Sara Craven Tribute Collection

‘We have both had moments of doubt,’ he said quietly. ‘When I saw you on the station at Barezzo that day, I thought, Here she is at last. And then, when it seemed that you were Fabio’s accomplice, I was angry too, and sick with disappointment.’

‘You looked as if you wanted to kill me. When I saw you go for Marco today, I realised I’d had a lucky escape.’

‘You’ve escaped nothing, carissima. Not unless you decide you don’t want to marry me after all. That you don’t love me.’

‘I’ve loved you from the first, too,’ she said. ‘But I told myself I had to fight it.’ She drew a breath. ‘But there is something I have to know, Guido. The truth abut your lady in Siena.’

He was silent for a long moment. ‘Her name is Bianca,’ he said at last. ‘And I knew her first about ten years ago. Yes, we were lovers—then. But we went our separate ways, and I did not meet her again until two years ago, when a mutual friend told me she was back in Siena, and very ill. And that she needed help.’

His mouth twisted. ‘When I went to see her I found that she had contracted multiple sclerosis, and that it had advanced rapidly. She was married when her illness was diagnosed. Her husband could not take the idea of her disability, and walked out on her.

‘I found her an apartment, and arranged for full-time care. The doctors tell me it will not be needed for very much longer. And I go to see her, and we laugh, and talk of old times, and I make sure that I treat her like the lively, beautiful girl I remember. Lately, I have told her about you,’ he added quietly. ‘And she has begged to meet you.’

‘Oh, Guido.’ Clare swallowed. ‘I’m so sorry. And of course I’ll come with you.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve judged you so harshly. I don’t understand how you can still want me.’

His smile teased her. ‘But you know that I do.’

‘Yes,’ she said softly, her eyes luminous. ‘I know.’

He leaned forward and kissed her, slowly and thoroughly, his mouth caressing hers with sensuous pleasure. And Clare, her arms round his neck, kissed him back, revelling in her freedom to do so. A freedom all the more precious for having been painfully bought.

And between kisses they murmured to each other, and laughed a little, and touched each other in delicate exploration.

At some point she found that Guido was now lying beside her, his silk shirt discarded, and that the straps of her nightgown had mysteriously slipped down, freeing her breasts from their little lace cups, and that he was stroking her excited nipples with the tip of a finger.

‘You know how wrong this is, mia bella,’ he whispered, his breath warm against her skin. ‘Your godmother would be shocked. My uncle would be scandalised. I am supposed to wait patiently for our wedding night before I do this.’ He bent and kissed each scented peak. ‘Or this,’ he added, his hand sliding under the slash of her skirt to find her moist silken core.

‘Must we?’ The breath caught in her throat as she arched against his caressing hand in mute demand. ‘Wait, I mean?’

‘I think we must.’ His hand moved, subtly, wickedly, bringing a small moan from her throat. ‘At least until I have locked the door and taken off the rest of my clothes.’ He paused as his fingertips moved in devastating friction against her tiny centre of sensation. ‘Or after—this.’

She came almost at once, her body pulsating in an eager delight that was close to pain, and he held her close, and kissed her mouth, and her tearful eyes, and murmured how beautiful she was, and how much he loved her.

And then he locked the door, and took off the rest of his clothes and her nightgown, and made slow, sensuous love to her, using his mouth and hands in ways she’d never dreamed of, enjoying her body in rapt completeness and teaching her to enjoy his.

‘Tonight,’ he said, when they were lying dreamily sated in each other’s arms, ‘I shall look at you at dinner and smile, and you will know what I am remembering. You—naked except for my diamond pendant.’

‘This making it impossible for me to eat or drink anything.’ Clare let her hand roam lazily. ‘Anyway, I have my own memories, signore.’ She looked at him from under her lashes. ‘I suppose we shall have to remain celibate now until the ceremony.’

‘I think we may also have to do penance,’ he said ruefully. ‘And apologise to all our well-wishers downstairs. I think my uncle and your godmother may be angry with us—unless they are too involved with each other to care.’

‘Are they really fond of each other? That’s wonderful.’ She frowned a little. ‘But Violetta has always vowed she would never get married again.’

‘I think Cesare has other ideas. He will win her round. He saw at once that I loved you.’

‘How clever of him.’

‘We are a clever family, carissima’ He turned her face to his and kissed her lingeringly. ‘I think we should be married as soon as it can be arranged. Perhaps we had better not wait for the chapel to be finished.’

She smiled, pillowing her head on his chest. ‘Are you in such a hurry, Marchese? I rather like being Bartaldi’s woman.’

‘You will find,’ he said softly, ‘that being Bartaldi’s bride will be infinitely more rewarding.’

And as she walked down the aisle to Guido, waiting for her at the altar just a few brief weeks later, Clare saw the love in his face, and the pride, and the reverence. And she knew, joyously, that he was right.

Rome’s Revenge (#ulink_b50530d7-6315-5305-ab4b-1df02f519360)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_65ab06ce-df07-5d86-b1b9-9e23e750af6a)

THE charity ball was already in full swing when he arrived.

Rome d’Angelo traversed the splendid marble foyer of the large Park Lane hotel and walked purposefully through the massive archway which led to the ballroom. A security man considered asking for his ticket, took a look at the dark, uncompromising face and decided against it.

Inside the ballroom, Rome halted, frowning a little at the noise of the music and the babble of laughter and chat which almost drowned it. In his mind’s eye he was seeing a hillside crowded with serried rows of vines, and a hawk hovering silently against a cloudless sky, all enshrouded in a silence that was almost tangible.

Coming here tonight was a mistake, and he knew it, but what choice did he have? he asked himself bitterly. He was gambling with his future, something he’d thought was behind him for ever. But of course he’d reckoned without his grandfather.

He accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and moved without haste to the edge of the balcony, which overlooked the ballroom floor. If he was aware of the curious glances which pursued him, he ignored them. By this time he was used to attracting attention, not all of it welcome. He’d soon learned in adolescence the effect that his six-foot-three, lean, muscular body could generate.

At first he’d been embarrassed when women had eyed him quite openly, using his broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped frame to fuel their private fantasies. Now he was simply amused, or, more often, bored.

But his attention tonight was focused on the several hundred people gyrating more or less in time with the music below him, his frowning gaze scanning them closely.

He saw the girl almost at once. She was standing at the edge of the dance floor, dressed in a silver sheath which lent no grace to a body that was on the thin side of slender and made her pale skin look tired and washed out. Like a shinny ghost, he thought critically. Yet she’d probably dieted herself into that condition, boasting about the single lettuce leaf she allowed herself for lunch.

Why the hell couldn’t she be a woman who at least looked like a woman? he wondered with distaste. And how was it, with all her money, no one had ever shown her how to dress?

For the rest, her shoulder-length light brown hair was cut in a feathered bob, and, apart from a wristwatch, she seemed to be wearing no jewellery, so she didn’t flaunt her family’s money.

She was very still, and quietly, almost fiercely alone, as if a chalk circle had been drawn round her which no one was permitted to cross. Yet he could not believe she was here unescorted.

The Ice Maiden indeed, he thought, his lips twisting with wry contempt, and definitely not his type.

He’d met them before, these girls who, cushioned by their family’s riches, could afford to stand aloof and treat the rest of the world with disdain.

And one of them he’d known well.

His frown returned.

It was a long time since he’d thought about Graziella. She belonged strictly to his past, yet she was suddenly back in his mind now.

Because, like the girl below him, she was someone who’d had it made from the day she was born. Who didn’t have to be beautiful or beguiling, which she was, or even civil, which she’d never been, because her place in life was preordained, and she didn’t have to try.

And that was why Cory Grant, in turn, could stand there, in her expensive, unbecoming gown, daring the world to keep its distance.

Dangerous things—dares, he thought, his firm mouth twisting.

Because the challenge implicit in every line of her rigid figure was making him wonder just what it would take to melt that frozen calm.