Читать книгу The Forced Marriage - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 7

‘I GOT you a herb tea,’ Melanie said anxiously. ‘As you still can’t face cappuccino. They say shock can do that to you.’

Some shocks certainly could, Flora thought grimly as she took the container from her assistant with a word of thanks and a smile. Nor was it just cappuccino. She was also off espresso, latte and anything else tall and Italian.

Three jumpy days had passed since the aborted mugging and its even more disturbing aftermath. Out of the frying pan, she thought wryly, and into the heart of the fire. She was still screening her calls, and warily scanning the streets outside her flat and office each time she emerged.

‘I’ll be seeing you,’ he’d said. The kind of casual remark anyone might make, and probably meaningless. An unfortunate choice of words, that was all. And yet—and yet…

He had made it sound like a promise.

Time and time again she told herself she was a fool for letting it matter so much. Her grazes, bumps and bruises were healing nicely, and she should let her emotions settle too. Put the whole thing in some mental recycling bin.

It had been obvious from that first moment that Marco Valante was trouble, and it was her bad luck that he should have been the first on the scene when she needed help. Because he was the kind of man to whom flirting was clearly irresistible, and who would allow no opportunity to be wasted.

But—it was only a kiss, when all was said and done, she thought, taking a rueful sip of herb tea. And wasn’t this a total overreaction on her part to something he would undoubtedly have forgotten by now?

He would have moved on—might even be back in Italy and good riddance—and she should do the same. So why on earth was it proving so difficult? Why was he invading her thoughts by day and her sleep by night? It made no sense.

And, more importantly, why hadn’t she told Chris all about it? she asked herself, staring unseeingly at her computer screen.

Partly, she supposed, because his attitude had annoyed her. He’d been sympathetic at first, but soon become bracing, telling her she was lucky not to have lost her bag or been badly injured. She knew she’d got off lightly, but somehow that wasn’t what she’d needed to hear. Some prolonged concern and cosseting would have been far more acceptable. And it would have been for her to tell him, lovingly, that he was going OTT, and not the other way round.

He was busy, of course, and she understood that. He was trying to build up his consultancy and provide a sound financial basis for their future; she couldn’t realistically expect his attention to be focussed on her all the time.

But she had anticipated that he’d stay with her that evening at least.

Instead, ‘Sorry, my sweet.’ Chris had shaken his head. ‘I’ve arranged to meet a new client. Could be big. Besides,’ he’d added, patting her shoulder, ‘you’ll be much better off relaxing—taking things easy. You don’t need me for that.’

No, Flora had thought, with a touch of desolation. But I could do with the reassurance of your arms around me. I’d like you to look at me as he did. To let me know that you want me, that you’re living for our wedding, and the moment when we’ll really belong to each other.

And that it won’t be like that other time…

She bit her lip, remembering, then turned her attention firmly back to the report she was writing for a woman trying to sell an overcrowded, overpriced flat in Notting Hill. Although she suspected she was wasting her time and Mrs Barstow would not remove even one of the small occasional tables which made her drawing room an obstacle course, or banish her smelly, bad-tempered Pekinese dog on viewing days.

She would probably also quibble at the fee she was being charged, Flora decided as she printed up the report and signed it.

She turned to the enquiries that had come in recently, remembering that Melanie had marked one of them urgent. ‘Lady living in Chelsea,’ she said now. ‘A Mrs Fairlie. Husband does something in the EU and they’re having to move to Brussels like yesterday, so she needs to spruce the place up for a quick sale. Says we were recommended.’

‘That’s what I like to hear,’ Flora commented as she dialled Mrs Fairlie’s number.

She liked the sound of Mrs Fairlie too, who possessed a rich, deep voice with a smile in it, but who sounded clearly harassed when Flora mentioned she had no vacant appointments until the following week.

‘Oh, please couldn’t you fit me in earlier?’ she appealed. ‘I’d like you to see the house before matters go any further, and time is pressing.’

Flora studied her diary doubtfully. ‘I could maybe call in on my way home this evening,’ she suggested. ‘If that’s not too late for you.’

‘Oh, no,’ Mrs Fairlie said eagerly. ‘That sounds ideal.’

Flora replaced the receiver and sat for a moment, lost in thought. Then she reached for the phone again and, acting on an impulse she barely understood, dialled the Mayfair Tower Hotel.

‘I’m trying to trace a Signor Marco Valante,’ she invented. ‘I believe he is staying at your hotel.’

‘I am sorry, madam, but Signor Valante checked out yesterday.’ Was there a note of regret in the receptionist’s professional tone?

‘Oh, okay, thanks,’ Flora said quickly.

She cut the connection, aware that her heart was thudding erratically—with what had to be relief. He was safely back in Italy and she had nothing more to worry about from that direction, thank goodness.

I’ve got to stop being so negative, she thought. Take some direct action about the future. I’ll have a blitz on the flat this weekend, and persuade Chris to help me. Even if he hates decorating he can lend a hand in preparing the walls. And we’ll finalise arrangements for the wedding too. A few positive steps and I’ll be back in the groove. No time to fill my head with rubbish.

She took a cab to the quiet square where Mrs Fairlie lived that evening, appraising the house with a faint frown as she paid off the driver. It was elegant, double fronted, and immaculately maintained. And clearly worth a small fortune.

Flora would have bet good money that even if the entire interior was painted in alternating red and green stripes the queue of interested buyers would still stretch round the block.

And if Mrs Fairlie simply wanted reassurance that her property was worth the amazing amount the agents were advising, then reassurance she should have, Flora decided with a mental shrug as she rang the bell.

The door was answered promptly by a pretty maid in a smart chocolate-coloured uniform, who smiled and nodded when Flora introduced herself, and led her up a wide curving staircase to the drawing room on the first floor.

As she followed, Flora was aware of the elegant ceramic floor in the hall, the uncluttered space and light enhanced by clean pastel colours on the walls. As she’d suspected, she thought wryly, Mrs Fairlie was the last person to need style advice.

The maid opened double doors, and after announcing, ‘Miss Graham,’ stood back to allow Flora to precede her into the room.

She was greeted by the dazzle of evening sunlight from the tall windows, and halted, blinking, conscious that amid the glare someone was moving towards her.

But not the female figure she’d been expecting, she realised with a jolt, the confident, professional smile dying on her lips.

In spite of the warmth of the room she felt as cold as ice. She had to fight an impulse to wrap her arms across her body in a betrayingly defensive gesture.

‘Buonasera, Flora mia.’ As Marco Valante reached her he captured her nerveless hand and raised it swiftly and formally to his lips. ‘It is good to see you again.’

‘I wish I could say the same.’ Her voice sounded husky and a little breathless. ‘What is this? I came here to meet a Mrs Fairlie.’

‘Unfortunately she has been detained. But she has delegated me to show you the house in her absence.’

‘And you expect me to believe that?’

His brows lifted sardonically. ‘What else, cara? Do you imagine I have her bound and gagged in the cellar?’

Something very similar had occurred to her, and she lifted her chin, glaring at him. ‘I find it odd that you have the run of her house, certainly.’

‘I am staying here for a few days,’ he said calmly. ‘Your Mrs Fairlie is in fact my cousin Vittoria.’

‘I see.’ Her heart seemed to be trying to beat its way out of her ribcage. ‘And you persuaded her to trick me into coming here. Does your family claim descent from Machiavelli?’

‘I think he was childless,’ Marco Valante said thoughtfully. ‘And Vittoria did not need much persuasion—not when I explained how very much I wished to meet with you again.’ He smiled. ‘She tends to indulge me.’

‘More fool her,’ Flora said curtly. ‘I’d like to leave, please. Now.’

‘Before you have carried out your survey of the house?’ He tutted reprovingly. ‘Not very professional, cara.’

She sent him a freezing look. ‘But then I hardly think I’ve been inveigled into coming here in my business capacity.’

‘You are wrong. Vittoria wishes your advice on the master bedroom. She is bored with the colour, and the main bedroom in her house in Brussels has been decorated in a similar shade.’

Flora frowned. ‘She is genuinely selling this house, then?’

‘It has already been sold privately,’ he said gently. ‘Shall we go upstairs?’

‘No!’ The word seemed to explode from her with such force that her throat ached.

She saw him fling his head back as if she had struck him in the face. Met the astonishment and scorn in the green eyes as they held hers. Felt the ensuing silence deepen and threaten, as if some time bomb were ticking away. And realised with swift shame that she had totally overstepped the mark.

Somehow, she faltered into speech. ‘I’m sorry—I didn’t mean…’

He said grimly, ‘I am not a fool. I know exactly what you meant.’ The long fingers captured her chin and held it, not gently. ‘Two things, mia cara.’ He spoke softly. ‘This is my cousin’s house, and I would not show such disrespect for her roof. More importantly, I have never yet taken a woman against her will—and you will not be the first. Capisce?’

Her face burned as, jerkily, she nodded.

‘Then be good enough to carry out the commission you’ve been employed for.’ He released her almost contemptuously and moved towards the door. ‘Shall I call Malinda to act as our chaperon?’

‘No,’ she said huskily. ‘That—won’t be necessary.’ Her legs were shaking as she ascended another flight of stairs to the second floor, and followed him into Vittoria Fairlie’s bedroom.

It was a large room, overlooking the garden, with French windows leading on to a balcony with a wrought-iron balustrade and ceramic containers planted brightly with flowers.

The interior walls were the palest blush pink, with stinging white paintwork as a contrast, and the tailored bedcover was a much deeper rose. Apart from a chaise longue near the window, upholstered in the same fabric as the bedcover, and an elegant walnut dressing table, there was little other furniture—all clothes and clutter having been banished, presumably, to the adjoining dressing room.

‘Well?’ Marco Valante had stationed himself at the window, leaning against its frame. So how was it that everywhere she looked he seemed to be in her sightline? she wondered despairingly.

The image of him seemed scored into her consciousness—the casual untidiness of his raven hair, the faint line of stubble along his jaw, the close-fitting dark pants that accentuated his lean hips and long legs, the collarless white shirt left unbuttoned at the throat, exposing a deep triangle of smooth, tanned skin…

For a stunned moment she found herself wondering what that skin would feel like under her fingertips—her mouth…

Her mind closed in shock, and she hurried into speech. ‘The room is truly lovely. I can’t fault your cousin’s taste—or her presentation.’ She hesitated. ‘Although I wonder if it isn’t a touch—over-feminine?’

‘That is entirely the view of her husband,’ Marco acknowledged, his mouth twisting. ‘He has stipulated for the new house—no more pink.’

‘But it’s difficult to know what to suggest without seeing the room in Brussels.’ Her brow wrinkled. ‘It may face in a different direction…’

‘No. Vittoria says it is also south-facing, and very light.’

‘In that case…’ Flora gave her surroundings another considering look. ‘There’s a wonderful shade of pale blue-green, called Seascape, that comes in a watered silk paper. I’ve always felt that waking in sunlight with that on the walls would be like finding yourself floating in the Mediterranean. But your cousin may not want that.’

‘On the contrary, I think it would revive for her some happy memories,’ Marco returned. ‘When we were children we used to stay at my grandfather’s house in summer. He had this old castello on a cliff above the sea, and we would walk down to the cove each day between the cypress trees.’

‘It sounds—idyllic.’

‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘A more innocent world.’ He paused. ‘Have you ever visited my country?’

‘Not yet.’ Flora lifted her chin. ‘But I’m hoping to go there on my honeymoon, if I can persuade my fiancé.’

‘He doesn’t like Italy?’ The green eyes were meditative as they rested on her.

‘I don’t think he’s ever been either. But he was in the Bahamas earlier this year, and that’s where he wants to return.’ She smiled. ‘Apparently there’s this tiny unspoiled island called Coconut Cay, where pelicans come to feed. One of the local boatmen takes you there early in the morning with a food hamper and returns at sunset to collect you. Often you have the whole place entirely to yourself.’

There was a silence, then he said expressionlessly, ‘It must have happy memories for him.’

‘Yes—but I’d rather go to a place where we can create memories together, especially for our honeymoon. We can go to the Bahamas another time.’

‘Of course.’ He glanced at his watch, clearly bored by her marital plans—which was exactly what she’d intended, she told herself.

‘You will make out a written report of your recommendations for Vittoria? With a note of your fee?’

‘I’d prefer it if you simply passed on what I’ve said.’ Flora lifted her chin. Met his glance. ‘Treat it as cancelling all debts between us.’

‘As you wish,’ he said courteously.

It wasn’t what she’d expected, Flora thought as she trailed downstairs. She’d anticipated some kind of argument, or one of his smiling, edged remarks at the very least.

He’d clearly become bored with whatever game he’d been playing, she told herself, and that had to be all to the good.

She’d intended to continue down the stairs and out of the front door without a backward glance, but Malinda was coming up, carrying an ice bucket, and somehow Flora found herself back in the drawing room.

‘Champagne?’ Marco removed the cork with swift expertise.

‘I really should be going.’ Reluctantly she accepted the chilled flute and sat on the edge of a sofa, watching uneasily as the maid adjusted the angle of a plate of canapés on a side table and then withdrew, leaving them alone together. ‘Are you celebrating something?’

‘Of course. That I am with you again.’ He raised his own flute. ‘Salute.’

He was lounging on the arm of the sofa opposite, but she wasn’t fooled. He was as relaxed as a coiled spring—or a black panther with its victim in sight…

The bubbles soothed the sudden dryness of her throat. ‘Even if you had to trick me into being here?’

‘You didn’t meet me for dinner the other night.’ Marco shrugged. ‘What choice did I have?’

‘You could have left me in peace,’ she said in a low voice.

‘There is no peace,’ he said with sudden roughness. ‘There has not been one hour of one day since our meeting that I have not remembered your eyes—your mouth.’

She said in a stifled tone, ‘Please—you mustn’t say these things.’

‘Why?’ he demanded with intensity. ‘Because they embarrass—offend you? Or because you have thought of me too, but you don’t want to admit it? Which is it, Flora mia?’

‘You’re not being fair…’

‘You know the saying,’ he said softly. “‘All is fair in love and war.” And if I have to fight for you, cara, I will choose my own weapons.’

‘I’m engaged,’ she said, with a kind of desperation. ‘You know that. I have a life planned, and you have no place in that.’

‘So I am barred from your future. So be it. But can you not spare me a few hours from your present—tonight?’

‘That—is impossible.’

‘You are seeing your fidanzato this evening?’

‘Yes, of course. We have a great deal to discuss.’

‘Naturally,’ he said softly. ‘And have you told him about me?’

‘There was,’ she said, steadying her voice, ‘nothing to tell.’

He raised his brows. ‘He would not be interested to learn that another man knows the taste of his woman—the scent of her skin when she is roused by desire?’

‘That’s enough.’ Flora got up clumsily, spilling champagne on her skirt. ‘You have no right to speak to me like this.’

He didn’t move, staring at her through half-closed eyes. She felt his gaze touch her mouth like a brand. Scorch through her clothes to her bare flesh.

He said quietly, ‘Then give me the right. Have dinner with me tonight.’

‘I—can’t…’ Her voice sounded small and hoarse.

‘How strange you are,’ he said. ‘So confident in your work. Yet so scared to live.’

‘That’s not true…’ The protest sounded weak even in her own ears.

‘Then prove it.’ The challenge was immediate. ‘The day we met I wrote the name of a restaurant on a piece of paper.’

‘Which I threw away,’ she said, quickly and fiercely.

‘But you still remember what it was,’ he said gently. ‘Don’t you, mia bella?’

‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she whispered.

He shrugged. ‘I am simply being honest for both of us.’ He smiled at her. ‘So, tell me the name of the restaurant.’

She swallowed. ‘Pietro’s—in Gable Street.’

He nodded. ‘I shall dine there again this evening. As I told you before, you may join me there at any time after eight o’clock.’ He paused. ‘And it is just your company at dinner I’m asking for—nothing more. You have my guarantee.’

‘You mean you don’t…? You won’t ask me…?’ Flora was floundering.

‘No,’ Marco Valante said slowly. ‘At least—not tonight.’

‘Then why…?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t understand any of this.’

His smile was faint—almost catlike. ‘You will find, mia cara, that anticipation heightens the appetite. And I want you famished—ravenous.’

She felt the blood burn in her face. She said, ‘Then find some other lady to share your feast. Because, as I’ve already made clear, I’m not available—tonight or any night.’

All the way to the door she was expecting him to stop her. To feel his hand on her arm—her shoulder. To be drawn back into his embrace.

She gained the stairs. Went down them at a run. Reached the hall where Malinda appeared by magic to open the front door for her and wish her a smiling good evening.

‘It’s all right,’ Flora whispered breathlessly to herself as she crossed the square, heading for the nearest main road to pick up a cab. ‘It’s over—and you’re safe.’

And at that same moment felt a curious prickle of awareness down her spine. Knew that Marco was standing at that first floor window, watching her go.

Yet she not dare to look back and see if she was right. Proving that she wasn’t safe at all—and she knew it.

She got the cab to drop her at her neighbourhood supermarket and shopped for the weekend, spending recklessly at the deli counter and wine section.

She needed to get herself centred again, and what better way than a happy weekend with the man she loved, preparing for their future? she asked herself with a touch of defiance.

They could picnic while they worked, she thought, sweetening the pill by buying the things Chris liked best.

As she came round the corner, laden with bags, she saw that his car was parked just down the street from her flat, and felt her heart give a swift, painful thump.

She found him in the living room, sprawled in an armchair, watching a satellite sports channel, but the glance he turned on her was peevish.

‘Where on earth have you been? I was expecting you ages ago.’

‘I had a job to fit in on the way home, and I shopped.’ She held up a bulging carrier. ‘See? Goodies.’

‘Ah,’ he said slowly. ‘Actually, I can’t stay. That’s what I called in to say. Jack Foxton is taking a golf foursome away this weekend and someone’s dropped out. So he’s asked me to go instead. I’ve got all my stuff in the car and I’m meeting them at the hotel.’

‘Oh, surely not.’ Flora stared at him distressfully. ‘I had such plans for us.’

‘Well, I couldn’t turn him down,’ he said with a touch of self-righteousness. ‘He can put a lot of valuable business my way. You know that. I don’t want to upset him.’

Flora lifted her chin. ‘Apparently you have no such qualms about upsetting me.’

‘Darling.’ Belatedly he brought his charm into play. ‘It was absolutely a last minute thing, or I’d have let you know earlier. And I’ll make it up to you next week. You’ll have my undivided attention each evening—promise.’

He got briskly to his feet, tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed and totally single-minded.

Armoured, Flora thought dispassionately, in his own concerns.

She said quietly, ‘Chris—don’t do this—please. Because I really need to spend some time with you. To talk…’

‘And so you shall, sweetheart, when I get back.’ He gave her a coaxing smile. ‘Anyway, it will give you some space—let you get ahead on the work front—or do some of the girlie things you say you never have time for. Why not give Hester a call? She’s probably not doing anything either.’

He aimed a kiss at her unresponsive lips on his way past. ‘I’ll ring you if I get the chance. If not—see you Monday.’

The door banged, and he was gone.

Flora stood, carriers at her feet, feeling completely deflated and more than a little lost.

Chris was her wall—her barricade against the invasion of all these disturbing thoughts and emotions that were assailing her. And suddenly, frighteningly, he wasn’t there for her.

Anger began to stir in her as she recalled his dismissive parting comments. She said aloud, ‘How dare he? How bloody dare he?’

What low expectations he had of her—and of Hester, come to that, assuming that her friend would have nothing better to do on Friday night than keep her company.

Was that how he had them down? she wondered incredulously. A couple of sad single women settling down with a takeaway and a video? Manless and therefore hapless?

Because, if so, he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life.

She stalked into her bedroom, flung open the wardrobe door and began to search along the hanging rail, pulling out a silky slip of a black dress with shoestring straps and a brief flare of a skirt. She’d bought it a few weeks before and had been waiting for a suitable occasion to wear it.

And tonight was the perfect opportunity, she thought defiantly, removing the price tag and ignoring the alarm signals going off in her brain. That small inner voice telling her that she too was about to commit a blunder that would leave Chris standing. That what she was planning was actually dangerous.

All my life I’ve played it safe, she argued back, rummaging for the black silk and lace French knickers that were all the dress would accommodate underneath. And where’s it got me?

To a situation of being taken totally for granted—that was where.

This wasn’t the first time that Chris’s business interests had left her stranded at the weekend, she thought. Up to now she’d told herself that his ambition was laudable, that he deserved her whole-hearted support.

But there came a point when ambition became selfishness, and they’d reached it.

Because it wasn’t only business which had taken him away from her. He could have cancelled that solo trip to the Bahamas, but he hadn’t, even though it had come at a time when she’d desperately needed his love and support. When she hadn’t wanted to be left alone.

She hurriedly closed down that train of thought, and the memories it engendered. That was all in the past, and for the moment the future seemed confused. Which left her with the here and now.

And she wasn’t going to spend another Friday evening staring at her own four walls when, just for once, there was an attractive alternative.

For a moment she halted, looking at her own startled reflection in her dressing mirror as she acknowledged what she was contemplating. What she was risking.

Because Marco Valante was light years beyond being merely an attractive man. He was a force of nature, she thought, her body shivering in mingled apprehension and excitement.

From the moment she’d seen him that day in the restaurant she’d been drawn to him—a helpless tide to his dark moon.

All that stood between her and potential disaster was his own guarantee that tonight would involve dinner and nothing else. And how did she dare trust a stranger’s promise?

Especially when instinct warned her that here was a man who lived by his own rules alone.

She lifted a hand and touched her lips, remembering…

She thought, I must be crazy.

Of course, all she need do was hang the dress back in the wardrobe and spend a blameless evening watching television. No one would be any the wiser.

Yet she already knew in her heart that eminently sensible course of action was not for her.

I’m going to have dinner with him, she thought defiantly. And I’m going to laugh and flirt and have fun in a way I haven’t done for months. Just for this one evening. After all, he likes to play games, and I can do that too. And when it’s over I’m going to thank him and shake hands nicely, and walk away. Nothing more.

Because I can. Because even if he breaks his word I have my own private armour. It may be called disappointment and failure, but it’s very effective just the same. And it confers its own immunity against natural born womanisers like Signor Valante. End of story.

She showered and washed her hair, then finger-dried it so it sprang like an aureole of living flame around her head.

She applied the lightest of make-up, adding a touch of shadow and mascara to her eyes and a pale lustre to her mouth, then slipped her feet into high-heeled strappy sandals.

When she was ready she glanced at herself in the mirror, and gasped. A stranger was looking back at her, her skin milk-white against the starkness of the dress, her face flushed and her eyes bright with expectancy.

And tonight she was going to let that stranger live in her head, she thought, as she sprayed her favourite scent on to pulse-points and picked up her bag and pashmina.

‘You still don’t have to do this,’ she whispered under her breath, as a cab drove her to the restaurant. ‘It’s not too late. You could always tell the taxi to turn round. But if you go through with it, and it shows any sign of getting heavy, you can leave. So there’s nothing—not one thing—to worry about. Whatever happens—you’re in control.’

Pietro’s was small and quiet, the name displayed on a discreet sign beside the entrance.

Inside, Flora found herself in a smart reception area, confronted by a pretty girl with an enquiring smile.

She cleared her throat. ‘I’m meeting someone—a Signor Valante.’

The smile widened. ‘Of course, signorina. He is in the bar. May I take your wrap?’

‘No, it’s fine.’ Flora maintained a firm grip on its silver-grey folds. ‘I’ll keep it with me.’ In case I have to make a sudden exit, she added silently.

The bar was already busy but she saw him at once, lounging on one of the tall stools at the counter, looking like a man who was prepared to wait all night if he had to.

Only he didn’t. Have to. Did he?

Because she was here, and she was trembling again, and that gnawing ache was back in the pit of her stomach.

And of course he had seen her, so it was too late to slip away. In her heart she knew it had always been too late. That something stronger than her own will—her own reason—had brought her to him tonight.

She felt his gaze slide over her. Saw his brows lift and his mouth slant in surprise and frank pleasure as he started towards her through the laughing, chattering groups of people.

And realised, with a pang of something like fear, that, contrary to her expectations—her planned strategy—it would not be as easy as she thought to turn her back and walk away from him when the evening came to an end.

Oh, God, she thought, dry-mouthed. I’m going to have to be careful—so very careful…