Latin Lovers: Italian Playboys

by MELANIE MILBURNE

  Eve opened her mouth, but suddenly her tongue was dry and there were no words there. Hope flickered somewhere in the darkness where her heart had used to be, but she kept her tone deliberately neutral. ‘With you?’

  Raphael gave a dry laugh. ‘Of course not—as the idea is clearly so abhorrent to you. I’ll buy you a flat in a decent area with good schools. But I think it would be best if we got married, to protect the child from … any awkwardness.’

  The brave little flame of hope guttered and died, leaving her feeling more alone than ever. ‘You’re asking me to marry you?’ she said dully.

  ‘If you want to put it like that, yes.’

  She’d imagined this moment so often in the last six months that at the very least she had expected a full chamber orchestra and someone jumping in front of them with a card saying ‘The End’ as Raphael bent his head and kissed the living daylights out of her. Not a single one of those fantasies had included the words she now found herself saying.

  ‘No, Raphael.’

  She took a couple of steps backwards without taking her eyes from his face. In the half-light it was like an ivory mask—pale, perfect, and completely emotionless.

  She turned away and began to walk down the corridor, slowly at first, then with increasing urgency, as if she couldn’t wait to get away from him.

  Her footsteps echoed off the chilly stone walls, and Raphael tried to avert his gaze, knowing that if he watched her go he would be lost. It was the same feeling he’d had when, as a seven-year-old boy at his mother’s funeral, he had not allowed himself to look at the flower-strewn coffin because if he had he’d known he would cry.

  And he hadn’t. Either then or since.

  She had almost reached the end of the corridor when his willpower gave way. Clenching his jaw and thrusting his hands deep into his pockets he looked at her. The cavernous hallway was murky, but her hair shone like distilled sunshine in the winter gloom.

  With one hand on the door she paused and looked back at him.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  The word was like a nail through his heart.

  Head down against the rain, and wrapped up in her own despair, Eve almost walked straight past the ancient church, slotted as it was between two much bigger, much grander buildings. Actually, from the outside there wasn’t much to see: just a wide arched doorway with a circular stained-glass window in the wall above it. But inside it was beautiful, and dry, and completely deserted.

  Numb with cold and misery, she walked slowly down the narrow nave, breathing in the scent of incense and lilies and age. At the altar, rows of votive candles burned in silent tribute to the hopes and prayers of those who had lit them. Hesitantly Eve picked up a taper and held it to the nearest flame, watching it flower into vibrant life for a second before lighting a new candle with it.

  ‘For you, Ellie,’ she whispered, holding up the brightly burning taper for a moment before blowing it out with one tender breath. Then she cupped her hands around the little votive, watching her flesh blossom into rosy gold by the light of its tiny flame. ‘For you, little baby.’

  Resting both hands on her swollen belly, she looked up, then pressed a hand to her mouth as a small, involuntary cry escaped her.

  It was almost a relief to feel the tears start to flow. But as she sank down to her knees against a pillar beside the altar rail she wondered if they would ever stop.

  She couldn’t have said how long she sat like that, but the storm of weeping had blown itself out, and she was just working up the courage to face the rest of her life when a thunderous bang reverberated through the building as the heavy wooden door was forced violently open.

  Eve stumbled to her feet. With her heart pounding sickeningly in her chest she peered round the pillar in time to see two men in dark clothes, their faces hidden beneath balaclavas, fling themselves into the church, each brandishing a gun.

  Instinct took over. Flattening herself against a pillar, she kept her breathing steady and closed her eyes, feeling the baby lurch inside her as adrenalin pulsed through her veins. She leaned her head back against the cool stone and waited, wondering how much use two masked gunmen would be in an emergency labour situation.

  Hysterical laughter built up inside her, but it turned swiftly to terror as she heard the sound of footsteps coming towards her down the nave. She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut, waiting, concentrating every ounce of energy on not making a sound.

  The footsteps came closer. Then stopped.

  ‘It’s OK! She’s here!’

  Raphael’s voice.

  With a whimper of relief Eve opened her eyes to find him standing a few feet away from her. His face was absolutely ashen, his lips white, and he stepped forward and pulled her savagely into his arms, folding her into the safety of his body, cradling her head, then cupping her face in his hands and tilting it upwards towards him. His eyes moved feverishly over her face, as if he wanted to reassure himself she was really there.

  ‘Thank God you’re safe.’

  ‘What’s happened? Why—?’

  He gave a low groan of anguish and pulled her against him again. ‘Because you’re a witness in a major drugs trial and you’re supposed to be under police protection. You’ve been missing for over two hours. The judge has had to temporarily suspend the trial. We thought you’d been—’ He stopped and took in a sharp breath.

  Eve’s hand flew to her mouth in horror. ‘No! I’m so sorry!’

  He shook his head. ‘It was my fault. I should never have let you go.’ He bent his head and pressed his lips to her bright hair, murmuring, ‘I thought I’d lost you again before I’d even got the chance to tell you that I love you.’

  Eve pulled away and lifted her head to look at him. ‘What did you say?’

  He stood back, holding her at arm’s length. His aristocratic face, with its hard, high cheekbones and beautiful mouth, hadn’t quite lost the shadows of anguish and tension, but his dark, narrowed eyes burned with love.

  ‘I love you. I raced off after you walked out like that because I needed to do something to make up for my complete and utter crassness. I went home to get this …’ He let go of her for a moment while he pulled something from his pocket. ‘And now I want to do it properly, before anything else happens to come between us.’

  He held out his hand. In the centre of his palm lay a single solitaire diamond in the shape of a tear.

  ‘Eve—’ He pulled her gently back into his arms and kissed her cheekbone, her temple, the corner of her mouth. ‘I love you—’

  She closed her eyes in bliss and felt the tears spilling out from beneath her lashes. Protesting against the sudden constriction of their bodies pressed together, the baby squirmed inside her.

  Raphael gasped. She opened her eyes and saw through a haze of tears the fierce tenderness on his face.

  His hands went to her bump—slowly, lovingly moving across it as his eyes stayed fixed on hers.

  ‘I love you both,’ he amended softly, smiling that rueful half-smile that seemed to go in at her eyes and move straight down to her pelvis. Taking her hand, speaking in a low voice that only she could hear, he gazed solemnly into her eyes.

  ‘I, Raphael Antonio di Lazaro, take thee, Eve Maria Middlemiss, to be my sweet and incredibly beautiful wedded wife. I will love you, cherish you—’ He broke off, raising her hand to his lips and placing a kiss on the tip of her index finger. ‘Comfort you, protect you … ‘He kissed her middle finger. ‘Honour you and make endless fantastic love with you for all the days of my life.’ Holding up her third finger, he slid the ring onto it. ‘If you’ll have me?’

  Through a shimmering veil of tears Eve looked around her at the altar, and the effigy of Christ above it, and gave a soft laugh. ‘I think it’s too late. I think you’ve done it and there’s no going back. I now pronounce us husband and wife.’

  ‘Good,’ said Raphael firmly. ‘But let’s do it again formally anyway. In the meantime, may I kiss the—’

  He d
idn’t finish the question. But the answer was undoubtedly yes.

  EPILOGUE

  RAPHAEL tiptoed to the top of the stairs and paused, a slow smile spreading across his face. From through the slightly open door at the end of the hallway he could hear Eve singing very softly.

  Madame Butterfly.

  Downstairs, the low murmur of conversation was punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter and the clink of champagne glasses. Their ‘formal’ wedding, as Eve laughingly called it, was in full swing, with Antonio—on sparkling form—holding court at its centre. Raphael felt sure that he wouldn’t be missed for a while.

  He pushed open the nursery door. Eve, humming languidly now, looked up at him and smiled.

  He felt his stomach tighten. With desire, and also with that primitive protective instinct that she teased him about, but which he knew he could never quite extinguish.

  She was curled into the armchair next to the cot, one arm cradling the dark head of Eleanor Isabella di Lazaro against her bared breast.

  Little Ellie-Bella, as her doting godmother Lou had nicknamed her, had inherited her grandmother’s delicate, dark-haired beauty and her aunt’s sense of naughtiness and fun. Now, after an afternoon spent playing to the wedding crowd, she was unusually placid.

  ‘Is she asleep already?’ he murmured.

  ‘Mmm …’ Eve moved the baby slightly, so that her small mouth relinquished the nipple with a tiny, contented sigh. Her dark lashes swept down over her rosy, milk-damp cheeks, and for a moment both her parents gazed down at her with rapt adoration.

  ‘I think that’s got to be a record,’ Eve whispered, smiling. ‘I hadn’t even got to the end of the aria.’

  ‘Perfect. No one will be expecting us downstairs for a long, long time.’

  With infinite tenderness Raphael took the baby from her mother’s arms and pressed a kiss on the soft dark hair before laying her into her cot. Then he turned to Eve with a smile that made her heart turn over.

  He held out a hand and pulled her gently to her feet, allowing himself a moment to marvel all over again at her beauty in the simple sheath of heavy cream silk. Her clear turquoise-green eyes sparkled wickedly as he brought his lips down to hers.

  ‘You know, Raphael, I’m not sure,’ she whispered against his mouth, so that he could hear but not see her smile. ‘Married sex might not be as exciting as it was before. Maybe we should just go downstairs?’

  ‘Actually, Signora di Lazaro,’ he said softly, sweeping her up into his arms in a rustle of silk, muffling her cries of pleasure and laughter with his lips as he carried her to the door. ‘I’m afraid you’re wrong. Married sex is even better. And if you don’t believe me I’ll just have to prove it to you.’

  And he did.

  Twice.

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

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  Mills & Boon, an imprint of Harlequin (UK) Limited, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

  LATIN LOVERS: ITALIAN PLAYBOYS

  © Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l. 2011

  Bought for the Marriage Bed © Melanie Milburne 2006

  The Italian’s GP Bride © Pamela Brooks 2007

  The Italian’s Defiant Mistress © India Grey 2007

  ISBN: 978-1-408-95118-7