The Forced Marriage

‘Well?’ Marco Valante had stationed himself at the window, leaning against its frame. So how was it that everywhere she looked he seemed to be in her sightline? she wondered despairingly.

The image of him seemed scored into her consciousness—the casual untidiness of his raven hair, the faint line of stubble along his jaw, the close-fitting dark pants that accentuated his lean hips and long legs, the collarless white shirt left unbuttoned at the throat, exposing a deep triangle of smooth, tanned skin…

For a stunned moment she found herself wondering what that skin would feel like under her fingertips—her mouth…

Her mind closed in shock, and she hurried into speech. ‘The room is truly lovely. I can’t fault your cousin’s taste—or her presentation.’ She hesitated. ‘Although I wonder if it isn’t a touch—over-feminine?’

‘That is entirely the view of her husband,’ Marco acknowledged, his mouth twisting. ‘He has stipulated for the new house—no more pink.’

‘But it’s difficult to know what to suggest without seeing the room in Brussels.’ Her brow wrinkled. ‘It may face in a different direction…’

‘No. Vittoria says it is also south-facing, and very light.’

‘In that case…’ Flora gave her surroundings another considering look. ‘There’s a wonderful shade of pale blue-green, called Seascape, that comes in a watered silk paper. I’ve always felt that waking in sunlight with that on the walls would be like finding yourself floating in the Mediterranean. But your cousin may not want that.’

‘On the contrary, I think it would revive for her some happy memories,’ Marco returned. ‘When we were children we used to stay at my grandfather’s house in summer. He had this old castello on a cliff above the sea, and we would walk down to the cove each day between the cypress trees.’

‘It sounds—idyllic.’

‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘A more innocent world.’ He paused. ‘Have you ever visited my country?’

‘Not yet.’ Flora lifted her chin. ‘But I’m hoping to go there on my honeymoon, if I can persuade my fiancé.’

‘He doesn’t like Italy?’ The green eyes were meditative as they rested on her.

‘I don’t think he’s ever been either. But he was in the Bahamas earlier this year, and that’s where he wants to return.’ She smiled. ‘Apparently there’s this tiny unspoiled island called Coconut Cay, where pelicans come to feed. One of the local boatmen takes you there early in the morning with a food hamper and returns at sunset to collect you. Often you have the whole place entirely to yourself.’

There was a silence, then he said expressionlessly, ‘It must have happy memories for him.’

‘Yes—but I’d rather go to a place where we can create memories together, especially for our honeymoon. We can go to the Bahamas another time.’

‘Of course.’ He glanced at his watch, clearly bored by her marital plans—which was exactly what she’d intended, she told herself.

‘You will make out a written report of your recommendations for Vittoria? With a note of your fee?’

‘I’d prefer it if you simply passed on what I’ve said.’ Flora lifted her chin. Met his glance. ‘Treat it as cancelling all debts between us.’

‘As you wish,’ he said courteously.

It wasn’t what she’d expected, Flora thought as she trailed downstairs. She’d anticipated some kind of argument, or one of his smiling, edged remarks at the very least.

He’d clearly become bored with whatever game he’d been playing, she told herself, and that had to be all to the good.

She’d intended to continue down the stairs and out of the front door without a backward glance, but Malinda was coming up, carrying an ice bucket, and somehow Flora found herself back in the drawing room.

‘Champagne?’ Marco removed the cork with swift expertise.

‘I really should be going.’ Reluctantly she accepted the chilled flute and sat on the edge of a sofa, watching uneasily as the maid adjusted the angle of a plate of canapés on a side table and then withdrew, leaving them alone together. ‘Are you celebrating something?’

‘Of course. That I am with you again.’ He raised his own flute. ‘Salute.’

He was lounging on the arm of the sofa opposite, but she wasn’t fooled. He was as relaxed as a coiled spring—or a black panther with its victim in sight…

The bubbles soothed the sudden dryness of her throat. ‘Even if you had to trick me into being here?’

‘You didn’t meet me for dinner the other night.’ Marco shrugged. ‘What choice did I have?’

‘You could have left me in peace,’ she said in a low voice.

‘There is no peace,’ he said with sudden roughness. ‘There has not been one hour of one day since our meeting that I have not remembered your eyes—your mouth.’

She said in a stifled tone, ‘Please—you mustn’t say these things.’

‘Why?’ he demanded with intensity. ‘Because they embarrass—offend you? Or because you have thought of me too, but you don’t want to admit it? Which is it, Flora mia?’

‘You’re not being fair…’

‘You know the saying,’ he said softly. “‘All is fair in love and war.” And if I have to fight for you, cara, I will choose my own weapons.’

‘I’m engaged,’ she said, with a kind of desperation. ‘You know that. I have a life planned, and you have no place in that.’

‘So I am barred from your future. So be it. But can you not spare me a few hours from your present—tonight?’

‘That—is impossible.’

‘You are seeing your fidanzato this evening?’

‘Yes, of course. We have a great deal to discuss.’

‘Naturally,’ he said softly. ‘And have you told him about me?’

‘There was,’ she said, steadying her voice, ‘nothing to tell.’

He raised his brows. ‘He would not be interested to learn that another man knows the taste of his woman—the scent of her skin when she is roused by desire?’

‘That’s enough.’ Flora got up clumsily, spilling champagne on her skirt. ‘You have no right to speak to me like this.’

He didn’t move, staring at her through half-closed eyes. She felt his gaze touch her mouth like a brand. Scorch through her clothes to her bare flesh.

He said quietly, ‘Then give me the right. Have dinner with me tonight.’

‘I—can’t…’ Her voice sounded small and hoarse.

‘How strange you are,’ he said. ‘So confident in your work. Yet so scared to live.’

‘That’s not true…’ The protest sounded weak even in her own ears.

‘Then prove it.’ The challenge was immediate. ‘The day we met I wrote the name of a restaurant on a piece of paper.’