The Bachelor Chase

CHAPTER ONE

‘AND if I never see another basilisk or obelisk, or whatever they’re blasted well called, it will be far too soon! I don’t care who they have on top!’ No, that wasn’t fair, but worry over her own problems, and the pouring rain, had taken away any enjoyment she might otherwise have felt. And Rome did have rather a lot of statues!

Shoving back her wet hair, tiredly slinging her bag onto the chair, Rea came to an abrupt halt, and her insides produced that familiar low spiral of pain as she stared at the man sprawled on the sofa. Tano Cavallieri.

There was rather a lot of him to stare at. Long and lean—suave, sophisticated, impressive, her mind added—he was the most infuriating, aggravating man she’d ever met. And the most attractive. He was also the root cause of all her irritability and frustration.

She had been falling over him for weeks—well, four days, she mentally qualified, but it felt like weeks. And if it wasn’t him it was a box of his filthy rocks, or bones, or some other rubbish he’d dug up.

And why he had to come and stay in her stepfather’s apartment instead of using his own defied her comprehension. There wasn’t room for him here! Never mind heavy hints, he didn’t take any notice of blunt speaking! He took no notice whatsoever of what was said and ignored all commands to keep his rubbish in one place—none of which would have mattered if they’d been friends. But they weren’t friends, and her shrewish behaviour—her defence against feelings she didn’t want or know how to cope with—guaranteed that they never would be.

And he still hadn’t had time to talk to her! Or so he said. Another bone of contention, this refusal of his to put aside his own concerns for just a few minutes in order to discuss hers. She knew he was busy, but then, so was she.

Her face mirroring her confused aggravation, she continued to stare at him, at that sternly beautiful face emphasised so starkly by the ruthlessly short dark hair, at the stupid bone held loosely in one hand—and she wanted to touch him, to trail her fingers along that hard jaw, his mouth. Wanted to be held, touched, aroused.

Then she gave a little jump of alarm when he suddenly opened his eyes. Embarrassed, defensive, she went immediately on the attack.

‘Do you have to spread yourself all over the lounge?’ Ignoring for the moment the fact that there had been no confusion in his gaze, which was what normally appeared when you woke someone suddenly, and the odd contradiction that in sleep his face had seemed harder than when he was awake, she snapped peevishly, ‘If you’re that tired, go to bed! The lounge isn’t for sleeping in!’

Derisive amusement leached into his grey eyes, and she felt goaded—almost violent. Amused grey eyes didn’t go with a stern face! They were a complete and utter contradiction. ‘Well? What are you waiting for—the spell to work?’

‘Spell?’

Pointing at the bone he still held, Rea qualified with pardonable sarcasm, ‘Practising to be a shaman, are we?’

He didn’t blink, didn’t change expression at all, merely continued to regard her with hateful consideration. ‘Dear lady,’ he drawled softly, ‘if I were capable of spell-casting…’

‘You would get rid of me—yes, I know. Well, you were the one who insisted I come!’ He had sent a terse letter demanding her attendance and an air ticket, and she’d had no choice, wanting everything resolved as she did. ‘Four days I’ve been here. I don’t have time for this.’

‘No more do I.’

‘Then let me have the land.’

‘No,’ he refused quietly. ‘What time is it?’

‘One! And I—’

‘One? You’re very late tonight.’

‘So?’ she demanded, with a frosty look. ‘Since when have you been my keeper?’

Eyebrows raised in surprise, he drew in his legs, lounged more comfortably, and absently began to revolve the bone between his long fingers. ‘That sounded very defensive. Been cheating on Spindleshanks?’

‘No,’ she denied stonily. The reason she was so late was that she’d had to walk home because she’d given her cab fare, and her umbrella, to an elderly lady who’d been wetter and more tired than she had.

‘Pity; it would do you the world of good. How is he, by the way? Still intending to marry you?’

‘Presumably,’ she agreed shortly. ‘And as far as I know he’s fine. How’s Desirée?’

With a look of astonishment, he demanded. ‘Who?’

‘Desirée.’

‘Sounds like a snake-wielding stripper.’

‘Which for all I know she is,’ she retorted tartly. ‘Desdemona, then. Or something. Some outlandish name anyway.’ And, reverting to the one topic that was of any interest to her—had to be of any interest to her—she stated flatly, ‘You don’t know there’s a Pict settlement there.’

‘I do.’

‘No, you don’t. Only suspect. And I wish you’d get up!’

He smiled without warmth, pressed his hands to his knees and levered himself upright, all six feet four of him. ‘Better?’ he asked mockingly.

‘Yes.’ Only it wasn’t. Turning away, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the ornate mirror over the mantelpiece, and wanted to weep. She looked like a bad-tempered shrew—brown eyes hard, too bright, her face pinched. And she wasn’t like that. She also looked Egyptian or Italian—and was as English as roast beef.

With her thick, straight dark brown hair parted in the middle and drawn loosely back at her nape, she could have posed for Leonardo. Only the enigmatic smile was missing. But enigma and Rea weren’t even nodding acquaintances.

And she hated it—this feeling of being out of control, of sounding shrewish. But, if he wasn’t to guess how she felt, there seemed no choice. Indifference would have been better, but these churning feelings inside her didn’t allow for indifference.

Aware that he’d gone to lean in the doorway, she raised her eyes to stare at him. Tano—the man she was cheating, the man who didn’t know she was cheating, the man who disturbed her so much that she thought she’d go mad, the man who wouldn’t let her have the piece of land she so desperately needed. And it wasn’t meant to be like this!

He looked like a Regency rake, she thought despondently, and spoke like one—when he used English, that was. She didn’t know how he sounded when he spoke his native Italian; the same, presumably—an upper-class drawl that made him sound like an aristocrat. That was his mother’s fault, her stepfather always insisted, for sending him to an English public school.

‘What time are Umberto and your mother due back?’ he asked casually.

‘I don’t know,’ she said moodily. ‘Soon, I expect.’ Tucking her thick brown hair behind her ears with a gesture of weariness, knowing that she was battering her head against a brick wall, she nevertheless tried again. ‘And even if there does turn out to be a Pict settlement there, couldn’t I rent it short-term until you’re ready to dig?’ she pleaded.

‘No,’ he refused softly.

‘But why? I don’t want to work the land—won’t disturb anything! All I want is to put up a few sheds!’

‘No.’

Impotent and frustrated, not knowing how to make him change his mind, she just continued to stare helplessly at him. He was a world authority on antiquities and his shirt looked as though it had never even heard of an iron, let alone come anywhere near one.

His trousers were no better. One pocket was torn, there was a smear of mud along the inside of one leg, and his shoes were filthy. Fieldwork, she supposed vaguely. He might be head of the newly formed European Historical Preservation Society but he never minded getting his hands dirty—a point in his favour, she supposed.

He looked different through the mirror—his nose more blade-like, his mouth thinner. And she saw that his attention had wandered back into the past, presumably, as it often wandered.

Only a very small portion of his mind was ever on anything in the present. Or so it seemed. He listened with half an ear, answered with half a mind, and it was totally infuriating. If you ever did manage to capture his attention, you had to speak very quickly in order to get everything in before his mind wandered off again. And yet she sometimes got the feeling that he was being vague on purpose—and only with her. But that didn’t make any sense.

He also looked like the statue of Hadrian’s favourite, Antinous, she thought inconsequentially as she continued to stare frowningly at him. He looked…unreachable, apart from his eyes—and it was his eyes that had persuaded her that he would understand, and he didn’t. If he had, he would have let her use the land. Abominably selfish, single-minded, clever and calculating, he didn’t give a damn about anybody’s feelings but his own. Just like herself, she thought miserably.

Worry lines etched on her brow, so very aware that time was running out, she looked down. She needed that land. Really needed it. And, if he wouldn’t give in, what on earth was she going to do?

‘Did Mike Resnick ring?’ she asked quietly. Receiving no answer, she looked up to find him gone. Sighing deeply, utterly refusing to give in to feelings she didn’t want, she walked along to his room and pushed the door wide.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor, or his shoes. Perhaps he was trying to figure out how they’d got so dirty, but she wouldn’t have bet on it. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t walk off when I’m talking to you,’ she reproved tiredly. ‘I asked if you’d spoken to Mike Resni—Tano!’

‘Mmm?’ Glancing up, he waited, then began absently to unbutton his shirt.

Wrenching her eyes away from the expanse of naked chest—a chest she wanted to touch, caress—she repeated huskily, ‘Resnick! Has he got the aerial photographs back?’

‘Mmm.’

‘And?’

Abandoning his shirt, he began thoughtfully to tap one fingernail against the bone. ‘Too early to tell,’ he murmured.

‘What does that mean? That there’s no sign of a Pict settlement? Or there is?’

Eyes unfocused, he glanced up. ‘Too high.’

‘High?’ she queried in puzzlement. ‘What’s too high? Tano!’ Oh, for goodness’ sake! Taking a deep breath, trying desperately to hang onto her scant patience and to dismiss desire, she cleared her throat, then asked quietly, ‘Do you mean that the photographs were taken from too high up? And, that being so,’ she continued, her voice beginning to grit, ‘will he be taking some more from lower down?’

‘Mmm.’

‘When? Tomorrow? The next day? And if those don’t show anything can I then rent the land?’

‘No, there’s something,’ he mumbled to himself, a small frown of concentration on his face. ‘But what? Could be fake; could be any number of reasons—’

‘Tano!’ She didn’t even know if they were talking about the same things, didn’t know if he was listening or even aware that she was there! ‘Will you please pay attention? This is important!’

He gave a vague nod, and continued to unbutton his shirt.

Taking that to mean that he was actually listening, she continued eagerly, ‘If you could just give me the go-ahead, an agreement on a week to week basis—anything—I can get things moving.’

Staring at him, silently urging him to agree, she held her tongue with difficulty as he heeled off his shoes, removed his socks and began absentmindedly rolling them together. Unaware of her, unaware of anything but his thoughts, he pitched them into the corner.

‘Don’t do that,’ she reproved automatically as she went to pick them up and drop them in the laundry basket. ‘My mother has enough to do without picking up after you! So when will you know?’ she persisted.

‘Soon,’ he said vaguely. ‘Umberto might know.’

‘Umberto might know what?’

‘Augustus—it’s his period.’

‘Augustus? Augustus!’ she practically screeched. ‘We aren’t talking about Augustus! We’re talking about a Pict settlement in Kent!’

Without warning, without any advance notice whatsoever, he suddenly glanced up, gave her a look of surprise, as though he had no memory of having been holding a conversation with her—and certainly not of what it had been about—and stated, ‘Your mother seems very contented with her new life.’

‘What? What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Don’t you like Umberto?’

‘Of course I like Umberto!’ she snapped raggedly. ‘He’s a sweetie, the best thing that could ever have happened to her. But we were—’

‘She was widowed when you were three, wasn’t she?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘That accounts for it,’ he murmured.

‘Accounts for what?’ she demanded aggrievedly. ‘I’m delighted at the match, all right? Umberto’s brought a bloom to her cheeks, a sparkle to her eyes. He’s a good man, kind…’ And so undeniably proud and happy.

He had never been married before, and now couldn’t seem to get over the fact that Jean Halton was his wife, loving him in return. Shorter than Rea’s mother, round and balding, he seemed afraid that someone would snatch it all away, and if he was a little bit protective of mother and daughter both forgave him his fussing because they understood.

And none of this had anything to do with the matter in hand—the matter that she had to get resolved.

‘So can I? Rent it on a day-to-day basis? And then, when Mike’s taken the rest of the photographs, you’ll let me know for definite? Yes?’

‘Perhaps,’ he agreed.

‘Perhaps you’ll let