Romance of a Lifetime
Carole Mortimer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

SHE had thought she would never cry again. Had actually been convinced that she couldn't. But there was no mistaking the heated dampness of tears on her cheeks now as she sat in the darkness.

‘Spectacular, isn't it?'

Beth turned sharply at the sound of that voice, her emotions a mixture of the usual surprise she felt at hearing an English accent—she had heard so few of them since her arrival in Verona the day before—and resentment that the man had chosen to talk to her at all; did she look so typically English, and approachable, possibly lonely?

She had seen many, quite surprisingly she had thought, blonde-haired Italian women, but perhaps none of them with the ash-blonde of her own hair, and probably none of them had skin so fair in complexion as her own; she hadn't been in Italy long enough yet to acquire a tan. And as for looking lonely? Well, she was so clearly here on her own, sitting on the end of a row of seats as she was, the couple seated beside her obviously German as they talked softly together.

Nevertheless, Beth deeply resented this man's intrusion into an occasion of such rare beauty as she was experiencing, frowning darkly as she looked at the man sitting directly behind her in the amphitheatre known as the Arena.

In a country populated by dark-haired Latin-looking men, this one none the less managed to stand out as being different. Italian men, at least the ones Beth had so far observed on this holiday, were possessed of a self-assurance that bordered on arrogance, and somehow seemed to be inborn in them. This man carried his self-assurance more quietly, less consciously, and it was all the more powerful because of that.

Dark hair was kept styled short and brushed back from a roughly hewn face of such hard beauty that it was only the grey eyes that drew the gaze reluctantly away from that fascinating hardness; light, enigmatic grey eyes that held a wealth of intelligence and knowledge in their depths. Unlike other all-too-familiar grey eyes that held only cruelty …

Even sitting down this man looked big—another fact that made him stand out from Italian men—the short-sleeved shirt he wore stretched smoothly across the width of a powerful chest, the skin on his arms darkly tanned and covered in fine dark hair.

A man to be wary of, Beth realised with a familiar inward shudder.

‘Would you care for a drink?’ he enquired determinedly as she was forced to stand up in order to let the German couple leave their seats.

All around them people were milling about in this unique open-air theatre, all of them, like Beth herself, here to see the performance of the spectacular opera Aida.

‘Go to Italy,’ her mother had instructed. ‘Forget all the misery and pain and live through the experience of a lifetime. Forget them all,’ she had advised with determined persuasion.

And the ‘experience’ of Aida had made her cry for the first time in months.

How could it not have achieved what nothing else could have done?

The thousands of people seated around this theatre were all being privileged with a performance of the opera that, to Beth's mind, could never be excelled.

Her mother, an ardent fan of opera herself, had known exactly what she was doing when she had arranged to start Beth's holiday with this amazing spectacle.

The voices weren't the best Beth had ever heard, the open-air stage meaning the performers couldn't perhaps project as well as they would have liked to do, but for the sheer impact of the occasion Beth was sure it couldn't be bettered.

And the truth was that she felt badly in need of the drink this man was offering, the air being hot and heavy within the Arena, and Beth not yet acclimatised to the heat of a late July climate in Italy. But she had no intention of accepting this man's offer, no matter how thirsty she might feel!

‘Champagne,’ he decided firmly at her lack of response, having also stood up now, as tall as Beth had anticipated, towering over the people around them, turning to move through the crowd in the direction of the bar with absolutely no difficulty at all, these people seeming to recognise, as Beth had instantly, a superior being.

As soon as he had been swallowed up by the crowd, Beth turned with deliberation in the opposite direction and walked away. She didn't particularly like champagne, and in this climate it would do nothing to quench the raging thirst she had known since her arrival, but that was completely irrelevant in the face of her determination to have as little to do with that arrogant man as she possibly could!

She gave an indulgent smile as the female voice came over the Tannoy to announce that the interval time would be twenty-five minutes; the opera performances in Italy, especially events of this magnitude, were also social occasions, and Beth had been pre-warned that she could expect to be here tonight for between three and four hours. But if what she had been privileged to see so far was an example of what was still to come then she didn't mind if she were here ten hours!

If only that man would leave her alone. But the possibility of that happening, she knew, with them both being English, and his seat being so close behind her own, was extremely remote.

What was a man like that doing on his own in somewhere like Verona in the first place?

Even in the brief few minutes Beth had seen him she had realised he was a man of wealth and power; it had all been there in his confident self-assurance. Beth had learnt over the last few years that only the very rich and powerful could afford that sort of quiet arrogance. And the very rich and powerful very rarely chose to be alone anywhere, she had found, could afford to buy company if none was readily available.

And yet this man appeared to be alone. In fact, she felt sure he was.

And she had just wasted half the allotted interval time thinking about a man she had no interest in ever seeing again!

She delayed her return to her seat for as long as she dared after the final gong had sounded announcing the beginning of the second act, lingering over the cool orange juice she had purchased for herself.

On her return a long glass, of what Beth knew without a doubt to be champagne, stood on the cushion she had purchased the use of, to cover the otherwise metal seat, during the operatic performance.

Her mouth firmed as she stood looking down at the intrusive glass, having no choice but to pick it up if she wanted to sit down again, needing to do just that as the lights slowly lowered in preparation for the start of the second act.

Damn that man!

She would have loved to just push the full glass under her seat and forget about it, but that would have been taking rudeness to the extreme, and she wasn't normally that, not even to intrusive strangers, although this man was starting to push his luck just a little too far!

She turned only briefly, raising the glass in acknowledgement, her smile one of practised dismissal.

It would have been the end of the incident as far as Beth was concerned, except that she could tell by the determined glint in pale grey eyes that it was far from over.

But the champagne—and its purchaser—were forgotten as the lights blazed on the stage, and Beth was unaware of the fact that she sipped at the bubbly wine throughout the second act, once again caught up in its spectacular beauty.

‘Another?'

The silkily smooth voice was unnecessarily close to the lobe of her ear this time, Beth felt, turning sharply as the lights came on for the second interval, only to find the man was too close for comfort, leaning forwards in his seat, his face now dangerously close to hers.

Beth's eyes blazed deeply emerald as she glared at him with anger.

‘You seem to have enjoyed that glass so much.’ Mockery glinted in his eyes as he indicated the empty glass in her hand.

Her cheeks blazed fiery red in her naturally pale cheeks, shoulder-length ash-blonde hair swinging agitatedly against the heat of her face. ‘I didn't even realise—–'

‘Ah, I didn't think I was wrong about your being English,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Although I have to admit that I did wonder when I continually failed to get a verbal response—–'

‘Actually,’ Beth cut in coolly, ‘you are wrong; I happen to be Manx.’ And she felt a certain satisfaction in being able to contradict him, plus a certain pride in the small island in the middle of the Irish Sea between England and Ireland that was her birthplace, and had been her home until she was eighteen years old, was still her home in her heart despite the years she had spent away from it.

Dark brows rose. ‘Is there a difference?'

Her eyes flashed her indignation. ‘Of course there's a—–’ She broke off, looking at him with narrowed eyes, realising in that moment that she was giving him exactly the response he wanted. Her first impression of him had been a correct one—he was a very intelligent man, and he knew just how to use that intelligence to his advantage. She stood up smoothly. ‘If you'll excuse me …’ She gave him a coolly dismissive nod.

‘You didn't answer me about the champagne.’ His hand on her arm stilled her as she would have walked away.

Beth stiffened as if she had been burnt, staring stonily at his hand until he slowly removed it. As he did so she thrust her empty glass into his hand. ‘I didn't really want that one,’ she snapped, not allowing him to delay her any further but making her way outside to one of the bars.

The last thing she wanted, or needed, was a man like that showing an interest in her. She couldn't repress her inward shudder. The last thing she needed was any man showing an interest in her, let alone one of his type!

Thank God she was only in Verona for one more day, and then she moved on to Venice. She had only come to Verona at all for the opera. Like a lot of other people here tonight, she was sure.

It was unfortunate that she had no choice but to remain in that particular seat, close to that infuriating man, for the rest of the performance, but these seats in the centre of the Arena had been booked for months in advance, and there wasn't a vacant seat in the place, no one, understandably, wanting to miss the performance they had waited so long to see.

It was a slightly shorter interval than last time, although Beth had plenty of time to purchase another glass of orange juice, the evening feeling even more airless than earlier.

Thank goodness she had thought to put on a cool green sheath of a dress rather than one of the gowns she would normally have worn to the opera or theatre in London. Her uncovered shoulders at least felt the benefit of any small breeze that there was, although it wasn't much. Stormy weather was on its way, the man behind the reception desk at her hotel had warned her. She was sure he would know, being a local, but she could only hope it would hold off until after the performance; it would be too awful if it were to be rained off now.

Just as the continued persistence of the man seated behind her was awful; a glass of orange juice was waiting on her seat for her return this time.

She studiously avoided looking at the man as she picked up the glass so that she might sit down, although she could almost feel the touch of his gaze on her bare shoulders.

‘I thought you might find the juice more refreshing,’ he leant forwards to murmur.

She couldn't deny the truth of that. In fact, she had thought of bringing a drink back herself to sip through the third act, but hadn't relished trying to return to her seat with a full glass through the jostling crowd.

The German couple were now watching the two of them with a knowing indulgence, and Beth hated the assumptions they must be making. Damn the man, why couldn't he just leave her alone and accept that she wasn't interested in him? It had to be obvious to him by now that she wasn't. Although, as she very well knew, a man like him would probably see that reluctance on her part as even more of a challenge!

‘Thank you,’ she accepted tightly, aware that the German couple were now nodding their heads approvingly in their direction.

‘I'll let you buy me a drink during the next interval,’ the man murmured as the lights went down once again.

Beth opened her mouth to protest at this idea but was prevented from doing so as the music began to play.

But she had no intention of buying him a drink, at any time this evening, hadn't asked for either of the ones he had given her, and she had no intention of returning the gesture. If he wouldn't take the hint that she wasn't interested in him then she would just have to tell him so, and as soon as possible.

If he had given her the chance!

She had no sooner stood up at the end of the third act than her arm was taken in a firm grasp and she was literally dragged out to one of the bars.

By the time Beth had got over her shock and managed to catch her breath, they were almost there! ‘Will you please—–?

‘Mi scusi, mi scusi—–’ The man at her side totally ignored her struggles as he pushed his way through the crowd, nodding politely to the people who allowed them to pass, not even checking his stride at her unmistakable protest at his cavalier behaviour.

‘What do you think you're doing?’ she finally gasped as they reached the foyer ahead of the crowd, impatiently pushing lean fingers from her arm, glaring up at him indignantly.

‘Avoiding the rush,’ he murmured with satisfaction, looking around them pointedly. ‘What would you like to drink?'

‘I thought it was my turn to buy you a drink,’ she sarcastically reminded him of his earlier arrogance.

‘Thanks, I'll have a glass of champagne,’ he accepted smoothly.

Too smooth. Too slick. Too damned self-assured. And his look of satisfaction at having her apparently comply with his wishes was almost too much for her to bear.

‘Certainly.’ Beth gave a gracious inclination of her head before moving lightly through the groups of people that had now joined them.

Despite their rush outside there were still several people who had arrived at the bar ahead of them, and it took some minutes to buy the champagne and make her way back to the man's side, all the more determined in her resolve to have nothing to do with him as she took in his arrogant expression.

She handed him the glass. ‘I hope you enjoy it.’ Her expression was one of cool disdain as she turned away.

‘Where's your own drink?’ The man frowned as he realised she was about to leave.

Her brows rose coolly as she glanced back at him. ‘I didn't say anything about having a drink myself.’ Satisfaction at having turned his manipulation back on him darkened her eyes to emerald. ‘Excuse me,’ she nodded abruptly.

‘Cheers.’ He held his glass up in acknowledgement of her victory, his eyes dark with admiration.

Beth knew with certainty that not too many people managed to achieve any sort of victory over this man!

Unfortunately, despite the obvious pleasure her action over the champagne had given her, it had probably been the worst thing she could have done with this type of man. She had probably just managed to make herself even more of a challenge to him …

Due to technical difficulties with the set for the fourth and final act the third interval was an even longer one than any of the previous ones. Beth avoided going back to her seat during this time, although she was sure the man who was proving such a pest to her had more finesse than to actually lie in wait for her there.

She was right; his seat was noticeably empty when she finally did return, although she was very much aware of the movement behind her a few minutes later when he did resume his seat. She didn't need to turn around to confirm it was him, could literally feel the warmth of his gaze on her neck as he looked at her.

Maybe if she hadn't been so overwhelmed at the end of the performance, so enthralled with the poignancy of the final act of the opera that she was loath to move, she might have escaped the theatre without further incident. But as she had been, and she was, she was literally a sitting target for his forceful determination.

By the time she realised that, the damned man had once more taken charge of her without so much as a word being spoken, and she was politely but firmly being hurtled through the crowd of milling people who, now that the performance was over, were eager to leave the amphitheatre. They had been an appreciative audience during the last four hours but now that the opera was over it was as if the magnitude of it all had made them realise a need to get on with their lives.

‘Will you stop doing this?’ Beth came to an abrupt halt, unconcerned by the people who accidentally knocked into her in the process, wrenching her arm out of his grasp. ‘I do not appreciate this habit you have of—of manhandling me!’ She rubbed the touch of his hand off her arm, her eyes glaring her displeasure.

He held up his hands defensively. ‘I just thought it—–'

‘I really don't care what you thought, Mr …?’ She looked at him pointedly, her mouth firm as she made him remember the fact that they hadn't even been introduced.

‘Craven,’ he supplied softly. ‘Marcus Craven.'

Why was he looking at her like that, as if she should know the name? If that were the case she was afraid she had to disappoint him; the name wasn't in the least familiar to her. Not that she would have given him the satisfaction of acknowledging it even if it had been!

‘Well, Mr Craven,’ she continued coldly, ‘whatever you may have thought to the contrary, I do not appreciate being dragged about by you like a sack of potatoes that—–'

‘Nothing like a sack of potatoes,’ he cut in mockingly, his gaze on her appreciative.

Beth met that gaze unflinchingly, determined to show him that she wasn't in the least impressed by him or anything he had done tonight. ‘Whatever you may have thought. I was, Mr Craven,’ she said in a controlled voice, ‘I have found your behaviour this evening very offensive.’ She sighed. ‘I politely refused your offer of a drink, refusals you completely ignored, incidentally,’ she snapped, ‘only to find myself taken over by you in a way that was as unnecessary as it was arrogant. Now if you will excuse me—once again!—the evening is at an end and I wish to return to my hotel.'

‘No,’ he said evenly.

Already in the process of making her dignified exit after what she had believed to be a complete set-down, Beth was instantly halted in her tracks, turning slowly back to Marcus Craven. ‘What do you mean, no?’ she repeated dazedly.

‘I mean, no, I don't excuse you,’ he returned coolly. ‘I recognised a fellow—Brit,’ he mockingly amended the earlier assumption he had made that had irritated her so much, ‘in a foreign land, thought it would be nice if you took pity on me and we could spend a little time together, the sound of a friendly voice and all that. But if you would rather be unfriendly there isn't a lot I can do to change that, is there?’ He shrugged.

As a performance aimed at making her feel guilty it ranked pretty high. In terms of actually succeeding in doing that it failed miserably, was completely wasted on her. ‘Nice’ wasn't a word she would ever have associated with this man, in any context whatsoever; she felt sure it was a word he had rarely, if ever, used before. As for him needing the pity he was trying to arouse in her …!

No one looked as if he needed pity less—the man was the epitome of success. He certainly didn't need to seek her out, could have women at his side day and night without any effort at all. A possible language barrier wouldn't make any difference to that at all; this man exuded power, and that was enough of an attraction for a lot of women. It would always have the opposite effect on her.

Always …

‘Quite,’ she bit out tersely, nodding dismissively before pointedly walking past him, her head held high, daring him to apprehend her once again.

There was no hand grasping her arm, no sarcastic or cajoling comment that invoked a response, and yet Beth could feel that steely gaze on her back for the whole length of the foyer, sensed it even as she walked up the steps and out of the amphitheatre, knew he was following her, quite a distance behind her, but following none the less.

She would have liked to have strolled along as the other people were doing; the square looking quite beautiful now that it was lit up by the street lamps and cafés, the amphitheatre itself something to behold from this angle, most of the outside walls being intact as well. It seemed hard to believe that the amphitheatre had been built in the first century AD; the history it must have witnessed was incredible.

And Beth would have liked time to ponder on that history, to take time while still in these magnificent surroundings to think of the spectacle she had witnessed herself within its walls this evening. Instead she fled as if she were being pursued.

Resentment burned within her at the need to hurry past the strolling people, hating this feeling of being hounded back to her hotel.

But hounded was exactly how she felt!

CHAPTER TWO

‘IT'S impossible not to feel the romance of the place, isn't it?'

All Beth's good humour, her feelings of relaxed well-being, left her in an instant, deserted her at the first sound of that all-too-familiar voice. A voice that she wished she weren't becoming familiar with at all!

She had spent a disturbed and restless night. Not through any fault of the hotel she was staying at, which had proved comfortable enough; she would have been surprised if it hadn't when her mother had been the one to arrange the booking. Her mother believed in travelling in style if she was to travel at all.

But Marcus Craven's persistence where she was concerned during the previous evening had unnerved and disturbed her to the extent where she had great difficulty sleeping at all, still burning with resentment towards him. A fact she found irritating to say the least.

But a late morning catching up on her sleep, followed by a late breakfast in bed, accompanied by plenty of coffee, and she felt more relaxed and ready to stroll to the house of the Capulets in the town, to enter the quiet tranquillity of the courtyard before going into the house itself and up to the balcony where Juliet was reputed to have spoken to Romeo.

This house had to be a must on a visit to Verona, and, while Beth didn't want to fall into the habit of doing the ‘touristy’ things, she was none the less a great fan of Shakespeare's, and her interest in the Capulet family had long ago been aroused by him.

In the courtyard below stood a statue of Juliet herself, and it seemed odd to look down upon the bronze statue of the young woman who had actually stood on this very balcony to talk to her forbidden lover.

For a few brief moments Beth had—despite the intrusion of the other couple of dozen people wandering around, also anxious to share in the experience of looking around them at the ivy-covered walls of the courtyard—been lost in the pure romance of the occasion.

But the feeling had only been allowed to last those few brief moments!

She spun around to face Marcus Craven, her expression full of hostility, the two of them completely alone on the balcony at that moment. ‘Are you following me, Mr Craven?’ she accused.

Dark brows rose over eyes full of feigned surprise. ‘Of course not, Miss …?’ As she had the night before, he paused significantly, waiting for her to rectify the omission of her name.

He was dressed casually today, in light-coloured trousers, and a short-sleeved open-necked shirt of a shade of grey that managed to match the steel of his eyes. And yet Beth was sure both these casual-looking items of clothing had designer labels, just as she was sure the pale grey shoes he wore were handmade.

In the broad daylight, away from the other opulent patrons of the opera, this man was still stamped with undoubted wealth of style. Her own clothing, a peach-coloured cotton skirt and white vest-top, and sandals, was much less distinctive.

‘Palmer,’ she supplied abruptly, making no effort to give her first name; this man was far too familiar already! ‘Excuse me …’ She made a move to brush past him, very much aware that they were still completely alone in their quiet tension.

‘Why do you keep doing that?’ he enquired softly. ‘Walking away,’ he explained at her puzzled look, utterly relaxed himself, one hand thrust casually into his trouser pocket.

Her hand snapped back. ‘Why do you persist in approaching me in this way when it must be perfectly obvious I would rather you didn't?’ she challenged coldly.

‘Probably because it is so obvious you would rather I didn't,’ he answered calmly.

Surprise at his honesty instantly widened her eyes, although she was man-wary enough to know it was probably just another approach, one this man had tried and tested in the past and knew to be successful.

‘In that case, Mr Craven,’ she told him icily, ‘why don't you take heed of what has, so far, been a relatively polite brush-off?'

Although she had a feeling she already partially knew the answer to that, she had no doubt that part of the reason he couldn't accept her uninterest for what it was was because he probably didn't believe, in his own conceit, that could possibly be what it was!

She was sure Marcus Craven believed she was just playing hard to get. Very hard to get! But then, he probably thrived on such challenges. She just ran away from them …

He shrugged lightly. ‘I don't believe friendly civility costs anything.'

He was wrong. Such innocent acceptance of a proffered friendship had cost her dearly in the past, was still costing her dearly emotionally. And it would probably continue to do so. But she had no intention of confiding that to this man.

‘I'm on holiday, Mr Craven,’ she said dismissively. ‘I have a lot to see and do, and too little time to do it all in—–'

‘I'd enjoy being your guide,’ he cut in smoothly. ‘I know Verona very well.'

Beth didn't care if it was his second home, sighing her impatience. ‘I don't wish for a guide. Thank you,’ she added as a very late afterthought, instantly regretting having said it at all; she certainly had no reason to feel grateful to this man for anything.

She was further annoyed by the slight hint of triumph that had now appeared in his eyes, and she bristled angrily.

‘Did you enjoy the opera last night?'

Beth wasn't fooled for a moment by this sudden change of subject. ‘Mr Craven—–'

‘How could you not have enjoyed the opera?’ he answered his own question. ‘It was too visibly spectacular to have elicited any other response! Will you be attending La Gioconda tonight?'

The booking her mother had made for her had included La Gioconda, but after the experience of Aida the evening before she really didn't feel she could attend another opera quite so soon. Her mother had been right; it had been the experience of a lifetime, and it was not to be repeated so soon.

‘I have no plans to do so.’ Her voice was still stilted with resentment.

He nodded knowingly. ‘It's too much, isn't it? Too intense a battering to the senses.'

It described how she felt exactly.

It was a pity, but she had a feeling that at any other time in her life she would have found Marcus Craven interesting company. If not exactly likeable, he was a man to talk to, and she knew instinctively that he was a learned man as well as an intelligent one.

The only problem was that at this moment in time she didn't feel like talking to any man on a more than cursory basis.

‘It was enjoyable,’ she conceded offhandedly.

‘Why don't we discuss it further over a leisurely lunch?'

Beth gave an exasperated laugh, shaking her head disbelievingly. ‘And before I made this trip I was warned that it was young Italian men who made nuisances of themselves with women!'

‘I had an Italian grandmother,’ he said with a shrug.

Which probably explained the familiarity with the language that she had noticed the previous evening. It probably also accounted for the darkness of his colouring.

But even so, she very much doubted he usually needed to use this bludgeoning approach with women!

‘I don't believe that can be used as an excuse, Mr Graven,’ she drawled drily.

‘And I wasn't attempting to offer it as one,’ he derided. ‘On the contrary, I would be very honoured if I thought I had inherited even one tenth of Nonna's charm.'

Beth certainly wouldn't have described this man as any ordinary charmer; he was something else too elusive to explain.

But all Beth really needed to know about him was that he was a danger to her solitude. And at the moment she desired that above everything else.

‘I really do hope you enjoy the rest of your holiday.’ She was ultra-polite. ‘But if you'll excuse me I really do have a lot more to see before I leave.'

‘Alone,’ he said wryly.

‘Exactly.’ She nodded her satisfaction with that supposition.

‘Well, you can't say I didn't offer.’ He shrugged with a sigh.

‘No,’ she drawled. ‘I certainly can't say that, can I?'

Unlike on the previous evening he didn't try to stop her departure, and Beth had given up any idea of looking further around the Capulet house. Besides, despite Marcus Craven's more agreeable behaviour today, she felt sure that if she continued to look around the house she would only keep ‘bumping into’ him!

Nevertheless, she couldn't resist glancing up at the balcony once more before leaving the courtyard completely, her steps faltering slightly at the off-guard expression she had surprised on Marcus Craven's face as he stood above watching her, but not quite seeming to see her; his eyes were narrowed to icy slits, his mouth a thin, uncompromising line.

It was an expression so unlike the relaxed charm he had shown her so far.

As if he had suddenly become aware of her scrutiny, that lazily smiling mask slipped back into place, and he lifted a hand in casual farewell as a smile continued to curve his lips.

But there would be no warmth in his eyes, Beth felt sure of that. Marcus Craven was obviously not a man who liked to be thwarted, and by resisting him she was doing exactly that.

She had been right to be wary of him, she acknowledged with a shiver. Very wary.

‘There has been a telephone call for you, signora.'

Beth took the key to her room, frowning her concern to the hotel receptionist; there were a limited number of people who knew exactly where she was!

‘It was your mother, I believe,’ the pretty young girl added, handing Beth the piece of paper with the exact message on it.

Beth's brow instantly cleared as she vaguely thanked the younger woman before turning away. Her mother had probably just telephoned to make sure she was actually still here and hadn't slipped off home without letting her know! Her mother simply refused to accept that she preferred her own company most of the time.

Nevertheless, she knew she would have to return the call.

‘How's it all going, darling?'

Tears welled briefly in Beth's eyes at the affectionately familiar sound of her mother's voice so many miles away.

This was the second time in as many days she had been moved to tears. Which was ridiculous when she had refused to cry at all for months.

She blinked back the tears; it wouldn't do to let her mother know that for that brief moment she had felt homesick for her cheery smile and comforting arms. Her mother would be on the first plane out here if she thought that were so, offering any help she could.

‘Fine, Mummy,’ she answered in a controlled voice.

‘And the opera,’ her mother prompted eagerly. ‘How was it?'

‘The experience of a lifetime,’ Beth acknowledged drily, willing to give her mother that satisfaction at least. The opera had been spectacular.

‘God, I wish I could have been there with you,’ her mother sighed, and Beth could easily visualise the disappointed frown on the still-beautiful face, her mother elegantly lovely, her features classical, her blonde hair drawn back in a neat coil, her small stature always neat and attractive in one of the smart business suits she chose to wear during the day. ‘You can be so stubborn sometimes, Beth,’ she added reprovingly.

She felt slightly guilty at being the one to deny her mother the opportunity of seeing Aida, but that guilt was eased a little by the knowledge that her mother had attended the Arena several years ago. But Beth hadn't wanted to come on this trip at all, certainly hadn't wanted company if she had to go, even that of her mother who she loved very much and knew understood her pain. She had found it very difficult to tell her mother that when she had offered to come with her, but she hadn't really been left with any other alternative.

‘I wonder who I get that from?’ she lightly teased, deliberately easing the situation.

‘I can't imagine,’ her mother returned drily. ‘All I can say is I would rather be there with you than trying to push this latest deal through.'

Much as she knew her mother cared about her, Beth didn't believe that for a moment.

No one looking at her delicately made mother would have believed she was the high-powered businesswoman that she actually was. And yet Katherine Palmer was very successful indeed, a self-made woman who now owned a chain of exclusive boutiques worldwide. Beth knew better than anyone that her mother had come by her business knowledge the hard way, and had tremendous respect for her as a person as well as a mother.

Her mother was in the process of branching out by introducing high-quality accessories to go with her clothing, and it was a very important move indeed; Beth had known that and it had helped to soften the blow when she had insisted her mother remain in England rather than accompanying her on this holiday.

Her mother had already sacrificed more than enough for her over the years—Beth had no intention of asking any more from her when she was obviously doing so well for herself.

‘I'm sure you would, Mummy,’ she dismissed lightly. ‘But there really is no need.'

‘I know that, darling, but … oh, never mind,’ she dismissed irritably. ‘What do you think of Verona?’ her mother continued lightly. ‘Delightful, isn't it?'

‘Very,’ Beth agreed drily, most of her time spent there having been marred in one way or another by Marcus Craven.

‘You still sound a little down, Beth.’ The frown could be heard in her mother's voice again.

‘Is that so surprising, with what's happened?’ She wished her voice didn't sound so sharp, but it was difficult for her not to.

‘I had hoped that this trip might—well, lighten your mood a little, take your mind off things,’ her mother sighed.

‘Give it time, Mummy,’ she pleaded softly.

‘Darling, I have given it time, we all have, you know that, but it's all so damned … oh, blast, and I promised myself I wouldn't start nagging you about getting on with your own life as soon as I spoke to you again!’ her mother chided herself impatiently. ‘What have you done with your day, Beth?’ she deliberately changed the subject.

A brief outline of her leisurely stroll before and after her visit to the Capulet house, as well as the house itself, took only a matter of minutes.

‘Is that it?’ Katherine sounded disappointed. ‘Nothing else happened?'

A vague suspicion began to stir in her mind, one she instantly dismissed. Even her mother, in her determination to see her happy again, couldn't have done such a thing—could she? Although Beth was loath to actually broach the subject, because once she had …

‘That's it,’ she dismissed, still frowning to herself. Those meetings with Marcus Craven had been a little too much like coincidence, but even so …

‘Oh.’ Her mother's disappointment sounded even more acute.

Beth drew in a sharp breath. ‘Mummy, you haven't been—being helpful, have you?’ she broached cautiously, the shutter closed on her bedroom window to keep out the brightness of the afternoon sun, the gentle whir of the air-conditioning not intrusive and very necessary in the excessive heat from outside.

‘In what way?’ Her mother sounded puzzled now.

Or did she sound genuinely so? Beth still wasn't sure. ‘Much as I love you,’ she sighed, ‘I want you to realise that I'm perfectly capable of organising my own life.'

‘Well, of course you are, darling.’ Her mother sounded hurt that Beth should even doubt that was how she felt.

‘For myself—–'

‘Oh, Beth, I thought you had finally agreed that this holiday I organised for you was a good idea just now,’ her mother protested.

‘I did.’ But it had been mainly to stop her mother worrying over her so much! ‘But the holiday away from England was all I agreed to. Any other interference—–'

‘Interference?’ Katherine sounded indignant at the implication. Too indignant? ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked impatiently.

If her mother had somehow arranged for her and Marcus Craven to meet—which would more than account for his persistence!—then by mentioning him at all she could be leaving herself open to all sorts of pressurised questioning from her mother. And yet asking Marcus Craven to ‘look up’ her daughter while they were both in Verona, having ascertained exactly when he was going to be there, would be just the sort of thing her mother would do. Despite what she said to the contrary, Beth knew her mother didn't believe she was capable of organising her own life, was convinced she knew what was best for Beth. But even so, she couldn't quite believe her mother would line up a man like Marcus Craven for her!

Although the doubt continued to niggle.

‘It isn't important, Mummy,’ she attempted to dismiss in a casual voice. ‘How are things at the boutique in London?'

‘I'm somehow managing to survive without you,’ her mother said drily. ‘And whatever it was you were talking about just now was important enough for you to mention in the first place,’ she pointed out tartly.

She should have known her mother wouldn't let the subject drop as easily as that!

She gave a deep sigh. ‘It's just that there was this man, and I—–'

‘A man?’ Katherine cut in eagerly. ‘What sort of man? How did you meet him? Oh, Beth, why didn't you mention him earlier? Tell me all about him now!'

Beth gave an inward groan, grimacing at her own reflection in the mirror on the dressing-table across the room. She could tell by her mother's very excitement that she hadn't arranged those meetings with Marcus Craven, but now that Beth had mentioned him she knew her mother wouldn't rest until she had heard every detail of those meetings, down to the last word spoken between them.

Loath to do that, Beth answered offhandedly. ‘He introduced himself to me at the opera.'

‘And?'

‘And he's…interesting,’ she conceded, slightly surprised she should have made such an admission.

She had become interested in Marcus Craven in spite of herself!

Although it had been an interest she had little difficulty resisting. She, quite frankly, didn't want an involvement with anyone.

‘Don't stop there, Beth,’ her mother prompted exasperatedly. ‘You admit that you've met an interesting man at the opera and then tell me nothing more about him!'

‘Because there's nothing else to tell.’ She sighed her impatience. ‘We've spoken briefly. But that's all.'

‘But—–'

‘I go on to Venice tomorrow—remember?’ Beth teased lightly, knowing her mother was fully aware of her travel itinerary; she had organised it, so she should be! ‘That hardly gives us time to begin a meaningful romance.'

‘Does it have to be meaningful?'

She couldn't help smiling at her mother's disgust. Since her separation from Beth's father many years ago, Katherine had made no secret of her opinion of marriage and men. Although Beth knew she had been given little enough reason in those intervening years to change her opinion in the slightest!

‘I always thought so,’ she sighed.

‘And now?'

‘Now I think the whole idea of love and romance is vastly overrated,’ she dismissed with a wealth of meaning.

‘Men have a lot to answer for,’ her mother said disgustedly.

‘Then why are you so interested in seeing me involved with another one when you know I feel the same way about them?’ she mocked.

‘I've learnt a few golden rules along the way, Beth,’ she was assured.

‘Hmm?’ she prompted suspiciously.

‘The best way to get over one disastrous affair is to become involved in a new one,’ her mother explained knowingly. ‘Never mind that this other man is probably just as much a mistake as the first one; he'll take your mind off the first disappointment, by which time your eyes are usually open. Or if they aren't, they certainly should be!'

‘Mummy!'

‘I know, I'm the original cynic,’ she sighed, and Beth could imagine the beautiful face creased into a perplexed frown. ‘No, actually, I'm not the original one.’ She sobered abruptly. ‘He was the reason I rang you earlier.'

Beth instantly tensed in expectation of the emotional blow to come, knowing exactly who her mother was talking about, her nails digging into her palms as she grasped the telephone receiver.

‘Oh, yes?’ Her voice sounded hollow and completely unlike her usual self, not really wanting to hear what her mother had to say, but knowing she had little choice in the matter. Her mother wouldn't have rung her at all if she hadn't thought it important she do so; Beth realised that now.

‘Charles and Martin are up to something,’ Katherine announced harshly.

The piercing of Beth's nails into her palm was accompanied by her sharply indrawn breath, although she didn't feel the pain of the self-inflicted injury until much later, just the mention of the two men being enough to cause her distress. ‘Do you have any idea what it is?’ she prompted through stiff lips.

‘Not yet,’ she was told grimly. ‘But I intend to find out.'

And her mother would do exactly that, of that Beth had no doubts. Her mother had been her only ally the last year, and Beth knew without doubt that she wouldn't let her down now. It was too late to tell herself she should have had this trust in her mother three years ago. Far too late.

But in the meantime she had this further worry; what could there possibly be left that the two men could do to her?

‘I didn't want to worry you with this at all, darling,’ Katherine continued concernedly. ‘But I didn't want them to just drop something else on you without warning.'

After what had already been done to her Beth knew this concern was merited; together Martin and Charles could be absolutely ruthless.

‘I'm glad of the warning,’ she reassured her mother. ‘Although I don't think it's enough to bring me back to England just yet.’ She didn't feel up to returning to England to face yet more of the two men's cruelty.

‘Of course not.’ Her mother sounded scandalised that she should even have considered doing such a thing. ‘You can rely on me to look after your interests here.'

Beth knew that she could, that her mother bore no grudge for that time three years ago when Beth had completely ignored her advice, when her mother had tried to help her see a truth she hadn't wanted to see. Her mother wasn't the type to say ‘I told you so’ and just leave her alone in her misery.

She had cursed herself a million times for not listening to her mother all that time ago when she had tried to warn her about Martin, had tried to help her see the true man behind the charm he had showed her. A truth she had chosen not to believe because she was blinded by love for the man.

That blindness had cost her dearly over the last year.

Would probably continue to do so

CHAPTER THREE

VENICE: one of the most beautiful cities in the world. What a pity it was slowly sinking into oblivion.

Although at this moment in time that wasn't apparent; Venice was everything Beth had ever heard it claimed to be. And more.

She had been slightly sceptical about her mother's choice of Venice as her second port of call, romance being the last thing she wanted to feel. But Beth had felt the magic of the place the moment she stepped out of the airport in search of the water taxi that would take her to her hotel. It was everything she had ever thought it would be, bustling, overcrowded, over-commercialised, and yet somehow the mystique and magic of the place managed to captivate the senses in spite of this.

Her hotel, the Danieli, had done a lot to add to the charm of her visit; her mother had really spoilt her with her choice of hotels this time. Of course, Beth had heard of the Danieli before this visit, knew it had once been a beautiful palace owned by the Danieli family, the building itself magnificent in construction, the décor and furnishings chosen accordingly.

And to add to the charm of the place Beth's room overlooked the lagoon, the view from her balcony one of the bustling activity on the water itself as it entered the Grand Canal. Beth had spent the first couple of hours after her arrival just sitting on the balcony watching the toing and froing of the water traffic, amazed at the variety of craft, from the numerous gondolas to a cruise ship that somehow navigated the narrow water.

She had finally ventured out of the hotel in the afternoon, crossing the bridge close to the hotel before she realised that the people gathered on the bridge were actually looking at something. A step back had revealed the famous Bridge of Sighs.

Beth could hardly believe it. There was history wherever she looked, the Doge's Palace and St Mark's Square just around the corner.

It was all too much at once, numbing the senses, and Beth decided she would be better waiting until the following day before exploring further, so she started back towards the hotel, pausing to look at the stalls of the street-vendors. Here were the usual tacky touristy things that could be found at any seaside town in England, and yet even this was merely another added charm to Venice.

But the bride and groom stepping into the gondola were, Beth felt, taking the romantic image of the place too far!

The bride wore a floating white gown, her veil long and trailing behind her, her hair dark, her face achingly lovely, the groom dark and good-looking, having eyes only for his bride as the wedding party waved them on their way down the Grand Canal.

‘Beautiful, isn't it?’ drawled a mocking voice.

Beth closed her eyes as she swayed, but the gondola bobbing up and down with the bride and groom gazing ecstatically into each other's eyes was still in front of her as she opened her eyes, the noise of chattering people still bombarding her ears.

And yet she had heard that voice, she knew she hadn't dreamt it. She didn't even know why she had felt that initial surprise; she was being hounded, she knew that now.

She was perfectly in control by the time she turned to face Marcus Craven, calmly looking up at him as he stood so relaxed and handsome, one hand thrust casually into the pocket of the black trousers he wore, the short-sleeved cream shirt revealing the olive tone to his skin where the shirt was unbuttoned at his throat. He looked strong and very male—and magnetically alive!

‘Actually,’ Beth drawled drily, ‘I was just thinking it was overplaying the romantic image of Venice just a touch too much.'

His eyes gleamed with shared amusement. ‘You don't seem surprised to see me.'

She arched blonde brows. ‘Should I be?'

Inside she was furious at being in his company once again, all sorts of questions and suspicions filling her mind. What was he doing in Venice? On the very same day she too had come here. Was he following her? If so, why? She really couldn't believe in this much of a coincidence.

And yet what possible reason could he have for wanting to follow her?

He certainly couldn't be after any money he thought she might have; he looked much wealthier himself than she would ever dream of being. Unless it was just a ‘look'. Gigolos hardly looked like beggars, or they wouldn't have the opportunity to meet those rich and desperate woman that they preyed on so easily. Even so, she very much doubted that that explanation was true of this man …

‘You don't seem surprised to see me again, Mr Craven,’ she added pointedly.

‘Should I be?’ he returned just as smoothly.

Beth's mouth tightened; she wasn't about to carry on a ridiculously childish conversation with this man, would rather not be talking to him at all! ‘Obviously not,’ she bit out tartly.

Marcus Craven shrugged, turning to look at the fast-receding gondola carrying the bride and groom, the wedding party having dissipated at their departure. ‘What did you mean by your remark about them just now?’ He nodded in their direction. ‘It's quite common for the “happy couple” to leave that way.'

She shook her head. ‘You aren't telling me that was for real?'

‘Of course it was real,’ he mocked lightly. ‘Did you think it was just put on for the tourists?'

Delicate colour darkened her cheeks. ‘As a matter of fact, yes,’ she admitted tersely, feeling rather foolish for her supposition in the face of his obvious amusement. But the vision of the bride and groom sailing off into the distance in a gondola had just seemed too pat, too unreal. Did people really have weddings like that in Venice? If she thought about it logically then there was no other way for the happy couple to make their departure. How utterly charming, and yes—romantic …

Marcus Craven was watching her every expression. ‘Don't worry,’ he drawled at her softened expression. ‘It has this effect on most people.'

But not on her; she was the last person to be affected by such romantic nonsense!

She gave him a cold look. ‘If it's traditional…’ she dismissed scathingly. ‘I won't say it was nice to see you again, Mr Craven, because it—–'

‘Wasn't,’ he finished drily, his eyes warm with humour. ‘Maybe I can walk you back to your hotel?’ he offered lightly.

Considering it was only a few yards away that would be a waste of time, but Beth didn't particularly want to reveal to him where she was staying. If he didn't already know! She was positive that their having met again in this way was no coincidence. That bothered her in a niggling way, like an irritant that couldn't be shaken off.

‘That won't be necessary,’ she refused abruptly.

‘It's no trouble.’ His gaze gently mocked her.

‘I didn't for one moment believe it was,’ Beth snapped, coming to the end of her patience. ‘You seem to have a lot of spare time on your hands to do just as you like; some of us aren't so lucky.'

Dark brows rose curiously. ‘Are you over here to work?'

Her mouth firmed. ‘Not exactly,’ she avoided; visiting her mother's boutique while in Venice was merely saving her mother the trip later in the year, not exactly working herself. ‘Are you here on business or pleasure, Mr Craven?'

‘If I'm truthful I'm not really sure any more,’ he bit out tersely, seeming to relax with effort, although some of the tension remained in the smile he gave. ‘But let's not think about that,’ he dismissed. ‘If you don't wish to return to your hotel just yet maybe we could have a cool drink somewhere instead?'

Persistent didn't even begin to describe this man, Beth realised wearily. Why her? That was what she still didn't understand.

She had never been led to believe that her looks were such that they would cause a man to be this insistent, and she was well aware of the fact that at the moment she didn't look her best anyway, her face and body too thin rather than fashionably so. Not that it seemed to have deterred this man!

‘Mr Craven—–'

‘Marcus, please,’ he cut in smoothly.

Leaving her little choice but to reciprocate! ‘Beth,’ she supplied abruptly, far from pleased at this continued invasion of her privacy.

His gaze lingered on the delicacy of her face. ‘Its pure simplicity and beauty suit you,’ he said slowly.

Beth had never thought about it one way or the other—it was just her name.

‘Tell me,’ he frowned. ‘Where do you live on the Isle of Man?'

It was such a sudden change of subject that she could only blink up at him.

‘You said you're Manx,’ he reminded at her silence.

In self-defence, she remembered! ‘I am,’ she acknowledged shortly. ‘But I haven't lived on the island for several years,’ she admitted with regret. ‘I live in London now.'

His mouth twisted. ‘Of course.'

Why ‘of course'? She actually wasn't that impressed with living in London any more; in fact one of the things she had come away to decide was whether or not she should move back to the home of her childhood. She had been very reluctant to come to any major decisions while feeling so unsettled within herself, but she certainly wasn't being given any time to just sit and contemplate the problem with this man constantly about!

‘It suits me for the moment,’ she dismissed offhandedly. ‘Now I really would like to go back to my hotel.'

Marcus nodded. ‘I'll walk with you.'

She turned to him, her eyes blazing. ‘I've said that isn't necessary!'

His mouth twisted derisively. ‘I'm going back there myself anyway.'

Beth looked up at him searchingly, seeing the truth of what he said in his eyes; he was staying at the Danieli, and knew she was too!

She was starting to long for the impersonality and anonymity that existed in London, was literally being driven out of Italy by this man!

‘Suit yourself,’ she said ungraciously, turning to walk towards the salmon-pink and white building that faced across the lagoon a few yards away.

‘I usually do,’ he murmured softly at her side as he managed to keep up with her despite her brisk pace.

Beth didn't doubt that for a moment. Accustomed to dealing with arrogance at its worst, even she found this man incredible in his forcefulness. He took her breath away!

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