In The Count's Bed: The Count's Blackmail Bargain / The French Count's Pregnant Bride / The Italian Count's Baby

However, he still wondered if, given time, the whole Paolo affair might have withered and died of its own accord, and without Zia Lucrezia’s interference.

Not that he’d been able to convince her of that, although he had tried. She’d simply snapped that she could not afford to be patient, and that Paolo’s engagement to the Manzone girl must be concluded without further delay.

She’d added contemptuously that the English girl was nothing more than a money-grubbing trollop who deserved to be sent packing in disgrace for attempting to connect herself, even distantly, to the Ramontella family.

‘And your part in all this should have been played by now,’ she added angrily. ‘You should have spent more time with the little fool.’

‘I know what I’m doing,’ he returned coldly. ‘Precisely because the girl is far from a fool, or any of the other names you choose to call her.’

How, in the name of God, could he feel so protective, he asked himself ruefully, afterwards, when he might be planning the possible ruin of Laura’s life? If, indeed, it turned out that she cared for Paolo after all.

But on one thing he was totally determined. When he took her, it would be out of their mutual desire alone, and not to placate his aunt. That, he told himself, would be the least of his considerations.

He could salve his conscience to that extent.

And, if humanly possible, it would happen well away from the Villa Diana, and Zia Lucrezia’s inevitable and frankly indecent gloating.

Because he needed to make very sure that Laura would never know how they’d been manipulated into each other’s arms.

Although that was no longer strictly true—or not for him, anyway, he reminded himself wryly. On his side, at least, the need was genuine, and had been so almost from the first. She was the one who required the persuasion.

Staying away from her over the past few days had been sheer torment, he admitted, to his own reluctant surprise. She had been constantly in the forefront of his mind, waking and sleeping, while his entire body ached intolerably for her too.

He was not accustomed, he acknowledged sardonically, to waiting for a woman. In his world, it was not often that he found it necessary. And it would make her ultimate surrender even more enjoyable.

He cast a lightning sideways glance at her, and saw that her hands were clenched tightly in her lap.

He said lightly, ‘Is it the road or my driving that so alarms you, Laura?’

She turned her head, forcing a smile. ‘It’s the road, although I’m trying to get used to it. We don’t have so many death-defying drops in East Anglia, where I come from.’

‘Try not to worry too much, mia bella.’ His tone was dry. ‘Believe that I have a vested interest in staying alive.’

There was a movement at the side of the road ahead, and Alessio leaned forward, his gaze sharpening as a stocky, white-haired man wearing overalls came into view, carrying a tall cane shaped like a shepherd’s crook. ‘Ah,’ he said, half to himself. ‘Fredo.’ He drew the Jeep into the side of the road, and stopped. ‘Will you forgive me, cara, if I speak to him again about moving down to Besavoro? He has been avoiding me, I think.’

Laura sat in the Jeep and watched with some amusement. The old man stood like a rock, leaning on his cane, occasionally moving his head in quiet negation as Alessio prowled round in front of him talking rapidly in his own language, his hands gesturing urgently in clear appeal.

When at last he paused for breath, the old man reached up and clapped him on the shoulder, his wrinkled face breaking into a smile. Then they talked together for a few more minutes before Fredo turned away, making his slow way up a track on the hillside, and Alessio came back to the Jeep, frowning.

‘Still no luck?’ she asked.

‘He makes his own goats seem reasonable.’ He started the engine. ‘Also, he says that the weather is going to change. That we shall have storms,’ he added, his frown deepening.

Laura looked up at the cloudless sky. ‘It doesn’t seem like it,’ she objected.

‘Fredo is rarely wrong about these things. But it will not be for a day—perhaps two.’ He slanted a smile at her. ‘So make the most of the sun while you can.’

‘I’ve been doing just that.’ She paused. ‘In fact,’ she went on hesitantly, ‘I was—concerned in case I’d kept you away from the pool. If you preferred to have it to yourself. Because I’ve noticed that you—you haven’t been swimming for a while.’

‘I swim every day,’ he said. ‘But very early. Before breakfast, when there is no one else about, but that is not through any wish to avoid your company, mia bella, but because I like to swim naked.’

‘Oh.’ Laura swallowed. ‘Oh, I—I understand. Of course.’

‘Although,’ he went on softly, ‘you could always join me if you wished. The water feels wonderful at that time of day.’

‘I’m sure it does,’ Laura said woodenly, all sorts of forbidden images leaping to mind. ‘But I think I’ll stick to my own timetable. Grazie,’ she added politely.

‘Prego,’ he returned, and she could hear the laughter in his voice.

Furiously aware that her face had warmed, Laura relapsed into a silence that lasted until their arrival at the villa.

As she left the Jeep she thanked Alessio for the lunch in the tone of a polite schoolgirl taking leave of a favourite uncle, and went off to her room, trying not to look as if she was escaping.

Her clothes were clinging to her in the heat, so she stripped quickly and took a cool shower. Then, she put on her robe and lay down on the bed, trying to relax. But her mind was still teeming with thoughts and impressions from the morning.

It was weird, she thought, that Alessio—the Count, she amended hastily—should just turn up like that, out of the blue. And even more disturbing that she should have enjoyed being with him quite so much.

She’d been unnerved too by his suggestion that she was hiding something. He might have dressed it up in poetic language about veils, she thought ruefully, but basically he was issuing a warning that he was on to her.

And in turn she would have to warn Paolo, on her evening visit, that his lordly cousin was growing suspicious.

She found herself sighing a little. These visits were becoming more problematic each time. Quite apart from his obsession about his cold, it was difficult to hold a conversation with someone she hardly knew, and with whom she barely had a thought in common, especially when she suspected his mother was listening at the door.

I wish all this had never happened, she told herself vehemently. That I’d never agreed to this ridiculous pretence. And, most of all, that I’d never come here and set eyes on Count Ramontella. Better for me that he’d just remained a name on a letterhead.

Easy to say, she thought, but did she really mean it? Would she truly have wanted to live her life without having experienced this frankly dangerous encounter? Without having felt the lure of his smile, or reacting to the teasing note in his voice? Without realising, dry-mouthed, that he had simply—entered the room?

No, she thought sadly. If I’m honest, I wouldn’t have wanted to miss one precious moment with him. But now the situation’s getting altogether trickier, and I really need to distance myself. Put the width of Europe between us, and become sane again.

It’s safer that way, and I’m a safety-conscious girl. I have to be.

She sighed again. Alessio Ramontella was just a dream to take back with her to mundane reality, she thought wistfully. A private fantasy to lighten up her fairly staid existence. And that was all he ever would, or could be…

Until one day, when he would become nothing but a fading memory. And she could relax, lower her guard, and get on with her own life.

Perhaps, in time, she might even convince herself that none of this had ever happened.

She sat up, swinging her legs to the floor. She was obviously not going to sleep, so she might take the Count’s advice, and exploit the fine weather while it persisted.

She changed swiftly into her swimsuit, slipped on the filmy voile shirt she used as a cover-up, and went down to the pool.

As she reached the bottom of the steps she was disconcerted to see that she would not be alone that afternoon either. That Alessio was there before her, stretched out on a lounger, reading.

He seemed deeply absorbed, and Laura hesitated, wondering if she should turn quietly and make a strategic withdrawal before she was noticed. But it was already too late for that, because he was putting down his book and getting to his feet in one lithe movement, the sculpted mouth smiling faintly as he looked at her.

‘So you came after all,’ he said softly. ‘I had begun to wonder.’

‘I—I decided to take your friend at his word.’ She paused. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

He said lightly, ‘Not in any way that you think, mia cara.’ He moved a lounger into the shade of a parasol for her, and arranged the cushions.

‘Thank you.’ She felt self-conscious enough to have stood on one leg and sucked her thumb. And he’d placed her sunbed far too close to his own, she thought with misgiving. However, it seemed unwise to make any kind of fuss, so she walked across and sat down, forcing a smile as she looked up at him. ‘Heavens, it’s hotter than ever.’

‘Yes.’ Alessio glanced up at the mountains with a slight frown. ‘I begin to think Fredo may be right.’

Laura reached down and retrieved his book, which had slipped off his lounger onto the marble tiles between them. ‘Francesco Petrarca’ was emblazoned in faded gilt letters across its leather cover.

‘Reading more poetry about veiled ladies, signore?’ She handed it to him. Literature, she thought. Now there’s a safe topic for conversation.

‘There is much to read,’ he said drily. ‘The great Francesco made his Laura’s name a song for twenty years.’

‘How did they meet?’

‘He saw her,’ Alessio said, after a pause. ‘Saw her one day, and fell in love for ever.’

‘And did they live happily ever after?’ ‘They lived their own lives, but not together. She—belonged to another man.’

She made a thing of adjusting her sunglasses. She said lightly, ‘Then maybe he shouldn’t have allowed himself to fall in love.’

‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘But perhaps, Laura mia, he could not help himself. Listen.’ He found a page, and read aloud. ‘”I was left defenceless against love’s attack, with no barrier between my eyes and my heart.’’’

He put the book down. ‘Is there a defence against love, I wonder?’ The dark gaze seemed to bore into hers. ‘What do you think, bella mia? Did Paolo travel straight from your eyes to your heart when you saw him first?’

No, she thought, pain twisting inside her. But you did—and now I’m lost for ever…

She made herself look back at him. ‘Naturally there was—a connection. Why else would I be here?’

‘Why indeed?’ he said softly. He stretched slowly, effortlessly, making her numbly aware of every smooth ripple of muscle in his lean body. ‘I am going to swim, Laura. Will you join me?’

‘No,’ she managed somehow. ‘No, thank you.’

He smiled at her. ‘You do not feel the necessity to cool off a little?’

‘I’m a very poor swimmer,’ she said. ‘I don’t like being out of my depth, and your pool has no shallow end.’

‘Ah,’ he said meditatively. ‘Then why do you not allow me to teach you?’

There was a loaded silence, and Laura found she was biting her lip. ‘That’s—very kind,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘But I couldn’t—possibly—impose on you like that.’

‘No imposition, cara mia.’ His voice was a drawl. ‘It would be my privilege, and my pleasure. Besides,’ he added with faint reproof, ‘everyone should be able to swim safely. Don’t you agree?’

‘I—I suppose so.’ Except that we’re not really talking about swimming, she thought wildly, and we both know it. So why—why are you doing this?

He said softly, ‘But you are not convinced.’ He walked to the far end of the pool, and dived in, swimming the whole length under water. He surfaced, shaking the water from his hair, and swam slowly to the edge, resting his arms on the tiled surround.

He beckoned. ‘Laura, come to me.’ He spoke quietly, but the imperative came over loud and clear. She realised, not for the first time, why he was a force to be reckoned with within the Arleschi Bank.

Reluctantly, she shed the voile shirt and walked over to the edge of the pool, reed-slender in her green swimsuit.

She said coolly, ‘Do you always expect to be obeyed, si-gnore?’

‘Always.’ The sun glistened on the dark hair as he looked up at her. He added softly, ‘But I prefer compliance to submission, signorina.’ He paused, allowing her to assimilate that, then smiled. ‘Now sit on the edge,’ he directed. ‘Put your hands on my arms, and lower yourself into the water. I promise I will keep you safe.’

Her heart juddered. Oh, but it’s too late, she thought. Much too late for that.

But she did as she was told, gasping as the coolness of the water made contact with her overheated skin, aware of Alessio’s hands, firm as rocks, under her elbows.

‘You can stand,’ she accused breathlessly. ‘But I can’t reach. I’m treading water.’

‘Then do so,’ he said. ‘You will come to no harm.’ He added with faint amusement, ‘And I can do nothing about the disparity in our heights, bella mia.’

He paused. ‘You say you can swim a little?’ And, when she nodded without much conviction, ‘The width of the pool, perhaps?’

‘Possibly,’ Laura said with dignity. She hesitated. ‘But not without touching the bottom with my toe,’ she conceded unwillingly.

He sighed. ‘Then the true answer is no,’ he commented austerely. ‘So, we shall begin.’

It was one of the strangest hours of her life. If she’d imagined Alessio had lured her into the pool for his own dubious purposes, then she had to think again and quickly, because his whole attitude was brisk, almost impersonal. He really intended to teach her to swim, she realised in astonishment as she struggled to coordinate her arm and leg movements and her breathing, while his hand cupped her chin.

One of her problems, he told her, was her apparent reluctance to put her face in the water.

‘What does it matter if your make-up is spoiled?’ he said.

‘I’m not wearing make-up,’ she retorted, trying to catch her breath.

He slanted a faint grin at her. ‘I know. Now let us try again.

‘You lack confidence, no more than that, so you must learn to trust the water,’ he directed eventually. ‘Let it hold you, and do not fight it. Now, turn on your back and float for a while. I will support you.’

She did as she was bidden, feeling the dazzle of the sun on her closed eyelids.

She was not even aware of the moment he gently withdrew his hand from beneath her head until she heard him say, ‘Brava, Laura. You do well,’ and realised he was no longer beside her.

Her eyes flew open in swift panic, to see him watching her from the side of the pool, and she floundered suddenly, coughing and spluttering. He reached her in a moment, and held her.

‘You let go of me,’ she gasped.

‘About five minutes ago,’ he told her drily. ‘You stopped believing. That is all. But now, when you are ready, you will swim beside me across the pool, because you know you can. And remember to breathe,’ he added sternly.

She gave him a mutinous look. ‘Si, signore.’

But to her amazement she did it, and she felt almost euphoric with achievement when she found herself clinging to the opposite edge, catching her breath.

Alessio pulled himself out of the water, and stood for a moment, raking back his wet hair. Then he bent, sliding his hands under Laura’s armpits, lifting her out to join him as if she were a featherweight.

‘But I wanted to swim back,’ she objected, smiling up at him as he put her down on the tiles.

‘I think that is enough for the first time,’ he said softly. He paused. ‘After all, I do not wish to exhaust you.’ His hands moved slowly to her shoulders. Remained there.

Laura was suddenly aware of a strange stillness as if the world had halted on its axis. Or was it just that her heart seemed to have stopped beating? He had told her to breathe, she thought confusedly, but it was impossible. Her throat was too tight.

In spite of the heat, she was shivering, an unfamiliar weakness penetrating the pit of her stomach.

He was looking down at her, she realised, watching her parted lips. He was smiling a little, but there was no laughter in the half-closed eyes, which studied her with frank intensity, as if mesmerised.

He bent towards her, and she thought, He’s going to kiss me.

Deep within her, she felt a pang of yearning so acute that the stifled breath burst from her in a raw, shocked gasp. And with it came a kind of sanity as she realised exactly what she was inviting. And from whom…

She heard a voice she barely recognised as her own say raggedly, ‘No—Alessio—please, no!’

The dark brows lifted wryly. He reached up, and framed her face with both hands, his thumbs stroking back the wet strands of hair behind her ears, then stroking gently along her cheekbones and down to the fragility of her jawline.

She felt him touch the corners of her quivering mouth, then the long fingers travelled down her throat to her shoulders again.

He said softly, ‘No?’

He hooked a finger under the strap of her swimsuit, and drew it down, then bent, brushing his lips softly across the faint mark it had left on her skin.

Laura felt her whole body shudder in sudden heated delight at his touch. Knew, with dismay, that he would have recognised that too.

He said quietly, ‘Laura, I have a house overlooking the sea near Sorrento. It is quiet, and very beautiful, and we could be there together in just a few hours.’ His dark eyes met hers. ‘So—are you still quite sure it is—no?’ he asked.

Somehow, even at this stage, she had to retrieve the situation. Somehow…

She stepped back, out of range, lifting her chin in belated defiance. ‘I’m—absolutely certain.’ Fiercely, she jerked her strap back into place. ‘And you—you—you have no right—no right at all to think—to assume…’

‘I assume nothing, carissima.’ He raised his hands in pretended surrender, his tone amused—rueful. ‘But you cannot blame me for trying.’

‘But I do blame you,’ she flung back at him. ‘And so would Paolo, if I decided to make trouble and tell him.’ She swallowed. ‘Do you think he’d be pleased to know you were—going behind his back like this?’

He shrugged. ‘Paolo’s feelings were never a consideration, I confess. I was far more concerned with my own pleasure, bella mia.’ He smiled. ‘And with yours,’ he added softly.

She felt betraying colour swamp her face, but stood her ground. ‘You still seem very sure of yourself, signore. I find that extraordinary.’

‘Losing a battle,’ he said, ‘does not always alter the course of the war.’ He paused. ‘And you called me Alessio just now—while you were waiting for me to kiss you.’

Her flush deepened at this all-too-accurate assessment. She said through gritted teeth, ‘The war, as you call it, is over. I shall tell Paolo I want to go back to England immediately. As soon as my flight can be rearranged.’

‘And he may even agree,’ he said. ‘As long as it does not interfere with his own plans. But if there are difficulties, do not hesitate to ask for my help.’ He added silkily, ‘I have some influence with the airline.’

Ignoring her outraged gasp, he walked across to his lounger, picked up the towel and began to dry himself with total unconcern. Laura snatched up her own things and headed for the steps.

‘Arrivederci.’ His voice followed her. ‘Until later, bellissima.

’ ‘Until hell freezes over,’ she threw back breathlessly, over her shoulder, then forced her shaking legs to carry her up the steps and out of the sight and sound of him.

Alessio watched her go, caught between exultancy and irritation, with a heaped measure of sexual frustration thrown in.

He ached, he thought sombrely, like a moonstruck adolescent.

Stretching out on the lounger, he gazed up at the sky, questions rotating in his mind.

Why, in the name of God, had he let her walk away like that? He’d felt her trembling when he’d touched her. Why hadn’t he pressed home his advantage—thrown the cushions on the ground, and drawn her down there with him, peeling the damp swimsuit from her body, and silencing her protests with kisses as he’d taken her, swiftly and simply?

Winning her as his woman, he thought, while he appeased the hunger that was tearing him apart.

Afterwards, he would have sent her to pack her things while he enjoyed another kind of satisfaction—the moment when he told Paolo, and his damnable mother, that he was taking Laura away with him. His mission accomplished in the best possible way.

Then, off to Sorrento to make plans—but for what? The rest of their lives? He frowned swiftly. He had never thought of any woman in those terms. But certainly the weeks to follow—maybe even the months.

At some point, they would have to return to Rome. It would be best, he decided, if he rented an apartment for her. A place without resonances, containing a bed that he’d shared with no one else.

But what was the point of thinking like this, he derided himself, when none of it had happened? When she’d rejected him, using Paolo’s name like a shield, as she always did. And he’d let her go…

Dio, he could still taste the cool silkiness of her skin.

And now she wished to leave altogether—to go back to London. Well, so she might, and the sooner the better. Because he would follow.

In England, he could pursue her on his own terms, he thought. He’d have the freedom to date and spoil her exactly as he wished, until her resistance crumbled. And there would be no Zia Lucrezia to poison the well.

Yes, he thought with a sigh of anticipation. London was the perfect answer.

Unless… He sat up suddenly, mind and body reeling as if he’d been punched in the gut. Was it—could it be possible that he’d misjudged the situation completely? Might it be that she was genuinely in love with his weasel of a cousin after all? The idea made him nauseous.

Yet she’d wanted him very badly to kiss her. His experience with women left him in no doubt about that, while her own female instinct must have told her that, once she was in his arms, it would not stop at kissing.

She’d allowed Paolo to kiss her, of course, and all the other intimacies he dared not even contemplate, because they filled him with such blind, impotent rage that he longed to go up to the house, take his cousin from his sick bed, and put him in hospital instead.

He looked down at the book beside him, his mouth hardening. Ah, Francesco, he thought. Was that the image that haunted you every night—your Laura in her husband’s arms?

He supposed in some twisted way he should be grateful to his aunt for persuading her malingering son that he was far more sick than he really was, and keeping the lovers apart. At least he didn’t have the torment of knowing they were together under his roof.

Santa Madonna, he thought. Anyone might think I was jealous. But I have never been so in my whole life.

And I do not propose to start now, he added grimly.

No, he thought. He would not accept that Laura had any serious feelings for Paolo. Women in love carried their own protection like a heat-shield. No one existed in their private radiant universe but the beloved. Yet he’d been able to feel her awareness of him just as surely as if she’d put out her hand and touched his body.

So, maybe she really believed that, with Paolo, she would be marrying money—or at least where money was. The thought made him wince, but it now had to be faced and dealt with. Because it was clear that, living in one room and working in a bar, she was struggling near the bottom of the ladder.