The Count's Blackmail Bargain

She saw with interest that, in here, some restoration work had been done to the frescoed walls, and wandered round, taking a closer, fascinated look and speculating on their age. There were various hunting scenes, and, more peacefully, an outdoor feast with music and dancing, and the style of dress suggested the sixteenth century.

At the far end of the room, large floor-length windows stood open, leading out to a terrace from which a flight of steps descended, leading down to further gardens below.

Once again, furniture in the salotto had been kept to a minimum—a few massive sofas, their dimensions reduced by the proportions of the room, and a long, heavily carved sideboard were the main features. Also, more unusually, a grand piano.

It was open and, intrigued, Laura crossed to it and sat down on the stool, running her fingers gently over the keys, listening to its lovely, mellow sound.

She gave a small sigh. So many sad things had followed her father’s death, and the loss of her own much-loved piano was only one of them.

She tried a quiet chord or two, then, emboldened by the fact that she was still alone, launched herself into a modern lullaby that she had once studied as an exam piece.

Perhaps because it had always been a favourite of hers, she got through it without too much faltering, and sighed again as she played the final plangent notes, lost in her own nostalgic world.

She started violently as the music died to be replaced with the sound of someone clapping. She turned swiftly and apprehensively towards the doorway.

‘Bravo,’ said the Count Ramontella, and walked slowly across the room towards her.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘OH CHRISTMAS,’ Laura muttered under her breath, aware that she was blushing. ‘I’m so sorry, signore. I didn’t realise…’ She swallowed. ‘I had no right—no right at all…’

‘Nonsenso. That was charming.’ He came to lean against the corner of the piano, the dark eyes watching her coolly. He was totally transformed, she thought, having shaved, and combed his hair neatly back from his face. And he was wearing slim-fitting black trousers, which emphasised his long legs, offset by a snowy shirt, open at the throat, and topped by a crimson brocaded waistcoat, which he had chosen to leave unbuttoned.

He looked, Laura thought, swallowing again, casually magnificent.

‘At last my decision to keep it in tune is justified,’ he went on. ‘It has not been played, I believe, since my mother died.’

‘Oh, God, that makes everything worse.’ She shook her head wretchedly. ‘I must apologise again. This was—is—such an unforgivable intrusion.’

‘But I do not agree,’ he said. ‘I think it delightful. Won’t you play something else?’

‘Oh, no.’ She got up hastily, her embarrassment increasing, and was halted, the hem of her dress snagged on the protruding corner of the piano stool. ‘Damn,’ she added, jerking at the fabric, trying to release herself.

‘Sta’ quieto,’ the Count commanded. ‘Keep still, or you will tear it.’ He dropped gracefully to one knee beside her, and deftly set her free.

She looked down at the floor. ‘Thank you.’

‘It is nothing.’ He rose to his feet, glancing around him. ‘What have you done with Paolo?’

‘I—I haven’t seen him since we arrived.’

‘Davvero?’ His brows lifted. ‘I hope he is not neglecting you.’ He sent her a faint smile. ‘If so, you may be glad of the piano to provide you with entertainment.’

‘Oh, no,’ she said quickly. ‘He isn’t neglectful. Not at all.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps his mother wanted to talk to him.’

‘If so, I think her revolting little dog would have told us all.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Tell me, did you enjoy your afternoon tea?’

Her eyes flew to his dark face. ‘You—really arranged that? That was very kind.’

He shrugged. ‘We tend to have the evening meal later than you are used to in England. I did not wish you to faint with hunger.’ He smiled at her pleasantly. ‘You will soon become accustomed to Italian time.’

‘I’ll certainly try,’ she said. ‘But you can’t make many adjustments in two weeks.’

His smile widened slightly. ‘On the contrary, I think a great deal can change very quickly.’ He walked over to the sideboard. ‘May I get you a drink? I intend to have a whisky.’

‘I’m fine—really.’ She wasn’t. Her throat felt as dry as a bone, and had done ever since she’d seen him standing there.

‘There is orange juice,’ he went on as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Have you tried it with campari?’

‘Well—no.’

‘Then do so now.’ He mixed the drink, and brought it to her. Touched his glass to hers. ‘Salute.’

‘Grazie,’ Laura said rather stiffly.

‘Prego.’ This time his smile was a grin. ‘Tell me, signorina, are you always this tense?’

She sipped her drink, liking the way the sweetness of the juice blended with the bitterness of the campari. She said, haltingly, ‘Not always, but this is a difficult situation for me.’ She took a breath. ‘You must be wondering, signore, what I’m doing here.’

‘You came with my cousin,’ he said. ‘It is no secret.’

She took a deep breath. ‘So, you must also know that his mother is not pleased about my presence.’

He drank some whisky, his eyes hooded. ‘I do not concern myself in my aunt’s affairs, signorina.’ He paused, and she saw that slight curl of the mouth again. ‘At least, not unless they are forced upon my notice.’

She said rather forlornly, ‘Just as I have been—haven’t I?’

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But, believe me, signorina, now that we have met, I expect nothing but pleasure from your visit.’ Before she could prevent him, he took her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing it lightly and swiftly.

The dark gaze glinted at her as he released her. ‘Would it help you relax if we were a little less formal with each other? My name is Alessio, and I know that yours is Laura.’

She was aware that the colour had stormed back into her face. She said a little breathlessly, ‘I think your aunt might object.’

His tone was silky. ‘Then let us agree to leave her to her own devices, sì?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If you’re quite sure.’

‘I am certain.’ He paused. ‘Shall we take our drinks onto the terrace? It is pleasant there in the evenings.’

Laura followed reluctantly. She hadn’t bargained for this, she thought uneasily. She’d expected Paolo to be hovering constantly, acting as a barrier between her and his family.

There was a table on the terrace, and comfortable cushioned chairs. Alessio held one for her courteously, then took the adjoining seat. There was a silence, and Laura took a nervous sip of her drink.

‘You and Paolo aren’t very alike—for cousins,’ she ventured at last.

‘No,’ Alessio said, contemplating his whisky. ‘There is very little resemblance between us. Physically, I believe he favours his late father.’

‘I see.’ She hesitated, then said in a small wooden voice, ‘His mother, the Signora, is a very—striking woman.’