Читать книгу Bartaldi's Bride - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 8

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.