Sara Craven - His Reluctant Bride - The Marchese's Love-Child / The Count's Blackmail Bargain / In the Millionaire's Possession

She swallowed deeply, reclaiming her self-control. Reminding herself that she would have to get accustomed to seeing them together, although not in such intimate circumstances. And, at the same time, knowing a pang of jealousy that Charlie, usually awkward with strangers, should have capitulated so readily. She overcame an impulse to snatch him back.

Slowly and stealthily, she began to ease her way towards the edge of the bed. It was still early, but her need for coffee was evenly matched with her desire to extract herself from a difficult situation.

Besides, she wanted both Charlie and herself to be ready by the time Julie arrived.

Julie, she thought, her mouth tightening, who was going to get a piece of her mind. And yet was that really fair to the girl, who’d only been doing the job she was hired for?

Yes, she had concerns, but so had Polly. She’d been worried about her mother’s apparent resolve to keep Charlie a baby for as long as possible, and therefore more dependent than he should be at his age. Mrs Fairfax had lavished presents on ‘my little prince’ and ‘Gran’s sweet little man’, most of them in the form of expensive clothing which she fussed to keep pristine. Even helping his grandfather to gather up hedge clippings seemed to be on the forbidden list, Polly recalled wryly. Hardly any wonder that Charlie didn’t shine at outdoor activities.

And he was lazy about feeding himself, and doing simple tasks that Polly set him, probably because he was used to having everything done for him at other times.

I knew there were problems, she admitted as she slid with infinite care from under the covers, but at the same time I wanted to avoid another confrontation with my mother. So I have only myself to blame.

She stood up, then paused, suddenly aware of movement behind her. Stiffening as Sandro’s voice said a husky, ‘ Buongiorno ’.

‘Good morning.’ She didn’t look at him. ‘I was going to make coffee—if you’d like some. I—I don’t have espresso,’ she added stiltedly.

‘Coffee would be good,’ he said. ‘If I can free myself sufficiently to drink it.’ She could hear the smile in his voice, and bit her lip.

‘Shall I put him back in his cot?’ she asked.

‘Why disturb him for no cause?’

‘Perhaps I should ask you the same thing.’ Polly stared down at the floor. ‘What is he doing here?’

‘He was crying,’ Sandro said shortly. ‘He wanted a drink, which I gave him. Should I have left him thirsty?’

‘He’d have needed changing too.’ God, she thought, she sounded so carping—like a miserable shrew.

‘I even managed that,’ he returned. ‘After a struggle. Although I do not guarantee my handiwork,’ he added drily.

‘You did that?’ Polly turned then, staring down at him.

‘But of course. He was uncomfortable.’

‘Well—thank you for that,’ Polly said reluctantly. She shook her head. ‘I can’t understand why I didn’t hear him myself. I always do …’

‘You were dead to the world.’ His voice gentled a little. ‘You did not even scream “rape” when I joined you on the bed. Perhaps you sensed Carlino was there to act as chaperone.’

‘Maybe so,’ she agreed stiffly.

‘A friend warned me that when you have a child, the concept of “three in a bed” takes on a new meaning,’ he went on. ‘I now know what he means.’

Polly looked away, her mouth tightening, and he sighed. ‘That was a joke.’

‘An inappropriate one,’ she said, hating the primness in her voice. ‘I’ll get the coffee now. And—thanks again for helping with Charlie.’

‘It was my pleasure,’ he said, his voice faintly weary.

By the time she returned, Charlie had woken and was in a grizzly mood.

‘You are sour in the mornings, figlio mio, ’ Sandro told him. He slanted a faint grin at Polly. ‘Like your mammina. ’

She sipped the strong, scalding brew she’d made. ‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was defensive. ‘But this isn’t easy for me.’

‘Or for me, cara mia ,’ he said. ‘Or for me.’

He swallowed his own coffee with the complete disregard for its temperature that she remembered so well, then rose, swinging Charlie up into his arms. ‘Come, my little grumbler. Come and take a bath with Papa and see if it improves your temper.’ He glanced at Polly. ‘You have no objections, I hope.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘None.’

She occupied herself with stripping the bed and turning it back into a sofa, while attempting to ignore the noise of splashing and Charlie’s gleeful squeals coming from the bathroom. Trying hard, too, not to feel envious and even slightly dejected, because that would get her nowhere.

Her path might have been chosen for her, but she had to follow it, whatever the cost.

What would happen next? she wondered. She supposed she would have to see Mrs Terence and tell her that Safe Hands would be losing her earlier than planned.

And she would have to visit her parents and break the news to them too—a situation which had all the makings of a Class A nightmare.

And if Sandro was serious about moving her into a larger flat, and so far he seemed to have meant everything he said, then she would have to pack.

She wandered into the tiny kitchen and poured herself some orange juice. She felt as if she needed all the vitamins she could get.

It was as if her life had been invaded by a sudden whirlwind, all her plans and certainties swept away.

And at some point she would have to stand beside Sandro in a church or registry office, and listen to him making promises he had no intention of keeping as he put his ring on her finger.

Three years ago, all my dreams were of marrying him, she thought unhappily. And now it’s happening at last, but not in a way I could ever have hoped. Because I’m being offered the façade of a marriage, without its fulfillment. And, for Charlie’s sake, I have to find some way—to endure.

She rinsed out her glass and put it on the draining board.

What was the old saying? she wondered drearily. Be careful what you wish for, in case your wish comes true?

Well, she had wished so hard to be Sandro’s wife—once.

She gave a small wretched sigh, then went into Charlie’s room to choose his clothes for the day, and that was where Sandro found her a few minutes later. He was fully dressed, while Charlie, capering beside him, was in a towel draped like a Roman toga.

‘Do you have a mop, or a cloth, perhaps? I need to dry the bathroom floor.’ Sandro’s tone was faintly rueful.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Polly said too brightly. ‘I’ll clear up when I have my own bath.’ She paused. ‘You seemed to be having fun together,’ she went on with an effort. ‘Somehow—he’s not shy with you.’

‘Why should he be?’ Sandro lifted a hand and touched his scarred cheek. ‘Did you think, perhaps, that this would terrify him—make him run away from me screaming, and force me to think again?’ he added sardonically.

‘No—oh, no,’ Polly stammered. ‘But he can be tricky with people he’s only just met. But not you.’

Sandro shrugged. ‘Blood calling to blood, perhaps.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That must be it.’

He was watching her. He said quietly, ‘Paola, I am not trying to take your place. You will always be his mother. But he needs us both.’

Her throat closed. She nodded, unable to speak, her hands restlessly folding and unfolding a little T-shirt.

His hand closed on her shoulder. His touch was gentle, but she felt its resonance through her blood and bone.

‘Go and dress yourself,’ he directed quietly. ‘I will see to our son.’

She didn’t want his kindness, his consideration, Polly thought wildly as she fled. She needed antagonism to feed her anger—her determination to stay aloof from him at all costs. To blank out forever the memories of those days and nights when her universe had narrowed to one room, and the bed where she lay in his arms.