Книга - Bartaldi’s Bride

Bartaldi's Bride
Sara Craven


Clare usually ran a mile from powerful, sensual men like Guido Bartaldi. Only, she' d agreed to live under Guido' s roof as companion to his wayward ward, the young woman clearly destined to become Guido' s wife…Horrified at Guido' s marriage plans, Clare soon decided to leave– and found herself all by captive in Guido' s palatial villa. Then she realized it was she who' d been chosen as Bartaldi' s bride!









“Just why do you want this marriage, signore?”


“I have a house,” Guido replied. “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 I have her in my bed….”


SARA CRAVEN was born in South Devon, England, and grew up surrounded by books, in a house by the sea. After leaving grammar school she worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders. She started writing for Harlequin in 1975. Apart from writing, her passions include films, music, cooking and eating in good restaurants. She now lives in Somerset.

Sara Craven has recently become the latest (and last ever) winner of the British quiz show Mastermind.




Bartaldi’s Bride

Sara Craven










www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Contents


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

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CHAPTER ONE


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 lumière 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


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


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 crêpe 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.





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