Catherine Spencer - Convenient Brides - The Italian's Convenient Wife / His Inconvenient Wife / His Convenient Proposal

MILLS & BOON®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

By Catherine Spencer

Some people know practically from birth that they’re going to be writers. Catherine Spencerwasn’t one of them. Her first idea was to be a nun, which was clearly never going to work! A series of other choices followed. She considered becoming a veterinarian, a hairdresser, a nurse. As a last resort, she became an English teacher and loved it.

Eventually she married, had four children and always, always a dog or two or three. How can a house become a home without a dog? she asks. How does an inexperienced mother cope with babies, if she doesn’t have a German shepherd nanny?

In time, the children grew up and moved out on their own—as children are wont to do regardless of their mother’s pleading that they will remain babies who don’t mind being kissed in public! She returned to teaching, but a middle-aged restlessness overtook her and she looked for a change of career.

What’s an English teacher’s area of expertise? Well, novels, among other things, and moody, brooding, unforgettable heroes: Heathcliff…Edward Fairfax Rochester…Romeo…Rhett Butler. Then there’s that picky business of knowing how to punctuate and spell, what ‘rules’ of sentence structure are and how to break them for dramatic effect. They all pointed her in the same direction: breaking the rules every chance she got and creating her own moody, brooding, unforgettable heroes.

CALLIE had been eighteen the last time that deep, dark Mediterranean voice had seduced her into forgetting everything her mother had taught her about “saving” herself for the “right” man. The kind who’d greet her at the altar with a full appreciation for what her pristine white gown and flowing veil signified. The kind who’d cherish the prized gift of her virginity on their wedding night.

Eighteen.

Nine years and a lifetime ago.

Yet although the phone awoke her from a deep sleep at the ungodly hour of four in the morning, she recognized at once who was calling. And so did her heart. It contracted as painfully as if a huge fist had closed around it and was squeezing the very life from her body.

“It is Paolo Rainero, Caroline,” he said. And then, as if she needed further clarification, “Ermanno’s brother. Your sister’s brother-in-law.”

And my first love. My first lover. The only one.

Callie cleared her throat. Swallowed. “Buon giorno,” she said, groping for the bedside lamp, and wished her Italian rolled off her tongue with the same fluid, exotic ease that he brought to English. “What a surprise to hear from you after all this time, Paolo. How are you?”

He let a beat of time pass before answering, and in that short but endless silence, any fledgling hope she’d entertained that he was in the U.S., and wanted to renew acquaintance with her for the pure pleasure of her company, shriveled and died. Fear slithered up her spine, leaving her skin unpleasantly clammy, and she knew with sudden, chilling certainty that he had nothing good to tell her.

As if to ward off the blow he was about to deliver, she asked with desperate good cheer, “Where are you calling from?”

“Rome. Caroline—”

“Are you sure? You sound as close as if you’re just next door. I’d never have guessed you’re half a world away. It’s amazing what—”

He recognized her mindless babble for the delaying tactic it was. “Caroline,” he said again, cutting her off more forcefully this time, “I’m afraid I have bad news.”

The children! Something had happened to the children!

Her mouth ran dry. Freed from the vicious hold, her heart hurled itself into a punishing, uneven beat somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach. “How bad?” she asked shakily.

“Very bad, cara. There has been a yachting accident. An explosion at sea.” He paused again. Another horribly telling hesitation. “Ermanno and Vanessa were aboard at the time.”

“With the children?” She forced the question past parched lips.

“No. With four guests and a crew of six. They left the children with my parents.”

A thread of relief wound its way through her mounting dread. “And? Don’t leave me hanging like this, Paolo. How badly is my sister hurt?”

“I’m saddened to have to tell you, there were no survivors.”

The softly lit room swam before her eyes. “None at all?”

“None.”

Her beautiful, generous, loving sister dead? Her body blown to pieces, mutilated beyond recognition?

Callie scrunched her eyes shut against the horrifying images filling her mind. Clutching the phone in a white-knuck-led grip, she whispered, “How can you be so sure?”

“The explosion was visible for miles. Other yachts in the area raced to the scene to lend assistance. Search and rescue vessels went into immediate operation. Their efforts met with no success. It was clear no one could have survived such a blast.”

“But what if they were thrown into the sea and made it to shore? What if you stopped searching too soon? Vanessa’s a strong swimmer. She might—”

“No, Caroline,” he said. “It is not possible. The devastation was too great, the evidence, too…graphic to be mistaken for anything other than what it was.”

He had never before spoken to her with such kindness; with such compassion. That he did so now nearly killed her.

A huge balloon of grief rose in her throat, almost choking her. A sound filled her ears; echoed repeatedly in the dimly lit bedroom. A sound so primitive, she could barely conceive that it poured from her.

Paolo’s voice pierced the black, terrible mists enveloping her. “Is there anyone with you, Caroline?”

What sort of question was that? And by what right did he, of all people, dare to ask it? “It’s not yet dawn, and I’m in bed,” she said rawly. “Alone.”

His voice caressed her. “You should not be, not at a time like this.”

Not in bed? she wondered. Or not alone?

“You are in shock, as are we all,” he continued, clarifying his remark. “Is there no one you can call on, to help you get through the next few hours until the necessary travel arrangements are in place?”

“Travel?”

“To Rome. For the funerals. They will take place later in the week. Naturally you will attend.”

Naturally! Nonetheless, she bristled at his tone, so clearly that of a man not accustomed to being thwarted. Some things never changed.

“I’ll be there,” she said. “How are the children coping?”

“Not well. They’re old enough to understand what death means. They know they’ll never again see their parents. Gina cries often, and although he tries to be brave, I know that Clemente sheds many a private tear, too.”

Pushing aside her own grief to make room for theirs, Callie said, “Please give them my love and tell them their…their aunt Callie will see them soon.”

“Of course—for what it’s worth.”

Anger knifed through her, intense as forked lightning. “Are you questioning my sincerity, Paolo?”

“Not in the least,” he replied smoothly. “I’m simply stating a fact. Of course the twins are aware they have an aunt who lives in America, but they don’t know you. You’re a name, a photograph, someone who never forgets to send them lovely gifts at Christmas and on their birthdays, or postcards from the interesting foreign places you visit. But you found the time to come to see them only once, when they were infants and much too young to remember you. For the rest, you depended on their parents to bring them to America to visit you—and how often did that occur? Two, three times, in the last eight years?”