CHAPTER FOUR

      ‘IT’S ALL OUT in the open now, which is much better,’ Isa told Belle comfortably. ‘Now we all know where we stand.’

      Belle dashed a stray curl from her hot brow with a forearm, finished wiping the work surface and dried her hands. She had indulged in an orgy of cleaning since returning to the Lodge. She had needed a physical outlet to work off her excess energy. Her grandmother always reacted to stressful situations with calm and acceptance and when Belle had mentioned worst-case scenarios in the homeless field, Isa had quietly reminded her that it would be a few weeks before Bruno and Donetta returned home for the summer and that that was ample time in which to find somewhere to rent. Belle had had to swallow back the thorny question of how she would pay rent because she didn’t have the money and Isa didn’t either.

      Tag began to bark noisily a split second before the doorbell went. Belle walked out to the hall with Tag bouncing excitably at her heels.

      Cristo Ravelli stood on the step, six feet four inches tall at the very least and Belle had no heels on, so he towered over her, radiating raw energy and power. His lean, darkly beautiful face was hard and forbidding. ‘Miss Brophy?’

      ‘Belle,’ she corrected curtly.

      Cristo looked his fill from the mane of colourful curls tumbling round her shoulders to the porcelain-pale delicate features that provided the perfect frame for grass-green eyes and a full pink mouth. Out of disguise and bare of the tacky make-up she was absolutely breathtaking.

      Belle flushed and parted her lips to ask what he wanted and her grip on the door loosened, allowing Tag to take advantage and dart outside to spring an attack on the visitor.

      Cristo got off the step fast as the little dog snarled and attacked his ankles. Belle squatted down, saying not very effectively, ‘No, Tag, no!’

      Cristo received the impression that the dog was welcome to eat him alive if he chose to do so.

      ‘Grab Tag!’ an older woman snapped from the hall.

      Belle gathered the frantic little dog into her arms. ‘I’m sorry. He’s suspicious of men.’

      ‘Come in, Mr Ravelli,’ Isa Kelly invited politely over her granddaughter’s crouching figure.

      Belle’s head came up fast, green eyes stormy. ‘I wasn’t going to ask—’

      ‘Mr Ravelli is a guest,’ her grandmother decreed. ‘He will visit and you will talk like civilised people.’

      Tag growled at Cristo from the security of Belle’s arms. ‘Your father kicked him...so did mine,’ she confided grudgingly. ‘That’s why he doesn’t like men. He’s too old now to change his ways.’

      The older woman studied Cristo, hostility creeping into her voice, despite the civility of her words.

      Cristo strolled into a hideous lounge with pink walls, hot-pink sofas and embellished with so many pink frills and ostentatious fake-flower arrangements that it was as if his worst nightmare had come to life. ‘I’ve never liked dogs,’ he confided.

      A curly-haired toddler clamped both arms round his leg before he could sit down.

      ‘No, Franco,’ Belle scolded.

      ‘Or kids,’ Cristo added unapologetically.

      Franco looked up at him. He had Gaetano’s eyes and Cristo found that sight so unnerving that he sat down with the kid still clamped awkwardly to one leg.

      ‘Man,’ Franco pronounced with an air of discovery and satisfaction.

      ‘He’s a wee bit starved of male attention,’ Belle breathed, setting down the dog to grab the toddler in his place and convey him struggling and loudly protesting into the kitchen with her.

      ‘Cristo drinks black coffee,’ her grandmother told her from the doorway.

      Belle gritted her teeth but she knew that the older woman was talking sense; she did have to talk to Cristo and, having set out her expectations, at least he already knew her plans.

      Cristo ignored the dog snarling at him from below the coffee table. It was little and grey around the muzzle and should have known better in his opinion than to embark on a battle it couldn’t possibly win. Cristo never wasted his time on lost causes or thankless challenges but Belle would, no doubt, have been pleased to learn that her threat had focused his powerful intellect as nothing else could have done.

      The instant the tray of coffee and biscuits arrived, Cristo rose back upright, feeling suffocated amidst all that horrible pinkness. ‘I don’t want you to take the question of the children’s parentage into court.’

      ‘Tough,’ Belle said succinctly, not one whit perturbed by his statement because she could hardly have expected him to be supportive on that score. ‘My brothers and sisters have been ignored and passed over far too many times. I want them to have what they’re entitled to.’

      ‘A few years ago, Gaetano sold up most of his assets and he salted away the proceeds in overseas trusts, which no Irish court will be able to access,’ Cristo volunteered. ‘With the exception of the sale of the Mayhill estate there is very little cash for you to demand a share of on behalf of your siblings.’

      ‘I’m not looking for a fortune for them.’

      ‘I have a better idea,’ Cristo told her.

      ‘I imagine that you always have a better idea,’ Belle quipped helplessly, leaning back against the kitchen door with defensively folded arms while she wondered how any man could look so fit and vital clad in a tailored business suit that belonged in a boardroom.

      She was slim as a whip in her tight faded jeans and an off-the-shoulder black tee that revealed an entrancing glimpse of a narrow white shoulder bisected by a black strap that Cristo savoured, glorying in the fact that he was now free to appreciate her glowing beauty while he speculated as to whether or not she was that pale all over, her skin in vibrant contrast to her bright hair and eyes. The instant he developed an erection, he regretted that evocative thought.

      ‘I will make a settlement on your siblings in compensation for their not pursuing their rights through the courts,’ Cristo delivered, half turning away from her to look out of the window overlooking the drive.

      ‘We don’t want Ravelli charity,’ Belle traded, lifting her chin.

      ‘But it wouldn’t be charity. As you said, they’re my father’s children and I should make good on that for all our sakes. My family would find a court case embarrassing,’ Cristo admitted tight-mouthed.

      Belle didn’t shift an inch. ‘Why should I care about that?’

      ‘Publicity is a double-edged sword,’ Cristo warned her. ‘The media loves sleaze. Your mother won’t emerge well from the story. At least three of the children were born while Gaetano was still married.’

      At that blunt reminder, a veil of colour burned up below Belle’s fair complexion. ‘That can’t be helped and Mum can’t be hurt now. I have to consider the children’s future. I want them to have the right to use the Ravelli name.’

      ‘No court that I know of has the ability to bestow that right when no marriage took place between the parents,’ Cristo countered, exasperated by her pig-headedness. ‘You’re being unreasonable. If you keep this