The Italian's Bride

He was rubbing his hands, smiling widely. ‘That is one fine young man. Classy, but no side on him.’ He beamed at his daughter, her eyes huge in the pallor of her face, ‘So how does it feel to be six weeks away from going to live in pampered luxury in sunny Tuscany?’

CHAPTER TWO

‘I COULD still change my mind,’ Portia said, her voice shaking with a sudden, positively ferocious flood of nerves. She swallowed hard, then took a deep breath to steady herself. ‘Even now,’ she emphasised hopefully.

Even when Lucenzo Verdi was expected at any moment—when her luggage was filling the narrow hall and Sam was peacefully asleep in his carry cot at her feet, fed, changed and ready to go.

‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’ The note of sheer horror in Joyce Makepeace’s voice turned to grinding exasperation as she swung round from peering through the net curtains and told her daughter, ‘We’ve been through this a thousand times over the last six weeks! Of course you can’t change your mind. You have to go. What else is there?’

She expelled an impatient breath and came out with the usual well-worn litany. ‘If you’d concentrated at school instead of living in a dream world you might have been equipped for a decent career, been able to afford a place of your own, proper childcare. Your father and I can’t afford to keep you and the baby—’

‘I could go back to work—’

‘Your job’s gone.’

‘I could get another. In any case, Mr Weston said he’d take me back. The girl he hired when I took maternity leave knows she’s only temporary.’

‘And expect me to babysit, I suppose? And keep yourself and a child on a waitress’s wages? I don’t think so.’ Joyce’s mouth thinned. ‘He won’t stay a baby for ever.’

Portia bit down hard on her wobbling lower lip. It was true. The job she’d enjoyed, even though humble, had paid very little. Tips were what waitresses relied on, Mr Weston had explained. The only trouble was, the type of people who frequented Joe’s Place couldn’t afford tips. They were mostly senior citizens lingering over a single cup of tea and a bun while they chatted to their friends as an after-shopping treat.

And apart from the dearth of tips she’d often bought hearty cheese or ham sandwiches with her own money for one particular elderly lady who’d come in on pension day and always sat on her own, never ordering more than a cup of tea. She’d looked so frail and white, as if a puff of wind would blow her over, and so pathetically grateful when Portia had slid the plate in front of her, making up some excuse or other for why the food was surplus to requirements, so that the old dear wouldn’t feel she was receiving charity.

No. Her eyes misted with tears as she gazed down at her sleeping son. The only thing she could give him was love, by the bucketful.

‘Sam’s Italian grandfather is a very wealthy man. He can give you and the baby everything you could want,’ her father said, his tone gentler than her mother’s had been. ‘And in that letter from him—the one his son left for you—he did say that if you weren’t happy in Italy you could return to England.’

At her mother’s tart ‘Heaven forbid!’ Portia swallowed the huge lump in her throat and tried to get rid of the scary feeling that had been steadily growing inside her all morning.

The letter, when she’d forced herself to read it, hadn’t been full of recriminations or threats to take her baby from her, she reminded herself unsteadily. Eduardo Verdi had sounded like a really nice old gentleman, expressing the wish to see not only his grandson but her, too, to welcome them both into his family. He had invited them to stay for as long as they liked, the longer the better.

So what was there to be frightened of? Why the angst? She might not have the brain of a rocket scientist, but she was determined enough, strong enough, to make sure that she did what was best for her baby. And if things didn’t work out in Tuscany—if, say, she found the Italian side of her son’s family taking him over, sidelining her and depriving him of the most important thing for his welfare, his mother’s love and devotion—then she’d pack their bags and they’d make tracks.

Alongside their passports in her handbag she had the remains of her savings—enough, surely, to pay their air fare back, she comforted herself.

‘He’s here.’ Joyce dropped the corner of the net curtain and walked briskly out into the hall. ‘Get a move on, Portia. We don’t want to keep him waiting.’

Her eyes welling with tears, Portia slung her bag over her shoulder and lifted the carry cot. They couldn’t wait to be rid of her and Sam. Not that she could blame them. She had always been a huge disappointment to her parents and presenting them with an illegitimate grandchild had been the last straw.

Lucenzo Verdi was scowling at the untidy pile of her luggage, looking mean and moody in an exquisitely cut pale grey suit, a darker grey silk shirt and deep blue tie. Dark eyes glittered at her beneath broodingly lowered lids, making her feel clumsy and inept as she slowly negotiated the cot around the angle of the doorframe.

‘What is this?’ Lucenzo glared at the tottering pile of bulging plastic carriers and cardboard boxes that rested on top of her shabby suitcase as if they were emitting some very nasty smells.

Portia, resisting the impulse to slap that handsome oh-so-superior face, gritted her teeth and relayed defensively, ‘Sam’s things, mostly. Babies don’t travel light.’

At the same time her mother hissed out of the corner of her tight, bright smile, ‘Didn’t I tell you there was no need to take so much.’

‘Everything the child needs is at the Villa Fontebella,’ Lucenzo stated flatly. ‘All that is needed is a change of clothing for the journey.’

Not that he knew anything of children’s needs, he thought heavily. His own child had died before it could be born. But it was bad enough to have to escort one of Vittorio’s cast-off bimbos back to Tuscany without being lumbered with a heap of clutter that resembled a pile of rubbish left out for the refuse collectors.

Portia lifted her chin, her large grey eyes narrowing. Start as you mean to go on. Be assertive and brave for once in your life, she told herself as she took a deep breath and said shakily, ‘Sam needs his own things. Neither of us is going anywhere without them.’

Her stockpile of tins of baby formula, feeding bottles, steriliser, nappies, Babygros, creams and lotions, his special shampoo, not to mention all those cute fluffy toys which were valued gifts from friends and neighbours—she wasn’t prepared to leave a single thing behind.

They were all links with the safe and the known, and if she was going to have to live amongst strangers she was going to need them to cling onto, like a mental safety rope.

‘I’ll give you a hand.’ As if sensing insurrection, Godfrey Makepeace grabbed several carriers and headed for the door.

Portia felt her mother’s hand grip her arm, urging her forward as she muttered impatiently, ‘Don’t be tiresome! Look, I know you’re nervous about going to stay with strangers, but there’s no need. When your father phoned Signor Verdi senior to make sure everything was above board he was completely reassured.’

‘Dad did that?’ Portia’s gentle heart swelled with love and gratitude. ‘He really did check up for me?’

‘Of course. We’re not complete monsters.’

‘Oh.’ It was all she could manage to say; she couldn’t stop smiling. Deep down her parents did care about her, and little Sam, and that meant so much to her that she didn’t mind in the least being hustled down the short garden path to where a sedately gleaming Daimler was parked, its chauffeur already stowing all her despised luggage in the boot.

Even when Lucenzo loomed over her, his strong, lean face tight with displeasure, his dark eyes brilliant and incisive, she couldn’t wipe the beam of happiness from her face.

‘Get in,’ he ordered coldly, indicating the rear of the opulent car, taking the cot from her unresisting hands. Sucking in a shallow breath, he lifted the warm, shawl-wrapped bundle in careful hands and strapped the sleeping child in the car-seat.

At eight weeks Vittorio’s son had lost that crumpled new look; now he looked smooth and adorable, his shock of raven-dark hair proclaiming his heritage.

His heart lurched unexpectedly. Vittorio’s child.

If his half-brother had been a faithful, responsible husband then this baby would have been Lorna’s, and he would have welcomed the new generation of his family with pride and joy. As it was…

Sliding along the leather upholstery, Portia watched those long, elegantly boned fingers deal with the complicated-looking arrangement of straps. Then her eyes lifted to his face, intent on what he was doing. His incredibly thick and dark lashes cast pools of shadow against the olive-toned skin of his high, arrogant cheekbones and his mouth, passionate and sensual, was tight with concentration. He really was utterly gorgeous, she thought as a weird inner quiver made her mouth run dry. Something about the hard sweep of his wide shoulders encased in the finest tailoring made her think of male protectiveness as well as the domination she instinctively expected from him.

As he finished his task his dark eyes lifted to meet her fascinated gaze, and something strange shivered down her spine and curled wickedly in the pit of her stomach. Her softly curved mouth fell open as she struggled for breath, her eyes widening helplessly as she tried to come to terms with the unthinkable. She was being turned on by an arrogant pig who thought she was a cheap slag, not fit to be seen around his exalted family!

Huge eyes that had turned to shimmering liquid silver watched with mindless fixity as his dark gaze assimilated the hot colour she felt flood her face, the way her breath came in tiny anguished spurts, making her breasts lift and peak provocatively. Watched that long, beautiful mouth curl cynically down at one corner before he moved away, closing the car door with a decisive clunk and turning to speak to her parents.

Hardly knowing which was worse, her embarrassment or her humiliation, Portia knotted her hands together and stared rigidly ahead. She was unaware that they were actually moving, that she hadn’t properly said farewell to her parents, until she registered that Lucenzo Verdi had taken the driver’s seat, with the uniformed chauffeur sitting stiffly at his side.

Squashing her juvenile impulse to shriek, Stop this car! she turned her attention to her sleeping baby, rearranging the folds of his shawl to steady herself, to wipe away the memory of how she’d felt when Lucenzo’s dark eyes had clashed with hers.

She soon became absorbed in little Sam as his rosebud mouth curved in a windy smile. He was so perfect, from the top of his downy head to his tiny, tiny toenails! They were together, that was the most important thing, embarking on an adventure. And she, as his doting mother, would ensure that nothing happened to separate them. Ever!

At least the biggest fly in the ointment would take himself off to find more congenial company just as soon as he had delivered them to Sam’s Italian grandfather. She couldn’t wait!

Lifting her head, she met his glance in the rearview mirror and quickly looked away, her face going pink as she felt the thunder of blood at her pulse-points. She didn’t know what was happening here, but whatever it was she didn’t like it. She couldn’t be sexually aware of him—attracted—she couldn’t!

She stared fixedly out of the window at her side. The way a person looked had never cut much ice with her; it was what was inside that mattered. In fact, she had never really thought about Vito’s pretty-boy good-looks, having been more impressed by what she had been conned into believing was his determination to make good.

She sighed mournfully. And to cap it all the English early summer was living up to its not always deserved reputation. Raindrops were sliding down the glass like teardrops…

Lucenzo activated the windscreen wipers, concentrating on the airport approach. She was still smiling, he thought grittily. She had hardly stopped since she’d approached the car, safe in the knowledge that her dreams of getting her hands on as much as she could wrest from the bulging coffers of the Verdi family were about to become reality.

Except for that time when he’d glanced up from securing Vittorio’s baby in the car-seat and found her watching him with what he had only been able to interpret as blatant sexual invitation.

Was that the way she’d looked at Vittorio? A pink flush on her cheeks, her eyes eating him up, her soft lips parted, her breath coming in rapid little pants? Was that how it had happened—just one look? His half-brother wouldn’t have turned down such an offer.

Two hours later the private jet was airborne. Lucenzo, his long legs stretched out in front of him, extracted a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and tried to concentrate, to shut out the presence of the female at his side.

But that was proving difficult while she was playing with the baby who was gurgling back at her. And today she looked different from when he’d first seen her six weeks ago. Not so bunchy-looking now, in clean but well-worn jeans and a plain white T-shirt, her hair shining with health and caught into her nape with a scarlet ribbon.

Better, but in his jaded experience still not the type the unfaithful Vittorio had been constitutionally unable to resist—he had liked glitz and glamour, trophy women. But something had drawn him to this one. Perhaps, he thought as the flight attendant approached with a feeding bottle, perhaps it was the smile.

It was radiant as she took the bottle, lighting up her otherwise unremarkable face, and her voice was soft and lilting as she answered the attendant’s, ‘I hope it’s not too hot?’

‘It’s just right—and thank you so much. It’s very kind of you!’

Butter wouldn’t melt, Lucenzo thought sourly, trying to blot out the sound of the two women admiring his half-brother’s baby. The child looked contented and well cared for, and as far as he could tell she appeared to be a good mother. But then, he reminded himself cynically as his eyes were reluctantly drawn to the gentle hand that caressed the baby’s soft cheek as he hungrily suckled, Vittorio’s son was her trump card, her passport to the Verdi wealth. No wonder she treated him as though he were the most precious thing on earth.

Sighing irritably, he rustled his papers and answered the flight attendant’s offer of coffee with a terse negative.

As the other girl moved away Portia decided she had to do something about this tense state of affairs. She didn’t mind for herself, but the spiky atmosphere couldn’t be good for little Sam. Hadn’t she read somewhere that even tiny babies could pick up vibes and be affected by them?

‘I’ve never flown before,’ she confided, to start the conversational ball rolling, casting him a wary smile. This not-speaking business was ridiculous. He’d made his dislike of her obvious, but surely they could be polite to each other? The only words he’d said to her had been icy orders, telling her where to go and what to do.

She lifted Sam and laid him against her shoulder, gently rubbing his back. She’d pretend the disapproving Lucenzo Verdi was an ordinary human being, just another fellow traveller. She’d always enjoyed talking to people.

From where she was sitting that wasn’t going to be too easy. The expression on his austerely handsome profile would have done a hanging judge proud. Even so, she launched out cheerfully, ‘When I was growing up my parents took me for improving holidays. Museums, art galleries, sites of historical interest—they didn’t believe in lying in the sun on Mediterranean beaches. Then, when I was earning for myself and they’d thrown in the towel when it came to improving me, I didn’t take holidays. I just saved all I could for—’

Her cheeks going fiery red, Portia stopped herself just in time. She’d been babbling. Her mother always said she never thought before she opened her mouth. It really wouldn’t do to tell him she’d been saving for what she had always dreamed of: a wedding, a home of her own and children. That after she’d met and fallen in love with Vito she’d redoubled her efforts, believing him when he’d said they’d marry as soon as it was financially possible.

Lucenzo probably missed his brother dreadfully, still mourned his untimely death, she thought compassionately. She was not going to rub in the fact that Vito had been a liar and a cheat. She wasn’t into hurting people, even if they were patronising beasts.

He didn’t seem to notice that her torrent had broken off mid-sentence; he appeared to be intent on what he was reading. But his eyes weren’t moving. Those fabulous lashes were making inky shadows against the harshly beautiful line of his cheekbones.

Asleep? No way. She’d never seen a pair of shoulders look less relaxed.

Pointedly ignoring her? Most certainly. Her soft mouth twitched. It wouldn’t do the wretched man any harm to unbend a little. ‘I think he’s just about to drop off,’ she imparted chirpily, meaning Sam, who was lying in her arms, his little arms stretched above his head, his eyelids drooping.

No response. But Portia wasn’t ready to give up yet. Surely he didn’t intend to spend the whole of the flight in this forbidding silence? There were things she wanted to know about the family she was about to meet, the place she was expected to inhabit for goodness only knew how long—a week, a month, a year?

This darkly handsome, coldly unresponsive persona surely wasn’t all there was to this man. Someone, somewhere, must see the other, more human side?

‘Are you married, Lucenzo? Do you have a family?’ she asked impulsively.

People he loved, who loved him back? Children he played with who knew how he looked when he threw back his head and laughed at their antics? A wife who saw melting adoration in those dark, hostile eyes, who knew every inch of that lithe and powerful body…?

Portia swallowed painfully, the now all-too familiar frisson of intense excitement taking her breath away, accelerating her heartbeat. She shouldn’t be thinking that way, picturing him naked, with desire softening his mouth, heating his eyes. Imagining what it would be like to be held in his arms…

She’d never indulged in erotic fantasies, not ever, she thought with growing alarm. The inclination simply hadn’t been there, not even with Vito. Or the couple of boyfriends she’d had before him. Their interest in her had fizzled out rapidly after they’d met her parents and come up against the brick wall of their restrictions.

Her mother had warned her. ‘Always remember, most men are only after one thing. It takes brains and looks to attract the honourable attentions of a man of the right calibre.’ And she had neither brains nor looks. That had been the implication.

Confused and miserable, Portia glared at the fluffy blanket of clouds which was all she could see out of the window, wishing she was anywhere in the world but here.

Sliding the papers back into his briefcase, Lucenzo glanced at her. So she wanted to talk, did she? A nice chatty little dialogue to while away the time? She was too self-absorbed and thick-skinned to take on board the fact that the last thing he wanted was idle conversation with a husband-stealer who was the next best thing to a blackmailer.

So he’d talk, and she’d only have herself to blame if she didn’t like what he had to say.

Ignoring her question about his marital status, because she, of all people, had no damned right to pry into that painful part of his life—any part of his life, if it came to that—he drawled silkily, ‘Your parents seemed glad to be rid of you. No fond farewells, no promises to phone or write. I wonder why?’

He could well imagine, he thought drily as he watched what had to be guilty colour steal over her face. She’d probably been trouble since the day she was born. Feckless, irresponsible, with an eye for the main chance.

Mindful of the bad atmosphere that could affect her baby, Portia swallowed an angry retort. Besides, if she’d viewed their parting from where he’d been standing she might have jumped to that conclusion.

Always ready to extend the benefit of the doubt, she turned to face him, explaining softly and earnestly, ‘You mustn’t think badly of them—’

‘I assure you, it is not them I’m condemning,’ he interjected sardonically.

Only her, Portia recognised on a muted sigh. Par for the course. Nevertheless, she didn’t want to leave him with the impression that her parents didn’t care about her, because they did.

‘They’re both getting on a bit—they married late and I came as a surprise. They can’t afford to keep me and little Sam, and if I went back to work I couldn’t afford to pay for childcare so it would be down to them. They can’t cope with the thought of having to look after—’ she recalled her mother’s exact words on the subject ‘—a squalling baby who would grow into a rumbustious toddler, a clumsy schoolboy and in all likelihood a problem teenager. Not that he would, of course, and he never squalls,’ she denied breathlessly. ‘But you can see their point. They want peace in their declining years. Of course they saw your father’s offer to have me and Sam live with him as the only sensible way out of the situation. Even so, they cared enough to contact your father and—’

‘And find out exactly what was on offer,’ Lucenzo interjected tightly. ‘This I know. My father’s integrity and misguided generosity was questioned. I find that offensive. And don’t try to tell me that you didn’t jump at the opportunity.’

Portia chewed on her lip as she desperately tried to decide how to answer that.

His black eyes were full of hostile reproach, she noted uncomfortably. If he saw her father’s natural parental concern as an affront to the precious dignity of his family then what would he think if she blurted out the truth? How could she possibly tell him that accepting his father’s ‘misguidedly generous’ invitation had been the last thing she’d wanted? That only her parents’ pushing, nagging and much vaunted logic had made her reluctantly accept it?

It didn’t bear thinking about.

And what sort of family was she going to, anyway? Horrible doubts assailed her all over again. They were wealthy, they were powerful, they thought they were better than anyone else. And if they were like Lucenzo they would regard her as scum, would only want Vito’s son, intent only on forcing her to agree to give him up.

Sheer fright made her blurt, ‘It’s OK for your father to see Sam—well, I’d be a fool if I didn’t think that. They are related. But if I’m not satisfied I can leave whenever I want and take Sam with me.’

It hadn’t come out as she’d meant it to. She’d been scared, on the defensive. She hadn’t meant to sound so—so confrontational.

Too late now to retract. His beautiful eyes had narrowed to slits of black ice, his fabulous bone structure going tight with what she could only assume to be disgust.

‘I think we should get a few things straight,’ Lucenzo said with a chilling bite. That sweetness and light, slightly scatty act was just that. An act. She’d just opened her mouth and confirmed every last one of his opinions. If she wasn’t satisfied, getting everything she expected, she would threaten to take his father’s grandson away from him.

His mouth turned down at one corner as he scanned her flushed face, the softly trembling lips, her wide, stricken eyes. ‘You can cut the injured innocent act; we both know you’re neither,’ he imparted harshly. ‘Did you get pregnant on purpose to give you a hold on the family? No—don’t bother to answer that,’ he said impatiently as her mouth dropped open. ‘It’s irrelevant now.’

He sucked in a breath. If she could make threats he could go one better. ‘I practically begged my father to have nothing to do with you, apart from making adequate financial provision for Vittorio’s son. But he was adamant, and because he’s a sick man I reluctantly went along with his wishes to bring you and the child to him. And one word—one whisper—out of you with regard to taking his grandson away from him and you will feel the full might of the Verdi family come down on you. We will fight you for custody and you will leave with nothing. This I promise.’