The Marchese’s Love-Child
Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Endpage

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘YOU’RE going back to Italy?’ There was outrage in Lily Fairfax’s voice as she turned on her daughter. Anger too. ‘Oh, I don’t believe it. You can’t—you mustn’t.’

Polly Fairfax sighed soundlessly. ‘Mother, I’m escorting an elderly lady to Naples, where she’ll be met by her family, upon which—I catch the next flight home. I’ll be gone for a few hours at most. Hardly Mission Impossible.’

‘You said you’d never return there,’ her mother said. ‘You swore it.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Polly acknowledged wearily. ‘But that was three years ago. And circumstances change. This is a work assignment, and there’s no one else to do it. Since Safe Hands was featured on that holiday programme, we’ve been snowed under with requests.’ She adopted a persuasive tone. ‘And you enjoyed seeing me on television—you know you did.’ She added a smile. ‘So you can’t complain if I’m in demand as a consequence.’

Mrs Fairfax wasn’t pacified. ‘Is this why this woman—this Contessa Whatsit wants you? Because you’ve been on television?’

Polly laughed. ‘I shouldn’t think so for a moment. She’s far too grand to bother with anything so vulgar. And her name’s the Contessa Barsoli.’

Her mother dismissed that impatiently. ‘I didn’t think you liked her very much.’

Polly shrugged. ‘I don’t particularly. She’s been a total pain the whole week I’ve been with her. And I’m damned sure she doesn’t care for me either,’ she added musingly. ‘She always looks at me as if I’m a slug in her salad. Believe me, I shan’t be tempted to linger.’

‘Then why did she choose you?’

‘The devil she knows, perhaps.’ Polly shrugged again. ‘As opposed to some stranger. Anyway, she needs someone to see to her luggage, and make sure she’s got all her documentation. Which is where Safe Hands comes in, of course.’

She leaned forward. ‘To be honest, Mum, I don’t know how much longer I can go on turning down jobs in Italy, just because of something that happened three years ago. I like my job, and I want to hang on to it. But Mrs Terence is running a business here, not an agency for people who’ve been crossed in love.’

‘It was,’ her mother reminded her tightly, ‘rather more than that.’

‘Whatever.’ Polly bit her lip. ‘But I can’t pick and choose my clients, and I think Mrs T has made all the allowances over Italy that she’s going to. So I have to treat it as just another destination from now on.’

‘And what about Charlie?’ Mrs Fairfax demanded fiercely. ‘What’s going to happen to him while you’re gadding off?’

It hardly seemed to Polly that enduring another twenty-four hours in the company of a disdainful Italian autocrat counted as ‘gadding’.

And her mother had never objected to her role as child-minder before, even when Polly was absent on other, much longer trips. In fact she’d declared that Charlie’s presence had given her a new lease of life.

She looked out of the window to where her cheerful two-year-old was trotting about after his grandfather, picking up hedge clippings.

She said slowly, ‘I thought he would stay with you, as usual.’

There were bright spots of colour in her mother’s face. ‘But it’s not usual—is it? You’re deliberately defying my wishes—yet again. I was totally against your taking that job in Sorrento three years ago, and how right I was. You came slinking home pregnant by some local Casanova, who didn’t want to know about you any more. Can you deny it?’

‘To be fair, Sandro had no more idea that I was expecting a baby than I did myself,’ Polly said levelly. ‘Although I agree it would have made no difference if he had known. But that’s all in the past. I’ve—rebuilt my life, and he’ll have moved on too.’ She paused. ‘All the same, I promise not to go within ten miles of Sorrento, if that will make you feel better.’

‘I’d feel better if you didn’t go at all,’ her mother returned sharply. ‘But if it really is just a day trip, I suppose I can’t stop you.’

‘You’ll hardly know I’ve gone,’ Polly assured her. ‘Thanks, Mum.’ She gave her a swift hug. ‘You’re a star.’

‘I’m an idiot,’ Lily Fairfax retorted, but she sounded slightly mollified. ‘Are you going to stay for supper? I’ve made one of my steak pies.’

‘It’s good of you, darling,’ said Polly, mentally bracing herself for another battle. ‘But we must get back. I have this trip to prepare for.’

Mrs Fairfax gave her a tragic look. ‘But I’ve got Charlie’s favourite ice-cream for dessert. He’ll be so disappointed.’

Only because you’ve already told him, Polly thought without pleasure.

Aloud, she said, ‘You really mustn’t spoil him like that.’

Her mother pouted. ‘It’s a sad thing if I can’t give my only grandchild the occasional treat.’ She paused. ‘Why not leave him here—if you’re going to be busy this evening?’ she coaxed. ‘It’ll save you time in the morning if you have a plane to catch.’

‘It’s a kind thought.’ Polly tried to sound positive. ‘But I really look forward to my evenings with Charlie, Mum. I—I see so little of him.’

‘Well, that’s something your father and I wanted to discuss with you,’ her mother said with sudden briskness. ‘There’s a lot of unused space in this house, and if we were to extend over the garage, it would make a really nice flat for you both. And it would mean so much less disruption for Charlie.’

She emptied the carrots she’d been scraping into a pan. ‘We’ve had some preliminary plans drawn up, and, if you stayed, we could look at them over supper perhaps.’

Polly supposed, heart sinking, that she should have seen it coming—but she hadn’t. Oh, God, she thought, is this the day from hell, or what?

She said quietly, ‘Mum, I do have a flat already.’

‘An attic,’ her mother dismissed with a sniff, ‘with a room hardly bigger than a cupboard for Charlie. Here, he’d have room to run about, plus a routine he’s accustomed to. And we’re in the catchment area for a good primary school, when the time comes,’ she added. ‘I think it’s the perfect solution to all sorts of problems.’

My main problem, Polly thought wearily, is prising Charlie out of this house at the end of the working day. Of staking a claim in my own child. She’d seen trouble looming when her own former bedroom was extensively redecorated and refitted for Charlie, despite her protest that he wouldn’t use it sufficiently to justify the expense.

Her mother must have had this in mind from the first.

She rallied herself, trying to speak reasonably. ‘But I need my independence. I’m used to it.’

‘Is that what you call the way you live? You’re a single mother, my girl. A statistic. And this glamorous job of yours is little better than slavery—running around all over the place at the beck and call of people with more money than sense. And where did it lead? To you making a fool of yourself with some foreigner, and ruining your life.’ She snorted. ‘Well, don’t come to me for help if you mess up your life a second time.’

Polly’s head went back in shock. She said unsteadily, ‘That is so unfair. I made a mistake, and I’ve paid for it. But I still intend to live my life on my own terms, and I hope you can accept that.’

Mrs Fairfax’s face was flushed. ‘I can certainly see you’re determined to have your own way, regardless of Charlie’s well-being.’ She sent her daughter a fulminating glance. ‘And now I suppose you’ll take him with you, just to make your point.’

‘No,’ Polly said reluctantly. ‘I won’t do that—this time. But I think you have to accept that I do have a point.’

‘Perhaps you’d send Charlie indoors as you leave.’ Her mother opened a carton of new potatoes and began to wash them. ‘He’s getting absolutely filthy out there, and I’d like him to calm down before he eats.’

‘Fine.’ Polly allowed herself a small, taut smile. ‘I’ll pass the message on.’

As she went into the garden, Charlie headed for her gleefully, strewing twigs and leaves behind him. Polly bent to enfold him, the breath catching in her throat as she inhaled his unique baby scent. Thinking again, with a pang, how beautiful he was. And how painfully, searingly like his father …

Her mother had never wanted to know any details about his paternity, referring to Sandro solely as ‘that foreigner’. The fact that Charlie, with his curly black hair, olive skin and long-lashed eyes the colour of deep topaz, was also clearly a Mediterranean to his fingertips seemed to have eluded her notice.

But it was the details that only Polly could recognise that brought her heart into her mouth, like the first time her son had looked at her with that wrenchingly familiar slow, slanting smile. His baby features were starting to change too, and she could see that he was going to have Sandro’s high-bridged nose one day, and the same straight brows.

It would be like living with a mirror image before too long, Polly told herself, thinking forlornly that nature played cruel tricks at times. Why couldn’t Charlie have inherited her own pale blonde hair and green eyes?

She smoothed the hair back from his damp forehead. ‘Gran wants you to go inside, darling,’ she whispered. ‘You’re sleeping here tonight. Won’t that be fun?’

Her father came to join them, his brows lifting at her words. ‘Will it, my love?’ His voice was neutral, but the glance he sent her was searching.

‘Yes.’ Polly cleared her throat, watching Charlie scamper towards the house. ‘It—it seems a shame to uproot him, when I have to start work early tomorrow.’

‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘She means it all for the best, you know, Poll,’ he told her quietly.

‘He’s my child, Dad.’ Polly shook her head. ‘I have to have an opinion on what’s best for him, too. And that doesn’t include moving back here.’

‘I know that,’ her father said gently. ‘But I’m also aware how hard it must be raising a child without any kind of support from his father—and I’m not simply talking about the economics of it.’

He sighed. ‘You were so precious to me, I can’t imagine a man not wanting to involve himself with his own flesh and blood.’

Polly’s lips moved in a wintry little smile. ‘He didn’t want to know, Dad—about either of us. It was best to leave it that way.’

‘Yes, love,’ he said. ‘So you told me. But that hasn’t stopped me from worrying—or your mother either.’ He gave her a swift hug. ‘Take care.’

Polly’s thoughts were troubled as she rode home on the bus alone. Her mother’s attempts to totally monopolise her grandson was becoming a seriously tricky situation, and she wasn’t sure she had sufficient wisdom to resolve it.

The last thing she wanted was for Charlie to become a battleground, but even a mild suggestion that she should enrol him at a local nursery for a few hours a week so that he could mix with other children had provoked such an injured reception from Mrs Fairfax that she hadn’t dared raise the subject again.

Her mother’s hostile attitude to her work was a different thing.

Safe Hands had proved the job of her dreams, and she knew, without conceit, that she was good at it.

The people who made use of the company were mainly female and usually elderly, people who needed someone young, relatively strong and capable to deal with their luggage, guide them through airports and escort them safely round unfamiliar foreign cities.

Polly was the youngest of Mrs Terence’s employees, but she had a gift for languages, and her brief career as a holiday rep had taught her patience and tolerance to add to her natural sense of humour—qualities she soon found she needed in abundance.

She knew how to diffuse potentially explosive situations with overseas Customs, find restaurants that were sympathetic to delicate digestions, hotels in peaceful locations that were also picturesque, and shops prepared to deliver purchases to hotels, or post them on to addresses abroad. She could also discover which art galleries and museums were prepared to arrange quiet private tours for small groups.

And she never showed even a trace of irritation with even the most high-handed behaviour from her charges.

After all, she was being paid for acceding to their whims and fancies, and part of her skill was in making them forget that was how she earned her living, and persuading them that she was there for the sheer pleasure of their company.

But with the Contessa Barsoli, it had been a struggle from day one.

Polly had long accepted that not all her clients would like her, but she did need them to trust her, and, from the start, her senses had detected an inflexible wariness, bordering on hostility at times, in the contessa’s attitude which she was at a loss to account for.

Whatever the reason, there had never been any real warmth between them, so Polly had been genuinely astonished to hear that the contessa had specifically requested her services again for the homeward leg of her journey to southern Italy, and was prepared to pay her a generous cash bonus too.

Surprised—but also alarmed enough to ask herself if the money was really worth the damage to her nervous system.

Her previous visit—the first and last—had left her scarred—and scared. And there was no way she’d have dared risk a return, if there’d been the slightest chance she might encounter Sandro again. But the odds against such a meeting must run into millions to one. But irrational as it might seem, even the remotest possibility still had the power to make her tremble.

They said time was a great healer, but the wound Sandro had dealt her was still agonisingly raw.

She’d tried so hard to block out the memories of that summer in Sorrento three years ago. The summer she thought she’d fallen in love, and believed she was loved in return. But the images she’d hoped were safely locked away forever had broken free, and were running wild in her brain again.

Her room, she thought, wincing, during the hours of siesta, the shutters closed against the beat of the sun, and only the languid whirr of the ceiling fan and their own ragged breathing to break the silence.

And Sandro’s voice murmuring soft, husky words of passion, his hands and mouth exploring her naked body with sensuous delight. The heated surge of his body into hers at the moment of possession.

She had lived for those shadowed, rapturous afternoons, and warm, moonlit nights, which made the pain of his ultimate betrayal even more intense.

What a gullible little fool I was, Polly thought with self-derision. And I can’t say I wasn’t warned. The other reps said that he was just looking for some easy summer sex, and cautioned me to be careful, but I wouldn’t listen because I knew better.

I knew that he loved me, and that when the summer was over we were going to be married. I was convinced of it—because he’d said so.

I thought it was that innocent—that simple. I should have realised that he wasn’t what he seemed. He told me he worked at one of the big hotels, but he always had too much money to be just a waiter or a barman. And these jobs were usually taken by younger men, anyway, while Sandro was thirty at least.

I knew from the first that there were depths to him that belied the seaside Romeo tag—and that the latent power I always sensed in him was part of his attraction for me.

But I liked the fact that he was something of an enigma. That there were questions about him still to be answered. I thought I would have the rest of my life to find out the truth.

Yes, I was a fool, but it never once occurred to me that I could be in any real danger. That there was another darker side to his life, far away from the sunlight and whispered promises.

Not until he got bored with me. Not until his friend arrived—the man in the designer suit with the smile that never reached his eyes. The man who came to tell me that it was all over, and to suggest, smiling suavely and icily, that it would be better for my health to get out of Sorrento, and away from Italy altogether.

The man who told me that I’d become an inconvenience, and that it would be much safer for me to quit my job and go back to England.

And that I should never try to contact Sandro, or come back to Italy again—ever.

In return for which I was to receive the equivalent of fifty thousand pounds.

Polly shuddered. Even now the memory made her shake inside. But what had crucified her then, and still hurt today, was that Sandro hadn’t had the guts to come to her himself—to tell her in person that it was finished between them. And why …

She’d rejected his money with anger and contempt, unable to believe that he could insult her like that. Ordered his confederate out of her room.

But, all the same, she’d obeyed and left, because she was too heartbroken—and also too frightened to stay. She didn’t know what Sandro could be involved with to afford a bribe of that size—and she didn’t want to know. But something had reached out from the shadows around him, which had touched her life, and destroyed her hope of happiness.

She had been at home for several weeks before it dawned on her that she was pregnant—a knowledge born slowly from grief, bewilderment and unbelievable loneliness. At first she’d told herself that it could not be true—that they’d always been so careful—except for one night when their frantic, heated need for each other had outweighed caution.

And that, she had realised, stunned, must have been when it happened. Another blow to deepen the agony of pain and betrayal. Yet, although the prospect of single-motherhood had filled her with dread, she’d never once considered the obvious alternative and sought an abortion.

Her mother had thought of it, of course. Had urged her to do it, too, cajoling one minute, threatening the next. Railing at Polly for her stupidity, and for bringing shame on the family. Swearing that she would have nothing further to do with her daughter or the baby if the pregnancy went ahead. A resolution that had lasted no longer than an indrawn breath from the moment she had seen her newborn grandson.

Charlie had instantly taken the place of the son she’d always longed for. And there’d never been any question about who was going to look after him when Polly recovered and went back to work.

But, as Polly ruefully acknowledged, the arrangement had become a two-edged sword. Over the months, she seemed to have been sidelined into playing an elder sister’s role to Charlie. Any slight wail, bump or graze brought her mother running, leaving Polly to watch helplessly while Mrs Fairfax hugged and comforted him. And that was not good.

She had to admit that her mother had not been too wide of the mark when she’d described Polly’s flat as an attic. It had a reasonable-sized main room, a basic bathroom and a minuscule kitchen opening out of it, plus Charlie’s cubby-hole. Polly herself slept on the sofa bed in the living room.

But she couldn’t deny it was a weary climb up steep and badly lit stairs to reach her front door, especially when she was encumbered with Charlie, his bag of necessities and his buggy, which she didn’t dare leave in the entrance hall in case it was stolen.

Once inside, she kept her home space clean and uncluttered, the walls painted in cool aqua. Most of the furniture had been acquired at auction sales, including the sofa bed, for which she’d bought a new cover in an Aztec print of deep blue, crimson and gold.

It wasn’t flash, but the rent was reasonable, and she always felt the place offered comfort and a welcome as she went in.

And tonight she was in sore need of both.

It was a warm evening, so she unlocked the living-room window and pushed up the lower sash, sinking down onto the wooden seat beneath. There was some cold chicken and salad in the fridge, and it would be a moment’s work to put a potato to bake in her second-hand microwave.

But she was in no hurry to complete her supper preparations. She felt tired and anxious—and more than a little disheartened. It seemed strange not to hear the clatter of Charlie’s feet on the stripped boards as he trotted about, or his incessant and often unintelligible chatter.

She missed, too, his sudden, unsteady gallop to her arms. That most of all, she thought, her throat tightening.

I should have brought him home, she told herself restlessly, and not let myself be out-manoeuvred like that.

She felt, she realised, totally unsettled, for all kinds of reasons, so maybe this would be a good time to review her life, and see if she needed to make some changes.

And, first and foremost, she needed to be able to spend more time with Charlie.

When she began working again, after he was born, Safe Hands had seemed ideal, more of a career choice than an ordinary job. Having her cake, and eating it—or so she’d thought then.

She had been able to go on with the travelling she loved, and, as well as her salary, the majority of the clients paid her a cash bonus as well. Even at London prices, she could afford to live, and provide Charlie with what he needed, although there was never much left over for extras.

But his needs were changing, and so, she realised, were hers.

For one thing, it wasn’t essential to work, or even live, in London. In fact, it would be sheer relief to be able to say goodbye to those stifling journeys on the underground and buses.

She could move to a totally different area altogether, away from the south-east of England. Deliberately select a place where it would be cheaper to live, and find a job in local tourism. Something strictly nine-to-five, with no time away from home, so that she could spend her leisure hours with her son.

During the day she’d need a minder for him, of course. There was no way out of that. But she’d look for someone young and lively, caring for other children too, so that Charlie would have playmates. Maybe, in time, she could even get a foot on the housing ladder—find somewhere small and manageable, hopefully with a garden. Something she would never be able to afford in London.

She would miss this flat, she thought, sighing, and it would be a wrench leaving Safe Hands but reason was telling her it would be for the best.

I have, she thought, to make a life for us both. For Charlie and myself. I need to build a proper relationship with him. And I can’t do that if we stay here. Because I won’t be allowed to.

But she wasn’t delusional enough to think she could strike out on her own without a struggle, she told herself, wrinkling her nose. Her mother would fight her every step of the way, coming up with every possible reason why she should not do this thing—and a few impossible ones, too.

And when she saw Polly could not be moved, she would be very bitter. There might even be an open breach between them.

But that won’t last forever, she thought. Whatever Mum thinks of me, she’ll still want to maintain contact with Charlie.

She got to her feet. She would eat now, and when supper was over she’d use her laptop to go internet-exploring, looking at house prices in different parts of the country. Now that she’d made up her mind, there was no time to be lost.

Strange, she thought, how I can suddenly be so sure of that.

Yet the pressure on her to accept the Italian assignment must have contributed to her decision. It had left her feeling uneasy—and awoken too many bad memories.

A clean break with the past was what she needed. New job—new home—new friends.

She would never be able to forget, of course, that Sandro was Charlie’s father. But in time, it might begin to hurt less. And she might even be able to stop being afraid. One day.

‘See Naples and die, eh?’ The man in the adjoining seat emphasised the originality of his remark with a slight dig in Polly’s ribs, as their plane descended towards Capodichino Airport. ‘That’s what they say, isn’t it?’

Polly gritted her teeth as she gave a wintry smile in acknowledgement.

But I don’t care what ‘they’ say, she told herself fiercely. Naples is going to be my jumping-off point for a whole new life. And I plan to live every moment of it.

She couldn’t say she’d enjoyed the flight. The contessa might need her physical assistance, but she certainly hadn’t wanted her company. Which was why she was seated in first class, while Polly herself was in economy, with a neighbour who considered her presence his personal bonus.

Never mind, she thought. In a few moments I’ll never have to see him again, or the contessa either.

She’d sipped mineral water throughout the flight, in spite of her fellow traveller’s unceasing efforts to buy her what he called a proper drink. And the irony was that she’d have welcomed some alcohol, to dispel the shaky chill which had settled in the pit of her stomach. The closer they had got to their destination, their progress cheerfully marked by the captain, the more nervous she’d become.

I shan’t relax until I’m safely back in Britain, she thought.

On the surface, she was calmness itself. She was wearing the company uniform of a slim-fitting, button-through dress in navy linen, with the distinctive silver brooch showing a pair of clasped hands pinned to her left shoulder. Her pale hair was in a loose knot on top of her head, and she wore her usual dusting of powder, and soft pink lipstick.

As they touched down, and the plane began to taxi to its stand, Polly reached under the seat, and extracted the navy leather satchel which held the travel documents and a few basic necessities in case of delay. Her client, she was sure, would have an eagle eye for the slightest lapse in efficiency.

Her companion nudged her again. ‘Dangerous city, they say,’ he whispered. ‘If you’re on your own tonight, I’d be happy to show you around.’

‘Tonight,’ she told him, ‘I intend to be back in London.’ And left him gaping.

Contessa Barsoli was a tall woman, rake-thin, with immaculately coiffed white hair and still handsome in a chilly way. A member of the cabin staff was permitted to help her descend the aircraft steps while Polly followed, instinctively lifting her face to the brilliant warmth of the southern sun.

Once inside the terminal, she found her charge a chair, retrieved her luggage and guided her through the formalities.

‘There has been a small change of plan,’ the older woman informed her abruptly. ‘I am too tired to undertake a long car journey down to the Campania, so my cousin has arranged a suite for me at the Grand Hotel Neapolitana. You will accompany me there.’

Polly knew resignedly that she shouldn’t be surprised. Most of the arrangements she’d made for the contessa during her stay in Britain had been subject to alteration, usually at the last moment. Why should this time be any different?

But this wasn’t just irritating, she reminded herself, schooling her expression. It was seriously inconvenient. She had a return flight to catch, and the contessa knew it.

‘Do you wish me to get us a taxi?’ she asked quietly. If she could find a driver who knew a few short cuts through Naples’ crowded streets, she might still be in with a chance.

‘A taxi?’ The contessa made it sound like a tumbrel. ‘My cousin has sent a car and chauffeur for us. Oblige me by finding him.’

That was easily achieved. Transferring the contessa and her luggage to the roomy depths of the limousine was a completely different matter. The lady liked to take her time, oblivious to Polly’s simmering frustration as the minutes ticked past.

The traffic was a nightmare, and when they did reach the hotel at last, Polly accepted that she probably wouldn’t make it back to the airport in time for her flight.

I haven’t a prayer, she told herself resignedly. It’ll take me half an hour to get her to the lift.

But to her astonishment, the contessa suddenly became quite sprightly. She conducted her own registration at the desk, waving Polly regally away, and made no fuss about the prompt unloading of her luggage.

An under-manager escorted her, bowing, to the lift, where Polly caught up with her.

She said awkwardly, ‘I need to say goodbye now, contessa, if I’m to get my flight.’

She got a severe look. ‘But I wish you to accompany me to the suite, signorina. I have ordered coffee and biscotti to be served there. Besides,’ she added, seeing that Polly was on the verge of protest, ‘there is still the question of the money I offered you. I do not conduct such transactions in the foyers of hotels. If you want to be paid, you will come with me now.’

Groaning silently, Polly stood beside her as the lift made its way upward. They emerged onto a crimson-carpeted corridor, opposite a heavily carved door.

The under-manager produced a key with a flourish, and unlocked the door, and, still bowing, showed them ceremoniously into the suite.

Polly found herself in a large drawing room, shaded by the shutters which had been drawn over the long windows to combat the force of the mid-June sunlight. She had a confused impression of brocaded sofas and fresh flowers in elaborate arrangements, their scent hanging languidly in the air.

And realised suddenly that the room wasn’t empty as she’d first thought. Because someone was there—someone standing by the windows, his figure silhouetted against the slatted light. Someone tall, lean and unforgettably—terrifyingly—familiar.

Even before he spoke, Polly knew who he was. Then his voice, low-pitched and faintly husky, reached her, and there was no longer room for any doubt. Or any hope, either.

He said, ‘Paola mia. So, you have come to me at last.’

He moved—came away from the window, and walked towards her with that long, lithe stride she would have known anywhere, his shadow falling across the floor as he approached.

She tried to speak—to say his name, but her trembling mouth could not obey her and shape the word.

Because this could not be happening. Sandro could not be here, in this room, waiting for her.

As he reached her, she cried out and flung up her bare and unavailing hands in a desperate effort to keep him at bay. Only to find the shadows crowding round her, welcoming her, as she slid helplessly downwards into the dark whirl of oblivion.

CHAPTER TWO

AWARENESS returned slowly, accompanied by an acrid smell that filled her nose and mouth with its bitterness, making her cough and mutter a feeble protest.

She lay very still, fighting against a feeling of nausea, hardly daring to open her eyes. Her senses told her that she was cushioned on satiny softness, and that she was not alone. That in the real world behind her closed eyelids, there was movement—people talking. And the heavy noise of traffic.

She propped herself dizzily on one elbow, and looked around her. She was lying in the middle of a vast bed, covered in deep gold embroidered silk. She was shoeless, she realised, and the top buttons of her dress had been unfastened.

The first person she saw was the contessa, as she stepped back, replacing the stopper in a small bottle. Smelling salts, Polly thought, dazedly. The older woman always insisted on having some handy in case travel motion upset her.

And, standing in silence a few yards away, was Sandro, head bent, his face in profile.

Not a figment of her imagination, as she’d hoped, but a nightmare that lived and breathed, and would not go away.

And not the laughing, dishevelled lover, wearing frayed shorts and an old T-shirt, and badly in need of a haircut, that she’d once known and desired so passionately, but that other, hidden man whose identity she’d never even suspected as she lay in his arms.

This other Sandro wore a dark suit that had clearly emanated from a great Italian fashion house. The dark curling hair had been tamed, to some extent at least, and there wasn’t a trace of stubble, designer or otherwise, on what she could see of the hard, tanned face, only a faint breath of some expensive cologne hanging in the air.

His immaculate white shirt set off a sombre silk tie, and a thin platinum watch encircled his wrist.

Whatever path he’d chosen to follow, it had clearly brought him serious money, Polly thought, anger and pain tightening her throat. And she didn’t want to contemplate how it might have been obtained. Who said crime didn’t pay?

Nor was he staying silent out of weakness, or any sense of guilt. Instinct told her that. He was simply exercising restraint. Under the stillness, Polly could sense his power—and the furious burn of his anger, rigorously reined in. Could feel the violence of his emotions in the pulse of her blood and deep within her bones, just as she’d once known the naked imprint of his skin on hers, and the intimate heat of his possession.

As if, she thought with a sudden sick helplessness, she lived within his flesh. Part of him. As she had once been.

Now that the impossible had happened, and she was face to face with him again, she was shocked by the intensity of her physical reaction to him. Ashamed too.

She had to make herself remember the cruel brutality of his rejection. The cynical attempt to buy her off, and the explicit threat that had accompanied it.

She needed to remind herself of the abyss of pain and loneliness that had consumed her after she’d fled from Italy. And, most important of all, she had to get out of here, and fast.

She sat upright, lifting a hand to her head as the room swayed about her.

The movement riveted everyone’s attention, and Sandro took a hasty step forward, pausing when Polly flinched away from him involuntarily, his mouth hardening in an icy sneer.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It is not pretty. You should have been prepared in advance, perhaps. Warned what to expect.’

As he came closer, Polly saw his face clearly for the first time. Saw the jagged scar that had torn its way from the corner of his eye, across the high cheekbone and halfway to his jaw.

For a brief moment she was stunned, as shocked as if she had seen some great work of art deliberately defaced.

He looked older too, and there was a weariness in the topaz eyes that had once glowed into hers.

Oh, God, she thought, swallowing. He thinks that I find him repulsive, and that’s why I turned away just now.

A pang of something like anguish twisted inside her, then she took a deep breath, hardening herself against a compassion he did not need or deserve.

Let him think what he wanted, she thought. He’d chosen his life, and however rich and powerful he’d become he’d clearly paid violently for his wealth. And she’d been fortunate to escape when she did, and keep her own wounds hidden. That was all there was to be said.

She looked away from him. ‘I don’t understand.’ Her voice was small and strained. ‘What am I doing here? What—happened?’

‘You fainted, signorina.’ It was the contessa who answered her. ‘At my cousin’s feet.’

‘Your cousin?’ Polly repeated the words dazedly, her mind wincing away from the image the older woman’s words conjured up of herself, unconscious, helpless. She shook her head, immediately wishing that she hadn’t. ‘Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?’

The contessa drew herself up, her brows lifting in hauteur. ‘I do not understand you, signorina. There is no joke, I assure you. Alessandro is the son of my husband’s late cousin. Indeed, his only child.’

‘No,’ Polly whispered. ‘He can’t be. It’s not possible.’

‘I am not accustomed to having my word doubted, Signorina Fairfax.’ The contessa’s tone was frigid. She paused. ‘But you are not yourself, so allowances must be made.’ She handed Polly a glass of water. ‘Drink this, if you please. And I will ask for some food to be brought. You will feel better when you have eaten something.’

‘Thank you, but no.’ Polly put down the empty glass and moved to the edge of the bed, putting her feet to the floor. She was still feeling shaky, but self-preservation was more important than any temporary weakness.

She’d fainted—something she’d never done in her life before, and a betraying sign of vulnerability that she could ill afford.

She spoke more strongly, lifting her chin. ‘I would much prefer to leave. Right now. I have a flight to catch.’

‘You are not very gracious, Paola mia.’ Sandro’s voice was soft, but there was a note in it that made her quiver. ‘Especially when I have had you brought all the way from England just to see you again.’

Had you brought … The words echoed in her head, menacing her.

‘Then you’ve wasted your time, signore.’ Was that how you addressed the supposed cousin of an Italian countess? Polly had no idea, and didn’t much care. ‘Because I have no wish to see you.’

There was a bitter irony in this, she thought. This was supposed to be the first day of her new life, and instead she seemed to have walked into a trap.

Ironic, inexplicable—and dangerous too, she realised, a shiver chilling her spine.

The contessa had deliberately set her up, it seemed. So she must be in Sandro’s power in some way. But however scaring that was, it couldn’t be allowed to matter, Polly reminded herself swiftly. She didn’t know what was going on here, nor did she want to know. The most important thing, now, was to distance herself, and quickly.

‘“Signore”?’ Sandro questioned, his mouth twisting. ‘Isn’t that a little formal—for us, bella mia?’

Her pulses quickened at the endearment, putting her instantly on the defensive.

‘To me this is a formal occasion,’ she said tautly. ‘I’m working—escorting the contessa. And there is no “us”,’ she added. ‘There never was.’

‘You don’t think so?’ The topaz eyes were watchful. ‘Then I shall have to jog your memory, cara.’

‘I can remember everything I need to, thanks.’ Polly spoke fiercely. ‘And it doesn’t change a thing. You and I have nothing to say to each other. Not now. Not ever again.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And now I wish to leave.’

Sandro shook his head slowly. ‘You are mistaken, carissima.’ His voice was soft. ‘There is a great deal to be said. Or else I would not be here. But perhaps it would be better if we spoke alone.’

He turned to the contessa. ‘Would you excuse us, Zia Antonia?’ His tone was coolly courteous. ‘I think Signorina Fairfax and I should continue our conversation in private.’

‘No.’ Polly flung the word at him, aware that her voice was shaking. That her body was trembling too. ‘I won’t stay here—and you can’t make me.’

He looked at her, his mouth relaxing into a faint smile. ‘You don’t think so, Paola mia? But you’re so wrong.’

‘Contessa!’ Polly appealed as the older woman moved towards the door. ‘You had no right to do this. Don’t leave me alone—please.’

The contessa gave her a thin smile. ‘You require a chaperone?’ she queried. ‘But surely it is a little late for that?’ She paused, allowing her words to sting, then turned to Sandro. ‘However, Alessandro, Signorina Fairfax might feel more at ease if you conducted this interview in the salotto. A suggestion, merely.’

‘I bow to your superior wisdom.’ Sandro spoke briskly.

Before Polly could register what he intended, and take evasive action, he had stepped forward, scooping her up into his arms as if she were a child. She tried to hit him, but he controlled her flailing hands, tucking her arms against her body with insulting ease.

‘Be still,’ he told her. ‘Unless, of course, you would prefer to remain here.’ He glanced significantly back at the bed.

‘No, I would not.’ She glared up into the dark, ruined face. ‘But I can walk.’

‘When you are shaking like a leaf? I think not.’

In spite of her continuing struggles, Sandro carried her back into the now deserted drawing room. The contessa had disappeared, Polly realised with a stab of panic, and, although neither of them were her company of choice, it meant that she and Sandro were now alone. Which was far worse …

‘This was easier when you were unconscious,’ he commented as he walked across the room with her. ‘Although I think you have lost a little weight since our last meeting, Paola mia.’

‘Put me down.’ Polly was almost choking with rage, mingled with the shock of finding herself in such intimately close proximity to him. ‘Put me down, damn you.’

‘As you wish.’ He lifted a shoulder nonchalantly, and dropped her onto one of the sofas flanking the fireplace. She lay, winded and gasping, staring up at him.

‘You bastard,’ she said unevenly, and he clicked his tongue in reproach as he seated himself on the sofa opposite.

‘What a name to call the man you are going to marry.’

‘Marry?’ The word strangled in her throat. Polly struggled to sit up, pulling down the navy dress which had ridden up round her thighs. ‘You must be insane.’

He shrugged. ‘I once asked you to be my wife. You agreed.’ He watched as she fumbled to re-fasten the buttons he’d undone, his lips slanting into faint amusement. Looking so like Charlie that she almost cried out. ‘That makes us fidanzato. Or am I wrong?’

‘You’re wrong,’ she bit back at him, infuriated at her own awkwardness, and at the pain he still had the power to cause her. ‘Totally and completely mistaken. And you know it, as well as I do, so let’s stop playing games.’

‘Is that what we’re doing?’ Sandro shrugged again. ‘I had not realised. Perhaps you would explain the rules to me.’

‘Not rules,’ she said. ‘But laws. Laws that exist to deal with someone like you.’

‘Dio,’ he said. ‘So you think our government interests itself in a man’s reunion with his woman? How enlightened of them.’

‘Enlightened enough to lock you up for harassment,’ Polly said angrily. ‘And I am not your woman.’

He grinned at her, making her realise that the scar had done little to diminish the powerful sexual charisma he’d always been able to exert, which was as basic a part of him as the breath he drew. He was lounging on the sofa opposite, jacket discarded and tie loosened, his long legs thrust out in front of him, totally at his ease. Enjoying, she thought bitterly, his control of the situation. While she remained shaken and on edge, unable to comprehend what was happening. Or why. Especially why …

‘No? Perhaps we should have stayed in the bedroom after all, cara mia, and continued the argument there.’ The topaz eyes held a familiar glint.

‘You dare to lay a hand on me again,’ Polly said, through gritted teeth, ‘and I’ll go straight to the police—have you charged.’

‘With what offence? The attempted seduction of my future bride?’ He shook his head regretfully. ‘A girl who once spent a summer as my lover. I don’t think they would take you seriously, carissima.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I expect they have to do what you want—like the contessa. And where is she, by the way?’

‘On her way back to Comadora, where she lives.’

‘But she was supposed to be staying here.’

He shook his head. ‘No, Paola mia. I reserved the suite for myself.’ He smiled at her. ‘And for you to share with me.’

‘If this is a joke,’ Polly said, recovering herself from a stunned silence, ‘I don’t find it remotely funny.’

‘And nor do I,’ Sandro said with sudden curtness. ‘This is no game, believe me. I am entirely serious.’ He paused. ‘Do you wish to test my determination?’

He hadn’t moved, but suddenly Polly found herself remembering the strength of the arms that had held her. Recognised the implacable will that challenged her from his gaze and the sudden hardening of the mobile, sensuous mouth which had once stopped her heart with its caresses.

She bit her lip, painfully. ‘No.’

‘You begin to show sense at last,’ he approved softly.

‘Not,’ she said, ‘when I agreed to come to Italy today. That was really stupid of me.’

‘You must not blame Zia Antonia,’ he said. ‘She shares your disapproval of my methods.’ He shrugged. ‘But if you and I had not met again tonight, then it would have been at some other time, in some other place. Or did you think I would simply allow you to vanish?’

She said coldly, ‘Yes, of course. In fact, I counted on it.’

His head came up sharply, and she saw the sudden tensing of his lean body. ‘You were so glad to be rid of me?’

You dare to say that—to me? After what you did?

The words trembled on the tip of her tongue, but she fought them back. He must never know how she’d felt in those dazed, agonised weeks following his rejection. How she’d ached for him, drowning in bewilderment and pain. Pride had to keep her silent now. Except in defiance.

She shrugged in her turn. ‘Do you doubt it?’ she retorted. ‘After all, when it’s over, it’s over,’ she added with deliberate sang-froid.

‘You may think that, mia cara.’ His voice slowed to a drawl. ‘I do not have to agree.’

She looked down at her hands, clamped together in her lap. ‘Tell me something,’ she said in a low voice. ‘How did you find me?’

‘I was at a conference on tourism. A video was shown of a British company which looks after single travellers. You were its star, cara mia. I was—most impressed.’

Polly groaned inwardly. Her one and only television appearance, she thought, that her mother had been so proud of. It had never occurred to her that it might be shown outside the UK.

She said coldly, ‘And you were suddenly overwhelmed by nostalgia, I suppose.’

‘If so,’ Sandro said with equal chill, ‘I would have sighed sentimentally and got on with my life. But it reminded me that there are issues still unresolved between us.’ He paused. ‘As you must know, also.’

She moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘I need to say something. To tell you that—I’ve never talked about you. Never discussed anything that happened between us. And I wouldn’t—I give you my word …’

He stared at her, frowning. ‘You wished to wipe me from your memory? Pretend I had never existed? But why?’

She swallowed, her throat tightening. Because it hurt too much to remember, she thought.

‘Once I discovered your—your background,’ she said, ‘I realised it was—necessary. The only way …’

His gaze became incredulous. ‘It disturbed you to find that I was rich. You’d have preferred me to be a waiter, existing on tips?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Dio mio.’

Polly sat up very straight. She said coldly, ‘It was the way you’d acquired your money that I found—unacceptable. And your—connections,’ she added bravely, controlling a shiver as she remembered the man who had confronted her. The scorn and menace he’d exuded.

‘Unbelievable,’ he said slowly. ‘But if you expect me to apologise for my family, Paola, you will wait a long time.’ The look he sent her was hard—unrelenting. ‘I am what I am, and nothing can change that. Nor would I wish it to.’

He was silent for a moment. ‘Certamente, I hoped—at one time—that you would find it possible to live in my world. Understand how it works, and accept its limitations.’

But you soon changed your mind about that, Polly thought painfully. In fact, once you realised that I’d never be suitable, you were willing to pay a small fortune to get me out of your life altogether—and I should be grateful for that. Relieved that you sent me away, and saved me from an impossible moral dilemma. Prevented me from making a choice I might have hated myself for later, when I was sane again …

And knowing that has to be my salvation now. Has to …

She said stiltedly, ‘That could—never have happened. It was better—safer for us to part.’

‘You think so?’ He drew a harsh breath. ‘Then how is it I have been unable to forget you, Paola mia, no matter how hard I have tried? Or how many other women there have been in my life since you?’

She lifted her chin, resisting the sudden anguish that stabbed her. ‘Am I supposed to feel flattered?’

‘You ask me about your emotions?’ Sandro asked derisively. ‘What did I ever know about your thoughts—your feelings? I saw what I wished to see—believed what I needed to believe.’

He shook his head. ‘Madonna, how many times in these long months I have wished I could simply—dismiss you from my mind.’ He paused. ‘Forget you as easily as you have rejected the memory of me.’

Oh, God, Polly thought numbly, how little you know …

She tried to speak evenly. ‘Life doesn’t remain static. It moves on—and we have to go with it.’

‘Do you go alone?’ Sandro enquired, almost negligently studying his fingernails. ‘Or do you have company on your journey?’

Polly tensed. ‘That,’ she said, ‘is no concern of yours.’

‘Then let us make it my concern,’ he said softly. ‘Because I wish to know the truth. Do you live alone?’

The question seemed to hang in the air between them while her mind ran in frantic circles, looking for a way out.

Useless to go on telling him it was none of his business. That would not deter him. On the other hand, it would be a humiliation to admit that since him, there had been no one in her life. That she existed in self-imposed celibacy.

She could invent a lover, but she’d always been a terrible liar, and the risk of him seeing through her story was too great.

And then, as if a light had dawned, she realised there was no need for invention after all.

Polly lifted her chin, and faced him. ‘No,’ she said, very clearly. ‘I don’t live alone.’

It was no more than the truth, she thought. And it might just set her free …

Sandro was very still suddenly, little golden fires leaping in his eyes as his gaze met hers. He said, ‘And, naturally, your companion is male?’ He watched her swift, jerky nod.

There was another silence, then he said harshly, ‘Do you love him?’

Unbidden, an image of Charlie’s small sleeping face invaded her mind, and her mouth curved involuntarily, instinctively into tenderness.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And I always will.’

As soon as she spoke the words, she knew they were a mistake. That she’d snatched at a means of escape from him, without fully considering the consequences. And that she could have gone too far.

‘You dare to tell me that?’ His voice crackled with suppressed anger.

Her heart jolted nervously, but she knew that she had to finish what she’d started. That she had no other choice.

She tilted her chin defiantly. ‘What did you expect? That I’d stay single in memory of you? Like you remained celibate for me?’ she added scornfully. ‘Dream on—please.’

Sandro’s eyes were fixed on her, a slow flame burning in their depths. ‘And how long has he been part of your life? The truth.’

She touched the tip of her tongue to her dry lips. ‘Two years—or so.’

‘So,’ he said slowly. ‘You went from my arms to his.’ His gaze went over her, measuring and contemptuous. ‘I see you wear no ring.’

She swallowed. ‘That’s my own choice.’

‘And have you whispered the same promises to him that you once made to me?’ His voice was quiet. Compelling.

She hesitated, choosing her words with care. ‘He knows that I’ll—always be there for him.’

‘How touching,’ Sandro said softly. ‘Yet you left him to come to Italy.’ His sudden smile was cool. Dangerous. ‘And to me.’

‘I believed I was working for the contessa,’ Polly returned fiercely, trying to conceal the fact that she was shaking inside, nearing the edge of panic. ‘I had no idea that she could be a relation of yours—or that you were even in the region. If I’d known, I wouldn’t be here.’

She flung back her head. ‘So, how did you persuade her to do your dirty work? Bribery—or blackmail?’

His mouth thinned. ‘You are not amusing, carissima. Be very careful.’

‘Why?’ she challenged recklessly. ‘I already know the lengths you’re prepared to go to—when there’s something you want.’

Or when you’ve stopped wanting …

You sent me away, she thought. So why are you here now, tormenting me like this—reviving all these unwanted memories?

Her throat ached suddenly at the thought of them. But that was a weakness she couldn’t afford, because the room seemed to be shrinking, the walls closing in, diminishing the space between them. A space she needed to maintain at all costs.

‘I wonder if that’s true.’ Sandro’s voice was quiet—reflective. ‘Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘that hardly matters any more.’ She paused. ‘And I don’t think there’s much point in continuing this discussion either.’

His smile twisted. ‘Then we agree on something at last.’

‘So, if you can tell me where to find my shoes and jacket, I’ll go.’

‘Back to him? Your innamorato?’

‘Back to my life,’ Polly said, lifting her chin. ‘In which you have no part, signore.’

‘I can hardly argue with that,’ Sandro shrugged. ‘You will find your belongings in the bedroom, Paola mia.’

He did not, she noticed, offer to fetch them for her, as the Sandro she’d once known would have done.

Don’t fool yourself, she thought as she trod, barefoot, into the bedroom and paused, looking around her. As he said—you never really knew him at all.

Her jacket and bag were on a small sofa by the window, her shoes arranged neatly beneath it. As she reached them she was aware of a sound behind her, and turned.

Sandro had followed her, she realised, her heart missing a beat. She hadn’t been aware of his approach, because he too had discarded his shoes. But the noise she’d heard was the sound of the door closing behind him, shutting them in together.

And now he was leaning back against its panels, watching her with hooded eyes, his expression cool and purposeful as, with one hand, he began to unfasten the buttons on his shirt.

Polly felt the breath catch in her throat. With a supreme effort, she controlled her voice, keeping it steady. ‘Another game, signore?’

‘No game at all, signorina.’ Cynically, he echoed her formality. ‘As I am sure you know perfectly well.’

She had picked up her bag, and was holding it so tightly that the strap cut into her fingers. ‘I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Sandro tutted. ‘Now you’re being dishonest, bella mia, but I expected that.’ He allowed his discarded shirt to drop to the floor, and began to walk towards her.

She swallowed. ‘I think you must be going crazy.’

‘Possibly,’ he said with sudden harshness. ‘And I want to be sane again.’ He halted, the topaz eyes blazing at her. ‘You are under my skin, Paola. In my blood, like a fever that refuses to be healed. And that is no longer acceptable to me. So, I plan to cure myself of you once and for all—and in the only possible way.’

‘No.’ She stared back at him, her appalled heart thudding frantically. ‘No, Sandro. You can’t do this. I—I won’t let you.’

‘You really believe you have a choice?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘I know better.’

She backed away until her retreat was cut off by the wall behind her. Until he reached her.

‘Please, Sandro,’ she whispered. ‘Please let me go.’

He laughed again, touching a finger to her trembling lips, before outlining the curve of her jaw, and stroking down the delicate line of her throat to the neckline of her dress.

‘Once I have finished with you, carissima,’ he drawled insolently, ‘you are free to go anywhere you wish.’

‘Do you want me to hate you?’ Her voice pleaded with him.

‘I thought you already did.’ Almost casually, he detached her bag from her grasp and tossed it to one side, his brows snapping together as he saw the marks on her skin.

He lifted both her hands to his lips, letting them move caressingly on the redness the leather strap had left.

‘I had almost forgotten how easily you bruise.’ His voice was low and husky. ‘I shall have to be careful.’

Her whole body shivered at the touch of his mouth on her flesh, the aching, delirious memories it evoked. And the promise of further, dangerous delights in his whispered words.

A promise she could not allow him to keep.

She snatched her hands from his grip, and pushed violently at the bare, tanned wall of his chest, catching him off balance. As Sandro was forced into a step backwards, she dodged past, running for the door.

With no shoes and no money, she was going nowhere, but if she could just get out of this bedroom it might be possible to reason with him—deflect him from his apparent purpose.

She flung herself at the door handle, twisted it one way, then the other, trying to drag the door open, but it wouldn’t budge an inch, and she realised with horror that he must have locked it too—and taken the key.

‘Trying to escape again.’ His voice was sardonic, his hands hard on her shoulders as he swung her relentlessly to face him. ‘Not this time, bella mia.’ His smile mocked her. ‘Not, at least, until you have said a proper goodbye to me.’

‘Sandro.’ Her voice cracked. ‘You can’t do this. You must let me go …’

‘Back to your lover? Surely he can spare me a little of your time and attention first. After all, he has reaped the benefit of our previous association, wouldn’t you say?’ He paused. ‘And, naturally, I am intrigued to know if your repertoire has increased since then.’

Her face was white, her eyes like emerald hollows, as she stared up at him, her skin seared by his words.

She said chokingly, ‘You bastard.’

‘If you insist on calling me bad names,’ Sandro said softly, ‘I have no option but to stop you speaking at all.’ And his mouth came down hard on hers.

She tried to struggle—to pull away from him, so that she could talk to him—appeal, even on the edge, to his better nature. Tell him that his actions were an outrage—a crime. But what did that matter to someone who lived his life outside the law anyway? her reeling mind demanded.

Her efforts were in vain. The arm that held her had muscles of steel. At the same time, his free hand was loosening the dishevelled knot of her hair, his fingers twisting in its silky strands to hold her still for the ravishment of his kiss.

Her breasts were crushed against his naked chest. She could feel the warmth of his skin penetrating her thin dress. Felt the heat surge in her own body to meet it.

She heard herself moan faintly in anguished protest—pleading that this man, to whom she’d once given her innocence, would not now take her by force.

But Sandro used the slight parting of her lips for his own advantage, deepening the intimacy of his kiss with sensual intensity as his tongue invaded the moist sweetness of her mouth.

No sign now of the tenderness with which he’d caressed her fingers only moments ago. Just the urgency of a need too powerful to be denied any longer.

A fever in the blood, he’d called it, she thought in a kind of despair, her starved body craving him in turn. And how was it possible that she could feel like this? That she could want him so desperately in return?

When at last he raised his head, the scar on his face was livid against the fierce burn of colour along his taut cheekbones.

He said, ‘Take off your dress,’ his voice hoarse, shaken. And when he saw her hesitate, ‘Or do you wish me to tear it off you?’

‘No.’ She sounded small and breathless. ‘I—I’ll do it.’ She turned away from him, as her shaking fingers fought with the buttons. When half of them were loose, she pushed the navy linen from her shoulders, freeing her arms from the sleeves as she did so, and letting the dress fall to the floor.

She faced him slowly, her arms crossed defensively across her body, trying to conceal the scraps of white broderie anglaise that were now her only covering.

‘But how delicious,’ he said, softly. ‘Bought for your lover?’

Polly shook her hair back from her face. ‘I dress to please myself.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘And now you will undress to please me. Per favore,’ he added silkily.

She could hear nothing but the wild drumming of her own pulses, and the tear of her ragged breathing. See nothing but the heated flare of hunger in his eyes. A hunger without gentleness, demanding to be appeased.

And his hands reaching for her—like some ruthless hawk about to seize his prey.

Not like this, she thought in anguish. Oh, dear God, not like this. Not to lie naked in his arms and be taken—enjoyed for one night alone. To be used, however skilfully, just so that he could get her out of his system, only to find herself discarded all over again when his need for her was finally assuaged. And to be forced to go through all that suffering a second time—unappeased.

It was unthinkable—unbearable.

Her voice shook. ‘Sandro—please—don’t hurt me …’

She paused, knowing she was on the edge of complete self-betrayal here. Realising too that she must not let him see that he still had the power to inflict more misery on her.

The sudden silence was total. He was completely still, apart from a muscle which moved swiftly, convulsively in his throat.

When at last he spoke, his voice was hoarse. ‘Dio mio, you think that I’m going to rape you? That I might be capable of such a thing?’ He shook his head. ‘How could you believe that? It is an insult to everything we have ever been to each other.’

He lifted his hand, and touched the scar. ‘This has only altered my face, Paola. It has not turned me into a monster.’

‘I—I didn’t mean …’ Polly began, then bit her lip. This was a misunderstanding that she could not put right—not without the kind of explanation she was desperate to avoid, she told herself wretchedly.

‘Basta,’ Sandro said sharply. ‘Enough.’ He bent and retrieved his shirt from the floor, dragging it on with swift, jerky movements.

‘Now dress yourself and go,’ he instructed icily. ‘And be quick. Otherwise I might lose all self-respect, and justify your low opinion of me. Punish you in the way you deserve,’ he added grimly.

He went to the door, unlocked it, then turned.

‘Remember this, mia bella.’ His voice grated across her taut nerve-endings, just as his contemptuous gaze flayed her skin. ‘Even if I had taken you there on the floor like the sciattona you are, it would still not have been rape.’ He smiled at her with insolent certainty. ‘You know it as well as I do, so do not fool yourself.

‘Now, get out of my sight,’ he added curtly, and left, slamming the door behind him.

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