The Forced Marriage

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?’