An Elusive Desire. Anne Mather
but I don’t remember a Nicola being mentioned. How long have you known her?’
‘Since schooldays.’ Jaime sipped her Martini appreciatively. ‘Nicola was in my year at Abbotsford. We were quite—close friends.’
‘Are,’ corrected Martin drily, putting his glass aside. ‘Or was that a Freudian slip?’
Jaime gave a short laugh. ‘Perhaps. I haven’t seen Nicola for more than five years. Not since—not since she got married, in fact.’
‘Ah.’ Martin was looking intrigued. ‘Do I detect a thwarted romance?’
‘No.’ Jaime was delighted to discover she could speak quite calmly. ‘But—well, she married an Italian. A count, actually. The Conte di Vaggio. He took her back to Tuscany, and we just lost touch with one another.’
‘Yet she knew where to find you,’ Martin pointed out, and Jaime nodded.
‘I was already working for Holts when she left England. Just because I’m no longer in the typing pool it doesn’t mean the receptionist wouldn’t know where to find me.’
‘I suppose not.’ Martin looked at her humorously. ‘I wonder how you are regarded in the typing pool now. To travel so far in such a short time!’
‘Do you regret it?’
Jaime’s thickly-lashed grey eyes invited his opinion, and Martin shook his head. A handsome man, still only in his middle fifties, he attracted a lot of female attention, and they both knew that their relationship was the source of constant speculation throughout the company. But now he simply reached out and covered one of her hands with his, and said quietly:
‘You’re the best assistant I’ve ever had, and you know it. Just don’t get to thinking you might like to try the matrimonial state yourself while you’re out there. Italians are very keen on the family, I know, and if your friend’s husband has any eligible brothers or cousins or uncles desirous of a wife, remember you’ve got a professional family here, depending on you.’
Jaime smiled. ‘I’ll remember.’
‘Good.’ Martin nodded approvingly. ‘Ah, here comes our smoked salmon. Let’s enjoy the food and talk about this new idea I have for promoting our products alongside a matching range of garments. I mean, if we could create a certain image, a Helena Holt look …’
Jaime looked down at the screen of cloud cover which had emerged to hide the blue waters of the Mediterranean far below them. That lunch with Martin had taken place two days ago, two days in which she had been rushed off her feet, clearing up all outstanding matters at the office and finding time in her lunch hour to shop for one or two shirts and sweaters, suitable for early June in that north-western part of Italy known as Tuscany.
Mrs Purdom had been a boon, laundering and pressing and packing her suitcase with all the items necessary for a week-long stay at the Castello di Vaggio. Jaime had limited her agreement to accept Nicola’s invitation to one week only, allowing herself the other week in case anything should go wrong. She didn’t know what could go wrong, but Nicola had never been a particularly stable character, and although Jaime suspected she had exaggerated the situation, her hysteria on the phone last evening had not been pretence.
Mrs Purdom, on the other hand, persisted in regarding the trip as a holiday. She was the only one, apart from Nicola, of course, who welcomed Jaime’s enforced holiday.
‘I said you needed a break,’ she had declared smugly, as she prepared Jaime’s breakfast that morning. ‘A week or two in Italy will make all the difference to you—get you out of that office, and put some colour in your cheeks.’
‘It’s not a pleasure trip, Mrs Purdom.’ Jaime was half impatient. ‘I’m just helping out an old friend, that’s all. I’ll be back, I hope by the middle of next week.’
‘Well, don’t you hurry. There’s nothing spoiling here,’ declared Mrs Purdom irrepressibly. ‘Now, are you sure there’s nothing you’ve forgotten before I lock your case?’
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the No Smoking sign has now been switched on, and passengers are requested to check that their seat belts are fastened, that chairs are in the upright position, and that all cigarettes are extinguished. No smoking is allowed until passengers are inside the terminal buildings. We shall be landing at Pisa airport in only a few minutes. Thank you.’
The stewardess smiled at Jaime as she put her microphone away and Jaime felt the familiar sense of tension she always experienced prior to landing. It wasn’t anticipation of the landing itself. She had flown to Paris and Rome several times during her years at Helena Holt, and only two months ago, Martin had taken her with him on a trip to New York. It was the uneasy touch of apprehension she felt upon arriving at an alien destination, and in this instance she felt doubly apprehensive at the knowledge that within a couple of hours she would be meeting Rafaello again.
The aircraft landed without incident, and as Jaime was sitting at the front of the plane, she was one of the first to disembark. She passed through Passport Control without a hitch, collected her suitcase from the unloading bay, and then walked swiftly through Customs, keeping an alert eye open for Nicola’s diminutive figure.
The arrivals lounge was full of people waiting for friends and relations to appear from any one of the half dozen aircraft that had landed since Jaime’s flight touched down. Surely Nicola would have the sense to move to the front, thought Jaime tensely. Among so many taller people, she could easily be overlooked.
‘Miss Forster!’
The crisp masculine tones set Jaime’s nerves jumping. In spite of the fact that she had been steeling herself for this moment ever since she had agreed to Nicola’s blackmail, she was alarmed to find that Rafaello’s voice still had the power to turn her bones to jelly. She swung round, the suitcase dropping nervelessly from her hand, and confronted the man she had last seen, standing with his back to her, in the medieval beauty of Westminster Cathedral.
‘Rafaello-Raf!’ she stammered, despising herself for her incompetence. ‘What a surprise! Where’s Nicola? I thought she was coming to meet me.’
‘Nicola’s not well.’ Rafaello’s chilling dark eyes swept her anxious face without compassion. If she had changed, if Nicola had changed, Rafaello had not, and her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth as she surveyed his lean features.
He had always been tall, taller than the average Italian, and therefore topping her five feet eight inches by some four inches more. He was dark, as was to be expected, though not so dark that it was not possible to glimpse lighter strands in his dark hair. His skin was brown, textured by the sun, and the eyes that were surveying her so coldly were as black as hell’s kettles.
‘Nicola’s ill?’ For the moment Jaime tried to concentrate on what he was saying, not on the manner in which he was saying it.
‘I said—not well,’ Rafaello amended shortly. He picked up her suitcase. ‘Is this all your luggage?’
‘I—yes.’ Jaime didn’t like being disconcerted, but she was disconcerted now. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been put to this trouble. If I’d known—–’
‘Yes? What would you have done?’ Rafaello prompted, starting off across the crowded reception area. ‘Put off your visit, perhaps? Given us a little more time to prepare for you?’
Jaime pressed her lips together as she followed him. With his leather-jacketed figure forging ahead of her, it was difficult to think coherently about anything. What was he implying? That she had invited herself to the Castello? It was obvious he didn’t want her here, and truthfully she could hardly blame him.
Outside the airport buildings, the afternoon sun was infinitely warmer than its English counterpart. When she had left Heathrow, her cream flannel pants suit had not been out of place, but here in Italy, the trousers felt incredibly warm, and she shed her jacket to reveal the bronze silk shirt she had bought in Selfridges just last week. There was a breeze, however, and she was glad