Daphne Clair - The Brunellesci Baby

She stiffened. It entered her mind that he was quite deliberately using his considerable sexual magnetism to persuade her into something she might regret. With an effort, she took a step away in an attempt to escape that seductive aura.

He reached for her, his hands closing about her upper arms. “Listen.” He paused, and for a moment she thought doubt, uncertainty, entered his eyes. Then he said, “There’s one way out of this dilemma, if you agree.”

Warily, she stared at him. She mustn’t be influenced by the effect he had on her, the physical responses that clamored to be set free from the stern restraint she kept on them. “Agree to what?”

He was looking at her as though willing her to something, his gaze hypnotic. His jaw jutted, and she saw the muscles of his throat move as he swallowed. He said, “To marry me.”

DAPHNE CLAIR lives in subtropical New Zealand, with her Dutch-born husband. They have five children. At eight years old she embarked on her first novel, about taming a tiger. This epic never reached a publisher, but metamorphosed male tigers still prowl the pages of her romance novels, of which she has written over 30 for Harlequin Presents®. Her other writing includes nonfiction, poetry and short stories, and she has won literary prizes in New Zealand and America. Readers are invited to visit Daphne Clair’s Web site at www.daphneclair.com, e-mail her at daphne@daphneclair.com or write to her at Box 18240, Glenn Innes, Auckland 1130, New Zealand.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

THE passport control officer quickly scrutinised the dark-haired, green-eyed young woman waiting at the other side of the desk.

She tensed, trying not to show apprehension as he returned his gaze to the photograph in the passport he held. Finally he said, ‘Liar.’

Her heart accelerated its beat and her cheeks flushed.

He looked up again. ‘Liar Cameron?’

Nearly fainting with relief, she said, ‘No, it’s Leeah.’ And more firmly, ‘My name is Lia Cameron.’

‘Sorry—Lia.’ He flipped over the page. ‘You’ve been to Australia before?’

‘Yes.’

The man stamped the page before handing back the passport with a grin. ‘You kiwis just can’t stay away, eh? Enjoy your holiday.’

Her knees shook as she proceeded to the arrivals hall and found the baggage carousel for the Auckland to Sydney flight. It wasn’t the first time ‘Lia’ had been mispronounced. A guilty conscience was responsible for her almost making a fool of herself back there.

When her suitcase appeared she lifted it off the carousel and flipped the label to check. Lia Cameron. ‘That’s me,’ she muttered aloud.

She took a bus to the Sunshine Coast, found a hotel and paid cash in advance for her room, not wanting to use her credit card.

Tomorrow she would hire a car and find the Brunellesci mansion. And Zandro Brunellesci.

Ice snaked down her spine. Alessandro Gabriele Brunellesci was a formidable foe, accustomed to crushing anything—or anyone—who got in his way. Including Lia.

Anger sharpened by grief dispelled the cold fear. Stress and tragedy had given her a strength she hadn’t known she possessed. Zandro would discover she couldn’t be crushed, bullied, and he wouldn’t find it so easy to get rid of her. Too much was at stake—a child’s whole life. The righting of a terrible wrong.

She couldn’t return to New Zealand until she’d done what she’d come here to do. And she would not go home alone.

The Brunellesci home was guarded by wrought-iron gates set in a high brick wall. Tall gum trees and silver birches screened the house, allowing through the iron bars only glimpses of mellow golden stone and big windows. There seemed to be a garage underneath that lifted the first floor enough to give the rooms a view over the wall to the sea, and a third level shaded a wide balcony.

After driving slowly past she parked a little farther along the broad street, in the shade of a tree overhanging the wall of another expensive-looking home. Across the road an expanse of dark, coarse grass was broken by more trees, and an awning sheltered a children’s play area from the Queensland sun that was still wintry-mild, as yet not holding the full force of the coming summer. Beyond the swings and slides and a jungle gym, a swathe of silvery sand was licked by milk-white tongues of foam edging the blue-green ocean.

Cars intermittently left the street or cruised into it. A young woman holding the hands of two small girls sporting identical blond ponytails emerged from one of the houses and crossed to the park.

Twins? But leaning forward with naturally quickened interest to peer through the windscreen, she saw that one was a little bigger than the other; perhaps a year or so separated them.

A sleek black saloon with tinted windows slid from between the imposing gateposts of the Brunellesci house. Impossible to see inside the car, or even guess if it held only the driver or had passengers.

People strolled down to the beach as the sun moved higher up the pale sky, but not many walked along the street.

This wasn’t getting her anywhere. She rummaged in her bag, donned wraparound sunglasses, then twisted her hair and piled it inside a wide-brimmed natural-straw hat that she pulled low over her forehead, and took a brand-new paperback book from the glove box.

There were wooden seats near the play area, back-to-back sets. She chose one facing the road and the wrought-iron gates of the Brunellesci house, pretending to read while watching the gates. The seat escaped the shade cast by the awning, and the morning sun gently warmed her shoulders, bared by the sleeveless cream shirt she wore with cotton shorts.

Still no sign of movement from the house. Then after some time a woman with a child in a pushchair emerged, accompanied by a tall, white-haired man walking with the help of a stick.

The gates slid open to let them through, and they paused at the edge of the pavement before crossing to the park and the play area, passing the young woman apparently absorbed in her reading.

They hadn’t even noticed her. Lowering the book to her lap with shaking hands, she took a deep breath, willing herself not to turn, not to give herself away. She could hear the woman’s voice, rising and falling in the exaggerated way people spoke to babies, and a brief, deep male rumble from the man, over a stream of happy babble from the child.

Her heart contracted. Feigning nonchalance, she stood up, closing the book, and without looking directly at them skirted the group and settled herself on the grass under a tree, her back against the trunk.

The old man leaned on his stick, watching while the woman pushed the child on a baby swing, not too high.

Small, round face shaded by a blue hat, chubby legs emerging from blue cotton overalls, clearly the little boy was enjoying himself. The sound of his delighted laughter carried on the clear air.

He’s being well cared for.

Maybe she should abandon her mission, leave. But the cowardly thought was quickly dismissed. One glimpse didn’t tell the whole story.

She turned her attention to the woman, probably in her mid-thirties, with a pleasantly attractive face framed by short brown curls, and a curvy but fit-looking body, the waist accentuated by a white belt about a plain green dress worn with white flat-heeled sandals. A nanny. Someone they’d hired to take charge of the baby.