Sara Craven Tribute Collection

Clare swallowed. ‘Yes—I—everything…’ she managed.

She couldn’t imagine what he must be thinking, finding her sprawled across a probably priceless bedspread like this.

He walked slowly across the room and stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at her, smiling faintly. ‘You like the bed.’

It was a statement rather than a question, and Clare nodded mutely.

‘This was the room my mother used when she came to stay here before her marriage, while my father was paying court to her.’ His voice was almost meditative. ‘It was considered to be a safe distance from his room, on the other side of the gallery, and besides, her mother was next door.

‘But I have often wondered if, during the long, hot Umbrian afternoons, love did not sometimes find a way.

‘It is, after all, a serious temptation to find yourself under the same roof as the one you desire—don’t you think, Chiara?’

‘I—I don’t know.’ Her mouth was dry, but her body was suddenly melting, stirred into arousal by the images he had created.

She could feel a trickle of sweat running down the valley between her breasts, as her nipples swelled uncontrollably into hard peaks against the clinging fabric of her top. The damp, potent heat between her thighs seemed to be spreading through her entire being, engulfing her. Prompting her to madness. To ruin.

Because some secret, atavistic wisdom was telling her that all she had to do was reach out a hand to him—draw him down beside her—and her body would be his.

She knew it as surely as she knew she must draw air into her lungs to breathe.

And, for a few, brief honeyed moments, he would belong to her, too. But only in the most basic, physical sense. There could never be any more to it than that.

Whereas she was offering him her heart and soul. The year’s most unwanted gift, she realised with sudden, savage anguish.

And only she would ever know how close she had come to betraying her own pride and self-respect.

From somewhere, she found a voice. Cool, calm and almost collected. A stranger’s. ‘Those were other times, signore. And other people. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to unpack. Would you tell Paola that I’ll join her in a minute?’

There was a silence, then he said quietly, ‘It will be my pleasure.’

She did not watch him walk away. And she sensed rather than heard the door close behind him.

And even when she knew she was alone she did not move, but stayed where she was, crouched tensely on the bed, her arms wrapped round her body. As if remaining quiet and still would somehow shield her from disaster. From the danger she’d sensed in the first moment she saw him. The danger of total self-betrayal.

She said with a new and passionate intensity, ‘I shall indeed have to be careful. Very careful.’

And shivered.

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_85cdb125-31f9-5c37-9bd8-521b360eae80)

SHE could not, of course, stay where she was, hiding in her room, however much she might want to.

Out of the confusion of her thoughts, that much at least was plain.

Because to skulk ignominiously upstairs would be a complete give-away. An acknowledgement that he had got to her. Penetrated the guard she had thought virtually indestructible. Set her emotions in turmoil. And she could not allow him such a victory.

He had chosen Paola and he intended to marry her, and that was it. That was everything. Anything else was game-playing, probably because he was bored with his tepid courtship.

So, she had to fight him—but not by meeting fire with fire. She could see what a perilous course that might be. No, her best—her safest bet was a war of attrition. Following her own rules of play instead of being beguiled by his. Demonstrating politely, even smilingly, that she was totally indifferent to his lethal charm. That he couldn’t reach her any more.

It might take time, but he would eventually get the message. He was an experienced, sophisticated man. A one-sided contest would soon hold little interest for him.

And for her, the real struggle would be with herself, she acknowledged painfully. Forcing herself to control her vulnerable senses—to subdue every female instinct she possessed.

And somehow she had to begin now. She had to walk down that imposing staircase and join Guido Bartaldi and his family in the dining room for breakfast, and it would require every shred of composure in her being.

She dived into her travel bag and extracted a dress, straight-cut and businesslike in navy, with short sleeves and a discreetly rounded neck, adding low-heeled navy sandals. She brushed her hair back severely from her face, and confined it at the nape of her neck with a tortoiseshell barrette.

That was better, she thought, viewing herself critically in one of the full-length mirrors. She looked quiet and professional, and that was the image she needed to put over. It was an armour that had served her well in the past.

She drew a deep, steadying breath, then started downstairs. Matteo was waiting in the hall to conduct her to the dining room.

‘Grazie.’ She returned his smile. ‘So many doors.’

‘You will soon become accustomed, signorina.’ He nodded. ‘Si, very soon you will be quite at home.’

Which was the last thing she wanted to hear.

But it helped that the dining room seemed full of people as he showed her in. She was able to smile round and return the polite chorus of ‘Buongiornos’ which greeted her, and pretend to be unconscious of the tall figure standing by the window at the end of the room.

‘So there you are. What an age you have been.’ Paola came over to her, slipping an arm through hers. ‘Everyone is waiting to meet you.’ She led Clare over to the handsome older man she’d glimpsed outside the Villa Rosa. ‘This is Guido’s uncle, the Conte di Mantelli. May I present Chiara Marriot, who is to be my companion?’

‘It is a pleasure, signorina. And one too long delayed.’ The Count’s handshake was firm, and his face kind. ‘But I have heard a great deal about you, of course.’

‘I can’t think that the Marchese can have found to say. After all, we hardly know each other.’ Clare’s tone was repressive, and he looked surprised.

‘Guido? But I was referring to your godmother, the Signora Andreati. She has been my informant.’

‘Oh,’ Clare said in a hollow voice. ‘I see.’

Well done, she berated herself silently. An own goal in the first minute.

She was horribly aware that Guido had heard every word of the little exchange, and was looking frankly amused.

She turned with something like relief to meet Tonio Lerucci, introduced by Paola with a casualness that bordered on rudeness.

He was younger than she’d imagined, and of medium height, with a charming smile that lit his dark monkey face.

‘It is good to meet you, signorina. Let me get you some coffee.’

She thanked him, chatting lightly while she filled a plate from the display of cold meat, sausage and cheese on the massive sideboard, and took a hot roll from a covered basket proffered by a maid.

Guido had taken his seat at the head of the table, so she contrived to manouevre herself into a chair at the other end, finding herself next to the Count.

‘So, signorina, what do you think of the Villa Minerva? Or is it too early to make a judgement?’

‘By no means. I think it’s—beautiful.’ She glanced up at the exquisitely painted ceiling. ‘That must be very old.’