ‘I plan to,’ he said. ‘But we have to wait for a little while. Will you do that for me?’ ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You know I will.’ She gave a wondering laugh. ‘Love at first sight, and now a secret engagement. This is all a dream, and soon I’m going to wake up. I know I am.’ ‘Don’t say that, Cory.’ His voice was suddenly harsh. ‘Don’t even think it.’ She looked up at him in surprise. ‘Rome—are you all right?’ ‘Yes.’ He kissed her, his mouth tender on hers. ‘For the first time in my life, I believe I am.’ ‘And you really can’t share this mystery with me?’ ‘Soon,’ he said. ‘I promise. I have some things to sort out first.’ ‘But I might be able to help.’ ‘I’m afraid you can’t, mia cara.’ His voice was regretful. ‘Not this time.’ Her answering smile was faintly troubled. ‘I understand.’ Only, she wasn’t sure that she did. Only an hour ago she’d stood on the pavement, locked in Rome’s arms, oblivious to everything but the joy opening inside her like a flower. The certainty that this was where she belonged. She wanted to shout her happiness from the rooftops. But she couldn’t. In fact, she couldn’t tell a single soul. And she didn’t know why. She was aware that Shelley would say instantly that this was one mystery too many, and demand an immediate explanation before committing herself. That this was the reasonable—the rational course. But I love him, she thought. And somehow reason and rationality don’t seem so important any more. There were so many things she wanted to ask him, so many gaps in her knowledge, but she supposed she would just have to be patient—and trust him. He began to kiss her again, his fingers warm and arousing on her breast, and all doubts and vague uncertainties slid away as she turned to him, rapturous and yielding. Later they had dinner at the bistro, and then watched an old film on television. Cory had taken it for granted that Rome would be spending the night with her, but to her disappointment he told her he was going back to his own flat. ‘I’m going away on business for a day or two,’ he said. ‘I need to pack and make an early start.’ ‘Must you go?’ She couldn’t disguise the sudden desolation in her voice. He pulled her closer. ‘The sooner I go, the sooner I’ll be back,’ he reminded her. ‘I suppose so,’ She paused. ‘What’s your flat like?’ She was hoping he’d say, Come back with me, and help me pack. Instead, he shrugged. ‘Dull—impersonal. Rather like a hotel room. You’d hate it.’ ‘I’ve nothing against hotel rooms.’ Cory sent him a mischievous look. ‘On the contrary. But if you really dislike it, you don’t have to stay there.’ She paused. ‘You could always move in here.’ ‘Except that would blow our secret to smithereens,’ Rome said drily. ‘Besides, if you find out too soon that I snore and leave my clothes all over the floor, you might change your mind about marrying me. It’s wiser to stay as we are.’ ‘Who cares about wisdom?’ ‘I think it’s time one of us did,’ he said wryly. ‘We haven’t been very sensible so far.’ ‘And now you’re walking out on me.’ She made it jokey, to hide the little pang of hurt. ‘And I can’t even comfort myself by talking about you.’ He framed her face in his hands, looking at her with heart-stopping tenderness. ‘When we’re married,’ he said, ‘you won’t be able to get rid of me, and that’s a guarantee.’ ‘I know I’m being really stupid.’ She sighed. ‘But I don’t want to lose you. It’s just too soon. I need to have you all to myself for a while.’ ‘You’re not losing me,’ Rome said steadily, ‘because I’m taking you with me—in my heart, my mind and my soul. And when I come back you’ll have the rest of my life—if you want it.’ She pulled him down to her. ‘You think there’s some doubt?’ she whispered against his lips. Yes, Rome thought, as he let himself into his flat. There was a chasm—an abyss of doubt. More than once over the past forty-eight hours he’d come within a hair’s breadth of telling her everything. And perhaps, in the end, that was the only way to cut himself out of this maze of deceit he was enmeshed in. Which, of course, he should have done before he asked her to marry him. He was a fool and more than a fool for that, he thought bitterly, but he hadn’t been able to help himself—if that was any excuse. Her enraptured response to his loving had sent him over the edge into a kind of madness where nothing mattered other than she should belong to him for ever. And then he’d woken and found her gone. He’d argued with himself every mile of that headlong drive back from Suffolk, trying to convince himself that she’d done the right thing. That the enmity between their two families was too strong, and there was no way they’d ever be allowed to be together. Her affection for her grandfather shone out of her. How would she react when she found that he, Rome, was being paid to seduce her with the aim of extorting more money from Arnold Grant? She’d think that every bad thing she’d heard about the Sansoms was fully justified. He’d about been able to see the stricken look in the clear eyes as she turned away from him. But he hadn’t allowed himself to think like that, or he might really have gone mad. His priority—his pressing, urgent need—had been to find her—to talk to her about some of the feelings that were tearing him apart. And to ask her to wait for him while he sorted out the stinking mess his life had become. But when he’d seen her, standing in front of him, he’d lost his last precarious hold on reality and asked her to marry him instead. He’d had no right to do anything of the kind, and he knew it. But there was no way he wished the words unsaid. And now he had to fight to keep her, along with Montedoro. And with no real idea even how to begin, he thought with bitter weariness. The light on his answer-machine was blinking, and when he pressed the ‘play’ button, he got Matt’s angry voice, demanding to know where he was. It was a good thing that he hadn’t yielded to the overwhelming temptation to bring Cory back here with him, Rome thought, his mouth twisting wryly as he listened. Because Matt Sansom on the rampage defied explanation. ‘You’d better have some good news for me when I call next time,’ his grandfather rumbled furiously at the end of his tirade. ‘Because I’ve had enough of this.’ ‘Which makes two of us,’ Rome muttered, and deleted the message. ‘You seem very pleased with yourself these days.’ Arnold Grant directed a shrewd glance at Cory, who was singing softly to herself as she sat in front of the computer screen. ‘I do?’ Cory realised she was blushing. ‘I—I can’t think why,’ she hedged. Arnold glanced over her shoulder. ‘Been making a killing on the market?’ He sounded amused. ‘Since when have you been interested in stocks and shares?’ ‘For quite a while.’ She gave him a sedate smile. ‘It’s my hobby.’ ‘You’re full of surprises, child. You look different, too.’ He gave her a long look. ‘What have you done to your hair?’ Cory put up a self-conscious hand. ‘Just a few highlights.’ She paused. ‘You don’t approve?’ Arnold said drily, ‘I don’t think it’s my approval you’re looking for.’ He paused. ‘So, who is he?’ Cory studied the screen with extra concentration. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ ‘In other words, I’m to mind my own business.’ Arnold nodded. ‘But ultimately, my girl, your happiness and well-being are my business. Remember that, please.’ He paused. ‘So why haven’t you mentioned him before? Is he someone I wouldn’t approve of?’ Cory bit her lip, wishing with all her heart that she hadn’t pledged to keep her relationship with Rome a secret. Especially when it was impossible to hide the sheen on her hair, the colour in her cheeks, the swing in her step—all the tell-tale signs of happiness. And this might have been the perfect moment to enlist her grandfather’s support. ‘No. And I haven’t told you about him because I haven’t known him that long, and it’s too soon for formal introductions. Besides, he’s away at the moment on business,’ she added quickly. ‘Hmm.’ Arnold was silent for a moment. Then he said gruffly, ‘Is it serious?’ She said a quiet, ‘Yes—I hope so,’ and was frankly relieved when he did not ask her to elaborate further. Rome had called once, leaving an outrageous message on her answering machine which had made her blush to her toes, but giving no clue as to when he would be back. This was the third day and night, she thought forlornly, and it felt like for ever. For the rest of the afternoon she was aware of her grandfather’s speculative gaze, and was quite glad when he told her that she could leave early. A certain abruptness in his tone told her that he was hurt because she hadn’t confided in him more fully. Up to now, she thought ruefully, her life had been pretty much an open book where he was concerned—and fairly dull reading at that. But what would his reaction be when he found she was planning to live in Italy? I’m all he has, she thought, troubled, as she made her way home. But I’ll just have to cross that bridge when I come to it. Earlier that day, Rome had been on his way back from the North of England, where he’d been following up a list of contacts that Allessandro had given him. And a gratifying number, it seemed, were ready to give the Montedoro vintages a trial. At any other time Rome would have been well-satisfied. He might even have been turning cartwheels. But he could not escape from the knowledge that the wine he was selling might soon no longer belong to him. But if he could demonstrate that his business was prospering, surely he’d be able to attract some independent financial backing somewhere, to ensure that he and Cory would have a life together at Montedoro? However, nothing was certain in this uncertain world, he reminded himself bitterly, and there were powerful forces stacked against him. But, as Steve had once told him, if you didn’t stake everything, you didn’t deserve to win. And he was fighting for his future. And for Cory. When he got back to his flat, he found several messages from Matt Sansom, angrily bidding him to pick up the phone. But what he had to say to his grandfather needed to be delivered in person, he thought without pleasure. Even when the sun was shining Matt’s house looked grotesque, he thought, as he parked his car and walked up to the door. Today, it was answered by a woman in a neat overall. He asked for Miss Sansom, and was conducted through the house to a large elaborate conservatory at the rear. Here, among a welter of large and faintly menacing green plants, he found Kit Sansom, tranquilly engaged with some petit point. She laid it aside when she saw him. ‘Rome, my dear.’ She held out a hand. ‘I didn’t know you were coming. Father didn’t mention it.’ ‘He doesn’t know.’ He sat down on one of the cushioned wicker chairs she indicated. ‘I suppose you know why he sent for me originally—what he wanted me to do?’ ‘Oh, yes.’ She sighed sadly. ‘He’s quite obsessed, you know. Although, to be fair, they both are.’ Rome leaned forward. ‘How did it start, Aunt Kit?’ he asked quietly. ‘Have you any idea?’ ‘Oh, yes.’ Her voice was matter-of-fact. ‘I knew a long time ago—even before Sarah left. My godmother told me everything.’ ‘Can you tell me?’ Kit Sansom folded her hands in her lap, her expression reflective. ‘To begin with it was just business rivalry—even healthy competition—although there probably wasn’t much love lost between them even then. ‘But in those days your grandfather had other things on his mind as well, not just making money. He’d fallen passionately in love, and become engaged to this lovely girl. He was planning his wedding—his life with her. ‘He had to go away for a few days on business, and while he was gone his fianc?e went to a friend’s birthday party. Where she was introduced to Arnold Grant.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Apparently, it was the kind of encounter you only read about—the genuine coup de foudre. Once they’d met, nothing else existed for either of them. So she broke off her engagement to your grandfather and married Arnold Grant instead. ‘My godmother said Matt was like a crazy man. That he went round vowing all kinds of revenge on them both, but everyone assumed that he’d get over it in time and be reasonable. Only, he never did.’ She sighed again. ‘From that moment on, Arnold Grant was his sworn enemy. At first he wouldn’t retaliate, no matter what your grandfather did, but eventually, inevitably, Matt went too far, and it became mutual—a full-scale feud with no holds barred.’ ‘Dio—it’s unbelievable,’ Rome said. ‘To go on bearing a grudge like that—hating for all these years. Filling the house with it. No wonder my mother ran away.’ He paused. ‘Why didn’t it stop when he met my grandmother—found someone else to love?’ Kit shook her head. ‘My father married my mother because he needed a wife, and she was available.’ She spoke without rancour. ‘The problem was he wanted someone to play hostess when he entertained clients, and Mother was basically shy, and rather timid. I take after her, I think. Also, he wanted a son to inherit his business empire, as Arnold had, and she gave him two daughters. ‘I think she loved him,’ she added quietly. ‘But she couldn’t compete with the ghost of the woman he’d loved and lost—Elizabeth Cory. Sarah and I were always aware of—tensions between them. This was never a happy house.’ Rome drew a sharp breath. ‘If he loved Elizabeth so much, how could he contemplate destroying her granddaughter?’ he demanded roughly. ‘Using her as a weapon in this senseless vendetta?’ ‘To hurt as he was hurt, perhaps.’ Her voice was grave. ‘It’s all so dark and twisted that it’s difficult to know. Sarah was lucky to escape—to find some happiness.’ He looked at her. ‘Were you never tempted to leave—and not come back?’ ‘Oh, yes.’ She smiled a little. ‘So very often. But then he’d have had no one, and somehow I just couldn’t do it.’ She returned his gaze. ‘What are you going to do, Rome?’ ‘I’m going to try and stop it,’ he said. ‘Because it’s gone on too long. And I won’t allow it to damage me—or the girl I love. Because I’m going to marry Elizabeth’s granddaughter, Aunt Kit.’ ‘Ah, Rome.’ Her voice was tired. ‘Do you really think they’ll let you?’ He smiled at her. ‘I grew up with a gambling man, Aunt Kit. I just have to take that chance.’ There were sudden tears in her eyes. She said, ‘Rome—be careful. Be very careful.’ She paused, looking down at her hands. ‘Was he good to her—the gambling man? Did he make my little sister happy? Please tell me he did.’ Rome said gently, ‘Yes, he adored her. He was kind, laid-back and humorous, and we both thought the world of him.’ ‘I’m so glad,’ she said. ‘Glad that she found someone to love her. She hadn’t had much luck up to then—either with her father or yours.’ Rome was very still. He said, ‘Aunt Kit—are you saying you know who my father was?’ ‘Oh, yes,’ she said calmly. ‘She needed to confide in someone—but I’d guessed long before. Guessed—and feared for her.’ ‘Will you tell me?’ ‘If it’s really what you want.’ She saw him nod, and sighed faintly. ‘His name was James Farrar, and he was a business associate of your grandfather. Dark and handsome, but considerably older than she was. I sometimes wondered if that was the attraction. If she was really looking for another father figure. Someone who wasn’t eaten up by his need for revenge. She knew he was married, but he told her he was getting divorced.’ ‘And she believed him?’ Rome asked bitterly. ‘My God.’ ‘You mustn’t blame her, my dear.’ Her voice was kind. ‘Up to that time she’d led a pretty sheltered life—we both had. When Sarah told him she was pregnant, he went completely to pieces. Begged her not to tell Matt, or he’d be ruined. Said all the money was his wife’s, and she’d throw him out. Offered to pay for an abortion. ‘She told him to go, and never saw him again. But she wouldn’t identify him to Matt.’ She sighed. ‘He stormed at her—called her terrible names—but she was like a rock. ‘He tried to make her have an abortion, too, but she refused. She told me that she might have messed up her life, but some good was going to come out of it. All the same, she wasn’t going to bring her child into a house of hate either—so she ran away.’ There was a silence, the Rome said, ‘What became of—him?’ ‘He died about ten years ago. A car accident. He’d started to drink heavily.’ She put a hand on his arm. ‘I wish it was a nicer story.’ ‘I can see why she wouldn’t want to remember him.’ Rome’s face was sombre. ‘But she was happy in the end.’ His aunt paused. ‘I’ve kept her secret a long time,’ she said quietly. ‘I hope you’ll continue to respect that.’ ‘I’ll tell Cory one day,’ Rome said. ‘But only her. And—thank you.’ He got to his feet. ‘Now I’d better go and talk to my grandfather.’ ‘You’ve asked her to marry you, and she’s agreed?’ Matt Sansom released a shout of astonished laughter. ‘Well, that’s fast work by anyone’s standards. You’ve lived up to my expectations, boy, and more.’ He was dressed today, and sitting in a high-backed chair by his bedroom window, a rug over his knees, his face alive with malice. Rome said coldly, ‘I hope that’s not a compliment, because that’s not all of it. The marriage will be for real. When I return to Italy Cory’s going with me, as my wife.’ Matt was suddenly very still. The calm, Rome thought, before the storm. But when he spoke his voice was mild. ‘You’re saying you’ve fallen in love with her—with the Ice Maiden? How did this come about?’ I have you to thank,’ Rome said. ‘After all, you brought us together.’ ‘So I did,’ Matt said softly. ‘So I did.’ ‘And she’s Elizabeth Cory’s granddaughter,’ Rome added. ‘Things may not be as hopeless for me as you believe. I intend to fight you for Montedoro.’ Matt stared at him. ‘If you’re hoping that Arnold Grant will give you his blessing, and a handsome settlement, then you’re an even bigger fool than I took you for.’ ‘I’m going to try and persuade him to listen to reason,’ Rome returned levelly. ‘To tell him what I’ve told you. That the feud must end. That it’s too costly, and too damaging in all kinds of ways.’ ‘And you think he’ll listen?’ Matt laughed again, hoarsely. ‘I wish you luck.’ He paused. ‘Have you said all you came to say?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Then you can go, and be damned to you. I need to think.’ Rome nodded, and rose to his feet. At the door, Rome paused. He said, ‘I wish you’d meet Cory—to get to know her. I think it would make a difference.’ ‘Yes,’ Matt said, almost absently. ‘Yes, it might. I’ll think about that, too. Yes, I’ll certainly think about that…’ As Rome reached the foot of the stairs, he heard his name called softly and saw his aunt beckoning to him from the drawing room. ‘How did it go?’ She closed the door quietly. Rome shrugged. ‘Not well,’ he said. ‘But he’s going to think it over. Maybe it’s a first step.’ ‘Yes,’ Kit Sansom said drily. ‘But in which direction? However, that’s not what I want to talk about.’ She picked up a small jeweller’s box from a side table, and handed it to him. ‘I’d like to offer you this. My mother gave it to me before she died, and I’m sure she’d wish you to have it.’ Rome opened the box and saw a ring, a large amethyst surrounded by small pearls in an antique setting. He said slowly, ‘It’s quite beautiful, Aunt Kit, but I can’t accept it. It belongs to you.’ She smiled at him. ‘My dear, I’ve never worn it. My hands are the wrong shape. And I don’t remember my mother wearing it either,’ she added thoughtfully. ‘She always said that amethysts weren’t her favourite stone. Anyway, I’d like to know it was being put to a proper use at last. It’s far too lovely to spend its life in a box. Give it to your Cory—please.’ Rome put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her cheek. He said, gently, ‘I want you to be our first visitor at Montedoro.’ She patted his arm. ‘I’d love it. But first you have to win your battle.’ Her voice was sober suddenly, almost fearful. ‘And, Rome, I say again—do take great care. You may not know what you’re up against.’ CHAPTER ELEVEN (#ulink_ce2ecc99-42e5-55a0-ab7d-1fb3d0738692) CORY let herself into her flat, hung away her trenchcoat, filled the kettle and set it to boil, then kicked off her shoes. All set, she thought wryly, for another quiet evening at home. But she didn’t feel tranquil. She was restless—on edge—prowling round the living room with her mug of tea, glancing through the television listings and finding nothing to interest her, picking up a magazine and tossing it down again, loading her CD player and switching it off halfway through a track. She switched on her computer, checked the latest share prices, then abandoned that, too. She supposed she could make a start on her evening meal, but none of the food in the fridge held any great appeal either. She rang Shelley and left a call-back message on her machine, although it was likely that her friend, who’d had three young men circling round her at the last count, had gone straight out to dinner from work. She was just reaching for the phone to dial a take-away service when it rang. She grabbed the receiver, ‘Hi…’ Rome said softly, ‘Open your door.’ She uttered a shriek, dropped the phone, and leapt for the door, flinging herself into his arms. ‘You’re back—you’re here…’ ‘I’m also deafened.’ Rome pulled her close, kissing her mouth hungrily. ‘Dio,’ he muttered when he raised his head at last, ‘I’ve missed you so.’ ‘Not as much as I’ve missed you.’ She clung to him shamelessly, arms round his neck, legs round his waist. Rome reached down with difficulty to retrieve a bouquet of long-stemmed crimson roses propped against the wall, and carried Cory and the flowers into the flat, kicking the door shut behind them. He put her down on the sofa and handed her the flowers. ‘For you, mia cara.’ ‘They’re wonderful.’ Cory luxuriously inhaled the rich dark scent. ‘I’d better put them in water.’ Rome took them from her hands. ‘I think they can survive for a little while without attention.’ He tossed them on to the table, then sank down beside her, pulling off his coat. ‘I, on the other hand, cannot,’ he added huskily. Her hands were shaking as they unbuttoned his shirt. She pushed it from his shoulders, then dragged her shell-pink sweater over her head and fumbled to release herself from the folds of her matching wool skirt. Rome, too, was hastily stripping off his clothes, his eyes fixed on her as if he was afraid she might suddenly vanish. He threw cushions down on to the floor and drew her down to him, his hands rediscovering her feverishly, his mouth drinking her—draining her—until at last he lifted her over him, his eyes smiling up into hers, to join her body to his. She took him slowly, her breath escaping in a low, sweet moan as she felt his hardness filling her ever more deeply. His hands reached up to cup her breasts, his thumbs lightly brushing her nipples as she began to move on him, her eyes half-closed and her head thrown back, exposing the taut, delicate line of her throat. In a silence disturbed only by their panting breath they established a rhythm—found a harmony together as their bodies rose and fell. Rome caressed her with words as well as his hands, his eyes darkening sensually as he watched her enraptured face. He let his hands stray down her backbone, moulding the swell of her buttocks and trailing over her flanks. He stroked her ribcage and shaped her slim waist, his hands trailing a delicious path over the concavity of her stomach down to the silky triangle between her thighs. A sob broke from her as his fingers began to tease her with intimate subtlety, moving softly, fluttering on her. She felt her control slipping as, deep inside, she sensed the first stirrings of pleasure. And heard him whisper, ‘No, mia cara—not yet.’ Again and again he brought her to the edge of extinction, then retreated. And she rode him wildly, her body slicked with sweat, her voice a soundless scream, begging for release. When it came, it was explosive, and she cried out harshly as her body achieved its fierce freedom. Within seconds Rome had followed her, groaning his delight as his body shook with the force of his climax. Then they collapsed, breathless, boneless, into each other’s arms. Eventually he said, with a ghost of laughter in his voice, ‘Perhaps you really did miss me.’ ‘I kept thinking that you might never come back—that I’d never see you again.’ She couldn’t dissemble, pretend prudent indifference. ‘Not any more.’ ‘I have something for you.’ ‘I know.’ She stretched like a contented cat. ‘My beautiful roses.’ He reached for his coat. ‘No, more than that.’ He extracted the little square box and handed it to her. Cory gasped out loud as she saw the deep mauve of the amethyst, surrounded by creamy pearls. She said huskily, ‘It’s—wonderful. And it’s my birth-stone, too. How did you know?’ ‘I didn’t,’ he admitted ruefully. ‘It’s a family ring, so this makes you my family for evermore.’ He took her left hand and kissed it, then slid the ring over the knuckle of her third finger. It fitted perfectly. Her voice shook a little. ‘Does this mean we’re officially engaged?’ ‘Almost.’ He kissed her gently. ‘I still have to get your grandfather’s blessing, so it might be better to wait for that. Until then you could always wear it on your other hand, in public anyway.’ ‘I’d even wear it through my nose.’ Cory’s smile lit up the world. ‘Just as long as I don’t have to hide it away in its box.’ They spent the evening doing small, mundane things, content to be sharing them with each other. Cory put her roses in water and cooked some pasta, while Rome made a rich aromatic sauce out of tomatoes, bacon, herbs and garlic. Afterwards, they went to bed, and slept wrapped in each other’s arms. And, for once, Cory forgot to set her alarm for the morning. When she eventually opened her eyes, she yelped with dismay. She was going to be late for work and, granddaughter or no, Arnold was a stickler for punctuality in the mornings. Rome’s arms scooped her back. ‘You’re running away again,’ he muttered sleepily. ‘Only to work.’ ‘Call in sick.’ ‘I can’t.’ She wriggled free. ‘You want Gramps to like you, don’t you?’ ‘I want you to like me.’ ‘I will—I do. This evening I’ll think the world of you, I swear.’ She scrambled out of bed. ‘But now I have to rush.’ Even so, she wasn’t surprised when he joined her in the shower. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’ Her breathing fragmented as he began to soap her, his hands lingering on her breasts and thighs. ‘Oh, God—I don’t—I really don’t have—time—for this…’ Rome kissed her wet shoulder. ‘Really and truly?’ ‘Cross my heart.’ Her pulses were going mad, and her knees were weak, but she spoke with determination and he laughed. ‘Then I’ll be good, and make you some coffee instead.’ Cory was standing in her robe, drying her hair, when the door buzzer sounded. ‘Shall I get it?’ Rome called from the kitchen. ‘I’d better,’ she said. ‘It might be the postman, early for once.’ And, ‘All right, I’m coming,’ she called, as the buzzer made another imperative summons. She went barefoot to the door, pulling the robe more closely round her and tightening its sash. She’d planned to say, ‘I hope this is a seriously interesting parcel.’ But all words died on her lips when she opened the door and saw who was confronting her. ‘And about time, too,’ Sonia said tartly. ‘Well, don’t just stand there. Ask me in. It’s freezing out here.’ ‘Mother,’ Cory said, dry-mouthed, as she spotted a small mountain of luggage piled up in the passage. ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘I was in New York, seeing friends,’ Sonia said lightly. ‘And I decided to extend my trip and check on my only daughter.’ She leaned forward, air-kissing Cory on both cheeks. ‘So, I caught the red-eye and here I am.’ Well, there was no denying that, Cory thought ruefully, assimilating the pale blonde hair, artfully coiffed, the immaculate maquillage, the close fitting dove-coloured trouser suit that showed off her mother’s slim, toned figure to the best advantage, and the fur jacket draped casually round her shoulders. As usual, Sonia made her feel as if she’d been swapped at birth. She swept past Cory into the flat, and looked around her. ‘My God, what a small apartment. How many bedrooms do you have?’ ‘Just the one,’ Cory admitted. Sonia raised her eyes to heaven. ‘In that case, painful as it will be for both of us, I’ll be staying with your grandfather. Is that coffee I smell?’ Cory felt hollow. ‘Yes.’ Sonia made for the kitchen, then stopped abruptly, with a gasp that owed more to genuine surprise than her usual talent for drama. ‘And just who are you?’ she demanded sharply. Rome continued to pour black coffee into beakers. ‘My name’s Rome d’Angelo, signora. And I’m seeing your daughter.’ ‘And she, in turn, is seeing you.’ Sonia’s voice held a distinct edge. ‘About ninety per cent of you, or even a hundred, if that towel slips any further.’ ‘I’ll make sure it doesn’t—at least in your presence.’ Unperturbed, Rome handed her a beaker. ‘Thank you.’ Sonia tasted the brew suspiciously, then nodded. ‘You make good coffee. Just one of your many talents, I’m sure,’ she added waspishly. ‘The least of them,’ Rome confirmed, unfazed. ‘And another is to spot when I’m in the way. I’m sure you both have so much to catch up on, so I’ll clear out and leave you to it.’ Cory followed him to the bedroom. ‘Will I see you tonight?’ she asked unhappily. He hesitated. ‘You may have other obligations. I’ll call you.’ He dropped the towel to the floor and began, swiftly, to dress. ‘I take it this visit was unexpected?’ ‘A bolt from the blue. My mother,’ Cory said with some bitterness, ‘is a creature of impulse.’ He slanted an amused look at her. ‘Perhaps that’s something you have in common.’ Cory gave him a troubled look. ‘You realise the cat’s well and truly out of the bag? Sonia doesn’t have a discreet bone in her body.’ ‘Yes,’ Rome said with a certain grimness, ‘I realise, and I’m going to deal with it.’ He wrapped his arms round her and kissed her hard, making her senses spin. ‘Don’t let her get to you, cara,’ he whispered. ‘And I’ll see you later.’ As she picked up her ring from the night table and slid it on to her right hand, Cory could hear him bidding Sonia a courteous goodbye. Steeling herself, she rejoined her mother in the living room. ‘My, my, aren’t you the dark horse?’ Seated on the sofa, legs crossed, Sonia gave her daughter a searching look. ‘And just when I thought you’d settled for being an old maid.’ Cory shrugged. ‘I discovered I didn’t have to settle for anything,’ she returned stiffly. ‘Hmm.’ Sonia studied her frowningly, taking account of her flushed cheeks and reddened mouth. ‘What does he call himself—Rome? What kind of name is that?’ Cory lifted her chin. ‘His.’ ‘I see.’ Sonia sounded amused. ‘Well, don’t be so protective, darling. I’m sure your Rome d’Angelo can look after himself, and has been doing so for some years, if I’m any judge.’ She paused. ‘D’Angelo,’ she repeated thoughtfully. ‘You know, that rings a bell. Someone I once met in Miami…’ Cory shook her head. ‘Rome lives in Italy. He has a vineyard there.’ ‘How very romantic,’ Sonia said. ‘And I know it wasn’t him that I met. I think I’d have remembered such a—spectacular young man.’ She drank some coffee. ‘Where did you meet him?’ ‘At a charity ball, originally. And then we discovered we were neighbours—almost. And it went from there.’ ‘You can say that again.’ Sonia’s voice was dry. ‘Well, how very convenient, and such a coincidence, too.’ She paused. ‘And what does Arnold think of him?’ Cory hesitated. ‘They haven’t met—yet.’ ‘Is that your choice—or the boyfriend’s?’ ‘Mine,’ Cory said shortly. ‘And isn’t it a little late for you to start being protective?’ Sonia looked at her consideringly, then shrugged. ‘Maybe you have a point.’ She looked at Cory’s hand. ‘What a beautiful ring. Where did you get it?’ ‘It was a present,’ Cory said quietly. ‘From Rome.’ ‘A love token,’ Sonia said brightly. ‘How very sweet.’ She became brisk again. ‘Call me a cab, will you, honey? I’m going over to Arnold’s now, before these tiny rooms give me claustrophobia.’ ‘Give me five minutes to get dressed, and I’ll come with you,’ Cory offered. Sonia shuddered. ‘I wish you wouldn’t talk about getting dressed in five minutes,’ she said peevishly. ‘I suggest you start paying a little more attention to your appearance—especially if you want to hang on to a piece of work like Mr d’Angelo. I never let your father see me in the mornings until I’d combed my hair and put on my mascara.’ ‘I doubt if I’ll have time for such niceties,’ Cory said lightly. ‘Not on a vineyard in Tuscany.’ ‘Well, you’re not there yet,’ Sonia said sharply. ‘But there’s no need for you to come to Arnold’s right away. It’s going to be quite a reunion after all this time, and we’ll have plenty to talk over. So, why don’t you take it easy?’ ‘One of the preferred topics of conversation being myself, no doubt?’ Cory’s tone was cutting. Sonia sighed. ‘Honey,’ she said, ‘I may not have made a big success of the role, but I’m still your mother, and, believe it or not, I’m concerned for you. And so is your grandfather—sure you’ll be a topic. A major one. So why don’t you let us have our discussion, and meet us for lunch at twelve-thirty? We should be all done by then.’ She glanced at her watch, and winced. ‘My God, this time difference is a killer.’ When she eventually left, in a haze of perfume, Cory sank down on the sofa, curling her legs under her in an unconsciously defensive posture. Sonia’s arrival was a totally unforeseen complication, she thought unhappily. And one she could well have done without. She’d always known that it wouldn’t be easy convincing Gramps that she’d finally met the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with—especially when she’d known Rome such a short time. Although he of all people should understand, she thought with a sigh. Only it didn’t always work out like that. Still, she’d been sure that she could talk him round. But if he was aligned with her mother… She shook her head. That was a pretty formidable combination. Sonia had made it clear she had misgivings about Rome—echoing all Cory’s own early doubts, if she was honest. Why, indeed, should a man like that choose a girl like her? ‘Because he loves me,’ she said aloud, lifting her head in affirmation. ‘Because we love each other.’ But some of the radiance of last night had faded, and, do what she would, she could not summon it back. She looked down at the amethyst, glowing on her hand. My talisman, she told herself. And raised it to her lips. Over in Chelsea, Sonia wasted no time. ‘When I got to Cory’s apartment today there was a man there,’ she said, after the usual greetings and enquiries had been exchanged, and her luggage taken upstairs to the guest suite. Arnold looked down his nose. ‘Suddenly turned prude, my dear? This is the twenty-first century.’ Sonia snorted. ‘No, of course I haven’t. But how much do you know about this guy?’ ‘Very little,’ Arnold admitted, frowning. ‘She’s being rather secretive about him.’ ‘I don’t blame her,’ Sonia returned. ‘If he belonged to me, I’d find a deserted house in a deep forest and chain him to the bed.’ She paused. ‘He calls himself Rome d’Angelo.’ Arnold thought, then shook his head. ‘I haven’t heard of him.’ ‘Then I feel you should make his acquaintance without delay.’ Sonia pursed her lips. ‘She’s wearing a ring.’ ‘An engagement ring?’ He was clearly startled. ‘Wrong hand, but what do I know?’ Sonia frowned. ‘It’s a lovely thing—looks antique and expensive—a big amethyst with pearls around it.’ She sighed. ‘Pearls for tears, they say, but maybe Cory’s not superstitious.’ ‘An amethyst?’ Arnold’s tone sharpened. ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Those are the mauve stones, aren’t they? Why do you ask?’ There was an odd silence, then he said, ‘It just seems a strange choice for an engagement ring—if that’s what it is. Diamonds are more conventional.’ Sonia leaned back in her chair. ‘I don’t think,’ she said slowly, ‘that convention means a great deal to the sexy Mr d’Angelo. I feel we should start making a few discreet enquiries about him.’ Arnold was staring into the distance, eyes narrowed and mouth set grimly. Lunch in Chelsea was a strained affair. Arnold was silent and preoccupied, and Sonia laughed and talked a little too much. It was like a dream she’d once had, Cory thought, pushing poached salmon round her plate. She’d found herself on stage with the curtain about to go up—and she was wearing the wrong costume and knew none of her lines. When coffee was served, Sonia rose from the table, announcing she was off to get a massage and beauty treatment—‘Best way to cope with jet lag, honey’—and Cory found herself alone with her grandfather. There was a silence between them that Cory, for the first time in her life, felt unable to break. She knew that she had to sit and wait for him to speak. Eventually, he said, ‘This man you’re seeing—I asked yesterday if you were serious about him. You didn’t see fit to mention you were living with him. Why?’ Cory lifted her chin. ‘Because we’re not actually living together.’ ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You just allow him to use you when the mood takes him. Is that it?’ She stared at him, shocked. ‘Gramps—don’t. You make it sound so sordid.’ ‘Perhaps I find it so, Cory. Knowing that my only granddaughter is sharing her body with a man she’s apparently known for days, hours and minutes, rather than weeks, months, years.’ She said steadily, ‘It’s not really such a new thing. We fell in love, just as you did when you first saw Gran. If it had happened now, instead of years ago, you’d be doing the same thing.’ ‘Don’t dare to compare the situations.’ His voice was harsh. ‘In my day you offered a woman security and respect along with passion.’ He paused. ‘What do you really know about this man? Your mother says she now remembers meeting a Steve d’Angelo in Florida some years ago. He was a gambler, a man who lived by his wits and made a living by calculating the weaknesses of others. Are they related?’ ‘His stepfather.’ ‘And his real father?’ Cory bit her lip. ‘He never knew him.’ ‘I see,’ Arnold said coldly. He looked at her hand. ‘I understand he gave you that ring. It’s a very unusual design—very distinctive. Do you know how he came by it?’ Cory got to her feet, her face very white. She said, ‘Just what are you implying? That Rome stole it?’ ‘Or won it at cards, perhaps.’ There was an odd urgency in his tone. ‘Then you’re wrong. It’s a family ring,’ she said huskily. ‘Does that satisfy you?’ ‘A family ring,’ he repeated slowly. ‘But from which member of the family, I wonder?’ ‘Does it matter?’ Cory shook her head. ‘I can’t believe I’m taking part in this—interrogation. You’ve always claimed you wanted me to fall in love. I didn’t realise you intended to investigate my lover.’ ‘You seem to think I’m doing him an injustice.’ Arnold seemed to rouse himself, looking at her with eyes that hardly seemed to see her. ‘And perhaps I am. But, until we meet, I’m having to rely on hearsay. Maybe you should allow him to speak for himself.’ There was a silence, then she said, ‘I love him, Grandfather. I can’t live without him.’ ‘You think that now, child.’ There was a note of appeal in his voice. ‘But you’ll probably fall in and out of love several times before you meet the right man for you.’ She said, ‘Would you have got over Gran so easily—and gone on to someone else? I don’t think so. And with Rome and I there’s no one else involved either.’ There was a wild look in his eyes. ‘You don’t think so? How can you know?’ ‘Because I trust him—just as Gran trusted you. You knew she was the only one, and so did she. And I’m your granddaughter, so maybe it’s in my genes.’ She went to the door. Turned. ‘And please don’t call me “child” again. I’m a woman now—Rome’s woman.’ His glance was heavy. ‘For good or ill?’ She said, ‘Yes,’ and went out, closing the door behind her. Arnold Grant sat very still for a moment. Then, moving slowly and stiffly, he reached for the telephone. CHAPTER TWELVE (#ulink_9ad3b533-3249-5048-87f0-52dfeb1db280) ‘THIS,’ Cory said passionately, ‘has to rank as one of the worst days of my life.’ ‘Thanks,’ Rome said drily. ‘Shall I get dressed and leave?’ ‘I’m sorry.’ She kissed him repentantly. ‘I mean apart from the last couple of hours—which is evening anyway, so it doesn’t count.’ I’m relieved to hear it. And I told you not to let your mother get to you, sweetheart. You should have listened.’ ‘Oh, it wasn’t Ma,’ Cory said bitterly. ‘She cleared out to the beauty parlour and left me to the Spanish Inquisition.’ She moved restlessly. ‘It was awful. Gramps was like a stranger, staring me down, behaving as if I was on trial—or you were.’ ‘What did he say?’ Rome asked curiously. ‘Oh, nothing much. Just that you were a liar, and a conman, and possibly a thief. Usual stuff.’ She shook her head. ‘In the end I slammed out of the house. I spent the afternoon in Hyde Park, just walking, trying to clear my head.’ Rome was silent for a moment. ‘Darling, I think it’s time your grandfather and I had a serious talk.’ ‘It seems he does, too,’ Cory admitted reluctantly. ‘When I got home there was a message on the machine. Apparently, he wants us to go to dinner tomorrow night.’ ‘Did you accept?’ ‘I haven’t replied yet. He doesn’t deserve it. Besides, I don’t know if I can stand it. More questions over the soup. Final arguments with the main course. Sentence of death pronounced during dessert.’ ‘I think we should go,’ Rome told her. ‘It could be an olive branch.’ Cory pulled a face. ‘All the better to beat us with.’ ‘I really need to see him.’ His voice was gentle. ‘Get a few things straight.’ ‘Then I’ll tell him yes.’ She sighed. ‘We didn’t have our secret very long, did we?’ ‘It’s not always good,’ Rome said, his face suddenly brooding, ‘to keep things from people you love. The longer it goes on, the harder they are to explain.’ ‘You sound very old and wise.’ There was sudden laughter in her voice. ‘I haven’t been very wise at all,’ he said. ‘Not from the start of all this. As for being old…’ The hand that had been curled round the curve of her hip moved without haste and to devastating effect. ‘Let’s see about that—shall we?’ ‘Yes,’ she managed dry-mouthed. ‘Oh, yes, Rome. Rome…’ She didn’t go to work the following day, and Arnold did not ring to enquire where she was, so it seemed he was not expecting her. In spite of the harsh words between them, Cory hated being on bad terms with him. But after tonight, she told herself, everything will be fine. She put on a new dress for the occasion, a silky jersey in a subtle aubergine shade. And she put her ring on her left hand. Rome said, ‘You look beautiful.’ He was smiling as he looked at her in the mirror, but his face was strained. ‘And so do you.’ She had never seen him in a formal dark suit before. ‘Gramps will be swept off his feet.’ On their way out, she snapped off one of the crimson roses that was still in bud, and tucked it into his buttonhole. He was on edge all the way to Chelsea, his hands gripping the wheel as if he was drowning. Cory stole a troubled look at him. ‘Rome—are you sure you want to go through with this—seeking his blessing?’ ‘I’ve never been so sure of anything.’ His voice was husky. ‘But, Cory—there’s something I should tell you.’ She said, ‘I hope this isn’t the moment you reveal you’re already married. Because Grandfather would not take that in good part. Other than that, we’re home and dry.’ She paused. ‘We’re also here.’ As she rang the bell, she said. ‘So, what was it you wanted to tell me?’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t talk to you about it now. I think I should see your grandfather first.’ He put his hands on her shoulders. His voice was serious. ‘The only thing that matters, Cory, is that I love you. Never lose sight of that—please.’ ‘Well, it all seems relatively civilised,’ she murmured as the housekeeper conducted them to the drawing room. ‘No paid assassins lurking. After the way he was talking the other day, I did wonder.’ ‘He’s quite right to be cautious,’ Rome said soberly. ‘But everything’s going to be fine. You’ll see.’ And it seemed they had indeed been worrying unnecessarily. When they entered the drawing room Arnold came to meet them, smiling affably as Cory performed the necessary introductions. As they shook hands, the two men exchanged overtly measuring glances. ‘My daughter-in-law I believe you’ve met,’ Arnold said. ‘Oh, yes.’ Sonia was smiling from one of the sofas. She was elegant in black, with magnificent diamonds in her ears and on her wrists. ‘We’re quite old friends. I’m glad to see you dress for dinner if not for breakfast, Mr d’Angelo.’ ‘I haven’t invited any other guests to meet you,’ Arnold went on. ‘I thought we’d have a quiet family party. Sherry?’ ‘Thank you.’ Rome accepted with a smile, but he wasn’t fooled. His sixth sense was warning him that the knives were out for him here in this luxurious room, with its wall sconces and brocaded furniture. He said quietly, ‘I hope I can have a private talk with you during the evening, Mr Grant.’ ‘Oh, there’s no need for that,’ Arnold said. ‘We can say all that needs to be said here, in the open. Among friends.’ He handed Rome his sherry. ‘I take it there’s something you want to ask me? Something of a personal nature?’ Rome’s brows drew together sharply, but he kept his voice cool. ‘Yes, there is, although I hadn’t planned to do it in quite this way.’ ‘It was to be over the brandy and cigars, perhaps? When I was feeling mellow.’ There was a faint smile playing round the older man’s mouth. A smile that held neither humour nor warmth. ‘Well, say what you came here to say, Mr d’Angelo. I’m listening.’ ‘Very well.’ Rome spoke levelly. ‘The truth is, Mr Grant, that Cory and I love each other. I’ve come to ask formally for your blessing to marry her.’ ‘The truth?’ Arnold said meditatively. ‘As in the whole truth—and nothing but the truth?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’ ‘Grandfather,’ Cory protested angrily. ‘Sit down, my dear.’ His voice was marginally kinder. ‘I’m afraid I have an unpleasant shock for you. You see, your suitor is not quite what he seems. I’m sure you already know that he’s not Italian, but are you aware that d’Angelo isn’t his real name—just the one he took from his stepfather?’ ‘Yes,’ Cory said. ‘Yes, I am.’ ‘But did he tell what he is really called—the name he was born to? I think not. Perhaps you’d like to enlighten us now—Mr d’Angelo.’ There was real venom in the older man’s voice. Groaning inwardly, Rome met his gaze, then turned to Cory, who was looking bewildered. He said gently, ‘It’s Sansom, mia cara. My mother was Sarah Sansom, Matt’s younger daughter.’ He glanced at Arnold, his mouth hard. ‘Is that what you wanted to hear?’ ‘Part of it.’ Arnold nodded. ‘And please believe this gives me no pleasure. My grandchild is very dear to me—as of course you know already. I never wanted her to be hurt, but I fear it’s unavoidable now.’ The room was overheated, to suit Sonia’s taste, but Cory suddenly felt icy cold. She said, ‘I don’t understand any of this. What are you talking about?’ ‘About an illusion,’ Arnold said heavily. ‘An illusion created by a vengeful man and carried out by his grandson. Your lover was bribed, Cory, to set you up. Matt Sansom gave him a loan for that vineyard of his, and then threatened to foreclose unless he managed to seduce you. And I was supposed to pay him to go away. Isn’t that the way of it, Mr Rome Sansom? Wasn’t that the unholy bargain you made with that old devil?’ Rome stiffened, but his glance didn’t waver. ‘Yes.’ ‘No.’ Cory’s cry of pain and disbelief pierced the room. ‘No, Rome, it’s not true. It can’t be.’ ‘Yes,’ he said steadily. ‘It was true, every word of it, in the beginning. But not any more. Not for a long time. Not after I fell in love with you. You have to believe that.’ ‘Believe it?’ Her voice broke. ‘When you’ve lied to me from the start? When it was just money—all over again? How can I believe anything about you—now?’ She turned away, her body rigid, covering her face with her hands, and Sonia jumped up, placing a protective arm round her. ‘Why don’t you go?’ she hurled at Rome. ‘Why don’t you just get out?’ Rome turned back to Arnold Grant. ‘I’d intended to tell you all this myself tonight, but not in front of Cory. Not like this. You could have spared her.’ ‘She has the right to know the kind of man you are. The filthy deception you’ve practised.’ Rome said quietly, ‘You can’t call me anything I haven’t called myself. But it makes no difference, because the deception stopped a long time ago—and my grandfather knows it. I’m still going to marry Cory—with or without your permission.’ ‘Over my dead body,’ Arnold said with a sneer. ‘You’ll have to look for another heiress to bale out your sinking vineyard.’ His smile was thin. ‘You gambled heavily on tonight, I think. You’d won my girl. You hope to do the same with me. To use my affection for her to persuade me to trust you. Only the deck was stacked against you in a way you could never have imagined.’ He walked across the room and opened a door. He said curtly, ‘You’d better come in now.’ Matt Sansom walked slowly into the room, leaning on a cane. Rome stood motionless, his attention totally arrested. Then he said softly, ‘So that was how Mr Grant was so well informed. Congratulations, Grandfather. You’ve actually managed to surprise me. And had your moment of triumph into the bargain.’ Matt looked at him with contempt. ‘Did you really think I’d let the fact that you’ve gone soft spoil that for me? I wanted to see the look on his damned face when I told him I’d offered my bastard grandson money to seduce his precious girl, and I did.’ He laughed hoarsely. ‘And it was worth every penny I’ve got to see all his worst fears confirmed.’ Cory said very quietly, ‘Why do you hate me so much, Mr Sansom?’ He swung round, looking for the source of the intervention. She was very white, and there were tears glistening on her eyelashes, but she was in control again, standing straight, her head high. Rome’s amethyst glittered on her hand and Matt’s eyes went straight to it, and then, sharply, to her face. He gasped harshly and took a step back, his own face blanching. ‘That ring,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Where did you get it?’ ‘Aunt Kit gave it to me,’ Rome said. ‘For the woman I love.’ ‘She had no right.’ Matt was ashen, fighting for control. ‘I gave that ring to my Elizabeth.’ ‘And she gave it back,’ Rome said quietly. ‘When she decided to marry someone else.’ ‘It was the ring that gave you away,’ Arnold said grimly. ‘Beth was wearing it when I met her, and I’ve never forgotten it. As soon as I saw it I guessed who was behind all this.’ He sent Matt a look of frank loathing. ‘And he was only too happy to confirm it.’ ‘But he misjudged his man. You can tell who you damn well please about this filthy plot of yours—if you dare—but you’ll not see a penny of my money. And you’ll never have anything to do with my granddaughter again. She’s going to Miami with her mother.’ Rome was looking at Matt, too. He said slowly, ‘You gave the ring to your wife—to my grandmother—but she hated it, didn’t she? Because she guessed it had belonged to someone else—someone you’d loved in a way you’d never cared for her.’ ‘There was never anyone else in the world for me.’ Matt’s voice cracked. He took a step forward, putting out a shaking hand to where Cory stood, pale and straight in her aubergine dress. ‘It could be her,’ he muttered. ‘Her eyes—her gentle mouth. Beth—oh, my Beth…’ ‘No,’ Rome said, his voice like ice. ‘My Cory—the girl I love.’ ‘You dare to say that?’ Arnold almost exploded. ‘After what you’ve done. The way you’ve treated her.’ ‘I’m not proud of the way I’ve behaved,’ Rome said curtly. ‘When I first saw her I was obeying instructions, and I admit it. But after that I was following my heart, because, with her, I put out my hand and touched paradise.’ He threw his head back. ‘I agreed to do what my grandfather wanted in order to keep Montedoro, because it was all that mattered to me then. But everything’s changed now. Cory changed it. She means more to me than a thousand Montedoros, and she always will, because my life is empty without her.’ He looked at Arnold. ‘I came here tonight in good faith, to ask you for her. To announce our engagement. In spite of everything, I still want to do that.’ Matt sank heavily on to a chair. He said, ‘Well, you can forget that. It’s over—finished with. You’ll get nothing from him—and when I’m done with you you’ll hardly be able to support yourself, let alone a wife.’ He laughed again, the sound grating. ‘I’ll strip you of everything. You’ll regret the day that you crossed me.’ He glared round. ‘You’ll all be sorry, damn you.’ Cory shook off her mother’s restraining hand and walked across the room. She faced Rome. She said, ‘Is this what you were trying to say in the car?’ He met her gaze unflinchingly. ‘Yes. But I thought it would be better to confess my real identity to your grandfather first. Try and explain. Only, I was pre-empted.’ Her eyes were grave. Questioning. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before? In Suffolk, or when we came back?’ He said huskily, ‘Ironically, because I was afraid I’d lose you. And I couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t take the risk. And now I’ve ruined everything.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘And the rest of it—is that true? Can your grandfather really take Montedoro away from you?’ Rome put out a hand and gently brushed a tearstain from her cheek. ‘He can try.’ She nodded. Her voice was quiet. ‘Do you love me?’ ‘Cory,’ Sonia almost shrieked. ‘The guy set you up. Tried to rip off your grandfather. He’ll tell you anything because he’s broke and you’re an heiress. Where’s your pride?’ Her tone became cajoling. ‘Forget him, honey, and walk away. If you don’t want to go to Miami, I’ll take you to the Bahamas and show you such a good time. In a month, I guarantee you won’t give him a second thought.’ Cory’s tired mouth smiled faintly. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t think I’m that shallow.’ She looked into Rome’s eyes. ‘Please answer me.’ ‘Yes,’ he said roughly. ‘Yes, I love you, heart of my heart, and I always will. You’re part of me, and nothing can change that. And I want to go on my knees and beg you to forgive me. Only that’s impossible now. We can never be together, because for the rest of your life you might look at me and wonder if your mother was right.’ ‘That will never happen anyway.’ Arnold spoke roughly. ‘Because I’m telling you now that if she dares to go with you—if she even gives you a second glance—I’ll change my will and leave the whole lot to charity. She’ll get nothing. See how she likes that. And see how long true love lasts at that rate.’ And he laughed scornfully, triumphantly. Sonia shrieked faintly, and fell back on the sofa. There was a long tingling silence, then Rome took Cory’s hands in his. He said softly, almost wonderingly, ‘My God, carissima. Do you realise what he’s just said? He’s set us free. They both have. They’ve taken everything and left us with each other.’ His voice became urgent. ‘Leave with me now, my sweetest love. Come with me. Because if you stay, they’ll have won.’ He looked into her eyes, deeply, gravely. ‘These bigoted, greedy, selfish old men will have won. And the precious thing we’ve been building together will be lost for ever.’ His hands tightened round hers. ‘Don’t let that happen, mi amore. Leave them to their plots, and their hating, and their precious millions. I’ll make a life for you, if not at Montedoro then somewhere else. Anywhere as long as it’s with you. I’ll dig ditches if I have to. Anything.’ Cory’s face was suddenly transfigured, her eyes luminous. He remembered how he’d thought once that she was enclosed in an invisible circle. Now, somehow, he’d stepped over the perimeter, and the circle held him, too. He was at peace as never before, and could have wept with gratitude and relief. She said, ‘Yes, Rome. I’ll come with you.’ And went into his arms, simply and directly, lifting her mouth for his kiss. ‘Cory,’ Sonia moaned. ‘You’re crazy. Arnold’s not kidding—he means it. And don’t look to me to bail you out.’ Cory ignored her. She said, ‘But, Rome, you mustn’t lose Montedoro. You can’t. It’s your whole life.’ He said, ‘Not any more, carissima. You’ve taken its place. But we’ll fight together to keep it, if that’s what you want.’ Cory turned in his arms to look at them all. There was a militant sparkle in her eyes, and a new crispness in her voice. ‘No one’s going to take Montedoro,’ she said. ‘Because my grandmother left me some money and we’ll use that to save it—’ ‘A nest egg,’ Arnold interrupted dismissively. ‘A drop in the ocean. It won’t cover the kind of debt he’s in, so pull yourself together, because I wasn’t joking.’ ‘Nor am I,’ Cory said. ‘The original legacy wasn’t that big, I agree, but it’s grown in the past year or so.’ She looked steadily back at Arnold. ‘Remember my amusing little hobby? Well, I didn’t just watch share prices. I started investing in the stock market—buying and selling on my own account. I even found I was good at it. And I’ve certainly made enough to repay the loan on Montedoro. With interest.’ ‘Cory mia.’ Rome’s voice was husky as he framed her face in his hands. ‘I can’t take your money. Surely you must see that.’ ‘It’s our money,’ she said, and smiled into his eyes. ‘For our marriage. Our life. Our children. And you must take it, my love, if you want me, because all my worldly goods go with me. That’s the deal. And we’re going to make great wine, because you know how.’ Her voice deepened passionately. ‘Oh, Rome don’t you understand? If you refuse now, then they’ll still have won, but in a different way. Their hate will have won, and not our love. Are you really going to let that happen?’ He said very softly, ‘My darling—my precious sweet.’ He drew her into his arms, resting his cheek against her hair. ‘Together we’ll make the finest wine in Tuscany. And the loveliest babies.’ ‘Cory.’ Arnold held out a shaking hand. His face was suddenly gaunt—uncertain. ‘You can’t do this. You haven’t thought it through. You can’t leave me.’ Cory looked at him. She said sadly, ‘You wanted me to hate Rome, but you’re the one I’ll find it hard to forgive, Gramps. Can you imagine what Gran would have said if she could have heard you threatening me?’ She shook her head. ‘You must do as you wish with the money. I don’t want to be an heiress. I never did. And with or without it I’m going to have a life with the man I love. ‘As for you—’ she turned on Matt ‘—you lost your daughter, and now you’re losing your only grandson. Both of you are going to be lonely and miserable, and you deserve it. You’ve wasted years of your life in hating each other, and in the end hatred’s all you’ll have left. Because Rome and I are going—leaving you all behind if we have to.’ There was a silence, then Arnold said with difficulty, ‘Cory, you’re very dear to me, and I can’t bear this. Is there any way I can make amends?’ She said gently, ‘Not while you hate Matt Sansom more than you love me. Nor while you won’t accept my husband.’ Rome spoke, his voice cool and very clear. He said, ‘This feud has got to end if you want to see us again—if you want to hold your great-grandchildren. But that’s your decision. Because we’ve made ours.’ He took Cory’s hands and lifted them to his lips. ‘Mia bella,’ he said softly. ‘My lady. My dear love. Let’s go home.’ Cory smiled up into his eyes. She said tenderly, ‘Together—and for ever.’ They had reached the door when Matt’s voice reached them, halting and barely recognisable. He said, ‘Rome—boy—is—is it too late?’ And Sonia said miserably, ‘Cory, honey…’ then trailed off into silence. Hand in hand, they turned and looked at the three anxious, unhappy faces watching them go. There was a pause, then Rome said, ‘You know where to find us. And we’ll be waiting.’ He paused, then added softly, ‘See you at Montedoro.’ And he and Cory walked together out of the room, and into the hopeful promise of the night. The Forced Marriage (#ulink_10861c9e-7d94-5617-a8ed-18619dec4c9a) CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_dabfad54-813a-576c-9d2a-d9cbdd9d04d9) ‘TELL me something,’ said Hester. ‘Are you absolutely certain you want to get married?’ Flora Graham, whose thoughts had drifted to the ongoing knotty problem of informing those concerned that she didn’t want her spoiled and brattish nephew as a pageboy, hurriedly snapped back to the immediate present, the crowded and cheerful restaurant, and her best friend and bridesmaid eyeing her with concern across the table. ‘Of course I do.’ She frowned slightly. ‘Chris and I are perfect for each other; you know that. I couldn’t be happier.’ ‘You don’t look particularly happy,’ Hester said judicially, refilling their coffee cups. Flora rolled her eyes in mock despair. ‘You wait until it’s your turn, and you find yourself in the middle of a three-ring circus with no time off for good behaviour. My mother must have been having one of her deaf days when I said I wanted a small quiet wedding.’ ‘Then why don’t you have one?’ Hester met her astonished look steadily. ‘Why don’t you ask Chris to get a special licence, and slope off somewhere and do the business? I’ll happily be one witness, and maybe Chris’s best man would be the other.’ Flora went on staring at her. ‘Because we can’t. We’re committed to all these arrangements—all that expense. We’d be letting so many people down. It’s too late.’ ‘Honey, it’s never too late.’ Hester’s voice was persuasive. ‘And I’m sure most people would understand.’ Flora gave a wry shake of the head. ‘Not my mother,’ she said. And, my God, certainly not Chris’s. ‘Anyway, don’t you want to do your bridesmaid thing? I’ve arranged for you to catch my bouquet afterwards.’ ‘Having observed you closely since the engagement party, I think I’ll pass,’ Hester said drily. ‘I’m not ready for a nervous breakdown.’ She paused. ‘Talking of engagements, I see you’re not wearing your ring. Would that be a Freudian slip?’ ‘No, I damaged a claw in the setting last week, and it’s being repaired.’ Flora’s frown deepened. ‘What is this, Hes? You’re beginning to sound as if you don’t like Chris.’ ‘That’s not true,’ her friend said slowly. ‘But, even if you hate me for ever, I have to tell you I think you could do better.’ Flora gasped. ‘You don’t mean that. I love Chris, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ Hester was silent for a moment. ‘Flo, in all the years we’ve known each other I’ve seen you with various men, but never in a serious relationship with any of them. Although that’s fine,’ she added hastily. ‘You’ve never slept around, and I admire you for sticking to your principles. But I always thought that when you fell, you’d fall hard. Passion to die for—heaven, hell and heartbreak—the works. And I don’t see much sign of that with you and Chris.’ ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Flora said calmly. ‘It sounds very uncomfortable.’ ‘But it should be uncomfortable,’ Hester returned implacably. ‘Love isn’t some cosy old coat that you slip on because it’s less trouble than shopping for a new one.’ ‘But that isn’t how I feel at all,’ Flora protested. ‘I— I’m crazy about him.’ ‘Really?’ Hester was inexorable. ‘In that case, why aren’t you living together?’ ‘The flat needs work—decoration. We want it to be perfect. After all, it’s going to be my showcase, and it’s taking longer than we thought.’ Flora realised with exasperation how feeble that sounded. ‘That,’ said Hester, ‘hardly suggests that you can’t keep your hands off each other. And I suppose the cost of refurbishment prevents you sneaking off together for a romantic weekend in the country?’ ‘When we’re married,’ Flora said defiantly, ‘every weekend will be romantic.’ ‘Be honest, now.’ Hester leaned forward. ‘If Chris came to you tomorrow and said he wanted to call it off, would it be the end of your world?’ ‘Yes.’ Flora lifted her chin. ‘Yes, it would.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps Chris and I aren’t the most demonstrative couple in the world, but who says you have to wear your heart on your sleeve?’ ‘Sometimes,’ Hester said gently, ‘you simply can’t help yourself.’ She drank the rest of her coffee and reached for her bag, and the bill. ‘However, if that’s how you really feel, and you’re sure about it, there’s no more to be said.’ She pushed back her chair. ‘On the other hand, if you ever have doubts about what you’re doing, I’ll be around to pick up the pieces. Sal the demon flatmate is off to Brussels for three months, so I’ve a spare room again.’ ‘It’s a sweet offer,’ Flora said gently. ‘And I don’t hate you for making it, even though it’s not necessary.’ She gave Hester an affectionate grin. ‘I thought it was supposed to be the bride who got the pre-wedding jitters, not the bridesmaid.’ ‘I’d be happier if you were jittery,’ Hester retorted. ‘You act as though you’re resigned to your fate. And there’s no need to be. You’re gorgeous and the world is full of attractive men waiting to be attracted.’ She dropped a swift kiss on Flora’s hair as she went past. ‘And, if you don’t believe me, check out the guy over there at the corner table,’ she added in sepulchral tones. ‘He’s had his eyes on you all through lunch.’ And, with a conspiratorial wink, she was gone. Flora ought to have left too. Instead she found she was reaching for the cafeti?re and refilling her cup again. Maybe she should include sugar this time, she thought, biting her lip. Wasn’t that one of the treatments for shock? Because she couldn’t pretend that Hester’s blunt remarks had just slid off her consciousness like water off a duck’s back. Stunned, she thought wryly, is the appropriate word. And all from an innocuous girlie lunch to make a final decision between old rose and delphinium-blue for Hester’s dress. Unbelievable. And it wasn’t the drink talking either. In vino veritas hardly applied to a glass of Chardonnay apiece and a litre of mineral water. No, it was clear this had been brewing for some time, and, with a month to go before the wedding, Hester had decided it was time to speak her mind. But I really wish she hadn’t, Flora thought, biting her lip. I was perfectly content when I sat down at this table. And I’ve enough on my mind without doing a detailed analysis of my feelings for Chris, and seeing how they measure on some emotional Richter scale I never knew existed. I love Chris, and I know we’re going to have a good marriage—one that will last, too. And surely that matters far more than—sexual fireworks. She felt her mind edging gently away from that particular subject, and paused quite deliberately. Because that would also be all right once they were married, she reassured herself, and that previous fiasco would be entirely forgotten. She glanced at her watch and rose. Time was pressing, and she would have to take a cab to her next appointment. On her way out of the restaurant she remembered Hester’s parting remarks and risked a swift sideways glance at the table in question. Only to find herself looking straight into the eyes of its occupant. He was very dark, she registered as she looked away, her face warming with embarrassment, with curling hair worn longer than she approved of. He was also startlingly attractive, in an olive-skinned Mediterranean way. The image of an elegant high-bridged nose, sculptured cheekbones, a firm chin with a cleft in it, and a mobile mouth that quirked sensuously under her regard accompanied her out of the restaurant and into the sunlit street beyond. My God, she realised, half-amused, half-concerned. I could practically draw him from memory. And, damn you, Hes. That was something else I didn’t need. She stepped to the edge of the kerb and looked down the street for an approaching taxi. But there wasn’t one in sight, so she started to walk in the required direction, pausing every now and then to look back. She didn’t even see her assailant coming. The first hint of danger was a hand in her back, pushing her violently, and a wrench at the strap of her bag that nearly dragged it from her grasp. Flora felt herself go sprawling, the bag pinned underneath her, as she filled her lungs and screamed for help. On the ground, she covered her head with her hands, terrified that she was going to be punched or kicked. Then she heard men’s voices shouting, a squeal of brakes, and the sound of running feet. Flora stayed still, exactly where she was, the breath sobbing in her throat. She could hear someone speaking to her in husky, faintly accented English. ‘Are you hurt, signorina? Shall I call an ambulance for you? Can you speak?’ ‘She may not talk, mate, but she can yell. Nearly took me eardrums out,’ said a deeper, gruffer voice. ‘Let’s see if we can get her to her feet.’ ‘It’s all right.’ Flora raised her head dazedly and looked around her. ‘I can manage.’ ‘I don’t think so.’ The first voice again. ‘I believe you must accept a little help, signorina.’ Flora turned unwillingly in the speaker’s direction, to have all her worst fears confirmed. Seen at close range—and he was kneeling beside her so he could hardly have been any closer—the man from the restaurant was even more devastating. His mouth was set grimly now, but she could imagine how it would soften. And his eyes, she had leisure to note, were green, with tiny gold flecks. A whisper of some expensive male cologne reached her, and, suddenly keen to get out of range of its evocative scent, Flora hauled herself up on to her knees. ‘Ouch.’ Major mistake, she thought, wincing. She’d ripped her tights and grazed her legs when she fell. Her elbows and palms were sore too. ‘Come on, ducks.’ It was Voice Two. A burly arm went round her, lifting her bodily to her feet. ‘Why don’t I pop you in the cab and take you to the nearest casualty department, eh?’ ‘Cab?’ Flora repeated. ‘I—I wanted a cab.’ ‘Well, I could see that, and I was just pulling over when that bastard jumped you. Then this other gentleman came flying up, and the mugger legged it.’ ‘Oh.’ Flora made herself look at the ‘other gentleman’, who stood, smiling faintly, those astonishing eyes trailing over her in a cool and disturbingly thorough assessment. ‘Well—thank you.’ He inclined his head gravely. ‘Your bag is safe? And he took nothing else?’ ‘He didn’t really get the chance.’ She gave him a brief, formal smile, then turned to the cabbie. ‘I need to go to Belvedere Row. I’m supposed to be meeting someone there and I’m going to be late.’ ‘I hardly think you can keep your appointment like that,’ her rescuer intervened firmly. ‘At the least you require a clothes brush, and your cuts should also be attended to.’ Before she could protest Flora found herself manoeuvred into the back of the cab, with the stranger taking the seat beside her. ‘The Mayfair Tower Hotel, please,’ he directed the driver. ‘I can’t go there.’ Flora shot bolt upright. ‘My appointment’s in the other direction.’ ‘And when you are clean and tidy, another cab will take you there.’ An autocratic note could be detected in the level tone. ‘It is a business meeting? Then it is simple. You call on your cellphone and explain why you are delayed.’ ‘So what’s it to be, love?’ the driver demanded through the partition. ‘The Mayfair Tower?’ Flora hesitated. ‘Yes—I suppose.’ ‘A wise decision,’ her companion applauded smoothly. She sent him a steely glance. ‘Do you enjoy arranging other people’s lives?’ His answering smile warmed into a grin. ‘Only those that I have saved,’ he drawled. Deep within her an odd tingle stirred uneasily. She tried to withdraw unobtrusively, further into her corner of the taxi. ‘Isn’t that rather an exaggeration?’ He shrugged powerful shoulders that the elegant lines of his charcoal suit accentuated rather than diminished. The top button of his pale grey silk shirt was undone, Flora noticed, and the knot of his ruby tie loosened. For the rest of him, he was about six feet tall, lean and muscular, with legs that seemed to go on for ever. He wasn’t merely attractive, she acknowledged unwillingly. He was seriously glamorous. ‘Then let’s say I spared you the inconvenience of losing your credit cards and money. To many people, that would be life and death.’ She smiled constrainedly. ‘And my engagement ring is at the jeweller’s, so really I’ve got off lightly.’ That was clumsily done, she apostrophised herself silently, and saw by his sardonic smile that he thought so too. She hurried into speech again. ‘Why the Mayfair Tower?’ ‘I happen to be staying there.’ There was a silence, then she said, ‘Then you must let me drop you off before I take this cab back to my flat, to clean up and change.’ ‘You are afraid I shall make unwelcome advances to you?’ His brows lifted. ‘Allow me to reassure you. I never seduce maidens in distress—unless, of course, they insist.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘I dare say you think this is very amusing…’ ‘On the contrary, signorina, I take the whole situation with the utmost seriousness.’ For a moment, there was an odd note in his voice. Then he added with cool courtesy, ‘You are trying to shrug off what has happened, but you have had a severe shock and that will bring its own reaction. I do not think you should be alone.’ ‘You’re very kind,’ Flora said tautly. ‘But I really can’t go with you. You must see that.’ ‘I seem to be singularly blind this afternoon.’ He took a slim wallet from an inside pocket of his jacket and extracted a card. ‘Perhaps a formal introduction may convince you of my respectability.’ Flora accepted the card and studied it dubiously. ‘Marco Valante,’ she read. And beneath it ‘Altimazza Inc’. She glanced up. ‘The pharmaceutical company?’ ‘You have heard of us?’ His brows lifted. ‘Of course.’ She swallowed. ‘You’re incredibly successful. Whenever your shares are offered my fianc? recommends them to his clients.’ ‘He is a broker, perhaps?’ he inquired politely. ‘An independent financial adviser.’ ‘Ah, and do you work in the same area?’ ‘Oh, no,’ Flora said hastily. ‘I’m a consultant in property sales.’ His brows rose. ‘You sell houses?’ ‘Not directly. The agencies hire me to show people how to present their properties to the best advantage when potential buyers are going round. I get them to refurbish tired d?cor—or tone down strident colour schemes.’ ‘I imagine that would not always be easy.’ She smiled reluctantly. ‘No. We have a saying that an Englishman’s home is his castle, and sometimes sellers are inclined to pull up the drawbridge. I have to convince them that their property is no longer a loved home but a commodity which they want to sell at a profit. Sometimes it takes a lot of persuasion.’ He looked at her reflectively. ‘I think,’ he said softly, ‘that you could persuade a monk to abandon his vows, mia cara.’ Flora stiffened. ‘Please—don’t say things like that.’ He pantomimed astonishment. ‘Because you are to be married you can no longer receive compliments from other men? How quaint.’ ‘That,’ she said, ‘is not what I meant.’ Totally relaxed in his own corner, he grinned at her. ‘And you must not be teased either? Si, capisce. From now on I will behave like a saint.’ He didn’t look like a saint, Flora thought. More like a rebel angel… She glanced back at the card he had given her. ‘You don’t look like a chemist,’ she said, and almost added either. ‘I’m not.’ He pulled a face. ‘I work in the accounting section, mainly raising funding for our research projects.’ ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Well—that would explain it.’ Actually, it explained nothing, because he wasn’t her idea of an accountant either, by a mile and a half. ‘Does everything have to be readily comprehensible?’ he enquired softly. ‘Do you never wish to embark on a long, slow voyage of discovery?’ Flora had the feeling that he was needling her again, but she refused to react. ‘I’m more used to first impressions—instant reactions. It’s part of my job.’ ‘So,’ he said. ‘You know who I am. Will you grant me the same privilege?’ ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Yes—of course…’ She delved into her misused bag and produced one of her own business cards. He read it, then looked back at her, those amazing eyes glinting under their heavy lids. ‘Flora,’ he said softly. ‘The goddess of the springtime.’ She flushed and looked away. ‘Actually, I was named after my grandmother—far more prosaic.’ ‘So, tell me—Flora—will you continue to work after you are married?’ ‘Naturally.’ ‘You are sure that your man will not guard you even more closely when you are his wife?’ ‘That’s nonsense,’ Flora said indignantly. ‘Chris doesn’t guard me.’ ‘Good,’ Marco Valante said briskly. ‘Because we have arrived at the hotel, and there is nothing, therefore, to prevent you going in with me.’ Flora had every intention of offering him a last haughty word of thanks, then hobbling out of his life for ever. But suddenly the commissionaire was there, helping her out of the taxi and holding open the big swing doors so she could go in. And then she was in the foyer, all marble and plate glass, and Marco Valante had joined her and was giving soft-voiced orders that people were hurrying to obey—a lot of them concerning herself. And suddenly the reality of making the kind of scene which would extract her from this situation seemed totally beyond her capabilities. In fact, she was forced to acknowledge, all she really wanted to do was find somewhere quiet and burst into tears. She didn’t even utter a protest when she was escorted to the lift and taken up to the first floor. She walked beside Marco Valante to the end of the corridor, and waited while he slotted in his key card and opened the door. Mutely, she preceded him into the room. Although this was no mere room, she saw at once. It was a large and luxuriously furnished suite, and they were standing in the sitting room. The curtains were half drawn, to exclude the afternoon sun, and he went over and flung them wide. ‘Sit down.’ He indicated one of the deeply cushioned sofas and she sank down on it with unaccustomed obedience, principally because her throbbing legs were threatening to give way beneath her. ‘I have told them to send the nurse here to dress your cuts,’ he said. ‘I have also ordered some tea for you, and if you go into the bathroom you will find a robe you can wear while your suit is being valeted.’ She said shakily, ‘You’re pretty autocratic for an accountant.’ He shrugged. ‘I wish to make some kind of amends for what happened earlier.’ ‘I don’t see why,’ Flora objected. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’ ‘But I could, perhaps, have prevented it if I had been quicker. If I had obeyed my instinct and left the restaurant when you did.’ ‘Why should you do that?’ Reaction was beginning to set in. She felt deathly cold suddenly, and wrapped her arms round her body, gritting her teeth to stop them from chattering. ‘I thought,’ he said softly, ‘that I was not permitted to pay you compliments. But, if you must know, I wanted very much to make the acquaintance of a beautiful girl with hair that Titian might have painted.’ So Hes had been right, Flora realised with a little jolt of shock. He had indeed been watching her during lunch. ‘Presumably,’ she said, with an effort, ‘you have a thing about red-haired women.’ ‘Not until today, when I saw you in the sunlight, Flora mia.’ For a moment her heart skipped a treacherous beat, before reason cut in and she wondered with intentional cynicism how many other women that particular line had worked with. She closed her eyes, deliberately shutting him out. Using it as a form of rejection. While at the same time she thought, ‘I should not—I really should not be here.’ And only realised she had spoken aloud when he said quietly, ‘Yet you are perfectly safe. For at any moment people will start arriving, and I shall probably never be alone with you again.’ And never, mourned a small voice in her head, is such a very long time. And such a very lonely word. But that was a thought she kept strictly to herself. She said, ‘Perhaps you’d show me where the bathroom is.’ She had, inevitably, to cross his bedroom to reach it, and she followed him, her eyes fixed rigidly on his back, trying not to notice the kingsize bed with its sculptured ivory coverlet. The bathroom was all creamy tiles edged with gold, and she stood at a basin shaped like a shell and took her first good look at herself, her lips shaping into a silent whistle of dismay. Shock had drained her normally pale skin and she looked like a ghost, her clear grey eyes wide and startled. There was a smudge on her cheek, and her shirt was dirty and ripped, exposing several inches of lacy bra. Which Marco Valante was bound to have noticed, she thought, biting her lip. Well, perhaps the valeting service could lend her a safety pin, she told herself as she removed her suit and carefully peeled off her torn tights. She washed her face and hands, then did her best to make herself look less waif-like with the powder and lipstick in her bag, before turning her attention to her unruly cloud of dark red hair. Usually, for work, she stifled its natural wave, drawing it severely back from her face and confining it at the nape of her neck with a barrette or a bow of dark ribbon. Although a few tendrils invariably managed to escape and curl round her face. But today the ribbon had gone, allowing the whole gleaming mass to tumble untrammelled round her shoulders, and no amount of struggling with a comb could restore it to its normal control. But then nothing was normal today, she thought with a sigh, as she put on the oversized towelling robe and secured its sash round her slim waist. It covered her completely, but she still felt absurdly self-conscious as she made her way back to the sitting room. Only it was not Marco Valante awaiting her but the nurse, a brisk blonde in a neat navy uniform, clearly more accustomed to reassuring elderly tourists about their digestive problems. But she cleaned Flora up with kindly efficiency, putting antiseptic cream and small waterproof dressings over the worst of her grazes. ‘You don’t expect that kind of thing,’ she remarked, giving her handiwork a satisfied nod. ‘Not in a busy street in broad daylight. And why you, anyway? You’re hardly wearing a Rolex or dripping with gold.’ Flora agreed rather wanly. The same question had been nagging at her too. After all, she wasn’t the world’s most obvious target. Just one of those random chances, she supposed. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But, if it came to that, she was still in the wrong place, with no escape in sight. Marco Valante had tactfully withdrawn while she was receiving attention, but now Room Service had arrived, bringing the tea, and he would undoubtedly be rejoining her at any moment. And she would have to start thanking him all over again, she thought with vexation, because along with the tea had been delivered a carrier bag, bearing the name of a famous store, containing not only a fresh pair of tights but a new white silk shirt as well. Even more disturbingly, both of them were in her correct size, confirming her suspicion that this was a man who knew far too much about women. Accordingly, her smile was formal and her greeting subdued when he came back into the sitting room. ‘Are you feeling better?’ The green eyes swept over her, as if the thick layer of towelling covering her had somehow ceased to exist. As if every inch of her body was intimately familiar to him, she thought as her heart began to thud in mingled excitement and panic. ‘Heavens, yes. As good as new.’ From some unfathomed corner of her being she summoned up a voice so spuriously hearty that she cringed with embarrassment at herself. ‘And the hotel assures me your clothes will soon be equally pristine.’ He seated himself opposite to her. ‘They are being dealt with as a matter of priority.’ He paused. ‘But it seemed to me that your blouse was beyond help.’ Flora said a stilted, ‘Yes’, aware that her face had warmed. She reached for her bag. ‘You must let me repay you.’ ‘With the greatest pleasure,’ he said. He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it across the arm of the sofa, unbuttoned his waistcoat with deft fingers, then leaned back against the cushions, the lean body totally at ease. ‘Have dinner with me tonight.’ Flora gasped. ‘I couldn’t possibly.’ ‘Perche no? Why not?’ ‘I told you.’ Her colour deepened, seemed to envelop her entire body. ‘I’m engaged to be married.’ He shrugged. ‘You already told me. What of it?’ ‘Doesn’t it matter to you?’ ‘Why should it? I might be fidanzato also.’ ‘Well—are you?’ ‘No.’ Had she imagined an oddly harsh note in his voice? ‘I am a single man, mia bella. But it would make no difference.’ He paused, the green eyes sardonic. ‘After all, I am not suggesting we should have our dinner served in bed.’ He allowed that to sink in, then added silkily, ‘Do you feel sufficiently safe to pour the tea?’ ‘Of course.’ Flora dragged some remaining shreds of composure around her. ‘Milk and sugar?’ ‘Lemon only, I thank you.’ By some miracle she managed to manoeuvre the heavy teapot so that its contents went only into the delicate porcelain cups and not all over the tray, the table, and the carpet, but it was a close-run thing, and her antennae told her that Marco Valante was perfectly well aware of her struggles and privately amused by them. She handed him his cup, controlling an impulse to pour the tea straight in his lap. He accepted it with a brief word of thanks. ‘Did you telephone your clients?’ ‘Yes.’ An impersonal topic, she thought thankfully. ‘They were very forgiving and rescheduled.’ ‘You do not think your fidanzato would be equally understanding, and spare you to me—for one evening?’ She gasped. ‘I know he wouldn’t.’ ‘Strange,’ Marco Valante said musingly. ‘Because he cannot be so very possessive.’ ‘Why do you say that?’ He smiled at her. ‘Because he has never—possessed you, mia bella.’ Flora gasped in outrage. ‘How dare you say such a thing?’ ‘When possible, I prefer to speak the truth. And I say that you are still—untouched.’ ‘You—you can’t possibly know that,’ she said hoarsely. ‘And it’s none of your business anyway.’ ‘Destiny has caused our paths to cross, Flora mia,’ he said softly. ‘I think I am entitled to be a little—intrigued when I look into your eyes and see there no woman’s knowledge—no memory of desire.’ She replaced her cup on the tray with such force that it rattled. She said tautly, ‘Actually, you have no rights at all. And I’d like to leave now, please.’ ‘Like that?’ His brows lifted. ‘You will be a sensation, cara.’ She said, her voice shaking, ‘I’d rather walk down the street naked than have to endure any more of your—humiliating—and inaccurate speculation about my personal life.’ Marco Valante smiled. ‘I am tempted to make you prove it, but I am feeling merciful today. I will arrange for you to have the use of another room while you wait for your clothes.’ He picked up the phone, dialled a number and spoke briefly and succinctly. ‘A maid will come and take you to your new sanctuary,’ he told her pleasantly when he had finished. He pulled a leather-covered notepad towards him and scribbled a few lines on the top sheet, which he tore off and handed to her. ‘If you change your mind about dinner you may join me at this restaurant any time after eight o’clock.’ She crushed the paper into a ball and dropped it to the floor. She said, coldly and clearly, ‘Hell will freeze over first, signore.’ His own voice was soft, almost reflective. ‘So the flame does not burn in your hair alone. Bravo.’ She snatched up the shirt and tights, glaring at him, unbearably galled that she needed to use them, and crammed them into her bag. ‘I’ll send you a cheque for these,’ she told him curtly. Marco Valante laughed. ‘I’m sure you will, cara. But in case you forget, I’ll take a down payment now.’ Suddenly he was beside her, and his arm was round her, pulling her towards him. And for one brief, burning moment, she felt his mouth on hers, tasting her with a stark hunger she had never known existed. It was over almost as soon as it had begun. Before she’d really grasped what was happening to her she was free, stepping backwards, stumbling a little on the edge of that trailing robe, staring at him in a kind of horror as her hand went up to touch her lips. And he looked back at her, his own mouth twisting wryly. He said quietly, ‘As hot as sin and as sweet as honey. I cannot wait for the next instalment, Flora mia.’ The note in his voice seemed to shiver on her skin. The silence between them tautened—became electric. She wanted to look away, and found that she could not. It was the knock on the door that saved her. She went to answer it, holding up the encumbering folds of towelling, trying not to run. His voice followed her. ‘Ti vedro, mia bella. I’ll be seeing you.’ She said fiercely, ‘No—no, you won’t.’ And went through the door, slamming it behind her, because she knew, to her shame, that she did not dare look back at him. Not then. And certainly not ever again. CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_fe854b52-e7bc-530e-b2ef-b7a705fe499f) ‘I GOT you a herb tea,’ Melanie said anxiously. ‘As you still can’t face cappuccino. They say shock can do that to you.’ Some shocks certainly could, Flora thought grimly as she took the container from her assistant with a word of thanks and a smile. Nor was it just cappuccino. She was also off espresso, latte and anything else tall and Italian. Three jumpy days had passed since the aborted mugging and its even more disturbing aftermath. Out of the frying pan, she thought wryly, and into the heart of the fire. She was still screening her calls, and warily scanning the streets outside her flat and office each time she emerged. ‘I’ll be seeing you,’ he’d said. The kind of casual remark anyone might make, and probably meaningless. An unfortunate choice of words, that was all. And yet—and yet… He had made it sound like a promise. Time and time again she told herself she was a fool for letting it matter so much. Her grazes, bumps and bruises were healing nicely, and she should let her emotions settle too. Put the whole thing in some mental recycling bin. It had been obvious from that first moment that Marco Valante was trouble, and it was her bad luck that he should have been the first on the scene when she needed help. Because he was the kind of man to whom flirting was clearly irresistible, and who would allow no opportunity to be wasted. But—it was only a kiss, when all was said and done, she thought, taking a rueful sip of herb tea. And wasn’t this a total overreaction on her part to something he would undoubtedly have forgotten by now? He would have moved on—might even be back in Italy and good riddance—and she should do the same. So why on earth was it proving so difficult? Why was he invading her thoughts by day and her sleep by night? It made no sense. And, more importantly, why hadn’t she told Chris all about it? she asked herself, staring unseeingly at her computer screen. Partly, she supposed, because his attitude had annoyed her. He’d been sympathetic at first, but soon become bracing, telling her she was lucky not to have lost her bag or been badly injured. She knew she’d got off lightly, but somehow that wasn’t what she’d needed to hear. Some prolonged concern and cosseting would have been far more acceptable. And it would have been for her to tell him, lovingly, that he was going OTT, and not the other way round. He was busy, of course, and she understood that. He was trying to build up his consultancy and provide a sound financial basis for their future; she couldn’t realistically expect his attention to be focussed on her all the time. But she had anticipated that he’d stay with her that evening at least. Instead, ‘Sorry, my sweet.’ Chris had shaken his head. ‘I’ve arranged to meet a new client. Could be big. Besides,’ he’d added, patting her shoulder, ‘you’ll be much better off relaxing—taking things easy. You don’t need me for that.’ No, Flora had thought, with a touch of desolation. But I could do with the reassurance of your arms around me. I’d like you to look at me as he did. To let me know that you want me, that you’re living for our wedding, and the moment when we’ll really belong to each other. And that it won’t be like that other time… She bit her lip, remembering, then turned her attention firmly back to the report she was writing for a woman trying to sell an overcrowded, overpriced flat in Notting Hill. Although she suspected she was wasting her time and Mrs Barstow would not remove even one of the small occasional tables which made her drawing room an obstacle course, or banish her smelly, bad-tempered Pekinese dog on viewing days. She would probably also quibble at the fee she was being charged, Flora decided as she printed up the report and signed it. She turned to the enquiries that had come in recently, remembering that Melanie had marked one of them urgent. ‘Lady living in Chelsea,’ she said now. ‘A Mrs Fairlie. Husband does something in the EU and they’re having to move to Brussels like yesterday, so she needs to spruce the place up for a quick sale. Says we were recommended.’ ‘That’s what I like to hear,’ Flora commented as she dialled Mrs Fairlie’s number. She liked the sound of Mrs Fairlie too, who possessed a rich, deep voice with a smile in it, but who sounded clearly harassed when Flora mentioned she had no vacant appointments until the following week. ‘Oh, please couldn’t you fit me in earlier?’ she appealed. ‘I’d like you to see the house before matters go any further, and time is pressing.’ Flora studied her diary doubtfully. ‘I could maybe call in on my way home this evening,’ she suggested. ‘If that’s not too late for you.’ ‘Oh, no,’ Mrs Fairlie said eagerly. ‘That sounds ideal.’ Flora replaced the receiver and sat for a moment, lost in thought. Then she reached for the phone again and, acting on an impulse she barely understood, dialled the Mayfair Tower Hotel. ‘I’m trying to trace a Signor Marco Valante,’ she invented. ‘I believe he is staying at your hotel.’ ‘I am sorry, madam, but Signor Valante checked out yesterday.’ Was there a note of regret in the receptionist’s professional tone? ‘Oh, okay, thanks,’ Flora said quickly. She cut the connection, aware that her heart was thudding erratically—with what had to be relief. He was safely back in Italy and she had nothing more to worry about from that direction, thank goodness. I’ve got to stop being so negative, she thought. Take some direct action about the future. I’ll have a blitz on the flat this weekend, and persuade Chris to help me. Even if he hates decorating he can lend a hand in preparing the walls. And we’ll finalise arrangements for the wedding too. A few positive steps and I’ll be back in the groove. No time to fill my head with rubbish. She took a cab to the quiet square where Mrs Fairlie lived that evening, appraising the house with a faint frown as she paid off the driver. It was elegant, double fronted, and immaculately maintained. And clearly worth a small fortune. Flora would have bet good money that even if the entire interior was painted in alternating red and green stripes the queue of interested buyers would still stretch round the block. And if Mrs Fairlie simply wanted reassurance that her property was worth the amazing amount the agents were advising, then reassurance she should have, Flora decided with a mental shrug as she rang the bell. The door was answered promptly by a pretty maid in a smart chocolate-coloured uniform, who smiled and nodded when Flora introduced herself, and led her up a wide curving staircase to the drawing room on the first floor. As she followed, Flora was aware of the elegant ceramic floor in the hall, the uncluttered space and light enhanced by clean pastel colours on the walls. As she’d suspected, she thought wryly, Mrs Fairlie was the last person to need style advice. The maid opened double doors, and after announcing, ‘Miss Graham,’ stood back to allow Flora to precede her into the room. She was greeted by the dazzle of evening sunlight from the tall windows, and halted, blinking, conscious that amid the glare someone was moving towards her. But not the female figure she’d been expecting, she realised with a jolt, the confident, professional smile dying on her lips. In spite of the warmth of the room she felt as cold as ice. She had to fight an impulse to wrap her arms across her body in a betrayingly defensive gesture. ‘Buonasera, Flora mia.’ As Marco Valante reached her he captured her nerveless hand and raised it swiftly and formally to his lips. ‘It is good to see you again.’ ‘I wish I could say the same.’ Her voice sounded husky and a little breathless. ‘What is this? I came here to meet a Mrs Fairlie.’ ‘Unfortunately she has been detained. But she has delegated me to show you the house in her absence.’ ‘And you expect me to believe that?’ His brows lifted sardonically. ‘What else, cara? Do you imagine I have her bound and gagged in the cellar?’ Something very similar had occurred to her, and she lifted her chin, glaring at him. ‘I find it odd that you have the run of her house, certainly.’ ‘I am staying here for a few days,’ he said calmly. ‘Your Mrs Fairlie is in fact my cousin Vittoria.’ ‘I see.’ Her heart seemed to be trying to beat its way out of her ribcage. ‘And you persuaded her to trick me into coming here. Does your family claim descent from Machiavelli?’ ‘I think he was childless,’ Marco Valante said thoughtfully. ‘And Vittoria did not need much persuasion—not when I explained how very much I wished to meet with you again.’ He smiled. ‘She tends to indulge me.’ ‘More fool her,’ Flora said curtly. ‘I’d like to leave, please. Now.’ ‘Before you have carried out your survey of the house?’ He tutted reprovingly. ‘Not very professional, cara.’ She sent him a freezing look. ‘But then I hardly think I’ve been inveigled into coming here in my business capacity.’ ‘You are wrong. Vittoria wishes your advice on the master bedroom. She is bored with the colour, and the main bedroom in her house in Brussels has been decorated in a similar shade.’ Flora frowned. ‘She is genuinely selling this house, then?’ ‘It has already been sold privately,’ he said gently. ‘Shall we go upstairs?’ ‘No!’ The word seemed to explode from her with such force that her throat ached. She saw him fling his head back as if she had struck him in the face. Met the astonishment and scorn in the green eyes as they held hers. Felt the ensuing silence deepen and threaten, as if some time bomb were ticking away. And realised with swift shame that she had totally overstepped the mark. Somehow, she faltered into speech. ‘I’m sorry—I didn’t mean…’ He said grimly, ‘I am not a fool. I know exactly what you meant.’ The long fingers captured her chin and held it, not gently. ‘Two things, mia cara.’ He spoke softly. ‘This is my cousin’s house, and I would not show such disrespect for her roof. More importantly, I have never yet taken a woman against her will—and you will not be the first. Capisce?’ Her face burned as, jerkily, she nodded. ‘Then be good enough to carry out the commission you’ve been employed for.’ He released her almost contemptuously and moved towards the door. ‘Shall I call Malinda to act as our chaperon?’ ‘No,’ she said huskily. ‘That—won’t be necessary.’ Her legs were shaking as she ascended another flight of stairs to the second floor, and followed him into Vittoria Fairlie’s bedroom. It was a large room, overlooking the garden, with French windows leading on to a balcony with a wrought-iron balustrade and ceramic containers planted brightly with flowers. The interior walls were the palest blush pink, with stinging white paintwork as a contrast, and the tailored bedcover was a much deeper rose. Apart from a chaise longue near the window, upholstered in the same fabric as the bedcover, and an elegant walnut dressing table, there was little other furniture—all clothes and clutter having been banished, presumably, to the adjoining dressing room. ‘Well?’ Marco Valante had stationed himself at the window, leaning against its frame. So how was it that everywhere she looked he seemed to be in her sightline? she wondered despairingly. The image of him seemed scored into her consciousness—the casual untidiness of his raven hair, the faint line of stubble along his jaw, the close-fitting dark pants that accentuated his lean hips and long legs, the collarless white shirt left unbuttoned at the throat, exposing a deep triangle of smooth, tanned skin… For a stunned moment she found herself wondering what that skin would feel like under her fingertips—her mouth… Her mind closed in shock, and she hurried into speech. ‘The room is truly lovely. I can’t fault your cousin’s taste—or her presentation.’ She hesitated. ‘Although I wonder if it isn’t a touch—over-feminine?’ ‘That is entirely the view of her husband,’ Marco acknowledged, his mouth twisting. ‘He has stipulated for the new house—no more pink.’ ‘But it’s difficult to know what to suggest without seeing the room in Brussels.’ Her brow wrinkled. ‘It may face in a different direction…’ ‘No. Vittoria says it is also south-facing, and very light.’ ‘In that case…’ Flora gave her surroundings another considering look. ‘There’s a wonderful shade of pale blue-green, called Seascape, that comes in a watered silk paper. I’ve always felt that waking in sunlight with that on the walls would be like finding yourself floating in the Mediterranean. But your cousin may not want that.’ ‘On the contrary, I think it would revive for her some happy memories,’ Marco returned. ‘When we were children we used to stay at my grandfather’s house in summer. He had this old castello on a cliff above the sea, and we would walk down to the cove each day between the cypress trees.’ ‘It sounds—idyllic.’ ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘A more innocent world.’ He paused. ‘Have you ever visited my country?’ ‘Not yet.’ Flora lifted her chin. ‘But I’m hoping to go there on my honeymoon, if I can persuade my fianc?.’ ‘He doesn’t like Italy?’ The green eyes were meditative as they rested on her. ‘I don’t think he’s ever been either. But he was in the Bahamas earlier this year, and that’s where he wants to return.’ She smiled. ‘Apparently there’s this tiny unspoiled island called Coconut Cay, where pelicans come to feed. One of the local boatmen takes you there early in the morning with a food hamper and returns at sunset to collect you. Often you have the whole place entirely to yourself.’ There was a silence, then he said expressionlessly, ‘It must have happy memories for him.’ ‘Yes—but I’d rather go to a place where we can create memories together, especially for our honeymoon. We can go to the Bahamas another time.’ ‘Of course.’ He glanced at his watch, clearly bored by her marital plans—which was exactly what she’d intended, she told herself. ‘You will make out a written report of your recommendations for Vittoria? With a note of your fee?’ ‘I’d prefer it if you simply passed on what I’ve said.’ Flora lifted her chin. Met his glance. ‘Treat it as cancelling all debts between us.’ ‘As you wish,’ he said courteously. It wasn’t what she’d expected, Flora thought as she trailed downstairs. She’d anticipated some kind of argument, or one of his smiling, edged remarks at the very least. He’d clearly become bored with whatever game he’d been playing, she told herself, and that had to be all to the good. She’d intended to continue down the stairs and out of the front door without a backward glance, but Malinda was coming up, carrying an ice bucket, and somehow Flora found herself back in the drawing room. ‘Champagne?’ Marco removed the cork with swift expertise. ‘I really should be going.’ Reluctantly she accepted the chilled flute and sat on the edge of a sofa, watching uneasily as the maid adjusted the angle of a plate of canap?s on a side table and then withdrew, leaving them alone together. ‘Are you celebrating something?’ ‘Of course. That I am with you again.’ He raised his own flute. ‘Salute.’ He was lounging on the arm of the sofa opposite, but she wasn’t fooled. He was as relaxed as a coiled spring—or a black panther with its victim in sight… The bubbles soothed the sudden dryness of her throat. ‘Even if you had to trick me into being here?’ ‘You didn’t meet me for dinner the other night.’ Marco shrugged. ‘What choice did I have?’ ‘You could have left me in peace,’ she said in a low voice. ‘There is no peace,’ he said with sudden roughness. ‘There has not been one hour of one day since our meeting that I have not remembered your eyes—your mouth.’ She said in a stifled tone, ‘Please—you mustn’t say these things.’ ‘Why?’ he demanded with intensity. ‘Because they embarrass—offend you? Or because you have thought of me too, but you don’t want to admit it? Which is it, Flora mia?’ ‘You’re not being fair…’ ‘You know the saying,’ he said softly. “‘All is fair in love and war.” And if I have to fight for you, cara, I will choose my own weapons.’ ‘I’m engaged,’ she said, with a kind of desperation. ‘You know that. I have a life planned, and you have no place in that.’ ‘So I am barred from your future. So be it. But can you not spare me a few hours from your present—tonight?’ ‘That—is impossible.’ ‘You are seeing your fidanzato this evening?’ ‘Yes, of course. We have a great deal to discuss.’ ‘Naturally,’ he said softly. ‘And have you told him about me?’ ‘There was,’ she said, steadying her voice, ‘nothing to tell.’ He raised his brows. ‘He would not be interested to learn that another man knows the taste of his woman—the scent of her skin when she is roused by desire?’ ‘That’s enough.’ Flora got up clumsily, spilling champagne on her skirt. ‘You have no right to speak to me like this.’ He didn’t move, staring at her through half-closed eyes. She felt his gaze touch her mouth like a brand. Scorch through her clothes to her bare flesh. He said quietly, ‘Then give me the right. Have dinner with me tonight.’ ‘I—can’t…’ Her voice sounded small and hoarse. ‘How strange you are,’ he said. ‘So confident in your work. Yet so scared to live.’ ‘That’s not true…’ The protest sounded weak even in her own ears. ‘Then prove it.’ The challenge was immediate. ‘The day we met I wrote the name of a restaurant on a piece of paper.’ ‘Which I threw away,’ she said, quickly and fiercely. ‘But you still remember what it was,’ he said gently. ‘Don’t you, mia bella?’ ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she whispered. He shrugged. ‘I am simply being honest for both of us.’ He smiled at her. ‘So, tell me the name of the restaurant.’ She swallowed. ‘Pietro’s—in Gable Street.’ He nodded. ‘I shall dine there again this evening. As I told you before, you may join me there at any time after eight o’clock.’ He paused. ‘And it is just your company at dinner I’m asking for—nothing more. You have my guarantee.’ ‘You mean you don’t…? You won’t ask me…?’ Flora was floundering. ‘No,’ Marco Valante said slowly. ‘At least—not tonight.’ ‘Then why…?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t understand any of this.’ His smile was faint—almost catlike. ‘You will find, mia cara, that anticipation heightens the appetite. And I want you famished—ravenous.’ She felt the blood burn in her face. She said, ‘Then find some other lady to share your feast. Because, as I’ve already made clear, I’m not available—tonight or any night.’ All the way to the door she was expecting him to stop her. To feel his hand on her arm—her shoulder. To be drawn back into his embrace. She gained the stairs. Went down them at a run. Reached the hall where Malinda appeared by magic to open the front door for her and wish her a smiling good evening. ‘It’s all right,’ Flora whispered breathlessly to herself as she crossed the square, heading for the nearest main road to pick up a cab. ‘It’s over—and you’re safe.’ And at that same moment felt a curious prickle of awareness down her spine. Knew that Marco was standing at that first floor window, watching her go. Yet she not dare to look back and see if she was right. Proving that she wasn’t safe at all—and she knew it. She got the cab to drop her at her neighbourhood supermarket and shopped for the weekend, spending recklessly at the deli counter and wine section. She needed to get herself centred again, and what better way than a happy weekend with the man she loved, preparing for their future? she asked herself with a touch of defiance. They could picnic while they worked, she thought, sweetening the pill by buying the things Chris liked best. As she came round the corner, laden with bags, she saw that his car was parked just down the street from her flat, and felt her heart give a swift, painful thump. She found him in the living room, sprawled in an armchair, watching a satellite sports channel, but the glance he turned on her was peevish. ‘Where on earth have you been? I was expecting you ages ago.’ ‘I had a job to fit in on the way home, and I shopped.’ She held up a bulging carrier. ‘See? Goodies.’ ‘Ah,’ he said slowly. ‘Actually, I can’t stay. That’s what I called in to say. Jack Foxton is taking a golf foursome away this weekend and someone’s dropped out. So he’s asked me to go instead. I’ve got all my stuff in the car and I’m meeting them at the hotel.’ ‘Oh, surely not.’ Flora stared at him distressfully. ‘I had such plans for us.’ ‘Well, I couldn’t turn him down,’ he said with a touch of self-righteousness. ‘He can put a lot of valuable business my way. You know that. I don’t want to upset him.’ Flora lifted her chin. ‘Apparently you have no such qualms about upsetting me.’ ‘Darling.’ Belatedly he brought his charm into play. ‘It was absolutely a last minute thing, or I’d have let you know earlier. And I’ll make it up to you next week. You’ll have my undivided attention each evening—promise.’ He got briskly to his feet, tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed and totally single-minded. Armoured, Flora thought dispassionately, in his own concerns. She said quietly, ‘Chris—don’t do this—please. Because I really need to spend some time with you. To talk…’ ‘And so you shall, sweetheart, when I get back.’ He gave her a coaxing smile. ‘Anyway, it will give you some space—let you get ahead on the work front—or do some of the girlie things you say you never have time for. Why not give Hester a call? She’s probably not doing anything either.’ He aimed a kiss at her unresponsive lips on his way past. ‘I’ll ring you if I get the chance. If not—see you Monday.’ The door banged, and he was gone. Flora stood, carriers at her feet, feeling completely deflated and more than a little lost. Chris was her wall—her barricade against the invasion of all these disturbing thoughts and emotions that were assailing her. And suddenly, frighteningly, he wasn’t there for her. Anger began to stir in her as she recalled his dismissive parting comments. She said aloud, ‘How dare he? How bloody dare he?’ What low expectations he had of her—and of Hester, come to that, assuming that her friend would have nothing better to do on Friday night than keep her company. Was that how he had them down? she wondered incredulously. A couple of sad single women settling down with a takeaway and a video? Manless and therefore hapless? Because, if so, he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life. She stalked into her bedroom, flung open the wardrobe door and began to search along the hanging rail, pulling out a silky slip of a black dress with shoestring straps and a brief flare of a skirt. She’d bought it a few weeks before and had been waiting for a suitable occasion to wear it. And tonight was the perfect opportunity, she thought defiantly, removing the price tag and ignoring the alarm signals going off in her brain. That small inner voice telling her that she too was about to commit a blunder that would leave Chris standing. That what she was planning was actually dangerous. All my life I’ve played it safe, she argued back, rummaging for the black silk and lace French knickers that were all the dress would accommodate underneath. And where’s it got me? To a situation of being taken totally for granted—that was where. This wasn’t the first time that Chris’s business interests had left her stranded at the weekend, she thought. Up to now she’d told herself that his ambition was laudable, that he deserved her whole-hearted support. But there came a point when ambition became selfishness, and they’d reached it. Because it wasn’t only business which had taken him away from her. He could have cancelled that solo trip to the Bahamas, but he hadn’t, even though it had come at a time when she’d desperately needed his love and support. When she hadn’t wanted to be left alone. She hurriedly closed down that train of thought, and the memories it engendered. That was all in the past, and for the moment the future seemed confused. Which left her with the here and now. And she wasn’t going to spend another Friday evening staring at her own four walls when, just for once, there was an attractive alternative. For a moment she halted, looking at her own startled reflection in her dressing mirror as she acknowledged what she was contemplating. What she was risking. Because Marco Valante was light years beyond being merely an attractive man. He was a force of nature, she thought, her body shivering in mingled apprehension and excitement. From the moment she’d seen him that day in the restaurant she’d been drawn to him—a helpless tide to his dark moon. All that stood between her and potential disaster was his own guarantee that tonight would involve dinner and nothing else. And how did she dare trust a stranger’s promise? Especially when instinct warned her that here was a man who lived by his own rules alone. She lifted a hand and touched her lips, remembering… She thought, I must be crazy. Of course, all she need do was hang the dress back in the wardrobe and spend a blameless evening watching television. No one would be any the wiser. Yet she already knew in her heart that eminently sensible course of action was not for her. I’m going to have dinner with him, she thought defiantly. And I’m going to laugh and flirt and have fun in a way I haven’t done for months. Just for this one evening. After all, he likes to play games, and I can do that too. And when it’s over I’m going to thank him and shake hands nicely, and walk away. Nothing more. Because I can. Because even if he breaks his word I have my own private armour. It may be called disappointment and failure, but it’s very effective just the same. And it confers its own immunity against natural born womanisers like Signor Valante. End of story. She showered and washed her hair, then finger-dried it so it sprang like an aureole of living flame around her head. She applied the lightest of make-up, adding a touch of shadow and mascara to her eyes and a pale lustre to her mouth, then slipped her feet into high-heeled strappy sandals. When she was ready she glanced at herself in the mirror, and gasped. A stranger was looking back at her, her skin milk-white against the starkness of the dress, her face flushed and her eyes bright with expectancy. And tonight she was going to let that stranger live in her head, she thought, as she sprayed her favourite scent on to pulse-points and picked up her bag and pashmina. ‘You still don’t have to do this,’ she whispered under her breath, as a cab drove her to the restaurant. ‘It’s not too late. You could always tell the taxi to turn round. But if you go through with it, and it shows any sign of getting heavy, you can leave. So there’s nothing—not one thing—to worry about. Whatever happens—you’re in control.’ Pietro’s was small and quiet, the name displayed on a discreet sign beside the entrance. Inside, Flora found herself in a smart reception area, confronted by a pretty girl with an enquiring smile. She cleared her throat. ‘I’m meeting someone—a Signor Valante.’ The smile widened. ‘Of course, signorina. He is in the bar. May I take your wrap?’ ‘No, it’s fine.’ Flora maintained a firm grip on its silver-grey folds. ‘I’ll keep it with me.’ In case I have to make a sudden exit, she added silently. The bar was already busy but she saw him at once, lounging on one of the tall stools at the counter, looking like a man who was prepared to wait all night if he had to. Only he didn’t. Have to. Did he? Because she was here, and she was trembling again, and that gnawing ache was back in the pit of her stomach. And of course he had seen her, so it was too late to slip away. In her heart she knew it had always been too late. That something stronger than her own will—her own reason—had brought her to him tonight. She felt his gaze slide over her. Saw his brows lift and his mouth slant in surprise and frank pleasure as he started towards her through the laughing, chattering groups of people. And realised, with a pang of something like fear, that, contrary to her expectations—her planned strategy—it would not be as easy as she thought to turn her back and walk away from him when the evening came to an end. Oh, God, she thought, dry-mouthed. I’m going to have to be careful—so very careful… CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_cb3dbe62-c1c6-5404-ba42-181210fb4885) ‘CIAO.’ His smile was in his eyes as he reached her side. He took her hand and raised it to his lips in a fleeting caress. ‘You decided you could spare me a few hours of your life after all, hmm?’ She took a deep, steadying breath. ‘So it would seem,’ she returned with relative calm. ‘Your fidanzato must be a very tolerant man.’ His gaze travelled over her without haste, making her feel that he was aware of every detail of what she might—or might not—be wearing. Sending another flurry through her senses. He said slowly, his lips twisting, ‘But I think he would be wiser to keep you chained to his wrist—especially when you look as you do tonight.’ He had not, she realised, relinquished his clasp on her hand, and she detached herself from him, quietly but with emphasis. ‘You gave me your word, signore, that I would be safe in your company,’ she reminded him, trying to speak lightly. His brows lifted. ‘And is that why you came, mia cara?’ he asked softly. ‘Because you wished to feel—safe?’ She gave him a composed smile. ‘I came because the food is said to be good here, and I’m hungry.’ ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Then I must feed you.’ He made a slight signal and Flora found herself whisked to a small table in the corner—which was somehow miraculously vacant—and supplied with a Campari soda and a menu. Through an archway she could see tables set with immaculate white cloths and glistening with silverware and crystal, could sniff delectable odours wafting through from the kitchen. To her own surprise she realised that her flippant remark had been no more than the truth. She was indeed hungry, and the plate of little savoury morsels placed in front of them made her mouth water in sudden greed. ‘I am to tell you that my cousin was delighted with your suggestion for her bedroom,’ Marco Valante said when they had made their choices from the menu presented by an attentive waiter and were alone again. ‘But now, of course, she has asked who makes this particular wall-covering and where it is available.’ ‘Really?’ Flora, who’d been convinced that Vittoria Fairlie’s decorating problems were purely fictional, was slightly nonplussed. ‘Then I’ll send her a full written report with samples next week.’ ‘She would appreciate it.’ He sent her a faint smile. ‘It is good of you to take so much trouble.’ ‘I always take trouble,’ she said. She paused. ‘Even over commissions that don’t really exist.’ He said slowly, ‘I wonder if you will ever forgive me for that.’ ‘Who knows?’ She shrugged. ‘And why does it matter anyway?’ She hesitated again. ‘After all, you’ll be going back to Italy quite soon—won’t you?’ ‘I have fixed no time for my return.’ He smiled at her. ‘My plans are—fluid.’ ‘Your boss must be exceptionally tolerant, in that case.’ She heard and hated the primness in her tone. ‘We work well together. He does not grudge me a period of relaxation.’ He was silent for a moment, and Flora, conscious that he was studying her, kept her attention fixed firmly on the rosy liquid in her glass. At the same time wondering, in spite of herself, exactly what Marco Valante did for relaxation… He said, at last, ‘So what made you change your mind?’ She gave a slight shrug. ‘My—plans didn’t work out, that’s all.’ ‘Ah,’ he said softly. She eyed him with suspicion. ‘What does that mean?’ ‘How prickly you are.’ His tone was amused. ‘Does it have to mean anything?’ She spread her hands almost helplessly. ‘How can I tell? I don’t seem to know what’s going on any more—if I ever did.’ She made herself meet his gaze directly. ‘And what I really can’t figure out is why you’re here this evening.’ ‘Because it’s one of my favourite restaurants in London.’ The green eyes glinted. ‘That isn’t what I meant,’ Flora said. ‘And you know it.’ She paused. ‘Clearly you know London well, and your cousin lives here and probably leads a hectic social life. I’m sure she could introduce you to dozens of single girls.’ ‘She has certainly tried on occasion,’ he agreed casually. ‘Exactly,’ Flora said with some force. ‘So why aren’t you dining with one of them instead?’ He said reflectively, ‘Perhaps, cara, because I prefer to do my own—hunting.’ She stiffened, eyes flashing. ‘I am—not—your prey.’ He grinned unrepentantly. ‘No, of course not. Just an angel who has taken pity on my loneliness.’ Her face was still mutinous. ‘I’d have said, Signor Valante, that you’re the last person in the world who needs to be lonely.’ ‘Grazie,’ he said. ‘I think.’ ‘So why, then?’ Flora persisted doggedly. ‘How is it that you’re so set on having dinner with me?’ ‘You really need to ask?’ His brows lifted. ‘Are there no mirrors in that apartment of yours?’ His voice dropped—became husky. ‘Mia bella, there is not a man in this restaurant who does not envy me and wish he was at your side. How can you not know this?’ Her skin warmed, and she took a hasty sip of her drink. She said stiltedly, ‘I wasn’t—fishing for compliments.’ ‘And I was not flattering.’ He paused. ‘Is the truth so difficult for you to acknowledge?’ She gave a small, wintry smile. ‘Perhaps it convinces me that I should have stayed at home.’ ‘But why?’ He leaned forward. Flora thought, crazily, that his eyes were filled with little dancing sparks. ‘What possible harm can come to you—in this crowded place?’ She made herself meet his glance steadily. ‘I don’t know. But I think you’re a dangerous man, Signor Valante.’ ‘You’re wrong, cara,’ he said softly. ‘I am the one who is in danger.’ ‘Then why were you so insistent?’ ‘Perhaps I like to take risks.’ ‘Not,’ she said, ‘a recommendation in an accountant, I’d have thought.’ His grin was lazy. ‘But I am only an accountant in working hours, carissima. And now I am not working but relaxing—if you remember.’ Flora bit her lip, conscious of the fierce undertow of his attraction, how it could so easily sweep her out of her depth. If she wasn’t careful, of course, she added hastily. Thankfully, at that moment the waiter reappeared to tell them their table was ready. And once the food was served, and the wine was poured, she would steer the conversation into more general channels, she promised herself grimly as she accompanied Marco sedately into the main restaurant. She was faintly ruffled to discover that they were seated side by side on one of the cushioned banquettes. But to request her place to be reset on the opposite side of the table would simply reveal that she was on edge, she reflected as she took her seat. There was a miniature lamp on the table, its tiny flame bright, but safely confined within its glass shade. A valuable lesson for life, she thought wryly, as the waiter shook out her napkin and placed it reverently across her lap. She needed to keep the conflict of emotions inside herself controlled with equal strictness. But she was already too aware of his proximity—the breath of cologne, almost familiar now, that reached her when he moved—the coolly sculptured profile—the dangerous animal strength of the lean body under the civilised trappings. The sensuous curve of the mouth which had once so briefly possessed hers… This, she was beginning to realise, was a man to whom power was as natural as breathing. And not just material power either, although he clearly had that in plenty, she realised uneasily. His sexual power was even more potent. She was glad to be able to focus her attention, deservedly, on the food. The delicate and creamy herb risotto was followed by scallops and clams served with black linguine, accompanied by a crisp, fragrant white wine that she decided it would be politic to sip sparingly. The main course consisted of seared chunks of lamb on the bone, accompanied by a rich assortment of braised garlicky vegetables. The wine was red and full-bodied. ‘I’m not surprised you come here,’ Flora said after her first appreciative mouthful. ‘This food is almost too good.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’m glad you approve. But save your compliments for Pietro himself,’ he added drily. ‘He lives in a state of persistent anxiety and needs all the reassurance he can get.’ ‘You know him well?’ ‘We were boys together in Italy.’ ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Now you are being cryptic, mia bella,’ he said softly. ‘What does that mean?’ She shrugged. ‘I was just trying to imagine you as a child, with muddy clothes and scraped knees. It isn’t easy.’ His brows lifted. ‘Do I give the impression I was born in an Armani suit with a briefcase?’ he asked lazily. ‘Something like that,’ she acknowledged, her mouth quirking mischievously. ‘Yet I entered the world exactly as you did, Flora mia—without clothes at all.’ He returned her smile, his eyes flickering lazily over her breasts, clearly outlined by the cling of her dress. ‘Shall we indulge in a little—mutual visualisation, perhaps?’ Flora looked quickly down at her plate, aware that her face had warmed. ‘I prefer to concentrate on this wonderful food.’ They ate for a few moments in silence, then Flora ventured into speech again, trying for a neutral topic. ‘Italy must be a wonderful country to grow up in.’ ‘It is also a good place to live when one is grown.’ He paused. ‘You should introduce me to your fidanzato. Maybe I could convince him to take you there.’ Her smile was too swift. Too bright. ‘Maybe. But unfortunately he’s had to go away this weekend.’ ‘Another visit to the Bahamas, perhaps?’ There was an edge to his voice which she detected and resented. ‘No, a business trip,’ she returned crisply. ‘Chris is his own boss, and that doesn’t allow him a great deal of leisure—unlike yourself.’ ‘Cristoforo,’ he said softly. ‘Tell me about him.’ ‘What sort of thing do you want to know?’ Flora drank some wine. ‘How you met,’ he said. ‘When you realised that he of all men was the one. But no intimate secrets,’ he added silkily. ‘That is if you have any to tell…’ Flora bit her lip, refusing to rise to the obvious bait. ‘We met at a party,’ she said. ‘I’d helped a couple sell their flat after it had been on the market almost a year, and they invited me to a housewarming at their new property. Chris was there too because he’d arranged their mortgage. We—started seeing each other and fell in love—obviously. After a few months he proposed to me. And I accepted.’ She saw a faintly derisive expression in his eyes, and stiffened. ‘Is there something wrong? Because it seems a perfectly normal chain of events to me.’ ‘Not a thing,’ he said. ‘And you will live happily ever after?’ Flora lifted her chin. ‘That is the plan, yes.’ She paused. ‘And what about you, signore? Do I get to hear your romantic history—or would it take too long?’ She paused. ‘Starting, I suppose, with—are you married?’ ‘No.’ His tone was crisp and there was a sudden disturbing hardness in his eyes. ‘Nor am I divorced or a widower.’ He paused. ‘I was once engaged, but it—ended.’ He gave her a wintry smile. ‘I am sure that does not surprise you.’ ‘So—you prefer to play the field.’ Flora shrugged. ‘At least you found out before you were married, so no real harm was done.’ ‘You are mistaken,’ he said slowly. ‘It was my fidanzata who found another man. Someone she met on holiday.’ ‘Oh.’ This time she was surprised, but tried not to show it. ‘Well—these things happen. But they don’t usually mean anything.’ Marco Valante gave her a curious look. ‘You think it is a trivial matter—such a betrayal?’ There was a harsh note in his voice. ‘No—no, of course not.’ Flora avoided his gaze, her fingers playing uneasily with the stem of her glass. ‘I—I didn’t mean that. I just thought that if you’d—loved her enough it might have been possible to—forgive her.’ ‘No.’ The dark face was brooding. ‘There could be no question of that.’ ‘Then I’m very sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘For both of you.’ She swallowed. ‘It must have been a difficult time. And I—I shouldn’t have pried either,’ she added. ‘Brought back unhappy memories. They say the important thing is to forget the past—and move on.’ ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I am sure you are right. But it is not always that simple. Sometimes the past imposes—obligations that cannot be ignored.’ Flora finished her meal in silence. She felt as if she’d taken an unwary step and found herself in a quagmire, the ground shaking beneath her feet. There was a totally different side to Marco Valante, she thought. An unsuspected layer of harshness under the indisputable charm. Something disturbingly cold and unforgiving. But perhaps it was understandable. Clearly his fianc?e’s defection had hit him hard, his masculine pride undoubtedly being dented along with his emotions. She felt as if she’d opened a door that should have remained closed. I’ll just have some coffee and go, she thought, sneaking a surreptitious glance at her watch. But that proved not so easy. The waiter, apparently in league with her companion, insisted that she must try the house speciality for dessert—some delectable and impossibly rich chocolate truffles flavoured with amaretto. And when the tiny cups of espresso arrived they were accompanied by Strega, and also Pietro, the restaurant owner, a small, thin man whose faintly harassed expression relaxed into a pleased grin when Flora lavished sincere praise on his food. At Marco’s invitation he joined them for more coffee and Strega, totally upsetting Flora’s plans for a swift, strategic withdrawal. ‘I had begun to think we would never meet, signorina,’ Pietro told her with a twinkle. ‘I was expecting you here a few nights ago. You have made my friend Marco wait, I think, and he is not accustomed to that.’ Flora flushed slightly. ‘I can believe it,’ she said, trying to speak lightly. ‘You wrong me, mia bella,’ Marco Valante drawled. ‘I can be—infinitely patient—when it is necessary.’ She felt her colour deepen under the mocking intensity of his gaze. She hurriedly finished the liqueur in her glass, snatched up her bag, and with a murmured apology fled to the powder room. Thankfully, she had it to herself. She sank down on to the padded stool in front of the vanity unit and stared at herself in the mirror, observing the feverishly bright eyes, the tremulously parted lips, as if they belonged to a stranger. What in hell was the matter with her? she wondered desperately. She had a career—a life—and a man in that life. And yet she was behaving like a schoolgirl just released from a convent. Only with less sophistication. And all this because of a man whose existence she’d been unaware of a week ago. It made no sense. Well, you got yourself into this mess, she reminded herself with grim finality. Of your own free will, too. Even though you should have known better. And now you can just extract yourself—with minimal damage—if that’s still possible. It was hot in the lavishly carpeted, glamorously decorated room, yet Flora was suddenly shivering like a dog. She felt light-headed too. Maybe she was just sickening for something—one of those odd viruses that kept surfacing in the summer months. Or maybe she hadn’t kept sufficient track, after all, of the number of times Marco Valante had filled and refilled her glass, she thought uneasily. She’d started off well in control, but had definitely slipped during the course of the long meal—particularly when the conversation had got sticky. She’d tried to use her glass as a barricade, but it might well have turned into a trap instead. And those final Stregas hadn’t helped at all. She smoothed her hair, toned down her hectic cheeks with powder, and rose to her feet. The dress had been a mistake, too. She’d worn it as a gesture of defiance, but it sent all the wrong messages. And her heels were suddenly far too high as well. They did nothing to combat that dizzy feeling. She drew a deep breath and held it for a moment before releasing it slowly. Calming tactics before she went back into the restaurant and set about extricating herself from this self-inflicted mess with dignity and aplomb. ‘I wish,’ she muttered under her breath as she headed for the door, stepping out with more than ordinary care—which was, in itself, a dead giveaway. She’d been dreading more coffee, more loaded drinks to go with the loaded remarks, but Marco was on his feet, standing by the table, putting away his wallet, his face withdrawn and grave. It seemed he also wanted to call it a night, thought Flora, summoning relief to her rescue. And perhaps that oddly haunted look had been brought on by the size of the bill… She paused, angered by her own flippancy when it was undoubtedly her desire to score points by cross-examining him over his love life that had revived too many unwelcome memories and driven him into introspection. After all, he was someone who had loved and lost, and in the bitterest circumstances, too, when all she had to do in life was count her blessings. He glanced up and saw her, and his expression changed. Charm was back in season, and something more than warmth glinted in his eyes. Which she wasn’t going to allow herself even to contemplate. Accordingly, ‘Well,’ Flora said briskly, when she reached him, ‘Thank you for a very pleasant evening, signore. And—goodbye.’ ‘It is not quite over yet,’ he corrected her. ‘Pietro has called a taxi for us.’ ‘Oh, he needn’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.’ She reached for her pashmina. ‘I’ll pick up a black cab…’ ‘Not easily at this time of night, when the theatres are turning out.’ He picked up the long fringed shawl before she could, draping it over his arm. ‘And the streets are hardly safe for a woman on her own. I promise you, it would be better to wait.’ Better for whom? Flora wondered, her throat tightening. She stood, gripping her bag, looking down at the tiled floor, until a waiter came to tell them the cab was at the door. She wished Pietro a quiet goodnight, and forced herself to remain passive as Marco placed the pashmina round her shoulders. Then she walked ahead of him into the street, stumbling a little on an uneven paving stone as the cool night air hit her. ‘Take care, mia bella. You must not risk another fall.’ His hand was under her elbow like a flash, guiding her to the waiting cab. As she climbed in she heard with shock Marco give the driver her address. ‘How do you know where I live?’ she demanded, shrinking back into her corner as he took the seat beside her. ‘It wasn’t on the card I gave you.’ ‘True.’ In the dimness, she saw him lift one shoulder in a shrug. ‘But you were not so hard to trace, Flora mia.’ ‘So it would seem,’ she said tautly. It was not that great a distance, but traffic was heavy and the ride seemed to take for ever. Or was it just her acute consciousness of the man in the darkness beside her? When they finally drew up in the quiet street outside her flat Flora moved swiftly, reaching for the handle. ‘Thanks for the lift…’ ‘You must allow me to see you to your door.’ His tone brooked no refusal. She was concentrating hard on pursuing a steady path across the pavement, at the same time fumbling in her bag for her keys. Not easy when your head was swimming, she thought detachedly, and your legs felt as if all the bones had been removed. ‘Let me do this.’ There was faint amusement in his voice as he took the key from her wavering hand and fitted it into the lock. ‘I can manage,’ Flora protested. ‘And the taxi’s meter will be running,’ she added, glancing over her shoulder. She gave an alarmed gasp. ‘Oh—it’s gone.’ ‘I hoped you would offer me some coffee.’ He was inside now, accompanying her up the stairs, his hand under her arm, supporting her again. Taking it for granted, she thought furiously, that it was necessary. ‘Isn’t that the conventional thing to do?’ he added. ‘You wouldn’t know a convention, Signor Valante, if it jumped out and bit you.’ Not all her words were as clear as she’d have liked, but she thought she’d got the meaning across. ‘On the other hand, I could make you some coffee,’ he went on. ‘You seem to need it.’ ‘I’m perfectly fine,’ Flora returned with dignified imprecision. ‘And our dinner date is over, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But the evening still goes on. And I am curious to see where you live.’ ‘Why?’ She watched him fit the flat key in the lock. He shrugged. ‘Because you can learn a great deal from someone’s surroundings. You of all people should know that,’ he added drily. ‘And there are things I wish to discover about you.’ She gave him a brilliant smile. ‘Good luck,’ she said, and led the way into the living room. Marco Valante halted, looking slowly round him, taking in the plain white walls, the stripped floorboards, the low glass-topped table, and the sofa and single armchair in their tailored smoky blue covers. He said softly, ‘A blank canvas. How interesting. And is the bedroom equally neutral?’ Flora walked back across the narrow passage and flung open the door opposite. ‘Judge for yourself,’ she said, and watched his reaction. Here, there were no touches of colour at all. Everything from the walls to the fitted wardrobes which hid her clothes, and the antique lace bedcover and the filmy drapes that hung at the window, was an unremitting white. ‘Very virginal,’ Marco said after a pause, his face expressionless. ‘Like the cell of a nun. It explains a great deal.’ ‘Such as?’ she demanded. ‘Why your fidanzato prefers to spend his time elsewhere, perhaps.’ ‘As it happens, Chris is here all the time. And he likes a—a minimalist look,’ she flung back at him. ‘And now that you’ve seen what you came for, you can leave.’ ‘Without my coffee?’ He shook his head reproachfully. ‘You are not very hospitable, Flora mia.’ She said between her teeth, ‘Please stop calling me “your” Flora.’ ‘You wish me to call you “his” Flora—this Cristoforo’s—when it is quite clear you do not belong to him—and never have?’ She might not be firing on all cylinders, but she could recognise disdain when she heard it. ‘You know nothing about my relationship with my fianc?,’ she threw back at him, discomfited to hear her words slurring. ‘And you’re hardly the person to lecture me on how to conduct my engagement. I think it’s time you went.’ ‘And I think you’re more in need of coffee than I am, signorina.’ He walked down the passage to the kitchen. Flora, setting off in pursuit with a gasp of indignation, arrived in time to see him filling the kettle and setting it to boil. ‘You have no espresso machine?’ He glanced round at her, brows lifted. ‘No,’ Flora said with heavy sarcasm. ‘I’m sorry, but I didn’t realise I’d be entertaining an uninvited guest.’ ‘If you think you are in the least entertaining, you delude yourself.’ He reached for the cafeti?re. ‘Where do you keep your coffee?’ Mute with temper, she opened a cupboard and took down a new pack of a freshly ground Colombian blend. She said curtly, ‘I’ll do it.’ ‘As you wish.’ He shrugged, and took her place in the doorway, leaning a casual shoulder against its frame. ‘You give little away,’ he remarked after a pause. ‘No pictures—no ornaments or personal touches. You are an enigma, Signorina Flora. A woman of mystery. What are you trying to conceal, I wonder?’ ‘Nothing at all,’ Flora denied, spooning coffee into the cafeti?re. ‘But I work with colour all the time. When I get home I prefer something—more restful, that’s all.’ ‘Is that the whole truth?’ She bit her lip, avoiding his quizzical gaze. ‘Well, I did plan to decorate at first—perhaps—but then I met Chris, so now I’m saving my energies for the home we’re going to share. That’s going to be a riot of colour. The showcase for my career.’ ‘You say you plan to go on working after you are married?’ Flora lifted her chin. ‘Naturally. Is something wrong with that?’ ‘You do not intend to have babies?’ She began to set a tray with cups, sugar bowl and cream jug. ‘Yes—probably—eventually.’ ‘You do not sound too certain.’ She opened the cutlery drawer with a rattle to look for spoons. ‘Maybe I feel I should get the wedding over with before I start organising the nursery.’ ‘Do you like children?’ ‘Boiled or fried?’ Flora filled the cafeti?re and set it on the tray. ‘I don’t know a great deal about them, apart from my sort of nephew, and he’s a nightmare—spoiled rotten and badly behaved. A real tantrum king.’ ‘Perhaps you should blame the parents rather than the child.’ ‘I do,’ she said shortly. ‘Each time I’m forced to set eyes on him.’ She picked up the tray and turned, noting that he was still blocking the doorway. ‘Excuse me—please.’ He made no attempt to move, and she added, her tone sharpening, ‘I—I’d like to get past.’ ‘Truly?’ he asked softly. ‘I wonder.’ He straightened and took the tray from her suddenly nerveless hands. Taking a breath, Flora marched ahead of him back to the sitting room, deliberately choosing the armchair. He placed the tray on the glass table and sat down on the sofa. ‘I am beginning to accustom myself to your unsullied environment.’ His tone was silky. ‘But I find it odd that there are no photographs anywhere—none of your Cristoforo—or of your parents either. Are you an orphan, perhaps? Is your past as unrevealing as your walls?’ ‘Of course not,’ she said coolly. ‘I have plenty of family pictures, but I keep them in an album. I don’t like—clutter.’ His brows lifted mockingly. ‘Is that how you regard the image of your beloved?’ ‘No, of course not.’ She bit her lip. ‘You like to deliberately misunderstand.’ ‘On the contrary, I am trying to make sense of it all.’ He paused. ‘Of you.’ ‘Then please don’t bother,’ Flora said swiftly. ‘Our acquaintance has been brief, and it ends tonight.’ ‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘But the night is not yet over. So I am permitted a little speculation.’ ‘If you want to waste your time.’ Flora reached for the cafeti?re and filled the cups, controlling a little flurry of unease. ‘My time is my own. I can spend it as I wish.’ He paused. ‘So—are you going to show me these photographs of yours—if only to prove they really exist?’ For a moment she hesitated, then reluctantly opened the door of one of the concealed cupboards beside the fireplace and extracted a heavy album. She took it across to him and held it out. ‘Here. I have nothing to hide.’ She gave him a taut smile. ‘My whole history in a big black book.’ He opened the album and began to turn the pages, his face expressionless as he studied the pictures. Flora picked up her coffee cup and sipped with apparent unconcern. He said, ‘Your parents are alive and in good health?’ She paused, chewing her lip again. ‘My father died several years ago,’ she said at last. ‘And my mother remarried—a widower with a daughter about my own age.’ ‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘The mother of the tantrum king. Is that why you don’t like her?’ ‘I have no reason to dislike her,’ Flora said evenly. ‘We haven’t a great deal in common, that’s all.’ He turned another page and paused, the green eyes narrowing. He said, ‘And this, of course, must be Cristoforo. How strange.’ She stiffened. ‘Why do you say that?’ ‘Because he is the only man to feature here.’ His voice was level. ‘Were there no previous men in your life, Flora mia? No minor indiscretions of any kind? Or have they been whitewashed away too?’ ‘I’ve had other boyfriends,’ she said coldly. ‘But no one who mattered. All right?’ He looked down again at the photograph, his mouth twisting. ‘And he means the world to you—as you do to him?’ ‘Of course. Why do you keep asking me all these questions.’ ‘Because I want to know all about you, mia cara. Every last thing.’ Her throat tightened. ‘But no one can ever know another person that well.’ ‘Then perhaps I shall be the first.’ He closed the photograph album and laid it aside. He rose, taking off his jacket and tossing it across the back of the sofa, then walked across to her, taking her hands in his and pulling her to her feet. She went unresistingly, her heart beating a frantic, alarmed tattoo, her eyes widening in a mixture of panic and strange excitement. He said softly, ‘And I shall start with your mouth.’ ‘No,’ Flora said hoarsely as his arms went round her, drawing her against the hard heat of his body. ‘You can’t. You said—you promised—that I’d be safe tonight.’ ‘And so you have been, mia bella.’ There was laughter in his voice, mingled with another note, more dangerous, more insidious. ‘But midnight has come and gone. It is no longer tonight, but tomorrow. And from this moment on I guarantee nothing.’ He added softly, ‘You can command me not to touch you, but not to stop wanting you. Because that has become impossible.’ Then he bent his head, and his lips met hers. CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_f4c819d8-e5fd-5e72-ae16-17d450497d3e) SOME distant voice in her mind was telling her that she should fight him. That she should kick, bite and punch, if necessary, before the warmth of his mouth on hers sapped every last scrap of resistance from her being. That she should hang on, with every ounce of will she possessed, to her life—her safe, planned future with Chris. And to her reason—her sanity. But it was too late. Indeed, she realised helplessly, it had always been too late—from that first time she had seen him in the restaurant. And, even more, from that fleeting moment when his lips had first touched hers. It was pointless to remind herself that she had no moral right to be doing this. That she was engaged—committed—soon to be married. That this was a madness she could not afford. Because logic, reason, even decency no longer seemed to matter. And the most shaming thing of all was that he was using no force—because he didn’t have to. Because her lips were already parting in acceptance, and welcome. And with a growing hunger she was no longer able to disguise, even had she wanted to. Her mind—her will—was in free fall—cascading into surrender. And the hands which had been braced in the beginnings of protest against the wall of his chest lifted and locked at the nape of his neck. At first it was a gentle, almost leisurely exploration of her mouth, as if he was learning the taste—the texture of her. Then, slowly, the kiss deepened, imposing new demands. Testing the outer limits of her control. And his. Her body was pressed against him, making her aware that he was powerfully aroused. The hurry of his heartbeat seemed translated into her own being. He pushed a hand into her hair, twining the silky strands round his fingers, drawing her head backwards so that the long, lovely line of her throat was exposed and vulnerable to the lingering passage of his caress. His lips found the pink shell of her ear, then travelled down to the frantic tumult of her pulse. She gasped as she felt the heated, animal surge in her blood. As his lips encountered the delicate hollows at the base of her throat, pushing aside the narrow strap, baring the curve of her shoulder. The long fingers found the rounded curve of her breast, moulding it gently as his thumb moved delicately, voluptuously on the hardening nipple. Flora leaned her forehead against his shoulder, eyes closed, lost in exquisite shuddering sensation. Whatever coherency remained in her mind told her that she had never felt like this before. Never dreamed it was possible that she could want like this. That she could welcome every new intimacy and long for more. She heard herself say hoarsely, ‘What do you want from me?’ ‘Everything.’ His voice was a husky whisper, the single word an affirmation. Almost a warning. He kissed her again with slow, sensual purpose, while his hands continued their absorbed, teasing play with the heated peaks of her breasts, making her sigh her pleasure against his lips. She wasn’t even sure when he released the zip at the back of her dress, letting the soft fabric slide away from her shivering skin. He lifted her into his arms, sinking back with her on to the sofa, holding her so that she was lying across his thighs, the black dress pooling round her hips, her entire body attuned—accessible—to the touch of his hands and mouth. She heard him murmur in throaty appreciation as his dark head bent to adore the scented mounds he had uncovered, and she quivered as she felt the burn of his lips against her skin—the flickering glide of his tongue on her nipples. She made a little stifled sound and he lifted his head, looking down at her, the green eyes warm and slumbrous. ‘You don’t like that?’ ‘Oh, yes,’ she whispered. ‘Too much—too much.’ He stroked each taut peak with a gentle finger. ‘They are like tiny roses,’ he told her softly. ‘Only more sweet.’ Her own hands were pulling feverishly at the buttons on his shirt to free them, touch the heated, hair-roughened skin beneath, and he helped her, dragging the loosened edges apart, then lifting her triumphantly, almost fiercely, so that her naked breasts grazed his own. His mouth closed on hers with renewed fire, and she clung to him, half dizzy with abandonment, aware of nothing but the pagan clamour of her flesh. He moved suddenly, lifting her away from him, setting her on her feet, and for an instant she looked at him in mute bewilderment. He smiled slowly up at her, letting his hands drift down her body to disentangle her finally from the ruin of her dress. When it was done Marco stared at her for a long moment, absorbing the contrast between the creaminess of her skin and the silken black of the tiny undergarment which was her sole remaining covering. He said softly, ‘All evening I have been imagining how you would look at this moment, and you are more beautiful than any fantasy, Flora mia.’ His fingers spanned her waist lightly. ‘Because you are real.’ His touch lingered on her flat stomach. ‘And warm.’ His hand moved downward, brushing over the fragile silk, until he reached the scalding secret core of her, where he lingered. ‘And wanting me,’ he added huskily. With one lithe movement he was on his feet, lifting her effortlessly into his arms and walking with her out of the room, and across the passage into the stark whiteness of her bedroom. Still holding her, he bent slightly, switching on the lamp beside the bed, then took hold of the immaculate bedspread, pulling it back and tossing it to the foot of the bed before lowering Flora to the mattress. She looked up at him through half-closed eyes as he stood over her. She was aware of the thud of her heart, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts as sudden nervousness lent an edge to her excitement. And she was conscious too that it was a stranger’s face that looked down at her in the lamplight, shadowed and almost feral in its intensity. Her throat tightened. ‘Is something—wrong?’ ‘Nothing.’ The sound of her voice seemed to awake him from some spell. His smile banished the shadow—or had that just been a figment of her overwrought imagination? ‘Except that you are still wearing too many clothes, mia bella.’ ‘So,’ she whispered, ‘are you.’ ‘You think so?’ He gave a soft laugh. ‘Well, that is easily remedied.’ He stripped with deftness and grace, and without apparent self-consciousness, although she knew he was watching her watch him. Watching her widening eyes, and the swift, betraying flush that stained her cheeks as she absorbed his lean, strong, totally masculine beauty. The flutter of the muscles in her suddenly dry throat, as apprehension took hold. As she remembered… Her eyes and her mind went blank. She wanted to run—to hide—to be a thousand miles from this place—this room—this bed—where pain and humiliation waited for her all over again. The flame in her veins was cooling to ice. The swift, mindless rapture that had consumed her such a short time ago had burned itself out, leaving her with only the ashes. She thought, Oh, God—what can I do? What can I say…? She felt the bed dip as he came to lie beside her. Heard him say her name with a question in his voice. Fingers as gentle as the brush of a feather stroked her hot cheek, then inexorably turned her face towards him. He said quietly, ‘Tell me.’ Pointless to pretend she didn’t understand. She said, falteringly, ‘I’m not a virgin—at least, not completely.’ She’d been afraid he would laugh, or be scornful, but instead he nodded, the green eyes thoughtful. ‘You are telling me that you have made love with your fidanzato after all?’ ‘Not—exactly.’ She swallowed. ‘This is—so difficult to explain.’ ‘No,’ Marco said. ‘You forget—I have seen your eyes, mia bella. And I do not believe that your first surrender was a happy experience for you. Is that what you are trying to say?’ ‘Yes—I suppose.’ She flushed unhappily, avoiding his gaze. ‘But it wasn’t Chris’s fault. I just didn’t realise it would—hurt so much.’ She tried to smile. ‘It’s so ridiculous. I’m a twenty-first century woman, not some early Victorian. It never occurred to me…’ Her voice trailed into silence. He stroked her hair back from her forehead. ‘And when the pain was over, did he give you pleasure?’ He sounded totally matter-of-fact—as if he was asking if she thought it would rain tomorrow, she told herself, bewildered. She said stiltedly, ‘He was very—kind about it. But, naturally, he was terribly upset that he’d hurt me. So he suggested it might be better—to wait—before trying again. So we—have…’ ‘Such amazing self-control.’ The cool drawl held a sudden bite. ‘I am filled with admiration.’ ‘He was thinking of me,’ Flora defended swiftly. He shrugged a negligent shoulder. ‘Did I suggest otherwise?’ ‘And it was my problem—my failure,’ she went on with determination. ‘With lovers, there is no question of failure,’ he said softly. ‘Some times are better than others—that is all.’ He paused. ‘As for this problem you believe you have—we shall solve it together.’ Her voice shook. ‘I don’t think—I can…’ ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘But you will. And that is a promise, Flora mia. So, do you believe me? Say, “Yes, Marco.”’ A tiny shaken laugh escaped her. ‘Yes, Marco.’ ‘Then why are you still trembling?’ She thought, Because no matter how scared I might be, you make me tremble—and burn—and shiver—and ache. And even if I had all the experience in the world you would still possess the power to do this to me. Because—with you—I cannot help myself. She said, with a catch in her voice, ‘I think you know…’ He said quietly, ‘Perhaps.’ He framed her face in his hands and began to kiss her again, lightly and sensuously, making no further demands until her taut body began gradually to relax and her lips parted for him on a little sigh of acceptance. His kiss deepened, showing her a glimpse of hunger held well in check. Leaving her almost disappointed when he took his mouth from hers. He held her for a long time, murmuring to her in his own language, his long fingers stroking her tumbled hair, her cheek, the line of her throat, his gentleness a reassurance. And a seduction. When his lips next touched hers Flora responded like a flower turning to the sun, offering her mouth’s inner sweetness without restraint. As they kissed Marco began to caress her, the experienced hands slowly rediscovering the curves and planes of her body, revealing them to her anew through his touch. She had never known there could be such excitement in the brush of skin on skin. She was warming deliciously, her body tinglingly alive to the subtle caress of his fingers, so intent on every new sensation he was offering that she hardly knew the moment when he slipped off her final covering and she was naked in his arms at last. When his hand parted her thighs, her little gasp was lost under the answering pressure of his lips, as he kissed her deeply and with mounting sensuality. And any sense of shock or shyness was drowned in the flood of sensation which instantly assailed her. His fingers stroked and tantalised, demanding her quivering body to yield up its most intimate secrets to him. Turning her slowly and deliberately to liquid fire. She began to move in response to his caress, her body arching tautly towards him as his lips returned to her breasts, suckling the rosy peaks with voluptuous delight. At the same time his exploring hand discovered, then focused on another tiny hidden mound, moving gently and rhythmically on its moist, silken pinnacle. She was making small helpless sounds in her throat, her head twisting involuntarily on the pillow. She was dissolving in pleasure, her attention absorbed, blindly concentrated on the delicate arousing play of his fingertips with an intensity that bordered on pain. Nothing existed but this man and what he was doing to her, she thought, as her breathing changed and even this last contact with reality slid away. Even so, the final dark waves of ecstasy caught her unawares, lifting her to a sphere she had never known existed and holding her there, suspended in some rapturous vacuum, while she called out in a voice she didn’t recognise and her body shattered into the uncontrollable spasms of her first climax. She descended slowly, every inch of her body throbbing with a new languor yet feeling alive as never before. She lifted heavy eyelids and looked up at her lover, and her hand went up to touch his face, feeling the taut jaw muscles clench under her fingers. He captured her questioning fingers and carried them to his lips, biting the tips gently. She said softly, huskily, ‘Is it appropriate to say thank you?’ ‘If you wish.’ There was a smile in his voice, and his mouth was curving in disturbingly sensual appreciation. Flora realised suddenly that he was moving—positioning himself over her without haste but with definite purpose. ‘But I would prefer a more—tangible demonstration, mia cara,’ he added softly, easing his way into her newly slackened and totally receptive body. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and startled as she felt herself filled—possessed utterly. ‘Hold me,’ he instructed tautly, and she obeyed, her hands clinging to the smooth brown shoulders as he began to thrust into her, gently at first, his eyes watching hers for any sign of fear or reluctance, and then more powerfully—more urgently. She had thought that he had taken her to the extremes of sensation, and beyond. That she was sated—content to be passive while he took his own satisfaction. But, as she soon discovered with astonishment, she was wrong. Because her body was answering him—mirroring the strong, controlled rhythm of his lovemaking. She lifted her legs, wrapping them round his sweat-dampened body, and he slid his hands beneath her, raising her towards him as he found her mouth with his. His kiss was raw and passionate, and her surrender was total, dominated by the renewed demands of her own fevered flesh. The rasp of his breathing was echoed by her own. She felt as if she was poised on the edge of some abyss, and he must have felt it too, because he spoke to her, his voice hoarse and urgent. ‘Come for me, mia bella—mia cara. Come now.’ And, deep within her, as if answering his cue, Flora felt the first sharp pulsation of rapture. She moaned aloud, burying her face against him, biting his shoulder, as the moment took her and sent her spinning out of control into some limbo where pleasure bordered on pain. Marco flung his head back, his eyes closed, his face taut with the same kind of agony, and she felt his entire body shudder like a tree caught in a giant wind as he came in his turn. When it was over, they lay together quietly. Flora tried to steady her breathing, to make sense of what had happened to her. ‘I didn’t know.’ Her voice was a thread. He didn’t answer, and she turned her head to look at him. He was lying, staring up at the ceiling, his profile as proud and remote as a Renaissance carving. She felt her throat tighten. ‘Marco—is something wrong?’ He turned his head slowly, and smiled at her. ‘What could possibly be wrong, Flora mia?’ ‘You looked a thousand miles away.’ He shrugged a shoulder. ‘I was thinking how ironic it is that I should have come all this way to find my perfect woman.’ ‘Truly?’ ‘You doubt me?’ ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s just—that was a happy thought, and you didn’t look very happy.’ ‘And you, mia bella, look as if you need to stop imagining things and sleep.’ He gathered her closer, so that her head was pillowed on his chest. She could feel the beat of his heart, still slightly uneven, under her cheek. He was not, she thought with satisfaction, as cool as he seemed. And she closed her eyes, smiling. She slept deeply and dreamlessly, and awoke with reluctance. For a moment she lay still, feeling oddly disorientated—as if her faintly aching body no longer belonged to her. And then, like a thunderbolt, her memory returned and she sat up. Oh, God, she thought desperately. I’m in bed with Marco Valante. Except that wasn’t strictly true. Because no sleeping man lay beside her. Nor, she realised, was there any sound from the bathroom, or any sign of his clothes either. She said aloud, ‘He’s gone.’ And her voice sounded small and desolate in the emptiness of the room. She lay down again, pulling the tangled sheet up over her body, aware that her mouth was dry and her heart was thumping. Well, Flora, she told herself. It seems you’ve just had your first one-night stand. Now you have to live with that, and I just hope you think it was worth it. And, to make matters a million times worse, you’ve had unprotected sex with a stranger. A man who’s probably left his notch on bedposts in every major capital of the world, and several small towns as well. And that’s something else you’ll have to deal with. She pressed her clenched fist against her mouth, to stop herself from moaning aloud. She had no one to blame but herself, whatever the consequences. After all, she’d gone out last night undressed to kill, flinging down a challenge to his sexuality that no red-blooded man could have ignored. And all because of a fit of pique. She stopped right there. Because that was too easy—too glib an excuse for what she had done. From that first glimpse of him, Marco had intrigued her. Had tantalised his way into her dreams, sleeping and waking. He himself had been the challenge—and the ultimate prize. And she had hardly been short-changed. In a few brief hours Marco had taught her more about her body and its needs than she could have believed possible. And she would never be the same again. The girl who had had the rest of her life mapped out, with a sensible marriage and a secure future, had disappeared for ever—if she’d even existed at all. What was it Hester had said? ‘Heaven, hell and heartbreak’? Well, she’d had the heaven, and now she was faced with the hell of knowing that, for him, it had been just a casual sexual encounter—another girl in another bed. And, although she was currently feeling numb, she knew the heartbreak would surely follow. And then there was Chris, whom she had betrayed in the worst possible way. I can’t tell him, she thought miserably. I can’t hurt him like that. He doesn’t deserve it. I’ll have to find some other excuse for calling off the wedding. Tell him I’ve been having second thoughts—that I prefer my career—my independence. His mother will be pleased, anyway. She never thought I was good enough for him—always dropping hints about modern girls not knowing how to be homemakers. She groaned, pressing her face into the pillow. No amount of self-justification was ever going to excuse what she’d done. She’d had no right to have dinner with Marco Valante, let alone allow him to make a feast of her in bed. And now he’d walked away without a backward glance, and she knew she had no one to blame but herself. Act like a tart and you’ll get treated like a tart, she thought drearily. She pushed away the encircling sheet and got up. It was the morning after the night before, and she simply had to get on with her life. She would have a bath—wash away the taste and touch of Marco Valante—get dressed, then start to dismantle the arrangements for the wedding that were already in place. Florists, caterers and printers would all have to be notified, and the church cancelled. She would need to make a list, she thought, trailing into the bathroom and turning on the taps in the tub. And somehow she would have to tell her mother, and endure the inevitable wailings and recriminations. On the plus side, she thought wanly, I will not have the nephew from hell following me up the aisle, although I expect that Sandra will have something to say about her little darling’s disappointment. She poured a capful of her favourite bath essence into the steaming water. There was going to be a lot of music to face, she thought frowningly, but only if she chose to do so. She could always take the weeks she’d booked off for her honeymoon and move them up. Get right away for a while and put herself back together again. Some of the clients she’d planned to see might not be too happy if she went missing for a couple of weeks, but Melanie would simply have to make new appointments for them. It’ll be good for her, she thought, testing the water. Show what she’s made of in a crisis. And she was ready to bet that most of the clients would be prepared to wait for her return. Because she was good at her job. I wish, she thought, as she stepped into the tub, that I was equally as good at life. She settled back into the scented water with a little sigh and closed her eyes. She’d made a monumental fool of herself, and taken a terrible risk, but she didn’t have to allow it to cloud her entire future, she told herself firmly. Everyone was surely allowed one serious mistake—and Marco Valante was hers. That was all. She heard a slight sound, and turned her head sharply. Her serious mistake was standing in the bathroom doorway, one shoulder negligently propped against its frame. He was fully dressed, but tieless, and his shirt was open at the throat. He said softly, ‘Buon giorno.’ And began to walk towards her, discarding his jacket as he did so. ‘I thought you would sleep until my return, cara.’ ‘Your return?’ Her voice was a stifled croak. ‘Where have you been?’ ‘Your refrigerator was full of food, but nothing for breakfast, so I went shopping.’ He counted on his fingers. ‘We have fresh rolls, orange juice, cheese and some good ham.’ The green eyes glinted as they surveyed her. ‘All of which we will have—later.’ Flora realised he was rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. He reached down and took the soap from her unresisting hand. ‘Stand up, mia bella,’ he directed quietly. Somehow she found herself mutely obeying, her eyes fixed on his face, aware that her throat had tightened with mingled panic and excitement. Marco lathered his hands with the soap and began to apply the scented foam to her skin, starting with her shoulders and working his way downwards, massaging it into her body very slowly, and very thoroughly. His gaze was reflective—almost dispassionate—as he worked—like a sculptor judging his latest work, she thought confusedly as her senses began to riot. Everywhere he touched her—and he didn’t seem to miss an inch—was tingling and burning. An agonised trembling had ignited deep inside her. Her breasts were aching with desire as his fingers lingered over their rosy tips. She quivered as he moved with exquisite precision down the length of her spine to her rounded buttocks. When he touched her thighs, and the soft curls at their apex, Flora had to bite her lower lip to prevent herself from whimpering out loud. When he’d finished, he took the hand spray from the shower unit and rinsed away the soap, just as carefully. The water droplets felt like needles piercing her over-sensitised skin as they cascaded over her small round breasts, making the nipples stand proud. At last, when she was beginning to think she could bear no more, he turned off the spray and reached to the towel rail for a bath sheet. He took her hand and helped her out of the water, then wrapped the soft towelling round her. ‘Dry yourself, carissima,’ he ordered softly. ‘I would not wish you to catch a chill.’ Chill? Flora thought, as she started, dazedly, to pat herself dry under his unwavering scrutiny. She was already running a high fever. Her legs were shaking so much that she thought she might collapse and her blood was on fire. And he had to know this. When she had finished, she paused, her eyes asking a question. He nodded, as if she had spoken aloud. He took the edges of the bath sheet, using them to pull her gently towards him. His arms enfolded her and his mouth came down on hers in a slow, deep kiss that sent her already reeling senses into free fall. When he raised his head, his own breathing was ragged. He drew the edges of the bath sheet apart and began to kiss her body, his lips drifting soft as thistledown from her throat down to her breasts, then travelling over her ribcage to the faint concavity of her abdomen. He sank down on one knee, his hands holding her hips as the trail of kisses continued downward. When he reached the division of her thighs, and parted them, she gave a little startled cry as she felt his mouth on the burning core of her, the silken eroticism of his tongue as he pleasured her tiny secret bud. She wanted to tell him that he must not do this—that he should stop. But she could not speak. She was conscious of nothing but the exquisite sensations rippling through her as he continued his intimate caress. Every atom of her being was focused almost painfully on her growing delight. And then, almost before she was aware, her body imploded into orgasm, the pulsations so strong she thought she might faint. There were tears running down her face. He wiped them away with the edge of the towel, then picked her up in his arms and carried her towards the door. ‘Where are we going?’ Her voice was a breathless squeak. ‘Back to bed.’ ‘But we were going to have breakfast.’ ‘I think now that is going to be—very much later.’ He bent and kissed her mouth, fiercely, sensually. ‘Don’t you agree, mia cara?’ Flora pressed her lips against the triangle of hair-darkened skin revealed by his unfastened shirt. ‘Yes, Marco.’ Her voice was husky. ‘Oh—yes—please.’ CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_7d3206ec-e324-54ee-a5b2-d1e5ee6ed150) A LONG time later, lying in his arms, Flora said dreamily, ‘I think we’ve missed breakfast—but it could always become lunch.’ Marco tipped up her chin and looked down at her, brows raised austerely. ‘You mean I am not enough for you? You want food as well?’ She gave a soft giggle. ‘I think I need to keep my strength up—if this is how you mean us to spend our time.’ She felt the arm that encircled her harden with sudden tension, and realised, with shock, that she’d spoken as if they had a real relationship. That she’d made unwise assumptions about a future which almost certainly did not exist. She turned away quickly as her face warmed in helpless embarrassment. ‘Anyway—I—I’ll get us something to eat…’ she added with determined brightness. She pushed away the covering sheet, then hesitated as she remembered that her robe was in the bathroom. It was ludicrous, she thought with bewilderment. This was the man with whom she’d been intimately entwined for the best part of twelve hours, who had explored and kissed every inch of her body, and yet, in the space of a drawn breath, everything had changed. And suddenly she was reluctant to walk around naked in front of him. Lack of inhibition was different when it was fuelled by passion. She’d given herself to him again and again in unthinking delight. Learned to bestow pleasure as well as receive it. But now reason had intervened. And it was still nothing more than a one-night stand, no matter how she might try to justify it. There’d been no commitment of any kind between them. It had been—just sex. A transient pleasure. And now the sex was over she felt awkward and bewildered—unsure how to behave. Because Marco, in so many ways, was still a stranger to her, she acknowledged unhappily. Someone who had walked into her life a few days ago and who would soon be leaving in the same casual way. And it was na?ve of her to have supposed—or hoped—that anything that had happened had any real importance in the great scheme of things. As a lover Marco was gifted, patient and imaginative, luring her into areas of sensuousness she had not know existed. But she knew that no amount of pleasure would ever be matched by the pain of watching him leave. It’s so easy for a man, she thought sadly. He can just get dressed and go. Whereas I—I’ve slept with Marco once, and now I want to make him a meal. Next I’ll be wanting to have his baby. Behind her, Marco moved. ‘Is something wrong?’ He brushed his lips gently across the small of her back. ‘You are not having—regrets?’ ‘No—of course not.’ She spoke bravely, not looking at him. ‘I was just wondering—where I’d left my dressing gown.’ She heard the smile in his voice. ‘Does that really matter?’ She said shortly, ‘It does to me.’ There was a silence, then he said slowly, ‘Cara, are you trying to tell me you are—shy?’ She bit her lip. ‘Is that so extraordinary?’ He said, ‘A little, perhaps, considering what you and I were doing to each other a little while ago.’ He paused. ‘Would it make things easier for you if I promised to shut my eyes?’ ‘Yes,’ she agreed with a touch of defiance. ‘Yes, it would.’ He sighed. ‘Just for you, then, mia bella.’ Flora slipped out of bed and made for the door. As she reached it something prompted her to look back over her shoulder. Marco was propped up on an elbow, watching her with undisguised and shameless appreciation. ‘Oh,’ she choked furiously, and flew to the bathroom, followed by his laughter. By the time she had prepared lunch, adding fresh fruit and a dish of black olives to the food he’d provided, and choosing a bottle of wine, she was feeling altogether more composed. While he’d been in the bathroom she’d snatched the opportunity to dress, in a brief blue skirt and white tee shirt, and give her hair a vigorous brushing. She looked different, she realised with a sense of shock as she glanced at herself in the mirror. There was a new glow to her creamy skin, a woman’s shining secrets in her eyes. She was no longer the innocent of twenty-four hours ago, and everything about her proclaimed it. All she needed to do now was develop a persona to go with her new-found sexual sophistication, she thought wryly. Find something hip and flippant to accompany her smile when she waved Marco goodbye. Proving beyond doubt, she hoped, that she’d always known this was a strictly casual encounter. When she was alone she ate at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, but for guests she kept a folding table in the walk-in cupboard in the hall. She’d set this up in the corner of the living room, with the directors’ chairs which accompanied it. She was just opening the wine when Marco came to the door. ‘Bello,’ he approved softly. ‘A feast.’ He indicated the towel draped decorously round his hips. ‘See, I am sparing your blushes, cara.’ Flora bit her lip. ‘You must think I’m awfully stupid…’ ‘You are wrong. I find you a delight.’ He held out a hand. ‘Come to me.’ She went over to him and he drew her close, resting his cheek against the top of her head while she inhaled the clean, fresh scent of his skin. After a moment she stood back, studying a discoloured mark on his shoulder. ‘What’s that?’ He grinned at her. ‘Don’t you remember?’ ‘Oh,’ she said, discomfited. ‘I—I’m sorry.’ ‘Then don’t be. I like my battle trophy—and its memories.’ ‘Is that how you see making love—as a war?’ She laughed, but she felt faintly troubled too. ‘Then who is the victor and who the vanquished?’ He kissed her, his mouth moving on hers with tender warmth. ‘At a moment like this,’ he murmured, ‘it hardly seems to matter.’ He paused, stroking the hair back from her face. ‘And don’t look at me like that, Flora mia,’ he added softly. ‘Or lunch might become dinner.’ Her glance didn’t waver. ‘I wouldn’t mind.’ ‘Then let me be wise for us both.’ His smile was rueful. ‘I think it is time I also put on some clothes.’ He kissed her again, and went soft-footed back to the bedroom. It was a quiet lunch. Marco seemed lost in thought more than once. Or perhaps, thought Flora, he was just exhausted… ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked. ‘Nothing in particular.’ She took a hasty swig of wine. ‘Why?’ ‘Because you are blushing again. I thought it might be—significant.’ ‘Not really.’ Flora fanned herself with her napkin. ‘It’s probably the heat. It’s such a beautiful day.’ She paused. ‘Would you like some more wine?’ ‘No, I thank you.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I must get back to my cousin’s house. And I shall be driving later.’ Oh, Flora thought flatly. So—that was that, after all. And she couldn’t pretend it was a surprise. ‘It would be good to get out of the city,’ he went on. ‘I thought I would hire a car.’ He smiled at her. ‘Perhaps you could suggest a suitable destination.’ She sat rather straighter. ‘I really couldn’t advise you.’ ‘No? You disappoint me.’ ‘I don’t really know your tastes.’ She hesitated. ‘Do you like—looking at things?’ ‘I like to look at you.’ The green eyes met hers with cool directness. ‘As for the rest, I am not a sightseer, but I thought we might find a pleasant hotel in some beautiful part of England and spend the remainder of the weekend together there.’ He paused, running a hand over his chin. ‘I need to shave, and we both have bags to pack. When I return you can tell me where you would like me to take you.’ She said quietly, ‘After paradise, anywhere else will seem rather tame.’ There was an odd silence. Flora saw his mouth tighten, and the green eyes become suddenly remote. It was as if she had made him angry, she thought in bewilderment. But when he spoke his voice was light. ‘You flatter me, carissima. But you should beware of paradise. It can so often conceal a serpent.’ He rose to his feet. ‘I should not be longer than an hour or two.’ He came round the table and dropped a kiss on her hair. ‘Have our route planned.’ There was a nightgown in her drawer, a sheer, lacy thing wrapped in tissue, that she had bought for her honeymoon with Chris. The betrayal was complete now, she thought, as she put it carefully into her weekend case. And the wretchedness of telling Chris would be her punishment. She thought of phoning Hes. You’re a witch, she’d say lightly. You wished it on me and it’s happened. Passion to die for. And then loneliness to last a lifetime. Only she wouldn’t say that. Nor did she make the call. There would be plenty of time for confession in the weeks to come, she thought without joy. But she did not have time to brood because, surprisingly, Marco was back within the hour, driving a low, sleek open-topped sports car. Flora gaped at it. ‘Someone let you hire that?’ she asked incredulously. ‘It belongs to Vittoria,’ he said. ‘She has lent it to me.’ He paused. ‘She also suggested somewhere we might go—unless, of course, you have thought of a place.’ She spread her hands. ‘I’ve been racking my brains, but I so rarely go out of London—except to Surrey, to stay with my mother and stepfather.’ And very occasionally to Essex and Chris’s family, she thought with a pang of guilt. ‘It is called the Aldleigh Manor Hotel,’ he said. ‘Vittoria says it is very comfortable, with beautiful grounds, and wonderful food.’ ‘It sounds perfect,’ she said. ‘Like a dream.’ His brows drew together. ‘You would prefer somewhere else? That’s not a problem. We could tour around, maybe? Take our chances?’ ‘Oh, no,’ Flora said swiftly. ‘Aldleigh Manor sounds really wonderful. But it might be fully booked.’ ‘They have a room for us,’ he said quietly. ‘Overlooking the lake. I must confess I already made the reservation. Although it can always be cancelled if you wish?’ ‘Certainly not.’ Flora threw him a wicked grin. ‘I can’t wait to see it. And if it’s anything short of paradise I shall know who to complain to.’ ‘You’re very quiet,’ she commented as they edged their way out of London. ‘I am concentrating on my driving,’ Marco returned after a pause. ‘Remember that for me the gear shift—the road—everything is on the wrong side. And if I scratch Vittoria’s darling—Madonna!—I’ll be a dead man. And I have people depending on me back in Milan.’ ‘Are accountants really that important?’ she teased. ‘Only when they are as good as I am, mia bella.’ He slanted a grin at her. He really had no need to worry, she thought. He was a marvellous driver, considerate with other traffic, and not using the powerful car as an extension of his virility. All she had to do was sit back and admire his profile, and bask in the envious glances of people toiling along hot pavements. The hotel was important enough to be signposted. ‘Oh,’ Flora said. ‘It has a golf course.’ ‘Well, that need not concern us,’ Marco said, turning the car between tall stone gateposts. ‘Unless you wish to hire clubs and play?’ ‘No, thanks,’ she said hastily. It was just a reminder of Chris that she didn’t need, she thought, guilt piling in again. Well, perhaps she could find some reason to tell Marco she didn’t like the place, and persuade him to drive somewhere else. But it was difficult to know what she could possibly object to, she thought, as the building itself came into view from the long curving drive. It was three storeys high, its grey stones lit by the late afternoon sun which gave the mullioned windows a diamond sparkle. The commanding entrance was made more welcoming by the urns of bright flowers which flanked it. As Marco drew into one of the parking spaces allotted to hotel guests a porter instantly emerged to take their bags. They were shown into a vast foyer, made cool by arrangements of tall green plants and dominated by a massive central staircase. Through an open door Flora could see people sitting in a pretty lounge, enjoying afternoon tea. She touched Marco’s arm. ‘That looks nice.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’ll have some sent up to our room. Wait for me here, cara, while I register.’ As he went to the desk Flora took off the scarf she’d been wearing and shook her hair free. She looked around her, noting where the lifts were and spotting discreet signs indicating the cocktail bar, the dining room and the leisure club. According to the brochure that she picked up from a side table, as well as an outdoor swimming pool the Manor boasted an indoor pool, together with a gymnasium and a sauna in its basement. Perhaps I can interest Marco in some other form of exercise, she thought, suppressing a grin. Or, on second thoughts, perhaps not… She heard her name spoken, and turned, the smile freezing on her lips as she did so. Because it wasn’t Marco with the key, as she’d expected. It was Chris. Standing there in front of her with three other men, all carrying golf bags. Looking astonished, and not altogether pleased. ‘Flora,’ he repeated. ‘What on earth are you doing here? How did you find me? Is something wrong?’ ‘No, nothing.’ Or everything, she thought desperately. ‘I didn’t know you were here.’ She gave a wild, bright smile. ‘But I’m not actually staying. So, please, don’t let me interfere with your game. Do go on, and I—I’ll see you on Monday.’ ‘Oh, we’ve finished for the day,’ Chris said. ‘Not a bad couple of rounds at all. But you haven’t met the lads. Jack—Barry—Neil, this is my fianc?e, Flora Graham, who seems to be just passing through for some reason.’ And he laughed with a kind of boisterous unease. There was a chorus of greeting which faded into a bewildered silence, and Flora realised, horrified, that she’d actually taken a step backwards. ‘So nice to see you all,’ she babbled. ‘But I really must be going.’ If I can just get outside and find the car I can wait in it. Tell Marco I can’t stay… She turned to flee, and cannoned straight into Marco himself. He steadied her, hands on her shoulders, halting her flight. ‘You are going in the wrong direction, carissima.’ He sounded amused, every word falling on her ears with total clarity. ‘The lift is over there, and we are on the first floor—in the bridal suite, no less.’ He slid his arm round her waist and pulled her close. His voice became lower, more intimate. ‘I have asked them to send up your tea, and some champagne for us, so that we can—relax before dinner. Would you like that, my sweet one?’ The silence seemed to stretch out until doom. Except that doom would have been preferable, Flora thought. She felt as if she was watching everything from a distance—Chris looking stunned, with his mouth open and his face brick-red—his companions exchanging appalled glances and trying to edge away—and Marco, his hand resting on her hip in unquestioned possession, smiling like a fallen angel. At last, ‘Who are you?’ Chris burst out hoarsely. ‘And what the hell are you doing with my fianc?e?’ Marco looked in his direction for the first time, his glance icy and contemptuous. And totally unwavering. He said, ‘I am Marco Valante, signore, and I am Flora’s lover. Is there anything more you wish to ask me?’ Flora saw Chris’s mouth move, and realised he was silently repeating the name to himself. The angry colour had faded from his face and he was suddenly as white as a sheet. There was tension in the air, harsh, almost tangible, filling the shaken silence. ‘No,’ Chris muttered at last. ‘No, there’s nothing.’ And, without looking at Flora again, he turned and stumbled away, followed by his embarrassed companions. ‘I think, mia bella,’ Marco said softly, ‘that your engagement is at an end.’ ‘You know the old clich? about praying for the floor to open and swallow you?’ Flora threw a sodden tissue into the wastebin and pulled another from the box. ‘Well, it’s all true, Hes. I just wanted to disappear and never be found again.’ ‘Yet once again the floor remained intact,’ said Hester. ‘So what did you do? Go for the sympathy vote and throw up over Chris’s shoes?’ ‘It’s not funny.’ Flora sent her a piteous look. ‘Hes, it was the worst moment of my life, bar none.’ Twenty-four hours had passed, and they were in Flora’s sitting room. Flora was stretched out on the sofa and Hester was standing by the window, glass of wine in hand. She nodded. ‘I believe you.’ She whistled. ‘Boy, when you fall off the wagon, Flo, you do it in spectacular style, I’ll grant you that. No half-measures for our girl. So what happened next? I presume Chris tried to kill him?’ ‘No.’ Flora shook her head drearily. ‘He just stood there, looking at Marco as if he’d seen a ghost—or his worst nightmare. And then—he walked away.’ Hester frowned. ‘You mean he didn’t even take a swing at him? I’m not pro-violence, but under the circumstances…’ ‘Nothing,’ Flora said tonelessly. ‘And he didn’t look at me, or say one word.’ Hester grimaced. ‘Probably didn’t trust himself.’ ‘I can hardly blame him for that,’ Flora sighed. ‘I can’t forgive myself for the way I’ve treated him.’ ‘Let’s talk some sense here.’ Hester walked over, refilled her glass, then resumed her station at the window. ‘I never felt that you and Chris were the couple of the year. You met and liked each other, and it—drifted from there.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe you’d both reached a stage where marriage seemed a good idea, and you were content to settle for just all right rather than terrific. It happens a lot, and in a lot of cases it probably works perfectly. ‘But not for you, Flo. That red hair of yours gives you away. You’re really an all or nothing girl, and sooner or later you’d have realised that. It’s much better that it should happen now, before the wedding, even if the endgame was a bit drastic. But you didn’t plan it that way, so stop beating yourself over the head. Ultimately it’s all for the best. ‘And, if it comes to that,’ she added, frowning, ‘why wasn’t he here seducing you himself? If he hadn’t been off with the lads, this Italian guy wouldn’t have been able to get to first base with you.’ ‘We weren’t joined at the wrist,’ Flora objected. ‘Or anywhere else, I gather,’ Hester said drily. She paused. ‘Have you heard from Chris since it happened?’ ‘No,’ Flora said bitterly. ‘But I’ve had calls from practically all our families and friends. Clearly Chris recovered enough to get on the phone from the hotel and spread the bad word about me. By the time I got back here the answer-machine was practically bursting into flames. My mother—his mother—even my bloody stepsister banging on about little Harry’s disappointment over the loss of his pageboy role.’ ‘Nightmare stuff,’ said Hes. ‘And universal condemnation, I suppose?’ Flora shrugged. ‘My mother’s disowned me completely. Says I’ve brought disgrace on the entire family and she’ll never be able to hold her head up at the bridge club again. And, according to Chris’s mother, in more right-thinking times I’d have been whipped at the cart’s tail.’ ‘Prior to being stoned to death, I suppose,’ Hester said acidly. ‘Charming woman. Pity there isn’t a public hangman any more. She’d have been ideal. Well, at least you’ve escaped having her as a mother-in-law. That’s one bright spot amid the encircling gloom.’ She paused, then said carefully, ‘And what about your Signor Valante? Has he been in touch since yesterday?’ ‘He drove me back here. I don’t think either of us said a word. He brought in my bag and said he regretted the embarrassment he had caused me. And went.’ Flora made a brave attempt at a smile. ‘End of story.’ ‘Presumably because he’s hideously embarrassed himself.’ Hester sighed. ‘After all, it was the most appalling coincidence to choose that hotel out of all the others you could have gone to.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘Whose decision was that, by the way?’ ‘It was Marco’s suggestion, but he didn’t pressure me into it. He said we could take pot luck somewhere else, if I wanted.’ Flora shook her head. ‘I should have obeyed my instincts and taken him at his word. Only Aldleigh Manor did sound lovely.’ ‘Wonderful,’ Hester agreed drily. ‘Just the place to meet one’s friends.’ ‘Oh, don’t.’ Flora blew her nose, destroying another tissue. ‘Anyway, it happened, and it’s over. And Marco’s gone. I just hope I never have to set eyes on him again,’ she added, her voice cracking in the middle. ‘Pity,’ said Hester. ‘I’d have liked to meet the man who finally made you into a woman. Because under all the woe, my lamb, there’s a new light burning.’ She gave her friend a worldly look. ‘Nice, was it?’ ‘I don’t want to discuss it.’ Flora crunched another tissue in her hand. ‘That good, eh?’ Hester said reflectively. ‘So what are your immediate plans, once you’re over your crying jag?’ ‘I’ve got to get away for a while. I’d already been considering it, and now I’m sure. I feel bad enough about all this without having to field the angry phone calls,’ she added, shuddering. ‘I need to get myself back on track—somehow.’ ‘And you really don’t want to see Marco Valante again?’ ‘Never—ever.’ ‘That’s tough.’ Hester came away from the window. ‘Because he’s outside, just getting out of a car.’ ‘Oh, God.’ Flora scrubbed at her tearstained face. ‘Don’t let him in.’ ‘Nonsense.’ Hester grinned at her as she went into the hall to answer the doorbell. ‘I want to meet him, if you don’t. I might even shake hands with him for his sterling efforts on behalf of repressed womanhood.’ ‘Hester!’ Flora shrieked, but it was too late. The front door was being opened and there was a murmur of voices in the hall. A moment later, Hester returned, her face wearing a faintly stunned expression. ‘You have a visitor,’ she said, standing aside to allow Marco to precede her into the room. ‘And I have places to go and things to do, so I’m sure I leave you in good hands.’ ‘No—please. There’s no need…’ Flora began desperately, but Hester simply blew her a kiss, added an enigmatic wink, and departed. Leaving Flora staring at Marco across the back of the sofa. She was horribly conscious of how she must look, in ancient jeans and a sweatshirt, her hair pulled back carelessly into a rubber band, her face pale without the camouflage of cosmetics, eyes reddened through weeping. He, on the other hand, was immaculate, in another elegant suit, but his usual cool assurance was not as much in evidence. There was an odd tension about him, she realised. There were signs of strain in his face, the skin stretched tautly across the high cheekbones, and his eyes were watchful, even wary, as they studied her. And yet, in spite of everything, she felt the familiar, shaming clench of excitement deep within her at the sight of him. The uncontrollable twist of yearning that she was unable to deny. She felt more tears welling up suddenly—spilling over. He made a small, harsh sound in his throat and walked round the sofa to sit beside her. He took a spotless handkerchief from his pocket and began to dry her face, his touch gentle but impersonal. When she was calm again he studied her gravely for a long moment. ‘My poor little one,’ he said quietly. ‘Have you discovered you cared for him more than you knew?’ She shook her head. ‘I wish I could say that,’ she said huskily. ‘But it wouldn’t be true. I—I would have broken off the engagement anyway, but I never meant it to happen like that. To publicly humiliate him in front of his friends.’ ‘Then why are you crying?’ Because, she cried out in her heart, I thought I would never see you again. Because I’ve just realised that, for me, it was never just sex. That, God help me, I’ve fallen in love with you. But I know you don’t feel the same, so this has to be a secret I can never share—with anyone. She gave a wavering smile. ‘Perhaps because I’ve never had so many people concertedly angry with me before.’ She swallowed. ‘The general view is that I’ve done an unforgivable thing.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘That is a harsh judgement,’ he said at last. ‘Engagements are broken every day. ‘But not by me,’ she said. ‘I—I’ve always been so—well-behaved. And now I’m a bad lot. A scarlet woman, no less.’ He said her name, on a shaken breath, drawing her into his arms and holding her close. She flattened her hands against the breast of his shirt, absorbing the comforting warmth of his body, feeling the beat of his heart under her palm. Content, she realised, just to be near him. And how pathetic was that? He took the band from her hair, running his fingers through the silky waves to free them, lingering over the contact. She could sense the pent-up longing in his touch, and her heart leapt. ‘Your friend told me you are planning to go away for a while,’ he said at last. ‘Is that true?’ ‘Yes.’ She bit her lip. ‘I know I’m being a wimp, but Chris seems to have told everyone about us, and I’d rather not face the music for a while.’ ‘Have you decided where to go?’ ‘Not yet.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t seem capable of active planning at the moment.’ ‘But your passport is in order?’ ‘Yes, of course.’ ‘Then that makes it simple,’ he said. ‘I shall take you back to Italy with me.’ Her lips parted in a soundless gasp. She stared up at him. ‘You—can’t be serious.’ ‘Why not?’ He shrugged. ‘I have to return there, and you need to escape. It solves several problems.’ And creates a hundred others. She thought it, but did not say it. ‘Won’t your family—your friends—find it—odd?’ ‘Why should they? I shall take you to the castello. I often have friends staying with me there.’ In translation, the castello was where he took his women, she told herself with a pang. She would be just another in a long line. She ought to apply some belated common sense and return a polite but firm refusal, and she knew it. But he was leaving soon, and she wasn’t sure that she could bear knowing this was the last time she would be in his arms, breathing the warm masculine scent of him, or feeling his lips touching hers. She thought in agony, I can’t let him go. I can’t… She said slowly, ‘Marco—why do you want me with you?’ He put his lips to the agitated pulse in her throat. ‘You have a short memory, mia cara.’ The smile was back in his voice. That husky, sensuous note which sent her blood racing. ‘Do you really not know?’ It was the answer she’d expected, so there was no point in regret or recrimination. Heaven, she thought. Hell—and now heartbreak. Stark and inevitable, whether she stayed or went. But at least he would be hers—for a little while longer. On a little whisper, she said, ‘Do you think this is wise?’ ‘Ah, mia bella.’ There was an odd note in his voice that was almost like sadness. ‘I think it is too late for wisdom.’ ‘Yes,’ she said, sighing. ‘Perhaps so.’ She tried to smile. ‘In that case the answer’s yes. I—I’ll go with you, Marco.’ He took her hand and kissed it, then laid it against his cheek, his eyes closed, his face wrenched suddenly by some emotion that she did not understand. But instinct told her it had nothing to do with happiness. And she thought, Heaven help us both. CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_fc843567-0885-500a-b365-e7fbb8e68a65) THEY flew to Italy three days later. Flora had hardly had time to draw breath, let alone seriously question what she was doing. She’d managed to reschedule the majority of her appointments. Only a few had taken umbrage and declared they would approach another company. So it seemed she would have a career to come back to when the bubble burst. As it surely would. And, after an initial panic, Melanie had decided to enjoy being in charge for a short time, and was blooming under her new responsibilities. One of the tasks Flora had considered essential had been to collect her engagement ring from the jeweller’s and have it messengered over to Chris. So far he’d made no attempt to contact her, either at home or work, and she’d been thankful. But after that she’d expected an angry response, and had been surprised and relieved when there was only continuing silence. Her mother, of course, had not been so reticent. Flora had called her reluctantly, to explain why she would not be available for the next couple of weeks, and had walked into another barrage of criticism and recrimination. She was an embarrassment. She was ungrateful. She’d caused untold trouble and inconvenience over the wedding arrangements. ‘And now you’re actually going to Italy with this man.’ Mrs Hunt’s voice rose shrilly. ‘Have you lost all sense of decency? My God, Flora, you know nothing about him. Why, he could be in the Mafia!’ Flora sighed. ‘I don’t think so, Mother,’ she said with a touch of weariness. ‘He’s an accountant.’ ‘Well, that means nothing,’ her mother said peevishly. ‘They need people like him to—launder their money. I can’t believe your behaviour, Flora,’ she added. ‘First you indulge in a sordid affair, and hurt your fianc? deeply. Now you could be mixing with criminals. You’ve disgraced us all, and I wash my hands of you.’ Flora bit her lip. ‘Goodbye, Mother.’ She spoke with resignation. ‘I’ll call you when I come back.’ ‘If you come back,’ Mrs Hunt said ominously. I’m glad I didn’t mention Marco worked for a pharmaceutical outfit, Flora thought as she put the phone down, or she’d have said he was a drug dealer. She decided to cheer herself with some retail therapy. However this stay in Italy turned out, it would be her first holiday in a considerable while. She had been too busy establishing her business to have time for overseas breaks. For her honeymoon, of course, she’d have made an exception, she thought with a wintry smile. But her wardrobe was seriously short of leisure gear, and she made a lightning raid on Kensington High Street to see what was available. There was some glamorous swimwear on offer, and she took her pick, choosing filmy sarongs and overshirts to go with her selection. She packed with discrimination, reminding herself that she was packing for two weeks’ holiday only—not a lifetime. Now that the moment of departure was approaching, her nerves were bunching into knots. She was stingingly aware that she’d hardly seen anything of Marco in the past forty-eight hours, although he had telephoned her several times. But he hadn’t been round in person and there’d been no suggestion that he wished to spend the night with her. And she missed him like hell. All these years, she reflected wryly, she’d slept alone in her own bed, tranquil and untroubled. Now, after those few brief hours in his arms, she was restless, forever reaching for him in the darkness and finding only an empty space beside her. The words Will I see you tonight? had trembled on her lips more than once as they’d spoken on the phone, but she hadn’t dared utter them. Perhaps he was having serious second thoughts, she mused, wincing, and she would get a last-minute phone call making an excuse to withdraw his invitation. If so, she decided proudly, she would be round to the nearest travel agent for a last-minute deal—anywhere but Italy. She could not conceal her shock, however, when Marco arrived to collect her at the appointed time in a chauffeur driven car. ‘You like to travel in style,’ she commented, brows delicately lifted, as she watched the driver load her one modest case into the boot. ‘So do you, cara.’ Marco looked her over slowly, with an undisguised appreciation that played havoc with her pulses. She was wearing a knee-length cream skirt, with a matching round-necked top in a silky fabric and a dark green linen jacket. She had her hair trimmed, and layered slightly too, so that it clung more smoothly to the shape of her head. She might be trembling inside, but on the surface she looked confident—impeccable. She tilted her chin, offering him a frankly sultry smile. ‘I wonder what other surprises you have in store for me, signore.’ ‘Behave yourself, mia bella,’ he warned softly. ‘We have a plane to catch.’ And not just any old plane, Flora discovered. After being ushered with due deference into the VIP lounge at the airport, she found herself subsequently seated in the first-class area of the aircraft, with an attentive stewardess offering champagne. She said shakily, ‘Is this a company perk? They must think very highly of you.’ ‘I am revered,’ Marco returned solemnly, but Flora had seen the flicker of amusement in his eyes and drew a deep breath. ‘Marco,’ she said, ‘who actually owns Altimazza?’ He smiled ruefully. ‘The Valante family, cara, and I am the chairman and principal shareholder.’ For a moment indignation held her mute, then she rallied. ‘Then why have you been making a fool of me—letting me think you were just an employee—an accountant?’ ‘You didn’t request to see my r?sum?, Flora mia.’ He shrugged. ‘And I am a qualified accountant. For the record, I have also studied law and business management,’ he added. ‘If you had asked, I would have told you.’ Wryly, he surveyed her flushed, mutinous face. ‘Does it really make such a difference? We are both still the same people.’ ‘How can you say that?’ Her voice shook a little. ‘From the first you must have been laughing at me…’ ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘That was never true—believe me.’ ‘Then what is the truth?’ Flora asked stormily. ‘That it amused you to play the prince in disguise, with me as some bloody Cinderella?’ His mouth tightened. ‘I hardly found you in rags. But I admit that perhaps I had a foolish wish to be wanted for myself. It has not always been so in the past.’ ‘Oh, dear.’ Her voice bit. ‘You poor rich man. I bet you didn’t turn down many of the offers, for all that.’ ‘What do you expect me to say?’ Marco threw back at her. ‘That I lived a celibate life while I was waiting for you? I will not insult you by such a pretence.’ It was her turn to shrug. ‘What’s one more among so many?’ ‘Why are you so angry?’ he asked curiously. ‘Because I feel stupid,’ she said. ‘And because I wonder what else you’ve been hiding.’ ‘One thing I never hid,’ he said quietly. ‘That I wanted you from the moment I saw you. And the only reason you are here at this moment is because we both wished it. And, for me, nothing has changed.’ He paused. ‘However, I shall not force you to stay,’ he added levelly. ‘If it has become impossible for you to remain with me then I can arrange to have you flown anywhere else in the world you wish to go. The choice is yours, carissima.’ For a long moment she was silent, as her head and her heart fought a short, fierce battle. Then she said in a stifled voice, ‘There’s nowhere else in the world I wish to go—and you know it.’ ‘Ah, dolcezza mia,’ he said softly. ‘Sometimes you tear me apart.’ She sat beside him, her hand clasped in his, and saw the envy in the eyes of the pretty girls who waited on them. Who thought she’d won the jackpot—sexually, as well as in money terms. And she smiled back, and thanked them for the lunch and hot towels, because they might be right. Because for the next two weeks she was going to be spoiled and cosseted by day, and taken to heaven each night. And then it would be over. Midnight would strike and Cinders would be back in the real world. But, for now, she was having a wonderful time—of course she was—with even better to come. And she had no illusions—no crazy na?ve dreams about the possibility of a future with the man at her side. Or not any longer, anyway, she amended swiftly. Her time with him was finite, and she accepted that. So, there was no need for this niggling feeling of unease. No need at all. And if I say it often enough, she thought, I may even begin to believe it. But no uncertainty could cloud her first view of San Silvestro. As the helicopter began its descent Flora saw the sun-baked stones of the castello, gleaming pink, grey and cream in the afternoon light as it reared up from the riot of greenery which surrounded it. That first heart-stopping glimpse showed her a cluster of buildings, roofed in faded terracotta and surmounted by a square tower. Its clifftop setting had clearly been chosen with an arrogant eye for impact, and it lay, like a watchful lion, overlooking the azure sea. For Flora, it was a fairytale image—a vision of Renaissance power—but for the man beside her, she realised, it was home. Emphasising the very different worlds they inhabited, she thought with sudden bleakness, picking out the turquoise shimmer of a swimming pool. As the helicopter landed on a flat sweep of lawn at the rear of the castello, Flora could see people descending the steps from the imposing terrace and coming to meet them. Her stomach clenched in swift nervousness. The man leading the charge was tall, with silver hair. He was dressed in dark trousers and a discreet grey jacket, and the austerity of his features was relieved by a smile of sheer delight. That must be Alfredo, Flora thought, remembering what Marco had been saying on the flight down. ‘He is my maggiordomo, and Marta, his wife, is the housekeeper,’ he’d told her. ‘Alfredo’s father worked for my grandfather, so he was born at the castello, like myself, and loves it as much.’ She found herself swallowing as Marco helped her alight from the helicopter, maintaining his firm grip on her hand. ‘Avanti,’ he said briskly, and they set off across the lawn towards the welcoming party, Flora struggling to match his long-legged stride. After the warmth of his greeting for his master, Flora found Alfredo’s calm correctness towards herself slightly daunting. She was also aware of the shrewdly assessing glances being directed at her by the rest of the staff as they were formally presented to her. ‘This is Ninetta, signorina.’ Alfredo indicated a plump, pretty girl in a dark dress and white apron. ‘She will unpack for you, and attend you during your time with us.’ ‘Grazie,’ Flora murmured, wryly reviewing the modest contents of her luggage. Alfredo gave a stately inclination of the head. ‘So, if you will follow me, signorina, I will show you to your room.’ As he went past Marco spoke to him softly and briefly in his own language. Just for a second the impassive mask slipped, and the major-domo let surprise show. But he recovered instantly, murmuring a respectful, ‘Si, signore, naturalamente,’ as he set off for the house, snapping his fingers at Ninetta to pick up Flora’s case. Inside the castello, Flora received a whirlwind impression of large rooms with tiled floors, low ceilings and frescoed walls. Then she was ascending a wide stone staircase, walking along a gallery, navigating a long corridor and climbing another short flight of stone steps. Alfredo opened the double doors at the top and bowed her into the room. Its square shape told her instantly that she was in the tower of the castello, and probably its oldest part, too. She stared round her, her jaw dropping at the subdued magnificence of the tapestry-hung walls and vast canopied bed. There was little furniture, but the few pieces were clearly very old and valuable, and the ancient carpet spread on the gleaming wood floor was possibly priceless. There were deep cushioned seats in the window embrasures, and on the wall opposite the bed long glass doors had been fitted into the stone, giving access to a balcony with a wrought-iron rail and a stunning view over the sea. Alfredo, observing her reaction with discreet satisfaction, pointed to a door in the corner of the room. ‘That is the signore’s dressing room.’ He opened another door in the opposite corner. ‘And here—the bathroom, signorina.’ Peeping past him, Flora saw it contained a sunken bath as well as an imposing circular shower cubicle. She said quietly, ‘It’s all—so beautiful. I can hardly believe I’m not dreaming.’ He bowed politely. ‘Please tell Ninetta if there is anything you need, signorina.’ While the maid dealt speedily with the contents of her case Flora opened the balcony doors and went outside. Below her was a tangle of trees, the silvery shimmer of olives punctuated by the deep green of cypresses standing like tall sentinels, and she could see amongst them the paler line of a track going down towards the sea. The air was warm, and heavy with the scent of flowers and the hum of insects. Slowly, Flora felt herself begin to relax. When you’re out of your depth—float, she told herself. So when Marco came to stand behind her, and slid his arms round her waist, she leaned back in his embrace, smiling as his lips found the leaping pulse in her throat. ‘Do you think you can like it here?’ he whispered against her ear. ‘It’s really heaven on earth,’ Flora returned softly. ‘How can you bear to be away from it?’ ‘We all have work—other duties.’ He paused. ‘Sometimes they take us to places where we would rather not be.’ She pointed. ‘Is that the path you used to take to the beach—you and Vittoria?’ ‘You remember that?’ He sounded faintly surprised. ‘Of course.’ I remember, she thought, every word you’ve ever said to me. ‘Will you show it to me?’ ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you everywhere and everything. But later, mia cara.’ His hands lifted, cupping her breasts. ‘At the moment I have—other priorities.’ He drew her back into the shaded quiet of the room and she went unresistingly, raising her mouth to his. As their lips met everything changed. Suddenly his kiss was a hunger—the fierce, driving need of a starving man. Gasping, Flora responded, her senses going wild under the onslaught. They swayed together, as if caught in a storm wind. She felt his hands seeking her, running over her breasts, hips and thighs with a kind of desperation through the thin layer of clothing as his kiss deepened almost savagely. At last he lifted his head, staring down into her flushed face, his eyes glittering like emeralds. She heard herself say his name on a husky, aching sigh of pure longing. Roughly Marco pushed the jacket from her shoulders, tugged at the zip of her skirt, dragging the loosened cloth down over her hips, lifting her free of it. There was no sound in the room but the hoarse raggedness of their breathing and the rustle of clothing ruthlessly pulled apart and discarded. Marco sank down to the floor, taking her with him. As he moved over her, her body opened for him in a demand as fierce as his own. It was not a gentle mating. Their mutual desire was too wild—too urgent for that. Their hands and mouths clung, tore, ravaged, as their bodies fought their way to the waiting glory. It was upon them almost before they knew it. Flora cried out half in exhilaration, half in fear as she felt herself wrenched apart in a pleasure so dark and soaring that she thought she might die. Almost fainting, she heard Marco crying out in an anguish of delight as he reached his own climax. Afterwards she lay, supine, feeling the beloved weight of his head on her breasts, his arm across her body, his hand curved possessively round her hip. Lay very still, incapable of movement, speech or even thought. Eventually it was Marco who stirred first. He raised himself and looked down at her, a sheen of moisture still clinging to his skin, his eyes remorseful. ‘Did I hurt you?’ he whispered. ‘Tell me the truth, my sweet one, my heart.’ She smiled up at him, slowly, languorously, her lashes veiling her eyes. ‘I don’t remember,’ she told him softly, her arms lifting to draw him down again. ‘And I certainly don’t care,’ she added as her lips parted for his kiss. After a while she said, ‘Won’t everyone be wondering where we are?’ ‘They are not paid to wonder,’ Marco said lazily, his hand stroking her arm. She gasped. ‘Aren’t you the autocrat? You just take all this for granted—don’t you?’ ‘No, mia bella. I take nothing for granted. But I agree we cannot spend the rest of our lives here on the floor.’ He got to his feet, pulling her up with him. ‘We’ll take a shower, then I’ll show you the way down to the beach.’ ‘What about our clothes?’ Flora looked with dismay at the crumpled garments strewn across the carpet. ‘Leave them. They will be attended to.’ Marco swept her briskly into the bathroom. It seemed strange to share the shower with him. To see her toiletries set out on the marble top beside his. To know that her clothes were hanging beside his and laid away in drawers in his dressing room. She had never known this level of intimacy with anyone before, she realised blankly. Even when she’d shared a flat with two other girls she’d had her own room. Up to now she’d kept her space inviolate—in more ways than one, she thought wryly, remembering the pristine white bedroom in London. And then Marco had invaded her life, overturning all the careful structures and beliefs that she’d built up. Taking her to another dimension. But only on a temporary basis, she reminded herself, pulling on a black bikini and covering it with a black and white voile shirt. And, she thought, thrusting sun oil and dark glasses into her pale straw shoulder bag, she must never let herself forget that. The grounds of the castello were a riot of blossom. As they made their way down the path Flora was assailed by scent and colour on all sides. Roses hung in a lovely tangle over stone walls and the stumps of trees, studded by the paler shades of camellias. Terracotta urns, heavy with pelargoniums, marked each bend in the track, which occasionally became shallow stone steps. At one point their way was blocked by a tall wrought-iron gate. ‘My grandfather had it put there when I was a small child,’ Marco explained, releasing the catch. ‘He wanted to make sure I never went down to the beach to swim unsupervised.’ ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘And did it work?’ ‘No.’ He slanted a grin at her, and for a moment she glimpsed the boy he’d once been. Her heart twisted inside her. The cove was bigger than she’d expected. At one end there was a boathouse, and a small landing stage, at the other, separated by a crescent of pale sand, was a platform of flat rock. ‘You can dive from that rock,’ Marco said. ‘The beach shelves quickly and very deeply. It is easy to get out of one’s depth.’ She thought, I’m out of my depth now—and drowning. Aloud, she said, ‘Then I’ll have to be careful.’ There were sun loungers on the sand, two of them, under a large striped umbrella. And under the shadow of the cliff was a small pavilion painted pale blue, with a pretty domed roof. ‘It has changing rooms and a shower,’ Marco explained, as if it was all a matter of course. ‘Also a refrigerator with cold drinks.’ ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Naturally it would have.’ His brows lifted. ‘You disapprove?’ ‘No.’ She pulled a face. ‘I was just thinking of the poor souls who have to schlep down here to arrange the sun beds and refill the fridge.’ ‘They provide a service for which they are well paid,’ he said, after a pause, adding drily, ‘As you do yourself, mia cara.’ He gave her a meditative look. ‘Would you prefer me if I lived in a city flat without air-conditioning and cooked for myself?’ ‘No.’ Her tone was defensive. She gestured wildly around her. ‘I’m just not prepared for—all this.’ ‘I hoped San Silvestro would please you.’ ‘It does. It’s unbelievably beautiful and I’m totally knocked out by it. But I’m Flora Graham, and I do live in the city, without air-conditioning, and I do my own cooking—and I don’t know what I’m doing here.’ ‘You are here because I asked you, Flora mia. Because I wanted you to spend some time with me in a place that I love.’ He stripped off the shirt he was wearing and held out his hand to her. ‘Now, let us go for a swim.’ The water felt like warm satin against her skin. She swam, then floated for a while, looking up at the unsullied blue of the sky, then swam again, making her way over to the rocks. She clambered up on to one of them and perched there, wringing the water out of her hair. After a few moments Marco joined her, bringing the sun oil with him. ‘You must use this, cara, or you will burn.’ She applied the fragrant oil to her arms and legs, then handed him the bottle. ‘Do my back for me, please?’ He dropped a kiss on her warm shoulder. ‘The pleasure will be all mine,’ he assured her softly. He undid the clip of her bikini top, pushing away the straps, and began to rub the oil into her skin with deft, light strokes. She moved luxuriously under his touch, lifting her face to the sun, smiling when his hands moved to her uncovered breasts. Then felt him halt, tensing suddenly. ‘Don’t stop,’ Flora whispered protestingly, teasingly. ‘Listen.’ His tone was imperative. Mystified she obeyed, and heard the throb of an approaching engine. Next moment a boat, low, sleek and powerful, appeared round the headland, a solitary figure at its wheel. Flora saw an arm lifted in greeting, then the boat turned into the cove, heading for the landing stage. Marco said something quiet, grim, and probably obscene under his breath. Then, ‘Cover yourself, cara,’ he ordered. Flora retrieved her bikini top and he clipped it swiftly into place. By the time they had clambered down from the rocks the boat had come to rest and its occupant was on the landing stage, making it secure. He was of medium height, and stockily built, with a coarsely handsome face. He was wearing minuscule shorts and a striped top, and he strutted towards them, his full mouth grinning broadly. ‘Ciao, Marco. Come va?’ He burst into a flood of Italian, his bold eyes raking Flora as he did so. ‘Tonio,’ Marco acknowledged coolly, his fingers closing round Flora’s. A gesture not lost on the newcomer. ‘Ciao, bella. Come ti chiami?’ Flora lifted her chin. ‘I’m sorry, signore, but I don’t speak your language.’ There was an odd silence. Then, ‘Inglesa, eh?’ their visitor said musingly. ‘Well, well.’ The black eyes surveyed her unwinkingly. ‘And what is your name, bella ragazza?’ ‘This is Flora Graham,’ Marco intervened coldly. ‘Flora, allow me to present Antonio Baressi.’ ‘But you must call me Tonio.’ He gave her another lingering smile, then turned to Marco. ‘What a wonderful surprise to find you here, my friend. I thought, after your successful mission, you would be keen to get back to your desk in Milan. Instead you are entertaining a charming guest. Bravo.’ Marco’s mouth tightened. ‘What are you doing here, Tonio?’ ‘Visiting Zia Paolina, naturally.’ He allowed a pause, then smote a fist theatrically against his forehead. ‘But of course—you did not realise she was in residence. She will be fascinated to know that you are at the castello. May I take some message from you?’ On the surface he was all smiles, and eagerness to please, but Flora wasn’t deceived. There was something simmering in the air, here, a tension that was almost tangible. ‘Thank you,’ Marco said with cool civility. ‘But I shall make a point of contacting her myself.’ Tonio turned to Flora. ‘My aunt is Marco’s madrina—his godmother,’ he explained. ‘It is a special relationship, you understand. Since the sad death of his parents they have always been close.’ The black eyes glittered jovially at her. ‘But I am sure he has already told you this.’ Flora murmured something polite and noncommittal. The sun was blazingly hot, but she felt a faint chill, as if cold fingers had been laid along her spine, and found herself moving almost unconsciously slightly closer to Marco. ‘You must bring Signorina Flora to meet Zia Paolina,’ Tonio went on. ‘She will be enchanted—and Ottavia, too, naturalamente.’ He dropped the name like a stone into a pool, then gave them an insinuating glance. ‘Unless, of course, you would prefer to be alone.’ ‘Si,’ Marco said softly, his hand tightening round Flora’s. ‘I think so.’ Tonio shrugged. ‘How well I understand. In your shoes I would do the same.’ He kissed the tips of his fingers, accompanying the gesture with a slight leer. ‘You are a fortunate man, compagno, so why waste valuable time paying visits?’ Marco said, very softly, ‘Or receiving them…’ ‘Ah.’ The other’s smile widened. ‘A hint to be gone. You wish to enjoy each other’s company undisturbed. Si, capisce. Arrivederci, signorina. I hope we meet again.’ That, thought Flora, is the last thing I want. But she forced a smile. ‘Thank you.’ As they stood, watching the boat heading out to sea again, she stole a glance at Marco, aware of him rigid beside her, his face expressionless. She said, quietly and clearly, ‘What a squalid little man.’ There was a silence, then she felt him relax slightly. He turned to her, his smile rueful. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘And today he was relatively well-behaved.’ She hesitated. ‘We don’t—have to see him again, do we?’ ‘I hope not.’ Marco’s mouth tightened. ‘But, as you see, he does not always wait for an invitation.’ She said slowly, ‘He’d need a hide like a rhinoceros to come back. You were hardly welcoming.’ ‘I have my reasons.’ She bit her lip. ‘Are you going to tell me what they are?’ ‘Perhaps one day,’ he said, after a silence. ‘But not now. Not yet.’ He moved his shoulders briefly, almost irritably, as if shaking off some burden. ‘Do you wish to swim again, cara, or shall we go back to the house? Has that fool spoiled the afternoon for you?’ ‘He’s spoiled nothing. And he’s gone. So I’d like to stay for a while—catch the last of the sun.’ Flora moved over to one of the sun loungers and lay down on it. As Marco stretched himself silently beside her she looked at him, aware of his air of preoccupation. She said suddenly, ‘Marco, if you feel you should visit your godmother, then that’s fine with me. I’ll be perfectly happy to stay here.’ ‘Do not concern yourself, carissima. I have more than fulfilled my obligations to her, believe me.’ He spoke quietly, but she could hear an underlying note of almost savage anger in his voice, and was shaken by it. There were undercurrents here, she thought, staring sightlessly at the sky, that she could not begin to understand. But, then, her comprehension wasn’t required, she reminded herself with a pang. His other relationships were none of her business. Because she was here to share Marco’s bed, not his problems. So she wouldn’t ask any more questions about Zia Paolina. Nor would she permit herself to speculate about the unknown Ottavia, and her place in the scheme of things. After all, Marco had enjoyed a life before he met her, and that life would continue after she was gone. She couldn’t allow that to matter. But then she remembered the satisfaction in Tonio’s voice when he’d pronounced the name—the gloating relish in his black eyes—and she knew that Ottavia could not be so easily dismissed. She thought suddenly, Tonio’s the serpent that Marco warned me about—the serpent waiting for me here in paradise. And found herself shivering, as if a dark cloud had covered the sun. CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_997bdeb5-bc29-5449-bdf1-f04f2dc41f7b) IT WASN’T really a cloud, Flora decided. It was more a faint shadow. Yet she was aware of it all the time. It was there in the sunlit days, while she and Marco went to the beach, swam in the pool, played tennis, and explored the surrounding countryside. While they dined by candlelight, or sat on the moonlit terrace, drinking wine and talking, or listening to music. It was even there at nights, when he made love to her with such exquisite skill and passion, or soothed her to sleep in his arms. And the time was long past when she could have said totally casually, Who is Ottavia? To ask now would be to reveal that it was preying on her mind. That it had come to matter. And she couldn’t let him know that. Because she had no right to concern herself. The parameters of their relationship were in place, and there was no space for jealousy. There had been no more unwelcome visitors. In fact, no visitors at all. The real world was hardly allowed to intrude. Flora was wryly aware how quickly she’d adapted to life at the castello, where unseen hands seemed to anticipate her every wish. It was the quiet, impassive presence of Alfredo, she knew, that made San Silvestro run with such smooth efficiency. And, whatever his private views on her presence, he treated her invariably with soft-voiced respect. Which was more than could always be said for Ninetta, Flora acknowledged frowningly. And it was just unfortunate that she had more to do with her than any of the other servants at the castello. Not that the girl was overtly insolent, or lazy. There was just something—sometimes—in her manner which spoke of a buried resentment. The occasional suggestion of a flounce, and a faint curl of the full lips when Flora requested some service. Not that it happened often. However much Marco might tease her about it, Flora could no more leave her clothes lying around for someone else to pick up, or abandon wet towels on the bathroom floor than she could fly. But sometimes she felt that Ninetta might have thought better of her if she’d done exactly that. Or perhaps the girl was just tired of having to run round after yet another of the signore’s mistresses, she thought, with a stifled sigh. Although she could never ask her that, of course. Or whether Ottavia had ever been one of them… She firmly closed off that line of questioning. She had to learn to live entirely for the present, she told herself. It was pointless concerning herself about the past, or even worrying over the future, because both were out of her hands. So, it would be one day at a time, and no more, and what was the problem with that when she was so happy? And no one, she thought, could ever take that away from her. The boathouse, Flora had soon learned, was not just for show. It contained a speedboat, which Marco used mainly for water-skiing, as well as his windsurfer, and a sailing boat—the Beatrice II. ‘My father built the first one, and named it for my mother,’ he told Flora when he took her sailing the first time, standing behind her, steadying her hands on the wheel. ‘I decided to continue the tradition.’ ‘Did she like to sail?’ Flora found she was revelling in this swoop along the coast, her ear already attuned to the slap of water against the bow and the song of the wind in the sails above her. He shrugged. ‘My father loved to—and she loved to be with him. She even watched him play polo, which terrified her. And she was his first passenger when he got his pilot’s licence.’ There was a taut silence. ‘And, of course, his last.’ Flora was very still. Marco knew every detail of her family background, but up to now had said very little about his own. Perhaps this new candour would drive away the faint mist which seemed to hang between them. ‘There was an accident?’ Tentatively, she broke the brooding quiet. ‘Some kind of mechanical failure.’ His tone was brusque with remembered pain. ‘They were flying down here from Rome for my grandfather’s birthday. I had been allowed home from school for the occasion too, and I remember going with Nonno Giovanni to meet them at the airfield, whining because they were so late and I was getting bored. ‘And then someone came and called my grandfather away into another room. I could watch him through the glass partition, although I could not hear what was being said. But I saw his face—and I knew.’ ‘How—how old were you?’ Flora asked, her heart twisting. ‘I was ten. Usually I flew with them too, and I had been angry because they had gone to Rome without me, to collect Nonno Giovanni’s birthday gift.’ He shook his head. ‘To this day I do not know what it was they had bought for him. But it could never have been worth the price they paid for it.’ She said quietly, ‘Marco—I’m so sorry. I—I had no idea, even though you’ve always talked about your grandfather rather than your parents. It must have been terrible for you.’ ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘It was a bad time for us all. And I hardly had time to mourn before Nonno Giovanni began to train me as the next head of the family and the future chairman of Altimazza.’ She gasped. ‘But you were just a small child.’ ‘The circumstances demanded that I grow up quickly,’ Marco said drily. ‘That I should understand and accept the responsibilities waiting for me.’ She leaned back against him. Her voice was husky. ‘And when you became a man, what if you’d decided that kind of life wasn’t for you?’ ‘Ah, mia cara, that was never an option.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Only once was I offered a choice—and then I chose wrongly.’ His voice was suddenly harsh. She said hesitantly, ‘But now you’re free—surely?’ His arms tightened around her. She felt his mouth, gentle on the nape of her neck. ‘I want to believe that, mia bella. Dio—how much I want to believe it.’ There was a note almost of anguish in his tone. He said no more, and she did not like to probe further. Later they anchored in a small bay and swam, then picnicked on board. Afterwards, Marco made love to her with slow, passionate intensity, his eyes fixed almost painfully on her face, as if asking a question he dared not speak aloud. What is it, my love? her heart cried out to him. Ask me—please… When they arrived back at San Silvestro Alfredo was waiting on the landing stage, grave-faced. ‘There has been a telephone call, signore—from the laboratories. They need to speak urgently with you.’ Marco cursed softly, then turned to Flora. ‘Forgive me, carissima. I had better see what they want.’ He set off up the path to the house, with Alfredo behind him, leaving Flora to follow more slowly. She had showered and put on a slip of a dress, sleeveless and scoop-necked in an ivory silky fabric which showed off her growing tan, by the time Marco came into the room, his face serious and preoccupied. He said without preamble, ‘Flora, I have to go to Milan straight away. We have been conducting tests on a new drug to help asthma sufferers, which we believe could be a real breakthrough, but there seem to be problems—something which I must deal with immediately.’ ‘Oh.’ Flora put down her mascara wand. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ ‘I think you would be too much of a distraction, mia bella.’ His tone was rueful. ‘Stay here and relax, and I will be back in a couple of days.’ ‘Then shall I pack for you?’ He shook his head. ‘Alfredo has already done so. The helicopter is coming for me very soon.’ He came across to her and pulled her to her feet. ‘I hate to leave you, carissima.’ His tone thickened. ‘But this is important.’ ‘Of course. And I’ll be fine.’ She smiled up at him, resolutely ignoring the ball of ice beginning to form in the pit of her stomach. Because this enforced absence would eat into the diminishing amount of time she had to spend with him. ‘Alfredo will look after me.’ ‘You have won his heart.’ He raised her hand to his lips. ‘And that of everyone here.’ Apart from Ninetta. She thought it, but did not say it. Then Marco was kissing her, and she stopped thinking, offering herself totally the yearning demand of his mouth. Aware of nothing but the warmth and strength of him against her. At last he almost tore his lips from hers. ‘I must go,’ he muttered huskily. ‘I have to change my clothes.’ Left alone, Flora could hear the steady beat of the helicopter’s approach. Coming, she thought, with a stab of anguish, to take him away. And it was ridiculous to feel so bereft—so scared—when he would be back so soon. It must be the story about his parents which was weighing so heavily on her, she thought with a shiver. When he emerged from his dressing room he looked almost alien in the formal dark suit. Flora looked across the room and saw a stranger. Her smile was so forced it hurt. ‘Please—take care.’ Or take me with you. ‘My heart’s sweetness.’ He looked back at her with passionate understanding. He took half a step towards her, then deliberately checked. ‘I shall come back. And then I must talk to you.’ He paused. ‘Because there are things to be said. Issues, alas, that can no longer be avoided.’ He’s going to tell me it’s over, Flora thought, with a lurch of the heart. That all good things must end. That it’s time we returned to our separate worlds and got on with our lives. With a courage she had not known she possessed, she lifted her chin, went on smiling. ‘I’ll be here,’ she said. ‘Waiting.’ She went out on to the balcony and watched the helicopter take off and whirl away over the trees. Stood, a hand shading her eyes, until it vanished, and the throb of the engine could be heard no longer. Her hands tightened on the balustrade as she fought the tears, harsh and bitter in her throat. Only a couple of days, she reminded herself as she turned and trailed desolately back into the room. She could surely survive that. But her real dread was the nights that she would spend alone in that enormous bed, without his arms around her in the darkness, or his voice drowsily murmuring her name as they woke to sunlight dappling through the window shutters. And all those other endless nights to come, when she returned to England… She pressed a clenched fist fiercely against her trembling mouth. She’d known the score from the first, yet she’d allowed herself to be seduced by the atmosphere at the castello. To drift into a dream world where she and Marco stayed together always. Which was crazy. It felt so right for her, she thought, but that did not guarantee that he necessarily shared her view. He was looking for entertainment, not commitment. Besides, he was a wealthy man. When the time came he would be sharing his life with a girl from his own social milieu. As for herself—well, she was back in the real world now, and she was not going to allow herself to fall to pieces. And if there was heartbreak ahead, maybe it was no more than she deserved for what she’d done to Chris. She’d betrayed him totally, and yet, she realised guiltily, this was the first time she’d even spared him a thought. He seemed to belong to some distant, unreal part of her life. But he was flesh and blood, would be hurting because of her, and he deserved to have his pain acknowledged. I was unfair to him from the start, she thought sadly. And particularly when I said I’d marry him. But we’d been seeing each other regularly for months and it seemed the next, logical progression. And—somehow— I persuaded myself that I loved him enough for marriage. Because I didn’t know what love could be—not then. I should have known it couldn’t work—after that one disastrous night. I should have stopped it there and then. She’d been trying for weeks to parry Chris’s growing insistence on making love to her. Finally she’d simply run out of excuses. She couldn’t even explain her own reluctance. After all, she wasn’t a child, and it had been a natural stage in her relationship with the man she planned to marry. A man, moreover, who was good-looking, undeniably virile, and eager for her. Yet the fact that she’d still been able to resist the increasing ardour of Chris’s kisses should have been warning enough that all was not well. She’d felt paralysed with awkwardness from the moment she’d arrived at Chris’s flat and found the scene set with candles, flowers and music playing softly. There had even been a bottle of champagne chilling on ice. Like something from Chapter Two of The Seducer’s Handbook, she’d thought, wanting at first to laugh, and then, very badly, to run away. And that had been the only real desire she’d experienced. She’d felt only numb as Chris had undressed her almost gloatingly. He hadn’t been selfish. She knew that now. He had done his best to arouse her, holding his own excitement and need in check. And she’d held him, eyes closed, and whispered, ‘Yes,’ when he’d asked if she was all right. But it hadn’t been true. Because everything about it had been wrong. And the pain of his first attempt to enter her had made her cry out as her muscles locked in shocked rejection. She’d pushed him away almost violently, her frozen body slicked with sweat. ‘No—I can’t—please…’ He’d been kind at first, understanding. Had even comforted her. But it had soon become evident that he was determined to try again. And each time her mind had gone into recoil as her body closed against him. And eventually he’d become impatient, then really angry, and finally sullenly accepting. ‘You have a real problem, Flora,’ he’d flung at her over his shoulder as he reached for his clothes. ‘I suggest you get yourself sorted, and soon. Maybe you should see a doctor—or a therapist.’ And she’d buried her shamed, unhappy face in the pillow and thought that perhaps he was right. Until Marco had looked at her—touched her hand—kissed her. Made her burn for him. Established his possession of her long before the physical joining of their bodies. Transformed her surrender into glory. When Chris had come back from his holiday in the Bahamas, she’d expected him to exert increasing pressure on her to go to bed with him, and had steeled herself to agree, telling herself it could never be that bad again. But their time apart seemed to have engendered a more philosophical attitude in him, and he’d made no more attempts to force the issue. Perhaps he’d thought that patience would eventually bring him his reward. Or maybe he’d simply been waiting for her to tell him that the medical treatment she hadn’t even sought had been successful. She had been telling herself that once they were married and settled they would have all the time in the world to work out their sexual relationship. That compatibility was not necessarily instant. That Chris would make a good husband—the best—and sex was not the whole of a marriage. Every excuse under the sun. And I—almost—made myself believe them, she thought. I could have gone through with it. Only Hes wasn’t fooled for a minute. And, of course, Marco, who looked into my eyes and saw that I was completely unawakened. Well, no one would think that now, she told herself with a wry smile at the mirror as she walked to the door, on her way downstairs to her first solitary dinner. As she’d feared, time hung heavy on her hands without him. He telephoned, of course. Hurried calls during the day between meetings that were not going well. And longer, more personal conversations late into the evening, which sent her to bed burning and restless. He does it deliberately, she thought, twining her arms round his pillow and pulling it close. He would have to be punished on his return, and she knew exactly how. And she drifted off to sleep at last, smiling like a cat. He’d been gone for three days when he finally called to say he would be home the following evening. At last, her heart sang, but aloud she said sedately, ‘Has the problem with the tests been sorted?’ He sighed. ‘Alas, no. There is a serious flaw in the product, as I have suspected for some time, and we may have to start again from the beginning. I am authorising a new research programme, with a new director,’ he added with a touch of grimness. ‘Dr Farese believed he could take advantage of my absence and push the new drug through by cutting down the testing process. He knows differently now.’ Flora was silent for a moment. Then she said with slight constraint, ‘Has all this happened because you’ve been spending too much time with me?’ ‘A little, perhaps.’ His tone was rueful. ‘But I do not regret one moment of it, Flora mia. However, it means that I must devote more time to Altimazza from now on.’ Her hand tightened round the receiver. ‘Yes—yes, of course.’ ‘But enough of that.’ He paused. ‘Have you missed me?’ She knew that now, of all times, she ought to play it cool—make some flip, teasing remark. Instead she heard herself say yearningly, ‘Oh, so much.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to tell Marta to have everything you most like for dinner—pasta with truffles, and that veal thing. Unless you’d prefer the chicken…?’ He was laughing. ‘Choose what you will, bellissima mia. I am hungry only for you.’ She said with sudden shyness, ‘And I for you, Marco.’ ‘Then imagine that I am with you, cara.’ His voice sank huskily, intimately. ‘That I am holding you naked—touching you as you like to be touched. You remember, hmm?’ ‘Marco!’ She felt the fierce charge of desire deep within her. The swift scalding heat between her thighs. Her voice pleaded with him unsteadily. ‘You’re not being fair.’ ‘No,’ he conceded softly. ‘Perhaps not. But when I come back, my sweet one, there will be complete honesty between us—whatever the cost.’ She could hear the note of sadness in his voice and flinched from it, knowing what it must mean. He was warning her that their brief, rapturous idyll was drawing to an end. She took a deep breath. She said quietly, ‘I—I can’t wait to see you.’ ‘It will not be long now,’ he told her. ‘But I must go. They are waiting for me.’ She returned his murmured, ‘Arriverderci,’ and put down the telephone, standing for a moment, staring into space, realising she was going to need every scrap of emotional courage she possessed to get her through the next few days. She heard a brief sound, and turned to see Ninetta standing in the doorway, watching her. She gasped. ‘Oh—you startled me.’ ‘Scusi, signorina.’ The apology was meek enough, but Flora was certain that she’d detected a smirk in the dark eyes before they were deferentially lowered. She said coolly, ‘Did you want something, Ninetta?’ ‘I came to see if you needed me, signorina.’ The girl came further into the room. ‘You look pale. Have you had bad news?’ ‘On the contrary.’ Flora met the sly glance head-on, her chin lifted. ‘The signore is coming back tomorrow. I am going to arrange a special dinner for him and I have to decide what to wear.’ Which wouldn’t be easy, she acknowledged with an inward sigh. Travelling light had its disadvantages, and Marco had already seen everything she’d brought with her. ‘Maybe it is an occasion for a new dress, signorina. Rocello has some good shops.’ It was about the first helpful remark Ninetta had ever made, and Flora sent her a surprised glance. ‘Yes,’ she agreed slowly. ‘Perhaps it is.’ She might as well go out in style, she thought, with all flags flying. And she could use the time, as well, to buy some going-home presents—although apart from Hester and Melanie she couldn’t think of many people who would welcome one from her. She paused. ‘Is there a morning bus into the town?’ For a moment Ninetta looked genuinely shocked. ‘A car and driver will be provided for you, signorina. I shall arrange it at once. The signore would wish it,’ she added, pre-empting any further objections that Flora might have. I only wish, Flora thought when she was alone again, that I liked her better. ‘I understand that you wish to go into town,’ Alfredo said as he served her breakfast next morning. ‘If you had consulted me, signorina, I would have escorted you myself. As it is, young Roberto will be driving you.’ ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine.’ Flora placated him, aware that his normally smooth feathers were ruffled. ‘You must have far better things to do than wait while I shop.’ ‘Nothing I could not have postponed.’ He was frowning slightly. ‘The signore placed you in my charge, after all.’ ‘Well, Roberto will be a perfectly adequate stand-in.’ She smiled at him. ‘And I’ll only be gone an hour or so.’ She paused. ‘Have I come across Roberto before?’ ‘I think not, signorina. He usually works in the grounds, but he drives the cars on occasion. He is the brother of Ninetta, who waits on you.’ Then I only hope he’s more civil, Flora thought as she finished her meal. Roberto seemed to be a rather stolid young man, with a limited command of English, so the journey into town was completed mostly in silence. However, the views from the winding coast road were sufficiently spectacular to compensate for any lack of conversation. Rocello was not a large town, but its central square, overlooked by a fine Gothic church, was an imposing one. Flora arranged to meet the taciturn Roberto by the church in two hours, which would give her time to make her purchases and, hopefully, do a little sightseeing too. Ninetta had been right about the shops, she soon discovered. There were some delectable boutiques hidden away among the winding side streets, and she soon found a dress she liked—one of her favourite slip styles, with narrow straps and a fluid drift of a skirt, in white, with a stylised flower in crystal beads on the bodice. A few doors away she came upon a local silversmith, and bought a pair of pretty earrings for Mel, and an elegant chain with twisted links for Hes. In a small gallery near the square there was a small framed painting of the castello, and, after some heart-searching, she decided to buy it. In the days ahead it might help convince her that this had not been all a fantastic dream, she thought wryly. It was going to be a very hot day, and Flora was quite glad to seek shelter in the shadowy interior of the church, which was famous for its frescoes painted, it was said, by a pupil of Giotto. But, even so, she still had some time to while away before her appointment with Roberto. She stationed herself under the striped awning of one of the pavement caf?s opposite the church, so that she could spot him as soon as he arrived. She ordered a cappuccino and sat nibbling some of the little almond biscuits that came with it, idly watching the tourists, who were milling around with their cameras. ‘Signorina Graham. I thought there could not be two women with that glorious shade of hair.’ Flora looked up in surprise to find Tonio Baressi smiling down at her. ‘Oh,’ she said slowly. ‘Good morning.’ He drew out the chair opposite with a flourish. ‘May I join you?’ ‘You seem to have done so already, signore.’ Flora stole a surreptitious glance at her watch, hoping that Roberto might be early. If Tonio noticed the tart note in her voice he gave no sign, merely signalling imperiously to the waiter. ‘So Marco has gone to Milan and left you to your own devices,’ he said, when his espresso arrived. He clicked his tongue. ‘But how unchivalrous.’ ‘He has work to do,’ Flora said shortly. My first time in Rocello, she thought, and I have to run into him. He laughed. ‘Whereas you are strictly for his leisure moments, eh? He is very fortunate to have found a woman so understanding of his—other obligations.’ Flora made a business of collecting together her packages. ‘You must excuse me,’ she said brightly. ‘I’d like to have a look inside the church before my driver comes.’ ‘But surely I saw you coming out of the church a short while ago? You must find those frescoes particularly fascinating.’ He was still smiling, but his eyes had narrowed. ‘Or did Marco warn you to shun my company?’ ‘Of course not. How ridiculous.’ She bit her lip in vexation, and a certain unease. How long had he been watching her, she wondered, and why? ‘I am relieved to hear it. Please—have another cappuccino. I insist.’ She thanked him with a forced smile and sat back, trying to look relaxed, while scanning the passing crowd for Roberto. ‘I hope you have enjoyed your stay at San Silvestro,’ Tonio went on after a pause. ‘It is unfortunate that all good things must end, no?’ She gave him a composed look. ‘Actually, I still have some holiday left.’ ‘Yes, but it is hardly the same for you now that Marco has remembered his responsibilities to Altimazza. He can hardly be expected to commute to Milan on a daily basis. And the castello can be a lonely place.’ Her smile was taut. ‘Please don’t concern yourself about me, Signor Baressi. It really isn’t necessary.’ ‘Call me Tonio, I beg. I assure you that I only wish to be your friend.’ ‘Thank you.’ She reached for her bag and extracted enough money to pay for her own coffee. ‘That’s kind of you, but now I must be going.’ He said, almost idly, ‘If you are expecting Roberto, he has gone back to San Silvestro. I told him I would bring you back to the castello myself.’ Flora’s lips parted in a gasp of sheer outrage. ‘Then you had no right to do any such thing,’ she exclaimed heatedly. ‘And I prefer to make my own way back. I’ll find a taxi…’ His grin was unrepentant. ‘You fear I shall make advances to you?’ He shook his head. ‘I shall not. I offer friendship only. Something you may welcome before long,’ he added softly. ‘So let us have no more nonsense about taxis. It will be my pleasure to drive you.’ Flora lifted her chin. She said crisply, ‘In that case I’d like to leave straight away. Roberto is going to find himself in real trouble with Alfredo for deserting me like this. He could even be sacked.’ He shrugged. ‘He will easily find another job.’ Tonio also drove a sports car, but a considerably flashier example than the one Marco had used in London. He also considered himself a far better driver than he actually was, and Flora found herself cringing more than once. When the coast road was suddenly abandoned, and they turned inland, she stiffened. ‘This isn’t the way to San Silvestro.’ ‘A small detour.’ He was totally at ease. ‘To the other side of the headland. My aunt, the Contessa Baressi, has expressed a wish to meet you. I know you would not wish to disappoint her.’ She said curtly, ‘I would have preferred to be consulted in advance. And if Marco wishes me to know his godmother, then he’s quite capable of arranging it.’ ‘Marco,’ he said, ‘is in Milan.’ ‘Yes, but he’ll be back this evening. I can mention her invitation then…’ ‘My aunt wishes to see you now,’ he said softly. ‘And her requests are invariably granted. Even by Marco.’ He paused. ‘The two families have always been very close. And he and the Contessa have a very special relationship.’ ‘All the more reason,’ she said, ‘for him to be there.’ ‘Unfortunately, the Contessa intends to return to Rome very shortly. She was anxious to make time for you before her departure.’ He turned the car through a stone gateway, following a wide curving driveway up to the house. It was a large, formal structure, built of local stone over three storeys. The grounds were neat and well-kept, and an ornate fountain played before the main entrance, but for Flora it lacked the wilder appeal of the castello. Or was that simply because she was there under a kind of duress? She sat very straight in her seat as Tonio brought the car to a halt. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Will you make some excuse to your aunt and take me back to San Silvestro?’ ‘Impossible, mia cara. She does not take disappointment well.’ He came round and opened her door. His hand gripped her arm, his smile openly triumphant as he observed her pallor—her startled eyes. He said softly, ‘Avanti. Let’s go.’ And he took her up the steps and into the house. CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_476eeed5-7611-5e85-9da3-f09df00006dc) ENTERING the house was like walking into a cave. The hallway was vast and lofty, but also very dark. Flora was acutely conscious of Tonio’s hand on her arm, urging her forward. As the elderly maid who had greeted them reached a large pair of double doors and flung them open she shrugged herself free of his grasp with unconcealed contempt, then walked forward, her head held high. She found herself in a large room, with tall windows on two sides. Although she could at least see where she was going, the heavy drapes and the plethora of fussy furniture made her surroundings seem no less oppressive. While the atmosphere of hostility, she thought, drawing a swift startled breath, resembled walking into a force field. And it had to be generated by the two people who were waiting for them. The Contessa Baressi was a tall woman, with steel-grey hair drawn into an elaborate chignon and the traces of a classic beauty in her thin face. The hands that gripped the arms of her brocaded armchair blazed with rings, and there was a diamond sunburst brooch pinned to the shoulder of her elegant black dress. The other occupant of the room was standing by one of the windows, staring out. She was much younger—probably in her early twenties, Flora judged. She had a voluptuous figure, set off by her elegant pink linen sun dress, and a mane of black hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face that would have been pretty in a kittenish way except for its expression of blank misery. Her entire body was rigid, except for her hands, which were tearing monotonously at the chiffon scarf she was holding. She did not turn to look at the new arrivals, nor give any sign that she was aware of their presence. Intuition told Flora that this must be the Ottavia on whom she’d expended so many anxious moments, and that her unease might well have been justified. ‘Zia Paolina.’ Tonio walked to his aunt and kissed her hand with easy deference. ‘Allow me to present to you Marco’s latest little friend, the Signorina Flora Graham.’ The Contessa’s carefully painted mouth was fixed in a thin smile, but the eyes that looked Flora up and down were lizard-cold. She said in heavily accented English, ‘I am glad you could accept my invitation, signorina. Grazie.’ ‘You speak as if I had a choice,’ Flora returned, meeting the older woman’s gaze defiantly. ‘Perhaps you would explain why you’ve had me brought here like this.’ ‘You do not think I wish to be acquainted with my figlioccio’s—companions?’ ‘Frankly, no,’ Flora said steadily. ‘I’d have thought myself beneath your notice.’ She heard a sound from the direction of the window like the hissing of a small snake. The Contessa inclined her head slightly. ‘Under normal circumstances you would be right. But you, signorina, are quite out of the ordinary. And in so many ways. Which made our meeting quite inevitable, believe me.’ ‘Then I must be singularly dense,’ Flora said. ‘Because I still can’t imagine what I’m doing here.’ The thin brows rose. ‘Not dense, perhaps, but certainly a little stupid, as a woman in thrall to a man so often is. My godson’s charm has clearly bewitched you—even to the point where you were prepared to break off your engagement and follow him to another country.’ She gave a small metallic laugh. ‘Such devotion, and all of it, alas, wasted.’ Flora’s heart missed a beat. The Contessa, she thought, seemed to know a lot about recent events, even though her view of them was slanted. She said, ‘I think that’s our business—Marco’s and mine.’ ‘Ah, no,’ the older woman said softly. ‘It was never that exclusive, believe me.’ She paused. ‘Did you know that Marco had also been engaged to be married?’ ‘Yes.’ It dawned on Flora that she knew where this conversation was leading. ‘But I understood that had been broken off too.’ ‘Tragically, yes,’ the Contessa acknowledged. ‘It was a perfect match, planned from the time when they were both children.’ Flora glanced at the still figure by the window, with the busy, destructive hands. She said softly, ‘Only his fidanzata preferred another man.’ The Contessa reared up like a cobra preparing to strike. ‘Like you, poor child, she was seduced—betrayed by passion. And because of this she ruined her life. Threw away her chance of true happiness.’ ‘I’m sorry.’ Flora stood her ground. ‘But I don’t see how this concerns me. I’d really like to go home now.’ ‘Home?’ The plucked brows rose austerely. ‘Is that how you regard the castello? You are presumptuous, signorina.’ Flora bit her lip. ‘It was just a figure of speech.’ There was a silence, then the Contessa said, ‘Be so good as to tell us how you met my godson.’ ‘We happened to have lunch in the same restaurant,’ Flora admitted reluctantly. ‘As I was leaving someone tried to snatch my bag, and Marco—came to my rescue.’ ‘Ah,’ said the Contessa. ‘Then that, at least, went as planned.’ Flora stared at her. ‘Planned? What are you talking about?’ ‘Yes.’ The Contessa’s voice was meditative. ‘I am afraid you are quite dense. You see, it was not by chance that you encountered Marco that day. He followed you to the restaurant and staged that little comedy afterwards.’ She leaned forward, the cold eyes glinting under their heavy lids. ‘Do you know why?’ Flora found suddenly that she couldn’t speak. There was a tightness in her chest. She was aware of Tonio’s gloating smile. Of the haggard face of the girl by the window, who had turned and was watching her now, the dark eyes burning like live coals. ‘Now, tell me, signorina, what your fidanzato said when he found you with Marco at that hotel? He must have been very angry. Did he try to hit him—make a terrible scene?’ Numbly, Flora shook her head. ‘And did that not seem strange—a man you had promised to marry simply allowing a stranger to steal you from him without protest? A stranger who had offered him such a terrible insult?’ ‘I—I expect he had his reasons.’ Flora did not recognise her own voice. ‘Yes—he had reasons.’ The girl by the window spoke for the first time. Moving stiffly, she walked across the room towards Flora, who forced herself to remain where she was when every instinct was screaming at her to run. ‘Shall I tell you what they were?’ she went on. ‘Shall I explain that as soon as he saw Marco—heard his name—he knew exactly who he was, and why he was there. And he turned away in shame.’ She drew a deep shaking breath. ‘Because Cristoforo is a man without truth—without honour.’ Flora had been hanging on to her sangfroid by her fingertips, anyway, but now she felt it crumble away completely. She was stumbling, suddenly, through some bleak wilderness. Her voice seemed to come from a far distance. ‘You—know Chris?’ The girl threw back her head. ‘He did not tell you about me? I knew he would not—the fool—the coward.’ She spat the words, and in spite of herself Flora recoiled a step. ‘He did not tell you that we met in the Bahamas, on vacation—that from the moment we saw each other nothing and no one else mattered? That we were lovers—and more than lovers. Because I laid my whole life at his feet.’ Her voice shook with frantic emotion. ‘I believed he felt as I did, that we would be together always. He—made me believe that—but he lied. On our last night together—when I offered to return to London with him and confront you with the truth that he no longer cared for you—he pretended surprise. He even laughed. He said that he had no intention of breaking his engagement to you because you suited him, and he did not want a wife who would make too many demands.’ Her shrill laugh was edged with hysteria. ‘He said what we had shared was only a diversion—a little holiday romance—and that he regretted it if I—I, Ottavia Baressi—had taken it too seriously.’ She shook her head. ‘He was so cruel—cruel beyond belief. He said that the best I could do was forget everything that had passed between us and return to my own fidanzato. Get on with my life, as he meant to do—with you.’ She wrapped her arms tightly round her body. ‘And when, later, I tried to telephone him in London—to speak to him—to reason with him—he did not want to talk to me.’ Flora said carefully, ‘But why should you want to do that? When he’d made his position so clear? Why didn’t you put him behind you and try and make your—your engagement work?’ ‘Because I found I was expecting his child. I thought if he knew that, then he might change—realise that we belonged together.’ Flora felt as if she’d been poleaxed. ‘You—were going to have a baby? Then he must have said something.’ All this, she thought, had been going on, and she’d suspected nothing—nothing… ‘He was so angry. He shouted at me—called me a liar, and other bad names. Said that I was a sciattona—a slut—who slept with any man, and that there was no proof that it was his baby. That he wasn’t a fool, and he would fight me in court, if necessary, and make a big scandal. Then he laughed and said, “Or you could always blame Signor Valante and bring the wedding day forward.”’ She shuddered. ‘He thought I would do that—add to the dishonour I had brought to my family—and to Marco. That was when I knew I would be revenged on him. That I would hurt him and ruin his life, as he had done to me. And, because he had left me to go back to you, I decided you should also know what it is to be betrayed and deserted by a man who has pretended to love you.’ Flora’s hands turned into fists, her nails scoring the soft palms as she fought for her last remnants of control. Her voice was small and cold. ‘And—Marco agreed to this? I don’t believe you.’ Ottavia’s eyes glinted with savage satisfaction. ‘No. Just as I did not believe that Cristoforo would ever leave me. We were both wrong, signorina. And Mamma is, after all, Marco’s madrina. In Italy that means a great deal. She made him see that it was his duty to avenge me—and his honour also. And that Cristoforo should know what had been done—and why.’ She shrugged almost triumphantly. ‘So—he came to find you, Flora Graham. And the rest you know.’ Flora’s legs felt so weak she was terrified that they would betray her, and she would end up on the floor at Ottavia’s feet. She said, ‘You had your revenge, Signorina Baressi, as I’m sure Marco reported to you. Was it really necessary to tell me all this?’ ‘Yes,’ Ottavia threw at her. ‘Because Marco was supposed to leave you in London, to count the cost of your lust and stupidity. Instead he brought you here, to his home. And you were not given a guest suite, like any of his other whores. No—you must sleep with him in his own room—in the bed where he was born—and his father and grandfather before him. The place where I, as his wife, should have slept. Ninetta, who used to work for Mamma, has told us everything. No one at San Silvestro can believe he would do such a thing. It has outraged everyone. ‘And, now, while he is away, you give orders as if you were the mistress of the house, instead of just his fancy woman—for whom his fancy seems to be waning. If it ever existed at all,’ she added contemptuously. Flora was shaking so violently inside she thought she would fall to pieces, but she couldn’t allow that to happen. Not here. Not yet. She even managed a note of defiance. ‘Why else would I be here?’ The Contessa shrugged. ‘Maybe he pities you. Or else is grateful for your unstinting co-operation,’ she added with cold mockery. ‘Certainly your willingness to share his bed must have amused him, and my godson likes to be entertained. But your usefulness was expended in England. He should never have brought you here.’ ‘Perhaps you had better tell him so.’ ‘Oh, we shall have a great deal to say to him,’ the Contessa said softly. ‘Make no mistake about that, Miss Flora Graham.’ She turned to Tonio. ‘Our guest is clearly shocked. Fetch her some brandy.’ Flora shook her head. ‘I want nothing. Except to get out of here.’ The Contessa leaned back in her chair, studying Flora from under lowered lids. ‘No doubt you are eager to go back to the castello—to confront Marco on his return and beg him to tell you that none of this is true. If so, you will be disappointed—and even more humiliated than you are now.’ She paused. ‘But there is an alternative.’ She snapped her fingers and Tonio hurried to pass her a narrow folder from a nearby table. ‘This is a plane ticket to England on a flight that leaves this evening. If you wish to take advantage of it my nephew will drive you to the airport. I shall inform Marco myself that you have learned the truth and returned to London. Once you have gone the whole matter can finally be laid to rest.’ She held out the ticket. ‘Take it, signorina. Learn sense at last. There is nothing left for you here.’ Flora’s instinct was to tear the folder into small pieces and throw them at the Contessa. But she couldn’t afford to do that, and she knew it. She’d been offered an escape route and she needed to take it, whatever the cost to her pride. Except she no longer had any pride. Realising how cruelly and cynically she’d been manipulated had left her self-esteem in tatters. She felt bone-weary, and sick at heart. And too anguished even to cry. She said tonelessly, ‘My clothes—belongings—are still at the castello.’ ‘No, they are here,’ the Contessa told her. ‘I thought you would see where your best interests lay. I told Ninetta to pack your things and have them brought here. You can leave as soon as you wish.’ Flora lifted her chin. ‘The sooner, the better, I think. Don’t you?’ ‘Then—addio, signorina.’ The thin lips stretched in a chill smile. ‘We shall not, I think, meet again. Your involvement in this affair was an unfortunate necessity which is now over.’ ‘Signorina Flora.’ Tonio was at the door, holding it open for her. As she reached it Flora turned, looking back at Ottavia, studying her frankly voluptuous figure in the pink dress. ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘What happened to the baby?’ Something fleeting came and went in Ottavia’s face, but her voice was haughty. ‘I did not choose to have it. Do you think that a Baressi would give birth to an illegitimate child?’ ‘After today,’ Flora said quietly, ‘I would say the Baressis are capable of anything.’ And, she thought, as the stunned numbness began to wear off and pain tore at her, so are the Valantes. Oh, Marco—Marco… She drew a deep, shaky breath, then, without another word or backward glance, she walked through the dark hall and out towards the harsh dazzle of sunshine. The drive to the airport seemed endless. She sat beside Tonio in a kind of frozen stupor, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her fingers ached, her eyes blind as she stared through the windscreen ahead of her. ‘You are not very amusing, cara,’ her companion commented after a few miles. ‘I seem to have mislaid my sense of humour.’ He clicked his tongue in reproof. ‘You must not brood, you know, because your little holiday in the sun has been cut short. We could not allow you to cling to your illusions any longer, and one day you will be grateful to us.’ ‘Possibly,’ Flora rejoined shortly. ‘But forgive me if I’m not overwhelmed with gratitude at the moment.’ Tonio laughed softly. ‘You are not very lucky with your men, are you, carissima? Your fidanzato betrays you and your lover takes you for revenge. It is not a happy situation for you.’ ‘It hasn’t exactly been a joyous time for your cousin Ottavia either,’ Flora came back at him sharply as she remembered the fleeting moment of pain and vulnerability that had surfaced among the spite and hysteria. And she realised with shock that she had barely spared a thought for Chris’s behaviour in all this. ‘Oh, Ottavia will survive,’ he said with insouciance. ‘She has the Baressi name and money behind her, after all, and there has been no open scandal. My aunt is a careful woman.’ Flora bit her lip. ‘I believe you.’ Tonio lowered his voice confidentially. ‘I think she hopes that even now she can persuade Marco to remember the ties between our families and resume his engagement to Ottavia.’ Flora turned her head slowly and stared at him. ‘You actually think that—after everything that’s happened?’ ‘Why not?’ He shrugged. ‘It was not a love match the first time. Marco, you see, does not really care about women. Oh, he likes them as decoration, to be seen with in public, and he enjoys their bodies. But that is all.’ He shrugged again. ‘It was time for him to marry, and one woman is very like another to him. That must have been the only reason for his engagement to Ottavia. She is beautiful, certainly, but so demanding.’ She said stonily, ‘Then you won’t be offering to console her?’ He laughed. ‘She has never tempted me. But you, carissima, are a different proposition,’ he added, giving her a sidelong glance. ‘We could always change your air ticket to a later date. Italy has many beauties and I would be happy to be your guide. What do you think?’ ‘You really don’t want to know what I think.’ She was suddenly aware that his hand was straying in the direction of her knee, and stiffened. ‘And if you lay one finger on me, signore, I’ll break your jaw.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, it is your loss, not mine. But then, you are a loser all round, Signorina Flora,’ he added with a sly smile. They completed the rest of the journey in silence. When they arrived at the airport Tonio reached into his jacket and produced an envelope which he extended to her. ‘What is this?’ Flora made no attempt to take it. ‘A further gift from my aunt.’ He peeled back a corner of the flap, revealing the substantial wad of banknotes inside. ‘She is aware that Marco would have been generous with you on parting and does not wish you to suffer financially from her intervention. She offers this as compensation.’ ‘She’s very thoughtful.’ Flora opened the passenger door. ‘But I’m not for sale.’ Tonio got out as well, and retrieved her bag from the boot. ‘Oh, I think you were sold, Flora mia,’ he said softly. ‘And for thirty pieces of silver. Ciao, baby.’ As she walked to the glass doors leading to the main concourse she heard him drive away. And then—and only then—she allowed one slow, scalding tear to escape down the curve of her cheek. ‘You look terrible,’ said Hester, in a tone that mingled brutal candour with concern. ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ Flora retorted. ‘I’m being serious.’ Hester poured coffee from the percolator and handed a cup to Flora. ‘Ever since you got back from that Italian trip you’ve looked like death on a stick. You barely ate enough at dinner tonight to keep a fly alive—and not for the first time. If you lose much more weight you’ll disappear altogether. And don’t think I can’t hear you pacing up and down your room every night, when you should be asleep.’ Flora gave her a troubled look. ‘Oh, Hes, am I keeping you awake? I’m so sorry. Maybe it’s time I started looking for another place of my own.’ ‘No, it isn’t,’ Hester said roundly. ‘I prefer to have you here, where I can at least keep a panic-stricken eye on you. But I would like to know what’s sent you into this headlong decline.’ Flora stared down at her coffee. She could smell its slightly smoky fragrance and was aware of an odd shiver of distaste. ‘It’s just frantic at work, that’s all,’ she evaded. ‘Phone ringing non-stop ever since I got back. If it goes on like this I might have to consider hiring someone else.’ ‘Well, let’s hear it for the businesswoman of the year.’ Hester gave her a wry look. ‘So why aren’t you turning cartwheels for joy instead of looking as if ruin and misery were staring you in the face?’ She paused, then said gently, ‘Be honest, honey. Are you missing Chris—is that it?’ She sighed. ‘I know I never thought you were the perfect pair, but I wonder now if I didn’t push you into doing something you now regret.’ Flora forced a smile. ‘I wasn’t pushed—I jumped. And I have no regrets at all. I realised that my feelings for Chris were only lukewarm at best, and, anyway, he—wasn’t the man I’d believed him to be. End of story.’ ‘Really?’ Hester asked sceptically. ‘Somehow I feel I missed out on a few vital episodes, but I won’t pry. However, I’d like to know what I can do to help.’ ‘You’ve already done it,’ Flora said with swift warmth. ‘Letting me move in with you while my flat is being sold—and not asking questions,’ she added with difficulty. She wanted to add, ‘One day I’ll tell you everything,’ but she wasn’t sure she ever could—not even to Hester, her best friend in the world. How could she confess to anyone what a monumental, abject fool she’d made of herself? she thought, as she lay awake that night. Let alone admit the even more damaging truth that, try as she might, she was unable to dismiss Marco Valante from her mind and heart? It was the shame of that knowledge—of the yearning that the mere thought of him could still engender—that pursued her by day and haunted her at night, driving her to walk the floor, fighting the demons of desire that warred within her. It was nearly six weeks since her headlong flight from Italy, and yet she was no nearer to putting his betrayal in the past, where it belonged, or blocking him from her consciousness. Each day she’d waited for him to get in touch—to explain the indefensible, or at least apologise. But there had been no contact at all. No letter. No phone call. Perhaps he’d grown secretly tired of the game he was playing with her, and had been glad of his godmother’s intervention. After the first two weeks of silence she’d taken a cab to his cousin’s house in Chelsea, only to find a removals van outside and the new owner’s furniture being carried in. Vittoria, too, had gone. But even if she’d been there, and Flora could have summoned up the courage to introduce herself, what could she have found to say to her? Is Marco well? Is he happy? And just how pathetic is that? she asked herself with bitter self-derision. Especially when he seemed to have had no trouble in forgetting her existence altogether. Her first action on her return had been to put her flat on the market, her next to vacate her rented office space for alternative premises in a different area. All that trouble to cover her tracks, she thought with irony, when in fact there’d been no need. But she’d had to get out of the flat. She couldn’t bear to live with its memories. She’d found a clutch of increasingly desperate telephone messages from Chris when she returned. Somehow she’d forced herself to dial his number and listen to the impassioned outpourings and demands that they should meet and talk. At last she’d said, in a voice of quiet steel, ‘I think you should be saying this to Ottavia Baressi,’ and replaced the receiver, cutting off the ensuing stunned silence. In spite of Hester’s assurances, she knew it was time she started looking for another place to live. Before too long Sally would return and want her room back. And I have to draw a line under the past and get on with my life, she thought. So I’ll take positive action—start flat-hunting tomorrow. But in the morning she felt so horribly ill that she was more inclined to reserve space in the nearest cemetery. ‘It can’t be anything I’ve eaten, because we’ve had exactly the same and you’re fine,’ she said as she emerged pale and shivering from the bathroom. ‘I must have picked up some virus.’ ‘Undoubtedly,’ Hester agreed cordially. ‘I hope you feel better soon.’ And, oddly enough, Flora did. She even recovered sufficiently to go into work, and managed a full day there without further mishap. Although she found herself recoiling from the harmless ham and lettuce sandwich that she’d ordered for her lunch. ‘Strange, isn’t it?’ she commented to Hester that evening. ‘Extraordinary.’ Hes tossed a bag with a chemist’s label into her lap. ‘Try this.’ Flora broke the seal and stared down at the slim packet it contained. She cleared her throat. ‘It’s a pregnancy testing kit,’ she said at last. ‘Good,’ Hester said affably. ‘I was afraid they’d swapped it for a mystery prize. You’ll find the instructions inside.’ Flora let the packet fall as if it was red-hot. ‘No.’ ‘As you wish.’ Hester shrugged. ‘I just thought it was a possibility you might want to eliminate.’ She gave her friend a level look. ‘Well—don’t you?’ ‘Yes.’ Flora bit her lip. ‘I suppose so—damn you.’ Even before she checked the result she knew it would be positive. She’d blamed the recent disruption in her monthly cycle on stress, but she knew now she’d simply been burying her head in the sand. She stared down at the coloured bands on the kit and the bathroom swung round her in a sudden dizzying arc, forcing her to cling to the side of the basin until the moment passed. She put a hand on her stomach. She thought, Marco’s baby. I—I’m going to have Marco’s baby… And felt joy and anguish clash inside her with all the force of an electric charge. Then she opened the door and went slowly back to the living room. Hester took one look at her white face and trembling mouth, put her into a chair, made her a cup of strong, scalding tea, and stood over her while she drank it. She said gently, ‘I think you’ll have to contact Chris, my pet, whether you want to or not.’ ‘Chris?’ Flora looked at her blankly. ‘What has Chris got to do with it?’ She paused. ‘Oh, God, you thought…’ ‘A reasonable assumption, under the circumstances.’ Hester drew up the opposite chair and gave her a searching glance. ‘But totally wrong, it seems. I presume you’re telling me, instead, that this baby is the result of the torrid affair with your glamorous Italian?’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe it. My God, I almost feel sorry for Chris.’ ‘Then don’t,’ Flora said with a flash of her old spirit. ‘Because I didn’t start this. I—I discovered, you see, that Chris had met someone else too, while he was on holiday that time in Bahamas.’ ‘And you decided what was sauce for the goose?’ Hester gave a tuneless whistle. ‘Very unwise, my pet.’ ‘No,’ Flora denied tiredly. ‘It wasn’t like that. I actually only learned about Chris quite a while after—afterwards,’ she added, biting her lip. Hester was silent for a moment. ‘Are you going to tell Marco Valante that fatherhood awaits him?’ ‘There’s no point. He doesn’t feature in my life any more.’ Flora spoke with difficulty, her voice constricted. ‘It was a terrible mistake, and—it’s over.’ ‘Not completely,’ Hester said bluntly. ‘As there are consequences.’ Flora forced a travesty of a smile. ‘Only one consequence—I hope. And it’s my problem, so I’ll deal with it.’ Hester nodded meditatively. ‘What are you planning to do? Request a termination?’ Flora had a sudden vision of Ottavia Baressi, struggling to hide a nightmare of pain behind defiant words. Suddenly—defensively—she wrapped her arms round her body, as if protecting the tiny life within her. How could I possibly do that to Marco’s child? she thought with a pang. When it’s all I’ll ever have of him. Aloud, she said slowly, ‘I know it would be the sensible solution—only I’ve never been very wise. I can’t do it, Hes.’ Her friend frowned. ‘Think about it, love,’ she urged quietly. ‘Yes, you have a career, and a home, so you’re better off than a lot of women in your situation. But it still isn’t easy trying to bring up a child single-handed. Even with the active support of the father there are all kinds of difficulties.’ She hesitated. ‘Are you quite sure you won’t contact your Italian about all this?’ ‘No.’ Flora shook her head wearily. ‘That’s quite impossible, and he’s not my Italian.’ ‘Whatever, you don’t think he has the right to know that you’ve created a life together?’ ‘No, he forfeited that—totally.’ Flora sent her an appealing look. ‘Please don’t ask me to explain.’ Hester lifted her hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘I’ll shut up here and now,’ she said. ‘But I can think of several people who won’t. Starting,’ she added gently, ‘with your mother.’ ‘Oh, God,’ Flora said wretchedly. ‘She’s not even speaking to me at the moment as it is.’ ‘Well, that could be a good thing,’ Hester said, straight-faced. ‘Keep the fight going and the baby could be in university before she finds out.’ And, in spite of all the fear and misery threatening to crush her, Flora, to her own complete astonishment, found herself giggling weakly. CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_95f76897-07d4-53d6-bca5-f0a12cb3764c) FLORA came out of the health centre and stood for a moment, hunting in her bag for her sun glasses. The noise of the city traffic hurtling past was deafening, but she was oblivious to it, locked in her own private world. Because there was no mistake. It was all true. Her doctor had just confirmed that her pregnancy test had been totally accurate, and, once Flora’s resolve to have the baby had been established, had dealt briskly with the practicalities. Her medical insurance would secure her a bed in a good, private maternity clinic, and she would be contacted in the next few days by the practice midwife who would monitor her well-being in the coming months. He had also assured her that the sickness that assailed her each morning would probably pass within a month or two. Tactfully, the doctor had not probed, nor attempted to raise any of the other issues surrounding the coming baby, and Flora was grateful for that. Her mind was still reeling from the knowledge that Marco’s child was growing inside her. She had to come to terms with that before she could cope with anything else, however pressing. And there were matters to be dealt with. The estate agent had contacted her two days earlier to say that he’d received an offer of the full asking price for her flat, and that the couple concerned were also interested in buying some of the furniture, if she wanted to sell. ‘And do you?’ Hester asked. ‘I think so,’ Flora said slowly. ‘It might be good to clear my decks—start again from scratch.’ She grimaced. ‘After all, I’m not looking for a showcase for my career any more, but a family home.’ ‘Wow,’ said Hester. She paused. ‘You’re really taking this in your stride, honey.’ Perhaps that was because having a baby was small potatoes compared with some of the shocks she’d experienced recently, Flora thought wryly. She forced a smile. ‘It’s all front. Underneath, I’m really a quivering mass of insecurity.’ But the sale of the flat was a positive step, and, hopefully, the bed might be included in the furniture that the Morgans wanted to buy. Because there was no way that Flora could have ever spent another night in it, even though it was probably where the baby had been conceived. After that first incredible, rapturous night, Marco, she remembered, had always been careful to use protection. As an afterthought, she told herself bitterly, it had been an abject failure. She glanced at her watch, then walked to the kerb and hailed a passing cab. The agent had suggested it might be simpler if she and Mrs Morgan handled the sale of the furniture between them, and she’d reluctantly agreed, so they were meeting there that morning. She’d listed the flat’s contents, and pencilled in realistic asking prices alongside the main items, making a separate note of the few personal things she intended to keep and which Hester was going to help her remove. Get it over and done with, she thought as she gave the flat’s address to the driver. And then I can move on—make some real plans. Adjust and compromise. Maybe find somewhere with enough space to enable me to work from home. She had mixed feelings as she unlocked the door and let herself in. This had been so much her own individual space, yet now it only seemed to speak to her of Marco. Chris had spent far more time there, but he’d never stamped his personality on the place in the way Marco had done in a few brief hours. He seemed to be everywhere, sliding his arms round her waist in the kitchen and nuzzling her neck, sharing the narrow bath, sprawling on the sofa with his head in her lap. And, of course, making love to her with heart-stopping skill in the bedroom. Making himself quite effortlessly part of her environment, she thought with a gasp of sheer pain. And completely essential to her life and happiness. God, but he’d been clever. Or had she been just a pitiable fool, wanting so hard to believe in the fairy tale? Whatever, she was older and wiser now, she told herself with determination. And the life and happiness she’d envisaged would have to take a wholly different form. Her answering machine was blinking, and she frowned as she pressed the ‘Play’ button. Most people now contacted her through work, but there were bound to be a few who’d slipped through the net. I’ll have to make another list, she thought, sighing, as she retrieved her notebook from her bag. And ask Mrs Morgan if she wants the line to be transferred. There were only three calls—the first from a girlfriend who’d only just heard about her broken engagement and clearly wanted all the gory details. The second was from her stepsister, furiously demanding to know if she’d come to her senses yet and who was going to pay for the page boy suit. And the third, inevitably, was from Chris, in a new role as the voice of sweet reason, suggesting that they’d both behaved very badly but that he, at least, was prepared to let bygones be bygones and try again. Flora listened to it, open-mouthed at his sheer effrontery, then stabbed at the ‘Delete’ button, nearly breaking a nail in the process. Somehow, she thought grimly, she was going to have to convince him not to contact her ever again. She’d assumed her mention of Ottavia would be enough to keep him away, but clearly he was experiencing a sense of decency by-pass. She was still seething when the doorbell rang, and had to hurriedly arrange her face into more tranquil and pleasant lines as she went to answer its summons. After all, she didn’t want to send the unknown Mrs Morgan fleeing in fright down the street, she thought, as she flung open the door. And stopped, her smile freezing on her lips, her senses screaming into shock, as she saw who was waiting for her. ‘Buongiorno,’ said Marco. The sound of his voice with its familiar husky note roused her from her sudden stupor. She grabbed at the door, intending to slam it in his face, but he was too fast for her, and too strong. She’d forgotten the deceptive muscularity of the lean body under those elegant suits. He simply walked past her into the entrance hall. ‘Now you may close the door,’ he said softly. ‘Get out of here. Get out—now.’ Her voice cracked in the middle. ‘Or I’ll call the police—tell them you forced your way in…’ ‘With no evidence?’ he asked crushingly. ‘I think not. And then I shall tell them it is just a lovers’ quarrel, and we will see which of us they believe.’ ‘You can’t stay,’ Flora said rapidly. ‘I’m expecting a visitor…’ She paused, her eyes flying to his face with sudden suspicion. ‘Or am I?’ She drew a deep breath. ‘My God, I don’t believe this. You’ve caught me again in the same trap. The flat isn’t sold at all, is it? It’s just another trick, and the Morgans probably don’t even exist.’ ‘They are quite real, and they are genuinely buying your flat,’ Marco returned. ‘But not, unfortunately, the furniture. We stretched the truth about that.’ “‘We”?’ Flora echoed derisively. ‘Surely a practised liar like you, signore, doesn’t need an accomplice.’ He said slowly, ‘If you are hoping you will goad me into losing my temper and walking out, you will be disappointed. I came here to talk to you, Flora mia, and I shall not leave until I have done so.’ He paused. ‘But not in this hallway. Let us go into your sitting room.’ Flora did not budge. ‘You can talk,’ she said clearly. ‘But I don’t have to listen.’ The green eyes glinted at her. ‘Do not put me to the trouble of fetching you, mia cara.’ Her hesitation was only momentary. Fetching meant touching, and an instinct older than the world told her that, as long as she lived, she would never be ready to feel his hands on her again. Skirting round him with minute care, she walked into the living room and went to stand by the window, her arms folded defensively across her body. Marco propped himself in the doorway, his expression unreadable as he looked her over. He said, ‘You are thinner.’ Flora bit her lip, staring down at the gleaming boards. ‘Please don’t concern yourself,’ she said. ‘Because the situation is purely temporary, I assure you.’ And could have wept with the terrible irony of it all. ‘Have you been ill?’ ‘No, I’ve just had a check-up and I’m in excellent health.’ She lifted her chin and faced him defiantly. ‘I’m sorry if you thought I’d be wasting away—or suicidal. What a blow to your male pride to find me simply—getting on with my life.’ ‘Why did you decide to sell the flat?’ She shrugged. ‘The blank canvas didn’t seem appropriate any more.’ She paused. ‘Is this all you want to ask? Why didn’t you get your private detective to submit a questionnaire, and I could have ticked the right boxes?’ ‘A box would not have told me how angry you are with me.’ ‘No, but it would have spared me this meeting.’ She shook her head. ‘Why have you come here? You must have known I would never want to see you again.’ ‘Yes,’ he acknowledged quietly. ‘I was afraid it would be so. Which was why I delayed my journey. I hoped, if I gave you time, you might, in turn, allow me the opportunity to explain.’ ‘That’s unnecessary. Your godmother supplied all the explanation I could ever need. I know everything, signore, so you may as well go back where you came from.’ ‘You are determined not to listen to me,’ he said slowly. ‘Even after all we have been to each other.’ ‘I know what you once were to me,’ Flora said bitingly. ‘Thanks to the Contessa, I’m now aware of all I was to you. There’s nothing more to be said.’ ‘There is a great deal more,’ he snapped. ‘And I was coming back from Milan to say it to you—to tell you everything. To confess and ask your forgiveness. Only to find you had gone and all hell had broken loose.’ ‘Oh, please.’ To her fury, she realised she was trembling. ‘Am I really supposed to believe that?’ She shook her head. ‘Don’t tell me any more of your lies, Marco. I won’t be made a fool of a second time.’ ‘No,’ he said bitterly. ‘I am the one who has been a fool—and worse than a fool. What point is there in pretending otherwise?’ ‘None at all,’ she said. ‘But pretending is what you do best, signore, and old habits die hard.’ He said slowly, ‘While we are on the subject of pretence, signorina, do you intend to maintain that you did not expect me to come after you? And that there is nothing left in your heart of that passion—the need that we shared?’ ‘Your conceit, Signor Valante, is only matched by your arrogance.’ Flora’s voice sparked with anger. ‘That is no answer.’ ‘It’s the only one you’re going to get,’ she flashed. His laugh was husky, almost painful. ‘Then I will ask another question. Flora—will you be my wife?’ The world suddenly seemed to lurch sideways. There was a strange roaring in her ears and she saw the floor rising to meet her. When awareness slowly returned, she found she was lying on the sofa and Marco was kneeling beside her, holding a glass of water. ‘Drink this,’ he directed shortly, and she complied unwillingly. He watched her, his mouth drawn into a grim, straight line. He said, ‘And you say you are not sick.’ ‘I’m not.’ Flora handed back the glass and sat up gingerly. ‘I had a shock, that’s all.’ ‘Is it really so shocking to receive a proposal of marriage?’ ‘From you—yes.’ She could taste the sourness of tears in her throat. ‘But then why should I really be surprised? It’s time you were married, isn’t it? And one woman is as good as any other. I’m told that’s your philosophy. Be honest, signore.’ He was silent for a long moment. ‘It may have been—once. God forgive me. But not now.’ ‘So, what is it this time?’ Flora stared at him, her eyes hard. ‘A belated attempt to salve your guilty conscience? To offer some recompense for the way you treated me?’ ‘I want you,’ he said quietly. ‘And I swore I would move heaven and earth to get you back.’ ‘Except you don’t really believe you’ll have to go to those lengths,’ she threw at him. ‘Not when I was such a push-over the first time around.’ She gestured wildly. ‘You think you have only to smile, and take my hand—and I’ll follow you anywhere. But not this time, signore. Because I’m not playing your game any more. I’ve changed, and I tell you this—I’d rather die than have you touch me—you bastard.’ There was another tingling silence, then Marco said, ‘Ah,’ and got to his feet. The dark face was cool, composed, and the green eyes steady as they met hers. He said, ‘Then I agree with you, Flora mia. There is no more to be said, and I will leave you in peace to enjoy your life.’ As he turned to walk to the door the telephone rang suddenly. He checked. ‘Do you wish me to answer that for you?’ ‘The machine will pick up the message.’ She hardly recognised her own voice. She felt as if she’d been left dying on some battlefield. As perhaps she had. There was a click, and a woman’s voice, clear and pleasant, filled the room. ‘This is Barbara Wayne, Miss Graham, the midwife from the health centre. Dr Arthur asked me to contact you and arrange a preliminary appointment. Perhaps you’d call me back and suggest a convenient time—early next week, say? Thank you.’ Flora sat as if she’d been turned to stone, listening to the tape switch off and run back. Her mouth was bone-dry and her heart was beating an alarmed tattoo against her ribcage. She did not dare look at Marco, but the words of the message seemed to hang in the room. Useless to hope that he had not picked up its exact implication. If it had just been five minutes later, she thought, fighting back a sob of desperation. Just five minutes… He would have been gone. And she would have been safe. Whereas now… When he eventually spoke, his tone was almost remote. The polite interest of a stranger. ‘Is it true? Are you carrying my child?’ She set her teeth to stop them chattering. ‘What—makes you think it’s yours?’ ‘Now who is playing games?’ There was a note under the surface of his voice that made her shiver. ‘Do not prevaricate—or lie to me. Are you having our baby?’ She closed her eyes. ‘Yes.’ ‘At last, some honesty.’ There was another terrible silence, then he sighed. ‘Well, even if I am a bastard, as you say, Flora mia, I will not allow my child to be born as one. You and I will be married as soon as it can be arranged.’ ‘No.’ She was on her feet. ‘I won’t do it. You can’t make me.’ He smiled grimly. ‘I think I can, mia bella. You have made it clear you find me repulsive.’ He shrugged. ‘I can accept that. But our child will be born within the protection of marriage.’ His voice hardened. ‘What happens afterwards will be a matter for negotiation, but it will not include the usual demands a husband makes of his wife.’ ‘To hell with your negotiations.’ Flora was shaking. ‘I still say no.’ ‘You wish to give up the baby?’ Marco asked coldly. ‘Or do you want me to fight you for custody through the courts, with all the attendant lurid publicity that will entail? Because I guarantee you will lose.’ ‘You can’t say that.’ The breath caught in her throat. ‘Judges favour mothers.’ ‘Not always. And can you afford the risk—or the cost of a long legal war?’ His smile froze her. ‘I do not think so.’ He paused. ‘But, if you marry me, I promise complete financial support for you and the baby in return for proper visitation rights. I shall not even require you to live under my roof after the birth,’ he added drily. ‘And in time we can divorce discreetly.’ There was a terrible tightness in her chest, as if someone had grasped her heart and was squeezing out every last drop of blood. She said thickly, ‘You’ve betrayed me once. Why should I trust you this time?’ His mouth curled. ‘Because I don’t bed unwilling women, cara. As my wife, and the mother of my child, you will receive my respect, but nothing more.’ He paused, his gaze faintly mocking. ‘Do you want my lawyers to draw up a written assurance?’ ‘No.’ She bit her lip. ‘That—won’t be necessary.’ ‘Do I take it, then, that you agree to my terms?’ She said, dully, ‘I don’t seem to have a great deal of choice.’ ‘Then you may choose now. Do you wish a large wedding or a small one?’ ‘A small one,’ she said. ‘And as quiet as possible.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I’m not proud of what I’m doing.’ ‘It is not what I would wish either,’ Marco said quietly. ‘But we must consider what is best for the child we have made together.’ She walked over to the window and stood, staring unseeingly at the street. ‘Have you thought of what your godmother will say about this?’ He said curtly, ‘Her views are of no concern to me. In any case, she is giving up the villa and returning to Rome, so you will not be obliged to meet with her again.’ She said with difficulty, ‘But you—do expect me to live at the castello?’ ‘It is a tradition for Valante children to be born there—as I am sure you already know.’ His tone was brusque. Yes, she thought, with a stab of anguish. In that big canopied bed in the tower, where we were lovers… Dear God, I can’t bear it—I can’t… She didn’t look at him. ‘I presume you will be spending most of your time in Milan?’ ‘Naturally,’ he said drily. ‘I would not be the first husband to use work as an excuse to keep his distance. Although not usually so early in the marriage.’ ‘No,’ she said. ‘I—I suppose not.’ She kept her back turned because she dared not—dared not—face him. Because he might look into her eyes and see all the confusion of misery and yearning that was suddenly rising inside her in spite of herself. And she knew if he came to her, and took her in his arms, she would be lost for ever. She could not take that risk. He said suddenly, ‘Your friend Hester. How much have you told her?’ ‘Just that I had a stupid, dangerous affair, and am now pregnant as a result.’ She spoke defiantly. How silly, she thought, to have imagined that there was anywhere she could go where he wouldn’t find her exactly when he wished. ‘I also said that I wanted nothing more to do with you, so I shall have some explaining to do.’ ‘I am sure you will make your—change of heart convincing,’ he said softly. ‘Do you wish her to be a witness at our wedding?’ She forced a smile. ‘I don’t think I could keep her away if I tried.’ ‘Perhaps you should let me talk to her, so that I can reassure her that this marriage is in everyone’s best interests.’ He hesitated. ‘Will you both have dinner with me at my hotel this evening?’ ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘But that—won’t be necessary.’ She steadied her voice. ‘I’ve agreed to go through a wedding ceremony with you. Let that be enough.’ He said icily, ‘As you wish. I will contact you, then, only when the arrangements are made.’ ‘I think it would be better,’ she said, then weakened her position by adding, ‘If you don’t mind.’ ‘Why should I mind? As you reminded me, cara, I am a philosopher, and one woman is like any other. I will try not to forget again.’ His tone was sardonic. ‘However, I should warn you that my respect for you as my wife will not necessarily guarantee my fidelity. I do not intend to be lonely, although I shall be discreet. I trust you can accept that?’ ‘Of course.’ Her voice was barely audible. ‘Good.’ He sounded almost brisk. ‘Then I will leave you in peace, as you desire. Arriverderci, Flora mia.’ She heard him leave the room, and, presently, the sound of the front door closing. She made her way slowly to the sofa and sank down on its cushions. Well, she had managed to keep him at a serious distance, she thought, and, under the circumstances, that was a personal triumph. So why did she feel as if she’d suffered a crushing defeat instead? I do not intend to be lonely. The words reverberated over and over in her mind, creating images she did not wish to contemplate. Especially when it seemed she had condemned herself to an agony of loneliness for the rest of her life. She drew a deep, shuddering breath. Well, she had done what she had to do—if she was to preserve her self-respect—and her sanity. And now—somehow—she had to live with the consequences. Hester was hovering, her eyes alive with curiosity, when Flora got home that evening. ‘So,’ she said. ‘Why are we too busy to have dinner with Marco Valante tonight?’ Flora gasped. ‘How do you know about that?’ ‘Because he phoned about half an hour ago to express his regrets and say that the invitation was still open.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘And, as he doesn’t sound like the kind of guy who takes rejection well, that gives us just over an hour to glam up and get there.’ Flora became a living statue. ‘No,’ she said baldly. ‘Is that a real no? Or an “I could be persuaded in the fullness of time” job?’ ‘A real no,’ Flora said hotly. ‘Oh, how dare he?’ Hester shrugged. ‘Presumably because he wants company at dinner?’ Flora shook her head. ‘It’s really not as simple as that.’ ‘Then tell me about it,’ said Hester. ‘You have my undivided attention. And I already know that he’s undoubtedly the baby’s father, so you can skip that bit.’ Flora took a deep breath. ‘We’re going to be married.’ ‘Right,’ Hester said evenly, after a minute. ‘When was this decision made?’ ‘Today. He—just turned up. Unexpectedly,’ she added with constraint. ‘Good choice of word,’ Hester approved affably. ‘Because I have the feeling I’ve just stepped into a parallel universe here. Or was it some other man you were swearing you never wanted to see again only twenty-four hours ago?’ ‘I didn’t—and I don’t. But he’s found out about the baby and he refuses to allow it to be born illegitimate.’ She paused. ‘So we made a deal—marriage in return for financial support and reasonable access.’ Hester gave her a long look. ‘This sounds more like a business arrangement than a relationship.’ ‘Yes,’ said Flora. ‘That’s exactly what it is—and nothing more.’ There was a loaded silence, then Hester said carefully, ‘May I just recap here? I’ve known you for years, Flo, and you’re not the promiscuous kind. You never have been. But this is the man for whom you suddenly and spectacularly dumped Chris, remember? Not only that but you allowed this Marco Valante to sweep you off and have unprotected sex with you. He’s made you act completely out of character ever since you met, so “business arrangement” hardly covers it.’ ‘And I told you that the whole thing was a disastrous mistake.’ Flora made herself meet her friend’s concerned gaze. ‘On both sides,’ she added. ‘So we’re just trying to make the best of a bad job.’ ‘But all this civilised behaviour doesn’t include having dinner with the guy?’ Hester shook her head. ‘It sounds to me as if you’re running scared, Flo.’ There was another taut silence, then Flora sighed defeatedly. ‘Very well, then. Call him back and tell him we’ll be there. I presume he’s staying at the Mayfair Tower?’ ‘You know he is.’ Hester gave her a swift hug. ‘Besides, the food there is bound to be better than the ham salad we had planned—especially when you’re eating for two now,’ she added slyly. Flora gave her a constrained smile. ‘Please don’t remind me.’ Marco was waiting for them in the bar, meeting Flora’s fulminating look with equanimity and no overt air of triumph. Hester was wary to begin with, but was soon blinking under the full force of his charm. He was relaxed, amusing and attentive to Flora, without undue fuss. And, apart from offering her his arm as they went into the dining room, he was scrupulous about avoiding physical contact with her. He should have been an actor, Flora thought sourly as she sipped her sole glass of vintage champagne. But she couldn’t fault him as a host, and the food and wine were delicious. The only awkward moment occurred at the end of the evening, when he was seeing them to a waiting taxi. Acutely aware of Hester’s expectant gaze, Flora allowed him to take her hand and kiss it. He said softly, ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, carissima,’ and bent to kiss her cheek. It was the merest brush of his lips, but her whole body surged in a response of such force that she nearly cried out. She murmured something, then stepped back, avoiding his gaze. ‘So,’ Hester said, as they drove home. ‘You still maintain this marriage is just a business arrangement?’ ‘Yes,’ Flora said defensively. ‘What of it?’ Hester shrugged. ‘Just that, when questioned, nine out of ten women said that, given the chance, they’d rip his clothes off and drag him into bed. And the tenth was in her nineties and short-sighted.’ She groaned. ‘God, Flo, he exudes sex like lesser men do aftershave. I felt it when I first saw him and it wasn’t even directed at me. Also, he’s seriously rich and definitely powerful. So—why the arm’s length treatment? Are you completely mad?’ ‘I certainly was,’ Flora returned shortly. ‘Which is why I’m in this appalling mess now. And I’m not going down that path again. Ever.’ She hesitated. ‘I do have my reasons, Hes.’ ‘Then I have to admire your will-power, even if I don’t understand it.’ Hester took her hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. ‘And I wish you luck, honey, because something tells me that you’re absolutely going to need it.’ And as she lay awake that night, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the demands of her unsatisfied body, Flora was forced to concede unhappily that Hester could well be right. CHAPTER TEN (#ulink_59602cc7-bf25-5c50-a2e6-72c5da06e647) THE ring was plain, gold, unflashy and made no overt statement, but each time Flora moved her hand she was acutely aware of its presence—and its significance. She was now Marco’s wife, legally if in no other way. And she had to admit reluctantly that so far he had kept his word unfalteringly about that. She had dreaded that on her arrival at the castello she would be expected to occupy the tower rooms again, even if she did sleep there alone, but to her relief she had been given another suite on the opposite side of the building, large and airy and decorated in light pastels. ‘You may, of course, change anything you wish,’ Marco had said courteously as she’d looked over her new surroundings. ‘It’s totally charming. I wouldn’t want to alter a thing,’ Flora had returned with equal politeness. But it had been a tricky moment, because Marco had reacted with surprising heat when Flora had refused point-blank to sell her business. ‘I’ve worked hard to build it up.’ She’d faced him defiantly. ‘And I can keep in touch on an everyday basis via the internet. I intend to fly home once a month for consultancy purposes.’ He was frowning darkly. ‘Is that wise—when you are pregnant?’ ‘I’m perfectly fit,’ she said. ‘And anyway, it’s not up for negotiation. I’m going to need my job to go back to—later.’ A muscle flickered at the side of his mouth. He said coolly, ‘There is no need for you to work again. I have said I will make financial arrangements for you and the child.’ Flora lifted her chin. ‘All the same, I love my job, and I prefer to maintain my independence. Also I’ve managed to find additional help, so I shan’t have to knock myself out in the coming months.’ During the inevitable flurry of preparations for the wedding she’d heard on the grapevine that a young designer called Jane Allen was looking for a change of scene. Flora had met her, liked her immediately, established it was mutual, and that she would frankly relish being flung in at the deep end, and signed her up on the spot. But Marco, she knew, had not been appeased in the slightest. On a happier note, she had been touched by the warmth of her reception at the castello. All the staff from Alfredo downwards seemed genuinely pleased by her return as the Signora. She’d been agreeably surprised to discover that Ninetta had gone, along with her brother, and presumably was now in Rome with the Contessa, so that particular fly had been removed from the ointment. And it saved me having to fire her, Flora thought grimly. When she was subjected to some very obvious cossetting, she realised resignedly that the staff had guessed with the speed of light why their young mistress was sometimes unwell in the mornings. She also discovered that the Signore’s decision to sleep alone was regarded as a sign of his concern for his bride’s fragile health so early in her pregnancy. Not all men, it was hinted, were so kind or considerate at such a delicate time. Saint Marco, thought Flora, concealing her gritted teeth under a dulcet smile. But she could hardly complain that he was adhering so strictly to the terms of the deal, after she’d made it abundantly clear that she wanted him nowhere near her, she reminded herself unhappily. Except that she was lonely. She was surrounded by devoted people, but she realised immediately that the castello was only really alive when Marco came back from Milan at the weekend. And it was hard to remain aloof—to mirror his cool courtesy—when she longed to run to him and fling herself into his arms on his return. He had suggested once that she might wish to invite her family to stay with her, but Flora had not taken up the idea. Her mother had reacted badly to news of the wedding, and had refused point-blank to attend. She was still convinced that Marco was connected with the Mafia, and prophesied nothing but doom and disaster. And Flora knew of old that where she led the rest of the family would follow. The good news, however, was that Hester had holiday left, and was coming to stay in the autumn. In the meantime, being pampered in the lap of luxury and discreetly coached in the management of a large household by Alfredo and his wife was hardly the worst fate that could have befallen her. And if she kept repeating that to herself, she might, eventually, come to believe it, she thought, sighing. Gradually she was noticing her body changing, adapting lushly to its new role, and the eminent gynaecologist that Marco had engaged to look after her expressed complete satisfaction with her progress. He also mentioned discreetly that now the pregnancy was firmly established the Signora could happily resume marital relations with her husband, and went away thinking sentimentally how charming it was that his latest patient should blush so deeply at such an ordinary suggestion. The truth was that Flora was fighting a bitter war with herself—her emotions locked in mortal combat with her common sense. Marco had claimed he’d come to find her because he wanted her, but he had never, even in their most passionately intimate moments, said that he loved her. And desire, however strong, was such a transient thing, she told herself, troubled. It took far more than that to make a marriage, especially when the female half was on the verge of swelling up like a barrage balloon. That needed the kind of love she would sell her soul for. And, since she’d arrived at the castello, Marco had never given the slightest hint by word or sign that he’d been tempted to break his self-imposed rules. On the contrary, she acknowledged with a faint sigh. Which could indicate that only his weekends with her were celibate. That during his working week in Milan he had already found someone else to share his nights. And that meant that all Flora had to offer him was the tiny human being growing inside her. Once she’d given birth she would be totally surplus to requirements. The realisation was preying on her mind—driving her crazy. She should be relaxed and tranquil, as the consultant had told her, and instead she was being torn apart by misery and the kind of jealousy she had never dreamed could exist. As a consequence, when he was at the castello she heard her voice becoming clipped and cool, knew that her body language was guarded and even hostile. Because she was already preparing herself for the pain of parting. Armouring herself against a hurt that would be as damaging as it was inevitable. At the same time she was fighting a real sense of shame that she could feel all this for a man who had taken and used her only to fuel his need for revenge. A man she had tried so hard to hate. Oh, why couldn’t he have just left her and gone once he’d achieved his purpose? she thought in anguish. Why had he brought her to his home—and allowed her to fall deeply and irrevocably in love with him? And, once the truth was out, why couldn’t he have left her alone to recover from the trauma of it in peace? Instead, he had condemned her to this half-life, and she wasn’t sure how much she could take. Her trips back to London were only a passing distraction, too, she’d discovered. Business was good, clients were plentiful, and Jane was running the company with flair. So much so that Flora wasn’t sure she was really needed there either, and knew that sooner or later Jane was going to offer to buy her out. I’m going to be like a stateless person, she thought. When Hester came to stay she wasn’t alone. She was accompanied by Andrew, who was tall, brown-haired and humorous, and who looked at Hester so adoringly that Flora felt a lump in her throat. Her wary wise-cracking friend was suddenly transformed into a woman with a dream in her eyes and a smile of pure fulfilment curving her lips. And Flora hated herself for feeling envious in the face of their obvious joy. ‘The wedding’s going to be in the late spring,’ Hester confided. ‘By which time the baby will be here, and you can wear something glamorous as matron of honour.’ ‘It’s a date.’ Flora kept her smile pinned in place, and perhaps Hes noticed, because she gave her a swift hug. ‘How are things?’ she whispered. ‘I must say Marco’s the perfect host.’ ‘Everything’s fine,’ Flora returned. It was while she was waving them goodbye that she was conscious for the first time of a faint fluttering like a tiny bird in her abdomen. ‘Oh.’ She touched herself with a questioning hand. ‘Is something wrong?’ Marco’s tone was sharp. ‘No.’ She marshalled a smile. ‘On the contrary. I think the baby just moved.’ He took a half-step towards her, his hand going out, then stopped, the dark face closing over. He said quietly, ‘That is—wonderful news. But I hope you will not become too uncomfortable.’ ‘No,’ she said, choking back the threatened tears of disappointment. ‘I—I gather that can happen.’ She gave him a brief, meaningless smile, and went back into the castello. By the time she came down to dinner he was already on his way back to Milan. As her body had swelled she’d been glad to see the end of the intense heat of summer, although she missed her daily gentle swim. Autumn at the castello was cool and rainy, and she walked every day instead. On one of her forays she found a small terrier dog of indeterminate breed crouching miserably under a tree, and coaxed him to follow her home. He wasn’t received with unmixed joy by the staff. ‘He is a stray, signora. He could be diseased,’ Alfredo told her, concerned. ‘Then ask the vet to come and look him over.’ Flora stroked the small shaggy head with a gentle hand. ‘I wonder where he came from?’ Alfredo pursed his lips. ‘From one of the rented villas, signora. People do not always take their animals home after a holiday.’ ‘How vile,’ Flora said with some heat. ‘Anyway, he’ll be company for me. And he’ll be fine once he’s had a bath and something to eat.’ Alfredo went off muttering, but by the time the little dog had been vetted and groomed he looked altogether more respectable, and, after only a few days, felt so much at home that an armchair in the salotto had become his designated abode. ‘And we will see what the Signore has to say about that,’ Alfredo said ominously. But Marco seemed merely amused. ‘You should have said you wanted a dog, cara,’ he remarked, fondling the little animal’s pointed ears and receiving an adoring look in return that made Flora silently grind her teeth. ‘I would have found you a pedigree litter to choose from.’ ‘Thank you,’ Flora said politely. ‘But I think dogs pick their owners, and I prefer my little mutt.’ And Mutt he was, from then on. But, as an apparent consequence of his introduction into the household, Marco started staying in Milan for the weekends too, confirming Flora’s unhappy conviction that he had a mistress there. But he was at home for Christmas and New Year, which were celebrated quietly, although Alfredo had told her that there had often been large parties in the past. ‘But they are a lot of work, signora,’ he said. ‘And the Signore will be anxious that you do not become overtired.’ Perhaps, thought Flora. Or more likely he did not wish to introduce his temporary wife to his family and friends when he knew it would be the only Christmas she would spend at the castello. Her gift from Marco came in a flat velvet case. One perfect pearl, like a captured tear on its thin gold chain, she thought as he fastened it round her throat, her body shivering in involuntary delight as his fingers brushed briefly against her skin. In her turn, she’d been careful to avoid anything too overtly personal and gave him a tall, frighteningly expensive crystal decanter that she’d found in an antique shop on her last visit to London. And he thanked her with a smile that did not reach his eyes. The weather turned much colder in January, and although Flora still took Mutt for his daily run, she did not go so far afield. She found she tired easily these days, especially as the baby was particularly active at night. Like a drum being beaten from the inside, she thought, remembering a line from a Meryl Streep movie she’d once seen. Sometimes the movements were clearly visible, and she was aware of Marco watching her one evening, as she lay on the sofa, his attention frowningly absorbed on the tiny kicks and thumps that rippled the cling of her dress. Do you want to touch? she longed to say. Do you want to feel how it feels? But then he got up abruptly from his chair and went to his study to work, and the moment passed, unshared. There was a small shop selling delectable babywear in one of the streets off the town square, and Flora was a regular visit every time new stock came in. One day, as she emerged with her latest purchases, she realised she was being watched, and, looking round, saw Ninetta standing on the opposite side of the street, staring at her. She half lifted a hand, but the other woman ducked her head and scuttled away. She mentioned the encounter casually to Alfredo as he drove her home. ‘The Contessa Baressi’s villa has been sold, signora. I think some members of the family have come down to remove their personal possessions.’ ‘Oh.’ Her tone was subdued. ‘But have no fear, signora,’ he added reassuringly. ‘The Signore’s orders are clear, and even if they call at the castello they will not be admitted.’ Mutt was waiting for her at the door, tail wagging furiously. ‘All right, old boy.’ Flora bent with difficulty to pat him. ‘I’ll take you out now. Fetch his leash for me, will you, Alfredo?’ ‘Do you think that is wise, signora?’ He peered at the sky. ‘It will be dark soon.’ ‘I won’t go far,’ she promised. The wind was cold on the coast road, and she walked as quickly as she could, her head bent, while Mutt pranced eagerly ahead of her in the rapidly fading light. Traffic was almost non-existent in winter, and she frowned as she heard the sound of a car approaching fast. She whistled to Mutt, who came running, and clipped on his lead. As she straightened she was caught in the beam of headlights, and flung up a hand to shield her eyes. She expected the car to pull over, but it seemed to be coming straight for her, and she cried out, throwing herself desperately to one side, fleetingly aware of a face, framed in a mass of dark hair, in the driving seat. She fell heavily, and felt the fume-filled draught on her face as the car went past, its tyres screaming on the wet surface of the road. Mutt, barking hysterically, tried to chase after it, but fortunately she had his lead twisted round her wrist, and after a few abortive attempts to free himself he trotted back and licked her face. Flora lay very still, her cheek pressed against damp freezing turf, all her senses at fever pitch as she tried to assess what damage might have been done. Kick me, she pleaded silently to the baby. Kick me hard. But nothing happened. When, eventually, she tried to move, she felt her ankle screaming at her to stop, and lay back again. She knew she needed to stay calm, but as the minutes passed she began to feel chilled and also extremely scared. The driver of the car must have seen her fall, she thought in shocked bewilderment, but had made no attempt to stop even though it must have been obvious that she was heavily pregnant. How long would it be before she was missed at the castello? And, when she was, how would they know which direction she had taken? She swallowed convulsively. ‘Oh, Mutt,’ she whispered. ‘I think I could be in real trouble.’ As if in confirmation, Mutt flattened his ears, threw back his head, and began to howl. Time became a blur of cold, and thin rain, and Mutt’s distress. She tried several times to get up, but the pain in her ankle invariably sent her wincing back to the ground. She was sure it wasn’t broken, but it could be badly sprained, which was just as inconvenient. She became aware that she was drifting in and out of consciousness, and knew that this was the biggest danger. Mutt was quiet too, as if he’d decided his efforts were in vain, and she loosened his lead and whispered, ‘Home, boy,’ praying that the sight of him would speed up the search. Unless, of course, he got sidetracked by a stray cat, or some other legitimate prey, she thought as she heard him in the distance, bursting into a frenzy of excited barking. But that wasn’t the only noise. There were voices, she realised, and bobbing lights. Or was she just delirious with the cold and imagining it all? Because it seemed as if Marco was beside her, his voice saying brokenly, ‘Flora—mia carissima. Ah, Dio, my angel, my sweet love. What has happened to you?’ She knew that was impossible, because Marco was miles away in Milan, and anyway he didn’t care about her enough to say things like that. Only his arms were strong around her, and she was breathing the familiar scent of his skin, listening to him murmuring the endearments in his own language that he had once whispered to her when they were making love. And somehow this surpassed every moment of rapture she had ever known with him. But as he tried to lift her she cried out, ‘My ankle,’ and fell back alone into the darkness. When she opened her eyes again there was light so bright that it was almost painful. And there was a soft mattress under her aching body, a sharp hospital smell in the air, and tight strapping round her throbbing ankle. There was also Marco, his face haggard, until he turned into a bearded man in a white coat, who smiled kindly and asked how she felt. ‘Like one big bruise,’ she said, her voice husky. And then, with sudden fear, ‘My baby?’ ‘Still in place, Signora Valante, and waiting for a proper birthday. You are a strong lady, and your child is strong too.’ ‘Thank God,’ she whispered, and lay back against the pillow, tears trickling down her face. When she could speak, she said, ‘I thought—my husband…’ ‘He is here, signora. I will let you talk to him, then you must rest, and in the morning, if all is well, he can take you home.’ ‘Everything will be,’ she said. ‘But first I must ask what happened to you. How you came to be lying by the road in such weather.’ She frowned, trying to remember. ‘There was a car,’ she said slowly. ‘Going too fast. I tried to get out of the way, and fell.’ ‘Do you know what kind of car—or did you see the number plate?’ She shook her head. ‘It all happened so fast.’ ‘Then we must thank God it was not worse,’ he said gravely, and left her. When she opened her eyes again, Marco was sitting by the bed. He said hoarsely, ‘I thought I had lost you, my love, my dearest heart. Santa Madonna, I was so frightened. When I saw you lying there on the grass…’ ‘But I’m safe,’ she told him softly. ‘And your baby is safe too.’ She pushed aside the covers and took his hand, placing it under the hospital gown on the bare mound of her abdomen. The baby moved suddenly, forcefully, as if woken from a sound sleep, and Flora looked at her husband and smiled, and saw his face transformed—transfigured. He bent his head and put his cheek against her belly, and she felt his tears on her skin. He said, brokenly, ‘Flora—oh, Flora mia, I love you so much. These last months have been a nightmare. I could not reach you. I thought I never would. That you would never want to be my wife, no matter how I longed for you. That even when our child was born you might not turn to me.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Mia cara, can you ever forgive the wrong I did you and let me be your husband in truth? I swear I will spend the rest of my life trying to make you happy.’ She ran a caressing hand over his dishevelled hair. ‘I think I might.’ Her voice trembled into a smile. ‘If you’ll kiss me, and tell me again that you love me.’ He raised his head sharply, his eyes scanning her face. He said her name, then his mouth was on hers, passionately, tenderly, in a kiss that was also a vow. A long time later, she said, ‘Why aren’t you in Milan?’ ‘What a question, mia bella,’ Marco said lazily. ‘Anyone would think you were not pleased to see me.’ He’d managed somehow to squeeze himself on to the narrow bed beside her, and was lying with her wrapped in his arms and her head on his chest. ‘I am,’ she said. ‘But I’d still like a straight answer.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Cara, I have thought about you every day we have been apart, but today it was different. From the moment I awoke this morning I had this strange feeling that you needed me, that I should come to you. And then Alfredo telephoned me, as usual, and told me that Tonio and Ottavia had returned and were staying at the villa. I knew my instinct was right and I should come home at once.’ Ottavia, thought Flora in horror, remembering that briefly glimpsed face at the wheel of the car. She must have tensed, because he said at once, ‘Is something wrong?’ It might have been, she thought. But it wasn’t. Because if Ottavia had been tempted to run her down she’d pulled out at the last moment. Perhaps it was enough for her to know that the girl she hated had taken a dive into the mud. Whatever, she thought, it’s because of her that Marco is here with me now. And because of that I can forgive her anything. So I’ll keep her secret. Because she has caused enough trouble and I only want to be happy. Aloud, she said, ‘I didn’t know Alfredo phoned you each day.’ ‘I needed to ask about you, mia cara. To make sure you were well, and perhaps happy. All the questions I dared not ask you.’ He sighed. ‘Every time we were together I wanted to fall on my knees in front of you and beg for another chance, but I was afraid I would just make you angry, and that you would use that as an excuse to leave me again.’ Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/sara-craven/sara-craven-tribute-collection/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.