The Forced Marriage (11 page)

There were undercurrents here, she thought, staring sightlessly at the sky, that she could not begin to understand. But, then, her comprehension wasn’t required, she reminded herself with a pang. His other relationships were none of her business. Because she was here to share Marco’s bed, not his problems.

So she wouldn’t ask any more questions about Zia Paolina.

Nor would she permit herself to speculate about the unknown Ottavia, and her place in the scheme of things. After all, Marco had enjoyed a life before he met her, and that life would continue after she was gone. She couldn’t allow that to matter.

But then she remembered the satisfaction in Tonio’s voice when he’d pronounced the name—the gloating relish in his black eyes—and she knew that Ottavia could not be so easily dismissed.

She thought suddenly, Tonio’s the serpent that Marco warned me about—the serpent waiting for me here in paradise.

And found herself shivering, as if a dark cloud had covered the sun.

I
T WASN’T
really a cloud, Flora decided. It was more a faint shadow. Yet she was aware of it all the time.

It was there in the sunlit days, while she and Marco went to the beach, swam in the pool, played tennis, and explored the surrounding countryside.

While they dined by candlelight, or sat on the moonlit terrace, drinking wine and talking, or listening to music.

It was even there at nights, when he made love to her with such exquisite skill and passion, or soothed her to sleep in his arms.

And the time was long past when she could have said totally casually, Who is Ottavia?

To ask now would be to reveal that it was preying on her mind. That it had come to matter. And she couldn’t let him know that.

Because she had no right to concern herself. The parameters of their relationship were in place, and there was no space for jealousy.

There had been no more unwelcome visitors. In fact, no visitors at all. The real world was hardly allowed to intrude.

Flora was wryly aware how quickly she’d adapted to life at the
castello
, where unseen hands seemed to anticipate her every wish.

It was the quiet, impassive presence of Alfredo, she knew, that made San Silvestro run with such smooth efficiency. And, whatever his private views on her presence, he treated her invariably with soft-voiced respect.

Which was more than could always be said for Ninetta, Flora acknowledged frowningly. And it was just unfortunate that she had more to do with her than any of the other servants at the
castello
.

Not that the girl was overtly insolent, or lazy. There was just something—sometimes—in her manner which spoke of a buried resentment. The occasional suggestion of a flounce, and a faint curl of the full lips when Flora requested some service.

Not that it happened often. However much Marco might tease her about it, Flora could no more leave her clothes lying around for someone else to pick up, or abandon wet towels on the bathroom floor than she could fly. But sometimes she felt that Ninetta might have thought better of her if she’d done exactly that.

Or perhaps the girl was just tired of having to run round after yet another of the
signore’s
mistresses, she thought, with a stifled sigh. Although she could never ask her that, of course. Or whether Ottavia had ever been one of them…

She firmly closed off that line of questioning. She had to learn to live entirely for the present, she told herself. It was pointless concerning herself about the past, or even worrying over the future, because both were out of her hands.

So, it would be one day at a time, and no more, and what was the problem with that when she was so happy?

And no one, she thought, could ever take that away from her.

The boathouse, Flora had soon learned, was not just for show. It contained a speedboat, which Marco used mainly for water-skiing, as well as his windsurfer, and a sailing boat—the
Beatrice II
.

‘My father built the first one, and named it for my mother,’ he told Flora when he took her sailing the first time, standing behind her, steadying her hands on the wheel. ‘I decided to continue the tradition.’

‘Did she like to sail?’ Flora found she was revelling in this swoop along the coast, her ear already attuned to the slap of water against the bow and the song of the wind in the sails above her.

He shrugged. ‘My father loved to—and she loved to be with him. She even watched him play polo, which terrified her. And she was his first passenger when he got his pilot’s licence.’ There was a taut silence. ‘And, of course, his last.’

Flora was very still. Marco knew every detail of her family background, but up to now had said very little about his own. Perhaps this new candour would drive away the faint mist which seemed to hang between them.

‘There was an accident?’ Tentatively, she broke the brooding quiet.

‘Some kind of mechanical failure.’ His tone was brusque with remembered pain. ‘They were flying down here from Rome for my grandfather’s birthday. I had been allowed home from school for the occasion too, and I remember going with Nonno Giovanni to meet them at the airfield, whining because they were so late and I was getting bored.

‘And then someone came and called my grandfather away into another room. I could watch him through the glass partition, although I could not hear what was being said. But I saw his face—and I knew.’

‘How—how old were you?’ Flora asked, her heart twisting.

‘I was ten. Usually I flew with them too, and I had been angry because they had gone to Rome without me, to collect Nonno Giovanni’s birthday gift.’

He shook his head. ‘To this day I do not know what it was they had bought for him. But it could never have been worth the price they paid for it.’

She said quietly, ‘Marco—I’m so sorry. I—I had no idea, even though you’ve always talked about your grandfather rather than your parents. It must have been terrible for you.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘It was a bad time for us all. And I hardly had time to mourn before Nonno Giovanni began to train me as the next head of the family and the future chairman of Altimazza.’

She gasped. ‘But you were just a small child.’

‘The circumstances demanded that I grow up quickly,’ Marco said drily. ‘That I should understand and accept the responsibilities waiting for me.’

She leaned back against him. Her voice was husky. ‘And when you became a man, what if you’d decided that kind of life wasn’t for you?’

‘Ah,
mia cara
, that was never an option.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Only once was I offered a choice—and then I chose wrongly.’ His voice was suddenly harsh.

She said hesitantly, ‘But now you’re free—surely?’

His arms tightened around her. She felt his mouth, gentle on the nape of her neck. ‘I want to believe that,
mia bella
.
Dio
—how much I want to believe it.’ There was a note almost of anguish in his tone.

He said no more, and she did not like to probe further.

Later they anchored in a small bay and swam, then picnicked on board. Afterwards, Marco made love to her with slow, passionate intensity, his eyes fixed almost painfully on her face, as if asking a question he dared not speak aloud.

What is it, my love?
her heart cried out to him.
Ask me—please…

When they arrived back at San Silvestro Alfredo was waiting on the landing stage, grave-faced.

‘There has been a telephone call,
signore
—from the laboratories. They need to speak urgently with you.’

Marco cursed softly, then turned to Flora. ‘Forgive me,
carissima
. I had better see what they want.’ He set off up the path to the house, with Alfredo behind him, leaving Flora to follow more slowly.

She had showered and put on a slip of a dress, sleeveless and scoop-necked in an ivory silky fabric which showed off her growing tan, by the time Marco came into the room, his face serious and preoccupied.

He said without preamble, ‘Flora, I have to go to Milan straight away. We have been conducting tests on a new drug to help asthma sufferers, which we believe could be a real breakthrough, but there seem to be problems—something which I must deal with immediately.’

‘Oh.’ Flora put down her mascara wand. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘I think you would be too much of a distraction,
mia bella
.’ His tone was rueful. ‘Stay here and relax, and I will be back in a couple of days.’

‘Then shall I pack for you?’

He shook his head. ‘Alfredo has already done so. The helicopter is coming for me very soon.’

He came across to her and pulled her to her feet. ‘I hate to leave you,
carissima
.’ His tone thickened. ‘But this is important.’

‘Of course. And I’ll be fine.’ She smiled up at him, resolutely ignoring the ball of ice beginning to form in the pit of her stomach. Because this enforced absence would eat into the diminishing amount of time she had to spend with him. ‘Alfredo will look after me.’

‘You have won his heart.’ He raised her hand to his lips. ‘And that of everyone here.’

Apart from Ninetta.
She thought it, but did not say it. Then Marco was kissing her, and she stopped thinking, offering herself totally the yearning demand of his mouth. Aware of nothing but the warmth and strength of him against her.

At last he almost tore his lips from hers. ‘I must go,’ he muttered huskily. ‘I have to change my clothes.’

Left alone, Flora could hear the steady beat of the helicopter’s approach. Coming, she thought, with a stab of anguish, to take him away. And it was ridiculous to feel so bereft—so scared—when he would be back so soon.

It must be the story about his parents which was weighing so heavily on her, she thought with a shiver.

When he emerged from his dressing room he looked almost alien in the formal dark suit. Flora looked across the room and saw a stranger.

Her smile was so forced it hurt. ‘Please—take care.’
Or take me with you.

‘My heart’s sweetness.’ He looked back at her with passionate understanding. He took half a step towards her, then deliberately checked. ‘I shall come back. And then I must talk to you.’ He paused. ‘Because there are things to be said. Issues, alas, that can no longer be avoided.’

He’s going to tell me it’s over,
Flora thought, with a lurch of the heart.
That all good things must end. That it’s time we returned to our separate worlds and got on with our lives.

With a courage she had not known she possessed, she lifted her chin, went on smiling. ‘I’ll be here,’ she said. ‘Waiting.’

She went out on to the balcony and watched the helicopter take off and whirl away over the trees. Stood, a hand shading her eyes, until it vanished, and the throb of the engine could be heard no longer.

Her hands tightened on the balustrade as she fought the tears, harsh and bitter in her throat.

Only a couple of days, she reminded herself as she turned and trailed desolately back into the room. She could surely survive that.

But her real dread was the nights that she would spend alone in that enormous bed, without his arms around her in the darkness, or his voice drowsily murmuring her name as they woke to sunlight dappling through the window shutters.

And all those other endless nights to come, when she returned to England…

She pressed a clenched fist fiercely against her trembling mouth.

She’d known the score from the first, yet she’d allowed herself to be seduced by the atmosphere at the
castello
. To drift into a dream world where she and Marco stayed together always. Which was crazy.

It felt so right for her, she thought, but that did not guarantee that he necessarily shared her view. He was looking for entertainment, not commitment. Besides, he was a wealthy man. When the time came he would be sharing his life with a girl from his own social milieu.

As for herself—well, she was back in the real world now, and she was not going to allow herself to fall to pieces.

And if there was heartbreak ahead, maybe it was no more than she deserved for what she’d done to Chris.

She’d betrayed him totally, and yet, she realised guiltily, this was the first time she’d even spared him a thought. He seemed to belong to some distant, unreal part of her life. But he was flesh and blood, would be hurting because of her, and he deserved to have his pain acknowledged.

I was unfair to him from the start, she thought sadly. And particularly when I said I’d marry him. But we’d been seeing each other regularly for months and it seemed the next, logical progression. And—somehow— I persuaded myself that I loved him enough for marriage.

Because I didn’t know what love could be—not then.

I should have known it couldn’t work—after that one disastrous night. I should have stopped it there and then.

She’d been trying for weeks to parry Chris’s growing insistence on making love to her. Finally she’d simply run out of excuses.

She couldn’t even explain her own reluctance. After all, she wasn’t a child, and it had been a natural stage in her relationship with the man she planned to marry. A man, moreover, who was good-looking, undeniably virile, and eager for her.

Yet the fact that she’d still been able to resist the increasing ardour of Chris’s kisses should have been warning enough that all was not well.

She’d felt paralysed with awkwardness from the moment she’d arrived at Chris’s flat and found the scene set with candles, flowers and music playing softly. There had even been a bottle of champagne chilling on ice.

Like something from Chapter Two of
The Seducer’s Handbook
, she’d thought, wanting at first to laugh, and then, very badly, to run away.

And that had been the only real desire she’d experienced. She’d felt only numb as Chris had undressed her almost gloatingly. He hadn’t been selfish. She knew that now. He had done his best to arouse her, holding his own excitement and need in check.

And she’d held him, eyes closed, and whispered, ‘Yes,’ when he’d asked if she was all right.

But it hadn’t been true. Because everything about it had been wrong. And the pain of his first attempt to enter her had made her cry out as her muscles locked in shocked rejection.

She’d pushed him away almost violently, her frozen body slicked with sweat. ‘No—I can’t—please…’

He’d been kind at first, understanding. Had even comforted her. But it had soon become evident that he was determined to try again.

And each time her mind had gone into recoil as her body closed against him.

And eventually he’d become impatient, then really angry, and finally sullenly accepting.

‘You have a real problem, Flora,’ he’d flung at her over his shoulder as he reached for his clothes. ‘I suggest you get yourself sorted, and soon. Maybe you should see a doctor—or a therapist.’