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      In The Italian’s Bed

      By

      New York Times bestselling author ANNE MATHER has written since she was seven, but it was only when her first child was born that she fulfilled her dream of becoming a writer. Her first book, Caroline, appeared in 1966. It met with immediate success and since then Anne has written more than one hundred and forty novels, reaching a readership which spans the world.

      Born and raised in the north of England, Anne still makes her home there, with her husband, two children and, now, grandchildren. Asked if she finds writing a lonely occupation, she replies that her characters always keep her company. In fact, she is so busy sorting out their lives that she often doesn’t have time for her own! An avid reader herself, she devours everything from sagas and romances to mainstream fiction and suspense. Anne had also written a number of mainstream novels, with Dangerous Temptation, her most recent title, published by MIRA Books.

      Chapter One

      THE man was standing outside the Medici Gallery as Tess drove past. She only caught a brief glimpse of him, concentrating as she was on keeping Ashley’s car on the right side of the road. She saw him look after her as she turned into the parking lot behind the smart row of boutiques and cafes that faced the flower-fringed promenade of Porto San Michele. And wondered if she wasn’t being paranoid in imagining there had been a definite air of hostility in his gaze.

      She shook off the thought impatiently. She was imagining things. He wasn’t waiting for her. Besides, she wasn’t late. Well, only a few minutes anyway. She doubted Ashley’s timekeeping was any better than hers.

      There were few cars in the parking lot at this hour of the morning. Tess had discovered that Italian shops rarely opened before ten and were definitely disposed towards a leisurely schedule. Her neighbours on the parade—Ashley’s neighbours, actually—seldom kept to strict opening hours. But they were charming and helpful, and Tess had been grateful for their advice in the three days since she’d been standing in for Ashley.

      She hoped she was mistaken about the man, she thought as she let herself into the gallery through the back entrance. She hurried along the connecting passage that led to the showroom at the front and deactivated the alarm. Perhaps he was a friend of Ashley’s. Perhaps he didn’t know she was away. She glanced towards the windows and saw his shadow on the blind. Whatever, she was evidently going to have to deal with him.

      Deciding he could wait a few more minutes, Tess turned back into the passageway and entered the small office on the right. This was where Ashley did her paperwork and kept all her records. It was also where she took her breaks and Tess looked longingly at the empty coffee-pot, wishing she had time to fill it.

      But Ashley’s boss wouldn’t be pleased if her tardiness turned a would-be patron away and, after examining her reflection in the small mirror by the door, she pulled a face and went to open the gallery.

      The door was glass and, unlike the windows, inset with an iron grille. Taking the precaution of opening all the blinds before she tackled the door, Tess had time to assess her visitor.

      He was taller than the average Italian, she saw at once, with dark arresting features. Not handsome, she acknowledged, but she doubted a woman would find that a disadvantage. His features had a dangerous appeal that was purely sexual, a sophisticated savagery that sent a shiver of awareness down her spine.

      Oh, yes, she thought, he was exactly the kind of man Ashley would be attracted to, and she guessed his visit to the gallery was of a more personal nature than a commercial one. When she pulled the door wide and secured it in its open position, he arched a faintly mocking brow in recognition of her actions. It made Tess want to close the door again, just to show him how confident she was.

      But, instead, she forced a slight smile and said, ‘Buon-giorno. Posso aiutare?’ in her best schoolgirl Italian.

      The man’s mouth twitched as if she had said the wrong thing, but he didn’t contradict her. Nor did he immediately respond. Pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket, he swung round and surveyed the contents of the gallery, and Tess wondered if she was wrong about his association with Ashley and that he expected her to give him a guided tour.

      Who on earth was he? she wondered, intensely aware of the ambivalence of his gaze. She was sure he wasn’t a tourist and it seemed far too early in the day for him to be a serious collector. Besides, the paintings they were exhibiting were hardly a collector’s choice.

      Realising she was probably completely wrong, she nevertheless suspected he hadn’t come here to look at the paintings. Despite his apparent interest, the harsh patrician lines of his profile displayed a contempt for them—or for her. This man would not take rejection easily, she mused, wondering where that thought had come from. But if Ashley was involved, she didn’t envy her at all.

      Tess hesitated. She wasn’t sure whether to leave him to his own devices or ask again if she could help. His elegant charcoal suit—which had to be worth a year’s salary to her—made her wish she were wearing something other than an ankle-length cotton skirt and combat boots. The spaghetti straps of her cropped top left her arms bare and she felt horribly exposed suddenly. In her place Ashley would have been wearing heels and a smart outfit. A linen suit, perhaps, with a skirt that barely reached her knees.

      Then he turned to face her and she prevented herself from backing up only by a supreme effort of will. Deep-set eyes—golden eyes, she saw incredulously—surveyed her with a studied negligence. She realised he was younger than she’d thought at first and she was again aware of his primitive magnetism. An innate sensual arrogance that left her feeling strangely weak.

      ‘Miss Daniels?’ he said smoothly, with barely a trace of an accent. ‘It is most—how shall I put it?—enlightening to meet you at last.’ He paused. ‘I must say, you are not what I expected.’ His regard was definitely contemptuous now. ‘But still, you will tell me where I might find my son.’

      Was that a threat? Tess was taken aback at his tone, but at the same time she realised he had made a mistake. It must be Ashley he wanted, not her. Yet what on earth could Ashley possibly know about his son? She was in England looking after her mother.

      ‘I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake, signore,’ she began, only to have him interrupt her.

      ‘No,