His Reluctant Bride. Sara Craven
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in a casual blue denim skirt, topping it with a crisp white cotton shirt, and sliding her feet into flat brown leather sandals. She brushed her hair back from her face and secured it at the nape of her neck with a silver barette, and hung small blue enamel cornflowers on delicate silver chains from her earlobes.
She had some work to do with the blusher and concealer she kept for emergencies, or her mother would guess something was wrong. And Polly had enough bad news to give her without mentioning Sandro’s shock reappearance in her life.
But that was all over, so there was no need to cause her further distress, she told herself firmly, applying her lipstick and attempting an experimental smile which, somehow, turned into a wry grimace.
Positive thinking, she adjured herself, and, grabbing her bag, she left.
The house seemed unusually quiet when she let herself in, and Polly paused, frowning a little. Surely her mother hadn’t taken Charlie out somewhere, she thought, groaning inwardly. Was this the latest move in the battle of wits between them? She hoped not.
She kept her voice deliberately cheerful. ‘Mum—Dad—are you there?’
‘We’re in the living room.’ It was her mother’s voice, high-pitched and strained.
Her frown deepening, Polly pushed open the door and walked in.
It wasn’t a particularly large room, and her instant impression was that it had shrunk still further in some strange way.
The first person she saw was her mother, sitting in the chair beside the empty fireplace, her face a mask of tension, and Charlie clasped tightly on her lap.
The second was a complete stranger, stockily built with black hair and olive skin, who rose politely from the sofa at her entrance.
And the third, unbelievably, was Sandro, standing silently in the window alcove, as if he had been carved out of granite.
For a moment the room seemed to reel around her, then she steadied herself, her hands clenching into fists, her nails scoring her palms. She was not, under any circumstances, going to faint again.
She said hoarsely, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Is it not obvious?’ The topaz eyes were as fierce as a leopard’s, and as dangerous. His voice was ice. ‘I have come for my son. And please do not try to deny his parentage,’ he added bitingly. ‘Because no court in the world would believe you. He is my image.’ He paused. ‘But I warn you that I am prepared to undergo DNA testing to prove paternity, if it becomes necessary.’
Polly stared at him, her stomach churning, her heart pounding against her ribs. ‘You must be mad.’
‘I was.’ His smile was grim. ‘Before I discovered quite what a treacherous little bitch you are, Paola mia. But now I am sane again, and I want my child.’
Her low voice shook. ‘Over my dead body.’
He said softly, ‘The way I feel at this moment, that could easily be arranged. Do not provoke me any further.’
‘He’s going to take him away from us,’ her mother wailed suddenly. ‘Take him to Italy. I’ll never see him again.’
Horror caught Polly by the throat. She turned on Sandro. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘And what is there to stop me?’ His glance challenged her.
‘It—it’s kidnapping,’ Polly flung at him. She took a breath. ‘Although I suppose that’s an everyday occurrence in your world.’
And it was more common than she wanted to admit in her own, she thought numbly. There’d been numerous headlines in the papers over the past few years where children had been snatched and taken abroad by a parent. They called them ‘tug of love’ babies …
She looked with scorn at the other man, who had got quietly to his feet. ‘And what are you—another of his tame thugs?’
His brows rose. ‘My name is Alberto Molena, signorina, and I am a lawyer. I act for the marchese in this matter.’
Polly gave him a scornful glance. ‘Don’t you mean you’re his consigliere?’ she queried with distaste.
He paused, sending Sandro a surprised look. ‘May I suggest that you sit down, Signorina Fairfax, and remain calm? It would be better too if the little boy was taken to another room. I think he’s becoming frightened.’
‘I have a better suggestion,’ Polly flared. ‘Why don’t you and your dubious client get out of here, and leave us alone?’
His tone was still quiet, still courteous. ‘I’m afraid that isn’t possible. You must understand that your child is the first-born son, and thus the heir of the Marchese Valessi, and that he intends to apply through the courts for sole custody of the boy. Although you will be permitted proper access, naturally.’
He looked at Charlie, who was round-eyed, his knuckles pushed into his mouth. ‘But, believe me, it would be better if the little boy was spared any more upset from this discussion. We have a trained nanny waiting to look after him.’
He walked to the door and called. A pleasant-faced girl in a smart maroon uniform came in and removed Charlie gently but firmly from his grandmother’s almost frenzied grasp, talking to him softly as she carried him out of the room.
‘Where’s she taking him?’ Polly demanded shakily.
‘Into the garden,’ the lawyer told her, adding less reassuringly, ‘For the time being.’
She swallowed convulsively, turning to the silent man by the window. ‘Sandro.’ Her voice was pleading, all pride forgotten. ‘Please don’t do this. Don’t try to take him away from me.’
‘I have already been deprived of the first two years of his life,’ he returned implacably. ‘There will be no more separation.’ His lip curled. ‘How remiss of you, cara mia, not to inform me of his existence. Even last night, when we talked so intimately about your living arrangements, you said nothing—gave no hint that you had borne me a child. Did you really think you could keep him hidden forever?’
She moistened her dry lips. ‘How—how did you find out?’
He shrugged. ‘I employed an agency to trace you. They suggested broadening the scope of their enquiries.’ His voice was expressionless. ‘I received their full report last night after you left. It made fascinating reading.’
She stared down at the carpet. ‘So there was someone watching me when I got back,’ she said almost inaudibly.
‘Can you wonder?’ Sandro returned contemptuously. ‘I have a beautiful son, Paola, and you deliberately barred me from his life. You preferred to struggle alone than ask me for help—or give me the joy of knowing I was a father.’ His gaze was cold, level. ‘How can such a thing be forgiven?’
‘It was over between us.’ Polly lifted her chin. ‘What did you expect me to do—beg?’
‘I think,’ he said softly, ‘that is something you may have to learn for the future.’
There was a silence. Polly could hear her mother weeping softly.
‘No court in the world,’ she said huskily, ‘would take a baby away from his mother.’
‘Yet it is his grandmother who has the care of him each day.’ His tone was harsh. ‘I was watching when you came into the room, and he did not try to go to you. Is he even aware that you are his mother?’
Polly gasped, and her head went back as if he had slapped her.
She said unsteadily, ‘I go out to work to support us both. As the contessa has probably told you, the hours can be long and difficult. But I needed the money, so I had no choice.’
‘Yes,’ he said, his voice quiet and cold. ‘You did. You could have chosen me.