Читать книгу In The Count's Bed: The Count's Blackmail Bargain / The French Count's Pregnant Bride / The Italian Count's Baby - Сара Крейвен, Catherine Spencer - Страница 11

EXCEPT, of course, it had all been too good to be true. As she should probably have known, Laura thought wryly.

Several long days had passed since Paolo had airily promised her the use of the car, and yet she was still confined to the villa and its grounds, with no release in sight.

Naturally, it was the Signora who had applied the veto. Paolo was still far from well, she’d pronounced ominously, and, if there was an emergency, then the car would be needed.

‘If you had wished to explore Umbria, signorina, then perhaps you should have accepted my nephew’s generous invitation,’ she’d added, making Laura wonder how she’d come by that particular snippet of information.

But it was an invitation that, signally, had not been repeated, although she often heard the noise of the Jeep driving away.

And far from them being thrown together, after that first day, the Count seemed to have chosen deliberately to remain aloof from her.

He’d finished his breakfast and gone by the time she appeared each morning, but he continued to join her at dinner, although the conversation between them seemed polite and oddly formal compared with their earlier exchanges. And afterwards, he excused himself quickly and courteously, so that she was left strictly to her own devices.

So perhaps he too had sensed the danger of being over-friendly. And, having brought about her reunion with Paolo in spite of his aunt’s disapproval, considered his duty done.

She should have found the new regime far less disturbing, and easier to cope with, but somehow it wasn’t.

Even in his absence, she was still conscious of him, as if his presence had invaded every stone of the villa’s walls. She found she was waiting for his return—listening for his footsteps, and the sound of his voice.

And worst of all was seeing his face in the darkness as she fought restlessly for sleep each night.

The evening meal, she acknowledged wretchedly, was now the highlight of her day, in spite of its new restrictions.

It was an attitude she’d have condemned as ludicrous in anyone else, and she knew it.

And if someone had warned her that she would feel like this, one day, about a man that she hardly even knew, she would not have believed them.

Yet it was happening to her—twenty-first-century Laura. She was trapped, held helpless by the sheer force of her own untried emotions. By feelings that were as old as eternity.

She’d soon discovered that he was not simply on vacation at the villa when she’d made herself take up his invitation to borrow something to read. His library, she saw, was not merely shelved out with books from floor to ceiling, but its vast antique desk was also home to a state-of-the-art computer system, which explained why he was closeted there for much of the time he spent at the villa.

Though not, of course, when she’d paid her visit. It had been Emilia who had waited benignly while she’d made her selection. She had just been hesitating over a couple of modern thrillers, when, to her surprise, she had come on a complete set of Jane Austen, and her choice had been made. She’d glanced through them, appreciating the beautiful leather bindings, then decided on Mansfield Park, which she hadn’t read since her school days.

The name Valentina Ramontella was inscribed on the flyleaf in an elegant sloping hand, and Emilia, in answer to her tentative enquiry, had told her, with a sigh, that this had been the name of His Excellency’s beloved mother, and these books her particular property.

‘I see.’ Laura touched the signature gently with her forefinger. ‘Well, please assure the Count I’ll take great care of it.’

However tenuous, it was almost a connection between them, she thought as she took the book away.

But, although the hours seemed strangely empty in Alessio’s absence, she was not entirely without companionship as one day stretched endlessly into the next.

Because, to her infinite surprise, Caio had attached himself to her. He was no longer kept in the courtyard, but she’d come across a reluctant Guillermo taking him for a walk in the garden, on the express orders of his master, he’d told her glumly. Seeing his face, and listening to the little dog’s excited whimpers as he’d strained on the leash to reach her, Laura had volunteered to take over this daily duty—if the Signora agreed.

Even more surprisingly, permission had been ungraciously granted. And, after a couple of days, Caio trotted beside her so obediently, she dispensed with the leash altogether.

He sometimes accompanied her down to the pool, lying under her sun lounger, and sat beside her in the salotto in the evenings as she flexed her rusty fingering on some of the Beethoven sonatas she’d found in bound volumes inside the piano stool. At mealtimes, apart from dinner, he was stationed unobtrusively under her chair, and he’d even joined her on the bed for siesta on a couple of occasions, she admitted guiltily.

‘I see you have acquired a bodyguard,’ was Alessio’s only comment when he encountered them together once, delivered with a faint curl of the mouth.

Watching him walk away, she scooped Caio defensively into her arms. ‘We’re just a couple of pariahs here,’ she murmured to him, and he licked her chin almost wistfully.

But she never took Caio to Paolo’s room, instinct telling this would be too much for the Signora, who had no idea of the scope of her pet’s defection to the enemy.

And I don’t want her to know, Laura thought grimly. I’m unpopular enough already. I don’t want to be accused of pinching her dog.

On his own admission, Paolo’s cold symptoms had all but vanished, but he refused to leave his room on the grounds that he was still suffering with his chest.

Laura realised that her impatience with him and her ambiguous situation was growing rapidly and would soon reach snapping point.

These ten-minute stilted visits each evening wouldn’t convince anyone that they were sharing a grand passion, she thought with exasperated derision. And if the Signora was listening at the door, she’d be justified in wagering her diamonds that she’d soon have Beatrice Manzone as a daughter-in-law.

But: ‘You worry too much,’ was Paolo’s casual response to her concern.

Well, if he was satisfied, then why should she quibble? she thought with an inward shrug. He was the paying customer, after all. And found herself grimacing at the thought.

But as she left his room that evening the Signora was waiting for her, her lips stretched in the vinegary smile first encountered in Rome. Still, any calibre of smile was a welcome surprise, Laura thought, tension rising within her.

She was astonished to be told that, as Giacomo would be driving to the village the next morning to collect some special medicine from the pharmacy, she was free to accompany him there, if she wished.

‘You may have some small errands, signorina.’ The older woman’s shrug emphasised their trifling quality. ‘But the medicine is needed, so you will not be able to remain for long.’

Well, it was better than nothing, Laura thought, offering a polite word of thanks instead of the cartwheel she felt like turning. In fact, it was almost a ‘get out of jail’ card.

Saved, she thought, with relief. Saved from cabin fever, and, hopefully, other obsessions too.

She’d have time to buy some postcards at least—let her family know she was still alive. And Gaynor, too, would be waiting to hear from her.

In the morning, she was ready well before the designated time, anxious that Giacomo would have no excuse to set off without her. She still couldn’t understand why the Signora should suddenly be so obliging, and couldn’t help wondering if the older woman was playing some strange game of cat and mouse with her.

But that makes no sense, she adjured herself impatiently. Don’t start getting paranoid.

Seated in the front, Laura kept her eyes fixed firmly ahead as the car negotiated the winding road down to the valley, avoiding any chance glimpse of the mind-aching drop on one side, and praying that they would meet no other vehicles coming from the opposite direction.

She only realised when the descent was completed that she’d been holding her breath most of the time.

Giacomo drove straight to the main square, and parked near the church. Pointing to the hands on his watch, he conveyed that she had fifteen minutes only to spend in Besavoro, and Laura nodded in resigned acceptance.

Well, that was the deal, she told herself philosophically as she set off. And she would just have to make the most of it.

She soon realised that Besavoro was in reality a small town, and not what she thought of as a village at all. The square was lined with shops, selling every sort of food, as well as wine, olive oil, hardware and clothing. It all had a busy, purposeful air, without a designer boutique or gift shop in sight.

But the little news agency she came to sold a few postcards, featuring mainly Assisi and the Majella national park, and she bought four, deciding to send one to Carl, her immediate boss at Harman Grace as well.

No one in the shop spoke English, but with great goodwill the correct stamps for Britain were offered, and her change was counted carefully into her hand.

A few doors away was a bar with tables on the pavement, and Laura took a seat, ordering a coffee and a bottle of mineral water.

She glanced across the square, checking the car, and then, carefully, her watch, before starting to write her cards.

At the same time she was aware that people were checking her, not rudely, but with open interest. English tourists were clearly a rarity here, she realised, turning her own attention back to the task in hand.

She was sorely tempted to put, ‘Having ghastly time. Glad you’re not here,’ but knew that would involve her in impossible explanations on her return. Better, she decided, to stick to the usual anodyne messages. To Gaynor alone could she eventually reveal the grisly truth, and wait for her to say, ‘I told you so,’ she thought ruefully.

Although there were things about her stay at the villa that she wasn’t prepared to talk about—ever. Not even to Gaynor.

Now all she needed was a postbox, she thought, rifling through her small phrase book for the exact wording. On the other hand it was probably quicker and easier to ask Giacomo.

She slipped her pen back into her bag, and felt for her purse, looking again towards the church as she did so.

But where the car had stood only minutes before, there was an empty space.

Laura shot to her feet with a stifled cry of dismay. It couldn’t have gone, she thought wildly. There were still minutes to spare. And if Giacomo had just looked across the square he’d have seen her. So why hadn’t he come across to her—or sounded his horn even? Why—simply drive off?

The bar owner came dashing out, clearly worried that she was about to do a runner, his voice raised in protest.

Laura pointed. ‘My lift—it’s vanished. I—I’m stranded.’

The owner spread his hands in total incomprehension, talking excitedly. She became aware that people were pausing—staring. Beginning to ask questions. Hemming her in as they did so. Making her uncomfortably aware of her sudden isolation, in a strange country, and unable to speak a word of the language.

Then, suddenly, across the increasing hubbub, cut a drawl she recognised. ‘Ciao, bella mia. Having problems?’

Alessio had come through the small crowd, which had obediently parted for him, and was standing just a couple of feet away, watching her from behind dark glasses, hands on hips. The shorts he was wearing today were marginally more decent than the first pair she’d seen him in, but his dark blue shirt was unbuttoned almost to the waist.

And if she was pleased to see him, she was determined that he wasn’t going to know it.

She faced him furiously. ‘Actually—yes. The damned car’s gone without me.’ She almost stamped her foot, but decided against it. ‘Oh, God, I don’t believe it.’ She bit her lip. ‘I suppose this is your aunt’s idea—to make me walk back up that hill, in the hope I’ll die of heatstroke.’

He grinned. ‘Calm yourself, Laura. This time Zia Lucrezia is innocent. I told Giacomo to return to the villa.’

‘But why?’ She stared at him. ‘There was no need. We had a perfectly good arrangement…’

Alessio shrugged. ‘I felt you needed a break. Also, that Besavoro deserved more than just fifteen minutes of your time. Was I so wrong?’

‘Well, no,’ she conceded without pleasure.

‘Good,’ he approved lazily. ‘And when you have completed your sightseeing, I will drive you back in the Jeep.’

Laura suddenly realised that public interest in her activities had snowballed since the Count’s arrival. The fascinated circle gathering around them was now three deep.

She said stiffly, ‘I thought I’d made it clear. I don’t want you to put yourself to any trouble on my behalf.’

‘There is no trouble—except perhaps with Luigi here.’ He indicated the gaping bar owner. ‘So, why don’t you sit down and finish your drink before he has a fit, hmm?’

He turned to the nearest onlooker, and said something softly. As if a switch had been pressed, the crowd began to melt unobtrusively away.

Such is power, Laura thought mutinously as she obeyed. She watched him drop into the chair opposite, stretching long tanned legs out in front of him as he ordered another cappuccino for Laura, and an espresso for himself from Luigi.

He’d caught her totally on the back foot, she thought. And she resented that swift painful thud of the heart that his unexpected appearance had engendered. Especially when he’d practically ignored her for the past week.

But I should want to be ignored, she thought. I should want to be totally ostracised by him. Because it’s safer that way…

‘Please do not let me interrupt.’ He nodded to the small pile of cards. ‘Finish your correspondence.’

‘I already have done.’ She smiled over-brightly. ‘Just touching base with family and friends.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The family that, according to my aunt, does not exist.’

Laura groaned inwardly. Paolo had reacted with ill temper to her confession that she’d deviated from the party line.

She made herself shrug. ‘I can’t imagine where she got that idea. Perhaps it suited her better to believe that I was a penniless orphan.’

‘Which, of course, you are not.’

‘Well, the penniless bit is fairly accurate. It’s been a real struggle for my mother since my father died. I’m just glad I’ve got a decent job, so that I can help.’

The dark brows lifted. ‘Does working in a wine bar pay so well? I did not know.’

But that’s not the day job. The words hovered on her lips, but, thankfully, remained unspoken.

Oh, God, she thought, hastily marshalling her thoughts. I’ve goofed again.

She met his sardonic gaze. ‘It’s a busy place, signore, and the tips are good.’

‘Ah,’ he said softly. He glanced around him. ‘So, what are your impressions of Besavoro?’

‘It’s larger than I thought, and much older. I didn’t think I would catch more than a glimpse of it, of course.’

‘I thought you would be pleased that I sent Giacomo away for another reason,’ he said, leaning back in his chair, and pushing his sunglasses up onto his forehead. ‘It will mean that Paolo will get his medicine more quickly, and maybe return to your arms, subito, a man restored.’

‘I doubt it.’ She looked down at the table. ‘He seems set for the duration.’ She hesitated. ‘Has he always fussed about his health like this? I mean—he’s simply got a cold.’

‘Why, Laura,’ he said softly. ‘How hard you are. For a man, no cold is ever simple.’

‘Well, I can’t imagine you going to bed for a week.’

‘No?’ His smile was wicked. The dark eyes seemed to graze her body. ‘Then perhaps you need to extend the scope of your imagination, mia cara.’

I am not—not going to blush, Laura told herself silently. And I don’t care how much he winds me up.

She looked back at him squarely, ‘I meant—with some minor ailment, signore.’

‘Perhaps not.’ He shrugged. ‘But my temper becomes so evil, I am sure those around me wish I would retire to my room—and stay there until I can be civil again.’

He paused while Luigi placed the coffees in front of them. ‘But I have to admit that Paolo was a sickly child, and I think his mother plays on this, by pampering him, and making him believe every cough and sneeze is a serious threat. It is her way of retaining some hold on him.’

‘I’m sure of it,’ Laura said roundly. ‘I suspect Beatrice Manzone has had a lucky escape.’ And could have bitten her tongue out again as Alessio’s gaze sharpened.

‘Davvero?’ he queried softly. ‘A curious point of view to have about your innamorato, perhaps.’

‘I meant,’ Laura said hastily, in a bid to retrieve the situation, ‘that I shan’t be as submissive—or as easy to manipulate—as she would have been.’

‘Credo,’ he murmured, his mouth twisting. ‘I believe you, mia cara. You have that touch of red in your hair that spells danger.’

He picked up his cup. ‘Now, drink your coffee, and I will take you to see the church,’ he added more briskly. ‘There is a Madonna and Child behind the high altar that some people say was painted by Raphael.’

‘But you don’t agree?’ Laura welcomed the change of direction.

He considered, frowning a little. ‘I think it is more likely to have been one of his pupils. For one thing, it is unsigned, and Raphael liked to leave his mark. For another, Besavoro is too unimportant to appeal to an artist of his ambition. And lastly the Virgin does not resemble Raphael’s favourite mistress, whom he is said to have used as his chief model, even for the Sistine Madonna.’

‘Wow,’ Laura said, relaxing into a smile. ‘How very sacrilegious of him.’

He grinned back at her. ‘I prefer to think—what proof of his passion.’ He gave a faint shrug. ‘But ours is still a beautiful painting, and can be treasured as such.’

He drank the rest of his coffee, and stood up, indicating the postcards. ‘You wish me to post these? Before we visit the church?’

‘Well, yes.’ She hesitated. ‘But you don’t have to come with me, signore. After all, I can hardly get lost. And I know how busy you are. I’m sure you have plenty of other things to do.’

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But today, mia cara, I shall devote to you.’ His smile glinted. ‘Or did you think I had forgotten about you these past days?’

‘I—I didn’t think anything at all,’ she denied hurriedly.

‘I am disappointed,’ he said lightly. ‘I hoped you might have missed me a little.’

‘Then maybe you should remember something.’ She lifted her chin. ‘I came to Besavoro with your cousin, signore.’

‘Ah,’ Alessio said softly. ‘But that is so fatally easy to forget, Laura mia.’

And he walked off across the square.

The interior of the church was dim, and fragrant with incense. It felt cool, too, after the burning heat of the square outside.

There were a number of small streets, narrow and cobbled, opening off the square, their houses facing each other so closely that people could have leaned from the upper-storey windows and touched, and Laura explored them all.

The shuttered windows suggested a feeling of intimacy, she thought. A sense of busy lives lived in private. And the flowers that spilled everywhere from troughs and window boxes added to Besavoro’s peace and charm.

‘So,’ Alessio said as they paused for some water at a drinking fountain before visiting the church. ‘Do you like my town?’

‘It’s enchanting,’ Laura returned with perfect sincerity, smiling inwardly at his casual use of the possessive. The lord, she thought, with his fiefdom. ‘A little gem.’

‘Si,’ he agreed. ‘And now I will show you another. Avanti.’

Laura trod quietly up the aisle of the church, aware of Alessio following silently. The altar itself was elaborate with gold leaf, but she hardly gave it a second glance. Because, above it, the painting glowed like a jewel, creating its own light.

The girl in it was very young, her hair uncovered, her blue cloak thrown back. She held the child proudly high in her arms, her gaze steadfast, and almost defiant, as if challenging the world to throw the first stone.

Laura caught her breath. She turned to Alessio, eyes shining, her hand going out to him involuntarily. ‘It’s—wonderful.’

‘Yes,’ he returned quietly, his fingers closing round hers. ‘Each time I see it, I find myself—amazed.’

They stood in silence for a few minutes longer, then, as if by tacit consent, turned and began to walk around the shadowy church, halting briefly at each shrine with its attendant bank of burning candles.

Laura knew she should free her hand, but his warm grasp seemed unthreatening enough. And she certainly didn’t want to make something out of nothing, especially in a church, so she allowed her fingers to remain quietly in his.

But as they emerged into the sunshine he let her go anyway. Presumably, thought Laura, the Count Ramontella didn’t wish ‘his’ citizens to see him walking hand in hand with a girl.

Or not my kind of girl, certainly, she amended silently.

She’d expected to be driven straight back to the villa, but to her uneasy surprise Alessio took another road altogether, climbing the other side of the valley.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

‘There’s a view I wish to show you,’ he said. ‘It belongs to a trattoria, so we can enjoy it over lunch.’

‘But aren’t we expected back at the villa?’

‘You are so keen to return?’ He slanted a smile at her. ‘You think, maybe, that Paolo’s medicine has already worked its magic?’

‘No,’ she said stiffly. ‘Just wondering what your aunt will think.’

‘It is only lunch,’ he said. The smile lingered—hardened a little. ‘And I do not think she will have any objection—or none that need trouble either of us.’

The trattoria was a former farmhouse, extensively renovated only a couple of years earlier. Among the improvements had been a long wide terrace, with a thatched roof to provide shade, which overlooked the valley.

Their welcome was warm, but also, Laura noticed, respectful, and they were conducted to a table at the front of the terrace. Menus were produced and they were offered an aperitivo.

Laura found herself leaning beside Alessio on the parapet of the broad stone wall, holding a glass of white wine, and looking down onto an endless sea of green, distantly punctuated by the blue ribbon of the river and the dusty thread of the road.

On the edge of her vision, she could see the finger of stone that was Besavoro’s campanile rising from the terracotta roofs around it.

Higher up, the crags looked almost opalescent in the shimmer of the noonday sun, while on the opposite side of the valley, almost hidden by the clustering forest, she could just make out the sprawl of greyish pink stone that formed the Villa Diana.

She said softly, ‘It’s—unbelievable. Thank you for showing it to me.’

‘The pleasure is mine,’ he returned. ‘It is a very small world, this valley, but important to me.’

She played with the stem of her glass. ‘Yet you must have so many worlds, signore.’

‘And some I prefer to others.’ He paused. ‘So, where is your world, Laura? The real one?’

Her tone was stilted. ‘London, I guess—for the time being anyway. My work is there.’

‘But surely you could work anywhere you wished? Wine bars are not confined to your capital. But I suppose you wish to remain for Paolo’s sake.’

She had a sudden longing to tell him the truth. To turn to him and say, ‘Actually I work for the PR company your bank has just hired. The wine bar is moonlighting, and Harman Grace would probably have a fit if they knew. Nor am I involved with Paolo. He’s renting me as his pretend girlfriend to convince his mother that he won’t marry Beatrice Manzone.’

But she couldn’t say any such thing, of course, because she’d given Paolo her word.

Instead she said, ‘Also, I’m flat-hunting with some friends. We all want to move on from our current grotty bedsits, especially Gaynor and myself, so we thought we’d pool our resources.’

‘Does Paolo approve of this plan?’ Alessio traced the shape of one of the parapet’s flat stones with his finger. ‘Won’t he wish you to live with him?’

She bit her lip. ‘Perhaps—ultimately. I—I don’t know. It’s too soon for that kind of decision.’

‘But this holiday could have been the first step towards it.’ There was an odd, almost harsh note in his voice. ‘My poor Laura. If so, how cruel to keep you in separate rooms, as I have done.’

She forced a smile. ‘Not really. The Signora would have had a fit and I—I might have caught Paolo’s cold.’

His mouth twisted. ‘A practical thought, carissima.’ He straightened. ‘Now, shall we decide what to eat?’

A pretty, smiling girl, who turned out to be the owner’s wife, brought a bowl of olive oil to their table, and a platter of bread to dip into it. The cooking, Alessio explained, was being done by her husband. Then came a dish of Parma ham, accompanied by a bewildering array of sausages, which was followed up by wild boar pâté.

The main course was chicken, simply roasted and bursting with flavour, all of it washed down with a jug of smoky red wine, made, Alessio told her, from the family’s own vineyard in Tuscany.

But Laura demurred at the idea of dessert or cheese, raising laughing hands in protest.

‘They’ll be charging me excess weight on the flight home at this rate.’

Alessio drank some wine, the dark eyes watching her over the top of his glass. ‘Maybe you need to gain a little,’ he said. ‘A man likes to know that he has his woman in his arms. He does not wish her to slip through his fingers like water. Has Paolo never told you so?’

She looked down at the table. ‘Not in so many words. And I don’t think it’s a very fashionable point of view, not in London, anyway.’

The mention of Paolo’s name brought her down to earth with a jolt. It had been such a wonderful meal. She’d felt elated—euphoric even—here, above the tops of the trees.

I could reach up a hand, she thought, and touch the sky.

And this, she knew, was entirely because of the man seated across the table from her. The man who somehow had the power to make her forget everything—including the sole reason that had brought her to Italy in the first place.

Stupid, she castigated herself. Eternally, ridiculously stupid to hanker after what she could never have in a thousand years.

Because there was far more than just a table dividing them, and she needed to remember that in her remaining days at the Villa Diana.

Apart from anything else, they’d been acquainted with each other for only a week, which was a long time in politics, but in no other sense.

So how was it that she felt she’d known him all her life? she asked herself, and sighed inwardly. That, of course, was the secret of his success—especially with women.

And her best plan was to escape while she could, and before she managed to make an even bigger fool of herself than she had already.

She was like a tiny planet, she thought, circling the sun, when any slight change in orbit could draw her to self-destruction. Burning up for all eternity.

That cannot happen, she told herself. And I won’t let it.

He said, ‘A moment ago, you were here with me. Now you have gone.’ He leaned forward, his expression quizzical. ‘”When, Madonna, will you ever drop that veil you wear in shade and sun?’’’

She looked back at him startled. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I was quoting,’ he said. ‘From Petrarch—one of his sonnets to Laura. My own translation. It seemed—appropriate.’

She tried to speak lightly. ‘You amaze me, signore. I never thought I’d hear you speaking poetry.’

He shrugged. ‘But I’m sure you could recite from Shakespeare, if I asked you. Am I supposed to have less education?’

‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘No, of course not. I’m sorry. After all, we’re strangers. I shouldn’t make any assumptions about you.’

He paused. ‘Besides, the question is a valid one. Because you also disappear behind a veil sometimes, so that I cannot tell what you’re thinking.’

She laughed rather weakly. ‘I’m—relieved to hear it.’

‘So I shall ask a direct question. What are you hiding, Laura?’

Her fingers twined together in her lap. ‘I think as well as a good education, signore, you have a vivid imagination.’

He studied her for a moment, his mouth wry. ‘And you still will not call me Alessio.’

‘Because I don’t think it’s necessary,’ she retorted. ‘Or even very wise, you being who you are. Not just a count, but Chairman of the Arleschi Bank.’

‘You could not put that out of your mind for a while?’

‘No.’ Her fingers tightened round each other. ‘That’s not possible. Besides, I’ll be gone soon, anyway.’

‘But you forget, signorina,’ he said silkily. ‘You are to become a member of my family. We shall be cousins.’

She paused for a heartbeat. ‘Well, when we are,’ she said, ‘I’ll think again about your name.’ She gave him a bright smile. ‘And now will you take me back to the villa, please? Paolo may need me,’ she added for good measure.

As he rose to his feet he was laughing. ‘Well, run while you may, my little hypocrite,’ he told her mockingly. ‘But remember this: you cannot hide—or not for ever.’ His fingers stroked her face from the high cheekbone to the corner of her mouth, then he turned and walked away across the terrace to the restaurant’s main door, leaving Laura to stare uneasily after him, her heart and mind locked into a combat that offered no prospect of peace. And which, she suddenly knew, could prove mortal.

But only to me, she whispered to herself in swift anguish. Only to me…