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An Elusive Desire
Anne Mather


Mills & Boon are excited to present The Anne Mather Collection – the complete works by this classic author made available to download for the very first time! These books span six decades of a phenomenal writing career, and every story is available to read unedited and untouched from their original release. Her first love…Jaimie Forster has never forgotten her passionate affair with the irresistible Rafaello di Vaggio. At the time, independent-minded Jaimie had strong ideas about her future – which didn’t include marriage!When she finds out that Rafaello’s marriage to her friend Nicola is far from a bed of roses, and Nicola begs her to visit their glamorous home in Italy, Jaimie is torn. She wants to help her friend, but seeing Rafaello again may be just one temptation too far…










Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!


I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.




An Elusive Desire

Anne Mather





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




Table of Contents


Cover (#u68141f08-7915-56b9-aac0-f93536c35f5b)

About the Author (#u83c81b41-ddaa-5bd6-a9b7-61e68bfeb464)

Title Page (#u4bb5bc5f-e471-5ff1-a427-0d4cc1469945)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#u4f5c875e-cbfe-5e94-ac0a-70b1232a8122)


JAIME was in a meeting when the call came through, and her secretary, Diane Stephens, was obviously very chary about disturbing her.

‘It’s a Signora di Vaggio, Miss Forster,’ she explained, with evident reluctance. ‘She says she’s an old friend of yours, and it’s imperative that she speaks with you.’

‘Signora di Vaggio?’ With the participants at the meeting waiting impatiently for her to deal with the interruption and return to their discussions, Jaime’s mind was briefly blank. She didn’t know anyone called Signora di Vaggio. Diane must have got it wrong. ‘I’m afraid—–’

‘She sounds very upset, Miss Forster.’ Diane lowered her voice perceptibly. ‘I wouldn’t have troubled you, but I think you ought to take the call. She says she wrote to you and—–’

‘Nicola!’ The name broke from Jaime’s lips as comprehension of what Diane was saying brought a swift understanding. Nicola di Vaggio! She was so used to thinking of her as Nicola Temple, even the use of Rafaello’s name had not immediately registered. After all, it was more than five years since she had heard from her, and the letter which had arrived a week ago was still largely unread.

‘You will speak to her, Miss Forster?’

Diane was gazing anxiously at her, and aware of the growing impatience of her colleagues, Jaime was tempted to refuse. But if Nicola had put a call through from Italy, something serious must be wrong, and in deference to the friendship they had once shared, Jaime rose to her feet.

‘If you’ll excuse me for a few moments, gentlemen,’ she offered apologetically, and ignoring Graham Aiken’s pointed stare, she followed Diane out of the room.

Her office was just along the corridor, next door to Martin Longman’s, the managing director of Helena Holt Cosmetics. It was the obvious place for the office of his personal assistant to be, and Jaime had fought hard to gain her present position.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Forster,’ said Diane, as Jaime shortened her stride to fit that of her secretary. ‘But she sounded so distressed, I didn’t know what to do.’

‘That’s all right, Diane.’ Jaime smiled to reassure her. ‘You were right to tell me. Signora di Vaggio and I are old friends.’

Diane looked relieved, and when they reached her office she slipped efficiently into her seat, preparing to switch the call through to Jaime’s inner sanctum. With the door closed behind her, Jaime crossed her office with a sudden ripple of apprehension, lifting the cream receiver cautiously before acknowledging her presence.

‘Jaime? Jaime, is that you? Oh, thank heavens!’ The voice at the other end of the line held a distinctly hysterical note. ‘Why didn’t you answer my letter? Why are you never at home when I phone? I’ve been trying to reach you for days!’

‘Nicola? Nicola, calm down.’ Jaime was disturbed by the hysteria in the other girl’s voice. ‘I’m here now—you’re speaking to me. What can be so desperate that you found it necessary to ring me at work?’

‘At work!’ Nicola’s voice sounded suspiciously near to breaking. ‘When are you ever anywhere else? I’ve phoned your apartment four times, and every time that damn housekeeper of yours has answered.’

‘Mrs Purdom?’ Jaime frowned. ‘So it’s you who’s been calling. Why didn’t you give your name? Mrs Purdom was becoming convinced a gang of thieves was planning a robbery, and you were phoning to find out if I was home.’

‘Oh, Jaime!’ Nicola sniffed. ‘I couldn’t give my name—I didn’t want you phoning here and speaking to Raf.’

‘Really?’ Jaime’s fingers tightened round the receiver.

‘Oh, not because of that.’ Nicola made an impatient sound. ‘I’ve got over all that. It’s just—well, I don’t want him to know I’ve called you. At least, not until it’s necessary.’

‘Nicola, what are you talking about?’ Jaime could hear a certain tightness in her voice, but she couldn’t help it. Five years was not such a long time, after all, and some things simply couldn’t be forgotten.

‘I want you to come and stay,’ said Nicola, without preamble. ‘Please, Jaime—–’ this as her friend started to speak, ‘don’t say no. Not until you’ve heard my reasons, anyway. I need someone so desperately, and there’s no one else I can talk to.’

‘Nicola, it’s impossible—–’

‘Why is it impossible?’ Nicola spoke urgently. ‘Jaime, you don’t understand. I’m almost going out of my head here. I need you, don’t you understand, I need you. You can’t just say no without listening to what I have to say.’

Jaime sighed. ‘Nicola, if something’s gone wrong with your marriage—–’

‘If something’s gone wrong!’ Nicola uttered a bitter cry. ‘Jaime, everything’s gone wrong, but everything. That’s why I want you to come out here. That’s why I need to talk to you. If I don’t talk to someone soon I’ll—I’ll go mad!’

‘Nicola, your mother—–’

‘You know Mummy and I never could talk to one another.’

‘Your father, then.’

‘Oh, Daddy!’ Nicola was scornful. ‘He’s so wrapped up in the bank, he hardly ever notices I exist!’

‘That’s not true, Nicola. You know he’d do anything to make you happy—–’

‘So long as whatever I want can be bought and paid for,’ exclaimed Nicola unsteadily. ‘Jaime, you know what Daddy’s like. He thinks money can buy anything.’

‘It can buy most things,’ put in Jaime tautly. ‘Nicola, whatever you say, I don’t think I’m the person you need to talk to. Whatever it is, why can’t you talk it over with Rafaello—–’

‘Raf!’ Nicola choked on his name. ‘No, I can’t talk it over with Raf. He won’t even talk about it,’ she declared confusingly. ‘Jaime, please—please! I know we haven’t seen one another for a long time, and I know you were unhappy when I married Raf, but—that’s all in the past now. Surely you can forgive me—–’

‘There was nothing to forgive, Nicola,’ replied Jaime stiffly. ‘You must have known—–’

‘I know we never talked about it, but—well—–’ Nicola hesitated. ‘It can’t have been easy for you when Raf made me his wife.’

Jaime held herself tightly in control. She would not get involved in an argument over Rafaello di Vaggio, she would not. Like Nicola said, it was all in the past now. Even admitting her aversion to getting involved in Nicola’s problems was to invite the suspicion that she still nurtured some resentment over what had happened; and she didn’t; she couldn’t.

‘Look, Nicky,’ she said, using her old pet name for her deliberately, ‘I’m right in the middle of a meeting with a group of sales representatives, and I really don’t have the time for this now. Can I call you back?’

‘No.’ Nicola spoke quickly. ‘I mean—I’ll call you back. Just tell me when and where, and I’ll manage it somehow.’

Jaime hesitated. ‘This evening, then, at the apartment. Say about six-thirty.’

‘Your time or mine?’

‘It’s summertime. They’re both the same,’ replied Jaime shortly, and rang off before Nicola could say any more.

It was difficult returning to the meeting. It was difficult trying to pick up the threads of the discussion she had been having with the sales force, particularly as she knew half of them resented her being there in the first place. But Martin Longman had chosen her out of an estimated one hundred applicants, and his confidence in her ability to handle the job more than made up for the petty jealousies she sensed from her more chauvinistic contemporaries. She knew many of them believed that her appointment owed more to her appearance than to her professionalism, but Jaime had learned to ride the insults that were frequently tossed her way.

‘I suggest we continue this meeting after lunch, gentlemen,’ she said, after re-establishing her position as chair-person. ‘I think we all need a little time to think over the proposals that have been made, and if anyone has any particular point they’d like to make, perhaps they would contact Miss Stephens and she’ll arrange a suitable schedule for this afternoon.’

‘You will be joining us, won’t you, Jaime?’ enquired Graham Aiken, with veiled sarcasm. ‘Or perhaps you have more pressing matters to attend to.’

Jaime’s smile was a triumph of self-possession. ‘Oh, yes, I’ll be joining you, Graham,’ she declared smoothly. ‘I have one or two points to put forward myself, and as Mr Longman’s representative I shall expect full reports from all of you concerning the sales figures for your particular areas.’

Graham’s lips thinned. ‘Then I trust we won’t spend half the afternoon waiting while you waste the firm’s time taking personal calls,’ he retorted offensively.

‘Oh, come off it, Aiken!’ Harold Ingram, one of the older representatives, slapped the other man on the back. ‘You’re only jealous because our beautiful assistant to the managing director doesn’t take any personal calls from you.’

‘Perhaps he’s hoping to divert attention from the fact that sales in the south-east have been falling recently,’ put in Hywel Evans sagely. ‘What’s the matter, Aiken? Losing your touch?’

The slightly edged banter continued as they all left the meeting, and although Jaime was grateful that for once she seemed to have come out best in the argument, her thoughts were too absorbed with the conversation she had had with Nicola di Vaggio to enjoy it. She couldn’t imagine what could have gone wrong with Nicola’s marriage to warrant that strange invitation, and while her natural curiosity was aroused, so too was a troubled sense of foreboding. They had not corresponded, they had not kept in touch after Nicola’s precipitate marriage to the wealthy Italian count, whose title she now seemed to have abandoned. Why then should Nicola contact her now, when the most logical people she should confide in were her own mother and father?

In her office, Jaime seated herself at her desk and observed the neat stack of letters Diane had left for her perusal. But she didn’t examine the letters. She didn’t even look at them. Instead, she surveyed the room in which she was sitting, appreciating anew the undiminishing feeling of satisfaction it gave her.

It was a beautiful office, light and spacious, with wide, double-glazed windows overlooking the muted roar of London’s busy streets twenty floors below. The walls were panelled in mahogany, reaching up to a high moulded ceiling that added to the room’s airiness, and the floor was snugly fitted with a dark red carpet. There was a light oak desk, several comfortable leather armchairs, a shelf of books illustrating the different kinds of cosmetics used throughout the ages, and an exquisitely carved cabinet, which served both as an ornament and as a handy container for the refrigerated cupboard that held refreshments for visitors. It was the office of someone of importance, an executive, at least, and Jaime never ceased to marvel at her own good fortune in owning it.

She sighed now, leaning back in her seat and allowing her shoulders to rest against the cool dark leather. But she kept her hands on the desk, as if afraid it might suddenly disappear in this sudden, and unwelcome, rush of memory. Against the cloth, the silvery brilliance of her hair was etched in stark relief, the plain gold earrings that hung from her lobes her only ornamentation. Her suit, a simple design in dark green linen, accentuated the tall slender lines of her figure, but even its severe cut could not disguise the undoubted proof of her femininity. In spite of her determination to compete on equal terms in a man’s world, she was still essentially female, and it was that awareness now that brought the troubled crease to her brow. What was Nicola up to? Why had she brought her problems to Jaime? And more importantly, how was Jaime going to get out of that unwanted invitation?

A tap at her door brought her head up with a start, and she smiled with some relief when she met her secretary’s anxious eyes.

‘I’m going to lunch now, Miss Forster,’ Diane said diffidently. ‘Is there anything I can get you before I leave?’

‘Oh—no, thank you, Diane.’ Jaime shook her head. ‘I’ll just have a sandwich here.’ Her nail nudged the pile of untouched mail. ‘I’ll get around to some of these later.’

‘Very well, Miss Forster.’ Diane was only nineteen and still slightly in awe of her new boss. ‘There’s nothing urgent. Oh—but Mr Longman called. He said to tell you, he’d be in to the office tomorrow morning.’

‘Fine.’ Jaime swung her chair back and forth in a semi-circular motion. ‘I guess I can handle anything that comes up. You go and get your lunch, Diane. I may need you to work over this evening.’

‘This evening?’ Consternation showed in the girl’s face, and Jaime moved forward in the chair to rest her elbows on the desk.

‘You’ve got a problem?’

‘I’ve got a date,’ admitted Diane reluctantly. ‘But I could break it …’

‘You don’t want to, is that it?’ Jaime gave her an understanding look. ‘Okay, Diane, you keep your date. If necessary, you can work over lunch tomorrow, hmm?’

‘Oh, thanks, Miss Forster!’ Diane’s gratitude was fervent. ‘See you later, then.’

‘Later,’ agreed Jaime, nodding her head, and as Diane left the room, she rose to her feet to walk across to the window.

It seemed a long time since she had been like Diane, she reflected ruefully, and then grimaced. It was a long time—almost eight years, to be exact. She had been eighteen when she started to work for Helena Holt Cosmetics, but unlike Diane, she had made her work the whole centre of her existence.

From the very first day, she had been ambitious. Before that—from the time she and her mother had been struggling to keep their heads above water and a cousin of her mother’s had taken pity on her and sent her to a decent school, she had been determined to make a success of her life. Her parents had divorced when she was very young, and as soon as Jaime was off her hands, her mother had retired to the country, to become companion to some elderly spinster. Jaime hadn’t seen her father for years, not since she was at junior school, and the years spent at an exclusive girls’ boarding school had taught her to be self-sufficient.

It had not always been easy. When she first started work, she had to live in dingy rooms and bedsitters, walking to work across town, and eating in cheap snack bars. Every spare penny she had, she had saved, and with it she had paid for an evening course at a commercial college, where she could supplement her knowledge of shorthand and typing with other skills like accountancy and economics. She had been an apt pupil, and when a vacancy had occurred in the progress office, she had applied. Much to the chagrin of some of the male applicants, she was successful, and she left the typing pool for the greener fields of advertising and finance. And yet, even then, she had not been content …

Turning from the window now, Jaime wondered, not for the first time, how much of her success was due to the way she looked. Certainly, her boss in the progress office, Clifford Jacobs, had found her very attractive—so much so that Jaime had had to fend off the accusations of his wife when she came storming into the office one evening to find Jaime and her husband closeted in his office discussing a new promotion. Not that there had been anything for Rebecca Jacobs to get so uptight about. Jaime wasn’t interested in men, she wasn’t interested in sexual relationships; and although her contemporaries might find that hard to believe from her appearance, they soon discovered her reputation was not misplaced. Only one man had succeeded in exploiting the weaknesses she had always subdued, and she had dealt with him as ruthlessly as her father had dealt with her mother. No man was going to control her. No man was going to make her dependent on him, financially or emotionally. There was only one way she knew for a woman to make her own way in the world, and that was by remaining free and unattached—and capable of providing herself with the kind of lifestyle men set so much store by.

It was late when she got home that evening, later than she had expected, due to Diane’s early departure, and Mrs Purdom met her at the door with the news that ‘that woman’ had called again.

Jaime sighed, glancing at her watch to discover it was almost a quarter to seven, and nodded. ‘I know, Mrs Purdom,’ she said, surprising the elderly housekeeper with this knowledge. ‘She called me at work today. It’s someone I used to—go to school with.’

‘Well, really!’ Mrs Purdom was not appeased, and as she helped Jaime off with her jacket she showed her disapproval. ‘Why couldn’t she tell me who she was, instead of refusing to give her name? If you’re old friends …’

‘She doesn’t want her husband to know she’s been calling me,’ replied Jaime drily, smiling at Mrs Purdom’s disbelieving expression. ‘It’s true. Wasn’t there ever a time when you kept something from your husband, Mrs Purdom? Didn’t you have any secrets you wanted to hide?’

‘Not that I can think of,’ retorted Mrs Purdom with indignation, and Jaime kicked off her shoes as she walked into her living room.

‘Well, lucky you,’ she remarked, dropping her briefcase on to the couch and approaching the drinks tray Mrs Purdom had left ready for her. ‘However, it does go to prove how confining that kind of a relationship can be.’

‘If you want to make it so,’ replied Mrs Purdom, watching with some misgivings as Jaime helped herself to a gin and tonic. ‘Well, and what time will you be wanting dinner? It’s a cold meal, so you can please yourself.’

Jaime lounged gracefully on to the couch, curling one of her long legs beneath her. ‘Oh, in about an hour, thank you, Mrs Purdom,’ she answered, putting up a lazy hand to loosen the coil of hair secured at her nape. ‘I think I’ll take a bath before I eat. I’m tired, I may have an early night.’

Mrs Purdom’s somewhat severe features softened. With her hair loose and falling in straight lines about her face, Jaime looked years younger than the elegant business executive who had walked into the apartment, and the housekeeper regarded her anxiously. With her guard down, and the strain of the afternoon’s business meeting showing in her face, Mrs Purdom thought she seemed more weary than usual, and the affection she felt for her employer kindled as she bent to gather up Jaime’s shoes.

‘You look tired,’ she declared, holding the shoes against her, and Jaime sighed.

‘Thanks!’

‘No, you know what I mean,’ exclaimed the housekeeper warmly. ‘You need a holiday, Miss Forster. You didn’t have one last year, and it’s already the end of May and you’ve made no plans for taking one this year either. What you need is a couple of weeks in the sun, away from dusty offices and boardrooms. Mr Longman would let you go, whenever you liked—you know he would. Doesn’t sunbathing on some hot sunny beach appeal to you?’

‘Not particularly.’ Jaime gave the housekeeper a rueful smile. ‘I’m not the lotus-eating kind, Mrs Purdom. Besides, we’re launching the new range in three weeks, and I can’t be away for that. It’s my baby.’

‘If you ask me, you’d be better employed having a real baby, instead of a cosmetic one!’ retorted Mrs Purdom shortly, and Jaime gurgled with laughter.

‘A cosmetic one! That’s good, Mrs Purdom. I must remember that. I may be able to use it in our next promotion.’

The elderly housekeeper sighed. ‘You won’t be serious, will you?’

‘About having a baby? No.’ Jaime gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘I’m not married, Mrs Purdom.’

‘Nor likely to be, judging by the way you behave,’ exclaimed the housekeeper dourly. ‘What happened to that nice Mr Penfold? You had him here to dinner a couple of times, and I thought—–’

‘Robert Penfold is just a good friend, Mrs Purdom,’ replied Jaime firmly, finishing her drink and placing the glass on the low table beside the couch. She rose lithely to her feet. ‘I think I’ll have my bath now. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to eat.’

Mrs Purdom shrugged expressively, but she said no more, and Jaime was grateful. Right now, she was in no mood to argue her reasons for not seeing Robert Penfold any more, and the prospect of a long soak in a hot bath was much more to her liking. There was still the problem of what she was going to do about Nicola’s call, and she hoped that a period of relaxation might provide her with sudden illumination.

Leaving the living room, Jaime crossed the narrow hall that separated it from her bedroom. In the beige and gold apartment she had decorated herself, she shed the rest of her clothes with some relief, and walked with feline grace into the adjoining bathroom.

As the water hissed and spurted into the sunken tub, she reflected, as she had done many times since she acquired this apartment two years ago, how lucky she was to have such pleasant surroundings to come home to. The last flat she had had, which had certainly been an improvement on the bedsitters she had previously occupied, had not been much bigger than her living room here, with a tiny bedroom and kitchen, and a bathroom that did not contain a bath, only a shower. One of the first things she had done when she leased this apartment was to spend part of every evening in the tub, luxuriating in its depth and size, and the sybaritic sensuality of the water.

As well as her bedroom and bathroom, there was a second bedroom and bathroom which Mrs Purdom used, the living room, of course, and a dining room and kitchen, fitted with every modern gadget available. There was even a small study, where Jaime could work in private, and situated as the apartment was on the tenth floor of the building, it was not troubled by the traffic sounds from Elgin Square.

She was just lifting her foot to step into the steaming water when the telephone started to ring. Frustrated at the realisation that she had not yet had time to think about what she was going to do, Jaime was tempted not to answer it, but something, some inner sense of loyalty perhaps to the girl Nicola had been, made her reach for a fluffy lemon bathrobe.

She reached the bedroom phone just as her housekeeper lifted the kitchen extension, and picking up the receiver, she said: ‘I’m here, Mrs Purdom.’

‘It’s me, Jaime, not Mrs Purdom,’ exclaimed Nicola’s voice huskily, and Jaime heard the housekeeper ring off as she explained the situation.

‘I’m sorry I missed your call earlier,’ she added, perching on the edge of the bed. ‘I’m afraid I was late getting home from the office. My secretary had to leave early, and there were one or two things I wanted typed up, so I did them myself.’

‘My, how efficient you sound,’ remarked Nicola, rather caustically. ‘The perfect lady executive! What’s it like to be able to boss people around, Jaime? Your secretary told me you’re Martin Longman’s assistant now. You certainly have made a success of your career.’

Jaime breathed deeply. ‘Is that why you rang, Nicola? To talk about my job? Because I should tell you, I have a hot bath waiting, and a pile of contracts to go over after dinner.’

‘Damn it, Jaime, don’t be so bloody supercilious!’ Nicola’s voice broke on a sob. ‘You know why I’m ringing, why I’ve been ringing for the past week or more!’ She paused. ‘Have you thought over what I asked you? Or—or is all this talk about how busy you are intended to warn me you haven’t the time to consider my invitation?’

Jaime sighed. ‘Nicola, whatever you want to talk to me about, couldn’t you tell me now? Or write me a letter? I promise I’ll reply as—–’

‘No! No, I couldn’t.’ Nicola’s voice rose perceptibly. ‘I need to see you, Jaime. I need to talk to you face to face. As—as for telling you over the phone—–’ She broke off and then continued in a lower key: ‘Anyone could be listening, anyone. Raf has spies everywhere, I know he has. He doesn’t trust me, you see. He never has. Oh, Jaime, please say you’ll come out here. If—if you don’t, I may just—just kill myself!’




CHAPTER TWO (#u4f5c875e-cbfe-5e94-ac0a-70b1232a8122)


OF course she wouldn’t! Jaime knew that. Or at least, that was what she told herself as the British Airways Boeing flew smoothly south over the snow-capped peaks of the Swiss Alps thousands of feet below her. People who threatened suicide seldom actually went through with it. It was a cry for help, that was all; the only means Nicola could think of to get her to do what she wanted. All the same, it was a request Jaime had found herself unable to refuse.

Even so, as she made arrangements to take two weeks’ leave of absence from her job, Jaime had known herself for a fool. It was the wrong time to be vacating her desk; it was the wrong place for her to be going; and it was certainly for the wrong reasons that she was setting out on such a mission. On top of everything else was the certain knowledge that Rafaello would not welcome her to the Castello di Vaggio, and she doubted very much whether Nicola had even told him that she was coming.

Her boss, Martin Longman, had been disappointed but understanding. ‘If you really think this friend of yours is in danger of losing her mind, then of course you must go,’ he said, when she first broached the subject with him. ‘But remember, the launch of Lady-Free takes place three weeks from Friday. I expect you to be back before then.’

‘Oh, I shall be.’ Jaime was determined, gripping the arms of her chair tightly as she sat across the desk from the man who was responsible for giving her this wonderful opportunity. ‘I’ve checked with Clifford Jacobs, and with the manufacturers, and everything’s going according to schedule. Unless there are any unforeseen problems, we should make it as arranged.’

‘I hope you’re right.’ Martin Longman lay back in his chair, regarding his personal assistant with faintly troubled eyes. It had been his decision to promote a woman to the position previously always occupied by a man, and so far he had had no cause for complaint. Jaime had accomplished her duties with efficiency and precision, bringing to the job a flair that her predecessors had lacked. Perhaps a woman was the logical choice, after all, Martin reflected, reaching for the box of cigars that was never far from his elbow. To listen to his board one would never have thought so, but even the most prejudiced among them had been forced to acknowledge that Jaime Forster had acquitted herself with skill and enthusiasm.

Jaime, watching the fleeting expressions crossing her boss’s face, knew a momentary anxiety. What did Martin really think of her asking for time off now with this important launch in the offing? Was he asking himself whether a male executive would have committed so unprofessional an offence? Or was he prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt? In the past, she had never let him down. Did he think she was letting him down now?

‘If you feel I shouldn’t be away at this time—–’ she began, but she didn’t get to finish her statement.

‘I know you wouldn’t have asked, if it hadn’t been a matter of life and death,’ remarked Martin wryly. ‘Come along, I’ll buy you lunch. That will give the hawks in the boardroom something else to worry about!’

Jaime’s smile was grateful as they went down in the lift. It wasn’t the first time Martin had bought her lunch, and she knew that fact was frequently seized upon by her opponents in their efforts to get her abilities disparaged. But her friendship with the managing director remained on a purely business footing, even though she knew he had marital problems of his own.

They went to the Highwayman, a hotel within walking distance of the offices in Holland Park. They went straight into the restaurant, and after the meal was ordered and pre-lunch drinks had been brought, Martin regarded her thoughtfully over the rim of his glass.

‘Who is this friend of yours?’ he enquired, his bushy brows drawing together interrogatively. ‘You’ve spoken of your friends before, but I don’t remember a Nicola being mentioned. How long have you known her?’

‘Since schooldays.’ Jaime sipped her Martini appreciatively. ‘Nicola was in my year at Abbotsford. We were quite—close friends.’

‘Are,’ corrected Martin drily, putting his glass aside. ‘Or was that a Freudian slip?’

Jaime gave a short laugh. ‘Perhaps. I haven’t seen Nicola for more than five years. Not since—not since she got married, in fact.’

‘Ah.’ Martin was looking intrigued. ‘Do I detect a thwarted romance?’

‘No.’ Jaime was delighted to discover she could speak quite calmly. ‘But—well, she married an Italian. A count, actually. The Conte di Vaggio. He took her back to Tuscany, and we just lost touch with one another.’

‘Yet she knew where to find you,’ Martin pointed out, and Jaime nodded.

‘I was already working for Holts when she left England. Just because I’m no longer in the typing pool it doesn’t mean the receptionist wouldn’t know where to find me.’

‘I suppose not.’ Martin looked at her humorously. ‘I wonder how you are regarded in the typing pool now. To travel so far in such a short time!’

‘Do you regret it?’

Jaime’s thickly-lashed grey eyes invited his opinion, and Martin shook his head. A handsome man, still only in his middle fifties, he attracted a lot of female attention, and they both knew that their relationship was the source of constant speculation throughout the company. But now he simply reached out and covered one of her hands with his, and said quietly:

‘You’re the best assistant I’ve ever had, and you know it. Just don’t get to thinking you might like to try the matrimonial state yourself while you’re out there. Italians are very keen on the family, I know, and if your friend’s husband has any eligible brothers or cousins or uncles desirous of a wife, remember you’ve got a professional family here, depending on you.’

Jaime smiled. ‘I’ll remember.’

‘Good.’ Martin nodded approvingly. ‘Ah, here comes our smoked salmon. Let’s enjoy the food and talk about this new idea I have for promoting our products alongside a matching range of garments. I mean, if we could create a certain image, a Helena Holt look …’

Jaime looked down at the screen of cloud cover which had emerged to hide the blue waters of the Mediterranean far below them. That lunch with Martin had taken place two days ago, two days in which she had been rushed off her feet, clearing up all outstanding matters at the office and finding time in her lunch hour to shop for one or two shirts and sweaters, suitable for early June in that north-western part of Italy known as Tuscany.

Mrs Purdom had been a boon, laundering and pressing and packing her suitcase with all the items necessary for a week-long stay at the Castello di Vaggio. Jaime had limited her agreement to accept Nicola’s invitation to one week only, allowing herself the other week in case anything should go wrong. She didn’t know what could go wrong, but Nicola had never been a particularly stable character, and although Jaime suspected she had exaggerated the situation, her hysteria on the phone last evening had not been pretence.

Mrs Purdom, on the other hand, persisted in regarding the trip as a holiday. She was the only one, apart from Nicola, of course, who welcomed Jaime’s enforced holiday.

‘I said you needed a break,’ she had declared smugly, as she prepared Jaime’s breakfast that morning. ‘A week or two in Italy will make all the difference to you—get you out of that office, and put some colour in your cheeks.’

‘It’s not a pleasure trip, Mrs Purdom.’ Jaime was half impatient. ‘I’m just helping out an old friend, that’s all. I’ll be back, I hope by the middle of next week.’

‘Well, don’t you hurry. There’s nothing spoiling here,’ declared Mrs Purdom irrepressibly. ‘Now, are you sure there’s nothing you’ve forgotten before I lock your case?’

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the No Smoking sign has now been switched on, and passengers are requested to check that their seat belts are fastened, that chairs are in the upright position, and that all cigarettes are extinguished. No smoking is allowed until passengers are inside the terminal buildings. We shall be landing at Pisa airport in only a few minutes. Thank you.’

The stewardess smiled at Jaime as she put her microphone away and Jaime felt the familiar sense of tension she always experienced prior to landing. It wasn’t anticipation of the landing itself. She had flown to Paris and Rome several times during her years at Helena Holt, and only two months ago, Martin had taken her with him on a trip to New York. It was the uneasy touch of apprehension she felt upon arriving at an alien destination, and in this instance she felt doubly apprehensive at the knowledge that within a couple of hours she would be meeting Rafaello again.

The aircraft landed without incident, and as Jaime was sitting at the front of the plane, she was one of the first to disembark. She passed through Passport Control without a hitch, collected her suitcase from the unloading bay, and then walked swiftly through Customs, keeping an alert eye open for Nicola’s diminutive figure.

The arrivals lounge was full of people waiting for friends and relations to appear from any one of the half dozen aircraft that had landed since Jaime’s flight touched down. Surely Nicola would have the sense to move to the front, thought Jaime tensely. Among so many taller people, she could easily be overlooked.

‘Miss Forster!’

The crisp masculine tones set Jaime’s nerves jumping. In spite of the fact that she had been steeling herself for this moment ever since she had agreed to Nicola’s blackmail, she was alarmed to find that Rafaello’s voice still had the power to turn her bones to jelly. She swung round, the suitcase dropping nervelessly from her hand, and confronted the man she had last seen, standing with his back to her, in the medieval beauty of Westminster Cathedral.

‘Rafaello-Raf!’ she stammered, despising herself for her incompetence. ‘What a surprise! Where’s Nicola? I thought she was coming to meet me.’

‘Nicola’s not well.’ Rafaello’s chilling dark eyes swept her anxious face without compassion. If she had changed, if Nicola had changed, Rafaello had not, and her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth as she surveyed his lean features.

He had always been tall, taller than the average Italian, and therefore topping her five feet eight inches by some four inches more. He was dark, as was to be expected, though not so dark that it was not possible to glimpse lighter strands in his dark hair. His skin was brown, textured by the sun, and the eyes that were surveying her so coldly were as black as hell’s kettles.

‘Nicola’s ill?’ For the moment Jaime tried to concentrate on what he was saying, not on the manner in which he was saying it.

‘I said—not well,’ Rafaello amended shortly. He picked up her suitcase. ‘Is this all your luggage?’

‘I—yes.’ Jaime didn’t like being disconcerted, but she was disconcerted now. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been put to this trouble. If I’d known—–’

‘Yes? What would you have done?’ Rafaello prompted, starting off across the crowded reception area. ‘Put off your visit, perhaps? Given us a little more time to prepare for you?’

Jaime pressed her lips together as she followed him. With his leather-jacketed figure forging ahead of her, it was difficult to think coherently about anything. What was he implying? That she had invited herself to the Castello? It was obvious he didn’t want her here, and truthfully she could hardly blame him.

Outside the airport buildings, the afternoon sun was infinitely warmer than its English counterpart. When she had left Heathrow, her cream flannel pants suit had not been out of place, but here in Italy, the trousers felt incredibly warm, and she shed her jacket to reveal the bronze silk shirt she had bought in Selfridges just last week. There was a breeze, however, and she was glad of its coolness against her cheeks, even if its errant current brought strands of silky hair to brush against her neck.

‘If you will wait here, I will bring the automobile,’ said Rafaello, pausing at the kerb and setting down her case. His dark eyes raked her flushed cheeks and tumbled hair before moving lower to denounce the unbuttoned neckline of her shirt. His scornful appraisal made her want to put up her hand and fasten the neck of her shirt, but she refused to succumb to so obvious a condemnation. Instead, she faced him proudly, uncaring that the wind was exposing the smooth curve of her breast, and with a silent imprecation, he strode abruptly away.

In Italy, all men enjoy looking at a beautiful woman, and in the five minutes or so before Rafaello returned with the car, Jaime quickly got used to countering their amorous glances. Even so, she was immensely relieved when Rafaello did return. She would not have been entirely surprised if he had chosen to abandon her after all.

The car, a sleek red Maserati, nosed to the kerb beside her, and Rafaello sprang out to stow her suitcase in the boot. ‘Get in,’ he directed, swinging open the door, and with a gesture of acquiescence Jaime obeyed. She noticed that when Rafaello came to join her, he made sure his thigh did not brush hers as he levered himself behind the wheel, and the car moved away smoothly, without any further need for conversation.

For a time, Jaime was content to remain silent. Indeed, Rafaello’s attitude was such that she was tempted to let him nurture his ill-humour all the way to Vaggio. But concern for Nicola, and the awareness that for seven days, at least, she was expecting to enjoy his hospitality, inevitably aroused her own feelings of compassion. Even so, she waited until the hilly suburbs of the city were behind them, but once they were on to the anonymous autostrada, that connected Pisa with Florence, Jaime endeavoured to recover the situation.

‘I assume you know that Nicola rang me,’ she ventured, wishing for once that she smoked so that she had something to do with her hands, and then flinched when his lean face turned aggressively in her direction.

‘She rang you?’ he stated disbelievingly. ‘You expect me to believe that?’

Jaime gasped. ‘It’s the truth. Why else would I be here?’

‘You tell me.’ Rafaello’s thin mouth compressed as he turned back to the road.

Jaime felt more than a little indignant. ‘I didn’t ask for this invitation,’ she said tautly.

Rafaello’s brown-fingered hands tightened on the wheel. ‘Then why have you come here? I would have thought an invitation to the Castello di Vaggio was the last thing you might accept.’

‘And you’d be right.’ Jaime was stung into retaliation. ‘I knew you wouldn’t approve.’

‘Would you expect me to?’

Jaime found she was breathing shallowly and took a deep gulp of air. ‘I came because Nicola asked me to come,’ she declared tersely. ‘I had hoped she would meet me, and that any conversation between the two of us would be in the company of other people. I didn’t know Nicola was not going to be well enough to drive so far, or that you might see this as an opportunity to re-open old hostilities!’

Rafaello cast a mocking look in her direction. ‘How cold you are, Miss Forster!’ he observed scornfully. ‘How controlled! I can hardly conceive that I once believed you were a warm human being, a creature of flesh and blood! It was a weakness on your part, no doubt, and one which you have evidently succeeded in destroying. Forgive me for reminding you of times you would prefer to forget.’

Jaime’s nostrils flared. ‘Why do you persist in calling me Miss Forster? Don’t you think that’s a little petty?’

‘Petty?’ He lifted his shoulders uncomprehendingly. ‘What is petty?’

‘Mean—small-minded.’ Jaime’s fists clenched. ‘And insulting me is rather childish, isn’t it?’

‘Was I doing that?’ Rafaello’s tone had hardened nevertheless. ‘I am sorry. I keep forgetting you are still a woman.’

Jaime’s fingers itched to strike the arrogant expression from his face, but the autostrada was not the place to indulge her temper. Besides, he should not know he could get under her skin so easily, and she steeled herself to ride his abuse without exhibiting any obvious reaction.

‘You are the assistant to the company director now, are you not?’ he remarked, a few minutes later, and she forced herself to look at him.

‘Is there anything wrong with that?’

‘No.’ He paused. ‘You have flown high and wide since those early days. The humble typist becomes the sophisticated business executive. Tell me, have you found your job as satisfying as you thought it would be?’

‘Completely,’ replied Jaime crisply, concentrating on the curve of the road ahead, though she was aware of Rafaello’s eyes upon her.

‘In all ways?’ he persisted, the tenor of his voice deepening as he spoke, and Jaime’s resentment grew at the deliberate way he was attempting to disrupt her self-possession.

‘In all ways,’ she assured him, meeting his scornful gaze. ‘There’s more to life than meekly accommodating a man’s sexual instincts, if that’s what you mean. A woman should learn to use her head as well as her body.’

‘As you have?’ snapped Rafaello harshly, and Jaime nodded.

‘Why not?’

His jaw hardened. ‘I take it you don’t regret—anything.’

‘No. Why should I?’ She paused. ‘Do you?’

Rafaello’s thick lashes narrowed his eyes as he turned back again to the road. ‘What have I to regret?’ he stated bleakly. ‘I never knew you.’

There was silence for a time after that, while Jaime endeavoured to recover her composure. Much to her dismay, Rafaello’s last words had scraped a nerve, and she found to her chagrin that her hands were shaking and her knees felt disturbingly weak. She had thought that nothing he could say would disconcert her, but she had been wrong. His final denunciation had left her feeling raw and vulnerable, and she wished with all her heart that Nicola had not abandoned her to her husband’s less than tender mercies.

About thirty kilometres east of Pisa, Rafaello drove off the autostrada on to the narrower country roads that led up into the Tuscan hills. All about them now was the rolling Italian countryside, with its patchwork of green fields interspersed with silvery-green olive groves and acres of vines. Thickly-wooded hills overlooked valleys where the wheat was already turning golden in the heat, and as the late afternoon sunlight shimmered hazily over church spires and cast shadows across the glistening curve of the river, Jaime forgot her misgivings in the sheer delight of being there.

‘It’s beautiful!’ she breathed, as the Maserati crested a rise and the whole panorama of a milk-and-honey valley was spread out below them. ‘I didn’t know—I never dreamed it would be like this!’

‘Would it have made any difference?’ asked Rafaello flatly, and then, as if prepared to meet her halfway, he added: ‘They say nature outdid herself in Tuscany. I love it, of course. It is my home, my land, my heritage! I could never give it up.’

Jaime shook her head. ‘I can understand that.’ She lifted her eyes. ‘Is that a monastery up there?’

Rafaello followed her gaze. Clinging to the hillside several hundred feet above them, the white walls of an ancient building stood out in sharp relief, and his lips curved in a wry smile. It was the first time she had seen anything close to humour soften his stern features since they had met at the airport, and the difference it made was amazing. Gone were the grim lines that bracketed his mouth; gone, too, was the frowning cleft between his dark brows; and the parting of his lips revealed the uneven attractiveness of strong white teeth.

‘It was,’ he conceded, turning his attention to the road again, as they descended a sharp series of bends into the little town of Santo Giustino. ‘It is an hotel now; small and spartan, it is true, but capable of accommodating perhaps a dozen people.’

‘I’d like to stay there,’ said Jaime, looking back over her shoulder. ‘The view must be magnificent.’

‘I imagine it must be.’ Rafaello negotiated the narrow entry to the main square of the town. He glanced at his watch. ‘You must be thirsty. We will stop here for a drink before continuing our journey.’

Jaime was surprised. ‘Is it much further?’ she asked, as he pulled the Maserati off the road and into a narrow parking space.

‘Maybe forty kilometres,’ answered Rafaello carelessly, pushing open his door. ‘Come, we will have a drink at the café.’

Jaime got out of the car with some reluctance. Forty kilometres was not far – a matter of some twenty-five miles. Hardly a great distance. Wouldn’t it have been simpler to drive straight to the Castello? After what Rafaello had said, she couldn’t believe he had any desire to prolong this journey.

But it was too late now for misgivings. Rafaello was locking the car doors, and as her jacket was locked inside, Jaime had no choice but to accompany him as she was. Not that what she was wearing was in any way out of place in a town that catered frequently for tourists. But she was aware of Rafaello’s eyes upon her, and that was what troubled her most.

Santo Giustino was a pretty little town, made the more so by the strings of coloured bunting strung out across the narrow streets. It was very old, with shops and houses set close together, and backed by a beautiful little cathedral, also decorated with flowers.

‘It is carnival time,’ explained Rafaello, as they crossed the square to where several tables had been set outside the doors of a small restaurant. ‘Tomorrow there will be a procession of floats, and a festa with fireworks, celebrating the feast of Santo Gennaro.’ He grimaced ruefully. ‘In fact, the feast of Santo Gennaro should take place in January, but who can enjoy a festa when there is snow on the hills and a cold wind blows down from the Alps?’

Jaime smiled at him. She couldn’t help herself, and for a moment Rafaello shared her amusement. His lean, attractive features mirrored her enjoyment, and then, as if a barrier had dropped between them, he turned away, gesturing to her to take a seat while he went to find the proprietor.

They drank Campari and soda, sitting on opposite sides of the small table, with its blue and white chequered cloth. As the shadows lengthened, more people emerged to stroll in and out of the shops that edged the square, or joined them at the tables, to talk and share a bottle of wine. It was all very peaceful and civilised, but Jaime felt anything but calm. She was only conscious of Rafaello’s brooding preoccupation, and the knowledge that despite his concern for her welfare, he could not relax in her presence.

‘Could we—could we spend a moment in the cathedral?’ she ventured, when both their glasses were empty and it was obvious he was about to suggest going back to the car. ‘I adore old churches, and this one is very old, isn’t it? La Cattedrale de Santo Giustino—I read it on that notice over there,’ she added apologetically. ‘Please. I’d like to see inside.’

Rafaello glanced at his watch once again and got to his feet. ‘If you wish,’ he declared, without expression, and taking a deep breath, Jaime accompanied him round the square and up the four shallow stone steps that led into the candelit interior of the small cathedral.

It was not like any cathedral Jaime had seen before. Its size precluded any impressive displays of architecture, but its atmosphere was instilled with the generations of believers who had worshipped here. She noticed Rafaello crossed himself as they entered the nave, dipping his hand into the holy water and making a silent obeisance. Not having been brought up in any particular belief herself, Jaime nonetheless envied him his faith, and she bowed her head respectfully as she wandered up the aisle.

The altar was lit by two tall candelabra, and to one side there was a statue of the Virgin and child, with several unlit candles waiting to be used. ‘To light a candle for someone you love is an act of faith,’ remarked Rafaello behind her, stretching past her to put several coins in the collection box. ‘But faith is not something you know much about, is it, Jaime?’ he added, as she turned quickly to look at him.

He was close, too close, in the shadowy confines of the beautiful little church. The neck of his cream shirt was open, exposing the strong column of his throat, and from the opening she could smell the warm scent of his body. It was a disturbing scent, clean and essentially male, and her breath caught in her throat. ‘The last time I saw you was in a cathedral, did you know that?’ she asked huskily, her voice revealing a little of the strain she was under, and Rafaello looked at her from between narrowed lids.

‘You came to the church?’ he demanded. And then, with rough passion: ‘Why?’

Jaime forced a lighter tone. ‘I—was invited, remember?’

‘You said you would not come.’

‘I changed my mind.’ She shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘A woman’s prerogative.’

Rafaello’s breathing was ragged. ‘You would have made a beautiful bride,’ he said unsteadily. ‘So tall—so slender—so fair.’ In the flickering light from the candles, his dark face was taut with emotion, and because Jaime was wearing high-heeled sandals, their eyes were almost on a level. Compulsively, it seemed, he lifted his hand to slide its length against the curve of her cheek, and in the incense-laden atmosphere, Jaime’s senses spun away …

‘A che ora si parte, padre?’

The youthful voice of a boy, dressed in the robes of a novice and speaking to an elderly man attired in a priest’s hassock, broke the spell. One moment, Rafaello’s hand was against her cheek, his thumb brushing her lips, his cool fingers incredibly sensuous against her heated skin, his dark eyes moving over her face with something akin to hunger—and the next, he had turned from her and was striding down the nave and out of the cathedral, his long legs extending the distance between them, as if by doing so he could put her out of his life.

Jaime followed more slowly. Pausing for a moment to light one of the candles and secure it in place, she nodded diffidently to the elderly priest, who had watched Rafaello’s departure with evident perplexity. ‘Vada con Dio, signorina,’ he murmured, making the sign of the cross, and Jaime bowed her head respectfully as she emerged from the cathedral into the slanting sunlight of the evening.




CHAPTER THREE (#u4f5c875e-cbfe-5e94-ac0a-70b1232a8122)


JAIME’S room overlooked the curve of the valley and the lower, wooded slopes of the mountains that gave it protection. It did not have the most impressive view of any of the rooms in the Castello, nor was it the largest apartment in the castle, but Jaime had been so relieved to see it, she had cared little for its size or situation.

Awakening the next morning in a bed whose proportions were totally out of place in such modest surroundings, Jaime lay for several minutes wishing she did not have to get up. The prospect of the day ahead filled her with apprehension, and she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she should not have given in to Nicola’s pleading.

The night before, they had arrived at the Castello when the drifting shadows of evening were casting a misty insubstantiality over the surrounding countryside. The latter part of the journey had been by far the most arduous, not only because of Rafaello’s brooding silence, but also because the last few miles had been a twisting turning climb through picture-book scenery that nevertheless was harrowing on the nerves. Perhaps if Rafaello had driven less aggressively, more consideringly, Jaime would not have felt as if her head was spinning by the time they reached the little town of Vaggio su Ravino, but as it was, nausea was her most obvious reaction when she first saw Rafaello’s home.

The Castello di Vaggio was about half a mile from the town, at the head of a winding road that Jaime guessed would be treacherous in winter. And it was a castle, she discovered in amazement, clinging to the mountains in much the same way as the monastery she had admired earlier. Somehow, she had imagined that the name castello was just the courtesy title for a rather large villa, and to discover that Rafaello’s ancestors had built the castle hundreds of years before had come as quite a shock. He had never boasted of his antecedents. He had never even mentioned that the di Vaggio family had lived in this part of Italy for more than eight hundred years. But Nicola had told her, spilling the castle’s history carelessly as she showed Jaime to her room, answering her questions without enthusiasm, and obviously finding the subject tiresome when she wanted to talk about herself.

Nicola had been waiting for them the night before. When the sleek Maserati swept beneath the stone gateway that gave access to the courtyard, she had emerged from the castle, her flowing velvet caftan giving an impression of an earlier age.

Rafaello, who had not spoken since they left Santo Giustino, paused to give Jaime a tight look before thrusting his door open. ‘My wife appears to have recovered,’ he remarked, rescuing her jacket from the back of the car and tossing it into her lap. ‘You will find she often has these attacks. But do not worry, she is not as fragile as she looks.’

‘But—–’

Jaime started to speak, but Rafaello was not listening to her. He had already thrust his legs out of the car, and as he got to his feet, Nicola reached them.

‘You’re late,’ she pouted, looking up at her husband with resentful eyes. ‘I’ve been waiting for ages. Was Jaime’s plane late?’

‘So far as I know, it was on time,’ replied Rafaello, flexing his weary shoulder muscles. ‘We came as quickly as we could. However, you will appreciate that I do not have the ability to rid our roads of other traffic!’

‘Don’t be cross.’ Nicola’s lips tilted. ‘What must Jaime think of us?’ She reached up to press her lips against his taut cheek, her eyes darting sideways as the other girl got out of the car. ‘Caro,’ she murmured huskily, her fingers seeking the parted vee of his shirt, and then stepped back with a provoking smile as Rafaello dashed her hands away. Without looking at his wife again, he strode away across the courtyard, disappearing through the doorway that Nicola previously had used.

Jaime, not knowing what to make of what she had seen, made an effort to behave naturally. Going round to the back of the car, she fumbled awkwardly for the catch of the boot, but Nicola, after following her husband’s retreating figure with her eyes, seemed to remember her manners, and came eagerly to embrace her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, the look of provocation quite gone now, and replaced by a distinctly tearful expression. ‘Oh, Jaime,’ she hugged her very close, ‘you don’t know how good it is to see you again! You must forgive me if I seem thoughtless, but Raf can be so cruel at times.’

‘That’s all right. It’s good to see you, too, Nicola.’ Jaime drew away determinedly, immediately aware of how gauche Nicola always made her feel. She had changed little, hardly at all, in fact, and her diminutive height of a little over five feet had always made Jaime feel like an Amazon. A cap of glossy dark hair framed a face that might have modelled a Botticelli angel, and in those early days Jaime had often marvelled that Rafaello had not chosen Nicola from the beginning. She was so much more to his taste, after all, not least because Nicola had had no ambitions beyond making a good marriage, and she had done her best to catch his attention before Jaime came on the scene.

‘Leave your luggage,’ exclaimed Nicola impatiently now. ‘Giulio will attend to it. You must be starving. We’ll go and have dinner, and then I’ll show you your room.’

After the journey Jaime had just had, she would have preferred to go straight to her room. A shower and a change of clothes would have been very welcome, but as Nicola’s guest, she felt obliged to fall in with her wishes. But afterwards …

It was deliciously cool inside the thick walls of the castle. Outside, the evening was quite humid, but inside an air-conditioning system that required no electricity kept the atmosphere fresh.

‘I thought it would be incredibly cold in winter,’ confessed Nicola, leading the way across a marble-tiled hall, with suits of armour set beneath fading tapestries, ‘but it’s not. As a matter of fact, it can be quite cosy; although I must admit I prefer the apartment in Rome.’

‘The apartment?’ echoed Jaime, gazing about her with fascinated eyes. An inlaid marble staircase swept above them in a veined pinkish semi-circle, and a vaulted ceiling arched above a mural gallery.

‘Of course.’ Nicola led the way into an oblong-shaped dining room, where a rectangular table was set with three places. ‘Didn’t you know Raf had an apartment in Rome? He has a house in Florence, too, and a palazzo in Venice. He’s a rich man, Jaime. Surely you knew that.’

‘I knew.’ Jaime schooled her features not to show any expression but one of polite interest. ‘You live here, though.’

‘Most of the time—unfortunately,’ declared Nicola, with a tightening of her lips. ‘Raf insists on being near his blasted vines. All the other vigneti leave the growing of the grapes to their estate capos. But not Raf!’

She pulled impatiently at a velvet cord, hanging beside a screened fireplace, and presently a woman, dressed all in black, appeared. ‘We will eat now, Maria,’ Nicola declared, as Jaime moved to look out of the long windows. ‘Will you tell the signore we are waiting?’

‘Credo che sia partito, signora,’ murmured the woman apologetically, and Jaime, turning from the window, saw the look of anger that crossed Nicola’s face.

‘Speak English, can’t you?’ she exclaimed, her fists clenching tightly at her sides. ‘Where is he? Where has he gone? He knew we were about to have dinner.’

‘I’ll conte—the signore—he has gone to the—to the vigneti, signora,’ stammered Maria, spreading her hands. ‘Mi spiace—–’

‘Oh, bring in the food!’ ordered Nicola shortly, lifting the carafe the woman had left on the table, and pouring herself a glass of red wine. ‘Pronto, Maria!’

‘Si, signora.’

Maria withdrew and Nicola raised the glass to her lips. ‘I suppose you think I was hard on her,’ she remarked, observing Jaime’s doubtful expression. She swallowed a mouthful, of the wine. ‘The woman’s a fool! She should have told me immediately where Raf had gone.’

‘Where—has he gone?’ asked Jaime, not sure she had interpreted Maria’s words correctly, and Nicola waved the hand holding the glass in a gesture of resignation.

‘He’s gone down to the winery,’ she declared carelessly. ‘I told you, Raf cares more about his vines than he does about—practically anything.’ She pulled a heavily carved chair away from the table. ‘Sit down, can’t you? We don’t stand on ceremony here.’

The meal that followed was deliciously flavoured and expertly presented. Slices of cured ham were offered with cubes of iced melon; there was a fragrant vegetable soup, and eggs served with pasta, and pizza, piled high with tomatoes and cheese and anchovies. There was crisp salad, and fresh fruit, and cheeses, both sweet and savoury, and wine of various vintages, looking magnificent in tall, long-stemmed glasses.

But Jaime had no stomach to appreciate any of it. She didn’t like the undercurrents here. She didn’t care for the way Nicola treated the servants, or understand her mood that alternated between a touching gentleness and a brittle impatience. One moment she seemed subdued and appealing, arousing Jaime’s compassion when she spoke of the loneliness she suffered here, miles from her friends and family. She scarcely understood the language, she said, and although most of the servants could speak English, they lapsed into their own tongue whenever she came near.

Yet, to counter this impression of devoted womanhood, was Nicola’s attitude when Jaime suggested she should talk to Rafaello, explain the situation and try to make him see the problems she was experiencing. Then Nicola became quite agitated, dismissing Jaime’s words with an hysterical outburst, declaring that Rafaello wouldn’t talk to her, that he didn’t understand her, and that there were times when she wished she was dead.

Lying in bed now, Jaime felt the faintest trace of a headache stirring just behind her temples. It was probably the amount of wine she had drunk the night before, she decided, refusing to admit the possibility that her unease about her visit here could be responsible. After all, Nicola was not in any immediate danger. She was disturbed, certainly, but given time they might be able to work something out. It was not her problem. She had come here at Nicola’s request and she would leave as soon as she had convinced her that this was something she had to handle herself. She was not a psychiatrist, she was not even a marriage guidance counsellor, and Nicola had to be made to see that Rafaello was the obvious person to turn to.

Sliding out of bed, Jaime padded barefoot across the carpeted floor and peered weakly through the blinds. It was another sunlit morning, and when she pushed the window open she could smell the fragrance of newly-cut grass. It was still early, barely eight o’clock, but the sound of horse’s hooves from the yard below drew her attention from the shining curve of the river and its banks starred with daisies. Rafaello and another man were leading two horses out of the courtyard and on to the hillside beyond, and Jaime drew back out of sight, afraid that he might think she was spying on him.

He had not returned when Nicola showed her to her room the night before, and although the other girl would have lingered, Jaime begged to be excused. She was confused and she was tired, and she wanted desperately to be alone to think about everything that had happened. Nicola had eventually left her with the somewhat disturbing injunction that they would have plenty of time to talk today.

Yet now here was Rafaello, the cause of her friend’s unhappiness, if Nicola was to be believed, embarking on an early morning outing with every sign of pleasured anticipation at the prospect. This morning, too, he looked more relaxed than he had done last evening. Gone were the expensive jacket and well-cut trousers he had worn the day before. In their place, tight-fitting jeans clung to his thighs, pushed into knee-length leather boots; and instead of the fine silk shirt Jaime remembered, a rough cotton jerkin was stretched across his chest. It exposed the upper part of his chest, exposed the brown skin, the muscles taut beneath, and Jaime knew a sudden dizziness at the remembrance of how smooth his skin had felt against hers. ‘Skin on skin,’ he had said, pulling her down on top of him in his suite at the hotel in London, and the afternoon had slid away as so many afternoons had done …

Jaime turned back from the window abruptly, pushing back the tumbled weight of her hair with an unsteady hand. This would not do, she told herself fiercely. She had not come here to re-live old memories. She had come because Nicola had begged her to do so, and the sooner she set about achieving her objective the better.

Ignoring the sounds from beyond the windows, she pushed her feet into fluffy mules and went into the bathroom. Like her room, which had only the minimum of furnishings, the bathroom, too, was of spartan design. A huge white bath with clawed feet, a matching basin, and a lavatory set up on a kind of dais completed its fitments, along with a noisy water-tank, that protested every time she turned on the taps. She had taken a bath the night before, so now she contented herself with a rather lukewarm wash before returning to the bedroom.




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