Prelude To Enchantment. Anne Mather

of every kind abounded in this area, but some were too expensive for her limited allowance. Occasionally she lunched with one of the girls she shared the flat with, but they were both secretaries in the building and often had different lunch hours from hers. But she didn't mind. She was accustomed by now to the slightly predatory glances cast in her direction by the young men of the city, and was quite capable of fending off passes. Italians seemed to consider it their duty to show interest in every attractive female should she be unaccompanied, but a cool stare from Sancha's grey eyes was usually sufficient to quell any would-be pursuer.

       ‘Buon giorno, signorina!'

      The deep attractive tones were vaguely familiar and Sancha swung round sharply to confront the man whose disturbing personality had occupied her thoughts all morning as she had pored laboriously over his book.

      ‘Count Malatesta,’ she murmured incredulously. ‘Buon giorno, signore.' She glanced about her hastily. ‘Were you—I mean—are you on your way to see my uncle?'

      The Count allowed the corners of his mouth to quirk humorously. ‘Now why should you imagine I might be coming to see your uncle?’ he queried.

      Sancha shook her head, her hair swinging curtain-like against her cheek. His unexpected appearance had startled her and she had said the first thing that came into her head. In a cream silk lounge suit and matching shirt he was devastatingly attractive and his eyes surveying her so thoroughly held a most disturbing glint.

      ‘If you'll excuse me——’ she began now, beginning to move away, but he stopped her, his long fingers curving coolly about the flesh of her upper arm.

      ‘Don't go, signorina,’ he commanded gently. ‘I came to see you!'

      Sancha quivered. ‘To see me, signore?'

      ‘Si, to see you, signorina. Now tell me, you will have lunch with me, will you not?'

      Sancha was flabbergasted. ‘Ha—have lunch with you?’ she echoed weakly.

      He half smiled. ‘Is it an English characteristic to repeat everything that is said to them?’ he enquired mockingly.

      ‘Yes—no—I mean—of course not!’ Sancha wished he would let go of her arm. His grip was not cruel and yet she sensed if she tried to pull away it would tighten painfully. For all his charm and gentility, she somehow knew that he demanded, and usually got, his own way. Wetting her dry lips with a rather unsteady tongue, she went on: ‘I'm afraid that's out of the question, signore. I—I only have an hour and——'

      ‘I am not such a big eater that an hour will not suffice,’ the Count observed dryly.

      ‘I—I didn't think you were.’ Sancha bit her lip. ‘I—look, signore, there is absolutely no need for you to take me to lunch. If—if you had arrived a few moments later I would have been gone.'

      He shook his head. ‘No.'

      ‘No?’ Sancha frowned bewilderedly.

      ‘No, signorina. I have been waiting for you for some time.'

      ‘W—waiting for me?’ exclaimed Sancha, and then realised she was repeating him again. ‘I—I—but why?'

      His eyes narrowed. ‘I wished to offer you my escort to lunch. What else?'

      Sancha was hopelessly lost. It was bad enough encountering him like this and having him disconcert her to the point of confusion, but to actually hear him state that he had arrived with the sole intention of taking her to lunch was simply too much. Things might be different here, but in England members of the aristocracy simply did not arrive to take junior reporters to lunch—unless they had an ulterior motive, of course. She looked at him curiously, trying to gauge what his motives might be, and then gave it up. Count Malatesta was far too sophisticated and experienced to allow her to read his thoughts.

      Desperately she sought about in her mind for some reason why she should not lunch with him. It seemed imperative that she should find one. Used as she was to dealing with the young men in the office she still knew that the Count Malatesta was an entirely unknown quantity and some inner sense of self-preservation urged her not to become involved with him.

      And yet, for all that, an inner demon of pure feline origin urged her to accept if only for the satisfaction she would gain when she told Eleanor Fabrioli where she had been.

      Squashing this thought, she said: ‘I—I'm afraid that's impossible, signore.'

      The Count's fingers slid down over her elbow to her forearm with almost caressing insistence. ‘Why is it impossible?’ he asked huskily. ‘You are hungry and wish to eat, and so do I. Can we not eat together?'

      In truth Sancha felt that food would choke her. She was overwhelmingly conscious of the pad of his thumb moving over the veins in her forearm and quivering awareness of him was invading every part of her being.

      ‘Excuse me,’ she said tautly, and as though he had suddenly become bored with the whole business she was free.

      ‘Very well, signorina,’ he said, his blue eyes like shafts of ice burning into hers. ‘Arrivederci!' and he strode away towards the bustling heart of this commercial quarter.

      Sancha stood where he had left her for several minutes, too bemused and unsteady to trust the use of her legs. What had it all meant? Why had he come? What possible reason could he have had for wanting to take her to lunch?

      She swallowed hard. Well, whatever his reasons he had gone now and she could only hope that she had not offended him. Her uncle would not be at all pleased if the article was jeopardised because of this.

      Whenever the telephone shrilled during the next few days Sancha listened apprehensively for some violent explosion from her uncle's office, but happily nothing untoward happened and she was allowed to get on with the feature in peace. The day after she had met the Count outside the offices she had emerged at lunchtime with some trepidation, half afraid he might be there again, and experienced a kind of regret that he was not.

      Life resumed its normal pattern. Eleanor was her usual objectionable self, but even she looked with evident interest at the photographs Tony had taken of the inside of the Palazzo Malatesta when he brought them to show Sancha.

      ‘Che peccato!' she exclaimed, when she saw how dampness was destroying the priceless murals on the walls of some of the apartments. ‘Is there no way of halting such a disaster?'

      Tony shrugged. ‘Not unless the Count marries a rich woman,’ he replied cynically.

      Eleanor glanced at him. ‘Is that likely?'

      Tony's eyebrows lifted. ‘Well, he's young enough, and I have heard rumours that he's been seen in the company of that French millionaire and his daughter—what are their names?—Rumon, Roman?'

      ‘Rumien,’ put in Eleanor thoughtfully. ‘You do mean the perfumiers, don't you?'

      ‘That's right.’ Tony nodded. ‘Of course, his book could always become a best-seller, couldn't it, Sancha?'

      Sancha hunched her shoulders. ‘I suppose so.'

      ‘But most unlikely,’ said Eleanor, shaking her head. ‘It was not the easiest book to read.'

      ‘It was history,’ remarked Sancha quietly, and they both turned to look at her so that she coloured defensively. ‘Well,’ she added awkwardly, ‘I mean it. I read it again, remember, and taken in the context in which it was written it's very good.'

      ‘Do I detect a fan?’ queried Tony, leaning on her desk, laughing at her.

      Sancha cupped her chin on one hand. ‘All I'm saying is that I enjoyed it the second time. It does what it sets out to do—educate!'

      Eleanor's dark eyes flashed contemptuously. ‘Tell me, Tony,’ she said, ‘what was this Count Malatesta like? He seems to have made a distinct impression on our Miss Forrest.'

      Tony