His Reluctant Bride: The Marchese's Love-Child / The Count's Blackmail Bargain / In the Millionaire's Possession

Do you wish to know the name of his mistress in Rome?

The words ate at her like some corrosive acid.

The fact that there was another woman in his life had not stopped him trying to seduce her back into his bed, she thought, hurt and anger warring inside her. ‘A fever in the blood’ he’d once called it. And once the fever had been quenched, what then? Had he expected her to be so much in thrall to him that she was compliantly prepared to share him with his Roman beauty?

She bit her lip so hard that she tasted blood. I can’t think about that, she told herself desperately. I dare not go there …

But there was another problem, too, that she had to confront. Was it just Emilio or did other members of the family know that he’d tried to pay her off three years before? If so, that was the ultimate humiliation, and she wanted to run somewhere and hide, away from the smiles and sneers that would accompany such knowledge.

But most of all, she wanted to hide from Sandro. And instead she was obliged to go upstairs, and get into one side of the extravagantly wide bed she had to share with him tonight. And be expected to sleep.

Oh, God, she thought, her fists clenching convulsively. It’s all such a charade. Such total hypocrisy.

And if I had any guts, I’d get Charlie, and make a run for it back to England, and see how Sandro deals with a scandal like that.

But, realistically, how far would she get? She was here in this—fortress in a foreign country, where he had power, and she had none. Even the money in the bank account he’d opened for her had been transferred to Italy.

She was helpless—and she was suddenly afraid too.

‘So, here you are.’ Sandro was walking across the terrace towards her. ‘What are you doing out here alone?’

She swallowed slowly and deeply, aware of the frantic thud of her heart at the sight of him.

‘I needed some fresh air.’ She forced herself to sound light and cool. ‘Pretending to be pleasant is hard work, and every actress needs an interval.’

‘Is it really so hard to meet such goodwill halfway?’ he asked unsmilingly.

‘I think it exists for Charlie, not myself,’ she returned curtly. ‘I’m your wife by accident not design, and they must know that.’

He said drily, ‘In the eyes of most of my family, you are not yet my wife at all. I am being given embarrassingly broad hints that I should take you upstairs without further delay and rectify the matter.’

‘Oh, God.’ Polly pressed her hands to her burning cheeks.

‘I am truly sorry, cara mia.’ His voice was suddenly gentle. ‘I never meant you to be subjected to this. We had better face them.’

‘Very well.’ Ignoring his outstretched hand, she walked stiffly beside him towards the open windows of the salotto.

‘I can give you ten minutes’ privacy,’ he added quietly. ‘But no longer, or Zia Vittoria will be demanding to know why I am not with you, doing my duty by the next generation.’

Her throat muscles felt paralysed, but she managed a husky, ‘Thank you.’

In spite of her tacit resistance, Sandro slid an arm round her waist, holding her against his side, as they went into the brightness of the room and paused to meet the laughter and faint cheers that awaited them.

Then she felt his lips touch her hot cheek, as he whispered, ‘Go now, bella mia.’

The door seemed a million miles away, especially when she had to reach it through a sea of broad grins and openly voiced encouragement. She was aware that people were swarming after her into the hall, watching her walk up the stairs.

She glanced back once, and saw Sandro standing a little apart from them all. He was unsmiling, his eyes bleak, as he looked at her, raising the glass he was holding in a cynical toast. Then he drained the contents in one jerky movement, and went back into the salotto.

Leaving Polly to go on, feeling more alone than she had ever done in her life before.

CHAPTER NINE

THE bedroom was empty, but it was prepared and waiting for her. And, she thought, her senses tautening, for him.

Lamps on tall wrought-iron stands were burning on either side of the bed. The coverlet had been removed and the white lace-edged sheets turned down and scattered with crimson rose petals.

And, she supposed, inevitably, the black lace nightdress was draped across the bed in readiness too.

Well, that she could deal with, she thought, folding it with quick, feverish hands into a tiny parcel of fabric. She went into the dressing room, and stowed it away in her wardrobe in the pocket of a linen jacket against the moment when she could dispose of it for good and all. Otherwise it was going to haunt her.

She also needed an alternative to wear, she thought, rummaging through the exquisitely arranged contents of her lingerie drawer. She decided on a plain ivory satin nightgown, cut on the bias, its neckline square across her breasts, and supported by shoestring straps.

Discreet enough to be an evening dress, she thought as she slipped it over her head after showering briefly in the bathroom. Especially with the diamonds still glittering round her neck. Where they would have to remain, as the clasp resisted all her efforts to unfasten it.

Sighing, Polly shook her hair loose, ran a swift brush through it, and went back into the bedroom.

She was aware the minutes had been ticking past, but she’d still hoped she might be granted a little more leeway than Sandro had suggested. Prayed that it might be possible to be in bed, pretending to be asleep before he came to join her.

But her hopes were dashed, because Sandro was there already, dinner jacket removed and black tie loosened, walking towards the bed. He turned, surveying her without expression as she hesitated in the doorway.

He said, ‘Do you not think you are a little overdressed, bella mia?’

Her heart skipped. ‘What are you talking about?’

His mouth twisted. ‘I was referring to the diamonds, naturally.’

She lifted her chin. ‘I couldn’t unfasten them—and Rafaella wasn’t here.’

‘She would not risk her life by intruding.’ He beckoned. ‘Come to me.’

She went slowly towards him, waiting, head bent, while he dealt with the clasp, his touch brisk and impersonal.

‘Take it.’ He dropped the necklace into her hand.

She said, ‘But shouldn’t you have it?’

‘It was a gift, Paola,’ he said shortly. ‘Not a loan.’

‘I meant—wouldn’t it be better in a safe … somewhere?’

‘There is a place in the dressing room for your jewellery. Rafaella will show you in the morning.’ Sandro turned back to the bed, and began brushing away the rose petals. One of them drifted to Polly’s feet, and she bent and retrieved it, stroking the velvety surface with her fingertips.

She said, ‘Someone has taken a lot of trouble. Perhaps you were right about the goodwill.’

‘The wedding night of a marchese and his bride is always a great occasion.’ Sandro dragged out the bolster from under the pillows, and arranged it down the centre of the bed. ‘How fortunate they will never know the truth,’ he added sardonically.

‘There,’ he said, when he had finished. ‘Will that make you feel safe?’

‘Yes,’ Polly said stiltedly. ‘Yes—thank you.’

He walked away towards the dressing room, and Polly switched off her lamp and got hastily into bed. She slid her necklace under the pillow, then lay down, her back turned rigidly towards the bolster. The scent of the roses still lingered beguilingly, and she buried her face in the pillow, breathing in the perfume, and relishing the coolness of the linen against the warmth of her skin.

When at last she heard Sandro returning, she burrowed further down under the sheet, closing her eyes so tightly that coloured lights danced behind her lids.

She sensed that the other lamp had been extinguished, then heard the rustle of silk as he discarded his robe, and the faint dip of the bed as he took his place on the far side of the bolster.

There was a silence, then he said, ‘Paola, you are permitted to stop acting when we are alone together. And I know you are not asleep.’

She turned reluctantly, and looked at him over her shoulder. In the shadows of the room, she could see the outline of him, leaning on the bolster, watching her, but she was unable to read the expression on his face.

She kept her voice cool. ‘But I’d like to be. This has been one hell of a day.’

‘Crowned, I imagine, by your meeting with my cousin Emilio,’ he drawled. ‘Where did you encounter him?’

Polly, unprepared for the question, hunched a shoulder. ‘He happened to be on the terrace while I was there,’ she said evasively.

‘Emilio does not “happen” to be anywhere, cara,’ he said drily. ‘His locations are always intentional.’ He paused. ‘Did you share a pleasant conversation?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Not particularly. I hope he isn’t a frequent visitor.’

‘I believe he comes mainly to see Zia Antonia,’ he said. ‘Usually when I am not here. As he is leaving early in the morning, he has asked me to pass on a message to you.’

Polly shifted uncomfortably. ‘Oh?’

‘He sends you his homage,’ Sandro went on silkily. ‘And hopes that tonight will provide you with wonderful memories for the rest of your life.’

She punched the pillow with unnecessary vigour, and lay down again. ‘Well, neither of us are likely to forget it,’ she said shortly.

‘That is true,’ he said. ‘But I am surprised to find you on a level of such intimacy with Emilio.’

‘I’m not,’ she returned heatedly. ‘He’s a loathsome little worm, and I’m amazed that someone hasn’t dealt with him by now.’

‘They have tried,’ Sandro said drily. ‘He has been pushed off a balcony in Lucca, and thrown into the Grand Canal in Venice. And he was nearly the victim of a drive-by shooting in Rome, but it seems that was a case of mistaken identity.’

Polly was surprised into a giggle. ‘What a shame.’

‘As you say,’ he agreed solemnly. ‘But, in a way, he can be pitied. For years he has been waiting confidently for me to break my neck on the polo field, be caught in an avalanche or drown while sailing. The car crash must have made him feel that his dream could come true at last.

‘Yet here I am with a wife and a son, and his hopes of the Valessi inheritance are finally dashed.’

She put up a hand to her pillow, hugging it closer. Her voice was faintly muffled. ‘Is that why you were so determined to take Charlie? To put Emilio out of the running?’

‘It played its part. But I wanted him for his own sake, too.’ His voice sharpened. ‘Paola, you cannot doubt that, surely.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I—know you did.’

It was almost her only certainty, she thought. Emilio’s vile insinuations were still turning like a weary treadmill in her brain, reminding her yet again just how tenuous her position was. And how easily she might lose everything in the world that mattered to her.

And in spite of the warmth of the night, she gave the slightest shiver.

He noticed instantly. ‘Are you cold? Do you wish for a blanket?’

‘It’s not that.’ She sat up, making a little helpless gesture. ‘I—I just don’t know what I’m doing here—why I let myself do this. I don’t understand what’s happening.’

He was silent for a moment, then he said wearily, a trace of something like bitterness in his voice, ‘Currently, you and I, cara mia, are about to spend a very long and tedious night together. When it is over, we will see what tomorrow brings, and hope that it is better. Now, sleep.’

He turned away, and lay down with his back to her, and, after a pause, she did the same.

Time passed, and became an hour—then another. Polly found herself lying on the furthermost edge of the bed, listening to Sandro’s quiet, regular breathing, scared to move or even sigh in case she disturbed him.

She felt physically and emotionally exhausted, but her brain would not let her rest. She was plagued by images that hurt and bewildered her, images of fear and isolation, but she found them impossible to dismiss, however much she wanted to let go, and allow herself to drift away into sleep.

At one point, she seemed to be standing at one end of a long tree-lined avenue, watching Sandro, who was ahead of her, walking away with long, rapid strides. And she knew with total frightened certainty that if she allowed him to reach the end of the avenue, that he would be gone forever. She tried to call out, to summon him back, but her voice emerged as a cracked whisper.

Yet somehow he seemed to hear, because he stopped and looked back, and she began to run to him, stumbling a little, her legs like leaden weights.

She said his name again, and ran into his arms, and they closed round her, so warm and so safe that the icy chill deep inside her began to dissolve away as he held her.

And she thought, This is a dream. I’m dreaming … And knew that she did not want to wake, and face reality again.

When she eventually opened her eyes the following day, that same feeling of security still lingered, and she felt relaxed and strangely at peace.

The first thing she saw was that the bolster was back in its normal place, and that the bed beside her was empty. She was completely alone, too, with only the whirr of the ceiling fan to disturb the hush of the room. Sandro had gone.

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