Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

The Baby Gambit

Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

GRACE stepped out onto the balcony of the appartamento and took her first real look at the blue waters of the bay. Breathing deeply, the shiver that shook her frame at that moment was induced more by excitement and anticipation than by the slight coolness of the morning air. She was here, she thought. She was in Italy. And for the next two weeks she had nothing more momentous to think about than what she was going to do to fill her time.

Below the faded grandeur of the old apartment building, the terraced slopes of Portofalco zigzagged their way down to the harbour. Portofalco was not the most well-known or the most exclusive resort on this section of the Ligurian coast, but it was one of the prettiest, and Julia had told her that many of its wealthier visitors came back year after year.

And she should know, conceded Grace sagely, resting her elbows on the balcony rail and feeling the chill of wrought iron against her slim bare arms. As yet, this corner of the Villa Modena was still in shadow, but she guessed that when the sun rose higher this balcony would be a veritable sun-trap, and she’d be grateful for the louvred shutters that bracketed every window.

She wondered what tune Julia would get back from Valle di Falco. Her friend, who lived all year in the small apartment, and who worked in one of the larger hotels along the coast, was away for the weekend, and Grace didn’t expect her back until tomorrow. But she didn’t mind. When she’d accepted Julia’s invitation to come here and stay with her, it had been on the understanding that her friend should not feel she had to entertain her while she was here. Julia had a busy social life, she knew, but Grace hoped not to get involved.

The two women had known one another since their college days, and although they hadn’t seen much of one another since Julia had come to live in Italy two years ago they’d kept in touch. There’d always been a casual familiarity between them that didn’t seem to be affected by the passage of time, which was why Grace had been grateful for the invitation, knowing that with Julia she wouldn’t be expected to do anything.

And all she really wanted to do was rest, she conceded ruefully, even if it had taken a bout of pneumonia to convince her of the fact. Holding down two jobs, and trying to look after her invalid mother into the bargain, had been exhausting, but she hadn’t realised she was neglecting her health until she’d collapsed.

It all seemed so obvious in retrospect, but at the time there didn’t seem to be anything else she could do. She was the only member of her family who was unmarried, therefore it was up to her to look after her mother, and she’d given up her own apartment and moved back into her mother’s house in Brighton.

And that was when life had become really hectic. Travelling up to London every day, trying to maintain her job at the museum, had been hard enough, but going out most evenings, working behind the bar at the local pub to supplement her income, had ultimately proved too much. She’d caught a bad cold, not a serious one, she’d assured herself, but it had rapidly developed into something else.

It had taken a stay in hospital to convince her that she couldn’t go on looking after her mother alone, with only a home help during the day to support her. So with some persuasion by a friendly doctor her two younger sisters had agreed to share the responsibility. But they had husbands and young families, and Grace guessed their assistance would only be temporary, so she intended to make the most of this holiday to build up her strength.

The alternative was to put her mother into a home, and she didn’t want that. Grace loved her mother dearly and it wasn’t her fault that she’d developed a crippling form of osteoarthritis only a couple of years after Grace had got her doctorate and started work at the museum. She’d managed to look after herself to begin with, but gradually, over the years, her condition had deteriorated. Now she could only get about in a wheelchair, and there’d been no way Grace could afford to provide professional care on her salary.

So, she had gone back to live at home. Grace had already begun to believe that she’d never get married anyway, so it was no great hardship. She was the perennial spinster, she thought drily, eschewing the more popular description of a bachelor girl. Euphemisms were all very well, but the fact was she’d given up believing she was ever going to meet a man who was not intimidated by either her appearance or her intellect. At a little under six feet in height, and with the kind of Junoesque figure most women would die for, Grace had always considered herself an oddity. She saw nothing attractive about her full breasts and generously curved hips and she kept her hair long and severely braided to quell the uncontrollable urge it had to tumble in a riotous tangle of silvery blonde curls about her heart-shaped face.

Of course, she hadn’t always been so cynical. When she was at college, and boys of her own age were falling over themselves to go out with her, she’d imagined that one day she’d fall in love and get married and live happily ever after. She’d been in no hurry to give up her single state, but the prospect had always been there, like a friendly beacon on the horizon.

It hadn’t happened.

She’d eventually realised that most of the men she dated wanted only one thing and that was to get her into bed. They didn’t seem either willing or capable of looking beyond the ‘dumb blonde’ image she presented to the world to the slightly shy and intelligent woman behind the sexy façade. The men who might have appealed to her were put off by her appearance. In their own way, they had judged her, too, and by the time she’d realised that the girls who found lasting relationships didn’t look like her she’d lost both her innocence and her trust.

She’d still dated from time to time, of course, but she’d changed, and she’d soon grown tired of defending her celibate state to men who still seemed to think that with her looks she must be desperate for sex. The truth was, her experiences of sex had not been particularly enjoyable, and she saw no sense in stressing herself over something she didn’t even like.

These days she was much more philosophical, she reflected comfortably, glancing down as the breeze that blew off the distant water caused the short hem of her nightshirt to flutter about her shapely thighs. She was thirty-four, with no prospect of a steady relationship in sight, and she’d finally come to the conclusion that she preferred it that way.

She sighed contentedly, feeling grateful that Julia had come to the rescue with the offer of this chance to share her apartment for two weeks. Booking a holiday at the height of the tourist season could have proved difficult, and she preferred the anonymity of private accommodation to the obvious disadvantages of a hotel. All she’d wanted was somewhere warm and sunny, with nothing to do but laze the days away.

‘I won’t be around much, I’m afraid,’ Julia had said, when Grace had phoned her from the hospital to tell her what was going on. “This is the busiest time of the year for me, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Portofalco is a pretty place, and if you get bored you can always hire a car and go exploring.’

Grace had assured her that it sounded like heaven and consequently here she was, the morning after her arrival, standing on Julia’s balcony just drinking in the view. And it was quite a view, she conceded, with the Bay of Portofalco below her, and the curve of the mainland sweeping round to Viareggio and beyond.

She took a deep breath, her nose wrinkling at the mingled perfumes of the flowers that rose from the walled garden beneath the balcony. It wasn’t much of a garden, really, and it had been sadly neglected, but the tangled scents of jasmine and verbena, and the roses that clung tenaciously to the crumbling walls, were a heady delight. Somehow, even the overgrown garden had an enchanted air about it, hinting of assignations beside the lichen-studded fountain whose basin was crumbling, too.

Turning away from the view, Grace decided it was time she took a shower and got dressed. When she’d arrived the night before, she’d been too tired to do anything more than phone her mother to assure her she’d arrived safely, and strip off her clothes and tumble into bed. But it was eight o’clock in the morning now and her unpacking beckoned. Then breakfast, she thought with some anticipation, remembering that Julia had told her there was a bakery just down the street. The prospect of warm rolls and flaky pastries was appealing, and she strode across the rather overfurnished salotto into the bathroom beyond.

Fifteen minutes later, she felt considerably more energetic, and although she’d decided to put off her unpacking until later she put on a pair of cream silk shorts and a matching tank top to make her feel more like a holidaymaker. A glance in the bathroom mirror assured her that her mouth required little in the way of cosmetics, and she merely added a trace of blusher to give colour to her pale cheeks.

Her face was only too familiar to her and therefore nothing out of the ordinary, so that when she scraped back her hair into its usual braid and several rebellious loose ends curled about her temples she saw only the untidiness of it. But the old caretaker who looked after the building, and who had given her the key Julia had left for her the night before, greeted her with genuine pleasure, his rheumy old eyes glinting appreciatively as he watched her saunter off down the cobbled street.

The Villa Modena—Grace privately thought its title was rather flattering—stood halfway down a narrow street of similar dwellings. The street, the Via Cortese, wound up from the harbour, and she could see snatches of blue, blue water between vine-hung walls and over colour-washed roofs. Every now and then, an opening offered a tantalising view of the bay, with the masts of yachts moored at the jetty moving gently on the incoming tide.

She smelled the bakery before she reached it, the delicious aroma of newly baked bread making her mouth water. Which was unusual for her considering she hadn’t had much of an appetite at all since her illness, and she looked forward to enjoying a warm roll with the pot of coffee she’d left on the hotplate at the apartment.

The baker was red-cheeked and friendly, dismissing Grace’s attempts to make herself understood with a cheerful shake of his head. ‘Va bene, signorina,’ he assured her firmly. ‘I have the English, no?’ He smiled and gestured to the impressive array of bread available. ‘You tell me what you like.’

‘Grazie.’ Grace gave him an apologetic smile. ‘I’m not very good at learning languages, I’m afraid. But I’m staying for two weeks, so perhaps my Italian will improve.’

‘Prego!’ The man laughed. ‘We Itatianos will always forgive a beautiful woman, sì?’

Grace’s lips thinned a little at the familiar compliment, but she accepted his flattery good-humouredly. ‘You’re very kind,’ she said, pointing to a batch of crusty rolls. ‘I’ll have three of those, please, and two pastries. Grazie!’

She was pocketing her change before taking the bag of sweet-smelling pastries from his hand when, to her relief, the arrival of another customer distracted him. ‘A domani,’ he called after her. ‘Until tomorrow.’ And Grace lifted a hand in reluctant acknowledgement as she made her escape.

She could smell the pot of coffee as soon as she opened the door. The apartment, which was situated on the second floor of the villa, opened directly into the living room, with the tiny kitchenette occupying an alcove off the living area. A trellis of climbing greenery set in an earthenware container provided an impromptu screen, with a narrow counter at right angles to it where Julia evidently took her meals when she was at home.

Grace found some low-fat butter substitute in the small fridge and spread some on one of the warm rolls. Then, after pouring herself a mug of the strong black coffee, she perched on one of the tall stools that were pushed against the bar to enjoy her meal.

She was flicking idly through an old copy of Figaro when someone knocked at the door. She turned at once, guessing it was a visitor for Julia who didn’t know she was away. Hopefully, not a man, she thought ruefully, wiping a crumb from her lip. If she remembered correctly, Julia was spending the weekend with the current man in her life and, judging by her excitement when she’d mentioned him to Grace, it seemed that she hoped that this might be the one.

Grace grimaced. Her friend was much less cynical than she was. Even with a failed marriage behind her, Julia had still maintained that there was a man out there somewhere just waiting for her to come along. Perhaps this weekend’s amoroso, as they said in Italy, was different. Grace begged leave to reserve judgement until she’d met the man for herself.

But she was wasting time. As another knock sounded at the door, she slid off the stool and crossed the room. It could just be the old caretaker, she surmised. Perhaps he’d smelled the appetising aroma of the coffee, and found some excuse to come up here so that she could offer him a cup. If so, he was going to be disappointed. She had no intention of inviting any strange man into the apartment.

But the man standing outside was not the caretaker. ‘Miss Horton?’ he asked, and although she was sure he was Italian there was no trace of an accent in his low, attractive voice.

There was a suitcase standing beside him, but Grace registered this only peripherally as she gazed at one of the few men who could give her a few inches in height. He was tall, extremely dark both in hair and skin, with a lean yet obviously muscular body. He was certainly one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen, yet no one, not even his mother, could have called him handsome.

His eyes—dark eyes, what else? she mocked herself sardonically—were too deeply set, with hooded lids and thick black lashes hiding their expression. His cheekbones were harshly carved in a face that looked more inclined to severity than humour. Yet his mouth belied that conclusion, she reflected. Thin-lipped, perhaps, but with an obvious tendency towards laughter. Right now, she suspected he was laughing at her, and she felt a sharp tug of resentment at the thought.

‘Yes?’ she said coolly, unhappily aware that she had been staring at him far longer than she should have. She registered the suitcase properly now, propped beside one loafer-clad foot. A foot without any sock, she appended cynically, below loose-fitting cotton trousers that only hinted at the powerful thighs that flexed beneath.

Who was he? she wondered irritably. Surely Julia hadn’t invited someone else to stay to keep her company. Yet how else had he known her name? ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, aware of the violent urge she had to scream.

He bent and picked up the suitcase. ‘I just want to leave this for Julia,’ he said, as Grace was preparing herself to block his way. ‘It’s hers,’ he explained, evidently recognising her hostility. ‘She was my guest last evening and I agreed to deliver it back to her apartment.’

Grace’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean, you’re—’

‘Matteo di Falco,’ he introduced himself easily as she stepped aside to allow him to set the suitcase down inside the door. ‘Unfortunately, Julia was obliged to cut the weekend short. She had to get back to the hotel.’

‘She did?’ Grace knew she sounded blank, but she couldn’t help it.

‘They phoned this morning,’ he agreed, straightening. ‘There has been some illness and they are short of staff. They asked if she could return immediately.’ He shrugged his shoulders, broad beneath the lightweight jacket he was wearing over a white tee shirt. ‘Cosi sia! So be it.’

Grace nodded. ‘Well—thank you for letting me know.’

His thin lips twisted. ‘It was my pleasure.’

She doubted it was, but he was too polite to say otherwise. ‘Um—thanks, anyway. I’m sorry if it’s spoiled your weekend.’

‘I will survive,’ he assured her drily, and she wondered what he really thought of her. ‘Enjoy your holiday, Miss Horton. Arrivederci!’

He turned away without further ado, strolling back along the gallery that overlooked the inner courtyard of the villa with indolent grace. All the apartments opened onto similar galleries, a flight of worn marble stairs giving access to the lower floors, and Grace waited until he’d started down the stairs before going back into the apartment and closing the door.

She leaned against the door for a moment, before taking a deep breath and walking into the kitchen. But as she edged back onto the stool and raised her mug of coffee to her lips she found Matteo di Falco’s image refused to be displaced.

She shook her head, a moan that was half laughter, half disgust escaping her throat. So that was Julia’s latest heartthrob, she thought self-derisively. And she’d behaved as if she’d never seen a man before.

She pushed the half-eaten roll aside and propped her elbows on the counter. She had to admit, Julia hadn’t been exaggerating this time. What was the expression she’d used? Drop-dead gorgeous? Well, he was certainly that, and unlikely to be any more reliable than the rest.

By the time she’d cleared her breakfast dishes away and unpacked, it was nearly midday. She had wondered if Julia might ring to confirm her change of plans, but she didn’t, so after making sure the apartment was tidy Grace decided to go and explore the town.

It was much hotter now, the early summer sun baking the walls of the old buildings so that there was little coolness in their shade. Grace was halfway down to the harbour when she began to doubt the sense in what she was doing, but she decided it would be easier to go on than to turn back.

Besides, there were cafés appearing at every corner, and tables set beneath canvas awnings dotted the small promenade. There were plenty of people about, but it wasn’t difficult to find a table in a shady corner, and she ordered a chilled glass of Campari and soda while she studied the menu.

There was a delightful breeze blowing off the water, and her eyes were continually drawn to the busy quay, where fishing boats vied for space among sleek yachts and sailing dinghies. Enviably tanned men and women were standing about in groups, modelling the latest styles in designer gear, or sunning themselves on the decks of gleaming motor cruisers anchored in the bay.

At the end of a short pier, a ferry was boarding, taking passengers to other resorts along the coast, and Grace mused that the whole scene looked as if it had been lifted from the pages of a glossy holiday brochure. So why was it that when the waiter appeared to take her order she felt so alone suddenly? And why did she find herself wishing that there was still a man in her life, too?

‘I’ll have the risotto salad,’ she told the waiter, pointing out her choice just in case he didn’t understand what she meant

‘Ah, bene,’ he said, smiling approvingly. ‘You like the vino, sì?’

‘No, thank you.’ Grace covered her glass with her hand and smiled to soften her refusal. ‘Just the salad, if you don’t mind.’

‘Okay, signora.’

The man inclined his head resignedly, and Grace wondered if his use of the more formal salutation was a sign that she was looking old.

She grimaced. There was no doubt that the waiter was considerably younger than she was. Twelve years, at least, she decided drily, and then caught him watching her as he punched the code for her order into the till.

She turned her head away at once, anxious to avoid him thinking she was interested in him. But, as she stared at the view, she wondered when she’d stopped being flattered by a stranger’s attention; when she’d become so wary of a man’s motives that she froze out every male she met.

The suspicion that the waiter was still watching her caused her to glance around again, but the young man was nowhere to be seen. Evidently, he had gone to collect someone else’s order and she decided she must be getting paranoid, sensing eyes upon her when there weren’t any there.

Yet...

A shiver rippled down her spine as the uneasy feeling of being scrutinised persisted, and she almost jumped out of her skin when a low masculine voice spoke just above her head. ‘We meet again, Miss Horton.’ Matteo di Falco’s casual greeting was polite, but detached, and she supposed she couldn’t blame him after the way she’d treated him before.

‘Oh—’ She looked up at him awkwardly. ‘Um—hello.’ A swift glance up and down the promenade ascertained the fact that he was alone, too. She forced a smile. ‘I’m just trying to keep out of the sun.’

‘So I see.’ Long-fingered hands dipped into the pockets at the waistline of his trousers. ‘Bene, enjoy your meal.’

Grace took a deep breath. ‘Are—are you having lunch—um—signore?’ she asked, with rather more warmth than she’d shown thus far, and his thin lips parted to allow his tongue access to the corner of his mouth.

‘What is it you English say?’ he asked, dark humour evident in the depths of his lazy eyes. ‘As if you care, no?’ he suggested wryly. Then, as if regretting his own irony, he added, ‘But to answer your question, no. I was simply exchanging a few words with a colleague, when I saw you sitting here, alone.’

Grace’s lips tightened at the implied vote of sympathy, and before she could stop herself she said, ‘I enjoy my own company, as it happens.’

‘I am sure you do,’ he answered smoothly, but despite the courtesy of his words Grace felt a hot wave of colour envelop her cheeks. For God’s sake, she thought crossly, he would think she was a complete idiot. Not only shrewish, but gauche as well.

‘I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,’ she found herself protesting hurriedly, but she saw at once that her efforts to excuse herself had fallen on stony ground.

‘Oh, I’m sure you did, Miss Horton,’ he countered flatly. ‘Once again, please accept my good wishes.’ He glanced up at the awning. ‘You’ve chosen well. The food here is some of the best in town.’

CHAPTER TWO

GRACE was stir-frying a pan of vegetables when Julia arrived home.

After lunch at the quayside café, she’d spent some time looking round the little town that crowded the harbour, and she hadn’t been able to resist buying some of the fresh fruit and other produce she’d found displayed in the small shops. There had been so many varieties of peaches and plums and apricots, as well as the more familiar things such as beans and peas, sweet corn and peppers, which gave off such an appetising aroma as they simmered in the pan.

If she’d wondered whether she might run into Matteo di Falco again, that was something she preferred not to think about. But she couldn’t deny that her eyes had been drawn to every tall dark man she’d seen. Still, whatever he’d been doing before he’d spoken to her at the café, he was apparently no longer in Portofalco, and she’d decided she was lucky not to have to deal with him again.

But it was good to see Julia, and Grace removed the pan from the heat before going to meet her friend. They hugged and exchanged greetings, before Julia subsided somewhat gratefully onto one of the stools that flanked the breakfast bar. ‘I’m beat!’ she exclaimed, pulling a wry face. She nodded towards the stove. ‘But I’m glad to see you’re making yourself at home.’

Grace grimaced. ‘I hoped you wouldn’t mind. I didn’t know if you’d be coming home, or what time, but I thought if you did you wouldn’t want to go out for a meal. So I’ve made enough for two.’

‘Great,’ said Julia, putting her elbow on the bar and resting her head on her hand. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be here when you arrived.’ She pulled a face. ‘I had my weekend all planned.’

‘But you had to cut it short,’ murmured Grace sympathetically, taking the bottle of wine she’d opened earlier from the fridge. She poured a glass and pushed it towards Julia. ‘Well, you can relax now. Supper’s almost ready.’

‘Thanks.’

Julia sipped the wine with evident enjoyment, and as she did so Grace took a moment to glance at her friend. Was it only the fact that she’d had to put in these extra hours that had made her look so weary? Or was there some other problem troubling her? If she waited long enough, she guessed Julia would tell her what it was.

‘So, how are you?’ Julia enquired now, straightening her back and resting both arms on the counter. ‘I must say you look pretty good, considering.’

Grace glanced with mock indignation over her shoulder. ‘Talk about being damned with faint praise,’ she said, wrinkling her nose.

‘You know what I mean,’ insisted Julia. ‘I expected you to look all wan and haggard-eyed. Instead of which, it’s me who looks as if I’ve been on a bender for a week.’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’ Despite her obvious weariness, Julia still possessed the gamine charm she’d had when they were students. Smaller than her friend, Julia had always been excessively slender, with short blonde hair that was presently shaped to curl confidingly in towards her pointed chin. ‘It was a shame the hotel knew where to contact you. If they hadn’t, I suppose they’d have had to call on someone else.’

‘Yeah.’ Julia grimaced. ‘That was my fault. If I hadn’t been bragging about going to Valle di Falco for the weekend, they wouldn’t have known where I was. But it’s not every day that you get to meet a real marchesa, and I couldn’t resist telling everyone that I was going to stay at the di Falco villa.’

‘Ah.’ Grace could feel a certain tightness in her throat. ‘Does that mean that—that Signor di Falco is really a marchese?’

‘Matteo?’ Julia took a sip of her wine, but Grace could see that her blue eyes had become a little dreamy. ‘Well, yes, he is. But these days, like lots of other Italian aristocrats, he doesn’t use his title.’

Grace was glad of the excuse of attending to the vegetables to turn back to the stove. So, Matteo di Falco was really the Marchese di Falco. Her tongue circled her upper lip. Things just seemed to get worse and worse. What must he have thought of her? She just hoped he didn’t tell Julia what she’d said.

‘Anyway,’ Julia went on now, and Grace could hear the animation in her voice, ‘you haven’t told me what you thought of him. Matt, I mean. He did fetch my suitcase, didn’t he?’

‘Oh, yes. He brought it.’ Grace judged herself capable of speaking casually, and turned to take a plate of fresh shrimp out of the fridge. If Julia thought she was flushed, she would probably put it down to the heat emanating from the vegetables. ‘He arrived about mid-morning. He explained you’d been summoned back to the hotel.’

Julia nodded. ‘So what did you think?’ she persisted eagerly. ‘Come on, Grace; don’t you think he’s something else?’ She shook her head. ‘I still can’t get over the fact that he’s interested in me. It’s the real thing this time, girl. I’m sure of it.’

Grace expelled a breath. ‘He seemed—very nice.’

‘Very nice!’ Julia snorted, her weariness apparently forgotten. ‘Can’t you do better than that? When I look at him, “nice” is not an epithet that instantly springs to mind!’

‘All right, he’s everything you said he was,’ conceded Grace unwillingly, tipping the uncooked shrimp into the pan and giving them a rather energetic stir. ‘The food’s almost ready. Shall we eat in here? Or would you rather I set the table in the living room?’

Julia looked as if she would have preferred to continue their discussion of Matteo di Falco, but after swallowing the remainder of the wine in her glass she seemed to think better of it. ‘Let’s just eat here,’ she said, helping herself to more wine. ‘Mmm, it smells delicious. I could get used to this.’

Happily, the conversation became more general as they consumed the meal, but Julia wanted to know how her friend had come to neglect her health. She expressed her own outrage that Grace’s sisters should have had to be prevailed upon to help, showing little sympathy for their responsibilities towards their own families.

‘She’s their mother, too,’ she reminded Grace sagely, getting up to help her friend with the dishes. ‘And they don’t work, remember? They probably have far more free time than you.’

Grace admitted that that was a possibility, but she had grown so used to being regarded as the fall girl that it was hard to blame anyone else. Besides, she had never considered what she did as a burden before. It was only when she was taken ill herself that she’d begun to realise that she might be doing too much.

‘Anyway, you’re here now, and I don’t want you to feel that I expect you to look after me while you’re convalescing,’ declared Julia, putting their clean plates back into the cupboard. ‘I mean, this has been quite a treat, having a meal prepared for me and all, but I’m used to picking up something on my way home if I haven’t eaten, and, of course, I am out several nights a week.’

‘That’s okay.’ Grace dried her hands and watched her friend spooning coffee into the filter before retiring to the living area beyond the screen of climbing plants. ‘I’m looking forward to relaxing: reading some books, catching up on my correspondence, that sort of thing. Even a little sunbathing,’ she added as Julia carried the tray containing the coffee into the room. ‘As I said when you invited me here, I don’t want to interfere in your life.’

‘As if.’ Julia pulled a face and subsided onto the sofa with a grateful sigh. ‘Ah, that’s better,’ she said, kicking off her shoes and curling her toes into the rug. Then she added, ‘Your being here is not a problem, Grace. Not to me, anyway. I’ve wanted you to come out here for ages; you know that. Only you’ve always had an excuse before.’

Grace took the armchair opposite her friend, and lifted her shoulders in an apologetic shrug. ‘It hasn’t always been easy—’ she began, and Julia nodded as she pulled herself upright again and reached for the coffee pot.

‘Your mother,’ she agreed. ‘I know. But I’m glad I can be of help now. And it makes a change to have an English person to talk to.’

Grace hesitated and then, conceding to herself that she had been a little offhand about Julia’s boyfriend before, she made an effort to make amends. ‘Um—Matteo—’ she grimaced at her pronunciation ‘—speaks very good English, doesn’t he? Or does he only speak his own language with you?’

Julia waited until she’d handed her friend a cup of coffee and had got comfortable again on the sofa before replying. ‘As a matter of fact, Matt is partly English,’ she explained, propping her feet on the brass-topped table between them. ‘The marchesa I spoke of—she’s English, you see. She married Matt’s grandfather—oh, it must be over sixty years ago now. Of course—’ she pulled a wry face ‘—she’s more Italian than he is. Do you know, she never once addressed me in English while I was staying at the villa? Matt says she hardly ever uses her native language any more.’

Grace frowned. ‘You met his grandmother?’ she asked in surprise. ‘Not his parents?’

‘His parents are dead.’ Julia gazed somewhat consideringly into space before going on. ‘Matt’s father was a keen skier, and he and his wife were killed in an avalanche near Courmayeur when Matt was just a baby.’ She pulled her gaze back to her friend. ‘His grandparents brought him up.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Grace spoke sincerely, and Julia gave her a rueful look. ‘Yes, so am I. Matt’s grandfather is dead now, but the old lady’s quite a tartar. I don’t think her attitudes have altered since the Second World War!’

Grace smiled. ‘Aren’t you being a little unkind? Just because she chooses to speak the language she’s most accustomed to, you’re accusing her of being out of date.’

‘Well, it wasn’t just that.’ Julia spoke defensively. ‘She made me feel as if I wasn’t welcome there.’ She grimaced. ‘To be honest, I wasn’t exactly disappointed when I got that call from the Continental. I think she needs a little more time to get used to the idea that Matt and I are a couple. It’ll be easier next time. I’ll make sure I’ve genned up on wine-growing and Italian history before I go.’

Grace’s eyes widened. ‘They own a vineyard?’ She shook her head. She’d put Matteo di Falco down as a wealthy playboy and nothing more.

‘They own the valley,’ said Julia repressively. ‘And I don’t think the marchesa really approved of Matt getting involved in a commercial enterprise like making wine. As I said before, she’s an anachronism, Grace. Without Matt’s efforts, they’d have had to sell out years ago.’

Grace absorbed what Julia had said. ‘So—this is Matteo’s vineyard?’

‘Vineyards,’ Julia corrected her firmly. ‘They’ve always grown grapes in the Valle di Falco, of course, but it was his idea to turn it into a real business.’

‘I see.’ Grace was impressed.

‘Anyway, that’s enough about boring things like making money,’ said Julia, looking more cheerful. ‘Let’s talk about what you really thought of Matt. Don’t you think we’ll make a stunning couple?’

‘Stunning,’ echoed Grace obediently, but she couldn’t help wondering if Julia wasn’t being a little premature with her plans. Even if Matteo di Falco worked for his living, he was an aristocrat first and foremost, and Grace hoped her friend wouldn’t be too disappointed if their relationship didn’t work out.

‘You’re very cagey,’ said Julia now, sensing that Grace wasn’t being entirely honest, and Grace decided quickly that it was really nothing to do with her.

‘Not at all,’ she protested, reaching for her coffee to avoid Julia’s knowing stare. ‘Um—how long have you known him? How did you meet?’

Julia still looked doubtful, but she accepted the evasion, much to Grace’s relief. ‘We met at a reception in Florence,’ she replied. ‘One of the guests who was staying at the hotel had tickets for a special evening exhibition of Renaissance art. Of course, we’re not supposed to fraternise with the guests, but he wasn’t able to attend the reception, so he offered his tickets to me.’ She shook her head. ‘Not that I’m mad about art or anything like that, but there was going to be wine and canapés, stuff like that, and Maria and I—Maria’s another of the receptionists at the hotel, like me—we thought it might be worth a look.’

‘And it was,’ commented Grace drily, and Julia gave a rueful grin.

‘Wasn’t it just?’ she agreed eagerly. ‘I saw Matt the minute I walked in.’ She smiled reminiscently. ‘It turned out that it was his cousin who owned the gallery, and he’d only agreed to come along to show some support.’

Grace nodded. ‘So how did you wangle an introduction?’

‘I didn’t.’ Julia looked smug. ‘I introduced myself. I had the ideal opportunity, you see. Signor Massina—he was the guest who gave me the tickets—asked me to offer Carlo—that’s the name of Matt’s cousin—his apologies, and I made sure that when I spoke to him Matt was there.’

‘Ah.’ Grace remembered from their college days how manipulative Julia could be when she chose. ‘And I suppose he was bowled over by your charm and beauty,’ she remarked teasingly. ‘How long did it take you to get him to ask you out?’

‘Oh, a long time.’ Julia dimpled. ‘It must have been twenty-four hours, at least. It might have been sooner if we hadn’t been staying the night with Maria’s sister. As it was, he took my phone number and called the next day.’

Grace arched a silvery brow. ‘He must have been keen.’

‘He was.’ Julia was complacent. ‘We’ve been going out together ever since.’ She put down her coffee and stretched luxuriously. ‘It’s our anniversary next week.’

Grace was surprised. ‘You’ve been going out together for a year?’

‘Six months,’ protested Julia impatiently. ‘You don’t think I’d be so happy if we’d been going out together for a year without any commitment, do you?’

Grace shrugged. ‘People do do it. Marriage isn’t always the first thing on a person’s mind these days.’

‘It is if your name’s di Falco,’ declared Julia grimly, suddenly losing her ready smile. ‘You don’t think that old harridan of a grandmother would agree to her beloved Matteo setting up house with his girlfriend, do you? Believe me, Grace, it wouldn’t happen. She doesn’t want any of her great-grandchildren to have someone else’s name.’

‘Well, I suppose she has a point.’ Grace tried to be objective. ‘But I do know couples who’ve lived together and when the children have come along the father has arranged for them to legally take his name—’

‘I’m telling you, it wouldn’t happen,’ insisted Julia doggedly. ‘Honestly, Grace, you don’t understand the situation here. Well, the situation with the di Falcos, anyway. Apart from any other objections she might have, the old lady is a staunch Roman Catholic. There’s just no way she’d countenance her great-granddaughter’s father living—“in sin”.’

Julia made quotation marks with her fingers around the last two words, and then reached rather clumsily for her coffee. It was obvious that this subject was one with which she wasn’t at all happy, but it was only when she spilled some of her coffee onto her sleeve that Grace actually absorbed what else she had said.

‘Her—great-granddaughter’s father?’ she said somewhat blankly. ‘Is this some hypothetical offspring, or what?’

‘No.’ Julia hunched her shoulders grumpily. ‘I forgot to tell you: Matt’s been married before.’

‘And he has a child?’

‘Well, she’s hardly a child,’ muttered Julia unwillingly. ‘She’s nineteen, I think. I’ve only met her once. She’s at college in Milan.’

Grace was stunned. ‘So he’s married!’

‘No, he’s a widower.’ Julia was growing increasingly irritable. ‘Do you think I’d be wasting my time if he was married to someone else?’

Grace shrugged. That point was moot. She had no wish to remind her friend that she had had a relationship with one of their married tutors in college. But she had the feeling that there was more to this relationship than Julia was telling her. Not least, how his daughter felt about her.

‘Well,’ she said now, trying to be positive, ‘that’s not a problem then. And if you and Matteo—Matt—are in love—’

‘If we are,’ said Julia, putting down her coffee again, and Grace wondered what she’d said to resurrect these doubts. ‘Okay, I know he cares about me. He wouldn’t want to go on seeing me otherwise. But as for us getting married—well, that’s a whole different ball game.’

Grace hesitated. ‘But it is what you want?’

‘Are you kidding?’ Julia blew out a breath. ‘Of course it’s what I want. But that doesn’t mean that Matt—well, it doesn’t mean that he’d be willing to fight his grandmother for the privilege.’

‘And you suspect he might have to?’

‘If this weekend was anything to go by, definitely.’ Julia snorted. ‘I think she made it blatantly clear that I’m not the woman she wants for Matt.’

Grace sighed. ‘Because she didn’t speak any English?’ She shook her head. ‘Isn’t that a tiny bit negative? Perhaps she was trying to find out how committed you are to becoming an Italian yourself.’

‘It wasn’t just the fact that she didn’t speak any English,’ insisted Julia impatiently. ‘For God’s sake, she hardly spoke to me at all. And she made sure that I was given a room about half a mile away from Matt’s apartments. The di Falco villa is huge, you see. I even had a problem finding my way back to the drawing room before dinner.’

‘Even so—’

‘Even so, nothing.’ Julia shook her head. ‘She knew very well that I’d expected to share Matt’s apartments. I don’t know what century she’s living in, but she behaved as if our relationship didn’t mean a thing.’

Grace sighed. ‘You know what old people are like—’

‘I know what she’s like,’ agreed Julia bitterly. ‘She’ll do anything she can to split us up.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Don’t I?’ Julia regarded her with accusing eyes. ‘What if I tell you that I wasn’t the only guest at the villa this weekend?’

‘Well...’

‘It was the first time I’d had the opportunity to visit Matt’s home,’ went on Julia resentfully. ‘I thought it was just going to be a family occasion, but when we arrived all these other people were there.’

‘Well,’ began Grace again, ‘perhaps she thought it would make things easier for you. Did you ask Matteo about it? Perhaps it was his idea.’

‘It wasn’t.’ Julia spoke flatly. ‘He knew nothing about it until we got there. But the real sickener was that the old lady had invited this woman, Caterina Vincenzi. A contessa, no less, and fairly obviously the woman the marchesa would like to see as the next Signora di Falco.’

‘Oh, Julia, did she honestly tell you that?’

‘She didn’t have to.’ Julia’s lips twisted. ‘There must have been more than a dozen guests at dinner yesterday evening and she was the one who was seated beside Matt. I was tucked away at the end of the table with some old uncle. God, he was disgusting! He slobbered all over his food.’

‘Julia!’

‘He did.’ Julia was indignant. But then, when Grace continued to look at her with wide, disbelieving eyes, she gave a shrug. ‘Well, he made plenty of noise,’ she said defensively. ‘You don’t know what it was like, Grace. You weren’t there.’

‘No.’

Grace conceded that point, and as if realising she was becoming far too agitated Julia took a breath. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘It’s not your fault that the old witch lives in the past. Anyway—’ Julia’s eyes glittersed ‘—I intend to drag her—kicking and screaming, if necessary—into the present. We’ll see who has the last laugh when I spring my surprise on her.’

Grace stared at her friend. ‘Your surprise?’ she echoed, wondering why she felt such a sense of apprehension suddenly, and Julia flung herself back against the cushions of the sofa.

‘When she finds out I’m having Matt’s baby, of course,’ she declared triumphantly. ‘She won’t be able to dismiss me so offhandedly when she discovers I’m having her precious grandson’s child.’

CHAPTER THREE

THE phone rang as Grace was going out of the apartment.

She was tempted to leave it. She was fairly sure the call wouldn’t be for her, and she’d made arrangements to go to Viareggio that morning. In the last couple of days, she’d become quite familiar with the buses that ran from Portofalco to the other resorts along the coast, and instead of going to the hassle of hiring a car she’d left the driving to someone else.

But the possibility that it could be one of her sisters calling about her mother compelled her to pick up the receiver. ‘Hello,’ she said, not yet used to using the Italian ciao, and then sank down somewhat weakly onto the arm of the sofa when Matteo di Falco’s disturbing voice spoke in her ear.

‘Miss Horton.’ He paused. ‘Grace.’ Her name had an unfamiliar resonance on his tongue. ‘I was hoping I might catch you.’

‘Were you?’

Grace knew she didn’t sound particularly friendly, but since Julia had dropped her bombshell about the baby she had found it even more difficult to think of Matteo di Falco without a feeling of distaste. She didn’t know how he could allow his grandmother to treat Julia so indifferently. But then, he didn’t know that in a few short months she was going to have his child.

‘Yes.’ Clearly, he had no such reservations. ‘I am coming to Portofalco this morning and I wondered if you’d allow me to buy you lunch?’

The gall of the man!

Grace was incensed, her own opinion of his sex reinforced by his behaviour. ‘I’m afraid I have other plans, signore,’ she informed him coldly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a bus to catch.’

She would happily have put the receiver down there and then, but his sardonic, ‘A bus!’ had her fairly trembling with indignation.

‘Yes, a bus,’ she repeated crisply. ‘Or autobus, if you will. It’s a large motor vehicle with a wheel at each corner that delivers its passengers to various points along the coast!’

The breath he sucked in was plainly audible. ‘Yes, I know what an autobus is,’ he declared tautly, and Grace had the uneasy feeling that Julia was unlikely to approve of her insolence. ‘In that case, please do not let me detain you any longer.’

‘I won’t,’ muttered Grace resentfully, but it was under her breath, and by the time she had thought of a suitable rejoinder the line had gone dead.

He’d hung up on her, she realised, slamming down her own receiver with some force, but although she stood there for several more seconds, justifying what she’d said to herself, she couldn’t deny a certain feeling of remorse at her behaviour. After all, as she’d told herself before, Julia’s affairs were nothing to do with her, and she doubted her friend would have defended her with such enthusiasm if their positions had been reversed.

Still, it was too late now to be having second thoughts, and she could only hope that he wouldn’t complain about her ignorance to Julia. It would be hard to explain why she felt so strongly about it. It wasn’t as if she and Julia were that close.

Taking a deep breath, she slipped on her sunglasses, collected the bag and hat she’d bought in Livorno the day before, and left the apartment. She was determined not to let what had happened spoil her day, and she made a special point of smiling at the unctuous old caretaker just to prove to herself that she could be as sociable as anyone else.

The bus to Viareggio was waiting near the ferry terminal and Grace handed over her carta arancio, or orange seven-day pass, to be stamped as she climbed aboard. She’d learned that these bus tickets were sold in advance, and she felt a sense of pride at the speed with which she’d adapted to the arrangements. It was true that many of the people who were already on the bus looked like tourists, but there were locals, too, and she had learned to accept their curiosity about her travelling alone without embarrassment. What was new, after all? she reflected wryly. It was her choice, and she was stuck with it.

But, once again, as the bus set away up the winding road that led out of Portofalco, Grace found her thoughts returning to the conversation she had had with Julia just a couple of nights ago. She still found it hard to accept that her friend had been reckless enough to get herself pregnant in the first place, let alone that she believed it would result in Matteo di Falco’s asking her to marry him. Somehow Grace doubted that anyone could force the man she knew to do anything he didn’t wish to, and she was very much afraid that Julia had placed too much store in the Italians’ love of family.

Of course, she could be wrong. But why then had Julia stated that she intended to wait until there was no chance of her having an abortion before confessing what had happened to the man she loved? If she loved him. Given his Italian heritage, surely he’d never agree to it anyway. It was a gamble, and Grace hoped her friend would not be too devastated if things didn’t work out the way she’d planned.

Yet Grace’s doubts persisted, doubts which had not been dispelled by the phone call she had received this morning. Had Julia known he intended to contact her? Had it been done with her approval and support? Or, as Grace suspected, had it been all Matteo di Falco’s idea? The man was a perfect jerk, she thought irritably. He obviously hadn’t believed that she might turn him down.

She was getting edgy, and that annoyed her even more. She hadn’t come to Italy to get involved in Julia’s love life, and she forced herself to look out of the window and concentrate on the view. They were high above the ocean now, with a fantastic vista of sea and cliffs stretching away into the distance on either side. Closer to, the scent of myrtle and wild thyme drifted in through the open windows. If the bus had air-conditioning, the driver didn’t use it, and Grace decided that she preferred the warm breeze that fanned her face.

Despite its uncertain beginnings, she enjoyed her visit to Viareggio. Unlike Portofalco, it was famous for its beautiful sandy beach, and she walked along the promenade to the pier, before taking refuge from the sun in the palm-shaded Piazza d’Azeglio. Lunch was a spinach and egg-filled pasta to die for, and by the time she boarded the bus back she felt it had been a day well spent.

It wasn’t late when the bus deposited her at the terminal. But it had been a fairly strenuous day, and she was unwillingly aware that she was feeling the effects of doing too much, too soon. She wasn’t used to the heat, or to so much activity, and the next day she intended to take her own advice and do nothing at all.

Deciding she needed a drink before tackling the walk up to the villa, she entered the nearby gelateria and ordered an ice-cream soda. Italian ice cream was so delicious, as she’d discovered the previous day, and served with fresh lemonade it made a really delightful drink.

She took a table in the window instead of sitting outside, glad of the comparative coolness out of the sun. Happily the spreading awning protected the window, and she set her drink down in front of her and sucked greedily at the straw.

And that was when she saw him. He was sitting behind the wheel of a sleek, dark green convertible that was parked across the narrow street, and if it hadn’t been so incredible she’d have said he was staring straight at her.

But he couldn’t be.

Nevertheless, Grace’s eyes went wide with a mixture of confusion and dismay, and she drew back abruptly so that the straw left her mouth. But her lips were still parted, her pink tongue unknowingly provocative as it explored the corners of her mouth. Oh, God, she thought weakly, what was he doing here?

She wished she’d taken any table but this one now. She felt so exposed; so obvious. But the idea of getting up and moving back into the shadows on the off chance that he might have seen her was ludicrous. He didn’t intimidate her. Or, if he did, he must never become aware of it

Dumping her tote bag on the chair beside her, she determinedly clamped both hands about her glass and resumed drinking. The coldness of the drink was invigorating, the chilled condensation on the glass a boon to her moist palms. He’d go away soon, she told herself, deliberately not looking in his direction. He’d said he was coming to Portofalco, and he had. Her seeing him now was just a coincidence. She was tired, that was all. That was why she felt so threatened by his presence.

But he didn’t go away. She drank as much of the lemonade as she could before glancing in his direction again, but he was still there. She thought of ordering another soda, but it would have looked odd when there was still some left in the glass she had. She had no choice but to leave the ice-cream parlour. She just wished for once that she could fade into the crowd.

She had crossed the street and started up the steep slope of the Via Cortese when she heard the car behind her. She knew it was his car. The engine was purring gently at the moment, but there was still an underlying deep-throated roar that spoke of the power that was presently being controlled. Much like the man himself, thought Grace, with a reluctant twinge of irony. She doubted he’d appreciated being put down by a foreigner.

She wished she could quicken her step, but apart from anything else the incline didn’t encourage reckless gestures like that. Particularly not in her present condition. Besides, however fast she walked, he could always overtake her. So, instead of pretending she hadn’t noticed him, she chose a place that was practically smothered with scarlet bougainvillaea, and leaned back against the wall to wait for him.

At least she’d surprised him, she thought as he brought the powerful car to a halt a few yards down from where she was standing. But that didn’t prevent an instinctive tightening in her stomach when he opened his door and got out, or suppress the quiver of apprehension she felt as he climbed the hill towards her.

It annoyed her that she should feel any kind of reaction towards him. He was just another man, after all, and she was usually perfectly capable of dealing with them. But, despite the harshness of his dark features, he was undeniably sexy, and, although his black jeans and matching tee shirt were quite ordinary, on his lean, muscled body they acquired a sensual appeal.

‘So,’ he said, propping his hips against the wall beside her. ‘Did you need a rest?’

Grace’s lips tightened. Beyond his relaxed form she could see the busy waterfront and the blue waters of the bay. She doubted there could be a more perfect spot for a rendezvous, the lengthening shadows redolent with the perfume of the flowers. But this was not a rendezvous, she thought irritably. It wasn’t even a meeting she had arranged.

‘Why are you following me?’ she asked, determined not to lose the initiative, but whatever advantage she’d thought she had was quickly disposed of.

‘You looked tired,’ he said lazily, the sidelong glance he gave her spiked with malice. ‘Perhaps I felt sorry for you. It’s a long walk back to the villa.’

Grace’s hand tightened round the strap of her tote bag, her nails digging painfully into her palms. ‘How kind,’ she said, refusing to let him see that his words had in any way affected her. ‘But I’m sure a man of your—importance has better things to do.’

‘Straight to the point, as always,’ he remarked, pressing his palms down on the warm stones at either side of him. ‘Did you enjoy your trip to Viareggio?’

‘How did you—?’ Grace began to ask the obvious question and then broke off abruptly. He had evidently seen her get off the bus, and if he was familiar with the timetable he would know which bus it was. She took a deep breath. ‘Very much, thank you.’

He straightened then, and for a taut moment she thought he was going to touch her. But all he did was push his fingers into the back pockets of his jeans, arching his back reflexively, before turning to face her.

His eyes swept over her, from the top of her bare head—she had stowed her hat in her tote earlier—to the toes of her scuffed trainers and all points in between. Then he said, ‘Come on,’ when her cheeks were pink and she was intensely conscious of her sunburned knees and the untidiness of her braid. ‘Get in the car. I’ll give you a lift.’

Grace took a deep breath. ‘I don’t want a lift.’

‘Yes, you do.’ He glanced about him dispassionately. ‘Come along. I’m parked in a no-waiting area. You wouldn’t want me to have to pay a fine, would you?’

Grace tilted her head. ‘I couldn’t care less,’ she answered, and his mouth compressed with impatience.

‘What is your problem?’ he demanded. ‘Did I bruise that fragile ego of yours? It’s no sin to admit you need a rest.’

‘I didn’t need a rest,’ said Grace, clenching her teeth, but she could tell by his expression that he didn’t believe her. For God’s sake, she wished she’d kept on walking. She’d have been almost at the villa by now.

‘As you say,’ he declared dismissively. ‘But I still insist that you get into the car. Now, do you want to do it without my assistance, or would you rather I picked you up and slung you in myself?’

Grace’s jaw dropped. No man had ever threatened to pick her up before. With her height, and not entirely sylphlike form, she had always been too daunting a prospect, and she stared at him as if she didn’t believe a word he said.

‘It’s not necessary,’ she said at last, annoyed to find that he had disturbed her. Not in a sexual way, she assured herself, but there was no doubt that he’d made her look at him in a different light.

‘But practical,’ he pointed out reasonably. His lips twisted. ‘Do you want Julia to think that you don’t trust me?’

Grace straightened. Of all the things he could have said, that was the one most likely to persuade her to do as he asked. She most definitely did not want Julia to think she didn’t trust him. To do so could create a rift between them she feared might never be breached.

‘Oh—if you insist,’ she muttered ungraciously, and pretended she didn’t see the mocking smile that crossed his face. Striding to the car, she jerked open the passenger-side door before he could do so, curling her long legs beneath the dashboard and wishing she’d been wearing anything else but shorts.

He joined her moments later, the gear console providing a welcome barrier between them. But Grace was still uneasily mindful of his nearness and the not unpleasant scent of his clean male sweat. It was infuriating, she thought as he flicked the ignition and the engine came to life again. It wasn’t as if she was lacking in experience where men were concerned, yet his sensuality and casual sophistication left her feeling strangely immature.

‘I trust you’re using a sun-block on these outings,’ he remarked as he put the car into gear, and Grace immediately spread her tote bag to cover as much of her burning knees as possible.

‘Of course,’ she said, although in truth she hadn’t put any of the cream on her legs. ‘I’m not stupid.’

‘But you think I am?’

Grace looked quickly at him and away. ‘I didn’t say that.’

‘You didn’t have to.’ He shrugged. ‘But I have to wonder what Julia has said to you about me for you to have such an unfavourable opinion of me.’

Grace’s breath caught in her throat. ‘Julia hasn’t given me an unfavourable opinion of you.’ She swallowed. ‘You must know she thinks you’re—’ She found it difficult to find a suitable word. ‘Marvellous!’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’ She looked at him again, convinced now that he was simply baiting her. ‘What is it with you, signore? I can’t believe you’re so desperate for compliments that you need to hear them from me.’

His short laugh lacked humour. ‘As I said before, you don’t believe in pulling your punches, do you, cara?’ He slowed to accommodate an elderly couple who were crossing the street in front of them and received a wave of acknowledgement in return. ‘And if it’s not something Julia has said, then I can only assume that you have taken an instant, and inexplicable, dislike to me. Am I right?’

Was he right?

Grace looked down at her bag, smoothing her long fingers over the folds of canvas, trying desperately to find an answer. She could hardly tell him why she’d taken such an aversion to him. Not without betraying Julia’s confidence, at any rate, and she couldn’t do that, however tempted she might be to explode his myth of superiority.

‘I don’t know you, signore,’ she said at last, and earned a slightly disbelieving glance from those deep-set dark eyes. ‘I don’t,’ she insisted, feeling some relief at having found a reasonable explanation. ‘And I’m not used to being familiar with men I only know by reputation.’

‘By reputation?’ He groaned. ‘Heaven protect me from women who judge me by my reputation!’

He was laughing at her now, and Grace was overwhelmingly relieved to see the gates of the Villa Modena up ahead. She realised she had no idea how to deal with him, and she was seriously worried that he was having far more of an effect on her than she would have ever dreamed possible. Indeed, she was afraid that half the antagonism she felt towards him stemmed from her own unwilling attraction towards him, and it was obviously wiser for her to ensure that she was never in this position again.

‘Anyway,’ he said now, his voice deepening to a softness that stroked her tortured nerves, ‘we can easily remedy that.’

Remedy what?

For a moment, Grace’s mind was blank, but then comprehension dawned. ‘I think you’re making fun of me,’ she said, avoiding a direct answer. ‘Oh—’ As if she was surprised! ‘Here we are.’

‘Just a minute.’ His hand closed round her arm, and although it was the last thing she wanted to do she was forced to turn and look at him.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Grace...’ The way he said her name caused the hairs on the back of her neck to prickle in sympathetic response. ‘Look, I’m not making fun of you.’ He paused. ‘It’s obvious we’ve got off on the wrong track—’

‘Foot.’

‘What?’

‘It’s foot,’ said Grace awkwardly, wishing she’d never interfered. ‘People get off on the wrong foot,’ she added, her face burning. She shook her head at his expression. ‘It’s not important.’

‘If you say so.’ His thumb rubbed distractingly against her sensitive flesh. ‘Whatever—you’ve obviously got the wrong impression of my intentions.’ His eyes darkened with disturbing warmth. ‘I’d like us to be friends, no?’

No!

For a moment, Grace thought she’d said the word out loud, but his face hadn’t changed so she knew she hadn’t done anything so foolish.

‘Um—well, of course,’ she began, wondering how she could bring Julia into this without giving him the impression that her friend had warned her off. ‘Perhaps when we all get to know one another better—’

‘I know Julia very well,’ he said flatly. ‘And that’s not what I mean and you know it. I’d like to think you and I could spend some time together without you treating me like last week’s bad news, hmm?’ He looked down at where his fingers were caressing her arm and grimaced. ‘You’ve obviously got a poor opinion of my sex, yes? Well, I’d like to try and change that.’

Grace gulped. ‘You know nothing about me.’

‘Okay.’ But she sensed he was only humouring her. Dear God, she wondered, what had Julia been telling him about her? She’d never thought of that. ‘Bene, I suggest we get to know one another, as you say. You can’t have a problem with that.’

Couldn’t she?

Grace just wanted this conversation to be over, not just for her sake, but for Julia’s as well. She wasn’t sure what he meant, what he wanted, but as far as she was concerned he was off limits in a big, big way.

‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ she said, praying her friend wasn’t up in the apartment at this moment gazing down on this scene which would look decidedly suspicious from a distance. ‘Thank you for the lift.’ She swallowed. ‘I was tired. It’s been a long day.’

‘I would have taken you to Viareggio,’ he said softly, and although he hadn’t moved Grace could feel his eyes on her mouth like a palpable caress. ‘Tell me, have you found the time to visit the monastery of our local martyr, Sant’ Emilio di Falco?’

He must know she hadn’t, thought Grace crossly. She’d only been here a few days, after all. ‘Oh, I’ve got lots of sightseeing to do yet,’ she told him, trying to sound crisply positive. ‘And now I really must—’

‘Let me take you tomorrow,’ he broke in, as she’d half expected he would. ‘Or the day after. It’s not the easiest place to get to, but I can assure you it’s well worth the visit.’

‘I’m sure it is, but I don’t know what Julia’s got planned for the rest of the week,’ declared Grace, barely civilly, and, removing his fingers from her arm, she thrust open the car door.

When she was safely on the pavement outside the Villa Modena, she permitted herself one last salvo. ‘I intend to hire a car myself, signore. I’m sure it will be easier, in the circumstances.’

She thought he’d let her go then; she expected him to drive away without another word, but she hadn’t counted on his innate courtesy. As she waited, hands clutching her tote bag like a lifeline, he vaulted out of the vehicle, coming round to where she was standing rooted to the spot.

‘I’ll see you to the apartment,’ he said, and although she wanted to tell him it wasn’t necessary his expression now warned her that she had probably said too much already. So, without another word, she walked rather jerkily through the gates, entering the building through the arched doorway, and ascending the shallow staircase that rose on her right.

She heard rather than saw the old caretaker emerge from his apartment on the ground floor and gaze after them, but she didn’t stop to offer a greeting as she normally did. There were two flights of stairs to Julia’s apartment, and she climbed them without pausing, only aware that her knees were shaking when she reached the second landing.

It was necessary to find her key when she reached the door, but to her relief it came easily into her hand. Then, pushing it into the lock, she turned to face him, her fingers on the handle behind her supporting her quivering legs.

‘Thanks again,’ she said, brushing her braid back over her shoulder. ‘At least I’ve got a bit more time to make Julia a meal.’ She forced herself to go on. ‘Unless she’s going out with you, of course. Then I’ll only have to cook for one. But, in any case, I’ll find the time to tell her how—how kind you’ve been.’

‘Will you?’ He didn’t sound particularly interested in what she told his girlfriend. ‘If you take my advice, you’ll forget about running after Julia, and have a bath and then get into bed. We both know you’re exhausted. That’s why you can’t cope with how you feel But don’t insult me by pretending you harbour any gratitude towards me. Our association—short though it is—has progressed much too far for that.’

CHAPTER FOUR

IT WAS the following evening before Grace got a chance to talk to her friend again.

Julia had phoned the previous evening to say that she’d been asked to work an extra couple of hours and that Grace should expect her when she saw her. ‘You go to bed if you’re tired,’ she’d suggested kindly, knowing in advance how Grace had intended to spend her day. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

But in the morning Grace slept late, having spent most of the night fretting about her encounter with Matteo di Falco, and by the time she emerged from her bedroom Julia had gone.

Consequently, it was a good twenty-four hours before she could tell Julia what had happened and by then much of the resentment she had been feeling had dispersed. Perhaps she had overreacted, she brooded. He had only been civil, after all. And time had a habit of making the memory selective so that she was no longer so certain of the facts.

Her doubts weren’t helped by Julia’s reaction either. The other woman seemed to regard what had happened as characteristic of Matteo. ‘He’s like that,’ she declared carelessly. ‘He must have realised how beat you were. I’m sorry if you thought he shouldn’t have followed you. I guess he thought he was only being kind.’

Kind was not an adjective Grace would have used to describe Matteo di Falco, but Julia didn’t really want to hear about that. And, in the circumstances, there was no way Grace could have told her about his offering to take her to the monastery of Sant’ Emilio di Falco. She was afraid if she did so Julia might suspect she was trying to split them up, when in fact that was the last thing she wanted to do.

All the same, she had spent at least part of the previous night worrying whether Julia had any real grounds for believing that, just because she was carrying his child, Matteo would agree to marry her. The more Grace thought about him, the more convinced she became that he was unlikely to be coerced into anything, whatever pressure his grandmother might put upon him. He might deny it, for instance. He might even call Julia a liar. And even if a blood test eventually proved his paternity, who would look after Julia until the baby was born?

Grace found it all very unsatisfactory, and she knew that if she was in Julia’s shoes there was no way she’d be able to wait cold-bloodedly for several months before telling Matteo she was pregnant. In fact, she found the whole idea of Julia’s being pregnant rather repugnant, and she didn’t really approve of the underhanded way she was keeping it to herself.

That was why, when they were sitting on the balcony, having a glass of wine after supper, she felt compelled to bring the subject up again. However reluctant she might be to talk about Matteo di Falco, she told herself she had to try and understand Julia’s motives.

‘When—when did you find out?’ she asked. And then, seeing Julia’s blank expression, and realising she wasn’t privy to her thoughts, she added hurriedly, ‘About the baby? How long have you known?’

Julia shrugged. ‘Not long,’ she said offhandedly. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Well—for obvious reasons,’ murmured Grace awkwardly. ‘I mean, I just wondered when you intend to tell—Matt.’

Julia cast her a sardonic look. ‘I thought I already told you,’ she remarked drily. ‘When I’m sure the marchesa can’t do anything about it.’

‘But do you really think she’d suggest you have an abortion, anyway?’ Grace persisted. ‘She does have a Catholic background and I don’t think—’

‘You’d be surprised,’ Julia broke in. ‘These old aristocrats will do anything to protect their bloodlines, believe me.’

Grace sighed. ‘So when will you feel it’s safe to tell them? Two months, three months? Six months? How long do you think you can hide it? Babies show!’

‘Not all babies,’ retorted Julia. ‘Actually, I was reading a case the other day of a girl, a teenager, actually, who knew nothing about it until the baby arrived.’

‘You’re not a teenager, Julia.’

‘I know that. But that doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen to me.’ She sipped her wine. ‘I don’t know why you’re asking all these questions.’ Her brows drew together in sudden consternation. ‘You haven’t said anything to Matt?’

‘Of course not’ Grace was grateful that she could answer that question without restraint. ‘But—well, don’t you think you ought to tell him? You’re still working full time. He might want you to give up your job.’

‘And he might not,’ declared Julia flatly, raising one knee and examining a tiny red mark on her skin. ‘Dammit, I’ve been bitten. Let’s go back inside.’

Grace left the balcony with some reluctance. The insects didn’t bother her, and the night air was soft and seductive. She could smell the night-blooming flowers from the garden below, and somewhere close at hand a violin was playing. She could also hear the sound of laughter and the muted murmur of voices from a party someone was giving further down the street. For the first time in ages, she found herself wishing she was going out this evening. There was something about the atmosphere here, a sense of hedonism and sensuality, that was hard to ignore.

‘I think I’ll go to bed,’ said Julia as Grace entered the living room. She finished the wine in her glass and set it down on the counter in the kitchen with an audible clunk. Grace was surprised the stern didn’t break at such uncaring treatment, but it was evidently stronger than it looked. ‘You don’t mind, do you? I was fairly late last night.’

Grace shook her head. ‘Of course not,’ she said, feeling mean for even wishing Julia could change her mind. It wasn’t her friend’s fault that she’d chosen to spend the whole day in the apartment. She’d reputedly come here to have a rest. She had a good book to entertain her. Perhaps she should have an early night, too.

But, although she’d intended to use the bathroom as soon as Julia was finished, the water stopped running, Julia’s door opened and closed, and still Grace lingered in her chair. She was restless—a feeling that was unfamiliar to her, but clearly identifiable. She needed something, anything; the trouble was, she didn’t know what.

Getting up, she paced about the living room, stepping out onto the balcony, and resting her bare arms on the wrought-iron balustrade. Breathing deeply, she tried to calm the agitation inside her, but all she succeeded in doing was filling her lungs with the sensuous perfume of the flowers. Perhaps there was something in their scent, she mused wryly, but she couldn’t ever remember reading that jasmine or honeysuckle, or even the exotic oleander that grew in scarlet clusters round the crumbling fountain, possessed narcotic properties.

Perhaps she should go for a walk, she considered. It wasn’t late, only nine o’clock, and there were still plenty of people about. If she walked down to the harbour, she could always get a taxi back.

The idea took root and flourished. Why not? she asked herself again. She wasn’t the nervous type, and she had few fears for her own safety. She would have preferred to go with Julia, but in her absence she could go alone.

Straightening, she glanced down at what she was wearing. The slip dress with its pattern of orange lilies on a purple background was perfectly suitable for what she had planned, but she took a thin silk shawl to cover her shoulders, just in case it was cool down at the quayside. Then, after checking that the French braid she had fastened earlier was still in place, she left the apartment before she could change her mind.

The thick heels of her sandals clattered on the marble stairs as she descended, but she doubted anyone would hear her. It appeared as if Julia’s was the only apartment not hosting a social gathering of one sort or another that evening, and the mingled aromas of wine and pasta made Grace’s mouth water.

It seemed hours since she and Julia had eaten the cheese and salad that Grace had rustled up after her friend got home. Julia had come in, kicked off her shoes, and sprawled on the sofa with a magazine, and despite her assertion that she didn’t expect Grace to cook for her so far she had made no overtures in that direction herself.

Grace had thought Julia might bring something in with her. She’d told her friend she didn’t intend to go out today, but her words had evidently fallen on stony ground. In consequence, Grace had had to improvise, and although the meal had been tasty she now felt she knew where she stood. In future, she’d make sure they had plenty of food in the fridge.

Perhaps she’d treat herself to a gooey dessert, she reflected now as the caretaker, who never seemed to miss her comings and goings, emerged from his apartment as she reached the ground floor. Italians traditionally ate later than she was used to, and she wasn’t worried that the cafés might be closed.

The caretaker frowned when he saw she was alone. ‘Signorina Calloway?’ he said, glancing meaningfully up the stairs, and Grace heaved a sigh before miming that she was going out alone.

‘Ah, no, signorina.’

The caretaker shook his head, his hands fluttering as he endeavoured to explain what he wanted to say. But his accent was thick enough to cut, and Grace could only guess what he meant.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, making a calming gesture, but the old man was not prepared to let her go without a fight.

He said something else, and Grace identified the word ragazzos in his anxious protest, which even she knew meant boys. It was obvious he was trying to warn her to be careful, and she felt a reluctant sympathy towards him for his concern.

‘No problem,’ she insisted. ‘I’ll get a—a taxi, yes? Back.’

The old man gestured towards his apartment. ‘Taxi now?’

‘No.’ Grace sighed again. ‘Really.’ She held up her hand. ‘I’ll be all right, honestly.’ She patted his arm. ‘Um—thanks, anyway.’

The old man had to let her go, and despite her assertion to the contrary Grace did become slightly nervous walking into town. There were people about, but as the old man had tried to warn her many of them were young men, who stared at her with amorous eyes, and turned to watch her as she hurried by. Some even called after her, making sucking noises with their lips. But she managed to make it appear that she was with someone else at these times, shrinking into the shadows whenever she could.

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