The Italian's Bride

Even when Lucenzo loomed over her, his strong, lean face tight with displeasure, his dark eyes brilliant and incisive, she couldn’t wipe the beam of happiness from her face.

‘Get in,’ he ordered coldly, indicating the rear of the opulent car, taking the cot from her unresisting hands. Sucking in a shallow breath, he lifted the warm, shawl-wrapped bundle in careful hands and strapped the sleeping child in the car-seat.

At eight weeks Vittorio’s son had lost that crumpled new look; now he looked smooth and adorable, his shock of raven-dark hair proclaiming his heritage.

His heart lurched unexpectedly. Vittorio’s child.

If his half-brother had been a faithful, responsible husband then this baby would have been Lorna’s, and he would have welcomed the new generation of his family with pride and joy. As it was…

Sliding along the leather upholstery, Portia watched those long, elegantly boned fingers deal with the complicated-looking arrangement of straps. Then her eyes lifted to his face, intent on what he was doing. His incredibly thick and dark lashes cast pools of shadow against the olive-toned skin of his high, arrogant cheekbones and his mouth, passionate and sensual, was tight with concentration. He really was utterly gorgeous, she thought as a weird inner quiver made her mouth run dry. Something about the hard sweep of his wide shoulders encased in the finest tailoring made her think of male protectiveness as well as the domination she instinctively expected from him.

As he finished his task his dark eyes lifted to meet her fascinated gaze, and something strange shivered down her spine and curled wickedly in the pit of her stomach. Her softly curved mouth fell open as she struggled for breath, her eyes widening helplessly as she tried to come to terms with the unthinkable. She was being turned on by an arrogant pig who thought she was a cheap slag, not fit to be seen around his exalted family!

Huge eyes that had turned to shimmering liquid silver watched with mindless fixity as his dark gaze assimilated the hot colour she felt flood her face, the way her breath came in tiny anguished spurts, making her breasts lift and peak provocatively. Watched that long, beautiful mouth curl cynically down at one corner before he moved away, closing the car door with a decisive clunk and turning to speak to her parents.

Hardly knowing which was worse, her embarrassment or her humiliation, Portia knotted her hands together and stared rigidly ahead. She was unaware that they were actually moving, that she hadn’t properly said farewell to her parents, until she registered that Lucenzo Verdi had taken the driver’s seat, with the uniformed chauffeur sitting stiffly at his side.

Squashing her juvenile impulse to shriek, Stop this car! she turned her attention to her sleeping baby, rearranging the folds of his shawl to steady herself, to wipe away the memory of how she’d felt when Lucenzo’s dark eyes had clashed with hers.

She soon became absorbed in little Sam as his rosebud mouth curved in a windy smile. He was so perfect, from the top of his downy head to his tiny, tiny toenails! They were together, that was the most important thing, embarking on an adventure. And she, as his doting mother, would ensure that nothing happened to separate them. Ever!

At least the biggest fly in the ointment would take himself off to find more congenial company just as soon as he had delivered them to Sam’s Italian grandfather. She couldn’t wait!

Lifting her head, she met his glance in the rearview mirror and quickly looked away, her face going pink as she felt the thunder of blood at her pulse-points. She didn’t know what was happening here, but whatever it was she didn’t like it. She couldn’t be sexually aware of him—attracted—she couldn’t!

She stared fixedly out of the window at her side. The way a person looked had never cut much ice with her; it was what was inside that mattered. In fact, she had never really thought about Vito’s pretty-boy good-looks, having been more impressed by what she had been conned into believing was his determination to make good.

She sighed mournfully. And to cap it all the English early summer was living up to its not always deserved reputation. Raindrops were sliding down the glass like teardrops…

Lucenzo activated the windscreen wipers, concentrating on the airport approach. She was still smiling, he thought grittily. She had hardly stopped since she’d approached the car, safe in the knowledge that her dreams of getting her hands on as much as she could wrest from the bulging coffers of the Verdi family were about to become reality.

Except for that time when he’d glanced up from securing Vittorio’s baby in the car-seat and found her watching him with what he had only been able to interpret as blatant sexual invitation.

Was that the way she’d looked at Vittorio? A pink flush on her cheeks, her eyes eating him up, her soft lips parted, her breath coming in rapid little pants? Was that how it had happened—just one look? His half-brother wouldn’t have turned down such an offer.

Two hours later the private jet was airborne. Lucenzo, his long legs stretched out in front of him, extracted a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and tried to concentrate, to shut out the presence of the female at his side.

But that was proving difficult while she was playing with the baby who was gurgling back at her. And today she looked different from when he’d first seen her six weeks ago. Not so bunchy-looking now, in clean but well-worn jeans and a plain white T-shirt, her hair shining with health and caught into her nape with a scarlet ribbon.

Better, but in his jaded experience still not the type the unfaithful Vittorio had been constitutionally unable to resist—he had liked glitz and glamour, trophy women. But something had drawn him to this one. Perhaps, he thought as the flight attendant approached with a feeding bottle, perhaps it was the smile.

It was radiant as she took the bottle, lighting up her otherwise unremarkable face, and her voice was soft and lilting as she answered the attendant’s, ‘I hope it’s not too hot?’

‘It’s just right—and thank you so much. It’s very kind of you!’

Butter wouldn’t melt, Lucenzo thought sourly, trying to blot out the sound of the two women admiring his half-brother’s baby. The child looked contented and well cared for, and as far as he could tell she appeared to be a good mother. But then, he reminded himself cynically as his eyes were reluctantly drawn to the gentle hand that caressed the baby’s soft cheek as he hungrily suckled, Vittorio’s son was her trump card, her passport to the Verdi wealth. No wonder she treated him as though he were the most precious thing on earth.

Sighing irritably, he rustled his papers and answered the flight attendant’s offer of coffee with a terse negative.

As the other girl moved away Portia decided she had to do something about this tense state of affairs. She didn’t mind for herself, but the spiky atmosphere couldn’t be good for little Sam. Hadn’t she read somewhere that even tiny babies could pick up vibes and be affected by them?

‘I’ve never flown before,’ she confided, to start the conversational ball rolling, casting him a wary smile. This not-speaking business was ridiculous. He’d made his dislike of her obvious, but surely they could be polite to each other? The only words he’d said to her had been icy orders, telling her where to go and what to do.

She lifted Sam and laid him against her shoulder, gently rubbing his back. She’d pretend the disapproving Lucenzo Verdi was an ordinary human being, just another fellow traveller. She’d always enjoyed talking to people.

From where she was sitting that wasn’t going to be too easy. The expression on his austerely handsome profile would have done a hanging judge proud. Even so, she launched out cheerfully, ‘When I was growing up my parents took me for improving holidays. Museums, art galleries, sites of historical interest—they didn’t believe in lying in the sun on Mediterranean beaches. Then, when I was earning for myself and they’d thrown in the towel when it came to improving me, I didn’t take holidays. I just saved all I could for—’

Her cheeks going fiery red, Portia stopped herself just in time. She’d been babbling. Her mother always said she never thought before she opened her mouth. It really wouldn’t do to tell him she’d been saving for what she had always dreamed of: a wedding, a home of her own and children. That after she’d met and fallen in love with Vito she’d redoubled her efforts, believing him when he’d said they’d marry as soon as it was financially possible.

Lucenzo probably missed his brother dreadfully, still mourned his untimely death, she thought compassionately. She was not going to rub in the fact that Vito had been a liar and a cheat. She wasn’t into hurting people, even if they were patronising beasts.

He didn’t seem to notice that her torrent had broken off mid-sentence; he appeared to be intent on what he was reading. But his eyes weren’t moving. Those fabulous lashes were making inky shadows against the harshly beautiful line of his cheekbones.

Asleep? No way. She’d never seen a pair of shoulders look less relaxed.

Pointedly ignoring her? Most certainly. Her soft mouth twitched. It wouldn’t do the wretched man any harm to unbend a little. ‘I think he’s just about to drop off,’ she imparted chirpily, meaning Sam, who was lying in her arms, his little arms stretched above his head, his eyelids drooping.

No response. But Portia wasn’t ready to give up yet. Surely he didn’t intend to spend the whole of the flight in this forbidding silence? There were things she wanted to know about the family she was about to meet, the place she was expected to inhabit for goodness only knew how long—a week, a month, a year?

This darkly handsome, coldly unresponsive persona surely wasn’t all there was to this man. Someone, somewhere, must see the other, more human side?

‘Are you married, Lucenzo? Do you have a family?’ she asked impulsively.

People he loved, who loved him back? Children he played with who knew how he looked when he threw back his head and laughed at their antics? A wife who saw melting adoration in those dark, hostile eyes, who knew every inch of that lithe and powerful body…?

Portia swallowed painfully, the now all-too familiar frisson of intense excitement taking her breath away, accelerating her heartbeat. She shouldn’t be thinking that way, picturing him naked, with desire softening his mouth, heating his eyes. Imagining what it would be like to be held in his arms…

She’d never indulged in erotic fantasies, not ever, she thought with growing alarm. The inclination simply hadn’t been there, not even with Vito. Or the couple of boyfriends she’d had before him. Their interest in her had fizzled out rapidly after they’d met her parents and come up against the brick wall of their restrictions.

Her mother had warned her. ‘Always remember, most men are only after one thing. It takes brains and looks to attract the honourable attentions of a man of the right calibre.’ And she had neither brains nor looks. That had been the implication.

Confused and miserable, Portia glared at the fluffy blanket of clouds which was all she could see out of the window, wishing she was anywhere in the world but here.

Sliding the papers back into his briefcase, Lucenzo glanced at her. So she wanted to talk, did she? A nice chatty little dialogue to while away the time? She was too self-absorbed and thick-skinned to take on board the fact that the last thing he wanted was idle conversation with a husband-stealer who was the next best thing to a blackmailer.

So he’d talk, and she’d only have herself to blame if she didn’t like what he had to say.

Ignoring her question about his marital status, because she, of all people, had no damned right to pry into that painful part of his life—any part of his life, if it came to that—he drawled silkily, ‘Your parents seemed glad to be rid of you. No fond farewells, no promises to phone or write. I wonder why?’

He could well imagine, he thought drily as he watched what had to be guilty colour steal over her face. She’d probably been trouble since the day she was born. Feckless, irresponsible, with an eye for the main chance.

Mindful of the bad atmosphere that could affect her baby, Portia swallowed an angry retort. Besides, if she’d viewed their parting from where he’d been standing she might have jumped to that conclusion.

Always ready to extend the benefit of the doubt, she turned to face him, explaining softly and earnestly, ‘You mustn’t think badly of them—’

‘I assure you, it is not them I’m condemning,’ he interjected sardonically.

Only her, Portia recognised on a muted sigh. Par for the course. Nevertheless, she didn’t want to leave him with the impression that her parents didn’t care about her, because they did.