The Italian's Bride Read online

  Better, but in his jaded experience still not the type the unfaithful Vittorio had been constitutionally unable to resist—he had liked glitz and glamour, trophy women. But something had drawn him to this one. Perhaps, he thought as the flight attendant approached with a feeding bottle, perhaps it was the smile.

  It was radiant as she took the bottle, lighting up her otherwise unremarkable face, and her voice was soft and lilting as she answered the attendant’s, ‘I hope it’s not too hot?’

  ‘It’s just right—and thank you so much. It’s very kind of you!’

  Butter wouldn’t melt, Lucenzo thought sourly, trying to blot out the sound of the two women admiring his half-brother’s baby. The child looked contented and well cared for, and as far as he could tell she appeared to be a good mother. But then, he reminded himself cynically as his eyes were reluctantly drawn to the gentle hand that caressed the baby’s soft cheek as he hungrily suckled, Vittorio’s son was her trump card, her passport to the Verdi wealth. No wonder she treated him as though he were the most precious thing on earth.

  Sighing irritably, he rustled his papers and answered the flight attendant’s offer of coffee with a terse negative.

  As the other girl moved away Portia decided she had to do something about this tense state of affairs. She didn’t mind for herself, but the spiky atmosphere couldn’t be good for little Sam. Hadn’t she read somewhere that even tiny babies could pick up vibes and be affected by them?

  ‘I’ve never flown before,’ she confided, to start the conversational ball rolling, casting him a wary smile. This not-speaking business was ridiculous. He’d made his dislike of her obvious, but surely they could be polite to each other? The only words he’d said to her had been icy orders, telling her where to go and what to do.

  She lifted Sam and laid him against her shoulder, gently rubbing his back. She’d pretend the disapproving Lucenzo Verdi was an ordinary human being, just another fellow traveller. She’d always enjoyed talking to people.

  From where she was sitting that wasn’t going to be too easy. The expression on his austerely handsome profile would have done a hanging judge proud. Even so, she launched out cheerfully, ‘When I was growing up my parents took me for improving holidays. Museums, art galleries, sites of historical interest—they didn’t believe in lying in the sun on Mediterranean beaches. Then, when I was earning for myself and they’d thrown in the towel when it came to improving me, I didn’t take holidays. I just saved all I could for—’

  Her cheeks going fiery red, Portia stopped herself just in time. She’d been babbling. Her mother always said she never thought before she opened her mouth. It really wouldn’t do to tell him she’d been saving for what she had always dreamed of: a wedding, a home of her own and children. That after she’d met and fallen in love with Vito she’d redoubled her efforts, believing him when he’d said they’d marry as soon as it was financially possible.

  Lucenzo probably missed his brother dreadfully, still mourned his untimely death, she thought compassionately. She was not going to rub in the fact that Vito had been a liar and a cheat. She wasn’t into hurting people, even if they were patronising beasts.

  He didn’t seem to notice that her torrent had broken off mid-sentence; he appeared to be intent on what he was reading. But his eyes weren’t moving. Those fabulous lashes were making inky shadows against the harshly beautiful line of his cheekbones.

  Asleep? No way. She’d never seen a pair of shoulders look less relaxed.

  Pointedly ignoring her? Most certainly. Her soft mouth twitched. It wouldn’t do the wretched man any harm to unbend a little. ‘I think he’s just about to drop off,’ she imparted chirpily, meaning Sam, who was lying in her arms, his little arms stretched above his head, his eyelids drooping.

  No response. But Portia wasn’t ready to give up yet. Surely he didn’t intend to spend the whole of the flight in this forbidding silence? There were things she wanted to know about the family she was about to meet, the place she was expected to inhabit for goodness only knew how long—a week, a month, a year?

  This darkly handsome, coldly unresponsive persona surely wasn’t all there was to this man. Someone, somewhere, must see the other, more human side?

  ‘Are you married, Lucenzo? Do you have a family?’ she asked impulsively.

  People he loved, who loved him back? Children he played with who knew how he looked when he threw back his head and laughed at their antics? A wife who saw melting adoration in those dark, hostile eyes, who knew every inch of that lithe and powerful body…?

  Portia swallowed painfully, the now all-too familiar frisson of intense excitement taking her breath away, accelerating her heartbeat. She shouldn’t be thinking that way, picturing him naked, with desire softening his mouth, heating his eyes. Imagining what it would be like to be held in his arms…

  She’d never indulged in erotic fantasies, not ever, she thought with growing alarm. The inclination simply hadn’t been there, not even with Vito. Or the couple of boyfriends she’d had before him. Their interest in her had fizzled out rapidly after they’d met her parents and come up against the brick wall of their restrictions.

  Her mother had warned her. ‘Always remember, most men are only after one thing. It takes brains and looks to attract the honourable attentions of a man of the right calibre.’ And she had neither brains nor looks. That had been the implication.

  Confused and miserable, Portia glared at the fluffy blanket of clouds which was all she could see out of the window, wishing she was anywhere in the world but here.

  Sliding the papers back into his briefcase, Lucenzo glanced at her. So she wanted to talk, did she? A nice chatty little dialogue to while away the time? She was too self-absorbed and thick-skinned to take on board the fact that the last thing he wanted was idle conversation with a husband-stealer who was the next best thing to a blackmailer.

  So he’d talk, and she’d only have herself to blame if she didn’t like what he had to say.

  Ignoring her question about his marital status, because she, of all people, had no damned right to pry into that painful part of his life—any part of his life, if it came to that—he drawled silkily, ‘Your parents seemed glad to be rid of you. No fond farewells, no promises to phone or write. I wonder why?’

  He could well imagine, he thought drily as he watched what had to be guilty colour steal over her face. She’d probably been trouble since the day she was born. Feckless, irresponsible, with an eye for the main chance.

  Mindful of the bad atmosphere that could affect her baby, Portia swallowed an angry retort. Besides, if she’d viewed their parting from where he’d been standing she might have jumped to that conclusion.

  Always ready to extend the benefit of the doubt, she turned to face him, explaining softly and earnestly, ‘You mustn’t think badly of them—’

  ‘I assure you, it is not them I’m condemning,’ he interjected sardonically.

  Only her, Portia recognised on a muted sigh. Par for the course. Nevertheless, she didn’t want to leave him with the impression that her parents didn’t care about her, because they did.

  ‘They’re both getting on a bit—they married late and I came as a surprise. They can’t afford to keep me and little Sam, and if I went back to work I couldn’t afford to pay for childcare so it would be down to them. They can’t cope with the thought of having to look after—’ she recalled her mother’s exact words on the subject ‘—a squalling baby who would grow into a rumbustious toddler, a clumsy schoolboy and in all likelihood a problem teenager. Not that he would, of course, and he never squalls,’ she denied breathlessly. ‘But you can see their point. They want peace in their declining years. Of course they saw your father’s offer to have me and Sam live with him as the only sensible way out of the situation. Even so, they cared enough to contact your father and—’

  ‘And find out exactly what was on offer,’ Lucenzo interjected tightly. ‘This I know. My father’s integrity and misguided generosity was
questioned. I find that offensive. And don’t try to tell me that you didn’t jump at the opportunity.’

  Portia chewed on her lip as she desperately tried to decide how to answer that.

  His black eyes were full of hostile reproach, she noted uncomfortably. If he saw her father’s natural parental concern as an affront to the precious dignity of his family then what would he think if she blurted out the truth? How could she possibly tell him that accepting his father’s ‘misguidedly generous’ invitation had been the last thing she’d wanted? That only her parents’ pushing, nagging and much vaunted logic had made her reluctantly accept it?

  It didn’t bear thinking about.

  And what sort of family was she going to, anyway? Horrible doubts assailed her all over again. They were wealthy, they were powerful, they thought they were better than anyone else. And if they were like Lucenzo they would regard her as scum, would only want Vito’s son, intent only on forcing her to agree to give him up.

  Sheer fright made her blurt, ‘It’s OK for your father to see Sam—well, I’d be a fool if I didn’t think that. They are related. But if I’m not satisfied I can leave whenever I want and take Sam with me.’

  It hadn’t come out as she’d meant it to. She’d been scared, on the defensive. She hadn’t meant to sound so—so confrontational.

  Too late now to retract. His beautiful eyes had narrowed to slits of black ice, his fabulous bone structure going tight with what she could only assume to be disgust.

  ‘I think we should get a few things straight,’ Lucenzo said with a chilling bite. That sweetness and light, slightly scatty act was just that. An act. She’d just opened her mouth and confirmed every last one of his opinions. If she wasn’t satisfied, getting everything she expected, she would threaten to take his father’s grandson away from him.

  His mouth turned down at one corner as he scanned her flushed face, the softly trembling lips, her wide, stricken eyes. ‘You can cut the injured innocent act; we both know you’re neither,’ he imparted harshly. ‘Did you get pregnant on purpose to give you a hold on the family? No—don’t bother to answer that,’ he said impatiently as her mouth dropped open. ‘It’s irrelevant now.’

  He sucked in a breath. If she could make threats he could go one better. ‘I practically begged my father to have nothing to do with you, apart from making adequate financial provision for Vittorio’s son. But he was adamant, and because he’s a sick man I reluctantly went along with his wishes to bring you and the child to him. And one word—one whisper—out of you with regard to taking his grandson away from him and you will feel the full might of the Verdi family come down on you. We will fight you for custody and you will leave with nothing. This I promise.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  LEMON trees in terracotta pots marched along the terrace fronting the imposing Villa Fontebella, and wisteria hanging in soft blue clouds festooned the white marble columns that supported the long, shade-giving arcade.

  As the driver of the limo which had ferried them from the airport opened the door at her side Portia took a deep breath and reluctantly slid out. She stood on legs that were shaking so much they would barely hold her upright.

  The awesome villa, with its backdrop of thickly wooded hills, was set in formal Florentine gardens overlooking breathtaking views of sweeps of vines and olive trees, right over the rooftops of tiny villages clustered round ancient churches and down to the silver loop of a river far below. It was the sort of place only the seriously wealthy inhabited.

  Portia gulped, agitation making her eyes dark in the now ashen pallor of her face. Not even the warm Italian sun could take away the shivers that came from the very core of her being. Ever since Lucenzo had made that truly terrifying threat, as good as accusing her of entrapping Vito for what she hoped to gain, she’d been panicking inside, feeling colder and sicker with every mile of progress into the unknown.

  The silence that had descended after he’d given her that dreadful warning had been almost tangible. She could have reached out and touched it if she’d had the nerve.

  As she put shaky fingers to her throbbing temples she heard Sam begin to grizzle and made a determined effort to pull herself together. Ignoring Lucenzo, who was overseeing the unloading of her despised and multitudinous belongings from the boot of the car, its driver passing them to a burly man in a cool white jacket, she scrambled back inside the vehicle, blinking away threatening tears.

  Little Sam was hungry, his legs kicking wildly, one tiny fist thrust into his mouth. Doing her best to make cheerful soothing noises, she scrabbled ineffectually with the straps of the car-seat while Sam’s face went red with rage and his grizzles turned into full-throated roars.

  ‘I’ll have you out in a moment, sweetheart,’ Portia promised with blatant over-optimism, struggling to keep the wobble of desperate misery out of her voice as she tugged at a clasp that seemed to have been welded shut.

  ‘Let me.’ The door nearest the car-seat opened and Lucenzo dealt with the enigma of the safety straps in seconds, lifting the fretful baby in capable hands and holding him against his shoulder.

  Miraculously, Sam stopped crying immediately, and, sitting back on her heels and blinking ferociously, Portia saw her precious son nuzzle his face into Lucenzo’s neck. She was utterly and unwillingly transfixed by the smile that transformed the austerity of the Italian’s features into sheer, stunning male beauty.

  Her heart lurched so madly she felt breathless, dizzy and disorientated. Lucenzo had never smiled for her. Not once. With a peculiar little ache in the region of her now pattering heart she wished he would. And felt her face flare with hot colour.

  Was she completely stupid, or something? As feather-brained as her parents had always despairingly said she was? Of course he wouldn’t smile at her like that. Lucenzo Verdi wouldn’t give her the time of day if he could avoid it. He thought she was the dregs.

  Wriggling backwards out of the rear seat, she told herself to get real. Lucenzo Verdi was her enemy; he had made that plain from the very start. She mustn’t let her wits wander off into fantasy. She had to keep them on red alert if she were to have any hope of handling the impossibly autocratic Italian. She could only hope the rest of Vito’s family weren’t cast in the same condemnatory mould.

  Hanging on to the bodywork of the car, she went to reclaim her baby—and even though her legs felt like jelly her chin was high as she reached up for him.

  But Lucenzo raked his dark eyes comprehensively over her pale features, her tear-spiked lashes and drooping mouth, and relayed tonelessly, ‘I’ll carry him in. You look on the point of collapse.’

  And whose fault was that? Portia inwardly fulminated as he turned to face the house, Sam, now blowing happy bubbles, held high in his arms, and strode over the immaculately raked gravel towards open double doors.

  Like a victor triumphantly returning with the spoils of war, Portia thought sickeningly, urging herself to keep up with his long-legged stride, resisting the fraught impulse to hammer her fists against that broad back and demand he hand her baby back to her.

  In a flurry of now breathless agitation Portia tripped over her feet as she scurried in his wake up the sweeping stone steps, and she felt something clench sharply inside her, taking what was left of her breath away, as Lucenzo put his free hand out to steady her and said grimly, ‘There’s no need to bust a gut. You’ll get your feet under the table soon enough.’

  She simply couldn’t wait, could she? he thought edgily. His mouth settled into a hard straight line as he steadied her, then hauled her round to face him. But it softened unconsciously as he registered the pallor of her weary face, the tiny beads of perspiration on her short upper lip, the soft trembling of her mouth and the defeated droop of her shoulders.

  Somewhere along the line she’d lost her ribbon, and now her shimmering golden hair fell around her shoulders, tendrils curving around her throat, wisps falling across those wide grey eyes.

  Santa Maria! She looked done in, he thoug
ht with a stab of unwilling compassion. She obviously wasn’t strong, and maybe—just maybe—that fainting fit at Vittorio’s funeral hadn’t been an act. And maybe, heaven forbid, she was about to give a repeat performance.

  His grip on her arm gentled, became supportive rather than punitive, as he suggested, ‘Get some rest. You can meet the family in the morning. I’ll show you to your room—Alfredo has taken your things up, and I’ll send Assunta to you. Don’t worry, she looked after me and Vittorio when we were small so she knows what she’s doing. Plus, she speaks fluent English.’

  As they passed into the hall he felt her body sag. He sucked in a breath, wondering if she was about to pass out, and instinctively wrapped his free arm around her surprisingly neat waist, supporting her against the length of his own body.

  Anyone seeing them like this would think he actually cared about the blackmailing little tramp, when all he was desperate to do was get her to her room, leave Assunta to deal with her and wash his hands of her and her greedy machinations.

  With a heartfelt sigh Portia leant against him, overwhelmed, her eyes filling with stupid tears. Just one gesture of kindness and she was willing to forgive and forget everything, wanting to cling onto him, wrap her arms around him and beg him to be her friend.

  How pathetic could she get? she asked herself on a tidal wave of self-disgust. And to cap it all the sheer opulence of her surroundings—the costly antiques, the sweeping marble staircase, the porcelain bowls of flowers on every available surface—shook her rigid. What on earth did she think she was doing in a place like this? The nearest thing to an antique in her parents’ home was her grandmother’s brass jam kettle!