‘Oh, he is not a real brother.’ Paola wrinkled her nose dismissively. ‘My father and his were in business together, and when my father died, Zio Carlo said I must live with him.’ Her face darkened. ‘Although I did not want to. I wished to stay with my matrigna, and she wished it too, but the lawyers would not permit it.’
At least Paola seems to have had more luck with her stepmother than I did, Clare thought, wryly. Bernice couldn’t wait to get me out of the house. But she had other problems.
She said, feeling her way. ‘And is it Zio Carlo’s wish that you should marry this Guido?’
‘Dio, no. He is also dead.’ Paola heaved a sigh. ‘But he said in his will that Guido should be my guardian until I am twenty-five, which is when my money comes to me. Unless I am married before that, of course. Which I mean to be. Although not to Guido, whom I hate.’
Clare felt as if she was wading through linguine. She took a deep breath. ‘Aren’t you rather young to be thinking about marriage—to anyone?’
‘I am eighteen—or I shall be very soon,’ she added, returning Clare’s sceptical glance with a mutinous glare. ‘And my own mother was my age when she met my father and fell in love.’ She made a sweeping, impassioned gesture, nearly spilling the remains of her drink. ‘When you meet the one man in the world who is for you, nothing else matters.’
‘I see,’ Clare said drily, taking the carton and putting it out of harm’s way. ‘And have you met such a man?’
‘Of course. His name is Fabio.’ Paola’s eyes shone. ‘And he is wonderful. He is going to save me from Guido.’
It was all delicious nonsense, Clare thought, half-amused, half-exasperated. But it was also full time to introduce a note of reality.
She said, ‘Paola—it’s nearly the twenty-first century. People stopped forcing others into marriage a long time ago. If Guido knows how you really feel…’
‘He does not care. It is the money—only the money. My father’s share in the business belongs to me. If I marry someone else, it will be lost to him. He will not permit that. For three years he has kept me in prison.’
‘Prison?’ Clare echoed faintly. ‘What are you talking about?’
Paola’s delicate mouth was set sullenly. ‘He made me go to this school. The nuns were like jailers. He did this so I could not meet anyone else and be happy.’
It occurred to Clare that the unknown Guido might have a point. Paola clearly had all the common sense of a butterfly.
But that didn’t mean he should be allowed to pressure such an immature girl into matrimony for mercenary reasons, she reminded herself. If that was what he was actually doing.
She said gently, ‘Perhaps he really loves you, Paola, and wants to take care of you.’
Paola made a contemptuous noise. ‘I do not believe that. He is concerned for his business—for losing control of my share. That is all.’
‘Oh.’ Clare digested this, then started on a different tack. ‘How did you meet Fabio?’
‘I was on holiday,’ Paola said dreamily. ‘At Portofino with my friend Carlotta and her family. Guido let me go there because Carlotta’s mother is just as strict as the nuns.’ She giggled. ‘But Carlotta and I used to climb out of the window at the villa, and go into the town at night. One time, we were at a disco, when some men tried to get fresh with us, so Fabio and his friend came to help us.’ She sighed ecstatically. ‘I looked at him—and I knew. And it was the same for him.’
‘How fortunate,’ Clare said slowly. ‘And you’ve—kept in touch ever since?’
Paola nodded eagerly. ‘He writes to me, and I pretend the letters are from Carlotta.’
‘You haven’t told Guido about this boy?’
‘Are you crazy?’ Paola cast her eyes to heaven. ‘Do you know what he would do? Send me to another prison—in Switzerland—so that I learn to cook, and arrange flowers, and be a hostess. For him,’ she added venomously.
She paused. ‘And Fabio is not a boy. He is a man, although not as old as Guido, naturally. And far more handsome.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Bello, bello.’
An image of Guido as an ageing lecher, on the lines of the loathsome Signor Dorelli, lodged in Clare’s mind. She could well understand Fabio’s appeal, yet, at the same time, she was aware of all kinds of nameless worries.
She said, probing gently, ‘And is that where you’re going now? To meet Fabio somewhere?’
Paola nodded vigorously. ‘Si—and to be married.’
Don’t get involved, said a small voice of sanity in the back of Clare’s brain. Just take her to the nearest service station, and then get on with your own life. This has nothing to do with you.
She said, ‘Where is the wedding taking place?’
Paola shrugged. ‘I do not know. Fabio is making all the arrangements.’
Clare looked at her thoughtfully. By her own admission, Paola was barely more than a child, she thought ruefully, yet here she was—about to jump out of the frying pan into the fire.
This Guido sounded none too savoury, but she had even less time for Fabio, persuading a young and vulnerable girl, who also happened to be an heiress, into a runaway marriage.
‘And where are you meeting him?’
‘In Barezzo—at the rail station.’ Paola gave a fretful look at the delicate platinum watch she was wearing. ‘I shall be late. He will be angry with me.’
‘Are you catching a particular train?’
‘No—it is just a good place to meet, because there will be many other people doing the same, and Fabio says no one will notice us.’
The more she heard of these arrangements, the less Clare liked them.
She said drily, ‘He seems to have it all worked out.’
‘But of course.’ Paola began to hunt through her elegant kid purse. ‘He wrote to me telling me exactly what I must do. I have his letter—somewhere. Only, if I am late, it will ruin everything.’ Paola paused, directing a speculative look at Clare. ‘Unless, signorina, you would drive me to Barezzo.’
Clare hardened her heart against the coaxing tone and winning smile.
She said, ‘I’m afraid I’m going in a different direction.’
‘But it would not take you long—and it would help me so much.’ Paola laid a pleading hand on her arm.
‘But you have a car of your own. I’ll help you get petrol for it and…’
‘No, that would take too long. I must get to Barezzo before she realises I am gone, and starts to look for me.’
‘She?’ Clare was losing the plot again.
‘The Signora. The woman Guido employs to watch me when he is not there.’
‘Does that happen often?’
‘Si. He is away now, and I am left with her. She is a witch,’ Paola said passionately. ‘And I hate her.’
Not a very competent witch, Clare thought drily, or she’d have looked into her crystal ball and sussed exactly what her charge was up to.
‘But Guido will return soon—perhaps tomorrow—and try to make me marry him again, so this may be my last chance to escape.’ Paola shivered dramatically. ‘He frightens me.’
Clare’s mouth tightened, as the memory of Signor Dorelli returned. She said slowly, ‘Just what kind of