The Passionate Italian 11 DECEMBER EPUB

by Diana Fraser

  A stray gust of wind caught her shawl and it slipped, drifting down past her bare shoulders and back.

  Alessandro looked at the beautiful woman, as the wrap descended in a cloud of silk, and his breath suddenly halted, his heart ached.

  He had never seen such scars—luminescent white under the moonlight, pearly slivers of pain criss-crossed around her shoulders, and back. No doubt she barely felt the downward slide of the silk against the desensitized skin.

  He reached his hand to touch one of the scarred shoulders, but stopped short.

  “I’m sorry.” He swallowed back the impulse to place a kiss where his hand had nearly touched. “Perhaps I can help. I know the conte and will arrange for you to meet with him.”

  She turned quickly back to face him and he dropped his hand. The beauty of her eyes, dark and passionate in the dim light took his breath away once more. What was it about this woman?

  “Really? I’d appreciate it. A lot.”

  She looked up at him, completely unaware that the tracery of scars was on display. He focused on her beautiful eyes: eyes that could create magic, could create love, could create a future.

  He turned away suddenly. He’d vowed never to live for the future or the past—always to stay in the present.

  When he turned back she was standing, her wrap back in place, seemingly unaware of it having fallen. She looked at home in the luscious garden: sensual and arousing, demanding more than a physical response. But surely that was something he couldn’t give?

  She looked up at him, a complex blend of hope, embarrassment and pride combining in that one glance. Then she turned and began walking away.

  She was different to anyone he’d ever met. Even simply in this one act. Because no woman had ever walked away from him since his wife had done so.

  The thought of the resemblance cut through the heat of his passion like a blade. He’d help her if he could. But that was it. No-one, but no-one must be allowed to touch him. He had enough guilt and hurt to last him a life-time. But the sight of the scars on this beautiful woman had already cut through his defenses.

  “M,” he called. She stopped without turning. “Where can the conte reach you?”

  “He knows.”

  “He may have forgotten.”

  “Unlikely. I’m living on his estate.”

  Emily didn’t hear him reply. It was obvious she’d never hear from him again. And she began walking back, back to the road, back to the past. It was the only thing that mattered after all.

  The Sheikh’s Bargain Bride

  Available now from All Romance

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sheikh Zahir al-Zaman narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun-bleached stony plains and focussed on the slowly materializing dark speck. Within minutes the helicopter’s low rhythmic thrum filled the overcast spring sky like an angry locust intent on devastation.

  She hadn’t wasted any time. But then he’d made sure she couldn’t refuse his invitation. He banished a flicker of discomfort with practiced ease. Sometimes you had to lure the prey to you. Sometimes, in a way that wasn’t palatable.

  But the ends always justified the means. She would be his and he was prepared to do whatever it took to make it happen.

  He watched the helicopter alight in a cloud of dust before the palace. The pilot lifted out a small case and began to open the door before it was pushed open abruptly from within and two long, jean-clad legs emerged. A tall blonde jumped down and looked around the palace, her head twisting and turning impatiently.

  She’d changed. She was thinner, her hair longer, her face no longer sun-kissed but as pale as the desert under moonlight. Still, his body responded the same to her now, as it did when she visited him in his dreams.

  He’d lived with his obsession with her for four long years; cursing and nurturing the anger at her deceit and betrayal while still longing to relive the passion of their one night together. But his brother’s death meant he no longer had to live with the madness.

  Then, with an imperceptible movement of her head, she looked up and caught his gaze. Zahir frowned and his breath caught unexpectedly in his chest. Ice blue eyes stared at him, challenging him, demanding an explanation from him. How could eyes so cool and northern spark such fire? She turned away suddenly and slid the door of the helicopter shut with a force that belied her fragility. The metallic crash echoed around the palace, destroying its peace and order.

  He’d get what he wanted but he knew, without a doubt, that it wasn’t going to be easy.

  “You are to wait here. The Sheikh is busy at present but he will see you when he is free.”

  “No way!” Anna threw down her bag onto the nearest chair. “I don’t care if he’s with the President of the United States, tell him I’m here and tell him I will see him immediately.”

  The Bedu servant simply nodded and withdrew from the room.

  Anna strode across the vast, stone-flagged reception hall, threw open the wooden shutters of the nearest window and looked out, searching for any signs of her son in the tiled courtyard below. There were none.

  She turned her gaze up to the lofty ceiling, its ornately carved pillars and beams shrouded in shadows, and tried to hold back the despair and grief that filled her.

  Zahir, you bastard, where’s my son?

  He knew she’d arrived. She’d seen him watching her from above. She had a sixth sense where he was concerned, where anyone was concerned if they threatened her liberty.

  She raked her hair back into a fresh ponytail and smoothed down her shirt. As much to give her trembling hands something to do as to prepare herself for the meeting.

  But her hands continued to shake as her body readied itself for a confrontation. She sat down in the nearest chair and gathered her anger to her. It had been anger that had stopped the grief from taking over. And she needed it now.

  A month without her son and now so near but still she couldn’t get to him. She could scream with frustration and something else that she tried to ignore. It made her skin prickle, it made her feel sick to her stomach. She dropped her head in her hands and took a deep breath in order to control it. But despite her best efforts it would not be beaten. Fear was like that.

  The smooth slide of soft leather sandals alerted her to the return of the servant. She looked up into the weathered face of the old Bedu expectantly.

  “This way madam.”

  Her booted footsteps rang loudly on the ancient stone corridors, worn smooth by the footsteps of generations of the al-Zaman dynasty. They walked for what seemed like an age through beautifully proportioned rooms that unfolded one on to another, down echoing colonnaded walkways that skirted magnificent gardens, past perfumed courtyards and mysterious corridors that seemed to disappear directly into the rocky hillside upon which the palace was built.

  At last the Bedu servant opened a heavy set of dark teak doors.

  ‘You may wait here.’

  She stepped into the room and looked around, awed despite herself.

  The room was obviously part of the domestic wing of the palace. While it bore the same marks of antiquity as the grand reception hall, it possessed none of its austerity. Here, light from high clerestory windows warmed the sandstone rock and imbued the amber and creams of the tiled wall with a magical glow. She could hear the splash of a fountain coming from the courtyard beyond the open windows and she could smell sweet jasmine.

  It was furnished for comfort too, with simple, over-sized suede sofas in neutral tones grouped around a huge wooden table, shining with a patina created from years of care.

  She sat down wearily and looked around. It was a room designed to appeal to the senses: a seductive room. God help her.

  She dropped her bag and her hand instinctively caressed the geometric inlay that edged the wooden table. It was smooth, worn by generations of hands, seeking to engage with its beauty. But even as her fingers sought the same engagement, her eyes searched the shadows.

  A cool breeze alerted
her to a door opening on the far side of the room, behind a wooden screen.

  She didn’t see him at first but she knew he was there. Just the feel of his powerful presence close to her kick-started something deep inside that had lain dormant since she’d seen him last. Her heart hammered against her chest and she could feel heat rise through her body that had nothing to do with the warmth of the spring afternoon.

  Then he emerged, all dark and light. There had never been any half measures with Zahir—physically, intellectually or emotionally. It had been a part of the initial attraction to be with someone so definite, so sure. Now, the white of his robes accentuated the rich nutmeg of his skin and the shadows that gathered in the vertical lines of his face: the off-centre groove between his brows and the finely etched lines that framed his mouth. His eyes, too, seemed to absorb the light. They held no subtlety of expression or color, only intensity.

  She felt that intensity connect with her at an elemental level, just as it had when they met nearly four years ago. It was the same as before except for the quiet rage that she could sense within him and except for the fact that she was a mother now with more to lose than herself.

  Then he moved forward into the light and the impression evaporated. He was the powerful, charismatic sheikh still, but civilized. While a smile curled at his lips, his eyes showed reserve, distance.

  “Salamm w aleykum Anna.” He nodded to her in greeting. “How was your journey? I hope my staff were attentive?”

  She jumped up. “Where is he?”

  “Surely that is no way to greet your brother-in-law? Not in my country, nor yours, I believe.”

  “It’s the way we treat people—family or not—who are trying to take their child away from them.”

  “I agree, such circumstances don’t warrant the usual courtesies. However, I am old-fashioned in such things.”

  “Spare me the lecture in manners and tell me where I can find my son. We’ll be leaving on the next plane out.”

  “Please sit. I have ordered you mint tea. Is that satisfactory?”

  “Where is he?”

  He smiled and sat down.

  “Anna. I am being polite. I am asking questions that you should, in turn, answer politely. Didn’t your mother-? No. Of course not. With your upbringing I doubt you were taught anything other than how to find yourself a man. Preferably a wealthy one.” His eyes glittered. “And you managed that well didn’t you? Managed to dupe my romantic brother so easily.”

  “Stop right there. I haven’t travelled nearly seven thousand miles to pretend we’re on polite terms. I want my son. God knows how much money it took for you to get the court to rule that he come here for a holiday. And how much more to keep him here.” She pushed her fingers through her tightly-bound hair. “Where is he?”

  He sat back and looked her slowly up and down, from the scuffed toes of her boots to the hair that hadn’t seen a hair-cut in more than a year. Well, what of it? She stood straight and eyed him directly. She had no money. He’d made sure of that by tying up her husband’s money in trust funds for her son. She didn’t care except that she’d been unable to come to him until now, until Zahir had sent his jet for her.

  At the thought of her son she could feel tears prick her eyelids and the maelstrom of emotions that churned in her heart threaten to destroy the cool of her composure. But still she determinedly held his gaze. He would tell her where to find her son and she would not weaken.

  “Anna.” It was his gentle tone that did it. She felt the pain crack through the anger that was her shield. She turned away but not before she saw the reaction to her anguish revealed in his face.

  “Anna, my nephew is with Muma Yemena—his nurse, resting before dinner.”

  She nodded, trying to control her leap of excitement at getting through to him. “He’s well?”

  “Of course. He’s been well cared for. Muma Yemena has been his nurse since birth.”

  “Only because your brother insisted.”

  “As was right.”

  She sighed and sat down, studying her hands in her lap, all fight gone. She was trying desperately to control the gnawing fear that her son no longer needed her.

  “I want to see him now.” Her voice was edgy, nervous.

  “He is unavailable.”

  “To his mother?” She jumped up. “If you don’t take me to him, I’ll find him myself.”

  He shook his head. “You’d be lost within minutes.”

  She turned and headed for the door. But before she could open it he was beside her, his hands gripping her wrists, shackling her to him.

  “Anna. You need to calm down before you see him. We have to talk first.”

  “You have two minutes and then I’m off.”

  She froze as his hand tightened his grip around her.

  “I’ll take as long as I like and you will listen.”

  “What the hell do we have to say to each other that hasn’t already been said? What else do you need to know?”

  “I? I don’t need to know anything further. But you do.”

  Her voice was quiet. “I hate you Zahir. You haven’t rested until you could take my son from me. You’ve never hesitated to show your disdain for me. What the hell do you want from me?”

  “You still don’t understand do you? Matta is here because he will be living with me from now on.”

  “No!” She shook her head, tiny little shakes that sent tremors through her body. “I will never let Matta stay here with you. You have no legal rights.”

  “I am his uncle. He will be my heir. He will have everything. With you, he will have nothing. Hardly the doting mother to deprive your child of so much.”

  “A child needs his mother. For God’s sake. There must be some shadow of humanity in you. Think of your own mother. Think of her.”

  “If you’d had a real relationship with my brother you’d know that our mother died when he was a baby, when I was ten.”

  “I’m sorry.” She was stunned. There was so much her husband, Abduallah, had neglected to tell her.

  He shrugged. “It is unimportant. I scarcely remember her. A child needs to learn early to survive and Matta will do just that.”

  “No! You can’t take him. Any court in any country would give the mother custody of her own child.”

  “Depends on what can be proved against the mother.”

  “Nothing. You have nothing against me. I have done nothing.”

  The thin veneer of politeness left him instantly. The seductive silky-smooth aura of the wealthy womanizer—whose playground knew no borders, no limits—was replaced by the powerful Sheikh who’d spent his younger life at war where no rules applied. The change was in his eyes. They were bare—stripped of the chill aloofness—naked and fierce.

  “You’ve done everything. Abduallah is dead because of you and your family.”

  She shook her head. But she was unable to completely deny the connection between her family and the death of Abduallah. If she hadn’t introduced him to her brother; if the drugs hadn’t been so readily available to someone with her brother’s connections and Abduallah’s money...

  But it wasn’t her. She couldn’t be held responsible. “No.” She shook her head more strongly.

  “Face facts, Anna, you’re hardly the virtuous widow. Evidence can easily be obtained.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “What? Fabricate evidence against you? I don’t need to. It’s surprising how easily people talk—say whatever you want them to—when money is involved. I know that you’re not a drug user—never have been—but your connections proved fatal to Abduallah. And, believe me, I’d do anything to secure the future of my own flesh and blood.”

  She blanched at his words. “Matta?”

  “Of course.”

  “Matta is my son,” she repeated. “I’m not giving him to you: not now, not ever. I’d die before that happened.”

  He stepped towards her, scanning her face. She had nowhere to go. Her back was alrea
dy pressed against the door. He touched her cheek with his finger, softly drawing down a velvety trail that ended at her jaw. He narrowed his eyes at the sight of the moisture on his fingertip. She hadn’t even known she was crying.

  The crease between his brows deepened. He swung round as if to turn away, as if to mask some inner struggle, but stopped abruptly and turned back to face her. Silently his eyes searched hers and she saw the chill had gone, replaced by a complex intensity that confused her.

  “You love him then,” he said dully.

  “The word ‘love’ sounds strange on your lips, Zahir. I’m surprised you know what it means.”

  He dropped the hand that hovered close to her cheek; his handsome face suddenly weary. Abduallah had told her of Zahir’s sacrifice: the years of desert warfare, living away from home in order to protect his family and country. How could a man, so isolated, so accustomed to war, know anything about love?

  “Tell me, Anna, why did you marry my brother?”

  His question caught her off-guard. She hesitated as she remembered the brief courtship with her husband – so different to that of the other men she’d known.

  “He was gentle; he respected me.” Even as she uttered the words she realized how impossibly small they must sound to people who didn’t have to fight for everything they had. But, to her, they had been huge—big enough to divert her from her hard-won Cornell scholarship.

  “That’s it? You’ve put our family through hell because you needed respect?”

  “I married him because I loved him.”

  His gaze fell briefly. He walked away and looked through one of the huge domed windows with views across the desert, out to the distant red hills.

  “Loved his money more. It must have seemed a miracle that someone of his standing should take interest in someone like you.”

  “Why? You did.”

  She bit her lip. Referring to their one-night stand was hardly clever in the present circumstances.