“I shall take you back to Italy with me.”

Flora’s lips parted in a soundless gasp. She stared up at Marco. “You—can’t be serious.”

“Why not?” He shrugged. “I have to return there, and you need to escape. It solves several problems.”

And creates a hundred others. She thought it, but did not say it. She said slowly, “Marco—why do you want me with you?”

He put his lips to the agitated pulse in her throat. “You have a short memory, mia cara. Do you really not know?”

Mamma Mia!

Harlequin Presents®

They’re tall, dark—and ready to marry!

Don’t delay. Order the next story

in this great new miniseries…pronto!

Marriage in Peril

by

Miranda Lee

June, #2326

The Forced Marriage
Sara Craven

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Endpage

CHAPTER ONE

‘TELL me something,’ said Hester. ‘Are you absolutely certain you want to get married?’

Flora Graham, whose thoughts had drifted to the ongoing knotty problem of informing those concerned that she didn’t want her spoiled and brattish nephew as a pageboy, hurriedly snapped back to the immediate present, the crowded and cheerful restaurant, and her best friend and bridesmaid eyeing her with concern across the table.

‘Of course I do.’ She frowned slightly. ‘Chris and I are perfect for each other; you know that. I couldn’t be happier.’

‘You don’t look particularly happy,’ Hester said judicially, refilling their coffee cups.

Flora rolled her eyes in mock despair. ‘You wait until it’s your turn, and you find yourself in the middle of a three-ring circus with no time off for good behaviour. My mother must have been having one of her deaf days when I said I wanted a small quiet wedding.’

‘Then why don’t you have one?’ Hester met her astonished look steadily. ‘Why don’t you ask Chris to get a special licence, and slope off somewhere and do the business? I’ll happily be one witness, and maybe Chris’s best man would be the other.’

Flora went on staring at her. ‘Because we can’t. We’re committed to all these arrangements—all that expense. We’d be letting so many people down. It’s too late.’

‘Honey, it’s never too late.’ Hester’s voice was persuasive. ‘And I’m sure most people would understand.’

Flora gave a wry shake of the head. ‘Not my mother,’ she said. And, my God, certainly not Chris’s. ‘Anyway, don’t you want to do your bridesmaid thing? I’ve arranged for you to catch my bouquet afterwards.’

‘Having observed you closely since the engagement party, I think I’ll pass,’ Hester said drily. ‘I’m not ready for a nervous breakdown.’ She paused. ‘Talking of engagements, I see you’re not wearing your ring. Would that be a Freudian slip?’

‘No, I damaged a claw in the setting last week, and it’s being repaired.’ Flora’s frown deepened. ‘What is this, Hes? You’re beginning to sound as if you don’t like Chris.’

‘That’s not true,’ her friend said slowly. ‘But, even if you hate me for ever, I have to tell you I think you could do better.’

Flora gasped. ‘You don’t mean that. I love Chris, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

Hester was silent for a moment. ‘Flo, in all the years we’ve known each other I’ve seen you with various men, but never in a serious relationship with any of them. Although that’s fine,’ she added hastily. ‘You’ve never slept around, and I admire you for sticking to your principles. But I always thought that when you fell, you’d fall hard. Passion to die for—heaven, hell and heartbreak—the works. And I don’t see much sign of that with you and Chris.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Flora said calmly. ‘It sounds very uncomfortable.’

‘But it should be uncomfortable,’ Hester returned implacably. ‘Love isn’t some cosy old coat that you slip on because it’s less trouble than shopping for a new one.’

‘But that isn’t how I feel at all,’ Flora protested. ‘I— I’m crazy about him.’

‘Really?’ Hester was inexorable. ‘In that case, why aren’t you living together?’

‘The flat needs work—decoration. We want it to be perfect. After all, it’s going to be my showcase, and it’s taking longer than we thought.’ Flora realised with exasperation how feeble that sounded.

‘That,’ said Hester, ‘hardly suggests that you can’t keep your hands off each other. And I suppose the cost of refurbishment prevents you sneaking off together for a romantic weekend in the country?’

‘When we’re married,’ Flora said defiantly, ‘every weekend will be romantic.’

‘Be honest, now.’ Hester leaned forward. ‘If Chris came to you tomorrow and said he wanted to call it off, would it be the end of your world?’

‘Yes.’ Flora lifted her chin. ‘Yes, it would.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps Chris and I aren’t the most demonstrative couple in the world, but who says you have to wear your heart on your sleeve?’

‘Sometimes,’ Hester said gently, ‘you simply can’t help yourself.’ She drank the rest of her coffee and reached for her bag, and the bill. ‘However, if that’s how you really feel, and you’re sure about it, there’s no more to be said.’ She pushed back her chair. ‘On the other hand, if you ever have doubts about what you’re doing, I’ll be around to pick up the pieces. Sal the demon flatmate is off to Brussels for three months, so I’ve a spare room again.’

‘It’s a sweet offer,’ Flora said gently. ‘And I don’t hate you for making it, even though it’s not necessary.’ She gave Hester an affectionate grin. ‘I thought it was supposed to be the bride who got the pre-wedding jitters, not the bridesmaid.’

‘I’d be happier if you were jittery,’ Hester retorted. ‘You act as though you’re resigned to your fate. And there’s no need to be. You’re gorgeous and the world is full of attractive men waiting to be attracted.’ She dropped a swift kiss on Flora’s hair as she went past. ‘And, if you don’t believe me, check out the guy over there at the corner table,’ she added in sepulchral tones. ‘He’s had his eyes on you all through lunch.’ And, with a conspiratorial wink, she was gone.

Flora ought to have left too. Instead she found she was reaching for the cafetière and refilling her cup again. Maybe she should include sugar this time, she thought, biting her lip. Wasn’t that one of the treatments for shock?

Because she couldn’t pretend that Hester’s blunt remarks had just slid off her consciousness like water off a duck’s back.

Stunned, she thought wryly, is the appropriate word.

And all from an innocuous girlie lunch to make a final decision between old rose and delphinium-blue for Hester’s dress.

Unbelievable.

And it wasn’t the drink talking either. In vino veritas hardly applied to a glass of Chardonnay apiece and a litre of mineral water.

No, it was clear this had been brewing for some time, and, with a month to go before the wedding, Hester had decided it was time to speak her mind.

But I really wish she hadn’t, Flora thought, biting her lip. I was perfectly content when I sat down at this table. And I’ve enough on my mind without doing a detailed analysis of my feelings for Chris, and seeing how they measure on some emotional Richter scale I never knew existed.

I love Chris, and I know we’re going to have a good marriage—one that will last, too. And surely that matters far more than—sexual fireworks.

She felt her mind edging gently away from that particular subject, and paused quite deliberately. Because that would also be all right once they were married, she reassured herself, and that previous fiasco would be entirely forgotten.

She glanced at her watch and rose. Time was pressing, and she would have to take a cab to her next appointment.

On her way out of the restaurant she remembered Hester’s parting remarks and risked a swift sideways glance at the table in question. Only to find herself looking straight into the eyes of its occupant.

He was very dark, she registered as she looked away, her face warming with embarrassment, with curling hair worn longer than she approved of. He was also startlingly attractive, in an olive-skinned Mediterranean way. The image of an elegant high-bridged nose, sculptured cheekbones, a firm chin with a cleft in it, and a mobile mouth that quirked sensuously under her regard accompanied her out of the restaurant and into the sunlit street beyond.

My God, she realised, half-amused, half-concerned. I could practically draw him from memory.

And, damn you, Hes. That was something else I didn’t need.

She stepped to the edge of the kerb and looked down the street for an approaching taxi. But there wasn’t one in sight, so she started to walk in the required direction, pausing every now and then to look back.

She didn’t even see her assailant coming. The first hint of danger was a hand in her back, pushing her violently, and a wrench at the strap of her bag that nearly dragged it from her grasp.

Flora felt herself go sprawling, the bag pinned underneath her, as she filled her lungs and screamed for help. On the ground, she covered her head with her hands, terrified that she was going to be punched or kicked.

Then she heard men’s voices shouting, a squeal of brakes, and the sound of running feet.

Flora stayed still, exactly where she was, the breath sobbing in her throat.

She could hear someone speaking to her in husky, faintly accented English.

‘Are you hurt, signorina? Shall I call an ambulance for you? Can you speak?’

‘She may not talk, mate, but she can yell. Nearly took me eardrums out,’ said a deeper, gruffer voice. ‘Let’s see if we can get her to her feet.’

‘It’s all right.’ Flora raised her head dazedly and looked around her. ‘I can manage.’

‘I don’t think so.’ The first voice again. ‘I believe you must accept a little help, signorina.’

Flora turned unwillingly in the speaker’s direction, to have all her worst fears confirmed.

Seen at close range—and he was kneeling beside her so he could hardly have been any closer—the man from the restaurant was even more devastating. His mouth was set grimly now, but she could imagine how it would soften. And his eyes, she had leisure to note, were green, with tiny gold flecks. A whisper of some expensive male cologne reached her, and, suddenly keen to get out of range of its evocative scent, Flora hauled herself up on to her knees.

‘Ouch.’ Major mistake, she thought, wincing. She’d ripped her tights and grazed her legs when she fell. Her elbows and palms were sore too.

‘Come on, ducks.’ It was Voice Two. A burly arm went round her, lifting her bodily to her feet. ‘Why don’t I pop you in the cab and take you to the nearest casualty department, eh?’

‘Cab?’ Flora repeated. ‘I—I wanted a cab.’

‘Well, I could see that, and I was just pulling over when that bastard jumped you. Then this other gentleman came flying up, and the mugger legged it.’

‘Oh.’ Flora made herself look at the ‘other gentleman’, who stood, smiling faintly, those astonishing eyes trailing over her in a cool and disturbingly thorough assessment. ‘Well—thank you.’

He inclined his head gravely. ‘Your bag is safe? And he took nothing else?’

‘He didn’t really get the chance.’ She gave him a brief, formal smile, then turned to the cabbie. ‘I need to go to Belvedere Row. I’m supposed to be meeting someone there and I’m going to be late.’

‘I hardly think you can keep your appointment like that,’ her rescuer intervened firmly. ‘At the least you require a clothes brush, and your cuts should also be attended to.’

Before she could protest Flora found herself manoeuvred into the back of the cab, with the stranger taking the seat beside her.

‘The Mayfair Tower Hotel, please,’ he directed the driver.

‘I can’t go there.’ Flora shot bolt upright. ‘My appointment’s in the other direction.’

‘And when you are clean and tidy, another cab will take you there.’ An autocratic note could be detected in the level tone. ‘It is a business meeting? Then it is simple. You call on your cellphone and explain why you are delayed.’

‘So what’s it to be, love?’ the driver demanded through the partition. ‘The Mayfair Tower?’

Flora hesitated. ‘Yes—I suppose.’

‘A wise decision,’ her companion applauded smoothly.

She sent him a steely glance. ‘Do you enjoy arranging other people’s lives?’

His answering smile warmed into a grin. ‘Only those that I have saved,’ he drawled.

Deep within her an odd tingle stirred uneasily. She tried to withdraw unobtrusively, further into her corner of the taxi.

‘Isn’t that rather an exaggeration?’

He shrugged powerful shoulders that the elegant lines of his charcoal suit accentuated rather than diminished. The top button of his pale grey silk shirt was undone, Flora noticed, and the knot of his ruby tie loosened. For the rest of him, he was about six feet tall, lean and muscular, with legs that seemed to go on for ever.

He wasn’t merely attractive, she acknowledged unwillingly. He was seriously glamorous.

‘Then let’s say I spared you the inconvenience of losing your credit cards and money. To many people, that would be life and death.’

She smiled constrainedly. ‘And my engagement ring is at the jeweller’s, so really I’ve got off lightly.’

That was clumsily done, she apostrophised herself silently, and saw by his sardonic smile that he thought so too.

She hurried into speech again. ‘Why the Mayfair Tower?’

‘I happen to be staying there.’

There was a silence, then she said, ‘Then you must let me drop you off before I take this cab back to my flat, to clean up and change.’

‘You are afraid I shall make unwelcome advances to you?’ His brows lifted. ‘Allow me to reassure you. I never seduce maidens in distress—unless, of course, they insist.’

Her mouth tightened. ‘I dare say you think this is very amusing…’

‘On the contrary, signorina, I take the whole situation with the utmost seriousness.’ For a moment, there was an odd note in his voice.

Then he added with cool courtesy, ‘You are trying to shrug off what has happened, but you have had a severe shock and that will bring its own reaction. I do not think you should be alone.’

‘You’re very kind,’ Flora said tautly. ‘But I really can’t go with you. You must see that.’

‘I seem to be singularly blind this afternoon.’ He took a slim wallet from an inside pocket of his jacket and extracted a card. ‘Perhaps a formal introduction may convince you of my respectability.’

Flora accepted the card and studied it dubiously. ‘Marco Valante,’ she read. And beneath it ‘Altimazza Inc’. She glanced up. ‘The pharmaceutical company?’

‘You have heard of us?’ His brows lifted.

‘Of course.’ She swallowed. ‘You’re incredibly successful. Whenever your shares are offered my fiancé recommends them to his clients.’

‘He is a broker, perhaps?’ he inquired politely.

‘An independent financial adviser.’

‘Ah, and do you work in the same area?’

‘Oh, no,’ Flora said hastily. ‘I’m a consultant in property sales.’

His brows rose. ‘You sell houses?’

‘Not directly. The agencies hire me to show people how to present their properties to the best advantage when potential buyers are going round. I get them to refurbish tired décor—or tone down strident colour schemes.’

‘I imagine that would not always be easy.’

She smiled reluctantly. ‘No. We have a saying that an Englishman’s home is his castle, and sometimes sellers are inclined to pull up the drawbridge. I have to convince them that their property is no longer a loved home but a commodity which they want to sell at a profit. Sometimes it takes a lot of persuasion.’

He looked at her reflectively. ‘I think,’ he said softly, ‘that you could persuade a monk to abandon his vows, mia cara.’

Flora stiffened. ‘Please—don’t say things like that.’

He pantomimed astonishment. ‘Because you are to be married you can no longer receive compliments from other men? How quaint.’

‘That,’ she said, ‘is not what I meant.’

Totally relaxed in his own corner, he grinned at her. ‘And you must not be teased either? Si, capisce. From now on I will behave like a saint.’

He didn’t look like a saint, Flora thought. More like a rebel angel…

She glanced back at the card he had given her. ‘You don’t look like a chemist,’ she said, and almost added either.

‘I’m not.’ He pulled a face. ‘I work in the accounting section, mainly raising funding for our research projects.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Well—that would explain it.’

Actually, it explained nothing, because he wasn’t her idea of an accountant either, by a mile and a half.

‘Does everything have to be readily comprehensible?’ he enquired softly. ‘Do you never wish to embark on a long, slow voyage of discovery?’

Flora had the feeling that he was needling her again, but she refused to react. ‘I’m more used to first impressions—instant reactions. It’s part of my job.’

‘So,’ he said. ‘You know who I am. Will you grant me the same privilege?’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Yes—of course…’

She delved into her misused bag and produced one of her own business cards. He read it, then looked back at her, those amazing eyes glinting under their heavy lids. ‘Flora,’ he said softly. ‘The goddess of the springtime.’

She flushed and looked away. ‘Actually, I was named after my grandmother—far more prosaic.’

‘So, tell me—Flora—will you continue to work after you are married?’

‘Naturally.’

‘You are sure that your man will not guard you even more closely when you are his wife?’

‘That’s nonsense,’ Flora said indignantly. ‘Chris doesn’t guard me.’

‘Good,’ Marco Valante said briskly. ‘Because we have arrived at the hotel, and there is nothing, therefore, to prevent you going in with me.’

Flora had every intention of offering him a last haughty word of thanks, then hobbling out of his life for ever. But suddenly the commissionaire was there, helping her out of the taxi and holding open the big swing doors so she could go in.

And then she was in the foyer, all marble and plate glass, and Marco Valante had joined her and was giving soft-voiced orders that people were hurrying to obey—a lot of them concerning herself.

And suddenly the reality of making the kind of scene which would extract her from this situation seemed totally beyond her capabilities.

In fact, she was forced to acknowledge, all she really wanted to do was find somewhere quiet and burst into tears.

She didn’t even utter a protest when she was escorted to the lift and taken up to the first floor. She walked beside Marco Valante to the end of the corridor, and waited while he slotted in his key card and opened the door.

Mutely, she preceded him into the room.

Although this was no mere room, she saw at once. It was a large and luxuriously furnished suite, and they were standing in the sitting room. The curtains were half drawn, to exclude the afternoon sun, and he went over and flung them wide.

‘Sit down.’ He indicated one of the deeply cushioned sofas and she sank down on it with unaccustomed obedience, principally because her throbbing legs were threatening to give way beneath her.

‘I have told them to send the nurse here to dress your cuts,’ he said. ‘I have also ordered some tea for you, and if you go into the bathroom you will find a robe you can wear while your suit is being valeted.’

She said shakily, ‘You’re pretty autocratic for an accountant.’

He shrugged. ‘I wish to make some kind of amends for what happened earlier.’

‘I don’t see why,’ Flora objected. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

‘But I could, perhaps, have prevented it if I had been quicker. If I had obeyed my instinct and left the restaurant when you did.’

‘Why should you do that?’ Reaction was beginning to set in. She felt deathly cold suddenly, and wrapped her arms round her body, gritting her teeth to stop them from chattering.

‘I thought,’ he said softly, ‘that I was not permitted to pay you compliments. But, if you must know, I wanted very much to make the acquaintance of a beautiful girl with hair that Titian might have painted.’

So Hes had been right, Flora realised with a little jolt of shock. He had indeed been watching her during lunch.

‘Presumably,’ she said, with an effort, ‘you have a thing about red-haired women.’

‘Not until today, when I saw you in the sunlight, Flora mia.’

For a moment her heart skipped a treacherous beat, before reason cut in and she wondered with intentional cynicism how many other women that particular line had worked with.

She closed her eyes, deliberately shutting him out. Using it as a form of rejection.

While at the same time she thought, ‘I should not—I really should not be here.’

And only realised she had spoken aloud when he said quietly, ‘Yet you are perfectly safe. For at any moment people will start arriving, and I shall probably never be alone with you again.’

And never, mourned a small voice in her head, is such a very long time. And such a very lonely word. But that was a thought she kept strictly to herself.

She said, ‘Perhaps you’d show me where the bathroom is.’

She had, inevitably, to cross his bedroom to reach it, and she followed him, her eyes fixed rigidly on his back, trying not to notice the kingsize bed with its sculptured ivory coverlet.

The bathroom was all creamy tiles edged with gold, and she stood at a basin shaped like a shell and took her first good look at herself, her lips shaping into a silent whistle of dismay.

Shock had drained her normally pale skin and she looked like a ghost, her clear grey eyes wide and startled. There was a smudge on her cheek, and her shirt was dirty and ripped, exposing several inches of lacy bra. Which Marco Valante was bound to have noticed, she thought, biting her lip.

Well, perhaps the valeting service could lend her a safety pin, she told herself as she removed her suit and carefully peeled off her torn tights.

She washed her face and hands, then did her best to make herself look less waif-like with the powder and lipstick in her bag, before turning her attention to her unruly cloud of dark red hair.

Usually, for work, she stifled its natural wave, drawing it severely back from her face and confining it at the nape of her neck with a barrette or a bow of dark ribbon. Although a few tendrils invariably managed to escape and curl round her face.

But today the ribbon had gone, allowing the whole gleaming mass to tumble untrammelled round her shoulders, and no amount of struggling with a comb could restore it to its normal control.

But then nothing was normal today, she thought with a sigh, as she put on the oversized towelling robe and secured its sash round her slim waist. It covered her completely, but she still felt absurdly self-conscious as she made her way back to the sitting room.

Only it was not Marco Valante awaiting her but the nurse, a brisk blonde in a neat navy uniform, clearly more accustomed to reassuring elderly tourists about their digestive problems. But she cleaned Flora up with kindly efficiency, putting antiseptic cream and small waterproof dressings over the worst of her grazes.

‘You don’t expect that kind of thing,’ she remarked, giving her handiwork a satisfied nod. ‘Not in a busy street in broad daylight. And why you, anyway? You’re hardly wearing a Rolex or dripping with gold.’

Flora agreed rather wanly. The same question had been nagging at her too. After all, she wasn’t the world’s most obvious target. Just one of those random chances, she supposed. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But, if it came to that, she was still in the wrong place, with no escape in sight.

Marco Valante had tactfully withdrawn while she was receiving attention, but now Room Service had arrived, bringing the tea, and he would undoubtedly be rejoining her at any moment.

And she would have to start thanking him all over again, she thought with vexation, because along with the tea had been delivered a carrier bag, bearing the name of a famous store, containing not only a fresh pair of tights but a new white silk shirt as well. Even more disturbingly, both of them were in her correct size, confirming her suspicion that this was a man who knew far too much about women.

Accordingly, her smile was formal and her greeting subdued when he came back into the sitting room.

‘Are you feeling better?’ The green eyes swept over her, as if the thick layer of towelling covering her had somehow ceased to exist. As if every inch of her body was intimately familiar to him, she thought as her heart began to thud in mingled excitement and panic.

‘Heavens, yes. As good as new.’ From some unfathomed corner of her being she summoned up a voice so spuriously hearty that she cringed with embarrassment at herself.

‘And the hotel assures me your clothes will soon be equally pristine.’ He seated himself opposite to her. ‘They are being dealt with as a matter of priority.’ He paused. ‘But it seemed to me that your blouse was beyond help.’

Flora said a stilted, ‘Yes’, aware that her face had warmed. She reached for her bag. ‘You must let me repay you.’

‘With the greatest pleasure,’ he said. He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it across the arm of the sofa, unbuttoned his waistcoat with deft fingers, then leaned back against the cushions, the lean body totally at ease. ‘Have dinner with me tonight.’

Flora gasped. ‘I couldn’t possibly.’

‘Perche no? Why not?’

‘I told you.’ Her colour deepened, seemed to envelop her entire body. ‘I’m engaged to be married.’

He shrugged. ‘You already told me. What of it?’

‘Doesn’t it matter to you?’

‘Why should it? I might be fidanzato also.’

‘Well—are you?’

‘No.’ Had she imagined an oddly harsh note in his voice? ‘I am a single man, mia bella. But it would make no difference.’ He paused, the green eyes sardonic. ‘After all, I am not suggesting we should have our dinner served in bed.’

He allowed that to sink in, then added silkily, ‘Do you feel sufficiently safe to pour the tea?’

‘Of course.’ Flora dragged some remaining shreds of composure around her. ‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Lemon only, I thank you.’

By some miracle she managed to manoeuvre the heavy teapot so that its contents went only into the delicate porcelain cups and not all over the tray, the table, and the carpet, but it was a close-run thing, and her antennae told her that Marco Valante was perfectly well aware of her struggles and privately amused by them.

She handed him his cup, controlling an impulse to pour the tea straight in his lap.

He accepted it with a brief word of thanks. ‘Did you telephone your clients?’

‘Yes.’ An impersonal topic, she thought thankfully. ‘They were very forgiving and rescheduled.’

‘You do not think your fidanzato would be equally understanding, and spare you to me—for one evening?’

She gasped. ‘I know he wouldn’t.’

‘Strange,’ Marco Valante said musingly. ‘Because he cannot be so very possessive.’

‘Why do you say that?’

He smiled at her. ‘Because he has never—possessed you, mia bella.’

Flora gasped in outrage. ‘How dare you say such a thing?’

‘When possible, I prefer to speak the truth. And I say that you are still—untouched.’

‘You—you can’t possibly know that,’ she said hoarsely. ‘And it’s none of your business anyway.’

‘Destiny has caused our paths to cross, Flora mia,’ he said softly. ‘I think I am entitled to be a little—intrigued when I look into your eyes and see there no woman’s knowledge—no memory of desire.’

She replaced her cup on the tray with such force that it rattled. She said tautly, ‘Actually, you have no rights at all. And I’d like to leave now, please.’

‘Like that?’ His brows lifted. ‘You will be a sensation, cara.’

She said, her voice shaking, ‘I’d rather walk down the street naked than have to endure any more of your—humiliating—and inaccurate speculation about my personal life.’

Marco Valante smiled. ‘I am tempted to make you prove it, but I am feeling merciful today. I will arrange for you to have the use of another room while you wait for your clothes.’

He picked up the phone, dialled a number and spoke briefly and succinctly.

‘A maid will come and take you to your new sanctuary,’ he told her pleasantly when he had finished. He pulled a leather-covered notepad towards him and scribbled a few lines on the top sheet, which he tore off and handed to her. ‘If you change your mind about dinner you may join me at this restaurant any time after eight o’clock.’

She crushed the paper into a ball and dropped it to the floor. She said, coldly and clearly, ‘Hell will freeze over first, signore.’

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.

CHAPTER TWO

‘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…

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 delectable 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.

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