Sara Craven Tribute Collection. Sara Craven

the open window, watching the late-afternoon sunlight dance on the leaves of the flowering vine that grew up the side of her balcony.

      She had a good view of the wide gravelled sweep in front of the house, and was able to see when the car from the Villa Minerva arrived, punctual to the minute.

      What she did not expect was to see Guido Bartaldi emerge from the driving seat, casting an appraising glance at the façade of the house.

      Hell’s bells, Clare groaned to herself, shrinking back behind the shutter. He’s come to fetch us himself. I hope he didn’t see me.

      She flew across the room and got into bed, pulling the thin cover up to her chin, as if seeking some kind of sanctuary.

      With luck Violetta, looking in to say goodnight, would think she was asleep, and leave her undisturbed.

      But Fortune wasn’t disposed to smile on her.

      A few minutes later she heard a tap on her door, and Violetta saying softly, ‘You have a visitor, mia cara.’

      Clare wanted to shriek, No, but instead she kept her eyes closed, and her breathing soft and regular.

      She heard footsteps approaching quietly.

      ‘Ah,’ Violetta whispered. ‘The sedative the doctor left must have done its work.’

      ‘So it would seem.’

      Perhaps it was Clare’s imagination working overtime, but she could have sworn there was a note of irony—even amusement—in Guido Bartaldi’s deep drawl.

      ‘Poor little one. She was so distressed to have to excuse herself tonight. She wanted so much to pay this visit.’

      ‘I must make sure that there are other opportunities,’ the hated voice said softly. ‘You must let me know if she continues to feel ill. I have an interest in a good clinic near Assisi where she could be admitted for observation. As a precautionary measure, you understand. Now perhaps we should go, signora, and leave her in peace.’

      Clare heard Violetta murmur her assent, and move away. A strand of hair was tickling her nose, and she wanted to brush it away, but something—some sixth sense—warned her to keep still.

      Because Guido Bartaldi was still standing beside the bed, just waiting for her to betray the fact that she wasn’t asleep at all.

      She could feel the warmth of him, absorb the fragrance of his cologne. The knowledge of his presence made her skin tingle.

      ‘A great actress has been lost to the stage, mia bella.’ His low-voiced sardonic comment confirmed her worst suspicions. ‘But I will not torment you any longer. Sleep well—and dream beautifully.’

      To her fury, she felt his hand smooth away the annoying wisp of hair. Then his fingers took her chin, turning her head slightly on the pillow. And his mouth, briefly and sensuously, kissed her parted lips.

      It took all the self-control she possessed to go on lying there, unmoving and unmoved, when she longed to leap up and slap him hard across that dark, mocking face. To call him all the names she could lay her tongue to.

      Instead, eyes tight shut, she heard him walk away, and the bedroom door close behind him. Or had it? Maybe it was another trick.

      It wasn’t until she heard the sound of the car moving off down the drive that she dared relax her new rigidity and sit up.

      There were tears of anger in her eyes, and she scrubbed fiercely at her mouth with the back of her hand, as a child might do.

      ‘Tomorrow,’ she vowed aloud, her voice shaking. ‘Tomorrow I’m going home. And I’m making sure that I never—ever—have to set eyes on that bastard again.’

CHAPTER FOUR

      VIOLETTA did not return home from the dinner party until well after midnight.

      Clare, lying sleepless, saw the headlights of the car sweep across her ceiling and tensed, wondering if the Marchese had acted as chauffeur again, and whether she could expect another visit.

      But, to her relief, she was left undisturbed, even by Violetta.

      She’d spent a restless evening. In the end, sheer hunger had driven her downstairs, and Angelina, delighted to hear how much better she was feeling, had conjured up a thick bean soup followed by a creamy omelette served with tiny mushrooms and grilled baby tomatoes.

      Clare had stretched out on one of the sofas in the salone and put on some music, but even this tried and tested procedure had not persuaded her to relax.

      Her mind had been too full, and revolving almost exclusively around one subject—Guido Bartaldi.

      It was infuriating to have to acknowledge the hold he’d taken on her imagination. His image seemed locked immutably into her brain, and she resented it.

      She couldn’t handle his constant and almost casual reappearance in her life. But she couldn’t speak her mind about them for fear of upsetting Violetta, who was clearly happy to accept the Marchese at his own valuation.

      But a man who was planning to marry, even if it was a marriage of convenience, should not be conducting a flirtation with another girl, she argued, biting her lip. It was a despicable thing to do.

      After James, she’d made a private vow to avoid any man who wasn’t free to commit himself. And what a lot of them there seemed to be, she thought bitterly.

      But with Guido Bartaldi it had already gone beyond simple flirtation—because he had touched—and kissed.

      Her whole body shivered at the memory of his mouth on hers.

      The worst part of it was her certainty that he knew exactly the effect that his caresses would evoke. It was a delicate, subtle form of torment, devised to punish her. To ensure she didn’t embark on any more grand gestures to annoy him.

      It was a stupid thing to do, she acknowledged sombrely. I should have seen that he was way out of my league as an adversary. Far better to have thanked him nicely, then stuffed the money in the poor box at the nearest church. Honour would have been satisfied on my part, and he’d have been none the wiser.

      But it’s too late for regrets. All I can do is cut my losses and go.

      The shopping trip to Perugia had prevented her phoning the agency as she’d planned, but she’d do it first thing in the morning, she promised herself. And all she had to do then was find herself a flight back to Britain. Any class, any time, any airport, she added, pulling a face.

      She felt tense, facing Violetta at the breakfast table the next morning, expecting a blow-by-blow account of everything that had been eaten, said and done at the Villa Minerva, but her godmother, surprisingly, said very little about it, apart from acknowledging that the house was indeed beautiful, the food had been delicious, and that she had enjoyed herself. After which she relapsed into an unusually pensive state.

      While, paradoxically, Clare found she was thirsting to know more.

      ‘What did you think of Paola?’ she asked, in the end.

      ‘Paola?’ Violetta echoed. ‘Ah, the young girl. She seemed subdued. I think she was disappointed that you were not there,’ she added after a reflective pause. ‘As, indeed, were they all.’

      She gave Clare a kind smile. ‘Are you feeling more yourself today, mia cara?’

      ‘Oh, yes.’ Clare flushed slightly. ‘The medication the doctor gave me seems to have worked miracles.’ She gave an awkward laugh. ‘In fact, I’m fighting fit, and I was thinking I really ought to get back to work again.’

      ‘And I think you should enjoy your rest here with me,’ Violetta said firmly.

      ‘There’s nothing I’d like more,’ Clare said quickly. ‘But I haven’t told the agency about the Dorelli