Romance of a Lifetime

Carole Mortimer - Romance of A Lifetime

"Forget him and find someone new."

That was the advice Beth's worldly-wise mother gave her. "It's the only way to get over a disastrous affair."

Beth wasn't sure she really wanted to see more of attractive Marcus Craven. Not that Marcus was giving her any option; his pursuit of Beth following their chance meeting in Verona had been decidedly single-minded.

But something held her back from confiding in him. She had the strange feeling that Marcus knew more about her past than she would ever have revealed. And, to be honest, Beth was also afraid to fall in love again…

She had thought she would never cry again. Had actually been convinced that she couldn't. But there was no mistaking the heated dampness of tears on her cheeks now as she sat in the darkness.

'Spectacular, isn't it?'

Beth turned sharply at the sound of that voice, her emotions a mixture of the usual surprise she felt at hearing an English accent—she had heard so few of them since her arrival in Verona the day before—and resentment that the man had chosen to talk to her at all; did she look so typically English, and approachable, possibly lonely?

She had seen many, quite surprisingly she had thought, blonde-haired Italian women, but perhaps none of them with the ash-blonde of her own hair, and probably none of them had skin so fair in complexion as her own; she hadn't been in Italy long enough yet to acquire a tan. And as for looking lonely? Well, she was so clearly here on her own, sitting on the end of a row of seats as she was, the couple seated beside her obviously German as they talked softly together.

Nevertheless, Beth deeply resented this man's intrusion into an occasion of such rare beauty as she was experiencing, frowning darkly as she looked at the man sitting directly behind her in the amphitheatre known as the Arena.

In a country populated by dark-haired Latin-looking men, this one none the less managed to stand out as being different.

Italian men, at least the ones Beth had so far observed on this holiday, were possessed of a self-assurance that bordered on arrogance, and somehow seemed to be inborn in them. This man carried his self-assurance more quietly, less consciously, and it was all the more powerful because of that.

Dark hair was kept styled short and brushed back from a roughly hewn face of such hard beauty that it was only the grey eyes that drew the gaze reluctantly away from that fascinating hardness; light, enigmatic grey eyes that held a wealth of intelligence and knowledge in their depths. Unlike other all-too-familiar grey eyes that held only cruelty…

Even sitting down this man looked big— another fact that made him stand out from Italian men—the short-sleeved shirt he wore stretched smoothly across the width of a powerful chest, the skin on his arms darkly tanned and covered in fine dark hair.

A man to be wary of, Beth realised with a familiar inward shudder.

'Would you care for a drink?' he enquired determinedly as she was forced to stand up in order to let the German couple leave their seats.

AH around them people were milling about hi this unique open-air theatre, all of them, like Beth herself, here to see the performance of the spectacular opera
Aida.

'Go to Italy,' her mother had instructed. 'Forget all the misery and pain and live through the experience of a lifetime. Forget them all,' she had advised with determined persuasion.

And the 'experience'
of Aida
had made her cry for the first time in months.

How could it not have achieved what nothing else could have done?

The thousands of people seated around this theatre were all being privileged with a performance of the opera that, to Beth's mind, could never be excelled.

Her mother, an ardent fan of opera herself, had known exactly what she was doing when she had arranged to start Beth's holiday with this amazing spectacle.

The voices weren't the best Beth had ever heard, the open-air stage meaning the performers couldn't perhaps project as well as they would have liked to do, but for the sheer impact of the occasion Beth was sure it couldn't be bettered.

And the truth was that she felt badly in need of the drink this man was offering, the air being hot and heavy within the Arena, and Beth not yet acclimatised to the heat of a late July climate in Italy. But she had no intention of accepting this man's offer, no matter how thirsty she might feel!

'Champagne,' he decided firmly at her lack of response, having also stood up now, as tall as Beth had anticipated, towering over the people around them, turning to move through the crowd in the direction of the bar with absolutely no difficulty at all, these people seeming to recognise, as Beth had instantly, a superior being.

As soon as he had been swallowed up by the crowd, Beth turned with deliberation in the opposite direction and walked away.

She didn't particularly like champagne, and in this climate it would do nothing to quench the raging thirst she had known since her arrival, but that was completely irrelevant in the face of her determination to have as little to do with that arrogant man as she possibly could!

She gave an indulgent smile as the female voice came over the Tannoy to announce that the interval time would be twenty-five minutes; the opera performances in Italy, especially events of this magnitude, were also social occasions, and Beth had been pre-warned that she could expect to be here tonight for between three and four hours. But if what she had been privileged to see so far was an example of what was still to come then She didn't mind if she were here ten hours!

If only that man would leave her alone. But the possibility of that happening, she knew, with them both being English, and his seat being so close behind her own, was extremely remote.

What was a man like that doing on his own in somewhere like Verona in the first place?

Even in the brief few minutes Beth had seen him she had realised he was a man of wealth and power; it had all been there in his confident self-assurance. Beth had learnt over the last few years that only the very rich and powerful could afford that sort of quiet arrogance. And the very rich and powerful very rarely chose to be alone anywhere, she had found, could afford to buy company if none was readily available.

And yet this man appeared to be alone. In fact, she felt sure he was.

And she had just wasted half the allotted interval time thinking about a man she had no interest in ever seeing again!

She delayed her return to her seat for as long as she dared after the final gong had sounded announcing the beginning of the second act, lingering over the cool orange juice she had purchased for herself.

On her return a long glass, of what Beth knew without a doubt to be champagne, stood on the cushion she had purchased the use of, to cover the otherwise metal seat, during the operatic performance.

Her mouth firmed as she stood looking down at the intrusive glass, having no choice but to pick it up if she wanted to sit down again, needing to do just that as the lights slowly lowered in preparation for the start of the second act.

Damn that man!

She would have loved to just push the full glass under her seat and forget about it, but that would have been taking rudeness to the extreme, and she wasn't normally that, not even to intrusive strangers, although this man was starting to push his luck just a little too far!

She turned only briefly, raising the glass in acknowledgement, her smile one of practised dismissal.

It would have been the end of the incident as far as Beth was concerned, except that she could tell by the determined glint in pale grey eyes that it was far from over.

But the champagne—and its purchaser—were forgotten as the lights blazed on the stage, and Beth was unaware of the fact that she sipped at the bubbly wine throughout the second act, once again caught up in its spectacular beauty.

'Another?'

The silkily smooth voice was unnecessarily close to the lobe of her ear this time, Beth felt, turning sharply as the lights came on for the second interval, only to find the man
was too
close for comfort, leaning forwards in his seat, his face now dangerously close to hers.

Beth's eyes blazed deeply emerald as she glared at him with anger.

'You seem to have enjoyed that glass so much.' Mockery glinted in his eyes as he indicated the empty glass in her hand.

Her cheeks blazed fiery red in her naturally pale cheeks, shoulder-length ash-blonde hair swinging agitatedly against the heat of her face. 'I didn't even realise——'

'Ah, I didn't think I was wrong about your being English,' he said with satisfaction. 'Although I have to admit that I did wonder

'Ah, I didn't think I was wrong about your being English,' he said with satisfaction. 'Although I have to admit that I did wonder when I continually failed to get a verbal response—-'

'Actually,' Beth cut in coolly, 'you are wrong; I happen to be Manx.' And she felt a certain satisfaction in being able to contradict him, plus a certain pride in the small island in the middle of the Irish Sea between England and Ireland that was her birthplace, and had been her home until she was eighteen years old, was still her home in her heart despite the years she had spent away from it.

Dark brows rose. 'Is there a difference?'

Her eyes flashed her indignation. 'Of course there's a——' She broke off, looking at him with narrowed eyes, realising in that moment that she was giving him exactly the response he wanted. Her first impression of him had been a correct one—he was a very intelligent man, and he knew just how to use that intelligence to his advantage. She stood up smoothly. 'If you'll excuse me…' She gave him a coolly dismissive nod.

'You didn't answer me about the champagne.' His hand on her arm stilled her as she would have walked away.

Beth stiffened as if she had been burnt, staring stonily at his hand until he slowly removed it. As he did so she thrust her empty glass into his hand. 'I didn't really want that one,' she snapped, not allowing him to delay her any further but making her way outside to one of the bars.

The last thing she wanted, or needed, was a man like that showing an interest in Tier. She couldn't repress her inward shudder. The last thing she needed was
any
man showing an interest in her, let alone one of his type!

Thank God she was only in Verona for one more day, and then she moved on to Venice. She had only come to Verona at all for the opera. Like a lot of other people here tonight, she was sure.

It was unfortunate that she had no choice but to remain in that particular seat, close to that infuriating man, for the rest of the performance, but these seats in the centre of the Arena had been booked for months in advance, and there wasn't a vacant seat in the place, no one, understandably, wanting to miss the performance they had waited so long to see.

It was a slightly shorter interval than last time, although Beth had plenty of time to purchase another glass of orange juice, the evening feeling even more airless than earlier.

Thank goodness she had thought to put on a cool green sheath of a dress rather than one of the gowns she would normally have worn to the opera or theatre in London. Her uncovered shoulders at least felt the benefit of any small breeze that there was, although it wasn't much. Stormy weather was on its way, the man behind the reception desk at her hotel had warned her.

She was sure he would know, being a local, but she could only hope it would hold off until after the performance; it would be too awful if it were to be rained off now.

Just as the continued persistence of the man seated behind her was awful; a glass of orange juice was waiting on her seat for her return this time.

She studiously avoided looking at the man as she picked up the glass so that she might sit down, although she could almost feel the touch of his gaze on her bare shoulders.

'I thought you might find the juice more refreshing,' he leant forwards to murmur.

She couldn't deny the truth of that. In fact, she had thought of bringing a drink back herself to sip through the third act, but hadn't relished trying to return to her seat with a full glass through the jostling crowd.