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'How are you, old girl?' Richard cut in warmly. 'Odd you should ring. I was actually thinking of dropping down this—'
'Richard...do you remember telling me that it's possible to find almost any information you want on the Internet?'
Darcy interrupted with scant ceremony. 'Could you do that for me as a favour and fax anything you get?' 'Sure. What kind of information are you after?' 'Anything you can get on an Italian called...Gianluca Raffacani.'
'There's something vaguely familiar about that surname,' Richard commented absently. 'I wonder if he's into horses...'
'I'll be grateful for anything you can send me, but don't tell anyone I've been enquiring,' she warned nervously.
'No problem. Anything wrong down there?' he enquired. 'You sound harassed. What's the connection? Who is this chap?'
'That's what I'm trying to find out. Talk to you soon...thanks, Richard.' Darcy replaced the receiver.
She studied the framed photo of Richard by her bed and gave his grinning cheerful image the thumbs-up sign. To fight Luca she had to find out who and what she was deal¬ing with.
No way could she go to Italy! The Folly could not be left empty. And who would feed the hens and Nero, her elderly horse, look after the dogs? Work that the wedding had so far prevented her from carrying out today, she re¬called dully. Shedding her late mother's gown, she pulled on her work jeans and an old sweater. She could not bear the idea of leaving her home...
But if she didn't, she would lose the Folly for ever. For ever. Perspiration beaded her upper lip. Her shoulders dropped in defeat. In the short term, what choice did she have but to play along with Luca's demands? And that meant going to Italy with Zia. Before she could lose her nerve, she dug a couple of suitcases out of a box room further down the corridor. She packed them with a hastily chosen selection of her clothing and her daughter's, squeez¬ing in toys until both cases bulged.
A quiet knock sounded on the bedroom door.
It was Benito. His face a study of careful solemnity, he passed her several sheets of neatly trimmed fax paper. 'This was on the machine in the library when I went to use it, signora.'
Her fair complexion awash with disconcerted pink as she glimpsed the topmost page, which bore a recognisable pic¬ture of Luca, she said stiffly, 'You work for Luca?'
'As his executive assistant, signora.'
Closing the door again, wondering in hot-cheeked cha¬grin if Luca had personally censored the information sent by Richard or if, indeed, he considered her efforts to learn about him a source of amusement rather then a worrying development, Darcy spread the results of her former fi¬ance's surf on the Internet across the bed.
Then she started reading. A piece entitled 'Billion Kill on Wall Street'. It was three months old. Luca was de¬scribed as a finance magnate, brilliant at playing the world currency markets, born rich and getting even richer. His personal fortune was estimated in a string of noughts that needed counting and incredulous re-counting before she could suspend scepticism. And this is the guy who took a cheque from me when I was stony broke and he knew it...? Darcy thought in numbed disbelief.
He was a louse—lower than a louse, even. He was mi¬croscopic bacteria! He had no honour, no decency, no shame, no scruples. She read on. Reference was made to Luca's reputation as a commitment-shy womaniser, his ruthless business practices, his implacable nature, his com¬plete lack of sentiment. Darcy was chilled by the perusal of such accolades, and soon decided that it was better not to read any more because it was in all likelihood ninety per cent rubbish and gossip.
No Fielding had ever been guilty of running away from a fight, she reminded herself fiercely. But her problems with the estate were all financial, and Luca had probably been the sort of child who'd started investing his pocket money and playing the stock market at the age of six. She was outmatched, and she felt quite sick at the memory of having confided in him about her overdraft.
Even allowing for exaggeration, Luca was evidently a strikingly effective financial strategist. He was rich, feared and envied, doubtless used to wielding enormous power and influence. A control freak? She glanced down at the grainy picture. So forbidding, so severe, so utterly and com¬pletely unlike the male she had fallen madly in love with in Venice. But so dauntingly, chillingly like the male she had married today...
Nothing she had read suggested that he was secretly in¬sane, or given to peculiar starts and fancies, but she was not one bit closer to solving the mystery of his motivation in seeking to punish her.
What did he want to punish her for? What had she done? She had spent only one night with him, yet for some inexplicable reason he had gone to huge lengths to track her down and hog-tie her by deception into a marriage that had never been intended to be anything but a sham. In achieving that feat, Luca now had the ability to influence and ultimately control her every move over the next six months. The price of defiance would be the loss of everything she held dear.
