Bartaldi's Bride Page 2

  ‘How fortunate,’ Clare said slowly. ‘And you’ve—kept in touch ever since?’

  Paola nodded eagerly. ‘He writes to me, and I pretend the letters are from Carlotta.’

  ‘You haven’t told Guido about this boy?’

  ‘Are you crazy?’ Paola cast her eyes to heaven. ‘Do you know what he would do? Send me to another prison—in Switzerland—so that I learn to cook, and arrange flowers, and be a hostess. For him,’ she added venomously.

  She paused. ‘And Fabio is not a boy. He is a man, although not as old as Guido, naturally. And far more handsome.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Bello, bello.’

  An image of Guido as an ageing lecher, on the lines of the loathsome Signor Dorelli, lodged in Clare’s mind. She could well understand Fabio’s appeal, yet, at the same time, she was aware of all kinds of nameless worries.

  She said, probing gently, ‘And is that where you’re going now? To meet Fabio somewhere?’

  Paola nodded vigorously. ‘Si—and to be married.’

  Don’t get involved, said a small voice of sanity in the back of Clare’s brain. Just take her to the nearest service station, and then get on with your own life. This has nothing to do with you.

  She said, ‘Where is the wedding taking place?’

  Paola shrugged. ‘I do not know. Fabio is making all the arrangements.’

  Clare looked at her thoughtfully. By her own admission, Paola was barely more than a child, she thought ruefully, yet here she was—about to jump out of the frying pan into the fire.

  This Guido sounded none too savoury, but she had even less time for Fabio, persuading a young and vulnerable girl, who also happened to be an heiress, into a runaway marriage.

  ‘And where are you meeting him?’

  ‘In Barezzo—at the rail station.’ Paola gave a fretful look at the delicate platinum watch she was wearing. ‘I shall be late. He will be angry with me.’

  ‘Are you catching a particular train?’

  ‘No—it is just a good place to meet, because there will be many other people doing the same, and Fabio says no one will notice us.’

  The more she heard of these arrangements, the less Clare liked them.

  She said drily, ‘He seems to have it all worked out.’

  ‘But of course.’ Paola began to hunt through her elegant kid purse. ‘He wrote to me telling me exactly what I must do. I have his letter—somewhere. Only, if I am late, it will ruin everything.’ Paola paused, directing a speculative look at Clare. ‘Unless, signorina, you would drive me to Barezzo.’

  Clare hardened her heart against the coaxing tone and winning smile.

  She said, ‘I’m afraid I’m going in a different direction.’

  ‘But it would not take you long—and it would help me so much.’ Paola laid a pleading hand on her arm.

  ‘But you have a car of your own. I’ll help you get petrol for it and…’

  ‘No, that would take too long. I must get to Barezzo before she realises I am gone, and starts to look for me.’

  ‘She?’ Clare was losing the plot again.

  ‘The Signora. The woman Guido employs to watch me when he is not there.’

  ‘Does that happen often?’

  ‘Si. He is away now, and I am left with her. She is a witch,’ Paola said passionately. ‘And I hate her.’

  Not a very competent witch, Clare thought drily, or she’d have looked into her crystal ball and sussed exactly what her charge was up to.

  ‘But Guido will return soon—perhaps tomorrow—and try to make me marry him again, so this may be my last chance to escape.’ Paola shivered dramatically. ‘He frightens me.’

  Clare’s mouth tightened, as the memory of Signor Dorelli returned. She said slowly, ‘Just what kind of pressure does he put on you?’

  ‘You mean does he make love to me?’ Paola shook her head. ‘No, he is always cold. I think I am too young for him.’ She gave Clare a sideways worldly look that she had not learned from the nuns. ‘Besides, he has a woman already. She lives in Sienna.’

  It just gets worse and worse, Clare thought, frowning.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Even so, I really think it would be best for you to stop and consider what you’re doing before you leap into this other marriage. After all, you hardly know Fabio, and holiday romances rarely last the distance…’

  ‘You want me to go home,’ Paola accused. ‘Back to that prison. And I will not. If you will not drive me, then I will walk to Barezzo,’ she added, reaching for the damp pink dress.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ Clare said wearily. ‘I’ll drive you.’

  Perhaps, on the way, she could talk some sense into her companion, she thought, without optimism. Or at least warn her gently about the handsome young men who hung round fashionable resorts on the look-out for rich women.

  And Paola had the additional advantages of being very young and extremely pretty.

  Fabio must have thought it was his birthday, Clare thought with an inward sigh, as she started the car.

  She was still trying to work out the most tactful approach when she realised that Paola had fallen deeply and peacefully asleep.

  The rain had stopped, and the sun was trying to make belated amends when they reached Barezzo about half an hour later.

  Clare parked outside the station, and looked round her. She hadn’t visited Barezzo before, but its main square seemed pleasant, with a central fountain, and an enormous church dominating all the buildings round it.

  She leaned towards Paola, and spoke her name quietly, but the younger girl did not stir.

  But maybe this is for the best, she thought. It gives me a chance to have a look at this guy—ask a few questions. Let him know that I’m aware of what he’s up to.

  She had no idea why she should be taking all this trouble for a girl who was still a virtual stranger, despite her airy confidences. Except that Paola seemed to need a friend.

  And I’m all there is, she told herself, as she left the car.

  Contrary to Paola’s expectations, the station wasn’t crowded with latter-day Romeos passionately greeting their Juliets.

  In fact, the concourse was all but deserted, the sole exception being a man casually leaning against a stone pillar.

  He had the air of someone who’d been there for a while, and was prepared to wait all day if necessary, Clare thought as she walked towards him, her sandals clicking on the marble floor. So, presumably, this had to be Fabio.

  As she neared him, he straightened slowly, like some great cat preparing to pounce, she realised, finding her breath fluttering unevenly as she took her first good look at him.

  My God, she thought ironically, but with reluctant appreciation, as she halted a deliberate few feet away from him. Sex on legs.

  And such long legs too, she noted, covered in well-cut and expensive trousers. His casual shirt was navy and unbuttoned at the throat, and a jacket that had to be the work of a top designer hung from his broad shoulders.

  It was clear why he needed a wealthy wife. It would probably take everything Paola possessed to keep him in the manner he considered his due.

  He was in his mid-thirties, she judged, and around six foot tall, his black glossy hair reaching almost to his collar in tousled chic.

  But he wasn’t conventionally handsome, she decided critically, although he had cheekbones to die for. The dark, brilliant eyes, now fixed on her with equal interest, were too heavy-lidded, and his nose and chin too strongly marked. But any impression of austerity was belied by his mouth, firm-lipped yet unashamedly sensuous.

  Which wasn’t all. There was an effortless confidence about him—an impression of power barely reined in—that she found physically disturbing.

  Power, she found herself thinking. The ultimate aphrodisiac…

  No wonder Paola, freed from the restrictions of her convent school, had been swept off her feet with such ease.

  Men like this should carry a government warning, Clare told herself grimly.

&nb
sp; She said in Italian, ‘Are you waiting for Paola, signore?’

  ‘Si, signorina.’ His voice was low and resonant, his tone courteous, but Clare was sharply aware of a subtle change in his stance. A new tension. There was still a safe distance between them, so it was foolish to feel menaced, but she did.

  The notion that here was a tiger on a leash became conviction. This, she realised shakily, was a determined and dangerous man, and what the hell was she doing crossing swords with him? Except that Paola needed to be protected, she reminded herself swiftly.

  The dark eyes were fixed on her. ‘Do you know where she is?’

  ‘Naturally,’ Clare said. ‘But I wanted to talk to you about her first.’

  He said softly, ‘Ah. And you are…?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ she said quickly.

  ‘I think it does.’ His dark gaze was charged now, taking in every detail from the top of her head to the soles of her feet. She saw his mouth curl slightly, and was vexed to find that she minded.

  After all, what possible interest could she have for him in her chainstore dress and sandals? She derided herself. She was a working girl, not the kind of rich child he needed to stalk.

  And, heaven knows, he was the last type of man that she’d ever want to be involved with anyway. So, what was her problem?

  He said, ‘You’re not what I was expecting.’

  Clare lifted her chin. ‘I was thinking the same about you.’

  He inclined his head almost mockingly. ‘That I can believe,’ he murmured. ‘So—where is Paola?’

  ‘She’s perfectly safe.’

  ‘I am relieved to hear it.’ The dark gaze seemed to burn into hers. ‘May I see her?’

  ‘Of course.’ Clare nodded, conscious of a faint bewilderment. Even unease. ‘But before that, we really need to talk.’

  He was smiling at her. ‘Oh, you will talk, signorina. But not to me.’

  He made a slight gesture with his hand, and Clare became suddenly aware of movement beside her—behind her. Men in uniform appearing as if from nowhere. Men with guns which—dear God—they were pointing at her.

  She felt her arms taken, dragged behind her back. Felt, as she began to struggle, handcuffs snapped on to her wrists. She wanted to scream a protest, but her taut throat wouldn’t utter a sound.

  All she could do was look back at her adversary with dazed horror as an excited babble of sound ebbed and flowed around her.

  She said hoarsely, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am Guido Bartaldi, signorina. And you are one of the creatures who has kidnapped my ward.’ His voice cut into her like the lash of a whip. ‘Now tell me what you have done with her.’

  ‘Kidnapped?’ Clare’s voice rose to a shriek. ‘Are you mad?’

  The sudden surprised silence, and the expression of frowning incredulity on Guido Bartaldi’s face alerted her to the fact that she’d spoken in English.

  ‘You are the mad one,’ he returned in the same language. ‘To think that you and your accomplice could get away with this.’

  ‘I have no accomplice.’ Reaction was setting in, and Clare was suddenly shaking. Her eyes searched the dark, inimical face pleadingly. ‘I met Paola on the road, and gave her a lift—that’s all.’

  ‘Marchese.’ A policeman hurried up. ‘The little one is outside in a car. She is unconscious—drugged, I think—but she is alive.’

  ‘She’s asleep, not drugged,’ Clare said desperately, the word ‘Marchese’ echoing in her brain. Paola had failed to mention that her unwanted bridegroom was a marquis.

  ‘See that she is taken to the local clinic at once,’ the Marchese ordered curtly. His dark eyes seared Clare. ‘As for this one—get her out of my sight—now.’

  Her arms were held, and she was turned not gently towards the exit.

  ‘Please,’ she flung back over her shoulder. ‘You’re making a terrible mistake.’

  ‘The mistake is yours, signorina.’ His tone was harsh. ‘But you will pay dearly for it, I promise you.’

  And he turned his back in icy dismissal.

  CHAPTER TWO

  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 re
sistance, 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.’