“I think it was a mistake, bringing you here tonight.” Letter to Reader Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN Copyright

“I think it was a mistake, bringing you here tonight.”

Romano continued. “It is not fair. I am not an easy man to be with. Since my wife died, I have preferred to keep my life simple, uncluttered. I like it that way.”

“And having someone for dinner makes it cluttered and complicated?” she asked tightly. Claire’s face was outwardly calm, but her mind was racing. She had told him she had no designs on him, hadn’t she? How dare he presume she was interested in him and warn her off in that way?

He might be wealthy and powerful, with film-star good looks, but he was everything she despised in a man—a conceited egoist who thought he was God’s gift to womankind!

She pitied his late wife, she really did....

Sometimes the perfect marriage

is worth waiting for!

Dear Reader,

Wedding bells, orange blossom, blushing brides and dashing grooms...and happy ever after? As we all know, the path of true love often doesn’t run smoothly—both before and after the knot is tied. So what makes two people’s love for each other special? And why can love survive everything that is thrown at it?

In these two linked books I’ve explored that very thing—how one couple copes with a tragedy that has the potential to destroy their marriage; and, in the second book, how that same disaster sends out ripples of bitterness and disillusionment toward their friend, tarnishing his view of love until...

Well, read the books and all will be revealed! I’ve thoroughly enjoyed writing them, and do hope you enjoy reading them.

Love,

Helen Brooks

Second Marriage

Helen Brooks

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

‘OH, HOLD on a moment, Grace, she’s just this minute walked in.’ As her mother thrust the telephone at her Claire’s fine eyebrows arched in enquiry, and in the next breath her mother whispered, ‘It’s Grace. She sounds... agitated.’

‘Grace?’ Claire almost snatched the receiver in her haste to talk to her friend, this friend who had endured so much in her twenty-five years of life but was now so happy—or had been the last time she had talked to her a week ago.

Don’t let anything be wrong. Please, please don’t let anything be wrong, she prayed quickly as she heard Grace speak her name. Let the baby be all right, let Grace be all right, let everyone be all right... Grace had lost a baby to cot death some years ago, when the child, a little boy named Paolo, was only six months old, and this was her first pregnancy since that terrible time.

‘I’m sorry to hound you the moment you get in from work,’ Grace said huskily, the strangeness in her voice emphasised by the miles separating them. ‘It’s just... I needed to speak to you.’

‘What’s wrong?’ There was something wrong; she knew it now. ‘You were going for your scan today, weren’t you?’

‘Yes, yes—and don’t worry, there’s nothing wrong with the baby,’ the disembodied voice said quickly. ‘It’s just that it’s babies. Plural,’ she added as Claire didn’t speak.

‘Twins!’

‘Twins.’ Grace’s voice was flat.

‘But that’s wonderful,’ Claire responded enthusiastically, ‘isn’t it?’

‘Yes, of course it is.’ There was a little more animation in Grace’s tone now. ‘Donato’s over the moon, and I’m pleased—I am, really—but I just feel a bit overwhelmed, I suppose.’

‘But that’s perfectly understandable,’ Claire said softly, her big brown eyes darkening with a mixture of sympathy and concern.

Grace had been brought up in a children’s home and had never known the support and unconditional love of a mother, and although she had been very close to her husband’s mother, Liliana, almost from the first time she had met her, Liliana had died more than two and a half years ago. It was at times like this that it was reassuring to know that mothers, grandmothers, sisters were all at hand, but Grace had no immediate female family members to encourage her, Claire thought perceptively.

‘Claire—’ Grace stopped abruptly, and then, after Claire gave a gentle, ‘Yes?’. continued hesitantly, ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance you might consider coming out here, is there? To live, I mean?’

‘To Italy?’ Claire stared across the hall in blank amazement, much to her mother’s irritation—she was hovering in the lounge doorway trying to make sense of Claire’s end of the conversation.

‘It doesn’t have to be straight away,’ Grace said quickly, ‘and it can be for as long or as short a time as you want, but I’d just love to know you’d be around when the babies were born. Oh, I shouldn’t have asked you,’ she continued in a little rush. ‘It’s not fair. I told Donato it’s not fair—’

‘Hang on—hang on a minute,’ Claire said slowly as she tried to feel her way in a conversation that had suddenly become extraordinary. ‘Are you saying you want me to come out and stay with you on a semi-permanent basis? More than a holiday or a long break?’

‘Yes.’ The reply was immediate. ‘For months, if you could. I’d love to have you here, I really would, and with you having trained as a nanny and everything—’ This time the sudden halt was even more abrupt, and Grace’s voice was hot with embarrassment when she went on, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Claire. I shouldn’t have mentioned that.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Claire said evenly, ‘I’m over all that now. But how would Donato feel about my coming to live with you?’

‘It was his suggestion,’ Grace said eagerly. ‘When we found out it was twins he thought I might need some help in the first few months, and he remembered you saying in the summer you were thinking of changing your job but weren’t sure what you wanted to do. He thought you could escape the worst of the English winter out here while you took the time to consider all your options, and we’d pay you for as long as you stayed so you’d have a little nest-egg behind you when you went back—’

‘No way,’ Claire interrupted firmly. ‘If I came it would be as a friend helping out a friend. I had that wonderful holiday with you in the summer, and Donato wouldn’t even let me pay for my airfare.’

‘Well, we’d see.’ Grace clearly wasn’t going to put any obstacles in the way of her coming at this early stage of the proceedings. ‘But do you think you might consider it, then? You could stay in the main house or with us—whichever you like—and Lorenzo would love to have you around for a while. He did miss you when you went home in September.’

‘I missed him.’ Claire smiled as she thought of Donato’s younger brother, who had just turned thirteen and was an enchanting mix of child and young man, with an infectious sense of fun that matched her own. ‘He’s a smashing kid.’

‘I’d love you to come, Claire,’ Grace said again, with a wistful note in her voice that was meant to charm. ‘I’ve lots of friends out here, good friends, but you’re different. I’ve always felt we should have been sisters.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Claire. And she did. The two women had only known each other for a few years, but almost from the first time they had met, when Grace had been estranged from Donato and living in England, the two of them had hit it off in a way that only happened once in a lifetime. Claire had five big, strapping brothers, but no sister, and Grace had filled a void in her life that she hadn’t even realised was there.

‘You’ll think about it, then? Look, here’s Donato. He wants a word with you too...’

All that had been eight weeks ago, and now it was the end of January, with the chaos of Christmas long forgotten. She had really left the raw winter chill of England far behind her, Claire thought happily as she emerged from Customs and looked around for Donato who was meeting her.

Her old job as receptionist in a doctors’ surgery, the bedlam of a home shared with her parents and the three remaining unmarried brothers, the memories of that awful time before she had met Grace—suddenly it all fell away, and she lifted her face to the mild sunlight streaming in through the plate glass windows of the airport terminal, its golden rays turning her sleek chestnut hair to glowing red silk.

‘Miss Wilson?’ The voice was cold, as was the face of the tall, dark man staring down at her, despite the polite smile that twisted the finely chiselled lips in a semblance of welcome. ‘Miss Claire Wilson?’

‘Yes?’ She wasn’t aware that the dreamy expression of delight had been wiped away, or that her velvety brown eyes were revealing her alarm and vulnerability, but the big man watching her so closely was aware of both, and it caused the chillingly handsome face to harden still further.

‘I am Romano Bellini—Donato’s brother-in-law?’ the heavily accented voice said smoothly. ‘He was called away unavoidably on a matter of great urgency this morning, and as he did not want Grace to drive in her condition he asked that I would meet you.’

‘He did?’ Her voice was a squeak, and she heard it with a burst of self-disgust, but somehow the overpoweringly masculine figure in front of her had robbed her of coherent thought. She had seen a picture of Donato’s brother-in-law and best friend, of course, taken some time before his young wife, Donato’s only sister, had died, but somehow the dormant image captured on film in no way resembled the flesh-and-blood man standing before her.

‘You would perhaps like proof of my identity?’ Romano asked quietly as she frantically struggled for words. ‘Or you would care to make the phone call to Grace?’

‘No, no, it’s all right,’ she managed at last, her voice breathless. ‘I’ve...I’ve seen a photo of you. I...I know who you are.’

‘This is good.’ He smiled the arctic smile again, but for the life of her she couldn’t respond in kind—her face, like her thought processes, frozen. ‘Then there is no problem, sì? I, too, have seen the photograph of you, taken with Grace in the summer? I understand you had an enjoyable time in Italy?’

‘Yes, yes it was lovely.’ Say something, talk back, make conversation, she told herself distractedly as he bent and lifted her two heavy suitcases—which she hadn’t been able to manage without a baggage trolley and obliging porters—as though they weighed nothing at all. ‘I... Grace is all right? There’s nothing wrong?’

‘Grace is very well,’ he replied smoothly, before inclining his head towards the exit doors and saying, ‘Shall we?’

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ She found herself scuttling along at the side of him as though she were an errant child, and the simile annoyed her.

It wasn’t just the austere way he had with him that was so intimidating, she told herself weakly as she glanced up at his handsome profile before stepping out into the mild air beyond the airport building, it was everything. His height, the broadness of the hard, masculine shoulders beneath the light jacket he was wearing, the dark, cold, enigmatic good looks, the almost tangible air of ruthlessness that permeated his aura like a black shadow. He was... He was frightening.

Frightening? Immediately her mind acknowledged the word she kicked against it with a force that tightened her soft mouth and tilted her chin. How ridiculous could she be? Frightening indeed! He was Donato’s best friend, and a good friend to Grace too, from all she had said in the summer, and he had lost his wife in tragic circumstances two and a half years ago. He was probably still devastated by her death; she had been very beautiful. No, he wasn’t frightening. Reserved, perhaps? Withdrawn?

She followed him over to the car, a regal, top-of-the-range BMW that swallowed her huge suitcases with consummate ease, and once inside glanced round at the soft grey velvety upholstery as he walked round to the driver’s seat after shutting her door.

Donato’s wealth and power had overawed her at first during the previous summer, and it looked as though Romano was of the same ilk, she thought warily as he slid into the car beside her. His clothes certainly weren’t the off-the-peg variety, his shoes were hand-made and the gold Rolex on his tanned wrist told its own story.

Talk about born with silver spoons in their mouths, she thought wryly. It was more like diamond-encrusted ones in this part of Italy. What a protected, privileged little world it was—unreal by normal standards.

‘Is something wrong?’

She hadn’t been aware of his eyes on her, but now, as she came out of her musing, she found the narrowed gaze was fixed on her face and flushed hotly. ‘No, of course not,’ she said quickly.

He continued to look at her as he turned more fully towards her, sliding his arm along the back of her seat as he twisted his body in the confines of the car. ‘No?’ he asked softly.

It took every ounce of will-power she possessed, and then some, not to start gabbling madly as the silence lengthened and stretched after she had shaken her head, his eyes holding hers in a way she had never experienced before.

‘How old are you?’ The fact that his words surprised him as much as her was apparent when he immediately followed them with, ‘Scusi, I had no right to ask such an impertinent question.’ He swung back into his seat and brought the slumbering engine to purring life, his face cold and withdrawn and his body language expressing the sort of outrage that might have suggested she was the one at fault.

‘It’s all right.’ She addressed the stony profile cautiously, feeling as though she had inadvertently caught a tiger by the tail and very much out of her depth. ‘I’m twenty-four, actually, although I know I don’t look it.’

‘No, you do not.’ He didn’t look at her as he spoke, negotiating the big car carefully onto the road, his black eyes narrowed against the sunlight which, although lacking in heat, was of a piercing brightness.

‘It’s genetic.’ She spoke brightly, although the flat comment had been if not exactly insulting then less than complimentary. ‘My mother looks years younger than she is in spite of having had six children, so I’m resigned to being a teenager until I’m in my thirties.’

The thick black eyebrows arched in wry acknowledgement of her words but he said nothing, and again she felt as though she had somehow been slighted. What an unpleasant individual! She forced herself to look out of the window, keeping her expression blank, although she couldn’t stop the warm colour staining her cheeks pink. What a very unpleasant individual.

She recalled the picture of his wife and felt herself shrink still further into her seat. The Italian woman had been beautiful—very beautiful—in a sensual, feline way that was both slinky and sexy and very, very grown-up. He obviously preferred his women voluptuous and sophisticated, she thought tightly, a description which most certainly didn’t fit her slight, boyish figure and lack of make-up and adornment. Not that she wanted it to, she added instantly, not at all. Romano Bellini was the type of macho man she found positively distasteful—the sort who had to have something decorative hanging on his arm as a reflection of his own masculinity.

‘I understand you worked with Grace when she lived in England?’ His voice was polite but uninterested, and it was clear he was making the effort of conversation without having any desire to do so. ‘As receptionist at a doctors’ surgery, sì?’

‘Yes.’ The reply was a little too clipped in view of the long car journey in front of them, so she modified it with, ‘Although we had both actually trained to work with children—a fact we discovered as we got to know each other better.’

‘This is so?’ He turned to her for one moment, and she felt the jolt of the glittering black gaze right down to her shoes before he concentrated on the road again. ‘But you found it was not to your liking?’ he asked softly.

‘Not really.’

‘You do not like children?’ he persisted.

‘Of course I like children.’ She wished this conversation, which was proving difficult for her, were being conducted with some space between them. The close proximity of their bodies in the car was...disturbing, and the expensive, delicious smell of him combined with the overwhelming maleness of the man was making it impossible to think clearly. ‘It’s just...something happened which made it...awkward to continue,’ she said carefully. Awkward? Impossible, more like. Terrifyingly impossible.

‘I see.’ The rapier-sharp gaze flashed her way again, but she had dropped her head a little, allowing the silky fall of her shoulder-length straight hair to hide her face. ‘Well, perhaps when the twins are here and you have had some practice again you may feel like continuing your career,’ he said quietly.

‘Perhaps.’ The tone and the word were dismissive, and she meant them to be. There was no way she was going to discuss any of this with a stranger. She couldn’t believe she had said as much as she had already, and she certainly wasn’t going to elaborate further.

Five minutes crept by in a silence that could only be called taut, and she was just contemplating breaking the crackling tension with a mundane remark about the beautiful countryside when Romano spoke again, his voice cool and contained. ‘I thought we would stop for lunch at a little restaurant I know along the coast. This is acceptable?’

‘Lunch?’

If he had suggested something obscene she couldn’t have sounded more horrified, and his voice acknowledged his awareness of her consternation as he said, ‘You do eat, I take it?’

Yes, she ate—of course she ate, Claire thought weakly, but the thought of having lunch with him, of being with him like that, was alarming. They hadn’t exactly hit it off—besides which, this invitation to lunch was clearly just part of the fulfilment of his duty to Donato and Grace as far as he was concerned. ‘I...I was expecting to eat with Grace,’ she managed after a few more painful seconds, ‘and I’m not really hungry.’

‘I, on the other hand, am starving.’ His voice held a thread of something she couldn’t quite place, slightly mocking, dry, with a darkness that made warmth trickle down her backbone, and as he spoke he shifted position slightly, bringing the material of his black trousers taut across his thighs.

Oh, help... She took a deep breath and forced her fluttering pulse to behave. What on earth was the matter with her? She’d been alone in a car with a man before, hadn’t she?

Yes, but not this particular man, her mind answered weakly. In fact she’d never met a man like this one before. He was threatening. No, not threatening, frightening. Her first instinct had been right, she told herself helplessly. He was frightening, and dangerous. Too... male.

‘So?’

As the cold voice spoke again she forced her eyes up and away from his body, and tried to bring her thought processes into working order.

‘You would not find it too...irksome to spare a few minutes to satisfy my appetite?’ Her eyes shot to his face now, but the chiselled features revealed nothing but bland enquiry, and the fact that she had put quite a different meaning on his words from their face value brought her colour surging again. ‘I think maybe Grace would expect that I feed you before delivering you safely to her maternal bosom?’

He was laughing at her! At the same time as the realisation washed over her a bolt of anger consumed her nervousness. How dared he? How dared he laugh at her? He clearly saw her as some small, pathetic mouse he found it amusing to ridicule, and now she was quite sure he had meant his previous words to be taken two ways. He had sensed the flustered disquiet he roused in her and was mocking it.

Oh... Her teeth clamped together as another thought hit her. He didn’t think she fancied him, did he? That she’d been bowled over by his considerable physical attraction and synthetic wealth and charm? She’d die if he did.

Her eyes narrowed, and suddenly the words were there, and flowing as coolly and bitingly as ever she could have wished. ‘Of course you must eat, Signor Bellini,’ she said icily, and he glanced at her again, caught by her tone. ‘I was merely anxious that Grace shouldn’t prepare a meal for me and then find I had already eaten, that’s all. I have months ahead of me with Grace and Donato, so time is immaterial today.’

And so are you. She hadn’t actually said the words but they hung in the air as clearly as if she had voiced them. She knew it and he knew it.

‘How gracious,’ he said with a silky smoothness that told her the gauntlet had been acknowledged and accepted. ‘Are all English girls so courteous?’

‘Oh, I’m sure you could answer that question better than me,’ Claire returned sweetly as she glanced with studied casualness out of the car window. ‘You must have known many women, English and otherwise, Signor Bellini.’

‘Must I?’

‘I thought I understood Grace to say your business connections stretch all over Italy and the States?’ Claire said with a wide-eyed innocence that didn’t fool the man at her side for a moment. ‘They must bring you into contact with a great deal of people, surely?’

‘My business connections... Ah, yes.’ The deep voice was wry, and she didn’t like the touch of amusement colouring the dark accent, or the way the undeniable sexiness of the Italian voice made her quiver deep inside. ‘My business connections do prove...tiring at times.’

‘I’m sure they do.’ Her voice was a little more tart than she would have liked; she mustn’t let him think he was getting to her, so she moderated her tone as she said, ‘But then I’m also sure you enjoy your work.’

‘I try, Claire, I do try.’

I bet. An elusively sensual whiff of aftershave touched her nostrils briefly as though to confirm the thought, tightening her lower stomach in a way she could well have done without. But he wouldn’t have to try too hard. Most women would fall into his lap like ripe peaches the moment those velvety dark eyes looked their way, she thought ruefully. But not this woman. Definitely not this woman.

‘Now we have determined what a hard-working man I am, may I ask how...busy you were in England?’ he asked in a soft, taunting voice.

‘Me? Oh, a doctors’ surgery is always pretty hectic,’ she said brightly, deliberately ignoring what he was really asking, ‘but interesting, which is the main thing. I really couldn’t stand a job where I was bored.’ She rattled on about the day-to-day routine and many panics for a few minutes, knowing he wasn’t in the least interested but hoping to divert further questions, but the moment she paused he seized the opportunity to speak, his voice smoky and cool.

‘And is there someone in England waiting patiently for your return?’

‘A boyfriend, you mean?’ she asked carefully.

‘Just so.’

‘No,’ she said flatly.

‘No?’ She shook her head and the dark eyes brushed her face again for a moment before he said, ‘And you are not going to elaborate further on that...enigmatic statement?’

‘Enigmatic?’ She forced a laugh that she hoped sounded derisory. ‘Hardly.’

‘But, yes. When a beautiful young woman of twenty-four speaks so determinedly—’

‘I wasn’t speaking determinedly, just factually, and you know as well as I do that I am not beautiful, Signor Bellini—’

‘Now that I have to take issue with.’ He interrupted her angry retort swiftly, and before she could say anything more continued, ‘And please, no more of the Signor Bellini? It is Romano, as you well know, and if you are going to stay at Casa Pontina for some time it will be more harmonious for everyone if we address each other by the Christian names, sì? It will make our relationship appear more civil when we meet.’

‘When we meet?’ This time the naked dismay in her voice was not met with the amusement it had provoked before, and his tone was icy when he said, ‘Donato and Grace are my friends, Claire.’

‘I know. I know they are—’

‘And one visits one’s friends, sì? Even in England I would have thought this pleasant pastime was still alive and well?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘So there will be occasions when we meet, share a meal and so on,’ he continued in a clipped, terse voice. ‘With Donato and Grace, of course, that is all I meant. I was not—what is the word?—propositioning you.’

‘I didn’t think for a minute you were,’ she said, aghast.

‘Good. The air is then clear.’ The mercurial change was complete; he had returned to suave, cool playboy again with a swiftness that left her open-mouthed and gasping as the powerful car pulled off the road and through a large flower-bedecked arched opening into a quiet courtyard.

‘However...’ he turned to her as he cut the engine, a slightly cruel smile curving the firm, distinctly sensual mouth and doing nothing to soften the power of his harsh bone structure ‘...I meant what I said. You are a beautiful young woman, Claire, as any male with discernment would tell you. I admire beauty, even if it is the most corruptive force known to man, as much as I abhor its potential treachery.’

‘Its treachery?’ she whispered faintly, unnerved by the stony glitter in the black eyes and aware that in a strange way his remark on her appearance was not complimentary.

‘But of course.’ A veil came down over the handsome face, and she knew he had made a conscious effort to hide all emotion as he smiled again, his eyes revealing nothing more than warm amusement. ‘Beauty is a wonderful lure which nature uses to full advantage, sì?

‘The belladonna—deadly nightshade—with its fragile mauve flowers and dainty poisonous berries, for example, or hemlock’s clusters of exquisite white blooms. And then something as enchanting as the flower-like sea anemone, which attracts fish and other animals to their doom, as does the translucent beauty of the Portuguese man-of-war, whose stinging tentacles beneath its shimmering charm paralyse its prey with deadly accuracy. Nature makes full use of illusion, Claire.’

But he hadn’t really been talking about plants and animals, she thought suddenly. She was sure of it.

‘Yes, I suppose it does.’ She stared into the dark cold face as her mind raced. ‘But beauty can be wonderful too—something to be marvelled at, to share, something that lifts the soul of man, like a magnificent sunset for example.’

‘But within a short time it has faded and is dead, and one is left with the blackness of the night,’ he said quietly. ‘Nothing lasts. Nothing is what it seems.’

He was talking about his wife being taken from him so tragically. As realisation dawned she stared at him in consternation, not knowing what to say. Bianca had been breathtakingly, wildly beautiful, and they had only had a few short years together before she had died. He still loved her... ‘But memories can be precious things, can’t they?’ she asked softly. ‘The sunset might die but the serenity and peace it gives can still live on.’

‘I have not found that to be the case,’ he said, with a dismissive coldness that told her this strange and disturbing conversation was at an end. ‘Now, shall we?’ He indicated the charming honey-coloured building in front of them with a wave of his hand. ‘You will find Aldonez has a variety of dishes to suit all appetites, so do not be perturbed if you are not hungry. I think it would be nice to sit outside, sì? There is a delightful garden at the back of the restaurant.’

He had left the car as he spoke the last words, walking swiftly round the bonnet and helping her to alight with a naturalness that told her his good manners were normal behaviour. She remembered Donato had had the same inherent courtesy when she had stayed with them for her two-week holiday in the summer, treating the female race as a whole with a gentleness and protective regard that was wonderfully refreshing in this modern age. But whereas she had just thought Grace’s husband a gentleman, somehow with his best friend the whole procedure took on a seductive quality that was more than a little unsettling.

Romano took her arm as they walked across the cobbled courtyard and into the quaint and colourful little restaurant, and immediately she was aware that he was known to the plump and burly little proprietor, who gave them a welcome that could only be described as rapturous.

The greetings over, of which Claire didn’t understand a word, Aldonez led them through the main room and out onto a covered veranda where several tables had been placed to catch the full benefit of the weak sunlight. It was surprisingly warm, the veranda being something of a sun-trap, and once she was seated Claire looked around her appreciatively.

The pretty square garden was small, but the lacy perimeter fence was entwined with luxuriant foliage and sweet-smelling flowers. Small shrubs and bushes were scattered between old stone slabs that paved most of the area, with a large magnolia tree in one corner to provide a spot of shade in the summer. ‘From March onwards Aldonez packs tables and chairs on every inch of ground,’ Romano said with a distant smile as he watched her absorb her surroundings. ‘He knows most of the tourists like to eat alfresco.’

‘It’s very pretty.’ She suddenly felt unbearably shy as she glanced at him over the small table, his startling good looks and arrogant masculinity seemingly enhanced by the intimacy of sharing a meal. On the short journey from the airport she had barely noticed the scenery outside the car, her senses briefly registering the southern earthy charm Naples exuded but most of her conscious thought held by the magnetic pull of the man opposite.

Crazy. She lowered her eyes to the menu Aldonez had placed in front of her a couple of minutes before. Absolutely crazy to allow her senses to be dominated like that—and wouldn’t he just love it if he knew how she was thinking? When all was said and done, even if he did still love his wife, he didn’t have to be so arrogant, did he? So impossible to communicate with, so abrasive?

‘Would you like me to translate?’

‘What?’ As she raised her head and met the hard gaze she would have given the world to be able to say she spoke fluent Italian, but she didn’t, and, infuriating man that he was, he knew it.

The fact that she was forced to acknowledge she had been gazing at the squiggles on the card in front of her without even seeing them didn’t help either—but that, at least, he didn’t know.

‘The menu? Would you like me to translate for you?’ he asked again, his voice patient but with the kind of long-suffering tone one might adopt with a difficult child.

‘That won’t be necessary, thank you.’ She’d rather walk through coals of fire first. ‘I only want a green salad and a long, cold drink,’ she said evenly. ‘If that’s possible.’

‘Of course.’ He bowed his head slightly, and the movement should have been polite but was definitely sardonic. ‘May I suggest a side dish of garlic and butter potatoes with that? It is one of Aldonez’s specialities.’

‘Thank you.’ She nodded her head and wondered how someone so altogether stunning could have inspired such dislike in her. ‘Is there a cloakroom here? I’d like to wash my hands...’

‘Sì, just to the left of the main door. I will show you.’

Once alone in the small stone cloakroom, that boasted one deep-set porcelain bowl of ancient origin and one very modern lavatory in bright yellow, she gazed into the ornate and rather fine mirror above the wash-basin despairingly. This had all gone wrong somehow, badly wrong, and she had been so excited earlier in the day. Large, soulful brown eyes stared seriously back at her as she nipped at her lower lip anxiously, her pale creamy skin a perfect foil for her dark eyes and chestnut hair.

Beautiful! She grimaced at her reflection disbelievingly. What an obvious line, and yet it hadn’t been like that, not really. But he couldn’t have meant it. She shook her head, causing her silky fine hair to flow in a soft wave across her hot face. She wasn’t ugly, she knew that, but she was no beauty either—not like Grace. Men had always turned to take a second and third look at Grace, even though her friend was oblivious to their attention most of the time.

Oh, well... She shrugged, dropping her eyes from the mirror and running her wrists under the cold water tap before splashing her face. She was quite happy with who she was, give or take her hot temper and a few other faults she could have done without, so her looks weren’t important one way or the other. But she did wish she hadn’t got off to quite such a bad start with Donato’s friend. She was here to make Grace’s life easier and worry-free as her confinement approached, not to enter into a war with her friend’s husband’s brother-in-law from day one.

She’d just have to bite her tongue and keep quiet when Romano was about. She raised her head and nodded at herself determinedly. She could do that, couldn’t she? She should have done it already, not reacted to him like an indignant hedgehog with prickles at the ready. It was kind of him to have come all this way to fetch a virtual stranger, and she hadn’t even thanked him properly. It wasn’t even as if she had met him before and he was renewing an acquaintance; he had been in America when she had come to Italy in the summer and she had left before he had returned.

Yes, she had behaved badly. She prepared to go back to the table full of good intentions. He might be arrogant and imperious, and more than a little high-handed, but he must have some good points for Grace to rate him so highly, and it wasn’t as if she’d see much of him while she was here anyway. She’d thank him nicely for coming to fetch her, smile sweetly regardless of how maddening she found him, and refuse to rise to any provocation, intended or unintended, from now on.

He was as far removed from her humble orbit as the man in the moon anyway, and once he’d safely delivered her at Casa Pontina he’d probably barely notice her on the occasions when he came to visit Donato and Grace.

The last thought should have been comforting, but was instead mildly depressing. Oh, for goodness’ sake don’t be so pathetic, girl, she told herself irritably, before brushing her hair into gleaming order with hard, stiff strokes that set her scalp tingling, spraying a touch of her favourite perfume on her wrists, and then walking firmly out of the cloakroom, her head high.

CHAPTER TWO

‘CLAIRE!’ Grace waddled out of the front door, her face beaming and her arms outstretched, and Claire had left the car before Romano could reach her door. The two women gave each other as close a hug as Grace’s bulk would allow before Claire drew back and looked at her friend with something akin to amazement on her face.

‘You’re huge.’ It wasn’t tactful, but they had always been honest with each other.

‘Tell me about it,’ Grace said ruefully. ‘I can’t watch any of those wildlife programmes on TV lately, the sight of hippos plodding around hits too near home!’

‘Don’t be silly.’ They were both laughing helplessly now. ‘You’re still as beautiful as ever, just...’

‘Fat?’

‘Mumsy, which is exactly what you are going to be, isn’t it? How are you feeling?’ Claire asked softly.

‘Big, tired, achey...and incredibly happy.’

Grace grinned at her and they hugged again before a cool voice behind Claire said, ‘Shall we go into the house? Donato has asked me to make sure you keep your feet up, Grace, until he gets back this evening. You and Claire can gossip all you like once you’re sitting down.’

‘See how it is?’ Grace grimaced at Claire as she tucked her friend’s arm in her own and turned towards the house. ‘If it isn’t Donato or Lorenzo fussing, it’s Romano. I’m surrounded by men who think I’m going to break.’

‘That’s no bad thing.’ As they walked up the huge stone steps that led to the ornate studded front door of Casa Pontina Claire smiled at her friend. ‘And now I’m here to add my pennyworth to the nagging.’

‘“Nagging”?’ As the three of them entered the magnificent hall with its beautifully polished floor and air of timeless graciousness Romano stopped and looked down at the two women. ‘What is this “nagging”? This is an English word?’

‘I suppose it is.’ Grace smiled up at him, and Claire was struck by how open and relaxed his face was as he returned the smile. The austerity had gone, along with the coldness, and the result was devastating. He certainly hadn’t smiled at her like that.

He really was something else, Claire thought wryly as she watched and listened to Grace explaining the meaning of the word. Not that she was affected by him, not at all, she assured herself quickly. But, nevertheless, one certainly didn’t get many men like him to the pound. Or many women who could match such wealth and power and good looks...women like Bianca. They must have made a stunning couple.

Explanations over, the three of them walked into the imposing drawing room where Cecilia, the robust cook, and Anna and Gina, the two little maids, were waiting to greet her, along with a long, low coffee-table groaning with a selection of sandwiches and cakes. ‘I thought you might be peckish. It’s some time until dinner, although Romano insisted he would take you to lunch,’ Grace said happily. ‘Was it nice?’

‘Very nice.’ Claire didn’t elaborate further; she was still mulling over the ‘insisted’. Although ‘very nice’ wasn’t really the right description if the truth be known, she thought quietly. When she had returned to the table Aldonez had served their lunch within moments, but such had been her state of unease she could have been eating sawdust for all that the food had registered on her taste-buds.

Not that Romano had been difficult at all, she admitted silently, in fact he had metamorphosed into what could only be termed the perfect escort: witty, charming, but still with that indefinable coolness that made her feel as though he was playing a game, observing her the whole time. It hadn’t made for good digestion on her part and she hadn’t been able to finish the meal, light though it had been. She was absolutely starving now, she realised suddenly, and she filled the plate one of the maids had handed her and watched the other two chat.

‘You’re staying for dinner, Romano?’ Grace asked as the cook and maids left the room. ‘Lorenzo is at a friend’s house but Donato is picking him up on his way back,’ she added as she half turned to Claire, to include her in the conversation. ‘And he left express instructions this morning that he wanted his favourite uncle to be here.’

‘Did he indeed?’ Romano had removed his beautifully cut jacket before sitting down, and now, as he stretched back in his chair, the movement emphasising the hard, muscled chest under the black silk shirt he was wearing, Claire felt herself almost choke on a mouthful of salmon sandwich. Dynamite. With the same destructive power of that particular explosive for blowing the inexpenenced into oblivion! ‘Well, I think it is rather up to Claire, do you not agree? This is her first evening here. Perhaps she would prefer to spend it with just the family?’

‘You are family—’

‘Of course I don’t mind if you stay—’

The two women had spoken together, and although Grace’s subsequent laugh was easy, Claire’s was forced. She didn’t want him to stay, in fact there was nothing she wanted less, but he knew, and she knew, that she couldn’t very well say so.

‘That’s fine, then—a nice, cosy dinner party with all the people I love most,’ Grace said with an air of satisfaction.

Donato and Lorenzo arrived home just after seven o’clock—the former full of apologies for being unable to meet her as arranged. And although Claire made all the right noises she was vitally aware of Romano’s sardonic gaze as she said how well he had looked after her, and how nice lunch had been.

‘This “nice”, this is another word you English favour, is it not?’ Romano said softly in her ear as she rose to go and see Benito, Lorenzo’s parrot, at the boy’s request. ‘With Grace too, the weather is “nice”, the meal is “nice”. I find the word singularly unimaginative.’

‘Oh.’ She was dismayed to find he had chosen to walk with her through the hall to the back of the house, where Lorenzo’s own large sitting room was situated and where Benito resided most of the time. ‘What would you prefer me to say, then?’

‘The truth?’ The dark eyes looked down at her, daring her to respond, even as the man behind the mask asked himself why he was doing this, provoking her, trying to get a reaction. She seemed to have taken an instant dislike to him—well, so what? he thought grimly. She was Grace’s friend, over here for a few months to help out, that was all. He didn’t have to see her above half a dozen times if he didn’t want to.

‘Which is?’ Claire asked carefully, willing herself with all her heart to keep to the pledge she had made in the cloakroom of the restaurant and not let him get under her skin.

He shrugged slowly, his eyes narrowing, and again the sexual magnetism that was as much a part of the man as breathing had Claire’s breath catching in her throat. Did he know the effect he had on women? she thought weakly, before answering herself immediately with a curt, Of course he did. How could he not? He must have women throwing themselves at him every day of the week. There wasn’t a woman born who wouldn’t wonder what it would feel like to be in his arms, to have him make love to her, to have him want her. She didn’t like where her thoughts were leading and slammed the door shut on her mind before they could continue on such a dangerous path.

The Romano Bellinis of this world and the Claire Wilsons had no meeting point; she knew that. He was one of the beautiful people—rich, powerful, with a little black book that was no doubt bursting at the seams with the names of willing females ready to jump when he clicked his fingers. She had seen such women in the summer, when she had been here and the jet set had been in full residence—elegant, sophisticated beauties with model-like figures and dazzling smiles, all legs and teeth and glittering like Christmas trees with the amount of diamonds strewn about their persons. Women like his late wife, in fact.

‘Come on, Claire.’ Lorenzo, who had been a good few paces in front of them, turned at the door to his room and beckoned to her. ‘I told Benito this morning that you were coming and he does not like to be kept waiting.’

She didn’t doubt it, Claire thought wryly as she gratefully seized the excuse to finish her conversation with Romano, moving ahead of him as she hurried to Lorenzo’s side. Benito was a formidable bird in every sense of the word, but for some reason he had taken to her from the instant his bright, beady eyes had met hers, nuzzling his head, with its wickedly hooked bill, against her fingers whenever she petted him and ruffling his exotic plumage in obvious pleasure at her presence.

It was clear the bird had heard Lorenzo speak her name the second she stepped into the room. His eyes had been fixed on the doorway and the moment he saw her he began to dance clumsily on his perch, screeching her name. ‘Claire! Claire! Who’s a clever bird, then? Nice old fellow. Nice old bird.’ They were the words she had used to pet him in the summer, but she wished he had said something else, anything else, as she walked over to him. She could just sense Romano’s satisfaction at his point being emphasised so adroitly.

‘Hello, Benito. Who’s a clever bird, then?’ The big, compact body was as smooth as silk under her fingers as she stroked the beautiful feathers, his head immediately nuzzling into her hand as he continued to mutter his ecstasy at her presence.

‘You are not frightened of this old villain?’ Romano joined her, his words slightly disparaging, but as she glanced up at him, ready to defend the parrot’s cause, she surprised a look of real affection on his face as he gazed at the bird, before he became aware of her glance and his expression became blank.

‘Benito? Of course not, we’re friends—aren’t we, old fellow?’ she said quietly, returning her eyes to the parrot, who glanced up at her cheekily before setting Romano in his sights.

‘Romano...Claire, hmm?’ It was said with an air of consideration that was terribly human, further underlined by the fact that the irascible old bird glanced from one to the other enquiringly, like a benevolent matchmaking uncle. ‘Claire e Romano. Nice old fellows...’

‘You are getting a little confused, Benito.’ Romano’s voice was quite without embarrassment, as though he had no idea what the bird was getting at—something Claire hoped fervently wasn’t just good manners on his part. Her own face had turned a vivid and she was sure unattractive shade of crimson. ‘Claire is not a fellow, nice or otherwise; she is a lady.’

‘Lady, lady.’ Benito was revelling in the attention he was getting; he liked nothing more than to show off to all and sundry. ‘Frutta? Frutta?’ he asked hopefully, never one to miss an opportunity to ask for food. ‘Nice old bird,’ he added for good measure, giving an imitation of a heartfelt human sigh as he finished speaking.

‘Greedy old bird, more like.’ Claire couldn’t help laughing, in spite of her awkwardness, at the bird’s roguish manner. She knew all the family were devoted to him—Grace especially crediting him with almost human powers and spoiling him outrageously—and she had to admit that the parrot’s mischievous antics and wicked sense of humour were very endearing. But there were times, like a few moments ago, when he was too human for comfort.

‘Claire, come and see the new games I had for Christmas for my computer.’ Lorenzo saved the day again as he called to her across the room from where he was seated at his desk. ‘There is a two-player one,’ he added expectantly, augmenting the veiled request with an engaging grin.

‘I will leave you to it.’ Romano smiled that detached smile as he spoke, turning in the same instant, and as she stood for a moment, watching him leave the room, she found herself reflecting on the power in his male body before she realised what she was doing. A wave of fiery red burnt across her pale skin for the second time in as many minutes, but still the lithe, muscled body under the black silk shirt and casual but expensive black cotton trousers held her attention.

For goodness’ sake, had she completely lost reason? she scolded herself as the door closed and she and Lorenzo were alone. She had never in all her life ogled a man, she had never even wanted to, and she certainly wasn’t going to start now, and with Romano Bellini of all people. He was arrogant enough without her adding to his inflated ego.

Besides which—her mouth tightened as the little voice in her mind spoke with devastating honesty—she could just imagine his reaction to her body if he saw her partly undressed. Her hand made an involuntary protective movement over the flat surface of her stomach before Lorenzo’s, ‘Come on, Claire, it’s all set up,’ jerked her out of the brief fall into the black abyss all thoughts of her accident still produced.

Nevertheless, as she battled with Lorenzo for domination of the jungle, her Tyrannosaurus Rex versus his King Kong, her mind was only partly on the game.

It had all been so different before the accident, she thought painfully. She had been happy, confident, content in a job she loved and engaged to a man she was sure was the one and only. And then, in just a few moments of time, her whole life had changed irrevocably. She shut her eyes for a second as a stab of anguish made her heart thud.

It hadn’t been her fault. Everyone—the police, her family, the witnesses at the scene—had said the young driver of the flashy sports car had shot out at the junction into the side of her estate car without any warning whatsoever, but the end result had been two grieving parents when he had died in surgery. She had spent weeks in hospital recovering from her own injuries, torturing herself with the terrifying realisation that the three children who had been in the car with her, whom she had been nannying at the time, could so easily have died. As it was, their injuries had been minor, necessitating just an overnight stay, but she could still hear their terror-stricken screams, the moans of the other driver in the tangled wreckage of his vehicle, and the sound of her own voice as she had tried to reassure the children whilst being unable to reach them, trapped as she was within the crumpled car.

She had replayed the incident continuously on the screen of her mind for months afterwards in a desperate effort to reassure herself that she had had no chance to avoid the other car, but still she was left feeling that if she had reacted more quickly, been more observant, a better driver, a young man, eighteen years of age, might not have been wiped out. It had emerged that the sports car had been a present for his eighteenth birthday the day before from over-indulgent and wealthy parents, and that at the time of the accident he hadn’t even been wearing a seat belt...

‘Claire?’ Lorenzo’s indignant voice told her she wasn’t concentrating, and she made an effort to force her mind from the horrors of the past and into the present.

No one would have been able to prevent the tragedy, given the circumstances that had prevailed, had they been a veteran driver of fifty years’ motoring or a young twenty-year-old, as she had been. She knew that, she knew it...in her head. Her heart was a different matter. Her heart still had to cope with the feelings of horror and remorse, even though the latter emotion wasn’t even pertinent to the incident, according to everyone else. But she felt it. She felt it. And her fear and diffidence at being in charge of small precious human beings, who would trust her implicitly the way children do—that was inescapably real too.

The physical scars of the accident might only be faint silvery lines on her stomach, unseen by anyone but herself, but the mental disfiguration was something else, something she knew she had to triumph over, but as yet she was powerless to do so. Would the accident have affected her so adversely if Jeff hadn’t deserted her at a time when she had needed him most? Well, she’d never know, would she...?

The death throes of her Tyrannosaurus and Lorenzo’s exasperated sigh told her she hadn’t been a worthy opponent, and after making her apologies she sat and watched the boy load another game, her mind still worrying at her last thought like a dog with a bone.

Jeff had only visited her in the hospital a handful of times, but, knowing his aversion to illness and disease in general and to hospitals in particular, she hadn’t pressured him to come more often—although she had missed him unbearably, and visiting times had become something of a subtle torture as other patients were engulfed by their husbands or boyfriends. Her parents had visited every day, of course, and her brothers and her wide circle of friends had been marvellous. But somehow it hadn’t been quite the same.

And then, when she had been in hospital eight weeks, and two days before she was due to come home, she had received the letter, every word of which was imprinted on her mind, on her very soul.

‘Dear Claire...’ The formality should have warned her of what was to follow. Before then his letters had always begun ‘Darling’ or ‘My precious Claire’.

I don’t know quite how to write this letter but I know I must. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us if I didn’t. This time apart has made me look at our relationship in a new way, has brought certain issues to the fore, if you know what I mean.

No, she hadn’t, but she had read on anyway, with her heart pounding so violently it had made her feel sick.

I think it would be better if we had a break, Claire, for six months or so, became free agents again with no commitments. I feel I’ve tied you down too early and it’s far better that we part now than at some time in the future, when we’ve got children and so on. Please keep the ring and I hope you can understand why I had to do this.

Goodbye. Jeff.

Oh, the hypocrisy of it But, yes, she had understood then and she did now why he had done it. She was just amazed that she hadn’t clicked on to the way his mind was working that first time he had visited her, when the expression on his face as he had looked at her had been one of horror and revulsion at her injuries compounded by a weird sort of panic and disgust.

She had wept, of course, helplessly, hopelessly, for most of the day, and then her eldest brother, Charlie, had come to visit her in the evening and the full truth had come out. It appeared Jeff had been seeing someone else for the last month, a leggy blonde he worked with who was a keep-fit fanatic like him and attended his gym.

‘I got those sort of details after I’d hit him,’ Charlie had told her, with a measure of satisfaction, ‘and if I’m not mistaken he’ll need to see a dentist to replace a couple of teeth—unless he picked them up off the pub floor, of course. I was just hoping you’d never have to know about her, sis.’

She had sent the ring back the next day.

‘Ready, Claire?’ Lorenzo’s voice was very long suffering, and she grinned at him, thrusting the memories back under lock and key in that closed room in her mind

‘Ready—and I’m going to paste you this time.’

‘You wish!’

She spent just over half an hour with Lorenzo before racing up to the room Anna had shown her to earlier. Her suitcases had been unpacked, her clothes put away in the massive walk-in wardrobe and her toiletries placed neatly in the en suite bathroom. It was a beautiful room—the whole house was beautiful, she reflected appreciatively. But she had no time now to gaze out over the sprawling gardens below from the balcony window. She needed to wash away the grime of the day, change into something suitable for dinner and be back downstairs for eight o’clock.

Grace had called by Lorenzo’s sitting room ten minutes earlier to say that they were changing for dinner as it was something of an occasion—Claire’s first night—that she wanted it to be special and that drinks before dinner would be ready at eight.

At the time it had been a crucial moment in the battle of the planets—she had been defending Earth against Lorenzo’s war probes from Venus—but now she wished she had taken a moment or two to ask Grace how dressy it was going to be. Grace and Donato lived in a massive private wing of the house, which Donato had had built once he and Grace had become engaged, and although access was easy it wasn’t quite the same as popping along the corridor to ask advice.

She eyed her clothes, hanging in somewhat meagre splendour at one end of the huge wardrobe, for some precious minutes before realising she couldn’t hesitate any longer and quickly pulling the traditional life-saver, a little black dress, from one silk-embossed hanger, teaming it with a pair of elegant black satin court shoes.

After a hasty shower she towelled herself dry with the huge fluffy bath-sheet that smelt of flowers and summer days, and then, with the towel wrapped round her torso, walked through to the bedroom and sat down in front of the long, ornate dressing table.

Should she have her hair up or down? And what about earrings? Little crystal studs or the big gold hoops her parents had bought her for Christmas? And eyeshadow—green or blue? Which would look best? She caught herself abruptly, gazing at her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes with a little grimace of disgust.

Stop it,—stop it, Claire. The words were fierce in her head. He wouldn’t look at you twice and you don’t want him to. You don’t. He was married to one stunningly beautiful woman for some years and it’s clear he hasn’t recovered from her death. If anyone is going to help him forget his pain it isn’t a little nobody from England who on top of everything else is damaged goods.

The phrase bit into her consciousness, but it had been with her for the last four years—ever since the day she had read Jeff’s letter, in fact. That same terrible evening in the hospital, once Charlie and her parents had left and she was alone, she had remembered Jeff saying the words some months earlier as they bad watched a TV documentary on a cancer patient who was getting married after a series of skin grafts.

‘How could he many her?’ Jeff had been genuinely amazed. ‘I mean, she doesn’t even look like the girl he once knew. He could have anyone. He doesn’t have to have damaged goods.’

‘That’s awful, Jeff.’ She had been horrified, and he had immediately covered his words with an explanation that had deceived her at the time—or maybe it hadn’t, she amended painfully. Perhaps she had just believed what she’d wanted to believe, she’d loved him so much. It had taken the accident to show her that the man she had loved had never existed in the first place.

When she walked into the drawing room some ten minutes later, her hair loose and shining like molten copper, and just the merest touch of green eyeshadow her only make-up, Romano Bellini was very still for some moments before walking from where he had been standing, looking out over the dark grounds through the full-length windows, to her side.

‘In my country it is mostly the older women who wear black,’ he said softly, ‘but perhaps it is a tradition that should change.’

‘I...thank you—at least I think it was a compliment,’ she added, with a disarming uncertainty that made him look at her for one minute more before he threw back his head and laughed—a loud, husky, almost grating laugh, a laugh that sounded as though it hadn’t been aired for a long time.

‘It was,’ he assured her solemnly as she flushed a bright, body-consuming red. ‘Indeed it was.’

Claire was aware of Grace and Donato’s interested glances from the other side of the room, where Donato was preparing cocktails, and she now felt so flustered and out of her depth that she tried to walk hastily forward, forgetting her unusually high heels, one of which entangled itself in an exquisite Persian rug and would have sent her sprawling but for Romano’s firm hand on her arm.

‘Steady, little English girl, steady.’ His voice was deep and very soft, reaching only her ears. ‘I might be the big bad wolf, capable of diverse and terrible crimes, but I am hardly likely to attempt an assault on your virtue in front of my two oldest and dearest friends, am I?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I tripped, that’s all.’ Her voice wasn’t as firm as she would have liked it to be, mainly due to the fact that he had changed from the black shirt and trousers into dinner dress, which, when combined with the midnight-blue silk shirt he was wearing and the wickedly sardonic smile, proved...overwhelming. And stunning. And devastating. She felt the warmth of his hand burning her skin and prayed for calm. This little incident alone confirmed everything she had thought upstairs. They might have come from different planets.

‘Of course you did.’ His voice was smooth now, and cold, and she felt a sudden and quite absurd disappointment that perversely brought her chin high and made her smile bright as she joined the other two.

Things were a little more comfortable once Lorenzo joined them a few minutes later. She had experienced an immediate rapport with Donato’s young brother in the summer, the gift she had with all children as strong as ever, and now they fell into easy conversation as they relived their battles before dinner, teasing each other unmercifully.

‘You have a way with children.’ As they walked through to the formal dining room at Gina’s bidding some minutes later Romano took her arm again, drawing her into his side. ‘I can see why your name has barely been off Lorenzo’s lips since the summer. He clearly adores you.’

‘He’s a nice...he’s a lovely lad,’ she said quietly, alarmed at the way such a casual touch could make her quiver. ‘He’s coped with a lot in his short life from what Grace tells me—the loss of his parents and...and his sister,’ she continued, after the briefest of pauses when she realised she wasn’t being exactly tactful in reminding him of his loss. ‘And yet he has come through it all without any bitterness or resentment and emerged as a normal and well-adjusted teenager.’

‘Donato and Grace are partly to be praised for that.’

She could smell his aftershave, and whether it was because it was wildly expensive or just that his physical chemistry suited it wonderfully well, the end result was making a sensual warmth tremble deep in her lower stomach as the faint but heady fragrance touched her senses.

‘They purposely decided to give the last two or three years to Lorenzo, to make sure he felt loved and wanted for who and what he is, before they tried for a family of their own again.’

‘Did they?’ She stopped at the door to the dining room, the others having walked ahead. ‘They are good people, aren’t they?’ she said softly as she looked up into his darkly handsome face.

‘Yes, they are. But goodness can make one frighteningly vulnerable at times.’ His voice was cold now, very cold. ‘It is a commodity that is less desirable in this present world than scepticism, I think. To disbelieve, to doubt or question, this is not a bad thing.’

‘Not in some circumstances, but you don’t mean as a general rule, do you?’ she asked, stiffening at the blatant cynicism his words had revealed.

‘That is exactly what I mean,’ he said expressionlessly, his glittering black eyes noting the indignant flush in her cheeks.

‘Well, I don’t agree with that!’ She glared at him, her eyes honey-gold in the artificial light overhead and her body language militant ‘That’s awful. That would mean you could never trust anyone, or believe in them, unless you had a signed affidavit first.’

‘A little extreme, but near enough to make no matter.’ He gestured to the room beyond with a curt nod of his head. ‘I think they are waiting...?’

The dinner table was a vision of heavy, solid silver cutlery, fine crystal glasses, exquisite linenware and a magnificent centrepiece of hot-house blooms that perfumed the air with a sweet fragrance. The room itself was grand and ornate too, and more than a little awe-inspiring, like the rest of Casa Pontina.

As the courses came and went, each one more delicious than the one before, Claire found she didn’t have to work at relaxing. Several glasses of good wine combined with Donato and Grace at their best as amusing and congenial hosts were lulling her unease. The tiring day, mostly spent travelling by plane and car, the memories of everything associated with the accident, the confusion and alarm the dark man opposite her evoked—all of it faded into a still, soothing warmth as the wine and good food did its work. It was a calm respite that she knew wouldn’t last, but it was wonderfully pleasing on the senses.

They laughed, they joked, they ate and drank, but through it all, every moment, every second, she was vitally aware of the big, dark, laconic figure opposite her, every nerve and sinew tuned into him in a way she had never experienced before. She didn’t like it, but there was nothing she could do about it either.

‘Did you go home to change?’ It was towards the end of the meal that she asked the question that had been at the back of her mind all evening, indicating his immaculate evening wear with a wave of her hand.

‘Si, it is not far.’ He smiled politely, and his voice reflected his expression as he added, ‘You must visit my home at some time while you are here.’

Oh, he didn’t think she had been angling for a visit to his villa, did he? Her calm composure shattered instantly. She hadn’t. She really hadn’t.

‘Thank you, but I think I’m going to have plenty to do with the lady in waiting.’ She softened the refusal with a careful smile, hoping he would get the message that he was off the hook, but instead of the overt relief she had expected to see in the lethal black eyes his face took on a coolness, a remoteness that was intimidating.

‘I am sure there will be an opportunity, nevertheless,’ he said stiffly. ‘It will be a pleasure to entertain you.’

Brilliant—she’d offended him now. He’d probably guessed she’d sensed he was offering out of courtesy and, with true Italian pride and hospitality, would now force the issue in spite of his feelings just to save face.

‘Yes, perhaps. But Donato and Grace have mentioned how busy you are. We’ll have to see...’ Her voice trailed off as his sombre gaze took hers and held it in a grip that was paralysing.

‘Saturday evening,’ he said grimly.

‘What?’ She was aware that the other three had paused in the easy conversation they had been holding about future names for the babies, and that Donato and Grace at least were listening with some interest.

‘Dinner at my home on Saturday evening.’ It was said without the slightest pretence at an invitation. In fact the cool, harsh words carried more of a challenge than anything else, and it was one she had no intention of taking up.

‘I don’t think—’

‘Donato and Grace too, of course.’ There was a cold arrogance in the way he spoke that suggested he knew she wouldn’t dare accept an invitation by herself, but even that overt mockery wasn’t going to provoke her into agreeing to go to his home, she thought angrily, bristling in spite of herself. Who did he think he was anyway? Ordering her about as though she were some sort of stupid schoolgirl who wouldn’t say boo to a goose?

‘I’m sorry, Romano. It’s very kind of you, but I really would like a few days to acclimatise and get used to things,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m sure there will be other opportunities—’

‘A week on Saturday, then,’ he said immediately.

She knew a moment’s sheer panic at the fact that a will far stronger than hers was meeting her head-on, and then decided that she had made her point and that to refuse again would be both petty and rude.

‘That will give you enough time to...adjust?’ he asked with deceptive smoothness, one black eyebrow quirking in a manner that could only be called goading.

‘I should think so.’

She managed a bright smile, as though all the undercurrents had completely passed her by, but then stiffened when in the next instant Donato said, ‘That would work out very well, in actual fact. Grace and I have tickets for the opera on that night—you remember you bought them for my birthday, Romano? I was going to suggest that Grace and Claire used them instead, but if Claire is happy to have dinner with you we will know she is being looked after, and we could all go to the opera together another time.’

‘Of course, a week on Saturday is your birthday.’ There was something, just something in the silky soft voice that told Claire that Romano hadn’t forgotten the date of Donato’s birthday for a moment, or the treat he had arranged for his friend and his wife, and as she turned her head again to look him straight in the eye the black gaze was waiting for her. ‘I’m sure Claire would rather you and Grace enjoy the opera together,’ he continued pleasantly. ‘Is that not so, Claire?’

‘I...’ Game, set and match! Why, oh why, hadn’t she agreed to this Saturday, when Donato and Grace could have come with her? ‘Yes, of course,’ she said hastily as the black eyebrow rose still further at her hesitation. ‘There is no way I would dream of taking your ticket, Donato, you know that, but perhaps the week after that would do just as well?’

‘Nonsense.’ Romano’s voice was brisk now, signalling the end to a conversation he clearly considered had gone on long enough. ‘Donato and Grace will enjoy their evening all the more, knowing you are safe in my hands, Claire.’

The black eyes were wicked as they held hers, the message contained in the words for her ears alone, and then his face took on a benevolent expression that made her want to kick him as he turned to face the others. ‘That is settled, then, sì? A pleasant evening for all concerned, I am sure.’

I’m not. The words were so loud in her head she was surprised the others hadn’t heard them, but then, as Romano turned back to her, she knew he had, and had to force herself to say, in as normal a tone as she could muster, ‘Thank you very much, I’ll look forward to it.’

‘Good.’ He didn’t know how near he came to that kick again as he added, in an innocent drawl, ‘It will - be... nice.’

CHAPTER THREE

THIS was stupid. This was really, really stupid. Claire frowned ferociously at the girl in the mirror as she leant back against the small upholstered dressing table chair. The very last thing in the world she wanted was to have dinner alone with Romano Bellini, so why on earth was she preparing to do just that? She should have pleaded a headache, flu, mental collapse—anything!

She twisted restlessly on the chair, hating the glimmer of panic in her eyes but unable to do anything about it. She hadn’t seen him since that first night she had arrived but had been on tenterhooks every time the phone had rung or the doorbell had sounded—until Donato had mentioned casually at dinner on her third night with them that Romano was abroad for a few days on business. ‘He returns Friday night,’ Donato had added, as though to reassure her that the dinner date was still on. ‘OK?’

No, no it was not OK, but she couldn’t very well say so. Romano had tied her up tighter than a bale of hay, he knew it and she knew it, and the rest of them, to her intense irritation, thought he was merely being friendly and supportive to a stranger in his country.

She sighed, loudly and crossly, before leaning forward again and continuing to put the finishing touches to her make-up. She assumed, considering it would be just the two of them, that smart but casual would be the order of the day, and the long-sleeved waist-length jumper in soft white bobbly wool teamed with an ankle-length skirt in dense black denim seemed to fit the bill.

She had decided to wear her hair up, securing the silky chestnut strands in a high knot on top of her head and allowing just a few strands about her face and neck to combine with her thick fringe and soften the severe style.

A touch of grey eyeshadow on her eyelids and large gold hoops in her ears and she was ready. She fastened the second earring and gazed at her reflection critically. Not bad, quite passable, but nothing on the lines of the sort of women he was used to, she thought quietly. She and Grace had spent one afternoon browsing through old photo albums, and she had been interested to see Bianca had been as beautiful as a baby and child as she was as an adult—interested and dismayed, if she was honest, she amended weakly.

Not that she was interested in Romano. She wasn’t, not at all, but it was slightly disconcerting to be having dinner with a man who favoured tall, voluptuous modeltypes, as the old photographs of the girlfriends he had had before Bianca had borne evidence to, and who had been married for some years to one of the most gorgeous women she had ever seen.

‘Donato and Romano were the original playboys, I think.’ Grace had been smiling as she spoke, clearly totally undisturbed by her husband’s riotous past before he had met her, as her next words had qualified. ‘Before they settled down, that is.’

‘Umm.’ Claire couldn’t drag her eyes away from the dashingly handsome man in the photos, who looked almost boyish compared to now. Still, he had lost his wife, she thought soberly, that would be enough to make any man grow up fast.

‘Was he very affected by Bianca’s death?’ she asked Grace carefully, not really wanting to know the answer but having to enquire just the same. ‘It must have been an awful shock to you all.’

‘It was.’ Claire had noticed before that Grace didn’t like to talk about Donato’s sister, and reproached herself for not keeping quiet as her friend’s face changed. She, of all people, knew how traumatic the results of a bad car crash could be for relatives and friends even if the victim lived, and Bianca hadn’t. ‘But he coped,’ Grace continued quietly. ‘We all did. You just have to, don’t you?’

‘I guess.’ Claire nodded soberly, her face sympathetic as she reached across and squeezed Grace’s hand for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, Grace, I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I know you and Bianca weren’t close, but being the same age and everything it must have been terribly difficult for you.’

‘Claire—’ Grace stopped abruptly, her face working as she stared into her eyes for a long moment. ‘I... There’s something...’

‘What’s the matter?’

But she had never found out what the matter was because a second later Lorenzo had bounded in, closely followed by Donato, and the moment had been lost.

A discreet knock at her bedroom door brought her out of her reverie, and as she called for her to enter Gina’s dark head peered in. ‘Scusi, signorina, but the signore, he has arrived.’ The little maid beamed at her as though she was imparting wonderful news, and Claire dredged up a suitable response as her heart kicked and then raced like an express train.

He was here. As Gina closed the door, leaving her alone again, Claire shut her eyes tightly for a moment, her hand pressed against her chest. Calm down, calm down—he’s just a man, for goodness’ sake. There’s nothing special about him. Even as the thought took shape she acknowledged its absurdity, the tall, commanding figure that had been there at the forefront of her mind for days suddenly as real as if he were in the room with her.

Wouldn’t he just love to know he had affected her like this? She opened her eyes wide, straightening her back and setting her mouth determinedly. But he wouldn’t. She’d die first. She didn’t understand this physical attraction that had hit her like a ton of bricks, not when it was for a man she didn’t really know, didn’t want to know and actively disliked. It was humiliating, embarrassing, and without any rhyme or reason, but... her thoughts were her own and he didn’t have access to them, thank goodness.

She was going to have dinner with him tonight, act cool and uninterested, and hopefully he wouldn’t feel obliged to repeat the exercise, having discharged his duties as friend and member of the family. No problem...

The words mocked her a few minutes later as she walked into the drawing room where Romano was waiting. He was sitting in front of the flickering log fire, his long legs stretched out in idle relaxation and his eyes on one of Donato’s car magazines which he was idly glancing through, but at her entrance he slowly lifted his head, his expression unreadable as he saw her in the doorway.

‘Ciao, Claire.’

He was every bit as devastating as she remembered, the black waist-length leather jacket and black jeans emphasising the dark, magnetic power of the man to such an extent that she had to swallow twice before she could say, ‘Good evening, Romano.’

‘That remains to be seen.’ The dark, glossy head tilted with a mocking smile, but such was the look on her face that for the second time in their acquaintance the harsh, husky laugh followed, before he said, ‘I apologise, I am being very rude, but you are so good to tease, you know this? Those big golden-brown eyes look at me as though I am the devil himself, and I find it prompts all sorts of bad thoughts. But do not fear, mia piccola, I will not ravish you in my lair.’

‘No, you won’t,’ she agreed bitingly, bitterly resenting the implication that she was some nervous, naïve female with goo-goo eyes and a brain to match. ‘You won’t get the chance, for one thing.’

‘With any other woman I might take that as a subtle incitement, a challenge,’ he drawled easily. ‘But something tells me you mean every word you say.’

‘Dead right,’ she agreed sharply.

‘So. You are not looking for the good time, the brief Italian romance to carry home with you when you go back to England, sì? This is good. Now we both know where we stand, do we not?’ It was said with that smooth assurance he was so good at, but there was the merest inflexion in the velvet voice that told her he wasn’t quite so pleased as he seemed.

So the dynamic Romano Bellini didn’t like being told exactly how things were by a mere slip of an English girl he wouldn’t normally look at twice? she thought perceptively, a warm glow of satisfaction making her lower her eyes quickly before it was reflected in her expression. Tough.

‘Shall we go?’ She kept her face and voice bland as she raised her head and looked at him again, but then her eyes were caught and held by the magnetic power that was so completely natural and all the more lethal because of it.

‘But of course.’ He rose with animal-like grace, and in spite of all her determination to remain cool and calm her heart thudded crazily as he walked over to her. ‘Here, let me.’

He took her jacket from her unresisting fingers and helped her in to it with an easy charm that was seductive in itself, turning her round with a light touch on her shoulders once she was ready and looking down at her with a strange expression softening the hard, handsome features.

‘I hope you will enjoy visiting my home, Claire,’ he said quietly, all mockery and amusement gone from his face, ‘and that our evening together will be an enjoyable one. You are a guest in Donato’s home, but more than that you are a dear friend of Grace’s, and as such I would like us, too, to be friends. You understand this?’

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