His Reluctant Bride. Sara Craven
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to her.
That was what she needed to remember above all. Anything else would be a disaster, because, as those few moments in the darkness had proved all over again, it was going to be difficult to remain immune to the devastating allure of his sexuality.
But that, she thought, had always been her downfall from their first meeting. She had been too much in love, too blinded by the passion and glamour of him to ask the right questions and demand answers that made sense.
Her first major surprise had been his brilliant command of English, but when she’d asked him about it he’d simply said he’d had good teachers.
Polly had wondered, with a pang, whether he meant other women, and decided not to probe any further. Now she suspected that he’d gone to school in England, and probably university too, either here or in America.
He’d told her too that he worked at the Grand Hotel Comadora, but she’d never gone there to see him because its sheer expensive exclusivity discouraged casual visitors. The entrances were controlled by security guards, and the staff were subject to strict rules, so she’d stayed away. Otherwise she’d have soon found out that he wasn’t simply an employee, but the owner. And that had been the last thing he wanted her to know.
Her own naïveté made her cringe now. The way she’d trusted him with all her small, loving dreams of their future.
‘I’d like a tiny house,’ she told him once. ‘In one of the villages high above the sea, with a terraced garden, and its own lemon tree.’
‘Mm.’ He’d stroked her hair back from her love-flushed face with gentle fingers. ‘And will you make me limoncello from our tree?’
He was talking about the lethally potent liqueur that was brewed locally, and she’d laughed.
‘Well, I could try.’
God, what a fool she’d been, and how he must have been secretly amused at her, knowing full well that he was going to dump her once their warm, rapturous summer together was over.
He’d found himself an inexperienced virgin, and cynically turned her into an instrument for his pleasure.
I bet he couldn’t believe his own luck. I must have been the perfect mistress, she thought, wincing. Easily duped, and ecstatically wanton. He didn’t even have to kiss me. The sound of his voice—the warmth of his skin as he stood next to me were enough.
And, as she’d discovered tonight, they still were.
So how was she going to deal with the bleak sterility of the future that awaited her in Italy? A wife who was not a wife, she thought, living in a house that would never be her home. Her only link with Sandro, the child he had made in her body. A child, at the same time, who had driven them further apart than any years or miles could have done.
Sandro blamed her for keeping her pregnancy from him, but what else could she have done when she’d been dismissed so summarily from his life? And the accompanying threat might have been veiled, but it was real enough to have kept her from Italy ever since. Or until yesterday, at least.
And that had been all his own doing.
And now amazingly she was going to return to the Campania at his side. Somehow, she was going to have to learn to be his marchesa. To sit at his table, wearing the clothes and probably the jewellery he provided. To be pleasant to his family, and welcoming to his guests. And never by word, look or gesture let anyone suspect that she was bleeding slowly to death.
She supposed there would be compensations. She knew there would be heartbreak. And she was scared.
Scared of the inevitable isolation that awaited her—the power he still exerted over her trembling senses—and the ever-present danger of self-betrayal.
She needed to work on her anger—her bitterness at his desertion. They would protect her. Build a barrier that not all his sensual expertise could breach. That was the way she must go.
All the same, she found her mind drifting wistfully back to the tiny dream house and its lemon tree, and she saw herself walking beneath it with Sandro, her hand in his, as the sun glinted through the leaves.
And though her mouth smiled, there were tears on her face as she finally fell asleep.
SHE was weighed down, sinking into the depths of a dark and bottomless sea, unable to move or save herself.
Polly opened her eyes, gasping, to the familiar surroundings of the flat, bathed in early-morning light through the thin curtains, but the sensation of being pinned down persisted. Even increased.
Slowly, and with foreboding, she turned her head, and saw that Sandro was lying next to her, on top of the covers. The blue blanket was thrown lightly over him, and, she realised incredulously, Charlie’s small pyjamaed form was also present, sprawled across his father’s bare chest, his dark head tucked into the curve of his shoulder. Both of them were fast asleep.
For a moment Polly was transfixed by this unexpected tableau. And deep within her, she felt such a stir of tenderness that she almost cried out.
She swallowed deeply, reclaiming her self-control. Reminding herself that she would have to get accustomed to seeing them together, although not in such intimate circumstances. And, at the same time, knowing a pang of jealousy that Charlie, usually awkward with strangers, should have capitulated so readily. She overcame an impulse to snatch him back.
Slowly and stealthily, she began to ease her way towards the edge of the bed. It was still early, but her need for coffee was evenly matched with her desire to extract herself from a difficult situation.
Besides, she wanted both Charlie and herself to be ready by the time Julie arrived.
Julie, she thought, her mouth tightening, who was going to get a piece of her mind. And yet was that really fair to the girl, who’d only been doing the job she was hired for?
Yes, she had concerns, but so had Polly. She’d been worried about her mother’s apparent resolve to keep Charlie a baby for as long as possible, and therefore more dependent than he should be at his age. Mrs Fairfax had lavished presents on ‘my little prince’ and ‘Gran’s sweet little man’, most of them in the form of expensive clothing which she fussed to keep pristine. Even helping his grandfather to gather up hedge clippings seemed to be on the forbidden list, Polly recalled wryly. Hardly any wonder that Charlie didn’t shine at outdoor activities.
And he was lazy about feeding himself, and doing simple tasks that Polly set him, probably because he was used to having everything done for him at other times.
I knew there were problems, she admitted as she slid with infinite care from under the covers, but at the same time I wanted to avoid another confrontation with my mother. So I have only myself to blame.
She stood up, then paused, suddenly aware of movement behind her. Stiffening as Sandro’s voice said a husky, ‘Buongiorno’.
‘Good morning.’ She didn’t look at him. ‘I was going to make coffee—if you’d like some. I—I don’t have espresso,’ she added stiltedly.
‘Coffee would be good,’ he said. ‘If I can free myself sufficiently to drink it.’ She could hear the smile in his voice, and bit her lip.
‘Shall I put him back in his cot?’ she asked.
‘Why disturb him for no cause?’
‘Perhaps I should ask you the same thing.’ Polly stared down at the floor. ‘What is he doing here?’
‘He was crying,’ Sandro said shortly. ‘He wanted a drink, which I gave him. Should I have left him thirsty?’
‘He’d have needed changing too.’ God, she thought, she sounded so carping—like a miserable shrew.
‘I