Bartaldi's Bride. Sara Craven

On the table there was a plastic bottle of mineral water, and a paper cup.

      So that I don’t seize the opportunity to slash my wrists, Clare thought, biting her lip.

      But at least they hadn’t put her in a cell—or at least not yet. And, thankfully, they’d removed the handcuffs.

      The afternoon heat was turning the room into an oven, but she was shivering just the same.

      Two men in plain clothes, their faces unsmiling, had asked her some preliminary questions. She’d given her name, age and occupation, and her reason for being in Italy. They had asked where she had been staying, and she’d told them Rome. But she’d hesitated when they’d requested the name and address of her hosts there. Neither of the Dorellis, after all, had any reason to wish her well. She could just imagine the smile of oily triumph on the Signore’s face if he learned she’d been arrested.

      But she knew that her refusal to answer had been another black mark against her. After that, she’d been left alone.

      Fabio had not been mentioned, although she was sure that he was the accomplice the Marchese had referred to.

      What on earth had he done? she wondered. After all, planning an elopement was hardly a criminal offence.

      Although running off with the Marchese Bartaldi’s intended wife could well be considered a capital crime, she acknowledged, her mouth twisting. She’d seen the deference with which he was treated.

      Guido Bartaldi, she thought. The name was familiar, but, for the life of her, she didn’t know why. Her tired, scared brain refused to make the connection.

      All she could be sure of was that she had never, in her life—in her wildest dream or worst nightmare—encountered Guido Bartaldi in person before.

      That I could never have forgotten, she told herself grimly. His lean hawk’s face with the shadowed, contemptuous eyes seemed to burn in her mind.

      Paola had said he was cold, but he was worse than that. He was ice—he was marble. He was darkness.

      But it was no use sitting there hating him.

      I must think, she told herself, straightening her shoulders and resisting an impulse to put her head down on the table and weep with weariness and fright. So far I’ve let everyone else call the shots. I need to phone the British Consul and tell Violetta as well. I don’t want to worry my father unless it becomes strictly necessary.

      But it won’t come to that, she tried to reassure herself. Paola has to have woken up by now, so they must know I’m innocent.

      Unless she’s too scared to tell them the truth, she thought apprehensively, her stomach churning. Unless she decides to pretend she was abducted rather than admit she was running away. Oh, dear God, she could just do that.

      She also wished she knew more about the Italian legal system, and how it worked, but she’d never needed to before. Should she have asked for a lawyer right away? she wondered. Violetta was bound to know a good one.

      She also wished she knew what the time was, but they’d taken her watch, as well as her handbag.

      I seem to have been here for hours, she thought.

      Her shoulders ached with tension, and her clothes felt as if they were pasted to her damp body. It was hard to raise her spirits and try and think logically when she was, physically and mentally, at such a low ebb.

      She heard the sound of a key in the lock, and her whole body went rigid as she stared at the door. What now?

      To her surprise, the Marchese Bartaldi walked into the room. He paused, staring at her, the dark eyes narrowed, his mouth grim and set.

      She was immediately and startlingly aware of the scent of him, a compound of some faint, expensive cologne, clean male skin, and fresh linen. An evocative mix that stamped its presence on the heavy atmosphere.

      Angrily aware that she was trembling inside, but determined to make a show of resistance, Clare pushed back her chair and got slowly to her feet, forcing herself to return his gaze.

      At the same time she registered that he was carrying her bag, which he tossed negligently on to the table between them. Some of its contents—her passport, car keys and wallet—spilled out on to the polished wood. The casual, almost contemptuous actions ignited a small flame of temper deep within her. What was he doing handling her things? He wasn’t a policeman.

      But he was a rich and powerful man, she thought, feeding her own contempt. Maybe he had the local police force in his pocket.

      He said, in English, ‘Please sit down.’

      Clare put her hands behind her back. ‘I prefer to stand.’

      ‘As you wish.’ He paused, looking her over from head to foot, his glance measured, even appraising.

      Lifting her chin, she endured his scrutiny in silence, bitterly aware that she must look an overheated, bedraggled mess.

      Not that it mattered. She wasn’t out to make any kind of feminine appeal to him. As far as he was concerned, she’d already been tried and condemned.

      He said, ‘Be good enough, signorina, to tell me exactly how you and my ward came to encounter each other.’

      ‘I would prefer to tell the British Consul,’ Clare said icily. ‘I also wish to make a telephone call to my godmother, and be provided with a lawyer.’

      He sighed. ‘One thing at a time, Miss Marriot. Firstly, why was Paola in your car?’

      ‘How many more times do I have to say it?’ Clare asked mutinously. ‘I was driving to my godmother’s house at Cenacchio and got caught in the storm.’

      ‘Your godmother is whom?’

      ‘Signora Andreati at the Villa Rosa.’

      He nodded. ‘I have heard of her.’

      ‘I’m sure she’ll be overwhelmed.’

      His mouth tightened. ‘I advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head.’

      ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Clare said. ‘Am I not behaving with sufficient deference, Marchese? It must be a new experience for you.’

      ‘The whole situation is one I am not anxious to repeat.’ His tone bit. ‘Please go on with your story.’

      Clare sighed. ‘I found Paola on the road, soaked to the skin. She seemed vulnerable, and her story worried me, so I decided to help. She persuaded me to drive her to the station, but when we arrived she was asleep, so I thought I’d have a look at this Fabio for myself. Get rid of him, if I could.’

      She shrugged. ‘You were waiting, so I assumed you were Fabio.’

      ‘I am not flattered by the mistake,’ he said coldly.

      ‘Oh, allow me to apologise,’ Clare said scornfully. ‘I, of course, have had a thrilling bloody afternoon. Accused of kidnapping, arrested by armed guards, interrogated, and locked into this oven. Absolutely ideal—wouldn’t you say?’

      ‘Perhaps it will teach you in future not to meddle in situations which do not concern you,’ Guido Bartaldi said grimly. He paused. ‘But you will be pleased to know that Paola is awake, and confirms your story.’

      ‘Really?’ Clare raised her eyebrows.

      The firm mouth tightened. ‘You seem surprised, signorina. Not a reassuring reaction.’

      ‘I am surprised,’ Clare’s tone was dry. ‘Paola didn’t strike me as a great friend to truth. I thought she’d say whatever was needed to show her in a good light.’

      His brows snapped together ominously, and Clare stared at the floor, waiting for the thunderbolt to strike. Instead, there was a brief taut silence, then, incredibly, a low, amused chuckle.

      ‘You seem a shrewd judge of character, signorina,’ the Marchese drawled,