The Italian Millionaire's Marriage. Lucy GordonЧитать онлайн книгу.
tonight,’ she said, a trifle dazed.
He turned to the door, but stopped as though something had just occurred to him.
‘By the way, I believe in mixing business with pleasure. Perhaps you would look at this and value it for me.’
From his bag he drew a package which he unwrapped before her eager eyes, revealing a fabulously beautiful ornate necklace in sold gold. She took it gently and carried it to a desk, switching on a brilliant light.
‘I have a friend in Rome who specialises in these things,’ Marco said smoothly. ‘He thinks this is one of the best Greek pieces he’s ever seen.’
‘Greek?’ she said, not raising her eyes. ‘Oh, no, Etruscan.’
She’d passed the first test, but he concealed his pleasure and pressed her further.
‘Are you sure? My friend is a real expert.’
‘Well it can be difficult to tell them apart,’ she conceded. ‘Etruscan goldsmiths of the archaic and classical periods…’
She was away and there was no stopping her, he recognised. Words poured out. ‘Their jewellery of the third to first centuries BC often closely resembles Greek works but—Celtic influence—’
He listened with growing satisfaction. She might be a little strange but here was the educated lady he’d hoped for. This fabulous piece had been in his family’s possession for two centuries. It was pure Etruscan. And she’d spotted it.
Then she blew his satisfaction out of the water by saying regretfully, ‘If only it were real.’
He stared. ‘Of course it’s real.’
‘No, I’m afraid not. It’s a very good copy, one of the best I’ve ever seen. I can understand why it fooled your friend—’
‘But not you,’ he said, feeling illogically annoyed at her slander of his non-existent ‘friend’.
‘I’ve always taken a special interest in artefacts from Etruria,’ she said, naming the province that had later become Rome and its surrounding countryside. ‘I visited a dig there a couple of years back and it was the most fascinating—’
‘And this qualifies you to pronounce on this piece?’ Marco interrupted, his annoyance overcoming his good manners.
‘Look, I know what I’m talking about, and frankly this “expert” of yours doesn’t, since he can’t tell Greek from Etruscan.’
‘But according to you it’s a fake which means it can’t be either,’ he pointed out.
‘It’s a copy, and whoever did it was copying an Etruscan piece, not a Greek one,’ she said firmly.
The transformation in her was astonishing, he thought. Gone was the awkward young woman who’d collided with him at the door. In her place was an authority, steely, assured, implacable in her own opinion. He would have found it admirable if she wasn’t trying to wipe a million dollars off his fortune.
‘Are you saying that this is worthless?’ he demanded.
‘Oh, not entirely worthless. The gold must be worth something.’
She spoke in the manner of an adult placating a disappointed child, and he ground his teeth.
‘Would you like to explain your opinion?’ he said frostily.
‘All my instincts tell me that this isn’t the real thing.’
‘You mean feminine intuition?’
‘Certainly not,’ she said crisply. ‘There’s no such thing. Funny, I’d have expected a man to know that. My instincts are based on knowledge and experience.’
‘Which sounds like another name for female intuition to me. Why not be honest and admit it?’
Her eyes flashed, magnificently. ‘Signor Whatever-Your-Name-Is—if you just came in here to be offensive you’re wasting your time. The weight of this necklace is wrong. A genuine Etruscan necklace would have weighed just a little more. Did you know that scientific tests have proved that Etruscan gold was always the same precise weight, and—?’
She was away again, facts and figures tumbling out of her mouth at speed, totally assured and in command of her subject. Except that she was completely wrong, he thought grimly. If this was the level of her expertise it was no wonder her business was failing.
‘Fine, fine,’ he said trying to placate her. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’
‘Please don’t patronise me!’
He was about to respond in kind when he checked himself, wondering where his wits were wandering. When he’d considered this encounter his plans hadn’t included letting her needle him to the point of losing his temper. Coolness was everything. That was how victories were won, deals were made, life was organised to advantage. And she’d blown it away in five minutes.
‘Forgive me,’ he said with an effort. ‘I didn’t mean to be impolite.’
‘Well, I suppose it’s understandable, considering how much poorer I’ve just left you.’
‘I don’t accept that you have left me poorer, since I don’t accept your valuation.’
‘I can understand that you wouldn’t,’ she said in a kindly voice that took him to the limit of exasperation. She handed him back the necklace. ‘When you return to Rome why don’t you ask your friend to take another look at this? Only don’t believe a word he says because he doesn’t know the difference between Greek and Etruscan.’
‘I’ll collect you here at seven o’clock,’ Marco said, from behind a tight smile.
CHAPTER TWO
SEVEN o’clock found Harriet peering out of her shop window into a storm. She’d been home, dressed for an evening out and returned in a hurry, not wishing to keep him waiting.
But it seemed he had no such qualms about her. Five past seven came and went, then ten, and there was no sign of him. At seven-fifteen she muttered something unladylike and prepared to leave in a huff.
She’d just locked the door and was staring crossly at the downpour when a cab came to a sharp halt at the kerb, a door opened and a hand reached out from the gloom within. She took it, and was seized in a powerful grip, then drawn swiftly inside.
‘My apologies for being late,’ Marco said. ‘I took a cab because of the rain and found myself trapped. Luckily the show doesn’t start until eight, so even at this crawl we should make it in time.’
‘You don’t mean to say that you managed it?’ Harriet asked incredulously.
‘Certainly I managed it. Why should you doubt me?’
‘Who did you blackmail?’
Marco grinned. ‘It was a little more subtle than that. Not much, but a little.’
‘I’m impressed.’
She grew even more impressed when she discovered that he’d secured the best box in the house. No doubt about it. This was a man with good contacts.
Marco offered her the chair nearer the stage so that he was a little to the rear and could glance at her as well as the show. She wasn’t beautiful, he decided. Her slenderness went, perhaps, a little too far: not thin he assured himself hastily, but as lean as a model. Elegant. Or, at least, she would be if she worked on her appearance, which she clearly didn’t.
Her chiffon evening gown was all right, no more. It descended almost to her shapely ankles, and clung slightly, revealing the grace of her movements. The deep red was a magnificent shade, but it was exactly wrong with her auburn hair, which she wore loose and flowing. She should have put it up, he thought, revealing her face and emphasising her long neck. Was