A Fever In The Blood

  From Back Cover…

  Forbidden attraction…

  Visiting Italy at the tender age of eighteen, Cassandra had developed a deep crush on Ben Scorcese. His desire for her had also been unmistakable — but he had denied it, pushing her away…

  Now, four years later, Cassandra is back in Italy — this time on the run from her unfaithful husband — to find history repeating itself. Once again the attraction has flared, and still Ben seems determined to fight it. Until, that is, a dark family secret is revealed. A secret that could give Ben and Cassandra a second chance — if only he would take it…

  A Fever In The Blood

  by

  Anne Mather

  CHAPTER ONE

  BEN SCORCESE let himself into his apartment on the Piazza del Fiore with an audible sigh of relief. It was so good to be home, he reflected pleasurably, and he was looking forward to the next six weeks, with nothing more demanding to do than to continue with his manu­script. These last months had been interesting, of course, and he had enjoyed lecturing in both Australia and New Zealand. But his main occupation these days was re­search, and for weeks he had been promising himself that, once his summer holiday started, he would settle down and try to finish the treatise he was writing.

  Dropping his suitcase inside the door, he bent to pick up the half-dozen or so letters that lay waiting for him. Evidently, Signora Cipriani had not expected him back so soon, or the letters would all have been deposited neatly on the desk in his study. It was obvious from the thickness of the dust lying on the table in the narrow hallway, and the faint smell of mustiness in the air, that she had not opened up the apartment for a couple of weeks. The distinctive combination of dry vegetation and compressed heat was unmistakable, and Ben guessed his part-time housekeeper had not overworked herself in his absence.

  Closing the heavy door behind him, Ben slung the bag containing the papers he had been studying on the plane, and his camera, down beside his suitcase, and carried his mail through to the kitchen. Before looking at the letters, he opened both of the sash windows that overlooked the yard at the back of the building, breathing the cooler air of early evening with some relief. Below, peach trees were espaliered to the crumbling wall that enclosed the cobbled courtyard, and a huge black cat was sprawled in its shade. There was a timelessness about the scene that appealed to Ben's senses; a feeling of permanence that complemented his mood. For the first time in his life, he felt he was content—and if, very occasionally, he experienced a certain impatience with his own com­placency, those moments were becoming fewer and fur­ther between.

  It was in this mood of happy anticipation that he turned to pick up the letters again from the veined mar­ble worktop where he had dropped them. In spite of the age of the building, the kitchen of the apartment was fairly modern, with a stainless steel sink standing cheek by jowl with a rather ancient cooker. Mrs Cipriani had added colour to the room by furnishing it with dozens of trailing plants, whose greenery, Ben felt, seemed in danger of taking the whole place over. Neglected or not, the plants still flourished, and he pulled a wry face as he propped his lean hips against the drainer.

  Most of the letters were either bills, or bank state­ments, or circulars, and he discarded them without fur­ther ado. Whatever utility he had not paid could wait another day at least, and he was about to abandon their perusal in favour of examining the contents of his fridge when a pale cream envelope grabbed his attention. He would have recognised that barely legible scrawl any­where, even without the fact that the envelope was ad­dressed with only his name: Signor Benvenuto Scorcese, and nothing else. Which meant that it had to have been delivered personally, unless Cass had got someone else to deliver it for her.

  With an impatience he at once ridiculed and despised, he tore the envelope open, scanning the scalloped cream sheet that emerged with narrow-eyed intensity. It was from Cass; and it had been delivered by hand. She was here, in Florence, and she needed to see him urgently.

  The date on the letter, he saw, was six days old. Which meant she might not still be in the city. Did she know when he was expected home? Had she spoken to Signora Cipriani? Or had she simply contacted the uni­versity? He had no way of knowing, and the chances were that she had abandoned her quest after he had made no effort to contact her.

  Ben breathed deeply, and then, with the letter still in his hand, he walked through the creeper-hung arch into his living-room-cum-study. The phone was on his desk and he picked up the receiver at once, cradling it be­tween his shoulder and his ear as he flicked through the directory for the number of the Villa Regina. It was the small hotel Cass had stayed at on a previous visit to the city. It was a long shot, but it was the only one he had, and he dialled the number swiftly, unconsciously offer­ing up a silent prayer that she'd still be there.

  He transferred the receiver to his other hand as the number rang out. Once; twice; then the receptionist an­swered, 'Villa Regina. Can I help you?'

  'Yes.' Ben paused. 'Could you tell me, do you have a Signora Cassandra Fielding staying at the hotel? She— er—well, she'll probably be occupying a suite.'

  'One moment, signore.'

  The line went dead as the receptionist went to check the computer, and Ben endeavoured to recover his earlier calm. What price now his mood of complacency? he reflected somewhat irritably. A note from Cassandra, and he was as tense as a violin string.

  It seemed to take an inordinately long period of time for the hotel receptionist to find out what he wanted to know. By the time she came back on the line, Ben's long fingers were drumming an impatient tattoo on the scratched surface of his desk, and his previous feeling of well-being had completely dissipated.

  'Signora Fielding has been a guest at the hotel, signore' she advised him formally, initially raising and then dashing his hopes. 'But she was checking out today, I believe, and as I've had her paged without any success, I'm afraid she must already have gone.'

  'Oh.' Ben's response was flat. He paused a moment, and then added swiftly, 'You don't by any chance have a forwarding address?'

  'I'm afraid not, signore.'

  'Do you know if she was leaving for the airport?' he persisted, mentally calculating the times of the London flights out of the international airport at Pisa, but the receptionist was vague.

  'She may have been, signore,' she responded, evi­dently trying to accommodate him, but Ben realised his chances of locating Cass at the international airport in Pisa were slim at best.

  'Thank you,' he said at last, the disappointment in his low, attractive voice causing a shiver of regret to attack the girl's spine. 'You've been very helpful.'

  With the receiver replaced on its cradle, Ben gave way to an exclamation of frustration. Thrusting his fingers through the thick weight of hair that grew back from his forehead, he raked his scalp in raw impatience. If only, he thought grimly. If only he had got back a day sooner; if only Cass had delayed her departure for twenty-four more hours.

  Breathing a resigned sigh, he let his hands fall to his sides. There was no point in indulging in futile wishing. He was here now, and Cass wasn't. Whatever desperate need had brought her to Florence either no longer con­cerned her or had required immediate action, with or without his involvement. It was unfortunate that he had not been there for her when she'd needed him, but that was the way it was. Maybe it was just as well. His mother would not appreciate him getting involved with Cass again. And he knew from past experience that the less he saw of his father's youngest child, the better. All the same…

  Dismissing the pang of bitterness that swept over him at memories too powerful to ignore, he determinedly walked back into the hall to rescue his suitcase. Unpacking first and then a shower, he decided briskly. And then he'd
decide about food. One thing was certain: Cass's letter had certainly banished any desire to have an early night.

  The water was running in the shower, and he was stripped down to his underpants when he heard the door­bell. Mrs Cipriani, he guessed, expelling a weary groan. No doubt she had observed the lights on in the apart­ment, and had come to apologise for not preparing for his arrival. A glance in the fridge had revealed its bare shelves, and he had acknowledged his mistake in not advising the housekeeper of the actual date of his return.

  Even so, he wished she had waited until tomorrow morning to make her explanation. He was not in the mood for her excuses. Nevertheless, he felt obliged to answer the door; and, thrusting his arms into the sleeves of a dark blue towelling bathrobe and wrapping its folds about his waist, he turned off the taps.

  But when he opened the door, his expression a mix­ture of tolerance and weary resignation, it wasn't Mrs Cipriani who was standing outside. It was Cass herself who confronted him, a maroon leather suitcase and matching vanity propped beside her.

  'Oh—Ben!' she exclaimed, swallowing with evident relief. And then, continuing in English, the language of the incredibly beautiful woman his father had married when Ben was fifteen years old, she went on, 'I was afraid it might be your housekeeper. But then I thought, it's late, and surely even housekeepers keep sociable hours these days. Only I've been here so many times during the past few days, and you were never at home. As a matter of fact, I was on my way to the airport when something told me to try one last time—'

  She was nervous, Ben could see that, the voluble surge of words serving to warn him she was in a highly emotional state. Besides which, her pale face with its hectic splashes of colour, and the wide, dilated pupils of her eyes were an added indication of her agitation. Trouble, he diagnosed grimly, his heart twisting at the instantaneous response she always aroused in him.

  'You'd better come in,' he interrupted her shortly. Stepping forward, he picked up her two cases, and she gave him a quick, anxious smile as she brushed past him into the hallway of the apartment. 'The study,' he prompted when she hesitated and, slamming the door with his heel, he set down the cases again before follow­ing her into the velvety darkness of his living-room-cum-study.

  The lamps he switched on in passing banished the shadows, and revealed the narrow contours of her body beneath the expensive folds of her cream suede suit. She had lost weight, he noticed instinctively, before dismiss­ing the thought. It was nothing to do with him, he told himself irritably. She had never been particularly volup­tuous, for all her Italian ancestry, and since her marriage to Roger Fielding her tall, slim body had fined down to near gauntness.

  'You—you don't have anything to drink, do you?' she asked then, surprising him still further, and Ben frowned.

  'Coffee, you mean?' he enquired, his dark brows drawn together, and Cass sighed.

  'Actually, no. I meant—something stronger,' she ad­mitted, shifting a little awkwardly. 'Um—gin? Vodka? Whisky, even?'

  Ben thrust his hands into the pockets of his robe. 'I think I have some brandy,' he remarked coolly. Then, when her nod revealed her acquiescence, he drew a taut breath. 'I'll get it,' he said, and indicated the tapestry-covered sofa beneath the windows. 'Why don't you sit down? I shan't be long.'

  But when he came back, carrying the bottle of cognac and two fine Murano glasses, she was still on her feet, standing by the window, her whole attitude one of sup­pressed trepidation.

  'Thanks,' she said, taking with evident eagerness the glass he proffered, steadying it with both hands as he poured a generous measure of the warm amber liquid into it. 'Hmm, lovely,' she added, taking a sip. 'I need this!'

  'So it would appear,' observed Ben drily, pouring only a small amount of the brandy into his own glass. 'So—what brings you to Florence?'

  Cass shook her head, savouring another mouthful of the cognac. 'Where were you?' she asked, not answering him. 'I've tried everywhere!'

  'The university?' he suggested, watching her, and she made a frustrated gesture.

  'No. Not there,' she conceded, sighing. 'I—well—I didn't want to involve anyone else, and so many people know us at the university.'

  'I see.' Ben was unhelpful, but he couldn't prevent the feeling of resentment that was colouring his mood.

  'So where were you?' she exclaimed, gazing at him. Lifting his shoulders, he made a careless gesture.

  'Is that important? I was away, lecturing, in Australia and New Zealand. You should have warned me when to expect you—'

  'And had you make some excuse not to see me?' she interrupted swiftly. 'Oh, no! I've tried that before, re­member?'

  Ben bent his head. 'I've never deliberately refused to see you.'

  'No,' she conceded bitterly. 'But you have been—how shall I put it?—unavailable?'

  Ben's eyes were expressionless as he looked at her. 'I do have a job to do, Cass. I can't take time off just when I feel like it.'

  'How convenient!' Her lips twisted. 'Well, I'm here now. Do you mind?'

  He sighed. 'Let's not get into a pointless discussion, shall we? Just tell me why you're here, and I'll tell you whether I mind or not. Where's Roger? Is he with you?'

  'No!'

  Her denial was so vehement, Ben could feel the hairs on the back of his neck lift apprehensively.

  'No?' he echoed, trying to maintain a casual interest. 'So what is this? A shopping trip?'

  'No!'

  Once again her denial was swift and passionate, and with a feeling of impending doom Ben swallowed the contents of his glass at a gulp. What now?

  'I've left Roger,' she announced after a moment's hes­itation. 'And before you start, I should tell you, Daddy doesn't know yet.'

  Ben groaned. 'You've left Roger?'

  'Yes.'

  'Does he know?'

  'He knows. But he doesn't know where I am.' Cass's tongue circled her lips. 'I've been staying at the Villa Regina. Do you remember it? If Roger's thought of me coming here at all, he'll have tried the Excelsior or the Savoy. He doesn't have your address, in any case, and I doubt he'd ask Daddy for it.'

  Ben shook his head. 'And why haven't you told your father?'

  'Oh—' Cass spun about on one high heel and walked towards the windows again. With her back to him, she said, 'You know why. He'd never approve of my leav­ing—he'd never take my side. You know how much he wanted this marriage to work. He'll never understand that it's not going to.'

  Ben's fingers tightened round his glass. 'How can you be so sure that it's not?' he demanded, his voice harshened by the strength of his own frustration. What price now his summer sabbatical? How was he going to be able to concentrate on the life and times of Ambroise Giotti, when the sixteenth-century historian was so far removed from the problems of his twentieth-century counterpart?

  Cass turned then, emptying her glass as she did so. The slender column of her throat was absurdly vulner­able in the lamplight, the silvery lightness of her hair haloed by the pale illumination. He knew she was twenty-two now, but she didn't look it. In the flattering shadows, she looked no more than eighteen. Eighteen! His lips tightened. He didn't want to think about Cass at eighteen.

  'Are you shocked?' she asked now, once again avoid­ing his question, and Ben found himself needing another drink.

  'May I?' she asked, coming up behind him as he grimly poured himself more brandy, and Ben took her glass with evident disapproval, and splashed a little of the cognac into the bottom.

  'Since when have you been hitting the bottle?' he en­quired tautly, as she took the glass back from him, and she shrugged. 'Don't tell me Roger has driven you to drink, because I simply won't believe it.'

  'Why not?'

  Much to his discomfort, she did not open the gap be­tween them once again, but remained where she was, so close that he could smell the elusive perfume she was wearing. It was disturbing and disconcerting, and in spite of his professed maturity it was Ben who felt momen­tarily threatened. It was a defi
nite effort to withstand her cool appraisal, and he swallowed a mouthful of the brandy before making any response.

  'You forget,' he said at last. 'I know Roger. He's not the type to—intimidate anyone.'

  Cass regarded him steadily, the wide grey eyes full of reproach. 'You think not?'

  Ben groaned. 'Cass, it's a fact! Roger may be Father's tool, but he's no sledge-hammer!' His lips twisted. 'A gavel, perhaps.'

  Her jaw jutted. 'And what if I told you there was someone else?'

  Ben's heart juddered. 'You—you've fallen in love with someone else?' he asked in a strangled voice, and she gazed at him impatiently.

  'Not me, Ben! Roger!' She ran slender fingers through the silvery fall of silky straight hair that framed her pale face. 'Roger's got a mistress. A woman he's been seeing for the last six months. Oh—he doesn't know I know, and to begin with I thought I could live with it. But I can't. It's too humiliating. And I had to get away before Daddy found out.'

  Ben scarcely noticed the ominous implication of her final statement. He was still absorbing his relief at dis­covering that Cass herself was not involved with some other man. Roger, he had learned to live with; but some­one else, someone more masculine, more demanding…

  'Did you hear what I said?'

  Cass was speaking again, and Ben made an effort to marshal his thoughts. 'What? Oh—yes; yes, I heard you,' he acknowledged, taking a deep breath. 'So—you came to me. Why? What do you expect me to do? Play the heavy father myself?'

  'You?' For the first time since she had entered the apartment and caused him such an emotional upheaval, Cass allowed a faint smile to touch her lips. 'Oh, Ben,' she exclaimed, and to his dismay she reached up to rub her soft cheek against his roughened jaw. 'Darling, I've never thought of you as a father figure. You know that.' She pulled a rueful face. 'That's really what all this is about, isn't it?' And when he didn't answer, she added, 'I came to you because you're the only person I could come to. I—I need some time to decide what I'm going to do. Time to get my life into some sort of perspective.'