by Sara Craven
She toured the gardens with Paola, turning a partially deaf ear to the torrent of half-formed and generally unworkable plans for her future that the younger girl assailed her with.
The villa’s grounds were extensive and immaculately kept, and Clare, who loved plants, and had always worked alongside her father in their own garden, would have liked to have absorbed it all in peace.
But, as this was clearly impossible, every so often she tried to introduce a note of sceptical and practical reality by asking what Fabio did for a living, where they would live after they were married, and how their bills would be paid. But Paola was inclined to dismiss all that as irrelevant.
‘All that matters,’ she declared passionately, ‘is our love for each other. And, besides, I shall have money when I’m older. I shall just have to make Guido give some of it to me now.’
Clare raised her brows. ‘After you’ve made a fool of him by running off with Fabio?’ She shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t count on it.’
‘Ah,’ Paola said triumphantly. ‘But he will not wish it to be known that I have fooled him. Therefore, for the sake of his pride, he will do what I want, so that people will think he does not care.’
In which there was a certain twisted logic, Clare was forced to admit.
She said, ‘Well, I hope everything works out for the best. Now, can you tell me the names of these flowers in English?’
But this Paola could not do, cheerfully admitting she didn’t know what they were called in Italian either.
‘Instead, we will go down to the pool and swim a little,’ she announced.
‘Paola, I’m here to work, not vacation.’
Paola pouted. ‘But this is only the first day. And Guido will not know. He and Tonio will be shut up in his study all morning, talking about farms and vineyards and the olive crop. All we need to do is avoid Zio Cesare, who is boring.’
‘He’s nothing of the sort,’ Clare said roundly. ‘I was fascinated by what he was telling me about the villa.’
Paola gave her a stare of sheer incredulity. ‘Chiara—you like to hear about Etruscans—and architecture—and the school of Raphael?’ She flung her hands in the air. ‘Then there is no hope for you.’
‘No,’ Clare agreed quietly. ‘I don’t suppose there is.’
In the event, they had the pool entirely to themselves. Clare was about to go back to the house to get her swimsuit, but Paola directed her to the stone-built cabins, on a cypress-sheltered terrace overlooking the water, which served as showers and changing rooms, and told her that there was always a supply of spare swimsuits and towels for guests.
Most of those on offer seemed to be bikinis considerably briefer than her own, so Clare opted for a one-piece in a deep bronze colour.
It wasn’t really suitable either, she thought grimly, being cut far too high in the leg and low in the neck, and fitting her like a second skin to boot.
Paola, she discovered, had simply discarded the cotton shift she’d been wearing to reveal a costume that consisted of a black thong and two minute circles of material that barely covered her nipples.
Really, Clare thought wearily, it hardly seemed worth the effort.
But the pool itself was wonderful, a great oval of gleaming turquoise water surrounded by tiled sunbathing terraces.
She walked to the edge and submerged a foot gingerly. The water felt terrific—cool, but refreshing. She poised herself, then dived in, swiftly and cleanly, completing three lengths without pausing.
‘You are crazy,’ Paola told her severely, as Clare hauled herself out on to the side and wrung the water from her hair. ‘Such exercise cannot be good. You will develop big muscles—like a man.’
Clare grinned. ‘I’ll take that chance.’ She towelled herself down, then stretched out on an adjacent lounger to Paola’s.
The morning was still, and would soon be very hot. After a few desultory remarks about her longing to hear from Fabio again, Paola drifted into silence, and then into a light doze.
But Clare had her thoughts to keep her awake. She was beginning to think she had bitten off more than she could chew where Paola was concerned. Perhaps it would have been wiser simply to tell Guido Bartaldi that, in spite of everything, his future wife was still planning to elope with her fortune-hunter, and let him deal with the situation in his own way.
If he fully appreciated Paola’s determination to be rid of him, he might even abandon the whole idea of marrying her. Or it might make him equally determined to win her over.
He wasn’t a man to easily surrender his own will, and his mind was set on Paola.
She sighed, and sat up restlessly, swinging her legs off the lounger. She was in no mood to lie around brooding.
She said softly, ‘Paola? I’m going up to the house to unpack, and make some notes about the lessons. I’ll see you at lunch.’
The only reply was a sleepy murmur which might have meant anything.
Draping her towel round her shoulders, Clare walked up the stone steps between the banks of shrubs towards the changing cabin.
The air was full of scent, and busy with the hum of insects. She drew a deep breath, and became suddenly aware of another less agreeable aroma.
Somewhere in the vicinity someone was smoking a cigarette.
Frowning, she glanced along the row of cypresses, and saw a young man standing between them, leaning on a hoe, the offending cigarette between faintly smiling lips as he stared down at the pool area. Wearing earth-stained jeans, and bare-chested, he was good-looking in an obvious way, and, if Clare was any judge, perfectly aware of his own attractions.
One of the gardeners, she thought, biting her lip, taking a sly look at Paola sunbathing, and so engrossed he hadn’t heard her approach.
She said in icy Italian, ‘Have you no work to do?’
He started, and turned to look at her. ‘I’m sorry, signorina.’ His tone was polite, even ingratiating, but his eyes were insolent, sliding swiftly and appraisingly over her body, making her regret even more the revealing nature of her swimsuit. ‘I am having my break. I did not realise there was anyone at the pool.’
Clare lifted her chin, giving him a sceptical look. ‘Well, now that you know, go and have your break somewhere else,’ she said crisply.
‘Si, signorina. At once. Naturally. Forgive me. I have not worked here very long, and I did not understand… I—I need this job, signorina. I am Marco’s cousin. He spoke for me to Signor Lerucci.’
Clare didn’t want to hear any more. Pulling the towel more tightly round her shoulders, she started up the steps again. Then paused, as she was struck by the sudden conviction that, despite his grovelling protestations, he was still standing there, laughing at her behind her back. She swung round to challenge him, but apart from the discarded cigarette, burning on the ground, there was no sign of him.
She thought, good riddance, and went on up to the cabin.
At some point, she thought, stepping under the shower, she would have a word with Tonio Lerucci about this Marco’s precious cousin.
She peeled off the borrowed swimsuit, and wrapped another towel around her, sarong-style, as she went to her cubicle to dress.
Only to realise when she got in there that she’d made a mistake somehow. Because the dress hanging from the peg bore no resemblance to her navy linen camouflage.
Except that it was also blue, a vibrant shade, like lapis lazuli, with the added sheen of silk.
She was about to go and search the other cubicles when she realised that the pile of neatly folded underwear on the stool in the corner was certainly hers. And at the same moment she saw that the strange dress had a piece of paper pinned to its filmy drift of skirt.
She detached it, and, lips compressed, read the message.
‘Forgive me,’ it ran, ‘but it is clearly time the navy dress was consigned to a well-deserved oblivion. I hope its replacement will give you pleasure.’ No signature, but the initials ‘G.B.’—just in case she was in the slightest doubt
over who was responsible for this—this outrage.
She said aloud, her voice shaking, ‘How dare he? How dare he do this—presume to criticise me?’
She dismissed from her mind the fact that the navy dress had been the one she liked least in her entire wardrobe, and that she’d chosen to wear it solely as a gesture.
And she ignored the sly voice in her head reminding her that all the Marchese had done was recognise what she was up to and respond with his own telling form of provocation.
‘He has no right,’ she stormed on. ‘I’m damned if I’ll wear his bloody dress. I’ll see him in hell before…’
And stopped right there, as she realised the other options open to her. She could either climb back into that damp and clammy swimsuit, or walk around in her undies. And neither alternative held any appeal for her.
On the other hand, Guido Bartaldi could not be allowed to get away with this high-handed behaviour.
Reluctantly, Clare donned her underwear, and slid the new dress over her head. She was half hoping it wouldn’t fit, although that would mean having to wear her towel back to the house.
But of course it moulded itself to her slender curves perfectly, the low, rounded neckline giving just a hint of the swell of her breasts and the folds of the skirt whispering silkily around her slim legs. The colour looked good on her too, she admitted grudgingly.
But somehow that made everything worse—implying that he had some in-built intimate knowledge of her—her size, her shape, even her skin tones.
She found she was shivering, and shook herself impatiently. She needed to march into this confrontation, not hang back, trembling.
But when she got back to the villa, she was halted in her tracks by the realisation that she had no idea where Guido was. And there was no kindly major-domo waiting to point the way, either.
As she stood, debating her next move, a door to the rear of the massive hallway opened and Tonio Lerucci appeared. He did not see Clare at once, because he was still looking back over his shoulder into the room he’d just vacated, and apparently finishing a conversation with its occupant.
When he turned, his brows lifted in an open surprise. ‘Signorina Marriot?’ He laughed. ‘Forgive me. Almost I did not recognise you.’
Clare smiled sweetly back. ‘Don’t worry about it, signore. Sometimes I hardly know myself.’ She paused. ‘Is our lord and master alone? I’d like to speak to him.’
‘It will be his pleasure, signorina,’ Tonio returned gallantly.
Don’t count on it, thought Clare, briskly obeying his polite indication that she should walk past him into the study.
It was a large book-lined room, and rather dark, the low ornamental ceiling of moulded plaster supported on stone pillars. But its traditional formality was offset by the French doors standing open to the sunlit garden beyond, and the very modern desk with its bank of computer equipment. And, not least, by Guido Bartaldi, totally casual in shorts and an unbuttoned shirt in thin cotton, who was perched on the edge of the desk, long legs much in evidence, as he studied the information on the screen in front of him.
As she closed the door behind her, Clare said clearly and coldly, ‘I’d like a word with you, signore.’
‘But not a pleasant one, it seems.’ He lifted his head and subjected her to a long stare which held a measure of frank appreciation. ‘I thought perhaps you had come to thank me.’
‘To thank you?’ Her voice rose sightly. ‘For what? For insulting me?’
‘In what way?’
‘You know perfectly well.’ She took a fold of the dress between thumb and forefinger and held it out with distaste. ‘With—this.’
‘I am sorry you don’t like it,’ he said, after a pause. ‘But we can always find something else. Is it the colour which offends you, or the fabric?’
‘Neither.’ Clare bit down hard on her lip. ‘It’s—the concept that you should buy me clothes.’
He looked surprised. ‘I supply uniforms for all the staff in this house. None of them complain.’
She gasped. ‘You call—this a uniform? You must be joking.’
‘Well, let us compromise and call it work clothing,’ he said smoothly.
Clare drew a deep breath. ‘Let us do nothing of the kind,’ she said stonily. ‘In my previous employment I’ve always worn my own clothes.’
‘And did they all resemble the garment you wore to breakfast—or was that a special choice?’
The note of amusement in his voice did nothing to improve Clare’s temper. Nor the fact that he’d seen so effortlessly through her little ploy.
She said tautly, ‘I’m sorry, naturally, if my fashion sense doesn’t meet your exacting standards, but I still prefer to wear my own things. And I’d like my navy dress back, please.’
‘Ah,’ he said, after a pause. ‘That could be a problem.’
‘I fail to see why.’
‘There are several reasons,’ Guido said calmly. ‘Firstly my uncle, who is, you understand, an art historian, and whose sense of the aesthetic was crucified this morning by your decision to shroud yourself in an ill-fitting sack. He’s no longer so young, and I must consider his feelings. You see how it is?’
‘No,’ Clare said roundly. ‘I don’t.’
‘Then there is the actual fate of the dress itself,’ he went on musingly. ‘I told Filumena, who made the substitution, to burn it. I am sure she has obeyed me by now.’
Clare stared at him. ‘You—burned my dress?’ she asked with ominous calm.
‘It seemed the easiest solution.’ He nodded. ‘Otherwise I could foresee it would continue to haunt us all during your time here.’
‘But this is an outrage.’ Her voice shook. ‘You can’t do this.’
‘Unfortunately, it is already done.’ He paused. ‘Although I cannot pretend my regrets are sincere. Not when you are standing here in front of me, wearing the replacement.’
He swung himself down from the desk. ‘Dio, Chiara.’ There was a sudden fierce, uneven note in his voice. ‘Don’t you know how beautiful you are?’
Clare looked down at the floor, detaching herself from the dark gaze consuming her, feeling her throat close.
‘You have no right to speak to me like that,’ she said quietly. ‘No right to say those things to any woman except Paola.’
‘There is no need to say it to Paola,’ he retorted harshly. ‘She is already secure in the power of her own attraction. But you, mia bella, are a different matter. And I am not blind.’
‘You promised you wouldn’t talk like this,’ she said shakily. ‘You said if I came here, I’d be safe.’
‘And so you are, Chiara.’ His voice was husky—strained. ‘Safer than you will ever know. But I never pretended it would be easy. Or that I would not be tempted.’
‘I’d better go.’ She still did not dare to look at him. ‘If I must keep this dress, signore, then I insist that you deduct its cost from my salary. No one pays for my clothes except myself.’
‘As you wish.’ The words were clipped.
‘As for Paola,’ she continued, with a kind of desperation to have the last word, and leave the confrontation on a winning note, ‘she may not be as secure as you think. You see—she knows about your lady in Siena.’
As she turned to the door, she was aware of movement behind her, then her arm was grasped and she was whirled round to face him.
‘What are you talking about?’ he demanded harshly. ‘What has she told you?’
‘Not the details.’ Clare tried unsuccessfully to free herself. ‘Just that you had another interest.’
‘And you believed her?’
‘Why not?’ she countered recklessly. ‘After all, Marchese, there hasn’t been much in your conduct so far to convince me that fidelity would ever be high on your list of priorities.’
The moment she’d said it, she was sorry. But it was too late. She saw his face darkening, the skin tautening over the elegant bone structure. Saw the cold, angry glitter in his ey
es.
There was ice in his voice. ‘If that is what you think, Chiara, then why should I hesitate any longer?’
With one swift, compelling gesture, he pulled Clare into his arms, grinding her body against his. Forcing her into sudden awareness that he was not merely angry, but strongly aroused too. The stinging heat of his need penetrated the thin layers of clothing that separated them as if they no longer existed, and Clare’s breath caught in her throat as the roughness of his chest hair grazed her breasts.
For a long moment he stared down at her, scanning her dilated eyes and vulnerable mouth, the anger and coldness fading from his face to be replaced by a gentler, almost diffident expression, while his hand slowly lifted to tangle in her still-damp blonde hair, forbidding movement, holding her captive for his kiss.
She knew that she should make some protest—some attempt, at least, to push him away—but she couldn’t do it. She was too excited by his nearness, every nerve-ending in her skin tingling in anticipation of the touch of his hands, uncovering her. Discovering her.
The whimper slowly uncoiling in her throat was one of longing, not outrage.
He bent his head, and his mouth began to touch hers, lightly, almost feverishly, his tongue flickering like flame between her parted lips.
For a brief moment Clare was passive in his arms, letting the first sharp stirrings of pleasure begin to build deep within her being.
Then, as his kiss deepened, she responded, her mouth moving on his with shy ardour, and heard him murmur quietly in satisfaction.
His fingertips were stroking the nape of her neck, under the fall of her hair, then sliding down to caress the line of her throat, the curve of her shoulder.
Her nipples ached as they pressed against the confines of her dress. Her legs felt too weak to support her, and she was trembling, melting inside, her body electric with the shock of desire.
Her hands slid inside the open edges of his shirt to find his shoulders, and cling to them as if she was drowning.
Guido tipped her back over his arm, laying a trail of kisses down her throat, then slowly brushing his lips across the first soft swell of her breasts, and a tiny sob of need rose in her throat. The beating of her heart sounded like distant thunder.