The Italian's Bride

‘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.