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

      And what was she supposed to do in return? Clare wondered, rendered momentarily mute with outrage. Curtsy?

      At last she found her voice. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, dispensing with any preliminary niceties.

      ‘Clare, mia cara,’ Violetta intervened with a touch of reproach. ‘The Marchese has called to make sure you completed your journey here in safety. So kind of him,’ she added, bestowing one of her dazzling smiles on their visitor.

      She was wearing mist-grey chiffon, with a discreet shimmer of diamonds at her throat and in her ears. And the Marchese seemed to have guessed her views on appropriate dress, because the casual clothes he’d been wearing earlier had been replaced by an elegant charcoal suit, set off by an impeccable white shirt and a silk tie in sombre jewel colours.

      Violetta, Clare realised crossly, was looking at him as if she could eat him.

      Not that she could wholly be blamed for that, she admitted, her mouth tightening. Earlier that day, even when she’d been scared almost witless, she had been able to recognise that, without even trying, he packed a formidable sexual punch.

      And this evening, for whatever reason, he seemed to be trying…

      ‘I have apologised to Signora Andreati for intruding in this way, but I had to set my mind at rest,’ Guido Bartaldi said smoothly. ‘You seemed—overwrought when we parted today.’

      ‘Really?’ Clare asked icily. ‘I thought I was perfectly calm.’

      ‘Yet your godmother has been telling me you retired with a headache. I hope you are fully recovered.’

      ‘My head is fine,’ she said shortly. The pain now seems to be in my neck.

      ‘Ring the bell for Angelina, dearest,’ Violetta said hastily. ‘The Marchese and I are enjoying a Campari soda. I know that is your favourite too.’

      Clare would have given a great deal to say tartly that she didn’t want a drink, or any dinner, for that matter, and then withdraw in a marked manner. But that would only embarrass Violetta, who was clearly thrilled by her unexpected visitor, and Clare was far too fond of her to risk that.

      And at that moment Angelina, all smiles, came bustling out with her Campari, and a plate of tiny crostini which she placed on the wrought-iron table in front of Violetta.

      So, Clare would just have to make the best of things. Carefully she chose a chair on the other side of her godmother, deliberately interposing Violetta between herself and Guido Bartaldi, who resumed his own seat with a faint, infuriating smile.

      He said, ‘I also wished to assure you that your raincoat will be returned to you as soon as it has been cleaned.’

      Clare gulped some Campari. ‘Thank you.’

      ‘It’s nothing.’ He paused. ‘Paola was sorry not to be able to thank you in person for your care of her.’

      ‘That doesn’t matter.’ Clare hesitated, unwilling to prolong the conversation, but not wanting to earn herself black marks from Violetta for being discourteous. She cleared her throat. ‘How—how is she?’

      He shrugged a shoulder. ‘Not happy, but that is natural.’

      ‘Entirely,’ Clare said with emphasis.

      ‘But she is young,’ he went on, as if he hadn’t heard. ‘She will get over it. Indeed, I intend to make every effort to see that she does.’

      ‘Lucky Paola.’ Clare kept her voice expressionless and her eyes on her glass.

      ‘I doubt she would agree with you,’ he said softly. ‘But I can appreciate that her social contacts locally are limited, especially when I am away on business so much. And, as I was explaining to the Signora, that is another reason for my visit. I hope you will both be our guests at dinner at the Villa Minerva tomorrow evening.’

      ‘And I have told the Marchese that we would be delighted, mia cara. Is it not so?’

      Clare put down her crostini untasted. No, she thought furiously, it was not so, and Guido Bartaldi knew perfectly well that she’d rather be boiled in oil than go to dinner at his rotten house. In fact, there wasn’t enough space on the planet to separate them to her satisfaction.

      I feel a subsequent engagement coming on, she thought grimly. Or at least a migraine. If not a brain tumour.

      She fought to keep her voice level. ‘Thank you. I—shall look forward to it.’

      He said gently, ‘You are too gracious,’ and turned his attention back to Violetta, whom he treated with a charming deference bordering on flirtation. And she, of course, was lapping it up with roguish decorum.

      Clare sat rigidly in her chair, clutching her glass as if it was her last hold on sanity—or safety.

      Because she was suddenly frightened again. Because she didn’t believe that he was motivated by any concern for her well-being, or remotely interested in restoring her raincoat to her. There was more to it than that.

      Back in Barezzo, she’d experienced the power of this man. And she’d dared to antagonise him. The money he’d offered her was the merest drop in the ocean when compared with his total wealth. But that didn’t mean he’d enjoyed seeing it torn in pieces and thrown at him.

      It had seemed a grand gesture at the time. Now she was afraid she might live to regret it. Because he was not a man to shrug off that kind of affront—especially from a woman.

      Something warned her that behind the smile and the silken elegance was steel. And beyond the steel lurked pure pagan.

      She knew it as well as she knew her own reflection in a mirror. And she hoped she would only encounter the steel.

      Angelina appeared in the terrace. ‘The telephone for you, signora. It is Monsignor Caprani.’

      ‘I will come.’ Violetta rose to her feet, and Guido Bartaldi stood up too. ‘No, no, Marchese, please stay. I shall not be long. And in the meantime Clare will be glad to entertain you.’

      ‘Alas, I must get back.’ His regret sounded almost genuine, Clare thought, seething. ‘My uncle is expected from Venice some time this evening. But I shall look forward to welcoming yourself and the signorina to my own small world tomorrow. Arrivederci.’ He took Violetta’s hand and raised it to his lips. ‘Until then.’

      When she had fluttered back into the house, he turned and looked down at Clare, who stared back inimically.

      ‘Per Dio.’ His mouth twisted. ‘I think if I was dining here tonight, I would ask to have my food tasted.’

      She said huskily, ‘What’s going on? What do you want?’

      ‘As to that,’ he said slowly, ‘I do not think I have quite made up my mind. But when I have, Chiara, be assured you will be the first to know. Now, wish me goodnight.’

      Before she could resist, he reached down and pulled her up out of the chair and on to her feet in front of him, and only a few inches away.

      He bent towards her, his gaze travelling from her frightened eyes to her parted lips.

      She heard herself breathe, ‘No.’

      He laughed softly. With his free hand, he touched her cheek, running a questing thumb down the line of her throat, and she shivered and burned under his touch.

      His fingers reached the neckline of her dress and hooked under it, urging the delicate fabric off her shoulder. Baring it. She felt his breath warm on her skin, then the brief, delicate brush of his lips along her collarbone.

      He whispered, ‘You are temptation itself, mia bella.’

      Then she was free, and her dress was gently replaced. And before she could move or speak Guido Bartaldi had gone, walking away down the terrace steps into the twilit garden.

      Clare stood, her arms wrapped