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      About the Author

      SARA CRAVEN was born in South Devon and grew up in a house full of books. She worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders, and started writing for Mills & Boon in 1975. When not writing, she enjoys films, music, theatre, cooking, and eating in good restaurants. She now lives near her family in Warwickshire. Sara has appeared as a contestant on the former Channel Four game show Fifteen to One, and in 1997 was the UK television Mastermind champion. In 2005 she was a member of the Romantic Novelists’ team on University Challenge – the Professionals.

      CHAPTER ONE

      THE glass doors of the Clinica San Francesco whispered open, and every head turned to observe the man who came striding out of the darkness into the reception area.

      If Lorenzo Santangeli was aware of their scrutiny, or if he sensed that there were far more people hanging around than could be deemed strictly necessary at that time of night, and most of them female, he gave no sign.

      His lean, six-foot-tall body was clad in the elegance of evening clothes, and his ruffled shirt was open at the throat, his black tie thrust negligently into the pocket of his dinner jacket.

      One of the loitering nurses, staring at his dishevelled dark hair, murmured to her colleague with unknowing accuracy that he looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed, and the other girl sighed wistfully in agreement.

      He was not classically handsome, but his thin face, with its high cheekbones, heavy-lidded golden-brown eyes and that mobile, faintly sensual mouth, which looked as if it could curl in a sneer and smile in heart-stopping allure with equal ease, had a dynamism that went beyond mere attractiveness. And every woman looking at him felt it like a tug to the senses.

      The fact that he was frowning, and his lips were set in a grim line, did nothing to reduce the force of his blatantly masculine appeal.

      He looked, it was felt, just as a loving son should when called unexpectedly to the bedside of a sick father.

      Then, as the clinic’s director, Signor Martelli, emerged from his office to greet him, the crowd, hurriedly realising it should be elsewhere, began to fade swiftly and unobtrusively away.

      Renzo wasted no time on niceties. He said, his voice sharp with anxiety, ‘My father—how is he?’

      ‘Resting comfortably,’ the older man responded. ‘Fortunately an ambulance was summoned immediately when it happened, so there was no delay in providing the appropriate treatment.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘It was not a serious attack, and we expect the Marchese to make a complete recovery.’

      Renzo expelled a sigh of relief. ‘May I see him?’

      ‘Of course. I will take you to him.’ Signor Martelli pressed a button to summon a lift to the upper floors. He gave his companion a sidelong glance. ‘It is, of course, important that your father avoids stress, and I am told that he has been fretting a little while awaiting your arrival. I am glad that you are here now to set his mind at rest.’

      ‘It is a relief to me also, signore.’ The tone was courteous, but it had a distancing effect. So far, it seemed to warn, and no further.

      The clinic director had heard that Signor Lorenzo could be formidable, and this was all the confirmation he needed, he thought, relapsing into discreet silence.

      Renzo had been expecting to find his father’s private room peopled by consultants and quietly shod attendants, with Guillermo Santangeli under sedation and hooked up to monitors and drips.

      But instead his father was alone, propped up by pillows, wearing his own striking maroon silk pyjamas and placidly turning over the pages of a magazine on international finance. Taking the place of machinery was a large and fragrant floral arrangement on a side table.

      As Renzo checked, astonished, in the doorway, Guillermo peered at him over his glasses. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Finalmente.’ He paused. ‘You were not easy to trace, my son.’

      Fretting, Renzo thought, might be an exaggeration, but the slight edge to his words was unmistakable. He came forward slowly, his smile combining ruefulness and charm in equal measure. ‘Nevertheless, Papa, I am here now. And so, thankfully, are you. I was told you had collapsed with a heart attack.’

      ‘It was what they call “an incident”.’ Guillermo shrugged. ‘Alarming at the time, but soon dealt with. I am to rest here for a couple of days, and then I will be allowed to return home.’ He sighed. ‘But I have to take medication, and cigars and brandy have been forbidden—for a while at least.’

      ‘Well, the cigars, at any rate, must be counted as a blessing,’ Renzo said teasingly as he took his father’s hand and kissed it lightly.

      His father pulled a face. ‘That is also Ottavia’s opinion. She has just left. I have her to thank for the pyjamas and the flowers, also for summoning help so promptly. We had just finished dinner when I became ill.’

      Renzo’s brows lifted. ‘Then I am grateful to her.’ He pulled up a chair and paused. ‘I hope Signora Alesconi did not go on my account.’

      ‘She is a woman of supreme tact,’ said his father. ‘And she knew we would wish to talk privately. There is no other reason. I have assured her that you no longer regard our relationship as a betrayal of your mother’s memory.’

      Renzo’s smiled twisted a little. ‘Grazie. You were right to say so.’ He hesitated. ‘So may I now expect to have a new stepmother? If you wished to—formalise the situation I—I would welcome …’

      Guillermo lifted a hand. ‘There is no question of that. We have fully discussed the matter, but decided that we both value our independence too highly and remain content as we are.’ He removed his glasses and put them carefully on the locker beside his bed. ‘And while we are on the subject of marriage, where is your wife?’

      Well, I walked headlong into that, thought Renzo, cursing under his breath. Aloud, he said, ‘She is in England, Papa—as I think you know.’

      ‘Ah, yes.’ His father gave a meditative nod. ‘Where she went shortly after your honeymoon, I believe, and has remained ever since.’

      Renzo’s mouth tightened. ‘I felt—a period of adjustment might be helpful.’

      ‘A curious decision, perhaps,’ said Guillermo. ‘Considering the pressing reasons for your marriage. You are the last of the line, my dear Lorenzo, and as you approached the age of thirty, without the least sign of abandoning your bachelor life and settling down, it became imperative to remind you that you had a duty to produce a legitimate heir to carry on the Santangeli name—both privately and professionally.’

      He paused. ‘You seemed to accept that. And with no other candidate in mind, you also consented to marry the girl your late mother always intended for you—her beloved goddaughter Marisa Brendon. I wish to be sure that advancing age has not damaged my remembrance, and that I have the details of this agreement correct, you understand?’ he added blandly.

      ‘Yes.’ Renzo set his teeth. Advancing