The Forced Marriage by Sara Craven

She’d worn it as a gesture of defiance, but it sent all the wrong messages. And her heels were suddenly far too high as well. They did nothing to combat that dizzy feeling.
    She drew a deep breath and held it for a moment before releasing it slowly. Calming tactics before she went back into the restaurant and set about extricating herself from this self-inflicted mess with dignity and aplomb.
    ‘I wish,’ she muttered under her breath as she headed for the door, stepping out with more than ordinary care—which was, in itself, a dead giveaway.
    She’d been dreading more coffee, more loaded drinks to go with the loaded remarks, but Marco was on his feet, standing by the table, putting away his wallet, his face withdrawn and grave.
    It seemed he also wanted to call it a night, thought Flora, summoning relief to her rescue. And perhaps that oddly haunted look had been brought on by the size of the bill…
    She paused, angered by her own flippancy when it was undoubtedly her desire to score points by cross-examining him over his love life that had revived too many unwelcome memories and driven him into introspection. After all, he was someone who had loved and lost, and in the bitterest circumstances, too, when all she had to do in life was count her blessings.
    He glanced up and saw her, and his expression changed. Charm was back in season, and something more than warmth glinted in his eyes. Which she wasn’t going to allow herself even to contemplate.
    Accordingly, ‘Well,’ Flora said briskly, when she reached him, ‘Thank you for a very pleasant evening, signore . And—goodbye.’
    ‘It is not quite over yet,’ he corrected her. ‘Pietro has called a taxi for us.’
    ‘Oh, he needn’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.’ She reached for her pashmina. ‘I’ll pick up a black cab…’
    ‘Not easily at this time of night, when the theatres are turning out.’ He picked up the long fringed shawl before she could, draping it over his arm. ‘And the streets are hardly safe for a woman on her own. I promise you, it would be better to wait.’
    Better for whom? Flora wondered, her throat tightening. She stood, gripping her bag, looking down at the tiled floor, until a waiter came to tell them the cab was at the door. She wished Pietro a quiet goodnight, and forced herself to remain passive as Marco placed the pashmina round her shoulders.
    Then she walked ahead of him into the street, stumbling a little on an uneven paving stone as the cool night air hit her.
    ‘Take care, mia bella . You must not risk another fall.’ His hand was under her elbow like a flash, guiding her to the waiting cab.
    As she climbed in she heard with shock Marco give the driver her address.
    ‘How do you know where I live?’ she demanded, shrinking back into her corner as he took the seat beside her. ‘It wasn’t on the card I gave you.’
    ‘True.’ In the dimness, she saw him lift one shoulder in a shrug. ‘But you were not so hard to trace, Flora mia .’
    ‘So it would seem,’ she said tautly.
    It was not that great a distance, but traffic was heavy and the ride seemed to take for ever. Or was it just her acute consciousness of the man in the darkness beside her?
    When they finally drew up in the quiet street outside her flat Flora moved swiftly, reaching for the handle. ‘Thanks for the lift…’
    ‘You must allow me to see you to your door.’ His tone brooked no refusal.
    She was concentrating hard on pursuing a steady path across the pavement, at the same time fumbling in her bag for her keys. Not easy when your head was swimming, she thought detachedly, and your legs felt as if all the bones had been removed.
    ‘Let me do this.’ There was faint amusement in his voice as he took the key from her wavering hand and fitted it into the lock.
    ‘I can manage,’ Flora protested. ‘And the taxi’s meter will be running,’ she added, glancing over her shoulder. She gave an alarmed gasp. ‘Oh—it’s gone.’
    ‘I