The Italians: Angelo, Rocco & Stefano: Wife in the Shadows / A Dangerous Infatuation / The Italian's Blushing Gardener

Worst of all, she’d noticed that one of the gods—probably

Mars—was black haired and dark eyed, his lean muscular body hardly concealed by the lion-skin thrown across one shoulder, and bearing a disturbing resemblance to Angelo Manzini. Or was that simply her over-active imagination?

Whatever, it wasn’t an image she wished to find invading her bedroom all over again, but found to her acute annoyance that it still lingered in her mind, even when she turned over and buried her face in the pillow. Rendering her still more tongue-tied when she encountered the Count in the flesh, as it were, although he was always elegantly covered in some designer suit or other.

Another potent suggestion that the quicker she got out of there and back to sanity, the better it would be for her.

And each night she breathed the silent prayer. ‘Oh please—please—let it be soon.’

Angelo stepped out into the heat of the Roman morning, as the automatic glass doors of the Credito Europa Bank whispered shut behind him. His face was calm as he walked to his car, taking his seat in the back with a murmured acknowledgement to the driver holding the door open for him, but this outward appearance was deceptive.

Because, underneath, he was blazingly, wickedly angry.

‘Does Your Excellency wish to return to the office?’ Mario asked with faint bewilderment as the silence lengthened.

Angelo pulled his thoughts away from the meeting he’d just attended, and met the chauffeur’s enquiring gaze in the driving mirror. He said curtly, ‘No, take me to my apartment.’

If Mario found this a strange request in the middle of a working day, it was not his place to argue. He dropped his employer at the main entrance, was told he would not be required again, then watched with a puzzled frown as Angelo strode inside.

The apartment was cool and silent, Salvatore as usual doing his marketing at that time of day. Which was good because Angelo wanted to be alone.

He walked into the salotto, impatiently stripping off his jacket and tie, and tossing them over a chair. He unbuttoned his waistcoat, tore open the neck of his shirt, then poured himself a large Scotch, swallowed it, and poured another, even larger. He’d come home with the intention of getting blind, roaring drunk and wasting no time about it.

The news—no, the ultimatum—that he’d just received at the bank called for nothing less.

He could still hardly believe it. He thought he’d dealt with the trap that had been set for him at Largossa. Believed that simply going through the motions of courting the girl who’d been used in the snare—this Elena, Silvia’s cousin and so much unlike his former mistress that she might have come from a different planet—would be enough to get him what he wanted, and he could then walk away. And that she would be equally grateful to see the back of him.

Dio mio, he thought. He’d almost felt sorry for her, recognising the reluctance of her co-operation. But no longer.

He walked to the sofa, flinging himself back against the cushions, taking another mouthful of Scotch, eyes narrowed, mouth compressed as he stared into space.

Now, too late, he recalled someone telling him when he was younger that Cesare Damiano had been nicknamed the Crocodile in banking circles.

Today the Prince had more than lived up to his name.

‘My wife cares deeply for her god-daughter, Count, and is naturally concerned for the immense harm to her reputation if there were—consequences resulting from your liaison with her.’

He had sat on the other side of his polished desk, hands together, fingertips forming a kind of steeple, his expression grave as he studied the younger man. ‘I am sure you understand me.’

And I, thought Angelo bitterly, fool that I am, I never saw it coming. Never understood that another trap had been set and was waiting for me. And while, if I’d used an atom of commonsense, I might have avoided the first, there is nothing I can do about the second.

Holy Madonna, I couldn’t tell him there’d be no consequences as I’d simply been tricked into the wrong bed, or I’d have found myself lying on the pavement outside, thrown there by his security staff. And the consequences of that would be truly horrendous.

Therefore if I want his money, I have to bite on the bullet by accepting the eternally damned terms he spelled out to me with such care, and somehow persuade the little Signorina Milk and Water to become my wife. With the assurance that, once the knot is tied, the finance will become immediately available.

He punched the arm of the sofa with his clenched fist.

Dear God, what a prospect, he thought despairingly. To have to marry a girl who looks at me as if she’d come across a snake sleeping in the sunshine. Who shrinks from my lightest touch and answers me in monosyllables from surely the coldest mouth in Rome.

But I know quite well it’s not the Prince pulling the strings. That I have his charming wife, plus my own grandmother, and, of course, Zia Dorotea to thank for this current horror. All they needed was the opportunity I was stupid enough to give them, and my fate was sealed.

I must have been insane to think that an engagement would be enough to satisfy them, he told himself. And perhaps I should have asked myself too if their chosen candidate for the post of my wife was really only the scapegoat she appeared to be.

And, for a brooding moment, found himself remembering a slim body warm against his and soft lips that had briefly trembled beneath his kiss. Very briefly, he thought, because the next moment, she had scratched him like a tigress.

Restively, he finished the whisky in his glass and set it aside. Well if there was no other way to secure the promised loan, and they all wished to transform Elena Blake into the Contessa Manzini, he would oblige them.

But, he decided with icy resolution, she would have the title and the status—nothing more, because she was the last woman in the world he would have chosen for himself, and he had no intention of making her his wife in any real sense.

In fact, he told himself harshly, he would continue to seek his pleasures where he found them, though with rather more discretion in future, and he hoped they would all—the girl Elena included—be satisfied with the result of their machinations.

And as he had the phone number of an enchanting creature he’d met at a reception the previous week, instead of drinking himself into oblivion, he would call her right now and see if she was free for lunch, and whatever else the afternoon might suggest.

Starting, he thought with sudden grimness, as he meant to go on.

At first she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. Didn’t want to believe it, yet found herself listening numbly to what Madrina was saying so gently but with such total finality.

At last, she said, her voice shaking, ‘I didn’t even want to be engaged. You know that. But—marriage—to him! I couldn’t—not possibly. And he—he doesn’t wish it either. I know it.’

The Principessa patted her hand. ‘But after what happened between you, the Count has to make reparation. Surely, you understand this.’

She sounded like the voice of sweet reason, Ellie thought, aghast.

‘Your engagement must now be followed by a wedding,’ her godmother went on. ‘Quite apart from other considerations, our families bear two ancient names, and his own sense of honour as well as ours demands it. Besides it is high time he was married.’

She added with a note of reproof, ‘You cannot have forgotten, dearest child, the exact circumstances under which you were discovered.’

‘No,’ Ellie said bitterly. ‘Or the reason for it.’

The Principessa pursed her lips warningly. ‘Put whatever you imagine out of your mind, Elena. It is of no use to dwell on something that cannot be altered.’ She paused, then went on more briskly. ‘Do not forget that Angelo Manzini is one of Rome’s most eligible bachelors, and many young women would be glad to take your place at his side.’

Ellie wanted to say ‘And they’d be welcome to him,’ but something in the set of Madrina’s mouth warned her against it.

Although that did not mean she was going to meekly submit to this new and frankly terrifying plan for her future. Far from it.

All this family honour stuff is like something left over from the Renaissance, she thought, seething. But I’m not a Damiano, and I have no intention of becoming a Manzini. My name is Blake and I make my own decisions.

So, I wouldn’t have his glamorous Nobility as a husband, even if he came gold-plated and loaded down with sapphires.

He’s well and truly off the hook, and so, thank God, am I.

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_33c81456-e0b5-5921-90f9-0a4c2ae3f9e0)

ON HIS ARRIVAL at the palazzo the following day, Angelo was informed by the butler that the Signorina was in the courtyard, and that it would be his honour to conduct the Count to her side.

So the purpose of his visit was clearly no secret, he thought grimly, as he followed in Massimo’s stately wake, aware that his elegant silk tie seemed to be on the point of strangling him, and realising that, probably for the first time in his adult life, he was nervous about a meeting with a girl.

Although, of course, it was not just any meeting, as he swiftly reminded himself. So much—too much—depended on his ability to persuade her to his way of thinking, his personal reluctance notwithstanding.