Читать книгу Legacy Of Shame - Diana Hamilton - Страница 5

BUT it wasn’t easy. Carlo Rossi had a will of iron. Days passed, and then a full week had gone by, and he had turned down all her sightseeing suggestions with that slight, ironic smile, preferring, obviously, to spend time with her father at head office, returning with him in the evening, leaving Venetia kicking her heels at home, fuming.

And over the long, unhurried dinners that had lasted well into the amethyst evenings he’d kept his conversation with her to a polite minimum, and when he wasn’t discussing business with her father he talked of his homeland, reminding the older man of his forsaken roots.

But Venetia hadn’t given up hope. On a few occasions she’d turned and surprised the hooded, hungry look in his eyes, and known that he was deliberately erecting a wall between them, and set herself the problem of how to break through it.

On some deeply primitive masculine level he did want her, she knew it. She’d seen the need smouldering darkly in his fantastic eyes, catching him unawares, her own need leaping to match his before he’d pulled the shutters down, locking her out with a tiny derisive smile, the hunger masked by a blank indifference that made her want to throw back her head and howl, stamp her feet with frustration.

Because every day that passed, every hour, reinforced her love, her wanting. Nothing else mattered; her need of him had bitten deep into her psyche, expanding until it filled her whole being. And for the first time in her life she was not being given what she wanted!

‘Phone, for you.’ Potty trundled out on to the terrace, where Venetia was kicking her heels, furious because, early as she had risen, pulling on a pair of shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, Carlo had beaten her to it.

Today was Saturday and he wouldn’t be going in to the office with her father, and she’d been determined to persuade him to spend time with her, walking, making use of the swimming-pool, anything.

But when she’d arrived downstairs the housekeeper had told her that Carlo had set out on foot an hour ago to ‘see something of the countryside’, and she’d been out here ever since, cursing herself for sleeping until seven when, if she’d surfaced an hour earlier, she could have set out with him. The man was impossible! How could she break down that wall if he refused to stay still long enough to give her the opportunity to try?

Her mind, as usual, totally preoccupied with thoughts of Carlo Rossi, she took the call in the library, frowning impatiently as Simon said in his light, pleasant voice, ‘Sorry to call you at the crack, but I wanted to confirm the time for tonight.’

‘Tonight?’ Venetia echoed blankly, hooking a strand of long silky hair behind a small, perfectly shaped ear, and Simon reminded amusedly,

‘Your friend’s eighteenth birthday party, remember? What time shall I pick you up?’

‘Oh, that.’ She had forgotten all about Natasha’s coming-of-age celebrations. Normally, she wouldn’t have missed it for a king’s ransom. But circumstances weren’t normal. Nothing could drag her away, no matter how glittering the party, while there was the remotest chance of spending time with Carlo. ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she said. ‘I’m not going.’ Then, because the silence on the other end of the line was speaking volumes, she tacked on, ‘I’m sorry, I should have let you know earlier. But we have a house guest. I’m fully occupied keeping him entertained...’ Oh, would that that were true! ‘You must have met him. Carlo Rossi...’ Even the sound of his name on her tongue sent hungry yearnings skittering through her, and she went on breathlessly, ‘He’s been following my father to the office each day.’

‘Hardly following.’ Simon gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘Dragging everyone behind him is more like it! He’s turned the distribution network upside-down, gone through the accounts with a magnifying glass, and got everyone working in top gear.’

‘Can he do that?’ Venetia queried, her eyes shining. She didn’t doubt his ability to take complete and total charge wherever he was. His aura of domination, of utter self-assurance, had been one of the many characteristics that had made such an immediate impact on her. But she asked the question all the same because, apart from feasting her eyes on him, talking about him was her favourite occupation.

‘You’d better believe it,’ Simon told her drily. ‘His father handed over his forty-nine per cent of the shares in Ross UK to him, and that gives him a whole lot of clout. But, that apart, he’s a natural top dog; one look at him is enough to make anyone with any sense toe the line! Mind you,’ he added grudgingly, ‘his organisational abilities come out of the top drawer, you can’t argue with that. He sees solutions to problems before the rest of we lesser mortals recognise there’s a problem at all.’

Venetia could have listened to this kind of thing for hours, but Simon had other ideas.

‘Are you sure about tonight? It could be a whole load of fun, and we could go on to a nightclub later, just the two of us,’ he coaxed. ‘The old man doesn’t need to know what time we leave your friend’s birthday party.’

‘Get lost!’ Venetia pulled a face at the receiver before crashing it down.

Simon was getting too uppity. He must know she tolerated his sexual come-ons, parrying them with firm good humour, only because to refuse to have anything more to do with him socially would mean she’d be stuck at home missing out on all the fun until her father came up with a replacement escort he felt he could trust with his precious offspring!

But if he was starting to refer to her father as ‘the old man’ in that disrespectful tone, suggesting they deceive him, then she was prepared to slap him down in no uncertain manner and stay home every night into the foreseeable future!

Besides, she thought as she hunched her shoulders and wandered listlessly out of the room, Carlo was the only man she wanted to be with. The trouble was, he was making it clear that he had no wish to be with her!

And then she stopped right in the middle of the huge hall as the perfect idea hit her. It was so perfect—it couldn’t be faulted!

A smile curved her full lips, her eyes sparkling with the resurgence of the confidence that had gone missing for days. And she turned as the housekeeper walked in through the front door, leaving it open so that the warm morning sunlight streamed in. She had been cleaning the lion’s head doorknocker, dusters and metal polish in her hands, and Venetia bit back a bubble of excitement and asked, ‘Did Carlo say what time he’d be back?’

‘He didn’t say and I didn’t ask,’ the older woman said drily. ‘But I dare say he’ll show up in time for lunch.’ She drew level, settling the wooden box that held her cleaning materials more securely under her arm. ‘So I shouldn’t waste the morning hanging around for him, if I were you. And a word of advice—’ her round face went as stern as it was possible to get ‘—don’t make your crush on him so obvious. You’ll soon get over it and when you do you’ll feel a fool. You’ll regret the way you’ve been hanging around him.’ Then, at the flash of pure fury in Venetia’s pale eyes, her expression softened as she added, ‘It’s your pride that will hurt most in the end, pet. I can understand the attraction; what woman couldn’t? But apart from him being too old for you, he’s probably got half a dozen or so elegant ladies waiting for him back home. Now—’ the lecture over, she glanced at the long-case clock on the wall ‘—it’s gone half-past nine; has your father come down yet? It’s not like him to lie in this late, is it?’

‘I haven’t seen him,’ Venetia responded icily. How dared Potty call what she felt for Carlo a crush! She wasn’t a child. She loved Carlo and always would. And what would Potty know about it? She was fifty if she was a day!

Swinging round on her heels, her shoulders huffily rigid, she marched to the main door, dragging the summer-scented air through pinched nostrils. No one understood how she was hurting, how her need to get close to Carlo both spiritually and physically was an ache that grew larger every day because he simply wouldn’t let her through the wall he had deliberately erected around himself.

It was going to be hot, she decided, feeling the sun burn against her exposed skin as she wandered out on to the drive. Normally, on a day like today was going to be, she would have happily idled away several hours in or beside the outdoor swimming-pool. But she was too restless to even contemplate it, even though the heat seemed to be growing more sultry with every moment that passed.

Besides, she needed to see Carlo; she couldn’t run the risk of missing him on his return. She had formulated the perfect plan to get him to herself, and he couldn’t refuse, surely he couldn’t?

Settling down on the last of the stone steps that led to the main door, she leant against the plinth that carried an urn which billowed with scarlet geraniums, breathing in their spicy scent and determined to stay exactly where she was until she took root, if necessary, then saw that she wouldn’t have to wait that long because Carlo was already approaching the house along the drive.

Her heart beating rapidly enough to choke her, she scrambled to her feet and tried to look cool and calm. Everything depended on how she extended the invitation. She had to put it in a way that would make it impossible for him to turn down, make him feel that he would be behaving discourteously as a guest in her father’s home if he were to do so.

It was the first time she had seen him in anything but lightweight, impeccably elegant business suits or formal evening wear and, if anything, he looked even more impossibly attractive in slim-fitting tan-coloured cotton jeans topped by an open-necked black shirt. Come to me; love me as I love you! she commanded desperately inside her head, then, as she felt the helpless tears suddenly glaze her eyes, she blinked them back and hauled herself together.

Slowly, she began to walk towards him, trying to look as if she had nothing more important on her mind than the enjoyment of the glorious weather. But inside she was a mess. Her heart was beating thickly, suffocating her, her breathing going haywire, because if he refused to agree to her request she would know she had lost the only remaining chance she had to get him to fall in love with her a little.

Desperately she reminded herself that there was no room in her head for thoughts of failure, and deliberately avoided looking directly at him as they met. She turned her head instead to contemplate the façde of the house as she swung on her heels and fell in step beside him.

‘Enjoy your walk?’ She kept her voice cool, devoid of anything but polite interest, and that was good. And successfully fought the temptation to reach out and hold on to his arm, even though her fingers ached to touch that firm, sun-warmed, tanned flesh.

‘Very much.’ His response was terse. If he was pleased to see her he wasn’t showing it. ‘Is your father around? I need to speak to him.’

‘I haven’t seen him this morning.’ Vaguely she recalled Potty remarking on his lateness, and quickly dismissed the thought from her head, because this whole scenario looked like running away from her.

Carlo had increased his stride and she was having to trot to keep up with him, and nothing was going as she’d planned it in her head.

‘Would you do me a favour?’ The words came out in a breathless gabble, the sophisticated, almost bored approach she’d decided on nowhere in sight, because he was making for the house as if the hounds of hell were on his tail!

And then he seemed to freeze; she could see the wide, rangy shoulders stiffen as he slowly turned to face her, his stunning features perfectly blank as he assured her with formal politeness, ‘Naturally. If I can.’

Suddenly, the butterflies in her stomach became a flock of crazed eagles, and she almost turned and fled, and had to force herself to stay right where she was.

‘Well?’ The indifferent enquiry was accompanied by a small, hard smile as he thrust his thumbs into the side pockets of his trousers and rocked indolently back on his heels.

‘I...’ All those carefully planned words had fallen out of her head and, to steady herself, she took a deep breath and watched in a kind of wondering triumph when his hooded eyes dropped to her breasts as the long gulp of air into her lungs thrust them against the soft fabric of her skimpy top.

He was aware of her. He was! As much as he tried to hide it from her, and possibly from himself, these were the tiny, give-away signs that had stopped her from abandoning all hope days ago!

And she said, only a little shakily, ‘Well, actually, a friend of mine is having a birthday party at the Savoy tonight. I said I’d go, and you know how it is—’ she managed a slight shrug ‘—I don’t want to disappoint her. But Father has this bee in his bonnet about letting me loose on my own, and I wondered if you could do me a favour and act as my escort?’

She held her breath, willing him to agree, and all the time she watched his face, her eyes wide with unknowing entreaty, the tip of her tongue nervously flickering between her lips as she watched his mouth tighten, his nostrils flare just briefly, before he coolly informed her, ‘I’m sure the party will be delightful. However, as I’m leaving for Rome tomorrow my time will be fully occupied this evening.’

She stared at him with shocked, bewildered eyes. Two body-blows in one cruel sentence. Not only had he refused her request, but he was leaving the country tomorrow. How could she stand it? She hated herself for being so vulnerable, hated him for being the cause of all this pain. And heard him say, a strange softness in his voice, ‘Try to forgive me, Venetia. In a little while, a few weeks—days, even—you will forget all this—’ he shrugged eloquent shoulders, his face softening, his smile crooked as he found the words he wanted ‘—this infatuation. I am too old for you, too hard and, most probably, too intolerant.’ He lifted his beautiful, strong hands, as if he was about to touch her, then dropped them back to his sides, his brows drawing together in a frown that told her something was irritating him. Her, most probably! And she scarcely registered what he said, an unusual curtness clipping his tone. ‘You are young and exquisitely lovely. Go to your party tonight and enjoy yourself with people your own age. Forget you ever asked me. I certainly will. Believe me, it could have been the biggest mistake either one of us is ever likely to make.’

‘I hate you!’ Colour came and went in her face, tears of rage spiking her lashes, trembling there before falling, streaking her cheeks and dripping off the end of her elegant nose. And she didn’t care. He knew how she felt about him and had denigrated it as a schoolgirlish infatuation, given her tattered emotions about as much concern as he would extend if she’d caught a head cold! Over and forgotten in a few days—nothing that couldn’t be cured by a few doses of fun with a few other juveniles! She couldn’t be more humiliated than that! And she repeated ferociously, ‘God, how I hate you!’

‘Then you must be heartily relieved that I didn’t take you up on your invitation, mustn’t you?’ His smile was sheer, infuriating irony. ‘And I’m sure young Carew could be prevailed upon to escort you this evening. Although if I were you I’d take care where he’s concerned; he’s a chancer, and I don’t think he’s entirely to be trusted, even though your father appears to do so—enough to pay him handsomely to chaperon you!’

His black eyes impaled her, as they were no doubt meant to do, and she went cold with the shock of discovering how hateful he could be.

He had set out to humiliate her and had effortlessly succeeded. How could he lie like that, say that Simon had to be paid to take her out? Was he trying to tell her that no man in his right mind would be seen with her unless he was paid to do so? She didn’t believe him; she couldn’t! And she dashed the tears from her face with the tips of her fingers as she flung at him grittily, ‘I wonder if you know how vile you really are! Do you always get your kicks out of hurting people?’

His reply was lost beneath the crunch of gravel as she ran back to the house, and she was too emotionally ragged as she entered the hall to notice her father until his thready voice burst through the pounding in her head. ‘Venny, now don’t worry, sweetheart, but could you call Dr Fielding?’

Venetia’s heart gave a massive, painful thump as her eyes flew to her father. He was standing at the foot of the stairs, leaning against the newel post, still in his dressing-gown, his face grey and slicked with perspiration.

‘Daddy! What’s wrong?’ The question was torn from her as she ran to him, picking up one of his hands and holding it against her cheek, fear in her wide, water-clear eyes.

‘Probably nothing more serious than a stomach-ache.’ His wan smile was meant to reassure her but it did nothing of the kind, and for the first time in a week she wasn’t aware of Carlo’s presence, hadn’t realised he’d followed her into the house until he spoke behind her, his voice calm.

‘Phone, Venetia. At once.’

Reluctantly, she dropped her father’s hand, stepping back on legs that felt distinctly unsteady, her eyes flying up to Carlo’s impassive features, willing him to tell her everything would be all right.

But he wasn’t looking her way, his eyes assessing the elderly man before lifting him effortlessly into his arms, still not looking at her as he commanded, ‘I said at once, Venetia.’

Guiltily, she ran over to the phone, her fingers shaking as she punched in the numbers of the surgery, gnawing on the corner of her mouth as she waited for the receiver to be lifted at the other end. And her incoherent babblings must have made some sense because the receptionist said that Dr Fielding was as good as on his way, and she turned away, butting into Potty, who was now standing directly behind her, her eyes anxious in her parchment-pale face.

‘Is he coming?’ she asked quickly, and Venetia nodded, her throat too choked with fear to allow her to speak.

‘Good. That’s all right, then.’ The housekeeper visibly relaxed, as if she was convinced that all the doctor had to do was wave a prescription. Venetia wished she had such blind, unquestioning faith. She couldn’t forget how desperately ill her father had looked.

And something of this must have shown in her face, because Potty stroked a strand of silky black hair away from her clammy forehead, her voice reassuring as she soothed, ‘It won’t be long before the doctor gets here, and Carlo’s with him. He took him to the library and asked me to fetch a blanket. Run along, now; go and hold his hand, why don’t you?’

Venetia tried to pull herself together as she watched the older woman hurry to complete her errand. It wouldn’t help her father if she appeared at his side looking distraught. And somehow, clinging on to the thought that Carlo was with him helped her. Nothing bad could happen while he was there. He wouldn’t let it!

Nothing this traumatic had happened to her in her entire life and she’d been young enough, inexperienced enough—until ten minutes ago—to believe it never would.

She had been only a few months old when her mother had died. The horse she had been riding had fallen at a gate, crushing the life out of the slender young woman. Venetia had been unaware of the tragedy, and her father had done all he could to ensure that she never felt the lack of a maternal parent too keenly. He had, all her life, lavished enough love, care and patience on her for two.

She remembered now the look on his face when, at the age of eleven, she had asked for a pony of her own. At the time, she hadn’t translated that haunted expression as fear. It hadn’t been until years later, when her undoubted equestrian skills had led her to take calculated risks, that she had finally put two and two together, tying the look of agony deep in his kindly eyes to the tragic death of her mother.

Parting with Bliss, her lovely grey mare, had been the hardest thing she had ever had to do; convincing her father that she was giving up riding because the sport was beginning to bore her had called upon all her acting abilities.

But it had been worth it for the look of soul-deep relief in his eyes. It had been the first completely unselfish act of her young life and she prayed it wouldn’t be her last.

She felt guilty as she recalled how, a full year before she had been due to leave the convent school, she had flatly refused to make any plans for future career training, and, when the time had come for her to wipe the cloistered dust of the convent from her feet, had brushed aside her father’s suggestion that she join the family business, working her way through every department right up to the top.

What she had wanted, she had lovingly teased him, was to stay home and have fun for at least six months before having to think of anything as dreary as working for her living. After the nuns’ stern discipline she had deserved that much, hadn’t she?

She knew she had disappointed him, although he had tried not to let it show. And now she regretted her frivolous attitude to life more keenly than she would ever have believed possible.

Potty caught up with her as she reached the library door, pushing a folded blanket into her arms.

‘Take this to him, while I wait around to show the doctor through,’ she instructed. ‘Then I’ll make us all a nice cup of tea. I dare say you could do with one. I know I could.’

Consciously relaxing her shoulders, Venetia pushed open the library door, giving a terse nod at Carlo’s, ‘Well, is he on his way?’

‘How are you feeling now?’ she wanted to know as she tucked the blanket around her father’s legs. He was stretched out on the chesterfield and he smiled at her.

‘Better. Fielding’s going to read me the riot act for wasting his time. I stayed in bed, hoping the pain would pass off, but it didn’t. Now he’s actually coming there’s no sign of it. Typical!’

‘It’s his job,’ Carlo said, moving into her line of vision. ‘Even if the pain’s gone now, something caused it.’

Quickly, Venetia lowered her lashes, turning her head away from the Italian as a slow flush of guilt covered her face. Potty had remarked on her father’s lateness, but she, Venetia, hadn’t given it a moment’s thought. She’d been too busy lying in wait for Carlo, plotting how to get him to go with her to Natasha’s party. She should have gone to his room to check, she castigated herself, instead of trying to attract a man who was plainly bored by what he called her infatuation, who had taunted her cruelly, as good as telling her that a man would have to be paid in hard currency before he could bring himself to be seen with her on his arm in a public place!

Thankfully, she heard the sounds of the doctor’s arrival and hurried to meet him, grateful, at least, for the colour that was gradually returning to her father’s face. And, over an hour later, with the elderly man safely tucked up in bed, she walked with the doctor to his car.

‘Grumbling appendix,’ he told her, opening the door of the sturdy Volvo, putting his bag on the passenger seat. He had kind eyes in a weary face and he glanced up at Carlo, who had followed them out, ‘Nothing to panic about, but call me if the pains recur. And liquids only for twenty-four hours. He should be fine in a couple of days.’

‘I’ll go up to him,’ Venetia stated as the Volvo left, her voice stiff. She couldn’t bear to look at Carlo. She would burst into noisy sobs if she did, remember just how cruel he had been, how he’d reduced what she felt for him to the level of juvenile infatuation, remember that by this time tomorrow he would be gone, and she would never see him again. Already her whole body was starting to shake.

‘No.’ His hand on her shoulder stopped her in her tracks, and she froze and closed her eyes, afraid that he would see the pain, the humiliation, the sheer blinding power of her love for him in the revealing depths. ‘He was already falling asleep when I left him,’ he stated. ‘He had a restless night; a peaceful few hours will do him more good than anything. Besides—’ he had two hands on her shoulders now, turning her round to face him ‘—Potty has promised to look in from time to time, to keep an eye on him.’

He was so close to her now. So close. She could feel the warmth of his body, the nearness of him, the indefinable, exquisitely potent force field of his masculinity as it reached out, as always, to enthral her, hold her spellbound.

Her lips began to tremble. Why couldn’t he feel it too? Why did the only man she could ever love feel nothing for her except exasperation? She couldn’t stay here with him a moment longer; it was too much to bear! Venetia felt the build-up of a sob inside her and tried to contain it, pushing at his body with her fists as the shameful tears welled up in her eyes, spilled over.

And he saw them, of course he did. He didn’t miss a trick. And he would begin to taunt her again, call her a child; she knew he would, she thought hysterically, trying to hold her body rigid to counteract the weak trembling that was such a give-away.

But there was no cruelty in his husky voice as he pulled her into his arms.

‘Ssh,’ he whispered, dipping his dark head so that his cheek lay on hers. ‘Don’t cry. It’s been a worrying couple of hours for you, but it’s over now. Your father’s going to be fine. You’re suffering from reaction, that’s all.’

All? Her sobs began in earnest as he held her, allowing her to cry all over his shirt, his hands gentling her as she clung to him, sliding rhythmically from her shoulders to her waist and back again. The way he was holding her, their bodies so close they might be one being, would have been sheer ecstasy if she hadn’t already known he thought of her as a silly child, with as much sense in her head, as much capacity for real emotion, as a gaudy butterfly. The knowledge that he was leaving tomorrow was breaking her heart.

Gulping back a renewed spasm of sobbing, she tightened her arms around him, as if the sheer force of her love could keep him with her, now and for always. And felt his hands grow still against her back, felt the hard warmth of his palms burn through the thin fabric of her loose, sleeveless top, felt, beneath the pressure of her lush breasts and hips, the sudden rigidity of his lean masculine body.

And knew he was about to draw away, that he had been comforting her as he would have comforted an upset child, but, in the moment of her sexual initiative, the instinctive movements of her body against his, the way she had tried to use the power of her love for him to hold him, she had reminded him of her sexuality.

She wouldn’t let him push her away, withdraw again behind that wall. She couldn’t let him. She had broken through that wall. She had! He could no longer pretend she was a tiresome, overgrown child! Never more would he push her away!

But he did. Did it with a stark suddenness that left her reeling, searching his suddenly tight features with hurt, uncomprehending eyes.

Desperately her hands reached for him, but he took them in the iron-hard grip of one of his own, stepping back, holding her at a distance she felt as an aching void, making her throat tighten with anguish. And her huge, translucent eyes brimmed with unshed tears as she protested chokily, ‘Don’t push me away.’

‘Just thank your lucky stars I have some self-control,’ he came back tautly, his black eyes burning into hers with a ferocity she had never encountered before. ‘If you were five years older, things might be different.’ His magnificent eyes hardened to chips of jet, his browline a frowning black bar as he told her tightly, ‘But you’re just a child.’

‘I’m not,’ she cried wildly, twisting her hands within his iron grip. If she could only touch him again, tenderly yet with all the passion she now knew she was capable of, he would know she was all woman. She would show him that much. But his grip was cruel, ungiving, and she blurted frantically, her pride in tatters, ‘I love you, Carlo! Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me!’ And heard him draw a rough breath deep into his lungs, his voice all ragged edges as he bit back ferociously,

‘You tempt me too much! Do you know what you’re doing to me? Do you?’ He gave her a long black stare, his mouth tight, then dropped her hands as if her touch disgusted him, and walked rapidly back towards the house, taking her poor bruised heart with him.

* * *

Venetia woke feeling smothered, anxious to the point of panic, not knowing the cause.

Agitatedly she pushed at the bedcovers, flinging them off the bed, till they lay in a slithery scarlet satin pool on the thick white carpet, and gazed around her with wide, bewildered eyes.

Then the feeling of being in a waking nightmare subsided as she pin-pointed the source of her anxiety. It wasn’t her father, that was for sure. Oh, she was still concerned after yesterday’s fright, but nothing more than that. As long as he kept to a liquid-only diet today and took a few days off work, there was every reason to expect that the grumbling appendix would behave itself.

The root of her misery lay with her beloved Carlo. She drew her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around them, her long black hair all over the place. Despite her protestations of love, the way she’d pleaded with him to stay—she went hot with shame when she recalled her impassioned outburst—he had every intention of leaving, setting out for the airport in his hired car at noon.

After he’d walked away from her, back to the house, she had felt more alone and miserable than ever before in her young life. She hadn’t known how to handle the sensation of utter despair, especially when, a few minutes later, she’d seen him shoot off down the drive in the hired Fiesta.

In between checking on her father, she’d hung around waiting for Carlo to return, restlessly pacing the terrace, trying to work out what she should say to him when she saw him next. She’d felt physically and mentally shattered by what had happened, by the way she’d behaved.

But the hours had stretched into a day that had seemed endless. No sign of him. And she hadn’t been able to touch the salad Potty had given her for lunch, or the delicious grilled trout that had been produced at dinner.

‘He’s certainly making sure he sees plenty of the area before he leaves tomorrow,’ Potty had remarked drily as she’d removed the plate of fish Venetia had mangled with her fork, her shrewd eyes on the unused place-setting on the opposite side of the table, the empty chair.

Venetia had dredged up a pale smile, the small, defeated shrug of her shoulder telling all there was to tell, and Potty had said, her voice gruff, ‘Don’t take on so. He’s not the only pebble on the beach.’

Watching the housekeeper trundle out of the room, Venetia had cursed herself for being so transparent. She had laid herself open to Potty’s platitudes and Carlo’s scorn. He had known what she felt, even before she had told him she loved him, and had reduced it to the level of mere infatuation.

And Potty was wrong. As far as she was concerned he was the only man she would ever love with this level of passionate intensity. But it wasn’t any use, she thought miserably; he had made that very plain. So she was simply going to have to come to terms with it, somehow, and try to decide how she would react when she saw him next, what she would say.

But she needn’t have agonised so deeply because her confidence had taken the final annihilating blow when, while she’d been playing Scrabble with her father late last evening, Carlo had at last put in an appearance.

He hadn’t looked at her; she might not have been in the room as he’d made suitably concerned enquiries about the state of her father’s health.

And her face had turned pale when he’d gone on to say, ‘If you’re sure you’re on the mend, I’ll take my flight to Rome tomorrow, as arranged. But if you’ve the slightest doubt and would like me to stay on, I can cancel it.’

And Venetia had held her breath, willing her father to ask Carlo to stay. But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

‘I’m fine,’ the older man had stated. ‘Once I’ve survived the starvation diet I’ll be better than new! And I’ve asked Carew to drop by first thing in the morning. I’ll brief him to cover my absence for the next couple of days. So don’t alter your plans because I had a stomach-ache—there’s absolutely no need.’

‘If you’re sure...’

A flicker of something—relief?—had moved across the hard profile, then the sensual mouth had firmed as he’d added, ‘After a great deal of thought, I’ve reached a decision of some importance, and I’d like to discuss it with you. Tomorrow morning—after you’ve seen Carew?’

‘Why not now?’ The older man gestured to the armchair on the other side of his big old-fashioned bed, his smile expansive. ‘And pour yourself a Scotch, why don’t you? The decanter’s on top of the dressing-chest.’

Involuntarily, or so it seemed to Venetia, the black eyes were at last turned in her direction. And almost immediately back to her father, the slightly accented, fascinating voice uncompromising as he insisted, ‘Tomorrow would be better.’

So he had reached some decision, to do with business—what else?—and refused to discuss it in front of her, Venetia had thought on a spasm of stinging pain. He wouldn’t discuss anything of importance while she was around. He thought she was a bird-brain.

She had kept her eyes on her clenched hands during the short silence that had preceded his exit and had gone to bed herself soon after, every last bone in her body weakened by the myriad hurts he was so good at inflicting—intentionally or otherwise.

And this morning she felt no better, she decided hollowly as she pushed the hair back from her face and gazed blearily around her room. Twelve months ago she’d insisted on having it redecorated to her own specifications, sweeping away the girlish frills and flower-speckled wallpaper, the pink and fawn carpet and flounced pink curtains. Now the furniture was matt black and, apart from the white carpet, everything else was scarlet.

She had been thrilled with it, she remembered, revelling in the sensuous velvets and satin. Now, looking around her at the beginning of what promised to be another hot summer day, she knew it was tacky, and a part of her looked back and mourned the passing of her ebullient self, the wonderful adventure of her emergence from childhood, all that fantastic self-confidence that had been so ruthlessly destroyed when she’d fallen in love with the unattainable.

When she finally got out of bed and went to stand under the shower, she found she was shaking. Carlo was leaving today and they weren’t likely to meet again. Her father and Simon were more than capable of running the business he had shares in; it had ticked over for years without the Rossi family doing any more than pocket the dividends. Besides, he was running the diverse Rossi business empire virtually single-handedly now that his father had opted to take a back seat because of failing health. It wasn’t likely he’d visit England again in a hurry.

Covering her dripping, voluptuous nakedness with a bath-sheet, she wondered forlornly if he would ever spare her a passing thought, and decided he wouldn’t. The flock of lovely, elegant ladies whose undoubted existence Potty had guessed at would ensure that she, Venetia, the overgrown schoolgirl whose protestations of love must have embarrassed him so, would be pretty promptly erased from his memory.

Indifferent now to how she looked, she pulled on a pair of shabby cotton jeans and the only school blouse that hadn’t been cut up for polishing rags, then mooched along to see her father.

Potty had taken him a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice, and his bed was covered with papers and files.

‘Should you be working?’ she asked concernedly, twisting her long, shiny hair back behind her head, wishing she’d taken the time to plait it, because today was going to be boiling.

‘I’m not,’ he told her, staring at her over the top of his glasses. ‘Just getting things in some sort of coherent order to pass on to Simon when he arrives. Which should be any time now. Would you like to ask him to stay to lunch, to keep you company?’

There was only one man’s company she wanted. Trouble was, he didn’t want hers. She shook her head mutely and her father frowned.

‘What’s wrong? You look drained. You’re not still worried about me? Because if you are—don’t.’

‘It’s the heat,’ she lied, wondering if she would ever feel happy again, fully alive and carefree. She couldn’t imagine it, somehow.

‘Then go and cool off in the pool, poppet. Simon can find his own way up and Carlo’s busy in the library—dictating reports, he said. So you can have a nice, relaxing morning all to yourself.’

Returning to her room, she decided that her father’s idea wasn’t a bad one at that. She wasn’t going to make a fool of herself a second time. She’d keep right out of Carlo’s way; there was no point in trying to make her peace with him. When Simon had been and gone Carlo would have his business discussion with her father and take off to the airport. Until then she would make herself scarce. The pool in the old walled courtyard would be as good a place as any to hide out.

Her old school regulation swimsuit was now too tight in various places, and the bikinis she’d lashed out on to replace it were, on consideration, barely decent. Shrugging her square shoulders, she decided it didn’t matter. No one would see her and she’d use a towelling robe to cover up as she walked through the house.

The water was deliciously cool, and a few punishing lengths of the pool left her feeling more relaxed as she finally turned over and floated idly on her back. If she didn’t think, if she simply concentrated on staying afloat, then she might be able to stay calm enough to say goodbye to Carlo in an hour or two, with some composure, at least.

The knife-thrust of pain at the very idea of having to say goodbye to him at all made her clench her teeth, made her knees jerk up to her chest in a purely reflex action, sending her down to the blue tiles six feet below. And she didn’t care if she never surfaced, but she bobbed up to the top, shaking the water out of her eyes, and saw Simon silhouetted against the sun, and wished herself down at the bottom again because she didn’t want to have to talk to anyone. She was too depressed.

‘That looks good.’ He sounded amused, breathless, too, as if he’d been running. ‘If someone would lend me a pair of briefs, I’d join you. Unless—’ his voice thickened ‘—you’d like to see me in the nude?’

‘Why on earth should I want to do that?’ she retorted crossly, diving for the steps and hauling herself up, because she had to get out of here. He had spoiled what little pleasure there’d been in the morning.

Frowning, she planted her feet on the tiled surround. On the last two occasions they’d been out together Simon had been far too pushy, his language at times too coarse for her liking. She had put up with it only because the only other option had been to stay home, miss out on all the fun, hardly ever see her friends.