him, but apart from the discarded cigarette, burning on the ground, there was no sign of him.
She thought, good riddance, and went on up to the cabin.
At some point, she thought, stepping under the shower, she would have a word with Tonio Lerucci about this Marco’s precious cousin.
She peeled off the borrowed swimsuit, and wrapped another towel around her, sarong-style, as she went to her cubicle to dress.
Only to realise when she got in there that she’d made a mistake somehow. Because the dress hanging from the peg bore no resemblance to her navy linen camouflage.
Except that it was also blue, a vibrant shade, like lapis lazuli, with the added sheen of silk.
She was about to go and search the other cubicles when she realised that the pile of neatly folded underwear on the stool in the corner was certainly hers. And at the same moment she saw that the strange dress had a piece of paper pinned to its filmy drift of skirt.
She detached it, and, lips compressed, read the message.
‘Forgive me,’ it ran, ‘but it is clearly time the navy dress was consigned to a well-deserved oblivion. I hope its replacement will give you pleasure.’ No signature, but the initials ‘G.B.’—just in case she was in the slightest doubt over who was responsible for this—this outrage.
She said aloud, her voice shaking, ‘How dare he? How dare he do this—presume to criticise me?’
She dismissed from her mind the fact that the navy dress had been the one she liked least in her entire wardrobe, and that she’d chosen to wear it solely as a gesture.
And she ignored the sly voice in her head reminding her that all the Marchese had done was recognise what she was up to and respond with his own telling form of provocation.
‘He has no right,’ she stormed on. ‘I’m damned if I’ll wear his bloody dress. I’ll see him in hell before…’
And stopped right there, as she realised the other options open to her. She could either climb back into that damp and clammy swimsuit, or walk around in her undies. And neither alternative held any appeal for her.
On the other hand, Guido Bartaldi could not be allowed to get away with this high-handed behaviour.
Reluctantly, Clare donned her underwear, and slid the new dress over her head. She was half hoping it wouldn’t fit, although that would mean having to wear her towel back to the house.
But of course it moulded itself to her slender curves perfectly, the low, rounded neckline giving just a hint of the swell of her breasts and the folds of the skirt whispering silkily around her slim legs. The colour looked good on her too, she admitted grudgingly.
But somehow that made everything worse—implying that he had some in-built intimate knowledge of her—her size, her shape, even her skin tones.
She found she was shivering, and shook herself impatiently. She needed to march into this confrontation, not hang back, trembling.
But when she got back to the villa, she was halted in her tracks by the realisation that she had no idea where Guido was. And there was no kindly major-domo waiting to point the way, either.
As she stood, debating her next move, a door to the rear of the massive hallway opened and Tonio Lerucci appeared. He did not see Clare at once, because he was still looking back over his shoulder into the room he’d just vacated, and apparently finishing a conversation with its occupant.
When he turned, his brows lifted in an open surprise. ‘Signorina Marriot?’ He laughed. ‘Forgive me. Almost I did not recognise you.’
Clare smiled sweetly back. ‘Don’t worry about it, signore. Sometimes I hardly know myself.’ She paused. ‘Is our lord and master alone? I’d like to speak to him.’
‘It will be his pleasure, signorina,’ Tonio returned gallantly.
Don’t count on it, thought Clare, briskly obeying his polite indication that she should walk past him into the study.
It was a large book-lined room, and rather dark, the low ornamental ceiling of moulded plaster supported on stone pillars. But its traditional formality was offset by the French doors standing open to the sunlit garden beyond, and the very modern desk with its bank of computer equipment. And, not least, by Guido Bartaldi, totally casual in shorts and an unbuttoned shirt in thin cotton, who was perched on the edge of the desk, long legs much in evidence, as he studied the information on the screen in front of him.
As she closed the door behind her, Clare said clearly and coldly, ‘I’d like a word with you, signore.’
‘But not a pleasant one, it seems.’ He lifted his head and subjected her to a long stare which held a measure of frank appreciation. ‘I thought perhaps you had come to thank me.’
‘To thank you?’ Her voice rose sightly. ‘For what? For insulting me?’
‘In what way?’
‘You know perfectly well.’ She took a fold of the dress between thumb and forefinger and held it out with distaste. ‘With—this.’
‘I am sorry you don’t like it,’ he said, after a pause. ‘But we can always find something else. Is it the colour which offends you, or the fabric?’
‘Neither.’ Clare bit down hard on her lip. ‘It’s—the concept that you should buy me clothes.’
He looked surprised. ‘I supply uniforms for all the staff in this house. None of them complain.’
She gasped. ‘You call—this a uniform? You must be joking.’
‘Well, let us compromise and call it work clothing,’ he said smoothly.
Clare drew a deep breath. ‘Let us do nothing of the kind,’ she said stonily. ‘In my previous employment I’ve always worn my own clothes.’
‘And did they all resemble the garment you wore to breakfast—or was that a special choice?’
The note of amusement in his voice did nothing to improve Clare’s temper. Nor the fact that he’d seen so effortlessly through her little ploy.
She said tautly, ‘I’m sorry, naturally, if my fashion sense doesn’t meet your exacting standards, but I still prefer to wear my own things. And I’d like my navy dress back, please.’
‘Ah,’ he said, after a pause. ‘That could be a problem.’
‘I fail to see why.’
‘There are several reasons,’ Guido said calmly. ‘Firstly my uncle, who is, you understand, an art historian, and whose sense of the aesthetic was crucified this morning by your decision to shroud yourself in an ill-fitting sack. He’s no longer so young, and I must consider his feelings. You see how it is?’
‘No,’ Clare said roundly. ‘I don’t.’
‘Then there is the actual fate of the dress itself,’ he went on musingly. ‘I told Filumena, who made the substitution, to burn it. I am sure she has obeyed me by now.’
Clare stared at him. ‘You—burned my dress?’ she asked with ominous calm.
‘It seemed the easiest solution.’ He nodded. ‘Otherwise I could foresee it would continue to haunt us all during your time here.’
‘But this is an outrage.’ Her voice shook. ‘You can’t do this.’
‘Unfortunately, it is already done.’ He paused. ‘Although I cannot pretend my regrets are sincere. Not when you are standing here in front of me, wearing the replacement.’
He swung himself down from the desk. ‘Dio, Chiara.’ There was a sudden fierce, uneven note in his voice. ‘Don’t you know how beautiful you are?’
Clare looked down at the floor, detaching herself from the dark gaze consuming her, feeling