took all the self-control she possessed to go on lying there, unmoving and unmoved, when she longed to leap up and slap him hard across that dark, mocking face. To call him all the names she could lay her tongue to.
Instead, eyes tight shut, she heard him walk away, and the bedroom door close behind him. Or had it? Maybe it was another trick.
It wasn’t until she heard the sound of the car moving off down the drive that she dared relax her new rigidity and sit up.
There were tears of anger in her eyes, and she scrubbed fiercely at her mouth with the back of her hand, as a child might do.
‘Tomorrow,’ she vowed aloud, her voice shaking. ‘Tomorrow I’m going home. And I’m making sure that I never—ever—have to set eyes on that bastard again.’
VIOLETTA did not return home from the dinner party until well after midnight.
Clare, lying sleepless, saw the headlights of the car sweep across her ceiling and tensed, wondering if the Marchese had acted as chauffeur again, and whether she could expect another visit.
But, to her relief, she was left undisturbed, even by Violetta.
She’d spent a restless evening. In the end, sheer hunger had driven her downstairs, and Angelina, delighted to hear how much better she was feeling, had conjured up a thick bean soup followed by a creamy omelette served with tiny mushrooms and grilled baby tomatoes.
Clare had stretched out on one of the sofas in the salone and put on some music, but even this tried and tested procedure had not persuaded her to relax.
Her mind had been too full, and revolving almost exclusively around one subject—Guido Bartaldi.
It was infuriating to have to acknowledge the hold he’d taken on her imagination. His image seemed locked immutably into her brain, and she resented it.
She couldn’t handle his constant and almost casual reappearance in her life. But she couldn’t speak her mind about them for fear of upsetting Violetta, who was clearly happy to accept the Marchese at his own valuation.
But a man who was planning to marry, even if it was a marriage of convenience, should not be conducting a flirtation with another girl, she argued, biting her lip. It was a despicable thing to do.
After James, she’d made a private vow to avoid any man who wasn’t free to commit himself. And what a lot of them there seemed to be, she thought bitterly.
But with Guido Bartaldi it had already gone beyond simple flirtation—because he had touched—and kissed.
Her whole body shivered at the memory of his mouth on hers.
The worst part of it was her certainty that he knew exactly the effect that his caresses would evoke. It was a delicate, subtle form of torment, devised to punish her. To ensure she didn’t embark on any more grand gestures to annoy him.
It was a stupid thing to do, she acknowledged sombrely. I should have seen that he was way out of my league as an adversary. Far better to have thanked him nicely, then stuffed the money in the poor box at the nearest church. Honour would have been satisfied on my part, and he’d have been none the wiser.
But it’s too late for regrets. All I can do is cut my losses and go.
The shopping trip to Perugia had prevented her phoning the agency as she’d planned, but she’d do it first thing in the morning, she promised herself. And all she had to do then was find herself a flight back to Britain. Any class, any time, any airport, she added, pulling a face.
She felt tense, facing Violetta at the breakfast table the next morning, expecting a blow-by-blow account of everything that had been eaten, said and done at the Villa Minerva, but her godmother, surprisingly, said very little about it, apart from acknowledging that the house was indeed beautiful, the food had been delicious, and that she had enjoyed herself. After which she relapsed into an unusually pensive state.
While, paradoxically, Clare found she was thirsting to know more.
‘What did you think of Paola?’ she asked, in the end.
‘Paola?’ Violetta echoed. ‘Ah, the young girl. She seemed subdued. I think she was disappointed that you were not there,’ she added after a reflective pause. ‘As, indeed, were they all.’
She gave Clare a kind smile. ‘Are you feeling more yourself today, mia cara?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Clare flushed slightly. ‘The medication the doctor gave me seems to have worked miracles.’ She gave an awkward laugh. ‘In fact, I’m fighting fit, and I was thinking I really ought to get back to work again.’
‘And I think you should enjoy your rest here with me,’ Violetta said firmly.
‘There’s nothing I’d like more,’ Clare said quickly. ‘But I haven’t told the agency about the Dorelli fiasco yet, and the chances are they’ll want to reassign me straight away. And I ought to contact Dad too.’
‘But not for the next two weeks.’ Violetta poured herself some more coffee. ‘He is away, dearest. He has taken her—’ she invested the word with extraordinary venom ‘—on a trip to San Francisco. He told me when I telephoned him last week to ask for your address in Rome, which I had mislaid.’
‘Oh.’ Clare digested this with dismay, then rallied. ‘All the more reason for me to go back, then. I should be there in case of an emergency with the business.’
Violetta shook her head. ‘His assistant—Tricia, is it not?—is doing that. So there is really nothing to take you away,’ she added dulcetly. ‘Everything has worked for the best.’
‘Yes,’ Clare said too brightly, as she damned San Francisco, its bay, its hills, and its blameless citizens under her breath. ‘Yes, of course.’
When breakfast was over, Violetta announced that she was driving into Cenacchio to the hairdresser.
‘Do you wish to come with me, mia cara, or shall I ask Giacomo to place a lounger down by the pool for you?’
‘That would be perfect,’ Clare agreed. If she was forced to be on holiday, she thought, then she would behave like a holidaymaker.
When she went down to the pool below the rose terrace about an hour later, she found the lounger already in position, and Giacomo, Angelina’s husband, who looked after the gardens at the villa, fussing with a sun umbrella. He was a small, wrinkled man with grey hair and black twinkling eyes, and he greeted Clare with his usual gap-toothed smile.
‘Ah, signorina, each time you come here you are more like your dear mother, God give her rest.’ He looked at her hands, clearly searching for rings, and tutted. ‘But where is your husband? Where are the bambini?’
Clare laughed. ‘I’m sorry to be such a disappointment, Giacomo, but we can’t all be as lucky as Angelina.’
Giacomo shook his head reproachfully. ‘Such a waste,’ he told the sky, and went off, muttering to himself.
It
