The Italian Millionaire's Marriage. Lucy Gordon

arrived in London in the late afternoon, taking a suite at the Ritz and spending the rest of the day online, checking various deals that needed his personal attention. The five-hour time difference between America and Europe was too useful to be missed, and it was past midnight before he was through. By that time the Tokyo Stock Exchange was open and he worked until three in the morning. Then he went to bed and slept for precisely five hours, efficiently, as he did everything.

      This was how he spent the night before meeting the woman he was planning to make his wife.

      He breakfasted on fruit and coffee before setting out to walk the short distance to the Gallery d’Estino. He judged his time precisely, arriving at a quarter to nine, before it was open. This would give him a chance to form an impression of the place before meeting the owner.

      What he saw, he approved. The shop was exquisite, and although he could discern little of the merchandise through the protective grilles over the windows, what he could make out seemed well chosen. His mental picture of Harriet d’Estino became clearer: a woman of elegance, mental elegance, as well as intellect. He began to warm to her.

      The warmth faded a little as nine o’clock passed with no sign of the shop opening. Inefficiency. The unforgivable sin. He turned and collided with someone who yelled, ‘Ouch!’

      ‘My apologies,’ he murmured to the flustered young woman who was hopping about on the pavement, clutching one foot.

      ‘It’s all right,’ she said, wincing and nearly losing her balance until Marco took hold of her.

      ‘Thanks. Did you want to go in?’

      ‘Well it is past opening time,’ he pointed out.

      ‘Oh, gosh yes, it is, isn’t it. Hang on, I’ve got the key.’

      While she scrabbled through a large collection of keys he studied her and found nothing to approve. She wore jeans and a sweater that looked as though they’d been chosen for utility, and a blue woollen hat that covered her hair completely. She might have been young. She might even have been attractive. It was hard to tell since she looked like a worker on a building site. Harriet d’Estino must be desperate for staff to have employed someone so gauche and clumsy.

      After what seemed like an age she let him in.

      ‘Just give me a moment,’ she said, dumping her packages and starting work on the grilles. ‘Then you can have all my attention.’

      ‘Actually I was hoping to see the owner.’

      ‘Won’t I do?’

      ‘I’m afraid not.’

      The young woman grew suddenly still. Then she shot him a nervous glance and her whole manner changed.

      ‘Of course, I should have realised. How stupid of me. It’s just that I’d hoped for a little more time—that is, she hoped for a little more time—I’m afraid Miss d’Estino isn’t here just now.’

      ‘Can you tell me when she will be here?’ Marco asked patiently.

      ‘Not for ages. But I could give her a message.’

      ‘Could you tell her that Marco Calvani called to see her?’

      Her eyes assumed the blankness of someone who was playing ‘possum’.

      ‘Who?’

      ‘Marco Calvani. She doesn’t know me but—’

      ‘You mean you’re not a bailiff?’

      ‘No,’ Marco said tersely, with an instinctive glance at his Armani suit. ‘I’m not a bailiff.’

      ‘You’re sure?’

      ‘I think I’d know if I was a bailiff.’

      ‘Yes,’ she said distractedly. ‘Of course you would. And you’re Italian, aren’t you? I can hear your accent now. It’s not much of an accent, so I missed it at first.’

      ‘I pride myself on speaking other languages as correctly as possible,’ he said, enunciating slowly. ‘Would you mind telling me who you are?’

      ‘Me? Oh, I’m Harriet d’Estino.’

      ‘You?’ He couldn’t keep the unflattering inflection out of his voice.

      ‘Yes. Why not?’

      ‘Because you just told me you weren’t here.’

      ‘Did I?’ she said vaguely. ‘Oh—well—I must have got that wrong.’

      Marco stared, wondering if she was mad, bad or merely half-witted. She pulled off the woolly cap, letting her long hair fall about her shoulders, and then he realised that she was speaking the truth, for it was the same rich auburn shade as Olympia’s hair. This was the woman he’d been considering as a wife. He took a deep cautious breath.

      Harriet was watching him, frowning slightly. ‘Have we met before?’ she asked.

      ‘I don’t believe so.’

      ‘It’s just that your face is familiar.’

      ‘We’ve never met,’ he assured her, thinking that he would certainly have remembered.

      ‘I’ll make us some coffee.’

      Harriet went into the back of the shop and put on the coffee, annoyed with herself for having made a mess of everything after Olympia’s warning. But she’d half convinced herself that Marco wouldn’t bother coming to see her, and her mind had been so taken up with worries about her creditors that she’d had little time to think of other things.

      As an expert in antiquities Harriet had no rival. Her taste was impeccable, her instincts flawless, and many an imposing institution accepted her opinion as final. But somehow she couldn’t translate this skill into a commercial profit, and the bills were piling up.

      The coffee perked and she brought herself back to reality. She would have given anything not to have betrayed her money worries to this man, but perhaps he hadn’t noticed. Then he appeared beside her and she became distracted by the resemblance. Just where had she seen him before?

      She’d promised Olympia not to let Marco suspect that she’d been forewarned, so it might be safest to play dumb for a while. It was a melancholy fact, she’d discovered, that if you pretended to be really stupid people always believed you.

      ‘Why did you want to see me, Signor—Calvani, was it?’

      ‘My name means nothing to you?’

      ‘I’m sorry, should it?’

      ‘I’m a friend of your sister Olympia. I thought she might have mentioned me.’

      ‘We’re only half-sisters. We grew up far apart and don’t see each other often.’ She added casually, ‘How is she these days?’

      ‘Still the beautiful social butterfly. I told her I’d look you up while I was in London. If it’s agreeable to you we might spend this evening together, perhaps go to a show and have dinner afterwards.’

      ‘That would be nice.’

      ‘What kind of show do you like?’

      ‘I’ve been trying to get into Dancing On Line, but the seats are like gold-dust and tonight’s the last performance.’

      ‘I think I might manage it, just the same.’

      She was conscience stricken. ‘If you’re thinking of the black market, the tickets are going for thousands. I shouldn’t have said anything.’

      ‘I shan’t need to resort to the black market,’ he said, smiling.

      She regarded him with something approaching awe. ‘You can get seats for this show, at a moment’s notice?’

      ‘I can’t afford to fail now, can I?’ he remarked, somewhat wryly. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll