Romance Of A Lifetime

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 (#u1efb5a9c-239d-5c8d-8146-5c9f2f7aef6d)

‘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?'