the thought of getting right away was a welcome one. Even more welcome than her father realised.
‘Why not go to Rome?’ he was suggesting. ‘The flat is empty—’ a pleasant second-floor flat was kept for any Grant Filey staff visiting the Rome offices, which were only a short walk away ‘—so you could see all the things you didn’t have a chance to see last time…’
She liked the idea. Her first visit to Rome, after being appointed European Marketing Director, had been a brief one, and there had been no opportunity to do any sightseeing.
‘Enjoy the ambience—’ her father was into his stride ‘—and find yourself a spot of la dolce vita. Make it a real holiday…’
Recalling the other dark cloud that hung on the horizon, Bel demurred, ‘I don’t like the idea of being away with the threat of a take-over looming.’
‘If I thought your being in London would make a scrap of difference I’d ask you to stay. But, as it won’t, I’d feel happier if you went. So for goodness’ sake go and practise your Italian.’
‘I think I just might.’ ‘Now you’re talking!’
‘I’ll try to get a flight out today.’ All at once she couldn’t wait to get away.
‘Being Saturday, the flights might be full, so if you don’t manage it we’ll have dinner together tonight. Ring me at the office. I’m going in for a couple of hours. There’s something I need to discuss with Harmen…’
After phoning several airlines, Bel was about to give up when she was lucky enough to find a single seat on a plane leaving for Rome that very afternoon.
Having no car, she rang for a taxi and, while she waited for it to arrive, demonstrated her state of mind by hauling out a large suitcase and throwing things into it with a disregard for order that would have horrified the old Bel.
Just as a knock signalled the arrival of her taxi, the phone rang. For a second she hesitated, wondering whether to ignore it. But it was probably her father. Snatching it up, she said, ‘Dad?’
‘No, it’s me.’
‘Ellen! Thank goodness! Where are you?’
‘I’m still in Paris.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘Hotel Colbert…it’s not far from the ChampsÉlysées. I’m having the most marvellous time—’
‘Have you been in touch with Dad?’ Bel broke in.
‘Not for a day or two.’
‘He needs to talk to you—’ Another knock cut through her words.
‘I’ll give him a ring,’ Ellen promised carelessly. ‘But I must tell you about Jean-Claude. He’s six feet tall and drop-dead handsome, with silvery blond hair and blue eyes. Honestly, Bel, he has to be the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met, as well as having the sort of manners you only read about…’
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ Bel apologised, ‘but I can’t talk now.’
‘He’s invited me to his villa at Épernay—’
There was a louder knocking and a shout of, ‘Taxi!’
‘I’m sorry,’ Bel repeated, ‘but I have to go. I’ve a taxi waiting to take me to the airport.’
‘Where are you off to?’
‘Rome.’
‘Oh, business…’ Ellen said flatly.
‘No, this time it’s a holiday. And I really must fly. You won’t forget to ring Dad? If he’s not at home he’ll be in the office.’
‘No, I won’t forget. How long are you—?’
As well as being a scatterbrain, Ellen was an inveterate talker. Hardening her heart, Bel replaced the receiver and hurried to open the door.
Less than two hours later she was on the Saturday afternoon flight to Leonardo da Vinci Airport, hoping against hope that she might be leaving at least some of her troubles behind.
HEAVY-EYED after a restless night, Bel sat on the flower-filled balcony and ignored her breakfast while she gazed across the sunny piazza.
Somewhere close at hand a dog barked, and, above Rome’s background noise of traffic, Sunday church bells from all over the city called the faithful to mass, making what Bel, after her first visit, had described to Roderick as a melodious cacophony of sound.
At the thought of her former fiancé she had to bite her lip to stop the tears welling up. Poor Roderick. He dadn’t deserved to be hurt and humiliated in that way.
Not even the fact that she’d drunk too much could excuse the stupidity and wantonness of her behaviour, and it was the realisation of what he and his parents must think of her that hurt most. There was one thing to be devoutly thankful for, though: she had successfully escaped Andrew Storm.
Refusing to consider why the unmitigated relief she should have felt was somehow mingled with a kind of unreasonable depression, she wondered how long he would keep calling at her empty flat before he finally got the message that she had no intention of ever seeing him again.
Probably not long. He wasn’t the sort of man who would waste his time.
Despite the warmth of the sun she shivered, and, making an effort to banish the image of that strongboned, ruthless face from her mind, began to eat her breakfast.
As soon as she’d finished the fresh rolls and fruit pressed on her by Signora Paplucci, the plump, smiling wife of the mustachioed custode di casa, Bel tried again to ring her father but no one answered.
She’d also tried to phone him when she’d arrived at the flat the previous evening, only to find she was unable to get through because of a fault on the line.
By the time Bel was ready to go out, wearing a silky skirt and button-through camisole top with spaghetti straps, it was almost mid-morning.
Armed with camera and a map, she made her way down the cool marble steps, across the bare dimness of the entrance hall and out into the bright oven-heat of Rome.
Being Sunday, the shops on the Via Cordotti were closed, and the picturesque buildings, with their peeling shutters and flaking ochre stucco, had a deserted air.
A bus-load of camera-hung tourists, already pink and perspiring in the hot sun, strolled along the narrow pavements while pairs of local youths, riding motor scooters that sounded like enraged hornets, turned the smooth cobblestones of the roadway into a racetrack.
Bel was enjoying the colourful scene when a sudden wrench
