‘Oh.’ Clare digested this with dismay, then rallied. ‘All the more reason for me to go back, then. I should be there in case of an emergency with the business.’
Violetta shook her head. ‘His assistant—Tricia, is it not?—is doing that. So there is really nothing to take you away,’ she added dulcetly. ‘Everything has worked for the best.’
‘Yes,’ Clare said too brightly, as she damned San Francisco, its bay, its hills, and its blameless citizens under her breath. ‘Yes, of course.’
When breakfast was over, Violetta announced that she was driving into Cenacchio to the hairdresser.
‘Do you wish to come with me, mia cara, or shall I ask Giacomo to place a lounger down by the pool for you?’
‘That would be perfect,’ Clare agreed. If she was forced to be on holiday, she thought, then she would behave like a holidaymaker.
When she went down to the pool below the rose terrace about an hour later, she found the lounger already in position, and Giacomo, Angelina’s husband, who looked after the gardens at the villa, fussing with a sun umbrella. He was a small, wrinkled man with grey hair and black twinkling eyes, and he greeted Clare with his usual gap-toothed smile.
‘Ah, signorina, each time you come here you are more like your dear mother, God give her rest.’ He looked at her hands, clearly searching for rings, and tutted. ‘But where is your husband? Where are the bambini?’
Clare laughed. ‘I’m sorry to be such a disappointment, Giacomo, but we can’t all be as lucky as Angelina.’
Giacomo shook his head reproachfully. ‘Such a waste,’ he told the sky, and went off, muttering to himself.
It was already bakingly hot, the sun dazzling on the water. It wasn’t a very large pool, just big enough for Violetta to manage a few unhurried, decorous lengths as her token exercise for the day.
Clare found it cramped, but it looked inviting just the same, she thought as she discarded her towelling wrap and stretched out on the lounger in her simple black bikini.
Now, she thought, shall I swim and then sunbathe, or work on my tan for an hour, then cool off in the water? Decisions, decisions.
And if that was all she had to trouble her, how happy she would be. Only, it wasn’t.
Because, try as she might, she couldn’t convince herself that she’d seen the last of the Marchese Bartaldi.
He was there, all the time, at the back of her mind, like a shadow in the sun.
And, more worryingly, he was physically present too, at the Villa Minerva, within driving distance.
She picked up the bottle of high-factor sun lotion and began to apply it to her arms and shoulders. Her skin accepted the sun easily, turning a deep, smooth honey colour without soreness, but she still treated the heat with respect.
And she must do the same with Guido Bartaldi, she thought, grimacing. Find some way to protect herself against him. Or she could end up getting more badly burned than she’d ever been in her life.
Dark glasses perched on her nose, she flicked through some of Violetta’s glossy magazines. It was like peeping through a window into a different world, she thought, smiling. A world where money was no object and your life was designed for you, from the clothes you wore to the glass you drank from. The kind of world where a man like Guido Bartaldi reigned supreme.
For a minute, she let her mind dwell on that shop window of jewellery, back in Perugia. There’d been one gorgeous topaz pendant, glowing like a banked-down fire in its heavy gold setting. She tried to imagine herself walking into the shop, and pointing to it. Saying, I’ll have that, without stopping to ask the price. Feeling the cool weight of the stone slipping down between her breasts…
Some chance, she thought, her mouth twisting with derision. She was one of the world’s workers, and, though she earned a reasonable living, she’d always have to count the cost of anything she bought. And she wouldn’t have it any other way, she added with a touch of defiance.
She felt restless again, the glamour and luxury depicted on the pages in front of her suddenly beginning to pall. Or was it that she was starting to feel a little bit envious?
Shaking her head in self-derision, she let the magazine drop to the ground and swung herself off the lounger. It was time for a swim, she decided, discarding her watch. Some hard physical exercise. Far healthier than crying for a moon she didn’t even want.
The water felt wonderful, and she covered length after length with her strong, easy crawl. She was breathless when she pulled herself out on to the tiled edge, wringing the excess moisture out of her hair.
She towelled herself off, then adjusted the umbrella so that the lounger was completely shaded before she lay down again, turning on to her front and unfastening the clip of her bikini top.
Her bad night was catching up with her, she thought drowsily, pillowing her head on her folded arms and letting her body sink down into the soft cushions. The air felt very still, almost watchful, and the scent of the roses on the terrace above her was heavy—almost overpowering.
Almost as heavy as her own eyelids, Clare thought, and slept.
Something woke her eventually. She lay still for a moment, listening to the silence, wondering idly what had disturbed her. She turned her head slightly, and saw that a small wrought-iron table had been placed beside her, and on it a pitcher of iced fruit juice—peach, judging by its colour—and a glass.
Ah, she thought gratefully. Angelina. What a perfect way to be woken.
She sat up, pushing her disheveled hair back from her face, still slightly dazed from sleep, narrowing her eyes against the strength of the noonday sun as she reached for the pitcher.
And halted, hand outstretched, instinct telling her that the silence had changed in some way. That it contained another element.
Slowly, almost warily, she looked round, and felt the breath catch in her throat.
Guido Bartaldi was sitting about a couple of yards away from her, very much at ease in a cushioned chair. Long brown legs were revealed by brief navy shorts, and his bare feet were thrust into leather sandals, while a cream polo shirt set off tanned forearms and gave a glimpse of the shadowing of dark hair on his chest. His face was expressionless, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses as he surveyed her.
For a moment she was motionless, turned to stone, then she remembered just what he was seeing, and with a choking cry snatched up the towel from beside the lounger and huddled it protectively over her bare breasts.
‘How the hell did you get in here?’ Her voice rasped in shock. Embarrassed colour was flooding her face.
His brows lifted. ‘I rang the bell at the entrance, and was admitted like anyone else.’ He pointed at the pitcher of juice. ‘The housekeeper was about to bring you a cold drink, so I volunteered my services instead. Is there a problem?’
‘Oh, none at all,’ Clare said savagely. ‘Tell me, does the phrase “Peeping Tom” mean anything to you?’
‘Clearly not as much as it does to you,’ he murmured.
Clare lifted her chin. ‘Tell me something else, signore,’ she invited dangerously. ‘How much longer do you intend to maintain this—persecution?’
‘I am sorry that you regard my visits in that light.’ His own voice was deceptively mild. ‘I am merely anxious to assure myself that you are fully restored to health.’
There were a number of succinct and very rude responses to that, Clare thought, smouldering. But uttering any of them