Читать книгу The Count's Blackmail Bargain - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 7

‘OH CHRISTMAS,’ Laura muttered under her breath, aware that she was blushing. ‘I’m so sorry, signore. I didn’t realise…’ She swallowed. ‘I had no right—no right at all…’

‘Nonsenso. That was charming.’ He came to lean against the corner of the piano, the dark eyes watching her coolly. He was totally transformed, she thought, having shaved, and combed his hair neatly back from his face. And he was wearing slim-fitting black trousers, which emphasised his long legs, offset by a snowy shirt, open at the throat, and topped by a crimson brocaded waistcoat, which he had chosen to leave unbuttoned.

He looked, Laura thought, swallowing again, casually magnificent.

‘At last my decision to keep it in tune is justified,’ he went on. ‘It has not been played, I believe, since my mother died.’

‘Oh, God, that makes everything worse.’ She shook her head wretchedly. ‘I must apologise again. This was—is—such an unforgivable intrusion.’

‘But I do not agree,’ he said. ‘I think it delightful. Won’t you play something else?’

‘Oh, no.’ She got up hastily, her embarrassment increasing, and was halted, the hem of her dress snagged on the protruding corner of the piano stool. ‘Damn,’ she added, jerking at the fabric, trying to release herself.

‘Sta’ quieto,’ the Count commanded. ‘Keep still, or you will tear it.’ He dropped gracefully to one knee beside her, and deftly set her free.

She looked down at the floor. ‘Thank you.’

‘It is nothing.’ He rose to his feet, glancing around him. ‘What have you done with Paolo?’

‘I—I haven’t seen him since we arrived.’

‘Davvero?’ His brows lifted. ‘I hope he is not neglecting you.’ He sent her a faint smile. ‘If so, you may be glad of the piano to provide you with entertainment.’

‘Oh, no,’ she said quickly. ‘He isn’t neglectful. Not at all.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps his mother wanted to talk to him.’

‘If so, I think her revolting little dog would have told us all.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Tell me, did you enjoy your afternoon tea?’

Her eyes flew to his dark face. ‘You—really arranged that? That was very kind.’

He shrugged. ‘We tend to have the evening meal later than you are used to in England. I did not wish you to faint with hunger.’ He smiled at her pleasantly. ‘You will soon become accustomed to Italian time.’

‘I’ll certainly try,’ she said. ‘But you can’t make many adjustments in two weeks.’

His smile widened slightly. ‘On the contrary, I think a great deal can change very quickly.’ He walked over to the sideboard. ‘May I get you a drink? I intend to have a whisky.’

‘I’m fine—really.’ She wasn’t. Her throat felt as dry as a bone, and had done ever since she’d seen him standing there.

‘There is orange juice,’ he went on as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Have you tried it with campari?’

‘Well—no.’

‘Then do so now.’ He mixed the drink, and brought it to her. Touched his glass to hers. ‘Salute.’

‘Grazie,’ Laura said rather stiffly.

‘Prego.’ This time his smile was a grin. ‘Tell me, signorina, are you always this tense?’

She sipped her drink, liking the way the sweetness of the juice blended with the bitterness of the campari. She said, haltingly, ‘Not always, but this is a difficult situation for me.’ She took a breath. ‘You must be wondering, signore, what I’m doing here.’

‘You came with my cousin,’ he said. ‘It is no secret.’

She took a deep breath. ‘So, you must also know that his mother is not pleased about my presence.’

He drank some whisky, his eyes hooded. ‘I do not concern myself in my aunt’s affairs, signorina.’ He paused, and she saw that slight curl of the mouth again. ‘At least, not unless they are forced upon my notice.’

She said rather forlornly, ‘Just as I have been—haven’t I?’

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But, believe me, signorina, now that we have met, I expect nothing but pleasure from your visit.’ Before she could prevent him, he took her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing it lightly and swiftly.

The dark gaze glinted at her as he released her. ‘Would it help you relax if we were a little less formal with each other? My name is Alessio, and I know that yours is Laura.’

She was aware that the colour had stormed back into her face. She said a little breathlessly, ‘I think your aunt might object.’

His tone was silky. ‘Then let us agree to leave her to her own devices, sì?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If you’re quite sure.’

‘I am certain.’ He paused. ‘Shall we take our drinks onto the terrace? It is pleasant there in the evenings.’

Laura followed reluctantly. She hadn’t bargained for this, she thought uneasily. She’d expected Paolo to be hovering constantly, acting as a barrier between her and his family.

There was a table on the terrace, and comfortable cushioned chairs. Alessio held one for her courteously, then took the adjoining seat. There was a silence, and Laura took a nervous sip of her drink.

‘You and Paolo aren’t very alike—for cousins,’ she ventured at last.

‘No,’ Alessio said, contemplating his whisky. ‘There is very little resemblance between us. Physically, I believe he favours his late father.’

‘I see.’ She hesitated, then said in a small wooden voice, ‘His mother, the Signora, is a very—striking woman.’

‘She has a forceful personality, certainly,’ he said drily. ‘I understand that, when she was young, she was also considered a great beauty.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Tell me, Laura, how did you meet my cousin?’

‘I work in a wine bar,’ she said. ‘He was one of the customers.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘So you are not always as shy as you are with me.’

‘But then,’ she returned, ‘I wasn’t expecting to meet you, signore.’

‘You have forgotten,’ he said. ‘We agreed it would be Alessio.’

No, she thought. I haven’t forgotten a thing. I’m not ready to be on first-name terms—or any terms at all—with someone like you.

There was a loud sneeze from inside the salotto, and Paolo emerged, flourishing a large handkerchief. ‘Maledizione, I am getting a cold,’ he said peevishly. ‘Some germ on the plane, indubbiamente.’

Laura decided this was her cue. ‘Darling.’ She got up and went to his side, sliding her arm through his. ‘How horrid for you. Summer colds are always the worst.’

For a second, he looked at her as if he’d forgotten who she was, then he pulled himself together, kissing her rather awkwardly on the cheek. ‘Well, I must take care not to pass it on to you, carissima. Che peccato, eh? What a pity.’ He slid an arm round her, his fingers deliberately brushing the underside of her breast.

Laura, nailing on a smile, longed to pull away and kick him where it hurt. Alessio drank some more whisky, his face expressionless.

If she’d hoped that the arrival of his mother a short while later would impose some constraint upon Paolo, Laura was doomed to disappointment. He’d drawn his chair close beside hers at the table, and appeared glued to her side, his hand stroking her arm and shoulder possessively, his lips never far from her ear, her hair, or her cheek, nibbling little caresses that she found positively repellent.

She knew, of course, that the Signora was watching, her mouth drawn into a tight line, because that was the purpose of the exercise. And there was nothing she could do about it. But she was also sharply aware that the Count was sending them the odd meditative glance, and this, for some reason, she found even more disturbing than the older woman’s furious scrutiny.

She found she was silently repeating, ‘Think of the money. Think of the money,’ over and over again like a mantra, but it was not producing the desired calming effect, and she was thankful to her heart when dinner was finally announced, and Paolo reluctantly had to relinquish his hold.

The dining room was a long, low-ceilinged room, with a wonderful painted ceiling depicting some Bacchanalian revel, with people wearing bunches of grapes instead of clothes.

The scene below was much more decorous, the polished table gleaming with silver and crystal in the light of several elaborate candelabra. Alessio sat at the head of the table, with his aunt facing him at its foot, and Laura was seated halfway down, opposite Paolo, the width of the table putting her beyond the reach of any more amorous overtures.