Bartaldi's Bride. Sara Craven

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 you believe that I am glad too? Even grateful?’

      ‘Oh, please don’t go overboard,’ Clare begged sarcastically. She hesitated. ‘What will happen to Fabio? Are you going to pursue him? Charge him with something?’

      The Marchese shook his head. ‘He was not a serious kidnapper. Just an unpleasant leech who saw a chance to make himself some easy money at my expense. I imagine it is not the first time he has been paid to go away.’

      ‘But this time he misjudged his opponent.’ Clare’s tone was ironic.

      ‘As you say.’

      ‘Congratulations, signore. I hope next time you don’t have to mount a full-scale operation to stop Paola running away.’

      ‘There will not be a next time,’ he said curtly. ‘I believed she was sufficiently protected. However, I was wrong, and other steps will have to be taken.’

      ‘Not the school in Switzerland, I trust,’ Clare said before she could stop herself.

      The dark eyes raked her. ‘She seems to have taken you fully into her confidence.’

      Clare met his gaze steadily. ‘Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger. Someone you’ll never see again.’ She paused. ‘Talking of which, I hope I’m free to go now.’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘Oh, I’m taking nothing for granted.’ Not until I’ve put at least a hundred kilometres between us, she added silently.

      ‘I regret that your vacation has been interrupted so unpleasantly. Do you intend to journey on to Cenacchio?’

      ‘I’m not sure what my plans are,’ Clare said guardedly. Whatever, she wasn’t prepared to share them, especially with an Italian aristocrat who seemed to regard the rest of creation as so many puppets to dance to his tug on the strings.

      He picked up her bag and replaced the items that had fallen out, with the exception of her passport, which he opened and studied for a moment.

      Then he looked at her, his lips twisting in a faint smile. He said softly, ‘Your photograph does not do you justice—Chiara.’

      It had been a long time since anyone had used the Italian version of her name. Not since her mother…

      Clare bit her lip hard, staring rigidly at the table.

      There’d been an odd note in his voice, she realised. Something disturbing—even sensuous—that had prickled along her nerve-endings.

      ‘Would you like to see Paola?’ he went on in the same quiet tone. ‘I am sure she would wish to thank you.’

      The walls of the room seemed to be contracting strangely, startling her with a sudden vivid awareness of his proximity to her. A troubling certainty that she was in more danger now than she had been all day. Or even ever before.

      She thought, I’ve got to get out of here—away from here…

      She forced a stiff little smile. ‘I’d prefer to leave things as they are. Please tell her I said goodbye—and good luck,’ she added deliberately. ‘I think she’s going to need it.’

      He smiled back at her. ‘Oh, I think we all make our own good fortune—don’t you?’

      ‘I—I haven’t given it much thought.’ She put out her hand. ‘May I have my bag, please?’

      For an uneasy moment she was sure he was going to make her reach out and take it from him.

      But he passed it across the table to her without comment. He had good hands, she noted without pleasure, with square, capable palms and long fingers. Strong, powerful hands. But, she wondered, could they also be gentle…?

      She caught herself hastily. She couldn’t afford to indulge in that kind of speculation. It simply wasn’t safe.

      Guido Bartaldi wasn’t safe, she thought, making a play of checking the contents of her bag.

      ‘You