The Italian Millionaire's Marriage. Lucy Gordon
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‘No thank you.’ Anger had faded as she realised that the threat to the thing she loved most in the world had gone. With a sudden beatific smile that startled him she said, ‘I want to be alone here for a while. Now that it’s safe.’
‘I’ll wait for you outside,’ he said firmly. ‘It’s midnight, and I won’t leave you alone with these valuables, a target for robbers and worse. Your untimely death wouldn’t suit me at all.’
‘No, you’d have to rethink the whole plan,’ she agreed affably.
He took her hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to do business with someone who understands what matters. I’ll be outside.’
He held her hand for a moment, then raised it and brushed his lips against the back before walking out.
Left alone, Harriet looked down at her hand, where she could still feel the light imprint of his mouth. She was shaken and her heart was beating either with pleasure or apprehension, she wasn’t sure. She could only do this if she felt in control, and he’d threatened that control. Furiously she rubbed the back of her hand until the feeling had gone.
Then she looked around her and her eyes shone. Safe. At least for a while.
The tempter was there again, whispering that the ‘engagement’ could last just long enough for her to investigate the Palazzo Manelli, and no longer. And why not? The plan would be heartless if Marco’s feelings had been involved, but he’d been at pains to emphasise that they weren’t. He’d looked her over as a piece of merchandise that he could make use of, so why shouldn’t she do the same with him?
She knew another brief flare of resentment at the way he’d drawn close to her then backed off. A man who was so much in control of himself wouldn’t be easy to deal with. If she let him, he would call all the shots. But she wouldn’t let him.
His face came into her mind and her eyes fell on the bronze face of Augustus, the two so exactly alike—whatever Marco thought. She remembered Olympia’s words, ‘Really dishy. That fine nose, and that mouth—all stern discipline masking incredible sensuality.’
It was true, Harriet realised. The wonder was that she alone had seen it in the living man.
CHAPTER THREE
DURING the next couple of days the whirl of arrangements was so intense that she had no time to think. Marco inspected the shop’s books, groaned at her business practices—‘pure Alice in Wonderland’—but advanced a money order that cleared her debts. It also left her something over to pay extra to Mrs Gilchrist, her excellent manager, who was to take sole charge.
There was one tense moment when Harriet brought a customer to the verge of buying a very expensive piece, only to start talking it down until he lost interest and left the shop empty handed.
‘There was nothing the matter with it,’ declared Marco, who had watched, aghast.
‘I didn’t like him.’
‘What?’
‘He wouldn’t have given it a good home,’ she tried to explain. ‘You don’t understand do you?’
‘Not a word!’ he said grimly.
‘These aren’t just things I buy and sell. I love them. Would you sell a puppy to a man you thought wouldn’t be kind to it?’
‘Harriet, puppies are alive. These things are not.’
‘Yes they are, in their own way. I won’t sell something to a person I don’t trust.’
‘You madwoman. You’ve got windmills in your head. Let’s leave this place while I can still stand it.’
They left next day on the midday flight to Rome. Signora Lucia Calvani was waiting for them, and the moment she saw Harriet her face lit up.
‘Etta,’ she cried, advancing with her arms open. ‘My dear, dear Etta.’
Enveloped in a scented embrace Harriet felt a lump come to her throat at this unexpected welcome.
‘You know why I call you Etta, don’t you?’ Lucia asked, taking her shoulders and standing back a little.
‘My father used to call me that, when I was a little girl,’ Harriet said eagerly. ‘He said it was because of his mother—’
‘Yes, her name was Enrichetta, but people called her Etta. I did, when we were girls together. Oh, you’re so like her.’ She hugged Harriet again.
Her greeting to her son was restrained but her eyes left no doubt that he was the centre of her life. Then she immediately turned her attention back to her guest, drawing Harriet’s arm through her own and leading her towards the chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce.
Their route lay out in the countryside, giving Rome a wide sweep until they were south of the city and hit the Via Appia Antica, the ancient road alongside which stood the ruins of tombs of aristocratic Roman families, going back a thousand years. Here too were the mansions of their modern counterparts. They stood well back from the road, hidden behind high walls and elaborate metal gates, housing families who quietly ran the world. A Calvani could live nowhere else.
Signora Calvani was a beautiful, exquisite woman with white hair, dressed in the height of Roman fashion. Harriet guessed her to be about seventy, but with her tall, slender figure and elastic walk she could have been younger. Her voice and gestures were those of someone who’d always been surrounded by money.
‘I was so delighted when Marco said you were to pay us a visit,’ she said as the car glided through the countryside. ‘The house seems very empty sometimes.’
They had passed the wrought-iron gates of the villa and were gliding between trees until the Villa Calvani came into view suddenly. It was a huge white house with flower-hung balconies and broad steps rising to the double front door, and Harriet could understand how it must seem empty to someone who lived there alone.
An unseen servant opened the front door and Lucia led her graciously into the hall, and from there into a large salon. A maid appeared to take Harriet’s coat. Another maid wheeled in a tea trolley.
‘English tea,’ Lucia declared. ‘Especially for you.’
As well as tea there were sweet biscuits and savouries, sandwiches, cakes. Whatever her taste it was catered for. For a while they exchanged standard pleasantries, but behind the questions Harriet sensed that Lucia’s real attention was elsewhere. She was studying her guest, and was evidently delighted with what she found. It was a welcome such as Harriet had never received in her life. Marco was looking pleased as the extent of his mother’s warmth became clear.
‘Now I’ll show you your room,’ Lucia said, rising.
Her room was even more overwhelming, with floor-length windows that looked out onto the magnificent Roman countryside. Harriet could see a river and pine trees stretching into the distance, all glowing in the afternoon sun.
The bed was big enough for three, an elaborate confection of carved walnut with a tapestry cover. The floor was polished wood, and the furniture was old-fashioned with the walnut theme repeated. The ornaments were traditional pieces, carved heads, pictures, some of them valuable Harriet automatically noted with a professional eye.
But she didn’t want to think about work just now. She was basking in the feeling of being wanted, so unfamiliar to her.
‘Do you think you’ll be comfortable here?’ Lucia asked kindly. ‘Would you like anything changed?’
‘It’s all beautiful,’ Harriet said huskily. ‘I’ve never—’ To her dismay a sudden rush of tears choked her and she had to turn away.
‘But whatever is the matter?’ Lucia asked in alarm. ‘Marco, have you been unkind to her?’
‘Certainly not,’ he said at once.
‘Nobody’s