she would get. Charles would be appalled. He was aware she didn’t trust his cousin but he expected her to have a little self-control and to keep her private opinions to herself. And, in fact, so did she. She was angry with herself for losing her cool.
‘I never forget anything,’ Bruno murmured, and she believed him. She had already discovered what a fantastic memory he had; he seemed to know everything about every public company and many in private hands. The tiniest detail was retained in his mind and could be conjured up out of nowhere when he needed it. They used state-of-the-art computers to do work Bruno could do in his head and seemed to find child’s play.
‘That’s up to you,’ she said, trying to hide her faint dismay. No doubt one day she would pay for having lost her temper. She suspected him to be a man who took his revenge for past wounds. That was why it worried her that Charles seemed to trust him so implicitly. She was afraid that one day Bruno Falcucci would make Charles pay for the way the Redmond family had treated Bruno’s mother.
She swallowed, looked at the screen in front of her and changed the subject. ‘Have you seen the latest Japanese figures?’
‘More or less as I predicted,’ he shrugged.
‘Yes, right again, as usual!’ Martine said with saccharine sweetness.
He laughed. She couldn’t even make him angry. It was infuriating. She wished he would go away, he was ruining her morning.
‘I am rather busy,’ she told him coldly. ‘So unless you wanted to tell me something important...?’
‘Charles just rang me from his home,’ he said. ‘About the Rome conference...’
‘Yes?’ She was flying to Rome with Charles the following day for an international banking conference, and was rather looking forward to the trip. It was ages since she had been anywhere interesting, and it would mean getting away from the office and Bruno Falcucci for a little while.
‘His doctor has advised him to stay in bed for a week, so he won’t be able to go,’ Bruno coolly said.
‘What’s wrong? Is he ill?’ Martine anxiously asked but Bruno shook his head.
‘Just tired, I gather. A touch of flu, too, maybe. Nothing serious, but his doctor thinks he needs complete rest. He asked me to explain to you, and say how sorry he is to miss the Rome trip.’
‘Of course; I understand, though,’ Martine said, deeply disappointed, her face falling. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised, he has looked quite exhausted the last few days. He really needs a long holiday, but a week in bed would be a good start. Well, I’d better cancel everything, but I don’t think we’ll be able to reclaim the price of the air tickets. The hotel can be cancelled without a problem, of course.’
She put out a hand to the phone but Bruno caught hold of her wrist, his fingers cool and light, yet making her aware of their potential strength.
‘No, don’t cancel anything. The trip is still on, it’s just that I’ll be taking Charles’s place.’
Martine stiffened. ‘You?’
His mouth curled. ‘Sorry, I know I’m no substitute for Charles in your eyes, but you’ll have to put up with my company for a few days, I’m afraid. Charles wants the bank represented. He was making a speech on the pros and cons of monetarist policy and he wants me to read it to the conference.’
Martine knew all about that speech; Charles had discussed it with her at great length. She could have delivered that speech for him, if he’d asked her, but Charles hadn’t even considered that, she realised, her mouth taut.
Bruno considered her expression, his brows crooked. ‘Charles has a rather old-fashioned view of women’s place in banking, doesn’t he?’
‘Which you share?’ she bitterly suggested.
‘You do enjoy thinking the worst of me, don’t you? No, as it happens, I don’t, but Charles was obviously ill and I couldn’t very well argue with him. Have you got all his documentation, by the way? Tickets, etcetera?’
She nodded and began to get up. Bruno moved back just enough to let her pass; she picked up the scent of his aftershave and decided she didn’t like it.
She found the folder containing all the travel documents for Charles, and handed it to Bruno.
‘The name on the tickets will have to be changed. I’ll do that.’
‘Don’t worry, my secretary will deal with it,’ he said, turning to walk out. ‘See you tomorrow, on the plane.’
She glared after him, half inclined not to turn up. Only her loyalty to Charles made her decide to go. Someone had to keep an eye on Bruno Falcucci.
They met at Heathrow, in fact, in a chaotic, overcrowded terminal building. All planes were delayed by fog in the London area. Bruno and Martine bought piles of newspapers and magazines, drank lots of bitter black coffee, tried to ignore screaming babies, restless children, the whine of the Tannoy, the discomfort of the seats they sat on.
At last the fog lifted and planes began to take off. They were two hours late in leaving for Rome, in the end.
The chauffeur-driven car they had ordered was not waiting to meet them when they arrived. They had to take a taxi, there were long queues and a black, relentless rain was falling. Rome sulked under sagging clouds and grey skies. Looking up, Martine felt very depressed.
By the time they got to their hotel, which sat near the top of the Spanish Steps, she was barely able to stand, and very fed up. She collected her key and went straight to her room, which turned out to be charming: beautifully furnished and with a magnificent view over the huddled roofs, towers and cupolas of the city.
The rain was still teeming down, lashing along streets, trickling down windows, spilling from the gargoyles on churches, splashing in gutters, forming rivers down the Spanish Steps.
Martine leaned on the window for a while, gazing out. There was a magnificent desolation about the scene spread out below her, and her eyes wandered from building to building, absorbing the atmosphere. Even in the rain Rome was noisy, bustling, over-full of people and vehicles. She heard the blare of horns, police whistles, people shouting to each other, people quarrelling loudly, the clatter of feet on old pavements.
Sitting there with the window open made her shiver after a while. She stood up, closed the window and went into her modern bathroom to take a long, warm, fragrant bath, pouring deliciously scented bath oils into the water before she climbed gratefully into it.
Bruno had suggested that they meet for dinner at eight o’clock in the bar. The first gathering of the conference was at nine o’clock the following day, and was scheduled to take place at another hotel, the Excelsior, which was a popular conference centre with efficient modern facilities, next door to the United States embassy and close to the via Veneto. Most of the delegates were also staying at the Excelsior, but Charles had wanted to have a peaceful bolthole to make for when conference politics grew too hectic. It often helped to be able to escape for a while. The lobbying began at breakfast and went on until well into the night, and if you could get away you had a better chance of preserving your sanity, Charles said.
After her bath, Martine went to sleep on her bed, wrapped in her thick white bathrobe, a quilt over her. Her dreams were as chaotic as
