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

Clare parked outside the station, and looked round her. She hadn’t visited Barezzo before, but its main square seemed pleasant, with a central fountain, and an enormous church dominating all the buildings round it.

She leaned towards Paola, and spoke her name quietly, but the younger girl did not stir.

But maybe this is for the best, she thought. It gives me a chance to have a look at this guy—ask a few questions. Let him know that I’m aware of what he’s up to.

She had no idea why she should be taking all this trouble for a girl who was still a virtual stranger, despite her airy confidences. Except that Paola seemed to need a friend.

And I’m all there is, she told herself, as she left the car.

Contrary to Paola’s expectations, the station wasn’t crowded with latter-day Romeos passionately greeting their Juliets.

In fact, the concourse was all but deserted, the sole exception being a man casually leaning against a stone pillar.

He had the air of someone who’d been there for a while, and was prepared to wait all day if necessary, Clare thought as she walked towards him, her sandals clicking on the marble floor. So, presumably, this had to be Fabio.

As she neared him, he straightened slowly, like some great cat preparing to pounce, she realised, finding her breath fluttering unevenly as she took her first good look at him.

My God, she thought ironically, but with reluctant appreciation, as she halted a deliberate few feet away from him. Sex on legs.

And such long legs too, she noted, covered in well-cut and expensive trousers. His casual shirt was navy and unbuttoned at the throat, and a jacket that had to be the work of a top designer hung from his broad shoulders.

It was clear why he needed a wealthy wife. It would probably take everything Paola possessed to keep him in the manner he considered his due.

He was in his mid-thirties, she judged, and around six foot tall, his black glossy hair reaching almost to his collar in tousled chic.

But he wasn’t conventionally handsome, she decided critically, although he had cheekbones to die for. The dark, brilliant eyes, now fixed on her with equal interest, were too heavy-lidded, and his nose and chin too strongly marked. But any impression of austerity was belied by his mouth, firm-lipped yet unashamedly sensuous.

Which wasn’t all. There was an effortless confidence about him—an impression of power barely reined in—that she found physically disturbing.

Power, she found herself thinking. The ultimate aphrodisiac…

No wonder Paola, freed from the restrictions of her convent school, had been swept off her feet with such ease.

Men like this should carry a government warning, Clare told herself grimly.

She said in Italian, ‘Are you waiting for Paola, signore?’

‘Si, signorina.’ His voice was low and resonant, his tone courteous, but Clare was sharply aware of a subtle change in his stance. A new tension. There was still a safe distance between them, so it was foolish to feel menaced, but she did.

The notion that here was a tiger on a leash became conviction. This, she realised shakily, was a determined and dangerous man, and what the hell was she doing crossing swords with him? Except that Paola needed to be protected, she reminded herself swiftly.

The dark eyes were fixed on her. ‘Do you know where she is?’

‘Naturally,’ Clare said. ‘But I wanted to talk to you about her first.’

He said softly, ‘Ah. And you are…?’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ she said quickly.

‘I think it does.’ His dark gaze was charged now, taking in every detail from the top of her head to the soles of her feet. She saw his mouth curl slightly, and was vexed to find that she minded.

After all, what possible interest could she have for him in her chainstore dress and sandals? She derided herself. She was a working girl, not the kind of rich child he needed to stalk.

And, heaven knows, he was the last type of man that she’d ever want to be involved with anyway. So, what was her problem?

He said, ‘You’re not what I was expecting.’

Clare lifted her chin. ‘I was thinking the same about you.’

He inclined his head almost mockingly. ‘That I can believe,’ he murmured. ‘So—where is Paola?’

‘She’s perfectly safe.’

‘I am relieved to hear it.’ The dark gaze seemed to burn into hers. ‘May I see her?’

‘Of course.’ Clare nodded, conscious of a faint bewilderment. Even unease. ‘But before that, we really need to talk.’

He was smiling at her. ‘Oh, you will talk, signorina. But not to me.’

He made a slight gesture with his hand, and Clare became suddenly aware of movement beside her—behind her. Men in uniform appearing as if from nowhere. Men with guns which—dear God—they were pointing at her.

She felt her arms taken, dragged behind her back. Felt, as she began to struggle, handcuffs snapped on to her wrists. She wanted to scream a protest, but her taut throat wouldn’t utter a sound.

All she could do was look back at her adversary with dazed horror as an excited babble of sound ebbed and flowed around her.

She said hoarsely, ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Guido Bartaldi, signorina. And you are one of the creatures who has kidnapped my ward.’ His voice cut into her like the lash of a whip. ‘Now tell me what you have done with her.’

‘Kidnapped?’ Clare’s voice rose to a shriek. ‘Are you mad?’

The sudden surprised silence, and the expression of frowning incredulity on Guido Bartaldi’s face alerted her to the fact that she’d spoken in English.

‘You are the mad one,’ he returned in the same language. ‘To think that you and your accomplice could get away with this.’

‘I have no accomplice.’ Reaction was setting in, and Clare was suddenly shaking. Her eyes searched the dark, inimical face pleadingly. ‘I met Paola on the road, and gave her a lift—that’s all.’

‘Marchese.’ A policeman hurried up. ‘The little one is outside in a car. She is unconscious—drugged, I think—but she is alive.’

‘She’s asleep, not drugged,’ Clare said desperately, the word ‘Marchese’ echoing in her brain. Paola had failed to mention that her unwanted bridegroom was a marquis.

‘See that she is taken to the local clinic at once,’ the Marchese ordered curtly. His dark eyes seared Clare. ‘As for this one—get her out of my sight—now.’

Her arms were held, and she was turned not gently towards the exit.

‘Please,’ she flung back over her shoulder. ‘You’re making a terrible mistake.’

‘The mistake is yours, signorina.’ His tone was harsh. ‘But you will pay dearly for it, I promise you.’

And he turned his back in icy dismissal.

IT WAS a small room she was taken to, with one high, barred window, a table and chairs. 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.