The Forced Marriage

‘No.’ Had she imagined an oddly harsh note in his voice? ‘I am a single man, mia bella. But it would make no difference.’ He paused, the green eyes sardonic. ‘After all, I am not suggesting we should have our dinner served in bed.’

He allowed that to sink in, then added silkily, ‘Do you feel sufficiently safe to pour the tea?’

‘Of course.’ Flora dragged some remaining shreds of composure around her. ‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Lemon only, I thank you.’

By some miracle she managed to manoeuvre the heavy teapot so that its contents went only into the delicate porcelain cups and not all over the tray, the table, and the carpet, but it was a close-run thing, and her antennae told her that Marco Valante was perfectly well aware of her struggles and privately amused by them.

She handed him his cup, controlling an impulse to pour the tea straight in his lap.

He accepted it with a brief word of thanks. ‘Did you telephone your clients?’

‘Yes.’ An impersonal topic, she thought thankfully. ‘They were very forgiving and rescheduled.’

‘You do not think your fidanzato would be equally understanding, and spare you to me—for one evening?’

She gasped. ‘I know he wouldn’t.’

‘Strange,’ Marco Valante said musingly. ‘Because he cannot be so very possessive.’

‘Why do you say that?’

He smiled at her. ‘Because he has never—possessed you, mia bella.’

Flora gasped in outrage. ‘How dare you say such a thing?’

‘When possible, I prefer to speak the truth. And I say that you are still—untouched.’

‘You—you can’t possibly know that,’ she said hoarsely. ‘And it’s none of your business anyway.’

‘Destiny has caused our paths to cross, Flora mia,’ he said softly. ‘I think I am entitled to be a little—intrigued when I look into your eyes and see there no woman’s knowledge—no memory of desire.’

She replaced her cup on the tray with such force that it rattled. She said tautly, ‘Actually, you have no rights at all. And I’d like to leave now, please.’

‘Like that?’ His brows lifted. ‘You will be a sensation, cara.’

She said, her voice shaking, ‘I’d rather walk down the street naked than have to endure any more of your—humiliating—and inaccurate speculation about my personal life.’

Marco Valante smiled. ‘I am tempted to make you prove it, but I am feeling merciful today. I will arrange for you to have the use of another room while you wait for your clothes.’

He picked up the phone, dialled a number and spoke briefly and succinctly.

‘A maid will come and take you to your new sanctuary,’ he told her pleasantly when he had finished. He pulled a leather-covered notepad towards him and scribbled a few lines on the top sheet, which he tore off and handed to her. ‘If you change your mind about dinner you may join me at this restaurant any time after eight o’clock.’

She crushed the paper into a ball and dropped it to the floor. She said, coldly and clearly, ‘Hell will freeze over first, signore.’

His own voice was soft, almost reflective. ‘So the flame does not burn in your hair alone. Bravo.’

She snatched up the shirt and tights, glaring at him, unbearably galled that she needed to use them, and crammed them into her bag.

‘I’ll send you a cheque for these,’ she told him curtly.

Marco Valante laughed. ‘I’m sure you will, cara. But in case you forget, I’ll take a down payment now.’

Suddenly he was beside her, and his arm was round her, pulling her towards him. And for one brief, burning moment, she felt his mouth on hers, tasting her with a stark hunger she had never known existed.

It was over almost as soon as it had begun. Before she’d really grasped what was happening to her she was free, stepping backwards, stumbling a little on the edge of that trailing robe, staring at him in a kind of horror as her hand went up to touch her lips.

And he looked back at her, his own mouth twisting wryly. He said quietly, ‘As hot as sin and as sweet as honey. I cannot wait for the next instalment, Flora mia.’

The note in his voice seemed to shiver on her skin. The silence between them tautened—became electric. She wanted to look away, and found that she could not.

It was the knock on the door that saved her. She went to answer it, holding up the encumbering folds of towelling, trying not to run.

His voice followed her. ‘Ti vedro, mia bella. I’ll be seeing you.’

She said fiercely, ‘No—no, you won’t.’

And went through the door, slamming it behind her, because she knew, to her shame, that she did not dare look back at him. Not then. And certainly not ever again.

CHAPTER TWO

‘I GOT you a herb tea,’ Melanie said anxiously. ‘As you still can’t face cappuccino. They say shock can do that to you.’

Some shocks certainly could, Flora thought grimly as she took the container from her assistant with a word of thanks and a smile. Nor was it just cappuccino. She was also off espresso, latte and anything else tall and Italian.

Three jumpy days had passed since the aborted mugging and its even more disturbing aftermath. Out of the frying pan, she thought wryly, and into the heart of the fire. She was still screening her calls, and warily scanning the streets outside her flat and office each time she emerged.

‘I’ll be seeing you,’ he’d said. The kind of casual remark anyone might make, and probably meaningless. An unfortunate choice of words, that was all. And yet—and yet…

He had made it sound like a promise.

Time and time again she told herself she was a fool for letting it matter so much. Her grazes, bumps and bruises were healing nicely, and she should let her emotions settle too. Put the whole thing in some mental recycling bin.

It had been obvious from that first moment that Marco Valante was trouble, and it was her bad luck that he should have been the first on the scene when she needed help. Because he was the kind of man to whom flirting was clearly irresistible, and who would allow no opportunity to be wasted.

But—it was only a kiss, when all was said and done, she thought, taking a rueful sip of herb tea. And wasn’t this a total overreaction on her part to something he would undoubtedly have forgotten by now?

He would have moved on—might even be back in Italy and good riddance—and she should do the same. So why on earth was it proving so difficult? Why was he invading her thoughts by day and her sleep by night? It made no sense.

And, more importantly, why hadn’t she told Chris all about it? she asked herself, staring unseeingly at her computer screen.

Partly, she supposed, because his attitude had annoyed her. He’d been sympathetic at first, but soon become bracing, telling her she was lucky not to have lost her bag or been badly injured. She knew she’d got off lightly, but somehow that wasn’t what she’d needed to hear. Some prolonged concern and cosseting would have been far more acceptable. And it would have been for her to tell him, lovingly, that he was going OTT, and not the other way round.

He was busy, of course, and she understood that. He was trying to build up his consultancy and provide a sound financial basis for their future; she couldn’t realistically expect his attention to be focussed on her all the time.

But she had anticipated that he’d stay with her that evening at least.