In the Italian's Bed: Bedded for Pleasure, Purchased for Pregnancy / The Italian's Ruthless Baby Bargain / The Italian Count's Defiant Bride

If only her parents knew.

If only they knew the thin ice he perpetually skated on. Oh, their parents had helped Jake out a couple of times—when the stockmarket had supposedly taken a tumble, and when the twins were first born and Beth had been hospitalised with depression—but unbeknown to them she, too, had helped. Emma swallowed down the flutter of unease at the thought of the credit card account she had opened to bail him out, the personal loan she had taken…Each time Jake had promised he’d pay her back; each time he had sworn it would be the last…

…and each time he had lied.

Emma stared out at the grey morning, willing the sun to come up and shed some light on what she should do.

She didn’t have the sort of money Jake needed.

Possibly she could get an extension on her mortgage. She’d always been so careful. She had lived frugally throughout her student years, even managing to set some money aside from casual jobs, and her father had found her a modest flat near where she rented the gallery—a flat that had increased in value. But her paintings weren’t doing so well. She was still too new, too little known. Because of helping Jake she’d had to cut back on advertising, had had to forgo the promotional nights at her gallery that might draw in the customers.

Emma gulped. Why should she help him? If she gave him this money Emma knew that she’d never see it again—which should make saying no incredibly simple. Only…She could almost feel the sting of her mother slapping her cheek all those years ago when, after another of Jake’s so-called cries for help, Emma had voiced the same question. Why couldn’t he cope?

‘He’s ill, Emma!’

Closing her eyes, she could see her mother’s lips—pale, furious lips that had been spitting at the edges as she spoke. The slap had been less shocking than the fury that had accompanied it—her mother had been appalled at the question her seventeen-year-old daughter had raised.

‘You should try and be more understanding!’

That had been their sole conversation regarding Jake’s illness—no discussion, no acknowledgement. The memories of those black days had been filed and tucked away, by unspoken rule never to be opened.

But, try as her mother might, the lid was peeping open.

And, try as Emma might, this time she might not be able to stop it.

To swim alone on a deserted beach that was still draped in darkness broke every safety rule that had been ingrained into Emma from the moment she could walk and had toddled on little fat legs to the water she adored. Only Emma truly wasn’t thinking—her mind was solely consumed with her brother and his problems. As Emma stripped down to her bra and panties all she sought in that moment was a clear head—a break from her frantic thoughts.

The water was delicious—refreshingly cold as she plunged in. There was nothing better than swimming in the ocean—the weightlessness, the pull of the waves, the invigorating feel of salt water on her skin and the bliss of escape. Here, Emma knew, she was just a speck in the scheme of things, and the vastness of the ocean soothed her mind, her panic abating as her body tired.

She had swum a long way out.

The first fingers of fear tightened around her heart as Emma stared back at the grey beach, her legs moving as she attempted to tread water, and at that moment terror seized her. She could see rocks moving alongside her even though she was trying to stay still, and felt the very real force of a seemingly benign ocean as it rapidly pulled away her from the shore.

She was caught in a rip. A fast-moving channel of current that ran perpendicular to the beach. She knew not to fight it—knew she could never swim against it—but the foolhardiness of her actions caught up with her. The vastness of the ocean that had moments ago soothed her scared her now.

He didn’t want to go back.

Even though he had spent only twelve hours away from the city, Zarios actually felt as if he had had a break. Walking along the beach, the sun just starting to appear on the horizon—it was bliss to have the place to himself.

Last night had been nice, watching his father and Eric talking, and for once he had been able to relax and enjoy a pleasant evening without worrying about Miranda, about work, or the board’s decision.

He was almost tempted to accept Lydia’s offer to stay the entire weekend—to cancel his other engagements and to just get off the treadmill for a little while.

Except he couldn’t.

It seemed everyone wanted a piece of him these days—everyone demanded their pound of flesh. It wouldn’t even enter their heads that he really needed a weekend off—naturally they’d assume the worst.

That Zarios D’Amilo was boiling towards yet another scandal.

Oh, his father was upset—furious, in fact, that things hadn’t worked out with Miranda, that another teary story would no doubt hit the magazines in a week or so, at a time when the D’Amilo name could least afford it. Zarios knew he had tried to make it work with her, but her behaviour had been becoming more and more bizarre. With each passing week she became more possessive, more demanding, till nothing bar a proposal of marriage would convince Miranda that he wasn’t cheating on her. And though it might have soothed Miranda and might have appeased his father and their fellow directors, Zarios had refused to be pushed.

Once again, he hated how he had been judged.

Despite the scathing words that were written about him, despite his heartbreak reputation, he actually loved women—loved the rush that came at the beginning of a romance, that moment when he actually believed she might be the one who was different. Zarios went into every breathtaking relationship wishing over and over that this time he’d found her—that this time he’d met the one.

Picking up a stone, Zarios skimmed it out to the water.

The one!

‘Hah!’ He shouted out the word as he skimmed another stone.

There was no such thing as the one! He picked up a handful, skimming them angrily now. Take Emma, for example. Had his father not warned him about her problem with money? Had he not seen it with his own eyes and heard it directly from Jake?

Well, she might have had him convinced for a while, but not for long, Zarios thought savagely. Never for long. Over and over he was proved right: women wanted only one thing—well, two if he was being accurate. And the second he was happy to provide for free!

He refused to be as blind as his father—a man who still loved the woman who had shamed him, who had walked out on her husband and child without a backward glance.

A woman who wanted to creep her way back now that his father was ill and about to retire…Well, she’d have to get past Zarios first. From his shorts he pulled out a letter, read again the needy words he had intercepted, then wrapped it in a stone and tossed it out to the ocean.

She was too late!

Thirty years too late. And if his father couldn’t see that, then he was a fool.

For a moment he thought he was seeing things. Squinting out into the grey pre-dawn ocean, he saw a flash of something white. His heart stilled in his mouth as he saw it was a hand, and realised with dread that someone out there was in trouble.

His first instinct was to dive in, but Zarios fought it. The person was a long way out, and a clear head was what was needed here. Behind him was the lifeguard’s shed, but he found it was locked. Soon he knew the first surfers would be coming, but for now it was down to him alone.

He was running before his plan had actually formulated in his mind. Already he was acting on it, running the length of the beach, scanning the slippery low rocks ahead, while whipping his head around every few seconds to the water, making sure he didn’t lose sight of the swimmer.

The panic that had gripped him when he had realised it was a person out there in trouble had abated now. Zarios was running on pure adrenaline, focussing just as he did at work, only on the task in hand and not upon the stakes. It was a formula that had served him well.

Don’t slip.

He told himself that as he reached the rocks. Just get to the mid-section.

She was still treading water.

She.

He pushed that thought aside as he navigated the sludge and seaweed, dragging in two large lungfuls of air as he calculated the distance and realised he was as close on land as he could get. Aware of the rocks, he lowered himself rather than dived in, kicking off with a powerful front crawl, looking up every now and then, keeping his eye on his target, feeling the power of the water beneath the relatively calm surface as he neared her.

Just like that she was gone.

A glimmer of fear crept in then—a first glimpse that he was too late. A frantic, urgent second of negotiation cluttered his mind. If he’d just run faster, swum quicker…if he dived under now…And then she resurfaced, blue eyes frantic, mouth open, arms flailing. For the first time in his life Zarios tasted pure, unadulterated fear. It seized him as if someone had touched his insides: this fury, this panic at what had nearly been lost.

What still could be lost.

He grabbed her, pulled her into the crook of his arm and lay on his back. Then with every ounce of strength he could muster he kicked and propelled his body back towards the rocks, swimming across the rip. Someone must have been really looking out for her, because just when his body was tiring a surfer, who must have seen the action from the beach, was there, helping her onto his board. The two men worked in silent unison to bring her to the shore, where she knelt in the shallows, coughing and retching and just so very, very lucky.

‘Stupido!’ He was beyond furious. Between dragging in lungfuls of air and coughing out half the ocean, still he managed to loudly point out first in rapid Italian and then in English what a fool she had been. Whatever language he spoke, the message was blatantly clear. ‘Voi idiota stupido! Swimming alone…’

Emma was kneeling in damp sand, coughing, shivering, too terrified to be grateful—too shaken to yet relish being alive. Instead of filling her hungry lungs she could only manage tiny shallow breaths. The panic that had gripped her in the ocean was nothing compared to her realisation of the fragility of existence. Of the thoughtless action that had nearly cost her life.

‘Okay, mate…’ Surfer boy must have seen it all before, because, though breathless himself, he was incredibly calm. ‘She knows she made a mistake. You did the right thing, letting the rip carry you,’ the boy reassured her as Zarios stood there silently fuming. ‘You can’t swim against it.’

Her breathing was slowing down now, delicious oxygen creeping into every exhausted cell. Each and every breath was like a refreshing glass of lemonade, and she relished each one.

A little posse had formed—mainly lean, bronzed surfer-types, and an elderly woman who was walking her dog, all standing around her as she shivered in her bra and panties and in her own misery. A blanket was produced from the surf shed, and Emma was grateful for its heavy, musty warmth as it was wrapped around her shoulders.

‘Did you take in a lot of water?’ the surfer asked.

‘No! I was just tiring. I’m fine now…’

‘Maybe we should get you looked at?’

Emma shook her head. ‘I just want to go home.’

She remembered to thank him, although Zarios actually remembered first, shaking his hand and then wrapping an arm around Emma’s shoulders before leading her up the stony path to her parents’ house. He even smiled and thanked the elderly lady when she rushed up, having retrieved Emma’s clothes.

‘Don’t tell Mum…’ Her teeth were chattering so violently she could hardly get the words out. ‘I don’t want to ruin the weekend.’

‘You nearly took care of that…’ He stopped himself from ramming home the inevitable point. ‘Let’s just hope they’re not up yet…’ His voice faded again.

Despite the early hour the marquee was already being taken down. Lydia was trilling her orders, anxious to get the place in shape before the champagne breakfast.

‘What about in here…?’ He pushed open the doors of the summerhouse, a pretty white room where her mother read and her father escaped. Leading her to a daybed, he sat her down, then set about locating a towel, taking the musty blanket from her shoulders and wrapping her in its soft warmth. ‘We’ll get you dry, and then you can get dressed and back to the house…she won’t know.’

‘You won’t tell her?’

‘On one condition.’ He gripped her upper arms, his face stern and serious. ‘You have to promise me that you will never do anything like that again.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Christo, Emma…’ His eyes burnt into hers, anger creeping back in. ‘What possessed you?’ He was drenched, his black hair almost blue, droplets of water still on his wide shoulders.

‘I don’t know…’ She couldn’t give a sensible reason. She’d grown up by the beach—knew the rules. Knew, knew, knew… ‘I just wanted to clear my head. I’m just worried…’

‘About what?’

She wanted to tell him so badly. In fact, she almost did, but even as she opened her mouth, she shook her head. Jake’s gambling and the filthy, complicated mess he had created were just too big and scary to face, let alone share.

‘I can’t say.’

‘You could.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Okay, don’t worry about it now…’ His hands were stroking her through the towel, moving to her back, drying her off, then moving down to her legs. The floor was littered with sand. ‘Let’s get you dressed and inside.’

And then it really seemed to hit him. Zarios paused mid-stroke, bemused eyes looking up to hers.

‘You could have died!’

Oh, there was no better warmth than his arms. Fiercely, he had pulled her from the daybed into his embrace, and kneeling he held her, held her, held her, as if checking that she was still there. And, Emma thought, being held was so much better than being told off—just feeling his heartbeat in her ear, his warmth imbuing her. For a full five minutes he held her, and whether it was adrenaline that propelled them, or just the sheer exhilaration of finding out just how sweet and precious life was, it felt entirely right that he kissed her.

It was the most thorough, expert and welcome kiss of her life. His mouth claimed hers, pressing hard into her shivering one, warming her as his body scooped her in. Kneeling, facing her, he devoured her with his mouth, kissing her harder and harder as though he still had to prove that she was really there, pausing for a second and then possessing her mouth again.

Just absolutely the best a kiss could be. Like a balm to her wounds. The horror that had consumed her simply faded. The soft stroke of his tongue, his taut body against hers, obliterated everything.

No kiss had ever moved her like this. She had thought last night’s effort wonderful, but it had only skimmed the surface of what his mouth could do. His touch seemed to flick a trigger, unleashing in her such want. He was pushing down the straps of her bra, his mouth still pressing on hers, his rough and unshaven and utterly delicious jaw rasping her cheek. His skilled fingers impatiently unhooked her bra and tossed it aside. Her frozen and exhausted body was warming and waking beneath hands that massaged her full breasts as still he kissed her.

‘I thought I’d lost you when you went under…’

He was talking as if he loved her, and her head was spinning with his words. He spoke as if they were, as if they had once been lovers. The world was spinning in a strange fast-forward, in recognition of some future time. Everything aligned as she knew, without it being said, that they were going to make love. The passion, the emotion that ripped through them, was inexplicable, almost, but utterly, utterly right. Kneeling still, they pressed so hard into each other it hurt—a hurt that reminded her she was alive!

As he kissed her cheeks, her ears, her eyelashes, and gently tugged at her panties, Emma remembered that she had nearly died. And nearly dying was a very, very good reason to start living, she told herself, as both of them stood just long enough to dispose of their few pieces of clothing.

And this was living!

She’d expected the frenzy to continue, but Zarios slowed things down. As they sank to their knees he rested on his heels, devouring every inch of her with hungry eyes, one single finger tracing the length of her body. She quivered under his scrutiny. Pathetically grateful she’d taken her panties off when she’d had a spray tan, Emma was agog with terror as she watched him harden to his full, impressive length. Her stomach curled inside as his fingers moved down and slowly stroked her damp blonde curls.

‘All night I thought of you.’ His knees parted hers, the dark hair on his legs scratching against her thighs, pushing them apart until he exposed her. He began to stroke her slowly.

Unable to stop herself, Emma admitted the same. ‘I thought of you, too.’

She was having trouble breathing for entirely different reasons now.

‘I thought of this.’ He slid a finger inside her, the nub of his thumb working her clitoris. ‘And then I thought of this…’ He lowered his head and suckled on her nipple, the rhythmic sucking matching his handiwork.

Her head arched back as he worked her, and in a moment of weakness again she admitted the same. ‘I thought of this, too.’

He was huge—worryingly so, excitingly so. Her head was back down, watching as her fingers instinctively reached for him as if they belonged to someone else. She began to stroke him in the same slow motion with which he was stroking her. She could see his mouth still suckling her breast, but she gazed down beyond it, one greedy finger taking the silver pearl of moisture from his tip and massaging it into the soft velvety skin that belied the strength beneath.

‘Attente!’ His voice was thick, the words spoken between greedy mouthfuls. ‘Be careful.’

And then he looked up, warning her, offering her an out. But her voice, when it came, was absolutely sure. ‘I don’t want to be careful!’

It was all the confirmation he needed to go on, and, oh, the bliss as he guided her onto the daybed. She braced herself for his weight, but it never came, his fingers instead working their magic, sliding deep inside her as his erection hovered at her entrance. She was a frenzy of sensation, a bleating mess of indecision, wanting him to go on, but wanting him to come in. She could hear the sounds of her own moisture as he massaged her deeply, as he made sure beyond doubt that her tight space was oiled and ready to accommodate him. And thank heavens he did, because even with his lavish attention, even with a body that was cooing and aching to be filled, she felt a sudden pain when he entered, a delicious hurt as he filled her. The heat was building as he pushed so hard inside her, so deep within her, she could feel the bruise of her cervix.

She was coming, biting his salty chest, wrapping her calves around his muscular back. Still he bucked inside her, the throb of her orgasm gripping him, but it didn’t match his strength because he pushed her on.

‘Zarios…’ She wanted him to stop, was almost scared that he might continue. Her twitching body was surely spent, but still she could feel him swell further, feel the more urgent, reckless staccato rhythm of his thrust, and she was coming again, her orgasm more intense than she could have ever dared to imagine it might be. Her hands were two balled fists of tension on his back. Unfurling her fingers was an impossible task as every muscle in her body twitched in spasm as she received him, felt a shudder of tension rip through him, and then the warm melt of him on her.

And then he kissed her.

His tongue was strangely cold as his lazy kiss brought her round, welcoming her back to a world that was brighter, and somehow very different.

‘If I swim out again will you rescue me?’

‘That is not funny.’

‘Well, that wasn’t a very good deterrent.’

‘I might not be here next time to save you…’

As he looked down at her Emma realised that his eyes, though they looked black, were actually the darkest deepest indigo, more purple than blue, and a colour she wanted to capture and recreate with her brush. Only, even with her artistic prowess, she wasn’t sure she could do the colour justice.

‘Although I would like to be there.’

And she knew he wasn’t talking about swimming—knew, because at that moment they were so close words were hardly needed. A new language was forming, and their minds were meeting with the same force their bodies had and blending just as perfectly.

‘I’d like you to be there.’

‘Let’s get you back to the house.’ He held her tighter as he spoke. ‘This weekend cannot be about us. I want your father to enjoy his celebration.’ He kissed her very slowly. ‘Emma, this is big.’

A rather facetious comment was on the tip of her tongue, given the length of him on her thigh, but Emma restrained herself. Her mind was simply being kind, using humour to deflect the seriousness of his words for a moment. What they had just found was monumental.

‘I know.’

There was nothing to joke about.

‘We need to be very sure, and we need to get our heads around things ourselves before we share this with our families.’

Oh, he was right. If there was even a hint of romance today, the whole dynamics of the weekend would shift. They had to get used to things first, before they revealed their feelings to the world.

There wasn’t a flicker of question or doubt in her eyes as she stared back at him.

For that moment at least, she absolutely trusted him.

‘There you are!’ Lydia smiled when, a considerable time later, a rather bedraggled Emma appeared. ‘We were about to send out a search party.’

‘I was enjoying a walk.’

‘And the water!’ Lydia frowned at the knot of wet hair trailing down her back.

Given that it was now after eight Emma could be a touch honest. ‘I had a swim—I couldn’t resist.’ Emma flushed, her heart thumping as, not for the first time, she realised just how disastrous the consequences might have been had Zarios not saved her. Thankfully Lydia was too wrapped up in preparing for the champagne breakfast to question her further. ‘Do you need me to do anything, Mum?’

‘Get changed, darling!’ Lydia scolded, pulling out of the fridge the vast bowl of Strawberries Romanof that Emma had yesterday painstakingly prepared for the occasion without comment, then twittering with delight as she pulled back the cloth on the basket of rolls and pastries that had thankfully been delivered.

‘He’s gone way over the top, as always…’ Lydia tutted at the contents. ‘But then, that’s Jake!’

The shower was bliss—warm water washing away the salt, her body burning still from Zarios’s attention. Massaging conditioner into her hair, Emma closed her eyes and revelled in the sheer wonder of being alive, every nerve in her body tingling as she recalled his hands and mouth on her. Her heart was fluttering with excitement, and she cradled her knowledge like a treasured gift—scarcely able to comprehend that in just a few short hours everything had changed.

She dressed in pale khaki shorts and a white cotton halter neck, quickly blowdrying her hair and then tying it back in a loose ponytail, before adding just a little make-up. She joined her family and the D’Amilos out on the decking. Today was more intimate—just immediate family, which Rocco practically was, and of course Zarios.

He smiled as she entered, just a brief smile, but it confirmed every last thing she was feeling.

There was an exhilaration about her that perhaps had something to do with surviving a near death experience, or perhaps just the sheer pleasure of being with her family, all combined with the giddy recall of Zarios’s lovemaking. For Emma it truly was the sweetest time, every second relished as she sipped on Bucks Fizz and listened to her father’s laughter, saw her mother’s face flushed and pretty with the relief that the her beloved Eric’s birthday had gone so well. He was opening his gifts, smiling at the slippers, the tankards, at an expensive pair of binoculars for his beloved bird-watching, and then frowning at Rocco’s gift.