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

‘No,’ Sandro said gently. ‘I have not. I simply felt that we should talk together in private. Maybe even in peace. Who knows?’

‘I know.’ Her voice was stormy. ‘And we have nothing to discuss. You want to rob me of my son? I’m going to fight you every step of the way. And my parents will be behind me.’

‘No.’ Sandro inclined his head almost regretfully. ‘They will not.’ He raised the glass he was still holding. ‘Now, I am going to pour you some more wine. I think you are going to need it.’

He allowed her to absorb that, then continued. ‘So, I suggest you stop trying to hide in that inadequate bath, and join me in the other room.’ He took a towel from the rail and tossed it to her, then walked out, closing the door behind him.

Polly scrambled to her feet, holding the towel defensively against her as she stepped out gingerly onto the mat. She began to dry herself with hasty, clumsy hands, keeping an apprehensive eye on the door in case Sandro chose to return.

Not that she could do much about it even if he did, she thought, grimacing. And it was ridiculous, anyway, behaving like some Victorian virgin in front of a man who’d seen her naked so many times before. Someone who’d kissed and caressed every inch of the bare skin she was now so anxious to conceal.

Instead of this burning self-consciousness, she should have pretended it didn’t matter. Demonstrated her complete and utter indifference to his presence whether she was dressed or undressed.

Fine in theory, she thought. But much trickier in practice. Especially if Sandro had interpreted her apparent sang-froid as provocation …

Her mouth felt suddenly dry, forcing her to abandon that train of thought for one just as disturbing. What was that comment about her parents meant to imply? What had been said in her absence—and, dear God, what pressure had been brought to bear?

She needed to find out, and quickly.

She looked down at the small pile of clothing she’d discarded earlier. Common sense suggested she should put it back on. Use it as part of the armour her instinct assured her that she was going to need.

But in the end, she opted for the elderly cotton robe hanging on the back of the door. It was plain and prim, without an ounce of seduction in its unrevealing lines, she thought, fastening the sash in a tight double bow. Her equivalent of a security blanket, perhaps.

Then, drawing a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and marched defiantly into the living room, only to halt, disconcerted, when she found it deserted.

The door to Charlie’s room was ajar, however, and she ran, stumbling slightly on the skirts of her robe, and pushed it open.

Sandro’s back was to the door, but he was bending over Charlie’s cot, his hands reaching down, and she felt her heart miss a beat. Was he planning to snatch her baby while he thought she was safely in the bathroom?

‘What are you doing in here?’ she hissed. ‘Don’t touch him. Don’t dare.’

Sandro straightened, and turned. ‘I saw this on the floor.’ He held up a small brown teddy bear. ‘I was replacing it.’ He paused. ‘And I came in simply to watch my son sleep. A pleasure that has been denied me for the past two years,’ he added coldly.

‘And which you want to deny me permanently,’ Polly flung at him, tight-lipped.

His smile was wintry. ‘Just as you would have done to me, mia cara, if fate had not intervened,’ he returned unanswerably.

He held the door, allowing her to precede him back into the living room.

He looked round him, his expression disparaging. ‘And this is where you have allowed him to spend the beginning of his life? In this conigliera?’

‘And what precisely does that mean?’

‘A hutch,’ he said. ‘For rabbits.’

She bit her lip. The room did seem to have shrunk suddenly, or was it just the effect of Sandro’s presence? And the bed being open and made up didn’t help either. In fact it was a serious embarrassment.

‘It was all I could afford at the time,’ she said. ‘And it works,’ she added defiantly, thinking of the hours she’d spent painting the walls, and stripping and stencilling the small chest of drawers which held Charlie’s things, and which just fitted into his room. He gave no credit, either, she thought bitterly, for the way she kept the place neat and spotless.

‘One word from you,’ he said harshly, ‘one hint that you were incinta, and it would all have changed. My son would have come into the world at Comadora, in the bed where I was born, and my father and grandfather before me.’ He took her by the shoulder, whirling her to face him. His voice was passionate. ‘Dio, Paola, why did you not tell me? How could you let me exist without knowing?’

‘Because we were no longer together.’ She freed herself from his grasp. ‘I made a decision that my baby was going to be part of my life only, and that I wanted nothing from you.’ She paused. ‘Didn’t I make that clear enough at the time?’

‘More than clear.’ His mouth twisted. ‘What I could not understand was—why.’ He frowned. ‘You could not have truly believed I was Mafioso. That is impossible—assurdo.’

‘Why not? It was evident there were things you hadn’t told me,’ Polly countered. ‘Things you didn’t want me to know.’ She shrugged. ‘What was I supposed to think?’

‘Not, perhaps, to give me the benefit of the doubt?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Any more than you decided to tell me the truth. And I expect we both had our reasons.’

‘Sì,’ Sandro said quietly. ‘But I also have regrets, which you do not seem to share.’

‘You’re wrong.’ She looked down at the floor. ‘I wish very much that I had never met you.’

‘Unfortunately for us both, the situation cannot be changed.’ His voice was a drawl. He picked up her refilled glass from the chest of drawers and handed it to her. ‘Shall we drink to our mistakes?’

Polly realised she was holding the glass as if it might explode. ‘This isn’t a social occasion,’ she reminded him tautly. ‘You said you came here to talk.’

‘And I would do so,’ he said, ‘if I thought you were in any mood to listen.’ He paused. ‘I had better fortune with your parents.’

Polly stiffened. ‘What have you been saying to them? If you’ve threatened them …’

He gave her a weary look. ‘With what? A cattle prod, perhaps?’ His mouth curled. ‘Once again, you are allowing your imagination to run away with you, mia cara.’

She flushed. ‘You’re trying to tell me they gave up without a fight. I don’t believe it.’

‘Your mother, I think, would have gone to any lengths to thwart me,’ he said. ‘Your father, however, was more reasonable.’

‘He thinks I should simply hand Charlie over to you?’ Her voice broke on a little sob. ‘Oh, how could he?’

‘No, he knows that even if he made the kind of sacrifices your mother was demanding, he would still not have the financial resources for a lengthy court battle.’ His smile was brief and hard. ‘Especially if it took place in Italy,’ he added softly.

The colour deepened in her face. ‘You’ll go to any lengths—pull any dirty trick to win, won’t you?’ she accused in a stifled voice.

Sandro shrugged. ‘I see little point in losing, bella mia,’ he returned. ‘But I am prepared to offer a draw—a negotiated settlement.’

She stared at him. ‘Would it mean that Charlie stayed with me?’

‘That would depend on you,’ he said. ‘Carlino is coming to Italy with me. As my son, he needs to learn about his heritage. I am merely inviting you to accompany him.’

‘As what? Some kind of glorified nanny?’ she demanded. She shook her head. ‘I think I’d rather have my day in court.’

‘He already has a nanny,’ Sandro told her evenly. ‘And another waiting in Italy to love him. But what he really needs is the stability of both parents in his life. So, Paola mia, I am asking you once again, as I did three years ago, to be my wife.’

For a long, dazed moment Polly was too shaken to speak.

At last, she said huskily, ‘Is this some grotesque joke?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘We are, if you remember, already engaged to each other,’ he added cynically.

Her breathing quickened. ‘Was I really supposed to believe that—that nonsense? I—I don’t think so. And whatever happened between us, it was all over a long time ago, and you know it. You can’t simply revive it—on a whim.’

‘Very well, then,’ Sandro returned equably. ‘Let us forget it ever took place. Pretend that, for the first time, I am making you an offer of marriage, Paola mia.’

She shook her head. ‘But you don’t—you can’t want to marry me.’

‘I have no particular desire to be married at all,’ he retorted. ‘But there are good reasons why I should sacrifice my freedom.’

‘Your freedom?’ Polly almost choked. ‘What about mine?’

He looked around him. ‘You call this liberty? Working long hours. Living in little more than one room? I don’t think so.’

‘I could always sue you for child support.’ She drew a breath. ‘That would improve my circumstances by a hundred per cent.’

‘But I am already offering to support our child—as the Marchese Valessi,’ he said silkily. ‘Besides, our marriage would remove any possible objections to Carlino’s right to inherit when the time comes, and it would mean that his well-being and nurture becomes the concern of us both from day to day.’ He paused. ‘I suggest it as a practical alternative to a custody battle.’

‘Which I might win,’ she said swiftly.

‘You might, but could you fight the appeal which would follow?’ Sandro countered. ‘Or the appeal against the appeal?’ His smile was chilly. ‘The case might last for years.’

‘Or until I run out of money, of course,’ she said bitterly. ‘You don’t need a cattle prod, signore.’

His brows lifted. ‘You regard marriage to me as some kind of torture, signorina?’ he asked softly. ‘Then perhaps I should make something clear to you at once. What I am offering is only a matter of form. A way of legalising the situation between us. But it would not be a love match. Too much has taken place for that. We would share nothing more than a roof, if that is what concerns you.’

He gave her a level look. ‘I accept now that any feelings we had for each other belong in the past. That we are different people, and we have both moved on.’

‘You say that now.’ Her voice was husky. ‘Yet only last night you told me I was still in your blood.’

‘But a lot has happened since then,’ Sandro said harshly. ‘And my feelings towards you have naturally changed as a result.’ He paused. ‘Now our child remains the only issue between us, and his ultimate welfare should be our sole consideration. You agree with that, I hope?’

Polly nodded numbly.

‘Bene,’ he said briskly. ‘In return, I promise that your life as the Marchesa Valessi will be as easy as I can make it. You will be made a suitable allowance, and asked occasionally to act as my hostess.’ His smile was hard. ‘But you may spend your nights alone.’

She swallowed. ‘And—you?’

‘I hardly think that concerns you,’ he said coldly. ‘However, I will ensure that any liaisons I have are conducted discreetly.’

She bit her lip. ‘As ours was?’

‘Davvero,’ he nodded. ‘Precisely.’

She said with difficulty, ‘And what about me—if I met someone?’

His brows lifted. ‘I should require you to behave with equal discretion. I would tolerate no open scandal in my family.’

He paused. ‘So what is your answer, Paola? Will you be my wife?’

‘I don’t know what to say.’ Concealed by the skirts of her robe, her hands were clenched painfully into fists. ‘I mean—you might want more children at some point.’

‘I have a son to safeguard the inheritance. That was always my priority in such matters. As to the rest …’ He shrugged again. ‘I have cousins, both married with bambini. At times my house seems full of children. Although that, of course, will be good for Carlino,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘He does not talk as well as he should, and he hardly knows how to kick a ball. That must change.’

Polly’s lips parted in sheer outrage. ‘How—dare you? Last week you didn’t even know you were a father. Now you’re a bloody expert on child-rearing.’

‘I made no such claim,’ Sandro returned mildly. ‘But Julie had concerns which she mentioned to me.’

‘Then she had no right,’ Polly flared. ‘Charlie’s absolutely beautiful, and he can do all kinds of things,’ she added hotly, burying the memory of various clashes she’d had with her mother on that very subject.

‘And could do far more, I suspect.’ Sandro’s smile was cold, ‘if he was allowed to—and once keeping his clothes clean from every speck of dust is no longer a major priority.’ He allowed her to absorb that, then went on, ‘Can he swim?’

She reddened, still stung by his last comment, but honestly unable to refute it. He hadn’t missed much during his first encounter with her mother, she thought ruefully.

‘No, not yet,’ she said in a subdued voice. ‘I meant to take him to the local baths, but weekends are always so busy.’

‘It’s not a problem,’ he said. He smiled at her for the first time that night without edge, the sudden unforced charm making the breath catch in her throat. ‘I shall enjoy teaching him myself in our own pool.’

She caught her lower lip in her teeth, struggling to regain her equilibrium. Trying to disregard the image his words had presented. ‘Yes—I suppose …’

‘So,’ he said, after a pause, ‘shall we settle this thing now? Will you marry me, and come to Italy with our son?’

‘I don’t seem to have much of a choice,’ she said in a low voice.

Something unreadable came and went in his face. ‘And if you could choose? What then?’

‘I would wish to be as far from you,’ she said passionately, ‘as it’s possible to get.’

His head went back, and his eyes narrowed. ‘Well, do not despair, bella mia,’ he drawled scornfully. ‘My home at Comadora is large, a palazzo, with thick walls, and many rooms. You should be able to avoid me easily.’

‘Thank you,’ she said huskily.

‘Tonight, however, you will not be so fortunate,’ he added.

She stiffened. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I intend to spend the night here.’

She gasped. ‘But—but you can’t …’ She tried not to look at the all too obtrusive sofa bed. ‘There’s no room.’

‘It will be cramped,’ he agreed. He took off his jacket, and began to loosen his tie. ‘But it is only for one night.’

She said in a choked voice, ‘You promised me—you swore this wouldn’t happen. Oh, why did I think I could trust you?’

‘The boot is on the other foot, cara mia.’ He began unhurriedly to unfasten his shirt. ‘I do not trust you. Who knows what you might be tempted to do, if you were left alone?

‘But I have no intention of breaking my word,’ he added. ‘This armchair looks comfortable enough, so I shall use that.’ His smile grazed her skin. ‘And you can have that congegno quite undisturbed. I hope you sleep well.’

He draped his shirt over the back of the chair, sat down and removed his shoes and socks, while Polly watched in growing alarm. But when he stood up, his hands going to the waistband of his trousers, she intervened.

‘Kindly stop right there,’ she said grittily.

‘You have some problem?’

‘Yes.’ Her green eyes were stormy. ‘Of course I do.’

‘Then deal with it.’ He unzipped his trousers, stepped out of them, then placed them, folded, with the rest of his clothes. He was wearing brief silk shorts, and the rest of him was smooth tanned skin. For one burning moment of self-betrayal she found herself remembering the taste of him, and felt her body clench in uncontrollable excitement.

‘Why, Paola, you are blushing,’ he jeered softly. ‘But not even to spare you will I sleep in my clothes. And you were not always such a prude,’ he added drily. He indicated his shorts derisively. ‘These, as you know, are a concession. But if the sight of me is still too much, you could always close your eyes.’ He paused. ‘Have you a towel I can use?’

Dry-mouthed, she muttered acquiescence, and went to the chest of drawers. As she reached for a towel, she uncovered Charlie’s photograph.

‘What is that?’ Sandro came to her side, and took it from the drawer. He studied it for a moment, brows lifted, then turned to her. ‘Is this where you usually keep it?’

‘No,’ she admitted reluctantly.

‘You hid it,’ he asked, incredulously. ‘In case I came here?’

‘Think whatever you wish,’ she flung at him. ‘I don’t give a damn.’

He set the photograph carefully on top of the chest of drawers. ‘And you wonder why I do not trust you,’ he said silkily. He rescued the towel from her nerveless hand and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

For a moment she stood irresolutely, trying to decide what to do. She could hardly go to bed in her robe, without exciting the kind of comment from him she most wished to avoid. And what nightgowns she possessed were far too thin and revealing.

However …

Polly knelt, opening the bottom drawer of the chest, searching with feverish fingers. There were some oddments of winter clothing here, she knew. Among them …

She drew out the pyjamas with a sigh of relief. They were worn out, washed out, and she’d never liked them, but they were good old-fashioned winceyette, and they covered her from her throat down to her feet.

She was just fastening the last button on the mandarin-style jacket when Sandro returned, and stopped dead at the sight of her.

‘Santa Madonna,’ he breathed, with a kind of fascinated horror. ‘No wonder you sleep alone. I think I shall have to choose your trousseau myself, particularly the biancheria intima.’

‘Thank you,’ Polly returned icily. ‘But I prefer to pick my own lingerie. And if you don’t like the way I look, you can close your eyes too,’ she added triumphantly.

‘That is one solution,’ he admitted musingly. ‘But I can think of others that I would enjoy more.’ He saw her blench, and grinned. ‘Calm down, cara mia. I intend to keep my word. But sometimes to cover too much can be a mistake, because it excites the imagination.’ He paused. ‘I suppose a spare blanket is too much to hope for.’

She wanted to scream at him that she hoped he caught galloping pneumonia and died alone in a ditch. Instead she heard herself say unwillingly, ‘Yes, there is one.’

She fetched it from the corner cupboard, pale blue and still in its wrappings. ‘I bought it for Charlie,’ she told him, gruffly. ‘For when he moves into a bed instead of his cot.’

There was a silence. ‘Then I am doubly grateful,’ he said quite gently. ‘Because this is a sacrifice for you. And I will make sure it goes with us to his new home.’

For a moment, there was a note in his voice that made her want to cry. She turned away hurriedly, and got into bed, pulling the covers over her, the metal base creaking its usual protest as she settled herself.

‘Dio,’ Sandro muttered. ‘And that—atrocity will remain here.’

Well, she wasn’t going to argue about that, Polly thought wearily. Aloud, she said, past the constriction in her throat, ‘Will you turn the light off, please? When you’re ready.’

‘I am ready now.’

She lay, eyes tight shut, as he went past her, and the room was plunged into darkness. Waited for him to return to the chair.

Instead, she was aware of him standing beside her. He said quietly, ‘Paola, do you ever wish you could turn back the clock? Wipe out what has been?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Because I know it’s impossible, and I prefer to deal with reality.’

He sighed. ‘Then could we not declare a truce for this one night? Be together for old times’ sake?’

She wanted so badly to yield. To reach up and draw him down to her. She was starving for him, her body quivering with need, aching for him. Reminding her that she’d never shared a room with him before without eventually falling asleep in his arms in the drugged sweetness of sensual exhaustion.

But if she surrendered, she would be lost forever. And if she resisted, as she knew she must, at least she would retain what remained of her pride. Which might be all she had left to sustain her in the weeks, months, even years ahead.

‘Even if I was in the mood for casual sex,’ she said stonily, ‘you gave me your word.’ And paused. ‘Besides, you flatter yourself, signore,’ she added, coolly and distinctly. ‘The old times weren’t that special.’

She heard his swift intake of breath, and flinched, knowing she had gone too far. Waiting for a retribution which seemed inevitable.

But there was nothing.

She felt rather than heard the moment he moved away. Listened, all her senses tingling, as he wrapped himself in the blanket. Then, in the heavy silence which followed, she turned her face into the single pillow, and lay like a dead thing.

It had never occurred to her that she would sleep. She was too aware of his even breathing only a few feet away, demonstrating quite clearly, she realised, that her rejection couldn’t have weighed too heavily with him after all.

She sighed silently, searching for a cool place on the pillow. She needed to look calm and rested in the morning, not wan and heavy-eyed.

Because Sandro must not be allowed to think that he still mattered to her.

That was what she needed to remember above all. Anything else would be a disaster, because, as those few moments in the darkness had proved all over again, it was going to be difficult to remain immune to the devastating allure of his sexuality.

But that, she thought, had always been her downfall from their first meeting. She had been too much in love, too blinded by the passion and glamour of him to ask the right questions and demand answers that made sense.

Her first major surprise had been his brilliant command of English, but when she’d asked him about it he’d simply said he’d had good teachers.

Polly had wondered, with a pang, whether he meant other women, and decided not to probe any further. Now she suspected that he’d gone to school in England, and probably university too, either here or in America.

He’d told her too that he worked at the Grand Hotel Comadora, but she’d never gone there to see him because its sheer expensive exclusivity discouraged casual visitors. The entrances were controlled by security guards, and the staff were subject to strict rules, so she’d stayed away. Otherwise she’d have soon found out that he wasn’t simply an employee, but the owner. And that had been the last thing he wanted her to know.

Her own naïveté made her cringe now. The way she’d trusted him with all her small, loving dreams of their future.

‘I’d like a tiny house,’ she told him once. ‘In one of the villages high above the sea, with a terraced garden, and its own lemon tree.’

‘Mm.’ He’d stroked her hair back from her love-flushed face with gentle fingers. ‘And will you make me limoncello from our tree?’

He was talking about the lethally potent liqueur that was brewed locally, and she’d laughed.

‘Well, I could try.’

God, what a fool she’d been, and how he must have been secretly amused at her, knowing full well that he was going to dump her once their warm, rapturous summer together was over.

He’d found himself an inexperienced virgin, and cynically turned her into an instrument for his pleasure.

I bet he couldn’t believe his own luck. I must have been the perfect mistress, she thought, wincing. Easily duped, and ecstatically wanton. He didn’t even have to kiss me. The sound of his voice—the warmth of his skin as he stood next to me were enough.

And, as she’d discovered tonight, they still were.

So how was she going to deal with the bleak sterility of the future that awaited her in Italy? A wife who was not a wife, she thought, living in a house that would never be her home. Her only link with Sandro, the child he had made in her body. A child, at the same time, who had driven them further apart than any years or miles could have done.