The Forced Marriage (4 page)

‘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.