The Italian's Bride

‘You made me jump.’

‘So I saw. Guilty conscience?’ he asked impassively, then coolly elaborated in the dry drawl that made every inch of her skin prickle and burn. ‘I’ve come from speaking with my father and receiving a catalogue of complaints from his nurse.’

‘Oh, goodness!’ Portia’s face went pale. ‘You mustn’t blame him; it was all my fault,’ she mumbled guiltily, looking at the ground and wishing it would swallow her up. ‘I suggested we went outside. Is he all right? You haven’t upset him, have you?’

Lucenzo’s mouth curved as he regarded the top of her downbent head. ‘He’s fine. He’s with his physiotherapist at the moment and looking brighter and happier than I’ve seen him since we heard of Vittorio’s accident.’

The shoulders that had been hunched up around Portia’s neck slowly relaxed. At least it didn’t sound as if she’d earned Eduardo a lecture. He wouldn’t be looking bright and happy if she had.

The ‘catalogue of complaints’ must have been directed at her, which was fair enough. She lifted her head and fixed her eyes on his. ‘I’m not going to apologise for taking your father out onto the terrace—’ she stated firmly.

‘No one’s asking you to.’ The firm mouth quirked. ‘Except, perhaps, his nurse. And she’s been gently put in her place. From now on, until he’s back on his feet, he’s to have a good dose of fresh air and sunshine. Every morning. And in your company—yours and Sam’s.’

It was the first time he’d called her baby by his given name. Up until now he’d referred to him as Vittorio’s child, almost in denial of her own existence as the baby’s mother. So did that mean he was growing to accept her?

Her heart swelled with pleasure at the mere thought, but when she felt the colour rush back into her face she told herself not to be so darn stupid. She flicked her eyes away from him and turned round to face the fountain, blocking him out because he was looking at her with such a strange intensity it made all her bones go weak.

Lucenzo fought back the urge to manhandle her, to force her to face him again so that he could see every nuance of expression on her face, find the elusive truth.

His father thought she ought to be wearing a halo, had said she was the best thing to happen to him in longer than he could remember. But that could have a lot to do with holding his first grandchild, the unexpected freedom of an hour in the open air. Which, he admitted heavily, was partly his own fault.

He’d been so intent on following the regime the hired nurse had prescribed to the letter, believing she knew best, he hadn’t looked at things from the invalid’s viewpoint. Vittorio’s woman had. For one reason or another.

He recalled the way she’d been at her first meeting with his father, the completely natural way she’d broken the ice between them, sitting at his feet, fishing those photographs out of her handbag, chattering nineteen to the dozen as if they’d known each other for years.

Why? Because she had a schemer’s natural instinct and ability to wheedle her way into her target’s affections? Or was what you saw what you got? A naive innocent whose only ambition was to be everybody’s best friend?

He said, perhaps more brusquely than he’d intended, ‘You’ve made a good impression on my father. I value him; we all do. So, whatever your reasons, be sure you keep it up. I won’t see him disillusioned or hurt.’

Portia roughly swallowed around the thick lump that had immediately risen in her throat. So much for him growing to accept her—that ‘whatever your reasons’ said it all, didn’t it just? He was light years away from trusting her, let alone accepting her into his exalted family.

And then he added, ‘That phone call was to let me know Nonna is ready to be collected. She’s looking forward to meeting you at lunch and visiting the nursery to see Vittorio’s child.’

Her stomach turned right over, making her feel quite ill. She did not want to have lunch with the Verdi family, or meet this Nonna person, whoever she might be, and endure another dose of hostile scrutiny—and Sam was back to being ‘Vittorio’s child’!

When she could trust herself to speak she turned, and, lower lip trembling, said what had to be said, ‘I can’t stay here.’

‘Repeat that,’ he ordered after a beat of total silence, his voice cold and cutting, his face a grim mask. To Portia he looked horribly threatening, not at all prepared to listen to reason.

Inwardly quailing, she nevertheless set her chin at a challenging angle. ‘You heard! I’ll stay for a couple of weeks—just for your father’s sake. And I’ll make it right with him before I take Sam back to England; I swear I will.’

Lucenzo stiffened. What game was she playing now? She’d already twisted his father round her little finger; she could live here in luxury, with servants to cater to her every whim. What more did she want?

His eyes narrowed as he bit out, ‘I’ve already warned you of what will happen if you threaten to remove the child. You knew that before you arrived here. You are here because my father wanted it, not by my wish.’ Grim eyes bored into her skull, as if he were trying to get into her mind. ‘But now you are here you will stay. If you’ve got demands to make then make them now, but I warn you, I will not give in easily to blackmail.’

Portia’s eyes widened in horror. Did he really think she was going to demand payment before she’d agree to stay on? She gave a mortified groan and whispered wretchedly, ‘I’m not trying to blackmail anyone! You must see this is all a dreadful mistake! My being here at all must put an awful strain on your family. They’re grieving for Vito and I don’t want to add to their distress—and just think what it must be like for Vito’s poor widow, having to see me and his child!’

Tears were falling now and she couldn’t see him properly. His outline was blurry, receding and then looming closer. She scrubbed her eyes angrily, wanting to be calm and sensible but knowing she was losing it as all her mental turmoil surged to the surface, bubbling over.

‘Eduardo thinks—he thinks Vito loved me, and would have married me when—when he and Lorna parted,’ she wailed unsteadily. ‘How could I tell him the truth? It’s—kinder to let him keep his illusions, isn’t it? And as for the rest of you—looking down your super

ior noses at me and thinking I’m out for all I can get—well, I guess even you have hearts that are hurting over Vito’s death, so why should I be here, making it harder? It’s an impossible situation for all concerned.’

Portia put shaky fingers to her eyes to swipe the wretched tears away, deeply irritated with herself, wishing she could control her emotions. Or, better still, not have any!

He had moved closer. It hadn’t just been the effects of her distorted vision. Too close. Her drenched eyes connected with Lucenzo’s shimmering lancet gaze and held. He could make what he liked of what she’d said, argue until he was blue in the face and make his vile threats. She wouldn’t change her mind.

Her outburst had been unexpected. It had shaken him. Either her distress was genuine or she was a truly brilliant actress. A slight frown line appeared between his eyes, deepening as he asked, ‘What is the truth about your relationship with my brother?’