and reluctantly given in to by accepting Beatrice Chalmers’ kind invitation to stay with them.
‘Do you think she’ll be comfortable here, Elliott? She’s been used to so much more luxurious surroundings,’ Beatrice fretted as she studied her pretty guest suite with an anxious frown.
‘From what Carlo told us about her, I doubt she’ll be very concerned with her surroundings,’ Elliott told her drily. ‘I hope to God she isn’t going to be constantly awash with tears and laments.’
‘Oh, Elliott, that isn’t fair,’ Beatrice reproached him. ‘Lucia said she had dealt with the whole thing very bravely. It can’t have been easy. You won’t forget to pick her up from the airport, will you?’
‘Would I dare?’ Elliott asked drily.
‘Oh, and that reminds me… I’ve asked Oliver over for dinner on Friday,’ Beatrice interrupted him briefly.
‘Bea,’ Elliott warned her. ‘I hope you aren’t thinking of matchmaking…’
He saw his wife’s guilty flush and sighed, reaching out to tousle her glossy dark hair.
‘I suppose there’s no point in my telling you that you’re playing with fire, is there?’
‘Because Oliver’s a misogynist?’ she responded spiritedly.
‘Oliver’s been badly burned, Bea,’ he told her gently. ‘And because of it he’s inclined to let the world know that he’s now fireproof. He won’t take kindly to being manipulated into providing a bit of light relief for our lamenting Lucretia, you know.’
He saw how her face had fallen and kissed her lightly. Four years of marriage, and she still had the power to move him in a way that no one else could ever match.
‘I must go,’ he whispered against her hair. ‘I’ve got a board meeting at ten.’
Watching him drive away, Beatrice wondered if she should perhaps cancel Friday’s dinner party. Guiltily she acknowledged that it was true that she had deliberately invited Oliver hoping that the presence of a single, attractive male might help to raise Francesca’s spirits a little; especially such a fascinating male as Oliver. And he was fascinating, with those distinctive silver, all-seeing eyes and that shock of thick, dark hair so at odds with the curious lightness of his eyes. He could be charming too when he chose, although he invariably directed his light-hearted flirtatious remarks to women he knew full well were perfectly happy with their existing partners, and women who, moreover, had the social skills to return the volleyed flattery with easy sophistication. It was also true that he often chose to exhibit these skills in front of some poor unfortunate who had made it all too plain that she was dangerously on the verge of falling heavily for him. He had a way of nipping such affections in the bud that was brutal and very, very effective. Beatrice gave a faint shiver. Perhaps she had not been so clever after all, but because she had invited several other couples for dinner as well, wanting to introduce Francesca to as many new people as possible, she had decided that Oliver was hardly likely to suspect her of matchmaking.
Not that she was doing, really… although she had to admit there was a definite temptation. How old was he now? Thirtysomething… four or five most likely; and it was eight years since Kristie had left him in such a spectacular blaze of publicity, claiming that their daughter was not his after all and that she was going to America to join her lover and Katie’s father.
Other people endured similar tragedies. But other men were not Oliver, Beatrice admitted to herself.
That steely pride of his would not have taken kindly to the gleeful publicity of the gutter Press at the downfall of his marriage. Not since he had made it plain how little time he had for them when his first book had been such a huge success.
They had even speculated that losing his wife and child might make him lose the ability to write, but that had not proved the case, and Oliver had gone from strength to strength, his powerfully evocative novels with their accurate historical backgrounds and their vivid challenging characters had remained at the top of the best-seller lists throughout the world.
His new book was set in both England and Italy, a complicated family saga spanning several generations and involving a wealth of internecine treachery of the type for which his books were justly famous.
And it was here that Beatrice had a tiny stab of guilt, because she had not told Elliott exactly what it was she had in mind.
All that was needed now was for both parties to be tactfully approached with the idea, and she was hoping that the dinner party on Friday would provide an ideal means of breaking the ice. She intended to say nothing to Francesca about Oliver, but planned to draw the girl out over the dinner-table, hoping to arouse Oliver’s interest. It struck her now that she might have been rather over-ambitious, but she was reluctant to abandon a plan that showed such potential promise, and so she crossed her fingers childishly and promised herself that all would go well, and that she wasn’t matchmaking at all… rather, what she was doing was a form of head-hunting, albeit of an extremely freelance variety.
She would be met at Heathrow, Francesca had been told, but in the busy sea of faces in the Arrivals lounge it was impossible to pick out anyone holding up a card bearing her name, so the sudden shock of someone taking hold of her arm made her tense and spin round.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Elliott Chalmers, and I think you’re Francesca, aren’t you?’
Francesca focused on him: a tall, blunt-faced man with a commanding air of authority, and a faintly wry smile.
He made her feel rather like a foolish schoolgirl as he escorted her across the concourse, collected her luggage, and marshalled her outside to where his car was waiting, but at least his blunt, no-nonsense attitude was preferable to the kind of heavy gallantry, not unmixed with sexual speculation, she had been subjected to increasingly of late, and which she found both irritating and distasteful, and from the most surprising of sources.
Here was a man one could trust even if one could not always agree with him, she decided shrewdly. He was also a man who would respect one’s rights to one’s own opinions, even if he did attempt to steam-roller them.
At home it had been mild and sunny; here in London it was damp and cold. Francesca shivered in her thin wool suit, wishing she had worn the heavier top coat that was packed away in her cases… New cases, because the only ones she possessed were those which had been ordered for her honeymoon, and stamped by Vuitton with her married initials. She winced a little, and hoped that her gesture would be mistakenly put down to the cold.
Her new suitcases bore no initials, but they had come from Gucci and had been very expensive. Her father had insisted on buying them for her. Like all Italian men, he adored spoiling his womenfolk. The new Valentino wardrobe inside the cases had been another parental gift.
Francesca had worn designer clothes almost from her teens. Her family was wealthy and in Italy good dressing was important, but this was the first time she had worn Valentino. He was considered a little fast by Paolo’s mother, and so Francesca had subdued her own desire to experiment with his innovative styles and strong colours and had instead settled for the designer favoured by her mother-in-law to be.
Now she did not have to weigh such considerations any longer; she was free to do exactly as she wished. It was an extremely novel realisation, and she was only just beginning to learn not to be frightened of it; like a crab without its protective shell, she had to subdue the urge to scuttle away and hide herself
