She was just about to pull her coat on when she heard a voice…a voice of cool confidence and warm admiration.

A voice that slid across her senses and into her soul, stirring up those emotions and memories she’d tried so hard to lock away.

It all came rushing back with that voice… The memories, the fear, the regrets, the betrayal. She relived the worst night of her life once more, simply by hearing two little words that she knew somehow would change her world for ever.

‘Hello, Allegra,’ Stefano said.

Kate Hewitt discovered her first Mills & Boon® romance on a trip to England when she was thirteen, and she’s continued to read them ever since. She wrote her first story at the age of five, simply because her older brother had written one and she thought she could do it too. That story was one sentence long— fortunately they’ve become a bit more detailed as she’s grown older.

She has written plays, short stories, and magazine serials for many years, but writing romance remains her first love. Besides writing, she enjoys reading, travelling, and learning to knit.

After marrying the man of her dreams—her older brother’s childhood friend—she lived in England for six years, and now resides in Connecticut with her husband, her three young children, and the possibility of one day getting a dog.

Kate loves to hear from readers—you can contact her through her website: www.kate-hewitt.com

Recent books by the same author:

RUTHLESS BOSS, HIRED WIFE

THE GREEK TYCOON’S CONVENIENT BRIDE

THE ITALIAN’S CHOSEN WIFE

THE ITALIAN’S BOUGHT BRIDE

BY

KATE HEWITT

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Abby, for being a wonderful friend and confidante. You’ve seen my tears! Love, K.

CHAPTER ONE

STEFANO CAPOZZI SAT in the well-appointed office of one of Milan’s top psychiatrists, his eyes glittering in a face set like stone.

‘It has been eight months,’ he said flatly, even though Renaldo Speri had the case notes on his desk. ‘Eight months of every treatment available, imaginable, and no change.’

Speri smiled in sympathetic understanding. ‘You cannot expect a miracle cure, Signor Capozzi. You may not be able to expect a cure at all.’ He trailed off as he took in Stefano’s unrelenting gaze.

Stefano shook his head. ‘I want better.’

He would have better. He wouldn’t accept brush-offs or excuses. He’d come to Milan to find the best therapist for the child in his charge, and he would have it.

Speri ran a hand through his thinning hair and sighed. ‘Signor Capozzi, you must face the very real possibility that Lucio falls on the spectrum of pervasive development disorder—’

‘No.’ After eight months of Lucio’s silence and stress, he would not accept it. He was used to obstacles in business, and personal ones would prove no different, no more difficult. ‘Lucio was normal before his father died. He was like any other child—’

‘Autism often manifests itself at three years of age,’ Speri explained gently. ‘Lucio had only a little speech before his father’s death, and lost it completely in the months afterwards.’

Stefano raised one eyebrow in scathing scepticism. ‘And you are now trying to tell me that the two aren’t related?’

‘I am trying to tell you that it is a possibility,’ Speri said, his voice becoming strained with patience. ‘As difficult as it may be to accept.’

Stefano was silent for a moment. ‘There is no cure for autism,’ he finally said. He’d done his research. He’d read the books, seen the statistics.

‘There are therapies, diets, that alleviate some of the symptoms,’ Speri said quietly. ‘And it also depends where he falls on the spectrum—’

‘He’s not on the spectrum.’

‘Signor—’

‘I want something else.’ Stefano levelled his gaze at the psychiatrist and waited.

After a moment Speri raised his hands in a defeated gesture. ‘Signor Capozzi, we have tried therapies and grief counselling, and as you’ve reminded me, there has been no change. If anything, Lucio has descended deeper into his own iron-walled world. If this were a case of normal grief—’

‘What,’ Stefano asked icily, ‘is normal about grief?’

‘The grieving process is normal,’ Speri said steadily. ‘And accepted. But Lucio’s behaviour is not normal, and there should have been signs of improvement in communication by now. There have been none.’

On his lap, out of sight, Stefano’s hand curled into a fist. ‘I know that.’

‘Then accept that he might fall on the spectrum, and turn to the therapies and treatments that can help him best!’

Stefano was silent. Carefully, deliberately, he flattened his hand, resting it on the desktop. When Lucio’s mother, Bianca, had asked him to help, to come to Milan and tell ‘those doctors’ that her son was not autistic, Stefano had accepted. He had believed Bianca then, but now he felt the first flicker of doubt.

He would do anything for Bianca, anything for Lucio. Their family had saved him all those years ago, had pulled him up from the mire of his upbringing, giving him the steps and tools to be the man he was today.

He would never forget it.

‘Surely there is something we haven’t tried,’ he said at last. ‘Before we accept this diagnosis.’

‘The psychiatrists involved in an autism diagnosis are very thorough,’ Speri said. ‘And competent. They do not make such a judgement incautiously.’

‘Agreed,’ Stefano said tersely. ‘But still—is there something else?’

Speri was silent for a long moment. ‘There is,’ he finally said, his voice reluctant, ‘a therapist who had success with a child who’d been diagnosed with autism. Misdiagnosed, as the case turned out. He’d suffered a severe trauma the therapists working with him were unaware of, and when it was uncovered he began to regain his speech.’

Hope—treacherous, desperate—unfurled within him. ‘Then couldn’t Lucio be like that boy?’ Stefano demanded.

‘I don’t want to offer you false hope,’ Speri said, and the reluctance in his voice became more pronounced. ‘That was one case—an anomaly, a fluke—’

Stefano cut him off; he didn’t want to hear about anomalies. He wanted hope, he wanted certainty. ‘Who is this therapist?’

‘She’s an art therapist,’ Speri said. ‘Often creative therapies help children release suppressed emotions and memories, as was the case with this child. However, Lucio’s symptoms are more severe…’

‘Creative therapies,’ Stefano repeated. He didn’t like the sound of it. It sounded abstract, absurd. ‘What exactly do you mean?’

‘She uses the creative arts to provide an outlet, whether through art, song or performance, for a child’s suppressed emotions. Sometimes it is the key that can unlock a child who has been unable to be reached.’

Unlock. It was an apt word, Stefano thought, when he considered Lucio’s blank face and staring eyes. And no words. Not one word spoken in nearly a year.

‘All right, then,’ he said shortly. ‘We’ll try it. I want her.’

‘It was one case—’ Speri began, and Stefano silenced him with a raised hand.

‘I want her.’

‘She lives in London. I read of the case in a journal and we corresponded briefly, but I don’t know…’

‘She’s English?’ Disappointment sliced through him. Of what use to him—to Lucio—was an English therapist?

‘No, I wouldn’t have mentioned her if that was the case,’ Speri said with a faint smile. ‘She’s Italian, but I don’t believe she’s been back to Italy in many years.’

‘She’ll come,’ Stefano said firmly. He would make sure of it—offer whatever enticements or inducements she needed. ‘How long did she work with this other child?’

‘A few months—’

‘Then I want her in Abruzzo, with Lucio, as soon as possible.’ Stefano spoke with a finality that took the psychiatrist aback.

‘Signor Capozzi, she’ll have other patients, responsibilities—’

‘She can get rid of them.’

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘Yes,’ Stefano said flatly. ‘It is. It will be. Lucio can’t be moved; it’s too upsetting for him. She’ll come to Abruzzo. And stay.’

Speri shifted uncomfortably. ‘That will be for you to negotiate with her, of course. Such an intensive course is to be recom-mended, although there are no guarantees, but it is also costly…’

‘Money,’ Stefano replied with the barest flicker of a smile, ‘is no object.’

‘Naturally.’ Speri looked down at his notes; Stefano knew the highlights of his own CV were sketched there. Stefano Capozzi, founder of Capozzi Electronica. Liquidator of a dozen of Italy’s top electronics firms. Unrivalled.

‘I’ll give you her details,’ Speri said with a little sigh of capitulation. ‘I have the article about her and the case I mentioned here. I should tell you she’s young, quite newly qualified, relatively inexperienced, but of course that case was remarkable…’

‘That boy recovered? He spoke again?’ Stefano demanded. He didn’t like the flicker of compassion—or was it pity?—in the doctor’s eyes.

‘Yes,’ Speri said quietly, ‘he did. But it isn’t that simple, Signor Capozzi. And Lucio might be different. He might indeed be—’

‘Her details, please.’ Stefano held out his hand. He didn’t expect things to be simple. He just wanted them started.

‘Just a moment…’ Speri looked through his papers again. ‘Ah, here’s the article I mentioned.’ He smiled and handed Stefano a medical journal, opened to a folded page. ‘Here she is…a lovely photograph, don’t you think? Allegra Avesti is her name.’

Stefano didn’t hear the last part of what Speri had said, but then he didn’t need to. He knew her name. He knew her.

Or at least, he once had.

Allegra Avesti. The woman who should have been his wife, the woman he no longer knew.

His concern for Lucio fell away for a moment as he gazed at the caption: ‘Allegra Avesti, Art Therapist, with patient’. Memories swam to the surface and he forced them back down again, drowning them as his dispassionate gaze moved to the photo. He saw that she was older, thinner. She was smiling in the photo, hazel eyes glinting as she looked at the child by her side, his little fists pounding a lump of clay.

Her head was tilted to one side, her hair, a thousand shades of sunlight, piled in a careless knot, tendrils escaping to trail her cheek, her shoulder.

Her eyes sparkled and her smile was wide, encouraging, full of hope. He could almost hear the tinkling promise of pure joy. She had dimples, he saw. He’d never known. He’d never seen them. Had she not laughed like that in his presence?

Perhaps not.

He stared at the picture—the ghost of a girl he’d once known, an image of a woman he’d never met.

Allegra.

His Allegra…except she wasn’t, he knew that, had known it when he’d waited while she’d walked away. For ever.

He closed the journal, handed it back to Speri. Thought of Lucio. Only Lucio. ‘Indeed, a lovely picture,’ he said without any intonation or expression. The look of joy and hope on Allegra’s face would be an inspiration to many a fearful and weary parent, seeking answers for their child. ‘I shall contact her.’

Speri nodded. ‘And if for some reason she is occupied, we can discuss…alternatives…’

Stefano acknowledged this statement with a brusque nod. He knew Allegra would not be busy. He would make sure she was not. If she was the best, if she’d helped a child like Lucio, he would have her.

Even if it was Allegra.

Especially if it was Allegra.

The past, he vowed, would not matter when it came to helping Lucio. The past would not matter at all.

Allegra Avesti gazed into the mirror of the ladies’ powder room at the Dorchester Hotel and grimaced. Her hair was meant to be in a carelessly elegant chignon, but it looked as if she’d only succeeded with the first part of that plan.

At least her dress hit the right note, she decided with satisfaction. Smoky-grey silk, cut severely across the collarbone and held up by two skinny straps on each shoulder, it was elegant and sexy without being too revealing.

It had cost a fortune, far more than she could afford on her earnings as a therapist. Yet she’d wanted to look good for her cousin Daphne’s wedding. She’d wanted to feel good.

As if she fitted in.

Except, she knew, she didn’t. Not really. Not since the night she’d fled her own wedding and left everyone else to pick up the scattered pieces.

With a little sigh she took a lipstick and blusher out of her handbag. She didn’t think of that night, chose never to think of it—the shattered dream, the broken heart. The betrayal, the fear.

Yet her cousin’s wedding this evening had brought her own almost-wedding to the forefront of her mind, and it had taken all her energy and emotion to push it back into the box where she liked to keep those memories. That life.

The wedding had been lovely, a candlelit ceremony at a small London church. Daphne, with her heart-shaped face, soft voice and cloud of dark hair, had looked tremulously beautiful. Her husband, a high-flyer at an advertising firm in the City, seemed a bit too self-assured for Allegra’s taste, but she hoped her cousin had found happiness. Love. If such things could truly be found.

Yet, during the ceremony, she’d listened to the vows they’d spoken with undisguised cynicism.

‘Will you love her, comfort her, honour and protect her, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?’

As the words had washed over her, Allegra couldn’t help but think of her own wedding day, the day that never happened, the vows she’d never spoken.

Stefano hadn’t loved her, wouldn’t comfort her or honour her. Protect her? Yes, she thought wryly, he would have done that. Faithful? Doubtful…

Yet she still felt, sitting in that dimly lit church, an unidentifiable stab of longing, of something almost like regret.

Except she didn’t regret anything. She certainly didn’t regret walking out on Stefano. Although her uncle—and sometimes it seemed the rest of society—blamed her for that fiasco, Allegra knew the real fiasco would have been if she’d stayed.

But she was free, she told herself firmly. She was free and happy.

Allegra turned away from the mirror. She’d survived Daphne’s wedding, slipping out before anyone could corner her, but she wasn’t looking forward to the reception tonight. She was in a melancholy mood, didn’t feel like chatting and laughing and dancing. And although she loved Daphne and her Aunt Barbara, her relationship with her Uncle George had always been strained.

She hadn’t spoken to her uncle more than a handful of times in the seven years since he’d first sheltered her when she’d fled Italy, and those conversations had been uncomfortable at best.

Straightening, she left the luxurious powder room. It had been a hell of a day—running from appointment to appointment at the hospital, grappling with one serious and seemingly hopeless case after another. There had been no breakthroughs, no breath of hope.

Not today.

She loved her job, loved it with an intensity that some said should be replaced with the love of—and for—a man, but Allegra knew she was happy as she was. Happy and free, she reminded herself again firmly.

Still, the hopelessness of some of her cases, the children who had seen far too much suffering, too much sorrow, wore her down. She only had a few moments with them, perhaps an hour a week at most, and doctors expected breakthroughs. Parents expected miracles.

Once in a while, God was good. Once in a while they happened.

But not today.

The reception was being held in the Orchid Room, with its walls of delicate blue and ornate painted scrollery. A string quartet had been arranged near a parquet dance floor, and guests circulated amidst waiters bearing trays of hors d’oeuvres and sparkling champagne.

Allegra surveyed the glittering crowd and lifted her chin. She wasn’t used to this. She didn’t go to parties.

The last party she’d attended—a party like this, with society in full swing—had been for her own engagement. She’d worn a poufy, pink dress and heels that had pinched her feet, and she’d been so happy. So excited.

She shook her head as if to banish the thought, the memory. Why was she thinking—remembering—those days now? Why was she letting the memories sift through her mind like ghosts from another life—a life that had never happened? A life she’d run away from.

It was the wedding tonight, she decided. It was the first one she’d attended since she’d abandoned her own.

Forget it, Allegra told herself as she plucked a flute of champagne from one of the circulating trays and made her way through the crowd. Her cousin’s wedding was bound to stir up some unpleasant memories, unpalatable feelings. That was all this mood was, and she could deal with it.

Allegra took a sip of champagne, let the bubbles fizz defiantly through her and surveyed the milling crowd.

‘Allegra…I’m so glad you could come.’

She turned to see her Aunt Barbara smiling uncertainly at her. Dowdy but cheerful, Barbara Mason wore a lime coloured evening gown that did nothing for her pasty complexion or grey-streaked hair.

Allegra smiled warmly back. ‘I’m glad to be here as well,’ she returned a little less than truthfully. ‘I’m so thrilled for Daphne.’

‘Yes…they’ll be very happy, don’t you think?’ Barbara’s anxious gaze flitted to her daughter, who was chatting and smiling, her husband’s arm around her shoulders.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know much about the groom,’ Allegra said, taking another sip of champagne. ‘His name is Charles?’

‘Charles Edmunds. They met at work. You know Daphne’s been a PA at Hobbs and Ford?’

Allegra nodded. Although her uncle disapproved of Allegra keeping in touch with his family, she still spoke to Barbara on the telephone every few months, and several times Daphne had defied her father to meet Allegra for lunch.

She’d learned at one of those outings that Daphne had secured a job as PA at an advertising firm, despite her obvious lack of qualifications. Her father’s, apparently, had been enough.

‘I’m happy for them,’ she said. She watched Charles Edmunds as he glanced down at his wife, smiling easily. Then he raised his eyes, surveying the ballroom with a gaze that was steely and grey. Looking for business contacts, associates? Allegra wondered cynically. Someone worth knowing, at any rate, she decided as his eyes passed over her and Barbara without a flicker.

So much for true love, she thought with a little grimace. Charles Edmunds was a man like most others—cold, ambitious, on the prowl.

‘Barbara!’ Her uncle’s sharp voice cut across the murmur of the crowd. Both Allegra and her aunt tensed as George Mason strode towards them, his narrow features sharpened by dislike as he glanced at his niece.

‘Barbara, you should see to your guests,’ he commanded tersely, and Barbara offered Allegra a quick, defeated smile of apology. Allegra smiled back.

‘It was good to see you, Allegra,’ Barbara murmured. ‘We don’t see enough of you,’ she added with a shred of defiance. George motioned her away with a shooing gesture, and Barbara went.

There was a moment of tense silence and Allegra swivelled the slick, moisture-beaded stem of her champagne flute between her fingers, wondering what to say to a man who had ordered her from his house seven years ago. The few times she’d seen him since, at increasingly infrequent family gatherings, they’d avoided each other.

Now they were face to face.

He looked the same as ever, she saw as she slid him a glance from beneath her lashes. Thin, grey-haired, well-dressed, precise. Cold eyes and a prim, pursed mouth. Absolutely no humour.

‘Thank you for inviting me, Uncle George,’ Allegra finally said. ‘It was good of you, considering.’

‘I had to invite you, Allegra,’ George replied. ‘You’re family, even though you’ve hardly acted like it in the last seven years.’

Allegra pressed her lips together to keep from uttering a sharp retort. She wasn’t the one who had ordered so-called family out of his house, and who had made it increasingly difficult for Allegra to stay in touch.

Running away had been her only crime, and her uncle never failed to remind her of it.

For in running away she’d shamed him. Allegra still remembered her uncle’s fury when she’d shown up, terrified and exhausted, on his doorstep.

‘You can stay the night,’ he’d said grimly, ‘and then you need to be gone.’

‘He does business with Stefano Capozzi,’ her aunt had explained, desperate for Allegra to understand and not to judge. ‘If he’s seen sheltering you, Capozzi could make life very unpleasant for him, Allegra. For all of us.’

It had been an unpleasant insight into her former fiancé’s character. She had wondered then if Stefano would come for her, find her. Make life unpleasant for her.

He hadn’t, and as far as she knew he’d never made life unpleasant for her uncle. She wondered sometimes whether that had been a convenient excuse for George Mason to wash his hands of her, especially when her own defection had been followed so quickly by her mother’s.

Her mother…another person, another life, Allegra chose not to remember.

Now she met her uncle’s cold gaze. ‘I needed help and you gave it to me,’ she said levelly. Her fingers tightened on the stem of her glass. ‘I’ll always be grateful for that.’

‘And you’ll show it by keeping out of my way,’ George finished coolly. ‘And Daphne’s. Her nerves are strung high enough as it is.’

Allegra felt a flush creeping up her throat, staining her face. She kept her chin high. ‘I certainly don’t want to cause any dismay to my cousin. I’ll pay my respects and leave as soon as possible.’

‘Good,’ he replied shortly before moving off.

Allegra straightened proudly. She felt as if every eye in the faceless crowd was focused on her, seeing, knowing, condemning, even though she knew no one cared.

Except her uncle and his family.

A waiter passed and Allegra placed her nearly untouched champagne on his tray.

Murmuring her excuses as she moved through the crowd, she found a secluded corner of the ballroom and took her position there, half hidden behind a potted palm.

She took a deep breath and surveyed the circulating crowd. No one was paying any attention to her, she knew, because she wasn’t important. Her flight from Italy seven years ago was little cause of concern or even gossip these days.

She’d kept her head down and well out of society’s glare these last years, working two jobs to pay for her schooling. She was far, far from this glamorous crowd, the glittering lifestyle. Yet the people who knew her, who were supposed to love her…what had happened seven years ago still mattered to them. And it always would.

It didn’t bother her on a day-to-day basis. She didn’t need these people. She had a new life now, a good one. When she’d left that night, she’d gained her freedom, but the price for that freedom had been, quite literally, everything.

It had been a price worth paying.

The music died down and Allegra saw everyone heading to the tables. Dinner was about to be served.

Taking another deep breath, she moved through the crowds again and found her place card. She was at a table tucked in the back with a motley handful of guests who looked to be nearly as out of place as she was. Distant, vaguely embarrassing relatives, colleagues and friends who necessitated an invitation yet were not an asset to the sparkling and successful party George Mason intended for his daughter.

An art therapist with a disreputable past certainly fitted into that category, Allegra thought ruefully.

With a murmured hello, she took her place between an overweight aunt and a weedy looking businessman. The meal passed in stilted conversations and awkward silences as eight misfits attempted to get along.

Allegra let the conversation wash over her in a meaningless tide of sound and wondered just how soon she could leave.

She wanted to see Daphne but, with the cold, ambitious Charles Edmunds at her cousin’s side, Allegra wasn’t expecting a cosy cousinly chat.

The plates were cleared and her uncle stood up to speak. Allegra watched him posture importantly, talking about how he knew Charles Edmunds, cracking business jokes. At one point he pontificated on the importance of family and she smothered the stab of resentment that threatened to pierce her composure.

Soon after, the music started up again and Allegra excused herself from the table before anyone could ask her to dance. The junior from Charles’s office had been eyeing her with a determined expression.

She moved through the crowds, her head held high, her eyes meeting no one else’s.

Daphne stood apart with her husband, pale and luminous in a designer wedding gown that hugged her slight figure before flaring out in a row of ruffles.

‘Hello, Daphne,’ Allegra said.

Her cousin—the cousin she’d shared summers in Italy with, swimming and laughing and plaiting each other’s hair—now turned to her with a worried expression.

‘Hh… Hello, Allegra,’ she said after a moment, her apprehensive gaze flicking to her husband. ‘Have you met Charles?’

Charles Edmunds smiled coolly. ‘Yes, your cousin came to our engagement party. Don’t you remember, darling?’

He made it sound as if she’d crashed the party. She supposed that was what her attendance felt like. Still, she’d wanted to come, had wanted to show that no matter what they did or thought, she was still family.

‘Daphne, I only wanted to congratulate you,’ Allegra said quietly. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave a bit early—’

‘Oh, Allegra—’ Daphne looked both relieved and regretful ‘—I’m sorry…’

‘No, it’s fine.’ Allegra smiled and squeezed her cousin’s hand. ‘It’s fine. I’m tired anyway. It’s been a long day.’

‘Thank you,’ Daphne whispered, and Allegra wondered just what her cousin was thanking her for. For coming? Or for leaving? Or for simply not making a scene?

As if she ever would. She’d only made one scene in her life, and she didn’t plan on doing so again.

‘Goodbye,’ she murmured, and quickly kissed her cousin’s cold cheek.

In the foyer, she found the cloakroom and handed the attendant her ticket. She watched as the woman riffled through the rack of luxury wraps for her own plain and inexpensive coat.

‘Here you are, miss.’

‘Thank you.’

She was just about to pull it on when she heard a voice—a voice of cool confidence and warm admiration. A voice that slid across her senses and into her soul, stirring up those emotions and memories she’d tried so hard to lock away.

It all came rushing back with that voice—the memories, the fear, the regrets, the betrayal. It hurtled back, making her relive the worst night of her life once more, simply by hearing two little words that she knew, somehow, would change her world for ever.

‘Hello, Allegra,’ Stefano said.

CHAPTER TWO

Seven years earlier

TOMORROW WOULD BE her wedding day. A day of lacy dresses and sunlit kisses, of magic, of promise, of joy and wonder.

Allegra pressed one hand to her wildly beating heart. Outside the Tuscan villa, night settled softly, stealing over purple- cloaked hills and winding its way through the dusty olive groves.

Inside the warm glow of a lamp cast the room into pools of light and shadow. Allegra surveyed her childhood bedroom: the pink pillows and teddy bears vying for space on her narrow girl’s bed, the shelf of well-thumbed Enid Blyton books borrowed from English cousins, her early sketches lovingly framed by her childhood nurse, and lastly—wonderfully—her wedding dress, as frothy a confection as any young bride could wish for, swathed in plastic and hanging from her cupboard door.

She let out a little laugh, a giggle of girlish joy. She was getting married!

She’d met Stefano Capozzi thirteen months ago, at her eighteenth birthday party. She’d seen him as she’d picked her way down the stairs in her new, awkward heels. He’d been waiting at the bottom like Rhett Butler, amber eyes glinting with promise, one hand stretched out to her.

She’d taken his hand as naturally as if she’d known him, as if she’d expected him to be there. When he’d asked her to dance, she’d simply walked into his arms.

It had been so easy. So right.

And, Allegra thought happily, there hadn’t been a misstep since. Stefano had asked her out a handful of times, to restaurants and the theatre and a few local parties. He’d written her letters from Paris and Rome, when he was on business, and sent her flowers and trinkets.

And then he’d asked her to marry him…to be his wife. And he would be her husband.

Another giggle escaped her and she heard an answering echo of a laugh from outside, low, throaty, seductive. Allegra opened the shutter and peeped out; she saw a couple in the shadow of a tree, arms, bodies entwined. The woman’s head was thrown back and the man was kissing her neck.

Allegra shivered. Stefano had never kissed her neck. The few times he’d kissed her, he had been chaste, almost brotherly, yet the brush of his lips against her skin had sent a strange sensation pooling deep inside, flooding through her with an unfamiliar, new warmth.

Now she watched, fascinated, as the unknown couple’s bodies moved and writhed in a sensuous dance.

She drew in a little breath, her eyes still fastened on the couple, the balmy night air cooling her flushed face. Suddenly she wanted to see Stefano. She wanted to say…what?

That she loved him? She’d never said those three little words, and neither had he, but it hardly mattered. Surely he saw it shining from her eyes every time she looked at him. And, as for Stefano…how could she doubt? He’d sought her out, he’d courted her like a troubadour. Of course he loved her.

Yet now she wanted to see him, talk to him. Touch him.

A blush rose to her face and she turned away from the window and the couple, who had moved further into the shadows, her hands pressed to her hot cheeks.

She’d only seen Stefano with his shirt off once, when they’d all gone swimming in the lake. She’d had a glimpse of bare, brown muscle before she’d jerked her gaze away.

And yet tomorrow they would be married. They would be lovers. She knew as much; even she, kept away in convent school, knew the basics of life. Of sex.

Her mind darted away from the implications, the impossibilities. What vague images her fevered brain conjured were blurred, strange, embarrassing.

Yet she still wanted to see him. Now.

Stefano was a night owl; he’d told her before. Allegra didn’t think he’d be in bed yet. He’d be downstairs, in her father’s study or library, reading one of his fusty old books.

She could find him.

Taking a breath, Allegra opened her bedroom door and crept down the passage. The soft September air was cool, although perhaps she was just hot.

Her hand was slick on the wrought iron railing as she went down the stairs. In the hall, she heard voices from the library.

‘This time tomorrow you will have your little bride,’ her father, Roberto, said. He sounded as sleekly satisfied as a tomcat.

‘And you will have what you want,’ Stefano replied, and Allegra jerked involuntarily at the sound of his voice—cool, urbane, indifferent.

She’d never heard him speak in such a tone before.

‘Yes, indeed I will. This is a good business arrangement for us both, Stefano…my son.’

‘Indeed it is,’ Stefano agreed in a bland tone that still somehow made Allegra shiver. ‘I’m pleased that you approached me.’

‘And not too bad a price, eh?’ Roberto chuckled, an ugly, indulgent sound. Allegra’s flesh crawled at the sound—a sound she realized she’d never heard, a sound she’d been protected from. Her father’s own callousness. Towards her.

‘Allegra’s mother has raised her well,’ Roberto continued. ‘She’ll give you five or six bambinos and then you can keep her in the country.’ He chuckled again. ‘She’ll know her place. And I know a woman in Milan…she’s very good.’

‘Is she?’

Allegra choked, one fist pressed to her lips. What was her father saying? What was Stefano saying?

Their words beat a remorseless echo in her numb brain. Business arrangement. A deal to be brokered. A bargain to be had.

A woman to be sold.

They were talking about a marriage. Hers.

She shook her head in mute, instinctive denial.

‘Yes,’ Roberto said, ‘she is. There are many pleasures for the married man, Stefano.’

Stefano gave a light answering laugh. ‘That I believe.’

Allegra closed her eyes, her hand still against her mouth. She felt dizzy and strange, her heart thudding hopelessly in her chest.

She took a calming breath and tried to think. To trust. Surely there was some explanation why Stefano was saying the things he was, sounding the way he was. If she just asked…it would be all right. Everything would be just as it had been.

‘Allegra! What are you doing here?’

Her eyes flew open. Stefano stood in front of her, an expression of concern—or was it annoyance?—on his face. Suddenly Allegra couldn’t tell. She wondered if she’d ever been able to tell.

Even now, her gaze roved hungrily over his features—the bronzed planes of his cheekbones, the thick chocolate-coloured hair swept away from his forehead, his amber eyes glinting in the dim light.

‘I…’ Her mouth was dry and the questions died in her heart. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’ ‘Too excited, fiorina?’ Stefano smiled, but now everything had been cast into doubt and Allegra wondered if she saw arrogant amusement in that gesture rather than the tendernessshe’d always supposed. ‘In less than twelve hours we will be man and wife. Can you not wait until then to see me?’ He cupped her cheek, letting his thumb drift to caress her lips. Her mouth parted involuntarily and his smile deepened. ‘Go to bed, Allegra. Dream of me.’

He dropped his hand and turned away, dismissing her. Allegra watched him, watched the clean, broad lines of his back, tapering to narrow hips, watched him move away from her.

‘Do you love me?’ As soon as she’d asked the question, she wished she could bite back the words. Gobble them up and swallow them whole. They sounded desperate, pleading, pathetic.

And yet it was a reasonable question, wasn’t it? They were about to be married. Yet as she saw Stefano turn slowly around, his body tense and alert, she felt as if it wasn’t.

She felt as if she’d asked something wrong. Something stupid.

‘Allegra?’ he queried softly, and she heard a stern note of warning in the sound of her name.

‘I heard you…and Papa…’ she whispered, wanting even now to explain, to understand. Yet the words trailed off as she saw Stefano’s expression change, his eyes turning blank and hard, the mobile curve of his mouth flattening into an unforgiving line.

‘Business, Allegra, business between men. It is nothing you need concern yourself with.’

‘It sounded…’ Her mouth was dry and she licked her lips. ‘It sounded so…’

‘So what?’ Stefano challenged.

‘Cold,’ she whispered.

Stefano raised his eyebrows. ‘What are you trying to say to me, Allegra? Are you having second thoughts?’

‘No!’ She grabbed for his hand and after a second he coolly withdrew it. ‘Stefano…I just wondered…the things you said…’

‘Do you doubt that I’ll care for you? Protect and provide for you?’ he demanded.

‘No,’ Allegra said quickly, ‘but Stefano, I want more than that. I want—’

He shook his head with slow, final deliberation. ‘What more is there?’

Allegra gazed at him with wide, startled eyes. What more is there? So much more, she wanted to say. There was kindness, respect, honesty. Sharing joy and laughter, as well as sorrow and heartache. Bearing one another’s burdens in love. Yet she saw the hard lines of Stefano’s face, the coldness of his eyes, and knew that he was not thinking of these things.

They didn’t matter.

They didn’t exist.

Allegra licked her lips. ‘But Stefano…’ she whispered, although she didn’t know what to say. She barely knew what to feel.

Stefano held one hand up to stop her half-spoken plea. Something twisted his features, flickered in his eyes. Allegra didn’t know what it was, but she didn’t like it. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, cold and frightening. ‘Are you questioning what kind of man I am?’

His voice and face were so harsh, unfamiliar. Allegra shook her head. ‘No!’ she gasped, and it came out in a half sob for she knew then that she was. And so did he.

Stefano was silent for a long moment, his gaze hard and fastened on hers, until Allegra could bear it no longer and stared at the floor.

She realized he was treating her like a child—a child to be charmed or chastened, placated or punished.

With sudden, stark clarity, she realized he’d always treated her this way. She’d never felt like a wife, or even a woman.

She wondered if she ever would.

‘Go to bed, Allegra.’ He tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear, his thumb skimming her face once more. ‘Go to bed, mylittle bride. Tomorrow is our wedding day. A new beginning, for both of us.’

‘Yes…’ she whispered. Except it didn’t feel like a beginning. It felt like the end. Her throat was raw and aching and she couldn’t look at him as she nodded. The implications of what he had said to her father—what he had now said to her—were flooding through her, an endless tide of confusion and fear. ‘Yes…all right.’

‘Do not be afraid.’

She nodded again, jerkily, as she moved backwards up the stairs. Stefano gazed up at her, his eyes burning into her mind, her heart, her soul. Burning and destroying.

She turned around and ran the rest of the way up.

‘Allegra!’

Gasping aloud in frightened surprise, she saw her mother, Isabel, striding down the upstairs corridor. Allegra glanced behind her, but she could no longer see Stefano.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Isabel demanded, belting her dressing gown, her long, still-blonde hair streaming behind her in a smooth ripple.

‘I…I couldn’t sleep.’ Allegra stumbled into her bedroom and her mother followed. Everything was unchanged, she saw—the teddy bears, the tattered books, her wedding dress. All signs of her innocence, her ignorance.

‘What is wrong?’ Isabel asked. Her face, with its austere beauty, was harsh. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!’

‘Nothing is wrong,’ Allegra lied quickly. ‘I couldn’t sleep and I went for a drink of water.’

Isabel arched one eyebrow and Allegra shrank back a little. She wasn’t frightened of her mother, but she couldn’t help but be nervous around her. After a lifetime of nannies and boarding school, she sometimes wondered if she even knew her mother at all.

Isabel’s cold eyes swept over Allegra’s dishevelled appearance. ‘Have you seen Stefano?’ she asked, and there was a sly note in her voice that made Allegra’s skin crawl even as she shook her head.

‘No. No, I—’

‘Don’t lie to me, Allegra.’ Isabel took her daughter’s chin in her hand, forcing her to remain still, as pinned as a butterfly uselessly fluttering its fragile wings. ‘You never could lie to me,’ Isabel said. ‘You’ve seen him. But what’s happened?’ There was a cruel note in her voice as she added, ‘Has the fairy tale been tarnished, my dear daughter?’

Allegra didn’t know what her mother meant, but she didn’t like her tone. Even so, she felt trapped, helpless. And alone.

And she wanted to confide in someone, anyone, even her mother.

‘I saw him,’ she whispered, blinking back tears.

There was a tiny pause that spoke far more than anything her mother could have said in words. ‘And?’

‘I heard him talking to Papa…’ Allegra closed her eyes, shook her head.

Her mother exhaled impatiently. ‘So?’

‘It’s all been a business arrangement!’ This came out in a wretched whisper that caught on the jagged edge of her throat. Tears stung her eyes. ‘Stefano never loved me.’

Her mother watched her with cool impassivity. ‘Of course he didn’t.’

Allegra’s mouth dropped open as another illusion was ripped away. ‘You knew? You knew all along…?’ Yet even as she spoke the words, Allegra wondered why she was surprised. Her mother had never confided in her, never seemed to enjoy her company. Why shouldn’t Isabel know? Why shouldn’t she have been in on the sordid deal, the business of brokering a wife, selling a daughter?

‘Oh, Allegra, you are such a child.’ Isabel sounded weary rather than regretful. ‘Of course I knew. Your father approached Stefano before your eighteenth birthday and suggested the match. Our social connections, his money. That was why he was at your party. That was why you had a party.’

‘Just to meet him?’

‘For him to meet you,’ Isabel corrected coolly. ‘To see if you were suitable. And you were.’

Allegra let out a wild laugh. ‘I don’t want to be suitable! I want to be loved!’

‘Like Cinderella?’ It would have been a taunt if her mother didn’t sound so tired, so bitter. ‘Like Snow White? Life is not a fairy tale, Allegra. It wasn’t for me and it won’t be for you.’

Allegra spun away, her hands scrubbing her face, bunching in her hair as if she could somehow yank the memory from her mind, forget the words Stefano had spoken to her father and then to her. Both conversations had damned him.

‘It’s not the Dark Ages, either,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘You speak of this…this as if people can just barter brides…’

‘For women like us, well-placed, wealthy, it is not so far,’ Isabel returned grimly. ‘Stefano seems like a good man. Be thankful.’

Seems, Allegra thought, but was he? She thought of the way he’d spoken to her father, the way he’d spoken to her, the coldness in his eyes, how he’d scolded and then dismissed her. What more is there?

She realized she didn’t know him at all.

She never had.

‘Honourable,’ Isabel added, and now true bitterness twisted her words, her face. ‘He has treated you well so far, hasn’t he?’ She paused. ‘You could do worse.’

Allegra turned to stare at her mother, the cool beauty transformed for a moment by hatred and despair. She thought of her father’s words, I know a woman in Milan, and inwardly shuddered.

‘As you did?’ she asked in a low voice.

Isabel shrugged, but her eyes were hard. ‘Like you, I had no choice.’

‘Papa spoke…Stefano said…things…’

‘About other women?’ Isabel guessed with a hard laugh. She shrugged. ‘You’ll be glad for it, in the end.’

Allegra’s eyes widened. ‘Never!’

‘Trust me,’ Isabel returned coldly.

Allegra was compelled to ask, her voice turning ragged, ‘Have you ever been happy?’

Isabel shrugged again, closed her eyes for a moment. ‘When the bambinos come…’

Yet her mother had never seemed to enjoy motherhood; Allegra was an only child and she’d been tended by nannies and governesses her whole life, until she’d gone to the convent school.

Would children—the hope of children—be enough to sustain her through a cold, loveless marriage? A marriage she had, only moments ago, believed to be the culmination of all her young hopes. Now she realized she had no idea what those hopes had truly been. They had been the thinnest vapour, as insubstantial as smoke. Gone now. Gone with the wind.

She thought of how she’d compared Stefano to Rhett Butler and she choked on a terrible, incredulous laugh.

‘I can’t do it.’

A crack reverberated through the air as her mother slapped her face. Allegra reeled in shock. She’d never been hit before.

‘Allegra, you are getting married tomorrow.’

Allegra thought of the church, the guests, the food, the flowers. The expense.

She thought of Stefano.

‘Mama, please,’ she whispered, one hand pressed to her face, using an endearment she’d only spoken as a child. ‘Don’t make me.’

‘You do not know what you’re saying,’ Isabel snapped. ‘What can you do, Allegra? What have you been prepared to do besides marry and have children, plan menus and dress nicely? Hmm? Tell me!’ Her mother’s voice rose with fury. ‘Tell me! What?’

Allegra stared at her mother, pale-faced and wild eyed. ‘I don’t have to be like you,’ she whispered.

‘Hah!’ Isabel turned away, one shoulder hunched in disdain.

Allegra thought of Stefano’s smooth words, the little gifts, and wondered if they’d all been calculated, all condescensions. Not too bad a price. He’d bought her. Like a cow, or a car. An object. An object to be used.

He hadn’t cared what she thought, hadn’t even cared to tell her the truth of their marriage, of his courtship, of anything.

Something hardened then, crystallised into cold comprehension inside her.

Now she knew what it was like to be a woman.

‘I can’t do it,’ she said quietly, this time without trembling or fear. ‘I won’t.’

Her mother was silent for a long moment. Outside, a peal of womanly laughter, husky with promise, echoed through the night.

Allegra waited, held her breath, hoped…

Hoped for what? How could her mother, who barely cared for her or even noticed her at all, help her out of this predicament?

Yet still she waited. There was nothing else she could do, knew to do.

Finally Isabel turned around. ‘It would destroy your father if this marriage fell through,’ she said. There was a strange note of speculative satisfaction in her voice. Allegra chose to ignore it. ‘Absolutely destroy him,’ she added, and now the relish was obvious.

Allegra let her breath out slowly. ‘I don’t care,’ she said in a low voice. ‘He destroyed me by manipulating me—by giving me away!’

‘And what of Stefano?’ Isabel raised her eyebrows. ‘He would be humiliated.’

Allegra bit her lip. She’d loved him. At least, she’d thought she did. Or had she simply been caught up in the fairy tale, just as her mother said?

Life wasn’t like that. She knew that now.

‘I don’t want to create a spectacle,’ she whispered. ‘I want to go quietly.’ She nibbled her lip, tried not to imagine the future ahead of her, looming large and unknowable. ‘I could write him a letter, explaining. If you tell him tomorrow—tell Papa—’

‘Yes,’ Isabel agreed after a short, telling pause, her face a blank mask, ‘I could do that.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Allegra, can you give this up? Your home, your friends, the life you’ve been groomed to lead? You won’t be allowed back. I won’t risk my own position for you.’

Allegra blinked at her mother’s obvious and cold-hearted warning. She looked around her room. Suddenly everything seemed so beautiful, so precious. So fleeting. She sat hunched on her bed, hugging her old patched, pink teddy bear to her chest. In her mind she heard Stefano’s voice, warm and confident.

Tomorrow is…a new beginning, for both of us.

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she was overreacting. If she talked to Stefano, asked him…

Asked him what? The answer she’d been hoping for, desperate for, but he’d failed to give. He hadn’t told her he loved her; he’d reprimanded her for asking the question in the first place.

There could be no future with him.

And yet what future was there for her without Stefano?

‘I don’t know what to do,’ she whispered, her voice cracking. ‘Mama, I don’t know.’ She looked up at her mother with wide, tear-filled eyes, expecting even now for Isabel to touch her, comfort her. Yet there was no comfort from her mother, just as there never had been. Her face looked as if it were carved from the coldest, whitest marble. Isabel gave a little impatient shrug. Allegra took a deep breath. ‘What would you have done? If you’d had a choice back then? Would you still have married Papa?’

Her mother’s eyes were hard, her mouth a grim line. ‘No.’

Allegra jerked in surprise. ‘Then it wasn’t worth it, in the end? Even with children…me…’

‘Nothing is worth more than your happiness,’ Isabel stated, and Allegra shook her head in instinctive denial. She’d never heard her mother speak about happiness before. It had always been about duty. Family. Obedience.

‘Do you really care about my happiness?’ she asked, hearing the naked hope in her voice.

Her mother gazed at her steadily, coldly. ‘Of course I do.’

‘And you think…I’ll be happier…’

‘If you want love—’ Isabel cut her off ‘—then yes. Stefano doesn’t love you.’

Allegra recoiled at her mother’s blunt words. Yet it was the truth, she knew, and she needed to hear it. ‘But what will I do?’ she whispered. ‘Where will I go?’

‘Leave that to me.’ Her mother strode to her, took her by the shoulders. ‘It will be difficult,’ she said sternly, her eyes boring into hers, and Allegra, feeling as limp and lifeless as a doll, merely nodded. ‘You would not be welcome in our house any longer. I could send you a little money, that is all.’

Allegra bit her lip, tasted blood, and nodded. Determination to act like a woman—to choose for herself—drove her to reckless agreement.

‘I don’t care.’

‘My driver could take you to Milan,’ Isabel continued, thinking fast. ‘He would do that for me. From there a train to England. My brother George would help you at first, though not for long. After that…’ Isabel spread her hands. Her eyes met Allegra’s with mocking challenge. ‘Can you do it?’

Allegra thought of her life so far, cosseted, protected, decided. She’d never gone anywhere alone, had no prospects, no plans, no abilities.

Slowly she returned the pink teddy bear to her bed, to her girlhood, and lifted her chin. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I can.’

She packed a single bag with trembling hands while her mother watched, stony-faced, urging her on.

She faltered once when she glimpsed on her dressing table the earrings Stefano had given her the day before, to wear with her wedding gown.

They were diamond teardrops, antique and elegant, and he’d told her he couldn’t wait to see her wearing them. Yet now she would never wear them.

‘Am I doing the right thing?’ she whispered, and Isabel leaned over and zipped up her bag.

‘Of course you are,’ she snapped. ‘Allegra, if I thought you could be happy with Stefano, I would say stay. Marry him. See if you can make a good life for yourself. But you’ve never wanted a good life, have you? You want something great.’ Her mother’s smile was sardonic as she finished, ‘The fairy tale.’

Allegra blinked back tears. ‘Is that so wrong?’

Isabel shrugged. ‘Not many people get the fairy tale. Now write something to Stefano, to explain.’

‘I don’t know what to say!’

‘Tell him what you told me. You realized he didn’t love you, and you weren’t prepared to enter a loveless marriage.’ Isabel reached for a pen and some lined notebook paper—childish paper—fromAllegra’s desk. She thrust the items at her daughter.

Dear Stefano, Allegra wrote in her careful, looping cursive. I’m sorry but… She paused. What could she say? How could she explain? She closed her eyes and two tears seeped out. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Allegra, you need to start acting like an adult!’ Isabel plucked the pen from her fingers. ‘Here, I’ll tell you what to write.’

Isabel dictated every soulless word, while Allegra’s tears splashed on to the paper and smeared the ink.

‘Make sure he gets it,’ she said as she handed the letter to her mother, scrubbing the tears from her eyes with one fist. ‘Before the ceremony. So he’s not…not…’

‘I’ll make sure.’ Isabel tucked the letter in the pocket of her dressing gown. ‘Now you should go. You can buy the ticket at the station. There’s money in your handbag. You’ll have to stay at a hotel for a night at least, until George returns.’

Allegra’s eyes widened; she’d forgotten her uncle was staying in the villa. ‘Why can’t I just go with him?’ she asked, only to have her mother tut impatiently.

‘And how would that look? You can manage a hotel. I’ll tell him tomorrow what’s happened. They’ll be back by the next day, no doubt. Now go, before someone sees you.’

Allegra gulped down a sudden howl of panic. She was so afraid. At least marriage to Stefano had seemed familiar, safe. And yet, she asked herself, would it have been? Or would it have become the strangest, most dangerous thing of all—being married to a man who neither loved nor respected her?

Now she would never find out.

Isabel picked up the small bag that held nothing more than a few clothes, toiletries and keepsakes and thrust it at her daughter.

Allegra, now dressed in a pair of jeans and a jumper, clutched it to her chest.

‘My driver is waiting outside. Make sure no one sees you.’ Isabel gave her a little push, the closest she’d probably ever come to an embrace. ‘Go!’

Allegra stumbled back to the door, then inched her way down the hallway. Her heart thudded so loudly she was sure the whole villa could hear it.

What was she doing? She felt like a naughty child sneaking out of bed, but it was so much more than that. So much worse.

She slipped on the stairs and had to grab on to the banister.

Somewhere a floorboard creaked, and she could hear a distant sound of snoring.

She tiptoed down the rest of the stairs, across the slick terracotta tiles of the hall. Her hand was on the knob of the front door and she turned it, only to find it was locked.

Relief poured through her for a strange, split second; she couldn’t get out. She couldn’t go.

So she would go quietly back to bed and forget she’d ever had this mad, mad plan. She’d half-turned back when the door was unlocked from the outside. Alfonso, her mother’s driver, stood there, tall, dark, and expressionless.

‘This way, signorina,’ he whispered.

Allegra glanced back longingly at her home, her life. She didn’t want to leave it, yet she would have been leaving it all tomorrow anyway, and for a fate surely worse than this.

At least now she was in charge of her own destiny.

‘Signorina?’

Allegra nodded, turning back from the warm light of her home. She followed Alfonso into the velvety darkness, her trainers crunching on the gravel drive.

Wordlessly, Alfonso opened the back door and Allegra slipped inside.

As the car pulled away, she gazed at her home one last time, cloaked in darkness. Her eyes roved over the climbing bougainvillea, the painted shutters, everything so wonderfully dear. In the upstairs window Isabel stood, her pale face visible between the gauzy curtains, and Allegra watched as her mother’s mouth curved into a cold, cruel smile of triumph that made her own breath catch in her chest in frightened surprise.

Tears stinging her eyes, her heart bumping against her chest in fear, Allegra pressed back against the seat as the car moved slowly down the drive, away from the only home she’d ever known.

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