Sara Craven Tribute Collection

She was faintly ruffled to discover that they were seated side by side on one of the cushioned banquettes. But to request her place to be reset on the opposite side of the table would simply reveal that she was on edge, she reflected as she took her seat.

There was a miniature lamp on the table, its tiny flame bright, but safely confined within its glass shade.

A valuable lesson for life, she thought wryly, as the waiter shook out her napkin and placed it reverently across her lap. She needed to keep the conflict of emotions inside herself controlled with equal strictness.

But she was already too aware of his proximity—the breath of cologne, almost familiar now, that reached her when he moved—the coolly sculptured profile—the dangerous animal strength of the lean body under the civilised trappings. The sensuous curve of the mouth which had once so briefly possessed hers…

This, she was beginning to realise, was a man to whom power was as natural as breathing. And not just material power either, although he clearly had that in plenty, she realised uneasily. His sexual power was even more potent.

She was glad to be able to focus her attention, deservedly, on the food. The delicate and creamy herb risotto was followed by scallops and clams served with black linguine, accompanied by a crisp, fragrant white wine that she decided it would be politic to sip sparingly.

The main course consisted of seared chunks of lamb on the bone, accompanied by a rich assortment of braised garlicky vegetables. The wine was red and full-bodied.

‘I’m not surprised you come here,’ Flora said after her first appreciative mouthful. ‘This food is almost too good.’

He smiled at her. ‘I’m glad you approve. But save your compliments for Pietro himself,’ he added drily. ‘He lives in a state of persistent anxiety and needs all the reassurance he can get.’

‘You know him well?’

‘We were boys together in Italy.’

‘Ah,’ she said.

‘Now you are being cryptic, mia bella,’ he said softly. ‘What does that mean?’

She shrugged. ‘I was just trying to imagine you as a child, with muddy clothes and scraped knees. It isn’t easy.’

His brows lifted. ‘Do I give the impression I was born in an Armani suit with a briefcase?’ he asked lazily.

‘Something like that,’ she acknowledged, her mouth quirking mischievously.

‘Yet I entered the world exactly as you did, Flora mia—without clothes at all.’ He returned her smile, his eyes flickering lazily over her breasts, clearly outlined by the cling of her dress. ‘Shall we indulge in a little—mutual visualisation, perhaps?’

Flora looked quickly down at her plate, aware that her face had warmed. ‘I prefer to concentrate on this wonderful food.’

They ate for a few moments in silence, then Flora ventured into speech again, trying for a neutral topic. ‘Italy must be a wonderful country to grow up in.’

‘It is also a good place to live when one is grown.’ He paused. ‘You should introduce me to your fidanzato. Maybe I could convince him to take you there.’

Her smile was too swift. Too bright. ‘Maybe. But unfortunately he’s had to go away this weekend.’

‘Another visit to the Bahamas, perhaps?’ There was an edge to his voice which she detected and resented.

‘No, a business trip,’ she returned crisply. ‘Chris is his own boss, and that doesn’t allow him a great deal of leisure—unlike yourself.’

‘Cristoforo,’ he said softly. ‘Tell me about him.’

‘What sort of thing do you want to know?’ Flora drank some wine.

‘How you met,’ he said. ‘When you realised that he of all men was the one. But no intimate secrets,’ he added silkily. ‘That is if you have any to tell…’

Flora bit her lip, refusing to rise to the obvious bait. ‘We met at a party,’ she said. ‘I’d helped a couple sell their flat after it had been on the market almost a year, and they invited me to a housewarming at their new property. Chris was there too because he’d arranged their mortgage. We—started seeing each other and fell in love—obviously. After a few months he proposed to me. And I accepted.’

She saw a faintly derisive expression in his eyes, and stiffened. ‘Is there something wrong? Because it seems a perfectly normal chain of events to me.’

‘Not a thing,’ he said. ‘And you will live happily ever after?’

Flora lifted her chin. ‘That is the plan, yes.’ She paused. ‘And what about you, signore? Do I get to hear your romantic history—or would it take too long?’ She paused. ‘Starting, I suppose, with—are you married?’

‘No.’ His tone was crisp and there was a sudden disturbing hardness in his eyes. ‘Nor am I divorced or a widower.’ He paused. ‘I was once engaged, but it—ended.’ He gave her a wintry smile. ‘I am sure that does not surprise you.’

‘So—you prefer to play the field.’ Flora shrugged. ‘At least you found out before you were married, so no real harm was done.’

‘You are mistaken,’ he said slowly. ‘It was my fidanzata who found another man. Someone she met on holiday.’

‘Oh.’ This time she was surprised, but tried not to show it. ‘Well—these things happen. But they don’t usually mean anything.’

Marco Valante gave her a curious look. ‘You think it is a trivial matter—such a betrayal?’ There was a harsh note in his voice.

‘No—no, of course not.’ Flora avoided his gaze, her fingers playing uneasily with the stem of her glass. ‘I—I didn’t mean that. I just thought that if you’d—loved her enough it might have been possible to—forgive her.’

‘No.’ The dark face was brooding. ‘There could be no question of that.’

‘Then I’m very sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘For both of you.’ She swallowed. ‘It must have been a difficult time. And I—I shouldn’t have pried either,’ she added. ‘Brought back unhappy memories. They say the important thing is to forget the past—and move on.’

‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I am sure you are right. But it is not always that simple. Sometimes the past imposes—obligations that cannot be ignored.’

Flora finished her meal in silence. She felt as if she’d taken an unwary step and found herself in a quagmire, the ground shaking beneath her feet.

There was a totally different side to Marco Valante, she thought. An unsuspected layer of harshness under the indisputable charm. Something disturbingly cold and unforgiving. But perhaps it was understandable. Clearly his fiancée’s defection had hit him hard, his masculine pride undoubtedly being dented along with his emotions.

She felt as if she’d opened a door that should have remained closed.

I’ll just have some coffee and go, she thought, sneaking a surreptitious glance at her watch.

But that proved not so easy. The waiter, apparently in league with her companion, insisted that she must try the house speciality for dessert—some delectable and impossibly rich chocolate truffles flavoured with amaretto.

And when the tiny cups of espresso arrived they were accompanied by Strega, and also Pietro, the restaurant owner, a small, thin man whose faintly harassed expression relaxed into a pleased grin when Flora lavished sincere praise on his food.

At Marco’s invitation he joined them for more coffee and Strega, totally upsetting Flora’s plans for a swift, strategic withdrawal.

‘I had begun to think we would never meet, signorina,’ Pietro told her with a twinkle. ‘I was expecting you here a few nights ago. You have made my friend Marco wait, I think, and he is not accustomed to that.’

Flora flushed slightly. ‘I can believe it,’ she said, trying to speak lightly.

‘You wrong me, mia bella,’ Marco Valante drawled. ‘I can be—infinitely patient—when it is necessary.’

She felt her colour deepen under the mocking intensity of his gaze. She hurriedly finished the liqueur in her glass, snatched up her bag, and with a murmured apology fled to the powder room.