by Sara Craven
‘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.’
Flora flushed slightly. ‘I can believe it,’ she said, trying to speak lightly.
‘You wrong me, mia bella,’ Marco Valante drawled. ‘I can be—infinitely patient—when it is necessary.’
She felt her colour deepen under the mocking intensity of his gaze. She hurriedly finished the liqueur in her glass, snatched up her bag, and with a murmured apology fled to the powder room.
Thankfully, she had it to herself. She sank down on to the padded stool in front of the vanity unit and stared at herself in the mirror, observing the feverishly bright eyes, the tremulously parted lips, as if they belonged to a stranger.
What in hell was the matter with her? she wondered desperately. She had a career—a life—and a man in that life. And yet she was behaving like a schoolgirl just released from a convent. Only with less sophistication.
And all this because of a man whose existence she’d been unaware of a week ago. It made no sense.
Well, you got yourself into this mess, she reminded herself with grim finality. Of your own free will, too. Even though you should have known better. And now you can just extract yourself—with minimal damage—if that’s still possible.
It was hot in the lavishly carpeted, glamorously decorated room, yet Flora was suddenly shivering like a dog.
She felt light-headed too. Maybe she was just sickening for something—one of those odd viruses that kept surfacing in the summer months.
Or maybe she hadn’t kept sufficient track, after all, of the number of times Marco Valante had filled and refilled her glass, she thought uneasily.
She’d started off well in control, but had definitely slipped during the course of the long meal—particularly when the conversation had got sticky. She’d tried to use her glass as a barricade, but it might well have turned into a trap instead. And those final Stregas hadn’t helped at all.
She smoothed her hair, toned down her hectic cheeks with powder, and rose to her feet.
The dress had been a mistake, too. She’d worn it as a gesture of defiance, but it sent all the wrong messages. And her heels were suddenly far too high as well. They did nothing to combat that dizzy feeling.
She drew a deep breath and held it for a moment before releasing it slowly. Calming tactics before she went back into the restaurant and set about extricating herself from this self-inflicted mess with dignity and aplomb.
‘I wish,’ she muttered under her breath as she headed for the door, stepping out with more than ordinary care—which was, in itself, a dead giveaway.
She’d been dreading more coffee, more loaded drinks to go with the loaded remarks, but Marco was on his feet, standing by the table, putting away his wallet, his face withdrawn and grave.
It seemed he also wanted to call it a night, thought Flora, summoning relief to her rescue. And perhaps that oddly haunted look had been brought on by the size of the bill…
She paused, angered by her own flippancy when it was undoubtedly her desire to score points by cross-examining him over his love life that had revived too many unwelcome memories and driven him into introspection. After all, he was someone who had loved and lost, and in the bitterest circumstances, too, when all she had to do in life was count her blessings.
He glanced up and saw her, and his expression changed. Charm was back in season, and something more than warmth glinted in his eyes. Which she wasn’t going to allow herself even to contemplate.
Accordingly, ‘Well,’ Flora said briskly, when she reached him, ‘Thank you for a very pleasant evening, signore. And—goodbye.’
‘It is not quite over yet,’ he corrected her. ‘Pietro has called a taxi for us.’
‘Oh, he needn’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.’ She reached for her pashmina. ‘I’ll pick up a black cab…’
‘Not easily at this time of night, when the theatres are turning out.’ He picked up the long fringed shawl before she could, draping it over his arm. ‘And the streets are hardly safe for a woman on her own. I promise you, it would be better to wait.’
Better for whom? Flora wondered, her throat tightening. She stood, gripping her bag, looking down at the tiled floor, until a waiter came to tell them the cab was at the door. She wished Pietro a quiet goodnight, and forced herself to remain passive as Marco placed the pashmina round her shoulders.
Then she walked ahead of him into the street, stumbling a little on an uneven paving stone as the cool night air hit her.
‘Take care, mia bella. You must not risk another fall.’ His hand was under her elbow like a flash, guiding her to the waiting cab.
As she climbed in she heard with shock Marco give the driver her address.
‘How do you know where I live?’ she demanded, shrinking back into her corner as he took the seat beside her. ‘It wasn’t on the card I gave you.’
‘True.’ In the dimness, she saw him lift one shoulder in a shrug. ‘But you were not so hard to trace, Flora mia.’
‘So it would seem,’ she said tautly.
It was not that great a distance, but traffic was heavy and the ride
seemed to take for ever. Or was it just her acute consciousness of the man in the darkness beside her?
When they finally drew up in the quiet street outside her flat Flora moved swiftly, reaching for the handle. ‘Thanks for the lift…’
‘You must allow me to see you to your door.’ His tone brooked no refusal.
She was concentrating hard on pursuing a steady path across the pavement, at the same time fumbling in her bag for her keys. Not easy when your head was swimming, she thought detachedly, and your legs felt as if all the bones had been removed.
‘Let me do this.’ There was faint amusement in his voice as he took the key from her wavering hand and fitted it into the lock.
‘I can manage,’ Flora protested. ‘And the taxi’s meter will be running,’ she added, glancing over her shoulder. She gave an alarmed gasp. ‘Oh—it’s gone.’
‘I hoped you would offer me some coffee.’ He was inside now, accompanying her up the stairs, his hand under her arm, supporting her again. Taking it for granted, she thought furiously, that it was necessary. ‘Isn’t that the conventional thing to do?’ he added.
‘You wouldn’t know a convention, Signor Valante, if it jumped out and bit you.’ Not all her words were as clear as she’d have liked, but she thought she’d got the meaning across.
‘On the other hand, I could make you some coffee,’ he went on. ‘You seem to need it.’
‘I’m perfectly fine,’ Flora returned with dignified imprecision. ‘And our dinner date is over, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But the evening still goes on. And I am curious to see where you live.’
‘Why?’ She watched him fit the flat key in the lock.
He shrugged. ‘Because you can learn a great deal from someone’s surroundings. You of all people should know that,’ he added drily. ‘And there are things I wish to discover about you.’
She gave him a brilliant smile. ‘Good luck,’ she said, and led the way into the living room.
Marco Valante halted, looking slowly round him, taking in the plain white walls, the stripped floorboards, the low glass-topped table, and the sofa and single armchair in their tailored smoky blue covers.
He said softly, ‘A blank canvas. How interesting. And is the bedroom equally neutral?’
Flora walked back across the narrow passage and flung open the door opposite. ‘Judge for yourself,’ she said, and watched his reaction.
Here, there were no touches of colour at all. Everything from the walls to the fitted wardrobes which hid her clothes, and the antique lace bedcover and the filmy drapes that hung at the window, was an unremitting white.
‘Very virginal,’ Marco said after a pause, his face expressionless. ‘Like the cell of a nun. It explains a great deal.’
‘Such as?’ she demanded.
‘Why your fidanzato prefers to spend his time elsewhere, perhaps.’
‘As it happens, Chris is here all the time. And he likes a—a minimalist look,’ she flung back at him. ‘And now that you’ve seen what you came for, you can leave.’
‘Without my coffee?’ He shook his head reproachfully. ‘You are not very hospitable, Flora mia.’
She said between her teeth, ‘Please stop calling me “your” Flora.’
‘You wish me to call you “his” Flora—this Cristoforo’s—when it is quite clear you do not belong to him—and never have?’
She might not be firing on all cylinders, but she could recognise disdain when she heard it.
‘You know nothing about my relationship with my fiancé,’ she threw back at him, discomfited to hear her words slurring. ‘And you’re hardly the person to lecture me on how to conduct my engagement. I think it’s time you went.’
‘And I think you’re more in need of coffee than I am, signorina.’ He walked down the passage to the kitchen. Flora, setting off in pursuit with a gasp of indignation, arrived in time to see him filling the kettle and setting it to boil.
‘You have no espresso machine?’ He glanced round at her, brows lifted.
‘No,’ Flora said with heavy sarcasm. ‘I’m sorry, but I didn’t realise I’d be entertaining an uninvited guest.’
‘If you think you are in the least entertaining, you delude yourself.’ He reached for the cafetière. ‘Where do you keep your coffee?’
Mute with temper, she opened a cupboard and took down a new pack of a freshly ground Colombian blend.
She said curtly, ‘I’ll do it.’
‘As you wish.’ He shrugged, and took her place in the doorway, leaning a casual shoulder against its frame.
‘You give little away,’ he remarked after a pause. ‘No pictures—no ornaments or personal touches. You are an enigma, Signorina Flora. A woman of mystery. What are you trying to conceal, I wonder?’
‘Nothing at all,’ Flora denied, spooning coffee into the cafetière. ‘But I work with colour all the time. When I get home I prefer something—more restful, that’s all.’
‘Is that the whole truth?’
She bit her lip, avoiding his quizzical gaze. ‘Well, I did plan to decorate at first—perhaps—but then I met Chris, so now I’m saving my energies for the home we’re going to share. That’s going to be a riot of colour. The showcase for my career.’
‘You say you plan to go on working after you are married?’
Flora lifted her chin. ‘Naturally. Is something wrong with that?’
‘You do not intend to have babies?’
She began to set a tray with cups, sugar bowl and cream jug. ‘Yes—probably—eventually.’
‘You do not sound too certain.’
She opened the cutlery drawer with a rattle to look for spoons. ‘Maybe I feel I should get the wedding over with before I start organising the nursery.’
‘Do you like children?’
‘Boiled or fried?’ Flora filled the cafetière and set it on the tray. ‘I don’t know a great deal about them, apart from my sort of nephew, and he’s a nightmare—spoiled rotten and badly behaved. A real tantrum king.’
‘Perhaps you should blame the parents rather than the child.’
‘I do,’ she said shortly. ‘Each time I’m forced to set eyes on him.’ She picked up the tray and turned, noting that he was still blocking the doorway. ‘Excuse me—please.’
He made no attempt to move, and she added, her tone sharpening, ‘I—I’d like to get past.’
‘Truly?’ he asked softly. ‘I wonder.’ He straightened and took the tray from her suddenly nerveless hands.
Taking a breath, Flora marched ahead of him back to the sitting room, deliberately choosing the armchair.
He placed the tray on the glass table and sat down on the sofa. ‘I am beginning to accustom myself to your unsullied environment.’ His tone was silky. ‘But I find it odd that there are no photographs anywhere—none of your Cristoforo—or of your parents either. Are you an orphan, perhaps? Is your past as unrevealing as your walls?’
‘Of course not,’ she said coolly. ‘I have plenty of family pictures, but I keep them in an album. I don’t like—clutter.’
His brows lifted mockingly. ‘Is that how you regard the image of your beloved?’
‘No, of course not.’ She bit her lip. ‘You like to deliberately misunderstand.’
‘On the contrary, I am trying to make sense of it all.’ He paused. ‘Of you.’
‘Then please don’t bother,’ Flora said swiftly. ‘Our acquaintance has been brief, and it ends tonight.’
‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘But the night is not yet over. So I am permitted a little speculation.’
‘If you want to waste your time.’ Flora reached for the cafetière and filled the cups, controlling a little flurry of unease.
‘My time is my own. I can spend it as I wish.’ He paused. ‘So—are you going to show me these photographs of yours—if only to prove they really exist?’
For a moment she hesitated, then reluctantly opened the door of one of the concealed cupboards b
eside the fireplace and extracted a heavy album.
She took it across to him and held it out. ‘Here. I have nothing to hide.’ She gave him a taut smile. ‘My whole history in a big black book.’
He opened the album and began to turn the pages, his face expressionless as he studied the pictures.
Flora picked up her coffee cup and sipped with apparent unconcern.
He said, ‘Your parents are alive and in good health?’
She paused, chewing her lip again. ‘My father died several years ago,’ she said at last. ‘And my mother remarried—a widower with a daughter about my own age.’
‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘The mother of the tantrum king. Is that why you don’t like her?’
‘I have no reason to dislike her,’ Flora said evenly. ‘We haven’t a great deal in common, that’s all.’
He turned another page and paused, the green eyes narrowing. He said, ‘And this, of course, must be Cristoforo. How strange.’
She stiffened. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because he is the only man to feature here.’ His voice was level. ‘Were there no previous men in your life, Flora mia? No minor indiscretions of any kind? Or have they been whitewashed away too?’
‘I’ve had other boyfriends,’ she said coldly. ‘But no one who mattered. All right?’
He looked down again at the photograph, his mouth twisting. ‘And he means the world to you—as you do to him?’
‘Of course. Why do you keep asking me all these questions.’
‘Because I want to know all about you, mia cara. Every last thing.’
Her throat tightened. ‘But no one can ever know another person that well.’
‘Then perhaps I shall be the first.’ He closed the photograph album and laid it aside. He rose, taking off his jacket and tossing it across the back of the sofa, then walked across to her, taking her hands in his and pulling her to her feet. She went unresistingly, her heart beating a frantic, alarmed tattoo, her eyes widening in a mixture of panic and strange excitement.
He said softly, ‘And I shall start with your mouth.’
‘No,’ Flora said hoarsely as his arms went round her, drawing her against the hard heat of his body. ‘You can’t. You said—you promised—that I’d be safe tonight.’
