Untamed Italian, Blackmailed Innocent

They had met at primary school, two redheads with unusual names, and had naturally gravitated towards each other as protection against the bullies. Al was the only person who dared to use her given name. She had demanded even her parents must call her Sally after her first year at school, and Algernon had done the same, demanding his parents call him Al. As teenagers they had planned on taking a year off after university to go around the world together, starting with South America—Al for the butterflies, and Sally to see the ruins of Machu Picchu. Her mum’s illness had put an end to Sally’s dream, but she still lived with the faint hope that she would do it one day.

‘So what are you up to?’ she queried, delighted to see him again.

‘Working in the family firm with Dad. We had just finished lunch, and I was following him out when I spotted you. But what about you? Still studying the Ancients?’ he prompted with a grin.

‘Yes.’ She grinned back.

‘I have to dash, but give me your new number. I tried your old with no joy.’ He took his cell phone out of his pocket and entered the number as Sally told him.

Zac Delucca had seen and heard enough. The telephone number was the final straw. For a woman with no man in her life, this guy, if not now, obviously had been. He had never seen Sally so animated—certainly not with him. When he had heard the younger man speak to her, then seen him take her in his arms and kiss her, he had been blinded by a red tide of sheer male jealousy—not an emotion he was familiar with, and it had stunned him for a moment. But not any more…

‘Sally, darling.’ He rose to his feet and crossed to her side. ‘You must introduce me to your friend,’ he demanded, fixing the young man with a gimlet-eyed stare.

Suddenly remembering where she was and who she was with, Sally swiftly made the introduction. She saw Al flinch as Zac shook his hand. The man was demonstrating his superior strength like a rutting bull, she though disgustedly. And where did he get off, calling her darling?

Al, ever the gentleman, responded politely. ‘Pleased to meet you Mr Delucca. A shame our meeting has to be so brief.’ He gave Sally an apologetic glance. ‘Sorry, Sally, I can’t stay and talk. You know Dad, he will be waiting outside. champing at the bit to get back to work. I’m going to a house party this weekend, but I will call you next week and we can have dinner and catch up. What do you say?’

It took a brave man to stand up to Delucca, but Al refused to be intimidated and Sally gave her old friend a gentle smile.

‘Yes, that would be lovely,’ she said, and watched him walk out.

She resumed her seat as the waiter arrived with their coffee, her eyes misty with memories of a happier time. Al had never teased her about the stutter she had developed as a child after the death of her grandmother, who had lived with them. He had been her staunch defender and best friend all through her school years. He had attended every birthday party she had, and been a frequent visitor to her home. And she had spent countless summer days playing around the swimming pool at his home, a magnificent thirties-style Art Deco house situated in Sandbanks, overlooking Poole Harbour.

He had been the first boy to kiss her, and he had been as shy as her. The sex side of things had not progressed much further than a few tentative gropes which had made them giggle, and they’d realised they were more brother and sister than lovers.

They had drifted apart since leaving school. She had gone to university in Exeter, while Al had gone to Oxford to study botany, much against his father’s wishes. They had kept in touch, and met up in the holidays occasionally, but with her mum’s illness, gradually their only contact had become the occasional telephone call or chance meeting, like today.

The last time she had seen him had been when they had bumped into each other in Bournemouth and gone for a drink. Al had been all fired up with the Amazon trip he was about to embark on, and had asked Sally to go with him. She had reluctantly refused, explaining that her mum was in the clear, but that she, Sally, was about to start a great new job in London.

It seemed a lifetime ago now…

‘Very touching.’ A deep, mocking voice cut into her memories. ‘Al is an old friend, I take it? Or should I say lover?’

She looked across at Zac, caught the latent anger in his eyes, and realised that beneath the cool, sophisticated exterior he was not pleased. Well, she was not a happy bunny either. She had not wanted to go to lunch with the man in the first place.

‘Say what you like. It is no business of yours.’

‘It is my business. When I take a lady out to lunch I expect her to behave like a lady, not leap up into another man’s arms—a man who yells her name, Sally!—and when he demands “Sal my kiss” proceeds to kiss him.’

Sally was puzzled for a moment, then her blue eyes widened in understanding. Her lips twitched and, unable to help herself, she burst out laughing. Of all the nicknames she had been called at school—salami, or simply sausage being the favourites—no one had ever put that interpretation on her birth name.

‘I’m glad you found it amusing because I didn’t.’ His accent had thickened and the anger in the black eyes that blazed into hers was all too real.

If that was what he had thought, in a way she could see his point, and she decided to tell him the truth.

‘You were mistaken. Al did not ask me for a kiss.’ She grinned. ‘My first name is not Sally but Salmacis.’ She gave him the proper pronunciation, a syllable at a time. ‘Sal-ma-sis.’ And saw disbelief, puzzlement and finally curiosity in his dark eyes.

Zac didn’t know whether to believe her. Salmacis was not a name he had ever heard in any language, and he knew half a dozen. If it was an excuse it was a hell of a good one. Yet she looked sincere, and English was not his first language, he could have been mistaken.

‘Salmacis.’ He rolled the name off his tongue and rather liked it. ‘What kind of name is that?’

‘It is Greek. When my mum was pregnant with me she spent the last four months of her pregnancy on bedrest. She got hooked on reading Greek mythology.’

Then Sally told him the legend. ‘Apparently Salmacis was the nymph of a fountain near Halicarnassus in Asia Minor. She became one with the youth Hermaphroditos. And before you ask, no, I am not a hermaphrodite—but I believe that is the origin of the word.’

‘It never entered my head.’ Zac chuckled. ‘What possessed your mother to give you such a peculiar though rather lovely name?’ he demanded, still smiling broadly. ‘You have to admit it is extremely unusual.’

For a moment Sally was stunned, her heart racing out of control as she met his enquiring gaze. His dark eyes danced with golden lights, his hard face was transformed into a softer, younger version by the brilliance of his smile, and she could not help smiling back at him.

‘I think it was the last fable she read before going into labour, and unfortunately for me it stuck in her mind,’ she said wryly.

‘No, not unfortunate. You are far too exotic—no, that isn’t the word.’ Zac shook his dark head, searching his brain for the English equivalent of what he wanted to say. ‘Your beauty is too unique. No—too mystical for a Sally,’ he declared with satisfaction. ‘Salmacis suits you much better.’ He saw the humour in her expressive eyes. How had he ever thought they were cold?

‘I much prefer Sally—in fact, I insist on it. So be warned—call me Salmacis and I will ignore you.’

‘Okay—Sally,’ he conceded, and added, ‘But I am a little surprised she persuaded your father to agree to such an unusual name. Accountants are not known for their flights of fancy.’

The sparkle vanished from her eyes like a light being switched off, to be replaced with a familiar blank look.

‘She didn’t have to. My dad married Mum because he got her pregnant when she was eighteen and he was thirty-five,’ Sally told Zac. It was the truth. Exhaustion from her hectic work schedule and from worrying about her mother overtook her, and she could not be bothered to dissemble.

‘Apparently, he was so upset when the doctor told him she would not have any more children, no future son, he didn’t much care what name I was given.’

Appalled by Sally’s matter-of-fact revelation, Zac realised her father’s attitude must have hurt her. To actually let the child know how he’d felt was a disgraceful thing to do. But then Nigel Paxton was almost certainly a thief and an unfaithful husband: sensitivity was obviously not his strong point.

‘I think we should leave now.’ Her voice intruded on his thoughts. ‘We are the only couple left.’

Zac had not noticed, but glancing around the room he saw she was right.

When was the last time a woman had held his attention to the exclusion of everything else around him? he asked himself. Never. The realisation shocked him rigid. In that moment he determined there was no way he was going to let it happen again. Sally was as dangerous as she was beautiful, and she was not for him…

‘Finish your coffee and we will go,’ he agreed, and beckoned the ma?tre d’. He handed him a credit card and a bundle of notes for a tip, and after draining his coffee cup stood up.

The meal had turned out okay, despite its difficult start, and he had learnt a lot about Salmacis—too much, he thought wryly. From what he had overheard earlier, Sally obviously knew about her father’s infidelity and resented the fact he had more time for a girlfriend than he had for her. Hence turning up at the office today and demanding her father lunch with her.

Money obviously was not enough for the lovely Salmacis; she was the type who craved attention from the men in her life. Given the reaction of her father to her name, he could understand why she behaved the way she did. But clinging, needy women did not appeal to him, he rationalised, confirming his decision not to see her again.

He glanced down at her. She looked fragile and, act or not, he couldn’t prevent himself from slipping an arm around her waist as he led her out of the restaurant. She made no attempt to pull away, another first, but leant against him as they walked to where the limo was parked a few yards away.

He let the chauffeur help her inside.

She was magic to hold, he thought ruefully as he slipped into the back seat beside her, but every male instinct he possessed told him this was one woman he was going to pass on—for his own preservation.

‘Where would you like us to drop you off?’ he asked. ‘Bond Street? Harrods?’ he suggested, with an edge of cynicism in his tone.

‘Harrods is fine.’

He’d thought as much. A bit of retail therapy was all any woman needed to keep her happy.