The Forced Marriage

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.