Wed To The Italian: Bartaldi's Bride / Rome's Revenge / The Forced Marriage. Sara Craven
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ignoring his lascivious glances and whispered remarks, then doing her damnedest to avoid him physically altogether, thankful that her bedroom door had had a lock on it.
But, however spacious the apartment, she’d not always been totally successful in keeping out of his way, and her flesh crawled as she remembered how he would try to press himself against her in doorways, and the sly groping of his hands whenever he’d caught her alone.
Even his wife’s suspicions, expressed at the top of her voice, hadn’t been sufficient to deter him.
And when he’d found Clare by herself in the dining room that morning, he’d not only tried to kiss her, but slide a hand up her skirt as well. So Clare, outraged, had poured her coffee over him just as the Signora had entered the room.
Which was why she now found herself free as a bird and driving towards Umbria.
That hadn’t been her original plan, of course. Common sense had dictated that she should return to Britain, bank her windfall, and ask the agency to find her another post.
And this she would do—eventually. After she’d been to see Violetta.
A smile curved her lips as she thought of her godmother, all fluttering hands, scented silks and discreet jewellery. A wealthy widow, who had never been tempted to remarry.
‘Why confine yourself to one course, cara, when there is a whole banquet to enjoy?’ she had once remarked airily.
Violetta, Clare mused, had always had the air of a woman who enjoyed the world, and was treated well by it in return. And, in the heat of the summer, she liked to retire to her charming house in the foothills near Urbino and recuperate from the relentless socialising she embarked on for the rest of the year.
And she was constantly pressing Clare to come and stay with her.
‘Come at any time,’ she’d told her. ‘I so love to see you.’ She had wiped away a genuine tear with a lace handkerchief. ‘The image of my dearest Laura. My cousin and my greatest friend. How I miss her. And how could your father have put that terrible woman in her place?’
But that was a well-worn path that Clare, wisely, had not chosen to follow.
Laura Marriot had been dead for five years now, and, whatever Clare’s private opinion of her stepmother, or the undoubted difficulties of their relationship, Bernice seemed to be making her father happy again, and that was what really counted. Or so she assured herself.
But John Marriot’s remarriage had put paid to their cherished plan of Clare joining him as a partner in the successful language school he ran in Cambridge. Bernice had made it clear from the first that this was no longer an option. She wanted no inconvenient reminders of his previous marriage in the shape of a grown-up daughter living close at hand.
Perhaps the physical resemblance to her mother, which was such a joy to Violetta, had been one of the main factors of her resentment.
Every time Bernice had looked at Clare, she’d have seen the creamy skin, the pale blonde hair, the eyes, dark and velvety as pansies, flecked with gold, and the wide mouth that always looked about to break into a smile that Laura had bequeathed to her daughter.
And her possessive streak had been equally unable to handle the closeness between John and Clare. The fact that they were friends as well as father and child.
It had not been easy for Clare to swallow her disappointment and hurt and strike out for herself as a freelance language teacher, but she’d been fortunate in finding, almost at once, her present agency.
Resolutely putting the past behind her, she’d worked with total commitment, accepting each job she was offered without comment or complaint, establishing a track record for reliability and enthusiasm.
The Dorellis had been her first real failure, she acknowledged with a faint sigh.
Now, she felt she deserved a short break before plunging into another assignment. It was nearly two years since she’d had a holiday, and at her godmother’s house she’d be petted and cherished in a way she hadn’t known for years. It was a beguiling thought.
A more ominous rumble of thunder made her glance skywards, grimacing slightly. She was still miles from Cenacchio, where Violetta lived, and there was little chance of outrunning the storm. She knew how fierce and unpredictable the weather could suddenly become in this region.
Even as the thought formed, the first raindrops hurled themselves against her windscreen. Seconds later, they’d become a deluge with which the Fiat’s wipers were clearly reluctant or unable to cope.
Not conditions for driving on unfamiliar roads with severe gradients, Clare decided, prudently pulling over on to a gravelled verge. She couldn’t beat the storm, but she could sit it out.
She’d bought some cartons of fruit juice at the service station where she’d stopped for lunch, and petrol. Thankfully, she opened one of the drinks, and felt its chill refresh her dry mouth.
The rain was like a curtain, sweeping in great swathes across her vision. She watched the lightning splitting the sky apart, then zig-zagging down to lose itself in the great hills which marched down the spine of Italy. The thunder seemed to echo from peak to peak.
Son et lumière at its ultimate, thought Clare, finishing her drink. She leaned forward to get a tissue to wipe her fingers, and paused, frowning. Impossible as it might seem, she would swear she had just seen signs of movement straight ahead through the barrage of rain.
Surely not, she thought incredulously. No one in their right mind would choose to walk around in weather like this.
She peered intently through the windscreen, realising she hadn’t been mistaken. Someone was coming towards her along the road. A girl’s figure, she realised in astonishment, weighed down by a heavy suitcase, and limping badly too.
Clare wound down her window. As the hobbling figure drew level, she said in Italian, ‘Are you in trouble? May I help?’
The girl hesitated. She was barely out of adolescence, and stunningly pretty in spite of the dark hair which hung in drowned rats’ tails round her face, and an understandably peevish expression.
She said, ‘Please do not concern yourself, signora. I can manage very well.’
‘That’s not how it seems to me,’ Clare returned levelly. ‘Have you hurt your ankle?’
‘No.’ The sulky look deepened. ‘It’s the heel of this stupid shoe—see? It broke off.’
Clare said crisply, ‘If you plan to continue your stroll, I suggest you snap the other one off, and even things up a little.’
‘I am not taking a stroll,’ the younger girl said haughtily. ‘I was driving a car until it ran out of petrol.’
Clare’s brows lifted. ‘Are you old enough to drive?’ she asked, mindful that Italian licences were only issued to over-eighteen-year-olds.
There was a betraying pause, then, ‘Of course I am.’ The girl made a face like an aggravated kitten. ‘It is just that the car never has a full tank in case I run away.’
Clare gave the suitcase a thoughtful glance. ‘And isn’t that precisely what you’re doing?’
The girl tried to look dignified as well as drenched. ‘That, signora, is none of your business.’
‘Then I’m going to make it my business.’ Clare opened the passenger door invitingly. ‘At least shelter with me until it stops raining, otherwise you’re going to catch pneumonia.’
‘But I do not know you,’ the other objected. ‘You could be—anybody.’
‘I can assure you that I’m nobody. Nobody that matters, anyway.’ Clare’s voice was gentle. ‘And I think you’d be safer in this car than out on the open road.’
The girl’s eyes widened. ‘You think I could be struck by lightning?’
‘I