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

During the day she’d need a minder for him, of course. There was no way out of that. But she’d look for someone young and lively, caring for other children too, so that Charlie would have playmates. Maybe, in time, she could even get a foot on the housing ladder—find somewhere small and manageable, hopefully with a garden. Something she would never be able to afford in London.

She would miss this flat, she thought, sighing, and it would be a wrench leaving Safe Hands but reason was telling her it would be for the best.

I have, she thought, to make a life for us both. For Charlie and myself. I need to build a proper relationship with him. And I can’t do that if we stay here. Because I won’t be allowed to.

But she wasn’t delusional enough to think she could strike out on her own without a struggle, she told herself, wrinkling her nose. Her mother would fight her every step of the way, coming up with every possible reason why she should not do this thing—and a few impossible ones, too.

And when she saw Polly could not be moved, she would be very bitter. There might even be an open breach between them.

But that won’t last forever, she thought. Whatever Mum thinks of me, she’ll still want to maintain contact with Charlie.

She got to her feet. She would eat now, and when supper was over she’d use her laptop to go internet-exploring, looking at house prices in different parts of the country. Now that she’d made up her mind, there was no time to be lost.

Strange, she thought, how I can suddenly be so sure of that.

Yet the pressure on her to accept the Italian assignment must have contributed to her decision. It had left her feeling uneasy—and awoken too many bad memories.

A clean break with the past was what she needed. New job—new home—new friends.

She would never be able to forget, of course, that Sandro was Charlie’s father. But in time, it might begin to hurt less. And she might even be able to stop being afraid. One day.

‘See Naples and die, eh?’ The man in the adjoining seat emphasised the originality of his remark with a slight dig in Polly’s ribs, as their plane descended towards Capodichino Airport. ‘That’s what they say, isn’t it?’

Polly gritted her teeth as she gave a wintry smile in acknowledgement.

But I don’t care what ‘they’ say, she told herself fiercely. Naples is going to be my jumping-off point for a whole new life. And I plan to live every moment of it.

She couldn’t say she’d enjoyed the flight. The contessa might need her physical assistance, but she certainly hadn’t wanted her company. Which was why she was seated in first class, while Polly herself was in economy, with a neighbour who considered her presence his personal bonus.

Never mind, she thought. In a few moments I’ll never have to see him again, or the contessa either.

She’d sipped mineral water throughout the flight, in spite of her fellow traveller’s unceasing efforts to buy her what he called a proper drink. And the irony was that she’d have welcomed some alcohol, to dispel the shaky chill which had settled in the pit of her stomach. The closer they had got to their destination, their progress cheerfully marked by the captain, the more nervous she’d become.

I shan’t relax until I’m safely back in Britain, she thought.

On the surface, she was calmness itself. She was wearing the company uniform of a slim-fitting, button-through dress in navy linen, with the distinctive silver brooch showing a pair of clasped hands pinned to her left shoulder. Her pale hair was in a loose knot on top of her head, and she wore her usual dusting of powder, and soft pink lipstick.

As they touched down, and the plane began to taxi to its stand, Polly reached under the seat, and extracted the navy leather satchel which held the travel documents and a few basic necessities in case of delay. Her client, she was sure, would have an eagle eye for the slightest lapse in efficiency.

Her companion nudged her again. ‘Dangerous city, they say,’ he whispered. ‘If you’re on your own tonight, I’d be happy to show you around.’

‘Tonight,’ she told him, ‘I intend to be back in London.’ And left him gaping.

Contessa Barsoli was a tall woman, rake-thin, with immaculately coiffed white hair and still handsome in a chilly way. A member of the cabin staff was permitted to help her descend the aircraft steps while Polly followed, instinctively lifting her face to the brilliant warmth of the southern sun.

Once inside the terminal, she found her charge a chair, retrieved her luggage and guided her through the formalities.

‘There has been a small change of plan,’ the older woman informed her abruptly. ‘I am too tired to undertake a long car journey down to the Campania, so my cousin has arranged a suite for me at the Grand Hotel Neapolitana. You will accompany me there.’

Polly knew resignedly that she shouldn’t be surprised. Most of the arrangements she’d made for the contessa during her stay in Britain had been subject to alteration, usually at the last moment. Why should this time be any different?

But this wasn’t just irritating, she reminded herself, schooling her expression. It was seriously inconvenient. She had a return flight to catch, and the contessa knew it.

‘Do you wish me to get us a taxi?’ she asked quietly. If she could find a driver who knew a few short cuts through Naples’ crowded streets, she might still be in with a chance.

‘A taxi?’ The contessa made it sound like a tumbrel. ‘My cousin has sent a car and chauffeur for us. Oblige me by finding him.’

That was easily achieved. Transferring the contessa and her luggage to the roomy depths of the limousine was a completely different matter. The lady liked to take her time, oblivious to Polly’s simmering frustration as the minutes ticked past.

The traffic was a nightmare, and when they did reach the hotel at last, Polly accepted that she probably wouldn’t make it back to the airport in time for her flight.

I haven’t a prayer, she told herself resignedly. It’ll take me half an hour to get her to the lift.

But to her astonishment, the contessa suddenly became quite sprightly. She conducted her own registration at the desk, waving Polly regally away, and made no fuss about the prompt unloading of her luggage.

An under-manager escorted her, bowing, to the lift, where Polly caught up with her.

She said awkwardly, ‘I need to say goodbye now, contessa, if I’m to get my flight.’

She got a severe look. ‘But I wish you to accompany me to the suite, signorina. I have ordered coffee and biscotti to be served there. Besides,’ she added, seeing that Polly was on the verge of protest, ‘there is still the question of the money I offered you. I do not conduct such transactions in the foyers of hotels. If you want to be paid, you will come with me now.’

Groaning silently, Polly stood beside her as the lift made its way upward. They emerged onto a crimson-carpeted corridor, opposite a heavily carved door.

The under-manager produced a key with a flourish, and unlocked the door, and, still bowing, showed them ceremoniously into the suite.

Polly found herself in a large drawing room, shaded by the shutters which had been drawn over the long windows to combat the force of the mid-June sunlight. She had a confused impression of brocaded sofas and fresh flowers in elaborate arrangements, their scent hanging languidly in the air.

And realised suddenly that the room wasn’t empty as she’d first thought. Because someone was there—someone standing by the windows, his figure silhouetted against the slatted light. Someone tall, lean and unforgettably—terrifyingly—familiar.

Even before he spoke, Polly knew who he was. Then his voice, low-pitched and faintly husky, reached her, and there was no longer room for any doubt. Or any hope, either.

He said, ‘Paola mia. So, you have come to me at last.’

He moved—came away from the window, and walked towards her with that long, lithe stride she would have known anywhere, his shadow falling across the floor as he approached.

She tried to speak—to say his name, but her trembling mouth could not obey her and shape the word.

Because this could not be happening. Sandro could not be here, in this room, waiting for her.

As he reached her, she cried out and flung up her bare and unavailing hands in a desperate effort to keep him at bay. Only to find the shadows crowding round her, welcoming her, as she slid helplessly downwards into the dark whirl of oblivion.

CHAPTER TWO

AWARENESS returned slowly, accompanied by an acrid smell that filled her nose and mouth with its bitterness, making her cough and mutter a feeble protest.

She lay very still, fighting against a feeling of nausea, hardly daring to open her eyes. Her senses told her that she was cushioned on satiny softness, and that she was not alone. That in the real world behind her closed eyelids, there was movement—people talking. And the heavy noise of traffic.

She propped herself dizzily on one elbow, and looked around her. She was lying in the middle of a vast bed, covered in deep gold embroidered silk. She was shoeless, she realised, and the top buttons of her dress had been unfastened.

The first person she saw was the contessa, as she stepped back, replacing the stopper in a small bottle. Smelling salts, Polly thought, dazedly. The older woman always insisted on having some handy in case travel motion upset her.

And, standing in silence a few yards away, was Sandro, head bent, his face in profile.

Not a figment of her imagination, as she’d hoped, but a nightmare that lived and breathed, and would not go away.

And not the laughing, dishevelled lover, wearing frayed shorts and an old T-shirt, and badly in need of a haircut, that she’d once known and desired so passionately, but that other, hidden man whose identity she’d never even suspected as she lay in his arms.

This other Sandro wore a dark suit that had clearly emanated from a great Italian fashion house. The dark curling hair had been tamed, to some extent at least, and there wasn’t a trace of stubble, designer or otherwise, on what she could see of the hard, tanned face, only a faint breath of some expensive cologne hanging in the air.

His immaculate white shirt set off a sombre silk tie, and a thin platinum watch encircled his wrist.

Whatever path he’d chosen to follow, it had clearly brought him serious money, Polly thought, anger and pain tightening her throat. And she didn’t want to contemplate how it might have been obtained. Who said crime didn’t pay?

Nor was he staying silent out of weakness, or any sense of guilt. Instinct told her that. He was simply exercising restraint. Under the stillness, Polly could sense his power—and the furious burn of his anger, rigorously reined in. Could feel the violence of his emotions in the pulse of her blood and deep within her bones, just as she’d once known the naked imprint of his skin on hers, and the intimate heat of his possession.

As if, she thought with a sudden sick helplessness, she lived within his flesh. Part of him. As she had once been.

Now that the impossible had happened, and she was face to face with him again, she was shocked by the intensity of her physical reaction to him. Ashamed too.

She had to make herself remember the cruel brutality of his rejection. The cynical attempt to buy her off, and the explicit threat that had accompanied it.

She needed to remind herself of the abyss of pain and loneliness that had consumed her after she’d fled from Italy. And, most important of all, she had to get out of here, and fast.

She sat upright, lifting a hand to her head as the room swayed about her.

The movement riveted everyone’s attention, and Sandro took a hasty step forward, pausing when Polly flinched away from him involuntarily, his mouth hardening in an icy sneer.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It is not pretty. You should have been prepared in advance, perhaps. Warned what to expect.’

As he came closer, Polly saw his face clearly for the first time. Saw the jagged scar that had torn its way from the corner of his eye, across the high cheekbone and halfway to his jaw.

For a brief moment she was stunned, as shocked as if she had seen some great work of art deliberately defaced.

He looked older too, and there was a weariness in the topaz eyes that had once glowed into hers.

Oh, God, she thought, swallowing. He thinks that I find him repulsive, and that’s why I turned away just now.

A pang of something like anguish twisted inside her, then she took a deep breath, hardening herself against a compassion he did not need or deserve.

Let him think what he wanted, she thought. He’d chosen his life, and however rich and powerful he’d become he’d clearly paid violently for his wealth. And she’d been fortunate to escape when she did, and keep her own wounds hidden. That was all there was to be said.

She looked away from him. ‘I don’t understand.’ Her voice was small and strained. ‘What am I doing here? What—happened?’

‘You fainted, signorina.’ It was the contessa who answered her. ‘At my cousin’s feet.’

‘Your cousin?’ Polly repeated the words dazedly, her mind wincing away from the image the older woman’s words conjured up of herself, unconscious, helpless. She shook her head, immediately wishing that she hadn’t. ‘Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?’

The contessa drew herself up, her brows lifting in hauteur. ‘I do not understand you, signorina. There is no joke, I assure you. Alessandro is the son of my husband’s late cousin. Indeed, his only child.’

‘No,’ Polly whispered. ‘He can’t be. It’s not possible.’

‘I am not accustomed to having my word doubted, Signorina Fairfax.’ The contessa’s tone was frigid. She paused. ‘But you are not yourself, so allowances must be made.’ She handed Polly a glass of water. ‘Drink this, if you please. And I will ask for some food to be brought. You will feel better when you have eaten something.’

‘Thank you, but no.’ Polly put down the empty glass and moved to the edge of the bed, putting her feet to the floor. She was still feeling shaky, but self-preservation was more important than any temporary weakness.

She’d fainted—something she’d never done in her life before, and a betraying sign of vulnerability that she could ill afford.

She spoke more strongly, lifting her chin. ‘I would much prefer to leave. Right now. I have a flight to catch.’

‘You are not very gracious, Paola mia.’ Sandro’s voice was soft, but there was a note in it that made her quiver. ‘Especially when I have had you brought all the way from England just to see you again.’

Had you brought … The words echoed in her head, menacing her.

‘Then you’ve wasted your time, signore.’ Was that how you addressed the supposed cousin of an Italian countess? Polly had no idea, and didn’t much care. ‘Because I have no wish to see you.’

There was a bitter irony in this, she thought. This was supposed to be the first day of her new life, and instead she seemed to have walked into a trap.

Ironic, inexplicable—and dangerous too, she realised, a shiver chilling her spine.

The contessa had deliberately set her up, it seemed. So she must be in Sandro’s power in some way. But however scaring that was, it couldn’t be allowed to matter, Polly reminded herself swiftly. She didn’t know what was going on here, nor did she want to know. The most important thing, now, was to distance herself, and quickly.

‘“Signore”?’ Sandro questioned, his mouth twisting. ‘Isn’t that a little formal—for us, bella mia?’

Her pulses quickened at the endearment, putting her instantly on the defensive.

‘To me this is a formal occasion,’ she said tautly. ‘I’m working—escorting the contessa. And there is no “us”,’ she added. ‘There never was.’

‘You don’t think so?’ The topaz eyes were watchful. ‘Then I shall have to jog your memory, cara.’

‘I can remember everything I need to, thanks.’ Polly spoke fiercely. ‘And it doesn’t change a thing. You and I have nothing to say to each other. Not now. Not ever again.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And now I wish to leave.’

Sandro shook his head slowly. ‘You are mistaken, carissima.’ His voice was soft. ‘There is a great deal to be said. Or else I would not be here. But perhaps it would be better if we spoke alone.’

He turned to the contessa. ‘Would you excuse us, Zia Antonia?’ His tone was coolly courteous. ‘I think Signorina Fairfax and I should continue our conversation in private.’

‘No.’ Polly flung the word at him, aware that her voice was shaking. That her body was trembling too. ‘I won’t stay here—and you can’t make me.’

He looked at her, his mouth relaxing into a faint smile. ‘You don’t think so, Paola mia? But you’re so wrong.’

‘Contessa!’ Polly appealed as the older woman moved towards the door. ‘You had no right to do this. Don’t leave me alone—please.’

The contessa gave her a thin smile. ‘You require a chaperone?’ she queried. ‘But surely it is a little late for that?’ She paused, allowing her words to sting, then turned to Sandro. ‘However, Alessandro, Signorina Fairfax might feel more at ease if you conducted this interview in the salotto. A suggestion, merely.’

‘I bow to your superior wisdom.’ Sandro spoke briskly.

Before Polly could register what he intended, and take evasive action, he had stepped forward, scooping her up into his arms as if she were a child. She tried to hit him, but he controlled her flailing hands, tucking her arms against her body with insulting ease.

‘Be still,’ he told her. ‘Unless, of course, you would prefer to remain here.’ He glanced significantly back at the bed.

‘No, I would not.’ She glared up into the dark, ruined face. ‘But I can walk.’

‘When you are shaking like a leaf? I think not.’

In spite of her continuing struggles, Sandro carried her back into the now deserted drawing room. The contessa had disappeared, Polly realised with a stab of panic, and, although neither of them were her company of choice, it meant that she and Sandro were now alone. Which was far worse …

‘This was easier when you were unconscious,’ he commented as he walked across the room with her. ‘Although I think you have lost a little weight since our last meeting, Paola mia.’

‘Put me down.’ Polly was almost choking with rage, mingled with the shock of finding herself in such intimately close proximity to him. ‘Put me down, damn you.’

‘As you wish.’ He lifted a shoulder nonchalantly, and dropped her onto one of the sofas flanking the fireplace. She lay, winded and gasping, staring up at him.

‘You bastard,’ she said unevenly, and he clicked his tongue in reproach as he seated himself on the sofa opposite.

‘What a name to call the man you are going to marry.’

‘Marry?’ The word strangled in her throat. Polly struggled to sit up, pulling down the navy dress which had ridden up round her thighs. ‘You must be insane.’

He shrugged. ‘I once asked you to be my wife. You agreed.’ He watched as she fumbled to re-fasten the buttons he’d undone, his lips slanting into faint amusement. Looking so like Charlie that she almost cried out. ‘That makes us fidanzato. Or am I wrong?’

‘You’re wrong,’ she bit back at him, infuriated at her own awkwardness, and at the pain he still had the power to cause her. ‘Totally and completely mistaken. And you know it, as well as I do, so let’s stop playing games.’

‘Is that what we’re doing?’ Sandro shrugged again. ‘I had not realised. Perhaps you would explain the rules to me.’

‘Not rules,’ she said. ‘But laws. Laws that exist to deal with someone like you.’

‘Dio,’ he said. ‘So you think our government interests itself in a man’s reunion with his woman? How enlightened of them.’

‘Enlightened enough to lock you up for harassment,’ Polly said angrily. ‘And I am not your woman.’

He grinned at her, making her realise that the scar had done little to diminish the powerful sexual charisma he’d always been able to exert, which was as basic a part of him as the breath he drew. He was lounging on the sofa opposite, jacket discarded and tie loosened, his long legs thrust out in front of him, totally at his ease. Enjoying, she thought bitterly, his control of the situation. While she remained shaken and on edge, unable to comprehend what was happening. Or why. Especially why …

‘No? Perhaps we should have stayed in the bedroom after all, cara mia, and continued the argument there.’ The topaz eyes held a familiar glint.

‘You dare to lay a hand on me again,’ Polly said, through gritted teeth, ‘and I’ll go straight to the police—have you charged.’

‘With what offence? The attempted seduction of my future bride?’ He shook his head regretfully. ‘A girl who once spent a summer as my lover. I don’t think they would take you seriously, carissima.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I expect they have to do what you want—like the contessa. And where is she, by the way?’

‘On her way back to Comadora, where she lives.’

‘But she was supposed to be staying here.’

He shook his head. ‘No, Paola mia. I reserved the suite for myself.’ He smiled at her. ‘And for you to share with me.’

‘If this is a joke,’ Polly said, recovering herself from a stunned silence, ‘I don’t find it remotely funny.’

‘And nor do I,’ Sandro said with sudden curtness. ‘This is no game, believe me. I am entirely serious.’ He paused. ‘Do you wish to test my determination?’

He hadn’t moved, but suddenly Polly found herself remembering the strength of the arms that had held her. Recognised the implacable will that challenged her from his gaze and the sudden hardening of the mobile, sensuous mouth which had once stopped her heart with its caresses.

She bit her lip, painfully. ‘No.’

‘You begin to show sense at last,’ he approved softly.

‘Not,’ she said, ‘when I agreed to come to Italy today. That was really stupid of me.’

‘You must not blame Zia Antonia,’ he said. ‘She shares your disapproval of my methods.’ He shrugged. ‘But if you and I had not met again tonight, then it would have been at some other time, in some other place. Or did you think I would simply allow you to vanish?’

She said coldly, ‘Yes, of course. In fact, I counted on it.’

His head came up sharply, and she saw the sudden tensing of his lean body. ‘You were so glad to be rid of me?’

You dare to say that—to me? After what you did?

The words trembled on the tip of her tongue, but she fought them back. He must never know how she’d felt in those dazed, agonised weeks following his rejection. How she’d ached for him, drowning in bewilderment and pain. Pride had to keep her silent now. Except in defiance.

She shrugged in her turn. ‘Do you doubt it?’ she retorted. ‘After all, when it’s over, it’s over,’ she added with deliberate sang-froid.

‘You may think that, mia cara.’ His voice slowed to a drawl. ‘I do not have to agree.’

She looked down at her hands, clamped together in her lap. ‘Tell me something,’ she said in a low voice. ‘How did you find me?’

‘I was at a conference on tourism. A video was shown of a British company which looks after single travellers. You were its star, cara mia. I was—most impressed.’

Polly groaned inwardly. Her one and only television appearance, she thought, that her mother had been so proud of. It had never occurred to her that it might be shown outside the UK.

She said coldly, ‘And you were suddenly overwhelmed by nostalgia, I suppose.’

‘If so,’ Sandro said with equal chill, ‘I would have sighed sentimentally and got on with my life. But it reminded me that there are issues still unresolved between us.’ He paused. ‘As you must know, also.’