'Filippo!' She spun round on him crossly and he flung his head back and roared with laughter, then caught her hand and led her over to a settee.

Tentatively she smiled, still too aware of what he was implying to be completely relaxed with him.

'Come, little one,' he said, catching her hand. 'You will feel safer when we are among other people.'

The evening was an enchanted one. Filippo was everything she had dreamed a man could be. They dined leisurely at Alfredo's and then went on to a night club where he held her very close and sang s.n.a.t.c.hes of love songs into her ear. He appeared to be as well known in Rome as in Venice, and many times couples came over to speak to him. He asked none of them to join him nor did he attempt to disengage his hand from Erica's, which he held tightly within his own.

It was two o'clock before he drove her back to her hotel, where his insistence that he see her safely up to her suite set her blood pounding through her veins. But his goodnight kiss outside the door was the essence of decorum, and to her chagrin she was deeply disappointed.

'There is no pleasing you, is there?' he called softly from the elevator. 'Would you like me to come back and show you what I would-'

'No!' she said with a laugh, and backing into the suite, closed the door.

On Sat.u.r.day Filippo proved himself to be both considerate and understanding. Knowing she had never been to Rome he insisted on giving her a detailed tour of it, overriding her protestations that she would be happy to come to Rome by herself on another occasion for a sightseeing tour.

Armed with several books - which he frequently consulted - he took her round the Vatican City, seemingly as absorbed by its treasures as if he were seeing them for the first time in his life. They remained for a long while in the Sistine Chapel, eyes lifted to take in the overwhelming magnificence of the painted ceiling where men and angels played out their perpetual allegory.

'It's incredible to think of the effort Michelangelo put into this,' she murmured. 'All those years lying on his back on scaffolding, painting and painting.'

'Sometimes painting through the night,' Filippo added, 'because he couldn't bear to think of all the years he was wasting here, doing this,' he said, pointing to the brilliant ceiling, 'when all he wanted to do was to sculpt. So you see how unwillingly he created a masterpiece - one of the wonders of the world. And all at the command of a Pope.'

'But he must have painted from the heart,' Erica protested.

'No,' Filippo said emphatically. 'From his guts; from his strength. His heart was in marble, waiting to be hewn out and brought to life.' His dark eyes roamed the ceiling. 'Look at those red robes,' he whispered, 'and imagine them as Michelangelo's blood... his life blood seeping away through the years that it took to create his homage to G.o.d.'

Reluctantly she did so, and the agony of the tormented genius who had worked here seemed to fill her.

'Now for lunch,' Filippo said practically, as if divining that she could take no more. 'And afterwards I promise you excitement without heartache.'

He was as good as his word, taking her to eat in a gay and noisy restaurant overlooking the city, and then driving her through the beautiful outskirts to show her the palatial homes of some of its wealthiest residents.

'I prefer your penthouse,' she commented. 'Though you have made it ultra-modern it still has the feel of the palazzo it used to be.'

'I think so too,' he agreed, and looked pleased with her for thinking the same.

It was well into the afternoon, and the sun was a deep orange ball in the sky, when they entered the ruins of the Colosseum. Filippo came to life as he strode around the arena, drawing an exciting word picture of the battles and orgies that had taken place here in Roman times.

'I can just see you watching the gladiators fight to their death,' she said, 'and placing bets on charioteer races.'

'Does that mean you see me as a bloodthirsty overlord?'

'Very bloodthirsty,' she grinned, enjoying the fact that at last she could tease him.

'And what about your ancestors? Painting themselves with woad and whooping round in fright when my forebears came to bring them civilization?'

'Civilization! The world doesn't seem to have learned very much in a few thousand years. We're even more bloodthirsty now than we used to be.'

'More refined about it, though. It is no longer man against man but one group of technologists against another.'

'And one hydrogen bomb to destroy the world.'

'Stop being introspective,' he ordered. 'I'll give you a chance to throw some coins into the Trevi Fountain. Then you can wish for a better future.'

She did just that, but throwing in the coins he gave her, she wished instead for something more personal and wondered if he could guess what it was. But though his look was tender as she opened her eyes and saw him, he made no comment.

That evening they again went dancing and, as before, he left her at her hotel suite, kissing her lightly on the forehead as he said goodnight.

Lying in bed musing on the events of the day, she was afraid that he regretted having asked her to spend the weekend with him. It seemed the only explanation for his almost platonic behaviour since they had driven from the airport. He had kissed her then with an aching longing that he had not shown since. Perhaps he had discovered that he was no longer interested in her; that the girl who had intrigued him for one evening in Venice no longer had the power to do so in the bright lights of Rome.

Restlessly she tossed and turned, eventually leaving her bed to stand by the window. Was Filippo asleep or was he too lying awake and regretting his invitation to her? She thought of the way he had acted towards her tonight: attentive and kind, holding her close as they had danced yet saying nothing that no one else could not have overheard. If he was detached tomorrow she would ask to go back to Venice in the afternoon. Since he had his own plane it would present no problem to him. She could even suggest returning in the morning. She sighed. She was not seeing him until lunchtime for he had a business meeting until then, informing her - as he had seen her surprise that he should be working on a Sunday - that he was negotiating to buy an interest in an American bank and that the President of it wished to complete the discussions as speedily as possible.

'But my chauffeur will take you for a drive,' he had added. 'And he will bring you to the penthouse for lunch.'

Deciding that when she saw him at lunchtime, she would suggest leaving immediately afterwards, Erica went back to bed. But sleep was uneasy and she woke up several times with a sense of loss that made her frightened of the depths of her feelings for a man she still felt she hardly knew.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

In the morning Filippo was as good as his word. At nine- thirty the clerk at the reception desk rang to say her car was waiting for her whenever she was ready and, because she was unused to having a chauffeur at her disposal, she rushed through her breakfast, reluctant to keep him waiting.

She had mapped out an itinerary for the morning and she handed it to him as she reached the car. He looked at it and then took a sheet of paper from his pocket, explaining to her in broken English that the Conte had already given him instructions where to take her.

Erica glanced at the list. It was similar to her own and she decided it would be rude to ignore the trouble to which Filippo had evidently gone. Putting her own list back in her pocket, she climbed into the car.

Though she enjoyed her tour, all her thoughts were centred on Filippo, and her anxiety to be with him made it hard for her to concentrate on what she was seeing. How could any monument or church, no matter how ancient, stop her from forgetting the fear that was absorbing her?

'I've had enough sightseeing,' she informed the chauffeur. 'Take me to the Conte.'

'Is too hot to look-a-da ole buildings,' the man agreed. 'Much better to sit on terrace and relax in-a-da sunshine.'

Smiling agreement, she was nonetheless shaking with apprehension when she finally went up in the elevator to the penthouse. She was a few moments earlier than she had planned and she hoped he was not still busy or thought she had come here deliberately early in order to check up that he really was working. But when why should he think she wanted to check up on him?

Nerves were making her irrational, proving once again - if she needed proof - that she had allowed Filippo to destroy her logic as he could well destroy her future if he were not going to be a part of it. The knowledge staggered her and blindly she reached out and pressed the stop b.u.t.ton, bringing the elevator to a halt. She couldn't go up to the apartment yet. She had to wait and take hold of herself. She must be crazy if she could even think in terms of a future with Filippo. She was as far out of his world as a star; not only in terms of wealth but of nationality and tradition. And these last two would count more with him than anything else. Even if he could for a single moment consider her as a part of his life, the fact that she was a foreigner would give him pause for thought. She knew this, indeed she had known it from the very beginning, though it had not stopped her from dreaming impossible dreams. And they were impossible. She must keep telling herself this. It was the only way she could hang on to her pride. No matter how much she attracted Filippo, he would never regard her as anything other than a pa.s.sing infatuation. She should never have come here for the week-end. To be with him like this would only make it more difficult for her to forget him.

She set the lift in motion and stepped out into the penthouse with a fixed smile on her face. Filippo was in the hall waiting for her, his expression concerned.

'I thought the lift had got stuck,' he said abruptly. 'It suddenly stopped and when I pressed the emergency b.u.t.ton nothing happened.'

'I stopped the lift myself. I wanted to - I wanted to put on some lipstick.'

His look was keen, but he said nothing as he led her into the sitting room. It was pristine fresh and the scent of flowers was strong.

'No cigar smoke?' she smiled.

'We were in my study.'

Annoyed for not guessing he must have more than one reception room, she accepted a drink from him and went on to the terrace as she sipped it.

He followed her. 'You are looking pale. Erica. Are you tired?'

'A little. It must be the heat.'

'You should be in Rome in July and August; then it can be unbearable.'

How do you manage?'

'I have a house further out in the countryside. It is cooler there.'

Again she was annoyed at her naivety. Naturally he would have a house in the hills and probably an apartment in Paris and London too!

'I keep forgetting how important and rich you are,' she said brightly.

'Being rich does not make one important.' Over the rim of his gla.s.s he was watching her. His lids were lowered and all that could be seen were two dark slits. 'You seem different this morning, cara, tense and nervous of me.'

'I am always nervous of you,' she said truthfully.

'But luckily it was not enough to stop you from coming to Rome when I invited you.'

'That's probably making me more nervous,' she confessed, 'I should never have come.'

'Why not?' He set his gla.s.s sharply on the table and came to stand beside her. "What nonsense is this? You wanted to come as much as I wanted to have you.'

Did you want to have me?' she whispered.

Do you doubt it? Haven't I given you any proof?'

Proof of what? she longed to ask, but dared not do so lest it forced him to lie in order not to hurt her feelings.

'I have enjoyed myself very much,' she said, knowing the words were a non sequitur. 'But even glamorous week-ends must come to an end. I should be getting back.'

'There is no reason for you to leave until late tonight. I have arranged for you to go at nine o'clock. Someone will meet you in Venice to take you back to your apartment.'

'You might have told me,' she said sharply.

'I thought you would be happy to leave all the arrangements to me?'

'I do have a mind of my own, Filippo. I don't like you taking charge of me as if I were a child!'

"You're angry with me,' he said quietly, 'and I can see no reason for it.' He caught her arm. 'I wish you to tell me why.'

She looked away from him and the pressure of his hand increased, warning her that he would not be fobbed off with another inconsequential reply. But she could not tell him the truth without disclosing her feelings. She looked into the living-room and for the first time noticed a beautiful marquetry bureau standing against the wall. Above it hung a Gauguin. It was from the Pont Aven period, in the luminous yellows and brilliant reds and greens which the artist had used at that time. If she needed anything to reinforce her belief in Filippo's position, she had it staring her in the face.

'I'm not angry with you,' she murmured. 'Only with myself. It was silly of me to pretend. I'm not the type to be anybody's mistress. Don't say you haven't asked me yet,' she added quickly. 'I know it was in your mind when we were in Venice.'

That is true,' he said. 'I will not deny it.'

She had not needed his answer to confirm her suspicions, but hearing it added to her desolation. She forced herself to look at him but could not quite bring herself to meet his eyes. Instead she focused on his mouth. This was more painful and she looked at his forehead and saw a pulse beating on one side of it.

'It was foolish of me to have come to Rome,' she repeated. 'Some things are better left to the moonlight. It's hard for me to explain, but...'

"You have made yourself very clear.' His voice was harsh. 'You have no need to apologize about it. I am glad you have been honest with me.'

'Yes... well... it would never have worked.'

'It might have done in the beginning.'

'No!' she cried. 'Never! I couldn't have...' She averted her head and swallowed convulsively.

'Never?' he reiterated. 'You mean you find me so repulsive that you could not even consider me as a lover?' His words were as devoid of expression as his face, which remained dark and impa.s.sive. 'You did not give me that impression in Venice. Exactly the contrary, in fact. That is why I asked you here. But as you say, the moonlight can make fools of us. Spending an evening with a man is different from being with him for two whole days. I am too old for you, am I not? And too foreign and different in my ways?' His voice grew louder and a flush warmed his skin. 'You are no longer seeing me as the glamorous Count Rosetti but as an ordinary man - a not so young Italian!'

'No!' she burst out. 'That's not true.'

'It is. Don't bother to deny it: I do not want your kindness, Erica. I am well able to take the truth.'

Wordlessly she stared at him. If she were not so astonished by his misunderstanding of what she had said, she could almost have laughed at it. Did Filippo really believe she saw him as an ordinary man? As a not so young Italian who was too foreign for her?

'I am the one who is ordinary,' she said, knowing she had to give him back his pride. 'I am the one who is different.'

'What are you trying to tell me?'

'That I didn't say what I did because you are too old for me. Nor does your being foreign stop me from - from... What I meant is that it makes it hard for me to understand you.'

'It certainly does!' His lids were raised and his eyes glittered like jet. 'You are a fool, Erica!'

Her head tilted angrily. 'So are you if you think I'd agree to - to -'

'I know exactly what you'll agree to!' he grated. 'And my only foolishness was in not realizing you were so busy trying to hide your feelings that you had no time to consider what mine were. But you don't need to pretend any longer.'

'Pretend about what?' she whispered.

'That you don't love me.' He paused as if waiting for her to deny it. When she did not do so, the glitter in his eyes intensified. 'No protestations? No outraged pride?

'What's the use?' she whispered shakily. 'Anyway, I've never been a good liar.' 'Then you do love me?' He made no attempt to hide his triumph. 'Say it. Erica. I want to hear you say it.'

This demand was too much for her and she stepped away from him. 'How much of a victory do you want?' she cried. 'If you know I love you, then you also, know that it's hopeless. Putting it into words won't make any difference. I've already told you I can never be your mistress.'

'I'm not asking you to be. I have always known you would refuse.'

Then why... what..

Two strides brought him close to her and she was angry with herself for having come to rest by the wall, for now there was no way of escaping him.