Читать книгу Wed To The Italian: Bartaldi's Bride / Rome's Revenge / The Forced Marriage - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 9

VIOLETTA did not return home from the dinner party until well after midnight.

Clare, lying sleepless, saw the headlights of the car sweep across her ceiling and tensed, wondering if the Marchese had acted as chauffeur again, and whether she could expect another visit.

But, to her relief, she was left undisturbed, even by Violetta.

She’d spent a restless evening. In the end, sheer hunger had driven her downstairs, and Angelina, delighted to hear how much better she was feeling, had conjured up a thick bean soup followed by a creamy omelette served with tiny mushrooms and grilled baby tomatoes.

Clare had stretched out on one of the sofas in the salone and put on some music, but even this tried and tested procedure had not persuaded her to relax.

Her mind had been too full, and revolving almost exclusively around one subject—Guido Bartaldi.

It was infuriating to have to acknowledge the hold he’d taken on her imagination. His image seemed locked immutably into her brain, and she resented it.

She couldn’t handle his constant and almost casual reappearance in her life. But she couldn’t speak her mind about them for fear of upsetting Violetta, who was clearly happy to accept the Marchese at his own valuation.

But a man who was planning to marry, even if it was a marriage of convenience, should not be conducting a flirtation with another girl, she argued, biting her lip. It was a despicable thing to do.

After James, she’d made a private vow to avoid any man who wasn’t free to commit himself. And what a lot of them there seemed to be, she thought bitterly.

But with Guido Bartaldi it had already gone beyond simple flirtation—because he had touched—and kissed.

Her whole body shivered at the memory of his mouth on hers.

The worst part of it was her certainty that he knew exactly the effect that his caresses would evoke. It was a delicate, subtle form of torment, devised to punish her. To ensure she didn’t embark on any more grand gestures to annoy him.

It was a stupid thing to do, she acknowledged sombrely. I should have seen that he was way out of my league as an adversary. Far better to have thanked him nicely, then stuffed the money in the poor box at the nearest church. Honour would have been satisfied on my part, and he’d have been none the wiser.

But it’s too late for regrets. All I can do is cut my losses and go.

The shopping trip to Perugia had prevented her phoning the agency as she’d planned, but she’d do it first thing in the morning, she promised herself. And all she had to do then was find herself a flight back to Britain. Any class, any time, any airport, she added, pulling a face.

She felt tense, facing Violetta at the breakfast table the next morning, expecting a blow-by-blow account of everything that had been eaten, said and done at the Villa Minerva, but her godmother, surprisingly, said very little about it, apart from acknowledging that the house was indeed beautiful, the food had been delicious, and that she had enjoyed herself. After which she relapsed into an unusually pensive state.

While, paradoxically, Clare found she was thirsting to know more.

‘What did you think of Paola?’ she asked, in the end.

‘Paola?’ Violetta echoed. ‘Ah, the young girl. She seemed subdued. I think she was disappointed that you were not there,’ she added after a reflective pause. ‘As, indeed, were they all.’

She gave Clare a kind smile. ‘Are you feeling more yourself today, mia cara?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Clare flushed slightly. ‘The medication the doctor gave me seems to have worked miracles.’ She gave an awkward laugh. ‘In fact, I’m fighting fit, and I was thinking I really ought to get back to work again.’

‘And I think you should enjoy your rest here with me,’ Violetta said firmly.

‘There’s nothing I’d like more,’ Clare said quickly. ‘But I haven’t told the agency about the Dorelli fiasco yet, and the chances are they’ll want to reassign me straight away. And I ought to contact Dad too.’

‘But not for the next two weeks.’ Violetta poured herself some more coffee. ‘He is away, dearest. He has taken her—’ she invested the word with extraordinary venom ‘—on a trip to San Francisco. He told me when I telephoned him last week to ask for your address in Rome, which I had mislaid.’

‘Oh.’ Clare digested this with dismay, then rallied. ‘All the more reason for me to go back, then. I should be there in case of an emergency with the business.’

Violetta shook her head. ‘His assistant—Tricia, is it not?—is doing that. So there is really nothing to take you away,’ she added dulcetly. ‘Everything has worked for the best.’

‘Yes,’ Clare said too brightly, as she damned San Francisco, its bay, its hills, and its blameless citizens under her breath. ‘Yes, of course.’

When breakfast was over, Violetta announced that she was driving into Cenacchio to the hairdresser.

‘Do you wish to come with me, mia cara, or shall I ask Giacomo to place a lounger down by the pool for you?’

‘That would be perfect,’ Clare agreed. If she was forced to be on holiday, she thought, then she would behave like a holidaymaker.

When she went down to the pool below the rose terrace about an hour later, she found the lounger already in position, and Giacomo, Angelina’s husband, who looked after the gardens at the villa, fussing with a sun umbrella. He was a small, wrinkled man with grey hair and black twinkling eyes, and he greeted Clare with his usual gap-toothed smile.

‘Ah, signorina, each time you come here you are more like your dear mother, God give her rest.’ He looked at her hands, clearly searching for rings, and tutted. ‘But where is your husband? Where are the bambini?’

Clare laughed. ‘I’m sorry to be such a disappointment, Giacomo, but we can’t all be as lucky as Angelina.’

Giacomo shook his head reproachfully. ‘Such a waste,’ he told the sky, and went off, muttering to himself.

It was already bakingly hot, the sun dazzling on the water. It wasn’t a very large pool, just big enough for Violetta to manage a few unhurried, decorous lengths as her token exercise for the day.

Clare found it cramped, but it looked inviting just the same, she thought as she discarded her towelling wrap and stretched out on the lounger in her simple black bikini.

Now, she thought, shall I swim and then sunbathe, or work on my tan for an hour, then cool off in the water? Decisions, decisions.

And if that was all she had to trouble her, how happy she would be. Only, it wasn’t.

Because, try as she might, she couldn’t convince herself that she’d seen the last of the Marchese Bartaldi.

He was there, all the time, at the back of her mind, like a shadow in the sun.

And, more worryingly, he was physically present too, at the Villa Minerva, within driving distance.

She picked up the bottle of high-factor sun lotion and began to apply it to her arms and shoulders. Her skin accepted the sun easily, turning a deep, smooth honey colour without soreness, but she still treated the heat with respect.

And she must do the same with Guido Bartaldi, she thought, grimacing. Find some way to protect herself against him. Or she could end up getting more badly burned than she’d ever been in her life.

Dark glasses perched on her nose, she flicked through some of Violetta’s glossy magazines. It was like peeping through a window into a different world, she thought, smiling. A world where money was no object and your life was designed for you, from the clothes you wore to the glass you drank from. The kind of world where a man like Guido Bartaldi reigned supreme.

For a minute, she let her mind dwell on that shop window of jewellery, back in Perugia. There’d been one gorgeous topaz pendant, glowing like a banked-down fire in its heavy gold setting. She tried to imagine herself walking into the shop, and pointing to it. Saying, I’ll have that, without stopping to ask the price. Feeling the cool weight of the stone slipping down between her breasts…

Some chance, she thought, her mouth twisting with derision. She was one of the world’s workers, and, though she earned a reasonable living, she’d always have to count the cost of anything she bought. And she wouldn’t have it any other way, she added with a touch of defiance.

She felt restless again, the glamour and luxury depicted on the pages in front of her suddenly beginning to pall. Or was it that she was starting to feel a little bit envious?

Shaking her head in self-derision, she let the magazine drop to the ground and swung herself off the lounger. It was time for a swim, she decided, discarding her watch. Some hard physical exercise. Far healthier than crying for a moon she didn’t even want.

The water felt wonderful, and she covered length after length with her strong, easy crawl. She was breathless when she pulled herself out on to the tiled edge, wringing the excess moisture out of her hair.

She towelled herself off, then adjusted the umbrella so that the lounger was completely shaded before she lay down again, turning on to her front and unfastening the clip of her bikini top.

Her bad night was catching up with her, she thought drowsily, pillowing her head on her folded arms and letting her body sink down into the soft cushions. The air felt very still, almost watchful, and the scent of the roses on the terrace above her was heavy—almost overpowering.

Almost as heavy as her own eyelids, Clare thought, and slept.

Something woke her eventually. She lay still for a moment, listening to the silence, wondering idly what had disturbed her. She turned her head slightly, and saw that a small wrought-iron table had been placed beside her, and on it a pitcher of iced fruit juice—peach, judging by its colour—and a glass.

Ah, she thought gratefully. Angelina. What a perfect way to be woken.

She sat up, pushing her disheveled hair back from her face, still slightly dazed from sleep, narrowing her eyes against the strength of the noonday sun as she reached for the pitcher.

And halted, hand outstretched, instinct telling her that the silence had changed in some way. That it contained another element.

Slowly, almost warily, she looked round, and felt the breath catch in her throat.

Guido Bartaldi was sitting about a couple of yards away from her, very much at ease in a cushioned chair. Long brown legs were revealed by brief navy shorts, and his bare feet were thrust into leather sandals, while a cream polo shirt set off tanned forearms and gave a glimpse of the shadowing of dark hair on his chest. His face was expressionless, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses as he surveyed her.

For a moment she was motionless, turned to stone, then she remembered just what he was seeing, and with a choking cry snatched up the towel from beside the lounger and huddled it protectively over her bare breasts.

‘How the hell did you get in here?’ Her voice rasped in shock. Embarrassed colour was flooding her face.

His brows lifted. ‘I rang the bell at the entrance, and was admitted like anyone else.’ He pointed at the pitcher of juice. ‘The housekeeper was about to bring you a cold drink, so I volunteered my services instead. Is there a problem?’

‘Oh, none at all,’ Clare said savagely. ‘Tell me, does the phrase “Peeping Tom” mean anything to you?’

‘Clearly not as much as it does to you,’ he murmured.

Clare lifted her chin. ‘Tell me something else, signore,’ she invited dangerously. ‘How much longer do you intend to maintain this—persecution?’

‘I am sorry that you regard my visits in that light.’ His own voice was deceptively mild. ‘I am merely anxious to assure myself that you are fully restored to health.’

There were a number of succinct and very rude responses to that, Clare thought, smouldering. But uttering any of them would do her no lasting good.

Instead, ‘I am well, as you see, signore,’ she returned coolly. ‘If that’s all you wanted to know, I’d be glad to have my privacy restored.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘That is not my sole reason for being here. In fact, I came to offer you a job.’

‘A job?’ she echoed in total disbelief. ‘You want me to work for you?’

‘Not directly.’ He paused. ‘I believe Paola told you she had an older woman as a companion?’

‘Yes.’ Clare’s brows drew together. ‘What of it?’

He said curtly, ‘The signora is no longer part of my household. It was foolish to think that a woman of her age and outlook could reach any kind of rapport with a girl of Paola’s temperament. She was not even a successful jailer.’

Clare realised that her towel was slipping and retrieved it hurriedly. She said, ‘and that’s what you’re looking for? A better jailer?’

‘No, no.’ Guido Bartaldi made a dismissive gesture. ‘That would be futile, even degrading. No, I want a companion for Paola that she can like and trust. Someone she can confide in.’ He looked at her unsmilingly, and she wished she could see what was in his eyes. ‘She talked to you. You seem the obvious choice.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Clare shook her head vigorously. ‘Apart from anything else, I’m a language teacher, not a chaperon.’

‘That is all to the good. I have an international business. I travel extensively.’ He paused. ‘My wife will need to be fluent in other languages than her own.’

Clare tried to collect her flurried thoughts. ‘You want me to teach Paola English?’ She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation. That he had the unadulterated nerve—the sheer arrogance—to make such a request of her.

‘Together with some French.’ He nodded, almost casually. ‘I presume you are capable of this?’

She said between her teeth, ‘Capable, yes. Willing, no.’

‘I see. Have your recent experiences given you a distaste for Paola’s company?’

‘Paola,’ she said, ‘is not my main consideration.’

He said quietly, ‘Then may I ask that she becomes so? She—needs you.’

Her lips parted in a gasp of astonishment. She said, ‘Oh, this is ridiculous.’

‘What is so laughable?’

‘The entire situation.’ She looked down at the towel she was clutching. ‘And this in particular.’

She lay down again, gingerly tugging the towel from beneath her and discarding it. She fitted her bikini top into place, and held it with one hand while she reached behind her back with the other to secure the little metal clip. But, however she struggled, it evaded her best efforts and remained determinedly undone.

‘Allow me.’ There was a ghost of laughter in his voice as he rose unhurriedly to his feet.

‘I can manage,’ she said with breathless haste, aware that she was blushing again.

Guido Bartaldi clicked his tongue reprovingly as he strolled to her side. ‘You must learn not to fib, Chiara.’

Clare tensed uncontrollably as he bent over her, expecting to feel the brush of his fingers against her skin. Terrified at her own possible reaction.

But his fingers were brisk, almost clinical, as he dealt with the fastening, and stood up.

‘Relax,’ he advised. ‘Your ordeal is at an end.’

‘Thank you,’ Clare said in a wooden voice, and he laughed openly as he returned to his chair.

‘Do not strain civility too far, mia bella. You’d like to tell me to go to hell.’

She had to fight hard not to smile. ‘That’s the least of it, signore.’

‘But, just the same,’ he said. ‘I would like you to consider my offer of employment.’

Clare looked back at him in silence, then swung herself off the lounger, picked up her wrap, slid her arms into the sleeves and tied the sash tightly round her waist, with ostentatious care.

‘I think,’ he said, ‘that you are making some point.’

‘How clever of you to notice.’

‘It was not particularly difficult. Has anyone ever told you, Chiara, that subtlety is not your chief asset?’ He crossed his legs. ‘I infer you think you might find yourself in some kind of danger under my roof.’

‘You’re implying that I’m not?’ She didn’t disguise the scepticism in her voice, or in the look she sent him. ‘You may not lack subtlety yourself, signore, but some of your behaviour towards me could be described as sexual harassment.’

‘How clever of you to notice.’ A smile played round the corners of his mouth. ‘But you would have nothing further to fear on that score. Entering my household would act as an immediate safeguard. I am not in the habit of—harassing my employees.’

‘That’s reassuring,’ she said. ‘But I’m still not tempted.’

‘You have not asked how much I would be prepared to pay to secure your services.’

‘I don’t want your money,’ she said sharply.

‘As you have already made clear,’ he murmured.

‘I mean I can’t be bought.’

‘And I am not looking for a slave.’ His tone was equable. ‘Or is that another reference to my wholesale corruption of public servants?’

Clare bit her lip. ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘But you see how it is, signore. There’s no way that we could co-exist—you and I.’ And I—I couldn’t take the risk, she added silently.

‘We would not have to co-exist,’ he said shortly. ‘I am hiring you to stay with Paola, not myself. My business interests cause me to be away a great deal. We would seldom meet.’

Clare sat down rather limply on the lounger. ‘And how will Paola feel about that? She asked. ‘It’s hardly the ideal way to court your future wife.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You do not think that my absence will make her heart any fonder?’

She said bluntly, ‘I’d say it would convince her that you don’t give a damn about her.’

‘Then she would be wrong.’ He was unruffled. ‘I care for her very deeply. But I am aware that she does not return my feelings. Or not yet.’ He paused. ‘I hope that you can, perhaps, change that.’

‘I?’ Clare echoed. ‘How can I do that?’

‘By bringing her to a more suitable frame of mind. By getting her to recognise that I can make her happy.’

Clare drew a deep breath. ‘Let me understand this,’ she demanded in outrage. ‘You want me to turn a hostile, unruly girl into a submissive bride for you?’

He smiled at her. ‘Exactly.’

There was a brief, fulminating silence, then she said shortly, ‘It can’t be done.’

‘I think it altogether possible—if you try. Just bend that formidable will of yours to the problem, Chiara mia, and who knows what miracle might not ensue?’

‘Perhaps it’s not a problem I particularly wish to address.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘Just why do you want this marriage, signore?’

‘I have a house,’ he said. ‘But it is not a home. I have a great name, but no heir. I have relationships, but not with a woman who can fill my heart to the exclusion of all others. Are those good enough reasons?’

Clare looked down her nose. ‘It all sounds a little cold-blooded to me.’

‘But you are so wrong,’ he said softly. ‘As my wife will discover for herself once her nights are spent in my arms.’

She looked down at the tiles at her feet, feeling the sudden startled colour flood her face. Aware of the urgent necessity to veil her eyes from him. Feeling some unfamiliar, confused emotion composed of envy and a kind of regret tremble inside her. And trying desperately to crush it down…

She said in a low voice, ‘Maybe you should start convincing her of that now.’

‘That would not be appropriate,’ he told her coolly. ‘We are not even officially engaged to each other.’

Back under control, she looked up, lifting her brows satirically. ‘I did not think you were so conventional, Marchese.’

‘But then you know so little about me, Chiara,’ he came back at her, sardonically.

‘That,’ she said. ‘Is my choice.’ She rose to her feet again. ‘I won’t do as you ask. Because I can’t understand why you’d want to marry anyone who’s already run away from you once.’

He shrugged as he got out of his chair. ‘Perhaps it is the nature of love—the girl to fly and the man to follow.’ He paused. ‘Is that your only reservation?’

‘No.’

‘Ah,’ he said, and was silent for a moment. Then, ‘Paola will be disappointed. It was her idea that you should take the Signora’s place.’

‘Please tell her I’m sorry.’

‘I hope you will tell her yourself.’ He paused again. ‘And do not let your dislike for me prevent you from being her friend while you remain in Umbria. She would like very much for you to visit her.’

Clare swallowed ‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.’

‘Why not?’ Guido Bartaldi spread his hands enquiringly. ‘I have accepted your decision. So, what harm can it do?’

Oh, God, thought Clare, you have no idea. And thank God you haven’t…

Aloud, she said, ‘I may not be around for much longer. After all, I have…’ She paused swiftly, realising what she was about to say.

‘A living to earn?’ he supplied silkily, and accurately. ‘And yet you will not take work when it is offered. How strange.’

‘I’m a grown woman, signore. As I’ve said, I make my own choices.’

‘A woman?’ he queried thoughtfully. ‘I wonder if it is true.’

‘How—how dare you?’ She glared at him, shock tightening her throat. ‘My—personal circumstances are nothing to do with you.’

‘Basta. I am not claiming that you are still physically a virgin,’ he said impatiently. ‘That is immaterial. What matters is that sometimes, when I look at you, Chiara, I see a frightened child hitting out at the world—and hurting only herself.’

She said icily, ‘Thank you for the psychological profile. Remind me to do a run-down on you some time.’ She paused. ‘But tell Paola if she wants to visit me here, I’ll be happy to see her. Maybe we can have a dolls’ tea party.’ She bent and picked up her towel and the magazines. ‘Perhaps you’d excuse me now. I’m sure my godmother will be glad to see you before you go.’

‘I think she is quite happy talking to my uncle.’ He had the gall to sound amused. ‘He was hoping to meet you, but I see you are not in the mood.

He walked over to her, and stood for a moment looking down at her.

‘I have made you angry,’ he said quietly. ‘And also scared you a little, I think. I did not intend to.’ He took her unresisting hand and raised it to his lips, swiftly and gently. ‘Arrivederci, Chiara.’ His voice was low—intimate.

She felt the heat of the sun surrounding her like a golden web, closing her in with him as she stared at him mutely, caught in the thrall of the moment.

His tone changed—became brisk, almost businesslike. ‘And if you should change your mind about the job I have offered, naturalamente, you have only to let me know.’

The pang of disappointment was so sharp she almost cried out.

Instead, she snatched her hand away, offering him a smile that glittered like a razor.

She said dulcetly, ‘All hell will freeze over first, Marchese. Goodbye.’

And she walked away, her head held high, up the steps to the rose terrace, and into the house.