The Italian's Demand

“You and my son will come to live with me, in Italy. A chauffeured car will pick us up in an hour and we’ll be on my private jet and in Naples airport before you know it.”

Her mouth fell open in astonishment, then snapped shut again, this time in anger. “Oh, I see! So that’s what you were doing just now!” She hurled the words at him shakily. “Softening me up! Organizing dinner by candlelight, plenty of wine, half seducing me so I’d eagerly fall in with your plans!”

“Verity, I—”

“And then, presumably, you thought I’d not only be willing to look after Lio, but I’d be a useful little bedmate tucked away in your house! A substitute mother by day and a lover at night! How dare you?” she raged.

“It was not my intention to half seduce you.” His mouth curved wickedly, shooting her nerves into spasm. “It is not my habit to do anything by halves,” he growled sexily.

Mamma Mia!

Harlequin Presents®

ITALIAN HUSBANDS

They’re tall, dark…and ready to marry!

If you love marriage-of-convenience stories that ignite into marriages of passion, then look no further. We’ve got the heroes you love to read about and the women who tame them.

Watch for more exciting tales of romance, Italian-style, coming soon from Harlequin Presents®!

Coming soon:

Marco’s Pride

by

Jane Porter

#2375

The Sicilian Husband

by

Kate Walker

#2381

The Italian’s Demand

Italian Husbands

Sara Wood

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

HE PUT down the phone and for a long time he just stared at his shaking hands, too stunned to react in any way at all. As the news began to sink in, a choking emotion rushed into the void that had been his heart.

His vision was blurred by tears of joy and he brushed them away impatiently, leaping to his feet as if propelled by rocket fuel.

Lio! he thought in amazement, racing for his study door. My son!

He called out, his voice cracking and husky. Then louder, till his staff came running in alarm. And then he set the house alight with orders. He requested a Mercedes to replace his unsuitable Maserati, bookings for flights and hotel accommodation and for a bag to be packed—pronto.

Eyes burning feverishly, Vittore hurried in long, rapid strides down the broad, sweeping steps of the palazzo, wrenched open the door of the car and dived in as though flames licked at his heels and the dogs of Hell were almost upon him. But he was leaving his hell behind at last.

The cream leather enfolded his lithe body. Impatiently discarding his cashmere jacket, he waited till he heard the soft ‘clunk’ of the boot being closed and then hastily revved up, remembering just in time a wave of gratitude to his puzzled staff.

At last. He was on his way. Expertly negotiating the tight curves of the small piazza, with the glorious Amalfi coast disappearing behind him, he eagerly headed up the hill for Naples, for London…

For his son!

He sucked in a lungful of air, barely able to contain himself. Lio, sweet Lio, was probably alive. Alive!

Joyous energy soared into every part of him, lengthening every muscle of his body. His breathing was all over the place: short, sharp, shallow. Every nerve danced and jerked, tuned to maximum alertness.

How could he survive the delay between now and arriving in London? How could he ever contain himself without exploding: shouting, laughing, weeping with relief…?

‘Bambino mio,’ he whispered softly, and the words made a vice of love and pain tighten around his heart. ‘My child. My baby.’

Because soon, God willing, he would see his beloved son again, the baby he had adored with a wild and uncontrollable passion that had come upon him like a thunderclap when he’d first set eyes on his newborn child; a passion so unexpected and total that it had shaken him to his very soul and left him desperately and fatally vulnerable to all the pain that had followed.

He flung a raking hand through his neatly-groomed hair, causing a hank of it to fall, Byron-like, onto his forehead. For once he didn’t care if he looked a mess, only that the love of his heart was waiting in England.

He dragged in his breath sharply, realising he’d stopped breathing. No wonder. Finding Lio again was all he’d dreamed of, night after empty night, for over a year.

He’d filled the interminable months, weeks and hours with a ferocious schedule of work to blot out the agony that had carved harsh lines in his once equable face.

The tragedy had turned him into a recluse; a cold, grim machine instead of a living, breathing man who adored life, valued friends and relatives and cared for them deeply.

But he’d had nothing to give them. No love could emerge from behind the steel cage that had surrounded his wounded heart. Life had lost its joy, its meaning.

But now…! Emotion suddenly overtook him again, a hard and hurting lump swelling in his throat. His son was now seventeen months old. And could soon be safely in his arms again. It would be the miracle he had prayed for in the privacy of his room, night after desperate night.

Shortly after the momentous phone call, he’d opened the nursery door which had been locked since that day fourteen months ago when his English wife Linda had abducted Lio and disappeared off the face of the earth.

Nothing had been touched. There in the middle of the cruelly peaceful room stood the beautifully carved crib in which generations of Mantezzini babies had slept and gurgled for the first few months of their lives. Above it hung the brightly coloured mobile of farm animals. In hand-made wicker baskets nestled the unnaturally neat stacks of toys his son had never seen.

And the thought of his son being there again, once more filling his heart and his life with happiness and laughter, had made him sway on his feet and clutch at the door for support, taking away his very breath and robbing him of the great physical and mental strength for which he was renowned.

Darkness clouded his eyes as he remembered the reason his son would be returning. His estranged wife had died two months ago, the loan company had said on the phone.

And he, apparently was liable for the loan on her London house because she had named him as the guarantor.

He shuddered, suddenly sobered by a thought. If she hadn’t forged his signature, Lio would have been lost to him forever. An ironic twist of fate.

‘Poor Linda,’ he murmured, offering thoughts for her salvation.

Oh, he wasn’t a saint to be so forgiving of his late wife. Initially he had vilified her for depriving him of the son he loved. Yet now he felt unbelievably sad that she had died so young. Thirty years old. A tragedy.

A fear struck him. The line of his perfectly smooth jaw hardened as his white teeth jammed tightly together in an attempt to control a sharp and searing cry of visceral dread that turned his loins to water.

Dio! He didn’t know that Lio was in the London house. He might not be. Anything could have happened to his son on Linda’s death, though she’d stolen enough money to live well, to employ staff. His mother’s jewels had been worth a fortune alone, and Linda had taken her own as well, plus everything in their joint bank account.

Knowing her dislike of motherhood, he assumed she would have employed an au pair or a nanny. With any luck, Lio would still be in the house under suitable care.

Unless his son had been taken away by a lover of Linda’s, or some distant relative of hers. Worse, he thought, his black brows lowering in anger, the unwanted Lio could have been placed in a children’s home!

He banged the steering wheel in frustration and scowled as he negotiated a tight turn in the tortuous road that snaked around the spectacular cliff.

Santo cielo! He could hardly bear it. Wanted to take chances on the slow, murderous bends, though logic curbed such rashness. It would hardly help if he were killed or seriously injured. But he longed for some means of obliterating the terrible waiting and the scouring uncertainty that was ripping his hopes to shreds.

It would be too cruel if Lio was snatched from his grasp again. He didn’t deserve that.

His black eyes blazed with an intense passion. Excitement and fear created a painful chaos in his stomach and knotted his muscles even more tightly till they brought a welcome discomfort to divert his tortured mind.

Nothing, and no one must stop him this time. All his wealth, all his power, were meaningless in the face of his love for Lio.

He shuddered at the frightening intensity of his feelings, knowing that decency and caution would be thrown to the winds in his quest. The way he was feeling now, he knew he’d stop at nothing; would breach any barrier and take any steps necessary—legal or otherwise—to reclaim his beloved son.

Verity creaked her stiff body low over the sleeping child and kissed the achingly soft cheek, all the ghastliness of the past few hours forgotten in a rush of love and compassion.

What a gorgeous child. She grinned ruefully. And what a hell of a day! Amused that one had caused the other, she slowly stretched her aching limbs.

It amazed her that she felt more tired than she’d ever been in the whole of her life—even though she’d never been happier.

‘Dearest Lio. Rascal.’

Her fingertips lightly touched his cute, droopingly relaxed mouth. Tenderly she smiled then lifted his sweetly dimpled arms to tuck each one, floppy and unresisting, under the sheet.

‘Night, sweetheart,’ she murmured lovingly. ‘Little scamp, little limpet, sleep well.’

Outside the room she was forced to pause, swaying from a tide of exhaustion that rushed over her like an express train. All her energy had drained away. It felt as if she couldn’t move even if her life had depended on it.

Not surprising. Her little limpet clung to her all day every day, not leaving her alone for a second. But how could she complain or push him away? It was understandable. His mother had died only two months ago. Poor Lio. Poor Linda.

Verity’s expressive face folded into sorrowful lines. She thought sadly of her late, adoptive parents John and Sue Fox, who’d picked Linda and herself from the Children’s Home so many years ago. She sighed. They couldn’t have found two more dissimilar kiddies if they’d tried.

Life in the beautiful—and favoured—Linda’s shadow had been tough. Not surprisingly, she hadn’t seen her adoptive sister for ten years, their only communication being catch-up letters with their annual Christmas cards.

Nevertheless, Linda’s death was tragic and Lio had suffered badly as a consequence, poor lamb.

She grimaced. So had her job, her social life and her sanity since Linda had left that note asking her to be his guardian. But she had never regretted one second of her time with Lio. The grimace became an amused smile.

It had been a moment of amazing contradictions when she’d held her orphaned nephew in her arms: joy and sheer terror had combined to confuse her. Joy because she had someone of her own at last to love. Terror because Lio wouldn’t stop screaming and she knew nothing about toddlers at all.

But her mothering instincts had been awoken from that very moment and knew instantly that she would surrender everything for him. He needed her desperately—even more than she needed him, though her tender heart was still bruised from when she’d been unloved and ugly as a child and yet with vast, untapped reserves of love to give.

Lio could have every scrap of that love, she thought. And as vacant as a zombie, she dragged herself downstairs and staggered out onto the pool terrace.

Hitching up her long, floaty white sundress, Verity collapsed weakly into a welcoming sun lounger, her bones apparently non-existent amidst a mass of complaining muscle.

How could a toddler do so much damage to a grown woman? she wondered ruefully.

Her feet throbbed, her head throbbed, everything—including parts she’d never known existed—warned her not to move for hours or they’d give her hell.

She did giggle, though, when a couple of daisies fell onto her chest. Her hair must still be scattered with them after she and Lio had de-flowered the lawn and he’d solemnly stuffed every single daisy into her thick, gypsy curls. A lovely moment, she thought tenderly.

In a while, when she’d found a muscle that hadn’t gone on strike, she’d have a lovely long soak in the bath. For now, she’d admire the sunset and build her strength up for the next day.

Despite a whole raft of friends, her life had been empty and meaningless. Now it was complete because of the arrival of one small baby. She sighed contentedly.

With Lio’s dreadful father dead and no family to claim her nephew, it was obvious that she must adopt him. It would be only a matter of time before they were officially mother and son. She quivered with delight.

‘My son,’ she practised. ‘Hello, I’m Verity and this is my son, Lio.’

She hugged herself. Could there be any words more wonderful than those? Could there be anything better than the slow, sweet smile of a child who adores you?

Well, perhaps it equalled a loyal, kind, tender man who smiled at her with love in his eyes and heart, she conceded. But she was all of twenty-nine and hadn’t found one of those yet. Despite a huge circle of friends pushing men at her as if they were in danger of going out of fashion.

Turning her head to one side, she checked the video link with the nursery and beamed dotingly at Lio’s small face.

‘See you at six a.m., sweetheart,’ she murmured warmly.

Soon, with the dire financial situation she faced, they wouldn’t have the luxury of video links and swimming pools with palms around them, she mused. More like a cardboard box under the railway arches. If she couldn’t resurrect her landscape garden business and earn some money, they’d be eating the darn daisies instead of decorating themselves with them.

‘Help!’ she muttered faintly. ‘How can I ever work when Lio treats me like the north face of Everest and hangs on to me all day?’

Her stomach churning with worry, she hauled herself up and stood on the edge of the pool, fretfully dabbling first one bare foot and then the other in the dark turquoise water. It looked inviting, with the sunset staining the far end a glorious poppy red, but she just didn’t have the energy to stay afloat, let alone swim.

On the slender cord around her waist, the entry phone buzzed intrusively. She looked at it in deep reproach. Her friends had flocked to see the incomparably beautiful Lio, vastly amused that she’d abandoned her love of freedom and independence for a child who kept superglueing himself to her.

‘I’m not in,’ she muttered firmly, leaving the answer button firmly switched off. It was gone nine o’clock. Too late for visitors.

The buzzing became more insistent and she silently cursed all mod cons and hi-tech appliances. Doorknockers could be ignored. Gadgets, however, had an arrogance all of their own.

‘Oh, all right!’ she grumbled, flicking on the switch. ‘Yes? Who is it?’ she demanded grumpily into the receiver.

‘Vittore Mantezzini,’ silked a foreign voice, declaiming the name as if it were a lyrical poem set to music.

But it was far from music to Verity’s ears. It took her a moment to realise where she’d heard that name before, and then the shock made her gasp out loud.

‘Vittore!’ she exclaimed in horror. ‘You’re dead!’

Whirling around in dismay to face the house, she lost her balance on the wet tiles. One foot shot out sideways, her arms flailed like windmills, and before she knew it she’d gone over backwards and hit the water with a painful ‘thwack’ that took all the breath from her enfeebled body.

The waters closed over her head and she was in a silent world where the weakness of her attempts to surface did nothing to allay her panic. Briefly she surfaced, yelling for help, before she went down again.

The remote control for the entry phone bobbed on its cord and caught her on the temple with a sharp blow.

Lio! she thought in panic. Can’t drown! He needs me!

Spurred on, she kicked strongly, feeling the sudden warmth of the dying sun on her head, and managing to grab the side of the pool and haul herself out of the water onto her stomach, dripping, choking, gasping.

Somewhere in the distance a man was shouting. Linda’s husband presumably.

‘Oh, my good grief!’ she groaned. ‘Linda’s husband!’

Widower, she corrected, shivering with apprehension as the penny dropped. And her hand flew to her mouth to contain her appalled groan.

Of course, she thought shakily. It might be an impostor. But…if it was him, then somehow he’d found out about Linda’s death. And that meant…

He’d come to take Lio away!

The world spun around and she clung to the ground as though she were in danger of falling off.

He couldn’t take her baby, the person she most cherished in the whole, wide world, who needed her desperately and who cried piteously if she ever seemed likely to be moving more than a yard away!

Gasping for breath, she knelt up, rigid with horror. Lio screamed at strangers. He was a scared, desperately insecure little kiddie who’d been through hell and was only just learning to play.

He wasn’t ready to trust anyone else. What could she do? Where did she stand in law? Would blood be the deciding factor, over and above Linda’s request that he should never take charge of his child?

Verity felt sick. Vittore might be rotten all the way through, but he was Lio’s father. He had a legal claim to his son.

‘Hellfire!’ she breathed, her mouth drying with a stupefying fear. It could be that she had no rights at all!

CHAPTER TWO

HALF-SOBBING with panic, Verity flung back her dripping hair out of her eyes and scrambled awkwardly to her feet, praying that this was an impostor. Perhaps someone who’d read the obituaries and thought Linda had been rich. If so, she’d tear strips off him for scaring her witless!

The buzzer made her jump. Hoping to open the gate, she grabbed the remote control that was still dangling from her waist, but it didn’t work.

‘I’m coming!’ she yelled, her nerves perching on a knife edge.

And with her dress clinging to her like a food wrap and badly impeding her movements, she began to stumble towards the formal front garden on legs that didn’t want to take her there.

If this was Vittore, she decided—somehow risen from the dead—then her deeply disturbed nephew must be protected at all costs, father or no father, whatever the law.

She’d run away with Lio, disappear, hide on a remote island, if it meant that his sanity was preserved.

She had a duty to the sad little baby—and was not going to hand him over to a womanising rat who’d callously ignored his son’s existence—and worse.

Her teeth ground together. Vittore’s infidelity had ruined the marriage and caused Linda to end her life. As a result, Lio was now an emotional mess and in no fit state to be whisked away by a strange man to a strange land where they didn’t even speak English!

Rounding the side of the house, she saw him at last. Tall and immaculately dressed, he was striding up and down like a man possessed, his powerful voice ringing out as he demanded imperiously that someone come to open the high-security gate at once!

Vittore removed his finger from the bell, suddenly struck dumb. Coming towards him with the ferocity of a heat-seeking missile, was a tall, voluptuous woman with ink-jet hair tumbling about her head in a riot of glistening, wet curls.

And this stunning beauty was in a furious temper, a strap of her long, white dress slipping off one tanned shoulder, the neckline scooping low to the mounds of gleaming, glorious breasts which were in danger of bouncing free of the flimsy material as she careered at full speed to where he stood in silent amazement.

Awed, he drew in a sharp breath. The dress was dripping wet and draped around her body in crinkling folds so that she looked like a living Grecian goddess. Like a Venus rising from the sea.

Something kicked hard in his loins, startling and shocking him. And for a brief moment his body took control until his brain reminded him of his purpose.

‘Let me in,’ he ordered brusquely, short-cutting polite greetings and stamping his authority on the situation because she evidently intended to yell at him for some mad reason. He’d come for Lio, not an argument. ‘I’m Vittore Mantezzini and I demand entry.’

‘Oh, are you? Show me proof of identity first!’ she demanded, her white teeth looking as if they would savage his flesh to shreds if he stepped out of line.

His mouth tightened at the delay and he frowned, not used to being disobeyed or challenged. Slid a hand into the inside pocket of his cashmere jacket and handed over his ID card without further comment.

Though the angry set of his jaw and the black glitter of his hard, cold eyes would have deterred most people from questioning his word.

Scowling, she peered at the photo, then checked that it looked like him. Since it had cost a great deal of money and the efforts of Milan’s top society photographer, there was, indeed, a flattering likeness.

Shock registered on her face. Then undisguised dismay.

‘You’re dead!’ she protested, searching his narrowed eyes in bewilderment, her soft lips parted in a perfect O.

Touch me, find out how alive I am! he almost said to his own astonishment, but stopped himself in time, a curl of heat lazily nevertheless easing his tense muscles.

It was new, this. To live again, to breathe sweet air, to feel emotion and the lure of an attractive woman…

‘Is that what Linda told you?’ he queried, annoyed at being diverted by a pretty face, even for a second. Pretty? No, beautiful. Unique, he corrected before he could help himself. Amazing what happened, he thought, when joy captured your emotions.

Plainly crestfallen that he wasn’t six feet under, she nodded unhappily. ‘Last summer,’ she replied in a hoarse whisper. To his astonishment, he noticed that her hands were trembling. She swallowed, the slender line of her throat oddly vulnerable as she did so. ‘Linda sent a change of address,’ she continued. ‘That’s when she said you were dead and that she had come back to England with Lio.’

‘Linda was lying,’ he said curtly. ‘I’m very much alive. As you see.’

She stared at him hard, as if reassuring herself that he was, indeed, not a mirage. Beneath her solemn gaze, he drew himself up and stared back. Apparently she detected enough life to convince her because she gave a little shudder, almost a sexual response. Her shoulders fell in disappointment. He wondered why and was about to ask when she spoke again.

‘If I’d known you weren’t dead,’ she mumbled, her voice wobbling in distress, ‘I would have contacted you when… Oh!…’ Her hands flew to cover her mouth in alarm. ‘You know,’ she said, somewhat inaudibly, ‘that Linda herself is—?’

‘Dead. Yes.’ He brushed her apology and her tact aside with an impatient gesture. She looked shocked at his dismissal of his late wife’s death but the past was past, the present full of urgency. ‘I want to see my son. Now,’ he announced irritably.