The Forced Marriage

Because Marco Valante was light years beyond being merely an attractive man. He was a force of nature, she thought, her body shivering in mingled apprehension and excitement.

From the moment she’d seen him that day in the restaurant she’d been drawn to him—a helpless tide to his dark moon.

All that stood between her and potential disaster was his own guarantee that tonight would involve dinner and nothing else. And how did she dare trust a stranger’s promise?

Especially when instinct warned her that here was a man who lived by his own rules alone.

She lifted a hand and touched her lips, remembering…

She thought, I must be crazy.

Of course, all she need do was hang the dress back in the wardrobe and spend a blameless evening watching television. No one would be any the wiser.

Yet she already knew in her heart that eminently sensible course of action was not for her.

I’m going to have dinner with him, she thought defiantly. And I’m going to laugh and flirt and have fun in a way I haven’t done for months. Just for this one evening. After all, he likes to play games, and I can do that too. And when it’s over I’m going to thank him and shake hands nicely, and walk away. Nothing more.

Because I can. Because even if he breaks his word I have my own private armour. It may be called disappointment and failure, but it’s very effective just the same. And it confers its own immunity against natural born womanisers like Signor Valante. End of story.

She showered and washed her hair, then finger-dried it so it sprang like an aureole of living flame around her head.

She applied the lightest of make-up, adding a touch of shadow and mascara to her eyes and a pale lustre to her mouth, then slipped her feet into high-heeled strappy sandals.

When she was ready she glanced at herself in the mirror, and gasped. A stranger was looking back at her, her skin milk-white against the starkness of the dress, her face flushed and her eyes bright with expectancy.

And tonight she was going to let that stranger live in her head, she thought, as she sprayed her favourite scent on to pulse-points and picked up her bag and pashmina.

‘You still don’t have to do this,’ she whispered under her breath, as a cab drove her to the restaurant. ‘It’s not too late. You could always tell the taxi to turn round. But if you go through with it, and it shows any sign of getting heavy, you can leave. So there’s nothing—not one thing—to worry about. Whatever happens—you’re in control.’

Pietro’s was small and quiet, the name displayed on a discreet sign beside the entrance.

Inside, Flora found herself in a smart reception area, confronted by a pretty girl with an enquiring smile.

She cleared her throat. ‘I’m meeting someone—a Signor Valante.’

The smile widened. ‘Of course, signorina. He is in the bar. May I take your wrap?’

‘No, it’s fine.’ Flora maintained a firm grip on its silver-grey folds. ‘I’ll keep it with me.’ In case I have to make a sudden exit, she added silently.

The bar was already busy but she saw him at once, lounging on one of the tall stools at the counter, looking like a man who was prepared to wait all night if he had to.

Only he didn’t. Have to. Did he?

Because she was here, and she was trembling again, and that gnawing ache was back in the pit of her stomach.

And of course he had seen her, so it was too late to slip away. In her heart she knew it had always been too late. That something stronger than her own will—her own reason—had brought her to him tonight.

She felt his gaze slide over her. Saw his brows lift and his mouth slant in surprise and frank pleasure as he started towards her through the laughing, chattering groups of people.

And realised, with a pang of something like fear, that, contrary to her expectations—her planned strategy—it would not be as easy as she thought to turn her back and walk away from him when the evening came to an end.

Oh, God, she thought, dry-mouthed. I’m going to have to be careful—so very careful…

CHAPTER THREE

‘CIAO.’ His smile was in his eyes as he reached her side. He took her hand and raised it to his lips in a fleeting caress. ‘You decided you could spare me a few hours of your life after all, hmm?’

She took a deep, steadying breath. ‘So it would seem,’ she returned with relative calm.

‘Your fidanzato must be a very tolerant man.’ His gaze travelled over her without haste, making her feel that he was aware of every detail of what she might—or might not—be wearing. Sending another flurry through her senses.

He said slowly, his lips twisting, ‘But I think he would be wiser to keep you chained to his wrist—especially when you look as you do tonight.’

He had not, she realised, relinquished his clasp on her hand, and she detached herself from him, quietly but with emphasis.

‘You gave me your word, signore, that I would be safe in your company,’ she reminded him, trying to speak lightly.

His brows lifted. ‘And is that why you came, mia cara?’ he asked softly. ‘Because you wished to feel—safe?’

She gave him a composed smile. ‘I came because the food is said to be good here, and I’m hungry.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Then I must feed you.’ He made a slight signal and Flora found herself whisked to a small table in the corner—which was somehow miraculously vacant—and supplied with a Campari soda and a menu.

Through an archway she could see tables set with immaculate white cloths and glistening with silverware and crystal, could sniff delectable odours wafting through from the kitchen.

To her own surprise she realised that her flippant remark had been no more than the truth. She was indeed hungry, and the plate of little savoury morsels placed in front of them made her mouth water in sudden greed.

‘I am to tell you that my cousin was delighted with your suggestion for her bedroom,’ Marco Valante said when they had made their choices from the menu presented by an attentive waiter and were alone again. ‘But now, of course, she has asked who makes this particular wall-covering and where it is available.’

‘Really?’ Flora, who’d been convinced that Vittoria Fairlie’s decorating problems were purely fictional, was slightly nonplussed. ‘Then I’ll send her a full written report with samples next week.’

‘She would appreciate it.’ He sent her a faint smile. ‘It is good of you to take so much trouble.’

‘I always take trouble,’ she said. She paused. ‘Even over commissions that don’t really exist.’

He said slowly, ‘I wonder if you will ever forgive me for that.’

‘Who knows?’ She shrugged. ‘And why does it matter anyway?’ She hesitated again. ‘After all, you’ll be going back to Italy quite soon—won’t you?’

‘I have fixed no time for my return.’ He smiled at her. ‘My plans are—fluid.’

‘Your boss must be exceptionally tolerant, in that case.’ She heard and hated the primness in her tone.

‘We work well together. He does not grudge me a period of relaxation.’

He was silent for a moment, and Flora, conscious that he was studying her, kept her attention fixed firmly on the rosy liquid in her glass. At the same time wondering, in spite of herself, exactly what Marco Valante did for relaxation…

He said, at last, ‘So what made you change your mind?’