The Italian's Bride

‘Signor Verdi—Lucenzo—’ Joyce Makepeace dimpled ‘—has something to say to you, Portia.’

A fleeting smile for Joyce curled his satanically beautiful mouth as he got lithely to his feet. His piercingly dark eyes fastened on Portia’s nervous face as he reached for the elegantly tailored charcoal overcoat he’d discarded and draped the soft folds over his arm.

If it weren’t for the facts he wouldn’t believe it. The charming, feckless, utterly faithless Vito had had many affairs—a gene he had inherited from the English girl his father had married five years after his first wife, Lucenzo’s mother, had died. A year later Christine had given birth to Vittorio and, her duty done, as she’d seen it, she’d embarked on a string of unsavoury affairs.

Lucenzo tightened his mouth with grim distaste. His half-brother had favoured svelte, stylish, long-legged blondes. So what had he been doing with this over-weight, clumsy creature? A blonde, admittedly, but there any point of reference ceased. Her hair was a mess and no self-respecting female would stick her feet into bright green things that looked like giant bloated frogs!

She must have caught Vittorio in an off-moment, possibly when he’d been drunk, and thrown herself at him…

‘You must excuse me. I’m already late for an appointment.’ Lucenzo made a point of glancing at the thin gold watch on his flat wrist. He’d had as much as he could take. Despite his warnings to his father, Portia Makepeace was about to receive all her avaricious, scheming little heart had dreamed of. The knowledge made him want to punch holes in the wall.

He eyed her coldly. ‘Your parents will relay my father’s wishes.’ He gave her a bleak, informal nod of the head. It was more than he’d thought he could manage. ‘I will see you in six weeks’ time. One of my secretaries will contact you regarding the exact time and date.’

‘One’ of his secretaries? How many did the man have? And just what did he mean about seeing her again in six weeks’ time? That was all Portia could think about as her father, looking really sprightly for a change, showed the Italian out.

And her mother said knowingly, ‘If you ever want to know the meaning of the word “exotic” just think about Lucenzo Verdi! And such a gentleman, too. Quite unlike that half-brother of his. I knew he was a rogue the moment I set eyes on him.’

‘You only met him once,’ Portia reminded her glumly.

She’d practically had to drag Vito here. But they’d been talking about getting engaged and she’d insisted he must meet her parents. And he’d been begging her to spend a weekend with him.

‘Somewhere quiet and off the beaten track,’ he’d said. ‘It needn’t be expensive, and if you’re adamant about not wasting money on an engagement ring a weekend together would be a wonderful way of marking the occasion, making it special—you know how much I love and want you, carissima—or do you like torturing me?’

‘Once was quite enough. Anyone with a grain of intelligence would have seen through him,’ Joyce remarked drily, and Portia felt the too-ready tears sting the backs of her eyes.

Did everyone else on the planet have more nous than she did? Were her parents right when they accused her of being everyone’s best friend, of being too naive to see harm in any living soul, reckless enough to fill the outstretched palms of every beggar she came across?

Not really, she defended herself. She’d seen harm in Lucenzo Verdi the moment she’d opened the door to him, hadn’t she? And if her mother had heard the things he’d said to her then ‘gentleman’ was the last thing she would have called him!

Clutching at straws, she asked hopefully, ‘Did you explain I didn’t know Vito was married? That I had no idea his family was rolling in money?’

She hadn’t been given the chance to explain all that herself, and even if she had been she had the gut feeling he wouldn’t have believed her. But coming from her parents, who were so obviously completely respectable…

‘It wasn’t necessary. Once we’d established that his brother was the man you’d been seeing—the man who’d got you pregnant—there seemed no point in speaking ill of the dead. A loss like that must be difficult to bear. It hardly seemed appropriate to rub Lucenzo’s nose in his brother’s shortcomings.’

And no point in defending their daughter’s integrity, Portia thought miserably, twisting the fabric of her shabby dressing gown between her fingers. She remembered seeing Vito’s face on the front page of their daily paper. It had been a shock she hadn’t really come to terms with yet. It still made her feel physically sick when she thought about the accompanying text.

Vittorio Verdi, younger son of Eduardo Verdi, international banker, was tragically killed when his Ferrari left the road. His passenger, model Kristi Hall, survived the accident and is said to be in a stable condition. Vittorio leaves a grieving widow…

Trying to swallow the huge lump in her throat, Portia scrambled to her feet, muttering thickly, ‘I’m going to bed.’

‘Don’t you want to hear what your child’s grandfather is proposing?’

Her mother sounded appalled. Portia blinked at her and sniffed miserably. ‘Dad?’

‘Try not to be so stupid! His Italian grandfather, of course!’

‘Oh.’ She’d had that particular epithet flung at her too often to even notice it now, and wrinkled her brow as she wondered how to explain her deep desire to bury her head in the sand and not know. She would rather save the nitty-gritty until the morning, when she would be better able to cope with husband-stealing recriminations or, far worse, threats to take her to court to gain custody of her precious baby son. What chance would she stand against the wealth and clout of the powerful Verdi clan?

Aware that her mother was bristling with impatience at her inability to come up with any response more intelligent than ‘oh’, Portia was deeply thankful to be saved from having to do anything more than just stand there when her father entered the room.

He was rubbing his hands, smiling widely. ‘That is one fine young man. Classy, but no side on him.’ He beamed at his daughter, her eyes huge in the pallor of her face, ‘So how does it feel to be six weeks away from going to live in pampered luxury in sunny Tuscany?’

CHAPTER TWO

‘I COULD still change my mind,’ Portia said, her voice shaking with a sudden, positively ferocious flood of nerves. She swallowed hard, then took a deep breath to steady herself. ‘Even now,’ she emphasised hopefully.

Even when Lucenzo Verdi was expected at any moment—when her luggage was filling the narrow hall and Sam was peacefully asleep in his carry cot at her feet, fed, changed and ready to go.