The Forced Marriage (5 page)

And of course he had seen her, so it was too late to slip away. In her heart she knew it had always been too late. That something stronger than her own will—her own reason—had brought her to him tonight.

She felt his gaze slide over her. Saw his brows lift and his mouth slant in surprise and frank pleasure as he started towards her through the laughing, chattering groups of people.

And realised, with a pang of something like fear, that, contrary to her expectations—her planned strategy—it would not be as easy as she thought to turn her back and walk away from him when the evening came to an end.

Oh, God, she thought, dry-mouthed. I’m going to have to be careful—so very careful…

‘C
IAO
.’ His smile was in his eyes as he reached her side. He took her hand and raised it to his lips in a fleeting caress. ‘You decided you could spare me a few hours of your life after all, hmm?’

She took a deep, steadying breath. ‘So it would seem,’ she returned with relative calm.

‘Your
fidanzato
must be a very tolerant man.’ His gaze travelled over her without haste, making her feel that he was aware of every detail of what she might—or might not—be wearing. Sending another flurry through her senses.

He said slowly, his lips twisting, ‘But I think he would be wiser to keep you chained to his wrist—especially when you look as you do tonight.’

He had not, she realised, relinquished his clasp on her hand, and she detached herself from him, quietly but with emphasis.

‘You gave me your word,
signore
, that I would be safe in your company,’ she reminded him, trying to speak lightly.

His brows lifted. ‘And is that why you came,
mia cara
?’ he asked softly. ‘Because you wished to feel—safe?’

She gave him a composed smile. ‘I came because the food is said to be good here, and I’m hungry.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Then I must feed you.’ He made a slight signal and Flora found herself whisked to a small table in the corner—which was somehow miraculously vacant—and supplied with a Campari soda and a menu.

Through an archway she could see tables set with immaculate white cloths and glistening with silverware and crystal, could sniff delectable odours wafting through from the kitchen.

To her own surprise she realised that her flippant remark had been no more than the truth. She was indeed hungry, and the plate of little savoury morsels placed in front of them made her mouth water in sudden greed.

‘I am to tell you that my cousin was delighted with your suggestion for her bedroom,’ Marco Valante said when they had made their choices from the menu presented by an attentive waiter and were alone again. ‘But now, of course, she has asked who makes this particular wall-covering and where it is available.’

‘Really?’ Flora, who’d been convinced that Vittoria Fairlie’s decorating problems were purely fictional, was slightly nonplussed. ‘Then I’ll send her a full written report with samples next week.’

‘She would appreciate it.’ He sent her a faint smile. ‘It is good of you to take so much trouble.’

‘I always take trouble,’ she said. She paused. ‘Even over commissions that don’t really exist.’

He said slowly, ‘I wonder if you will ever forgive me for that.’

‘Who knows?’ She shrugged. ‘And why does it matter anyway?’ She hesitated again. ‘After all, you’ll be going back to Italy quite soon—won’t you?’

‘I have fixed no time for my return.’ He smiled at her. ‘My plans are—fluid.’

‘Your boss must be exceptionally tolerant, in that case.’ She heard and hated the primness in her tone.

‘We work well together. He does not grudge me a period of relaxation.’

He was silent for a moment, and Flora, conscious that he was studying her, kept her attention fixed firmly on the rosy liquid in her glass. At the same time wondering, in spite of herself, exactly what Marco Valante did for relaxation…

He said, at last, ‘So what made you change your mind?’

She gave a slight shrug. ‘My—plans didn’t work out, that’s all.’

‘Ah,’ he said softly.

She eyed him with suspicion. ‘What does that mean?’

‘How prickly you are.’ His tone was amused. ‘Does it have to mean anything?’

She spread her hands almost helplessly. ‘How can I tell? I don’t seem to know what’s going on any more—if I ever did.’ She made herself meet his gaze directly. ‘And what I really can’t figure out is why you’re here this evening.’

‘Because it’s one of my favourite restaurants in London.’ The green eyes glinted.

‘That isn’t what I meant,’ Flora said. ‘And you know it.’ She paused. ‘Clearly you know London well, and your cousin lives here and probably leads a hectic social life. I’m sure she could introduce you to dozens of single girls.’

‘She has certainly tried on occasion,’ he agreed casually.

‘Exactly,’ Flora said with some force. ‘So why aren’t you dining with one of them instead?’

He said reflectively, ‘Perhaps,
cara
, because I prefer to do my own—hunting.’

She stiffened, eyes flashing. ‘I am—not—your prey.’

He grinned unrepentantly. ‘No, of course not. Just an angel who has taken pity on my loneliness.’

Her face was still mutinous. ‘I’d have said, Signor Valante, that you’re the last person in the world who needs to be lonely.’

‘Grazie,’
he said. ‘I think.’

‘So why, then?’ Flora persisted doggedly. ‘How is it that you’re so set on having dinner with me?’

‘You really need to ask?’ His brows lifted. ‘Are there no mirrors in that apartment of yours?’ His voice dropped—became husky. ‘
Mia bella
, there is not a man in this restaurant who does not envy me and wish he was at your side. How can you not know this?’

Her skin warmed, and she took a hasty sip of her drink. She said stiltedly, ‘I wasn’t—fishing for compliments.’

‘And I was not flattering.’ He paused. ‘Is the truth so difficult for you to acknowledge?’

She gave a small, wintry smile. ‘Perhaps it convinces me that I should have stayed at home.’

‘But why?’ He leaned forward. Flora thought, crazily, that his eyes were filled with little dancing sparks. ‘What possible harm can come to you—in this crowded place?’

She made herself meet his glance steadily. ‘I don’t know. But I think you’re a dangerous man, Signor Valante.’

‘You’re wrong,
cara
,’ he said softly. ‘I am the one who is in danger.’

‘Then why were you so insistent?’

‘Perhaps I like to take risks.’

‘Not,’ she said, ‘a recommendation in an accountant, I’d have thought.’

His grin was lazy. ‘But I am only an accountant in working hours,
carissima
. And now I am not working but relaxing—if you remember.’

Flora bit her lip, conscious of the fierce undertow of his attraction, how it could so easily sweep her out of her depth. If she wasn’t careful, of course, she added hastily.

Thankfully, at that moment the waiter reappeared to tell them their table was ready.

And once the food was served, and the wine was poured, she would steer the conversation into more general channels, she promised herself grimly as she accompanied Marco sedately into the main restaurant.

She was faintly ruffled to discover that they were seated side by side on one of the cushioned banquettes. But to request her place to be reset on the opposite side of the table would simply reveal that she was on edge, she reflected as she took her seat.

There was a miniature lamp on the table, its tiny flame bright, but safely confined within its glass shade.

A valuable lesson for life, she thought wryly, as the waiter shook out her napkin and placed it reverently across her lap. She needed to keep the conflict of emotions inside herself controlled with equal strictness.

But she was already too aware of his proximity—the breath of cologne, almost familiar now, that reached her when he moved—the coolly sculptured profile—the dangerous animal strength of the lean body under the civilised trappings. The sensuous curve of the mouth which had once so briefly possessed hers…

This, she was beginning to realise, was a man to whom power was as natural as breathing. And not just material power either, although he clearly had that in plenty, she realised uneasily. His sexual power was even more potent.

She was glad to be able to focus her attention, deservedly, on the food. The delicate and creamy herb risotto was followed by scallops and clams served with black linguine, accompanied by a crisp, fragrant white wine that she decided it would be politic to sip sparingly.

The main course consisted of seared chunks of lamb on the bone, accompanied by a rich assortment of braised garlicky vegetables. The wine was red and full-bodied.

‘I’m not surprised you come here,’ Flora said after her first appreciative mouthful. ‘This food is almost too good.’

He smiled at her. ‘I’m glad you approve. But save your compliments for Pietro himself,’ he added drily. ‘He lives in a state of persistent anxiety and needs all the reassurance he can get.’

‘You know him well?’

‘We were boys together in Italy.’

‘Ah,’ she said.

‘Now you are being cryptic,
mia bella
,’ he said softly. ‘What does that mean?’

She shrugged. ‘I was just trying to imagine you as a child, with muddy clothes and scraped knees. It isn’t easy.’

His brows lifted. ‘Do I give the impression I was born in an Armani suit with a briefcase?’ he asked lazily.

‘Something like that,’ she acknowledged, her mouth quirking mischievously.

‘Yet I entered the world exactly as you did, Flora
mia
—without clothes at all.’ He returned her smile, his eyes flickering lazily over her breasts, clearly outlined by the cling of her dress. ‘Shall we indulge in a little—mutual visualisation, perhaps?’

Flora looked quickly down at her plate, aware that her face had warmed. ‘I prefer to concentrate on this wonderful food.’

They ate for a few moments in silence, then Flora ventured into speech again, trying for a neutral topic. ‘Italy must be a wonderful country to grow up in.’

‘It is also a good place to live when one is grown.’ He paused. ‘You should introduce me to your
fidanzato
. Maybe I could convince him to take you there.’

Her smile was too swift. Too bright. ‘Maybe. But unfortunately he’s had to go away this weekend.’

‘Another visit to the Bahamas, perhaps?’ There was an edge to his voice which she detected and resented.

‘No, a business trip,’ she returned crisply. ‘Chris is his own boss, and that doesn’t allow him a great deal of leisure—unlike yourself.’

‘Cristoforo,’ he said softly. ‘Tell me about him.’

‘What sort of thing do you want to know?’ Flora drank some wine.

‘How you met,’ he said. ‘When you realised that he of all men was the one. But no intimate secrets,’ he added silkily. ‘That is if you have any to tell…’

Flora bit her lip, refusing to rise to the obvious bait. ‘We met at a party,’ she said. ‘I’d helped a couple sell their flat after it had been on the market almost a year, and they invited me to a housewarming at their new property. Chris was there too because he’d arranged their mortgage. We—started seeing each other and fell in love—obviously. After a few months he proposed to me. And I accepted.’

She saw a faintly derisive expression in his eyes, and stiffened. ‘Is there something wrong? Because it seems a perfectly normal chain of events to me.’

‘Not a thing,’ he said. ‘And you will live happily ever after?’

Flora lifted her chin. ‘That is the plan, yes.’ She paused. ‘And what about you,
signore
? Do I get to hear your romantic history—or would it take too long?’ She paused. ‘Starting, I suppose, with—are you married?’

‘No.’ His tone was crisp and there was a sudden disturbing hardness in his eyes. ‘Nor am I divorced or a widower.’ He paused. ‘I was once engaged, but it—ended.’ He gave her a wintry smile. ‘I am sure that does not surprise you.’

‘So—you prefer to play the field.’ Flora shrugged. ‘At least you found out before you were married, so no real harm was done.’

‘You are mistaken,’ he said slowly. ‘It was my
fidanzata
who found another man. Someone she met on holiday.’

‘Oh.’ This time she was surprised, but tried not to show it. ‘Well—these things happen. But they don’t usually mean anything.’

Marco Valante gave her a curious look. ‘You think it is a trivial matter—such a betrayal?’ There was a harsh note in his voice.

‘No—no, of course not.’ Flora avoided his gaze, her fingers playing uneasily with the stem of her glass. ‘I—I didn’t mean that. I just thought that if you’d—loved her enough it might have been possible to—forgive her.’

‘No.’ The dark face was brooding. ‘There could be no question of that.’

‘Then I’m very sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘For both of you.’ She swallowed. ‘It must have been a difficult time. And I—I shouldn’t have pried either,’ she added. ‘Brought back unhappy memories. They say the important thing is to forget the past—and move on.’

‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I am sure you are right. But it is not always that simple. Sometimes the past imposes—obligations that cannot be ignored.’

Flora finished her meal in silence. She felt as if she’d taken an unwary step and found herself in a quagmire, the ground shaking beneath her feet.

There was a totally different side to Marco Valante, she thought. An unsuspected layer of harshness under the indisputable charm. Something disturbingly cold and unforgiving. But perhaps it was understandable. Clearly his fiancée’s defection had hit him hard, his masculine pride undoubtedly being dented along with his emotions.

She felt as if she’d opened a door that should have remained closed.

I’ll just have some coffee and go, she thought, sneaking a surreptitious glance at her watch.

But that proved not so easy. The waiter, apparently in league with her companion, insisted that she must try the house speciality for dessert—some delectable and impossibly rich chocolate truffles flavoured with amaretto.

And when the tiny cups of espresso arrived they were accompanied by Strega, and also Pietro, the restaurant owner, a small, thin man whose faintly harassed expression relaxed into a pleased grin when Flora lavished sincere praise on his food.

At Marco’s invitation he joined them for more coffee and Strega, totally upsetting Flora’s plans for a swift, strategic withdrawal.

‘I had begun to think we would never meet,
signorina
,’ Pietro told her with a twinkle. ‘I was expecting you here a few nights ago. You have made my friend Marco wait, I think, and he is not accustomed to that.’