The Italian's Bride

From where she was sitting that wasn’t going to be too easy. The expression on his austerely handsome profile would have done a hanging judge proud. Even so, she launched out cheerfully, ‘When I was growing up my parents took me for improving holidays. Museums, art galleries, sites of historical interest—they didn’t believe in lying in the sun on Mediterranean beaches. Then, when I was earning for myself and they’d thrown in the towel when it came to improving me, I didn’t take holidays. I just saved all I could for—’

Her cheeks going fiery red, Portia stopped herself just in time. She’d been babbling. Her mother always said she never thought before she opened her mouth. It really wouldn’t do to tell him she’d been saving for what she had always dreamed of: a wedding, a home of her own and children. That after she’d met and fallen in love with Vito she’d redoubled her efforts, believing him when he’d said they’d marry as soon as it was financially possible.

Lucenzo probably missed his brother dreadfully, still mourned his untimely death, she thought compassionately. She was not going to rub in the fact that Vito had been a liar and a cheat. She wasn’t into hurting people, even if they were patronising beasts.

He didn’t seem to notice that her torrent had broken off mid-sentence; he appeared to be intent on what he was reading. But his eyes weren’t moving. Those fabulous lashes were making inky shadows against the harshly beautiful line of his cheekbones.

Asleep? No way. She’d never seen a pair of shoulders look less relaxed.

Pointedly ignoring her? Most certainly. Her soft mouth twitched. It wouldn’t do the wretched man any harm to unbend a little. ‘I think he’s just about to drop off,’ she imparted chirpily, meaning Sam, who was lying in her arms, his little arms stretched above his head, his eyelids drooping.

No response. But Portia wasn’t ready to give up yet. Surely he didn’t intend to spend the whole of the flight in this forbidding silence? There were things she wanted to know about the family she was about to meet, the place she was expected to inhabit for goodness only knew how long—a week, a month, a year?

This darkly handsome, coldly unresponsive persona surely wasn’t all there was to this man. Someone, somewhere, must see the other, more human side?

‘Are you married, Lucenzo? Do you have a family?’ she asked impulsively.

People he loved, who loved him back? Children he played with who knew how he looked when he threw back his head and laughed at their antics? A wife who saw melting adoration in those dark, hostile eyes, who knew every inch of that lithe and powerful body…?

Portia swallowed painfully, the now all-too familiar frisson of intense excitement taking her breath away, accelerating her heartbeat. She shouldn’t be thinking that way, picturing him naked, with desire softening his mouth, heating his eyes. Imagining what it would be like to be held in his arms…

She’d never indulged in erotic fantasies, not ever, she thought with growing alarm. The inclination simply hadn’t been there, not even with Vito. Or the couple of boyfriends she’d had before him. Their interest in her had fizzled out rapidly after they’d met her parents and come up against the brick wall of their restrictions.

Her mother had warned her. ‘Always remember, most men are only after one thing. It takes brains and looks to attract the honourable attentions of a man of the right calibre.’ And she had neither brains nor looks. That had been the implication.

Confused and miserable, Portia glared at the fluffy blanket of clouds which was all she could see out of the window, wishing she was anywhere in the world but here.

Sliding the papers back into his briefcase, Lucenzo glanced at her. So she wanted to talk, did she? A nice chatty little dialogue to while away the time? She was too self-absorbed and thick-skinned to take on board the fact that the last thing he wanted was idle conversation with a husband-stealer who was the next best thing to a blackmailer.

So he’d talk, and she’d only have herself to blame if she didn’t like what he had to say.

Ignoring her question about his marital status, because she, of all people, had no damned right to pry into that painful part of his life—any part of his life, if it came to that—he drawled silkily, ‘Your parents seemed glad to be rid of you. No fond farewells, no promises to phone or write. I wonder why?’

He could well imagine, he thought drily as he watched what had to be guilty colour steal over her face. She’d probably been trouble since the day she was born. Feckless, irresponsible, with an eye for the main chance.

Mindful of the bad atmosphere that could affect her baby, Portia swallowed an angry retort. Besides, if she’d viewed their parting from where he’d been standing she might have jumped to that conclusion.

Always ready to extend the benefit of the doubt, she turned to face him, explaining softly and earnestly, ‘You mustn’t think badly of them—’

‘I assure you, it is not them I’m condemning,’ he interjected sardonically.

Only her, Portia recognised on a muted sigh. Par for the course. Nevertheless, she didn’t want to leave him with the impression that her parents didn’t care about her, because they did.

‘They’re both getting on a bit—they married late and I came as a surprise. They can’t afford to keep me and little Sam, and if I went back to work I couldn’t afford to pay for childcare so it would be down to them. They can’t cope with the thought of having to look after—’ she recalled her mother’s exact words on the subject ‘—a squalling baby who would grow into a rumbustious toddler, a clumsy schoolboy and in all likelihood a problem teenager. Not that he would, of course, and he never squalls,’ she denied breathlessly. ‘But you can see their point. They want peace in their declining years. Of course they saw your father’s offer to have me and Sam live with him as the only sensible way out of the situation. Even so, they cared enough to contact your father and—’

‘And find out exactly what was on offer,’ Lucenzo interjected tightly. ‘This I know. My father’s integrity and misguided generosity was

questioned. I find that offensive. And don’t try to tell me that you didn’t jump at the opportunity.’

Portia chewed on her lip as she desperately tried to decide how to answer that.

His black eyes were full of hostile reproach, she noted uncomfortably. If he saw her father’s natural parental concern as an affront to the precious dignity of his family then what would he think if she blurted out the truth? How could she possibly tell him that accepting his father’s ‘misguidedly generous’ invitation had been the last thing she’d wanted? That only her parents’ pushing, nagging and much vaunted logic had made her reluctantly accept it?

It didn’t bear thinking about.

And what sort of family was she going to, anyway? Horrible doubts assailed her all over again. They were wealthy, they were powerful, they thought they were better than anyone else. And if they were like Lucenzo they would regard her as scum, would only want Vito’s son, intent only on forcing her to agree to give him up.

Sheer fright made her blurt, ‘It’s OK for your father to see Sam—well, I’d be a fool if I didn’t think that. They are related. But if I’m not satisfied I can leave whenever I want and take Sam with me.’