The Forced Marriage

by Sara Craven

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘You know who I am. Will you grant me the same privilege?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Yes—of course…’

  She delved into her misused bag and produced one of her own business cards. He read it, then looked back at her, those amazing eyes glinting under their heavy lids. ‘Flora,’ he said softly. ‘The goddess of the springtime.’

  She flushed and looked away. ‘Actually, I was named after my grandmother—far more prosaic.’

  ‘So, tell me—Flora—will you continue to work after you are married?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘You are sure that your man will not guard you even more closely when you are his wife?’

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ Flora said indignantly. ‘Chris doesn’t guard me.’

  ‘Good,’ Marco Valante said briskly. ‘Because we have arrived at the hotel, and there is nothing, therefore, to prevent you going in with me.’

  Flora had every intention of offering him a last haughty word of thanks, then hobbling out of his life for ever. But suddenly the commissionaire was there, helping her out of the taxi and holding open the big swing doors so she could go in.

  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 hims
elf 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?’

  ‘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, an
d 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.

  Instead, ‘Sorry, my sweet.’ Chris had shaken his head. ‘I’ve arranged to meet a new client. Could be big. Besides,’ he’d added, patting her shoulder, ‘you’ll be much better off relaxing—taking things easy. You don’t need me for that.’

  No, Flora had thought, with a touch of desolation. But I could do with the reassurance of your arms around me. I’d like you to look at me as he did. To let me know that you want me, that you’re living for our wedding, and the moment when we’ll really belong to each other.

  And that it won’t be like that other time…

  She bit her lip, remembering, then turned her attention firmly back to the report she was writing for a woman trying to sell an overcrowded, overpriced flat in Notting Hill. Although she suspected she was wasting her time and Mrs Barstow would not remove even one of the small occasional tables which made her drawing room an obstacle course, or banish her smelly, bad-tempered Pekinese dog on viewing days.

  She would probably also quibble at the fee she was being charged, Flora decided as she printed up the report and signed it.

  She turned to the enquiries that had come in recently, remembering that Melanie had marked one of them urgent. ‘Lady living in Chelsea,’ she said now. ‘A Mrs Fairlie. Husband does something in the EU and they’re having to move to Brussels like yesterday, so she needs to spruce the place up for a quick sale. Says we were recommended.’

  ‘That’s what I like to hear,’ Flora commented as she dialled Mrs Fairlie’s number.

  She liked the sound of Mrs Fairlie too, who possessed a rich, deep voice with a smile in it, but who sounded clearly harassed when Flora mentioned she had no vacant appointments until the following week.