The Italian's Ruthless Seduction

Suddenly, she no longer felt tired, a burst of adrenalin firing her blood, forcing it to run less sluggishly through her veins. When she’d first exited the plane in Milan, she’d been absolutely wrecked, having managed only the briefest of dozes between stopovers. Unbelievably, she’d forgotten to bring her sleeping tablets with her, which meant she was in for a few sleepless nights at best.

Insomnia was the very devil. Bella hated tossing and turning in bed all night. Hated the negative thoughts that besieged her at such times. Hated the feeling of loneliness, which had been getting worse lately. Still, with a bit of luck the fresh air and change of scene would do what no sleeping tablet could achieve. Make her relax. Make her unwind. Make her work out what she really wanted in life. Because, quite frankly, she wasn’t so sure any more.

There’d been a time when she’d thought she could have it all. An exciting and challenging career on the stage, with a devoted and supportive husband waiting in the wings to take her home afterwards to their lovely home and two happy children. A boy and girl, of course. Nothing but perfection in Bella’s dream world.

It had come as a shock to her as she’d turned thirty last week that she wasn’t even close to living that dream existence, with no hopes of achieving it any time in the near future. Okay, so she still had an exciting and challenging career. On paper. But it didn’t feel as exciting and challenging any more. It just felt like hard work.

As for the idea of a devoted and supportive husband waiting in the wings... That was a pipe dream! Such a man simply did not exist. Men weren’t devoted or supportive. At least, the ones she was attracted to weren’t. They’d all been selfish, arrogant and only wanted her as a notch on their belt, or a status symbol, never as a wife. As for children... Bella knew she could have a baby if she wanted. You didn’t need a husband for that these days. Just a sperm donor. She’d actually considered it—for about thirty seconds, the thought of being a single mother having no appeal whatsoever. She wanted her child—or children—to have a father as well as a mother, a man who actually loved and supported her, and who was hands-on with parenting.

‘Almost there, Signorina Cameron,’ the driver said, startling her out of her introspection.

The driver hadn’t been a talker, thank heavens. But he spoke perfect English, with not too heavy an Italian accent. His name was Luigi and he was about fifty.

‘Yes, I’m beginning to recognise things. I’ve been here before. Though not for several years.’

‘It has not changed. Lake Como. Italy...it does not change much.’

‘No,’ she agreed warmly. ‘That is part of its charm.’

The car pulled into a familiar gravel driveway, coming to a halt in front of tall wooden gates connected to a high stone wall. The gates looked new. The stone wall was not.

‘Signor Morelli died last year,’ Luigi told her in sombre tones as he pointed a remote controller at the gate.

‘Yes, I know. I went to his funeral.’

Luigi frowned at her in the rear-vision mirror. ‘You are not a relative.’

‘No. Just a friend.’

‘Ah.’ He nodded sadly. ‘I miss him. I was his driver for the last year of his life. He was a good man.’

‘Yes,’ Bella choked out. ‘He was.’

‘His son is a good man too.’

‘He certainly is,’ Bella agreed, glad to get off the subject of Alberto’s death.

She was almost relieved when the gates were finally open and Luigi’s attention was occupied with negotiating the Mercedes slowly round the crunchy gravel driveway that encircled a huge stone-edged fountain. As a child Bella had been shocked by the flagrant nudity of the three statues at the centre of the fountain. She still found the male statue slightly confronting. His sexual equipment was decidedly larger than normal, which possibly explained the looks of awe on his two female companions. Sergio’s grandfather—who’d been alive and well when Bella had first holidayed at the villa—had claimed that the model for the male statue was a distant ancestor of his who’d built the villa in the sixteenth century. A myth, Sergio had told her later that same day, explaining that the villa had been a monastery back then, the Morelli family not buying it till late in the nineteenth century. The fountain—despite looking centuries old—was a later addition, built just after the First World War.

‘You will learn, dear Izzie,’ Sergio had confessed quietly with a rueful smile, ‘that Italian men are given to boasting and bragging.’

Bella smiled at the memory. Not that she agreed with Sergio entirely. Yes, some Italian men liked to boast and brag. Sergio’s grandfather had been of that ilk and his father to a lesser degree. Alberto had certainly liked showing off his attractive new wife and his pretty little stepdaughter. Sergio, however, didn’t seem to have the need to impress others. Some people would have shouted to the rooftops that they were having the darling of Broadway as a guest in their home. But not Sergio. He’d insisted she tell no one where she was going, not even her mother.

Which suited Bella admirably, peace and privacy her priorities at the moment. She did wonder, however, if he’d told Maria that she was coming to stay.

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