Читать книгу The Italian's Bride - Diana Hamilton - Страница 8

LEMON trees in terracotta pots marched along the terrace fronting the imposing Villa Fontebella, and wisteria hanging in soft blue clouds festooned the white marble columns that supported the long, shade-giving arcade.

As the driver of the limo which had ferried them from the airport opened the door at her side Portia took a deep breath and reluctantly slid out. She stood on legs that were shaking so much they would barely hold her upright.

The awesome villa, with its backdrop of thickly wooded hills, was set in formal Florentine gardens overlooking breathtaking views of sweeps of vines and olive trees, right over the rooftops of tiny villages clustered round ancient churches and down to the silver loop of a river far below. It was the sort of place only the seriously wealthy inhabited.

Portia gulped, agitation making her eyes dark in the now ashen pallor of her face. Not even the warm Italian sun could take away the shivers that came from the very core of her being. Ever since Lucenzo had made that truly terrifying threat, as good as accusing her of entrapping Vito for what she hoped to gain, she’d been panicking inside, feeling colder and sicker with every mile of progress into the unknown.

The silence that had descended after he’d given her that dreadful warning had been almost tangible. She could have reached out and touched it if she’d had the nerve.

As she put shaky fingers to her throbbing temples she heard Sam begin to grizzle and made a determined effort to pull herself together. Ignoring Lucenzo, who was overseeing the unloading of her despised and multitudinous belongings from the boot of the car, its driver passing them to a burly man in a cool white jacket, she scrambled back inside the vehicle, blinking away threatening tears.

Little Sam was hungry, his legs kicking wildly, one tiny fist thrust into his mouth. Doing her best to make cheerful soothing noises, she scrabbled ineffectually with the straps of the car-seat while Sam’s face went red with rage and his grizzles turned into full-throated roars.

‘I’ll have you out in a moment, sweetheart,’ Portia promised with blatant over-optimism, struggling to keep the wobble of desperate misery out of her voice as she tugged at a clasp that seemed to have been welded shut.

‘Let me.’ The door nearest the car-seat opened and Lucenzo dealt with the enigma of the safety straps in seconds, lifting the fretful baby in capable hands and holding him against his shoulder.

Miraculously, Sam stopped crying immediately, and, sitting back on her heels and blinking ferociously, Portia saw her precious son nuzzle his face into Lucenzo’s neck. She was utterly and unwillingly transfixed by the smile that transformed the austerity of the Italian’s features into sheer, stunning male beauty.

Her heart lurched so madly she felt breathless, dizzy and disorientated. Lucenzo had never smiled for her. Not once. With a peculiar little ache in the region of her now pattering heart she wished he would. And felt her face flare with hot colour.

Was she completely stupid, or something? As feather-brained as her parents had always despairingly said she was? Of course he wouldn’t smile at her like that. Lucenzo Verdi wouldn’t give her the time of day if he could avoid it. He thought she was the dregs.

Wriggling backwards out of the rear seat, she told herself to get real. Lucenzo Verdi was her enemy; he had made that plain from the very start. She mustn’t let her wits wander off into fantasy. She had to keep them on red alert if she were to have any hope of handling the impossibly autocratic Italian. She could only hope the rest of Vito’s family weren’t cast in the same condemnatory mould.

Hanging on to the bodywork of the car, she went to reclaim her baby—and even though her legs felt like jelly her chin was high as she reached up for him.

But Lucenzo raked his dark eyes comprehensively over her pale features, her tear-spiked lashes and drooping mouth, and relayed tonelessly, ‘I’ll carry him in. You look on the point of collapse.’

And whose fault was that? Portia inwardly fulminated as he turned to face the house, Sam, now blowing happy bubbles, held high in his arms, and strode over the immaculately raked gravel towards open double doors.

Like a victor triumphantly returning with the spoils of war, Portia thought sickeningly, urging herself to keep up with his long-legged stride, resisting the fraught impulse to hammer her fists against that broad back and demand he hand her baby back to her.

In a flurry of now breathless agitation Portia tripped over her feet as she scurried in his wake up the sweeping stone steps, and she felt something clench sharply inside her, taking what was left of her breath away, as Lucenzo put his free hand out to steady her and said grimly, ‘There’s no need to bust a gut. You’ll get your feet under the table soon enough.’

She simply couldn’t wait, could she? he thought edgily. His mouth settled into a hard straight line as he steadied her, then hauled her round to face him. But it softened unconsciously as he registered the pallor of her weary face, the tiny beads of perspiration on her short upper lip, the soft trembling of her mouth and the defeated droop of her shoulders.

Somewhere along the line she’d lost her ribbon, and now her shimmering golden hair fell around her shoulders, tendrils curving around her throat, wisps falling across those wide grey eyes.

Santa Maria! She looked done in, he thought with a stab of unwilling compassion. She obviously wasn’t strong, and maybe—just maybe—that fainting fit at Vittorio’s funeral hadn’t been an act. And maybe, heaven forbid, she was about to give a repeat performance.

His grip on her arm gentled, became supportive rather than punitive, as he suggested, ‘Get some rest. You can meet the family in the morning. I’ll show you to your room—Alfredo has taken your things up, and I’ll send Assunta to you. Don’t worry, she looked after me and Vittorio when we were small so she knows what she’s doing. Plus, she speaks fluent English.’

As they passed into the hall he felt her body sag. He sucked in a breath, wondering if she was about to pass out, and instinctively wrapped his free arm around her surprisingly neat waist, supporting her against the length of his own body.

Anyone seeing them like this would think he actually cared about the blackmailing little tramp, when all he was desperate to do was get her to her room, leave Assunta to deal with her and wash his hands of her and her greedy machinations.

With a heartfelt sigh Portia leant against him, overwhelmed, her eyes filling with stupid tears. Just one gesture of kindness and she was willing to forgive and forget everything, wanting to cling onto him, wrap her arms around him and beg him to be her friend.

How pathetic could she get? she asked herself on a tidal wave of self-disgust. And to cap it all the sheer opulence of her surroundings—the costly antiques, the sweeping marble staircase, the porcelain bowls of flowers on every available surface—shook her rigid. What on earth did she think she was doing in a place like this? The nearest thing to an antique in her parents’ home was her grandmother’s brass jam kettle!

‘Can you manage the stairs?’ Lucenzo asked with level politeness, biting back his distaste for the whole situation. ‘Or shall I find someone to help you?’

As it was, Vittorio’s baby was squirming vigorously, grabbing handfuls of his hair and tugging with surprising strength for something so small, and if Portia collapsed halfway up she could well fall all the way back again before he could do anything about it. A dark frisson of the soul almost paralysed him at the thought of that, and he took a deep breath as he waited for it to pass.

Then he gritted his teeth, blocking out the memory, looking for the nearest chair to park her on. He could understand why there wasn’t a welcoming committee. His father would be resting, obeying his doctor’s and his own strict instructions, and his aunts and his sister-in-law wouldn’t be straining at the leash to come face to face with the evidence of Vittorio’s infidelity.

At least, he consoled himself, he’d kept the worst of it from his family. They didn’t know that the infidelity had been the serial kind.

‘Of course I can manage.’ Portia pushed some backbone into her voice and with a reluctance that appalled her, and a feeling inside her that was verging on pain, pulled away from his supporting arm, the heated strength of his body. Very deliberately she put space between them, when all she really wanted to do was to lean against him, borrow strength from his lean and powerful body.

It had been so long since she’d been held she’d forgotten how comforting it could be. Displays of affection had always embarrassed her parents and not even Vito, whom she’d loved, had made her feel so—so safe. And had her senses ever reacted so instinctively to Vito? Had she felt this sensual pull at his maleness?

‘No!’ She hadn’t realised she’d spoken aloud in fraught denial of the way this man who was her enemy could make her feel. The father of her child hadn’t come near to making it seem as if the world was spinning around her, leaving her out of control.

‘What is it?’ Lucenzo gave her a spearing glance from beneath lowered brows. At least she had some colour now. A bright wash of it stained her cheeks, and her grey eyes were huge, glittering with something that looked like the panic of a cornered young animal.

‘N-nothing—’ Flustered, she pushed her hands through her hair, dragging it away from her face, then sucked in a breath. Lucenzo’s eyes were held by the resulting thrust of her breasts, the nipples proud and prominent against the thin fabric of her top.

Frowning, he dragged his eyes away, and a split second later Portia was leaping up the staircase, hanging on to the wrought-iron banister. Settling Vittorio’s child more securely in his arms, Lucenzo followed—and found his eyes annoyingly glued to Portia’s neat and curvy denim-clad backside.

Five foot four of lushly delineated curves, shimmering blonde hair, lips like ripe cherries and that breathless, though obviously spurious air of ingenuousness—was that what had tempted his half-brother away from his wife, his normally ultra-elegant bits on the side?

Disliking the road his thoughts were taking him down, he quickened his steps and caught up with her at the head of the sweeping staircase, where the upper hall gave onto corridors branching in three directions.

‘This way,’ he instructed tautly. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t want to connect with those wide, seemingly vulnerable eyes, recognise that elusive nameless something that had captivated his half-brother. He simply strode ahead.

Portia followed, feeling unwanted and seriously unnecessary, wishing she’d never agreed to come here. When he paused by one of the carved oak doors that lined the seemingly endless corridor and flung it open, telling her tightly, ‘Your suite of rooms,’ she felt a deep and dreadful reluctance to cross the threshold.

‘I want to go home.’

The childishly wailed words were out before she could swallow them and she cringed with super-charged embarrassment, reddening hectically as he remarked witheringly, ‘If that’s your opening salvo, forget it.’

Vulnerable? How could he have thought that for one insane moment? Portia Makepeace was about as vulnerable as an armoured car!

He reminded her stonily, ‘I’ve told you what will happen if you threaten to do anything to upset my father. Here—’ He placed Sam in her arms and took a backward pace, as if the air she breathed out was full of pestilence and plague. ‘Make Vittorio’s son comfortable. I will send Assunta to you to make sure you are behaving as my father would wish.’

Holding her baby close to her heart, gathering much needed strength from the adored warm little body, Portia blurted, ‘I didn’t come here to be kept under house arrest! I came because your father wants to see his grandson. So when can I meet him?’

Her chin came up, even though her voice held a disgraceful wobble. She was sick of being treated like dirt, ordered around. Her future relationship with Sam’s grandfather was all that counted. Lucenzo’s low opinion of her shouldn’t matter, but it did hurt, she acknowledged sickly, more than she knew it should.

‘Tomorrow,’ he told her curtly. ‘I will let him know that Vittorio’s son has arrived safely. For tonight that will be enough. As I have already told you, my father is a sick man.’

Watching him stride away, Portia felt her heart plummet to new depths, her mouth going dry. How sick was sick? Eduardo Verdi had sounded so kind in that letter he’d written her. He’d come across as being someone she could talk to with the ease and openness that came so naturally to her.

All through her nightmare journey she’d been counting on him as head of the family to intercede on her behalf, to perhaps persuade Lucenzo that she wasn’t as downright bad as he thought she was.

Portia shuddered, immediately hating herself for such selfish, unworthy thoughts. If the poor old man was ill then the most she could hope for was that seeing and holding his new little grandson would make him feel a whole lot better!

She could stand up for herself where Lucenzo was concerned, of course she could. And one day, if he stayed around, she would force him to listen to her side of the story—even if, as he’d clearly demonstrated, he had no wish to hear it.

And when she met Eduardo she would do nothing, say nothing to upset or tire him. Of course she wouldn’t.

Annoyingly, her eyes pickled with compassionate tears. She blinked them rapidly away and forced herself to carry her now restless Sam over the threshold and into the most beautiful bedroom she’d ever seen.

No time to take stock, except to note that her luggage, looking even tattier against a backdrop of unnerving opulence, was in an ungainly heap at the foot of a four-poster which was trigged out with the most fantastic cream-coloured gauzy drapes.