Mills & Boon Stars Collection: Ruthless Demands: The Sicilian’s Stolen Son / The Greek Demands His Heir / The Greek Commands His Mistress

‘Do you own the whole island?’ she whispered, unable to contain her curiosity.

‘Yes,’ he admitted in the sort of tone that implied that it was not a very big deal to own your own island, and in Jemima’s mind the gulf between them stretched even wider.

Luciano introduced the older woman as his housekeeper, Agnese, and the younger as her daughter and Nicky’s new nanny, Carlotta. He settled the baby into Carlotta’s arms and addressed her in Italian. Jemima reminded herself doggedly of her agreement to step back from Nicky as he was borne off screaming, presumably to be fed and put to bed. As Carlotta mounted the stairs Jemima could hear her talking softly and soothingly to the distressed baby and her concern eased a little.

‘Agnese will show you to your room,’ Luciano announced.

Agnese’s small creased face was as frozen as an ice sculpture. Telling herself that that was still preferable to a dirty look, Jemima followed the older woman upstairs and down a tiled passageway with ancient stone walls. Double doors were flung wide and light flooded across the most amazing bedroom Jemima had ever seen. Tall windows cast sunshine over the sumptuously hung four-poster bed. Gorgeous furniture vied with opulent fabric and a glorious floral arrangement to take her attention. Taken aback as she realised that the palatial room was for her use, Jemima hovered by the little table bearing the magnificent flowers and watched wide-eyed as an actual maid in a uniform appeared through one of the several additional doors to smile and stand back as though waiting to usher Jemima into the room she had vacated.

The housekeeper indicated with her hand that Jemima should take the invitation and Jemima obediently walked into a very large dressing room lined with built-in furniture. And that was when the show began. The maid began opening doors and rifling through hangers packed with garments to display them. Racks of shoes, drawers filled with silky lingerie and a dressing-table unit packed with cosmetics below a mirror surrounded by special lighting were duly shown off. Jemima’s jaw dropped while she attempted to work out what all these items could possibly have to do with her. The maid passed her a tiny gift envelope and she slid out the card.

With my compliments, Luciano.

Jemima blinked and looked again, fingers tightening round the card as it slowly sank in on her that she had not been measured up for a nanny uniform as she had assumed but for a new wardrobe. She broke out in perspiration, her jeans uncomfortably warm. Luciano had given her a vast new wardrobe and as she flipped with anxious hands through the nearest selection she realised that it was all designer stuff, filled with famous fashion labels that even she, who didn’t follow fashion, had heard of. She was gobsmacked, so gobsmacked that when the maid and the housekeeper departed she simply sank down on the boudoir chair by the dresser and stared back at her own unadorned face. Her face looked weird in the fancy lights, oddly bare and shocked, and she breathed in deep and stumbled upright to peel off her jeans before she could expire from heat exhaustion. In the bedroom she opened the suitcase she had travelled with and yanked out a cool cotton skirt to step into it.

But she still couldn’t think straight. Indeed all she could think about was the contents of the dressing room. What on earth had she done to give Luciano the impression that such an extravagant gesture would be welcome? Her tummy gave a nauseous flip and she shut her eyes tight, hot colour burning her cheeks. Oh, yes, she knew what she had done. She hadn’t said no when she should’ve. She hadn’t said yes either, she reflected numbly. She had simply let him do what he wished. And evidently that had been sufficient to encourage Luciano to go out and spend thousands and thousands and thousands of pounds to enable her to dress like a queen. Hands cool now with shock, she pressed them to her hot cheeks and groaned out loud. My goodness, what was she going to do?

She was supposed to be Julie and Julie would have been ecstatic. Julie had adored clothes and everything her sister wore had carried a logo. Jemima blinked and wandered back into the dressing room. She trailed an uncertain hand across the soft smooth briefs still visible in an open drawer and sighed heavily. The clothing had been tailored to her exact height and size, but how could she wear it? How could she possibly say thank you and just wear it?

Neither a borrower nor a lender be and being wary of unexpected gifts was how Jemima had been raised. She also knew that old adage about being true to oneself. And accepting such largesse when she had done nothing to deserve it ran contrary to her principles. She swallowed back a heartfelt groan while she surveyed the racks of shoes. If Jemima had a weakness, it was for shoes and she swore her toes tingled like a water diviner’s when she saw the cross-strapped green high heels studded with tiny twinkly stones. They called out to her feet and, kicking off her serviceable pumps, she slid her yearning toes into those tempting shoes. Yes, this was the way to be gracious, the only way not to throw all of Luciano’s generosity back in his teeth; she would accept one small item to show gratitude. Having bolstered herself with that argument, Jemima tottered downstairs in her wholly inappropriate footwear.

Agnese was waiting for her like a little old witch in the hall.

‘I’m looking for Luciano,’ Jemima announced with a pleasant smile.

Agnese was eying the frivolous shoes with rampant censure. ‘Il Capo is in the library.’

Il capo meant ‘the boss’, Jemima translated, having watched enough Godfather movies to recognise the lingo. Walking with precise but wobbling care in the direction of Agnese’s pointing hand, Jemima wondered if the new wardrobe had given Agnese the wrong idea about the precise nature of Jemima’s relationship with Luciano, and then she scolded herself for wondering, reckoning she had more to worry about than the suspicion that the staff had disliked her on sight.

* * *

Luciano had had four drinks in succession while he waited for Charles to call. His father had been a drinker and it was very rare for Luciano to drink to excess but his impatience to know the finer details of the scam was literally eating him alive. He couldn’t wait to confront Jemima but he would not do it until he knew everything there was to know about her. He was so angry with her, so bemused by the strange conflict tearing at him. He was in turmoil and he didn’t know why, which simply added another layer of hostile frustration to his mood.

Frowning at the sound of the knock on the library door, Luciano strode across the room to drag it open and discover who had dared to disturb him when he had requested peace. When he focused on Jemima’s glowing, eagerly smiling face, he found himself taking a step back because he was initially surprised to see that she was happy. But then she didn’t know yet that he knew. Of course she was happy, he ruminated bitterly, rage arrowing through him afresh. What else would she be but happy when he’d put her in a bedroom next door to his and given her a fortune in designer clothing? She was a gold-digger; naturally she was happy with her rewards. By bringing in Carlotta, he had even released Jemima from the burden of constant childcare and very probably she was even happier about the prospect of greater freedom as well...

‘Luciano...’ she said softly and then her eyes flew off him to dart round the book-filled shelves. ‘Oh, my, what a wonderful room! You are so lucky to have so much space for books,’ she remarked chirpily.

‘Is there a reason for your visit?’ Luciano enquired forbiddingly, his attention clinging to her when she lurched a little on her path towards his desk at the centre of the room. His gaze skated down over her back view, lingering with pleasure on the ripe, rounded curve of her bottom shaped by the stretchy, clinging texture of the skirt she wore. His attention was then unwillingly caught by the colourful, glittery and ridiculously high-heeled shoes she wore below the skirt. For some reason she had teamed incongruous party shoes with her drab outfit and she could hardly walk in them, he registered in surprise as she clutched the side of his desk to steady herself.

Jemima studied Luciano and any hint of clear thought wilfully evaded her. No male that extraordinarily gorgeous could possibly encourage rational reflection in a woman, she conceded ruefully. He looked so tense and angry. His cheekbones were starkly defined, the line of his strong jaw rock hard. Yes, something had definitely gone wrong in his life. She was knocked sideways by the sudden realisation that just as Nicky’s bad moods made her want to fix things for him, Luciano provoked the same need in her, only she didn’t for one moment think that a cuddle and a soothing bottle would provide a magic cure for whatever ailed him.

Yet she still could not resist the temptation to offer. ‘Can I help with whatever’s wrong?’

‘Why the hell would you think there’s something wrong?’ Luciano demanded harshly, hugely disconcerted by the question when in his experience other people couldn’t read him at all well.

‘Because there so obviously is,’ Jemima pointed out, wishing he didn’t have such stunning eyes. So dark and lustrous and sexy and absolute killers when fringed by black curling lashes into the bargain.

Unsettled by that assurance, Luciano gritted his teeth.

‘You’re so cross,’ Jemima pointed out gently.

‘I am not cross,’ Luciano growled.

‘I’ll just mind my own business, then,’ Jemima muttered, caving into the tension sparking like lightning rods through the atmosphere.

‘Perhaps that would be best,’ Luciano riposted very drily.

Her face flamed and she roamed restively over to the tall windows that overlooked flower beds surrounded by low box hedges and an ancient mossy fountain. ‘I came down to speak to you about the new clothes you bought for me.’ In emphasis she lifted a foot to show off the shoe she wore and very nearly fell over. All dignity abandoned, she grabbed at the back of an armchair to stay upright and hastily put that foot back on the floor. ‘Er...these shoes are gorgeous... In fact it’s all gorgeous, but with the possible exception of these shoes I can’t possibly accept an entire wardrobe.’

‘Why not?’ Luciano shot back at her, startling her with that blunt comeback. ‘And turn round and face me when you’re speaking to me.’

With great reluctance and carefully slow movements, Jemima turned and straight away registered why she preferred talking to him without looking at him. Face on he was too much of a distraction. She lowered her lashes, blocking him out to some extent, her soft mouth unusually taut with nerves. ‘Well, I’m very grateful for your generosity but I don’t believe in accepting expensive gifts from people—’

‘I’m not people!’ Luciano cut in with ruthless bite. ‘And I would hazard a guess that you have often accepted such gifts from men—’

‘Yes...er...but that doesn’t mean it was right. Having done it before, I don’t have to keep on doing it,’ Jemima pointed out, gathering steam in her argument. ‘Maybe I think it’s time for me to change my ways?’

‘Maybe there are two blue moons in the sky,’ Luciano incised with ringing derision.

‘Being with Nicky has changed me,’ Jemima argued, setting off on another tack. ‘It’s made me appreciate what’s really important in life.’

‘Within hours of his birth you had already decided what was really important to you...more money,’ Luciano reminded her cruelly.

Jemima lifted her chin. ‘But that doesn’t mean I can’t develop a different outlook. And I have changed. If you must know, I’m trying to turn over a new leaf.’

His dark eyes glittering like polished jet, Luciano vented a laugh of unholy amusement. ‘I assume that’s your idea of a joke...’

‘No, it’s not actually,’ Jemima told him tightly, thinking sadly of the number of times her late twin had spoken of that same ambition to her. ‘Everybody has to start somewhere when they make changes. I mean, why would you give me all those clothes anyway, for goodness’ sake?’

‘You’re not that naïve.’

Her colour heightened. ‘So, obviously it was a gift made with certain expectations, and if I’m not prepared to meet those expectations, I can’t possibly accept it.’

‘Of course you’re prepared to meet my expectations.’ Luciano surveyed her with galling assurance, smouldering dark golden eyes roaming over her with a potent sexuality that made her tremble. Her nipples prickled below her clothing and a tiny burst of heat ignited in her pelvis, starting up a nagging throb of awareness.

‘I’m only here for a few weeks of summer for your son’s benefit,’ Jemima reminded him stubbornly. ‘His benefit, not yours.’

Luciano said a rude word in English that made her flinch.

‘I’m trying to be reasonable and honest here to avoid misunderstandings,’ she told him in growing frustration.

Luciano stalked closer, silent and graceful as a night-time predator, and said an even ruder word in dismissal of that statement. What did such a woman know about honesty? What had she ever known?

He was so close now that Jemima could have reached out and touched him. Her heart was thudding out a staccato beat of apprehension and her breathing had ruptured into winded audible snatches.

She stiffened her spine and tilted her head to one side. ‘I don’t like your language.’

‘I don’t like what you’re saying. I get very irritated when those around me talk nonsense or tell lies,’ Luciano told her grittily, his Italian accent liquefying every vowel sound. ‘You’re trying to say that you don’t want me and that is a huge lie!’