Stephanie Howard - The Colorado Countess

So it looked as though the only reason he’d come to her house was in order to amuse himself for half an hour. How odd, she thought, when he could have been somewhere more exciting, posing for the paparazzi and making headlines for the papers. Well, perhaps he’d just felt like a quiet interlude. No doubt such were the ways of the idle aristocracy!

It was disappointing, of course, about the Montecrespi dinner service. To have been able to include that in her book would have been a major coup and she’d already been picturing it adorning the front cover! Too bad, she thought philosophically; it had been nice to dream for a while—though it had occurred to her that it might be worth having another go herself at trying to get the Duke’s permission.

If I don’t hear from Leone within the week I’ll contact the palace press office again, she told herself. It was worth a try and she had nothing to lose.

At the same time, if she didn’t hear from him she’d send off the money she owed him—for the other day, to her chagrin, it had completely slipped her mind. She’d get a money order from the bank and send it to the palace.

In the meantime she was being kept busy with her work at the Castello factory. Dr Lamberti, who had given her her own little office there, was proving to be enormously helpful and she had already taken a couple of rolls of photographs. Even without the fabulous dinner service she had the makings of a firstclass book.

But the following day she was in for a small shock.

She got home from the factory to find her landlady waiting for her. ‘This is for you,’ Signora Rossi told her, handing her a letter. ‘It was delivered this afternoon by private messenger.’ She pointed to a finely embossed emblem in the corner and gave Carrie a look of bemused admiration. ‘It looks as though it’s come from the Palazzo Verde.’

Carrie hurried up to her bedroom and sat down on the edge of her bed before tearing the envelope open with curious fingers. Then she pulled out the single sheet of cream-coloured vellum, unfolded it carefully and began to read the message, written in a clear, plain hand.

Dear Carrie,

I’ve spoken to my brother on the subject we discussed. Please come to the palace on Friday evening if you wish to pursue the matter further. If not, phone the number at the top of this letter. If I don’t hear from you I shall send a car to pick you up at eight-thirty.

The letter was signed quite simply, ‘Leone.’

Well, how about that? She felt her heart flip over. The playboy count had kept his promise, after all, and it looked as though she was on the point of achieving her goal to include the fabulous Montecrespi dinner service in her book!

She jumped from the bed and let out a whoop of delight. I’ve done it! she told herself. The scoop of a lifetime!

But through her excitement there was another emotion taking hold of her. A very strong sense of apprehension. For she was remembering what Leone had said about the gratitude of women and how he would think of a suitable way for her to express hers.

Well, he’s misjudged badly this time, Carrie told herself firmly. All he’ll get from me is a polite and heartfelt thank-you—and maybe, if he’s good, a bottle of best brandy!

But in spite of her resolution she couldn’t quite conquer the way she kept feeling that familiar rush inside her every time she thought of seeing him again.

CHAPTER THREE

LEONE pushed aside the plastic curtain and stepped under the shower, feeling the cool, needle-fine jets sharp and refreshing against his back. It had been a hot, exhausting day and he had been looking forward to this.

For most of the past nine hours he’d been at the wheel of the team’s racing car, doing lap after gruelling lap round the sun-scorched race circuit as he carried out rigorous tests on the new gearbox they were working on. But although it had been exhausting he felt satisfied, and as he washed the grime from his body he had a feeling of immense satisfaction at a job well done.

This was how Leone spent most of his days, down at the workshop he shared with his five team mates, either working at the drawing board or in the cockpit of one of their cars. And if he’d been able to have his way he’d have been there every day.

Some days, however, his royal duties as the Duke’s brother made that ambition, sadly, impossible. There would be functions to attend or official visitors to receive and, though he tried to keep these engagements to a minimum, inevitably there were days when they intruded. But he always made a point of making up for the lost hours, coming into the workshop at dawn sometimes, at other times staying on till well after midnight. And he made the sacrifice gladly, for he adored his work.

Partly what he loved about it was the privacy and the informality. Only a very trusted few knew about his secret passion and here at the workshop he was safe from the paparazzi. And to the men with whom he worked he was an engineer, not a count. There was no time-wasting protocol. They all just got on with the job.

He turned his face to the shower and let the water splash over his head and shoulders. He had achieved a lot today—in spite, he thought, smiling, of the somewhat distracting thoughts that had kept jumping into his head, surprising him by their insistence and by the way they made him feel. Somehow, these thoughts had simply given him an extra boost.

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