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

was pasted to her body, and the narrow strappy shoes that matched it were discoloured and leaking as well as lop-sided.

      Clare reached into the back of the car and retrieved the raincoat she’d thrown there a few hours before. She’d left the Dorellis in such a hurry that she’d almost forgotten it, and their maid had chased after her waving it.

      She said, ‘You need to get out of that wet dress. If you put this on and button it right up, no one will notice anything.’ She paused. ‘I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything hot to drink, but there’s some fruit juice if you’d like it.’

      There was an uncertain silence. Then, ‘You are kind.’

      Clare busied herself opening the carton, tactfully ignoring the wriggling and muttered curses going on beside her.

      ‘My dress it ruined,’ the girl announced after a moment or two. ‘It will have to be thrown away.’

      Clare swallowed. ‘Isn’t that rather extravagant?’ she asked mildly.

      ‘It does not matter.’ The girl shrugged, pushing the pile of crumpled pink linen away with a bare foot.

      ‘What about your car?’ Clare handed over the drink. ‘Where did you leave that?’

      Another shrug. ‘Somewhere.’ A swift, sideways glance. ‘I do not remember.’

      ‘What a shame,’ Clare said drily. ‘Perhaps we’d better introduce ourselves. ‘I’m Clare Marriot.’

      The girl stared at her. ‘You are English? But your Italian is good. I was deceived.’

      Clare smiled. ‘My mother was Italian, and it’s one of the languages I teach.’

      ‘Truly? What are the others?’

      ‘Oh, French, Spanish—a little German. And English itself, of course.’

      ‘Is that why you are here—to teach English?’

      Clare shook her head. ‘No, I’m on holiday.’ She paused. ‘What’s your name?’

      ‘It is Paola—Morisone.’

      Again, the brief hesitation wasn’t lost on Clare.

      But she didn’t query it. Instead, she said, ‘It looks as if the storm could be passing. If you’ll tell me where you live, I’ll take you home.’

      ‘No.’ The denial was snapped at her. ‘I do not go home—not now, not ever.’

      Clare groaned inwardly. She said quietly, ‘Be reasonable. You’re soaked to the skin, and your shoe is broken. Besides, I’m sure people will be worried about you.’

      Paola tossed her head. ‘Let them. I do not care. And if Guido thinks I am dead, then it is good, because he will not try to make me marry him any more.’

      Clare stared at her, trying to unravel the strands of this pronouncement and absorb its implications at the same time.

      She said ‘Guido?’

      ‘My brother. He is a pig.’

      Clare felt dazed. ‘Your brother?’ Her voice rose. ‘But that’s absurd. You can’t…’

      ‘Oh, he is not a real brother.’ Paola wrinkled her nose dismissively. ‘My father and his were in business together, and when my father died, Zio Carlo said I must live with him.’ Her face darkened. ‘Although I did not want to. I wished to stay with my matrigna, and she wished it too, but the lawyers would not permit it.’

      At least Paola seems to have had more luck with her stepmother than I did, Clare thought, wryly. Bernice couldn’t wait to get me out of the house. But she had other problems.

      She said, feeling her way. ‘And is it Zio Carlo’s wish that you should marry this Guido?’

      ‘Dio, no. He is also dead.’ Paola heaved a sigh. ‘But he said in his will that Guido should be my guardian until I am twenty-five, which is when my money comes to me. Unless I am married before that, of course. Which I mean to be. Although not to Guido, whom I hate.’

      Clare felt as if she was wading through linguine. She took a deep breath. ‘Aren’t you rather young to be thinking about marriage—to anyone?’

      ‘I am eighteen—or I shall be very soon,’ she added, returning Clare’s sceptical glance with a mutinous glare. ‘And my own mother was my age when she met my father and fell in love.’ She made a sweeping, impassioned gesture, nearly spilling the remains of her drink. ‘When you meet the one man in the world who is for you, nothing else matters.’

      ‘I see,’ Clare said drily, taking the carton and putting it out of harm’s way. ‘And have you met such a man?’

      ‘Of course. His name is Fabio.’ Paola’s eyes shone. ‘And he is wonderful. He is going to save me from Guido.’

      It was all delicious nonsense, Clare thought, half-amused, half-exasperated. But it was also full time to introduce a note of reality.

      She said, ‘Paola—it’s nearly the twenty-first century. People stopped forcing others into marriage a long time ago. If Guido knows how you really feel…’

      ‘He does not care. It is the money—only the money. My father’s share in the business belongs to me. If I marry someone else, it will be lost to him. He will not permit that. For three years he has kept me in prison.’

      ‘Prison?’ Clare echoed faintly. ‘What are you talking about?’

      Paola’s delicate mouth was set sullenly. ‘He made me go to this school. The nuns were like jailers. He did this so I could not meet anyone else and be happy.’

      It occurred to Clare that the unknown Guido might have a point. Paola clearly had all the common sense of a butterfly.

      But that didn’t mean he should be allowed to pressure such an immature girl into matrimony for mercenary reasons, she reminded herself. If that was what he was actually doing.

      She said gently, ‘Perhaps he really loves you, Paola, and wants to take care of you.’

      Paola made a contemptuous noise. ‘I do not believe that. He is concerned for his business—for losing control of my share. That is all.’

      ‘Oh.’ Clare digested this, then started on a different tack. ‘How did you meet Fabio?’

      ‘I was on holiday,’ Paola said dreamily. ‘At Portofino with my friend Carlotta and her family. Guido let me go there because Carlotta’s mother is just as strict as the nuns.’ She giggled. ‘But Carlotta and I used to climb out of the window at the villa, and go into the town at night. One time, we were at a disco, when some men tried to get fresh with us, so Fabio and his friend came to help us.’ She sighed ecstatically. ‘I looked at him—and I knew. And it was the same for him.’

      ‘How fortunate,’ Clare said slowly. ‘And you’ve—kept in touch ever since?’

      Paola nodded eagerly. ‘He writes to me, and I pretend the letters are from Carlotta.’

      ‘You haven’t told Guido about this boy?’

      ‘Are you crazy?’ Paola cast her eyes to heaven. ‘Do you know what he would do? Send me to another prison—in Switzerland—so that I learn to cook, and arrange flowers, and be a hostess. For him,’ she added venomously.

      She paused. ‘And Fabio is not a boy. He is a man, although not as old as Guido, naturally. And far more handsome.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Bello, bello.’

      An image of Guido as an ageing lecher, on the lines of the loathsome Signor Dorelli, lodged in Clare’s mind. She could well understand Fabio’s appeal, yet, at the same time, she was aware of all kinds of nameless worries.

      She said, probing gently, ‘And is that where you’re going now? To meet Fabio somewhere?’

      Paola