Sara Craven Tribute Collection. Sara Craven
She went to answer it, holding up the encumbering folds of towelling, trying not to run.
His voice followed her. ‘Ti vedro, mia bella. I’ll be seeing you.’
She said fiercely, ‘No—no, you won’t.’
And went through the door, slamming it behind her, because she knew, to her shame, that she did not dare look back at him. Not then. And certainly not ever again.
‘I GOT you a herb tea,’ Melanie said anxiously. ‘As you still can’t face cappuccino. They say shock can do that to you.’
Some shocks certainly could, Flora thought grimly as she took the container from her assistant with a word of thanks and a smile. Nor was it just cappuccino. She was also off espresso, latte and anything else tall and Italian.
Three jumpy days had passed since the aborted mugging and its even more disturbing aftermath. Out of the frying pan, she thought wryly, and into the heart of the fire. She was still screening her calls, and warily scanning the streets outside her flat and office each time she emerged.
‘I’ll be seeing you,’ he’d said. The kind of casual remark anyone might make, and probably meaningless. An unfortunate choice of words, that was all. And yet—and yet…
He had made it sound like a promise.
Time and time again she told herself she was a fool for letting it matter so much. Her grazes, bumps and bruises were healing nicely, and she should let her emotions settle too. Put the whole thing in some mental recycling bin.
It had been obvious from that first moment that Marco Valante was trouble, and it was her bad luck that he should have been the first on the scene when she needed help. Because he was the kind of man to whom flirting was clearly irresistible, and who would allow no opportunity to be wasted.
But—it was only a kiss, when all was said and done, she thought, taking a rueful sip of herb tea. And wasn’t this a total overreaction on her part to something he would undoubtedly have forgotten by now?
He would have moved on—might even be back in Italy and good riddance—and she should do the same. So why on earth was it proving so difficult? Why was he invading her thoughts by day and her sleep by night? It made no sense.
And, more importantly, why hadn’t she told Chris all about it? she asked herself, staring unseeingly at her computer screen.
Partly, she supposed, because his attitude had annoyed her. He’d been sympathetic at first, but soon become bracing, telling her she was lucky not to have lost her bag or been badly injured. She knew she’d got off lightly, but somehow that wasn’t what she’d needed to hear. Some prolonged concern and cosseting would have been far more acceptable. And it would have been for her to tell him, lovingly, that he was going OTT, and not the other way round.
He was busy, of course, and she understood that. He was trying to build up his consultancy and provide a sound financial basis for their future; she couldn’t realistically expect his attention to be focussed on her all the time.
But she had anticipated that he’d stay with her that evening at least.
Instead, ‘Sorry, my sweet.’ Chris had shaken his head. ‘I’ve arranged to meet a new client. Could be big. Besides,’ he’d added, patting her shoulder, ‘you’ll be much better off relaxing—taking things easy. You don’t need me for that.’
No, Flora had thought, with a touch of desolation. But I could do with the reassurance of your arms around me. I’d like you to look at me as he did. To let me know that you want me, that you’re living for our wedding, and the moment when we’ll really belong to each other.
And that it won’t be like that other time…
She bit her lip, remembering, then turned her attention firmly back to the report she was writing for a woman trying to sell an overcrowded, overpriced flat in Notting Hill. Although she suspected she was wasting her time and Mrs Barstow would not remove even one of the small occasional tables which made her drawing room an obstacle course, or banish her smelly, bad-tempered Pekinese dog on viewing days.
She would probably also quibble at the fee she was being charged, Flora decided as she printed up the report and signed it.
She turned to the enquiries that had come in recently, remembering that Melanie had marked one of them urgent. ‘Lady living in Chelsea,’ she said now. ‘A Mrs Fairlie. Husband does something in the EU and they’re having to move to Brussels like yesterday, so she needs to spruce the place up for a quick sale. Says we were recommended.’
‘That’s what I like to hear,’ Flora commented as she dialled Mrs Fairlie’s number.
She liked the sound of Mrs Fairlie too, who possessed a rich, deep voice with a smile in it, but who sounded clearly harassed when Flora mentioned she had no vacant appointments until the following week.
‘Oh, please couldn’t you fit me in earlier?’ she appealed. ‘I’d like you to see the house before matters go any further, and time is pressing.’
Flora studied her diary doubtfully. ‘I could maybe call in on my way home this evening,’ she suggested. ‘If that’s not too late for you.’
‘Oh, no,’ Mrs Fairlie said eagerly. ‘That sounds ideal.’
Flora replaced the receiver and sat for a moment, lost in thought. Then she reached for the phone again and, acting on an impulse she barely understood, dialled the Mayfair Tower Hotel.
‘I’m trying to trace a Signor Marco Valante,’ she invented. ‘I believe he is staying at your hotel.’
‘I am sorry, madam, but Signor Valante checked out yesterday.’ Was there a note of regret in the receptionist’s professional tone?
‘Oh, okay, thanks,’ Flora said quickly.
She cut the connection, aware that her heart was thudding erratically—with what had to be relief. He was safely back in Italy and she had nothing more to worry about from that direction, thank goodness.
I’ve got to stop being so negative, she thought. Take some direct action about the future. I’ll have a blitz on the flat this weekend, and persuade Chris to help me. Even if he hates decorating he can lend a hand in preparing the walls. And we’ll finalise arrangements for the wedding too. A few positive steps and I’ll be back in the groove. No time to fill my head with rubbish.
She took a cab to the quiet square where Mrs Fairlie lived that evening, appraising the house with a faint frown as she paid off the driver. It was elegant, double fronted, and immaculately maintained. And clearly worth a small fortune.
Flora would have bet good money that even if the entire interior was painted in alternating red and green stripes the queue of interested buyers would still stretch round the block.
And if Mrs Fairlie simply wanted reassurance that her property was worth the amazing amount the agents were advising, then reassurance she should have, Flora decided with a mental shrug as she rang the bell.
The door was answered promptly by a pretty maid in a smart chocolate-coloured uniform, who smiled and nodded when Flora introduced herself, and led her up a wide curving staircase to the drawing room on the first floor.
As she followed, Flora was aware of the elegant ceramic floor in the hall, the uncluttered space and light enhanced by clean pastel colours on the walls. As she’d suspected, she thought wryly, Mrs Fairlie was the last person to need style advice.
The maid opened double doors, and after announcing, ‘Miss Graham,’ stood back to allow Flora to precede her into the room.
She was greeted by the dazzle of evening sunlight from the tall windows, and halted, blinking, conscious that amid the glare someone was moving towards her.
But not the female figure