The Forced Marriage (15 page)

‘No.’ Flora shook her head wearily. ‘That’s quite impossible, and he’s not
my
Italian.’

‘Whatever, you don’t think he has the right to know that you’ve created a life together?’

‘No, he forfeited that—totally.’ Flora sent her an appealing look. ‘Please don’t ask me to explain.’

Hester lifted her hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘I’ll shut up here and now,’ she said. ‘But I can think of several people who won’t. Starting,’ she added gently, ‘with your mother.’

‘Oh, God,’ Flora said wretchedly. ‘She’s not even speaking to me at the moment as it is.’

‘Well, that could be a good thing,’ Hester said, straight-faced. ‘Keep the fight going and the baby could be in university before she finds out.’

And, in spite of all the fear and misery threatening to crush her, Flora, to her own complete astonishment, found herself giggling weakly.

F
LORA
came out of the health centre and stood for a moment, hunting in her bag for her sun glasses. The noise of the city traffic hurtling past was deafening, but she was oblivious to it, locked in her own private world.

Because there was no mistake. It was all true.

Her doctor had just confirmed that her pregnancy test had been totally accurate, and, once Flora’s resolve to have the baby had been established, had dealt briskly with the practicalities. Her medical insurance would secure her a bed in a good, private maternity clinic, and she would be contacted in the next few days by the practice midwife who would monitor her well-being in the coming months.

He had also assured her that the sickness that assailed her each morning would probably pass within a month or two.

Tactfully, the doctor had not probed, nor attempted to raise any of the other issues surrounding the coming baby, and Flora was grateful for that.

Her mind was still reeling from the knowledge that Marco’s child was growing inside her. She had to come to terms with that before she could cope with anything else, however pressing.

And there were matters to be dealt with. The estate agent had contacted her two days earlier to say that he’d received an offer of the full asking price for her flat, and that the couple concerned were also interested in buying some of the furniture, if she wanted to sell.

‘And do you?’ Hester asked.

‘I think so,’ Flora said slowly. ‘It might be good to clear my decks—start again from scratch.’ She grimaced. ‘After all, I’m not looking for a showcase for my career any more, but a family home.’

‘Wow,’ said Hester. She paused. ‘You’re really taking this in your stride, honey.’

Perhaps that was because having a baby was small potatoes compared with some of the shocks she’d experienced recently, Flora thought wryly.

She forced a smile. ‘It’s all front. Underneath, I’m really a quivering mass of insecurity.’

But the sale of the flat was a positive step, and, hopefully, the bed might be included in the furniture that the Morgans wanted to buy. Because there was no way that Flora could have ever spent another night in it, even though it was probably where the baby had been conceived.

After that first incredible, rapturous night, Marco, she remembered, had always been careful to use protection.

As an afterthought, she told herself bitterly, it had been an abject failure.

She glanced at her watch, then walked to the kerb and hailed a passing cab. The agent had suggested it might be simpler if she and Mrs Morgan handled the sale of the furniture between them, and she’d reluctantly agreed, so they were meeting there that morning.

She’d listed the flat’s contents, and pencilled in realistic asking prices alongside the main items, making a separate note of the few personal things she intended to keep and which Hester was going to help her remove.

Get it over and done with, she thought as she gave the flat’s address to the driver. And then I can move on—make some real plans. Adjust and compromise. Maybe find somewhere with enough space to enable me to work from home.

She had mixed feelings as she unlocked the door and let herself in. This had been so much her own individual space, yet now it only seemed to speak to her of Marco.

Chris had spent far more time there, but he’d never stamped his personality on the place in the way Marco had done in a few brief hours.

He seemed to be everywhere, sliding his arms round her waist in the kitchen and nuzzling her neck, sharing the narrow bath, sprawling on the sofa with his head in her lap. And, of course, making love to her with heart-stopping skill in the bedroom.

Making himself quite effortlessly part of her environment, she thought with a gasp of sheer pain. And completely essential to her life and happiness.

God, but he’d been clever. Or had she been just a pitiable fool, wanting so hard to believe in the fairy tale?

Whatever, she was older and wiser now, she told herself with determination. And the life and happiness she’d envisaged would have to take a wholly different form.

Her answering machine was blinking, and she frowned as she pressed the ‘Play’ button. Most people now contacted her through work, but there were bound to be a few who’d slipped through the net.

I’ll have to make another list, she thought, sighing, as she retrieved her notebook from her bag. And ask Mrs Morgan if she wants the line to be transferred.

There were only three calls—the first from a girlfriend who’d only just heard about her broken engagement and clearly wanted all the gory details. The second was from her stepsister, furiously demanding to know if she’d come to her senses yet and who was going to pay for the page boy suit.

And the third, inevitably, was from Chris, in a new role as the voice of sweet reason, suggesting that they’d both behaved very badly but that he, at least, was prepared to let bygones be bygones and try again.

Flora listened to it, open-mouthed at his sheer effrontery, then stabbed at the ‘Delete’ button, nearly breaking a nail in the process.

Somehow, she thought grimly, she was going to have to convince him not to contact her ever again.

She’d assumed her mention of Ottavia would be enough to keep him away, but clearly he was experiencing a sense of decency by-pass.

She was still seething when the doorbell rang, and had to hurriedly arrange her face into more tranquil and pleasant lines as she went to answer its summons. After all, she didn’t want to send the unknown Mrs Morgan fleeing in fright down the street, she thought, as she flung open the door.

And stopped, her smile freezing on her lips, her senses screaming into shock, as she saw who was waiting for her.

‘Buongiorno,’
said Marco.

The sound of his voice with its familiar husky note roused her from her sudden stupor. She grabbed at the door, intending to slam it in his face, but he was too fast for her, and too strong. She’d forgotten the deceptive muscularity of the lean body under those elegant suits.

He simply walked past her into the entrance hall. ‘Now you may close the door,’ he said softly.

‘Get out of here. Get out—now.’ Her voice cracked in the middle. ‘Or I’ll call the police—tell them you forced your way in…’

‘With no evidence?’ he asked crushingly. ‘I think not. And then I shall tell them it is just a lovers’ quarrel, and we will see which of us they believe.’

‘You can’t stay,’ Flora said rapidly. ‘I’m expecting a visitor…’ She paused, her eyes flying to his face with sudden suspicion. ‘Or am I?’ She drew a deep breath. ‘My God, I don’t believe this. You’ve caught me again in the same trap. The flat isn’t sold at all, is it? It’s just another trick, and the Morgans probably don’t even exist.’

‘They are quite real, and they are genuinely buying your flat,’ Marco returned. ‘But not, unfortunately, the furniture. We stretched the truth about that.’

“‘We”?’ Flora echoed derisively. ‘Surely a practised liar like you,
signore
, doesn’t need an accomplice.’

He said slowly, ‘If you are hoping you will goad me into losing my temper and walking out, you will be disappointed. I came here to talk to you, Flora
mia
, and I shall not leave until I have done so.’ He paused. ‘But not in this hallway. Let us go into your sitting room.’

Flora did not budge. ‘You can talk,’ she said clearly. ‘But I don’t have to listen.’

The green eyes glinted at her. ‘Do not put me to the trouble of fetching you,
mia cara
.’

Her hesitation was only momentary. Fetching meant touching, and an instinct older than the world told her that, as long as she lived, she would never be ready to feel his hands on her again.

Skirting round him with minute care, she walked into the living room and went to stand by the window, her arms folded defensively across her body.

Marco propped himself in the doorway, his expression unreadable as he looked her over.

He said, ‘You are thinner.’

Flora bit her lip, staring down at the gleaming boards. ‘Please don’t concern yourself,’ she said. ‘Because the situation is purely temporary, I assure you.’ And could have wept with the terrible irony of it all.

‘Have you been ill?’

‘No, I’ve just had a check-up and I’m in excellent health.’ She lifted her chin and faced him defiantly. ‘I’m sorry if you thought I’d be wasting away—or suicidal. What a blow to your male pride to find me simply—getting on with my life.’

‘Why did you decide to sell the flat?’

She shrugged. ‘The blank canvas didn’t seem appropriate any more.’ She paused. ‘Is this all you want to ask? Why didn’t you get your private detective to submit a questionnaire, and I could have ticked the right boxes?’

‘A box would not have told me how angry you are with me.’

‘No, but it would have spared me this meeting.’ She shook her head. ‘Why have you come here? You must have known I would never want to see you again.’

‘Yes,’ he acknowledged quietly. ‘I was afraid it would be so. Which was why I delayed my journey. I hoped, if I gave you time, you might, in turn, allow me the opportunity to explain.’

‘That’s unnecessary. Your godmother supplied all the explanation I could ever need. I know everything,
signore
, so you may as well go back where you came from.’

‘You are determined not to listen to me,’ he said slowly. ‘Even after all we have been to each other.’

‘I know what you once were to me,’ Flora said bitingly. ‘Thanks to the Contessa, I’m now aware of all I was to you. There’s nothing more to be said.’

‘There is a great deal more,’ he snapped. ‘And I was coming back from Milan to say it to you—to tell you everything. To confess and ask your forgiveness. Only to find you had gone and all hell had broken loose.’

‘Oh, please.’ To her fury, she realised she was trembling. ‘Am I really supposed to believe that?’ She shook her head. ‘Don’t tell me any more of your lies, Marco. I won’t be made a fool of a second time.’

‘No,’ he said bitterly. ‘I am the one who has been a fool—and worse than a fool. What point is there in pretending otherwise?’

‘None at all,’ she said. ‘But pretending is what you do best,
signore
, and old habits die hard.’

He said slowly, ‘While we are on the subject of pretence,
signorina
, do you intend to maintain that you did not expect me to come after you? And that there is nothing left in your heart of that passion—the need that we shared?’

‘Your conceit, Signor Valante, is only matched by your arrogance.’ Flora’s voice sparked with anger.

‘That is no answer.’

‘It’s the only one you’re going to get,’ she flashed.

His laugh was husky, almost painful. ‘Then I will ask another question. Flora—will you be my wife?’

The world suddenly seemed to lurch sideways. There was a strange roaring in her ears and she saw the floor rising to meet her.

When awareness slowly returned, she found she was lying on the sofa and Marco was kneeling beside her, holding a glass of water.

‘Drink this,’ he directed shortly, and she complied unwillingly. He watched her, his mouth drawn into a grim, straight line.

He said, ‘And you say you are not sick.’

‘I’m not.’ Flora handed back the glass and sat up gingerly. ‘I had a shock, that’s all.’

‘Is it really so shocking to receive a proposal of marriage?’

‘From you—yes.’ She could taste the sourness of tears in her throat. ‘But then why should I really be surprised? It’s time you were married, isn’t it? And one woman is as good as any other. I’m told that’s your philosophy. Be honest,
signore
.’

He was silent for a long moment. ‘It may have been—once. God forgive me. But not now.’

‘So, what is it this time?’ Flora stared at him, her eyes hard. ‘A belated attempt to salve your guilty conscience? To offer some recompense for the way you treated me?’

‘I want you,’ he said quietly. ‘And I swore I would move heaven and earth to get you back.’

‘Except you don’t really believe you’ll have to go to those lengths,’ she threw at him. ‘Not when I was such a push-over the first time around.’ She gestured wildly. ‘You think you have only to smile, and take my hand—and I’ll follow you anywhere. But not this time,
signore
. Because I’m not playing your game any more. I’ve changed, and I tell you this—I’d rather die than have you touch me—you bastard.’

There was another tingling silence, then Marco said, ‘Ah,’ and got to his feet. The dark face was cool, composed, and the green eyes steady as they met hers.

He said, ‘Then I agree with you, Flora
mia
. There is no more to be said, and I will leave you in peace to enjoy your life.’

As he turned to walk to the door the telephone rang suddenly.

He checked. ‘Do you wish me to answer that for you?’

‘The machine will pick up the message.’ She hardly recognised her own voice. She felt as if she’d been left dying on some battlefield. As perhaps she had.

There was a click, and a woman’s voice, clear and pleasant, filled the room. ‘This is Barbara Wayne, Miss Graham, the midwife from the health centre. Dr Arthur asked me to contact you and arrange a preliminary appointment. Perhaps you’d call me back and suggest a convenient time—early next week, say? Thank you.’

Flora sat as if she’d been turned to stone, listening to the tape switch off and run back. Her mouth was bone-dry and her heart was beating an alarmed tattoo against her ribcage. She did not dare look at Marco, but the words of the message seemed to hang in the room.

Useless to hope that he had not picked up its exact implication.

If it had just been five minutes later, she thought, fighting back a sob of desperation. Just five minutes… He would have been gone. And she would have been safe. Whereas now…

When he eventually spoke, his tone was almost remote. The polite interest of a stranger. ‘Is it true? Are you carrying my child?’