In The Italian's Bed

Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is [e-mail] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

In the Italian’s Bed

Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE man was standing outside the Medici Gallery as Tess drove past. She only caught a brief glimpse of him, concentrating as she was on keeping Ashley’s car on the right side of the road. She saw him look after her as she turned into the parking lot behind the smart row of boutiques and cafés that faced the flower-fringed promenade of Porto San Michele. And wondered if she wasn’t being paranoid in imagining there had been a definite air of hostility in his gaze.

She shook off the thought impatiently. She was imagining things. He wasn’t waiting for her. Besides, she wasn’t late. Well, only a few minutes anyway. She doubted Ashley’s timekeeping was any better than hers.

There were few cars in the parking lot at this hour of the morning. Tess had discovered that Italian shops rarely opened before ten and were definitely disposed towards a leisurely schedule. Her neighbours on the parade—Ashley’s neighbours, actually—seldom kept to strict opening hours. But they were charming and helpful, and Tess had been grateful for their advice in the three days since she’d been standing in for Ashley.

She hoped she was mistaken about the man, she thought as she let herself into the gallery through the back entrance. She hurried along the connecting passage that led to the showroom at the front and deactivated the alarm. Perhaps he was a friend of Ashley’s. Perhaps he didn’t know she was away. She glanced towards the windows and saw his shadow on the blind. Whatever, she was evidently going to have to deal with him.

Deciding he could wait a few more minutes, Tess turned back into the passageway and entered the small office on the right. This was where Ashley did her paperwork and kept all her records. It was also where she took her breaks and Tess looked longingly at the empty coffee-pot, wishing she had time to fill it.

But Ashley’s boss wouldn’t be pleased if her tardiness turned a would-be patron away and, after examining her reflection in the small mirror by the door, she pulled a face and went to open the gallery.

The door was glass and, unlike the windows, inset with an iron grille. Taking the precaution of opening all the blinds before she tackled the door, Tess had time to assess her visitor.

He was taller than the average Italian, she saw at once, with dark arresting features. Not handsome, she acknowledged, but she doubted a woman would find that a disadvantage. His features had a dangerous appeal that was purely sexual, a sophisticated savagery that sent a shiver of awareness down her spine.

Oh, yes, she thought, he was exactly the kind of man Ashley would be attracted to, and she guessed his visit to the gallery was of a more personal nature than a commercial one. When she pulled the door wide and secured it in its open position, he arched a faintly mocking brow in recognition of her actions. It made Tess want to close the door again, just to show him how confident she was.

But, instead, she forced a slight smile and said, ‘Buongiorno. Posso aiutare?’ in her best schoolgirl Italian.

The man’s mouth twitched as if she had said the wrong thing, but he didn’t contradict her. Nor did he immediately respond. Pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket, he swung round and surveyed the contents of the gallery, and Tess wondered if she was wrong about his association with Ashley and that he expected her to give him a guided tour.

Who on earth was he? she wondered, intensely aware of the ambivalence of his gaze. She was sure he wasn’t a tourist and it seemed far too early in the day for him to be a serious collector. Besides, the paintings they were exhibiting were hardly a collector’s choice.

Realising she was probably completely wrong, she nevertheless suspected he hadn’t come here to look at the paintings. Despite his apparent interest, the harsh patrician lines of his profile displayed a contempt for them—or for her. This man would not take rejection easily, she mused, wondering where that thought had come from. But if Ashley was involved, she didn’t envy her at all.

Tess hesitated. She wasn’t sure whether to leave him to his own devices or ask again if she could help. His elegant charcoal suit—which had to be worth a year’s salary to her—made her wish she were wearing something other than an ankle-length cotton skirt and combat boots. The spaghetti straps of her cropped top left her arms bare and she felt horribly exposed suddenly. In her place Ashley would have been wearing heels and a smart outfit. A linen suit, perhaps, with a skirt that barely reached her knees.

Then he turned to face her and she prevented herself from backing up only by a supreme effort of will. Deep-set eyes—golden eyes, she saw incredulously—surveyed her with a studied negligence. She realised he was younger than she’d thought at first and she was again aware of his primitive magnetism. An innate sensual arrogance that left her feeling strangely weak.

‘Miss Daniels?’ he said smoothly, with barely a trace of an accent. ‘It is most—how shall I put it?—enlightening to meet you at last.’ He paused. ‘I must say, you are not what I expected.’ His regard was definitely contemptuous now. ‘But still, you will tell me where I might find my son.’

Was that a threat? Tess was taken aback at his tone, but at the same time she realised he had made a mistake. It must be Ashley he wanted, not her. Yet what on earth could Ashley possibly know about his son? She was in England looking after her mother.

‘I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake, signore,’ she began, only to have him interrupt her.

‘No, Miss Daniels, it is you who have made a mistake,’ he snapped harshly. ‘I know you know where Marco is. My—my investigatore saw you getting on a plane together.’

Tess blinked. ‘No, you’re wrong—’

‘Why? Because you are here?’ He snapped his long fingers impatiently. ‘You bought tickets to Milano but you must have changed planes at Genova. When the plane landed at Malpensa, you and Marco were not on board. Di conseguenza, I had no choice but to come here. Be thankful I have found you.’

‘But, I’m not—’

‘Prego?’

‘I mean—’ Tess knew she sounded crazy ‘—I’m not Miss Daniels. Well, I am.’ Oh, God, if only she could get her words straight. ‘But I’m not Miss Ashley Daniels. She’s my sister.’

The man’s eyes conveyed his disbelief. ‘Is that the best you can do?’

‘It’s the truth.’ Tess was indignant now. ‘My name is Tess. Teresa, actually. But no one calls me that.’

His eyes, those strange predator’s eyes, swept over her, rejecting her contention out of hand. ‘It’s the truth,’ she said again, unknowingly defensive. Then, on a wave of inspiration, ‘I can prove it. I have my passport with me. Is that good enough for you?’

The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Let me see it.’

Tess’s eyes widened at the command but there was something about him that made her hurry into the office to collect her bag. The passport was zipped into the side pocket of the backpack and she brought it out triumphantly. But when she turned to go back into the showroom she found he was behind her and with a gesture of defiance she thrust it into his hand.

He was successfully blocking her exit now, she realised, aware of a stirring sense of panic. What did she know about this man, after all? Only that he apparently knew her sister—or rather knew of her—and what he knew seemed hardly flattering.

Or true?

‘Look,’ she said as he continued to flick through the mostly empty pages of her passport, ‘I don’t know who you are or what you want but I don’t think you have any right to come in here and accuse me—accuse Ashley—of—of—’

‘Kidnapping my son?’ he suggested scornfully, tossing the passport down onto the desk, and Tess’s heart skipped a beat at the ridiculous accusation. ‘Attenzione, Miss Daniels,’ he added, sweeping back the thick swathe of dark hair that had invaded his forehead as he studied the pages, ‘just because you are not your sister changes nothing. Marco is still missing. He left with your sister. Therefore, you must have some idea where they are.’

‘No!’ Tess hardly knew what she was saying. ‘I mean—I do know where Ashley is. She’s at her mother’s house in England. Her mother is ill. Ashley is looking after her.’

His expression didn’t alter. ‘And that is why you are here taking her place?’

‘Yes. I’m a schoolteacher. I was on holiday. That’s how I was able to help her out.’

‘You are lying, Miss Daniels. Why are you not caring for your mother? I have just read in your passport that you live in England. So tell me why you are not taking care of your mother in your sister’s place?’

‘She’s not my mother,’ Tess exclaimed hotly. ‘My father married again after my mother died.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Now, I think that answers your question. I’m sorry your son is missing but it’s nothing to do with us.’

‘You are wrong.’ He didn’t accept her explanation but at least he stepped back into the passageway to give her some room. When Tess escaped into the comparative safety of the showroom, he followed her. ‘Whatever you say, Miss Daniels, your sister is not caring for her sick mother,’ he insisted. ‘She and Marco are still in Italy. He does not have his passport with him, capisce?’

Tess pressed nervous hands to her bare midriff, feeling the quivering beat of her heart palpating between her ribs. ‘You said—she’d kidnapped him,’ she reminded him tensely. ‘That’s a ridiculous accusation. If—and it’s a big if—Ashley and your son are together, then surely that’s their affair, not yours?’

‘Non credo. I do not think so.’ He was contemptuous. ‘My son is sixteen years of age, Miss Daniels. He belongs in school, with young people of his own age, not chasing around the country after your sister.’

Tess swallowed convulsively. Sixteen! She couldn’t believe it. Ashley wouldn’t—couldn’t—be involved with a boy of sixteen! The whole idea was laughable. Involved with him, perhaps. That Tess could believe. But not with his teenage son.

Besides, she told herself again, clinging to what she knew and not what he suspected, Ashley was in England. Dammit, she’d spoken to her just a couple of nights ago. That was why Tess was spending part of her Easter break filling in for her. Ashley couldn’t leave the gallery unattended and she’d promised it would only be for a few days.

‘If you’ve not met my sister, how can you be sure that she’s involved?’ she asked unwillingly, realising she couldn’t dismiss his claim out of hand. Ashley might not have been in England when she’d phoned her. She could have used her mobile. How could she be sure?

The man gave her an impatient look now. ‘I may have met her once, but that was some months ago and I have met many people since then. In any case, the person who has been watching her would not make a mistake. I have been out of the country, regrettably, but my assistant contacted your sister just a week ago. She swore then that she would speak to Marco, that she would tell him there was no future in their—association. She is what? Twenty-four? Twenty-five? Much too old for a boy of sixteen.’

Tess pressed her lips together. ‘She’s twenty-eight, actually,’ she said, as if that made any difference, and watched his scowl deepen as he absorbed her words. She didn’t know what to say; she hardly knew what to think. But if it was true, she agreed with him. Could Ashley have told her an outright lie?

She could, she reflected ruefully. And she had to admit that when Ashley had asked her to help her out while she took care of her mother, it had seemed a little out of character. Ashley’s mother, Andrea, had never been a particularly strong woman and since their father had died of a heart attack just over a year ago, she’d suffered from a series of minor complaints. Tess had suspected that that was why Ashley had taken this job in Italy. Looking after a fretful parent who was halfway to being a hypochondriac had never seemed her style.

All the same, this situation was no less incredible. Surely even Ashley would draw the line at getting involved with a boy of sixteen? There was only one way to find out and that was to ring Ashley’s mother. But Tess was loath to do it. If Ashley was there, it would look as if she didn’t trust her.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ she murmured now, her fingers threading anxiously through the wisps of pale blonde hair at her nape. She’d had her hair cut before she came away and she wasn’t totally convinced the gamine style suited her. She’d hoped it would give her some maturity, but she had the feeling it hadn’t succeeded. He was looking at her as if she were no older than one of her own pupils. Oh, Lord, what was she going to do?

‘You could tell me where they are,’ the man declared tersely. ‘I realise you must feel some loyalty towards your sister, but you must also see that this situation cannot be allowed to continue.’

‘I don’t know where they are,’ Tess insisted. ‘Honestly, I don’t.’ And then, realising what she’d said, she added hastily, ‘As far as I know, Ashley’s in England, as I said.’

‘Bene, then you can ring her,’ he said, voicing the thought Tess had had a few minutes before. ‘If she is with her mother, I will offer you my sincerest apologies for troubling you.’

‘And if she’s not?’

Tess looked up at him, unable to disguise her apprehension, and for a moment she thought he was going to relent. But then, with a tightening of his lips, he corrected her. ‘You are confident she will be there,’ he said, and she had the fanciful thought that this man would take no prisoners. She just hoped Ashley had taken that into consideration before she’d taken off with his son.

If she’d taken off with his son, she amended sharply. She only had his word for that. And that of his investigatore—his investigator, she assumed. But she was becoming far too willing to accept what this man said as if it was the truth.

‘If—if she is there, who shall I say is asking for her?’ she inquired abruptly, realising she had been staring at him for far too long. He probably thought she was a flake in her long skirt and combat boots, she reflected ruefully. After all this, it wouldn’t do for him to think that Ashley’s sister might be interested in him.

He hesitated a moment, evidently considering her question. Then, he said briefly, ‘Just tell her it is Castelli. The name will mean something to her, I am sure.’

Tess guessed it would, though what she didn’t dare to speculate. Oh, please, she begged, let Ashley be staying with her mother. Apart from anything else, Tess was going to look such a gullible fool if she wasn’t.

‘All right,’ she declared briskly. ‘I’ll ring her. If you’d like to give me a number where I can reach you, I’ll let you know what she says.’

‘If she says anything,’ murmured Castelli wryly, and then his dark brows drew together. ‘But perhaps you would ring her now, Miss Daniels? I will wait while you make the call.’

Tess caught her breath. He was certainly determined to have his way. But she’d been chivvied long enough. ‘I can’t ring her now,’ she said, not allowing him to intimidate her. ‘I’ll ring her later. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.’

His scepticism was evident. ‘You have?’ He glanced round the gallery. ‘You are not exactly overrun with customers, Miss Daniels.’

Tess stiffened her spine. ‘Look, I’ve said I’ll ring Ashley and I will. Isn’t that enough for you?’ The underlying words were almost audible. But not until you have gone!

His faint smile was sardonic. ‘You are afraid to make the call, Miss Daniels,’ he said impatiently. ‘Be careful, or I shall begin to think you have been lying to me all along.’

Tess’s anger was hot and unexpected. ‘Oh, please,’ she exclaimed fiercely. ‘I don’t have to listen to this. It’s not my fault if your son’s been foolish enough to get involved with an older woman. You’re his father. Don’t you have some responsibility here?’

For a moment, his stillness terrified her. He was like a predator, she thought unsteadily, and she waited in a panic for him to spring. But suddenly his lips twitched into a smile that was blatantly sensual. A look, almost of admiration, crossed his dark face and he appraised her small indignant figure with a rueful gaze.

‘Dio mio,’ he said, and her heart quickened instinctively. ‘The little cat has claws.’

His analogy was startling. It was so close to what she had been thinking about him. Though he was no domesticated feline, she acknowledged urgently. Those strange tawny eyes belonged to a different beast entirely.

And, despite her determination not to let him have his way, she found herself stammering an apology. ‘I’m—I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken as I did. It—it’s nothing to do with me.’

‘No, mi scusi, signorina,’ he said. ‘You are right. This is not your problem. Regrettably, my son has always been a little—what is it you say?—headstrong? I should not have allowed my anger with him to spill over onto you.’

Tess quivered. His eyes were softer now, gentler, a mesmerising deepening of colour that turned them almost opaque. They were locked on hers and the breath seemed to leave her body. Oh, God, she shivered, the impact on her senses leaving her feeling absurdly vulnerable. What was wrong with her? She was behaving as if a man had never looked at her before.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she managed at last, but he wouldn’t let it go.

‘It does matter,’ he said. ‘I am an unfeeling moron, and I should not have called your honesty into question. If you will give me your sister’s number, I will make the call myself.’

Tess stifled a groan. Dear Lord, just as she was beginning to think the worst was over, he sprang this on her. Having reduced her to mush with his eyes, he was now moving in for the kill. He hadn’t given up. He’d only changed his tactics. And she couldn’t be absolutely sure that this hadn’t been his intention all along.

She moved her head in a helpless gesture. How could she give him the number? How could she allow him to speak to Ashley’s mother if Ashley wasn’t there? Andrea would have a fit if he told her that her daughter was missing. And if he added that he suspected she was with his sixteen-year-old son, heaven knew how Ashley’s mother would react.

Concentrating her gaze on the pearl-grey silk knot of his tie, Tess strove for a reason not to give the number to him. But it was hard enough to find excuses for her reaction to a stranger without the added burden of her own guilt. ‘I—don’t think that would be a very good idea,’ she said, wishing desperately that someone else would come into the gallery. But no one did, and she continued unevenly, ‘Ashley’s mother isn’t well. I wouldn’t want to upset her.’

Castelli heaved a sigh. ‘Signorina—’

‘Please: call me Tess.’

He expelled a breath. ‘Tess, then,’ he agreed, though she hardly recognised her name on his tongue. His faint accent gave it a foreign sibilance that was strange and melodic. ‘Why would my call upset her? I have no intention of intimidating anyone.’

But he did, thought Tess grimly, almost without his being aware of it. It was in his genes, an aristocratic arrogance that was dominant in his blood. Who was he? she wondered again. What was his background? And what did his wife think of the situation? Was she as opposed to the liaison as he was?

Of course she must be, Tess told herself severely, averting eyes that had strayed almost irresistibly back to his face. But if Marco was like his father, she could understand Ashley’s attraction. If she had been attracted to his son, she amended. She must not jump to conclusions here.

‘I—Mrs Daniels doesn’t know you,’ she said firmly, answering his question. ‘And—and if by chance Ashley is out and she answers the phone, she’s bound to be concerned.’

‘Why?’ Once again those disturbing eyes invaded her space. ‘Come, Tess, why not be honest? You are afraid that your sister is not at her mother’s house. Am I not correct?’

Tess’s defensive gaze betrayed her. ‘All right,’ she said unwillingly. ‘I admit, there is a possibility—a small possibility—that Ashley isn’t in England, after all. But—’ she put up a hand when he would have interrupted her and continued ‘—that doesn’t mean she’s with—with Marco. With your son.’ The boy’s name came far too easily. ‘She might just have decided she needed a break and, as it’s the Easter holidays, I was available.’

‘You do not believe that,’ he told her softly, running a questing hand down the silken length of his tie. The gesture was unconsciously sensual, though she doubted he was aware of it. Sensuality was part of his persona. Like his lean, intriguing face and the powerful body beneath his sleek Armani suit. ‘I also think you are far too understanding. I hope your sister realises what a loyal little friend she has in you.’

It was the ‘little’ that did it. Tess had spent her life insisting that people not judge her by her size. ‘All right,’ she said again, anger giving her a confidence she hadn’t been able to summon earlier. ‘I’ll phone her. Now. But if she is there—’