MARRIED BY CHRISTMAS

For better or worse,

she’ll be his by Christmas!

As the festive season approaches,

these darkly handsome Mediterranean men

are looking forward to unwrapping

their brand-new brides. Whether they’re living

luxuriously in London or flying by private jet

to their glamorous European villas, these

arrogant, commanding tycoons need wives,

and they’ll have them—by Christmas!

Don’t miss any of the exciting stories available

this month from Harlequin Presents EXTRA:

Hired: The Italian’s Convenient Mistress

by Carol Marinelli

The Spanish Billionaire’s Christmas Bride

by Maggie Cox

Claimed for the Italian’s Revenge

by Natalie Rivers

The Prince’s Arranged Bride

by Susan Stephens

SUSAN STEPHENS was a professional singer before meeting her husband on the tiny Mediterranean island of Malta. In true Harlequin Presents style they met on Monday, became engaged on Friday and were married three months later. Almost thirty years and three children later they are still in love. (Susan does not advise her children to return home one day with a similar story as she may not take the news with the same fortitude as her own mother!)

Susan had written several nonfiction books when fate took a hand. At a charity costume ball there was an after-dinner auction. One of the lots, “Spend a Day with an Author,” had been donated by Mills & Boon author Penny Jordan. Susan’s husband bought this lot and Penny was to become not just a great friend, but a wonderful mentor who encouraged Susan to write romance.

Susan loves her family, her pets, her friends and her writing. She enjoys entertaining, travel and going to the theater. She reads, cooks and plays the piano to relax, and can occasionally be found throwing herself off mountains on a pair of skis or galloping through the countryside.

Visit Susan’s Web site,

www.susanstephens.net. She loves to hear from her readers all around the world!

The Italian Prince’s Proposal
Susan Stephens

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Italian Prince’s Proposal

For Steve, my hero

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

CROWN PRINCE ALESSANDRO BUSSONI OF FERARA narrowed amber eyes in lazy speculation as he continued to stare at the brightly lit stage. ‘She’d do.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

There was no emotion in the question. The man sitting next to the Prince on the top table at the lavish Midsummer ball wore the carefully controlled expression of a career diplomat, and had a voice to match. Thin and lugubrious, with sun-starved features, it would have been impossible for Marco Romagnoli to provide a sharper contrast to his employer, and Crown Prince Alessandro’s blistering good looks were supported by one of the brightest minds in Europe, as well as all the presence and easy charm that was his by right of birth.

‘I said she’d do,’ the Prince repeated impatiently, turning a compelling gaze on his aide-de-camp. ‘You’ve paraded every woman of marriageable age before me, Marco, and failed to tempt me once. I like the look of this girl—’

And it was a lot more than just her stunning appearance, Alessandro acknowledged silently as his glance went back to the stage. The girl possessed an incredible energy not dissimilar to his own—an energy that seemed to leap out from the gaudily dressed performance area and thump him straight in the chest.

All he had to offer her was a cold-blooded business deal, but…His sensuous mouth curved in a thoughtful smile. In this instance mixing business with pleasure might not be such a bad thing.

‘Are you serious, Your Royal Highness?’ Marco Romagnoli murmured, taking care not to alert their fellow diners.

‘Would I joke about so serious a matter as my future wife? Alessandro demanded in a fierce whisper. ‘She looks like fun.’

‘Fun, sir?’ Marco Romagnoli leaned forward to follow his employer’s eyeline. ‘You are talking about the singer with the band?’

‘You find something wrong with that?’ the Prince demanded, swivelling round to level a challenging gaze on his aide’s face.

‘No, sir,’ Marco returned in a monotone, knowing the Prince would brook no prejudice based on flimsy face-value evidence. ‘But if I may ask an impertinent question…?’

‘Ask away,’ Alessandro encouraged, his firm mouth showing the first hint of amusement as he guessed the way Marco’s mind was working.

‘She’d do for what, exactly, sir…? Only she’s rather—’

‘Luscious? Bold? Striking? In your face? What?’ the Prince prompted adjusting his long legs as if the enforced inactivity was starting to irk him.

‘All of those,’ Marco suggested uncomfortably, his glance flashing back to the stage, where Emily Weston was well into her third number and clearly had the affluent, well-oiled crowd eating out of her hand. ‘I can see that a young lady like that holds a certain attraction for—’ Marco Romagnoli eased his fingers under a starched white collar that seemed to be on the point of choking him.

‘Go on. Don’t stop now,’ Prince Alessandro encouraged, reining in his amusement.

Taking a few moments to rethink his approach, the usually unflappable courtier replied carefully, ‘Well, sir, I can see she’s a beauty, and undoubtedly perfect for certain activities. But you surely can’t be thinking—’

‘You mean I should bed her, not wed her?’ Alessandro suggested dryly, as he looked back to where Emily had the microphone clutched between both hands for a slow number, looking as if she was about to devour it.

‘I couldn’t have put it better myself, sir. In my opinion such an ill-judged match would only create more problems than it would solve.’

‘I disagree,’ the Crown Prince of Ferara countered, ‘and nothing you can say will persuade me that the girls you have paraded before me would fill the role any better—or vacate it without causing problems.’

He paused, and took another long look at the stage. ‘As it is not my intention to break any hearts, Marco, this is the perfect solution. I want a straightforward business deal and a short-term bride—’

‘Short-term, sir?’

Alessandro turned to answer the disquiet so clearly painted across the other man’s face.

‘I know,’ he said, leaning closer to ensure they were not overheard. ‘You’re thinking of all the other implications such an arrangement would entail—I would expect nothing less of you, my old friend.’

The Prince’s companion grew ever more troubled. Even if he could have shed the role of cautious professional advisor, Marco Romagnoli had known Alessandro from the day of his birth, and was considered an honorary member of the royal family.

‘I wouldn’t wish to see anyone take advantage of you, sir,’ he said now, with concern.

‘I shall take good care to ensure that none of the parties involved in my plan is taken advantage of,’ Alessandro assured him. ‘Thanks to our country’s archaic legislation I can think of no other way to solve the problem of succession. If my father is to have his wish and retire I must marry immediately. It’s obvious to me that this young woman has spirit. When I put my proposition to her I think she will have an instant grasp of the advantages that such a match can bring to both of us.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Marco agreed reluctantly, flinching visibly as Emily launched into a raunchy upbeat number.

‘I have seen enough, Marco,’ the Prince said, reclaiming his aide’s attention. ‘And I like what I see. Please advise the young lady that Alessandro Bussoni wishes to talk with her after the performance tonight. No titles,’ he warned. ‘And if she asks, just say I have a proposition to put to her. And don’t forget to ask her name,’ he added as, without another word, Marco Romagnoli rose to his feet.

After the show, Emily Weston, the singer with the band, was having a tense debate over the phone with her twin sister Miranda.

‘Well, how do you deal with them?’ she demanded, shouldering the receiver to scoop up another huge blob of cleansing cream from her twin’s industrial-sized pot.

‘Who do you mean?’ Miranda snuffled between ear-splitting sneezes.

‘Stage Door Johnnies—’

Miranda’s summer cold symptoms dissolved into laughter. ‘Stage Door Whosies?’

‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about,’ Emily insisted, flashing another concerned glance towards the dressing room door.

‘I didn’t think there was such a thing as Stage Door Johnnies nowadays,’ Miranda said doubtfully.

‘Well, I can assure you there is,’ Emily insisted. ‘What else would you call uninvited gentleman callers who won’t take no for an answer?’

‘Depends on who’s doing the calling, I suppose,’ Miranda conceded, blasting out another sneeze. ‘Why don’t you just take a look at him first, before you decide?’

‘No way! That’s never been part of our agreement.’

‘But if he looks like Herman Munster you can send him packing…and if he’s a babe, pass him on to me. He’d never know the difference. If Mum and Dad can’t tell us apart, what chance does this man stand? What have you got to lose?’

‘Look, I’ll have to go,’ Emily said as another rap, far more insistent than the last, bounced off the walls around her head. ‘I told his messenger I couldn’t see anyone I didn’t know immediately after a show—pleading artistic temperament. He still hasn’t taken the hint.’

‘He sent someone round first?’ Miranda cut in, her voice taut with excitement. ‘He sounds interesting. He might be a VIP.’

‘I doubt it,’ Emily said as she peered into the mirror to peel off her false eyelashes. ‘Though when I said I wouldn’t see him I thought his representative muttered something about Prince being disappointed—’

‘Emily, you dope,’ Miranda exclaimed through another bout of sneezing.’ Prince Records is the recording company my band’s been hoping to sign with. And you’ve just turned away their scout.’

‘Can’t I get one of the boys to see him?’ Emily suggested hopefully. After all, there were five male members in Miranda’s band.

‘Are you kidding?’ Miranda exclaimed. ‘First of all they’ll be in the pub by now…and secondly, do you seriously think I’d trust them to discuss business without my being there?’

Remembering the dreamy idealism of Miranda’s fellow musicians, Emily could only respond in the negative. ‘It might have helped if you had warned me this might happen,’ she protested reasonably. ‘Have to go,’ she finished in a rush, wiping her hands on the towel across her lap as another flurry of raps hit the door. ‘Whoever this is, he’s not about to give up.’

Cutting the connection, Emily grabbed a handful of tissues as she shot up from her seat in front of the brilliantly lit mirror. Then, scooting behind a conveniently placed screen, she called out, ‘Come in.’

This was the craziest thing she had ever done, Emily thought nervously as she swiped off the last of her make-up and stuffed the used tissues into the pocket of her robe. She tensed as the door swung open.

‘Hello? Miss Weston? Miss Weston, are you there?’

She had heard male voices likened to anything from gravel to bitter chocolate, but this one slammed straight into her senses. Italian, she guessed, and with just the hint of a sexy mid-Atlantic drawl. She pictured him scanning the cluttered space, hunting for her hiding place, and felt her whole being responding to some imperative and extremely erotic wake-up call.

‘Make yourself comfortable,’ she sang out, relieved she was hidden away. ‘I’m getting changed.’

‘Thank you, Miss Weston,’ the voice replied evenly. ‘Please don’t hurry on my account.’

Just the authority in the man’s voice made the hairs stand on the back of her neck. And there was a stillness about it that made her think of a jungle cat, lithe, impossibly strong—and deadly.

It was in her nature to confront threats, not hide from them. So why was she skulking behind a screen? Emily asked herself impatiently. Could it be that the force of this man’s personality had taken possession of what, in Miranda’s absence, was her territory?

‘Can I help you?’ she said, struggling to see through a tiny crack in the woodwork.

‘I certainly hope so.’

There was supreme confidence and not a little amusement in the response, as well as the type of worldliness that had Emily mentally rocking back on her heels. It was almost as if the man had caught her out doing something wrong—as if she had no right to be looking at him.

Drawing a few steadying breaths, she tried again. But all she could see through the crack in the screen was the broad sweep of shoulders clad in a black dinner jacket and a cream silk evening scarf slung casually around the neck of an impressively tall individual. A man whose luxuriant, dark wavy hair was immaculately groomed and glossy…the type of hair that made you want to run your fingers through it and then move on to caress—She pulled herself up short, closing her eyes to gather her senses…senses that were reacting in an extraordinary manner to nothing more than a man’s voice, Emily reminded herself. She spent her working life objective and detached…yet now, when it really mattered—when Miranda’s recording contract was at stake—she was allowing herself to be sideswiped off-beam by a few simple words. ‘I’m sorry, Mr…er—’

‘Bussoni,’ he supplied evenly.

‘Mr Bussoni,’ Emily said, her assurance growing behind the protection of the screen. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t give the gentleman who works for you a very warm welcome—’

‘Really? He said nothing of it to me.’

She was beginning to get a very clear picture of the man now. The image of a hunter sprang to mind…someone who was waiting and listening, using all his senses to evaluate his quarry. ‘I understand you’d like to discuss the possibility of signing the band?’ she said carefully.

There was another long pause, during which Emily formed the impression that the man was scanning all her neatly arranged possessions, gathering evidence about her and soaking up information—drawing conclusions. And from his position in front of the mirror he could do all of that—and still keep a watch on her hiding place.

Taking over last minute from Miranda meant she had been forced to come straight from work. There had been no time to find out about the event, let alone who might be in the audience. She had certainly not anticipated the need to be on her guard—to hide everything away. ‘You are from Prince Records?’ she prompted in a businesslike tone, hoping to bounce the man into some sort of admission.

‘Do you think you could possibly come out here and discuss this in person?’

It was a reasonable enough suggestion. But Miranda was never seen without full war paint, and after liberal applications of cold cream Emily’s own face had returned to its customary naked state. If she hoped to impersonate her twin an appearance right now was out of the question.

‘I know this must sound rude, after you’ve taken the trouble to come backstage, but I’m rather tired this evening. Do you think we could talk tomorrow?’ she said, knowing Miranda should have recovered and taken her rightful place by then.

‘Tomorrow afternoon, at three?’

Emily’s hearing was acutely tuned to his every move. He was already turning to go, she realised. Suddenly she couldn’t even remember what she had on the following day, let alone specifically at three o’clock in the afternoon. The only thing she was capable of registering—apart from an over-active heartbeat—was that the recording contract for Miranda’s band was vital.

‘OK. That’s fine,’ she heard herself agreeing. ‘But not here.’

‘Anywhere you say.’

Possibilities flooded Emily’s mind. She dismissed each one in turn…until the very last. ‘Could you come out to North London?’ Her mother and father had insisted that if Miranda’s cold had not improved by tomorrow she should be brought home to recuperate. Emily knew she could rely on her parents to fill in any awkward gaps…smooth over the cracks when she changed places with her twin.

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘That’s if you’re still interested?’

Interested? Alessandro thought, curbing his smile just in case Miss Weston decided to suddenly burst out from her hiding place. If he had been fascinated before, now he was positively gripped.

He ran one supple, sun-bronzed finger down the slim leather-bound diary he so longed to open, and traced the length of the expensive fountain pen lying next to it before toying with a pair of cufflinks bearing some sort of crest.

The handbag on the seat had quality written all over it, rather than some flashy logo. And the smart black suit teamed with a crisp white double-cuffed shirt hanging on a gown rail was Armani, if he wasn’t mistaken.

His gaze swept the threadbare carpet that might once have been red to where a pair of slinky high-heeled court shoes stood next to a dark blue felt sack, ornamented with a thick tassel. Alongside that, a pull-along airline case—

‘Mr Bussoni?’

His gaze switched back to the screen.

‘Mr Bussoni, are you still interested?’

There was just a hint of anxiety in the voice now, Alessandro noted with satisfaction. This contract obviously meant a great deal to her. He cast a look at the discarded stage costume…Something jarred. No, he realised. Everything jarred.

‘Only on one condition,’ he said, adopting a stern tone as he assumed the mantle of time-starved recording executive.

‘And that is?’ Emily said cagily.

‘That you come to supper with me after our meeting.’ Alessandro was surprised when a curl of excitement wrapped around his chest as he waited for her answer. ‘You may have questions for me, and there’s sure to be a lot we have to discuss,’ he said truthfully, satisfied that he had kept every trace of irony out of his voice.

Emily let the silence hang for a while. Miranda would definitely have to be better by then, she thought crossing her fingers reflexively. ‘That’s fine,’ she confirmed evenly. ‘I’ll let the rest of the band members know—’

‘No,’ the voice flashed back assertively. ‘It only needs one person to take in what I have to say…and I have chosen you, Miss Weston. Now, are you still interested in progressing with this matter, or not?’

‘Of course I’m interested,’ Emily confirmed, suddenly eager to be free of a presence that was becoming more disconcerting by the minute.

‘That’s settled, then. I’ll write my number down for you. Perhaps you’ll be good enough to get in touch first thing…leave the address for our meeting with my secretary?’

‘Of course.’ She felt rather than heard him prepare to leave.

‘Until tomorrow, Miss Weston.’

‘Until tomorrow, Mr Bussoni.’

Emily held her breath and tried to soak up information as the door opened, then shut again silently. The man might have three humps and a tail, for all she could tell, but her body insisted on behaving as if some lusty Roman gladiator had just strolled out of the room after booking her for sex the next day.

After he’d left it took her a good few minutes to recover her equilibrium. And when she moved out from behind the screen everything seemed shabbier than she remembered it, and emptier somehow, as if some indefinable force had left the room, leaving it all the poorer for the loss.

By early afternoon the next day, Emily had cancelled all her appointments for the rest of the week and was ready to take her sister back to their parents’ house.

Drawing up outside the front door on the short gravel drive, she switched off the engine and tried for the umpteenth time to coax her twin into facing reality.

‘This man is different to anyone I’ve ever encountered before. It would be a real mistake to underestimate him, Miranda.’

‘He made quite an impression on you, didn’t he?’ Miranda replied, slanting a glance at her twin.

‘I didn’t even see him properly,’ Emily replied defensively. ‘And don’t change the subject. It’s you we’re talking about, not me.’

After assuming a low-profile role in an orchestra for a number of years, Miranda had attracted the attention of a leading Japanese violin teacher. In order to fund the lessons Emily’s twin had started a band—a band that in the beginning had taken up only the occasional weekend; a band that was now taking up more and more of her time…

‘I only need this recording contract for a year or so,’ she said now, as if trying to convince herself that the scheme would work. ‘Just long enough for me to launch my career as a solo violinist.’

Emily frowned. She wanted to help, but only when she was confident Miranda understood what she was letting herself in for. ‘Are you sure Prince Records understands that? They would have grounds to sue if you let them down.’

‘They won’t have any trouble finding someone to replace me; the boys are great—’

‘I’m still not happy,’ Emily admitted frankly. ‘I just can’t see what you’ll gain going down this route.’

‘Money?’ Miranda said hopefully.

Emily shook her head as she reasoned it through aloud. ‘You’re not going to be able to honour a recording contract drawn up by a man like Mr Bussoni and put in the practice hours necessary to study the violin with a top-flight teacher like Professor Iwamoto.’

‘It won’t be for long,’ Miranda insisted stubbornly, unfolding her long limbs to have a noisy stretch. ‘I’ll cope.’

Before Emily had a chance to argue Miranda was out of the smart black coupé and heading up the path.

‘Don’t be silly,’ Emily said, catching up with her sister at the front door. ‘The more successful the band, the less likely it is that this crazy idea of yours will work. I know the money would be great, but—’ The expression on her twin’s face made Emily stop to give her a hug. ‘I know you’re still pining over that violin we saw in Heidelberg.’

‘That was just a stupid dream—’

‘Well, I don’t know much about violins,’ Emily admitted, ‘but I do know what a sweet sound you produced on that lovely old instrument.’

‘Something like that would cost a king’s ransom anyway,’ Miranda sighed despondently. ‘And it’s sure to have been sold by now.’

Emily made a vague sound to register sympathy while she was busy calculating how much money she could raise if she sold her central London apartment to the landlord who already owned most of the smart riverside block, and then rented it back from him. Miranda need never know. It was a desperate solution, but anything was preferable to seeing her sister’s opportunity lost. ‘If I can help you, I will,’ she promised.

With a gust of frustration, Miranda hit the doorbell. ‘You do enough for everyone already. You won’t even let me pay rent—’

‘If I didn’t have you around, who else would keep the fridge stocked up with eye masks?’ Emily demanded wryly.

Their banter was interrupted when the door swung open.

‘Girls—’

Then another idea popped into Emily’s head. ‘I’ve got some investments—’

‘No!’ Miranda said, shaking her head vehemently. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘You’re not arguing,’ their mother said wearily, giving them both a reproving look.

‘Heated discussion, Mum,’ Emily said as she shut the door behind them. ‘Where’s Dad?’

‘In his study, of course.’

Of course. Emily stole a moment to inhale deeply, taking in the aroma of a freshly baked cake coming from the kitchen, along with the gurgle of boiling water ready for tea.

‘You look tired,’ her mother said softly, touching her arm. ‘And as for you, Miranda—’ Her voice sharpened as if her maternal engines had revved to a new pitch. ‘What you need is a good dose of my linctus, and a hot cup of tea—’

‘Did I hear the magic words?’

‘Dad!’ the girls cried in unison.

After giving them both a bear hug, Mr Weston linked arms with his daughters and followed their mother into the kitchen.

‘It will be easy for you, Emily,’ her mother asserted confidently, after Miranda had outlined her plan to secure the recording contract. ‘You’re not emotionally involved like Miranda. And you’ll run rings around this record company man when it comes to securing the best terms for Miranda.’

Emily was surprised by her reaction to this vote of confidence. It was unnerving to discover that her mother’s assessment of the situation could be so far off the mark. Intuition told her that running rings around Alessandro Bussoni was out of the question. But her main worry was the strange way her heart behaved just at the thought of him joining them in the tiny house. The man behind the voice would fill every inch of it with presence alone, never mind the unsettling possibility that she might brush up against him—

‘Are you sure you’re all right with this, Emily…? Emily?’

Finally the concern in her father’s voice penetrated Emily’s dream-state, and her eyes cleared as she hurried to reassure him. ‘Of course, Dad. Leave it to me,’ she insisted brightly, ‘I can handle Signor Bussoni—’

‘Italian!’ her mother exclaimed, showing double the interest as she unconsciously checked out her neat halo of curls. ‘How exciting. And when did you say he was arriving?’

‘Right now, by the looks of it,’ Emily’s father said as he peered through the window.

CHAPTER TWO

‘OH, NO!’ Miranda gasped, looking to her sister for guidance.

‘Stay upstairs until he’s gone,’ Emily suggested briskly. ‘I’ll come and get you when the coast’s clear. Mum. Dad. Act normal.’

‘Yes, dear,’ her mother said breathlessly, exchanging an excited glance with her father.

Don’t look so worried,’ Emily called after Miranda. ‘I promise not to turn anything down without your approval.’

Exchanging quick smiles, the girls were just on the point of parting at the foot of the stairs when they stopped, looked at each other, and then swooped to the hall window.

Standing well back from the glass, Emily ran a finger cautiously down the edge of the net curtain.

‘Oh, boy,’ she murmured, watching the tall, darkly clad figure unfold his impressive frame from the heavily shaded interior of a sleek black car.

‘You said Herman Munster,’ Miranda breathed accusingly.

‘I said he might have been Herman Munster for all I could see of him,’ Emily corrected tensely.

‘Looks like you were both wrong in this instance,’ their father commented dryly.

Alessandro felt a frisson of anticipation as he double-checked the address his private secretary had passed on to him that morning.

He wasn’t used to waiting, and eighteen hours was far too long in this case.

But then he wasn’t used to speaking to someone hiding behind a screen either, or accepting anyone’s terms but his own—which was how he now found himself getting out of a rented Mercedes outside a perfectly ordinary semi-detached house in North London.

He smiled a little in amused acceptance. He couldn’t recall a single instance of being turned down by a woman, let alone agreeing to a time of her choosing for an audience as begrudging as this one. His sharp gaze took in the small rectangular lawn, freshly mowed, and then moved on to the splash of vivid colour provided by a pot of petunias to one side of the narrow front door. For someone who moved between palaces, embassies or the presidential suite in some luxury hotel when he was really slumming it, this chance to sample suburbia was a novelty…No. A welcome change, he decided as he swiped off his dark glasses.

Behind a snowy drift of net, the Weston family watched Alessandro Bussoni’s progress towards the house in awe-struck silence.

‘He’s absolutely gorgeous,’ Miranda murmured. Their distracted mother barely managed a weak gasp of, ‘Oh, my!’

‘Go, before he sees you,’ Emily suggested urgently, having already turned her back on the window.

‘But your make-up,’ Miranda said, hopping from foot to foot, torn between going and staying.

Emily’s hand shot automatically to her face. ‘What about it?’

‘You’re not wearing any,’ Miranda exclaimed with concern.

‘Can’t be helped. He’ll still think I’m you. Why shouldn’t he? Anyway, you’re not wearing any make-up,’ Emily pointed out.

‘Only because I’m sick.’

‘Well, there’s no time for me to do anything about it now,’ Emily said firmly. ‘I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.’

‘Sure?’ Miranda asked hopefully.

‘Sure,’ Emily said briskly, hoping no one had noticed that her hand was shaking as it hovered over the doorknob.

‘I’m going to change,’ Miranda shouted, on her way up the stairs. ‘Then I’m taking over from you.’

‘No!’ But even as Emily’s gaze raked the empty landing to call her sister back she knew it was too late. Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, she seized the doorknob tightly and began to turn…

‘You go and wait in the lounge, pet.’

‘Dad—’

‘Go and compose yourself,’ Mr Weston urged gently, refusing to let go of her arm until Emily allowed him to steer her away from the door. ‘You look like you could do with a few minutes. I’ll keep him busy until you’re ready.’

‘You’re an angel,’ Emily whispered, reaching up on tiptoe to give her father an affectionate peck on the cheek. But a moment alone was all it took her to realise that she couldn’t go ahead with the charade after all, and she rushed upstairs to find her sister.

The twins waited motionless, hardly daring to breathe as they stood just inside the door to Miranda’s bedroom. It felt as if the conversation downstairs had been going on for ever while their father satisfied himself as to their visitor’s identity and then invited him into the house, but at his signal they started down the stairs.

Emily was dressed in her customary relaxing-at-home-uniform of blue jeans and a simple grey marl tee shirt. Her well-buffed toenails, devoid of nail varnish, were shown off in a pair of flat brown leather sandals, while her long black hair was held up loosely on top of her head with a tortoise-shell clip.

In complete contrast, Miranda had somehow found enough time to coat the area around her large green eyes with copious amounts of silver glitter, add blusher to her cheeks and staggeringly high platform shoes to her seemingly endless legs.

Surely there could be no mistake, Emily thought, giving her twin the final once-over before they reached the sitting room door. Signor Bussoni would immediately presume it was Miranda he had seen on stage. ‘Relax,’ she whispered, taking hold of her twin’s wrist. ‘It’ll be all right.’

‘Then why are you shaking?’ Miranda remarked perceptively.

‘Girls? What’s keeping you? You’ve got a visitor.’

‘We’re coming now, Dad,’ Emily called back, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. She had no idea what she was up against, and had nothing to go on but that disconcerting voice. For all she knew it might be Herman Munster hiding behind that impressive physique and those super-sleek clothes.

‘Come on, love. What’s the hold-up?’ Popping his head round the door, her father drew her into the room. ‘Your mother will have tea ready in about fifteen minutes,’ he said. ‘You two know each other,’ he added, with an expectant smile.

Emily felt as if her powers of reason had vanished. Her mind’s eye wasn’t simply unreliable, it was positively defective, she decided, gazing up into a man’s face that was almost agonising in its perfection. Thick ebony-black hair, cut slightly longer than was customary in England, was swept back and still tousled from the wind. Conscious he would think her rude, she forced her gaze away, only to discover lips that were almost indecently well formed and the most expressive dark gold gaze she had ever encountered.

Restating his name with a slight bow, Alessandro viewed the two sisters standing one behind the other. ‘Miss Weston,’ he murmured.

Lurching forward in response to Emily’s none too subtle prompting, Miranda extended her hand politely. ‘Delighted to see you, Signor Bussoni,’ she said, letting out an audible sigh when Alessandro raised her hand to his lips.

‘And I you,’ he said in a voice as warm as the sunlight that had tinted his skin to bronze. ‘But, forgive me, it is the other Miss Weston I have come to see.’

‘The other Miss Weston?’ Miranda squeaked, looking helplessly behind her to where Emily was standing rigid, wishing the ground would swallow her up.

‘Indeed,’ Alessandro said in a voice laced with humour. ‘You did invite me, Miss Weston,’ he said, looking straight at Emily.

Shock rendered both sisters speechless, and for a moment no one moved or spoke. If their own parents couldn’t tell them apart, how could Signor Bussoni? Emily wondered tensely. She breathed a sigh of relief as her mother breezed into the room.

‘Ah, Signor Bussoni, what a pleasure it is to have you in our midst.’

‘The pleasure is all mine, I assure you,’ Alessandro said, inclining his head towards the older woman in an elegant show of respect.

‘I see you’ve met my girls.’ Looking from Emily to Miranda, she clearly couldn’t contain herself another moment. ‘Have you heard Miranda play yet?’ she said expectantly. ‘The violin,’ she prompted, when Alessandro stared at her blankly. ‘Her interpretation of the Brahms” Violin Concerto” is second to none, you know. She won a competition with that piece.’

Emily’s face flared hot as she realised that her mother was completely oblivious to the tension building around her.

‘The violin?’ Alessandro’s face betrayed nothing but polite enquiry, but beneath the surface his mind was working overtime. Had he been hoist by his own petard? His plan had seemed audacious enough, but this family appeared intent on embroiling him in something even more ambitious. He glanced again at the girl her mother had called Miranda. Her provocative clothing and extravagantly made up face marked her out as a showgirl…but apparently she was a classical violinist. And then his gaze switched to the fresh-faced beauty he had come to see…the angel with the faintly flushed cheeks and the incredible jade-green eyes who masqueraded as a showgirl by night…To say the contrast intrigued him was putting it mildly. But what the hell was he getting himself into? Taking another look at Emily, he found he could not look away. He would have carried right on staring, too, had it not been for her sister’s protestation providing him with a distraction.

‘Oh, Mother, really,’ Miranda said now, looking at Emily to back her up.’ Signor Bussoni doesn’t want to hear about all that—Emily, say something.’

Emily, Alessandro mused, running the name over and over in his mind and loving its undulating form, its perfect proportions, its old English charm…Emily, Emily—Her mother fractured his musings with terrier-like determination.

‘Emily won’t stop me telling Signor Ferara all about your wonderful talent, Miranda. If no one speaks of it, how will you ever play that violin you so loved in Heidelberg?’

‘Mother, please,’ Emily cut in gently. ‘I imagine Signor Bussoni’s time is very precious. He’s come here to talk about recording contracts for Miranda’s band. I’m sure there will be other occasions when he can hear her play the violin.’

‘Oh…’ Mrs Weston hesitated, looking from one to the other in frustration.

‘That would give me the greatest pleasure,’ Alessandro agreed. ‘But it was you I heard singing last night,’ he stated confidently, turning to Emily, his bold gaze drenching her in the sort of heat she had only read about in novels.

‘Emily took over for me because I caught a cold and lost my voice,’ Miranda confessed self-consciously. ‘As a rule, no one can tell us apart.’

‘I see,’ Alessandro said, nodding thoughtfully as he studied Emily’s face. He would have known her anywhere…even if there had been five more identical sisters lined up for his perusal.

Emily tried hard to meet his stare, but he disturbed her equilibrium in a profound and unsettling way.

‘Singing is just a hobby for me,’ she started to explain. ‘You would have signed up the band right away if Miranda had been onstage—’

‘Possibly,’ Alessandro murmured, confining himself to that single word while his eyes spoke volumes about his doubt. He couldn’t have cared less if Emily had a voice like a corncrake…and beauty was in the millimetre, he realised, as he filled his eyes, his mind and his soul with the face and form of a woman he desired like no other. Emily Weston was everything he wanted…everything he needed to set his plan in motion. No, much more than that, he realised, and only managed to drag his gaze away from her when the telephone shrilled and everyone but he made a beeline for the door.

‘Let me,’ Emily’s father insisted calmly, easing his way through the scrum.

‘Won’t you sit down, Signor Bussoni?’ Mrs Weston said awkwardly.’ Miranda, go and fetch the tea tray.’

‘Do you mind if I—?’ Swaying a little, Miranda stopped mid-sentence and passed a hand over her forehead.

‘You’ve still got a fever. You really should go to bed,’ Emily observed, taking hold of her twin’s arm. ‘You’ll never get better if you don’t rest. I’ll see her upstairs,’ she said, turning to her mother. ‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment, Signor Ferara?’ she added to Alessandro. ‘I’ll come down and serve the tea,’ she promised, ushering her sister out of the door. ‘Just as soon as I see Miranda settled.’

‘That won’t be necessary.’

Alessandro’s voice stopped Emily dead in her tracks.

‘You’re not going—’ she said quickly…far too quickly, she realised immediately, noting the spark of interest in his eyes. Her heart thundered as he shot her an amused, quizzical look. ‘Well, we haven’t discussed the contract yet,’ she said, attempting to make light of her eagerness for him to stay.

‘Emily,’ Miranda murmured weakly, ‘I really think I should…’

‘Of course,’ Emily said, welcoming the distraction as she looped an arm around her sister’s waist. ‘Let’s get you to bed.’

‘Can I help?’ Alessandro offered.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Emily said, urging her sister forward.

‘Emily’s right, Signor Bussoni,’ Miranda murmured faintly. ‘I’ll feel better after a short rest. My sister has my full confidence. I am quite content for you to put your proposition to her.’

Alessandro answered with a brief dip of his head. ‘I feel equally confident that your sister will find my proposal irresistible, Miss Weston.’

‘I’m very grateful to you, Signor Bussoni,’ Miranda replied as she stood for a moment, framed by the door, her carefully made-up face illuminated by an oblique shaft of late-after-noon sunlight.

Beautiful, Alessandro thought dispassionately, and if you stripped away the paint and glitter almost a carbon copy of her sister. But there was no attraction there. None at all. Not for him, at least.

‘You will sort it out for me, won’t you, Emily?’ Miranda said anxiously as they left the room together.

‘When have I ever let you down?’ Emily teased gently as they started up the stairs.

‘Never,’ Miranda said softly, turning to give her sister a kiss.

Emily came back into the room to find Alessandro comfortably ensconced on the chintz-covered sofa, with her mother beside him chatting animatedly. But the moment she arrived his focus switched abruptly.

‘Do you handle all your sister’s business affairs?’

Emily prided herself on her ability to recognise exceptional adversaries on sight. And she was facing one right now, she warned herself. ‘Not all,’ she said carefully. She saw his eyes warm with amusement and knew he had her measure, too.

‘Just contracts?’ he pressed.

Emily’s heart gave a wild little flutter, like a bird trapped in an enclosed space.

‘We’re not here to talk about me, Signor Bussoni—’

‘Alessandro, please,’ he said, embellishing the instruction with a small shrug intended to disarm, Emily guessed, as she watched her mother’s eyes round in approval at what she clearly imagined was an enchanting display of Latin charm. But her mother had missed the shrewd calculation going on behind that stunning dark gold gaze, Emily thought, feeling her own body respond to the unmistakable masculine challenge.

‘I’m sure you’re very busy, Signor Bussoni,’ she said, struggling to sound matter-of-fact with a heart that insisted on performing cartwheels in her chest. ‘And it’s the contract for Miranda’s band you’ve come to discuss after all.’

‘Correct,’ he agreed.

His voice streamed over Emily’s senses like melted fudge. How could a voice affect you like that? she wondered. Surely the cosy little room with its neatly papered walls had never housed such a dangerous sound as Alessandro Bussoni’s deep, sexy drawl.

‘It seems you and I have rather a lot to discuss, Miss Weston,’ he said, reclaiming her attention. ‘Far more, I must confess, than I had at first envisaged. I’ll send my car for you at eight this evening.’

As he stood the room shrank around him.

‘But surely you will stay for tea, Signor Bussoni—?’

‘No—’ Emily almost shouted at her mother. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, instantly contrite. ‘But Signor Bussoni must have other appointments—’ was that a note of desperation creeping into her voice? She made a conscious effort to lower the pitch before adding, ‘It’s enough that he’s making time to discuss Miranda’s future tonight, Mother.’

He inclined his head to show his appreciation of her consideration.

‘Until this evening, Miss Weston.’

‘Signor Bussoni,’ Emily returned with matching formality.

‘Alessandro,’ he prompted softly.

Emily felt her gaze drawn to dark, knowing eyes that seemed to reach behind her own and uncover the very core of her being. She felt deliciously ravished by them and immediately on guard, all in one and the same confusing moment.

A thrill ran through her as he lifted her hand and raised it to his lips. The contact was brief, but it was enough for her logical brain to be set adrift and her veins to run with sweet sensation. Then her father returned from his telephone call and she was able to take refuge behind the bustle of departure, easing into the background as Alessandro strode back down the path to his car.

Was he psychic? Emily wondered, as the unmistakable figure emerged from the grand entrance and came down the hotel steps at the precise moment the limousine she was arriving in swept to a halt outside.

Nothing would have surprised her about Alessandro Bussoni, Emily realised as he beat both the doorman and the chauffeur he had sent to collect her to the car door. As it swung open her mouth dried, and her body felt as if it was contracting in on itself in a last-ditch attempt to conceal anything remotely capricious in her appearance, though she had taken the precaution of wearing an understated navy blue suit with a demure knee-length skirt.

‘Welcome, Miss Weston,’ he said, reaching into the limousine to help her out.

Or to stop her escaping? Emily thought in a moment of sheer panic when his fingers closed over her hand.

‘Please. Call me Emily,’ she managed pleasantly enough, while her thought processes stalled.

Precaution, my foot! She should have worn a full protective body suit…with ski gloves, she reasoned maniacally, as a flash of heat shot up her arm. What was she thinking? The first rule of business was to keep everything cordial but formal. And here she was, unbending already as if she was on a date! Gathering herself quickly, she removed her hand from his clasp at the first opportunity.

‘I must apologise for not coming to pick you up in person, Miss Weston,’ Alessandro said, standing back to allow her to precede him through the swing doors.

Emily made some small dismissive sound in reply, and was glad of the distraction provided by a doorman in a top hat who insisted on ushering her into the hotel. But she was so busy trying to keep a respectable distance from her host she almost missed his next statement.

‘I wanted to come myself, but there were some matters of State I was forced to attend to: matters that demanded my immediate attention—’

‘Matters of State?’ Emily repeated curiously. But it was hard to concentrate on what he was saying when they were attracting so much interest.

When the first flashbulb flared she glanced round, imagining some celebrity was in view. But then she realised that the cameras were pointing their way, and a small posse of photographers seemed to be following them across the lobby.

She smiled uncertainly as she tried to keep up with Alessandro’s brisk strides. ‘It must be a quiet night for them,’ she suggested wryly.

‘What? Oh, the photographers,’ he said, seeming to notice their presence for the first time. ‘I’m sorry. You get so used to them you hardly know they’re around.’

Having seen a pack of photographers waiting around on the night of the charity event, snapping away at anything and everything, even the spectacularly ornate heels on one woman’s shoes, Emily took it for granted that hotels of this calibre attracted the attention of the world’s media as a matter of course.

‘I suppose they have to do something while they’re waiting for the main event to arrive.’

‘Main event?’ Alessandro quizzed as he broke step to look at her.

‘You know…personalities, showbiz people, that sort of thing.’

He pressed his lips together and he gave her an ironic smile, his dark eyes sparkling with amusement. ‘I guess you’re right. I’d never thought of that. It must get pretty boring for them…all the hanging around.’

But it wasn’t just the photographers, Emily thought. She couldn’t help noticing all the other people staring as Alessandro ushered her across the vast, brilliantly lit reception area.

Hardly surprising, she decided, shooting a covert glance at her companion. He was off the scale in the gorgeous male stakes. His dark suit was so uncomplicated, so beautifully cut, it could only have come from one of the very best tailors…yet somehow the precision tailoring only served to point up his rampant masculinity. His crisp, cotton shirt, in a shade of ice blue, was a perfect foil for his bronzed skin, and somehow managed to make eyes that were already incredible all the brighter, all the keener—

She looked away, knowing she would have to pull herself together if the evening was to fulfil its purpose as a business rather than a social occasion. ‘Matters of State?’ she repeated firmly, determined not to let him off the hook.

She was rewarded with a low, sexy laugh that revealed nothing except for the fact that she was fooling herself if she imagined that she would be able to overlook the power of his charm for one single moment.

At a small, private lift, tucked away out of sight from the main lobby, she watched as he keyed in a series of numbers. Heavy doors slid silently open and then sealed them inside a plush, mirrored interior. There was even a small upholstered seat in the corner should you require it, Emily noted with interest, and apart from the emergency intercom a telephone for those urgent calls between floors. The only users of this exclusive space would be pretty exclusive themselves, she deduced with a thoughtful stare at her companion.

‘You didn’t answer my question yet,’ she prompted.

‘I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a light supper to be delivered to us later.’

He might have said it pleasantly enough, but the effect was offset by a flinty stare that suggested that he alone would direct the course of their conversation.

Alessandro knew he was in for a rocky ride the moment he saw the defensive shields go up in Emily’s eyes. And no wonder she thought him harsh. He was struggling to reclaim control of a situation that was slipping away from him as fast and as comprehensively as sand through a sieve. Logically, all he had to do was bring her to the point where she would sign the contract drawn up by his lawyers, but she had turned everything on its head, this woman he felt such a crazy compulsion to woo.

‘Rather than go out to eat I thought it better that we devote ourselves entirely to the matter in hand,’ he said, hoping to placate her. The last thing he wanted was to explain what this was about in a lift!

‘You said something about matters of State earlier,’ Emily pressed doggedly, ‘and, if you remember, I asked—’

Words had always been the most effective weapon in her armoury, but where Alessandro Bussoni Ferara was concerned they seemed utterly ineffectual. Emily was starting to seethe with exasperation.

‘So, what’s this?’

In the split second between her lunge to grab his wrist and Alessandro’s reaction to it Emily knew she had made her biggest mistake. What on earth was she doing, assaulting a strange man in a lift, snatching hold of him, grabbing on tight to the gold signet ring on his little finger? And why was he allowing her to hang on to him, even though he was twice her size and could have moved away from her in an instant? Worse still, the flesh beneath her sensitive fingertips felt warm and smooth and supple—She blinked, and recovered herself fast, removing her hand self-consciously from his fist where it had somehow become entangled.

‘It’s my family crest,’ he volunteered evenly. ‘Does that satisfy your curiosity?’

No! Not nearly! ‘Your crest?’ she said curiously.

His whip-fast retaliation left Emily with no time to hide the cufflinks on her own white tailored shirtsleeves.

‘Shall we start with your explanation for these?’ he countered smoothly, bringing her wrist up.

The sheer power in his grip was impossible to resist. But Emily found she didn’t want to, and incredibly, was softening. ‘That’s my—’

‘Yes?’ he pressed remorselessly.

‘My cufflinks are engraved with the crest of my Inn of Court,’ she admitted, averting her face.

‘Ah,’ he murmured, as if pleased to hear his suspicions confirmed. ‘Barrister?’

Emily nodded tensely. ‘And you?’

Now it all made sense, Alessandro realised—the tasselled sack to hold her robes and wig, the pull-along airline case to transport her briefs, along with all the other papers she would have to carry around…the severe cut of the restrained outfit she wore to court beneath her gown hanging up in her dressing room at the hotel while she sang that night, the only nod to feminine sexuality displayed in the power heels of her plain black court shoes—

‘This is our floor,’ he said as the lift slowed.

Another evasion! Controlling herself with difficulty, Emily hunted for something…anything…to derail her mounting irritation—unfortunately, the first thing she hit upon was how well the light, floral perfume she had chosen to wear mingled with Alessandro’s much warmer scent of sandalwood and spice, and that didn’t help at all! As the lift doors opened she sprang to attention, noticing that he stood well back to let her pass. Now she registered disappointment. Disappointment that he didn’t yank her straight back inside the intimate lift space, close the doors and make it stop somewhere between floors…for a very long time indeed.

‘Emily? Did you hear me?’

Refocusing fast, she saw that he had already opened the arched mahogany double doors to his suite and was beckoning her inside.

‘I’m sorry—’

‘I said,’ he repeated, ‘would you care for a glass of champagne?’

‘Oh, no, thank you. Orange juice will be fine until we conclude our business.’

‘And then champagne?’

‘I didn’t say that, Signor Bussoni—’

‘Alessandro.’

‘Alessandro,’ Emily conceded. ‘And when our business is concluded I will be leaving.’

‘Whatever you like,’ he agreed evenly. ‘I’ve no wish to tangle with lawyers in my free time.’

The throwaway line ran a second bolt of disappointment through her. She would have to be under anaesthetic not to register the fact that Alessandro Bussoni was a hugely desirable male. It was time to tighten the bolts on her chastity belt, Emily told herself firmly, if she had a hope in hell of being ready for what promised to be a tough round of business negotiations.

And she would deal with the lazy appraisal he was giving her now how, exactly?

She only realised how tense she had become when Alessandro turned away to pour them both a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and each of her muscles unclenched in turn. Keep it cool, Emily warned herself silently. Cool and impersonal. It’s only business after all…

CHAPTER THREE

LEAVING her handbag on the pale, grey-veined surface of a marble-topped console table, Emily dragged in a deep, steadying breath as she took in her surroundings.

The hotel room was decorated in English country house style, but at its most extreme, its most sumptuous: a symphony of silks, cashmere, damask and print. And Alessandro’s accommodation wasn’t just larger than the usual suite, it was positively palatial. In fact, Emily guessed the whole of her parents’ house would fit comfortably into the elegant drawing room where they were now holding their conversation—a room that at a rough estimate she judged to be around forty feet in length.

‘Not very cosy, is it?’

His voice startled her, even though it was pitched at little more than a murmur.

‘Sorry?’ she said, turning around.

‘This room,’ Alessandro said, holding her gaze as he carried the juice over to her.

‘It’s very—’

‘Yes?’ he said, noticing how studiously she avoided touching his hand as he passed her the crystal glass.

‘Well…’ Emily chose her words carefully. She didn’t want to cause offence—maybe he loved this style. ‘It tries very hard—’

‘—to condense all the flavours of your country into a single room in order to impress the well-heeled tourist?’ he supplied, looking at her with amusement over the top of his glass.

‘Well, yes,’ Emily said, discovering that a smile had edged on to her own lips. ‘How did you guess? That’s my opinion exactly.’ Nerves were making her facial muscles capricious, unpredictable…and somehow she found herself smiling up at him again.

‘Let’s hold our meeting somewhere more…snug,’ Alessandro suggested. ‘Don’t look so alarmed,’ he said, shooting her a wolfish grin that failed entirely if it was meant to reassure her. Thrusting a thumb through the belt-loop of his black trousers, he slouched comfortably on one hip to put his glass down on the table. ‘My bedroom can hardly be described as snug—it’s almost as large as this room. Fortunately there are two bedrooms, and I’ve had the smaller of the two turned into an office for the duration of my stay.’

‘I see,’ Emily said, watching him extract some documents from the folder on the table and wondering why all she could register was how tanned, and very capable his hands were—

‘Daydreaming again, Emily?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘And I beg you to pay attention when I ask you if you would care to join me in my office—so that our meeting can begin.’

His tone was amused—tolerant. And her expression must have been blank and dreamy, Emily realised, hurriedly adopting an alert look.

‘Shall I lead the way?’

Retrieving her handbag, Emily hurried after him, but as he opened the door to the next room, and stopped beside it to let her pass, she juddered to a halt. The remaining space inside the doorframe was small…too small.

The difference in size between them seemed huge, suddenly, though it was his aura of confident masculinity that was his most alluring feature, Emily thought as she skirted past him. ‘Very impressive,’ she managed huskily, pretending interest in all the high-tech gizmos assembled for his use in the skilfully converted bedroom.

‘Why don’t you sit over there?’ he suggested, pointing towards a leather button-backed seat to one side of a huge mahogany desk.

Perching primly on the edge, Emily watched in fascination as Alessandro sat or rather sprawled on his own chair with all the innate elegance of a lean and hungry tiger.

‘Would you care to open the discussion?’ he invited.

Folding her hands neatly in her lap, Emily attempted to sweep her mind clear of anything but the facts. ‘Well, as you know, I’m here to secure the best possible deal for my sister’s band—’

‘For your sister, primarily?’

‘Well, yes, of course, but—’

‘Miranda needs the money a recording contract will bring her in order to buy a rather special violin and to complete her training, is that correct?’

‘That’s putting it rather crudely.’

‘How else would you put it, Emily? What I want to know is, what’s in it for me?’

‘Surely that was self-evident when you saw the band perform. They’re excellent—’

‘Without you?’ he cut in abruptly. ‘How do I know what they’ll be like? What if I said I’d sign the band if you remained as lead singer?’

‘I’m afraid my obligations at work would not permit—’

‘Ah, yes,’ he cut in smoothly. ‘I’ll come to that later. But for now let’s consider your proposal regarding the recording contract for your sister. How does she intend to fulfil both her commitment to the record company and to her tutor at the music conservatoire?’

‘I’m here to ensure that whatever contract she signs allows her to do both—for the first year at least.’

‘And then she will drop the band?’ Alessandro suggested shrewdly.

‘She will fulfil all her contractual obligations,’ Emily stated firmly. ‘I can assure you of that.’

‘As well as put in the necessary practice hours to become a top-class international soloist? Somehow I doubt it,’ he said, embroidering the comment with a slanting, sceptical look.

‘You clearly have no experience of what it’s like to strive to achieve something so far out of reach,’ Emily said, overruling her cautious professional persona in defence of her sister, ‘that most people would give up before they had even started.’

‘Perhaps you’re right—’

‘Many artistes are forced to take other jobs to pay their way through college,’ she continued passionately, barely registering Alessandro’s silent nod of agreement.

‘Not just musicians or artistes—’

But Emily was too far down the road either to notice his comment or to hold back. ‘You’re making assumptions that have no grounds in fact,’ she flung at him accusingly.

‘And you’re not even listening to me,’ Alessandro replied evenly, ‘so how do you know what I think?’

‘You’ve already decided she can’t handle both commitments,’ Emily said, realising she hadn’t felt this unsteady since delivering her first seminar as a rookie law student. ‘Right now, Miranda’s not feeling well. But as soon as she’s feeling better I know she’ll do everything she says she will.’

‘You say—’

‘Yes, I say,’ Emily said heatedly. ‘I know my sister better than you…better than anyone—’ She broke off, suddenly aware that all the professional expertise in the world was of no use to her while her emotions were engaged to this extent.

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Alessandro agreed quietly, showing no sign of following her down the same turbulent path. ‘But why on earth choose a band as a way of making money? Why not find it some other way?’

Emily made an impatient gesture as she shook her head at him. ‘Because she’s a musician, Alessandro. That’s what she does.’

‘A cabaret singer?’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

As he shrugged, Emily guessed every stereotypical piece of nonsense that had ever been conceived around nightclub singers was swirling through his brain.

‘Miranda makes an honest living,’ she said defensively. ‘Would you rather she gave it up…gave up all her ambitions…just to satisfy the prejudice of misguided individuals?’

Alessandro confined himself to a lengthy stare of good-humoured tolerance, and then held up his hands when a knock came at the door just as Emily was getting into her stride. ‘Excuse me, Emily. I won’t be a moment.’

As Alessandro left her Emily felt a warning prickle start behind her eyes. No one had ever made her lose her temper like this before…not once. She hadn’t ever come close. Plunging her hand into her handbag, she dug around for some tissues, then rammed them away out of sight again when he came back.

‘Come on, Emily,’ he said, staying by the door. ‘Supper’s arrived.’

‘I think I’d better go.’ She resorted to hiding her face in a hastily contrived search for the door keys in her handbag.

‘After supper,’ Alessandro insisted as he held out his hand to her.

Was she meant to take it? Emily wondered as she stared up at him in surprise.

‘Come,’ he repeated patiently.

It was tempting. Maybe supper would give her a chance to relax, regroup, gather what remained of her scattered wits. She was here for Miranda, wasn’t she? And the job she had come to do wasn’t nearly finished. Eating was harmless…civilised. Lots of deals were cut over power breakfasts and business lunches; she’d done it herself on numerous occasions.

Romantic suppers?

Muffling the tiny voice of reason in her head, Emily convinced herself that the meal was nothing more than a brief interlude, a welcome break that would give her the chance to get her professional head screwed on ready for the discussions to come. But when she walked back into the first room she saw that a great deal more than a light snack awaited her.

‘When you said supper, I imagined…’ Her voice tailed off as she surveyed the incredible feast that had been laid out for them along the whole length of a highly polished mahogany table.

‘Aren’t you hungry?’ Alessandro demanded, cruising along the table, grazing as he went. ‘I know I am.’

She tried not to notice the way he seemed to be making love with his mouth to a chocolate-tipped strawberry.

‘You can eat what you want when you want,’ he said, sucking off the last scrap of chocolate with relish. ‘And we can keep on talking while you do,’ he added, his curving half-smile reaching right through her armour-plated reserve to stroke each erotic zone in turn. ‘Would you like me to make a few suggestions?’

Withdrawing the plundered stalk from between his strong white teeth, he deposited it neatly on a side-plate.

Emily forced her mouth shut, but kept right on staring at him.

‘Food?’ Alessandro offered with an innocent shrug as he cocked his head to one side to look at her.

‘That’s fine, I can manage,’ Emily said, almost snatching one of the white porcelain plates from his hands.

‘Shrimp, signorina?’

‘Don’t you ever take no for an answer?’

The look he gave her sent a flame of awareness licking through every inch of her body.

‘Relax, Emily. I deliver what I promise—just a light snack, in this instance.’

‘I’m perfectly relaxed, thank you,’ Emily retorted, concentrating on making her selection from the platters of delicious-looking salads…a selection she was making with unaccustomed clumsiness, thanks to the route her thoughts were taking.

Was it her fault that those beautifully sculpted lips provided a rather different example of a tasty snack…or that stubble-darkened jaw? Not to mention the expanse of hard chest she supposed must reside beneath his superior-quality jacket and shirt—and, talking of superior quality, what about the muscle-banded stomach concealed beneath that slim black leather belt? Distractedly, she spilled half a bowl of coleslaw on top of the mountain of food she seemed to have absent-mindedly collected on her plate.

‘I don’t think the pudding will fit,’ Alessandro pointed out, removing a serving spoon holding a heaped portion of sherry trifle from her hand.

‘Of c-course not,’ Emily stammered, while the erotic mind games kept right on playing—ignoring her most strenuous efforts to put all thoughts of whipped cream and tanned torsos out of bounds.

When later she found herself drawn towards a tower of honey-coloured choux balls drizzled with chocolate, he asked, ‘Do you like chocolate, Emily?’

‘I love it. Why?’ she said suspiciously.

Alessandro shrugged as he piled some profiteroles onto a plate, adding some extra chocolate sauce and pouring cream for her. ‘We have a chocolate festival in Ferara every year; free chocolate is handed out all over the city. We even have a chocolate museum—you should make time to see it.’ As he handed her the plate his amused golden gaze scanned her face. ‘What do you say?’

‘Thank you.’ Was she accepting an invitation to consume a plate of delectable pudding, or something rather more?

‘Imagine this, Emily—a thousand kilos of delicious chocolate sculpted into a work of art before your very eyes; artists coming from all over Europe to compete for a prize for the best design—’

He turned to pour them both a steaming cup of strong dark coffee from an elegant silver pot.

‘Clean sheets are placed underneath each block so that the onlookers can help themselves to slivers as they watch—’ He stopped, and stared straight into her eyes, his expressive mouth tugging up in a grin. ‘Well?’

Emily’s pulse-rate doubled. ‘No cream, no sugar,’ she blurted, certain he intended to provoke her—a chocolate festival, for goodness’ sake!’

Murmuring her thanks as he pressed the coffee cup into her hand, she glanced up, only to encounter a dangerous gaze alive with laughter. She was right to be wary, she realised, looking away fast.

But thankfully this was his final sally, and he allowed her to finish her meal in peace. When they returned to his luxurious bedroom-turned-office, he kept the lights soothing and low as he slipped a CD into the music centre.

Emily smiled. Brahms, she realised, surprised he had remembered her mother mentioning Miranda’s competition piece.

He poured champagne and brought two crystal flutes across before settling himself down on the opposite sofa.

‘Better?’ he murmured, watching her drink. ‘Do you mind if I take my jacket off?’ he added, loosening a couple more buttons at the neck of his shirt.

‘Not at all,’ Emily said, forgetting her pledge to keep champagne celebrations until later as she watched him ease up from the chair to slip off a jacket lined with crimson silk. Freeing a pair of heavy gold cufflinks from his shirt, he dropped them onto the table and rolled up his sleeves to reveal powerful forearms shaded with dark hair. There couldn’t have been a more striking contrast to the type of pasty-faced executive she was accustomed to dealing with.

‘So, Emily,’ he challenged, eyes glinting as he caught her staring at him. ‘Do you still think I’m one of those misguided individuals you referred to?’

For his opinion of cabaret singers, yes; where everything else was concerned—

‘I take it from your expression that you do.’

His smile had vanished.

‘Let’s get one thing straight between us before we go any further. I don’t give a damn what people do, as long as they’re not hurting anyone else in the process. But I do care about motives—what makes people tick. What makes you tick, Emily?’

Racing to put her brain back in gear, the best she could manage was a few mangled sounds.

‘Barrister by day,’ he went on smoothly, ‘moonlighting as a cabaret singer by night. There’s no harm in that, if you can cope with the workload. And it’s even more to your credit that you were moonlighting to help your sister out of a fix. What is not to your credit, however, is the fact that you intended to deceive me. Why was that, Emily?’

‘I admit things got out of hand—’

The lame remark was rewarded by a cynical stare.

‘You really thought you could pull this off?’ he demanded incredulously. ‘What kind of a fool did you take me for?’

Emily’s face burned scarlet as she struggled with an apology. ‘I didn’t know you—I’m really sorry. I didn’t think—’

Alessandro held up his hands, silencing her. ‘As it happens, you’re not the only one who hasn’t been entirely straightforward.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Let’s consider this plan of yours first.’

‘My plan?’ It was clear he was on a mission to tease out her motives whilst taking care not to reveal any of his own, Emily realised.

‘Amongst your misconceptions is the notion that your sister’s crazy scheme is actually going to work.’

‘Will you help her or not?’

‘Without my co-operation your sister will never play the instrument she has set her heart upon.’

‘What do you mean?’ Emily said anxiously, finding it impossible to sit down a moment longer.

Stretching his arms out across the back of the sofa, Alessandro tipped his head to look at her. ‘Why don’t you sit down again, Emily?’ he suggested calmly. ‘You do want to help your sister, don’t you? You do want her to be able to play that violin she saw in the instrument maker’s shop near the castle in Heidelberg?’

Emily could feel the blood draining out of her face as she stared at him. ‘How do you know about that?’ she said in a whisper.

‘I make it my business to know everything relevant to a case before I enter into any negotiation,’ he said steadily. ‘I never leave anything to chance.’

Emily’s professional pride might have suffered a direct hit, but the only thing that mattered was Miranda’s future…But what was Alessandro Bussoni really after? Why had he gone to so much trouble? And how did he come to have such a hold over a German violin maker?

‘The violin in Heidelberg—’ she began, but her voice faltered as she remembered Miranda playing the beautiful old instrument. ‘What did you mean when you said that my sister might never get to play it?’

‘Without my co-operation,’ Alessandro reminded her, his expression masked in shade.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Sit down again, Emily. Please.’

‘I think you owe me an explanation first.’

‘The particular instrument you refer to is a museum piece almost beyond price. It was being displayed by one of today’s most celebrated instrument makers—’

‘Was being displayed?’ Emily asked. ‘Why are you talking about it in the past tense?’

‘Because it’s no longer there,’ he said evenly.

‘You mean it’s gone back to the museum?’ Relief and regret merged in the question.

‘Not exactly.’

‘What, then?’ Her look demanded he answer her fully this time.

But Alessandro still said nothing, and just stared at some point over her left shoulder.

Slowly Emily turned around, her eyes widening when she saw what he was looking at. A beautifully upholstered taupe suede viewing seat was angled to face a large entertainment system. Nestled in the corner of the unusual triangular-shaped seat rested a violin, propped up between two cream silk cushions. ‘Should it be out of its case?’ she mumbled foolishly, sinking down on the sofa again.

‘I imagine that’s the only way it’s ever going to be played,’ Alessandro said, levelling a long, steady gaze at her.

Emily’s heart was thundering so fast she could hardly breathe. She had to turn round to take another look, just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming—to prove to herself that she really was in the same room as the violin Miranda had played in Heidelberg.

‘But you told me it was a museum piece—beyond price,’ she said, not caring that her battered emotions were now plainly on show. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Everything has its price Emily,’ Alessandro said with a small shrug as he regarded her coolly.

He was waiting. For what? For her to say something? But how could she when her brain had stalled with shock and her whole body was quivering from some force beyond her control? To make matters worse, Emily couldn’t rid herself of the idea that she too was a prize exhibit—and with a rather large price tag dangling over her nose.

‘You bought it?’ she managed finally.

‘I bought it,’ Alessandro confirmed.

‘But why on earth—?’

‘As a bargaining counter.’

‘A bargaining counter?’ Emily spluttered incredulously. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Will you allow me to explain?’

Emily clenched and unclenched her hands. She didn’t like the look on his face one bit. ‘I think you better had,’ she agreed stiffly, feeling as if she was clinging to Miranda’s dream by just her fingertips now.

‘It would be far better for your sister if she had enough money to continue her studies without the distraction of working with the band.’

‘Well, of course,’ Emily agreed. ‘But—’

Alessandro’s imperious gesture cut her off. ‘Let me finish, please. It would be better still if she could have the use of that violin behind you—’

‘Is this before or after she wins the Lottery?’ Emily demanded, rattled by his composure.

‘What if I told you that I am prepared to give the violin to your sister…on permanent loan?’

A thundering silence took hold of the space between them—until Alessandro’s voice sliced through it like a blade. ‘Well, Emily, what do you say?’

‘What would she have to do for that?’ Emily demanded suspiciously.

‘Your sister? Nothing at all.’ Alessandro’s mouth firmed as he waited for Emily’s thought processes to crest the shock he had just given her and get back up to speed.

Emily’s eyes clouded with apprehension as her brain cells jostled back into some semblance of order. ‘What would I have to do?’

A smile slowly curled around Alessandro’s lips, then died again. She was so bright…so vulnerable. It was as if he had spied some rare flower, moments too late to prevent his foot crushing the life out of it.

Standing up, he crossed the room. He needed time to think…but there was none. Opening a door, he reached inside the small cloakroom where he had been keeping the flowers. He had ordered the extravagant bouquet to seal their bargain. As he grabbed hold of them he realised that his hand was shaking. He paused a beat to consider what he should do. He could ram them in the wastebin, where they belonged, or he could keep on with the charade…