by Sara Craven
She’d managed to reschedule the majority of her appointments. Only a few had taken umbrage and declared they would approach another company. So it seemed she would have a career to come back to when the bubble burst. As it surely would.
And, after an initial panic, Melanie had decided to enjoy being in charge for a short time, and was blooming under her new responsibilities.
One of the tasks Flora had considered essential had been to collect her engagement ring from the jeweller’s and have it messengered over to Chris. So far he’d made no attempt to contact her, either at home or work, and she’d been thankful. But after that she’d expected an angry response, and had been surprised and relieved when there was only continuing silence.
Her mother, of course, had not been so reticent. Flora had called her reluctantly, to explain why she would not be available for the next couple of weeks, and had walked into another barrage of criticism and recrimination.
She was an embarrassment. She was ungrateful. She’d caused untold trouble and inconvenience over the wedding arrangements.
‘And now you’re actually going to Italy with this man.’ Mrs Hunt’s voice rose shrilly. ‘Have you lost all sense of decency? My God, Flora, you know nothing about him. Why, he could be in the Mafia!’
Flora sighed. ‘I don’t think so, Mother,’ she said with a touch of weariness. ‘He’s an accountant.’
‘Well, that means nothing,’ her mother said peevishly. ‘They need people like him to—launder their money. I can’t believe your behaviour, Flora,’ she added. ‘First you indulge in a sordid affair, and hurt your fiancé deeply. Now you could be mixing with criminals. You’ve disgraced us all, and I wash my hands of you.’
Flora bit her lip. ‘Goodbye, Mother.’ She spoke with resignation. ‘I’ll call you when I come back.’
‘If you come back,’ Mrs Hunt said ominously.
I’m glad I didn’t mention Marco worked for a pharmaceutical outfit, Flora thought as she put the phone down, or she’d have said he was a drug dealer.
She decided to cheer herself with some retail therapy. However this stay in Italy turned out, it would be her first holiday in a considerable while. She had been too busy establishing her business to have time for overseas breaks.
For her honeymoon, of course, she’d have made an exception, she thought with a wintry smile.
But her wardrobe was seriously short of leisure gear, and she made a lightning raid on Kensington High Street to see what was available. There was some glamorous swimwear on offer, and she took her pick, choosing filmy sarongs and overshirts to go with her selection.
She packed with discrimination, reminding herself that she was packing for two weeks’ holiday only—not a lifetime.
Now that the moment of departure was approaching, her nerves were bunching into knots.
She was stingingly aware that she’d hardly seen anything of Marco in the past forty-eight hours, although he had telephoned her several times. But he hadn’t been round in person and there’d been no suggestion that he wished to spend the night with her.
And she missed him like hell.
All these years, she reflected wryly, she’d slept alone in her own bed, tranquil and untroubled.
Now, after those few brief hours in his arms, she was restless, forever reaching for him in the darkness and finding only an empty space beside her.
The words Will I see you tonight? had trembled on her lips more than once as they’d spoken on the phone, but she hadn’t dared utter them.
Perhaps he was having serious second thoughts, she mused, wincing, and she would get a last-minute phone call making an excuse to withdraw his invitation.
If so, she decided proudly, she would be round to the nearest travel agent for a last-minute deal—anywhere but Italy.
She could not conceal her shock, however, when Marco arrived to collect her at the appointed time in a chauffeur driven car.
‘You like to travel in style,’ she commented, brows delicately lifted, as she watched the driver load her one modest case into the boot.
‘So do you, cara.’ Marco looked her over slowly, with an undisguised appreciation that played havoc with her pulses.
She was wearing a knee-length cream skirt, with a matching round-necked top in a silky fabric and a dark green linen jacket. She had her hair trimmed, and layered slightly too, so that it clung more smoothly to the shape of her head.
She might be trembling inside, but on the surface she looked confident—impeccable.
She tilted her chin, offering him a frankly sultry smile. ‘I wonder what other surprises you have in store for me, signore.’
‘Behave yourself, mia bella,’ he warned softly. ‘We have a plane to catch.’
And not just any old plane, Flora discovered. After being ushered with due deference into the VIP lounge at the airport, she found herself subsequently seated in the first-class area of the aircraft, with an attentive stewardess offering champagne.
She said shakily, ‘Is this a company perk? They must think very highly of you.’
‘I am revered,’ Marco returned solemnly, but Flora had seen the flicker of amusement in his eyes and drew a deep breath.
‘Marco,’ she said, ‘who actually owns Altimazza?’
He smiled ruefully. ‘The Valante family, cara, and I am the chairman and principal shareholder.’
For a moment indignation held her mute, then she rallied. ‘Then why have you been making a fool of me—letting me think you were just an employee—an accountant?’
‘You didn’t request to see my résumé, Flora mia.’ He shrugged. ‘And I am a qualified accountant. For the record, I have also studied law and business management,’ he added. ‘If you had asked, I would have told you.’
Wryly, he surveyed her flushed, mutinous face. ‘Does it really make such a difference? We are both still the same people.’
‘How can you say that?’ Her voice shook a little. ‘From the first you must have been laughing at me…’
‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘That was never true—believe me.’
‘Then what is the truth?’ Flora asked stormily. ‘That it amused you to play the prince in disguise, with me as some bloody Cinderella?’
His mouth tightened. ‘I hardly found you in rags. But I admit that perhaps I had a foolish wish to be wanted for myself. It has not always been so in the past.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Her voice bit. ‘You poor rich man. I bet you didn’t turn down many of the offers, for all that.’
‘What do you expect me to say?’ Marco threw back at her. ‘That I lived a celibate life while I was waiting for you? I will not insult you by such a pretence.’
It was her turn to shrug. ‘What’s one more among so many?’
‘Why are you so angry?’ he asked curiously.
‘Because I feel stupid,’ she said. ‘And because I wonder what else you’ve been hiding.’
‘One thing I never hid,’ he said quietly. ‘That I wanted you from the moment I saw you. And the only reason you are here at this moment is because we both wished it. And, for me, nothing has changed.’
He paused. ‘However, I shall not force you to stay,’ he added levelly. ‘If it has become impossible for you to remain with me then I can arrange to have you flown anywhere else in the world you wish to go. The choice is yours, carissima.’
For a long moment she was silent, as her head and her heart fought a short, fierce battle.
Then she said in a stifled voice, ‘There’s nowhere else in the world I wish to go—and you know it.’
‘Ah, dolcezza mia,’ he said softly. ‘Sometimes you tear me apart.’
She sat beside him, her hand clasped in his, and saw the envy in the eyes of the pretty girls who waited on them. Who thought she’d won the jackpot—sexually, as well as in money terms.
And she smiled back, and thanked them for the lunch and hot towels, because they might be right. Because for the next two weeks she was going to be spoiled and cosseted by da
y, and taken to heaven each night.
And then it would be over. Midnight would strike and Cinders would be back in the real world.
But, for now, she was having a wonderful time—of course she was—with even better to come. And she had no illusions—no crazy naïve dreams about the possibility of a future with the man at her side. Or not any longer, anyway, she amended swiftly.
Her time with him was finite, and she accepted that.
So, there was no need for this niggling feeling of unease. No need at all.
And if I say it often enough, she thought, I may even begin to believe it.
But no uncertainty could cloud her first view of San Silvestro.
As the helicopter began its descent Flora saw the sun-baked stones of the castello, gleaming pink, grey and cream in the afternoon light as it reared up from the riot of greenery which surrounded it.
That first heart-stopping glimpse showed her a cluster of buildings, roofed in faded terracotta and surmounted by a square tower. Its clifftop setting had clearly been chosen with an arrogant eye for impact, and it lay, like a watchful lion, overlooking the azure sea.
For Flora, it was a fairytale image—a vision of Renaissance power—but for the man beside her, she realised, it was home. Emphasising the very different worlds they inhabited, she thought with sudden bleakness, picking out the turquoise shimmer of a swimming pool.
As the helicopter landed on a flat sweep of lawn at the rear of the castello, Flora could see people descending the steps from the imposing terrace and coming to meet them.
Her stomach clenched in swift nervousness.
The man leading the charge was tall, with silver hair. He was dressed in dark trousers and a discreet grey jacket, and the austerity of his features was relieved by a smile of sheer delight.
That must be Alfredo, Flora thought, remembering what Marco had been saying on the flight down.
‘He is my maggiordomo, and Marta, his wife, is the housekeeper,’ he’d told her. ‘Alfredo’s father worked for my grandfather, so he was born at the castello, like myself, and loves it as much.’
She found herself swallowing as Marco helped her alight from the helicopter, maintaining his firm grip on her hand.
‘Avanti,’ he said briskly, and they set off across the lawn towards the welcoming party, Flora struggling to match his long-legged stride.
After the warmth of his greeting for his master, Flora found Alfredo’s calm correctness towards herself slightly daunting. She was also aware of the shrewdly assessing glances being directed at her by the rest of the staff as they were formally presented to her.
‘This is Ninetta, signorina.’ Alfredo indicated a plump, pretty girl in a dark dress and white apron. ‘She will unpack for you, and attend you during your time with us.’
‘Grazie,’ Flora murmured, wryly reviewing the modest contents of her luggage.
Alfredo gave a stately inclination of the head. ‘So, if you will follow me, signorina, I will show you to your room.’
As he went past Marco spoke to him softly and briefly in his own language. Just for a second the impassive mask slipped, and the major-domo let surprise show. But he recovered instantly, murmuring a respectful, ‘Si, signore, naturalamente,’ as he set off for the house, snapping his fingers at Ninetta to pick up Flora’s case.
Inside the castello, Flora received a whirlwind impression of large rooms with tiled floors, low ceilings and frescoed walls. Then she was ascending a wide stone staircase, walking along a gallery, navigating a long corridor and climbing another short flight of stone steps.
Alfredo opened the double doors at the top and bowed her into the room. Its square shape told her instantly that she was in the tower of the castello, and probably its oldest part, too.
She stared round her, her jaw dropping at the subdued magnificence of the tapestry-hung walls and vast canopied bed. There was little furniture, but the few pieces were clearly very old and valuable, and the ancient carpet spread on the gleaming wood floor was possibly priceless.
There were deep cushioned seats in the window embrasures, and on the wall opposite the bed long glass doors had been fitted into the stone, giving access to a balcony with a wrought-iron rail and a stunning view over the sea.
Alfredo, observing her reaction with discreet satisfaction, pointed to a door in the corner of the room. ‘That is the signore’s dressing room.’ He opened another door in the opposite corner. ‘And here—the bathroom, signorina.’
Peeping past him, Flora saw it contained a sunken bath as well as an imposing circular shower cubicle.
She said quietly, ‘It’s all—so beautiful. I can hardly believe I’m not dreaming.’
He bowed politely. ‘Please tell Ninetta if there is anything you need, signorina.’
While the maid dealt speedily with the contents of her case Flora opened the balcony doors and went outside. Below her was a tangle of trees, the silvery shimmer of olives punctuated by the deep green of cypresses standing like tall sentinels, and she could see amongst them the paler line of a track going down towards the sea.
The air was warm, and heavy with the scent of flowers and the hum of insects. Slowly, Flora felt herself begin to relax.
When you’re out of your depth—float, she told herself.
So when Marco came to stand behind her, and slid his arms round her waist, she leaned back in his embrace, smiling as his lips found the leaping pulse in her throat.
‘Do you think you can like it here?’ he whispered against her ear.
‘It’s really heaven on earth,’ Flora returned softly. ‘How can you bear to be away from it?’
‘We all have work—other duties.’ He paused. ‘Sometimes they take us to places where we would rather not be.’
She pointed. ‘Is that the path you used to take to the beach—you and Vittoria?’
‘You remember that?’ He sounded faintly surprised.
‘Of course.’ I remember, she thought, every word you’ve ever said to me. ‘Will you show it to me?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you everywhere and everything. But later, mia cara.’ His hands lifted, cupping her breasts. ‘At the moment I have—other priorities.’
He drew her back into the shaded quiet of the room and she went unresistingly, raising her mouth to his.
As their lips met everything changed. Suddenly his kiss was a hunger—the fierce, driving need of a starving man. Gasping, Flora responded, her senses going wild under the onslaught.
They swayed together, as if caught in a storm wind. She felt his hands seeking her, running over her breasts, hips and thighs with a kind of desperation through the thin layer of clothing as his kiss deepened almost savagely.
At last he lifted his head, staring down into her flushed face, his eyes glittering like emeralds.
She heard herself say his name on a husky, aching sigh of pure longing.
Roughly Marco pushed the jacket from her shoulders, tugged at the zip of her skirt, dragging the loosened cloth down over her hips, lifting her free of it.
There was no sound in the room but the hoarse raggedness of their breathing and the rustle of clothing ruthlessly pulled apart and discarded.
Marco sank down to the floor, taking her with him. As he moved over her, her body opened for him in a demand as fierce as his own.
It was not a gentle mating. Their mutual desire was too wild—too urgent for that. Their hands and mouths clung, tore, ravaged, as their bodies fought their way to the waiting glory.
It was upon them almost before they knew it. Flora cried out half in exhilaration, half in fear as she felt herself wrenched apart in a pleasure so dark and soaring that she thought she might die.
Almost fainting, she heard Marco crying out in an anguish of delight as he reached his own climax.
Afterwards she lay, supine, feeling the beloved weight of his head on her breasts, his arm across her body, his hand curved possessively round her hip. Lay very still, incapable of movement, speech or e
ven thought.
Eventually it was Marco who stirred first. He raised himself and looked down at her, a sheen of moisture still clinging to his skin, his eyes remorseful.
‘Did I hurt you?’ he whispered. ‘Tell me the truth, my sweet one, my heart.’
She smiled up at him, slowly, languorously, her lashes veiling her eyes. ‘I don’t remember,’ she told him softly, her arms lifting to draw him down again. ‘And I certainly don’t care,’ she added as her lips parted for his kiss.
After a while she said, ‘Won’t everyone be wondering where we are?’
‘They are not paid to wonder,’ Marco said lazily, his hand stroking her arm.
She gasped. ‘Aren’t you the autocrat? You just take all this for granted—don’t you?’
‘No, mia bella. I take nothing for granted. But I agree we cannot spend the rest of our lives here on the floor.’ He got to his feet, pulling her up with him. ‘We’ll take a shower, then I’ll show you the way down to the beach.’
‘What about our clothes?’ Flora looked with dismay at the crumpled garments strewn across the carpet.
‘Leave them. They will be attended to.’ Marco swept her briskly into the bathroom.
It seemed strange to share the shower with him. To see her toiletries set out on the marble top beside his. To know that her clothes were hanging beside his and laid away in drawers in his dressing room.
She had never known this level of intimacy with anyone before, she realised blankly.
Even when she’d shared a flat with two other girls she’d had her own room. Up to now she’d kept her space inviolate—in more ways than one, she thought wryly, remembering the pristine white bedroom in London.
And then Marco had invaded her life, overturning all the careful structures and beliefs that she’d built up. Taking her to another dimension. But only on a temporary basis, she reminded herself, pulling on a black bikini and covering it with a black and white voile shirt.
And, she thought, thrusting sun oil and dark glasses into her pale straw shoulder bag, she must never let herself forget that.
The grounds of the castello were a riot of blossom. As they made their way down the path Flora was assailed by scent and colour on all sides. Roses hung in a lovely tangle over stone walls and the stumps of trees, studded by the paler shades of camellias. Terracotta urns, heavy with pelargoniums, marked each bend in the track, which occasionally became shallow stone steps.