The Helen Bianchin And The Regency Scoundrels And Scandals Collections. Louise Allen
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She swore softly, and saw her daughter’s eyes dilate even further, then she collected the receiver and prepared to play polite.
‘Marcello.’
‘Nicki said you’re unwell.’
Whatever happened to hello? She kept her voice even. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Have you seen a doctor?’
‘I’m a pharmacist, remember? I do have a reasonable knowledge of ailments and appropriate medications.’
‘Are you pregnant?’
The query came out of left field, and surprised her … although, on reflection, she had to wonder why.
‘I’m fine,’ Shannay reiterated, refusing to fabricate or confirm, then she handed the receiver back to Nicki and exited the room on the pretext of delivering a small stack of folded clothes to the bedroom.
She could hear Nicki’s voice in the background, and she moved into the bathroom and began running Nicki’s bath.
Employing delaying tactics, she rearranged items on the marble-topped vanity until Nicki entered the bathroom.
‘Why didn’t you want to talk to Daddy?’
‘We talk via email,’ she explained carefully as she helped undress her daughter. Brief sentences conveying updates on Nicki.
It took a few days to gather the courage to arrange an appointment with an obstetrician, and she didn’t know whether to smile or cry following his examination.
‘Congratulations, my dear. You’re about halfway through your first trimester.’
The remainder of the day passed in a daze, and she settled Nicki with Anna, then drove to the pharmacy, praying that if they weren’t busy she might be able to persuade John to let her finish early.
Shortly after nine she was on the point of considering a tea-break when the electronic buzzer sounded as someone entered the pharmacy.
Shannay glanced up towards the entrance with a ready smile in place … and froze. For walking towards her was the last person she expected to see.
The tall, broad-shouldered male frame was achingly familiar.
Attired in black jeans, a white collarless shirt undone at the neck and a butter-soft black leather collarless jacket, Marcello bore a distinct resemblance to a dark warrior.
Why was he here … and why now?
All her fine body hairs lifted in sensory recognition, and there was nothing she could do to prevent the surge of blood pulsing through her veins.
It was a magnetic reaction and, try as she might, she was unable to prevent the way she was drawn to him.
His eyes captured and held her own, his features sculptured into almost savage lines, his sensual mouth bracketed by slashing grooves.
He looked dangerous, his eyes almost obsidian in their darkness as he drew close.
Shannay’s emotional heart went into meltdown, rendering her almost boneless as she experienced a mix of fear and elation, hope and dismay.
He didn’t glance towards John when he spoke, yet the words were for him alone.
‘My wife is ceasing work, as of now.’
It wasn’t a question, merely a statement of his intent.
Shannay looked at him in shocked surprise. ‘You can’t just walk in here and—’
‘You’re leaving.’
‘The hell I am.’
‘You can walk, or be carried. It’s immaterial.’
John started forward. ‘Now look here—’
Marcello speared him with a forbidding glance. ‘I understand you regard Shannay as a friend. But this is between me and my wife.’ He shifted his attention back to Shannay. ‘I suggest you collect your keys.’
‘No.’ The next instant she gave a startled yelp as he reached forward and lifted her over one shoulder, then he indicated the room at the rear of the pharmacy. ‘Shannay’s belongings are there?’
What was it between men? Silent signals, male recognition? Whatever, she became aware John retrieved her bag and passed it into Marcello’s possession.
‘Thank you.’ He turned towards the door. ‘We’ll be in touch.’ Then he walked calmly outside, paused beside a limousine, murmured something to the driver, then bundled her into the rear seat.
‘What in hell do you think you’re doing?’ Her voice held restrained fury as he leant across and fitted her safety belt before tending to his own.
‘Taking you to a hotel.’
Her face lit with scandalised disbelief. ‘No, you’re not!’ She leaned forward. ‘Driver, take me to Applecross.’ She supplied the street address, and caught a glimpse of familiar features in the rear-vision mirror and was unable to hide her disbelief. ‘Carlo?’
‘I’m sorry. I have orders.’
Shannay turned towards Marcello and lashed out at him with her hand, uncaring where it landed … as long as it did.
Except he caught it mid-flight, and pressed their joined hands down to his side.
‘Nicki is asleep, Anna is happy to stay with her overnight, and there’s a bag containing a change of clothes in the boot.’
He’d already been to the apartment?
‘Why?’
‘I imagine it’s self-explanatory,’ Marcello drawled, and she curled her fingers into his, then dug her nails in hard.
‘You can’t do this.’
She caught a flash of white teeth as he smiled in the dim light. ‘So—bite me.’
She wanted to, badly. And she would, the instant they were alone. Meantime she refused to speak to him, or even look at him during the drive into the city.
Carlo pulled into the entrance of one of the city’s luxurious hotels, popped the boot, retrieved two overnight bags and handed them to the hovering concierge.
‘I’ll call you in the morning,’ Marcello indicated as Carlo opened the rear passenger door for Shannay to alight.
For a moment she considered refusing to budge, except making a fuss would gain nothing at all.
‘I hate you for this.’ Her voice was little more than a sibilant whisper as he led her through the foyer to a bank of lifts.
‘Let go my hand,’ Shannay demanded tightly when they alighted on a high floor.
‘Soon.’
He was taller, and indisputably faster on his feet … so where did he think she’d escape to? She threw him a dark look and stood in mutinous silence as he inserted the card, freed the lock, then drew her inside.
With economical movements he deposited both bags, removed the do not disturb tag and hung it outside the door, then closed the door and slid home the safety chain.
‘You’d better have a good reason for behaving like a …’ Words temporarily failed her. ‘Barbaric beast,’ she added with considerable heat.
He was too controlled, his eyes too impossibly dark, except she was too angry to heed their caution.
‘Why don’t you sit down?’
‘I don’t need to sit.’
Marcello shrugged out of his leather jacket and threw it over the back of a nearby chair.
‘A drink? A cup of tea, perhaps?’
He