Sara Craven Tribute Collection. Sara Craven

like this should carry a government warning, Clare told herself grimly.

      She said in Italian, ‘Are you waiting for Paola, signore?’

      ‘Si, signorina.’ His voice was low and resonant, his tone courteous, but Clare was sharply aware of a subtle change in his stance. A new tension. There was still a safe distance between them, so it was foolish to feel menaced, but she did.

      The notion that here was a tiger on a leash became conviction. This, she realised shakily, was a determined and dangerous man, and what the hell was she doing crossing swords with him? Except that Paola needed to be protected, she reminded herself swiftly.

      The dark eyes were fixed on her. ‘Do you know where she is?’

      ‘Naturally,’ Clare said. ‘But I wanted to talk to you about her first.’

      He said softly, ‘Ah. And you are…?’

      ‘That doesn’t matter,’ she said quickly.

      ‘I think it does.’ His dark gaze was charged now, taking in every detail from the top of her head to the soles of her feet. She saw his mouth curl slightly, and was vexed to find that she minded.

      After all, what possible interest could she have for him in her chainstore dress and sandals? She derided herself. She was a working girl, not the kind of rich child he needed to stalk.

      And, heaven knows, he was the last type of man that she’d ever want to be involved with anyway. So, what was her problem?

      He said, ‘You’re not what I was expecting.’

      Clare lifted her chin. ‘I was thinking the same about you.’

      He inclined his head almost mockingly. ‘That I can believe,’ he murmured. ‘So—where is Paola?’

      ‘She’s perfectly safe.’

      ‘I am relieved to hear it.’ The dark gaze seemed to burn into hers. ‘May I see her?’

      ‘Of course.’ Clare nodded, conscious of a faint bewilderment. Even unease. ‘But before that, we really need to talk.’

      He was smiling at her. ‘Oh, you will talk, signorina. But not to me.’

      He made a slight gesture with his hand, and Clare became suddenly aware of movement beside her—behind her. Men in uniform appearing as if from nowhere. Men with guns which—dear God—they were pointing at her.

      She felt her arms taken, dragged behind her back. Felt, as she began to struggle, handcuffs snapped on to her wrists. She wanted to scream a protest, but her taut throat wouldn’t utter a sound.

      All she could do was look back at her adversary with dazed horror as an excited babble of sound ebbed and flowed around her.

      She said hoarsely, ‘Who are you?’

      ‘I am Guido Bartaldi, signorina. And you are one of the creatures who has kidnapped my ward.’ His voice cut into her like the lash of a whip. ‘Now tell me what you have done with her.’

      ‘Kidnapped?’ Clare’s voice rose to a shriek. ‘Are you mad?’

      The sudden surprised silence, and the expression of frowning incredulity on Guido Bartaldi’s face alerted her to the fact that she’d spoken in English.

      ‘You are the mad one,’ he returned in the same language. ‘To think that you and your accomplice could get away with this.’

      ‘I have no accomplice.’ Reaction was setting in, and Clare was suddenly shaking. Her eyes searched the dark, inimical face pleadingly. ‘I met Paola on the road, and gave her a lift—that’s all.’

      ‘Marchese.’ A policeman hurried up. ‘The little one is outside in a car. She is unconscious—drugged, I think—but she is alive.’

      ‘She’s asleep, not drugged,’ Clare said desperately, the word ‘Marchese’ echoing in her brain. Paola had failed to mention that her unwanted bridegroom was a marquis.

      ‘See that she is taken to the local clinic at once,’ the Marchese ordered curtly. His dark eyes seared Clare. ‘As for this one—get her out of my sight—now.’

      Her arms were held, and she was turned not gently towards the exit.

      ‘Please,’ she flung back over her shoulder. ‘You’re making a terrible mistake.’

      ‘The mistake is yours, signorina.’ His tone was harsh. ‘But you will pay dearly for it, I promise you.’

      And he turned his back in icy dismissal.

CHAPTER TWO

      IT WAS a small room she was taken to, with one high, barred window, a table and chairs. On the table there was a plastic bottle of mineral water, and a paper cup.

      So that I don’t seize the opportunity to slash my wrists, Clare thought, biting her lip.

      But at least they hadn’t put her in a cell—or at least not yet. And, thankfully, they’d removed the handcuffs.

      The afternoon heat was turning the room into an oven, but she was shivering just the same.

      Two men in plain clothes, their faces unsmiling, had asked her some preliminary questions. She’d given her name, age and occupation, and her reason for being in Italy. They had asked where she had been staying, and she’d told them Rome. But she’d hesitated when they’d requested the name and address of her hosts there. Neither of the Dorellis, after all, had any reason to wish her well. She could just imagine the smile of oily triumph on the Signore’s face if he learned she’d been arrested.

      But she knew that her refusal to answer had been another black mark against her. After that, she’d been left alone.

      Fabio had not been mentioned, although she was sure that he was the accomplice the Marchese had referred to.

      What on earth had he done? she wondered. After all, planning an elopement was hardly a criminal offence.

      Although running off with the Marchese Bartaldi’s intended wife could well be considered a capital crime, she acknowledged, her mouth twisting. She’d seen the deference with which he was treated.

      Guido Bartaldi, she thought. The name was familiar, but, for the life of her, she didn’t know why. Her tired, scared brain refused to make the connection.

      All she could be sure of was that she had never, in her life—in her wildest dream or worst nightmare—encountered Guido Bartaldi in person before.

      That I could never have forgotten, she told herself grimly. His lean hawk’s face with the shadowed, contemptuous eyes seemed to burn in her mind.

      Paola had said he was cold, but he was worse than that. He was ice—he was marble. He was darkness.

      But it was no use sitting there hating him.

      I must think, she told herself, straightening her shoulders and resisting an impulse to put her head down on the table and weep with weariness and fright. So far I’ve let everyone else call the shots. I need to phone the British Consul and tell Violetta as well. I don’t want to worry my father unless it becomes strictly necessary.

      But it won’t come to that, she tried to reassure herself. Paola has to have woken up by now, so they must know I’m innocent.

      Unless she’s too scared to tell them the truth, she thought apprehensively, her stomach churning. Unless she decides to pretend she was abducted rather than admit she was running away. Oh, dear God, she could just do that.

      She also wished she knew more about the Italian legal system, and how it worked, but she’d never needed to before. Should she have asked for a lawyer right away? she wondered. Violetta was bound to know a good one.

      She