The Forced Marriage. Sara Craven
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groups of people.
And realised, with a pang of something like fear, that, contrary to her expectations—her planned strategy—it would not be as easy as she thought to turn her back and walk away from him when the evening came to an end.
Oh, God, she thought, dry-mouthed. I’m going to have to be careful—so very careful…
CHAPTER THREE
‘CIAO.’ His smile was in his eyes as he reached her side. He took her hand and raised it to his lips in a fleeting caress. ‘You decided you could spare me a few hours of your life after all, hmm?’
She took a deep, steadying breath. ‘So it would seem,’ she returned with relative calm.
‘Your fidanzato must be a very tolerant man.’ His gaze travelled over her without haste, making her feel that he was aware of every detail of what she might—or might not—be wearing. Sending another flurry through her senses.
He said slowly, his lips twisting, ‘But I think he would be wiser to keep you chained to his wrist—especially when you look as you do tonight.’
He had not, she realised, relinquished his clasp on her hand, and she detached herself from him, quietly but with emphasis.
‘You gave me your word, signore, that I would be safe in your company,’ she reminded him, trying to speak lightly.
His brows lifted. ‘And is that why you came, mia cara?’ he asked softly. ‘Because you wished to feel—safe?’
She gave him a composed smile. ‘I came because the food is said to be good here, and I’m hungry.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Then I must feed you.’ He made a slight signal and Flora found herself whisked to a small table in the corner—which was somehow miraculously vacant—and supplied with a Campari soda and a menu.
Through an archway she could see tables set with immaculate white cloths and glistening with silverware and crystal, could sniff delectable odours wafting through from the kitchen.
To her own surprise she realised that her flippant remark had been no more than the truth. She was indeed hungry, and the plate of little savoury morsels placed in front of them made her mouth water in sudden greed.
‘I am to tell you that my cousin was delighted with your suggestion for her bedroom,’ Marco Valante said when they had made their choices from the menu presented by an attentive waiter and were alone again. ‘But now, of course, she has asked who makes this particular wall-covering and where it is available.’
‘Really?’ Flora, who’d been convinced that Vittoria Fairlie’s decorating problems were purely fictional, was slightly nonplussed. ‘Then I’ll send her a full written report with samples next week.’
‘She would appreciate it.’ He sent her a faint smile. ‘It is good of you to take so much trouble.’
‘I always take trouble,’ she said. She paused. ‘Even over commissions that don’t really exist.’
He said slowly, ‘I wonder if you will ever forgive me for that.’
‘Who knows?’ She shrugged. ‘And why does it matter anyway?’ She hesitated again. ‘After all, you’ll be going back to Italy quite soon—won’t you?’
‘I have fixed no time for my return.’ He smiled at her. ‘My plans are—fluid.’
‘Your boss must be exceptionally tolerant, in that case.’ She heard and hated the primness in her tone.
‘We work well together. He does not grudge me a period of relaxation.’
He was silent for a moment, and Flora, conscious that he was studying her, kept her attention fixed firmly on the rosy liquid in her glass. At the same time wondering, in spite of herself, exactly what Marco Valante did for relaxation…
He said, at last, ‘So what made you change your mind?’
She gave a slight shrug. ‘My—plans didn’t work out, that’s all.’
‘Ah,’ he said softly.
She eyed him with suspicion. ‘What does that mean?’
‘How prickly you are.’ His tone was amused. ‘Does it have to mean anything?’
She spread her hands almost helplessly. ‘How can I tell? I don’t seem to know what’s going on any more—if I ever did.’ She made herself meet his gaze directly. ‘And what I really can’t figure out is why you’re here this evening.’
‘Because it’s one of my favourite restaurants in London.’ The green eyes glinted.
‘That isn’t what I meant,’ Flora said. ‘And you know it.’ She paused. ‘Clearly you know London well, and your cousin lives here and probably leads a hectic social life. I’m sure she could introduce you to dozens of single girls.’
‘She has certainly tried on occasion,’ he agreed casually.
‘Exactly,’ Flora said with some force. ‘So why aren’t you dining with one of them instead?’
He said reflectively, ‘Perhaps, cara, because I prefer to do my own—hunting.’
She stiffened, eyes flashing. ‘I am—not—your prey.’
He grinned unrepentantly. ‘No, of course not. Just an angel who has taken pity on my loneliness.’
Her face was still mutinous. ‘I’d have said, Signor Valante, that you’re the last person in the world who needs to be lonely.’
‘Grazie,’ he said. ‘I think.’
‘So why, then?’ Flora persisted doggedly. ‘How is it that you’re so set on having dinner with me?’
‘You really need to ask?’ His brows lifted. ‘Are there no mirrors in that apartment of yours?’ His voice dropped—became husky. ‘Mia bella, there is not a man in this restaurant who does not envy me and wish he was at your side. How can you not know this?’
Her skin warmed, and she took a hasty sip of her drink. She said stiltedly, ‘I wasn’t—fishing for compliments.’
‘And I was not flattering.’ He paused. ‘Is the truth so difficult for you to acknowledge?’
She gave a small, wintry smile. ‘Perhaps it convinces me that I should have stayed at home.’
‘But why?’ He leaned forward. Flora thought, crazily, that his eyes were filled with little dancing sparks. ‘What possible harm can come to you—in this crowded place?’
She made herself meet his glance steadily. ‘I don’t know. But I think you’re a dangerous man, Signor Valante.’
‘You’re wrong, cara,’ he said softly. ‘I am the one who is in danger.’
‘Then why were you so insistent?’
‘Perhaps I like to take risks.’
‘Not,’ she said, ‘a recommendation in an accountant, I’d have thought.’
His grin was lazy. ‘But I am only an accountant in working hours, carissima. And now I am not working but relaxing—if you remember.’
Flora bit her lip, conscious of the fierce undertow of his attraction, how it could so easily sweep her out of her depth. If she wasn’t careful, of course, she added hastily.
Thankfully, at that moment the waiter reappeared to tell them their table was ready.
And once the food was served, and the wine was poured, she would steer the conversation into more general channels, she promised herself grimly as she accompanied Marco sedately into the main restaurant.
She was faintly ruffled to discover that they were seated side by side on one of the cushioned banquettes.