Now she knew that all she’d experienced with James was the denting of her self-esteem. That she’d never come close to loving him.
She’d learned a hard and bitter way what it was to care in real earnest. To need a man as simply and essentially as she needed to draw breath.
She’d tried in vain to argue with herself that she was confusing lust with love. That what she felt for Guido was sheer infatuation—a brief flame that would flicker and die. More importantly that she hardly knew him for God’s sake. In the normal timescale of relationships they were still strangers.
And yet—and yet…
The first time she’d seen him there’d been a kind of recognition. An immediate shock to her senses. The first time he’d touched her some unbridgeable gulf had been leapt.
As if we’d always known, she thought. As if our lives had always been moving towards this moment.
Except that it wasn’t true, and hadn’t happened. Except in her own too-vivid imagination.
She lashed herself with self-derision. What had passed between Guido and herself was no mating of two souls. He’d made a pass, and she’d stupidly responded, and that was all. Anything further was just a useless attempt to justify her own pathetic foolishness.
Guido Bartaldi was an expert at seduction, and she’d almost allowed herself to be seduced. Nearly, but not quite, and it was his turn to have a bruised ego.
Every time he set eyes on her the memory of her rejection must be at the forefront of his mind, she reflected without pleasure. The cold civility of his manner was an effective barrier to the anger and resentment that she must have provoked.
But how she missed the gleam of laughter in his eyes when he looked at her the teasing note in his voice. The way he said ‘Chiara’.
She hadn’t realised how much it all meant to her until it was gone, and she couldn’t call it back. Couldn’t build on that laughter, and the way his voice caressed her.
She mourned for them almost more than his kisses. Almost…
She said quietly now, ‘I don’t think there’s been any change of plan, Paola. He’s a busy man, that’s all.’ She paused. ‘When he is here, he’s—attentive, isn’t he?’
She knew the answer to that, because she saw it happening. Guido Bartaldi’s wooing of his future wife was lightly and charmingly done. If he was away for more than two days at a time, there was invariably a gift—some expensive trifle. But, physically, he was imposing no pressure at all, and that was clever, Clare admitted with a pang.
Because, in spite of her protests, Paola was bound to be just a little intrigued, and would soon start to wonder precisely why he did not try to make love to her.
And, once he did make his claim, Clare could not believe that Paola would be able to maintain her resistance for any length of time. Not, she thought unhappily, when she was being manipulated by an expert.
She could only hope she’d be long gone by that time. Because she could not bear to watch him coax Paola to surrender. Or any other woman, for that matter.
‘He is generous.’ Paola shrugged again. She sent Clare a sly sideways look. ‘So that I will not guess how much time he spends in Siena. My stepmother says that a man who gives so many presents has a guilty conscience.’
‘And the renovation of the chapel for the wedding?’ Clare queried coolly, as pain twisted inside her. ‘Is that a sign of guilt too?’
Paola looked mutinous. ‘Guido is not doing that for me. It is part of his precious house, and must be protected.’
‘Like the Minerva shrine,’ Clare said half to herself.
Paola gave her a surprised look. ‘You have seen that?’
Clare bent to put the magazines together and disguise the faint colour that had risen to her face. ‘Why, yes, when I first arrived. I went for a walk and—found it.’
‘I am surprised Guido allowed it, that is all.’ Paola’s tone was dismissive. ‘Usually he does not permit those outside the family to venture so far. The statue is very old and valuable, as well as ugly, and there are many stories about it—legends.’ She pulled a face. ‘I do not understand the fuss.’
‘It’s precisely because the statue is very old and valuable,’ Clare said drily. ‘And I think it’s beautiful. It gives off this—aura of quiet and peace.’
She knew by the expression on Paola’s face that she might as well have been speaking Mandarin Chinese.
‘Anyway,’ the younger girl continued after a pause, ‘Guido would not have his wedding hidden away here, when it happens—if it happens—it will be in Rome, and his great-uncle the cardinal will perform the ceremony.’
‘Is that what you would prefer?’
‘I?’ Paola asked. ‘I shall not be there.’
She swung her legs to the floor, and began to collect her things together. ‘I am going back to the house now. I have a headache.’
‘Another one?’ Clare raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s the third this week, Paola. Maybe you should see a doctor.’
‘I do not need a doctor.’ Her tone was pettish. ‘Just a rest from all this stupid translation. I will see you at dinner, if my head is better. Ciao.’
Clare sighed, and lay back on her own lounger. Paola’s acquaintance with English was improving daily, but the same could not be said about her attitude towards her proposed marriage.
And Clare had tried. Each day she tried to sell Paola the charms of the Villa Minerva and its environs, together with the potent advantages of being a rich Marchesa, but the other girl still wasn’t buying.
‘This place is like a graveyard,’ was her usual reply. ‘And I do not need to marry a rich man. I shall have money of my own.’ Stalemate.
I can teach, Clare thought, biting her lip. But I’m not so hot on persuasion. But then my heart’s not in it. I’m on her side. I don’t think this wedding should take place either, and for more than just selfish reasons.
On the brighter side, at least Paola was not rhapsodising about Fabio with every breath. In fact she didn’t mention him at all, which Clare could only be thankful for. Maybe he’d decided that Paola was too well guarded, and had faded out of the picture.
However, that did not mean that Paola would turn to Guido for comfort—especially as he was openly pursuing his own interests, she thought unhappily. And that after she’d warned him that Paola knew about his Sienese lady.
She heard someone coming down the steps leading to the pool and looked round, smiling, as Tonio Lerucci came into view.
‘Did I wake you? I’m sorry.’ He gave her his swift, wide smile. ‘I thought Paola was here.’
‘I wasn’t asleep.’ Clare sat up. ‘And Paola’s gone back to the house to rest. I think she’s feeling the heat.’
He nodded, fanning himself with his hand as he sat down on the vacant lounger. ‘I think the weather will break soon. There are storms forecast.’
‘The air feels heavy enough,’ Clare agreed. Perhaps Paola’s headache was genuine, she thought, lifting her hair away from the nape of her neck.
Tonio was speaking. ‘I came to ask if she wanted another tennis lesson this evening before dinner. When it is cooler.’
‘I’ll ask her for you when I go up to the house.’ Clare smiled back at him. ‘You’re a miracle worker, getting her to play. I thought she loathed sport.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘When she was a child, she was very good—very athletic. It