“Come back to Italy with me...

...as my fiancée.”

Ivo Greco is determined to claim his orphaned nephew—the infant who will inherit the Greco fortune. To do so, he needs to convince the baby’s legal guardian, fiery Flora Henderson, to wear his ring. But whisking Flora to Tuscany as his fake fiancée comes with a complication...their undeniable chemistry! A permanent marriage was never in the cards for coolheaded Ivo—until now!

Escape to Italy with this engagement of convenience!

KIM LAWRENCE lives on a farm in Anglesey with her university lecturer husband, assorted pets who arrived as strays and never left, and sometimes one or both of her boomerang sons. When she’s not writing she loves to be outdoors gardening, or walking on one of the beaches for which the island is famous—along with being the place where Prince William and Catherine made their first home!

Also by Kim Lawrence

Maid for Montero

Captivated by Her Innocence

A Secret Until Now

The Heartbreaker Prince

One Night with Morelli

Her Nine Month Confession

One Night to Wedding Vows

Surrendering to the Italian’s Command

A Ring to Secure His Crown

The Greek’s Ultimate Conquest

A Cinderella for the Desert King

Seven Sexy Sins Collection

The Sins of Sebastian Rey-Defoe

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

A Wedding at the Italian’s Demand

Kim Lawrence

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08751-3

A WEDDING AT THE ITALIAN’S DEMAND

© 2019 Kim Lawrence

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

THE LIGHT IN the wide corridor Ivo Greco walked along was muted, but the priceless tapestries that lined the stone walls provided their own glowing illumination as he moved towards the massive double doors of etched glass at the far end. The doors had to stay closed to maintain the carefully controlled humidity and light to preserve the priceless antiques.

They provided a light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel effect, but it was an illusion. Ivo was not expecting any version of a heavenly vision on the other side because the doors led to his grandfather’s private apartments, to which Ivo had been summoned.

His grandfather had actually sent for him forty-eight hours ago, and people did not keep Salvatore Greco waiting!

While Salvatore was on the record as saying he respected people who stood up to him, the reality was that Salvatore, a man who possessed vast wealth and enormous power, also possessed a very fragile ego.

As an eight-year-old, when Salvatore had taken over the guardianship of him and his brother, Ivo had not understood about egos, but he had quickly realised that it was easy to make his grandfather angry.

It had actually been the day before his eighth birthday when Ivo’s father had decided he could no longer live without his late wife. Ivo had found his father’s body and his grandfather had found Ivo.

Amid the horror of that day Ivo remembered the strength in his grandfather’s arms, the sanctuary they had afforded as he had picked Ivo up and taken him away from the scene that had lived on for years in his childish nightmares.

Even as a young boy Ivo had understood that he owed his grandfather a debt impossible to repay, and this knowledge did not disappear when he realised his grandfather was no guardian angel or superhero but a hard, ruthless man, not always fair and almost impossible to please.

But the fact remained that, no matter what he did, Salvatore was the one who had carried Ivo out of his hell. The debt remained, as did the gratitude burnt deep into his soul by the character-changing events of that day. Ivo had long ago stopped trying to please, even though he knew better than most that the old man hated to be thwarted and just how viciously he could react to any perceived insult, real or imagined. A very good reason why the people that surrounded Salvatore rarely disagreed with him, at least to his face.

Ivo was sanguine about the reception he was likely to receive, more bothered about the necessity of postponing a meeting than the tirade of abuse and invective inevitably waiting for him.

A nerve twitched along his hard jawline as, unbidden, a memory floated into his head; he had not always been so philosophical.

It had taken his brother several minutes to coax him out of his hiding place in one of the warren of attics in the palazzo. He couldn’t remember what he had done to outrage his grandparent but he remembered not believing his brother when he had said, ‘Never show him you’re afraid, then one day you won’t be.’

Ivo pushed the memory away, his symmetrical features hardening; the past was gone.

In his view there were few things more pathetic than people who clung onto memories until they became defined by their past. He saw them everywhere, from the people who became fixated on missed opportunities, old hurts and injustices, to the guy who constantly relived his early successes on the sports field, as if lifting a trophy at twenty defined him. All were so consumed with the past that they missed the opportunities that the future offered.

Ivo’s sights were always fixed ahead, though at that moment it was something in the periphery of his vision that caught his attention.

The suited servant, a new face to Ivo, who had shadowed him since he’d entered the building, almost collided with him as Ivo came to an unscheduled halt. Ivo let the man’s apologies slide off him as, head tilted back, he moved backwards to get the full effect of the glowing Byzantine image on the wall, again nearly falling over the man behind who delivered another flustered apology.

‘New?’

‘I’m not sure, sir.’

The response was perfectly polite but under the surface Ivo could almost feel the anxiety rolling off the man and, after one last glance at the wall, he took pity on him. Turning away, he caught sight of a look of relief on the man’s face; it was that look and not his own anxiety that made him quicken his leisurely pace.

Ivo’s personal spaces were minimalist and uncluttered—functional could still be pleasing to the eye or at least his eyes—but he appreciated beauty and artistic talent in many forms. He would have liked to study this testament to the skill of long-dead artisans for longer. The irony, of course, was that his grandfather would not appreciate the beauty.

Salvatore was a famed collector of many rare and precious objects—jade, art, porcelain—but for him it was all about the acquisition. For Salvatore, the pleasure came from possessing what someone else wanted. He might forget the history of an artwork or the name of an artist, but he had a flawless recall of the price he’d paid for any item and the identity of the collectors he outbid.

Once through the doors and into a brighter corridor, thanks to massive windows that revealed breath catching views of the Tyrrhenian Sea that glittered turquoise in the Tuscan morning sun, Ivo turned to his shadow.

‘I think I know my way from here.’

The man hesitated; clearly Ivo’s words clashed with his instructions. He began to bluster but his protests trailed away as Ivo’s dark level stare held his, and after a moment he tipped his head and faded away. Ivo’s grandfather’s private apartments were situated in one of the older parts of the building, taking up all of one of the iconic twelfth-century square towers built by an ancestor. The massive metal banded door to the study was open and Ivo walked straight in. He was prepared; even so he experienced a moment’s disorientation as he stepped over the threshold, feeling as if he’d stepped through some time portal or onto the set of a futuristic film. He almost reached for the designer shades tucked into the pocket of his suit jacket, the antiseptic white and chrome was that dazzling.

Five years earlier his grandfather had ripped out the antique panelling along with the books that had once lined the walls, and the decor was now sleek and modern. Efficient, as his grandfather had said as they’d watched the monitors being mounted on the wall, the only thing left from the past the antique desk that dominated the room.

A half-smile flickered across Ivo’s wide sensual mouth as he recalled the occasion he had casually admitted that he missed the old room, inviting further scorn when he had added he actually liked the smell of musty old books. This had apparently confirmed his grandfather’s suspicion that Ivo was a sentimental fool.

Ivo had accepted the insult with a careless shrug of his wide shoulders, aware that if Salvatore had believed either of these things he would not have given him control of the IT and Communications division of Greco Industries, although given was perhaps the wrong word. When the grand gesture was made his grandfather had not anticipated the role would have any permanence.

His gratitude at the time had been genuine even though Ivo had known that it had been intended as a wing-clipping exercise—the unspoken but universally acknowledged expectation had been that the young upstart would fail; indeed he was meant to fail, publicly.

But Ivo had defied those expectations, denying his grandfather the opportunity to ride to the rescue. A source of frustration to a man who liked to be in control.

And so far, Ivo had been allowed a free hand.

Was that about to change?

He was not given to paranoia but neither was Ivo a believer in coincidence, and the timing of this peremptory summons, coinciding as it did with the ink drying on the new global merger he had negotiated, had raised a few warning bells. Was it significant that this merger would mean the IT division was no longer the poor relation of Greco Industries but able to challenge the leisure, property and construction arms of the company, and even make the jewel in the crown, Greco’s media division, look over their shoulder?

So far Salvatore had been content to bask in the reflected glory of his grandson’s success but maybe that was no longer enough. Was he about to announce he wanted to be more hands on?

Ivo approached the possibility with more curiosity than trepidation. Considering the fact Salvatore was a control freak, this scenario had always been a possibility and Ivo had already decided that, rather than surrender his control, or even share it, he would walk away.

Just looking for an excuse, Ivo?

His dark brows twitching into a frown that drew them into a straight line above his masterful nose, he ignored the sly voice in his head as he cleared his throat.

In reality he knew he would never walk away from his duty, any more than his grandfather had walked away from him. Ivo was not his father, or his brother.

‘Morning, Grandfather.’

Close to eighty, Salvatore Greco remained an imposing figure. There was nothing fragile or infirm about his upright stance, but as he turned to face his grandson Ivo found himself thinking, for the first time in his life, that his grandfather was old.

Maybe it was the morning light shining directly on the older man’s face as he turned, revealing the depth of the lines that grooved his forehead and etched deep the furrows carved from his nose to the downward-turning corners of his thin mouth.

The line of silent speculation vanished the moment the older man began to speak, as did pretty much every other thought. There was definitely no hint of age or softness in his voice as he delivered his announcement.

‘Your brother is dead.’ He took his seat in the high-backed chair behind the massive antique desk that still dominated the otherwise minimally furnished white room, pausing only to straighten the line of meticulously sharpened pencils before he continued to speak.

Ivo didn’t notice a tremor in his grandfather’s voice as he stared blindly ahead, and the words just rolled over him in a meaningless jumble until one sentence made itself heard above the loud static hum in his head.

‘I will need you to take care of this personally, you understand?’

Ivo fought his way through the swirl of churning emotions that made their physical presence known in the fog in his head and the constricting band that felt like steel around his chest before he spoke.

‘The funeral?’ It still didn’t seem possible—would it ever? Bruno—nine years his senior...what did that make him? Thirty-eight? How did anyone die at thirty-eight?

Outrage at the thought elicited a mind-calming burst of rage followed swiftly by denial. It had to be a mistake. Yes, that was it, some awful mistake. If his brother was dead, he’d know.

His grandfather’s eyes narrowed fractionally as his lips compressed in faint irritation at the interruption.

‘Their funeral was last month, I believe.’

The words ricocheted around in Ivo’s head. He needed to sit down. His fingers clenched his knuckles white against the leather armrest...he was sitting down. He had been walking around functioning as normal for weeks while his brother was dead. How could he not have known, not have felt something? He tipped his head in a sharp motion of denial and cut across his grandfather, who was speaking again.

‘Last month?’

His grandfather looked at him without speaking before he reached for the stopper on the crystal decanter that sat on the desk and glugged some of the amber liquid into one of the glasses that sat beside it on the silver tray.

The full glass scraped on the desk as he pushed it towards his grandson.

Ivo shook his head, not mistaking the action for empathy; he had accepted years ago that his grandparent was incapable of that. Emotional responses were, in Salvatore’s eyes, weaknesses to be studied and exploited. It was not coincidental that Ivo was famed for his unreadable expression. What had begun as a self-protective device was now second nature.

‘You said their?’ Ivo’s brain was starting to function, but he was not sure if that could be classed as a good thing. The sense of loss had a physical presence; he could feel it at a cellular level in a way he’d sworn never to feel anything again. As he’d coped alone after Bruno’s desertion, the realisation that he could not count on anyone else had required he closed off the part of himself that made him vulnerable to such painful feelings. And now, the unfamiliar dormant feelings had exploded into painful life, blurring his normally sharp-edged wits.

‘The woman was with him.’

‘His wife.’ Ivo emphasised the word as an image flashed into his head, probably not even accurate.

He’d only met the woman his brother had walked away from his own family for once, and that had been fourteen years ago. Her eyes probably hadn’t been that blue, but the memory of that vivid colour had stayed with him even after the resentment towards Samantha Henderson had faded. Samantha was, after all, responsible for robbing Ivo of the big brother he had worshipped and the future he had dreamt of.

Not immediately, Bruno was coming to get him, he had promised, tears on his cheeks as he, Ivo, had begged his brother not to leave. How long had it taken him to realise that Bruno was never coming back?

Fool, mocked the derisive voice in his head as he thought of his younger self waiting, believing. Bruno had said what Ivo had wanted to hear. In truth, he’d never intended coming back for him; he had deserted him.

The people in Ivo’s life had a habit of doing that: first his father, then Bruno. A person who invited that sort of pain and disillusion had to be a fool, and Ivo was no fool.

In a world obsessed with pairing people off, he had learnt that, far from being a deficiency, being alone was a strength. He never intended to be in a position where someone else had the power to inflict that sort of pain. He was not looking for love; love exaggerated men’s weaknesses, left a man less than whole.

To this point it hadn’t been difficult to avoid the infection of love, any more difficult than walking away from sexual encounters. The compartments in his life remained unpolluted by love, but loyalty was another thing.

His grandfather never demanded love but he did demand loyalty and Ivo considered he had earned it. The only person who had ever been there for him was Salvatore; a man who didn’t pretend to be something he wasn’t. The old man was a devil, but he didn’t hide behind a saint’s mask.

Bruno had been his favourite grandson.

His heir.

Ivo, who’d worshipped his brother, had been fine with that.

There had always been an expectation that Ivo would one day rebel, and, growing up, his occasional failures, while not going unpunished, were almost expected. It was whispered that he was like his father; that he had inherited the same weakness.

Ivo had heard the whispers, gritted his teeth and determined that he would prove them all wrong. It was not news to him that his father was weak, because only a weak man would take his own life and leave two motherless sons behind because he couldn’t live without the woman he loved.

His mother must have been special, Bruno always said she was, but Ivo didn’t really remember his mother at all. He didn’t allow himself to remember his father; instead he despised him.

For his brother it had always been different—he was the golden boy. Not easy—the bar had been set high for the heir to his grandfather’s empire and failure was not tolerated, and he’d lived up to expectations, which was perhaps why, when he’d finally challenged Salvatore, the consequences had been so extreme.

Salvatore had already had a bride picked out for his heir. It would be a profitable union, as the woman was the only child and heir of a man almost as wealthy as the Grecos and with an equally proud lineage, which for his grandfather was almost as important. He was fond of speaking of bloodlines and pointing out the proof that the Grecos, who could trace their bloodlines back centuries, were among the elite of Europe.

Ivo had been fifteen when his brother had walked away to be with the woman he loved. He’d finally realised when the brother he idolised had not returned for him that the whispers had been wrong all along. Ivo hadn’t been the one who had inherited their father’s weakness; Bruno was the one that couldn’t live without the woman he loved.

But Bruno could live without honour, and his little brother.

His older brother had betrayed him but, even so, Bruno had been living out there somewhere, some place cold and bleak, a Scottish island, but now he wasn’t.

It didn’t seem possible.

‘Nobody informed you?’ He pressed a finger to the groove between his dark brows, struggling to make sense of what he was hearing.

His grandfather’s bushy brows lifted. ‘Obviously I was informed, by your brother’s solicitor. Oh, and the woman’s sister sent a letter, handwritten,’ he added with a contemptuous snort. ‘Barely legible.’

Ivo shook his head and felt anger separate itself out from the multi-layered raw emotions churning in his belly. Tangled as they were with the irrational guilt he refused to acknowledge, the physical effort of keeping the toxic mixture in check sent fine tremors through his lean body.

‘You knew?’ A muscle along his jaw clenched and quivered as the old man simply shrugged in confirmation, feeding the flame of fury inside him. He could feel it building. None of his feelings showed on his face but there was ice in his voice when he pressed his point. ‘And you did not see fit to share that information with me, until now?’

There was the slightest edge of defiance in Salvatore’s voice as he met his grandson’s eyes and bit out, ‘What would have been the point, Bruno?’

The muscles along Ivo’s jawline quivered. His grandfather seemed unaware of what he had called him, his heavy eyelids lowered over dark flame-lit eyes.

‘It did not occur to you that I might want to go to the funeral?’ Would he have...? Well, he’d never know now, he concluded with bitter irony.

‘No, it didn’t. You had your closure all those years ago when he stopped being your brother, and...’ Eyes that held no expression flickered as he scanned his grandson’s face. ‘You’re not a hypocrite.’ He arched a brow, his lip curling in mild mocking contempt as he threw out the challenge. ‘Are you?’

Ivo’s head came up slowly, his almond-shaped dark eyes resting without expression on his grandfather’s face. The surge of colour that had highlighted the slashing curves of his razor-edged cheekbones had receded. The normal vibrant olive glow had been overwhelmed by a waxy pallor that gave his features the sepia cast of an old photo; his features were utterly still. Only the nerve spasmodically clenching to the right of his clamped bloodless lips a sign of life.

He shook his head in an attitude of someone expecting to wake up. ‘Bruno contacted me eighteen months ago. He wanted to meet up.’ Ivo, staring blankly into middle distance, did not see the look of anger that crossed his grandfather’s face. He was too consumed with the guilt clawing low in his belly.

‘You met up with him?’

Ivo turned his head, the bleakness in his eyes profound. If the love he’d felt for his brother really had died when he hadn’t come back, should he be feeling this sort of pain now?

Pushing the question away, he took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. A man took responsibility for his actions. ‘No, I didn’t.’

A decision that he might never forgive himself for now. His brother had reached out and he had rejected him, and why? Because he had carried the anger and resentment of a youth into adulthood, because he wanted to punish Bruno?

Self-contempt quivered queasily in his belly, guilt and regret adding to the toxic sensation. The fact was he could have forgiven the desertion but he could never have forgiven the lie that had kept hope alive.

‘I thought he’d given up on that,’ the old man mused, dragging a hand over the grey stubble on his chin.

‘Given up?’

‘Bruno kept away after I took out the injunction, but the letters carried on for... Well, they stopped too...’ Salvatore frowned. ‘When was that...? No matter, they stopped after the lawyers made it clear that if he contacted you again I’d disinherit the pair of you and it would be his responsibility.’

A hand pressed against the dull throb in his head as Ivo struggled to make sense of what he was hearing. ‘He came back for me?’

Salvatore snorted. ‘Wanted guardianship, would you believe it?’

His expression invited Ivo to share his contempt at the idea, but Ivo was in no condition to share anything. Bruno hadn’t lied, he hadn’t deserted him.

‘He came back.’

Salvatore gave an impatient click of his fingers. ‘As if any court would have granted him access with his conviction.’

‘Conviction?’

‘I don’t suppose you would know but your brother dabbled a bit. He fell in with a bad crowd at school and was caught with a small amount...easy enough to brush under the carpet but the record remained.’

‘Drugs? Bruno?’ No inkling of this youthful scandal had ever reached Ivo’s ears; how much else had he been protected from?

He had given up on his brother but his brother had never given up on him! The discovery left a bitter-sweet taste in his mouth.

Salvatore’s comments suggested that Bruno had not just come back, he had fought, reaching out again, but this time Ivo was the one who had walked away! Ivo sat there as the guilt closed in on him, wrapping its wire tendrils around him like a cage.

He had barely begun to process this reversal of everything he had believed when his grandfather landed another shock.

‘The child—’

Ivo’s head whipped around. ‘What child?’

‘Your brother had a son, a baby, he’s...’ He stabbed the air in an impatient gesture. ‘It doesn’t matter what they’ve called him... This is why I need you to go to Scotland, to the Isle of Skye—presumably you know that’s where your brother has been living in some shack...probably no electricity and running water. I want you to fetch back the child. He belongs here with us—the father may have been a fool and his mother...’ With a curl of his lip he dismissed Samantha. ‘But the child is a Greco—he has a heritage.’

‘How...?’ Ivo’s heavy lids half lowered as he swallowed to alleviate the emotional constriction in his throat. ‘How did they die?’ he finally managed to push out harshly.

‘A climbing accident, they were roped together apparently. A witness at the inquest said they heard him begging her to cut the line, but she didn’t—’ For the first time Ivo imagined he heard emotion in his grandfather’s voice as he added harshly, ‘Ivo always had a reckless streak.’ His grandfather’s eyes drifted closed.

‘Bruno always loved the mountains,’ Ivo said softly. The gentle emphasis he placed on his brother’s name seemed to pass over his grandfather’s head.

He opened his eyes. ‘That’s what I just said! And look where it led...’ he intoned bitterly. ‘If he hadn’t climbed he’d never have met that girl... A potter, living in a hovel.’

A slight exaggeration but Samantha had seemed a million miles from the perfectly groomed models and society women his brother had previously dated.

Love at first sight, Bruno had said.

As if he’d had no choice in the matter! Ivo hadn’t believed that then or now. It was the excuse of a weak man, the man he had no intention of ever being.

There was always a choice.

Suddenly the mantra he lived his life by had less conviction.

‘I have spoken to the lawyers but there is no way to break the will.’

‘So there’s a will—what does it say?’ Ivo struggled to express interest he did not feel. All he could think about was Bruno and the fact that he had not betrayed him out of choice. Bruno had fought for him, admittedly against stacked odds, but he had fought nonetheless.

‘Not relevant.’

It struck Ivo as very relevant but he said nothing. He was thinking about the son that Bruno had left behind; the child he could not desert. He had turned his back on his brother but he wouldn’t turn his back on his nephew!

‘They were young, the young never expect to die, and this Henderson woman...the sister...’

Ivo hadn’t known there was a sister, but then why should he? ‘Does she have a name?’

‘Something Scottish... Fiona or, no, Flora, I think.’

‘And she is the child’s legal guardian?’ Ivo found himself clinging to the knowledge that Bruno had a son; that a part of him lived on. Perhaps one day it would be a comfort, one day when the pain of loss was not so raw and his sense of guilt not so corrosive. What he needed to focus on now was not the guilt, but the fatherless child. It’s not about you, Ivo, he reminded himself with a humourless half-smile.

His grandfather brought his fist down onto the desk top with a force that made the wood vibrate and drew a wince from his lips. ‘It’s ludicrous. She has...is...nothing!’ he spat out contemptuously.

‘You want to be a part of this child’s life, maybe you should learn to say her name,’ Ivo suggested mildly.

‘I do not want her to be a part of this child’s life. That family is responsible for me losing my grandson.’

That was certainly one way of looking at it and it was the one way Ivo had been encouraged to look at it. A way he still found he was reluctant to relinquish.

‘Well, how is no compromise working for you so far, Grandfather? Maybe you should be realistic and settle for what you can get.’

Salvatore’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is that the lesson in life you have learnt? Settling?’ he snarled with withering contempt. ‘I made her a perfectly reasonable offer—generous! She refused.’

‘You offered to buy the child?’ Dio, this got worse. His grandfather seemed to have lost the subtlety and cunning he was famed for. ‘And you are surprised she refused?’

‘Oh, I know what this is about. She’s barren, can’t have a baby of her own, so she’s going to cling onto this one for dear life,’ Salvatore brooded darkly. ‘The letter she sent said it all...sentimental twaddle, inviting me to visit him there. I do not want that family in the child’s life. They took him from...’

The old man’s voice quivered; his eyes grew glassy and blank. The result of anger, or grief?

Or just the simple fact someone had thwarted him?

Whatever had put the quiver in his voice, it made the old man swallow and turn away. This rare visual evidence of vulnerability, the sudden appearance of frailty, struck deep, bringing the memory to the surface of the day when Salvatore had been strong. When he had rescued him from that room and the lifeless father Ivo had tried to awaken, even in his childish ignorance trying to push some of the pills that had spilled from one of the empty bottles past his father’s cold lips, believing that the medicine would make him better. Not understanding until much later that the pills had been his father’s weapon of choice.

Salvatore wanted to rescue this baby just as he had rescued Ivo. For Salvatore it was all about bloodlines!

Are you in any position to sneer? demanded the voice in Ivo’s head. For you, it’s all about assuaging your guilt.

His broad shoulders lifted in a shrug of acknowledgement; granted, neither motivation was particularly noble, but then the Grecos were not renowned for their nobility. His jaw stiffened—they were known for getting what they wanted, though.

Ivo stilled as the belated shocked recognition slid through him: he wanted to bring up this child, this part of Bruno who remained.

He gave them both a moment to recover before responding.

‘Should I ask if this information is out in the public domain, or have you accessed this woman’s private medical records?’

The older man responded to the dry question with a shrug and a sour look.

Ivo did not pursue it. He wasn’t that bothered about the red lines Salvatore had gleefully crossed. The fact was that, guilt aside, and with a determination to make up for rejecting his brother, there was a part of him that could identify with his motivation.

It was not something he felt the need to apologise for. Ivo possessed an Italian’s pride in his culture and language, a pride he knew his brother had shared, and thinking of Bruno’s son missing out on this part of his heritage drew a dizzying number of intersecting red lines in his head. Ivo’s loyalty to his name was unquestioning, it went cell deep, which was why his brother’s defection had hurt so much. Bruno had rejected everything they had been brought up to respect.

But he had not rejected him; Bruno had come back for him.

The regret and guilt that he would never now have a chance to thank his brother were so powerful he could taste the metallic tang like blood on his tongue. He focused instead on the wrongness that the child that shared his DNA was out there somewhere, knowing nothing of his history.

He had a debt to repay to his brother, and he would. Giving his nephew the sort of upbringing he and Bruno had not had would be his atonement.

His grandfather seemed fully recovered, delivering an irritated scowl. ‘We need leverage, but she’s done nothing.’

‘By that I presume you mean she has no skeletons?’

‘There is the suggestion of an affair with some footballer, but he wasn’t married at the time.’

‘So what do you expect me to do, kidnap the child?’

‘Yes,’ would have been less shocking than the reply he received.

‘I expect you to marry the woman, and bring the child home here. The lawyers say that will give you legal rights. It should make it simple to gain custody after the divorce.’

Ivo’s moment of gobsmacked incredulity found release in laughter. When was the last time he’d laughed in his grandfather’s presence? he wondered as he listened to the sound...rusty, as though he was out of practice. For some reason he could hear the sound of his brother’s laughter in his head, too. When Bruno had left he had taken the laughter with him.

‘Have you finished?’ Salvatore asked, when the room fell silent.

There had been a time when the icy disdain had tied his stomach in knots of tension but that time was long gone. ‘You appear to have given this some thought.’

‘You trying to tell me you couldn’t make her fall in love if you wanted to?’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ Ivo said drily as he got to his feet to place both hands on the desk before leaning forward and saying slowly, ‘I don’t want to.’

He had reached the door when his grandfather’s words reached him.

‘I’m dying and I want you to bring my great-grandson here. Do you really want your brother’s son to be brought up by a stranger, never hearing his own language? Never having the advantages that being a Greco brings? Are you that selfish?’

Ivo turned slowly, his dark eyes sweeping his grandfather’s lined face. Yes, he did look old. ‘Is that true?’

‘You think I’d lie about such a thing?’

‘Yes,’ Ivo responded without hesitation.

The old man laughed and looked quite pleased, clearly taking the comment as a compliment. ‘I would like to retain a little dignity in what is a very undignified process. I have no intention of boring you with the unpleasant details, but I am dying, and I want to see the boy. Will you do that for me?’

Ivo’s chest lifted as he released the breath held in his chest. ‘I make no promises,’ he said, while making a promise to himself—there was no way in the world he would hand over a baby to Salvatore, but he would bring this child home and he would protect him from the full force of Salvatore’s frequently toxic influence, just as Bruno had protected him.

His grandfather smiled. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down, Bruno.’

CHAPTER TWO

FLORA TIPTOED STEALTHILY down the stairs, wincing as the board beneath her feet creaked. She froze, balanced on one foot, only releasing the breath held in her chest in a sigh of shuddering relief when there was no sound of baby sobs from upstairs.

Her mum said her grandson was teething, but then she also said that Jamie was an easy baby.

After the past few weeks Flora was of the opinion that easy babies were fictional creatures much like elves, or unicorns, only they slept less.

Flora could vaguely remember what sleep was. She had begun to feel increasingly nostalgic for a time when her idea of a bad night was tossing and turning for half an hour before she drifted off.

Now she could sleep standing up; she had slept standing up!

Sami had made it look so easy. Flora’s blue eyes filled with unshed tears and she blinked hard as she choked out her sister’s name in a forlorn whisper. She was so focused on the image in her head of her smiling sister and the physical pain of loss that it took her a few moments to register the cold.

Very cold, cold she hadn’t noticed upstairs, but then walking several miles up and down the cheerily furnished nursery wearing a groove in the carpet while jiggling the cranky baby and humming an irritating jingle advertising a deodorant—not a very appropriate lullaby but she couldn’t get the darned thing out of her head—was one way to keep warm.

She shivered, and gathered the thick cardigan she had put on over her sweater tightly around her. Nepotism aside, she was proud of her very first project as a qualified architect. The conversion of the derelict stone steading her sister and brother-in-law had decided to convert into their home and business, a restaurant with rooms, had won her a mention, though no glittering prize, in a prestigious competition.

Heating and insulation had been a priority in the brief and normally it was warm and cosy, not to mention wildly ecologically efficient with its state-of-the-art heating system, triple glazing that muffled the sound of the storm outside, and a roof of solar panels, but tonight the cold draughts seemed to have discovered ways inside.

She didn’t realise there was more involved than the storm raging outside and some uninsulated nooks and crannies until she brushed past one of the tall modernist column radiators and, instead of feeling comforting heat, her fingers made contact with metal that was stone cold.

She groaned and tried not to think of the missed boiler service she had deemed a reasonable economy, because everything seemed to be working fine and anyway it was state-of-the-art, didn’t that mean something?

Easy with the clarity of hindsight to recognise a classic case of false economy.

She allowed herself a self-pitying sniff or three before squaring her slender shoulders. Right, Flora, beat yourself up tomorrow and call the heating guy—right now stop whining and make the best of it.

She considered her immediate options. Retreating to the small private living room, an oak-framed extension with incredible views over the water to the mainland, wasn’t one because she’d not got around to lighting the wood burner in there earlier and, with the underfloor heating off and a wall of glass, it would be even colder than in here.

So maybe the best move was make a hot-water bottle, put the spare heaters in the nursery and climb into bed. It might only be eight-thirty but her body clock was so out of sync thanks to chronic sleep deprivation that it didn’t really matter—yes, that was definitely a plan.

So, first things first, the heater in the nursery then make herself a hot-water bottle. Her thick wool socks made no sound on the stone floor of the reception-area-cum-lounge and informal bar space while there was a perceptible increase in the volume of the storm raging outside.

Her shiver this time was for anyone unlucky enough not to have several feet of solid stone between them and the elements. Continuing to switch off lights as she went—at least they still had electricity—she fished her mobile from the pocket of her snug-fitting jeans. With a sigh she slid it back—there hadn’t been a signal since lunchtime and a couple of hours later the landline had gone too. It wasn’t being cut off that was worrying Flora, it was her inability to contact her mother.

Under normal circumstances she wouldn’t have been concerned about her parent; under normal circumstances her mother would be here helping to run the place and look after baby Jamie, while continuing to run her own pottery business. Multitasking was Grace Henderson’s middle name and Flora wished she had a fraction of her resourceful parent’s energy.

But these weren’t normal circumstances. Her fiercely independent mother was operating on crutches with her leg in plaster and grieving deeply for her firstborn. Flora took comfort for the fact that, although the croft was remote, her mum had several good friends who lived close enough to be called neighbours who would no doubt have checked in on her.

Flora gnawed gently on her full lower lip as she weighed the option of putting more peat on the already smoking open fire before she went to bed. It was a matter of freeze or choke. She was trying to recall where the spare portable heaters she would need to put in the baby’s room were stored, when there was a loud bang on the front door she had bolted after Fergus had left, there being not much point the chef staying when all the diners had cancelled.

Feeling ashamed that her first thought was a selfish, please don’t wake the baby, she rushed across the room, reading desperation into the loud urgent-sounding thuds. She fumbled with the door bolt, urgency making her fingers clumsy as the banging continued.

‘Hold on, hold on, nearly...’ As the door opened the wind blowing in off the sea loch that lapped the shore on the opposite side of the narrow road hit Flora with a full icy blast.

The physical force snatched the breath from her lips and made her stagger backwards, her arms flailing as she struggled to keep her balance. She barely heard the sound of the heavy oak door hitting the wall above the combined roar of the wind and the sound of invisible crashing waves feet away from the door.

It was to this wild soundtrack and out of the heavy swirling mist that the stranger entered.

He was a stranger... For one awful split second she’d thought Callum... It wasn’t, of course. The local boy made good, thanks to an ability to kick a ball and increase the sales of everything from breakfast cereal to cars by smiling into the camera, lived in Spain—or was it Japan?—these days, and anyway there was no real resemblance beyond the impression of height, athletic muscularity, the dark hair and her imagination.

If it had been Callum she might have pushed him back out into the storm, but the man who hadn’t broken her heart didn’t look pushable!

He stood for a moment framed in the doorway, the top of his bare head touching the door frame, his broad shoulders filling the space as the long drover’s-style overcoat he wore, caught by the wind, flared out behind him dramatically.

If this wild elemental storm had taken human form it would have looked like him.

Before her dazed brain could take in any more details he reached out, pulling the heavy door closed being him, making the effort of competing against the gale-force wind look effortless.

The deafening roar was instantly reduced to a dull distant moan and the fire, which had briefly flared to life with the influx of oxygen, died down as it blew out a cloud of acrid eye-stinging smoke, which under normal circumstances would have made Flora think about the damage it would inflict on the fresh white paintwork.

But she wasn’t thinking about paintwork or actually anything else much. The adrenalin surge that held every muscle in her body taut to quivering point had thrown her nervous system directly into flight-or-fight mode, though neither would have done her much good against this man who, now the door was closed, seemed even taller.

He stood there for what felt like hours but might have been seconds, long enough at any rate for the details of his face to imprint themselves in her memory. The moisture that slicked his short dark hair against his skull trembled in droplets on the end of his dark, ludicrously long lashes and covered his face, making the olive-toned skin glow gold in the subdued lighting. Even if you had taken the incredible mouth and the dark deep-set eyes from the equation, the combination of hard planes and fascinating angles, emphasised by the shadow on his square jaw and hollow cheeks, was overtly sensual and overpoweringly male.

Refusing to acknowledge the hot sensation in her stomach as sexual awareness, she tried to kick free of the oddly hypnotic, cold, heavy-lidded eyes that held her own.

‘Who are you?’ she blurted when her vocal cords started working. Her voice lacked the welcoming Highland warmth that happy tourists frequently mentioned in their five-star reviews of the establishment, but, in her defence, she was in shock...or something?

She swallowed and brought her lashes down. Despite the protective sweep she continued to be conscious of those dark eyes with the glittering, deeply disturbing gold lights.

Oh, yes, she thought, grateful for the layers of clothing that muffled the sound of her heart hammering against her ribcage, this was definitely something. Not a big, significant something, just an ‘opening of the door to find the most good-looking man she had ever seen or even dreamt existed standing there’ something.

Was this a good time to discover that you still had a built-in weak spot for a pretty face? No, Callum had been pretty, this man was more...was beautiful. Too big a word...?

No, it wasn’t, she decided, studying the perfect bone structure of his strongly carved face with its high carved cheekbones, square jawline and aquiline nose, her stomach dipping uncomfortably when she reached the sensual outline of his wide mouth.

Though actually what had really thrown her was the shock wave of overt sexuality his large presence in the low-ceilinged room created. The surface of her skin prickled with it and her knees were shaking.

Great! Just what she needed!

Fate decided losing her dearest sister and brother-in-law, inheriting their business and their baby son was not enough! Mr Dark and Brooding had to turn up on her doorstep and kick into life the embers of her dormant libido!

Admittedly, not dark and brooding’s fault, but she struggled to view the intruder who, as supplying the last straw, she felt might just make her fold, with any objectivity.

Mouth closed might be a move in the right direction, Flora.

‘I booked a room.’

His very low, deep voice had an almost tactile quality and held an intriguing almost accent. A wave of deep sadness tightened her throat—much deeper and harsher, but it reminded her a little of her late brother-in-law, Bruno. But Bruno’s voice had been warm and filled with laughter; the stranger’s voice held about the same amount of warmth as his cold dark eyes as he waited for her to respond.

She gave herself a mental shake, and dug deep into her reserves of professionalism. It wasn’t normally an effort—she’d cut her hospitality teeth working shifts in a bar in Edinburgh when she was working her way through university. Several recent guests had commented online about her ‘friendly efficiency and warmth’.

So why was she standing here like a tongue-tied idiot?

True, to date none of the guests she’d immediately felt at ease with had arrived wearing a suit that screamed designer beneath a long, equally expensive-looking coat that hung off shoulders a mile wide. And none had...no, she decided not to even think about the sexual aura he exuded, hoping that she’d wake up tomorrow after a good night’s sleep and discover it was a sleep-deprivation thing. The odds of this happening were pretty good, because, though her ex-fiancé’s opinion on most things counted for zero with her, on one thing he was probably right—she wasn’t really a sexual person.

* * *

‘Is there a problem?’

Beyond the inescapable fact, Ivo realised, that he had made the mistake of nursing preconceptions, having them challenged made him feel slightly off balance—not something he was accustomed to.

He didn’t intend to get accustomed to it.

He hadn’t even realised until the door had opened that he’d been expecting a tall willowy blonde standing there. He’d not been imagining a petite redhead, a belt holding up her snug-fitting jeans around an impossibly narrow waist.

Ivo dug his hands deep into his pockets as his long brown fingers flexed in response to the mental image of them closing around the circumference. The slight but distinctly feminine sinuous curves above and below the belt sent a fresh slug of scorching heat through his body as he studied them again before he dragged his attention back to her face.

He couldn’t pretend it was a hardship to look at the woman his grandfather had casually suggested he marry.

From nowhere an image of her floating down a church aisle in white came into his head but he pushed it away. The same way he pushed away any thought of marriage. It had seemed like an inevitable prospect, something he owed to the continuation of his name...but the existence of Bruno’s child, the next generation, took the pressure off.

Ivo was here, yes, but not to marry anyone!

Was his alternative plan any less insane? Actually, ‘plan’ might be overstating it—more a play-it-by-ear than actual plan.

So, yes, possibly insane, but less insane than it had seemed around the same time he had seriously contemplated abandoning his car on a section of the road that was underwater about half a mile away.

Ivo didn’t believe in fate, signs or divine intervention, but when you were driving along a road that was rapidly becoming a river a man, even one who prided himself on being rational, did start to wonder: was someone somewhere trying to tell him something?

And it wasn’t the first snag!

Ivo prided himself on being adaptable but today had tested him. Since he’d set out this morning everything that could go wrong had. Engine problems shortly after they had taken off from the private airstrip had forced the pilot to turn back and make an emergency landing in Rome.

When he had finally landed in the replacement jet there had been no driver willing to make the journey up to Skye with weather warnings out advising only essential journeys being made.

Considering that his journey was essential, he had been privately pretty scornful of weather warnings in the British Isles, assuming they’d probably meant heavy drizzle.

His contempt had come back to bite him. He glanced down at his ruined handmade leather shoes—the elderly couple he’d rescued after they’d run off the road had treated him like a hero—not a good fit.

And now he was here and things were still not going to plan. He focused the objectivity he was famed for—some called it coldness—on the heart-shaped face turned up to him.

To suggest that she was not beautiful—even taking into account that his taste in women had never run to petite and fragile—would not have been an objective assessment. He’d met women who were more beautiful, though none had possessed a heart-shaped face framed by wild Pre-Raphaelite curls, the deep titian interwoven with strands of lighter gold.

As unexpected as the vividly pretty heart-shaped face had been was the twist of hard desire he’d experienced when he’d first laid eyes on her.

Setting aside that visceral response, he continued to study the face that had drawn this reaction. It was a face that came complete with tip-tilted nose, a cute, curvy full mouth and wildly sexy and deep kitten-wide pansy-blue eyes framed by spiky, thick, straight lashes. There was the suggestion of a cleft in her pointed, determined small chin.

* * *

In response to his question, Flora lifted her eyes from the relative safety of mid-chest level. His hard stare was disconcerting.

‘You’re wearing a tie.’

She squeezed her eyes closed and thought, Any moment now I’m going to say something that suggests I have more than two brain cells.

Please make it soon!

When she opened them again he’d already unbelted his overcoat and a jacket button. The long brown fingers of his hand were smoothing the already smooth streak of his grey tie that stood out against the spotless background of white, a white made virtually transparent by its saturated condition.

She registered the shadow of dark body hair before she looked quickly away, ignoring the tingling tightness that extended even to the skin of her scalp.

‘You have a dress code?’

Ignoring the sneery sarcasm in his question, though if they had had one it would have been waterproofs and walking boots, she reminded herself that it was her job to make their guests’ stays happy ones, even the ones who were objectionable. Though to be fair she supposed that anyone who had negotiated the single-track-with-passing-places roads to get here, scary for the uninitiated in any weather, might have some excuse for feeling stressed.

Not that he looked stressed, quite the opposite. The aura he projected was of someone in charge, not someone who needed reassurance and sympathy. It was hard to imagine anyone offering him a cup of tea and very much easier, she mused as her eyes drifted to that mouth, to think of them offering him a more intimate form of comfort.

She tried to walk back from the image that flashed into her head—it didn’t help the situation in any way imagining a man naked—and produced a half-decent professional smile. Though the effect was probably spoilt by baby sick on her shoulder...again.

‘No, but we do have drying facilities if you venture out on the hills, though obviously not recommended in this weather,’ she added hastily. It was amazing how sometimes you had to spell out the obvious and amazing how little respect some city types had for either the elements or the terrain of the island.

‘Oh, and there are Ordnance Survey maps in all the bedrooms, though some of guests make use of a local mountain guide service. And if you’re interested in geology there are some fascinating—’

‘I’m not, and I have quite a good sense of direction.’ It had enabled him to be one of only a handful of entrants to complete the arduous desert trek against the clock and the elements for charity, but perversely right now the only place it was taking him was the curve of her lush lips—every road led to the same place.

The awkward silence stretched. Flora filled it with a cheery, ‘So, you’re here for the fishing?’ As much as they desperately needed the money, Flora found herself wishing that he wasn’t here at all.

His jaw clenched. ‘I’m not here for the fishing.’

Fighting the childish urge to tell him she wasn’t really interested anyway, she smiled. ‘Well, I hope you enjoy your stay.’ She hesitated a moment before admitting, ‘The truth is I wasn’t aware we had any bookings. Have you come far?’

‘Yes.’

I’ve had more interesting conversations with a brick wall, she thought, keeping her smile in place until she discovered he was staring at her hair. She fought and lost the impulse to lift a hand to smooth the tangled curls, which at some point today had come free of the tight, efficient ponytail. The time when she was working in Edinburgh and spent the twenty minutes required in the morning to religiously straighten it to a smooth, shiny, straight river seemed a million years ago.

Luxury in this life was applying some lip balm.

‘Well, I think you’re very brave to make the journey in this storm, or possibly very foolish...?’ As the addition slipped past her guard she added a smile, which hopefully robbed the comment of insult.

You did have to wonder, though, who in their right mind made a journey in this weather, ignoring advice from every agency out there including the stretched police force, who were begging people not to make unnecessary journeys until the storm abated.

It took a special sort of arrogance, and on their brief acquaintance Flora suspected this man possessed that quality in abundance.

‘Right, well, if you’d just like to check in? Card, or...’ She looked towards the table where the old-fashioned leather ledger was kept beside a book inviting guests to add their hopefully complimentary comments.

The book and the flowers and twigs she’d arranged in the old zinc jug the previous day were there, but not the leather ledger.

Ivo watched as she pressed a finger to the groove above her nose, her smooth brow puckering in concentration, but it was the dark purplish smudges beneath her blue eyes that drew his attention. He pushed away a waft of feeling that fell short of being empathy but nevertheless was distracting.

And he didn’t need any more distraction, he decided, the initial gut-punch reaction when the door had opened to reveal a diminutive flame-haired figure still raising some uncomfortable red-line-crossed feelings that he felt the need to rationalise. He had clearly subconsciously been expecting a replica of her sister, the tall willowy blonde who had bewitched his brother, and he was still adjusting to the reality. Add that to him not factoring in the possibility he might find the woman that stood between him and his nephew attractive.

He had acknowledged it now and moved on... It would only be a problem if he allowed it to be.

And he wouldn’t.

His confidence was justified: the last time Ivo had allowed his libido to rule him he’d been a teenager and his brother had not yet abandoned everything for a woman. Ivo had been in lust a number of times but had so far avoided anything that could be termed in love. He’d never been in what people would call a long-term relationship, because, in his experience, before he’d ever got close to long term the woman in his bed, who had begun by telling him how much she loved him the way he was, had begun chipping quietly away, trying to change what she had claimed to like about him.

A massive red line of a deal breaker; the woman did not exist that he would change for. The woman did not exist that he could not live without. Even the thought drew the corners of his lips into a cynical smile.

‘You are the person in charge?’

His words brought Flora’s chin up. Obviously this guy’s personality was not as perfect as the rest of him.

‘I am the person in charge,’ she confirmed, sounding a lot calmer than she felt while she wondered what sort of write-up punching him on his nose would earn her.

Actually, during the past nightmare weeks, in charge was the last thing she had felt, but luckily she could put on a good act. She did so now as she walked confidently across to the bar, as if there were no doubt in her mind that she would find the old-fashioned bookings diary where it lay concealed on a shelf.

Luck was on her side.

‘Here we are,’ she said, laying it on the reclaimed wood surface.

The satellite dish meant to connect them to the Internet and the twenty-first century was arriving next week, which might make this old-fashioned ledger redundant. It was another of the outstanding bills that was keeping her awake nights.

She turned from the back where the restaurant bookings were written down, all this evening’s cancellations highlighted by a red line drawn through them, to the front where room bookings were recorded. Sure enough, above one of the cancellations one of the rooms had been booked out for tonight.

She looked up, struggling to feel the professional warmth she had infused her smile with. ‘I’m sorry I missed this one, Mr...?’ She shook her head unable to decipher Fergus’s scrawl or throw off the peculiarly strong antipathy the man had evoked in her.

‘Rocco,’ Ivo responded, giving his middle name as he had on the telephone when booking. He hadn’t wanted to commit himself to a course of action before he’d read the situation.

‘Right, Mr Rocco, sorry about the miscommunication and the welcome.’

‘Or lack of it,’ he inserted smoothly.

‘Just so, afraid I’d assumed that everyone had cancelled due to the storm.’

His dark gold-flecked gaze slid to the window where relentless rain was lashing. ‘You mean it’s not always like this?’

The comment was delivered without the leavening humour which would have made it acceptable. Flora resisted the impulse to rush to the defence of her beloved home.

Her smile frayed a little at the edges as her sister’s face floated into her head. Sami would have had this man eating out of her hand by now. She flinched at the physical impact as the fresh loss hit her all over again. She almost wished that Jamie would wake up so that she would have something practical to focus on to dull the pain. Maybe being too tired to think was not such a bad thing, she mused, ignoring the bleak voice in her head that told her she was only delaying the inevitable, she’d have to feel at some point.

‘Would you like a wee dram to warm you after your journey?’ She bent down to reach the forty-year-old single malt they kept behind the bar for occasions such as this.

The bottle of last resort, Bruno had called it, to be used when everything else failed with awkward or upset customers. They had very few of those, and so far it had been brought out to toast special occasions, like newly engaged couples.

Ivo watched, with what he told himself was academic interest, as the denim of the redhead’s jeans stretched attractively over her taut, rounded rear as she bent over. There was nothing academic about the flash of heat down his front.

Flora straightened up, planted the bottle on the bar so that he could see the label, but his expression did not melt... Could granite melt? ‘On the house, of course,’ she added hastily.

‘No.’ The guest responded to the generous gesture with a look that flattened her smile. ‘If I could see the menu?’

Her expression fell. ‘Menu...?’

He arched a sardonic brow and watched the angry colour wash over the fair freckled skin.

She bit her lip. ‘Fergus, the chef, has gone home actually...’ She stopped. Was it such a good idea to tell this bad-tempered beautiful stranger with his indefinably menacing air that they were alone but for a baby lying asleep upstairs? Feeling ashamed of the sudden flurry of fear, she lifted her chin, squared her shoulders and added a very unconvincing, ‘Sorry.’

‘So your kitchen is closed?’ Of course it was. Ivo had stopped trying to imagine the urbane sophisticated brother he remembered living in this cold, misty, uninviting backwater. He sent up a silent apology to his grandfather, who he had assumed was guilty of over-exaggeration when he’d described the place his great-grandson needed rescuing from. Ivo no longer needed convincing.

From his expression she could see there was no five-star rating heading their way. ‘I could make you a sandwich?’ It wasn’t that she couldn’t cook, but Flora was intimidated by the restaurant’s industrial-looking catering kitchen with its shiny stainless-steel surfaces and latest top-of-the-range gadgets.

She didn’t ask for a translation of the sound he made in his throat, quite happy to take it as a rejection.

‘Right, then,’ she said briskly. ‘Shall I show you to your room? We’re having a little storm-related problem with the heating,’ she explained putting an awful lot of effort into the lie. It was glaringly obvious by his attitude that he didn’t actually believe a word she was saying. ‘But I’ll bring up an electric heater and you’ll be toasty in no time.’ She crossed her fingers while making the over-optimistic prediction. ‘If you’ll follow me?’

One foot on the bottom step of the staircase, she stopped as the fire chose that moment to belch a fresh flume of acrid smoke that filled the entire room. Flora stopped cursing long enough to cough. ‘The wind must be in the wrong direction,’ she excused hoarsely.

‘There is a right direction?’ he asked sardonically.

Before she could react to the sarcasm she was distracted by a sighing sound broadcast from the baby monitor, followed by a sleepy murmur.

Ivo watched as the redhead literally held her breath for a full thirty seconds before her tense shoulders sagged with visible relief.

CHAPTER THREE

‘YOU HAVE A CHILD?’

He watched the shock widen her eyes. Fascinated, Ivo observed the play of emotion across her fine-boned features. His fascination was mingled with disquiet that anyone could wear their emotions so close to the surface; the idea of exposing your vulnerabilities to the world the way she appeared to was anathema to Ivo.

When her reply came a moment or so later it was tinged with surprise underlain with a hint of defiance evident in the straightening of her slender shoulders.

‘Yes, that is my child.’

Flora had accepted the doctor’s verdict. It hadn’t been easy, and for a time she had been angry, but she had come to terms with the fact her endometriosis was so bad that her fertility was severely impaired.

She could have carried on being angry and bitter or hoped for a medical miracle. She supposed it was one of those events in life that everyone reacted to differently. Her way had been to accept what had happened, and save her energy for fights she could win, not lost causes.

That didn’t mean she hadn’t dreamt of saying those words...my child.

Ironic that when she got to say them it wasn’t because of a miracle or a dream-come-true scenario but because she was living a waking version of a nightmare Flora would have given everything she possessed not to be saying those words now, but when she did verbalising them brought home the full reality of the situation crashing in.

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