The Marchese's Love-Child. Sara Craven
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wasted your time, signore.’ Was that how you addressed the supposed cousin of an Italian countess? Polly had no idea, and didn’t much care. ‘Because I have no wish to see you.’
There was a bitter irony in this, she thought. This was supposed to be the first day of her new life, and instead she seemed to have walked into a trap.
Ironic, inexplicable—and dangerous too, she realised, a shiver chilling her spine.
The contessa had deliberately set her up, it seemed. So she must be in Sandro’s power in some way. But however scaring that was, it couldn’t be allowed to matter, Polly reminded herself swiftly. She didn’t know what was going on here, nor did she want to know. The most important thing, now, was to distance herself, and quickly.
‘“Signore”?’ Sandro questioned, his mouth twisting. ‘Isn’t that a little formal—for us, bella mia?’
Her pulses quickened at the endearment, putting her instantly on the defensive.
‘To me this is a formal occasion,’ she said tautly. ‘I’m working—escorting the contessa. And there is no “us”,’ she added. ‘There never was.’
‘You don’t think so?’ The topaz eyes were watchful. ‘Then I shall have to jog your memory, cara.’
‘I can remember everything I need to, thanks.’ Polly spoke fiercely. ‘And it doesn’t change a thing. You and I have nothing to say to each other. Not now. Not ever again.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And now I wish to leave.’
Sandro shook his head slowly. ‘You are mistaken, carissima.’ His voice was soft. ‘There is a great deal to be said. Or else I would not be here. But perhaps it would be better if we spoke alone.’
He turned to the contessa. ‘Would you excuse us, Zia Antonia?’ His tone was coolly courteous. ‘I think Signorina Fairfax and I should continue our conversation in private.’
‘No.’ Polly flung the word at him, aware that her voice was shaking. That her body was trembling too. ‘I won’t stay here—and you can’t make me.’
He looked at her, his mouth relaxing into a faint smile. ‘You don’t think so, Paola mia? But you’re so wrong.’
‘Contessa!’ Polly appealed as the older woman moved towards the door. ‘You had no right to do this. Don’t leave me alone—please.’
The contessa gave her a thin smile. ‘You require a chaperone?’ she queried. ‘But surely it is a little late for that?’ She paused, allowing her words to sting, then turned to Sandro. ‘However, Alessandro, Signorina Fairfax might feel more at ease if you conducted this interview in the salotto. A suggestion, merely.’
‘I bow to your superior wisdom.’ Sandro spoke briskly.
Before Polly could register what he intended, and take evasive action, he had stepped forward, scooping her up into his arms as if she were a child. She tried to hit him, but he controlled her flailing hands, tucking her arms against her body with insulting ease.
‘Be still,’ he told her. ‘Unless, of course, you would prefer to remain here.’ He glanced significantly back at the bed.
‘No, I would not.’ She glared up into the dark, ruined face. ‘But I can walk.’
‘When you are shaking like a leaf? I think not.’
In spite of her continuing struggles, Sandro carried her back into the now deserted drawing room. The contessa had disappeared, Polly realised with a stab of panic, and, although neither of them were her company of choice, it meant that she and Sandro were now alone. Which was far worse …
‘This was easier when you were unconscious,’ he commented as he walked across the room with her. ‘Although I think you have lost a little weight since our last meeting, Paola mia.’
‘Put me down.’ Polly was almost choking with rage, mingled with the shock of finding herself in such intimately close proximity to him. ‘Put me down, damn you.’
‘As you wish.’ He lifted a shoulder nonchalantly, and dropped her onto one of the sofas flanking the fireplace. She lay, winded and gasping, staring up at him.
‘You bastard,’ she said unevenly, and he clicked his tongue in reproach as he seated himself on the sofa opposite.
‘What a name to call the man you are going to marry.’
‘Marry?’ The word strangled in her throat. Polly struggled to sit up, pulling down the navy dress which had ridden up round her thighs. ‘You must be insane.’
He shrugged. ‘I once asked you to be my wife. You agreed.’ He watched as she fumbled to re-fasten the buttons he’d undone, his lips slanting into faint amusement. Looking so like Charlie that she almost cried out. ‘That makes us fidanzato. Or am I wrong?’
‘You’re wrong,’ she bit back at him, infuriated at her own awkwardness, and at the pain he still had the power to cause her. ‘Totally and completely mistaken. And you know it, as well as I do, so let’s stop playing games.’
‘Is that what we’re doing?’ Sandro shrugged again. ‘I had not realised. Perhaps you would explain the rules to me.’
‘Not rules,’ she said. ‘But laws. Laws that exist to deal with someone like you.’
‘Dio,’ he said. ‘So you think our government interests itself in a man’s reunion with his woman? How enlightened of them.’
‘Enlightened enough to lock you up for harassment,’ Polly said angrily. ‘And I am not your woman.’
He grinned at her, making her realise that the scar had done little to diminish the powerful sexual charisma he’d always been able to exert, which was as basic a part of him as the breath he drew. He was lounging on the sofa opposite, jacket discarded and tie loosened, his long legs thrust out in front of him, totally at his ease. Enjoying, she thought bitterly, his control of the situation. While she remained shaken and on edge, unable to comprehend what was happening. Or why. Especially why …
‘No? Perhaps we should have stayed in the bedroom after all, cara mia, and continued the argument there.’ The topaz eyes held a familiar glint.
‘You dare to lay a hand on me again,’ Polly said, through gritted teeth, ‘and I’ll go straight to the police—have you charged.’
‘With what offence? The attempted seduction of my future bride?’ He shook his head regretfully. ‘A girl who once spent a summer as my lover. I don’t think they would take you seriously, carissima.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I expect they have to do what you want—like the contessa. And where is she, by the way?’
‘On her way back to Comadora, where she lives.’
‘But she was supposed to be staying here.’
He shook his head. ‘No, Paola mia. I reserved the suite for myself.’ He smiled at her. ‘And for you to share with me.’
‘If this is a joke,’ Polly said, recovering herself from a stunned silence, ‘I don’t find it remotely funny.’
‘And nor do I,’ Sandro said with sudden curtness. ‘This is no game, believe me. I am entirely serious.’ He paused. ‘Do you wish to test my determination?’
He hadn’t moved, but suddenly Polly found herself remembering the strength of the arms that had held her. Recognised the implacable will that challenged her from his gaze and the sudden hardening of the mobile, sensuous mouth which had once stopped her heart with its caresses.
She bit her lip, painfully. ‘No.’
‘You begin to show sense at last,’ he approved softly.
‘Not,’ she said, ‘when