The Forced Marriage. Sara Craven
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would have bet good money that even if the entire interior was painted in alternating red and green stripes the queue of interested buyers would still stretch round the block.
And if Mrs Fairlie simply wanted reassurance that her property was worth the amazing amount the agents were advising, then reassurance she should have, Flora decided with a mental shrug as she rang the bell.
The door was answered promptly by a pretty maid in a smart chocolate-coloured uniform, who smiled and nodded when Flora introduced herself, and led her up a wide curving staircase to the drawing room on the first floor.
As she followed, Flora was aware of the elegant ceramic floor in the hall, the uncluttered space and light enhanced by clean pastel colours on the walls. As she’d suspected, she thought wryly, Mrs Fairlie was the last person to need style advice.
The maid opened double doors, and after announcing, ‘Miss Graham,’ stood back to allow Flora to precede her into the room.
She was greeted by the dazzle of evening sunlight from the tall windows, and halted, blinking, conscious that amid the glare someone was moving towards her.
But not the female figure she’d been expecting, she realised with a jolt, the confident, professional smile dying on her lips.
In spite of the warmth of the room she felt as cold as ice. She had to fight an impulse to wrap her arms across her body in a betrayingly defensive gesture.
‘Buonasera, Flora mia.’ As Marco Valante reached her he captured her nerveless hand and raised it swiftly and formally to his lips. ‘It is good to see you again.’
‘I wish I could say the same.’ Her voice sounded husky and a little breathless. ‘What is this? I came here to meet a Mrs Fairlie.’
‘Unfortunately she has been detained. But she has delegated me to show you the house in her absence.’
‘And you expect me to believe that?’
His brows lifted sardonically. ‘What else, cara? Do you imagine I have her bound and gagged in the cellar?’
Something very similar had occurred to her, and she lifted her chin, glaring at him. ‘I find it odd that you have the run of her house, certainly.’
‘I am staying here for a few days,’ he said calmly. ‘Your Mrs Fairlie is in fact my cousin Vittoria.’
‘I see.’ Her heart seemed to be trying to beat its way out of her ribcage. ‘And you persuaded her to trick me into coming here. Does your family claim descent from Machiavelli?’
‘I think he was childless,’ Marco Valante said thoughtfully. ‘And Vittoria did not need much persuasion—not when I explained how very much I wished to meet with you again.’ He smiled. ‘She tends to indulge me.’
‘More fool her,’ Flora said curtly. ‘I’d like to leave, please. Now.’
‘Before you have carried out your survey of the house?’ He tutted reprovingly. ‘Not very professional, cara.’
She sent him a freezing look. ‘But then I hardly think I’ve been inveigled into coming here in my business capacity.’
‘You are wrong. Vittoria wishes your advice on the master bedroom. She is bored with the colour, and the main bedroom in her house in Brussels has been decorated in a similar shade.’
Flora frowned. ‘She is genuinely selling this house, then?’
‘It has already been sold privately,’ he said gently. ‘Shall we go upstairs?’
‘No!’ The word seemed to explode from her with such force that her throat ached.
She saw him fling his head back as if she had struck him in the face. Met the astonishment and scorn in the green eyes as they held hers. Felt the ensuing silence deepen and threaten, as if some time bomb were ticking away. And realised with swift shame that she had totally overstepped the mark.
Somehow, she faltered into speech. ‘I’m sorry—I didn’t mean…’
He said grimly, ‘I am not a fool. I know exactly what you meant.’ The long fingers captured her chin and held it, not gently. ‘Two things, mia cara.’ He spoke softly. ‘This is my cousin’s house, and I would not show such disrespect for her roof. More importantly, I have never yet taken a woman against her will—and you will not be the first. Capisce?’
Her face burned as, jerkily, she nodded.
‘Then be good enough to carry out the commission you’ve been employed for.’ He released her almost contemptuously and moved towards the door. ‘Shall I call Malinda to act as our chaperon?’
‘No,’ she said huskily. ‘That—won’t be necessary.’ Her legs were shaking as she ascended another flight of stairs to the second floor, and followed him into Vittoria Fairlie’s bedroom.
It was a large room, overlooking the garden, with French windows leading on to a balcony with a wrought-iron balustrade and ceramic containers planted brightly with flowers.
The interior walls were the palest blush pink, with stinging white paintwork as a contrast, and the tailored bedcover was a much deeper rose. Apart from a chaise longue near the window, upholstered in the same fabric as the bedcover, and an elegant walnut dressing table, there was little other furniture—all clothes and clutter having been banished, presumably, to the adjoining dressing room.
‘Well?’ Marco Valante had stationed himself at the window, leaning against its frame. So how was it that everywhere she looked he seemed to be in her sightline? she wondered despairingly.
The image of him seemed scored into her consciousness—the casual untidiness of his raven hair, the faint line of stubble along his jaw, the close-fitting dark pants that accentuated his lean hips and long legs, the collarless white shirt left unbuttoned at the throat, exposing a deep triangle of smooth, tanned skin…
For a stunned moment she found herself wondering what that skin would feel like under her fingertips—her mouth…
Her mind closed in shock, and she hurried into speech. ‘The room is truly lovely. I can’t fault your cousin’s taste—or her presentation.’ She hesitated. ‘Although I wonder if it isn’t a touch—over-feminine?’
‘That is entirely the view of her husband,’ Marco acknowledged, his mouth twisting. ‘He has stipulated for the new house—no more pink.’
‘But it’s difficult to know what to suggest without seeing the room in Brussels.’ Her brow wrinkled. ‘It may face in a different direction…’
‘No. Vittoria says it is also south-facing, and very light.’
‘In that case…’ Flora gave her surroundings another considering look. ‘There’s a wonderful shade of pale blue-green, called Seascape, that comes in a watered silk paper. I’ve always felt that waking in sunlight with that on the walls would be like finding yourself floating in the Mediterranean. But your cousin may not want that.’
‘On the contrary, I think it would revive for her some happy memories,’ Marco returned. ‘When we were children we used to stay at my grandfather’s house in summer. He had this old castello on a cliff above the sea, and we would walk down to the cove each day between the cypress trees.’
‘It sounds—idyllic.’
‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘A more innocent world.’ He paused. ‘Have you ever visited my country?’
‘Not yet.’ Flora lifted her chin. ‘But I’m hoping to go there on my honeymoon, if I can persuade my fiancé.’
‘He doesn’t like Italy?’ The green eyes were meditative as they rested on her.
‘I don’t think he’s ever been either. But he was in the Bahamas earlier this year, and that’s where he wants to return.’ She smiled. ‘Apparently there’s this tiny unspoiled island