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

She needed to hate him.

The state of the bathroom was a spur to that, of course. It looked as if it had been hit by a tidal wave, and it took ten minutes’ hard graft with a mop and bucket, and a roll of paper towels, to render it usable again.

But even then the recollection of Charlie’s crows of delight diffused her resentment.

And it occurred to her, too, that next time Sandro chose to play submarines or whatever with his son it would be someone else’s task to do the clearing up after them.

It was clear that her life was going to change at all levels, not just the strictly personal. And would she be able to cope?

Although she would not be Sandro’s wife in the accepted sense, she would have some practical role to play in his life, and maybe she should ask to have it defined.

She sighed. So many things she needed to know—not least how he’d acquired the scar on his face. Her own assumptions had been totally and embarrassingly wrong, of course, but she’d been offered no other explanation for an injury that must have gone dangerously deep.

She could only suppose that Sandro found the circumstances surrounding it too difficult and painful to discuss. So what could possibly have happened, and could she ever persuade him to talk about it?

Then there was his family. It seemed that he had other cousins apart from the contessa. How much did they know about her existence? she wondered. And what would they feel about her arrival—an interloper with a child?

Polly sighed again. She was just beginning to realise there were problems she hadn’t even imagined awaiting her in Campania.

When she emerged from the bathroom, freshly attired in jeans and a pale blue shirt, she found Sandro standing by the window with Charlie in his arms, apparently having a murmured conversation about the traffic in the street below.

‘Have you pointed out the security men watching the flat?’ Polly asked caustically.

‘I sent them away last night,’ Sandro told her, unfazed. ‘From now on, cara, I shall be watching you myself.’ He paused, watching the swift rush of colour to her face. ‘So, what are your plans for the day?’

‘Principally, giving up my job, and trying to calm my mother.’ Polly thrust her hands into the pockets of her jeans in an effort at nonchalance. ‘She’s probably looking for a hit man right now to take you out of the equation.’

‘What a pity I am not Mafioso as you thought,’ he murmured. ‘I could perhaps have suggested someone.’

Polly’s mouth tightened. ‘I suppose I should also start packing—if you really intend to move us out of here. Or was that simply a threat?’

‘I do intend it,’ he said. ‘And as quickly as possible. But do not bring too much, cara. I plan to provide you and Carlino with everything you need, including new wardrobes.’

She lifted her chin. ‘And I prefer to choose my own things.’

He looked her up and down, brows raised. ‘Of which those are a sample?’

‘There was a time,’ Polly said, ‘when you would have found these clothes perfectly acceptable.’

‘But then we are neither of us the same people,’ he said, gently. ‘Are we, Paola?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘We’re not. And, as a matter of interest, who was the Sandro Domenico you once claimed to be?’

‘You are interested?’ His brows lifted mockingly. ‘A step forward, perhaps. Domenico was the name of my late father, and was given to me as a second name at my christening. I used it when I did not wish to reveal my true identity.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t I guess?’

‘So, will you allow me to make reparation for that, and accept that I wish to show my gratitude to you for agreeing to marry me, and how better than with a corredo di sposa ?’

‘I don’t want your gratitude,’ she said stonily. ‘Or a trousseau of designer dresses. Just the space you promised me.’

‘Does that exclude you from having lunch with me at my hotel—the Grand Capital? There are things we need to discuss.’

Polly bit her lip. ‘If I must.’

Sandro shrugged. ‘You overwhelm me,’ he told her drily. ‘Shall we say one o’clock in the bar?’

‘Lunch in a restaurant?’ Polly gave her angelically smiling son a dubious glance. ‘I’m not sure Charlie could manage that.’

‘He does not have to,’ Sandro said briskly. ‘I have arranged for him to spend some time with friends of mine, Teresa and Ernesto Bacchi, so we can talk without distraction.’

Polly drew a swift breath. ‘That’s very arbitrary,’ she said mutinously. ‘I might not like these friends of yours.’

‘Well, you will meet them later today, so you can judge for yourself,’ he said, shrugging.

‘And it might upset Charlie, too.’

‘I doubt that,’ he said. ‘They have twins his age. And he is more adaptable than you think.’ Sandro smoothed the little boy’s hair back from his forehead. ‘Tell Mammina,’ he whispered. He pointed to himself. ‘Who am I?’

‘Papa,’ Charlie said promptly, and hid his face on his father’s shoulder.

Polly made herself laugh and applaud. How easily Sandro had won him over, she thought. But why should she wonder at that?

Before he’d even spoken to her that first day in Sorrento, she’d been aware of the intensity of his gaze, her own mouth curving shyly—involuntarily—in response to his smile. Her heart had thudded in anticipation of the moment when he would come to her side.

Dear God, she thought wearily. She’d been seduced with just a look. A number-one, first-class pushover.

She turned away blindly, murmuring about finding her bag, and then the door buzzer sounded to announce Julie’s arrival.

She’d decided it would be hypocritical to have a battle with the nanny over concerns that she actually shared, so she greeted her with a polite word, and smile instead.

She took herself into the kitchen to make more coffee while Julie received her instructions for the day.

At the moment Sandro ruled, and there was nothing she could do about it, she thought, leaning against the cramped work surface while she waited for the kettle to boil.

She was still inwardly reeling from the shock of his return, and its traumatic aftermath, but her confusion wouldn’t last forever. Soon, she would be back in control of herself, and she’d make damned sure that more of a partnership was established over Charlie’s parenting than existed at the moment.

Something that might be easier once she was officially Sandro’s wife—and one of the few advantages of the forthcoming marriage, she thought painfully.

When she returned to the living room, Sandro came over to her, having relinquished Charlie to his nanny.

‘I must go,’ he said. He took out his wallet, and extracted what seemed to be an obscene amount of money, which he placed next to Charlie’s photograph on the chest of drawers. ‘For taxis,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow there will be a car and driver for your use.’

‘Public transport has always been perfectly adequate,’ Polly informed him loftily, conveniently forgetting how often she had cursed its delays and overcrowding.

Sandro shrugged. ‘Then spend it as you wish,’ he said. ‘In this, at least, the choice is yours.’

Ignoring her mutinous glance, he took her hand and bowed over it.

‘I will not kiss you, bella mia, ’ he said softly. He lifted her imprisoned fingers, drawing them lightly over his unshaven chin, the topaz eyes meeting hers in open challenge. ‘I would not wish to mark your exquisite skin.’

Polly mumbled something incoherent, and withdrew her hand from his with more haste than courtesy, aware that Julie, in spite of her training, was watching open-mouthed.