Читать книгу His Reluctant Bride: The Marchese's Love-Child / The Count's Blackmail Bargain / In the Millionaire's Possession - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 8

SHE had missed her plane, but eventually managed to catch the last flight of the evening, thanks to a no-show.

Her escape from the hotel had been easier than she could have hoped. She had dressed quickly, her shaking hands fumbling so badly with the buttons on her dress that she had to begin again.

Then she’d wasted precious moments listening tautly at the door for some sound from the room beyond. Dreading that Sandro might be waiting there for her, still angry and possibly vengeful.

But when she had finally risked taking a look, the room was completely deserted, and she left on the run. The hotel commissionaire had summoned a cab for her, allotting her dishevelled state a discreetly impassive glance.

She had prowled around the airport, her eyes everywhere. Terrified that he might change his mind, and come to find her. To prevent her from leaving. Even when she presented her boarding card, she was half expecting his hand to reach over her shoulder and take it from her.

When the plane finally took off, she was almost sick with relief. She ordered a double brandy from the stewardess, and fell asleep before she’d drunk half of it.

She took a cab from the airport to her flat, unlocking the door and falling inside in the same movement. There was a strange empty chill about the place that she had never experienced before, that seemed to match the cold hollow inside her.

A voice in her head whispered, ‘You’re safe—you’re safe …’ But somehow she couldn’t believe it. She even found herself picking her way in the darkness to her living-room window, and drawing the curtains before she switched on the lights.

Then she sank down on the sofa, and tried to stop trembling.

I didn’t suspect a thing, she thought. To me, the contessa was simply another very demanding client, nothing more—but it was all a trick.

She had to be deeply in Sandro’s power to agree to something like that, Polly told herself, and shivered as she remembered how nearly she’d surrendered to that power herself.

Oh, God, she thought. He only had to touch me …

But it had always been like that. From the first time his hand had taken hers as they walked together, her body had responded with wild yearning to his touch. She had hungered and thirsted for his mouth on hers—for the brush of his fingers over her ardent flesh. For the ultimate mystery of his body joined to hers.

Sandro had enraptured her every sense, and she had mistaken that for love. And he had cynically allowed that—had said the words she wanted to hear—whispered the promises that would keep her enthralled until he chose to leave her.

She’d been just one more girl in his bed, easily discarded, instantly replaced. Except that he’d caught a fleeting glimpse of her on television and discovered, for some inexplicable reason, that he still wanted her.

Sandro Domenico, she thought painfully. A man rich enough to pay for his whims, and powerful enough to pull the strings that would satisfy them.

And yet he’d let her go, outraged at the idea that he could rape her physically, but too arrogant to realise he’d already done far worse damage to her emotionally.

Still, it was over now, and she had nothing more to fear. She’d insulted his sense of honour, such as it was, and he would never come near her again.

In fact, she’d got off comparatively lightly, she told herself. Yes, she was bruised by his anger and disgust, but she’d recover from that—given time. And her future held plenty of that.

In some ways, it all seemed like a bad dream—some torment dredged up from the depths of her unconscious. But the faint lingering tenderness of her lips forced her to face reality.

Wincing, she touched her mouth with her fingertips, telling herself that it could all have been so much worse. That at this moment, she might have been in his bed, and in his arms, with a whole new cycle of heartbreak and regret to endure.

For all she knew he could be married to someone ‘suitable’. A dynastic union from the criminal network he belonged to, she thought with a pang.

But she—she was all right, she rallied herself. She’d had a narrow escape, that was all.

Just the same, her vague plans for a change of location had become a firm resolve as a result of the past twenty-four hours.

She and Charlie would move, somewhere anonymous and preferably far away. And, to ensure she could never be so easily traced again, she’d find out the legal implications of changing her name.

Drastic measures, she thought, but, in view of her recent scare, perfectly justified.

She stripped in her tiny bathroom, putting her clothing in the laundry basket, then took a shower, scrubbing herself from top to toe, and even shampooing her hair to make sure she erased every trace of him.

She only wished she could wash away the memories of the heated pressure of his mouth, and the familiar, arousing scent of his skin just as easily.

Dear God, she thought, towelling her hair with more than necessary vigour, that is—frighteningly pathetic.

She put on her cotton housecoat, belting it securely round her slim waist, and trailed into the kitchen.

She needed a hot drink, but not with the additional stimulus of caffeine. She’d have enough trouble sleeping as it was through what little was left of the night.

No, she’d have a herbal tea instead, she decided. A tisana at bedtime was a habit she’d acquired in Italy. One of the good ones, she amended wryly.

While the kettle was boiling, she wandered back into the living room, and, for reasons she couldn’t properly explain, crossed to the window, and pulled back the edge of the curtain slightly.

The road below seemed empty, or was there an added density among the shadows opposite, in a gateway just out of the range of the street light?

No, she thought, hurriedly letting the curtain fall back into place. It was simply her imagination. Sandro had traced her through her work, simply and easily, so there was no need for him to compile a complete dossier on her.

Because if he’d done so, he’d have realised at once that her ‘live-in lover’ was pure invention, and told her so. And he’d have known, too, about Charlie …

She turned her head, staring at the chest of drawers, and the framed photograph that occupied pride of place. Charlie, on his second birthday. His father’s image smiling at her.

Sandro’s out of your life, she told herself feverishly. He’s gone.

Nevertheless, on the way back to the kitchen, Polly found herself taking Charlie’s portrait off the chest, and stowing it in the top drawer instead.

Better, she thought, safe than sorry, and shivered again.

Polly slept badly, in spite of her tisana. When morning came, she telephoned Safe Hands, said quite truthfully that she felt like death, then crawled back into bed and slept until lunchtime.

She woke with a start, thinking of Charlie. Why was she wasting time, when she could have the bonus of a whole afternoon in his company without the distractions of shopping and housework?

She rang her mother’s house but there was no reply, so she left a message on the answering machine to say she would be over to collect him in an hour.

She took a quick shower, then dressed in a casual blue denim skirt, topping it with a crisp white cotton shirt, and sliding her feet into flat brown leather sandals. She brushed her hair back from her face and secured it at the nape of her neck with a silver barette, and hung small blue enamel cornflowers on delicate silver chains from her earlobes.

She had some work to do with the blusher and concealer she kept for emergencies, or her mother would guess something was wrong. And Polly had enough bad news to give her without mentioning Sandro’s shock reappearance in her life.

But that was all over, so there was no need to cause her further distress, she told herself firmly, applying her lipstick and attempting an experimental smile which, somehow, turned into a wry grimace.

Positive thinking, she adjured herself, and, grabbing her bag, she left.

The house seemed unusually quiet when she let herself in, and Polly paused, frowning a little. Surely her mother hadn’t taken Charlie out somewhere, she thought, groaning inwardly. Was this the latest move in the battle of wits between them? She hoped not.

She kept her voice deliberately cheerful. ‘Mum—Dad—are you there?’

‘We’re in the living room.’ It was her mother’s voice, high-pitched and strained.

Her frown deepening, Polly pushed open the door and walked in.

It wasn’t a particularly large room, and her instant impression was that it had shrunk still further in some strange way.

The first person she saw was her mother, sitting in the chair beside the empty fireplace, her face a mask of tension, and Charlie clasped tightly on her lap.

The second was a complete stranger, stockily built with black hair and olive skin, who rose politely from the sofa at her entrance.

And the third, unbelievably, was Sandro, standing silently in the window alcove, as if he had been carved out of granite.

For a moment the room seemed to reel around her, then she steadied herself, her hands clenching into fists, her nails scoring her palms. She was not, under any circumstances, going to faint again.

She said hoarsely, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Is it not obvious?’ The topaz eyes were as fierce as a leopard’s, and as dangerous. His voice was ice. ‘I have come for my son. And please do not try to deny his parentage,’ he added bitingly. ‘Because no court in the world would believe you. He is my image.’ He paused. ‘But I warn you that I am prepared to undergo DNA testing to prove paternity, if it becomes necessary.’

Polly stared at him, her stomach churning, her heart pounding against her ribs. ‘You must be mad.’

‘I was.’ His smile was grim. ‘Before I discovered quite what a treacherous little bitch you are, Paola mia. But now I am sane again, and I want my child.’

Her low voice shook. ‘Over my dead body.’

He said softly, ‘The way I feel at this moment, that could easily be arranged. Do not provoke me any further.’

‘He’s going to take him away from us,’ her mother wailed suddenly. ‘Take him to Italy. I’ll never see him again.’

Horror caught Polly by the throat. She turned on Sandro. ‘You can’t do that.’

‘And what is there to stop me?’ His glance challenged her.

‘It—it’s kidnapping,’ Polly flung at him. She took a breath. ‘Although I suppose that’s an everyday occurrence in your world.’

And it was more common than she wanted to admit in her own, she thought numbly. There’d been numerous headlines in the papers over the past few years where children had been snatched and taken abroad by a parent. They called them ‘tug of love’ babies …

She looked with scorn at the other man, who had got quietly to his feet. ‘And what are you—another of his tame thugs?’

His brows rose. ‘My name is Alberto Molena, signorina, and I am a lawyer. I act for the marchese in this matter.’

Polly gave him a scornful glance. ‘Don’t you mean you’re his consigliere?’ she queried with distaste.

He paused, sending Sandro a surprised look. ‘May I suggest that you sit down, Signorina Fairfax, and remain calm? It would be better too if the little boy was taken to another room. I think he’s becoming frightened.’

‘I have a better suggestion,’ Polly flared. ‘Why don’t you and your dubious client get out of here, and leave us alone?’

His tone was still quiet, still courteous. ‘I’m afraid that isn’t possible. You must understand that your child is the first-born son, and thus the heir of the Marchese Valessi, and that he intends to apply through the courts for sole custody of the boy. Although you will be permitted proper access, naturally.’

He looked at Charlie, who was round-eyed, his knuckles pushed into his mouth. ‘But, believe me, it would be better if the little boy was spared any more upset from this discussion. We have a trained nanny waiting to look after him.’

He walked to the door and called. A pleasant-faced girl in a smart maroon uniform came in and removed Charlie gently but firmly from his grandmother’s almost frenzied grasp, talking to him softly as she carried him out of the room.

‘Where’s she taking him?’ Polly demanded shakily.

‘Into the garden,’ the lawyer told her, adding less reassuringly, ‘For the time being.’

She swallowed convulsively, turning to the silent man by the window. ‘Sandro.’ Her voice was pleading, all pride forgotten. ‘Please don’t do this. Don’t try to take him away from me.’

‘I have already been deprived of the first two years of his life,’ he returned implacably. ‘There will be no more separation.’ His lip curled. ‘How remiss of you, cara mia, not to inform me of his existence. Even last night, when we talked so intimately about your living arrangements, you said nothing—gave no hint that you had borne me a child. Did you really think you could keep him hidden forever?’

She moistened her dry lips. ‘How—how did you find out?’

He shrugged. ‘I employed an agency to trace you. They suggested broadening the scope of their enquiries.’ His voice was expressionless. ‘I received their full report last night after you left. It made fascinating reading.’

She stared down at the carpet. ‘So there was someone watching me when I got back,’ she said almost inaudibly.

‘Can you wonder?’ Sandro returned contemptuously. ‘I have a beautiful son, Paola, and you deliberately barred me from his life. You preferred to struggle alone than ask me for help—or give me the joy of knowing I was a father.’ His gaze was cold, level. ‘How can such a thing be forgiven?’

‘It was over between us.’ Polly lifted her chin. ‘What did you expect me to do—beg?’

‘I think,’ he said softly, ‘that is something you may have to learn for the future.’

There was a silence. Polly could hear her mother weeping softly.

‘No court in the world,’ she said huskily, ‘would take a baby away from his mother.’

‘Yet it is his grandmother who has the care of him each day.’ His tone was harsh. ‘I was watching when you came into the room, and he did not try to go to you. Is he even aware that you are his mother?’

Polly gasped, and her head went back as if he had slapped her.

She said unsteadily, ‘I go out to work to support us both. As the contessa has probably told you, the hours can be long and difficult. But I needed the money, so I had no choice.’

‘Yes,’ he said, his voice quiet and cold. ‘You did. You could have chosen me. All that was needed was one word—one sign.’

There was an odd intensity in his voice, which startled and bewildered her. And also rekindled her anger.

He talks, she thought, as if I deserted him.

A sudden noise from her mother—something between a sigh and a groan—distracted her, and she went over and sat on the arm of her chair, putting an arm round her shoulders.

Oh, God, she thought. To think I was going to tell her that I was taking Charlie away. But how could I have guessed this was going to happen?

‘It’s going to be all right, Mum,’ she said softly. ‘I promise.’

‘How can it be?’ Mrs Fairfax demanded, almost hysterically. ‘He’s going to take my little treasure to Italy, and I can’t bear it.’ She reared up from Polly’s sheltering arm, glaring venomously at Sandro, who was regarding her with narrowed eyes, his mouth hard and set. ‘How dare you come here, ruining our lives like this?’ she stormed. ‘Get out of my house. And never come back.’

‘You are not the only one to suffer, signora.’ His tone was almost dismissive. He looked at Polly. ‘But it would be better for my son to be looked after by someone else until the custody hearing. The nanny I have engaged will move in with you.’

‘She can’t,’ Polly told him curtly. ‘My flat is far too small for that.’

He shrugged. ‘Then you will be found somewhere else to live.’

‘I don’t want that,’ she said raggedly. ‘I don’t want anything from you. I just need you to go, and leave us in peace.’

‘The marchese is being generous, Signorina Fairfax,’ Alberto Molena intervened unexpectedly. ‘He could ask for the child to be transferred to the care of a temporary guardian while the custody issue is decided.’

‘And, of course, he’s so sure he’ll get custody.’ Polly got to her feet, her eyes blazing. ‘So bloody arrogant and all-conquering. But what court’s going to hand over a baby to someone with his criminal connections? And I’ll make sure they know all about his underworld background,’ she added defiantly. ‘Whatever the cost.’

There was a stunned silence. Then Sandro muttered, ‘Dio mio,’ and turned sharply, walking back to the window, his fists clenched at his sides.

Signor Molena’s voice was hushed. ‘I think you’re making a grave mistake, signorina. Since the death of his father, the marchese has become head of an old and much respected family in southern Italy, and chairman of a business empire with strong interests in the tourist industry among other things.’

He spread his hands almost helplessly. ‘You must surely have heard of the Comadora chain of hotels? They are internationally famous.’

‘Yes.’ Polly had to force suddenly numbed lips to form the words. Her shocked gaze went from his embarrassed face to Sandro’s rigid back. ‘Yes, I know about them.’

Signor Molena paused, awkwardly. ‘And marchese means “marquis” in your language. It is an aristocratic title, not what you seem to think.’ He shook his head. ‘To suggest that any member of the Valessi family has ever been linked with criminal elements would be a serious slander if it were not so laughable.’

Polly had never felt less like laughing in her entire life. If she’d been cold before, she was now consumed in an agony of burning humiliation, blushing from her feet to the top of her head.

She wrapped her arms defensively round her body. ‘I—I’m sorry,’ she mumbled.

Behind her, her mother moaned faintly, and sank back in her chair.

Sandro turned slowly and studied them both reflectively. When he spoke his voice was calm but there was no sign of softening in his attitude.

‘That is what you thought?’ he asked. ‘What you really believed, in spite of everything? It almost defies belief. Almost,’ he added quietly, ‘but not quite. And it explains a great deal.’

He paused. ‘I understand from the signora, your mother, that your father is at his office. Perhaps he could be fetched. I do not think that she should be alone.’

Polly shook herself into action. ‘Yes—yes, I’ll telephone him. And her doctor …’ She went out into the hall, standing helplessly for a moment as she tried to remember the number. Realising her mind was a blank.

Sandro followed, closing the door of the living room behind him.

She didn’t look at him, doggedly turning the leaves of the directory. ‘What—what will happen now?’

‘The legal process will begin. But for tonight you may take Carlino to sleep at your appartamento.’

‘Thank you,’ she said with irony.

‘The bambinaia, whose name is Julie Cole, will accompany you to put him to bed,’ he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Then she will return in the morning at seven o’clock to take care of him.’

He spoke as if he was conducting a board meeting, Polly thought incredulously, rather than trying to destroy her life.

She said, ‘We could all stay here, perhaps. There’s—plenty of room.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘This is not an environment I want for my son.’

Why? she wanted to cry. Because it’s an ordinary suburban house rather than a palazzo? Just as I was an ordinary girl, and therefore not deemed as a suitable candidate to become your marchesa?

She could see now why it had been so important to pay her off, in order to get rid of her. There was too much at stake dynastically to allow a mistake like herself to enter the equation.

The old pain was back like a knife twisting inside her. A pain that her pride forbade her to let him see. So she would never ask the question ‘Why did you leave me?’ because she now knew the answer to that, beyond all doubt.

Besides, it would expose the fact that she cared, and that he still had the power to hurt her. And she needed that to remain her secret, and her solitary torment.

Besides, at the moment she was faced with all the suffering she could handle.

Unless she could divert him from his purpose somehow, she thought. Unless …

She picked up the phone irresolutely, then put it down again. She said quickly, before her courage ran out, ‘Sandro, it doesn’t have to be like this. Surely we could work something out. Share custody in some way.’

His mouth thinned. ‘I am expected to trust you? When you have deliberately kept our child from me and even claimed to have a lover to sustain the deception? How much do you think your word is worth?’

Polly swallowed. ‘I don’t blame you for being angry.’

‘Mille grazie.’ His tone was sardonic.

‘And maybe doing my best to be Charlie’s mother hasn’t been good enough,’ she went on, bravely. ‘But he doesn’t know you at all, and if he was just whisked off to another country among strangers, however well-meaning, he’d be disorientated—scared. He—he’s shy with people at first.’

‘A trait he shares with you, mia bella, if memory serves,’ Sandro drawled with cool mockery.

She remembered too. Recalled how gentle and considerate he had been that first time in bed together. How he’d coaxed her out of her clothes and her initial inhibitions.

She flushed hotly and angrily. ‘May we cut out the personal reminiscences?’ she requested curtly.

He shrugged. ‘It is difficult to see how. Making a child together is an intensely personal matter.’ He paused. ‘And by the time I take Carlino to Italy, we will be well acquainted with each other. I guarantee that. And my own old nurse, Dorotea, will be waiting to look after him. The transition will not be too hard.’

But it will be agony for me, she thought, her throat tightening convulsively. First I lost you, and now you’re trying to take Charlie away. And already I feel as if I’m dying inside.

She said tonelessly, ‘I’d better make those calls.’

He inclined his head courteously, and went past her, and out into the garden.

Presently, distant but gleeful, Charlie’s laughter came to her on the light summer wind, and she stood, staring in front of her unseeingly, her teeth sunk so deeply into her lower lip that she could taste blood.

She wanted to hate Julie Cole, but it was impossible. She was too kind, too tactful, and she thought that Charlie was heaven on legs.

And if she knew that her job was more for security than enjoyment, she kept that to herself.

The creamy scrambled eggs she made for supper were good too, and Charlie loved the triangles of buttered toast that went with them, although Polly could barely force her portion past the sick, scared lump in her throat.

She had wanted to wait at the house to talk to her father, or perhaps just put her head down on his shoulder and cry out her fear, but suddenly there was a car and driver at the gate, and Sandro was insisting quietly but implacably that she should take Charlie home.

She’d begun a protest, but Sandro had simply looked at her, his brows lifted haughtily, questioningly, and the words seemed to stutter and die on her lips.

‘You begin to learn,’ he had approved coldly.

She had been shaken to find him carrying Charlie down to the car in his arms, and found herself hoping that the little boy would have one of his infrequent tantrums, kicking, screaming and reaching for her as proof that no one else would do.

He didn’t; nor did he burst into tears when Sandro had gently but firmly removed his thumb from his mouth.

She had said defensively, ‘He doesn’t really do that any more. Only when he’s tired—or frightened.’

‘All the more reason, then, to take him home,’ Sandro had retorted unarguably.

She could only imagine the kind of scene that would erupt once her father returned, and her mother had some solid support.

‘I’ll make your father sell the house,’ she’d hissed at Polly as she was leaving. ‘Marquis or not, I’m going to fight this man through every court in the land.’

Polly sighed silently. She really doesn’t know what she’s up against, she thought unhappily. And I’m only just beginning to find out, too.

Only twenty-four hours ago or less, she’d been planning for her life to change, but not to this extreme, catastrophic extent. She’d seen a period of struggle ahead, but never the bleak desert of loneliness that now threatened her.

‘He may not win,’ she thought. And only realised she’d spoken aloud when Julie said, ‘Are you all right, Miss Fairfax?’

Polly jumped, then mustered an attempt at a smile. ‘Yes, fine,’ she lied.

Julie studied her dubiously. ‘I saw some white wine in the fridge while I was getting the eggs. Why don’t you sit down and put your feet up, while I do the dishes, and then I’ll bring you a glass?’

I don’t want a glass, thought Polly. I want a bottle, a cellar, a whole vineyard. I want the edges of my pain blurred, and to be able to stop thinking.

She cleared her throat. ‘I know Sandro—the marchese—instructed you to put Charlie to bed, but I’d really like to do it myself, if you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Sure, Miss Fairfax.’ Was that compassion in the other girl’s voice? ‘Anything you say.’

Charlie was tired, and more than a little grumpy, especially when he realised his usual playtime in the bath was going to be curtailed. By the time she’d wrestled him into his pyjamas, Polly felt limp, and close to tears.

‘Let me take him.’ Julie spoke gently behind her. ‘You look all in.’

Polly submitted, standing in his doorway, while her grizzling son was tucked in deftly and firmly.

He’ll never settle, she told herself with a kind of sour triumph, only to be confounded when he was fast asleep within five minutes.

She stood at the side of the cot, watching the fan of dark lashes on his cheek, and the small mouth pursed in slumber. She ached to snatch him up and hold him. To run with him into the night to a place where they would never be found.

But she was crying for the moon, and she knew it. Even if there was such a place, she hadn’t enough money to go on the run, or enough skill to outwit Sandro for long. And she couldn’t afford to provoke his wrath again. She needed to reason with him—to persuade—even to plead, if she had to. Besides, on a purely practical level, instinct warned her that if she attempted to leave, whoever waited in the shadows opposite would step out and prevent her from going.

She sank down onto the floor, and leaned her head against the bars of the cot, listening to Charlie’s soft, even breathing. And thinking of all the nights of silence that could be waiting for her.

When she finally returned to the other room, she discovered gratefully that the sofa bed had been opened and made up for the night, and the glass of wine was waiting with a note that said, ‘See you in the morning. J.’

She took a first sip, then carried the wine into the bathroom, and began to half fill the tub with warm water, softened by a handful of foaming bath oil. No shower tonight, she told herself. She wanted to relax completely.

She took off her clothes and slid with a sigh into the scented water, reaching for her wineglass.

It would help her sleep, she thought. And tomorrow, when she was more rested, things might seem better. After all, she knew now the worst that could happen to her, and there must be a way of dealing with it that would not leave her utterly bereft.

She leaned back, resting her head on the rim of the bath, and closing her eyes.

Yes, tomorrow she would make plans. Find out if she qualified for legal aid, and get herself a lawyer of her own. Someone who would negotiate with Sandro on her behalf, and allow her to maintain some kind of distance from him.

I really need to do that, she thought. To stay calm—and aloof. I can fight him better that way.

And at that moment, as if he were some demon she’d conjured up from her own private hell, she heard his voice, low, mocking and far too close at hand.

‘Falling asleep in the bath, mia bella? That will never do. Surely you don’t wish Carlino to become motherless so soon?’