Then her voice trailed off. He had turned round to look at her. And, suddenly, Carrie was dying a thousand deaths all in one go. For now, in the much brighter light of the foyer, she had instantly recognised who he was.
How could I have been so stupid? she berated herself sickly, wishing she could just melt into the carpet and disappear. How could I have been so dim as not to recognise him instantly? And much worse, how could I have been so gross as to speak to him the way I just did?
Her heart had stopped inside her, her flesh turned to stone. Me and my big mouth. Now I’m really going to be in trouble! she thought.
But if she was, it was not just yet.
He threw her a look she could not decipher. Then with a small lift of the eyebrow he told her, ‘I’m sorry, I’m in a hurry. Some other time, perhaps. I can’t stop now.’
Then he was turning away, sweeping across the pavement and climbing into the back of the black limousine. And Carrie was still standing there, speechlessly staring at it, when a moment later it purred away.
‘Ah, there you are! The waiter said you’d left. I’m sorry I took such ages. I met someone in the john.’
Carrie turned woodenly to look at Louise who had just appeared at her elbow. Her brain was still spinning inside her head like a top.
‘I met this woman who’s here on holiday and—would you believe it?—she lives just two blocks away from me in Queen’s! Can you imagine? What a coincidence! Anyway, we got talking, and—Hey, Carrie, are you all right?’ Louise paused and peered into the face of her friend who hadn’t heard a single word she’d been saying. ‘You look a bit strange. Has something happened?’
‘I’m not sure what’s happened. I think I’m going mad.’ Carrie gave herself a shake and smiled a wry smile at her friend. ‘I’ve just had a most fascinating encounter myself. And I’m afraid I’ve really put my foot in it.
‘I thought I was speaking to just any old Prince Charming. But I wasn’t. For once, I was speaking to the real thing: She sighed and turned to the open door through which the dark stranger had disappeared. ‘I’m afraid I’ve just made a terrible faux pas. I’ve just insulted Count Leone, the heir to the throne.’
‘Here you are, sir. These are the papers I mentioned. The Duke would be grateful if you would sign them at your earliest convenience.’
‘Just leave them on the table, Pierre.’ Leone turned to glance at his private secretary who had appeared with the usual daily batch of papers to be dealt with. ‘I’ll take a look at them while I’m having breakfast,’ he told him. ‘You can pick them up in about half an hour.’
‘Certainly, sir.’ Pierre nodded deferentially. ‘Will there be anything else for the moment?’
‘Not for the moment, thanks.’ Then, as the other man started to go, he called after him, ‘Oh, by the way, congratulations. I hear you’ve finally fixed the big day. Well, it’s about time the lovely Margherita made an honest man of you, I’d say.’
Pierre smiled a pleased smile. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he responded. ‘We both hope you’ll honour us with your presence at the wedding.’
‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. You know how I love weddings.’ Leone laughed. ‘Just as long as they’re not mine, of course.’
It was just after seven-thirty at the Palazzo Verde, and Count Leone Alberto Cosimo George di Montecrespi, brother of the ruling Duke and heir to the throne of San Rinaldo, currently dressed in a red silk dressing gown, was in his private apartments getting ready for the day.
And it would be a full day as usual, he was thinking as he drank his coffee. Thank heavens he could rely on Pierre to organise everything.
At that moment his valet appeared from the adjoining dressing room where he’d been laying out Leone’s clothes for the day.
Leone glanced at him. ‘Thanks, Silvestro,’ he told him. Then he enquired good-humouredly, ‘I suppose you’ve heard Pierre’s news? You know about the imminent betrothal?’
‘Yes, sir. I heard about it. And very pleased I was too.’
Leone smiled at the young man. ‘Another romantic, I see. No doubt you’ll shortly be following in his footsteps?’
‘I sincerely hope so, sir. As soon as Anna’s twenty-one—and that’s only eighteen months away.’
Leone shook his head at him. ‘You’re all mad, if you ask me. With so many beautiful, available women in the world, why any man under forty would want to get married is an absolute, total mystery to me.’ And, with a smile, he turned his attention back to the pile of papers.
Not that his attention was entirely on what he was doing as he flicked his way rapidly through the papers, scanning a few lines here and there, scribbling his signature where it was required. For there was a niggling little diversion that had been occupying his thoughts with a fair degree of frequency since yesterday evening. He’d tried to dismiss it from his mind, but it refused to be dismissed, and he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he’d have to do something about it.
Well, why not? he decided. And he smiled at the prospect. A beautiful girl is a beautiful girl, no matter how stroppy she is!
When Pierre returned, he had finished signing the papers. He handed them over. ‘These all seem to be in order.’ Then, sitting back in his seat and draining his coffee-cup, he added, ‘I want you to track down someone for me. A girl. An American. I don’t know her name, but she’s blonde, mid-twenties and extremely beautiful and she’s putting together a book, apparently, on Castello porcelain. Find out who she is and where she’s staying and anything else you can about her.’
‘Is this an urgent matter, sir?’ His secretary’s expression had never altered, though a look of fond amusement had briefly crossed his face. This wasn’t the first time he’d been given such a task.
‘Yes, it is urgent, Pierre.’ Leone laid down his coffee-cup and there was a distinctly determined look in his eyes. ‘This young lady and I have unfinished business.’
CHAPTER TWO
THE house Carrie had rented for her stay in San Rinaldo was about five miles out of Rino, the capital of the little dukedom, up a sun-dappled, twisting, tree-lined road with a spectacular view out over the city.
To be more accurate, she’d rented only part of the house—a marvellous red-tiled eighteenth-century villa. She’d taken the top floor, which was bright and spacious, with its own front door and huge balconies at the front and back. And she was out on the front balcony now, basking in the July sunshine, with a bowl of peaches at her elbow and a notepad on her knee as she sat in one of the comfy cane chairs and worked out her itinerary for the coming week. And it promised to be a busy one, with lots of meetings and appointments. To her enormous satisfaction, though she’d been here less than a week, work was already getting under way.
But that was Carrie’s way. When it came to matters of work, she liked to dive straight in and get on with the job. And that was why, in the space of just three years, she’d gained a reputation for being a top-rank professional.
It was hard to believe, but it really was just three years ago that she had arrived in New York fresh from college with no experience at all of the publishing world, just a lot of ambition and a fistful of good ideas. Plus an infinite supply of determination, of course. For she’d quickly lost count of the publishing-house doors she’d had to knock on before one finally took her on to do a book on Colorado gold—for her native state was once prospector country—and since the success of that book her career had never looked back.
There had followed a book on Amerindian art, then one on New York’s Guggenheim Museum, as well as the steady stream of magazine articles she wrote. But this latest project, the book on Castello porcelain that