Her mother believed in travelling in style if she was to travel at all.
But Marcus Craven's persistence where she was concerned during the previous evening had unnerved and disturbed her to the extent where she had great difficulty sleeping at all, still burning with resentment towards him. A fact she found irritating to say the least.
But a late morning catching up on her sleep, followed by a late breakfast in bed, accompanied by plenty of coffee, and she felt more relaxed and ready to stroll to the house of the Capulets in the town, to enter the quiet tranquillity of the courtyard before going into the house itself and up to the balcony where Juliet was reputed to have spoken to Romeo.
This house had to be a must on a visit to Verona, and, while Beth didn't want to fall into the habit of doing the ‘touristy’ things, she was none the less a great fan of Shakespeare's, and her interest in the Capulet family had long ago been aroused by him.
In the courtyard below stood a statue of Juliet herself, and it seemed odd to look down upon the bronze statue of the young woman who had actually stood on this very balcony to talk to her forbidden lover.
For a few brief moments Beth had—despite the intrusion of the other couple of dozen people wandering around, also anxious to share in the experience of looking around them at the ivy-covered walls of the courtyard—been lost in the pure romance of the occasion.
But the feeling had only been allowed to last those few brief moments!
She spun around to face Marcus Craven, her expression full of hostility, the two of them completely alone on the balcony at that moment. ‘Are you following me, Mr Craven?’ she accused.
Dark brows rose over eyes full of feigned surprise. ‘Of course not, Miss …?’ As she had the night before, he paused significantly, waiting for her to rectify the omission of her name.
He was dressed casually today, in light-coloured trousers, and a short-sleeved open-necked shirt of a shade of grey that managed to match the steel of his eyes. And yet Beth was sure both these casual-looking items of clothing had designer labels, just as she was sure the pale grey shoes he wore were handmade.
In the broad daylight, away from the other opulent patrons of the opera, this man was still stamped with undoubted wealth of style. Her own clothing, a peach-coloured cotton skirt and white vest-top, and sandals, was much less distinctive.
‘Palmer,’ she supplied abruptly, making no effort to give her first name; this man was far too familiar already! ‘Excuse me …’ She made a move to brush past him, very much aware that they were still completely alone in their quiet tension.
‘Why do you keep doing that?’ he enquired softly. ‘Walking away,’ he explained at her puzzled look, utterly relaxed himself, one hand thrust casually into his trouser pocket.
Her hand snapped back. ‘Why do you persist in approaching me in this way when it must be perfectly obvious I would rather you didn't?’ she challenged coldly.
‘Probably because it is so obvious you would rather I didn't,’ he answered calmly.
Surprise at his honesty instantly widened her eyes, although she was man-wary enough to know it was probably just another approach, one this man had tried and tested in the past and knew to be successful.
‘In that case, Mr Craven,’ she told him icily, ‘why don't you take heed of what has, so far, been a relatively polite brush-off?'
Although she had a feeling she already partially knew the answer to that, she had no doubt that part of the reason he couldn't accept her uninterest for what it was was because he probably didn't believe, in his own conceit, that could possibly be what it was!
She was sure Marcus Craven believed she was just playing hard to get. Very hard to get! But then, he probably thrived on such challenges. She just ran away from them …
He shrugged lightly. ‘I don't believe friendly civility costs anything.'
He was wrong. Such innocent acceptance of a proffered friendship had cost her dearly in the past, was still costing her dearly emotionally. And it would probably continue to do so. But she had no intention of confiding that to this man.
‘I'm on holiday, Mr Craven,’ she said dismissively. ‘I have a lot to see and do, and too little time to do it all in—–'
‘I'd enjoy being your guide,’ he cut in smoothly. ‘I know Verona very well.'
Beth didn't care if it was his second home, sighing her impatience. ‘I don't wish for a guide. Thank you,’ she added as a very late afterthought, instantly regretting having said it at all; she certainly had no reason to feel grateful to this man for anything.
She was further annoyed by the slight hint of triumph that had now appeared in his eyes, and she bristled angrily.
‘Did you enjoy the opera last night?'
Beth wasn't fooled for a moment by this sudden change of subject. ‘Mr Craven—–'
‘How could you not have enjoyed the opera?’ he answered his own question. ‘It was too visibly spectacular to have elicited any other response! Will you be attending La Gioconda tonight?'
The booking her mother had made for her had included La Gioconda, but after the experience of Aida the evening before she really didn't feel she could attend another opera quite so soon. Her mother had been right; it had been the experience of a lifetime, and it was not to be repeated so soon.
‘I have no plans to do so.’ Her voice was still stilted with resentment.
He nodded knowingly. ‘It's too much, isn't it? Too intense a battering to the senses.'
It described how she felt exactly.
It was a pity, but she had a feeling that at any other time in her life she would have found Marcus Craven interesting company. If not exactly likeable, he was a man to talk to, and she knew instinctively that he was a learned man as well as an intelligent one.
The only problem was that at this moment in time she didn't feel like talking to any man on a more than cursory basis.
‘It was enjoyable,’ she conceded offhandedly.
‘Why don't we discuss it further over a leisurely lunch?'
Beth gave an exasperated laugh, shaking her head disbelievingly. ‘And before I made this trip I was warned that it was young Italian men who made nuisances of themselves with women!'
‘I had an Italian grandmother,’ he said with a shrug.
Which probably explained the familiarity with the language that she had noticed the previous evening. It probably also accounted for the darkness of his colouring.
But even so, she very much doubted he usually needed to use this bludgeoning approach with women!
‘I don't believe that can be used as an excuse, Mr Graven,’ she drawled drily.
‘And I wasn't attempting to offer it as one,’ he derided. ‘On the contrary, I would be very honoured if I thought I had inherited even one tenth of Nonna's charm.'
Beth certainly wouldn't have described this man as any ordinary charmer; he was something else too elusive to explain.
But all Beth really needed to know about him was that he was a danger to her solitude. And at the moment she desired that above everything else.
‘I really do hope you enjoy the rest of your holiday.’ She was ultra-polite. ‘But if you'll excuse me I really do have a lot more to see before I leave.'
‘Alone,’ he said wryly.
‘Exactly.’ She nodded her satisfaction with that supposition.
‘Well, you can't say I didn't offer.’ He shrugged with a sigh.
‘No,’ she drawled. ‘I certainly can't say that, can I?'
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