The Forced Marriage by Sara Craven Read Free Book Online Page B

brooding. ‘There could be no question of that.’
    ‘Then I’m very sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘For both of you.’ She swallowed. ‘It must have been a difficult time. And I—I shouldn’t have pried either,’ she added. ‘Brought back unhappy memories. They say the important thing is to forget the past—and move on.’
    ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘I am sure you are right. But it is not always that simple. Sometimes the past imposes—obligations that cannot be ignored.’
    Flora finished her meal in silence. She felt as if she’d taken an unwary step and found herself in a quagmire, the ground shaking beneath her feet.
    There was a totally different side to Marco Valante, she thought. An unsuspected layer of harshness under the indisputable charm. Something disturbingly cold and unforgiving. But perhaps it was understandable. Clearly his fiancée’s defection had hit him hard, his masculine pride undoubtedly being dented along with his emotions.
    She felt as if she’d opened a door that should have remained closed.
    I’ll just have some coffee and go, she thought, sneaking a surreptitious glance at her watch.
    But that proved not so easy. The waiter, apparently in league with her companion, insisted that she must try the house speciality for dessert—some delectable and impossibly rich chocolate truffles flavoured with amaretto.
    And when the tiny cups of espresso arrived they were accompanied by Strega, and also Pietro, the restaurant owner, a small, thin man whose faintly harassed expression relaxed into a pleased grin when Flora lavished sincere praise on his food.
    At Marco’s invitation he joined them for more coffee and Strega, totally upsetting Flora’s plans for a swift, strategic withdrawal.
    ‘I had begun to think we would never meet, signorina ,’ Pietro told her with a twinkle. ‘I was expecting you here a few nights ago. You have made my friend Marco wait, I think, and he is not accustomed to that.’
    Flora flushed slightly. ‘I can believe it,’ she said, trying to speak lightly.
    ‘You wrong me, mia bella ,’ Marco Valante drawled. ‘I can be—infinitely patient—when it is necessary.’
    She felt her colour deepen under the mocking intensity of his gaze. She hurriedly finished the liqueur in her glass, snatched up her bag, and with a murmured apology fled to the powder room.
    Thankfully, she had it to herself. She sank down on to the padded stool in front of the vanity unit and stared at herself in the mirror, observing the feverishly bright eyes, the tremulously parted lips, as if they belonged to a stranger.
    What in hell was the matter with her? she wondered desperately. She had a career—a life—and a man in that life. And yet she was behaving like a schoolgirl just released from a convent. Only with less sophistication.
    And all this because of a man whose existence she’d been unaware of a week ago. It made no sense.
    Well, you got yourself into this mess, she reminded herself with grim finality. Of your own free will, too. Even though you should have known better. And now you can just extract yourself—with minimal damage—if that’s still possible.
    It was hot in the lavishly carpeted, glamorously decorated room, yet Flora was suddenly shivering like a dog.
    She felt light-headed too. Maybe she was just sickening for something—one of those odd viruses that kept surfacing in the summer months.
    Or maybe she hadn’t kept sufficient track, after all, of the number of times Marco Valante had filled and refilled her glass, she thought uneasily.
    She’d started off well in control, but had definitely slipped during the course of the long meal—particularly when the conversation had got sticky. She’d tried to use her glass as a barricade, but it might well have turned into a trap instead. And those final Stregas hadn’t helped at all.
    She smoothed her hair, toned down her hectic cheeks with powder, and rose to her feet.
    The dress had been a mistake, too.