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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indeed, he was himself.
Maybe that had been the initial attraction between them, he thought, with an inner grimace. Like calling to like.
Suddenly he felt jaded and restless. The heat of Rome, the noise of the traffic seemed to press upon him, stifling him. He found himself thinking of windswept crags where clouds drifted. He longed to breathe the dark, earthy scents of the forests that clothed the lower slopes, and wake in the night to moonlit silence.
He needed, he thought, to distance himself.
And he could have all that, and more. After all, he was overdue for a vacation. Some re-scheduling at the bank, and he could be gone, he told himself as Vittoria pressed herself against him, murmuring seductively.
He wanted her out of the appartamento, too, he thought grimly, and realised he would have felt the same even if he hadn’t been threatened by a visit from his aunt.
Gently but firmly, he edged her out of the bedroom, and along the wide passage to where Giorgio was waiting, his face expressionless, just as the entrance bell jangled discordantly at the other end of the flat.
‘I’ll get that. You take the signora to her cab.’ Alessio freed himself from the clutching, crimson-tipped fingers, murmuring that of course he would think of her, would call her—but only if he felt it was safe.
He paused to watch her leaving, her parting glance both suspicious and disconsolate, then drew a deep breath of thanksgiving, raking the hair she’d so playfully dishevelled back from his face with impatient fingers.
The bell rang again, imperative in its summons, and Alessio knew he could hardly delay his response any longer. Sighing, he went to confront the enemy at the gates.
‘Zia Lucrezia,’ he greeted the tall, grey-haired woman waiting on his doorstep, her elegant shoe beating a tattoo against the stone. ‘What a charming surprise.’
Her glance was minatory as she swept past him. ‘Don’t be a hypocrite, Alessio. It does not become you. I was not expecting to be welcome.’ She paused for a moment, listening to the distant sound of a car starting up, and the rear door closing with a clang. ‘Ah, so your other visitor has safely made her escape,’ she added with a sour smile. ‘I regret spoiling your plans for the day, nephew.’
He said gently, ‘I rarely make plans, my dear aunt. I prefer to wait and see what delights the day offers.’ He escorted her into the salotto, one swift, sweeping glance assuring him that it had been restored to its usual pristine condition. The tell-tale wineglasses had been removed, together with the empty bottles, and the grappa that had followed had also been put away. As had the scattered cards from last night’s impromptu session of strip poker.
And the windows to the balcony stood innocently open to admit the morning sun, and dispel any lingering traces of alcohol fumes, and Vittoria’s rather heavy perfume.
Making a mental note to increase Giorgio’s salary, he conducted the Signora to a sofa, and seated himself in the chair opposite.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you, Zia Lucrezia?’
She was silent for a moment, then she said curtly, ‘I wish to speak to you about Paolo.’
He looked across at her in frank surprise. Giorgio’s arrival with the tall silver pot of coffee, and the ensuing ritual of pouring the coffee and handing the tiny sweet biscuits, gave him a chance to gather his thoughts.
When they were alone again, he said softly, ‘You amaze me, cara Zia. I am hardly in a position to offer advice. You have always allowed me to understand that my example to your only son is an abomination.’
‘Don’t pretend to be a fool,’ the Signora said shortly. ‘Of course, I don’t want advice.’ She hesitated again. ‘However, I do find that I need your practical assistance in a small matter.’
Alessio swallowed some coffee. ‘I hope this is not a request to transfer Paolo back to Rome. I gather he is making progress in London.’
‘That,’ said Paolo’s mother glacially, ‘is a matter of opinion. And, anyway, he is returning to Rome quite soon, to spend his vacation with me.’
Alessio’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘The idea doesn’t appeal to you? Yet I remember you complaining to me when we met at Princess Dorelli’s reception that you didn’t see him often enough.’
There was another, longer silence, then the Signora said, as if the words were being wrung out of her, ‘He is not coming alone.’
Alessio shrugged. ‘Well, why should he?’ he countered. ‘Let me remind you, dear aunt, that my cousin is no longer a boy.’
‘Precisely.’ The Signora poured herself more coffee. ‘He is old enough, in fact, to be a husband. And let me remind you, Alessio, that it has always been the intention of both families that Paolo should marry Beatrice Manzone.’
Alessio’s brows snapped together. ‘I know there was some such plan when they were children,’ he admitted slowly. ‘But now—now they are adults, and—things change. People change.’
She looked back at him stonily. ‘Except for you, it seems, my dear nephew. You remain—unregenerate, with your boats and your fast cars. With your gambling and your womanising.’
He said gently, ‘Mea culpa, Zia Lucrezia, but we are not here to discuss my manifold faults.’ He paused. ‘So, Paolo has a girlfriend. It’s hardly a mortal sin, and, anyway, to my certain knowledge, she is not the first. He will probably have many more before he decides to settle down. So, what is the problem?’
‘Signor Manzone is an old friend,’ said the Signora. ‘Naturally, he wishes his daughter’s future to be settled. And soon.’
‘And is this what Beatrice herself wants?’
‘She and my Paolo grew up together. She has adored him all her life.’
Alessio shrugged again. ‘Then maybe she’ll be prepared to wait until he has finished sowing his wild oats,’ he returned indifferently.
‘Hmm.’ The Signora’s tone was icy. ‘Then it is fortunate she is not waiting for you.’
‘Fortunate for us both,’ Alessio said gently. ‘The Signorina Manzone is infinitely too sweet for my taste.’
‘I am relieved to hear it. I did not know you bothered to discriminate between one foolish young woman and the next.’
As so often when he talked to his aunt, Alessio could feel his jaw clenching. He kept his voice even. ‘Perhaps you should remember, Zia, that my father, your own brother, was far from a saint until he married my mother. Nonna Ramontella often told me she wore out her knees, praying for him.’ And for you, he added silently.
‘What a pity your grandmother is no longer here to perform the same service for you.’ There was a pause, and, when she spoke again, the Signora’s voice was slightly less acerbic. ‘But we should not quarrel, Alessio. Your life is your own, whereas Paolo has—obligations, which he must be made to recognise. Therefore this—relazione amorosa of his must end, quanta prima tanto meglio.’
Alessio frowned again. ‘But sooner may not be better for Paolo,’ he pointed out. ‘They may be genuinely in love. After all, this is the twenty-first century, not the fifteenth.’
The Signora waved a dismissive hand. ‘The girl is completely unsuitable. Some English sciattona that he met in a bar in London,’ she added with distaste. ‘From what I have gleaned from my fool of a son, she has neither family nor money.’
‘Whereas Beatrice Manzone has both, of course,’ Alessio said drily. ‘Especially money.’
‘That may not weigh with you,’ the Signora said with angry energy. ‘But it matters very much to Paolo.’
‘Unless I break my neck playing polo,’ Alessio drawled. ‘Which would