Bartaldi's Bride. Sara Craven
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I help?’
‘No—no, thank you,’ she said hastily. The thought of him touching her, even in such a brief asexual contact, was enough to bring warm colour into her face. She kept her head bent as she completed the fastening.
And then something else in her bag attracted her attention, and she stiffened.
‘Just a moment.’ She extracted an envelope. ‘This isn’t mine.’
‘Open it.’
The envelope contained money—lira notes in large denominations. Getting on for a thousand pounds, she thought numbly.
She looked up and met his expressionless gaze. She said, ‘What is this? Some kind of set-up?’
‘On the contrary,’ he returned. ‘Let us call it a tangible expression of my regret for the inconvenience you have suffered.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘The rich man’s solution for everything. Throw money at it.’
‘I had hoped,’ he said, ‘that it might make you look more kindly on me.’
Clare shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, signore.’ She kept her voice clipped and cool. ‘You may have bought the local police force, but my goodwill isn’t for sale. Not now. Not ever.’
The notes tore quite easily. As Guido Bartaldi watched her, motionless and silent, Clare ripped them across, and across, reducing them savagely to the most expensive confetti in the world, then tossing the fragments into the air.
She said, ‘Consider all debts cancelled, Marchese,’ then she walked swiftly round the table and past him to the door. The handle was slippery in her damp hand, but she managed to twist it and get the door open.
At any moment she was expecting him to stop her physically from leaving. Waiting for his anger to strike her like lightning over the Appenines. Apart from anything else, defacing a national currency was probably some kind of offence.
But there wasn’t a sound behind her, or a movement. Only a stillness and a silence that was ominous in its totality. That followed her like a shadow. But ahead of her was another open door and a sunlit street, and she kept walking, trying not to break into a run.
‘Signorina.’ An officer came out of one of the offices that lined the corridor, and she swung round in panic, feeling a scream rising in her throat, until she realised he was simply telling her where her car was parked.
She managed to choke out a word of thanks, and went on, aware of curious glances following her.
She found the little Fiat, and got in to the driving seat. For a moment, she stared blindly ahead of her through the windscreen, then she bent and put her head down on the steering wheel, and let the inevitable storm of weeping that had been building steadily over the past hour exorcise her shock and fright.
When it was over, she dried her eyes on a handful of tissues, put on some more lipstick, and started the car. The sooner she got on with her life and put today’s shambles out of her mind the better.
But it wasn’t so easy to do. She found she was constantly glancing in the mirror, her heart thumping each time a car came up behind her.
You’re being ridiculous, she told herself. It’s all over. You’ll never see him again.
So, why, in spite of the distance between them, was she conscious of his presence like the touch of a hand on her skin? And his voice saying softly, ‘Chiara’?
‘Mia cara.’ Violetta’s voice was like warm honey. ‘What a nightmare for you. Now, tell me everything. You were actually imprisoned?’
They were sitting in the salone, with the shutters drawn to exclude the late-afternoon sun, drinking the strong black coffee which Violetta consumed at all hours of the day and night and eating some little almond cakes.
‘Well, not in a cell,’ Clare admitted. The warmth and exuberance of her welcome both from her godmother and Angelina, her plump, smiling housekeeper, had been just what she’d needed to heal the wounds of the day. And, now, sitting in this calm, gracious room, able to pour her story into loving, sympathetic ears, she could feel the tension seeping out of her.
‘But it felt as bad.’ She shuddered. ‘I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t think properly. I realise now why people confess to things they haven’t done.’ She frowned darkly. ‘And there was that wretched Guido Bartaldi behaving as if he owned the police station.’
‘Well,’ Violetta said with a tolerant shrug. ‘He is a great man in this region. His family have been here since the quattrocento.’ She lowered her voice. ‘You realise, of course, who he is?’
‘He’s a marquis,’ Clare said wearily. ‘That was made more than clear.’
‘Not just that.’ Violetta spread her hands dramatically. ‘Even you, carissima, who takes no interest in such things, must have heard of Bartaldi’s, the great jewellers.’
‘My God,’ Clare said slowly. ‘So that’s why the name seemed familiar. It just never occurred to me…’ She shook her head. ‘Maybe I didn’t expect to find an aristocrat running a jewellery business. Isn’t it a little beneath him—that type of thing?’
‘It is not merely a business, cara.’ Violetta sounded shocked. ‘With the Bartaldis, the working of gold and precious stones has become an art form. It all began in the sixteenth century.’
She shrugged again. ‘There was a younger son—the black sheep, I suppose, of the family. He was sent into exile by his father, after a quarrel, and rather than starve he became apprenticed to one of the great goldsmiths of Siena. He had a flair for design, an eye for beauty and consummate taste, all of which he passed down to future generations. Eventually, he married his master’s daughter, and bought his business.’
‘And a shrewd eye for the main chance,’ Clare said drily. ‘He seems to have passed that on too.’
‘And when the main branch of the family became weakened, and died out,’ Violetta went on, ‘his descendants took over the title and estates.’
‘Now why does that not surprise me?’ Clare muttered.
‘And it is not just gold and jewellery now, you understand, although they remain one of the most prestigious companies in the world. Guido Bartaldi has recently diversified and opened a chain of boutiques selling the most exquisite leather goods, and scent to die for.’ She sighed joyously. ‘His “Tentazione” is quite heavenly.’
And naturally he’d have to call it ‘Temptation’, Clare thought sourly. Named for himself, no doubt.
She said drily, ‘I imagine the price will be equally celestial. I remember now—I saw the shop in Rome when it first opened. The window display was one white satin chair, with a long black kid glove draped over it, and a red rose on the floor. The ladies who shop were treading on each other to get in there.’
‘Hoping that Bartaldi would be there in person, no doubt.’ Violetta’s smile was cat-like. ‘He is not exactly handsome, I think, but so attractive, like il diavolo. And still a bachelor.’
‘But not for much longer.’ Clare carefully selected another cake. ‘He’s going to marry his ward, poor little soul.’
‘You pity her?’ Violetta shook her head. ‘Few women would agree, mia cara.’
Clare gave her a straight look. ‘She doesn’t want him, Violetta.’
‘Then she is crazy.’ Her godmother poured more coffee. ‘It is one thing for a man to be successful and fabulously wealthy. Per Dio, one could almost say it was enough. But when he also has sex appeal—such formidable attrazione del sesso—then he is irresistible.’ She winked. ‘And the little Paola will not resist long, I think. Not when he has her in his bed.’
Clare found she was putting down her cake, not only