The Count's Blackmail Bargain. Sara Craven

I cannot after all entertain you at my country home. It is occupied by workmen—so tedious, but unavoidable.’

      Laura froze, her cup halfway to her lips. Were they going to spend the whole two weeks in this apartment? Oh, God, she thought, surely not. It might seem spacious enough, but she suspected that even a few days with the Signora would make it seem totally claustrophobic.

      Paolo was looking less than pleased. ‘But you knew we were coming, Mamma. And I promised Laura that she should see Tuscany.’

      ‘Another time, perhaps,’ the Signora said smoothly. ‘This time she will have to be content with a corner of Umbria.’ Her expression was bland. ‘Your cousin Alessio has offered us the use of the Villa Diana at Besavoro.’

      There was an astonished pause, then Paolo said slowly, ‘Why should he do that?’

      ‘Mio caro.’ The Signora’s voice held a hint of reproof. ‘We are members of his family. His only living relatives.’

      Paolo shrugged. ‘Even so, it is not like him to be so obliging,’ he countered. ‘And, anyway, Besavoro is at the end of the world.’ He spread his hands. ‘Also, the Villa Diana is halfway up a mountain on the way to nowhere. It is hardly an adequate substitute.’

      ‘I think Signorina Mason will find it charming.’ Again the smile that did not reach her eyes. ‘And not overrun by her own countrymen.’ She turned to Laura. ‘I understand that Tuscany has come to be known as Chiantishire. So amusing.’

      ‘Has it?’ Laura enquired with wooden untruthfulness. ‘I didn’t know.’ Dear God, she thought. I’m going to be staying at a house owned by the chairman of the Arleschi Bank. This can’t be happening.

      ‘And Umbria is very beautiful,’ the Signora continued. ‘They call it the green heart of Italy, and there are many places to visit—Assisi—Perugia—San Sepulcro, the birthplace of the great Rafael. You will be spoiled for choice, signorina.’

      Paolo cast a glance at the decorated ceiling. ‘You call it a choice, Mamma?’ he demanded. ‘To risk our lives up and down that deathtrap of a road every time we want to go anywhere?’

      He shook his head. ‘If anything happens to my cousin Alessio, and I inherit, then the Villa Diana will be for sale the next day.’

      There was another lengthier pause. Then: ‘You must forgive my son, signorina,’ the Signora said silkily. ‘In the heat of the moment, he does not always speak with wisdom. And, even if it is a little remote, the house is charming.’

      ‘And Alessio?’ Paolo demanded petulantly, clearly resenting the rebuke. ‘At least he can’t mean to use the house himself, if we are there. Or he never has in the past.’ He snorted. ‘Probably off chasing some skirt.’

      ‘Dear boy, the offer was made, and I was glad to accept. I did not enquire into his own plans.’

      Laura had been listening with a kind of horrified fascination. She thought, I should not be hearing this.

      Aloud, she said quietly, ‘Paolo—isn’t there somewhere else we could stay? A hotel, perhaps.’

      ‘In the height of the tourist season?’ Paolo returned derisively. ‘We would be fortunate to find a cellar. No, it will have to be my cousin’s villa. And at least it will be cooler in the hills,’ he added moodily. ‘When do we leave?’

      ‘I thought tomorrow,’ said the Signora. She rose. ‘You must be tired after the flight, Signorina Mason. I shall ask Maria to show you your room so that you may rest a little.’

      And so you can give your son your unvarnished opinion of his latest acquisition, thought Laura. But then this was only what she’d been led to expect, she reminded herself. She supposed she should be grateful that the Signora hadn’t made a hysterical scene and ordered her out of the apartment.

      The bedroom allocated to her was on the small side, and the bed was narrow, and not particularly comfortable. She had been shown the bathroom—a daunting affair in marble the colour of rare beef, but she was glad to find that the still-unsmiling Maria had supplied a jug of hot water and a matching basin for the washstand in her room.

      She took off her shoes and dress, and had a refreshing wash. The soap was scented with lavender, and she thought with faint self-derision that it was the first friendly thing she’d discovered so far in Rome.

      She dried herself with the rather harsh linen towel, then stretched out on top of the bed with a sigh.

      The regrets she’d experienced on the plane were multiplying with every moment that passed. Back in London, Paolo had persuaded her that it would be easy. A spot of acting performed against a backdrop of some of Europe’s most beautiful scenery. Almost a game, he’d argued. And she’d be paid for it.

      Well, she was fast coming to the conclusion that no amount of cash was worth the hassle that the next two weeks seemed to promise. Although most of her concerns about Paolo’s future behaviour were largely laid to rest. The Signora, she thought with wry amusement, would prove a more than adequate chaperon. And if she had been in love with him, she’d have been faced with a frustrating time.

      Her head was beginning to ache, and she reached down to her bag by the side of the bed for the small pack of painkillers she’d included at the last minute, and the bottle of mineral water she’d bought at the airport. It was lukewarm now, but better than nothing, she thought as she swallowed a couple of the tablets, then turned onto her side, resolutely closing her eyes.

      The deed was done. She was in Italy, even if it wasn’t turning out to be a dream come true.

      Whatever, she thought wearily. There was no turning back now.

      Dinner that night was not an easy occasion. Paolo had announced plans to take Laura out for a meal, but the Signora had pointed out with steely insistence that this would be unwise, as they would be making an early start in the morning to avoid travelling in the full heat of the day.

      So they ate in the formal dining room, at a table that would have accommodated three times their number with room to spare. It did not make for a relaxed atmosphere, and conversation was so stilted that Laura wished Paolo and his mother would just speak Italian to each other, and leave her out of the situation.

      She realised, of course, that she was being grilled. Remembered too that she and Paolo had agreed to keep her actual personal details to a minimum. As far as the Signora was concerned, she was a girl who shared a flat with several others, and who enjoyed a good time. Someone, she hinted with a touch of coyness, who had not allowed for the sudden entry of Mr Right into her life. And she sent Paolo a languishing look.

      And whatever slights and unpleasantness might come her way, Laura knew she would always treasure the memory of the expression on the august lady’s face as she absorbed that.

      She had rehearsed the invented story of how and when she and Paolo had met so often that she was word-perfect. After all, she needed to give the impression that theirs was an established relationship of at least two months’ standing, which deserved to be taken seriously, and might be ready to move on to the next stage.

      For Steve, she thought with wry regret, substitute Paolo.

      She even managed to turn some of the Signora’s more probing queries into her background back on themselves by ingenuously asking what Paolo had been like as a small boy, and whether there were any childhood photographs of him that she could see.

      She had to admit the food was delicious, although she’d had little appetite for it. And when dinner was over they returned to the salotto, and listened to music by Monteverdi.

      And that, thought Laura, was by far the most pleasant part of the evening, not just because her late father had loved the same composer, but because conversation was kept to a minimum.

      She was just beginning to relax when the Signora announced in a tone that did not welcome opposition that it was time to retire for the night.

      Paolo wished her a very correct