Sara Craven Tribute Collection

‘Why not?’ He shrugged. ‘I have to return there, and you need to escape. It solves several problems.’

And creates a hundred others. She thought it, but did not say it.

‘Won’t your family—your friends—find it—odd?’

‘Why should they? I shall take you to the castello. I often have friends staying with me there.’

In translation, the castello was where he took his women, she told herself with a pang. She would be just another in a long line.

She ought to apply some belated common sense and return a polite but firm refusal, and she knew it. But he was leaving soon, and she wasn’t sure that she could bear knowing this was the last time she would be in his arms, breathing the warm masculine scent of him, or feeling his lips touching hers.

She thought in agony, I can’t let him go. I can’t…

She said slowly, ‘Marco—why do you want me with you?’

He put his lips to the agitated pulse in her throat. ‘You have a short memory, mia cara.’ The smile was back in his voice. That husky, sensuous note which sent her blood racing. ‘Do you really not know?’

It was the answer she’d expected, so there was no point in regret or recrimination.

Heaven, she thought. Hell—and now heartbreak. Stark and inevitable, whether she stayed or went. But at least he would be hers—for a little while longer.

On a little whisper, she said, ‘Do you think this is wise?’

‘Ah, mia bella.’ There was an odd note in his voice that was almost like sadness. ‘I think it is too late for wisdom.’

‘Yes,’ she said, sighing. ‘Perhaps so.’ She tried to smile. ‘In that case the answer’s yes. I—I’ll go with you, Marco.’

He took her hand and kissed it, then laid it against his cheek, his eyes closed, his face wrenched suddenly by some emotion that she did not understand.

But instinct told her it had nothing to do with happiness.

And she thought, Heaven help us both.

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_fc843567-0885-500a-b365-e7fbb8e68a65)

THEY flew to Italy three days later.

Flora had hardly had time to draw breath, let alone seriously question what she was doing.

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.’