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Count Valieri's Prisoner
Sara Craven
Kidnapped and held for ransom…Things like this just don’t happen to Maddie Lang! She’s grown up in a sleepy little English village, so doesn’t expect a research trip to Italy to end in her being held captive by the infamous Count Valieri… His price? Her innocence!Holding her under lock and key in his luxurious casa, the Count is ready to strike a deal to save his family – one with an unconventional method of payment! As much as Maddie wills her traitorous body not to respond, his practised touch sparks the first flickers of what could become dangerously addictive flames…‘This is what the Modern series is all about! Sara writes with such passion and drama, can’t wait for the next book.’ – Jemma, 43, Norwich



‘Mia bella.’
Andrea’s sudden smile touched her like a kiss, and Maddie had to overcome the urge to take a step backwards. Because that would be a damaging act of self-betrayal that she could not afford.
But she could not control the faint breathlessness in her voice. ‘Don’t—call me that.’
‘You think it is more deception?’ he asked softly. ‘I promise it is not.’
The amber gaze studied her, lingering on her breasts and then travelling slowly down the rest of her body, as if he was imagining what he would see if the robe were gone.
‘You were lovely before, Maddalena. Tonight you are breathtaking.’
‘And stop talking like that.’
Her words were falling over each other. Stop looking at me. Stop standing only a few feet away. And, dear God, stop smiling as if you already knew everything there is to know about me. Because that scares me far more than any number of hours in a locked room.
She rallied. ‘You have no right—no right at all.’
‘I have any rights I choose to impose,’ he drawled.

Abour the Author
SARA CRAVEN was born in South Devon and grew up in a house full of books. She worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders, and started writing for Mills and Boon in 1975. When not writing, she enjoys films, music, theatre, cooking, and eating in good restaurants. She now lives near her family in Warwickshire. Sara has appeared as a contestant on the former Channel Four game show Fifteen to One, and in 1997 was the UK television Mastermind champion. In 2005 she was a member of the Romantic Novelists’ team on University Challenge—the Professionals.
Recent titles by the same author:

THE PRICE OF RETRIBUTION
THE END OF HER INNOCENCE
WIFE IN THE SHADOWS
Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Count Valieri’s Prisoner
Sara Craven


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS QUIET in the lamplit room, the only sound the occasional rustle of paper as the man seated on one side of the vast antique desk went through the contents of the file in front of him. He was unhurried, his black brows drawn together in a faint frown as he closely scanned each printed sheet in turn, then laid it aside.
The grey-haired man sitting opposite watched him, under the guise of studying his fingernails. It was over two years since they’d had cause to meet face to face, and there was no longer even a trace of the boy he had once known in the dark, incisive face bent over the documents he had brought for him only a few hours ago.
He had been welcomed with the usual courtesy, conducted by the maggiodomo to the room where he would spend the night, after which he had dined alone with his host. The food had been delicious, and on the surface, it was all charm and relaxation, but he was under no illusions.
The real business of his visit was being conducted right here and now.
Eventually, his reading concluded, the younger man looked up and gave a brief nod of approbation.
‘You have been more than thorough, Signor Massimo. I commend you. An entire life laid out for my inspection in every detail. Invaluable.’
His swift smile momentarily softened the hard lines of his mouth and brought an added glint to eyes that were almost the colour of amber, flecked with gold.
It was a proud face with a high-bridged nose, classically moulded cheekbones and an uncompromising chin.
But now too austere to be truly handsome, thought Guido Massimo as he inclined his head in polite acknowledgement. And too coldly purposeful. The face of a stranger.
He waited as the other took the photograph which was the last object remaining in the file and studied it. The girl looking back at him was blonde, her pale hair hanging in a sleek silken curtain almost to her shoulders. Her face was oval with creamy skin, her eyes a clear grey. Her nose was short and straight, her chin firm and the delicately curved lips were parted in a slight but confident smile.
‘When was this taken?’
‘A few months ago on the occasion of her engagement,’ Signor Massimo returned. ‘It appeared in a magazine published in the county where she was brought up.’ He allowed himself a discreet twinkle. ‘Che bella ragazza.’
His comment received only an indifferent shrug.
‘This cool Anglo-Saxon type has no appeal for me.’ The other’s mouth twisted. ‘Which, under the circumstances, must be deemed fortunate.’ He paused. ‘But no doubt her fidanzato will have a very different view and will pay the required price for her safe return. Or we must hope so.’
Signor Massimo murmured politely, keeping his expression impassive. He was well aware that his host’s tastes in women favoured the elegantly voluptuous, but it would have been unwise even to hint that he possessed such knowledge.
The younger man returned the photograph to the file with an air of finality and leaned back in his chair, frowning again. ‘The wedding is scheduled to take place in two months, which means there is no time to be lost. However it will make the resolution of the matter increasingly urgent, which is all to the good.’
Almost absently he began to play with the heavy gold signet ring he wore on his right hand. ‘Tell me more about this television company she works for. You say it makes programmes for various arts channels?’
‘And with some success. She is currently a researcher with a desire to move into production, but it seems marriage will end such hopes. As I have mentioned in the report, her fidanzato has already made it clear that he does not want his wife to work.’
The other nodded. ‘And this has a caused—a certain amount of friction?’
‘It seems so. As yet unresolved.’
‘Ambition versus love.’ The cool, deep voice spoke more softly. Became almost meditative. ‘Which will she choose, I wonder, when serious temptation is offered.’ He paused. ‘Are you a betting man, Signor Massimo?’
‘On rare occasions only.’
‘And where would you place your money in such a situation.’
Guido Massimo gave a faint shrug. ‘A girl soon to be a bride. She will wish to please her groom, I think.’
‘You are unexpectedly romantic, signore. But I feel you are mistaken.’ His smile was a curl of the lips. ‘Because I know the bait that will bring her to me.’
‘If I can be of further assistance …’ the older man began, but was stopped by a raised hand.
‘I am grateful but I believe that from here it is better for your involvement to cease. What happens should be my responsibility, and I would not wish you to have to answer any awkward questions, so the less you know the better.’
His tone became brisker. ‘Leaving just the matter of your fee to be dealt with.’ He opened a drawer in the desk, extracted a bulky envelope and handed it over. ‘For the same reasons, we agreed this transaction should be on a cash basis. You may of course count it.’
‘I would not dream of such a thing.’
‘As you please.’ The other paused. ‘Which means I have only to thank you once more and wish you a peaceful night. We shall meet tomorrow at breakfast.’
Guido Massimo rose, made a slight bow and walked to the door where he hesitated. ‘I must ask this. You are—determined? Quite sure there is no other course? The girl, after all, is an innocent party in all this. Does she deserve to be treated in such a way? I only enquire, you understand.’
‘I comprehend perfectly. But you must not distress yourself, my friend. Once I have what I want, your bella ragazza will be returned as good as new to her future husband.’ He added unsmilingly, ‘That is, of course, if she still wants him.’ He rose too, tall and lithe, his hands resting on his lean hips. ‘There is no necessity to pity her, I assure you.’
But I shall do so, just the same, Guido Massimo thought as he left the room. And I shall also pity the boy I once knew, and remember him in my prayers.
‘Darling,’ said Jeremy. ‘Please tell me this is some sort of joke.’
Madeleine Lang put down her glass and stared at him across the table in the wine bar in genuine perplexity. ‘A joke?’ she repeated. ‘I’m talking about work here and perfectly serious. Why on earth would I be joking?’
Jeremy gave a hollow laugh. ‘Oh, just a small matter of a wedding for over two hundred guests to arrange. Or will that be put on hold while you roam round Italy on some wild goose chase?’
Madeleine bit her lip. ‘Hardly on hold, with your stepmother so firmly in control. I doubt if my absence will even be noticed.’
There was an edgy pause, then Jeremy reached across and took her hand, his expression rueful. ‘Sweetheart, I know Esme can be rather managing …’
Madeleine sighed. ‘Jeremy, that’s putting it mildly, and you know it. Everything I want and suggest is just—brushed aside. I don’t even feel that it is our wedding any more.’
‘I’m sorry, Maddie.’ Jeremy’s tone was coaxing. ‘But—it’s a really big deal for the family, and Dad wants everything to be perfect. Times may be hard but Sylvester and Co is still riding high. That kind of thing.’
‘If it only was a family affair,’ Madeleine muttered. She sat back, reaching for her glass. ‘For one thing, where have all those guests come from? I’ve never even heard of two thirds of them.’
‘Clients of the bank, business associates, old friends of my father.’ Jeremy sounded rueful. ‘But believe me it could have been very much worse. What we have now is the shortlist.’
‘I don’t find that particularly reassuring,’ Madeleine told him candidly.
‘Oh, come on, it’s not that bad.’ Jeremy paused awkwardly. ‘But it could be if you persist with this Italian nonsense.’
She said slowly, ‘I can’t believe you just said that. First it was a joke, now it’s nonsense. Jeremy, we’re talking about my work here …’
‘It used to be your work.’ His tone was defensive. ‘But very soon now it won’t be, so what is the point in your shooting off across Europe in pursuit of some musician no-one’s ever heard of?’
‘But people have heard of her,’ Madeleine fired back. ‘Floria Bartrando was said to be the most wonderful young soprano of her generation. It was predicted she was going to be another Maria Callas, and then suddenly, with no explanation, she dropped off the edge of the world. It’s been a major mystery for thirty years and now I have the chance to solve it.’
‘But why you?’ Frowning, he refilled their glasses. ‘You’re not the only researcher on the team.’
‘Apparently the Italian contacts saw the programme on Hadley Cunningham’s last symphony,’ Madeleine said levelly. ‘The one no-one knew he’d written. I did most of the research on that. So Todd offered me this.’
Jeremy’s frown deepened. ‘Frankly, darling, when you said you had something to tell me I assumed you meant that you’d handed in your notice as we’d agreed.’
‘I said I’d think about it,’ Madeleine said quietly. ‘Having done so, I’m not walking away from a job I love without good reason.’ She added, ‘But I have booked out our honeymoon weeks as holiday.’
Jeremy stared at her as if she’d grown an extra head. ‘And I’m supposed to be grateful for that?’ he asked sarcastically.
‘Well, you should be,’ she said cheerfully. ‘After all, you’d hardly want to go to the Maldives on your own.’
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t find this particularly amusing.’
‘And nor do I. In fact I’m perfectly serious.’ She gave him a rueful look. ‘Jeremy, please try to understand.’
‘What’s to understand?’ His shrug was almost petulant. ‘Clearly finding material for minority interest television channels matters more to you than being my wife.’
‘And now you’re talking nonsense,’ Madeleine retorted hotly. ‘It’s the twenty-first century, for heaven’s sake, and most women combine marriage and a career these days in case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘Well, I want you to regard our marriage as your career,’ Jeremy said, his lips tightening. ‘I don’t think you appreciate how hectic our social life will become, or how much entertaining we’ll have to do. And I mean full blown dinner parties, not you rushing in at the last moment with a takeaway.’
She gasped. ‘Is that how you see me? As some ditsy incompetent?’
‘No, my sweet, of course not.’ He was back in placatory mode. ‘It’s just that we’re not sure you realise how much you’ll be taking on, or how stressful you might find it.’
Maddie sat back in her seat, and gave him a straight look. ‘I presume that’s not the royal “we” you were using there? That you’re quoting your father?’
‘Naturally it’s been discussed.’
She bit her lip. ‘Jeremy—the wedding may have got away from us, but this is our marriage, and you must make him see that.’ Her voice deepened in intensity. ‘I have no intention of letting you down, or failing to provide you with the support you need in your career. All I ask is that you do the same for me. Is that so very hard?’
There was a silence, then he said, ‘I suppose—not when you put it like that. I’ll talk to Dad again. Which reminds me …’ He glanced at his watch and pulled a face. ‘I should be going. I’m due to meet him with some people at The Ivy.’
He paused. ‘Sure you won’t come with me? It’s no problem.’
Maddie got to her feet, forcing a smile as she indicated the slim-fitting jeans and white shirt she was wearing. ‘Except I’m not dressed for dinner at a top restaurant, which might create its own difficulty. Another time, darling.’
‘So what will you do?’ He sounded anxious.
She shrugged on her navy and white checked jacket and reached for her canvas shoulder bag. ‘Oh—have a girlie night in, washing my hair, giving myself a manicure.’
And I have just told my fiancé, the man I love, my first deliberate lie. Because actually, I’m going back to the office to do some more work on Floria Bartrando, but I doubt it would be politic to say so at this juncture.
Jeremy pulled her to him and kissed her. ‘We mustn’t fight,’ he muttered. ‘We can work things out. I know it.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course we can.’ And kissed him back.
Outside the wine bar, she watched him hail a cab, then waved goodbye before beginning to walk slowly back towards the street where the Athene television production company was based.
She supposed that the recent confrontation had been inevitable, but knowing that made it no easier to handle. Somehow, she had to convince Jeremy that she could succeed as a working wife, a task handicapped from the outset by his father’s forthright and openly expressed opinions to the contrary.
Maddie had known the Sylvesters pretty much all her life. Beth Sylvester, an old school friend of her mother, had been her godmother, and, as a child, Maddie had spent part of every summer at Fallowdene, the Sylvesters’ big country house.
It had always seemed idyllic to her, but in retrospect she could see there’d been undercurrents which she’d been too young to pick up.
But somehow she’d known instinctively from the first that while her godmother would always be ‘Aunt Beth’, her husband would remain ‘Mr Sylvester’ and never become ‘Uncle Nigel’.
Fallowdene was not in itself a beautiful house, yet to Maddie it had always seemed an enchanted place, especially when Jeremy, the Sylvesters’ only son, seven years her senior and light years older in every way, was there to be shadowed adoringly.
But she’d never allowed him to get away with any implication that they’d been childhood sweethearts.
‘Arrant nonsense,’ she’d teased, the first time it was mentioned. ‘You thought I was a total pain in the neck, and went out of your way to ignore me.’
‘But I’ve made up for it since,’ he’d whispered, drawing her close. ‘Admit it.’
Yet her most abiding memories were not of Jeremy at all, even though her initial crush had lasted well into her early teens.
What she recalled very vividly was the way the atmosphere of the house underwent a subtle change when Nigel Sylvester came home.
He was a man of just above medium height, who somehow gave the impression of being much taller. He had gone prematurely grey in his late twenties, or so Jeremy had told her, adding glumly, ‘I hope it doesn’t happen to me.’
Maddie had stroked his cheek, smiling. ‘You’d look extremely distinguished.’
But if she was totally honest, she’d always found Nigel Sylvester’s silver hair, which he wore slightly longer than was fashionable and swept straight back from his forehead, to be in odd and disturbing contrast to his curiously smooth, unlined face, and dark brown heavy-lidded eyes.
Nor was it just his appearance that used to unnerve her. His standards were exacting, he missed nothing, and although she had never heard him raise his voice in displeasure, Maddie often thought it would have been better if he had shouted occasionally.
Because, there was something about his quietness which dried Maddie’s throat when he spoke to her, and made her stumble over her words. Not that she ever had too much to say to him. She’d divined fairly soon that her presence at Fallowdene was tolerated by him, rather than welcomed, and tried to keep out of his way.
It wasn’t too difficult. She’d been given the old nursery as her room, and this contained a glass-fronted bookcase, crammed with children’s books by well-known authors in a range that appealed from tots to teens.
At first, when she was very young, Aunt Beth had read them as bedtime stories. Later, she’d been happy to while away solitary hours in their company.
But her happy childhood had been brought to an abrupt and tragic end one terrible winter night when an icy road and a driver who’d drunk too much at an office party had fatally combined to take both her parents from her.
She’d been staying with Aunt Fee, her mother’s younger sister, at the time, and her aunt had immediately assumed charge of her, only to be approached after the funeral by Aunt Beth with an offer to adopt her god-daughter.
But the offer had been refused. Instead Aunt Fee and Uncle Patrick, her big genial husband had been quietly adamant that Maddie belonged with them, and she’d been loved, allowed to grieve then eventually find healing in their comfortable untidy house.
Her visits to Fallowdene, however, continued as before, although the question of adoption was never raised again and, in hindsight, Maddie was sure that Nigel Sylvester had probably opposed the idea from the outset.
She realized since that, although she’d been too young to recognize it at the time, he had represented her first brush with real power.
And she’d often wondered what had persuaded her godmother, with her quiet prettiness and sudden mischievous, enchanting smile, to marry him.
She had been in her first year at university when Aunt Beth died very suddenly in her sleep of a heart attack. She’d attended the funeral with her aunt and uncle and haltingly attempted to express her sorrow to Mr Sylvester, who’d muttered an abrupt word of thanks, then turned away.
And she was realistic enough to know that she would no longer be welcome at Fallowdene.
A week or so later she was astonished to receive a letter from a law firm informing her that Aunt Beth had left her a sum of money substantial enough to get her through her degree course without having to seek a student loan, with an additional bequest of the entire book collection from the nursery, which somehow meant far more than the money.
‘Oh, how wonderful of her,’ she’d said softly, wiping her eyes. ‘She always knew how much I loved them.’ She paused. ‘But won’t Jeremy want them?’
‘It seems not,’ Aunt Fee said rather drily. ‘I gather if you’d refused the bequest they’d have gone to a charity shop.’ She pursed her lips. ‘No doubt they reminded Nigel too much of the wonderful career he’d interrupted.’
‘Career?’ Maddie repeated. ‘Was she a writer once?’ She frowned. ‘She never told me.’
‘No, that wasn’t her talent. She was a very successful editor with Penlaggan Press. She found the authors of all those books, encouraged them, and published them.
‘Your mother told me Penlaggan did their best to coax her back on numerous occasions, even offering to let her work from home.’ She shook her head. ‘But it never happened. Sylvester wives, it seems, do not work.’
‘But if she was so good at her job …’
‘That,’ said Aunt Fee somberly, ‘was probably the trouble.’
It was an insight into Aunt Beth’s marriage that Maddie had never forgotten. And now it had a renewed and unpleasing resonance.
Well, I’m good at my job too, she thought, and I’m damned if I’m giving it up whatever Jeremy or his father may say about it.
She still felt raw when she remembered how Nigel Sylvester, having mourned for barely a year, announced his engagement to a widow called Esme Hammond and married her only a month later.
But then, quite unexpectedly, she’d met Jeremy again at a party in London. He’d expressed delight at seeing her and asked for her phone number, but if she felt this was more out of politeness than serious intent, she soon discovered she was wrong. Because he’d not only called but invited her to dinner. After which, events had seemed to snowball, she remembered, smiling.
Jeremy had changed a great deal from the taciturn, aloof boy who’d so consistently avoided an annoying small girl. He seemed to have inherited much of his mother’s charm, but in spite of three years at university and a spell at the Harvard Business School before joining Sylvester and Co, he still seemed under his father’s thumb.
But while Maddie did not delude herself she would have been his daughter-in-law of choice, at least Nigel Sylvester had not openly opposed the engagement.
But she still didn’t call him ‘Uncle Nigel’, she thought, pausing at the office’s street entrance to punch in her entry code. Nor, after the wedding, would he ever morph into ‘Dad’, ‘Pa’ or ‘Pops’.
And he had put a spoke in their wheel in another way.
If Maddie had assumed that Jeremy would immediately want her to move into the company flat with him, she soon found she was wrong..
‘Dad says he needs to use the flat himself on occasion,’ he told her. ‘And it would make things—awkward if you were there. And anyway he feels we should wait to live together until we’re actually married.’
Maddie had stared at him. ‘But who on earth does that nowadays?’
Jeremy shrugged. ‘I guess he’s just old-fashioned about these things.’
But Maddie was convinced ‘hypocritical’ was a better description, and would have wagered a year’s salary that his father and the glamorous Esme had been sharing a bed even while Aunt Beth was alive.
‘And what happens after the wedding?’ she asked. ‘Because, we’ll be living there then, or will your father expect me to move out any time he plans to stay overnight?’
‘No, of course not,’ he said impatiently. ‘He’s talking of taking a suite at a hotel.’ He pulled a face. ‘And, believe me, sweetie, it could be worse. When it began, Sylvester and Co was Sylvester, Felderstein and Marchetti. You could be having all sorts of foreign directors dropping in.’
‘Might have been fun,’ Maddie said lightly. ‘So why aren’t there any now?’
Jeremy shrugged again. ‘The families died out, or started new ventures of their own. That’s what Dad said, anyway. We only became fully independent in my grandfather’s day.’
Since when Nigel Sylvester had achieved success in the corridors of power, joining various government think-tanks and advising on banking and economic affairs.
So much so that, rumour had it that he would be offered a life peerage in the next New Year Honours’ List.
I wonder if he’ll expect me to call him ‘My lord’ she mused as she took the creaky elevator to her office on the first floor. Or curtsy when we meet. While Esme will be even more insufferable when she’s Lady Sylvester.
But I’ll deal with that when I have to, she told herself. For now, I’m concentrating on this dream assignment that’s come my way.
Italy in May, she thought with an ecstatic sigh. Boy, I can hardly wait.

CHAPTER TWO
IT WASN’T UNTIL the plane had taken off that Maddie really believed she was going to Italy.
In view of the events of the past ten days, she would hardly have been surprised if Nigel Sylvester had found some way to have her bodily removed from the aircraft.
It had all come to a head over dinner at the company flat. She had believed with pleasurable anticipation that she and Jeremy would be alone, and was shaken to find his father and Esme waiting for her too, with Mr Sylvester telling her, with his thin-lipped smile, ‘We feel we should all get to know each other a little better, Madeleine.’
Heart sinking, as she realised Jeremy was avoiding her gaze, she’d replied, ‘By all means,’ and accepted the dry sherry she was offered.
Conversation had been light and general over dinner, but she’d only picked at the excellent meal, cooked by the housekeeper Mrs Palmer, and watched with trepidation as the good woman was thanked and dismissed once the coffee and brandy were on the table.
The door had barely closed behind her when Esme leaned forward. ‘I think, Madeleine, if the men will forgive us boring them with feminine affairs, we need to discuss your wedding dress as a matter of urgency.’
Maddie put down her coffee cup, bewildered. ‘But that’s all in hand.’
Mrs Sylvester’s arched brows lifted. ‘Indeed? I am not sure I understand.’
‘I’ve chosen my dress and it’s already being made by Janet Gladstone, who owns the bridal shop in the village. You must have seen it.’
‘Not that I recall.’ Esme’s tone suggested she had not noticed the High Street either. ‘And, anyway, I’ve made an appointment for you with Nina FitzAlan in three days’ time.’ Her smile was complacent. ‘As I’m a favoured client she has agreed to drop everything in order to supply us with a gown of her own exclusive design. But there is no time to be lost.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Maddie said evenly. ‘But I’m afraid I can’t possibly alter my arrangements, especially as Aunt Fee and Uncle Patrick are paying for my dress, and those of the bridesmaids.’
‘And naturally you feel that a top London designer is beyond their reach, financially.’ The older woman nodded. ‘Well, don’t concern yourself about that. Nina’s bill, of course, will be sent to me. There is no need for your aunt and uncle to be bothered.’
‘But they will be bothered. And so will I. Very much so.’ Maddie ignored Jeremy’s pleading glance from the other side of the table. ‘Because I’m getting exactly what I want. White wild silk embroidered with silver flowers. I’ve already had two fittings, and it’s going to be beautiful.’
Esme allowed herself the small, tinkling laugh that made Maddie’s teeth ache. ‘I don’t think you have quite grasped, my dear, that you are dressing for a very important occasion. And a village-made frock, however pretty, just will not do.’
She paused. ‘So we will have a preliminary meeting with Nina at ten thirty on Thursday, after which you will hold yourself available for fittings at her salon whenever required.
‘And as you’ve mentioned bridesmaids,’ she went on. ‘Perhaps this is the time to say that while I admire your loyalty in wanting your flatmates Sally and—Tracey, is it …’
‘Trisha,’ said Maddie.
‘I think I told you.’ Esme swept on, ‘that Nigel would like his godsons’ little ones to be your attendants. Two pigeon pairs—so convenient—and, I thought, in Victorian dress. Those charming caps for the boys, and frilly pantaloons for the little girls.’
Maddie’s hands were clenched tightly in her lap. ‘And I think I made it clear that I would not, under any circumstances, have very small children following me up the aisle. Especially ones I have never met, but, I gather, are barely potty-trained. Which,’ she added, ‘would make me fear for the pantaloons. Besides, Sally and Trisha are old college friends as well as my flatmates, so they will be my bridesmaids—the only ones.’
She paused. ‘And, as, I’m going to be working abroad shortly, I couldn’t be available for fittings with Ms Fitz Alan, even if I wanted to.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Nigel Sylvester in a tone which made Maddie feel she’d been stranded naked on a polar ice cap. ‘I think it is full time you recognised that you have responsibilities to my son that far outweigh your obligations to this—tin-pot job of yours, and hand your company a week’s notice.’
Maddie lifted her chin. ‘And you must also recognise I have no intention of abandoning my career.’
‘Career?’ he repeated almost meditatively. ‘I think, my child, that you’re deluding yourself.’
He then proceeded to deal quite mercilessly with her qualifications, her abilities and her ambitions, holding them up to ridicule, and dismissing them with quiet contempt, and all of it uttered with a smile like a naked blade held to her skin.
While all she could do was sit, head bent, in silence until it was over.
‘How could you?’ she flared at Jeremy when they were back in her own flat and alone, Sally and Trisha having taken a swift look at her white face and blazing eyes and tactfully disappeared to bed. ‘I thought we’d already dealt with this. So how could you just sit there and let him speak to me—treat me like that?’
‘I’ve told you time and again how he feels about working wives,’ Jeremy said unhappily. ‘And I’ve also tried to explain how Dad sees the importance of this wedding.’
She was about to hit back when she saw how wretched he was becoming and took a deep, steadying breath. It’s not his fault, she reminded herself. His father has bullied him all his life. You know this.
‘Darling,’ she said. ‘Esme and your father may have taken over most of the arrangements, but they’re not adding me to their bag. I shall wear the dress I want, and have Sal and Trish as my backup on the day itself. No toddlers in sight. Not negotiable.’
He said slowly, ‘But there’s Italy. If I begged you not to go, would you think again?’
‘I don’t want you to beg,’ she said more gently. ‘Just to understand how much I want to research the Floria Bartrando story. I’ll be gone a matter of days, that’s all. It’s not a problem.’
‘It already is.’ He shook his head. ‘Dad’s totally vitriolic on the subject, as if he’s got a down on the entire Italian nation.’
‘Your father simply has a down on not getting his own way at all times,’ Maddie told him candidly. ‘It wouldn’t matter if it was Italy—or Outer Mongolia. However I can’t and I won’t give way to him, because that would set an unacceptable precedent. You must see that.’
She paused. ‘Of course, we could always elope. Get a special licence and do the deed somewhere with a couple of strangers as witnesses.’
Jeremy looked at her with blank horror. ‘You can’t be serious.’
She hadn’t been entirely joking either, she thought, suppressing a sigh.
She forced a smile. ‘Alternatively, you could always come with me to Italy. Take a few days of all the leave you’re owed and explore the delights of Liguria.’ And we could be alone as lovers again with no-one to interfere or disapprove. Get back to the time when we first fell in love. Wouldn’t that be good?
She added, ‘And if I had you as an escort, that might placate your father about the trip in general.’
His mouth tightened. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t. And now I’d better go.’ He took her in his arms and held her tightly. ‘Oh, Maddie, I hate it when we quarrel.’
And I hate it when we have quarrels forced upon us, thought Maddie, fighting her disappointment as she kissed him and said goodnight.
And in the morning, she mused as she closed the door behind him, I shall have to tell the others it was a lovers’ tiff. Pre-marital nerves or something. And see if they believe me.
Ironically, soon afterwards it began to seem as if Nigel Sylvester might get his own way after all.
Because Todd, her boss at Athene came within a whisker of calling the whole Bartrando project off.
‘We need to know why a young singer with the world at her feet should simply disappear for thirty-odd years,’ he’d said, frowning, at one of the morning conferences. ‘We were promised a preliminary interview with Floria Bartrando herself, yet now they seem to be fobbing us off with a small provincial opera festival instead.’ He snorted. ‘And that’s not worth the expense of the airfare, even if it is being sponsored by some local bigwig.’
‘Perhaps she’s making her comeback at this festival,’ Maddie suggested, trying not to sound too anxious. If it all fell through, she could imagine Nigel Sylvester’s triumph and the increased pressure to fall in with all future plans as a result.
Todd shrugged. ‘Then, in that case, why don’t they say so? I’m worried that this whole Bartrando thing could simply be a publicity stunt, and you’ll end up being shown a grave in a cemetery and told that the festival’s in her memory.’
‘In which case, I use my return ticket, and we bin the entire project.’ Maddie tried to sound upbeat. ‘But I’m sure it’s all going to work out.’
And a few days later when Todd summoned her to his office, it appeared she was right.
‘I did the festival sponsor an injustice,’ he announced, tapping the letter on the desk in front of him. ‘He’s written to us, in person, snail mail. His name’s Count Valieri and he’s apparently the link with Signorina Bartrando, so you’ll be liaising with him.
‘He’ll have you met at the airport in Genoa and taken to the Hotel Puccini in Trimontano, where the festival will take place later in the year. And he’ll contact you there and set up a meeting with the mystery lady.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe you should pack a posh frock if you’re going to be hobnobbing with Italian aristocracy.’
‘I’m more likely to be palmed off on some private secretary,’ Maddie returned unruffled. ‘But I’d better find out a bit about him, to be on the safe side.’
‘I’ve already had a quick look online, and there isn’t much.’ Todd frowned. ‘Just that the Valieri family actually started the festival over fifty years ago, so he’s probably quite elderly, although there’s no picture. And the family money now comes mainly from olive oil and ceramics. Apart from that—zilch.’
‘Then it’s fortunate we’re not planning to tell his story.’ She hesitated. ‘Did he drop any hints about Signorina Bartrando?’
‘Not one. Here, you’d better have it.’ He handed her the sheet of elegant cream notepaper and she read the two short paragraphs.
The Count used black ink, she saw, and his handwriting was crisp and incisive.
Back in her office, she checked the hotel he’d booked for her on the internet and saw it had an impressive number of stars, and its food and comfort were highly praised by recent guests.
So far, so good, she thought, wondering if Puccini’s name was significant. After all, Floria Bartrando’s first important role had been Musetta in ‘La Boheme’. She’d received rave notices, completely eclipsing the woman playing Mimi. In fact, several critics thought she’d been miscast, and that her voice was more suited to the dramatic coloratura range of the leading part.
And her short but starry career had fully justified their opinion.
So maybe she simply disappeared because of death threats from other sopranos, thought Maddie, faintly amused.
But there’d been little to smile about since then. Jeremy had reacted badly to the news that her trip was definitely going ahead, and there’d been a definite coolness between them ever since. But that, she told herself, was probably due to his father giving him a hard time.
She had really hoped he would relent sufficiently to see her off at the airport, but there was no sign of him.
In the departure lounge she’d sent him a text—‘You’d better be pleased to see me when I get back’, adding a row of kisses, but there’d been no response to that either and she’d boarded the plane, edgy and with the beginnings of a headache as she fought her disappointment.
When the trolley came round, she bought some orange juice and took a couple of painkillers, then settled back in her seat, deciding to close her eyes for a few moments.
But when the next sound she heard was the captain’s voice announcing they had begun their descent to Cristoforo Columbo Airport, she realised, startled, just how tired she must have been.
As the plane turned inland, she caught her breath as she saw ahead of her, in fold after jagged fold, the peaks of the Apennines, some of them still streaked with snow.
She knew, of course, that in Italy, the mountains were never too far away, but these seemed almost too near. In some strange way—almost alien.
But she would begin an even closer acquaintance with them when she reached Trimontano, she reminded herself as the aircraft touched down.
While visualising them as threatening in some way was being over-imaginative, and showed the kind of stress she’d been under lately.
And which she’d come here to escape.
As she emerged from Arrivals, she was approached by a uniformed official.
‘Signorina Lang?’ His smile reassured her. ‘I have been asked to escort you to the Count’s car. Camillo, his driver, speaks no English.’
‘Oh,’ said Maddie. ‘Well—that’s very kind.’
This Count must be a real force to be reckoned with, she decided, as she was conducted through the terminal and out into the warm May sunlight to what appeared to be a private parking area, where a grizzled man in a chauffeur’s uniform was waiting beside a limousine.
Well even if this turns out to be a journey to nowhere, Maddie thought with slight hysteria, as he inclined his head unsmilingly and opened the rear passenger door for her, at least I’ll have travelled in style.
She’d been right, she told herself, leaning back against the cushions, to opt for a trim navy skirt rather than her usual jeans, although her jacket, which had received a faintly disparaging glance from Camillo, was denim. But she was glad of it once the car moved off, and the air conditioning came into play.
In front of her was a square leather case, which on investigation proved to be a cold box, containing bottled mineral water and fruit juice.
Every comfort, in fact, she thought. However, it would all have been rather more pleasant if Camillo had only spoken some English and she could have questioned him about their route and Trimontano itself.
He might even have been able to tell her something about Floria Bartrando’s connection with this area, especially as the singer had been living and working far away in Rome just before her disappearance, and winning plaudits for her interpretation of Gilda in ‘Rigoletto’.
But perhaps this should be left to the Count.
The port and its environs were soon left behind, the car powering its way through heavy traffic on a broad, busy road. Then, after about fifteen minutes, they turned on to another much narrower road, and, as if someone had flicked a switch, the landscape changed. No more urban sprawl or industrial development, but chestnut trees, olive groves and scrubby pastureland covering the foothills of the mountains, and the occasional scattered hamlet, clinging to the slopes.
The traffic they encountered now consisted mainly of farm wagons, groups of hikers sweating under large rucksacks, and packs of red-faced cyclists pounding up the increasingly steep ascent.
Maddie, drinking some water from the silver cup provided for the purpose, was ignobly glad not to be of their number.
At the same time, she became aware that the brightness of the day had faded, and that heavy clouds were massing round the peaks in a frankly ominous way.
Bad weather would be disappointing, she thought with an inward shrug as the vision of sun-kissed villas and cypresses silhouetted against an azure sky began to fade, but, after all, she wasn’t here as a holidaymaker.
Nor had she expected Trimontano to be quite so remote—not when it was the centre of an annual opera festival. The audiences would need to be serious music lovers to make this kind of journey.
And what had possessed Floria Bartrando to forsake the world stage and bury herself among these mountains?
There had to be a real story here if only she could unravel it, she thought, impatient to get to her destination and make a start.
A few minutes later, the car reached a fork in the road, and Camillo turned off to the right and began to descend into a valley, shadowed by a group of three tall peaks.
And there, suddenly, was Trimontano, like a toy town cupped in the hand of a stone giant.
Maddie leaned forward, eagerly scanning the clustering red roofs below her, noticing how a tall bell tower rose out of the midst of them, startlingly white and pointing towards the darkening sky like an accusing finger.
And at the same moment, like a warning voice reverberating between the mountains, came the first long, low rumble of thunder.
Heavens, thought Maddie, sinking back in her seat. That’s a hell of an introduction. Good job I’m not superstitious, or I might just be having second thoughts.
It had already begun to rain when the car finally came to a stop in front of the massive portico of the Hotel Puccini in the main square.
A uniformed man, holding an umbrella, came down the steps to open the car door and shelter Maddie on her way into the hotel, while Camillo followed with her solitary bag.
Which should, of course, have been a matched set of Louis Vuitton, Maddie realised as she looked around at the expanse of marble, mirrors and gilded pillars which made up the hotel foyer. She turned to thank Camillo and found herself watching his retreating back.
He’s clearly used to a better class of passenger, she told herself ruefully as she walked to the reception desk.
But the receptionist’s greeting passed no judgement, and the formalities were dealt with swiftly and efficiently.
‘And there is also this, signorina.’ He handed her an envelope along with her key card.
‘From Count Valieri?’ she asked.
‘Naturalmente. On whose behalf, I am to welcome you to Trimontano.’ He smiled, making a slight bow. ‘You are in Number 205, signorina. The lift is behind you, and your luggage is already in your room. If you need further assistance you have only to ask.’
Rule one in a strange town—know the right people, Maddie thought as the lift took her smoothly to her floor.
Her bedroom was more modern than she had imagined, with an impressive range of fitted furniture in an elegant pale wood, together with the widest bed she had ever seen.
The bathroom was breathtaking too, tiled in white marble, streaked with gold. It had a large sunken tub with two cushioned head-rests, and a walk-in shower also big enough for dual occupation, and then some.
The ultimate in togetherness, Maddie thought, suppressing a pang of regret that she was there alone. But even if Jeremy was far away, at least she could talk to him.
She went back in the bedroom and retrieved her mobile phone from her bag, only to discover to her dismay that there was no discernible signal.
‘Let’s hope that’s because of the prevailing weather conditions and not a general rule,’ she muttered, as she dialled reception from the bedside phone and asked for an outside line.
But she had another disappointment when, after a struggle to get through, Jeremy’s voicemail informed her he was out of the office.
Sighing, she replaced the receiver without leaving a message. After all, she’d nothing to tell him about her trip that he’d want to hear. The important thing had been to hear his voice, even if it was only a recording. Crumbs from the rich man’s table, she thought ironically. Speaking of which …
She reached for the Count’s envelope and tore it open.
‘And if this is to say that Floria Bartrando won’t see me, then I’ll know bad luck really does run in threes,’ she said as she unfolded the single sheet of paper it contained. As she did so, another smaller, flimsier strip of paper fluttered to the carpet.
Maddie picked it up and found she was looking at a ticket for the opera that night at the Teatro Grande. ‘Verdi’s ‘Rigoletto,’ she whispered to herself in excitement. ‘Floria’s last appearance. This has to be significant.’
The accompanying note, written in the familiar black ink said only ‘Until later’, and was signed ‘Valieri’.
A man of few words, the Count, thought Maddie joyfully. But what does that matter, bless every grey hair on his probably balding head?
And she kissed the ticket and laughed out loud, because it had proved to be third time lucky instead and she was in business.

CHAPTER THREE
AS THE CURTAIN fell on Act Two, Maddie sank back in her seat with a breathless sigh. She had forgotten how dark the plot of ‘Rigoletto’ was with its curses, vendettas, seductions and betrayal, and the hunchback jester seeking vengeance on his lecherous master. But she’d certainly never forgotten Verdi’s glorious music.
And the beautiful aria ‘Caro nome’ where the doomed Gilda rhapsodises about her lover’s name was still singing in her head as the lights came up. It had featured on one of Floria Bartrando’s few albums, and Maddie had acquired a second-hand CD, playing it constantly while she was preparing for her trip, and bringing it with her.
The Teatro Grande wasn’t quite as large as its name suggested, but its Baroque styling was magnificent, she thought, glancing up at the semi-circle of ornately decorated boxes above her.
During the first act interval, she had been convinced that someone up there was watching her, and had looked up, scanning the boxes eagerly in the hope of catching a glimpse of the Count, or even Floria Bartrando herself.
If she had been the subject of scrutiny, she hoped she’d passed muster. Wisely, she’d brought her favourite and most expensive dress, a simple black knee-length shift, square-necked and sleeveless, relying totally on cut and its heavy silk fabric for its stunning effect.
She’d left her hair loose but swept back from her face with silver combs, and apart from the silver studs in her ears, her only jewellery was Jeremy’s diamond solitaire on her engagement finger.
She followed the rest of the audience to the small crowded bar and took her double espresso to a small table with a single chair in a quiet corner. As she sat, she noticed the picture on the wall above her. It was a large oil painting in a heavy gilded frame, its subject a seated man, white-haired but still handsome with a calm, proud face. A small plaque read ‘Cesare Valieri’.
So this is my host, she thought. And where is he?
She leaned across to the attendant, clearing a nearby table. ‘Count Valieri—is he here tonight?’
He hesitated, his glance sliding away. ‘He came, signorina, for a brief time, but has gone. I am sorry.’
Well, it didn’t really matter, she told herself, suppressing a pang of disappointment. They would meet eventually. And at least now she knew what to expect.
And her instinct about being watched might well have been correct, so it seemed odd that he had not used the opportunity to make himself known to her.
She settled back in her seat for Act III, waiting for the tragedy to reach its culmination, with Gilda sacrificing herself to save the villainous Duke who had seduced and betrayed her.
Shivering as Rigoletto tells his hired assassin ‘He is crime and I am punishment.’
And feeling tears prick at her eyelids as the jester realising he has brought about the murder of his own child, flings himself, heartbroken, across her dead body.
The applause at the end was long and generous with cries of ‘Bravo’ from all over the auditorium. It took a while for the stalls to clear and Maddie hung back, unsure what she should do.
Her best bet, she supposed, was to go back to the hotel and wait for instructions. Because she was sure there would be some.
In a way, she hoped they’d arrive tomorrow. It was late, and she felt suddenly very tired, as she walked out into the rain-washed street, hugging her cream pashmina around her. The stress of the past weeks coupled with the flight and the long car journey were clearly taking their toll.
I need sleep, she thought longingly, not an interview.
But the Count clearly had other ideas, she realised, recognising the unmistakable shape of his limousine, parked just across the street from the theatre, with its chauffeur in his dark uniform standing beside it holding the rear passenger door open for her.
And not Camillo this time. This new man was altogether taller and leaner. Younger too, she thought, although his peaked cap was pulled down shadowing his face, denying her a good look.
‘Signorina Lang—you will come with me, please.’ His voice was quiet, but it seemed to convey an order rather than a request, and Maddie hesitated.
‘You’re taking me to the Count?’
‘Who does not like to be kept waiting.’
Slightly brusque for a paid employee, she thought as she climbed into the car, but at least he spoke English, so that was a step forward.
Not that any conversation was likely, however, while the glass panels between the front and rear seating remained firmly closed.
On the other hand, she didn’t really feel like talking. The effect of the coffee had worn off and waves of drowsiness were sweeping over her.
But I can’t go to sleep, she told herself firmly, suppressing a yawn. I have to stay awake and totally alert. This is an important evening. And made herself check once again that her little voice operated tape machine and spare batteries were safely in her bag.
What she really needed was the caffeine rush from another espresso, she thought, helping herself to some of the chilled mineral water, in the hope that it would clear her head.
She began to rehearse some of the questions she needed to ask, but instead found the words and music of the opera still teeming through her brain.
I am Crime. He is Punishment. Except that was wrong, surely. It was the other way round. He is Crime …
Wasn’t that the way it went? She wasn’t even sure any more. But she could remember Rigoletto’s despairing cry, ‘Ah, the curse’ and shivered again.
She wanted to knock on the glass and ask the chauffeur not to drive quite so fast, but it was too much effort. Somehow it was much easier just to lean back against the cushions, and let them support her until the jolting over the cobbled streets ceased.
I’ll close my eyes for a few minutes, she told herself, yawning again. A little catnap. I’ll feel better then. Wide awake. Ready for anything.
And let herself slide gently down into a soft, welcoming cloud of darkness.
Her first conscious thought was that the car had stopped moving at last, and she no longer felt as if she was being shaken to bits.
Her next—that she was no longer simply sitting down, but lying flat as if she was on a couch. Or even a bed.
With a supreme effort, she lifted her heavy lids and discovered that she was indeed in a bed.
Oh God, I must have been taken ill, she thought, forcing herself to sit up. And I’m back at the hotel.
But just one glance round the room disabused her of that notion.
For one thing, the bed she was lying in, though just as wide and comfortable as the one in Room 205, was clearly very much older with an elegant headboard in some dark wood, and a sumptuous crimson brocade coverlet.
For another, there seemed to be doors everywhere, she realised in bewilderment as she tried desperately to focus. Doors next to each other, in some impossible way, in every wall all round the large square room. Doors painted in shades of green, blue and pink, and interspersed with shuttered windows.
I’m not awake, she thought, falling limply back against the pillows. I can’t be because this is obviously some weird dream.
She wasn’t even wearing her own white lawn nightdress, but some astonishing garment in heavy sapphire silk with narrow straps and a deeply plunging neckline. And it was the faint shiver of the expensive fabric against her skin that finally convinced her that she wasn’t dreaming. And that she hadn’t fallen down a rabbit hole like Alice either.
The bed and this extraordinary door-filled room were not Wonderland at all, but total, if puzzling, reality.
Go back to your first conclusion, she told herself. You became ill in the Count’s car, and you were brought here to recover. That’s the only feasible explanation, even if you don’t remember feeling unwell—just terribly sleepy.
And you’ve been looked after, although a room liable to give one hallucinations was perhaps not the best choice in the circumstances.
Thinking back, she seemed to remember a phrase which described this kind of décor. Trompe l’oeil, she thought. That was it. She’d come across it during some of her preliminary research on the Ligurian region, but had decided it was irrelevant.
However, it occurred to her that she was growing a little tired of mysteries and enigmas, whether verbal or visual, and would relish a little straight talking from here on in.
She would also prefer to get dressed, she thought, if only she knew where her clothes were.
She wondered too what time it was—and that was when she realised, with shock, that not only was she no longer wearing her wristwatch, but that, even more alarmingly, her engagement ring was also missing.
And it’s not just my clothes, she thought frantically, as she shot bolt upright, suddenly wide awake as she stared round the room. Where’s my bag? My money, passport, credit cards, mobile phone, tape recorder—everything?
Suddenly, the fact that she was next door to naked in a strange bed, in a strange house in the middle of God only knew where, took on a new and frightening significance.
And even if there was a perfectly innocent explanation, the noble Count Valieri was going to have some serious explaining to do—when they finally met.
The next moment, Maddie heard a key rattle, and a section of the wall opposite the bed swung open, revealing that, in this case, it was a real door and not a pretence.
But it was not the man in the portrait, her expected elderly host who entered. Her visitor was male but younger, tall, lean, olive-skinned and, in some strange way, familiar. Yet how could that be? she asked herself, perplexed, when she was quite certain that she’d never seen that starkly chiselled, arrogant face before in her life, or those amazing golden brown eyes, currently flicking over her with something very near disdain.
‘So you have woken at last.’
It was the voice that jogged her memory. The cool, peremptory tones she’d last heard ordering her into the Count’s car outside the opera house. Only now, instead of the chauffeur’s tunic and peaked cap of their previous encounter, he was wearing chinos and a black polo shirt, unbuttoned at his tanned throat, this casual dress emphasising the width of his shoulders, the narrowness of his hips and his long legs. He looked strong and tough without an ounce of excess weight.
A factor that only served to increase her unease, which she knew she must be careful not to show.
However, realising how much of her the sapphire nightgown was revealing in turn, she made a belated snatch at the embroidered linen sheet.
‘Obviously,’ she returned with a snap, angrily aware of a faintly derisive smile curling his hard mouth. She paused, taking a deep, calming breath. ‘You’re the Count’s driver, so presumably you brought me here.’ Wherever here is.
‘Sì, signorina.’
‘The problem is I can’t quite remember what happened. Have I been ill? And how long have I been asleep?’
He shrugged. ‘About twelve hours.’
‘Twelve hours?’ Maddie repeated. Then, her voice rising, ‘That long?
That’s impossible.’
‘You fell asleep in the car. And you were still morta—sleeping like the dead when we arrived.’
‘Then how did I get here—like this?’
‘I carried you,’ he said. Adding, ‘And you continued to sleep quite happily in my arms as I did so.’
Her mouth went dry as she assimilated that. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said hoarsely. ‘There must have been something—in the coffee. Or that water in the car. You drugged me.’
His mouth tightened. ‘Now you are being absurd,’ he stated coldly.
She waved an impatient hand. ‘Well—maybe. But I don’t understand why you didn’t take me back to my hotel.’
‘Because the Count wished you to be brought here.’
‘Well, that was kind of him—I suppose. But I prefer to stick to my own arrangements. Perhaps you would thank him and tell him I’d like to leave.’
‘That will not be possible. You are going nowhere, signorina. You will remain here until arrangements for your release have been concluded with your family in Britain.’
There was a taut silence, then Maddie said unevenly, ‘Are you telling me that I’ve been kidnapped?’
‘Yes,’ he said, adding laconically, ‘I regret the necessity.’
‘Oh you’re going to have regrets all right,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘When you find yourself in court. And don’t think a plea of insanity will spare you.’
‘I would not think of offering one, even if there were to be a court case—which I guarantee there will not.’ He paused. ‘And I am completely rational, I assure you.’
‘In which case,’ Maddie said stormily, ‘you can prove it by returning my belongings and arranging for that other man—Camillo—to take me to Trimontano for the rest. Instantly.’
‘That is not going to happen. Your possessions have already been collected from the hotel and brought here.’
Maddie gasped. ‘Who decided this?’
‘I did.’
‘Then here’s a decision that I’ve made,’ she said icily. ‘I came to Italy to interview a woman who was once a singer called Floria Bartrando. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of her.’
‘The name is familiar.’
‘You amaze me.’ She gave him a stony look. ‘Your boss, Count Valieri was supposed to be acting as go-between, and I understood there was a need for a measure of secrecy about the project. But this—abduction—this is total madness. And it stops here.
‘The deal over the Bartrando interview is off, and I’m leaving as soon as I get my luggage back.’
‘And I say that you stay as you are and where you are.’ He added softly, ‘Until I choose otherwise.’
He walked towards the bed, and, in spite of her previous resolution, Maddie found herself shrinking back against the pillows. She said, ‘Don’t come near me. Don’t dare to touch me.’
He halted, his mouth twisting contemptuously. ‘You flatter yourself, signorina. Let me assure you that your body is of no interest to me, except as a commodity to be exchanged when my negotiations with your family are complete.’
She was silent, thoughts scurrying through her head. She knew of course that people were taken hostage, but these were mainly wealthy tourists who’d strayed into dangerous places. Not a TV researcher looking for a lost soprano in a supposedly civilised backwater.
She said slowly, ‘You—you really mean you’re holding me for ransom? That I’m your hostage?’
He frowned. ‘A crude term. Let us say instead that you will remain here as my guest until the deal is done.’
‘Then I’ll be here for a bloody long time,’ she flung back at him. ‘My God, now I know you’re crazy. My family haven’t that sort of money. My uncle’s the headmaster of a school, and my aunt helps in a local nursery. So they couldn’t pay you in a hundred years.’
‘But I was not talking about them. I was referring to the family you are about to marry into—who are rich,’ he said quietly, sending a chill down her spine. ‘And it will cost them a great deal to get you back—unharmed.’
Maddie stared up at the dark, cold face, her lips parted in shock.
She thought, ‘He wants money from Jeremy and his father? But why? Just because they’re wealthy?’
She said, her voice shaking, ‘You can’t possibly mean this.’
‘Have I not made it clear that I do?’
‘But you can’t have thought about the consequences,’ she persisted. ‘You’ll get years in jail when you’re caught. Your life will be wasted.’
She saw his mouth harden, and his eyes fill with unutterable bleakness. He looked, she thought, as if he too had been carved from limestone like the nearby mountains.
He said, ‘Then I would not be the first. But you argue in vain, signorina, because no charges against me will ever be brought.’
‘But what about the Count? He’s a respected man. A businessman. A patron of the arts.’ She spoke almost wildly, clutching at straws. ‘You can’t tell me he knows what you’re doing.’
‘You are wrong. He knows everything.’
‘And condones it?’ Maddie shook her head. ‘No, I don’t—I won’t believe it.’
‘Then ask him,’ he said. ‘At dinner this evening. I am here to invite you to join him.’
‘Then you can both go to hell.’ She glared at him. ‘Do you really imagine I’d sit down to a meal with someone who treats me like this? I’d rather starve.’
‘Do so, then.’ His tone was indifferent. ‘If your future husband responds swiftly to my demands, you should not have to endure many days of hunger.’
‘You mean—you wouldn’t care?’
‘That you wish to behave like a fool? That is your choice. But I think you would do better to accept the situation, so that you look like a woman and not a skeleton on your wedding day.’
He paused. ‘There is a bell beside the bed. Ring it and a maid will come, and bring anything you require.’
‘All I want,’ Maddie told him tersely, ‘is a way out of here.’
‘That, I fear, she cannot provide. And she is loyal to the Count, like the rest of his staff,’ he added. ‘So do not ask.’
She said shortly, ‘I’m hardly in a position to bribe anyone.’ She hesitated. ‘Nor am I exactly dressed for dinner—even with a geriatric kidnapper. Will I get my clothes back?’
‘You will be provided with adequate covering,’ he said. ‘Be content with that.’
Which was another way of saying ‘no’, Maddie thought as he walked back across the room and the door—a blue one—closed behind him, becoming just part of the wall again.
She lay staring at it while she counted to fifty slowly, to make quite sure that he’d gone, before she pushed away the coverlet and swung out of bed, treading across the marble floor to try the handle. But the door was locked, as she’d known in her heart that it would be.
However, that could not be the only real door in the room. And now she would find the others.
The first she came across gave access to a large walk in closet, lined on one side with drawers in the same dark wood as the bed-head, all empty, with a matching series of wardrobes filling the opposite wall.
Maddie pulled open each door in turn, but the interior rail held nothing but a robe that matched the nightgown she was wearing, and a pair of velvet slippers in the same deep blue.
‘His idea of adequate covering, no doubt,’ she muttered as she closed the door again and went back into the bedroom.
What she really needed to find was the bathroom, but naturally she wouldn’t have lowered herself by asking him where it was. And her dogged search revealed it behind a pink door a couple of doors away from the closet.
The dark green marble walls, she thought, made it gloomy, although that might have reflected her own mood, rather than the décor, while the bathtub and shower were both distinctly old-fashioned.
However, the water was hot and the plumbing worked. There were plenty of towels and a basic selection of toiletries, none of them her own.
There was also a full length mirror on one of the walls and she stood for a moment staring at her reflection.
Your body is of no interest to me …
Out of all the things he’d said to her, why on earth should she remember those words in particular? Impossible, she thought, to fathom.
At the same time she could not help noticing, albeit unwillingly, how the deep bodice of the nightgown gently cupped her breasts and the way the cling of the fabric swirled as she moved, the silk hem just brushing her insteps.
No interest. Yet the right size, she thought, and the right length. And although the colour and style of the nightgown were not something she would ever have chosen for herself, she could not deny that it was becoming, making her fair hair look almost silvery.
What was more, she would swear it was brand new, and she wondered, as she turned away, who it had been bought for originally.
But, she reminded herself briskly, she had far more pressing matters to consider. Her priority was to get out of this crazy, dangerous situation and somehow reach Genoa, the airport and safety.
She knew now which were the real doors and which the false, and accepted that there was no opportunity for escape there. So, she started on the windows. The first two sets of shutters opened on to glorious oil-painted landscapes—one showing a sylvan lake overlooked by a rococo palace—the other depicting rolling meadows studded with poppies and edged by cypress trees.
The Italy I was expecting to find, she thought wryly, walking on to the next window, and catching her breath as she flung back the shutters.
Because there were the mountains as far as her eyes could see, confronting her, surrounding her like a cage of rock. And, in spite of the sunshine, as tall, harsh and inimical as her jailer, she thought, feeling suddenly cold.
While one gingerly downwards glance told her that below the window was a sheer drop to heaven knows where.
And there was no sign of Trimontano, or any other human habitation apart from the prison she was standing in.
She left the shutters open, and went back to lie on the bed, heaping the pillows up behind her as she began a serious attempt to evaluate her equally serious position.
Her only hope seemed to lie with Count Valieri himself, who surely could not know that an actual crime was being perpetrated in his name. Not unless the younger man had some hold on him too and was forcing him into it.
If this was the case, then maybe they could work together to stop things before they went too far. Unless of course the Count was older and feebler than his portrait at the theatre suggested.
But that couldn’t be true. His handwriting suggested a forceful and determined personality, so he might well be acting against his better judgement for some reason.
So, she would simply have to talk him round, she thought. Tell him frankly that Nigel Sylvester was also a forceful and determined man, and certainly not someone you would wish to have as an enemy, and to treat him as prey would undoubtedly have a dangerous backlash.
She could also warn the Count that she wasn’t Nigel Sylvester’s favourite person and, if it was left to him, he probably wouldn’t give a brass farthing to get her back.
Perhaps not in those exact words, she thought ruefully. But at least I can let him know that if this madness continues, he’ll have a fight on his hands that he can’t possibly win.
While I, she thought, her throat tightening nervously. I could end up caught helplessly in the middle. And what will happen to me then?

CHAPTER FOUR
SHE SEEMED TO have lost all track of time. But maybe that was a deliberate policy of disorientation on the part of her captors.
Eventually, of course, she had rung the bell, unable to ignore her stomach’s wistful rumblings any longer, and recognising, too, that she needed to keep her strength up.
A maid had appeared so promptly she might have been waiting outside the door, and carrying a small table which she placed beside the bed. She was followed by another girl in a starched white overall, her hair covered by a cap, and carrying a laden tray. After which they nodded, smiled, wished her ‘Buon appetito’ and left.
And this time, she actually heard the key turn in the lock.
And they’d behaved as if it was perfectly normal to serve a strange girl locked in a bedroom, wearing nothing but a nightdress in the middle of the day. A realisation which did nothing to lift her spirits.
Sighing, Maddie investigated the tray and found a tureen of vegetable soup, steaming and aromatic with herbs, a linen napkin containing freshly baked rolls, a plate of cold meats, and, in a covered glass dish, a scarily rich dessert that seemed to be composed from chocolate truffles. There was also a small jug of red wine, a bottle of mineral water and a pot of excellent black coffee.
It would have been more dignified to pick at the food, but Maddie fell on it as if she hadn’t eaten for a week.
Last night’s dinner was a long time ago, she told herself as she wiped out the few final delicious drops from her soup bowl with a crust, and tonight’s confrontation was unlikely to be relaxed or festive. So she’d make the most of what there was, although she was sparing with the wine, knowing that later she would need to keep her wits about her.
But it took a very long afternoon to get to that point. When the maid returned for the tray, she brought with her a lamp with a pretty glass shade which she placed on the table. But when Maddie asked if she could have a book to read, the girl murmured an apologetic ‘Non capisco,’ and left.
So there was nothing to do except allow the same weary thoughts turn like a treadmill in her brain, and watch the afternoon light begin to fade from the sky.
She even took a bath, just to break the monotony, but the warm water failed to have its usual soothing effect.
It was disturbing to consider how carefully her capture must have been planned and executed. And know it was her connection with the Sylvesters that had condemned her to this nerve-racking experience.
But I shall be blamed for it, she told herself. Because I insisted on coming to Italy.
Suddenly she had lost control of her life, she realised as trailed back into the bedroom, swathed in a towel. And the knowledge made her feel vulnerable. And scared.
Although the Count’s henchman had said she would be returned ‘unharmed’. And that was the word she had to cling to, hoping against hope that her captors meant it.
But all those trick doors were a reminder of how completely she was trapped. And if she was going to be left to vegetate all day and every day, she’d be stark raving mad by the time the ransom was paid. If indeed that ever happened …
The next time the real door opened, it was already quite dark and she’d lit the lamp. She sat up nervously, wishing she was wearing more than a towel, but it wasn’t her kidnapper but another maid, a short stocky girl, who’d brought with her Maddie’s own hairbrush and cosmetics bag.
But nothing else.
The girl gave her an unsmiling nod as she walked into the bathroom, emerging a moment later, her face set in lines of disapproval as she shook non-existent creases from the nightgown Maddie had left on the floor after her bath. She placed it carefully on the bed, then fetched the matching robe which she laid beside it.
She said, ‘You dress please, signorina.’ Her English was halting and heavily accented, but at least it was communication, thought Maddie, wishing it had been the girl who smiled.
‘Willingly,’ she returned. ‘When I get my clothes back.’
The girl pointed at the gleaming blue silk on the bed. ‘This—clothes for you. Is time to eat, so please hurry.’
‘Of course, the Count doesn’t like to be kept waiting. I almost forgot.’ Maddie’s tone was sarcastic. ‘Perhaps it would cause less inconvenience if I left him to dine alone.’
‘E impossibile.’ The other spoke firmly. ‘He asks for you. Not good to make angry, signorina.’
‘You mean he might send his enforcer to fetch me?’ Maddie saw the girl’s bewildered look and shook her head. ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’
Besides, she needed to talk him round not provoke his anger, she reminded herself as she went into the bathroom to change. So she would do as she was told—at first, anyway.
Once it was on, she discovered that the robe was cut on severe lines with high lapels and a full skirt, which revealed very little. Once Maddie had wound its long sash twice round her slender waist and fastened it with a secure bow, she felt rather better about her unorthodox appearance. She used no make-up, and simply brushed her hair loose on her shoulders.
She looked pale, she thought, wrinkling her nose, as she turned away from the mirror. But it would be impolitic to go in with all guns blazing, and besides, with a subdued approach, the Count might see her as a victim and take pity on her.
‘Some chance,’ she muttered under her breath as she returned to the bedroom, where the maid was waiting with ill-concealed impatience.
‘Fa presto, signorina,’ she said, leading the way to the door.
Following, Maddie saw a bunch of keys attached to the girl’s belt, half hidden by her apron. She considered the chances of snatching them and running, and decided they were poor. Even if she took the girl by surprise, her adversary’s sturdy build would make her difficult to overpower, while the other side of the door was unknown territory.
Be patient and bide your time, she told herself. It will come.
At the door she paused. ‘What is your name?’ she asked.
‘Domenica, signorina.’ The reply was brusque. ‘Andiamo.’
Maddie walked out into a long passage, dimly lit, with a short flight of steps at its end, and a curtained archway at their foot.
Domenica set a brisk pace, and Maddie, in her trailing skirts, struggled to keep up with her. At the end, the girl waited, tight-lipped, holding back the curtain for Maddie to pass in front of her.
She stepped out on to a wide galleried landing, and found herself looking down at a room as large as a medieval hall, panelled in wood, and reached by a broad, curving staircase.

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