The Marchese's Love-Child (The Italian Husbands) Read online

  As if, she thought with a sudden sick helplessness, she lived within his flesh. Part of him. As she had once been.

  Now that the impossible had happened, and she was face to face with him again, she was shocked by the intensity of her physical reaction to him. Ashamed too.

  She had to make herself remember the cruel brutality of his rejection. The cynical attempt to buy her off, and the explicit threat that had accompanied it.

  She needed to remind herself of the abyss of pain and loneliness that had consumed her after she’d fled from Italy. And, most important of all, she had to get out of here, and fast.

  She sat upright, lifting a hand to her head as the room swayed about her.

  The movement riveted everyone’s attention, and Sandro took a hasty step forward, pausing when Polly flinched away from him involuntarily, his mouth hardening in an icy sneer.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It is not pretty. You should have been prepared in advance, perhaps. Warned what to expect.’

  As he came closer, Polly saw his face clearly for the first time. Saw the jagged scar that had torn its way from the corner of his eye, across the high cheekbone and halfway to his jaw.

  For a brief moment she was stunned, as shocked as if she had seen some great work of art deliberately defaced.

  He looked older too, and there was a weariness in the topaz eyes that had once glowed into hers.

  Oh, God, she thought, swallowing. He thinks that I find him repulsive, and that’s why I turned away just now.

  A pang of something like anguish twisted inside her, then she took a deep breath, hardening herself against a compassion he did not need or deserve.

  Let him think what he wanted, she thought. He’d chosen his life, and however rich and powerful he’d become he’d clearly paid violently for his wealth. And she’d been fortunate to escape when she did, and keep her own wounds hidden. That was all there was to be said.

  She looked away from him. ‘I don’t understand.’ Her voice was small and strained. ‘What am I doing here? What—happened?’

  ‘You fainted, signorina.’ It was the contessa who answered her. ‘At my cousin’s feet.’

  ‘Your cousin?’ Polly repeated the words dazedly, her mind wincing away from the image the older woman’s words conjured up of herself, unconscious, helpless. She shook her head, immediately wishing that she hadn’t. ‘Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?’

  The contessa drew herself up, her brows lifting in hauteur. ‘I do not understand you, signorina. There is no joke, I assure you. Alessandro is the son of my husband’s late cousin. Indeed, his only child.’

  ‘No,’ Polly whispered. ‘He can’t be. It’s not possible.’

  ‘I am not accustomed to having my word doubted, Signorina Fairfax.’ The contessa’s tone was frigid. She paused. ‘But you are not yourself, so allowances must be made.’ She handed Polly a glass of water. ‘Drink this, if you please. And I will ask for some food to be brought. You will feel better when you have eaten something.’

  ‘Thank you, but no.’ Polly put down the empty glass and moved to the edge of the bed, putting her feet to the floor. She was still feeling shaky, but self-preservation was more important than any temporary weakness.

  She’d fainted—something she’d never done in her life before, and a betraying sign of vulnerability that she could ill afford.

  She spoke more strongly, lifting her chin. ‘I would much prefer to leave. Right now. I have a flight to catch.’

  ‘You are not very gracious, Paola mia.’ Sandro’s voice was soft, but there was a note in it that made her quiver. ‘Especially when I have had you brought all the way from England just to see you again.’

  Had you brought… The words echoed in her head, menacing her.

  ‘Then you’ve wasted your time, signore.’ Was that how you addressed the supposed cousin of an Italian countess? Polly had no idea, and didn’t much care. ‘Because I have no wish to see you.’

  There was a bitter irony in this, she thought. This was supposed to be the first day of her new life, and instead she seemed to have walked into a trap.

  Ironic, inexplicable—and dangerous too, she realised, a shiver chilling her spine.

  The contessa had deliberately set her up, it seemed. So she must be in Sandro’s power in some way. But however scaring that was, it couldn’t be allowed to matter, Polly reminded herself swiftly. She didn’t know what was going on here, nor did she want to know. The most important thing, now, was to distance herself, and quickly.

  “‘Signore”?’ Sandro questioned, his mouth twisting. ‘Isn’t that a little formal—for us, bella mia?’

  Her pulses quickened at the endearment, putting her instantly on the defensive.

  ‘To me this is a formal occasion,’ she said tautly. ‘I’m working—escorting the contessa. And there is no “us”,’ she added. ‘There never was.’

  ‘You don’t think so?’ The topaz eyes were watchful. ‘Then I shall have to jog your memory, cara.’

  ‘I can remember everything I need to, thanks.’ Polly spoke fiercely. ‘And it doesn’t change a thing. You and I have nothing to say to each other. Not now. Not ever again.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And now I wish to leave.’

  Sandro shook his head slowly. ‘You are mistaken, carissima.’ His voice was soft. ‘There is a great deal to be said. Or else I would not be here. But perhaps it would be better if we spoke alone.’

  He turned to the contessa. ‘Would you excuse us, Zia Antonia?’ His tone was coolly courteous. ‘I think Signorina Fairfax and I should continue our conversation in private.’

  ‘No.’ Polly flung the word at him, aware that her voice was shaking. That her body was trembling too. ‘I won’t stay here—and you can’t make me.’

  He looked at her, his mouth relaxing into a faint smile. ‘You don’t think so, Paola mia? But you’re so wrong.’

  ‘Contessa!’ Polly appealed as the older woman moved towards the door. ‘You had no right to do this. Don’t leave me alone—please.’

  The contessa gave her a thin smile. ‘You require a chaperone?’ she queried. ‘But surely it is a little late for that?’ She paused, allowing her words to sting, then turned to Sandro. ‘However, Alessandro, Signorina Fairfax might feel more at ease if you conducted this interview in the salotto. A suggestion, merely.’

  ‘I bow to your superior wisdom.’ Sandro spoke briskly.

  Before Polly could register what he intended, and take evasive action, he had stepped forward, scooping her up into his arms as if she were a child. She tried to hit him, but he controlled her flailing hands, tucking her arms against her body with insulting ease.

  ‘Be still,’ he told her. ‘Unless, of course, you would prefer to remain here.’ He glanced significantly back at the bed.

  ‘No, I would not.’ She glared up into the dark, ruined face. ‘But I can walk.’

  ‘When you are shaking like a leaf? I think not.’

  In spite of her continuing struggles, Sandro carried her back into the now deserted drawing room. The contessa had disappeared, Polly realised with a stab of panic, and, although neither of them were her company of choice, it meant that she and Sandro were now alone. Which was far worse…

  ‘This was easier when you were unconscious,’ he commented as he walked across the room with her. ‘Although I think you have lost a little weight since our last meeting, Paola mia.’

  ‘Put me down.’ Polly was almost choking with rage, mingled with the shock of finding herself in such intimately close proximity to him. ‘Put me down, damn you.’

  ‘As you wish.’ He lifted a shoulder nonchalantly, and dropped her onto one of the sofas flanking the fireplace. She lay, winded and gasping, staring up at him.

  ‘You bastard,’ she said unevenly, and he clicked his tongue in reproach as he seated himself on the sofa opposite.

  ‘What a name to call the man you are going to marry.’

  ‘Marry?’ The word strangled in her throat. Polly stru
ggled to sit up, pulling down the navy dress which had ridden up round her thighs. ‘You must be insane.’

  He shrugged. ‘I once asked you to be my wife. You agreed.’ He watched as she fumbled to re-fasten the buttons he’d undone, his lips slanting into faint amusement. Looking so like Charlie that she almost cried out. ‘That makes us fidanzato. Or am I wrong?’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ she bit back at him, infuriated at her own awkwardness, and at the pain he still had the power to cause her. ‘Totally and completely mistaken. And you know it, as well as I do, so let’s stop playing games.’

  ‘Is that what we’re doing?’ Sandro shrugged again. ‘I had not realised. Perhaps you would explain the rules to me.’

  ‘Not rules,’ she said. ‘But laws. Laws that exist to deal with someone like you.’

  ‘Dio,’ he said. ‘So you think our government interests itself in a man’s reunion with his woman? How enlightened of them.’

  ‘Enlightened enough to lock you up for harassment,’ Polly said angrily. ‘And I am not your woman.’

  He grinned at her, making her realise that the scar had done little to diminish the powerful sexual charisma he’d always been able to exert, which was as basic a part of him as the breath he drew. He was lounging on the sofa opposite, jacket discarded and tie loosened, his long legs thrust out in front of him, totally at his ease. Enjoying, she thought bitterly, his control of the situation. While she remained shaken and on edge, unable to comprehend what was happening. Or why. Especially why…

  ‘No? Perhaps we should have stayed in the bedroom after all, cara mia, and continued the argument there.’ The topaz eyes held a familiar glint.

  ‘You dare to lay a hand on me again,’ Polly said, through gritted teeth, ‘and I’ll go straight to the police—have you charged.’

  ‘With what offence? The attempted seduction of my future bride?’ He shook his head regretfully. ‘A girl who once spent a summer as my lover. I don’t think they would take you seriously, carissima.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I expect they have to do what you want—like the contessa. And where is she, by the way?’

  ‘On her way back to Comadora, where she lives.’

  ‘But she was supposed to be staying here.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, Paola mia. I reserved the suite for myself.’ He smiled at her. ‘And for you to share with me.’

  ‘If this is a joke,’ Polly said, recovering herself from a stunned silence, ‘I don’t find it remotely funny.’

  ‘And nor do I,’ Sandro said with sudden curtness. ‘This is no game, believe me. I am entirely serious.’ He paused. ‘Do you wish to test my determination?’

  He hadn’t moved, but suddenly Polly found herself remembering the strength of the arms that had held her. Recognised the implacable will that challenged her from his gaze and the sudden hardening of the mobile, sensuous mouth which had once stopped her heart with its caresses.

  She bit her lip, painfully. ‘No.’

  ‘You begin to show sense at last,’ he approved softly.

  ‘Not,’ she said, ‘when I agreed to come to Italy today. That was really stupid of me.’

  ‘You must not blame Zia Antonia,’ he said. ‘She shares your disapproval of my methods.’ He shrugged. ‘But if you and I had not met again tonight, then it would have been at some other time, in some other place. Or did you think I would simply allow you to vanish?’

  She said coldly, ‘Yes, of course. In fact, I counted on it.’

  His head came up sharply, and she saw the sudden tensing of his lean body. ‘You were so glad to be rid of me?’

  You dare to say that—to me? After what you did?

  The words trembled on the tip of her tongue, but she fought them back. He must never know how she’d felt in those dazed, agonised weeks following his rejection. How she’d ached for him, drowning in bewilderment and pain. Pride had to keep her silent now. Except in defiance.

  She shrugged in her turn. ‘Do you doubt it?’ she retorted. ‘After all, when it’s over, it’s over,’ she added with deliberate sang-froid.

  ‘You may think that, mia cara.’ His voice slowed to a drawl. ‘I do not have to agree.’

  She looked down at her hands, clamped together in her lap. ‘Tell me something,’ she said in a low voice. ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘I was at a conference on tourism. A video was shown of a British company which looks after single travellers. You were its star, cara mia. I was—most impressed.’

  Polly groaned inwardly. Her one and only television appearance, she thought, that her mother had been so proud of. It had never occurred to her that it might be shown outside the UK.

  She said coldly, ‘And you were suddenly overwhelmed by nostalgia, I suppose.’

  ‘If so,’ Sandro said with equal chill, ‘I would have sighed sentimentally and got on with my life. But it reminded me that there are issues still unresolved between us.’ He paused. ‘As you must know, also.’

  She moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘I need to say something. To tell you that—I’ve never talked about you. Never discussed anything that happened between us. And I wouldn’t—I give you my word…’

  He stared at her, frowning. ‘You wished to wipe me from your memory? Pretend I had never existed? But why?’

  She swallowed, her throat tightening. Because it hurt too much to remember, she thought.

  ‘Once I discovered your—your background,’ she said, ‘I realised it was—necessary. The only way…’

  His gaze became incredulous. ‘It disturbed you to find that I was rich. You’d have preferred me to be a waiter, existing on tips?’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Dio mio.’

  Polly sat up very straight. She said coldly, ‘It was the way you’d acquired your money that I found—unacceptable. And your—connections,’ she added bravely, controlling a shiver as she remembered the man who had confronted her. The scorn and menace he’d exuded.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ he said slowly. ‘But if you expect me to apologise for my family, Paola, you will wait a long time.’ The look he sent her was hard—unrelenting. ‘I am what I am, and nothing can change that. Nor would I wish it to.’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘Certamente, I hoped—at one time—that you would find it possible to live in my world. Understand how it works, and accept its limitations.’

  But you soon changed your mind about that, Polly thought painfully. In fact, once you realised that I’d never be suitable, you were willing to pay a small fortune to get me out of your life altogether—and I should be grateful for that. Relieved that you sent me away, and saved me from an impossible moral dilemma. Prevented me from making a choice I might have hated myself for later, when I was sane again…

  And knowing that has to be my salvation now. Has to…

  She said stiltedly, ‘That could—never have happened. It was better—safer for us to part.’

  ‘You think so?’ He drew a harsh breath. ‘Then how is it I have been unable to forget you, Paola mia, no matter how hard I have tried? Or how many other women there have been in my life since you?’

  She lifted her chin, resisting the sudden anguish that stabbed her. ‘Am I supposed to feel flattered?’

  ‘You ask me about your emotions?’ Sandro asked derisively. ‘What did I ever know about your thoughts—your feelings? I saw what I wished to see—believed what I needed to believe.’

  He shook his head. ‘Madonna, how many times in these long months I have wished I could simply—dismiss you from my mind.’ He paused. ‘Forget you as easily as you have rejected the memory of me.’

  Oh, God, Polly thought numbly, how little you know…

  She tried to speak evenly. ‘Life doesn’t remain static. It moves on—and we have to go with it.’

  ‘Do you go alone?’ Sandro enquired, almost negligently studying his fingernails. ‘Or do you have company on your journey?’

  Polly tensed. ‘That,’ she said, ‘is no concern of yours.’
r />   ‘Then let us make it my concern,’ he said softly. ‘Because I wish to know the truth. Do you live alone?’

  The question seemed to hang in the air between them while her mind ran in frantic circles, looking for a way out.

  Useless to go on telling him it was none of his business. That would not deter him. On the other hand, it would be a humiliation to admit that since him, there had been no one in her life. That she existed in self-imposed celibacy.

  She could invent a lover, but she’d always been a terrible liar, and the risk of him seeing through her story was too great.

  And then, as if a light had dawned, she realised there was no need for invention after all.

  Polly lifted her chin, and faced him. ‘No,’ she said, very clearly. ‘I don’t live alone.’

  It was no more than the truth, she thought. And it might just set her free…

  Sandro was very still suddenly, little golden fires leaping in his eyes as his gaze met hers. He said, ‘And, naturally, your companion is male?’ He watched her swift, jerky nod.

  There was another silence, then he said harshly, ‘Do you love him?’

  Unbidden, an image of Charlie’s small sleeping face invaded her mind, and her mouth curved involuntarily, instinctively into tenderness.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And I always will.’

  As soon as she spoke the words, she knew they were a mistake. That she’d snatched at a means of escape from him, without fully considering the consequences. And that she could have gone too far.

  ‘You dare to tell me that?’ His voice crackled with suppressed anger.

  Her heart jolted nervously, but she knew that she had to finish what she’d started. That she had no other choice.

  She tilted her chin defiantly. ‘What did you expect? That I’d stay single in memory of you? Like you remained celibate for me?’ she added scornfully. ‘Dream on—please.’

  Sandro’s eyes were fixed on her, a slow flame burning in their depths. ‘And how long has he been part of your life? The truth.’