Sara Craven Tribute Collection. Sara Craven
that I learn to cook, and arrange flowers, and be a hostess. For him,’ she added venomously.
She paused. ‘And Fabio is not a boy. He is a man, although not as old as Guido, naturally. And far more handsome.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Bello, bello.’
An image of Guido as an ageing lecher, on the lines of the loathsome Signor Dorelli, lodged in Clare’s mind. She could well understand Fabio’s appeal, yet, at the same time, she was aware of all kinds of nameless worries.
She said, probing gently, ‘And is that where you’re going now? To meet Fabio somewhere?’
Paola nodded vigorously. ‘Si—and to be married.’
Don’t get involved, said a small voice of sanity in the back of Clare’s brain. Just take her to the nearest service station, and then get on with your own life. This has nothing to do with you.
She said, ‘Where is the wedding taking place?’
Paola shrugged. ‘I do not know. Fabio is making all the arrangements.’
Clare looked at her thoughtfully. By her own admission, Paola was barely more than a child, she thought ruefully, yet here she was—about to jump out of the frying pan into the fire.
This Guido sounded none too savoury, but she had even less time for Fabio, persuading a young and vulnerable girl, who also happened to be an heiress, into a runaway marriage.
‘And where are you meeting him?’
‘In Barezzo—at the rail station.’ Paola gave a fretful look at the delicate platinum watch she was wearing. ‘I shall be late. He will be angry with me.’
‘Are you catching a particular train?’
‘No—it is just a good place to meet, because there will be many other people doing the same, and Fabio says no one will notice us.’
The more she heard of these arrangements, the less Clare liked them.
She said drily, ‘He seems to have it all worked out.’
‘But of course.’ Paola began to hunt through her elegant kid purse. ‘He wrote to me telling me exactly what I must do. I have his letter—somewhere. Only, if I am late, it will ruin everything.’ Paola paused, directing a speculative look at Clare. ‘Unless, signorina, you would drive me to Barezzo.’
Clare hardened her heart against the coaxing tone and winning smile.
She said, ‘I’m afraid I’m going in a different direction.’
‘But it would not take you long—and it would help me so much.’ Paola laid a pleading hand on her arm.
‘But you have a car of your own. I’ll help you get petrol for it and…’
‘No, that would take too long. I must get to Barezzo before she realises I am gone, and starts to look for me.’
‘She?’ Clare was losing the plot again.
‘The Signora. The woman Guido employs to watch me when he is not there.’
‘Does that happen often?’
‘Si. He is away now, and I am left with her. She is a witch,’ Paola said passionately. ‘And I hate her.’
Not a very competent witch, Clare thought drily, or she’d have looked into her crystal ball and sussed exactly what her charge was up to.
‘But Guido will return soon—perhaps tomorrow—and try to make me marry him again, so this may be my last chance to escape.’ Paola shivered dramatically. ‘He frightens me.’
Clare’s mouth tightened, as the memory of Signor Dorelli returned. She said slowly, ‘Just what kind of pressure does he put on you?’
‘You mean does he make love to me?’ Paola shook her head. ‘No, he is always cold. I think I am too young for him.’ She gave Clare a sideways worldly look that she had not learned from the nuns. ‘Besides, he has a woman already. She lives in Sienna.’
It just gets worse and worse, Clare thought, frowning.
She took a deep breath. ‘Even so, I really think it would be best for you to stop and consider what you’re doing before you leap into this other marriage. After all, you hardly know Fabio, and holiday romances rarely last the distance…’
‘You want me to go home,’ Paola accused. ‘Back to that prison. And I will not. If you will not drive me, then I will walk to Barezzo,’ she added, reaching for the damp pink dress.
‘No, you won’t,’ Clare said wearily. ‘I’ll drive you.’
Perhaps, on the way, she could talk some sense into her companion, she thought, without optimism. Or at least warn her gently about the handsome young men who hung round fashionable resorts on the look-out for rich women.
And Paola had the additional advantages of being very young and extremely pretty.
Fabio must have thought it was his birthday, Clare thought with an inward sigh, as she started the car.
She was still trying to work out the most tactful approach when she realised that Paola had fallen deeply and peacefully asleep.
The rain had stopped, and the sun was trying to make belated amends when they reached Barezzo about half an hour later.
Clare parked outside the station, and looked round her. She hadn’t visited Barezzo before, but its main square seemed pleasant, with a central fountain, and an enormous church dominating all the buildings round it.
She leaned towards Paola, and spoke her name quietly, but the younger girl did not stir.
But maybe this is for the best, she thought. It gives me a chance to have a look at this guy—ask a few questions. Let him know that I’m aware of what he’s up to.
She had no idea why she should be taking all this trouble for a girl who was still a virtual stranger, despite her airy confidences. Except that Paola seemed to need a friend.
And I’m all there is, she told herself, as she left the car.
Contrary to Paola’s expectations, the station wasn’t crowded with latter-day Romeos passionately greeting their Juliets.
In fact, the concourse was all but deserted, the sole exception being a man casually leaning against a stone pillar.
He had the air of someone who’d been there for a while, and was prepared to wait all day if necessary, Clare thought as she walked towards him, her sandals clicking on the marble floor. So, presumably, this had to be Fabio.
As she neared him, he straightened slowly, like some great cat preparing to pounce, she realised, finding her breath fluttering unevenly as she took her first good look at him.
My God, she thought ironically, but with reluctant appreciation, as she halted a deliberate few feet away from him. Sex on legs.
And such long legs too, she noted, covered in well-cut and expensive trousers. His casual shirt was navy and unbuttoned at the throat, and a jacket that had to be the work of a top designer hung from his broad shoulders.
It was clear why he needed a wealthy wife. It would probably take everything Paola possessed to keep him in the manner he considered his due.
He was in his mid-thirties, she judged, and around six foot tall, his black glossy hair reaching almost to his collar in tousled chic.
But he wasn’t conventionally handsome, she decided critically, although he had cheekbones to die for. The dark, brilliant eyes, now fixed on her with equal interest, were too heavy-lidded, and his nose and chin too strongly marked. But any impression of austerity was belied by his mouth, firm-lipped yet unashamedly sensuous.
Which wasn’t all. There was an effortless confidence about him—an impression of power barely reined in—that she found physically disturbing.
Power,