His Reluctant Bride: The Marchese's Love-Child / The Count's Blackmail Bargain / In the Millionaire's Possession

She reddened, still stung by his last comment, but honestly unable to refute it. He hadn’t missed much during his first encounter with her mother, she thought ruefully.

‘No, not yet,’ she said in a subdued voice. ‘I meant to take him to the local baths, but weekends are always so busy.’

‘It’s not a problem,’ he said. He smiled at her for the first time that night without edge, the sudden unforced charm making the breath catch in her throat. ‘I shall enjoy teaching him myself in our own pool.’

She caught her lower lip in her teeth, struggling to regain her equilibrium. Trying to disregard the image his words had presented. ‘Yes—I suppose …’

‘So,’ he said, after a pause, ‘shall we settle this thing now? Will you marry me, and come to Italy with our son?’

‘I don’t seem to have much of a choice,’ she said in a low voice.

Something unreadable came and went in his face. ‘And if you could choose? What then?’

‘I would wish to be as far from you,’ she said passionately, ‘as it’s possible to get.’

His head went back, and his eyes narrowed. ‘Well, do not despair, bella mia,’ he drawled scornfully. ‘My home at Comadora is large, a palazzo, with thick walls, and many rooms. You should be able to avoid me easily.’

‘Thank you,’ she said huskily.

‘Tonight, however, you will not be so fortunate,’ he added.

She stiffened. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I intend to spend the night here.’

She gasped. ‘But—but you can’t …’ She tried not to look at the all too obtrusive sofa bed. ‘There’s no room.’

‘It will be cramped,’ he agreed. He took off his jacket, and began to loosen his tie. ‘But it is only for one night.’

She said in a choked voice, ‘You promised me—you swore this wouldn’t happen. Oh, why did I think I could trust you?’

‘The boot is on the other foot, cara mia.’ He began unhurriedly to unfasten his shirt. ‘I do not trust you. Who knows what you might be tempted to do, if you were left alone?

‘But I have no intention of breaking my word,’ he added. ‘This armchair looks comfortable enough, so I shall use that.’ His smile grazed her skin. ‘And you can have that congegno quite undisturbed. I hope you sleep well.’

He draped his shirt over the back of the chair, sat down and removed his shoes and socks, while Polly watched in growing alarm. But when he stood up, his hands going to the waistband of his trousers, she intervened.

‘Kindly stop right there,’ she said grittily.

‘You have some problem?’

‘Yes.’ Her green eyes were stormy. ‘Of course I do.’

‘Then deal with it.’ He unzipped his trousers, stepped out of them, then placed them, folded, with the rest of his clothes. He was wearing brief silk shorts, and the rest of him was smooth tanned skin. For one burning moment of self-betrayal she found herself remembering the taste of him, and felt her body clench in uncontrollable excitement.

‘Why, Paola, you are blushing,’ he jeered softly. ‘But not even to spare you will I sleep in my clothes. And you were not always such a prude,’ he added drily. He indicated his shorts derisively. ‘These, as you know, are a concession. But if the sight of me is still too much, you could always close your eyes.’ He paused. ‘Have you a towel I can use?’

Dry-mouthed, she muttered acquiescence, and went to the chest of drawers. As she reached for a towel, she uncovered Charlie’s photograph.

‘What is that?’ Sandro came to her side, and took it from the drawer. He studied it for a moment, brows lifted, then turned to her. ‘Is this where you usually keep it?’

‘No,’ she admitted reluctantly.

‘You hid it,’ he asked, incredulously. ‘In case I came here?’

‘Think whatever you wish,’ she flung at him. ‘I don’t give a damn.’

He set the photograph carefully on top of the chest of drawers. ‘And you wonder why I do not trust you,’ he said silkily. He rescued the towel from her nerveless hand and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

For a moment she stood irresolutely, trying to decide what to do. She could hardly go to bed in her robe, without exciting the kind of comment from him she most wished to avoid. And what nightgowns she possessed were far too thin and revealing.

However …

Polly knelt, opening the bottom drawer of the chest, searching with feverish fingers. There were some oddments of winter clothing here, she knew. Among them …

She drew out the pyjamas with a sigh of relief. They were worn out, washed out, and she’d never liked them, but they were good old-fashioned winceyette, and they covered her from her throat down to her feet.

She was just fastening the last button on the mandarin-style jacket when Sandro returned, and stopped dead at the sight of her.

‘Santa Madonna,’ he breathed, with a kind of fascinated horror. ‘No wonder you sleep alone. I think I shall have to choose your trousseau myself, particularly the biancheria intima.’

‘Thank you,’ Polly returned icily. ‘But I prefer to pick my own lingerie. And if you don’t like the way I look, you can close your eyes too,’ she added triumphantly.

‘That is one solution,’ he admitted musingly. ‘But I can think of others that I would enjoy more.’ He saw her blench, and grinned. ‘Calm down, cara mia. I intend to keep my word. But sometimes to cover too much can be a mistake, because it excites the imagination.’ He paused. ‘I suppose a spare blanket is too much to hope for.’

She wanted to scream at him that she hoped he caught galloping pneumonia and died alone in a ditch. Instead she heard herself say unwillingly, ‘Yes, there is one.’

She fetched it from the corner cupboard, pale blue and still in its wrappings. ‘I bought it for Charlie,’ she told him, gruffly. ‘For when he moves into a bed instead of his cot.’

There was a silence. ‘Then I am doubly grateful,’ he said quite gently. ‘Because this is a sacrifice for you. And I will make sure it goes with us to his new home.’

For a moment, there was a note in his voice that made her want to cry. She turned away hurriedly, and got into bed, pulling the covers over her, the metal base creaking its usual protest as she settled herself.

‘Dio,’ Sandro muttered. ‘And that—atrocity will remain here.’

Well, she wasn’t going to argue about that, Polly thought wearily. Aloud, she said, past the constriction in her throat, ‘Will you turn the light off, please? When you’re ready.’

‘I am ready now.’

She lay, eyes tight shut, as he went past her, and the room was plunged into darkness. Waited for him to return to the chair.

Instead, she was aware of him standing beside her. He said quietly, ‘Paola, do you ever wish you could turn back the clock? Wipe out what has been?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Because I know it’s impossible, and I prefer to deal with reality.’

He sighed. ‘Then could we not declare a truce for this one night? Be together for old times’ sake?’

She wanted so badly to yield. To reach up and draw him down to her. She was starving for him, her body quivering with need, aching for him. Reminding her that she’d never shared a room with him before without eventually falling asleep in his arms in the drugged sweetness of sensual exhaustion.