Wed To The Italian: Bartaldi's Bride / Rome's Revenge / The Forced Marriage

She sat up, pushing her disheveled hair back from her face, still slightly dazed from sleep, narrowing her eyes against the strength of the noonday sun as she reached for the pitcher.

And halted, hand outstretched, instinct telling her that the silence had changed in some way. That it contained another element.

Slowly, almost warily, she looked round, and felt the breath catch in her throat.

Guido Bartaldi was sitting about a couple of yards away from her, very much at ease in a cushioned chair. Long brown legs were revealed by brief navy shorts, and his bare feet were thrust into leather sandals, while a cream polo shirt set off tanned forearms and gave a glimpse of the shadowing of dark hair on his chest. His face was expressionless, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses as he surveyed her.

For a moment she was motionless, turned to stone, then she remembered just what he was seeing, and with a choking cry snatched up the towel from beside the lounger and huddled it protectively over her bare breasts.

‘How the hell did you get in here?’ Her voice rasped in shock. Embarrassed colour was flooding her face.

His brows lifted. ‘I rang the bell at the entrance, and was admitted like anyone else.’ He pointed at the pitcher of juice. ‘The housekeeper was about to bring you a cold drink, so I volunteered my services instead. Is there a problem?’

‘Oh, none at all,’ Clare said savagely. ‘Tell me, does the phrase “Peeping Tom” mean anything to you?’

‘Clearly not as much as it does to you,’ he murmured.

Clare lifted her chin. ‘Tell me something else, signore,’ she invited dangerously. ‘How much longer do you intend to maintain this—persecution?’

‘I am sorry that you regard my visits in that light.’ His own voice was deceptively mild. ‘I am merely anxious to assure myself that you are fully restored to health.’

There were a number of succinct and very rude responses to that, Clare thought, smouldering. But uttering any of them would do her no lasting good.

Instead, ‘I am well, as you see, signore,’ she returned coolly. ‘If that’s all you wanted to know, I’d be glad to have my privacy restored.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘That is not my sole reason for being here. In fact, I came to offer you a job.’

‘A job?’ she echoed in total disbelief. ‘You want me to work for you?’

‘Not directly.’ He paused. ‘I believe Paola told you she had an older woman as a companion?’

‘Yes.’ Clare’s brows drew together. ‘What of it?’

He said curtly, ‘The signora is no longer part of my household. It was foolish to think that a woman of her age and outlook could reach any kind of rapport with a girl of Paola’s temperament. She was not even a successful jailer.’

Clare realised that her towel was slipping and retrieved it hurriedly. She said, ‘and that’s what you’re looking for? A better jailer?’

‘No, no.’ Guido Bartaldi made a dismissive gesture. ‘That would be futile, even degrading. No, I want a companion for Paola that she can like and trust. Someone she can confide in.’ He looked at her unsmilingly, and she wished she could see what was in his eyes. ‘She talked to you. You seem the obvious choice.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Clare shook her head vigorously. ‘Apart from anything else, I’m a language teacher, not a chaperon.’

‘That is all to the good. I have an international business. I travel extensively.’ He paused. ‘My wife will need to be fluent in other languages than her own.’

Clare tried to collect her flurried thoughts. ‘You want me to teach Paola English?’ She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation. That he had the unadulterated nerve—the sheer arrogance—to make such a request of her.

‘Together with some French.’ He nodded, almost casually. ‘I presume you are capable of this?’

She said between her teeth, ‘Capable, yes. Willing, no.’

‘I see. Have your recent experiences given you a distaste for Paola’s company?’

‘Paola,’ she said, ‘is not my main consideration.’

He said quietly, ‘Then may I ask that she becomes so? She—needs you.’

Her lips parted in a gasp of astonishment. She said, ‘Oh, this is ridiculous.’

‘What is so laughable?’

‘The entire situation.’ She looked down at the towel she was clutching. ‘And this in particular.’

She lay down again, gingerly tugging the towel from beneath her and discarding it. She fitted her bikini top into place, and held it with one hand while she reached behind her back with the other to secure the little metal clip. But, however she struggled, it evaded her best efforts and remained determinedly undone.

‘Allow me.’ There was a ghost of laughter in his voice as he rose unhurriedly to his feet.

‘I can manage,’ she said with breathless haste, aware that she was blushing again.

Guido Bartaldi clicked his tongue reprovingly as he strolled to her side. ‘You must learn not to fib, Chiara.’

Clare tensed uncontrollably as he bent over her, expecting to feel the brush of his fingers against her skin. Terrified at her own possible reaction.

But his fingers were brisk, almost clinical, as he dealt with the fastening, and stood up.

‘Relax,’ he advised. ‘Your ordeal is at an end.’

‘Thank you,’ Clare said in a wooden voice, and he laughed openly as he returned to his chair.

‘Do not strain civility too far, mia bella. You’d like to tell me to go to hell.’

She had to fight hard not to smile. ‘That’s the least of it, signore.’

‘But, just the same,’ he said. ‘I would like you to consider my offer of employment.’

Clare looked back at him in silence, then swung herself off the lounger, picked up her wrap, slid her arms into the sleeves and tied the sash tightly round her waist, with ostentatious care.

‘I think,’ he said, ‘that you are making some point.’

‘How clever of you to notice.’

‘It was not particularly difficult. Has anyone ever told you, Chiara, that subtlety is not your chief asset?’ He crossed his legs. ‘I infer you think you might find yourself in some kind of danger under my roof.’

‘You’re implying that I’m not?’ She didn’t disguise the scepticism in her voice, or in the look she sent him. ‘You may not lack subtlety yourself, signore, but some of your behaviour towards me could be described as sexual harassment.’

‘How clever of you to notice.’ A smile played round the corners of his mouth. ‘But you would have nothing further to fear on that score. Entering my household would act as an immediate safeguard. I am not in the habit of—harassing my employees.’

‘That’s reassuring,’ she said. ‘But I’m still not tempted.’

‘You have not asked how much I would be prepared to pay to secure your services.’