Wed To The Italian: Bartaldi's Bride / Rome's Revenge / The Forced Marriage. Sara Craven

I’m not most girls,’ Clare had returned, kissing her cheek.

      She’d been relieved to find that Violetta’s sudden spurt of ill-temper had been short-lived, and that her godmother had soon reverted to her usual charming self once they were back at the Villa Rosa.

      But I still don’t fully understand what was going on, she admitted frowningly, as she grabbed some undies and a plain cream skirt and top and headed for the bathroom.

      But Violetta’s vagaries had to take second place in the scheme of things, as Clare showered and dressed and made her plans.

      Returning to Rome was probably her safest bet, she thought, grimacing. It would be easier to stay hidden in a crowd—always supposing anyone was to come looking for her…

      There she’d find a travel agent, and buy herself any ticket on any flight back to the UK.

      She would leave a note for her godmother, saying simply that she’d changed her mind, and gone away to avoid embarrassment. She only hoped Violetta’s invitation to the Villa Minerva would still stand in her absence, as she was clearly looking forward to it with keen anticipation.

      After all, it’s not her fault that I’m reneging on our bargain, she thought defensively. Although Guido Bartaldi might not see it that way. He would not be pleased to find his arrangements for Paola jettisoned like this.

      But—in every war there were bound to be casualties. And she regarded her dealings with Guido Bartaldi as war-like in the extreme.

      But the problem of Paola remained, of course, she admitted, biting her lip. Especially now that Fabio was around again to muddy the waters.

      Paola was still little more than a child, after all. She didn’t deserve to be left to the tender mercies of a man who was marrying her for commercial reasons—whether he was a confidence trickster, or a member of the Italian nobility, she added with a certain violence.

      No, she didn’t like the idea of leaving the girl in the lurch, but what choice did she have? Her own peace of mind had to be her priority.

      I’ll write to Violetta, she promised herself guiltily. Warn her about Fabio. She’s been targeted by men like him ever since she was widowed, and she’s seen them all off. She must be able to find some way of bringing Paola to her senses.

      As she made her way quietly down the stairs, she could hear faint clattering from the kitchen regions, signalling that Angelina had started her day.

      She opened the heavy wooden door with exaggerated care, wincing as the hinges creaked, and edged round it into the bright morning sunlight.

      For a moment she was dazzled, and blinked. When she could see again, she realised there was a car parked at the foot of the steps—something long, dark and sporting.

      And leaning against its bonnet was someone tall, dark and definitely unsporting.

      Guido Bartaldi, totally at his ease, and looking as if he had all the time in the world.

      Shock and disbelief turned her to stone. She stood, staring down at him, lips parted in silent horror.

      ‘Buongiorno.’ He looked up at her, and smiled, and she felt her heart turn over. ‘It’s a beautiful day.’

      She found her voice. It emerged with something of a croak. ‘What—what are you doing here?’

      ‘I came to meet you—to escort you to the Villa Minerva.’ He paused, his brows slanting mockingly as he focused on her travel bag. ‘Something told me that you would wish to make an early start—and I see I was right.’ He walked up the steps and took the bag from her unresisting hand. ‘How good to know we are in such accord. It bodes well for the future, don’t you think?’

      ‘No, I don’t.’ Clare drew a deep breath. ‘It was—considerate of you to think of me, but I’m quite capable of making my own way to your house.’

      ‘I never doubted your capability, mia cara,’ he tossed back over his shoulder. ‘Merely your willingness to comply with our bargain. But perhaps I have a naturally suspicious mind.’

      He put her bag in his boot, then walked round and opened the passenger door. ‘Shall we go?’

      Clare lifted a defiant chin. ‘I have my own car, thank you.’

      ‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘The rented Fiat. It is no longer here.’

      Clare swung round and found the parking place next to Violetta’s car was indeed empty.

      ‘Where is it?’ she demanded.

      His voice was silk. ‘I arranged to have it collected earlier today, and returned to the hire company’s office in Perugia. And also for the bill to be settled on your behalf. I hope this is agreeable to you.’

      ‘It’s far from agreeable,’ Clare said fierily. ‘How dare you make such arrangements without consulting me?’

      ‘It is not easy to consult you,’ he said, ‘when you insist on being so determinedly asleep so much of the time.’ He paused. ‘Your godmother thought it was a good idea, when I spoke to her last night, and was happy to hand over the documentation and the keys.’

      ‘Quite a little conspiracy,’ Clare said icily. She realised now what had woken her. The sound of the Fiat being removed. ‘I wasn’t aware that hire companies started their activities at dawn.’

      ‘They don’t. But my associates do, when necessary.’ He let her digest this, then went on smoothly, ‘Now, shall we drop the subject, or continue this argument on the journey? The choice is yours.’

      ‘Really?’ Clare queried bitterly. ‘It seems to me that all my choices have been pre-empted.’

      He laughed. ‘Not all of them, cara. Just those that would not be to your advantage—or mine.’

      Clare stood her ground. ‘I haven’t said goodbye to my godmother yet.’

      ‘I did not realise you had planned to,’ he murmured, his mouth twisting. ‘As it is, she asked last night not to be disturbed, and said she would see you very soon.’ The dark eyes met hers. Held them. ‘Is there another problem, or may we begin our drive?’

      Now, if ever, was the moment to tell him she’d changed her mind. That she had no intention of going anywhere with him. This was her chance to go back into the house, shut herself into her room, and tell Angelina that she did not wish to meet the Marchese Bartaldi again while she was under Violetta’s roof.

      But the words wouldn’t come. Not when he was—looking at her. Making her look back at him.

      Making her realise that there was no escape. Because Fate had intervened, and the die had been cast for her.

      She thought, with a kind of frantic calm, It’s too late. It’s all far too late—and—somehow—it always has been.

      And walked slowly down the steps to the waiting car.

      ‘You are very quiet.’

      Clare, who’d been sitting, staring rigidly through the windscreen, her hands gripped together in her lap for the first fifteen minutes of the journey, started slightly as Guido spoke.

      ‘I think “stunned” would be a more apposite word,’ she returned constrainedly.

      ‘Are you a nervous passenger? Am I going too fast for you?’

      Now there, thought Clare, was a loaded question.

      Aloud she said, coolly, ‘I’m not nervous. As I’m sure you already know, Marchese, you’re a very good driver.’

      The road they were taking twisted and twined between tall, heavily forested hills, but she’d been aware from the first that the car’s power was being tightly, even ruthlessly controlled.

      As he controls everything else, she thought tautly.

      And