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

Last night had been bad enough, she thought broodingly. She’d never envisaged having to move in with him, but she realised now that she’d been naïve. There were probably plenty of other options, but his will was paramount, and he was letting her know it.

Yet he’d been so different once; gentle, humorous, patient—and adoring, or so she’d believed.

Now, she thought, wretchedness gnawing at her, it seemed that treacherous, deceitful and arrogant were more accurate descriptions.

He’d simply played the part of the sincere lover, as a ploy to keep her in his bed, trusting and eager, all summer long.

Yet, while she knew this, how was it possible that his lightest touch still had the power to stir her to the depths of her being, reigniting needs and longing that should be dead?

It was madness, and she needed to become sane again, or her existence, even on the outskirts of his life, would become intolerable.

She’d never felt less hungry in her life, but she knew she should eat something, so decided on consommé and chicken in wine sauce to follow. Fuel, she thought, for the next battle.

‘So,’ Sandro said when they were alone again, ‘you will stay here with me, and no more arguments?’

She nodded abruptly, and he smiled at her. ‘I am charmed by your obedience,’ he told her, and raised his glass. ‘Shall we drink to marital harmony?’

‘No,’ Polly said grittily, ‘thank you. Not even in water.’

‘Che peccato,’ he said lightly. ‘What a shame. Then, instead, let us drink to your earrings.’ He put a hand out as if to touch one of the little cornflowers, and Polly shrank back.

He stared at her, his brows snapping together. When he spoke, his voice crackled with anger. ‘Tell me, Paola, do you intend to cringe each time I come near you?’

‘Isn’t that the whole point?’ she demanded huskily. ‘I don’t want you near me. You’ve promised to keep your distance, but can I believe you?’

‘And how can I make you see that some contact between us is inevitable, and that you must accept it?’ he asked coldly. ‘I am letting it be known among my family and friends that we are reunited lovers.’

She said thickly, ‘You can’t expect me to go along with that. Not after everything that’s happened …’

‘I do expect it,’ he said harshly. ‘In fact, I insist on it. There is bound to be talk—even scandal—when our marriage, and our child, become public knowledge. I wish to minimise that for Carlino’s sake. Make people believe that we were victims of fate who have been given a second chance together.’

She gave him a scornful look. ‘That is such hypocrisy.’

‘You would prefer to have the whole truth broadcast?’ His voice bit. ‘I can tell you my cousin Emilio would be delighted. He publishes a whole range of cheap gossip magazines, exposing secrets that the rich and famous would prefer to remain hidden.

‘Until yesterday, he considered himself my heir, and will not be pleased to find himself demoted,’ he added cuttingly. ‘If he finds out that ours is simply a marriage of convenience, then our sleeping arrangements will be headline news in every trashy publication he puts on the streets. Is that what you want?’

‘Oh, God.’ Polly put down her glass. ‘He couldn’t, surely.’

‘Think again,’ he said. ‘We have never liked each other, so he would do it and revel in it. So I prefer to safeguard my pride and my privacy, cara mia. And you would be well advised to co-operate too, unless you wish to feature as a discarded mistress—and the unwanted wife that Alessandro Valessi threw out of his bed. Is that what you choose?’

‘No,’ she said, staring down at the table. ‘I—I don’t want that.’

‘Then play your part, and stop behaving as if I were a leper,’ he told her. ‘Because it bores me.’ He paused. ‘It also makes me wonder,’ he added softly, ‘what you would do if, some night, I—tested your resolve. Capisce?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was a thread.

‘Bene.’ He gave her a swift, hard smile. ‘Now let us go, happily united, into lunch.’

SHE walked into the restaurant beside him, moving like an automaton. His hand was under her arm as if she was in custody, as they followed the head waiter to yet another corner table.

‘They have a new chef here,’ Sandro told her as he took his place beside her. His sleeve, she realised, was only a few inches from her bare arm. Altogether too close for comfort. ‘And the food is said to be very good,’ he added.

‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ she said. ‘Is this hotel part of the Comadora chain, by any chance?’

‘We acquired it six months ago.’

‘I see.’ She played nervously with the cutlery. ‘Will—will you tell me something?’

His gaze sharpened. ‘If I can,’ he said, after a pause.

‘When we first met—why didn’t you tell me who you really were? Why did you let me think you were simply a minor hotel employee?’

‘Because that is exactly what I was,’ he said. ‘I had been travelling round all the hotels in the group to learn the trade, working in every department, so I could see what shape they were in.

‘Traditionally my family has always been involved in agriculture and banking. The hotels were acquired in the nineteenth century by one of my ancestors who is said to have won them in a poker game.

‘When my father inherited them, he wanted to get rid of them. He had no interest in tourism. But I felt differently. I thought managing the chain—updating and improving it—would be more interesting than citrus fruit and olive oil, or sitting in some air-conditioned office in Rome.

‘So I was working incognito, and compiling a report that I hoped would convince my father to keep the hotels and invest in them.’

‘But I wasn’t involved with any hotels,’ Polly protested. ‘I worked for an independent tour company. You could have told me the truth.’

He said quietly, ‘Paola, as the Valessi heir, I brought a lot of baggage with me. We are a wealthy family, and there had been women in my life whose sole priority was my money. I had become—wary.’

He spread his hands. ‘You had no idea who I was, and yet you wanted me—for myself. For Sandro Domenico. I found that—irresistible. Can you understand that?’

‘I understand.’ There was a constriction in her throat. ‘But your money must have been useful when you needed to be rid of—someone.’

His mouth hardened. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘In the end, it usually came down to—money.’ He paused. ‘Is that all you want to ask?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I have a hundred questions. But I’m not sure you’d be prepared to answer them all.’

‘No?’ He sent her a meditative look. ‘Try me.’

She took a deep breath. ‘Well—the scar on your cheek. I was wondering how that happened.’

‘I was in an accident,’ he said expressionlessly. ‘In the hills above Comadora. My car left the road on a bend and plunged into a ravine. I was thrown clear, but badly injured. My life was saved by a local man who found me, and administered some rough first aid before the ambulance got to me.’

It was a bald recital of the facts—something he’d clearly done many times before. He spoke as if it no longer had the power to affect him, but Polly could sense the tension in him.

She stared down at the immaculate white tablecloth. She said quietly, ‘You were—lucky.’

You could have died, she thought, the breath catching in her throat. You could have been killed so easily. And I—I might never have known just how much I had to mourn.

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Fortunate, indeed.’ His eyes were hooded as he looked at her. ‘Do you require further details?’