by Sara Wood
‘But that’s not true!’
Her cheeks had deepened to the colour of a rose. So enticing.
‘I know that, you know it, but pictures lie. The press makes what it wants of a shot, as I know to my cost. There’ll be an intense interest in you. Life will be unbearable. They’ll crowd around you, shouting, pushing, thrusting microphones in your face, popping flash bulbs and generally making your every movement impossible.’
He felt her shoulders tense up. Without thinking, he stroked them and her muscles eased beneath his soothing fingers before her gasp of alarm made him stop. But he let his hands remain. He needed to touch her, to feel her warmth, to inhale the freshness of her skin. To dream. To imagine removing her clothes, slowly, tormenting himself exquisitely as he revealed her body beneath.
He wanted her for himself, he realised. Somewhere secret and private where he could quietly begin to make love to her...
They’ll lose interest when I tell them what really happened!’ she declared shakily.
She had no idea what lay ahead. He pitied her. She had a lot to learn. ‘Fine,’ he said, using ruthlessness to get his own way. ‘You do that. Tell them that you felt faint because you’d just discovered that your mother was a Venetian heiress. Explain that you’re a countess and disgustingly rich. What do you think they’d do with that story? “Jobless girl out for the Count”. Or “Rags to riches”. The Cinderella story is a fantasy everyone would love to read about. It would run and run.’
She stared at him in horror. He moved closer, drawn by her helplessness. ‘I see,’ she said unhappily. ‘But they’ll leave me alone once they know how ordinary I am, surely?’
It came to him then. She was vulnerable. She would need him. That was how he would break down her resistance. He would offer his protection, take charge of her life, and teach her...everything.
Sophia felt safe at last. Here in a suite in the River House Hotel, with Rozzano next door, she would be protected from the nightmare scenarios he had described so graphically on the journey from Dorset to London.
It was Frank who’d convinced her to hide herself among London’s teeming millions for a day or so. Sophia had managed to pack a case and seemingly in no time at all she was in Rozzano’s Lear jet, curled up in a vast armchair seat. His hair-raising tales about the press had scared her stiff, and she’d hated the fact that she might be chased by the media wherever she.went. How could she ever live like a normal person?
‘Loosen up, Sophia.’ He’d drawn her to him comfortingly. ‘All this has been a shock, I know, but give it time. Live each moment, and make plans later. In the meantime, let me handle everything.’
‘Thank you,’ she muttered weakly.
It occured to her that she’d never been weak before. It must be something to do with being thrown into the deep end of life suddenly. She’d never felt so vulnerable, never needed someone strong and protective until now.
He tightened his hold on her. Now she could feel the hardness of his hipbone, the warmth of his body and its subtle fragrance.
‘I can’t ever become part of your world,’ she said, feeling forlorn.
‘You are part of it. In fact, you’re very similar to me.’
Sophia was intrigued. ‘In what way?’
‘Being a vicar’s daughter has taught you restraint, courtesy, good manners and concern for others. You will have learnt to put the feelings of other people before your own and concealed your emotions and needs—’
‘How did you know that?’ she exclaimed in amazement.
Rozzano looked at her gravely. That was my upbringing too. I know what it’s like to be torn between polite behaviour and the desire to let rip. Society has made demands on us both which we’ve- tried to fulfil. You will fit very well into what you call my world. The goodness of your heart will see you through any social situation you encounter. Everything else is unimportant.’
She remained within the circle of his arms, astonished by the similarities between them and the kindness of his words. It was the sort of wise observation her father would have made—and she’d believed there were few men with as gentle and perceptive a nature as him. Her admiration for Rozzano deepened.
‘Don’t forget,’ Rozzano added more cynically, ‘that people will accept you because you’re a millionairess.’
‘You’re kidding!’ From the gravity of his expression, it was clear that he wasn’t.
A millionairess! She went hot and cold.
‘Think what you can do with so much money.’ He gave a small, wintry smile. ‘A wardrobe or two of gorgeous clothes, shoes, luxurious holidays—’
‘Stop! You’re testing my puritanical upbringing to the utmost!’ Sophia protested, trying not to be seduced by the thought of silk undies and flattering clothes. And someone to tell her what to do with her hair... ‘No,’ she said firmly, ‘I grant you it’ll be a joy not to wonder if I can pay my bills, but just think, Rozzano, what I can do! Help people in need, for instance, like...orphans, the homeless, sick children... I’ve felt frustrated and helpless whenever I’ve watched TV reports showing human suffering. I’ve given what I can, but it has always seemed an insignificant amount.’ Her eyes sparkled as the power of money hit home. ‘I can be much more generous in future. So the media does good as well as bad, Rozzano. We wouldn’t hear of these tragedies if they didn’t publicise them.’
He grunted. ‘Are you always so even-handed?’
‘I try to be fair.’
She lowered her lashes, confused by his thoughtful stare. ‘And I will try to help you, to be by your side whenever you need me.’ His voice was husky, his eyes warm. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought he was flirting. She picked at the wavy hem of her cardigan and saw herself through his eyes—a less than beautiful, unsophisticated woman with metaphorical straw in her hair. Besides, she remembered, he was married. Her hand flew to her mouth as something awful occurred to her.
She groaned aloud. ‘Rozzano! That photo! Your wife will think you...I... She’ll be furious! I’m terribly sorry—’
‘My wife is dead, Sophia. This is my family ring, handed down through the generations. I always wear it.’
Hearing the flatness of his tone, she glanced at him with quick dismay. A dark anguish had briefly shown in his eyes before he’d lowered his gaze. But there was a stony coldness about his face that he couldn’t disguise, and his expressive mouth was thin and drawn.
The penny dropped. It had been his wife’s death that had prompted his despair and which had been shown so graphically in that photograph she’d seen. And it was painfully obvious that he’d loved her deeply.
Painful for her, as well as him, it seemed. To her utter horror, it made her feel miserable that he still mourned his late wife. She was appalled at herself. What was she to him? Nothing but a duty, someone to take care of on behalf of a family friend. She had no right to be upset.
Arranged marriage or not, naturally he would have been able to select the most beautiful, most accomplished, most desirable woman around. Who was she to envy that woman? And yet, to her great shame, she did.
Shaken, she remained silent for the rest of the journey while Rozzano retreated broodingly into some inner world she dared not enter.
Now, in her suite next to Rozzano’s at the hotel with its dramatic views of the Thames and the Houses of Parliament, she showered and changed into a home-made sleeveless dress. It skimmed her collarbone and fitted snugly to her body then flared out from the neat waistline. She instantly felt comfortable in it—until she checked herself in the long gold gesso mirror.
‘Too much bosom, too much leg,’ she muttered in dismay. She might as well have written ‘come-and-get-me’ on her front!
Uneasily she slipped her bare feet into a pair of pale beige sandals with a small heel, knowing she’d packed only a few items and her choice was limited. The sundress would be needed for the next day. Jeans would be an insult. Sophia’s nose wrinkled. She couldn’t bear to wear the polyester ever again,
so she’d have to stay as she was.
For some reason, her plait looked incongruous. Impatiently she unravelled it and brushed her hair, wondering what to do with it. She saw to her surprise how it cascaded about her shoulders in heavy waves, the rich chestnut tones glinting and gleaming in the light of the massive chandelier.
‘Very flamboyant. Very Italian,’ she said to herself, and smiled weakly.
There was a knock on the interconnecting door and she panicked, dithering for a moment. She knew she ought to screw her hair into a prim braid—and perhaps hide her ‘come-and-get-mes’ beneath the saggy cardigan. But vanity won that particular battle. Blushing already at her idiotic decision, she whipped her hair up in a hurried heap on top of her head and secured it with a few hasty pins.
Her heart beat hard as she rushed into the sitting room, aware that tendrils of her hair were already escaping and probably making her look a terrible fright.
Panting and flushed, with one hand pushing rebellious bits of hair back into place, she opened the door. Her lips parted involuntarily when she saw him. A pain caught at her breast and she turned away, walking unsteadily into the middle of the room. He’d gone for the casual look: a pale gold shirt with hip-hugging linen trousers. And he looked absolutely devastating.
Panic set in. When he’d suggested that it would be safer to eat in her suite, she’d agreed. Too late, she realised that she’d committed herself to an evening with an incredibly sexy male.
‘You look...beautiful.’
She stiffened, her back still to him. She looked better than when he’d last seen her, but hardly beautiful, with hanks of hair flopping down at all angles. He didn’t have to be patronising.
‘Thank you,’ she said in stilted tones, raising both arms and frantically fiddling with pins. She heard his indrawn breath. Exasperation, she assumed. His normal dinner companions would be groomed to the last eyelash.
‘Do you have everything you need?’ he asked politely.
No. I need to be gorgeous. A dainty size ten, with enormous brown eyes and a two-year stint at a finishing school in Geneva. A low-cut slinky gown in emerald silk would be nice, too. She grinned, her sense of humour popping up again and enabling her to face him.
‘At the last count, I had ninety-five fluffy white towels, two soft and fluffy bathrobes, enough bath gels to wash the entire nation, various shoe cleaning and sewing kits—and probably a set of spanners, for all I know!’
He laughed at her exaggerations and then she remembered her manners. ‘You’ve been very kind to me,’ she said shyly. ‘Thank you. I really appreciate all the time and trouble you’ve gone to.’
A flicker of light sliced across his eyes and then was gone. ‘It’s not a chore. I’ve enjoyed myself.’ He smiled, his teeth a brilliant white as he went on cheerfully, ‘We got up here just in time. The manager tells me that the foyer is seething with journalists and photographers.’
Sophia stared, appalled. ‘But...how can we ever go out?’
He looked at her steadily, then arranged himself with a certain smugness in an armchair. ‘We don’t.’
‘You can’t be serious!’ she cried. ‘Are you suggesting we stay holed up here like rats in a trap—?’
‘Some rats. Some trap,’ he murmured, waving a graceful hand at the gorgeous furnishings. ‘We could always look for those spanners and practise a bit of DIY and force an escape route.’
She glared. ‘It’s not funny, Rozzano! I’m used to walking a few miles a day! I need to go out, to breathe fresh air! I can’t stay indoors indefinitely just because a bunch of journalists are sniffing around! I don’t believe this!’ she said, her voice wobbling as she fought angry tears and the urge to stamp her foot petulantly. ‘I want out! I don’t want to be a countess, I don’t want to be wealthy and I want to go home!’
‘I’m afraid,’ he said quietly, ‘that will make an even better story. “Heiress’s daughter rejects millions”. “Barefoot Contessa chooses sleepy Dorset”. You’re on the rollercoaster now, Sophia. You can’t get off. Think of your grandfather.’
Her face fell. ‘You’re right. I can’t turn my back on him. What can we do?’
There was a knock on the door. ‘I’ll think of something,’ he promised with annoying cheerfulness, rising to open it.
A waiter wheeled in a trolley, bade them both good evening and began to transfer linen, cutlery and glasses to the dining table by the window whilst exchanging pleasantries.
‘Thank you.’ Rozzano held out a large tip and glanced at the waiter’s name badge. ‘You’ve seen nothing, heard nothing, Tony, OK? I might need you again. I want to know I can rely on your discretion if there’s trouble with the press.’
The money slipped into the waiter’s top pocket with the speed of lightning. ‘I’m blind, deaf and dumb, with an appalling memory, sir,’ he said with a grin. ‘Goodnight.’
The strain of the day suddenly became too much and tears began to wash into Sophia’s eyes. ‘I hate being pursued, Rozzano!’ she said brokenly, giving way to her misery and sobbing pathetically.
In concern, he moved towards her, and for one glorious moment or two he held her close. Her wet lashes lifted and she gazed at him with big, soulful eyes. As she quivered in his arms for those brief, beautiful few seconds, she felt a lurch of her heart.
And knew she could all too easily fall in love with him.
‘Morning, Sophia.’
Smelling delicious, and looking incredibly handsome in a honey and cream striped shirt, toffee-coloured trousers and a toning tie, he greeted her in the continental way—bestowing three kisses on her cheeks.
His cool fingers lightly touched the strap of her sprigged dress and accidentally strayed to her collarbone. Sophia jerked away, startled by the contrast of her-burning skin. Eating in the privacy of her suite was turning out to be more dangerous than braving the media downstairs.
‘Croissants!’ he exclaimed, seeing the breakfast trolley. ‘One of my weaknesses,’ he enthused. ‘No problem with breakfast arriving? No paparazzi leaping from the trolley?’ he enquired, as they sat down to eat.
‘None that I noticed!’
‘Good. My strategy is working. I arranged for a couple of heavies to patrol the corridor,’ he said with satisfaction.
‘Heavies!’ she marvelled, thinking she’d be one soon, if she ate this breakfast in its entirety. ‘How the other half lives!’
‘It’s just temporary,’ he said with light-hearted casualness. ‘The media will get bored with us soon. So,’ he went on, gallantly pretending great interest, ‘how did you sleep?’
‘Terribly.’ Feeling spaced out from her disturbed night, she poured coffee for them both.
Concentrating hard on showing him she could speak and act at the same time, she put far too much sugar in her coffee. She groaned. At this rate, she’d grow enormous!
His dark, beautiful eyes simmered at her over the rim of his glass of juice. ‘You should have woken me,’ he reproached her.
Sophia was shocked but imagined herself doing just that, slinking in wearing her washed-out, up-to-the-neck nightie. Did he wear pyjamas? Black silk? Or... nothing? She felt her face grow hot and looked down quickly to distract herself by chasing a stubborn mushroom around her plate.
Grimly she fought for control of her body, which was still responding waywardly to the image of Rozzano, naked beneath a pure linen sheet Her throat was as dry as sawdust. She took a hasty gulp of coffee and choked on the scalding liquid. Waving him back to his seat when he half rose to help her, she drank down her freshly squeezed orange juice and scrabbled for the remnants of her dignity.
‘So what was the problem that kept you awake?’ he asked genially, as if he hadn’t noticed her stupid gaucheries.
She couldn’t answer that The previous evening he’d been very attentive. She’d talked about her life and he’d spoken eloquently about the D‘Antiga family perfume business and passionately about Venice, painting a picture so appealing and romantic that her fears
had begun to vanish.
They’d laughed a lot. He’d been polite enough to flirt And then, when they’d bade one another goodnight, he’d hesitated at the interconnecting door, swung around and kissed her gently and lingeringly on each cheek, leaving her trembling and weak at the knees.
Sleep? No wonder she had hardly managed a wink! She heaved an inner sigh. ‘I had a lot to think about,’ she fudged.
‘And? You will come to Venice, won’t you?’ he said, catching her hand persuasively. ‘Your grandfather will be so excited to see you. And I would be delighted to show you around my city.’
She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his. Oh, yes! she thought longingly. But it would be a painful pleasure. He’d rattle on about the sights and she’d be wishing his interest in her were more than a friendly, generous duty.
‘Some day,’ she said slowly, extricating her hand.
‘Then let me arrange a passport for you. I can get one quickly.’
‘You’d have to run the gauntlet of photographers first,’ she reminded him. ‘I swear that someone’s been in the corridor all night, snuffling and shuffling around like a truffle-hunting pig! It’s unbelievable, the lengths these people will go to!’ she muttered indignantly, hacking viciously into a perfectly innocent and defenceless herb sausage.
He smiled, watching her in amusement. ‘You’ll get used to it,’ he said airily. ‘Although it would be different in Venice. I can control what happens there more easily.’
She wouldn’t get used to it, ever. ‘I need to get out today,’ she said abruptly. ‘I need fresh air! I feel like a prisoner!’ she declared dramatically.
Amazed at the change in herself—when had she ever been a drama queen before?—she jumped up and strode to the window, only to discover that it didn’t open.
‘Double-glazing. Keeps out the sound of traffic. Shall I turn on the air conditioning?’ came Rozzano’s smooth voice just an inch behind her.
Her skin seemed to tighten. She stared out. Milling about far below was a posse of photographers with stepladders, and a number of journalists, smoking and chatting and looking bored.