In The Count's Bed: The Count's Blackmail Bargain / The French Count's Pregnant Bride / The Italian Count's Baby. Catherine Spencer
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was an odd silence, then he said, ‘Mia bella, if you and Paolo want each other, then what else matters?’ He swung himself off the lounger, as if suddenly impatient. ‘And now it is time we went up to the house for some lunch.’
Once again only two places had been set for the meal, which, this time, was being served in the coolness of the dining room. And her seat, Laura observed uneasily, had been moved up the table to within touching distance of his. It made serving the food more convenient, but at the same time it seemed as if she was constantly being thrust into close proximity with him—suddenly an honoured guest rather than an unwanted visitor—and she found this disturbing for all kinds of reasons.
But in spite of her mental reservations, her morning in the fresh air had certainly sharpened her appetite, and she ate her way through a bowl of vegetable soup, and a substantial helping of pasta. But her eyes widened in genuine shock when Guillermo carried the next course—a dish of cod baked with potatoes and parmesan—to the table.
‘More food?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t believe it.’
Alessio looked amused. ‘And there is still cheese and dessert to follow. You are going to be an Italian’s wife, Laura. You must learn to eat well in the middle of the day.’
‘But how can anyone do any work after all this?’
‘No one does.’ Alessio handed her a plate of food. ‘Has Paolo not introduced you to the charms of the siesta?’ He kept his voice light with an effort, knowing fiercely that he wanted to be the one to share with her those quiet, shuttered afternoon hours. To sleep with her wrapped in his arms, then wake to make slow, lazy love.
‘We rest and work later when it is cooler,’ he added, refilling her glass with wine.
‘I think Paolo is used to London hours now,’ she said, looking down at her plate.
‘But he will not always work there, you understand.’ He gave her a meditative look. ‘How would you like living in Turin—or Milan?’
‘I haven’t thought about it.’
‘Or,’ he said slowly, ‘it might even be Rome.’
She said, ‘Oh, I expect I’d adjust—somehow.’
Except, she thought, that it will never happen, and began to make herself eat.
She wished with sudden desperation that she could confide in him. Tell him exactly why she was here, and how Paolo had persuaded her into this charade.
But there was no guarantee that he would understand, and he might not appreciate being made a fool of, and having his hospitality abused in such a way.
And although he and his aunt were plainly not on the best of terms, he might disapprove of the older woman being deliberately deceived.
Besides, and more importantly, thought Laura, it would render her even more vulnerable where he was concerned, and she could not afford that.
She’d come this far, she told herself rather wanly. She might as well go on to the bitter end—whenever that might be.
His voice broke across her reverie. ‘What are you thinking?’
Quickly she forced a smile. Spoke eagerly. ‘Oh, just how good it will be to see Paolo again. We don’t seem to have been alone together for ages.’ She managed a note of anxiety. ‘You really do think you’ll be able to persuade your aunt?’
‘Yes,’ Alessio said quietly, after a pause. ‘Yes, I do.’
And they ate the rest of the meal in silence.
Siestas were probably fine in theory, thought Laura. In practice, they didn’t seem to work quite so well. Or not for her, anyway.
She lay staring up at the ceiling fan, listening to its soft swish as it rotated, and decided she had never felt so wide awake. She needed something to occupy her.
Her book was finished, its ending as predictable as the rest of the story, and she had no wish to lie about thinking. Because her mind only seemed to drift in one direction—towards the emotional minefield presided over by the Count Alessio Ramontella.
And it was ludicrous—pathetic—to allow herself to think about a man who, a week ago, had been only a name on the paperwork from the Arleschi Bank’s head office. A distant figurehead, and nothing more.
And no matter how attractive he might be, that was how he would always remain—remote. No part of any world that she lived in, except for these few dreamlike, unforgettable days.
Except that she had to forget them—and pretty damned quickly too—as soon as she returned to England, if not before.
She slid off the bed. She’d have a shower, she decided, and wash her hair. She’d brought no dryer with her, but twenty minutes or so with a hairbrush in the courtyard’s afternoon sun would serve the same purpose.
Ten minutes later, demurely wrapped in the primly pretty white cotton robe she’d brought with her, and her hair swathed into a towel, she opened the shutters and stepped outside into the heated shimmer of the day.
She was greeted immediately with a torrent of yapping as Caio, who was lying in the shade of the stone bench, rose to condemn her intrusion.
Laura halted in faint dismay. Up to now, although he was in the adjoining room, he hadn’t disturbed her too much with his barking. But she’d assumed that the Signora had taken him with her to the other end of the house to share her sick room vigil. She certainly hadn’t bargained for finding him here in sole and aggressive occupation.
‘Good dog,’ she said without conviction. ‘Look, I just want to get my hair dry. There’s enough room for us both. Don’t give me a hard time, now.’
Still barking, he advanced towards her, then almost jerked to a halt, and she realised he was actually tied to the bench. And, next to where he’d been lying, there was a dish with some dry-looking food on it, and, what was worse, an empty water bowl.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ She spoke aloud in real anger. Caio would never feature on any ‘favourite pets’ list of hers, but he deserved better than to be left tied up and thirsty.
She moved round to the other end of the bench, out of the range of his display of sharp teeth, and grabbed the bowl. She took it back to her bathroom, and filled it to the brim with cold water.
When she reappeared, Caio had retreated back under the bench. He growled at her approach, but his heart clearly wasn’t in it, and the beady, suspicious eyes were fixed on the bowl. She put it on the ground, then, to demonstrate that the suspicion was mutual, used her hairbrush to push the water near enough for the tethered dog to reach it. He gave a slight whimper, then plunged his muzzle into the bowl, filling the silence with the sound of his frantic lapping.
When he’d finished every drop, he raised his head and looked at her in unmistakable appeal.
I could lose a hand here, Laura thought, but Caio made no attempt to snap as she retrieved the bowl and refilled it for him.
‘You poor little devil,’ she said gently as he drank again. ‘I bet she’s forgotten all about you.’
The leash used to tie him was a long one, but Laura realised that it had become twined round the leg of the bench, reducing his freedom considerably.
She could, she thought, untangle it, if he’d let her. But would he allow her close enough to unclip the leash from his collar, without doing her some damage?
Well, she could but try. She certainly couldn’t leave him here like this. She could remember hearing once that looking dogs in the eye made them more aggressive, so she seated herself at the far end of the bench, and moved towards him by degrees. When she was in his space, she clenched her hand into a fist and offered it to him, trying to be confident about it, and talking to him quietly at the same time. His initial sniff was reluctant, but he didn’t bite, and she tried stroking his head, which he permitted warily.