Recalling the other dark cloud that hung on the horizon, Bel demurred, ‘I don’t like the idea of being away with the threat of a take-over looming.’
‘If I thought your being in London would make a scrap of difference I’d ask you to stay. But, as it won’t, I’d feel happier if you went. So for goodness’ sake go and practise your Italian.’
‘I think I just might.’ ‘Now you’re talking!’
‘I’ll try to get a flight out today.’ All at once she couldn’t wait to get away.
‘Being Saturday, the flights might be full, so if you don’t manage it we’ll have dinner together tonight. Ring me at the office. I’m going in for a couple of hours. There’s something I need to discuss with Harmen…’
After phoning several airlines, Bel was about to give up when she was lucky enough to find a single seat on a plane leaving for Rome that very afternoon.
Having no car, she rang for a taxi and, while she waited for it to arrive, demonstrated her state of mind by hauling out a large suitcase and throwing things into it with a disregard for order that would have horrified the old Bel.
Just as a knock signalled the arrival of her taxi, the phone rang. For a second she hesitated, wondering whether to ignore it. But it was probably her father. Snatching it up, she said, ‘Dad?’
‘No, it’s me.’
‘Ellen! Thank goodness! Where are you?’
‘I’m still in Paris.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘Hotel Colbert…it’s not far from the ChampsÉlysées. I’m having the most marvellous time—’
‘Have you been in touch with Dad?’ Bel broke in.
‘Not for a day or two.’
‘He needs to talk to you—’ Another knock cut through her words.
‘I’ll give him a ring,’ Ellen promised carelessly. ‘But I must tell you about Jean-Claude. He’s six feet tall and drop-dead handsome, with silvery blond hair and blue eyes. Honestly, Bel, he has to be the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met, as well as having the sort of manners you only read about…’
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ Bel apologised, ‘but I can’t talk now.’
‘He’s invited me to his villa at Épernay—’
There was a louder knocking and a shout of, ‘Taxi!’
‘I’m sorry,’ Bel repeated, ‘but I have to go. I’ve a taxi waiting to take me to the airport.’
‘Where are you off to?’
‘Rome.’
‘Oh, business…’ Ellen said flatly.
‘No, this time it’s a holiday. And I really must fly. You won’t forget to ring Dad? If he’s not at home he’ll be in the office.’
‘No, I won’t forget. How long are you—?’
As well as being a scatterbrain, Ellen was an inveterate talker. Hardening her heart, Bel replaced the receiver and hurried to open the door.
Less than two hours later she was on the Saturday afternoon flight to Leonardo da Vinci Airport, hoping against hope that she might be leaving at least some of her troubles behind.
HEAVY-EYED after a restless night, Bel sat on the flower-filled balcony and ignored her breakfast while she gazed across the sunny piazza.
Somewhere close at hand a dog barked, and, above Rome’s background noise of traffic, Sunday church bells from all over the city called the faithful to mass, making what Bel, after her first visit, had described to Roderick as a melodious cacophony of sound.
At the thought of her former fiancé she had to bite her lip to stop the tears welling up. Poor Roderick. He dadn’t deserved to be hurt and humiliated in that way.
Not even the fact that she’d drunk too much could excuse the stupidity and wantonness of her behaviour, and it was the realisation of what he and his parents must think of her that hurt most. There was one thing to be devoutly thankful for, though: she had successfully escaped Andrew Storm.
Refusing to consider why the unmitigated relief she should have felt was somehow mingled with a kind of unreasonable depression, she wondered how long he would keep calling at her empty flat before he finally got the message that she had no intention of ever seeing him again.
Probably not long. He wasn’t the sort of man who would waste his time.
Despite the warmth of the sun she shivered, and, making an effort to banish the image of that strongboned, ruthless face from her mind, began to eat her breakfast.
As soon as she’d finished the fresh rolls and fruit pressed on her by Signora Paplucci, the plump, smiling wife of the mustachioed custode di casa, Bel tried again to ring her father but no one answered.
She’d also tried to phone him when she’d arrived at the flat the previous evening, only to find she was unable to get through because of a fault on the line.
By the time Bel was ready to go out, wearing a silky skirt and button-through camisole top with spaghetti straps, it was almost mid-morning.
Armed with camera and a map, she made her way down the cool marble steps, across the bare dimness of the entrance hall and out into the bright oven-heat of Rome.
Being Sunday, the shops on the Via Cordotti were closed, and the picturesque buildings, with their peeling shutters and flaking ochre stucco, had a deserted air.
A bus-load of camera-hung tourists, already pink and perspiring in the hot sun, strolled along the narrow pavements while pairs of local youths, riding motor scooters that sounded like enraged hornets, turned the smooth cobblestones of the roadway into a racetrack.
Bel was enjoying the colourful scene when a sudden wrench on the strap of her shoulder-bag made her stumble and fall, grazing her elbows and knees and sending her sunglasses flying.
Scrambling up, dazed and dazzled, she glimpsed a tall, dark-haired man dressed in fawn trousers and a two-tone shirt sprinting after the last pair of scooter riders, who were making off with her bag.
As he drew level he seized the man by the scruff of the neck and hauled him off the scooter, which, after one drunken swerve, kept going.
The ensuing scuffle was brief but fierce. A moment later a blow to the jaw had sent the burly youth sprawling on the pavement and the tall dark man was returning with her bag. A man who was no stranger.
‘Are you all right?’ Andrew demanded urgently.
When she merely goggled at him, he repeated the question, stooping to retrieve her sunglasses and hand them, and her bag, to her.
Somehow she found her voice and stammered, ‘Y-yes, I’m quite all right,’ just as rapidly retreating footsteps indicated that the youth was making good his escape.
The passersby who had seen what was taking place and had stopped to stare began to walk on, and the next second it was as if nothing untoward had happened.
His eyes travelling over her with the proprietorial air that was becoming only too familiar, Andrew remarked, ‘You’ve cut your knee.’
Removing a spotless white handkerchief from his trouser pocket, he crouched on his haunches to stanch the warm trickle of blood that was running down her slim tanned leg.
Staring at the top of his dark head, she wondered