The Forced Marriage (3 page)

His own voice was soft, almost reflective. ‘So the flame does not burn in your hair alone.
Bravo.
’

She snatched up the shirt and tights, glaring at him, unbearably galled that she needed to use them, and crammed them into her bag.

‘I’ll send you a cheque for these,’ she told him curtly.

Marco Valante laughed. ‘I’m sure you will,
cara
. But in case you forget, I’ll take a down payment now.’

Suddenly he was beside her, and his arm was round her, pulling her towards him. And for one brief, burning moment, she felt his mouth on hers, tasting her with a stark hunger she had never known existed.

It was over almost as soon as it had begun. Before she’d really grasped what was happening to her she was free, stepping backwards, stumbling a little on the edge of that trailing robe, staring at him in a kind of horror as her hand went up to touch her lips.

And he looked back at her, his own mouth twisting wryly. He said quietly, ‘As hot as sin and as sweet as honey. I cannot wait for the next instalment, Flora
mia
.’

The note in his voice seemed to shiver on her skin. The silence between them tautened—became electric. She wanted to look away, and found that she could not.

It was the knock on the door that saved her. She went to answer it, holding up the encumbering folds of towelling, trying not to run.

His voice followed her. ‘
Ti vedro, mia bella.
I’ll be seeing you.’

She said fiercely, ‘No—no, you won’t.’

And went through the door, slamming it behind her, because she knew, to her shame, that she did not dare look back at him. Not then. And certainly not ever again.

‘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.