“I have an idea,” he said abruptly. “A solution.”

She stiffened. It entered her mind that he was quite deliberately using his considerable sexual magnetism to persuade her into something she might regret. With an effort, she took a step away in an attempt to escape that seductive aura.

He reached for her, his hands closing about her upper arms. “Listen.” He paused, and for a moment she thought doubt, uncertainty, entered his eyes. Then he said, “There’s one way out of this dilemma, if you agree.”

Warily, she stared at him. She mustn’t be influenced by the effect he had on her, the physical responses that clamored to be set free from the stern restraint she kept on them. “Agree to what?”

He was looking at her as though willing her to something, his gaze hypnotic. His jaw jutted, and she saw the muscles of his throat move as he swallowed. He said, “To marry me.”

DAPHNE CLAIR lives in subtropical New Zealand, with her Dutch-born husband. They have five children. At eight years old she embarked on her first novel, about taming a tiger. This epic never reached a publisher, but metamorphosed male tigers still prowl the pages of her romance novels, of which she has written over 30 for Harlequin Presents®. Her other writing includes nonfiction, poetry and short stories, and she has won literary prizes in New Zealand and America. Readers are invited to visit Daphne Clair’s Web site at www.daphneclair.com, e-mail her at daphne@daphneclair.com or write to her at Box 18240, Glenn Innes, Auckland 1130, New Zealand.

The Brunellesci Baby
Daphne Clair

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

THE passport control officer quickly scrutinised the dark-haired, green-eyed young woman waiting at the other side of the desk.

She tensed, trying not to show apprehension as he returned his gaze to the photograph in the passport he held. Finally he said, ‘Liar.’

Her heart accelerated its beat and her cheeks flushed.

He looked up again. ‘Liar Cameron?’

Nearly fainting with relief, she said, ‘No, it’s Leeah.’ And more firmly, ‘My name is Lia Cameron.’

‘Sorry—Lia.’ He flipped over the page. ‘You’ve been to Australia before?’

‘Yes.’

The man stamped the page before handing back the passport with a grin. ‘You kiwis just can’t stay away, eh? Enjoy your holiday.’

Her knees shook as she proceeded to the arrivals hall and found the baggage carousel for the Auckland to Sydney flight. It wasn’t the first time ‘Lia’ had been mispronounced. A guilty conscience was responsible for her almost making a fool of herself back there.

When her suitcase appeared she lifted it off the carousel and flipped the label to check. Lia Cameron. ‘That’s me,’ she muttered aloud.

She took a bus to the Sunshine Coast, found a hotel and paid cash in advance for her room, not wanting to use her credit card.

Tomorrow she would hire a car and find the Brunellesci mansion. And Zandro Brunellesci.

Ice snaked down her spine. Alessandro Gabriele Brunellesci was a formidable foe, accustomed to crushing anything—or anyone—who got in his way. Including Lia.

Anger sharpened by grief dispelled the cold fear. Stress and tragedy had given her a strength she hadn’t known she possessed. Zandro would discover she couldn’t be crushed, bullied, and he wouldn’t find it so easy to get rid of her. Too much was at stake—a child’s whole life. The righting of a terrible wrong.

She couldn’t return to New Zealand until she’d done what she’d come here to do. And she would not go home alone.

The Brunellesci home was guarded by wrought-iron gates set in a high brick wall. Tall gum trees and silver birches screened the house, allowing through the iron bars only glimpses of mellow golden stone and big windows. There seemed to be a garage underneath that lifted the first floor enough to give the rooms a view over the wall to the sea, and a third level shaded a wide balcony.

After driving slowly past she parked a little farther along the broad street, in the shade of a tree overhanging the wall of another expensive-looking home. Across the road an expanse of dark, coarse grass was broken by more trees, and an awning sheltered a children’s play area from the Queensland sun that was still wintry-mild, as yet not holding the full force of the coming summer. Beyond the swings and slides and a jungle gym, a swathe of silvery sand was licked by milk-white tongues of foam edging the blue-green ocean.

Cars intermittently left the street or cruised into it. A young woman holding the hands of two small girls sporting identical blond ponytails emerged from one of the houses and crossed to the park.

Twins? But leaning forward with naturally quickened interest to peer through the windscreen, she saw that one was a little bigger than the other; perhaps a year or so separated them.

A sleek black saloon with tinted windows slid from between the imposing gateposts of the Brunellesci house. Impossible to see inside the car, or even guess if it held only the driver or had passengers.

People strolled down to the beach as the sun moved higher up the pale sky, but not many walked along the street.

This wasn’t getting her anywhere. She rummaged in her bag, donned wraparound sunglasses, then twisted her hair and piled it inside a wide-brimmed natural-straw hat that she pulled low over her forehead, and took a brand-new paperback book from the glove box.

There were wooden seats near the play area, back-to-back sets. She chose one facing the road and the wrought-iron gates of the Brunellesci house, pretending to read while watching the gates. The seat escaped the shade cast by the awning, and the morning sun gently warmed her shoulders, bared by the sleeveless cream shirt she wore with cotton shorts.

Still no sign of movement from the house. Then after some time a woman with a child in a pushchair emerged, accompanied by a tall, white-haired man walking with the help of a stick.

The gates slid open to let them through, and they paused at the edge of the pavement before crossing to the park and the play area, passing the young woman apparently absorbed in her reading.

They hadn’t even noticed her. Lowering the book to her lap with shaking hands, she took a deep breath, willing herself not to turn, not to give herself away. She could hear the woman’s voice, rising and falling in the exaggerated way people spoke to babies, and a brief, deep male rumble from the man, over a stream of happy babble from the child.

Her heart contracted. Feigning nonchalance, she stood up, closing the book, and without looking directly at them skirted the group and settled herself on the grass under a tree, her back against the trunk.

The old man leaned on his stick, watching while the woman pushed the child on a baby swing, not too high.

Small, round face shaded by a blue hat, chubby legs emerging from blue cotton overalls, clearly the little boy was enjoying himself. The sound of his delighted laughter carried on the clear air.

He’s being well cared for.

Maybe she should abandon her mission, leave. But the cowardly thought was quickly dismissed. One glimpse didn’t tell the whole story.

She turned her attention to the woman, probably in her mid-thirties, with a pleasantly attractive face framed by short brown curls, and a curvy but fit-looking body, the waist accentuated by a white belt about a plain green dress worn with white flat-heeled sandals. A nanny. Someone they’d hired to take charge of the baby.

When the child was lifted from the swing and the group went down to the beach she made herself stay where she was, then after a while get up and go back to the car, where she watched until they returned to the house and disappeared inside the gates.

After some time had passed with no further activity discernible she started the car, drove slowly by once more, then accelerated and turned a corner, taking a route that passed the rear of the mansion.

There were other homes backing onto it, but she glimpsed behind them the same high brick wall. Any thought of secretly making her way into the house was unfeasible. Not that she’d seriously considered that, knowing it was burglar-alarmed to the teeth.

At least now she knew where the baby was, that he hadn’t been sent off to some secret hideaway or remote country estate to be raised in isolation.

Time to consider her strategy.

The next morning she parked in the same place and waited. Again the trio of woman, elderly man and baby appeared. The woman carefully looked right and left and right. Her gaze seemed to linger on the parked car, and she turned to say something to the white-haired man before stepping onto the road with the pushchair.

Imagination, surely. But caution warned, Don’t be conspicuous. Stay in the car, out of sight.

The child was enjoying his swing. When the woman lifted him out he pointed to a low slide, and she took him to it and supported him as he swooped to the ground, then repeated the process. Each time he reached the bottom he clapped his hands together in gleeful approval.

His grandfather took a seat under the shade of the awning and placed the walking stick between his knees, a slight smile on his thin lips. For a man who had built an empire from nothing after entering Australia as a penniless Italian immigrant fifty-odd years ago, earning a reputation for drive and hard-nosed business practice equalled only by the son to whom he had passed the reins, he looked almost benign.

Tough, strong men, according to medical studies, grew mild in old age with the gradual loss of testosterone.

His son Zandro was in his early thirties, with a long way to go before that happened. Maybe old Domenico would be an easier target. And he must surely still have some influence with his son.

Intent on the group in the park, she hadn’t seen the big black car approach—so silently she didn’t hear it either until it swerved across the road and stopped in front of hers, nose to nose.

Immediately a man flung open the driver’s door and leapt out. Her heart plunged even before he’d covered the few strides to her side and hauled open the door. Her hand went to the ignition key in an automatic but futile attempt at escape.

Long, hard fingers closed about her wrist. She was jerked from her seat with no time to put up more than the feeblest resistance, and backed against the rear door, her assailant’s broad shoulders blocking her view.

The hand that wasn’t holding her wrist in an iron grip slammed down on the roof of the car, trapping her while fiery, obsidian eyes in a spare, strong face seared her with an expression at first suspicious, then disbelieving.

‘Lia?’ His voice was tempered steel in a velvet sheath.

She swallowed, in danger of melting under the gaze that now held a heat like banked coals. There was no mistaking who he was. ‘Zandro,’ she said.

Unlike the father he strikingly resembled, the younger Brunellesci showed no hint of benignity. Suffocatingly aware of his size, his physical power, the furious incredulity in his eyes, and her veins throbbing in the wrist encircled by his bone-breaking hold, she tried to gather courage to stand up to him.

Black brows snapped together. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’

Don’t crack. He’s only a man. ‘I’m not playing at anything.’ She thrust her chin forward. ‘Let go my wrist.’

Zandro Brunellesci blinked, thick dark lashes momentarily blanking out the fiery stare, and when they lifted, a faint surprise lit his eyes.

Lia had never directly challenged his authority, his right to do as he liked with her or any member of his family.

But this was another Lia, one who wouldn’t be pushed around, who knew what she wanted and had come to get it. Who’d refuse to take no for an answer, regardless of what it cost her—or him.

For a second longer he stared down at her, not moving, before abruptly releasing his hold, but his other hand didn’t leave the car roof and he still loomed over her.

Automatically she cradled her aching wrist with her free hand, then dropped them both to her sides, not wanting to show him any weakness.

To her surprise he reached down and took her hand, more gently this time, though firmly overriding her resistance.

He frowned down at the reddened skin, and she saw his mouth tauten, a sudden whiteness appear at one corner. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you,’ he said, his voice altering to a low rasp. ‘I got a shock.’

‘You gave me one too,’ she said tartly. ‘Not to mention a bruise, probably.’

His remarkable eyes flashed as he let go her hand. A hint of puzzlement flickered across his face when she stared defiantly back at him. Again there was a change in the dark depths, a spark of something that caught her unawares and made her breath quicken.

Impatiently he shook his head, and shifted, bending to remove her car key from the ignition. He closed the door and, ignoring her protest, locked it, shoving the key into his pocket. ‘You’d better come to the house and get some ice on that.’ Once more he glanced at her wrist, then he laid a careful but compelling hand on her arm, just above the elbow.

Her instinct was to draw away, condemn his high-handedness and demand her key before driving off. But although it could hardly be called an invitation he was suggesting an entrée to the house, and expediency dictated she shouldn’t turn the offer down.

This confrontation had been inevitable sooner or later, and so what if she didn’t feel prepared for it right now? The fact was she never would be. She’d been procrastinating under the excuse of scouting the enemy territory and refining her plan. Now an unexpected opportunity had arrived she should grasp it with both hands.

Zandro’s fingers at her elbow seemed to emanate tongues of fire and her nerves were jumping. Strange sensations that she’d never felt before, but then she’d never before been in this situation. Normally a scrupulously honest person, she was about to embark on a reluctant deceit that it would take all her resolution and strength of mind to carry out.

It’s not too late, whispered a craven inner voice. She could still back out. Insist on leaving, take the first flight straight back to New Zealand.

She looked up at Zandro Brunellesci’s face, a face set like granite in an expression of controlled ferocity. Her heart quailed, and the words she’d been about to utter dried on her tongue. The man was frightening in his very restraint. But she’d faithfully, solemnly promised to go through with this. If she didn’t live up to that promise she would never forgive herself.

He locked his own car and she allowed him to guide her along the pavement. At the entrance to the drive a numbered keypad and a discreet microphone with a sign saying Press For Entry were fixed to one of the brick posts. But Zandro slid a hand into a breast pocket of the impeccable suit he wore and must have touched some remote-control gadget. The gates silently parted and he ushered her inside.

When the gates clicked shut behind them she shivered visibly, irrationally feeling that she was being locked into some kind of sinister prison.

‘Are you all right?’ Zandro paused under one of the trees, the softly twisting leaves overhead making moving patterns of sunlight that gleamed on his sleek, almost black hair. The question sounded grudging, reluctant.

‘Yes. It’s just coming from the sun into the shade.’

The broad tree-lined drive wasn’t very long and soon they were mounting stone steps beneath a cool overhang supported by substantial pillars.

Zandro punched numbers into another keypad by the heavy door and swung it open, then steered her across a tiled floor to a large, airy room furnished with dark-wood occasional tables and cabinets, and tapestry-fabric chairs. ‘Sit down, Lia,’ he said, halting at a deep, velvet-covered antique sofa. ‘I’ll get some ice.’

She wondered why he didn’t just summon a servant. Perhaps he didn’t want them asking how she’d been hurt; it could be embarrassing for him.

He was back quite quickly, carrying a bowl of crushed ice and a hand-towel which he fashioned into a cold compress. Then he knelt on the floor before her to wrap the cloth firmly about her wrist, tucking the end in to hold it.

‘You’re good at this,’ she said involuntarily, unable to hide her surprise.

‘I’ve dealt with sports injuries.’ He was on a level with her now, and only inches away as he looked up from his task, his gaze somehow distant despite his physical proximity.

She could see a few fine lines at the corners of his eyes, and the faint beard-shadow on his taut, closely shaved cheeks. A hint of some pleasant, woodsy scent came from him—aftershave or something like it. His hair was glossy black, with a slight wave. He’d removed his tie and opened the collar of his white shirt, revealing naturally olive skin. She found herself fascinated by the almost invisible beat of a pulse at the base of his throat.

Dragging her attention from it, she said, ‘You still play?’ Vaguely she recalled some mention of him having been a tennis champion in his earlier years.

‘Enough to keep me fit. Rest your arm here.’

He placed it on the arm of the sofa, but she immediately lifted it away to support it with her other hand. ‘I’ll make the upholstery wet.’

Zandro looked briefly nonplussed. With the kind of money his family had, she supposed a spoiled sofa would be a minor inconvenience. But he said, ‘I’ll fetch another towel.’

He brought a larger one and folded it so there was little chance of water seeping through. When he straightened from arranging it for her he stood regarding her with a penetrating stare before swinging away to sit in a chair facing her.

‘What are you doing here, Lia?’

She hesitated, moistening her lips. This was the point of no return. Her last chance to retreat, walk away. Steadying her voice with an act of will, she said, ‘I’ve come for my baby. To take him home.’

Zandro was so still, so expressionless, he might not have heard her. Seconds passed, and then an almost infinitesimal movement showed in his cheek, a slight tightening of the muscles in his jaw. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

Raising her chin a fraction, she fixed her gaze unwaveringly on his darkling one. ‘He belongs with…with me.’

Something glimmered in his shadowed, hostile eyes. ‘You think I’ll give him up to you, just like that?’

‘I’m his mother!’ Putting every ounce of conviction she could into her voice.

‘And I’m his legal guardian, committed to looking after his interests.’

The words sounded more suited to a business meeting than a discussion of a child’s needs. ‘You mean the interests of the Brunellesci dynasty.’

The resolute brows rose a scant millimetre. ‘I hardly think the family business qualifies as a dynasty.’

‘Isn’t Pantheon listed as one of the top ten richest Australian companies, worth how many millions? Or is it billions?’

His gaze sharpened. ‘Is that what this is about?’ The steel in his voice was unsheathed. ‘It isn’t your son you’ve come for, is it? Let’s dispense with the pretence, shall we?’

Her eyes widened, and her stomach made a sickening revolution. ‘How—’ she started to say weakly.

But he wasn’t listening. ‘You’re hoping we’ll pay you to go away again and leave him with us.’

The accusation stunned her at first. Then she shot to her feet. ‘That’s a foul suggestion! You’re even worse than I thought!’

He too stood up, meeting her hot-eyed gaze with a glittery stare. ‘I might return the compliment.’ A small pause, and then, ‘If I’m wrong, what do you really want?’

‘I told you! I want Dominic—I want…my son.’

‘You gave him up.’

A brutal reminder, further hardening her against him, if that were possible. ‘I wasn’t myself, didn’t know what I was doing.’

‘And,’ he inquired with deadly irony, ‘are you yourself now, Lia?’

Stupidly, the question sent her heart into a crazy, terrified revolution. She knew her face showed confusion, perhaps guilt, and he gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘Were you thinking of kidnapping Nicky? You’d never have got away with it.’

Nicky? Who…? After a moment light dawned. Dominic had acquired a nickname. ‘I wasn’t going to kidnap him!’ No need to tell him the idea had been briefly considered, and discarded.

‘So why lurk about watching the house?’

‘What makes you think I was?’ Neither confirm nor deny. That was safest.

He looked impatient. ‘My father and the nanny saw you yesterday, and she recognised the same car parked in the same place today. They thought your behaviour was suspicious, and called me.’

On a cell phone, she presumed. They hadn’t yet returned from the beach. ‘I wanted to be sure Dominic was still here. And being properly cared for.’

‘He’s had the best care possible,’ Zandro said.

‘The best that money can buy, you mean.’ Allowing her scepticism to show. ‘You hired a nanny.’

His head tilted slightly. ‘My mother is no longer able to keep up with a lively young child. And I have a business to run. Barbara is highly qualified and came from a very reputable agency. She’s extremely competent.’

‘A professional can’t afford to get too emotionally involved with her charges.’

‘A good nanny is better for a child than an incompetent mother.’

‘Incompetent?’ Her voice shook with anger.

He was looking austere again. ‘You know you were incapable of looking after a child, Lia.’

‘A temporary state!’ she argued. ‘That you took advantage of to snatch Dominic away!’

‘We took responsibility for a vulnerable member of our family. His safety and wellbeing was our first priority. He’s a Brunellesci, after all.’

‘He’s a Cameron!’

‘The fact that his father didn’t marry you is immaterial,’ Zandro said. ‘Rico’s name is on the birth certificate, and my parents have accepted Nicky as their grandchild.’

‘That doesn’t make him yours—or theirs.’ If the Brunellescis had charge of his upbringing, would they turn that laughing, innocent little boy into an unfeeling, hard-headed brute in a business suit, like his uncle and his grandfather? It didn’t bear thinking of. ‘A mother’s claim comes first.’ Rashly she added, ‘Any court would back that!’

‘The court would take into account the best interests of the child. A mother with a drug dependency who abandoned her baby isn’t a very trustworthy prospect.’

‘I don’t…’ She should probably have expected this, but she could feel herself shaking, and clenched her hands to hide it. ‘He wasn’t abandoned, and you’re wrong. I don’t have a drug dependency.’

‘You’re clean?’ He cast her a razor-edged look. ‘You look better,’ he conceded. ‘But how long can you stay away from the stuff?’

Her teeth snapped together. ‘I was never an addict. My mind was…was mixed up.’

‘That’s an understatement,’ he said dryly. ‘You hardly knew what day it was, and as for looking after a newborn baby—if I hadn’t stepped in Nicky would have been sent to a child welfare home.’

‘I was in shock! Grieving for your brother, my…my—’

‘Your lover,’ Zandro supplied.

‘The father of my child! The child you took away.’

After that, to Lia nothing had seemed to matter any more. She’d taken pills to ease the pain, to help her sleep, to blot out the world and its cruelty. Until time and emotion blurred and she was living in another dimension, a blessedly vague world where she felt nothing, remembered nothing, knew nothing except that she had to have more pills, and more…

‘I tried to help you,’ Zandro said.

A renewed flare of anger rose. She must stay calm, keep her wits about her. ‘I don’t recall that you ever offered help,’ she said flatly.

He looked exasperated, then almost weary. ‘I don’t suppose you recall much at all, zonked out of your skull as you were.’

A faint unease stirred deep down. Had things happened at that time that she didn’t know about?

Sounds at the front door interrupted them. It opened and there were voices in the hall.

Instinctively she turned her head, catching a glimpse of the nanny crossing the hallway, the baby in her arms.

Without thought she took a step towards them, but Zandro’s hand closed about her arm, and she halted, then pulled away from him.

The old man appeared, blocking her view, and came to a stop in the doorway of the room, leaning on his cane.

At the sight of her he straightened, and his expression turned icy. Shifting his gaze to Zandro, he said, his accent betraying his Italian origin, ‘What is that woman doing here?’

It felt like a slap in the face. Renewed antipathy surfaced as she squared her shoulders and confronted him. ‘I have a name, Mr. Brunellesci,’ she said. ‘Lia.’ She pronounced it like a challenge. ‘And a right to my son.’

‘You have no rights!’ He thumped his cane on the tiled floor. Stepping into the room, he waved the walking stick at her before using it to steady himself, his knuckles whitening. ‘How can you dare to come here again?’

‘Papa,’ Zandro interrupted, his voice quiet but authoritative, ‘don’t upset yourself. I’ll deal with this.’

The old man’s glare swivelled to his son. If Domenico had mellowed in old age it certainly wasn’t apparent now. Finally he nodded, perhaps satisfied that Zandro was as relentless as himself, and with a parting haughty scowl at the intruder and a muttered word that sounded like ‘Cagna!’ he turned and left the room, the muffled tapping of his stick gradually fading.

Zandro said, ‘Please sit, Lia.’

After a slight hesitation she did so, back straight, not sinking into the tempting softness. ‘What did he call me?’

Zandro remained standing. A movement of his hand dismissed her question. ‘It’s not important. How’s your wrist?’

Numbed. ‘I’m sure it will be all right.’ But she would retain the compress a little longer. He’d find it harder to throw her out while she still had it on. ‘Your father hates me.’

‘He loves Nicky.’

As if it followed logically. ‘Is it love?’ she queried. ‘Or possessiveness?’ Dominic, named after his grandfather at Rico’s wish, was the senior Brunellesci’s only grandchild, the sole member of the new generation. ‘You’re not married yet, are you?’ she asked Zandro. ‘If you have children, what happens to Dominic?’

He frowned. ‘He will still be Rico’s son, a Brunellesci. Nothing can change that.’

‘He’s my son, too. Nothing can change that.’

A flicker of acknowledgement momentarily lessened the chilly hostility in his eyes. Then his mouth hardened and the pitiless expression returned. ‘You relinquished your rights.’

‘You bullied me into signing those papers when I couldn’t stand up to you!’

‘Bullied?’ Reciprocal anger lit his eyes. ‘Bribery I’ll admit to, but bullying? I had no need to resort to that. You were only too happy to take the money and run.’

The accusation took her breath. She opened her mouth to deny it, then reminded herself to think before she spoke. Almost choking on the words, she said, ‘It had nothing to do with money! At the time it seemed the best thing for him. But there are more important things for a child than money and what it can buy.’

‘Agreed,’ Zandro said. ‘A family, for one thing.’

‘I’m his family!’

His mouth turned down in a sceptical sneer. ‘Forgive me if I find this sudden maternal concern difficult to believe.’

‘It’s not sudden at all! You don’t know how hard it was, how much heartbreak…’ She stopped there, her eyes stinging, and quickly turned her head, trying to stem the threatening tears, her teeth sinking savagely into her lower lip. Weeping in front of this unfeeling man was humiliating.

One tear escaped and unthinkingly she lifted her towel-encased arm to swipe at it, impatient with her own weakness.

The coldness of the compress helped her steady herself. When she returned her defiant gaze to him Zandro hadn’t moved, standing as though fixed to the floor, watching her.

He shifted then, a slight movement of shoulders, feet, and thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, examining her as if for flaws—she was sure he could find plenty.

Unexpectedly he said, ‘You have a case, I suppose—morally, if not legally. There will be conditions, but provided no harm comes to Nicky I’m willing to talk about visiting rights.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘VISITING RIGHTS?’ He would concede his nephew’s mother the right to visit her child? Such magnanimity.

Swallowing the sarcastic addendum, she reminded herself again that losing her temper would do no good. ‘That isn’t enough,’ she said, with an effort sticking to understatement. ‘You can’t expect me to accept it.’

‘But you expect me to tamely hand over Nicky to you—a stranger?’

Her heart jumping with panic and then rage at the callous remark, she made another effort to steady herself. ‘His mother,’ she reiterated. If she repeated the words often enough surely they would seem more real, to herself as well as to him.

Zandro’s own anger escaped his iron control. ‘You haven’t been near him since he was two months old!’

‘That’s not my fault!’ Zandro couldn’t have forgotten the promise he’d extracted, made Lia sign her name to. ‘You wouldn’t let me near him!’

‘In the state you were in, do you blame me? It was for his sake.’

Did he truly believe that? Had anything more than family pride and possessiveness been behind his insistence that Rico’s son had a right to be raised as a Brunellesci and Lia must give him up?

No, she reminded herself. Zandro and his parents could have helped without taking Dominic away. If he’d really had the child’s interests in mind he’d have found some way to support its mother, not cut her off from any contact with her son. ‘It was a mistake,’ she said, ‘leaving him with you.’

His look held contempt and disbelief. ‘You would take him away from everything—everyone—he knows?’

‘I realise I can’t uplift him without warning.’ She might not know a great deal about children, but that much was basic. ‘I hoped you and your parents would be reasonable—allow him time to get used to me before…before I take him home.’

‘This is his home.’ His autocratic tone brooked no argument. ‘Where he will stay until he’s old enough to decide for himself.’

Moistening her lips, she formed her next words carefully. ‘Perhaps your parents will think differently. You don’t know how it feels to have a child. Your mother might understand.’

‘I know how it feels.’

An unpleasant shock stirred in her stomach. ‘You have a child?’

‘I have Nicky,’ he said. ‘And I don’t intend to let him go.’

Deadlock. In his rock-hard face she saw the same unyielding willpower he’d exerted in order to get his hands on Dominic, to force through the paperwork that made him the baby’s legal guardian, ensuring there could be no comeback if Lia changed her mind.

She wasn’t giving up, but banging her head against the brick wall of his intransigence wouldn’t accomplish anything at this point. ‘I’d like to see him,’ she said.

‘He’ll be having his nap.’

‘I’ll wait.’ Short of bodily throwing her out, or getting a henchman to do it, he wouldn’t shift her.

He regarded her consideringly for several seconds, perhaps weighing how much of a fight she’d put up if he did physically remove her. Then he gave a short, surprised laugh, strode to a discreet intercom on the wall and pressed a button. ‘Two cups and a pot of coffee please, Mrs Walker,’ he said into the machine. ‘And something to eat.’

Switching off, he wandered to a window, looking out at the driveway and lawns. Perhaps realising it was discourteous to present his back to a guest, however unwelcome, he turned abruptly. ‘When did you begin watching the house?’ he asked.

‘Yesterday was the first time.’

‘Have you been in Australia for long?’

‘Since the day before.’

‘Where are you staying?’

She told him, but he didn’t seem to recognise the name of the bed and breakfast accommodation. Small, cheap and basic, it was no doubt not the kind of place that he or anyone he knew would even notice. ‘It’s clean,’ she said. ‘And quiet.’

He glanced out of the window, then returned his attention to her. ‘I tried to keep track of you after you left here. You moved about a lot. I didn’t know you’d returned to New Zealand.’

‘You had me watched?’ Resentment at the intrusion coloured her voice. ‘Why?’ Had he anticipated that Lia might one day challenge his guardianship of her son? Hoped for some damning sign that would count against her, strengthen his position?

His mouth went tight. ‘I wanted to know if you were all right. You’re Nicky’s mother, after all. And Rico loved you, however wrong-headed he was.’

Rico, his younger brother who had loved life and lived for the moment, impatient with the restrictions and expectations of the Brunellesci family. And who had paid the price and died far too young in the wreckage of his car, leaving a baby and a desperate, injured and grief-stricken mother who couldn’t cope with what had happened to her and her child.

Even after securing legal custody of his brother’s child, Zandro had been concerned about Lia? Hard to believe.

He might, she supposed, have been protecting the family’s reputation, perhaps afraid of what Rico’s lover might say about his brother, about his parents, about Zandro himself.

‘I managed,’ she said. ‘My…my friends helped, when I got back home to New Zealand.’

‘Better friends, I hope, than the ones you had in Sydney.’

Sydney was where Lia had met Rico, she on a working holiday from New Zealand, he escaping what he’d called the suffocation of his family home and business.

It had been love at first sight; at least that was what they’d believed. One look at Lia and no other woman existed for Rico—he’d told her so on their second meeting. She’d felt exactly the same. The pace of their affair was matched by the pace of their lifestyle—fast, frenetic, sometimes wild. They were young, heedless, caring for nothing but each other, the need to enjoy every moment as if they knew their time would be short, eager to explore every heady new sensation to the fullest. Perhaps deep down they’d known that such sizzling, euphoric emotion couldn’t last. But never had Lia dreamed it could end so shatteringly.

When she’d fled back to New Zealand it was to a totally different lifestyle, after finally realising how few people she could rely on once her laughing, handsome lover was dead, his money gone with him, her baby taken and her health broken.

A plump middle-aged woman entered with a tray that she placed on the table nearest the visitor. Noticing the compress as she straightened, the woman looked surprised. ‘You’re hurt? Can I do anything?’

Zandro looked at the compress. ‘Perhaps some more ice, Mrs Walker… Lia?’

‘No, it’s fine now, but maybe you could take this away?’ She unwound the compress, and when the housekeeper had left inquired, ‘What happened to Mrs Strickland?’

‘She retired and went to live with her daughter in Sydney.’ Zandro crossed the big room and poured coffee into the cups, silently indicating the sugar and milk on the tray. He picked up his cup as she added sugar to hers. ‘I would like to believe,’ he said, straightening with the cup in his hand, ‘that you have changed—a lot. Is that possible?’

‘What do you think?’ she demanded witheringly. ‘After losing Rico and having his baby snatched away, you supposed there’d be no change?’

Something flickered across his face, too fast for her to identify it. Chagrin, perhaps—surely not compassion.

It was quickly replaced by an impenetrable mask when he’d seated himself opposite her. ‘The fact is, you have no rights now. You agreed, and it was all legal and aboveboard.’

He’d been much smarter than Lia. Taken her to a lawyer—his lawyer—to sign over her baby to him. No doubt the legalese was watertight.

Her jaw ached and she looked down into her coffee, trying not to snap back a retort that would only antagonise him. ‘My information,’ she said, ‘is that a parent can rescind guardianship.’

‘Are you prepared to bear the scrutiny of a court on your suitability to care for Nicky?’

Aware of being on frighteningly shaky ground, she gulped some coffee and tried to sound confident. ‘If you insist on taking it that far. I have nothing to hide.’ A barefaced lie. She told herself—not for the first time—that desperate situations demanded desperate measures. Saving a child from a life of misery surely justified a few unavoidable falsehoods.

‘Nothing?’ He seemed incredulous, and again she experienced a nervous, dreaded uncertainty.

He couldn’t possibly have guessed her secret. His scepticism was based on what little he’d known of Lia months ago, after his brother’s death.

If her perilous bluff failed she would go to court, tell the truth and throw every resource she could muster into the fight to beat the Brunellescis and take Dominic home where he belonged. A proper home where he’d be loved for himself, not for what he represented to the future of a business empire. A home where love and understanding were more important than money, and success was measured by the quality of relationships and the satisfaction of a job well done, instead of company dividends. Where he’d be allowed to choose his career, rather than be indoctrinated with the idea that as a Brunellesci he was destined to be swallowed up by the corporate politics of the family’s various holdings. And where he’d never be forced into a role that would stultify him and break his spirit.

Zandro was staring intently at her. ‘A solo mother,’ he said, ‘with…let’s say dubious connections. And have you had a job since you left here?’ he pressed.

‘Yes.’ No need to panic. She didn’t have to answer his questions. Pre-empting the next one, she said, ‘I don’t have a lot of money, but I own a house.’ Her parents had left it mortgage-free on their deaths. Just an ordinary three-bedroom suburban bungalow in Auckland, but a house all the same. An asset. Of course she and Dominic couldn’t stay there—she’d have to sell it—but she wasn’t going to tell Zandro of her long-term plan. ‘I can make a good life for Dominic. I’ll give up everything to make sure of it.’

‘And how long will this altruism last?’

‘It isn’t altruism. It’s love. Maternal instinct.’ Boldly she met his eyes.

He made an acid sound of disbelief.

She ignored it. ‘You could help make the changeover easy for him.’

He finished his coffee in one gulp and put down the cup, then sat back and folded his arms, seemingly thinking. ‘He’s happy here, he has everything he needs, and if you’re the loving mother you’re pretending to be you’ll leave him.’

Her heart gave a brief lurch, and she forced herself to breathe normally and stay silent.

‘I propose that you visit him as many times as you like while you’re here—to satisfy yourself he couldn’t be better off.’

He didn’t begin to understand her compulsion. A mother’s frantic need to rescue a child she felt she’d deserted was only half of it.

He paused. ‘And if it works out, we can talk about visiting rights for the future.’

‘Visits aren’t an adequate substitute for living in the same house.’

Visiting could never equal having Dominic with her, watching him grow from day to day, putting him to bed each night—all the things that went with parenting.

Maybe Zandro had misunderstood. He said, after a pause, ‘I know it’s not the same. You want to move in?’

For a moment she didn’t comprehend what he was suggesting. Then she blinked. ‘You’re inviting me here?’

Almost certainly he was ruing it. His face was stiffly set, the angularity of his features more noticeable. ‘I’d like to reassure you that your son is in the best hands, and send you home with an easy mind.’

No chance—but she didn’t say the words aloud, afraid that he’d retract. Before she’d arrived here she’d told herself that Dominic’s material needs, at the very least, would be met. Even kindness would be arranged for, if not freely given. Yet the image had haunted her of a motherless baby, perhaps alone in some empty room of a huge, cold house.

Zandro had said that his nephew didn’t lack for affection. But, too young to understand though Dominic had been, surely he must have noticed the sudden absence of his mother, felt abandoned, insecure?

‘All right,’ she said. And with an effort, ‘Thank you.’

She wouldn’t be exactly welcome, that much she knew. What would Zandro’s parents make of the astounding invitation? Judging by his father’s attitude, she could expect to be cold-shouldered if not insulted.

But she hadn’t come here to be comfortable. She’d come because Dominic needed her, because this was an obligation she couldn’t refuse.

It seemed she’d surprised Zandro yet again. His hands gripped the arms of his chair before he slowly relaxed them. ‘I’ll ask my mother to have a room prepared for you,’ he said.

She felt a little dazed. Things were moving faster than she’d expected, although he’d promised nothing except that he would not give up Dominic. Did he really believe she would stay for a while, then pronounce herself satisfied with his arrangements for his brother’s child, and tamely leave?

He didn’t, she decided, have much imagination. But she wasn’t about to point out to him that throwing a pining mother into close proximity with her stolen child was unlikely to lead her to abandon it a second time. ‘When shall I come?’

Better strike while the iron was hot, give him no chance to find some excuse to rescind.

He shrugged, though she fancied it cost him some effort to appear so nonchalant. ‘Give me time to…inform my parents that you will be staying—for a while.’

Perhaps she’d imagined the emphasis on the last phrase. He didn’t need to worry. She had no desire to remain in the Brunellesci household for any longer than it took her to persuade them that a mother’s rights took precedence over any others.

She fought another twinge of conscience. By Zandro’s own admission his mother was too old and he was too busy to give Dominic undivided attention. While Domenico apparently took some distant interest in his grandson, no doubt he left practical matters of child care to his wife and the nanny.

No matter what they thought, a paid employee couldn’t give the same unstinting devotion to Dominic she could. He was all she had in the world now.

Grief threatened to overwhelm her and she turned her head, pretending to admire a large oil colour on the wall, a luminous study of a young girl in a white dress, perched on a chair before a window where gauzy curtains floated on an invisible breeze.

It didn’t really help, so she put down the coffee cup she’d emptied and stood up. ‘I’ll go then,’ she said, ‘and pack my things.’ It wouldn’t take long. Not a naturally pushy person, nevertheless she was determined not to let him back out. ‘I hired a car in town… Can I garage it here—or will I need it? I don’t suppose I’ll be going out much.’ And if she did, she could use public transport now there was no need for discreet surveillance.

He said, ‘Return it. I’ll send a car for you tonight.’ And after a slight hesitation, ‘About seven. You may join us for dinner.’

Gracious of him, she thought snidely, but bit back the urge to say it aloud. He probably wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news to his father that someone Domenico had called that woman—and, she suspected, something much worse—was about to invade his home.

She wondered if the old man might veto the idea and countermand his son.

Evidently if there had been objections Zandro had overridden them. The car arrived promptly—one of a fleet that specialised in corporate business, according to the logo on the side.

When they reached the Brunellesci house the driver spoke into the microphone, and in response the gates opened. He drove to the stone steps, where the door was opened by the housekeeper.

As the driver lifted the single suitcase out of the boot and set it on the verandah, Zandro’s deep voice said, ‘I’ll take care of that, Mrs Walker.’

He came forward, flicking a critical glance over their guest, evidently noting that she’d changed into a cool cotton dress worn with wedge-heeled sandals.

His greeting was coldly polite. ‘Good evening, Lia. Mrs Walker will take you upstairs. I’ll bring your case in a few minutes.’ He turned to speak to the driver.

The woman showed her to a large bedroom with embossed creamy-gold wallpaper, dimmed by trees outside that grew taller than the house. A bronze satin spread covered the queen-size bed. The adjoining bathroom was green-tiled and gleamed with gold fittings.

Mrs Walker left before Zandro arrived with her case, putting it down on a blanket box at the foot of the bed. ‘Do you have everything you need?’ he inquired.

‘Thank you. Yes, I think so.’ She too could be polite but not friendly.

‘You know your way to the dining room. We’ll be sitting down in about twenty minutes.’ He cast her a searching look. ‘If you’d like a drink first we’re in the front room.’

‘I’ll be down soon,’ she promised. ‘I’d like a gin and tonic if you have it.’

He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement before leaving.

She crossed the room to close the door behind him and leaned back against it, letting out a long breath. Zandro Brunellesci was not a man she could comfortably be in the same room with. Every time he came within touching distance she could feel the force of his personality, an aura of power, determination and authority, making her nerves skitter all over the place.

Staying in the same house with Dominic meant living with Zandro and his disquieting effect on her.

Moving away from the door, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the big dressing table. She looked apprehensive, her cheeks flushed with colour, eyes dark in the middle, the pupils enlarged, the green irises softened to almost grey.

She squared her shoulders, trying to banish the look. Sure, Zandro was intimidating, but she’d known that all along. Known too that she could—must—stand up to whatever obstacles he put in the way of her plans. And never let him know on what shaky foundations those plans actually rested.

One step at a time. The first was to go downstairs and face the enemy. The three faces of the Brunellesci family, ranged against her.

CHAPTER THREE

THE front room, Zandro had said. She followed the sound of voices to a door that stood ajar. The first face she saw on entering the big room was his. He was standing, talking with his father. Looking over the older man’s shoulder, he found her eyes, abruptly falling silent.

Domenico turned, his fierce gaze lighting on her as she paused in the doorway. She saw his hand tighten on the cane he held, then he drew himself up to his considerable height and gave her a curt nod. ‘Good evening, Lia.’

Walking into the room, she returned the greeting in a steady voice. Then she saw a motherly figure encased in floral silk, her greying hair pulled into a bun, ensconced on a sofa with Dominic snuggled into the angle of a comfortable lap.

The old woman looked up, her eyes wary, perhaps anxious. ‘Buona sera, Lia.’

Dominic wore some kind of one-piece pyjama suit, yellow and printed with teddy bears. Black curls covered his head, and his mouth was like a pink rosebud. Round, dark eyes regarded this new person with curiosity, and she took a couple of quick steps towards him, her arms lifting.

He turned from her and buried his face in his grandmother’s bosom, one tiny hand clutching at the shiny silk, roundly rejecting the overture.

Letting her hands fall, she felt exposed, and at a loss what to do.

Then Zandro was at her side, holding out a glass to her, his eyes commanding, willing her to take it. ‘Your gin and tonic,’ he said. ‘Drink it.’

His voice was low, with a rough edge. He took her arm and led her to a couch, where she wrapped both her hands about the glass he had pressed on her. It was cold, ice clinking as her hands trembled.

Of course Dominic didn’t recognise her. Her head knew that but unthinking instinct, the primal tug of a bond he couldn’t be expected to sense, and which had taken her unawares, had led her to make that futile gesture.

Zandro didn’t say I told you so. He sipped from his beer and told her, ‘Nicky’s often shy with new people at first. But curiosity will get the better of him.’

As if to reinforce the remark, the baby turned his head until one eye could find her. When he saw her looking back at him he immediately hid his face again.

Zandro laughed, but she didn’t join in. Her throat hurt too much.

She hadn’t known she would feel such emotion, like a warm flood tide. Children had been something she’d vaguely looked forward to in the future, before she found out about Dominic. The sensation on finally being confronted with a living, breathing baby had been something of a shock. He’d instantly become a person—a tiny person who was her responsibility. Someone she must love and care for.

Again she vowed to do that, to make any sacrifice he needed from her.

Mrs Brunellesci was looking down at him, stroking a heavily veined hand over the soft curls, murmuring something to him in Italian.

She loves him.

The thought was like a cold shower. She ought to be glad, even grateful. If Zandro saw Dominic as a responsibility, an obligation, and the old man regarded a grandson as some kind of insurance for the future of his company, at least one member of the family had given the baby genuine affection. And he loved, trusted his grandmother.

But I have to take him away.

Doubt entered her mind, whispering like a malevolent goblin. Is it fair? Can you do that to him—to her? Should you? Her stomach made a sickening revolution.

The gin was blessedly steadying. Zandro had been quite heavy-handed with it, light on the tonic.

Mrs Brunellesci asked in a heavily accented voice, ‘Your room, is all right, Lia?’

Trying to smile, she said, ‘Yes, fine. Thank you for letting me stay.’

‘Zandro says you wish to know your son. He says you have a right.’

He did? Her gaze went involuntarily to him. Again she could feel that indefinable masculine charge that seemed to hum around him.

A muffled thump drew her attention to his father. Domenic stood scowling, leaning on his stick with both hands, and as she watched he lifted it a little and brought it down again with another thump.

Zandro got up. ‘Please sit, Papa, and I’ll get you another drink,’ he offered, guiding his father to a chair.

Domenico shook him off, saying something explosive in Italian before sinking into the armchair.

Apparently unruffled, Zandro grinned, and fetched a glass of rich red wine for his father, who accepted it with a grunt and continued to scowl while he drank it.

Zandro didn’t sit down again, prowling about the room while he finished off his beer, then placing the empty glass on the drinks cabinet.

Dominic lifted his head at last from his grandmother’s protection and looked around. He wriggled down from her lap, sliding to the floor, and then on hands and knees made a beeline for his uncle.

Zandro bent as the baby drew near, picked him up and swung him high, big hands firmly holding the little boy’s body under his gleefully waving arms. Dominic giggled, and Zandro smiled up at him. He lowered the child into his arms and unselfconsciously kissed a fat cheek.

It was astonishing. Nothing in what he’d said had hinted at genuine fond feelings for his nephew.

Dominic raised a hand to pat his uncle’s face, poking a finger into his mouth. Zandro growled, pretending to relish the finger, making smacking noises with his lips, and again the baby giggles pealed.

This wasn’t as she’d assumed it would be. She felt oddly panicky.

Zandro, the baby still in his arms, strolled over to her, taking his time. He sat beside her, settling Dominic on his knees.

The baby stared solemnly at the other occupant of the sofa and Zandro said softly, ‘Nicky—this is your mother.’

‘Ma?’ He turned to his uncle again.

‘Mother,’ Zandro said. ‘Mo-ther. Mamma.’

‘Ma-ma.’ Dominic giggled some more, then struggled upright to stand on the man’s knees, exploring his face with inquisitive fingers. He lost his balance and Zandro caught him, settling him again.

This time the little boy regarded the strange woman for longer, and finally stretched out a hand. She lifted her own and he curled his around two fingers with a surprisingly strong grip. Something happened to her heart—as if those baby fingers had squeezed it too.

The nanny appeared in the doorway and briskly entered the room. ‘Time for bed?’ she said, spying her charge, and Dominic dropped the fingers he held, wriggled from Zandro’s hold and took off towards his grandmother.

The nanny snatched him into her arms, laughing, and held him while Mrs Brunellesci gave him a kiss, then Domenic did the same.

Zandro stood up as they approached him. ‘Barbara,’ he said, ‘this is Lia Cameron, Nicky’s mother. Barbara Ayreshire, Lia.’

The woman looked only slightly surprised, perhaps already forewarned. ‘Hello.’ She smiled. ‘He’s a bonny boy, isn’t he?’

‘Yes.’ Impossible to say any more, although she ought to congratulate the woman on how well Dominic had been looked after, tell her she was pleased, thankful.

But she couldn’t do it. Rage and resentment surfaced. It wouldn’t be fair to take it out on Barbara, who was only doing—and doing well—a job that she was paid for. A job that should have been done for nothing but love, by Dominic’s own mother.

Barbara Ayreshire joined them as they sat down to dinner, placing a baby monitor on the long sideboard. She was at Domenic’s right, beside Zandro, while the elder Brunellescis took the head and foot of the table. Which left a chair on Domenic’s left for Lia.

She was conscious throughout the meal of the old man’s unbending demeanour, although he poured wine for her and passed her butter and salt; and of Zandro sitting opposite her, his nearly black eyes enigmatic when they clashed with hers and held them for moments at a time.

Refusing to lower her gaze, to meekly accept she was an unwelcome spectre at the feast and pretend she wasn’t even there, she stared back at him each time until someone claimed his attention, or the housekeeper laid another dish in front of him and he turned to thank her.

Mrs Brunellesci occasionally addressed a remark to Lia in her richly accented English. Had she had a good flight from New Zealand? What was the weather like there? How much was the time difference?

Poor woman, she was doing her best. It was a relief to turn to her and try to conduct an ordinary conversation.

The nanny inquired which part of New Zealand their visitor was from—oh, Auckland? Barbara had visited the city, also some tourist spots—Rotorua’s boiling springs and the equally popular Bay of Islands in the north. ‘What a beautiful country it is.’

Even Zandro spoke to her several times, concurring with Barbara’s opinion, asking if Lia needed sauce for her dessert, commenting that one of the cheeses presented after that was from New Zealand. He sliced off a piece, holding it out to her on the cheese knife.

She took it because it would look ungracious if she didn’t, placed it on a cracker and nibbled until it was gone. But surely they were all glad when the meal was over.

Coffee was served in the front room. While the others sat down, Barbara took her cup and excused herself, leaving with it in her hand. It would have been nice to follow suit.

‘Lia?’ Zandro stood before her, handing her a cup. ‘I’ve sugared it for you.’

‘Thank you.’ He’d remembered how she liked her coffee. That should perhaps have made her feel less alienated. Instead she was bothered. He was too observant, those gleaming impenetrable eyes not missing anything. And too often they were fixed on her as if trying to gauge her thoughts, delve into her deepest secrets.

Of which she had at least one too many. If he found her out she had no doubt there would be hell to pay.

She drank her coffee quickly and stood up. ‘If you’ll excuse me…’

‘You must be tired.’ Mrs Brunellesci’s understanding nod failed to hide her relief. ‘It’s two hours later in New Zealand, you said?’

Zandro came to the door with her. ‘Goodnight, Lia. If you need anything Mrs Walker will take care of it.’

She wouldn’t have dreamed of disturbing the housekeeper, but she nodded and said, ‘Thank you.’

Going up the stairs, a faint tingling along her spine convinced her that his too-perceptive gaze was still on her. It took an effort not to look back when she got to the top, to keep walking until she reached the relative safety of her room.

She wasn’t going to be cowed by him, or anyone.

Which room, she wondered, had they assigned to Nicky? Already she’d begun to use the family’s diminutive. It had jarred at first that he bore a nickname unknown to his own mother. But it suited him, the name he’d been given for his grandfather’s sake too burdensome for such a small person. Perhaps in time he would grow into it…and become as insensitive and judgmental as the other males in the household?

‘Not if I can help it!’ The words, spoken aloud, echoed in the big room. Despite the heat outside, she shivered. Tonight Rico’s family had been indulgent towards their youngest member, even tender and loving. Babies could be allowed to be babies. But when he became a young boy and then a man, wouldn’t he inevitably suffer as Rico had, relentlessly pressured into the family mould, bullied and browbeaten until he either knuckled down and accepted his fate, or rebelled?

Rico had rebelled, but the shadow of his family had always been there during his all-too-short time with Lia, when the two of them had lived in their own closed, defensive world.

Zandro had intruded in person on that world, breaching the cocoon they’d made for themselves. He’d looked at Lia with contempt, scarcely acknowledging her existence, and talked to his brother about family honour, about obligations, about their parents’ disappointment at Rico’s ‘ruining his life.’ About a place being ready for him whenever he came to his senses and returned to his home and family. And the sooner that happened the better.

‘It’s emotional blackmail!’ Lia had said later. ‘Don’t listen to him. He’s trying to make you feel guilty, manipulate you.’ She couldn’t believe Zandro had any feelings of his own. His eyes had been frosty, his expression barely hiding distaste—for her, and for the small flat that she and Rico shared, so different from the palatial home Rico had fled and swore he’d never go back to. And for the lifestyle they’d chosen, living for the day.

It had been, no doubt, feckless and irresponsible. Zandro had certainly thought so. He’d warned that Rico’s generous allowance could be cut off if he persisted in ‘this idiocy.’ Lia was convinced he was taking a perverse pleasure in the threat.

She’d made some sound of protest, clutched Rico’s arm to support him in his defiance, and Zandro had turned his inimical gaze on her, his lips curling in a way that made her cringe. ‘Your girlfriend,’ he’d said, looking at Lia but speaking to his brother, ‘wouldn’t like that. Do you think she’ll stick around when you have no money?’ Making it obvious that he thought he knew the answer…

That was when Rico had told him to go. For once standing up to his older brother. Defending Lia.

Breakfast, Mrs Walker had said, rattling off information that she was obviously accustomed to giving guests on their arrival, was served at seven-thirty. ‘Before Mr Zandro goes off to the office. But I can do something for you later if you like.’

‘No, that’s fine.’ Putting an extra burden on the household help would be inconsiderate. And although here under sufferance, inevitably she would come face-to-face with the family sometime during the day. Was Nicky allowed at the breakfast table?

With five minutes to spare she left her room and was arrested by the murmur of Barbara Ayreshire’s voice from one of the other rooms along the passageway, and Nicky’s incomprehensible burble.

Turning away from the stairs, she followed the brass-edged carpet runner to the source of the sound, finding a half-open door and pushing it wider.

A blue cot with rumpled bedclothes occupied one corner of the room. Above it a clown mobile hung, and the ceiling was blue too, with painted animals peeking from behind misty clouds.

The nanny stood before a changing table near the cot, obscuring the baby. When she picked him up he looked over her shoulder directly at the doorway. ‘Duh!’ he said, pointing.

The woman turned to the newcomer. ‘Oh, good morning, Ms Cameron.’

‘Good morning.’ Her eyes were on the baby. ‘Please, call me Lia.’ She hoped it sounded casual, friendly. The trusting way the baby snuggled close to the nanny evoked an unfamiliar emotion. One pudgy hand was clutching at the white collar of the woman’s polka-dotted pale pink dress, his cheek resting on her shoulder.

‘Would he come to me?’ she couldn’t resist asking, walking forward slowly so as not to alarm the child.

‘I don’t know. He might remember you from last night.’

This time there was no audience except the nanny to see if he rebuffed her. She held out her arms, said quietly, ‘Nicky?’

He turned to look up at Barbara, who gave him an encouraging smile. ‘That’s your mummy,’ she said, earning for herself, although she couldn’t know it, a rush of gratitude. ‘Do you want to give her a cuddle?’

The little boy looked back at the inviting arms extended to him, then stretched out his own, and the nanny relinquished him.

He was surprisingly heavy, curving into her careful embrace. Warm, and smelling of shampoo and baby powder and…baby, she realised, inhaling the sweet, clean scent. He leaned against her breasts and took a fistful of her hair, gazing at her with gravity, as if trying to memorise her features.

Maybe a subconscious part of his baby mind recognised them from an earlier time. Did she seem dimly familiar to him after all? And surely a trace of likeness to her own face was discernible in his?

Then he smiled, a wide grin making several small white teeth visible, and she felt tears pricking the back of her eyes. Memories both happy and sad floated through her mind.

He was a lovely baby, and it wasn’t fair that he’d been deprived of his mother, that she’d missed out on the changes of the last ten months, not had the pleasure of seeing his first real smile, hearing his first laugh, discovering his first tooth, watching him learn to crawl as he did so efficiently now. Missed, too, his birthday, by several weeks.

Who were the Brunellescis to decide that a child was better off without his mother? Lia might have been inexperienced and penniless, but the first she could have overcome, and the second had been well within their power to correct, for the baby’s sake.

Instead they’d taken him away from her. Left her to fend for herself as best she could.

That wasn’t love, it was an exercise of naked power.

The baby tugged at the strand of hair he held, and Barbara said, ‘Careful, Nicky!’

‘It’s all right.’ Gently unwinding the clinging fingers, holding the warm little hand in her own, smiling forgiveness, she couldn’t resist kissing a smooth, rounded cheek.

Nicky ducked and then gave her a mischievous grin, a sly sideways glance. He presented his cheek to her and when she puckered her lips dodged again, making her laugh. It was a game he obviously enjoyed.

‘Little tease,’ Barbara said cheerfully. ‘He’ll give the girls a hard time when he grows up.’ She checked her watch. ‘Are you going down for breakfast?’

‘Yes, I was. Are you?’

‘Nicky and I have ours in the kitchen. His table manners leave something to be desired—don’t they, young man?’ Deftly the nanny removed the baby to her own arms.

So he wasn’t tolerated at the family table? Banished because he might make a mess and spoil their coldly formal meals? It was tempting to ask, Can’t I join you? That would be a lot more comfortable than eating with the grown-ups. But she supposed if she offended the elder Brunellescis it wouldn’t help her case.

When she went down the three of them were already seated in a glass-walled conservatory off the dining room, reached by a shallow flight of steps. Plants hung on the walls, and the round marble table was ringed by four white-painted cane chairs with padded fabric seats. Another two chairs had been put aside in a corner. A tea trolley held cereal, bread, salami and cheese, a pot of jam and one of honey.

‘I’m sorry if I’m late,’ she said. Zandro rose from his chair and pulled one out for her, offered coffee from a pot on the trolley. As she took the chair, Domenico lowered the newspaper he was reading, nodded his patrician head and raised the paper again.

His wife looked apologetic. ‘Buon giorno, Lia.’

Zandro poured her coffee. ‘Did you sleep well?’ His voice was coolly courteous. Making conversation but not as if he really cared. He sat down again and passed the sugar bowl over as she murmured, ‘Yes, thank you.’

‘If you would like toast or a cooked breakfast—’

‘I’m not very hungry first thing in the morning.’ She reached for the corn flakes on the trolley, shook some into the bowl before her and picked up the white china jug to pour milk on them. Her hand, she noted, pleased with her composure, was steady.

His eyes inspected her, taking a leisurely but dispassionate inventory of her upper body. ‘You were very thin…before.’

Mrs Brunellesci said unexpectedly, ‘Too skinny. Domenico!’ She turned to her husband and he lowered his paper again. ‘Lia looks good now, you think? More healthy. A woman should look like a woman, is what you say, hey?’

He directed an icy, reluctant stare across the table. ‘Better,’ he agreed, before folding the paper noisily and laying it aside to take up a cup of coffee.

Zandro’s mouth twitched, a muscle moving near his jawbone. He was trying not to laugh.

That the man had a sense of humour at all was a revelation. And the fact that he could find his father amusing was a kind of comfort, making Domenico seem less formidable.

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