Sara Craven Tribute Collection. Sara Craven

as if they were pasted to her damp body. It was hard to raise her spirits and try and think logically when she was, physically and mentally, at such a low ebb.

      She heard the sound of a key in the lock, and her whole body went rigid as she stared at the door. What now?

      To her surprise, the Marchese Bartaldi walked into the room. He paused, staring at her, the dark eyes narrowed, his mouth grim and set.

      She was immediately and startlingly aware of the scent of him, a compound of some faint, expensive cologne, clean male skin, and fresh linen. An evocative mix that stamped its presence on the heavy atmosphere.

      Angrily aware that she was trembling inside, but determined to make a show of resistance, Clare pushed back her chair and got slowly to her feet, forcing herself to return his gaze.

      At the same time she registered that he was carrying her bag, which he tossed negligently on to the table between them. Some of its contents—her passport, car keys and wallet—spilled out on to the polished wood. The casual, almost contemptuous actions ignited a small flame of temper deep within her. What was he doing handling her things? He wasn’t a policeman.

      But he was a rich and powerful man, she thought, feeding her own contempt. Maybe he had the local police force in his pocket.

      He said, in English, ‘Please sit down.’

      Clare put her hands behind her back. ‘I prefer to stand.’

      ‘As you wish.’ He paused, looking her over from head to foot, his glance measured, even appraising.

      Lifting her chin, she endured his scrutiny in silence, bitterly aware that she must look an overheated, bedraggled mess.

      Not that it mattered. She wasn’t out to make any kind of feminine appeal to him. As far as he was concerned, she’d already been tried and condemned.

      He said, ‘Be good enough, signorina, to tell me exactly how you and my ward came to encounter each other.’

      ‘I would prefer to tell the British Consul,’ Clare said icily. ‘I also wish to make a telephone call to my godmother, and be provided with a lawyer.’

      He sighed. ‘One thing at a time, Miss Marriot. Firstly, why was Paola in your car?’

      ‘How many more times do I have to say it?’ Clare asked mutinously. ‘I was driving to my godmother’s house at Cenacchio and got caught in the storm.’

      ‘Your godmother is whom?’

      ‘Signora Andreati at the Villa Rosa.’

      He nodded. ‘I have heard of her.’

      ‘I’m sure she’ll be overwhelmed.’

      His mouth tightened. ‘I advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head.’

      ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Clare said. ‘Am I not behaving with sufficient deference, Marchese? It must be a new experience for you.’

      ‘The whole situation is one I am not anxious to repeat.’ His tone bit. ‘Please go on with your story.’

      Clare sighed. ‘I found Paola on the road, soaked to the skin. She seemed vulnerable, and her story worried me, so I decided to help. She persuaded me to drive her to the station, but when we arrived she was asleep, so I thought I’d have a look at this Fabio for myself. Get rid of him, if I could.’

      She shrugged. ‘You were waiting, so I assumed you were Fabio.’

      ‘I am not flattered by the mistake,’ he said coldly.

      ‘Oh, allow me to apologise,’ Clare said scornfully. ‘I, of course, have had a thrilling bloody afternoon. Accused of kidnapping, arrested by armed guards, interrogated, and locked into this oven. Absolutely ideal—wouldn’t you say?’

      ‘Perhaps it will teach you in future not to meddle in situations which do not concern you,’ Guido Bartaldi said grimly. He paused. ‘But you will be pleased to know that Paola is awake, and confirms your story.’

      ‘Really?’ Clare raised her eyebrows.

      The firm mouth tightened. ‘You seem surprised, signorina. Not a reassuring reaction.’

      ‘I am surprised,’ Clare’s tone was dry. ‘Paola didn’t strike me as a great friend to truth. I thought she’d say whatever was needed to show her in a good light.’

      His brows snapped together ominously, and Clare stared at the floor, waiting for the thunderbolt to strike. Instead, there was a brief taut silence, then, incredibly, a low, amused chuckle.

      ‘You seem a shrewd judge of character, signorina,’ the Marchese drawled, as her startled gaze met his.

      She shrugged. ‘It hardly needs a degree in psychology to know that Paola’s a girl who’ll react unpredictably, even dangerously, if pushed into a corner.’ She added deliberately, ‘Also, when she’s bored, she’ll look for mischief. She is, after all, very young. You’re going to have your hands full,’ she added with a certain satisfaction.

      ‘I am obliged for your assessment.’ There was a faint note of anger in the quiet voice. ‘But I am quite capable of making the appropriate arrangements for her welfare.’

      ‘Which is why she was trying to run away with some smooth-talking crook, I suppose.’ Clare paused. ‘Incidentally, what became of Fabio? Is he in the next cell?’

      Guido Bartaldi shook his head. ‘He has not been arrested.’

      ‘I see,’ Clare said unsteadily. ‘That privilege was reserved for me.’

      He said coldly, ‘You were arrested, signorina, because the police were not convinced that Fabio was working alone, and your ill-timed arrival gave credence to their suspicions. That is all that happened.’

      Clare gasped indignantly. ‘Clearly you think I got off lightly.’

      ‘If you had been involved, it would have been the worse for you.’ The words were spoken softly, but Clare felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck.

      She tilted her chin. ‘It doesn’t worry you that I could sue for false arrest?’

      ‘When you walked into the station, I did not know what part you were playing. And I could not take any chances. My sole concern in this matter has been for Paola.’

      ‘Well, I suppose that’s something,’ Clare said with a touch of austerity, recalling what Paola had told her of the woman he visited in Siena. Perhaps today’s incident might have made him revise his feelings, she thought. Might even have convinced him that he was fonder of Paola than he realised.

      She found herself frowning slightly. ‘So, where is Fabio?’

      The Marchese shrugged elegant shoulders. ‘Who knows? He had the audacity to telephone me and ask how much I would pay him not to marry Paola.’

      Clare winced. ‘Poor Paola.’

      ‘He believed, you see, that I did not know where to find her, and would be frantic to get her back on any terms.’

      ‘How did you know?’ Clare’s curiosity got the better of her.

      He shrugged again. ‘Unfortunately for him, Paola had left his letter detailing all the arrangements in her bedroom.’

      In spite of weariness, strain and anger, Clare’s mouth curved into an involuntary smile. ‘Oh, no. Surely not.’

      ‘She is not a very experienced conspirator,’ the Marchese conceded sardonically. ‘When he realised that I knew the time and place of their rendezvous, he decided it was better to be discreet than brave, and rang off in a great hurry.’ He paused. ‘I went to collect Paola—and instead I found you,’ he added softly.

      ‘Yes, you did.’ Clare gave him a defiant stare. ‘And, even if it was interference, I’m still glad I didn’t just abandon her.’

      ‘Would