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
SEVEN 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
