The Forced Marriage Page 4

  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…

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘CIAO.’ His smile was in his eyes as he reached her side. He took her hand and raised it to his lips in a fleeting caress. ‘You decided you could spare me a few hours of your life after all, hmm?’

  She took a deep, steadying breath. ‘So it would seem,’ she returned with relative calm.

  ‘Your fidanzato must be a very tolerant man.’ His gaze travelled over her without haste, making her feel that he was aware of every detail of what she might—or might not—be wearing. Sending another flurry through her senses.

  He said slowly, his lips twisting, ‘But I think he would be wiser to keep you chained to his wrist—especially when you look as you do tonight.’

  He had not, she realised, relinquished his clasp on her hand, and she detached herself from him, quietly but with emphasis.

  ‘You gave me your word, signore, that I would be safe in your company,’ she reminded him, trying to speak lightly.

  His brows lifted. ‘And is that why you came, mia cara?’ he asked softly. ‘Because you wished to feel—safe?’

  She gave him a composed smile. ‘I came because the food is said to be good here, and I’m hungry.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Then I must feed you.’ He made a slight signal and Flora found herself whisked to a small table in the corner—which was somehow miraculously vacant—and supplied with a Campari soda and a menu.

  Through an archway she could see tables set with immaculate white cloths and glistening with silverware and crystal, could sniff dele
ctable odours wafting through from the kitchen.

  To her own surprise she realised that her flippant remark had been no more than the truth. She was indeed hungry, and the plate of little savoury morsels placed in front of them made her mouth water in sudden greed.

  ‘I am to tell you that my cousin was delighted with your suggestion for her bedroom,’ Marco Valante said when they had made their choices from the menu presented by an attentive waiter and were alone again. ‘But now, of course, she has asked who makes this particular wall-covering and where it is available.’

  ‘Really?’ Flora, who’d been convinced that Vittoria Fairlie’s decorating problems were purely fictional, was slightly nonplussed. ‘Then I’ll send her a full written report with samples next week.’

  ‘She would appreciate it.’ He sent her a faint smile. ‘It is good of you to take so much trouble.’

  ‘I always take trouble,’ she said. She paused. ‘Even over commissions that don’t really exist.’

  He said slowly, ‘I wonder if you will ever forgive me for that.’

  ‘Who knows?’ She shrugged. ‘And why does it matter anyway?’ She hesitated again. ‘After all, you’ll be going back to Italy quite soon—won’t you?’

  ‘I have fixed no time for my return.’ He smiled at her. ‘My plans are—fluid.’

  ‘Your boss must be exceptionally tolerant, in that case.’ She heard and hated the primness in her tone.

  ‘We work well together. He does not grudge me a period of relaxation.’

  He was silent for a moment, and Flora, conscious that he was studying her, kept her attention fixed firmly on the rosy liquid in her glass. At the same time wondering, in spite of herself, exactly what Marco Valante did for relaxation…

  He said, at last, ‘So what made you change your mind?’

  She gave a slight shrug. ‘My—plans didn’t work out, that’s all.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said softly.

  She eyed him with suspicion. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘How prickly you are.’ His tone was amused. ‘Does it have to mean anything?’

  She spread her hands almost helplessly. ‘How can I tell? I don’t seem to know what’s going on any more—if I ever did.’ She made herself meet his gaze directly. ‘And what I really can’t figure out is why you’re here this evening.’

  ‘Because it’s one of my favourite restaurants in London.’ The green eyes glinted.

  ‘That isn’t what I meant,’ Flora said. ‘And you know it.’ She paused. ‘Clearly you know London well, and your cousin lives here and probably leads a hectic social life. I’m sure she could introduce you to dozens of single girls.’

  ‘She has certainly tried on occasion,’ he agreed casually.

  ‘Exactly,’ Flora said with some force. ‘So why aren’t you dining with one of them instead?’

  He said reflectively, ‘Perhaps, cara, because I prefer to do my own—hunting.’

  She stiffened, eyes flashing. ‘I am—not—your prey.’

  He grinned unrepentantly. ‘No, of course not. Just an angel who has taken pity on my loneliness.’

  Her face was still mutinous. ‘I’d have said, Signor Valante, that you’re the last person in the world who needs to be lonely.’

  ‘Grazie,’ he said. ‘I think.’

  ‘So why, then?’ Flora persisted doggedly. ‘How is it that you’re so set on having dinner with me?’

  ‘You really need to ask?’ His brows lifted. ‘Are there no mirrors in that apartment of yours?’ His voice dropped—became husky. ‘Mia bella, there is not a man in this restaurant who does not envy me and wish he was at your side. How can you not know this?’

  Her skin warmed, and she took a hasty sip of her drink. She said stiltedly, ‘I wasn’t—fishing for compliments.’

  ‘And I was not flattering.’ He paused. ‘Is the truth so difficult for you to acknowledge?’

  She gave a small, wintry smile. ‘Perhaps it convinces me that I should have stayed at home.’

  ‘But why?’ He leaned forward. Flora thought, crazily, that his eyes were filled with little dancing sparks. ‘What possible harm can come to you—in this crowded place?’

  She made herself meet his glance steadily. ‘I don’t know. But I think you’re a dangerous man, Signor Valante.’

  ‘You’re wrong, cara,’ he said softly. ‘I am the one who is in danger.’

  ‘Then why were you so insistent?’

  ‘Perhaps I like to take risks.’

  ‘Not,’ she said, ‘a recommendation in an accountant, I’d have thought.’

  His grin was lazy. ‘But I am only an accountant in working hours, carissima. And now I am not working but relaxing—if you remember.’

  Flora bit her lip, conscious of the fierce undertow of his attraction, how it could so easily sweep her out of her depth. If she wasn’t careful, of course, she added hastily.

  Thankfully, at that moment the waiter reappeared to tell them their table was ready.

  And once the food was served, and the wine was poured, she would steer the conversation into more general channels, she promised herself grimly as she accompanied Marco sedately into the main restaurant.

  She was faintly ruffled to discover that they were seated side by side on one of the cushioned banquettes. But to request her place to be reset on the opposite side of the table would simply reveal that she was on edge, she reflected as she took her seat.

  There was a miniature lamp on the table, its tiny flame bright, but safely confined within its glass shade.

  A valuable lesson for life, she thought wryly, as the waiter shook out her napkin and placed it reverently across her lap. She needed to keep the conflict of emotions inside herself controlled with equal strictness.

  But she was already too aware of his proximity—the breath of cologne, almost familiar now, that reached her when he moved—the coolly sculptured profile—the dangerous animal strength of the lean body under the civilised trappings. The sensuous curve of the mouth which had once so briefly possessed hers…

  This, she was beginning to realise, was a man to whom power was as natural as breathing. And not just material power either, although he clearly had that in plenty, she realised uneasily. His sexual power was even more potent.

  She was glad to be able to focus her attention, deservedly, on the food. The delicate and creamy herb risotto was followed by scallops and clams served with black linguine, accompanied by a crisp, fragrant white wine that she decided it would be politic to sip sparingly.

  The main course consisted of seared chunks of lamb on the bone, accompanied by a rich assortment of braised garlicky vegetables. The wine was red and full-bodied.

  ‘I’m not surprised you come here,’ Flora said after her first appreciative mouthful. ‘This food is almost too good.’

  He smiled at her. ‘I’m glad you approve. But save your compliments for Pietro himself,’ he added drily. ‘He lives in a state of persistent anxiety and needs all the reassurance he can get.’

  ‘You know him well?’

  ‘We were boys together in Italy.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said.

  ‘Now you are being cryptic, mia bella,’ he said softly. ‘What does that mean?’

  She shrugged. ‘I was just trying to imagine you as a child, with muddy clothes and scraped knees. It isn’t easy.’

  His brows lifted. ‘Do I give the impression I was born in an Armani suit with a briefcase?’ he asked lazily.

  ‘Something like that,’ she acknowledged, her mouth quirking mischievously.

  ‘Yet I entered the world exactly as you did, Flora mia—without clothes at all.’ He returned her smile, his eyes flickering lazily over her breasts, clearly outlined by the cling of her dress. ‘Shall we indulge in a little—mutual visualisation, perhaps?’

  Flora looked quickly down at her plate, aware that her face had warmed. ‘I prefer to concentrate on this wonderful food.’

  They ate for a few moments in silence, then Flora ventur
ed into speech again, trying for a neutral topic. ‘Italy must be a wonderful country to grow up in.’

  ‘It is also a good place to live when one is grown.’ He paused. ‘You should introduce me to your fidanzato. Maybe I could convince him to take you there.’

  Her smile was too swift. Too bright. ‘Maybe. But unfortunately he’s had to go away this weekend.’

  ‘Another visit to the Bahamas, perhaps?’ There was an edge to his voice which she detected and resented.

  ‘No, a business trip,’ she returned crisply. ‘Chris is his own boss, and that doesn’t allow him a great deal of leisure—unlike yourself.’

  ‘Cristoforo,’ he said softly. ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘What sort of thing do you want to know?’ Flora drank some wine.

  ‘How you met,’ he said. ‘When you realised that he of all men was the one. But no intimate secrets,’ he added silkily. ‘That is if you have any to tell…’

  Flora bit her lip, refusing to rise to the obvious bait. ‘We met at a party,’ she said. ‘I’d helped a couple sell their flat after it had been on the market almost a year, and they invited me to a housewarming at their new property. Chris was there too because he’d arranged their mortgage. We—started seeing each other and fell in love—obviously. After a few months he proposed to me. And I accepted.’

  She saw a faintly derisive expression in his eyes, and stiffened. ‘Is there something wrong? Because it seems a perfectly normal chain of events to me.’

  ‘Not a thing,’ he said. ‘And you will live happily ever after?’

  Flora lifted her chin. ‘That is the plan, yes.’ She paused. ‘And what about you, signore? Do I get to hear your romantic history—or would it take too long?’ She paused. ‘Starting, I suppose, with—are you married?’

  ‘No.’ His tone was crisp and there was a sudden disturbing hardness in his eyes. ‘Nor am I divorced or a widower.’ He paused. ‘I was once engaged, but it—ended.’ He gave her a wintry smile. ‘I am sure that does not surprise you.’