The Italian Millionaire’s Marriage

by Lucy Gordon

  Harriet was watching him, frowning slightly. ‘Have we met before?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t believe so.’

  ‘It’s just that your face is familiar.’

  ‘We’ve never met,’ he assured her, thinking that he would certainly have remembered.

  ‘I’ll make us some coffee.’

  Harriet went into the back of the shop and put on the coffee, annoyed with herself for having made a mess of everything after Olympia’s warning. But she’d half convinced herself that Marco wouldn’t bother coming to see her, and her mind had been so taken up with worries about her creditors that she’d had little time to think of other things.

  As an expert in antiquities Harriet had no rival. Her taste was impeccable, her instincts flawless, and many an imposing institution accepted her opinion as final. But somehow she couldn’t translate this skill into a commercial profit, and the bills were piling up.

  The coffee perked and she brought herself back to reality. She would have given anything not to have betrayed her money worries to this man, but perhaps he hadn’t noticed. Then he appeared beside her and she became distracted by the resemblance. Just where had she seen him before?

  She’d promised Olympia not to let Marco suspect that she’d been forewarned, so it might be safest to play dumb for a while. It was a melancholy fact, she’d discovered, that if you pretended to be really stupid people always believed you.

  ‘Why did you want to see me, Signor-Calvani, was it?’

  ‘My name means nothing to you?’

  ‘I’m sorry, should it?’

  ‘I’m a friend of your sister Olympia. I thought she might have mentioned me.’

  ‘We’re only half-sisters. We grew up far apart and don’t see each other often.’ She added casually, ‘How is she these days?’

  ‘Still the beautiful social butterfly. I told her I’d look you up while I was in London. If it’s agreeable to you we might spend this evening together, perhaps go to a show and have dinner afterwards.’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘What kind of show do you like?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to get into Dancing On Line, but the seats are like gold-dust and tonight’s the last performance.’

  ‘I think I might manage it, just the same.’

  She was conscience stricken. ‘If you’re thinking of the black market, the tickets are going for thousands. I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  ‘I shan’t need to resort to the black market,’ he said, smiling.

  She regarded him with something approaching awe. ‘You can get seats for this show, at a moment’s notice?’

  ‘I can’t afford to fail now, can I?’ he remarked, somewhat wryly. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll collect you here at seven.’

  ‘Fine. And we can always go to a different show. I really don’t mind.’

  ‘We shall go to this show and no other,’ he said firmly. ‘Until tonight.’

  ‘Until tonight,’ she said, a trifle dazed.

  He turned to the door, but stopped as though something had just occurred to him.

  ‘By the way, I believe in mixing business with pleasure. Perhaps you would look at this and value it for me.’

  From his bag he drew a package which he unwrapped before her eager eyes, revealing a fabulously beautiful ornate necklace in sold gold. She took it gently and carried it to a desk, switching on a brilliant light.

  ‘I have a friend in Rome who specialises in these things,’ Marco said smoothly. ‘He thinks this is one of the best Greek pieces he’s ever seen.’

  ‘Greek?’ she said, not raising her eyes. ‘Oh, no, Etruscan.’

  She’d passed the first test, but he concealed his pleasure and pressed her further.

  ‘Are you sure? My friend is a real expert.’

  ‘Well it can be difficult to tell them apart,’ she conceded. ‘Etruscan goldsmiths of the archaic and classical periods…’

  She was away and there was no stopping her, he recognised. Words poured out. ‘Their jewellery of the third to first centuries BC often closely resembles Greek works but-Celtic influence-’

  He listened with growing satisfaction. She might be a little strange but here was the educated lady he’d hoped for. This fabulous piece had been in his family’s possession for two centuries. It was pure Etruscan. And she’d spotted it.

  Then she blew his satisfaction out of the water by saying regretfully, ‘If only it were real.’

  He stared. ‘Of course it’s real.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. It’s a very good copy, one of the best I’ve ever seen. I can understand why it fooled your friend-’

  ‘But not you,’ he said, feeling illogically annoyed at her slander of his non-existent ‘friend’.

  ‘I’ve always taken a special interest in artefacts from Etruria,’ she said, naming the province that had later become Rome and its surrounding countryside. ‘I visited a dig there a couple of years back and it was the most fascinating-’

  ‘And this qualifies you to pronounce on this piece?’ Marco interrupted, his annoyance overcoming his good manners.

  ‘Look, I know what I’m talking about, and frankly this “expert” of yours doesn’t, since he can’t tell Greek from Etruscan.’

  ‘But according to you it’s a fake which means it can’t be either,’ he pointed out.

  ‘It’s a copy, and whoever did it was copying an Etruscan piece, not a Greek one,’ she said firmly.

  The transformation in her was astonishing, he thought. Gone was the awkward young woman who’d collided with him at the door. In her place was an authority, steely, assured, implacable in her own opinion. He would have found it admirable if she wasn’t trying to wipe a million dollars off his fortune.

  ‘Are you saying that this is worthless?’ he demanded.

  ‘Oh, not entirely worthless. The gold must be worth something.’

  She spoke in the manner of an adult placating a disappointed child, and he ground his teeth.

  ‘Would you like to explain your opinion?’ he said frostily.

  ‘All my instincts tell me that this isn’t the real thing.’

  ‘You mean feminine intuition?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ she said crisply. ‘There’s no such thing. Funny, I’d have expected a man to know that. My instincts are based on knowledge and experience.’

  ‘Which sounds like another name for female intuition to me. Why not be honest and admit it?’

  Her eyes flashed, magnificently. ‘Signor Whatever-Your-Name-Is-if you just came in here to be offensive you’re wasting your time. The weight of this necklace is wrong. A genuine Etruscan necklace would have weighed just a little more. Did you know that scientific tests have proved that Etruscan gold was always the same precise weight, and-?’

  She was away again, facts and figures tumbling out of her mouth at speed, totally assured and in command of her subject. Except that she was completely wrong, he thought grimly. If this was the level of her expertise it was no wonder her business was failing.

  ‘Fine, fine,’ he said trying to placate her. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

  ‘Please don’t patronise me!’

  He was about to respond in kind when he checked himself, wondering where his wits were wandering. When he’d considered this encounter his plans hadn’t included letting her needle him to the point of losing his temper. Coolness was everything. That was how victories were won, deals were made, life was organised to advantage. And she’d blown it away in five minutes.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said with an effort. ‘I didn’t mean to be impolite.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s understandable, considering how much poorer I’ve just left you.’

  ‘I don’t accept that you have left me poorer, since I don’t accept your valuation.’

  ‘I can understand that you wouldn’t,’ she said in a kindly voice that took him to the limit of exasperation. She handed him back the necklace. ‘When you return to Rome why don’t you
ask your friend to take another look at this? Only don’t believe a word he says because he doesn’t know the difference between Greek and Etruscan.’

  ‘I’ll collect you here at seven o’clock,’ Marco said, from behind a tight smile.

  CHAPTER TWO

  S EVEN o’clock found Harriet peering out of her shop window into a storm. She’d been home, dressed for an evening out and returned in a hurry, not wishing to keep him waiting.

  But it seemed he had no such qualms about her. Five past seven came and went, then ten, and there was no sign of him. At seven-fifteen she muttered something unladylike and prepared to leave in a huff.

  She’d just locked the door and was staring crossly at the downpour when a cab came to a sharp halt at the kerb, a door opened and a hand reached out from the gloom within. She took it, and was seized in a powerful grip, then drawn swiftly inside.

  ‘My apologies for being late,’ Marco said. ‘I took a cab because of the rain and found myself trapped. Luckily the show doesn’t start until eight, so even at this crawl we should make it in time.’

  ‘You don’t mean to say that you managed it?’ Harriet asked incredulously.

  ‘Certainly I managed it. Why should you doubt me?’

  ‘Who did you blackmail?’

  Marco grinned. ‘It was a little more subtle than that. Not much, but a little.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’

  She grew even more impressed when she discovered that he’d secured the best box in the house. No doubt about it. This was a man with good contacts.

  Marco offered her the chair nearer the stage so that he was a little to the rear and could glance at her as well as the show. She wasn’t beautiful, he decided. Her slenderness went, perhaps, a little too far: not thin he assured himself hastily, but as lean as a model. Elegant. Or, at least, she would be if she worked on her appearance, which she clearly didn’t.

  Her chiffon evening gown was all right, no more. It descended almost to her shapely ankles, and clung slightly, revealing the grace of her movements. The deep red was a magnificent shade, but it was exactly wrong with her auburn hair, which she wore loose and flowing. She should have put it up, he thought, revealing her face and emphasising her long neck. Was there nobody to tell her these things?

  Her few pieces of jewellery were poorly chosen and didn’t really go well together. She should wear gold, he decided. Not delicate pieces, but powerful, to go with her aura of quiet strength. He would enjoy draping her with gold.

  The thought reminded him of the necklace, but he was in a good humour now, and bore her no ill will. If anything, their spat had been useful in breaking the ice.

  Dancing On Line was a very modern musical, a satire about the internet, dry, witty, with good tunes and sharp dancers. They both enjoyed it, and left the theatre in a charity with one another. The rain had stopped, and the cab he’d ordered was waiting.

  ‘I know a small restaurant where they do the best food in London,’ he said.

  He took her to a place that she, a Londoner, had never heard of. Slightly to her surprise it was French, not Italian, but then she realised that surprise was the name of the game. If he really was planning an outrageous suggestion then it made sense for him to confuse her a little first.

  ‘Perhaps I should have asked if you like French food,’ he said when they had seated themselves at a quiet corner table.

  ‘I like it almost as much as Italian,’ she said, speaking in French. It might be showing off but she felt that flying all her flags would be a good idea.

  ‘Of course you’re a cosmopolitan,’ he said. ‘In your line of work you’d have to be. Spanish?’

  ‘Uh-uh! Plus Greek and Latin.’

  ‘Modern Greek or classical?’

  ‘Both of course,’ she said, contriving to sound faintly shocked.

  ‘Of course.’ He smiled faintly and inclined his head in respect.

  The food really was the best. Harriet notched up a mark to him. He was an excellent host, consulting her wishes while making suggestions that didn’t pressure her. She let him pick the wine, and his choice exactly suited her.

  The light was dim in their corner, with two small wall lamps and two candles in glass bowls on the table, making shadows dance and flicker. Even so she managed to study his face and had to give him ten out of ten for looks. His dinner jacket was impeccable, and his white, embroidered evening shirt made a background for his lightly tanned skin. He was a handsome man. She conceded that. His lips, perhaps, were slightly on the thin side, but in a way that emphasised his infrequent smiles, giving them a quirky irony that pleased her.

  His eyes drew her attention, being very dark brown, almost black. She would have called them beautiful if the rest of his face hadn’t been so unmistakably masculine. They were deep set and slightly shadowed by a high forehead and heavy eyebrows. That gave his face a hint of mystery, because she couldn’t always see whether his eyes had the same expression as his mouth. And she suspected that they often didn’t.

  So far, so intriguing. It was lucky Olympia had warned her what was afoot, or she might have been completely taken in; might actually have found him seriously attractive. As it was, she held the advantage. She decided to disconcert him a little, just for fun.

  ‘What brings you to London?’ she asked innocently. ‘Business?’

  If the question threw him he gave no sign of it. ‘A little. And I must pay my respects to Lady Dulcie Maddox, who became engaged to my cousin Guido a few weeks ago.’

  Harriet savoured the name. ‘Lord Maddox’s daughter?’

  ‘Yes, do you know her?’

  ‘She’s been in the shop a couple of times.’

  ‘Buying or selling?’

  ‘Selling.’ Harriet fell silent, sensing a minefield.

  ‘Probably pieces from the Maddox ancestral home, to pay her father’s debts,’ Marco supplied. ‘I gather he’s a notorious gambler.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, relaxing. ‘I didn’t want to tell tales if you didn’t know.’

  ‘It’s common knowledge. Dulcie has to earn her living, and she was working as a private enquiry agent when she came to Venice and met Guido. What did you think of her?’

  ‘Beautiful,’ Harriet said enviously. ‘All that long fair hair-if she still has it?’

  ‘She had when I said goodbye to her a few weeks back. As you say, she’s beautiful, and she’ll keep Guido in order.’

  She laughed. ‘Does he need keeping in order?’

  ‘Definitely. A firecracker, with no sense of responsibility. That’s my Uncle Francesco talking, by the way. Count Calvani. He’s been desperate for Guido to marry and produce an heir to the title.’

  ‘Hasn’t he done that himself?’

  ‘No, the title will go to one of his nephews. It should have been Leo, Guido’s older half-brother. Their father married twice. His first wife, Leo’s mother, was supposedly a widow, but her first husband turned up alive, making the marriage invalid and Leo illegitimate, and unable to inherit the title.’

  ‘That’s dreadful!’

  ‘Leo doesn’t think so. He doesn’t want to be a count. The trouble is, neither does Guido, but that’s going to be his fate. So uncle tried to find him a suitable wife, and was giving up in despair when Guido fell for Dulcie.

  ‘My uncle is also, finally, going to get married. Apparently he’s been in love with his housekeeper for years and has finally persuaded her to marry him. He’s in his seventies, she’s in her sixties, and they’re like a pair of turtle-doves.’

  ‘That’s charming!’ Harriet exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, it is, although not everyone thinks so. My mother is scandalised that he’s marrying “a servant” as she calls her.’

  ‘Does anyone care about that kind of thing these days?’

  ‘Some people,’ Marco said carefully. ‘My mother’s heart is kind but her views about what is “proper” come from another age.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I don’t always embrac
e modern ways,’ he said. ‘I make my decisions after a lot of careful thought.’

  ‘A banker would have to, of course.’

  ‘Not always. Among my banking colleagues I have the reputation of sometimes getting carried away.’

  ‘You?’ she asked with an involuntary emphasis.

  ‘I have been known to thrown caution to the winds,’ he said gravely.

  ‘Profitably, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She studied his face, trying to see if he was joking or not, unable to decide. He guessed what she was doing and regarded her wryly, eyebrows raised as if to ask whether she’d worked it out yet. The moment stretched on and he grew uncomfortably aware of something transfixed in her manner.

  ‘Would you like some more wine?’ he asked, to bring her back to earth.

  ‘I’m sorry, what was that?’

  ‘Wine.’

  ‘Oh, no-no, thank you. You know your face really is familiar. I wish I could remember-’

  ‘Perhaps I remind you of a boyfriend,’ he suggested delicately. ‘Past or present?’

  ‘Oh, no, I haven’t had a boyfriend for ages,’ she murmured, still regarding him.

  What was the matter with her he wondered? Sophisticated one minute, gauche the next. Still, it told him what he needed to know.

  As they were eating he asked, ‘How do you and Olympia come to have different nationalities?’

  ‘We don’t,’ Harriet said quickly. ‘We’re both Italian.’

  ‘Well, yes, in a sense-’

  ‘In every sense,’ she interrupted with a touch of defiance. ‘I was born in Italy, my father is Italian and my name is Italian.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Marco said, seeing the glint of anger in her large eyes and thinking how well it suited her. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’

  ‘Hasn’t Olympia told you the story?’

  ‘Only vaguely. I know your father married twice, but naturally Olympia knows very little about his first wife.’

  ‘My mother loved him terribly and he just dumped her. I remember when I was five years old, finding her crying her eyes out. She told me he was throwing us out of the house.’

  ‘Your mother told you that?’ he echoed, genuinely shocked. ‘A child?’