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

‘It is not easy to consult you,’ he said, ‘when you insist on being so determinedly asleep so much of the time.’ He paused. ‘Your godmother thought it was a good idea, when I spoke to her last night, and was happy to hand over the documentation and the keys.’

‘Quite a little conspiracy,’ Clare said icily. She realised now what had woken her. The sound of the Fiat being removed. ‘I wasn’t aware that hire companies started their activities at dawn.’

‘They don’t. But my associates do, when necessary.’ He let her digest this, then went on smoothly, ‘Now, shall we drop the subject, or continue this argument on the journey? The choice is yours.’

‘Really?’ Clare queried bitterly. ‘It seems to me that all my choices have been pre-empted.’

He laughed. ‘Not all of them, cara. Just those that would not be to your advantage—or mine.’

Clare stood her ground. ‘I haven’t said goodbye to my godmother yet.’

‘I did not realise you had planned to,’ he murmured, his mouth twisting. ‘As it is, she asked last night not to be disturbed, and said she would see you very soon.’ The dark eyes met hers. Held them. ‘Is there another problem, or may we begin our drive?’

Now, if ever, was the moment to tell him she’d changed her mind. That she had no intention of going anywhere with him. This was her chance to go back into the house, shut herself into her room, and tell Angelina that she did not wish to meet the Marchese Bartaldi again while she was under Violetta’s roof.

But the words wouldn’t come. Not when he was—looking at her. Making her look back at him.

Making her realise that there was no escape. Because Fate had intervened, and the die had been cast for her.

She thought, with a kind of frantic calm, It’s too late. It’s all far too late—and—somehow—it always has been.

And walked slowly down the steps to the waiting car.

‘You are very quiet.’

Clare, who’d been sitting, staring rigidly through the windscreen, her hands gripped together in her lap for the first fifteen minutes of the journey, started slightly as Guido spoke.

‘I think “stunned” would be a more apposite word,’ she returned constrainedly.

‘Are you a nervous passenger? Am I going too fast for you?’

Now there, thought Clare, was a loaded question.

Aloud she said, coolly, ‘I’m not nervous. As I’m sure you already know, Marchese, you’re a very good driver.’

The road they were taking twisted and twined between tall, heavily forested hills, but she’d been aware from the first that the car’s power was being tightly, even ruthlessly controlled.

As he controls everything else, she thought tautly.

And she was deeply conscious, too, of Guido Bartaldi’s own physical proximity to her in the comparatively confined conditions of the vehicle. Watching his hand change gear only inches from her thigh. The play of muscle in his forearms as he turned the wheel.

Each slight action or reaction made its own individual impact on her senses.

It was an effort to breathe normally, she realised, swallowing. To ignore the heightened pulsing of her bloodstream. Her whole body’s tense response to his nearness.

He shot a glance at her. ‘Then perhaps you’re sulking because I whisked you away with me.’

She gasped indignantly. ‘I don’t sulk. But are you quite so high-handed with all your staff?’

‘I don’t know.’ There was a note of amusement in his voice. ‘And I am also the wrong person to ask. Maybe you should consult them.’

He paused. ‘But I should make one thing clear, Chiara. I do not regard you simply as a member of staff.’

She stiffened. Her swift sideways glance was wary. ‘I don’t understand. You asked me to work for you. That was the deal.’

‘Si,’ he agreed. ‘But I would much prefer you to work with me—as a colleague. Even a friend.’

Pain lanced through her. ‘That—can’t happen.’

‘Why not? After all, while you live under my roof, cara mia, you will be almost a member of the family.’

‘You’re paying me a salary, signore. In my book that makes me an employee—and I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ she added with emphasis, then hesitated. ‘And while we’re discussing preferences, I’d rather you didn’t use—endearments when you speak to me. I feel it’s—inappropriate.’

There was a silence, then, ‘So what do you wish to be called?’

She bit her lip. ‘I—I don’t know. How did you address Paola’s previous companion?’

‘As “signora”,’ he said gravely.

‘Then maybe we should be equally formal.’

‘The two cases are hardly the same. The Signora was a much older woman. And she did not have hair like sunlight and a honey mouth. You see the difficulty?’

‘If you persist with remarks like that, signore,’ Clare said coldly, ‘working for you will not just be difficult—but impossible. Maybe you should stop the car right here and now.’

‘Per Dio,’ he said. ‘So I am forbidden even the mildest flirtation?’

‘By no means,’ Clare returned primly, furiously aware that he was laughing at her. ‘Just as long as it’s directed at Paola.’

‘How dull,’ he murmured.

Clare swallowed. ‘If that’s how you feel, maybe you should think again about being married. It seems to me that you’re heading for disaster.’

‘And it seems to me,’ he said, ‘that you are very candid—for an employee.’ He allowed the point to register, then continued smoothly. ‘But put your mind at rest. I promise I am becoming more reconciled to my fate with every day that passes.’

‘But yours isn’t the only point of view that counts. Can you honestly say the same for Paola?’

He shrugged. ‘That is for you to find out.’

‘And if I can’t do what you want?’ she said slowly. ‘If she won’t accept this marriage—what then?’

He laughed. ‘I have infinite faith in your powers of persuasion, mia bella. Besides,’ he added, his voice hardening slightly, ‘you must see that Paola needs to be married. There are no other options open to her. She is not trained for a career, although she has spoken vaguely of modelling, and she has no qualifications. At school, she was regarded as a charming feather-brain.’

‘Maybe she’d be very good at modeling,’ Clare suggested, without much hope.

‘She has the looks,’ he agreed. ‘But no discipline. A life that required her to get out of bed before midday would have little appeal. I doubt she has the stamina either. It is a physically taxing existence.’

Clare bit her lip. ‘Poor Paola.’