At Her Latin Lover's Command: The Italian Count's Command / The French Count's Mistress / At the Spanish Duke's Command

Immediately she felt soothed. Across the tar-black lake, village lights twinkled seductively and danced in the water with their shimmering gold reflections. The garden below was lit with soft-focus lamps, making it seem a magical place. A paradise in which Carlo could grow up.

Her heartbeat slowed. Yes. She could do it. It would take tenacity and grit, but she would slowly and surely establish her position as someone with high moral values and total devotion to the family. That was all that mattered.

Her thoughtful gaze fell on a figure, which had stepped out onto the terrace. Dante, dressed in jeans and a sweater, with the antenna of a baby alarm sticking out of his pocket. Miranda drew back a little, not wishing to be seen, but he didn’t glance back at the house once.

Like her, he studied the view and she saw his high shoulders gradually ease to a more normal level. Head lowered, he began to pace up and down. For a while she watched in some sympathy, then she stumbled back to bed, somewhat consoled that he too had been disturbed, even though his agitation had probably only been caused by unrelieved lust.

And perhaps also, she thought wryly, by the idea of harbouring an alcoholic junkie under his roof!

For a long time she chewed over the situation. Gradually she came to the conclusion that, however ruthless he might be, he was also honest and fair. He’d acknowledged her distress and had realised that it had been a difficult day for her. Hopefully their misunderstandings would be corrected. They must be, if she was to survive his suspicion.

One joy remained to boost her spirits. She smiled tenderly as she snuggled into the pillow. In the morning she would be with Carlo. And for that privilege, she would weather any storms and cope with any hardships.

She had a chance to prove herself. For the three of them to become a real family. And for that result, she would go to hell and back. And, she thought wryly, she probably would.

CHAPTER SEVEN

IT WAS A glorious morning. Some inner alarm woke her early and she hurried to take a shower and dress before Carlo woke. She wanted to be ready when he did.

Feeling very positive and excited and energised by the fabulous day, she pulled on the camisole and skirt of the suit she’d worn the day before, making mental plans to organise the packing of her clothes and effects in London. Her makeup was a hasty affair and she whisked her hair into a casual version of her usual neat chignon, the ends spiking out rather rakishly.

For half an hour she sat, drumming her fingers on the dressing table and making occasional adjustments to her make-up. And then she heard the key turn in the lock of the connecting door.

She leapt up, her heart in her mouth. Nervously she smoothed her skirt. Walked shakily to the door. And opened it.

Only Dante was in the room, dressed in a casual cream shirt and pale honey jeans, both so beautifully cut that they’d probably been made to measure. Miranda thought he could have just stepped off a designer catwalk.

He took one look at her pale, elated face. His mouth tightened and he turned.

‘Carlo!’ he called. ‘Your surprise has arrived!’

Miranda heard a clatter as if a toothbrush had been dropped in a basin. She held her breath, hardly daring to believe that her son was really here. And then, there he was, tinier than she remembered, his hair longer, whiter, his small and much-adored face a picture of amazement.

‘Mummy! Mummy!’ he squealed and, laughing in delight, he ran barefooted to her, his arms outstretched in welcome.

‘My darling!’

Swamped by emotion, she swept him up and hugged him close. Carlo’s warm, plump arms wrapped around her neck and he squeezed so tightly that she almost choked.

‘Oh, sweetheart!’ she whispered, kissing his soft little cheek. ‘Sweetheart!’

‘Finish dressing him. He’ll show you where we have breakfast.’

Her sparkling eyes flicked to Dante. He was walking out of the door and looking grim, his normally fluid body jerky and uncoordinated. Presumably with anger.

But she was too happy to care that he couldn’t deal with Carlo’s love for her. She was back with her son and life was improving by the minute.

‘Why you cryin’, Mummy?’ Carlo demanded.

She beamed at him through a mist of tears.

‘Laughing, not crying,’ she told him softly. ‘Sometimes when you laugh, it makes your eyes water. Shall we get you ready for breakfast? Show me where your things are.’

It was the beginning of a new life, she thought as Carlo slid from her arms and gleefully rushed to find his shoes and socks. She would risk everything to be accepted as Carlo’s mother and Dante’s wife.

She took a deep breath. She wanted their love. And would settle for nothing less.

But how? a little voice queried inside her. And she dismissed it because she could not find the answer.

‘He seems very happy.’

She nodded in acknowledgement of Dante’s comment and watched Carlo excitedly running into the scuola materna. She smiled. It was a lovely name for nursery school.

Carlo turned and waved, his rucksack bouncing on his back. They both waved back at him and grinned at his beam of pure delight before he grabbed a little friend’s hand and ran into the nursery.

At first she’d been upset that Dante had told her Carlo must continue with his routine. She’d wanted to spend the whole day with her son and had fully expected Carlo to refuse when Dante had told him to get his rucksack for nursery.

But a beam had spread across Carlo’s face as if the sun had come out and he’d raced off to collect the bag without a murmur. She’d been torn between disappointment for her own sake and relief that his life was continuing as normal.

‘I thought he might not want to go this morning,’ Dante mused, voicing Miranda’s thoughts as their son disappeared through the double doors of the little school.

‘He seemed a bit anxious the way he clung to me before breakfast,’ she admitted.

‘Yes.’ Dante’s voice grew sombre. ‘I was worried that he might be unsettled for a while.’

‘That’s why I talked about getting my clothes and things sent here from England,’ she explained. ‘Then your suggestion about us all going off to Maggiore for tea and cakes after nursery seemed to set his mind at rest.’

‘Blatant bribery, I’m afraid,’ Dante said with a faint smile.

‘It doesn’t matter. Desperate needs, desperate measures!’ She chuckled. ‘The main thing is that he’s convinced I’m here to stay.’

Dante looked at her thoughtfully. ‘You are, aren’t you?’

She met his wary eyes and wondered if he guessed how she felt when she did so. If he knew the bitter-sweet pangs of love that stabbed at her body over and over again.

‘I will never leave,’ she said quietly, not even attempting to conceal her adoration.

He jerked his head away, his expression tense. ‘I wonder what they’re having for lunch,’ he said in an odd, over-bright tone. And he peered at a notice on the gate. ‘Pasta and tomato sauce, boiled beef and green vegetables, fruit. Very good.’

The mood lightened, and Miranda laughed as they began to walk away. ‘Do they provide a menu every day?’ she asked, impressed.

‘Of course. Lunch is an important social occasion. It’s virtually part of the curriculum.’

‘Curriculum?’ she repeated in amusement.

Dante grinned, and for her it was a huge breakthrough in their tricky relationship that he felt he could unbend a little towards her.

‘Daverro! Indeed! Let me see. This term it’s tastes and smells, opposites and colours. Nothing heavy. Just a general awareness of the differences in life. And they’re emphasising friendship this week, too. Carlo is popular, they tell me,’ he said with the touching pride of a doting father, ‘because of his sunny nature. He loves being with other children—that’s why he settled so well.’