The Italian's Bride
Diana Hamilton
Knowing that the powerful Verdi family can easily take her baby son away if they wish, Portia Makepeace has no choice but to go with Lucenzo Verdi to his home in Italy. He obviously thinks she is a gold digger, but to her horror Portia finds herself falling in love with him! So when he offers to make her his bride does he believe in Portia's innocence, or are there other motives behind his hot-blooded embrace?
“I don’t know what you think you are doing.”
As her head disappeared into the folds of the dress she wondered why she should harbor the utterly wanton wish that his hands had followed the quite blatant track of his eyes.
“I am trying to hurry proceedings along,” he answered, forcing a lazy tone to disguise his sudden feeling of breathlessness. That had been his true intention, but it had been a mistake.
She had a truly beautiful body—lush, ripe and tempting. Looking at the bountiful curves that almost seemed to be pleading to be freed of the unnatural constraint of confining white cotton was not enough. He wanted to touch.
We’re delighted to announce that
is taking place in
Harlequin Presents
This month, in The Italian’s Wife
by Diana Hamilton
you are invited to the wedding of
Lucenzo Verdi and Portia Makepeace
Portia has fallen in love with Lucenzo Verdi, and has agreed to marry him—but knows he believes her to be a gold digger. Has she managed to convince her passionate Italian of her innocence or does his marriage proposal hide other plans?
More in our exciting miniseries
A MEDITERRANEAN MARRIAGE
coming soon!
The Italian’s Bride
Diana Hamilton
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER ONE
‘I’LL get it,’ Portia offered much too brightly as the strident ring of the doorbell broke the tense silence.
Visitors to the small semi on the outskirts of the industrial Midlands town of Chevington, where she had lived with her parents for the whole of her twenty-one years, were rare—and certainly not expected at nine o’clock on a damp April evening.
She was out of the neatly furnished sitting room before her father could get to his feet and tell her to stay where she was. The idea of leaving baby Sam with her mother did not even enter her head. Dealing with the caller, even if it turned out to be just someone asking for directions, would be a welcome distraction from her parents’ tight-lipped unspoken disapproval.
Enfolding her tiny baby more securely in his shawl, Portia tucked a wandering strand of pale blonde hair behind her ear and opened the front door just as an impatient finger jabbed again at the bell-push. Her always-ready smile was wiped away when she saw who it was.
One of the frighteningly powerful, disgustingly wealthy Verdi clan. It just had to be!
How many times had she told herself that they would never know what had happened, and that even if they did—through some cruel quirk of fate—not a single one of them would be interested in either her or her illegitimate child.
It looked as if she couldn’t have been more wrong, she thought sickly as her stomach nose-dived down to the soles of her feet and shot right back again.
Everything about this stranger betrayed his Italian heritage, from the proud tilt of that arrogantly held dark head, the black eyes that regarded her so narrowly from beneath slashing brows, the high-bridged aquiline nose, to the shockingly sensual mouth. The family connection was painfully obvious, she conceded as her stomach tied itself in knots again.
He wasn’t as playboy-pretty as Vito had been; the cynical lines that bracketed his mouth, the harsher cast of his features saw to that. And he was a good head taller and at least half a dozen years older than Vito had been.
Vito, the father of her baby, had been twenty-six years old when he’d died, six weeks and four days ago…
Vito had deceived both her and his wife, and probably dozens of other gullible females as well…
Jumbled thoughts raced around inside her head—the head that her parents had always disappointedly maintained to be empty of anything more solid than fluff—and the stranger intoned, ‘Portia Makepeace?’
She couldn’t speak. Her vocal cords, usually so active, had gone into shock. She’d been found and she hadn’t wanted to be. Who knew what the powerfully influential Verdi clan would do? Try to take Vito’s son from her because he was one of their own? It didn’t bear thinking about!
Too late she attempted what she should have done earlier—to shut the door in his face—but he shouldered his way into the cramped hall. His narrowed eyes tracked a disparaging path over her tumbled shoulder-length hair, the old blue dressing gown belted tightly around her far too generous curves, the ridiculous slippers that looked like frogs—a going-to-maternity-hospital gift from her friend Betty—and back up to lock with huge grey eyes that were annoyingly swimming with tears, before sliding down to stare intently at two-week-old Sam, held protectively in her arms.
‘Too ashamed to speak? That I can understand, although I admit it’s unexpected,’ he said grimly, his voice deep, only slightly accented. ‘But I don’t suppose you’re going to try to pretend you are not what you are—a husband-stealer—or that I am not uncle to your child. That wouldn’t suit your purposes, would it? You’ll be happy to know that I recognise you from the day of Vittorio’s funeral.’
Her head spinning giddily, Portia gulped. Happy? Of course she wasn’t! Having one of them track her down was the last thing she’d wanted.
But she might have known. Hadn’t her parents warned her that attending her dead lover’s funeral, running the gauntlet of his prestigious family, not to mention his grieving widow, would be a mistake of the most tasteless kind?
But she’d gone anyway; she’d felt as if she simply had to—intending only to slip in quietly, hide at the back of the congregation where she would be unnoticed. The softness of her heart had overridden the shock of her recent discovery: the knowledge that Vito had never loved her and had run the proverbial mile when she’d told him she was expecting their child. She’d needed to pay her last respects to the father of her unborn baby, to say one last goodbye, to pray for him.
Eight months pregnant, and huge with it, hiding hadn’t been easy, and remaining unnoticed had become out of the question when, overcome with mixed but strong emotions, she had fainted.
She had only vague memories of being helped outside. Someone had fetched a glass of water. A female and two males, talking in rapid Italian above her spinning head, dark suspicious eyes inspecting her closely, had made her want to sink right back into oblivion. But when she’d recovered enough to reluctantly mumble her home address, when pressed, one of the men had used his mobile to summon a taxi. Into which she’d been thankfully and discreetly bundled—something rather suspect to be removed from the scene as quickly as possible.
She had thought—devoutly hoped—that that was the end of it. But plainly it hadn’t been. Unconsciously running a feather-light finger over her sleeping baby’s velvet-soft cheek, she at last found her tongue and uttered staunchly, ‘I’ve nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing!’
She’d loved Vito, admired him when he’d told her he was working hard, saving to open his own restaurant, had believed him when he’d told her he loved her, too, and that they’d marry as soon as it was financially possible.
She hadn’t known he was already married, that everything he’d said to her was untrue. He had promised marriage and happy-ever-after because he must have thought it was the only way to get her to agree to spending that weekend with him.
So what right had this hard-faced man to look at her as if she were something utterly despicable? Her voice thickening, she demanded, ‘Why are you here?’
‘Good question,’ he responded drily, noting the way she deliberately drew attention to the newest member of the Verdi family. He pushed his fists into the pockets of the exquisitely tailored mohair coat he was wearing, his impressive shoulders stiffening. ‘Not by my own wish, you understand. To set the record straight, I was dead against the family having any contact whatsoever with you.’
His mouth thinned as he explained, ‘A crumpled letter from a Portia Makepeace was found on the floor of the wreck of Vittorio’s car. It gave this address.’ His face darkened with distaste. ‘It was hysterical. I thought it had been written by a schoolgirl, not a full-grown educated woman. Then I recalled the unknown pregnant female at the funeral, the attention she’d drawn to herself, the home address she had given. After that it didn’t require the services of an Einstein to arrive at the facts. The child is my half-brother’s.’
The thought of denying it didn’t enter her head, but his disparaging words had lit a rare spark of rage in her brain.
She hadn’t been hysterical when she’d written to Vito at the classy London restaurant where he’d worked as a pastry chef—remembering his instructions never to phone him there because it would get him in deep trouble with his boss—she’d simply been worried half out of her mind.
She hadn’t heard from him for weeks, not since she’d told him the last time he’d phoned her of her pregnancy. She’d been sure something dreadful had happened to him. It had been the only thing she’d been able to think of to explain his failure to keep in touch with her.
Now she knew why he’d washed his hands of her, knew that everything he’d ever said to her had been lies, and in her own essentially practical way she was learning to accept it. But this stranger’s unforgivable scathing comment about her lack of ability when it came to the written word touched a nerve that had been raw since her early childhood.
Grey eyes glinting, she bit out sarcastically, ‘I’m sorry I’m not a reincarnation of William Shakespeare.’ She clamped her teeth together to stop them chattering. She was shaking all over. Whether from rage or the chilliness of the narrow hallway she didn’t know, but she strongly suspected the former. ‘I’d like you to leave,’ she ordered tightly.
She should have saved her breath, she thought irately. The patronising brute simply stood his ground, one ebony brow lifting derisively, a smile that held not even a flicker of warmth lifting one corner of that long, sensual mouth. ‘Pushing your luck, aren’t you? I might just take you at your word and report my mission as a failure.’ The ersatz smile disappeared at the speed of light, and his features were hard-edged as he added softly, ‘I’m quite sure that is not what you have in mind.’
He’d bet his last million lire it wasn’t! Despite the impression given by that deranged-sounding letter—bleating on about wedding plans and the baby they were expecting—this woman was no dumb klutz.
She would have continued to bombard the holding address—the astronomically expensive restaurant Vittorio had habitually frequented—with those whining, schoolgirlish letters no doubt changing in tone after the birth to demands for high levels of maintenance—or else!
But Vittorio had been tragically killed behind the wheel of one of the fast cars he’d been addicted to. So her modus operandi had changed.
Watching her intently, he expelled a sigh between his gritted teeth. He might have been inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt had she not muscled in on the private family funeral with that fainting fit which, with hindsight, he decided had to have been manufactured to make double sure of being noticed.
As if that large lumpen thing, covered in a shabby brown coat and making snuffling noises into a huge handkerchief, could have been overlooked by any one of the elegantly black-attired members of the family!
It had been the action of a woman who was out to make trouble. He sighed, not liking what he was having to do. But his father, once the contents of that letter had been made known, had been adamant.
He dragged air deep into his lungs. It stuck in his craw, but he was going to have to extend the invitation.
‘Portia—what are you doing? Who is it?’ At that moment Godfrey Makepeace emerged from the sitting room, his voice tight with the strain he’d been under since learning of his daughter’s pregnancy and the simultaneous disappearance of the man responsible—the man he’d taken an instant dislike to on the one and only occasion they’d met.
‘It’s OK, Dad.’ She turned to him, her heart contracting guiltily. He looked so careworn, with his fawn cardigan buttoned so neatly across his narrow chest, his bald head gleaming in the overhead light. Once again she’d failed him—and her mother—this time monumentally.
Portia felt really dreadful about it. They’d both impressed on her all the logical reasons why she should have had an abortion, and when logic had failed they’d resorted to pleading. But she had adamantly refused to destroy the new little life growing inside her. It wasn’t the poor mite’s fault that his father had been a lying deceiver.
‘This gentleman,’ she stressed coldly, ‘is just leaving.’
But the ‘gentleman’ had ideas of his own. Portia pulled an angry face as he stepped forward with all the spine-tingling predatory grace of a great jungle cat, his hand outstretched.
‘Mr Makepeace—Lucenzo Verdi. Vittorio was my half-brother. I apologise for intruding at this hour, but I’ve only just returned from Florence with an urgent communication from my father, Eduardo Verdi, the head of our family.’ He paused for a moment to let the information sink in and Portia could have slapped him.
Because of the press coverage following Vito’s fatal accident everyone knew of the awe-inspiring international success of the Verdi Mercantile Bank and the position Vito had held in its London headquarters. Trust this creep to rub their humble noses in his family’s power and wealth!
One of Sam’s hands escaped from the shawl and his tiny body stiffened in her loving arms. Portia barely registered her father’s guarded ‘And?’ as she gazed, entranced, at the shock of dark soft hair, the unfocused milky blue eyes that she was sure would one day turn to grey, just like her own.
Her baby was ready for his next feed and that, for the moment, was her overriding priority. Let whatsisname—Lucenzo—make his ‘communication’ and sling his hook. Her father would relay the details and she would ignore them.
And if there was a threat—implied or openly stated—that the family would fight for custody of her son, then she and Sam would simply disappear.
On that heartening but slightly scary determination she inched past the overbearing presence of the Italian, and the much smaller frame of her father, and headed for the kitchen to warm up the bottle of formula she’d stored in the fridge.
Forty-five minutes later she reluctantly laid a sleepy, contented Sam in the crib at the side of her single bed and went downstairs, her ridiculous slippers sliding on the shiny linoleum that covered the narrow treads.
The Italian would have left by now. Such humble surroundings wouldn’t be to his exalted taste. She would ask her parents what his famous communication had been about. Not that she was interested, but to ignore the Visitation from On High would rub her parents up the wrong way. And that, she admitted on a draining sigh, was something she’d been doing for most of her life.
Hooking her long, unkempt hair behind her ears, she took a deep, fortifying breath and walked into the sitting room. Her face drained of colour when she noted the impressively lean and moody frame reclining in the place of honour—her father’s armchair at the side of the electric fire—his elegantly long legs and obviously disgustingly expensive shoes stretched out on the hearthrug.
The way the arrogantly held dark head turned to her, those black eyes glittering beneath slightly lowered lids studying her as if she were a hitherto undiscovered and not very pleasant form of insect life, made her heart contract violently beneath her breastbone and then perform a series of lazy somersaults.
‘Portia—’ Her mother’s voice, far softer, lighter than usual, gave her the impetus to drag her part-fascinated, part-horrified gaze from that wickedly handsome, chillingly intimidating face. She gulped in a lungful of air and felt something prickly dance up and down her spine.
Joyce Makepeace was patting the empty space beside her on the sofa in invitation. Portia’s soft mouth fell open. Her mother’s cheeks were a becoming pink, her hazel eyes bright, her mouth smiling. The stern retired schoolmistress was actually looking fluttery!
Obeying the summons because she couldn’t think of anything else to do, Portia blundered forwards, tripping over her cumbersome slippers, feeling hot and bothered, ridiculous. She wished she’d never set eyes on the things. She was only wearing them because Betty had bought them for her. That had been really sweet of her, and her conscience would have pricked unbearably if she’d put them in the bin as her father had suggested.
Making it to the sofa without further mishap, she glanced nervously at her mother, expecting the usual frown of pained displeasure for her clumsiness. Instead she received an amazing smile, a fond pat of her hand—just as if she’d done something her parents could be proud of for once, instead of falling over her feet, making a spectacle of herself.
‘Signor Verdi—Lucenzo—’ Joyce Makepeace dimpled ‘—has something to say to you, Portia.’
A fleeting smile for Joyce curled his satanically beautiful mouth as he got lithely to his feet. His piercingly dark eyes fastened on Portia’s nervous face as he reached for the elegantly tailored charcoal overcoat he’d discarded and draped the soft folds over his arm.
If it weren’t for the facts he wouldn’t believe it. The charming, feckless, utterly faithless Vito had had many affairs—a gene he had inherited from the English girl his father had married five years after his first wife, Lucenzo’s mother, had died. A year later Christine had given birth to Vittorio and, her duty done, as she’d seen it, she’d embarked on a string of unsavoury affairs.
Lucenzo tightened his mouth with grim distaste. His half-brother had favoured svelte, stylish, long-legged blondes. So what had he been doing with this over-weight, clumsy creature? A blonde, admittedly, but there any point of reference ceased. Her hair was a mess and no self-respecting female would stick her feet into bright green things that looked like giant bloated frogs!
She must have caught Vittorio in an off-moment, possibly when he’d been drunk, and thrown herself at him…
‘You must excuse me. I’m already late for an appointment.’ Lucenzo made a point of glancing at the thin gold watch on his flat wrist. He’d had as much as he could take. Despite his warnings to his father, Portia Makepeace was about to receive all her avaricious, scheming little heart had dreamed of. The knowledge made him want to punch holes in the wall.
He eyed her coldly. ‘Your parents will relay my father’s wishes.’ He gave her a bleak, informal nod of the head. It was more than he’d thought he could manage. ‘I will see you in six weeks’ time. One of my secretaries will contact you regarding the exact time and date.’
‘One’ of his secretaries? How many did the man have? And just what did he mean about seeing her again in six weeks’ time? That was all Portia could think about as her father, looking really sprightly for a change, showed the Italian out.
And her mother said knowingly, ‘If you ever want to know the meaning of the word “exotic” just think about Lucenzo Verdi! And such a gentleman, too. Quite unlike that half-brother of his. I knew he was a rogue the moment I set eyes on him.’
‘You only met him once,’ Portia reminded her glumly.
She’d practically had to drag Vito here. But they’d been talking about getting engaged and she’d insisted he must meet her parents. And he’d been begging her to spend a weekend with him.
‘Somewhere quiet and off the beaten track,’ he’d said. ‘It needn’t be expensive, and if you’re adamant about not wasting money on an engagement ring a weekend together would be a wonderful way of marking the occasion, making it special—you know how much I love and want you, carissima—or do you like torturing me?’
‘Once was quite enough. Anyone with a grain of intelligence would have seen through him,’ Joyce remarked drily, and Portia felt the too-ready tears sting the backs of her eyes.
Did everyone else on the planet have more nous than she did? Were her parents right when they accused her of being everyone’s best friend, of being too naive to see harm in any living soul, reckless enough to fill the outstretched palms of every beggar she came across?
Not really, she defended herself. She’d seen harm in Lucenzo Verdi the moment she’d opened the door to him, hadn’t she? And if her mother had heard the things he’d said to her then ‘gentleman’ was the last thing she would have called him!
Clutching at straws, she asked hopefully, ‘Did you explain I didn’t know Vito was married? That I had no idea his family was rolling in money?’
She hadn’t been given the chance to explain all that herself, and even if she had been she had the gut feeling he wouldn’t have believed her. But coming from her parents, who were so obviously completely respectable…
‘It wasn’t necessary. Once we’d established that his brother was the man you’d been seeing—the man who’d got you pregnant—there seemed no point in speaking ill of the dead. A loss like that must be difficult to bear. It hardly seemed appropriate to rub Lucenzo’s nose in his brother’s shortcomings.’
And no point in defending their daughter’s integrity, Portia thought miserably, twisting the fabric of her shabby dressing gown between her fingers. She remembered seeing Vito’s face on the front page of their daily paper. It had been a shock she hadn’t really come to terms with yet. It still made her feel physically sick when she thought about the accompanying text.
Vittorio Verdi, younger son of Eduardo Verdi, international banker, was tragically killed when his Ferrari left the road. His passenger, model Kristi Hall, survived the accident and is said to be in a stable condition. Vittorio leaves a grieving widow…
Trying to swallow the huge lump in her throat, Portia scrambled to her feet, muttering thickly, ‘I’m going to bed.’
‘Don’t you want to hear what your child’s grandfather is proposing?’
Her mother sounded appalled. Portia blinked at her and sniffed miserably. ‘Dad?’
‘Try not to be so stupid! His Italian grandfather, of course!’
‘Oh.’ She’d had that particular epithet flung at her too often to even notice it now, and wrinkled her brow as she wondered how to explain her deep desire to bury her head in the sand and not know. She would rather save the nitty-gritty until the morning, when she would be better able to cope with husband-stealing recriminations or, far worse, threats to take her to court to gain custody of her precious baby son. What chance would she stand against the wealth and clout of the powerful Verdi clan?
Aware that her mother was bristling with impatience at her inability to come up with any response more intelligent than ‘oh’, Portia was deeply thankful to be saved from having to do anything more than just stand there when her father entered the room.
He was rubbing his hands, smiling widely. ‘That is one fine young man. Classy, but no side on him.’ He beamed at his daughter, her eyes huge in the pallor of her face, ‘So how does it feel to be six weeks away from going to live in pampered luxury in sunny Tuscany?’
CHAPTER TWO
‘I COULD still change my mind,’ Portia said, her voice shaking with a sudden, positively ferocious flood of nerves. She swallowed hard, then took a deep breath to steady herself. ‘Even now,’ she emphasised hopefully.
Even when Lucenzo Verdi was expected at any moment—when her luggage was filling the narrow hall and Sam was peacefully asleep in his carry cot at her feet, fed, changed and ready to go.
‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’ The note of sheer horror in Joyce Makepeace’s voice turned to grinding exasperation as she swung round from peering through the net curtains and told her daughter, ‘We’ve been through this a thousand times over the last six weeks! Of course you can’t change your mind. You have to go. What else is there?’
She expelled an impatient breath and came out with the usual well-worn litany. ‘If you’d concentrated at school instead of living in a dream world you might have been equipped for a decent career, been able to afford a place of your own, proper childcare. Your father and I can’t afford to keep you and the baby—’
‘I could go back to work—’
‘Your job’s gone.’
‘I could get another. In any case, Mr Weston said he’d take me back. The girl he hired when I took maternity leave knows she’s only temporary.’
‘And expect me to babysit, I suppose? And keep yourself and a child on a waitress’s wages? I don’t think so.’ Joyce’s mouth thinned. ‘He won’t stay a baby for ever.’
Portia bit down hard on her wobbling lower lip. It was true. The job she’d enjoyed, even though humble, had paid very little. Tips were what waitresses relied on, Mr Weston had explained. The only trouble was, the type of people who frequented Joe’s Place couldn’t afford tips. They were mostly senior citizens lingering over a single cup of tea and a bun while they chatted to their friends as an after-shopping treat.
And apart from the dearth of tips she’d often bought hearty cheese or ham sandwiches with her own money for one particular elderly lady who’d come in on pension day and always sat on her own, never ordering more than a cup of tea. She’d looked so frail and white, as if a puff of wind would blow her over, and so pathetically grateful when Portia had slid the plate in front of her, making up some excuse or other for why the food was surplus to requirements, so that the old dear wouldn’t feel she was receiving charity.
No. Her eyes misted with tears as she gazed down at her sleeping son. The only thing she could give him was love, by the bucketful.
‘Sam’s Italian grandfather is a very wealthy man. He can give you and the baby everything you could want,’ her father said, his tone gentler than her mother’s had been. ‘And in that letter from him—the one his son left for you—he did say that if you weren’t happy in Italy you could return to England.’
At her mother’s tart ‘Heaven forbid!’ Portia swallowed the huge lump in her throat and tried to get rid of the scary feeling that had been steadily growing inside her all morning.
The letter, when she’d forced herself to read it, hadn’t been full of recriminations or threats to take her baby from her, she reminded herself unsteadily. Eduardo Verdi had sounded like a really nice old gentleman, expressing the wish to see not only his grandson but her, too, to welcome them both into his family. He had invited them to stay for as long as they liked, the longer the better.
So what was there to be frightened of? Why the angst? She might not have the brain of a rocket scientist, but she was determined enough, strong enough, to make sure that she did what was best for her baby. And if things didn’t work out in Tuscany—if, say, she found the Italian side of her son’s family taking him over, sidelining her and depriving him of the most important thing for his welfare, his mother’s love and devotion—then she’d pack their bags and they’d make tracks.
Alongside their passports in her handbag she had the remains of her savings—enough, surely, to pay their air fare back, she comforted herself.
‘He’s here.’ Joyce dropped the corner of the net curtain and walked briskly out into the hall. ‘Get a move on, Portia. We don’t want to keep him waiting.’
Her eyes welling with tears, Portia slung her bag over her shoulder and lifted the carry cot. They couldn’t wait to be rid of her and Sam. Not that she could blame them. She had always been a huge disappointment to her parents and presenting them with an illegitimate grandchild had been the last straw.
Lucenzo Verdi was scowling at the untidy pile of her luggage, looking mean and moody in an exquisitely cut pale grey suit, a darker grey silk shirt and deep blue tie. Dark eyes glittered at her beneath broodingly lowered lids, making her feel clumsy and inept as she slowly negotiated the cot around the angle of the doorframe.
‘What is this?’ Lucenzo glared at the tottering pile of bulging plastic carriers and cardboard boxes that rested on top of her shabby suitcase as if they were emitting some very nasty smells.
Portia, resisting the impulse to slap that handsome oh-so-superior face, gritted her teeth and relayed defensively, ‘Sam’s things, mostly. Babies don’t travel light.’
At the same time her mother hissed out of the corner of her tight, bright smile, ‘Didn’t I tell you there was no need to take so much.’
‘Everything the child needs is at the Villa Fontebella,’ Lucenzo stated flatly. ‘All that is needed is a change of clothing for the journey.’
Not that he knew anything of children’s needs, he thought heavily. His own child had died before it could be born. But it was bad enough to have to escort one of Vittorio’s cast-off bimbos back to Tuscany without being lumbered with a heap of clutter that resembled a pile of rubbish left out for the refuse collectors.
Portia lifted her chin, her large grey eyes narrowing. Start as you mean to go on. Be assertive and brave for once in your life, she told herself as she took a deep breath and said shakily, ‘Sam needs his own things. Neither of us is going anywhere without them.’
Her stockpile of tins of baby formula, feeding bottles, steriliser, nappies, Babygros, creams and lotions, his special shampoo, not to mention all those cute fluffy toys which were valued gifts from friends and neighbours—she wasn’t prepared to leave a single thing behind.
They were all links with the safe and the known, and if she was going to have to live amongst strangers she was going to need them to cling onto, like a mental safety rope.
‘I’ll give you a hand.’ As if sensing insurrection, Godfrey Makepeace grabbed several carriers and headed for the door.
Portia felt her mother’s hand grip her arm, urging her forward as she muttered impatiently, ‘Don’t be tiresome! Look, I know you’re nervous about going to stay with strangers, but there’s no need. When your father phoned Signor Verdi senior to make sure everything was above board he was completely reassured.’
‘Dad did that?’ Portia’s gentle heart swelled with love and gratitude. ‘He really did check up for me?’
‘Of course. We’re not complete monsters.’
‘Oh.’ It was all she could manage to say; she couldn’t stop smiling. Deep down her parents did care about her, and little Sam, and that meant so much to her that she didn’t mind in the least being hustled down the short garden path to where a sedately gleaming Daimler was parked, its chauffeur already stowing all her despised luggage in the boot.
Even when Lucenzo loomed over her, his strong, lean face tight with displeasure, his dark eyes brilliant and incisive, she couldn’t wipe the beam of happiness from her face.
‘Get in,’ he ordered coldly, indicating the rear of the opulent car, taking the cot from her unresisting hands. Sucking in a shallow breath, he lifted the warm, shawl-wrapped bundle in careful hands and strapped the sleeping child in the car-seat.
At eight weeks Vittorio’s son had lost that crumpled new look; now he looked smooth and adorable, his shock of raven-dark hair proclaiming his heritage.
His heart lurched unexpectedly. Vittorio’s child.
If his half-brother had been a faithful, responsible husband then this baby would have been Lorna’s, and he would have welcomed the new generation of his family with pride and joy. As it was…
Sliding along the leather upholstery, Portia watched those long, elegantly boned fingers deal with the complicated-looking arrangement of straps. Then her eyes lifted to his face, intent on what he was doing. His incredibly thick and dark lashes cast pools of shadow against the olive-toned skin of his high, arrogant cheekbones and his mouth, passionate and sensual, was tight with concentration. He really was utterly gorgeous, she thought as a weird inner quiver made her mouth run dry. Something about the hard sweep of his wide shoulders encased in the finest tailoring made her think of male protectiveness as well as the domination she instinctively expected from him.
As he finished his task his dark eyes lifted to meet her fascinated gaze, and something strange shivered down her spine and curled wickedly in the pit of her stomach. Her softly curved mouth fell open as she struggled for breath, her eyes widening helplessly as she tried to come to terms with the unthinkable. She was being turned on by an arrogant pig who thought she was a cheap slag, not fit to be seen around his exalted family!
Huge eyes that had turned to shimmering liquid silver watched with mindless fixity as his dark gaze assimilated the hot colour she felt flood her face, the way her breath came in tiny anguished spurts, making her breasts lift and peak provocatively. Watched that long, beautiful mouth curl cynically down at one corner before he moved away, closing the car door with a decisive clunk and turning to speak to her parents.
Hardly knowing which was worse, her embarrassment or her humiliation, Portia knotted her hands together and stared rigidly ahead. She was unaware that they were actually moving, that she hadn’t properly said farewell to her parents, until she registered that Lucenzo Verdi had taken the driver’s seat, with the uniformed chauffeur sitting stiffly at his side.
Squashing her juvenile impulse to shriek, Stop this car! she turned her attention to her sleeping baby, rearranging the folds of his shawl to steady herself, to wipe away the memory of how she’d felt when Lucenzo’s dark eyes had clashed with hers.
She soon became absorbed in little Sam as his rosebud mouth curved in a windy smile. He was so perfect, from the top of his downy head to his tiny, tiny toenails! They were together, that was the most important thing, embarking on an adventure. And she, as his doting mother, would ensure that nothing happened to separate them. Ever!
At least the biggest fly in the ointment would take himself off to find more congenial company just as soon as he had delivered them to Sam’s Italian grandfather. She couldn’t wait!
Lifting her head, she met his glance in the rearview mirror and quickly looked away, her face going pink as she felt the thunder of blood at her pulse-points. She didn’t know what was happening here, but whatever it was she didn’t like it. She couldn’t be sexually aware of him—attracted—she couldn’t!
She stared fixedly out of the window at her side. The way a person looked had never cut much ice with her; it was what was inside that mattered. In fact, she had never really thought about Vito’s pretty-boy good-looks, having been more impressed by what she had been conned into believing was his determination to make good.
She sighed mournfully. And to cap it all the English early summer was living up to its not always deserved reputation. Raindrops were sliding down the glass like teardrops…
Lucenzo activated the windscreen wipers, concentrating on the airport approach. She was still smiling, he thought grittily. She had hardly stopped since she’d approached the car, safe in the knowledge that her dreams of getting her hands on as much as she could wrest from the bulging coffers of the Verdi family were about to become reality.
Except for that time when he’d glanced up from securing Vittorio’s baby in the car-seat and found her watching him with what he had only been able to interpret as blatant sexual invitation.
Was that the way she’d looked at Vittorio? A pink flush on her cheeks, her eyes eating him up, her soft lips parted, her breath coming in rapid little pants? Was that how it had happened—just one look? His half-brother wouldn’t have turned down such an offer.
Two hours later the private jet was airborne. Lucenzo, his long legs stretched out in front of him, extracted a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and tried to concentrate, to shut out the presence of the female at his side.
But that was proving difficult while she was playing with the baby who was gurgling back at her. And today she looked different from when he’d first seen her six weeks ago. Not so bunchy-looking now, in clean but well-worn jeans and a plain white T-shirt, her hair shining with health and caught into her nape with a scarlet ribbon.
Better, but in his jaded experience still not the type the unfaithful Vittorio had been constitutionally unable to resist—he had liked glitz and glamour, trophy women. But something had drawn him to this one. Perhaps, he thought as the flight attendant approached with a feeding bottle, perhaps it was the smile.
It was radiant as she took the bottle, lighting up her otherwise unremarkable face, and her voice was soft and lilting as she answered the attendant’s, ‘I hope it’s not too hot?’
‘It’s just right—and thank you so much. It’s very kind of you!’
Butter wouldn’t melt, Lucenzo thought sourly, trying to blot out the sound of the two women admiring his half-brother’s baby. The child looked contented and well cared for, and as far as he could tell she appeared to be a good mother. But then, he reminded himself cynically as his eyes were reluctantly drawn to the gentle hand that caressed the baby’s soft cheek as he hungrily suckled, Vittorio’s son was her trump card, her passport to the Verdi wealth. No wonder she treated him as though he were the most precious thing on earth.
Sighing irritably, he rustled his papers and answered the flight attendant’s offer of coffee with a terse negative.
As the other girl moved away Portia decided she had to do something about this tense state of affairs. She didn’t mind for herself, but the spiky atmosphere couldn’t be good for little Sam. Hadn’t she read somewhere that even tiny babies could pick up vibes and be affected by them?
‘I’ve never flown before,’ she confided, to start the conversational ball rolling, casting him a wary smile. This not-speaking business was ridiculous. He’d made his dislike of her obvious, but surely they could be polite to each other? The only words he’d said to her had been icy orders, telling her where to go and what to do.
She lifted Sam and laid him against her shoulder, gently rubbing his back. She’d pretend the disapproving Lucenzo Verdi was an ordinary human being, just another fellow traveller. She’d always enjoyed talking to people.
From where she was sitting that wasn’t going to be too easy. The expression on his austerely handsome profile would have done a hanging judge proud. Even so, she launched out cheerfully, ‘When I was growing up my parents took me for improving holidays. Museums, art galleries, sites of historical interest—they didn’t believe in lying in the sun on Mediterranean beaches. Then, when I was earning for myself and they’d thrown in the towel when it came to improving me, I didn’t take holidays. I just saved all I could for—’
Her cheeks going fiery red, Portia stopped herself just in time. She’d been babbling. Her mother always said she never thought before she opened her mouth. It really wouldn’t do to tell him she’d been saving for what she had always dreamed of: a wedding, a home of her own and children. That after she’d met and fallen in love with Vito she’d redoubled her efforts, believing him when he’d said they’d marry as soon as it was financially possible.
Lucenzo probably missed his brother dreadfully, still mourned his untimely death, she thought compassionately. She was not going to rub in the fact that Vito had been a liar and a cheat. She wasn’t into hurting people, even if they were patronising beasts.
He didn’t seem to notice that her torrent had broken off mid-sentence; he appeared to be intent on what he was reading. But his eyes weren’t moving. Those fabulous lashes were making inky shadows against the harshly beautiful line of his cheekbones.
Asleep? No way. She’d never seen a pair of shoulders look less relaxed.
Pointedly ignoring her? Most certainly. Her soft mouth twitched. It wouldn’t do the wretched man any harm to unbend a little. ‘I think he’s just about to drop off,’ she imparted chirpily, meaning Sam, who was lying in her arms, his little arms stretched above his head, his eyelids drooping.
No response. But Portia wasn’t ready to give up yet. Surely he didn’t intend to spend the whole of the flight in this forbidding silence? There were things she wanted to know about the family she was about to meet, the place she was expected to inhabit for goodness only knew how long—a week, a month, a year?
This darkly handsome, coldly unresponsive persona surely wasn’t all there was to this man. Someone, somewhere, must see the other, more human side?
‘Are you married, Lucenzo? Do you have a family?’ she asked impulsively.
People he loved, who loved him back? Children he played with who knew how he looked when he threw back his head and laughed at their antics? A wife who saw melting adoration in those dark, hostile eyes, who knew every inch of that lithe and powerful body…?
Portia swallowed painfully, the now all-too familiar frisson of intense excitement taking her breath away, accelerating her heartbeat. She shouldn’t be thinking that way, picturing him naked, with desire softening his mouth, heating his eyes. Imagining what it would be like to be held in his arms…
She’d never indulged in erotic fantasies, not ever, she thought with growing alarm. The inclination simply hadn’t been there, not even with Vito. Or the couple of boyfriends she’d had before him. Their interest in her had fizzled out rapidly after they’d met her parents and come up against the brick wall of their restrictions.
Her mother had warned her. ‘Always remember, most men are only after one thing. It takes brains and looks to attract the honourable attentions of a man of the right calibre.’ And she had neither brains nor looks. That had been the implication.
Confused and miserable, Portia glared at the fluffy blanket of clouds which was all she could see out of the window, wishing she was anywhere in the world but here.
Sliding the papers back into his briefcase, Lucenzo glanced at her. So she wanted to talk, did she? A nice chatty little dialogue to while away the time? She was too self-absorbed and thick-skinned to take on board the fact that the last thing he wanted was idle conversation with a husband-stealer who was the next best thing to a blackmailer.
So he’d talk, and she’d only have herself to blame if she didn’t like what he had to say.
Ignoring her question about his marital status, because she, of all people, had no damned right to pry into that painful part of his life—any part of his life, if it came to that—he drawled silkily, ‘Your parents seemed glad to be rid of you. No fond farewells, no promises to phone or write. I wonder why?’
He could well imagine, he thought drily as he watched what had to be guilty colour steal over her face. She’d probably been trouble since the day she was born. Feckless, irresponsible, with an eye for the main chance.
Mindful of the bad atmosphere that could affect her baby, Portia swallowed an angry retort. Besides, if she’d viewed their parting from where he’d been standing she might have jumped to that conclusion.
Always ready to extend the benefit of the doubt, she turned to face him, explaining softly and earnestly, ‘You mustn’t think badly of them—’
‘I assure you, it is not them I’m condemning,’ he interjected sardonically.
Only her, Portia recognised on a muted sigh. Par for the course. Nevertheless, she didn’t want to leave him with the impression that her parents didn’t care about her, because they did.
‘They’re both getting on a bit—they married late and I came as a surprise. They can’t afford to keep me and little Sam, and if I went back to work I couldn’t afford to pay for childcare so it would be down to them. They can’t cope with the thought of having to look after—’ she recalled her mother’s exact words on the subject ‘—a squalling baby who would grow into a rumbustious toddler, a clumsy schoolboy and in all likelihood a problem teenager. Not that he would, of course, and he never squalls,’ she denied breathlessly. ‘But you can see their point. They want peace in their declining years. Of course they saw your father’s offer to have me and Sam live with him as the only sensible way out of the situation. Even so, they cared enough to contact your father and—’
‘And find out exactly what was on offer,’ Lucenzo interjected tightly. ‘This I know. My father’s integrity and misguided generosity was questioned. I find that offensive. And don’t try to tell me that you didn’t jump at the opportunity.’
Portia chewed on her lip as she desperately tried to decide how to answer that.
His black eyes were full of hostile reproach, she noted uncomfortably. If he saw her father’s natural parental concern as an affront to the precious dignity of his family then what would he think if she blurted out the truth? How could she possibly tell him that accepting his father’s ‘misguidedly generous’ invitation had been the last thing she’d wanted? That only her parents’ pushing, nagging and much vaunted logic had made her reluctantly accept it?
It didn’t bear thinking about.
And what sort of family was she going to, anyway? Horrible doubts assailed her all over again. They were wealthy, they were powerful, they thought they were better than anyone else. And if they were like Lucenzo they would regard her as scum, would only want Vito’s son, intent only on forcing her to agree to give him up.
Sheer fright made her blurt, ‘It’s OK for your father to see Sam—well, I’d be a fool if I didn’t think that. They are related. But if I’m not satisfied I can leave whenever I want and take Sam with me.’
It hadn’t come out as she’d meant it to. She’d been scared, on the defensive. She hadn’t meant to sound so—so confrontational.
Too late now to retract. His beautiful eyes had narrowed to slits of black ice, his fabulous bone structure going tight with what she could only assume to be disgust.
‘I think we should get a few things straight,’ Lucenzo said with a chilling bite. That sweetness and light, slightly scatty act was just that. An act. She’d just opened her mouth and confirmed every last one of his opinions. If she wasn’t satisfied, getting everything she expected, she would threaten to take his father’s grandson away from him.
His mouth turned down at one corner as he scanned her flushed face, the softly trembling lips, her wide, stricken eyes. ‘You can cut the injured innocent act; we both know you’re neither,’ he imparted harshly. ‘Did you get pregnant on purpose to give you a hold on the family? No—don’t bother to answer that,’ he said impatiently as her mouth dropped open. ‘It’s irrelevant now.’
He sucked in a breath. If she could make threats he could go one better. ‘I practically begged my father to have nothing to do with you, apart from making adequate financial provision for Vittorio’s son. But he was adamant, and because he’s a sick man I reluctantly went along with his wishes to bring you and the child to him. And one word—one whisper—out of you with regard to taking his grandson away from him and you will feel the full might of the Verdi family come down on you. We will fight you for custody and you will leave with nothing. This I promise.’
CHAPTER THREE
LEMON trees in terracotta pots marched along the terrace fronting the imposing Villa Fontebella, and wisteria hanging in soft blue clouds festooned the white marble columns that supported the long, shade-giving arcade.
As the driver of the limo which had ferried them from the airport opened the door at her side Portia took a deep breath and reluctantly slid out. She stood on legs that were shaking so much they would barely hold her upright.
The awesome villa, with its backdrop of thickly wooded hills, was set in formal Florentine gardens overlooking breathtaking views of sweeps of vines and olive trees, right over the rooftops of tiny villages clustered round ancient churches and down to the silver loop of a river far below. It was the sort of place only the seriously wealthy inhabited.
Portia gulped, agitation making her eyes dark in the now ashen pallor of her face. Not even the warm Italian sun could take away the shivers that came from the very core of her being. Ever since Lucenzo had made that truly terrifying threat, as good as accusing her of entrapping Vito for what she hoped to gain, she’d been panicking inside, feeling colder and sicker with every mile of progress into the unknown.
The silence that had descended after he’d given her that dreadful warning had been almost tangible. She could have reached out and touched it if she’d had the nerve.
As she put shaky fingers to her throbbing temples she heard Sam begin to grizzle and made a determined effort to pull herself together. Ignoring Lucenzo, who was overseeing the unloading of her despised and multitudinous belongings from the boot of the car, its driver passing them to a burly man in a cool white jacket, she scrambled back inside the vehicle, blinking away threatening tears.
Little Sam was hungry, his legs kicking wildly, one tiny fist thrust into his mouth. Doing her best to make cheerful soothing noises, she scrabbled ineffectually with the straps of the car-seat while Sam’s face went red with rage and his grizzles turned into full-throated roars.
‘I’ll have you out in a moment, sweetheart,’ Portia promised with blatant over-optimism, struggling to keep the wobble of desperate misery out of her voice as she tugged at a clasp that seemed to have been welded shut.
‘Let me.’ The door nearest the car-seat opened and Lucenzo dealt with the enigma of the safety straps in seconds, lifting the fretful baby in capable hands and holding him against his shoulder.
Miraculously, Sam stopped crying immediately, and, sitting back on her heels and blinking ferociously, Portia saw her precious son nuzzle his face into Lucenzo’s neck. She was utterly and unwillingly transfixed by the smile that transformed the austerity of the Italian’s features into sheer, stunning male beauty.
Her heart lurched so madly she felt breathless, dizzy and disorientated. Lucenzo had never smiled for her. Not once. With a peculiar little ache in the region of her now pattering heart she wished he would. And felt her face flare with hot colour.
Was she completely stupid, or something? As feather-brained as her parents had always despairingly said she was? Of course he wouldn’t smile at her like that. Lucenzo Verdi wouldn’t give her the time of day if he could avoid it. He thought she was the dregs.
Wriggling backwards out of the rear seat, she told herself to get real. Lucenzo Verdi was her enemy; he had made that plain from the very start. She mustn’t let her wits wander off into fantasy. She had to keep them on red alert if she were to have any hope of handling the impossibly autocratic Italian. She could only hope the rest of Vito’s family weren’t cast in the same condemnatory mould.
Hanging on to the bodywork of the car, she went to reclaim her baby—and even though her legs felt like jelly her chin was high as she reached up for him.
But Lucenzo raked his dark eyes comprehensively over her pale features, her tear-spiked lashes and drooping mouth, and relayed tonelessly, ‘I’ll carry him in. You look on the point of collapse.’
And whose fault was that? Portia inwardly fulminated as he turned to face the house, Sam, now blowing happy bubbles, held high in his arms, and strode over the immaculately raked gravel towards open double doors.
Like a victor triumphantly returning with the spoils of war, Portia thought sickeningly, urging herself to keep up with his long-legged stride, resisting the fraught impulse to hammer her fists against that broad back and demand he hand her baby back to her.
In a flurry of now breathless agitation Portia tripped over her feet as she scurried in his wake up the sweeping stone steps, and she felt something clench sharply inside her, taking what was left of her breath away, as Lucenzo put his free hand out to steady her and said grimly, ‘There’s no need to bust a gut. You’ll get your feet under the table soon enough.’
She simply couldn’t wait, could she? he thought edgily. His mouth settled into a hard straight line as he steadied her, then hauled her round to face him. But it softened unconsciously as he registered the pallor of her weary face, the tiny beads of perspiration on her short upper lip, the soft trembling of her mouth and the defeated droop of her shoulders.
Somewhere along the line she’d lost her ribbon, and now her shimmering golden hair fell around her shoulders, tendrils curving around her throat, wisps falling across those wide grey eyes.
Santa Maria! She looked done in, he thought with a stab of unwilling compassion. She obviously wasn’t strong, and maybe—just maybe—that fainting fit at Vittorio’s funeral hadn’t been an act. And maybe, heaven forbid, she was about to give a repeat performance.
His grip on her arm gentled, became supportive rather than punitive, as he suggested, ‘Get some rest. You can meet the family in the morning. I’ll show you to your room—Alfredo has taken your things up, and I’ll send Assunta to you. Don’t worry, she looked after me and Vittorio when we were small so she knows what she’s doing. Plus, she speaks fluent English.’
As they passed into the hall he felt her body sag. He sucked in a breath, wondering if she was about to pass out, and instinctively wrapped his free arm around her surprisingly neat waist, supporting her against the length of his own body.
Anyone seeing them like this would think he actually cared about the blackmailing little tramp, when all he was desperate to do was get her to her room, leave Assunta to deal with her and wash his hands of her and her greedy machinations.
With a heartfelt sigh Portia leant against him, overwhelmed, her eyes filling with stupid tears. Just one gesture of kindness and she was willing to forgive and forget everything, wanting to cling onto him, wrap her arms around him and beg him to be her friend.
How pathetic could she get? she asked herself on a tidal wave of self-disgust. And to cap it all the sheer opulence of her surroundings—the costly antiques, the sweeping marble staircase, the porcelain bowls of flowers on every available surface—shook her rigid. What on earth did she think she was doing in a place like this? The nearest thing to an antique in her parents’ home was her grandmother’s brass jam kettle!
‘Can you manage the stairs?’ Lucenzo asked with level politeness, biting back his distaste for the whole situation. ‘Or shall I find someone to help you?’
As it was, Vittorio’s baby was squirming vigorously, grabbing handfuls of his hair and tugging with surprising strength for something so small, and if Portia collapsed halfway up she could well fall all the way back again before he could do anything about it. A dark frisson of the soul almost paralysed him at the thought of that, and he took a deep breath as he waited for it to pass.
Then he gritted his teeth, blocking out the memory, looking for the nearest chair to park her on. He could understand why there wasn’t a welcoming committee. His father would be resting, obeying his doctor’s and his own strict instructions, and his aunts and his sister-in-law wouldn’t be straining at the leash to come face to face with the evidence of Vittorio’s infidelity.
At least, he consoled himself, he’d kept the worst of it from his family. They didn’t know that the infidelity had been the serial kind.
‘Of course I can manage.’ Portia pushed some backbone into her voice and with a reluctance that appalled her, and a feeling inside her that was verging on pain, pulled away from his supporting arm, the heated strength of his body. Very deliberately she put space between them, when all she really wanted to do was to lean against him, borrow strength from his lean and powerful body.
It had been so long since she’d been held she’d forgotten how comforting it could be. Displays of affection had always embarrassed her parents and not even Vito, whom she’d loved, had made her feel so—so safe. And had her senses ever reacted so instinctively to Vito? Had she felt this sensual pull at his maleness?
‘No!’ She hadn’t realised she’d spoken aloud in fraught denial of the way this man who was her enemy could make her feel. The father of her child hadn’t come near to making it seem as if the world was spinning around her, leaving her out of control.
‘What is it?’ Lucenzo gave her a spearing glance from beneath lowered brows. At least she had some colour now. A bright wash of it stained her cheeks, and her grey eyes were huge, glittering with something that looked like the panic of a cornered young animal.
‘N-nothing—’ Flustered, she pushed her hands through her hair, dragging it away from her face, then sucked in a breath. Lucenzo’s eyes were held by the resulting thrust of her breasts, the nipples proud and prominent against the thin fabric of her top.
Frowning, he dragged his eyes away, and a split second later Portia was leaping up the staircase, hanging on to the wrought-iron banister. Settling Vittorio’s child more securely in his arms, Lucenzo followed—and found his eyes annoyingly glued to Portia’s neat and curvy denim-clad backside.
Five foot four of lushly delineated curves, shimmering blonde hair, lips like ripe cherries and that breathless, though obviously spurious air of ingenuousness—was that what had tempted his half-brother away from his wife, his normally ultra-elegant bits on the side?
Disliking the road his thoughts were taking him down, he quickened his steps and caught up with her at the head of the sweeping staircase, where the upper hall gave onto corridors branching in three directions.
‘This way,’ he instructed tautly. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t want to connect with those wide, seemingly vulnerable eyes, recognise that elusive nameless something that had captivated his half-brother. He simply strode ahead.
Portia followed, feeling unwanted and seriously unnecessary, wishing she’d never agreed to come here. When he paused by one of the carved oak doors that lined the seemingly endless corridor and flung it open, telling her tightly, ‘Your suite of rooms,’ she felt a deep and dreadful reluctance to cross the threshold.
‘I want to go home.’
The childishly wailed words were out before she could swallow them and she cringed with super-charged embarrassment, reddening hectically as he remarked witheringly, ‘If that’s your opening salvo, forget it.’
Vulnerable? How could he have thought that for one insane moment? Portia Makepeace was about as vulnerable as an armoured car!
He reminded her stonily, ‘I’ve told you what will happen if you threaten to do anything to upset my father. Here—’ He placed Sam in her arms and took a backward pace, as if the air she breathed out was full of pestilence and plague. ‘Make Vittorio’s son comfortable. I will send Assunta to you to make sure you are behaving as my father would wish.’
Holding her baby close to her heart, gathering much needed strength from the adored warm little body, Portia blurted, ‘I didn’t come here to be kept under house arrest! I came because your father wants to see his grandson. So when can I meet him?’
Her chin came up, even though her voice held a disgraceful wobble. She was sick of being treated like dirt, ordered around. Her future relationship with Sam’s grandfather was all that counted. Lucenzo’s low opinion of her shouldn’t matter, but it did hurt, she acknowledged sickly, more than she knew it should.
‘Tomorrow,’ he told her curtly. ‘I will let him know that Vittorio’s son has arrived safely. For tonight that will be enough. As I have already told you, my father is a sick man.’
Watching him stride away, Portia felt her heart plummet to new depths, her mouth going dry. How sick was sick? Eduardo Verdi had sounded so kind in that letter he’d written her. He’d come across as being someone she could talk to with the ease and openness that came so naturally to her.
All through her nightmare journey she’d been counting on him as head of the family to intercede on her behalf, to perhaps persuade Lucenzo that she wasn’t as downright bad as he thought she was.
Portia shuddered, immediately hating herself for such selfish, unworthy thoughts. If the poor old man was ill then the most she could hope for was that seeing and holding his new little grandson would make him feel a whole lot better!
She could stand up for herself where Lucenzo was concerned, of course she could. And one day, if he stayed around, she would force him to listen to her side of the story—even if, as he’d clearly demonstrated, he had no wish to hear it.
And when she met Eduardo she would do nothing, say nothing to upset or tire him. Of course she wouldn’t.
Annoyingly, her eyes pickled with compassionate tears. She blinked them rapidly away and forced herself to carry her now restless Sam over the threshold and into the most beautiful bedroom she’d ever seen.
No time to take stock, except to note that her luggage, looking even tattier against a backdrop of unnerving opulence, was in an ungainly heap at the foot of a four-poster which was trigged out with the most fantastic cream-coloured gauzy drapes.
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