Scowling unconsciously, she twisted her hands together in her lap. He’d left on business this morning and would be away for a whole month. She should be able to stop thinking about him, but she couldn’t.
‘So—’ Lorna squashed the remains of her cigarette in her empty coffee cup. ‘There’s no need to look so uncomfortable around me—like a scared rabbit trying to find a hole to hide in. I don’t bear grudges; life’s far too short. Besides, I imagine I won’t be around for much longer—a London house to sell, a place somewhere in the sun to buy.’
Her glossy mouth curved in a satisfied smile, then she arched her brows with just a hint of mockery. ‘Mind you, you’ll have to put up with the aunt and the cousin. They’re both fixtures, and they’ll probably go on looking at you as if you’re an unidentified nasty smell, but you’ll learn to live with it. So grab what’s on offer while you can. While Eduardo’s still around to call the shots. I would, in your shoes. After all, you did what I wouldn’t and Lucenzo’s wife couldn’t—you presented the precious family with the first of a new generation. And, believe me, family comes first with Italians—especially dynastic dinosaurs like Eduardo Verdi.’
With a languid gesture she signalled for the bill. ‘Lecture over. I suppose we should put Alfredo out of his misery. We’ll come again. You could do with a good hairdresser—silver highlights would suit you—and you need decent make-up. I’ll phone around and make appointments.’
Portia wasn’t in the least interested in silver highlights or a new lipstick—the only make-up she could ever be bothered to wear. And the moment she could get a word in she asked the question that was now burning holes in her brain. ‘What did happen to Lucenzo’s wife?’
One finely arched brow twitched upwards. ‘I would have thought that old gossip Assunta would have told you by now! Lucenzo wouldn’t, of course. He’s a cold, unemotional fish, married to the bank.’ Breaking off, she settled the bill with a large tip and an even bigger smile for the dishy young waiter.
Portia thought, He’s not a fish and he’s not always cold. Then went scarlet, thinking of the red-hot passion of those few shared moments.
‘There was a time,’ Lorna confided, ‘before I finally accepted Vito, when I thought big brother might be the better bet. Hunkier by half! I made it pretty obvious—he would have been widowed for around five years at that time—but he wasn’t interested.’
The first sign of pique showed in the long greeny eyes, in the snap of the plum-coloured mouth, and Portia prompted, ‘How did she die?’
‘Flavia?’ A tiny shrug. ‘It was their second wedding anniversary, would you believe? They were going out to celebrate and he, apparently, was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. She caught her heel in the hem of her skirt and fell and broke her neck. She was three months pregnant at the time, hence the family’s angst.’
She gathered her clutch bag from the tabletop and stood up.
Portia scrabbled for the dozens of classy carriers strewn around the table, wanting to slap the other woman for the callous way she’d described such a tragic event.
Her final throwaway comment was, ‘Since then he’s let it be known he’s not interested in female company—though everyone’s guess is he’s got a mistress tucked away somewhere. Well, he’s got to have an outlet for all that simmering sexuality, wouldn’t you say?’
Three weeks later Lucenzo strode down the terrace, leaving his father to enjoy the soft early-evening sun and his lunatic plans while he still could, unaware that the older man was watching him with a wide and decidedly mischievous grin of satisfaction.
Thank God he’d returned a full week earlier than he’d originally said he would. Even another few hours and he might have been too late to stop it. Gesu! But his father had run mad!
He plunged into the house by the French windows that led into the rooms his father was using. Inside, he made himself stop to draw breath, try to calm the wild beating of his heart, the internal explosions of emotion. Anger, outrage, something he damned well couldn’t put a name to, and yet more anger.
He had to calm down, do what he was best at—think coolly and logically about the problem he was faced with, work out how to deal with it. He had to take stock of the situation.
His father was much fitter now, and the idea of thwarting him wouldn’t be the non-starter it would have been a few short weeks ago, so he could put a stop to this nonsense with a clear conscience.
In the three weeks he’d been away Eduardo had made remarkable progress. No longer gaunt, he was obviously eating well and could get around with the aid of a stick, as he had proudly demonstrated. He was also very full of himself. Too darned full!
Full of Portia and little Sam, too. Wouldn’t or couldn’t stop talking about them! Portia this—baby Sam that. Portia helped him with his morning exercises, brought him delicacies from the kitchen, persuading him to eat more, and she was on best-friend terms with the staff, all of whom were teaching her Italian. Each day she came and demonstrated her mastery of new words and phrases, and even if they did often laugh helplessly over her pronunciation she was making great progress. And she had—miracle of miracles—even got Lorna cooing over the baby, persuaded her to stay on a little while longer. She also weathered Donatella’s barbed comments with good humour and forbearance.
Unclenching his jaw, Lucenzo glanced around the room, airy and bright with daylight and flowers. Her doing, he supposed acidly.
The nurse had been dismissed. She had depressed him, so his father had said, and he was grown-up enough to take his pills on time.
‘Grown-up’ wasn’t what he’d choose to call his parent right now. Stir-crazy was far more apt!
Before he’d been able to get a word in, after the lavish hymns in praise of the supposedly saintly Portia Makepeace, his father had dropped his bombshell.
‘She hasn’t said anything, but I somehow get the feeling it won’t be too long before Portia takes my grandson back to England. I can’t put my finger on it, but I think she finds it difficult to settle here. It’s understandable, in a way, after what happened between her and Vito, losing him the way she did before he could give their child his name. So—’ His eyes had held that stubborn, campaigning light Lucenzo knew so well. ‘I will marry her. I will give her and Sam my name. He will be legitimised and she will have my protection, the respect she deserves.’
For long moments Lucenzo had been too shocked to say anything, and when he’d choked out, ‘Marry her? At your age?’ his voice had been so thick and tortured he had barely recognised it.
‘My age has nothing to do with it.’ The immediate response had been stern and dignified. ‘Portia’s standing and security is what matters. And Vito’s son has a right to his Italian heritage. Since you decline to provide the family with heirs, am I supposed to turn my back on my only grandson?’
He’d ignored that question. His father knew damn well why he couldn’t look to him for an heir! He’d ground out instead, ‘Do you love her?’ Which had earned him a look of such haughtiness he had known his father was well on the way to complete recovery.
‘Like the daughter I never had and always wished for,’ Eduardo had retorted at last. ‘I don’t propose a marriage in the normal sense, but for reasons I hope I’ve already made perfectly clear.’
Because he thought it was his duty to honour his tragically killed son’s intentions?
As Portia had said, and he himself had agreed, Eduardo mustn’t know that Vittorio had used, deceived and betrayed the one woman who’d been gullible and, yes, innocent, enough to trust him. In any case, even if he did learn the shameful truth his intention to protect her would probably be strengthened.
‘Have you said anything to her?’ Aware that he was clenching his fists, he had forced himself to relax. Were they already betrothed? Was she already choosing her wedding gown? Was he too late to stop this madness?
‘No.’ Eduardo’s eyes had softened, the hand that held his walking stick growing more relaxed. ‘I wouldn’
t dream of approaching her with such a proposal until I had spoken with my remaining son and heard his opinion.’ He had smiled then. ‘Tell me your opinion, Lucenzo.’
He’d asked for it, so he’d given it him. ‘I think you have to be mad!’
Fully aware that once his father had made up his mind nothing would change it, Lucenzo now made his way to his own room, detouring briefly into his study to collect a stiff whisky. He would have to tackle the problem through Portia herself, but only after he’d worked out an approach that would guarantee success. He couldn’t afford to foul up; it was too important.
Would she accept his father’s proposal, he questioned himself as he showered away the stickiness of long hours of travel, turning his face to the jets of hot water in the hope that the fierce onslaught would clear his brain. Logically, his mind told him that any woman would leap at the chance of marrying into one of the world’s wealthiest banking families.
But Portia wasn’t any woman, he conceded as he towelled himself dry with a ferocity that dissipated some of the anger inside him. Though why the feeling of rage hadn’t died down after the initial first seconds he couldn’t quite understand.
Contrary to his first opinion—one that he freely admitted had been cynical and biased—Portia wasn’t out for all she could lay her hands on, and it was high time he made his apologies for that.
He’d thought long and hard about it since he’d been away. He believed her version of events, and his insight told him that if she hadn’t attended Vittorio’s funeral, unwittingly drawing attention to herself, and if that pathetic letter she’d written and his half-brother had ignored hadn’t been found, then the family wouldn’t have known of Sam’s existence. He would stake his life on that.
Worried about his father’s state of health, he’d wanted her and Sam to make the villa their home, but the luxurious lifestyle here hadn’t tempted her to stay on permanently. Hadn’t she already confided that she would be returning to England when Eduardo was stronger? She was sensitive to and caring of other people’s feelings and had found her position here as the mother of Vittorio’s bastard son more than uncomfortable.
But if her position changed?
As the wife of Eduardo Verdi, with her son legitimised, she would have legal security and the respect not only of their high-ranking social circle but of the local people too. Wouldn’t she, if only for her son’s sake, agree to the marriage?
And there was another consideration, he thought as he stuffed his severe white shirt into the waistband of his narrow-fitting black trousers. A consideration that made his guts clench into painful knots.
His father was by no means an old man and Portia was generous and appealing and capable of fiery passion, of bringing out the lustful beast in members of the male sex—as he’d discovered to his cost! So how long would the in-name-only marriage remain just that?
The thought was intolerable!
Lucenzo swallowed his whisky in one gulp. He had to see her, talk to her, before his father made that proposal.
Portia exited the bathroom wearing only a smile. Today had been as near perfect as it could get, she thought, hurriedly blanking out the idea that it would have been even better if Lucenzo had been around. It was Assunta’s regular day off so she’d had Sam all to herself, apart from the pleasure of sharing him with Eduardo for a few hours this morning. And being in sole charge of her baby had given her the perfect excuse to stay here when Lorna had demanded she go shopping with her.
So Lorna had driven off in a huff, muttering about the stupidity of having offspring because all they did was cramp your style, but Portia had known she didn’t really mean it.
Lorna had become her friend, which was pretty amazing, all things considered. And although she never came out and said anything when Donatella made nasty remarks she knew she was on her side—like the time when she’d submitted to Lorna’s wheedling and had silver highlights put in her hair and the straggly ends tidied up so that it swung in a smooth bell to her jawline. The older woman had given her one sneering look and said something about silk purses out of sow’s ears. She’d ignored her, as if she hadn’t spoken at all, but she’d seen the laughter in Lorna’s eyes and caught her audacious wink.
But it wasn’t pleasant, especially now that Nonna had returned to her own home and wasn’t around to keep her daughter in order. And as for Giovanni—well, he was simply a pain. Only this afternoon, as she’d been pushing Sam round the grounds in his buggy, he’d come up behind her, pinched her backside and actually tried to kiss her.
He probably thought that as an unmarried mother she was game for anything! The slap she’d given him should teach him otherwise.
There were rumours among the staff that he was to be sent to the bank’s Paris branch to continue his apparently snail’s pace rise through the ranks. And if that happened Donatella, as his doting mother, would go with him.
But that wouldn’t make any difference to her, because by that time she’d be long gone.
Not that she’d breathed a word of her intentions to anyone. She’d promised Lucenzo she’d wait until he returned and discuss it with him first.
The thought of seeing him again made her stomach turn over and fill up with lot of little jumping, fluttery things. So she would stop thinking of it, of him, stop inflicting this pleasure-pain on herself, do herself a favour and think instead of how to spend the rest of this peaceful evening.
Getting dressed would do for starters, and she rummaged in one of the drawers for clean underwear—daring black satin briefs and a matching bra which made her feel kind of wicked when she wore them. There were several dresses she hadn’t yet had a chance to wear, she thought, and she opened the cavernous hanging cupboard door.
The shabby things she’d brought with her were hidden at the end of the rail; the rest was taken up with the sort of clothes most women would give anything to own. It would be a pity to leave them all behind but she couldn’t, in all conscience, take them. Besides, they wouldn’t suit her Chevington lifestyle. Whoever had heard of a waitress wearing designer jeans teamed with a gorgeous white satin blouse, or a sleek linen suit?
Cutting off a sigh before it could get properly started, she picked out one of the dresses she hadn’t yet worn. It was of soft silk chiffon in gently blending diagonal stripes of cream, soft pink and coffee shades, with a slightly flared knee-length skirt and a sleeveless top with tiny fabric-covered buttons all down the front.
Anchoring the final button, she gave an experimental twirl as someone knocked on the door to her suite. Ugo with her dinner tray, though he was rather early.
In the absence of Assunta she wouldn’t be joining the rest of the family this evening. When she’d asked Ugo for a tray in her room he’d insisted she use Italian, and after many mistakes, prompting on his part and giggles from both of them, she’d managed it.
‘Avanti!’ she called out, proud of the progress she was making. Most of the staff here spoke some English, but they seemed to have decided that she should learn to speak their language. She’d been happy to oblige them and it was all turning out to be a lot of fun.
But the beaming smile was wiped from her face as Lucenzo entered. Her mouth went dry so that when she managed, ‘You’re back earlier than we thought,’ her voice sounded rusty. His presence hit her like a lightning strike, welding her bare feet to the carpet, sending shock waves through her.
He made no answer, just stared at her from those enigmatically lowered eyes of his. He looked strained and decidedly grim, she thought, and felt her heart swell to twice its normal size in sympathy.
He was a man who had everything anyone could want, yet he had nothing. He’d witnessed the tragic death of his wife and unborn child. Nothing could be more traumatic than that, could it?
Had he shut his emotions away then, or did it go back into his childhood? She recalled what Assunta had told her, how Vito’s mother had had him sent away to school because she didn’t want him around, how he’d never allowed anyone to
see how much he’d minded. Did he sometimes appear cold and unfeeling because he was afraid to show emotion?
Suddenly, she ached to hold him in her arms and cuddle him, take away the pain and loneliness that life had dealt him. Was this what loving meant? Feeling someone’s pain as if it were your own, aching to take it away, being drawn to someone even though your logical mind was telling you to keep your distance?
She made a tiny, unguarded sound of distress and saw his jaw clench as his eyes closed just briefly. He opened them again and said, ‘I need to speak to you before we join the others for dinner.’
Seeing her again, dressed like that, had practically knocked him senseless. He’d long decided that, somewhat unfortunately for his own peace of mind, she possessed the sexiest body he’d ever set eyes on, but now she had all that plus a very classy beauty. And she’d done something to her hair. It shimmered with light, framed her lovely face with an unruffled elegance. He wanted to run his fingers through it to see if it was real.
To stop himself from even thinking of that very real kind of temptation, he thrust his hands into his trouser pockets just as she stated firmly, ‘Assunta’s not here so I won’t be down for dinner tonight. Ugo’s bringing me a tray. Oh—’
A wail from the nursery had her twirling around, her softly floating skirts flying as she sped to rescue her baby.
It wasn’t long since she’d bathed, changed and fed him, so he couldn’t be hungry. It was probably nothing more worrying than wind, she assured herself as she picked him up, cuddled him against her shoulder and smiled with relief when he gave a windy grin and a great big burp.
Laying him back in his crib after a whole lot of loving chit-chat, she dropped a gentle kiss on each of his petal-soft cheeks and wondered what Lucenzo wanted to talk to her about. The vexed subject of whether she stayed or whether she went, she supposed, dreading having to face his inevitable irritation with her. But, no matter what, she wouldn’t change her mind. She was sure now that she was being typically stupid, and falling for him, so that meant that leaving here, and him, was doubly, trebly important.
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