The Marchese's Love-Child (The Italian Husbands) Page 8

  ‘Maybe so,’ she agreed stiffly.

  ‘A friend warned me that when you have a child, the concept of “three in a bed” takes on a new meaning,’ he went on. ‘I now know what he means.’

  Polly looked away, her mouth tightening, and he sighed. ‘That was a joke.’

  ‘An inappropriate one,’ she said, hating the primness in her voice. ‘I’ll get the coffee now. And—thanks again for helping with Charlie.’

  ‘It was my pleasure,’ he said, his voice faintly weary.

  By the time she returned, Charlie had woken and was in a grizzly mood.

  ‘You are sour in the mornings, figlio mio,’ Sandro told him. He slanted a faint grin at Polly. ‘Like your mammina.’

  She sipped the strong, scalding brew she’d made. ‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was defensive. ‘But this isn’t easy for me.’

  ‘Or for me, cara mia,’ he said. ‘Or for me.’

  He swallowed his own coffee with the complete disregard for its temperature that she remembered so well, then rose, swinging Charlie up into his arms. ‘Come, my little grumbler. Come and take a bath with Papa and see if it improves your temper.’ He glanced at Polly. ‘You have no objections, I hope.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘None.’

  She occupied herself with stripping the bed and turning it back into a sofa, while attempting to ignore the noise of splashing and Charlie’s gleeful squeals coming from the bathroom. Trying hard, too, not to feel envious and even slightly dejected, because that would get her nowhere.

  Her path might have been chosen for her, but she had to follow it, whatever the cost.

  What would happen next? she wondered. She supposed she would have to see Mrs Terence and tell her that Safe Hands would be losing her earlier than planned.

  And she would have to visit her parents and break the news to them too—a situation which had all the makings of a Class A nightmare.

  And if Sandro was serious about moving her into a larger flat, and so far he seemed to have meant everything he said, then she would have to pack.

  She wandered into the tiny kitchen and poured herself some orange juice. She felt as if she needed all the vitamins she could get.

  It was as if her life had been invaded by a sudden whirlwind, all her plans and certainties swept away.

  And at some point she would have to stand beside Sandro in a church or registry office, and listen to him making promises he had no intention of keeping as he put his ring on her finger.

  Three years ago, all my dreams were of marrying him, she thought unhappily. And now it’s happening at last, but not in a way I could ever have hoped. Because I’m being offered the façade of a marriage, without its fulfillment. And, for Charlie’s sake, I have to find some way—to endure.

  She rinsed out her glass and put it on the draining board.

  What was the old saying? she wondered drearily. Be careful what you wish for, in case your wish comes true?

  Well, she had wished so hard to be Sandro’s wife—once.

  She gave a small wretched sigh, then went into Charlie’s room to choose his clothes for the day, and that was where Sandro found her a few minutes later. He was fully dressed, while Charlie, capering beside him, was in a towel draped like a Roman toga.

  ‘Do you have a mop, or a cloth, perhaps? I need to dry the bathroom floor.’ Sandro’s tone was faintly rueful.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Polly said too brightly. ‘I’ll clear up when I have my own bath.’ She paused. ‘You seemed to be having fun together,’ she went on with an effort. ‘Somehow—he’s not shy with you.’

  ‘Why should he be?’ Sandro lifted a hand and touched his scarred cheek. ‘Did you think, perhaps, that this would terrify him—make him run away from me screaming, and force me to think again?’ he added sardonically.

  ‘No—oh, no,’ Polly stammered. ‘But he can be tricky with people he’s only just met. But not you.’

  Sandro shrugged. ‘Blood calling to blood, perhaps.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That must be it.’

  He was watching her. He said quietly, ‘Paola, I am not trying to take your place. You will always be his mother. But he needs us both.’

  Her throat closed. She nodded, unable to speak, her hands restlessly folding and unfolding a little T-shirt.

  His hand closed on her shoulder. His touch was gentle, but she felt its resonance through her blood and bone.

  ‘Go and dress yourself,’ he directed quietly. ‘I will see to our son.’

  She didn’t want his kindness, his consideration, Polly thought wildly as she fled. She needed antagonism to feed her anger—her determination to stay aloof from him at all costs. To blank out forever the memories of those days and nights when her universe had narrowed to one room, and the bed where she lay in his arms.

  She needed to hate him.

  The state of the bathroom was a spur to that, of course. It looked as if it had been hit by a tidal wave, and it took ten minutes’ hard graft with a mop and bucket, and a roll of paper towels, to render it usable again.

  But even then the recollection of Charlie’s crows of delight diffused her resentment.

  And it occurred to her, too, that next time Sandro chose to play submarines or whatever with his son it would be someone else’s task to do the clearing up after them.

  It was clear that her life was going to change at all levels, not just the strictly personal. And would she be able to cope?

  Although she would not be Sandro’s wife in the accepted sense, she would have some practical role to play in his life, and maybe she should ask to have it defined.

  She sighed. So many things she needed to know—not least how he’d acquired the scar on his face. Her own assumptions had been totally and embarrassingly wrong, of course, but she’d been offered no other explanation for an injury that must have gone dangerously deep.

  She could only suppose that Sandro found the circumstances surrounding it too difficult and painful to discuss. So what could possibly have happened, and could she ever persuade him to talk about it?

  Then there was his family. It seemed that he had other cousins apart from the contessa. How much did they know about her existence? she wondered. And what would they feel about her arrival—an interloper with a child?

  Polly sighed again. She was just beginning to realise there were problems she hadn’t even imagined awaiting her in Campania.

  When she emerged from the bathroom, freshly attired in jeans and a pale blue shirt, she found Sandro standing by the window with Charlie in his arms, apparently having a murmured conversation about the traffic in the street below.

  ‘Have you pointed out the security men watching the flat?’ Polly asked caustically.

  ‘I sent them away last night,’ Sandro told her, unfazed. ‘From now on, cara, I shall be watching you myself.’ He paused, watching the swift rush of colour to her face. ‘So, what are your plans for the day?’

  ‘Principally, giving up my job, and trying to calm my mother.’ Polly thrust her hands into the pockets of her jeans in an effort at nonchalance. ‘She’s probably looking for a hit man right now to take you out of the equation.’

  ‘What a pity I am not Mafioso as you thought,’ he murmured. ‘I could perhaps have suggested someone.’

  Polly’s mouth tightened. ‘I suppose I should also start packing—if you really intend to move us out of here. Or was that simply a threat?’

  ‘I do intend it,’ he said. ‘And as quickly as possible. But do not bring too much, cara. I plan to provide you and Carlino with everything you need, including new wardrobes.’

  She lifted her chin. ‘And I prefer to choose my own things.’

  He looked her up and down, brows raised. ‘Of which those are a sample?’

  ‘There was a time,’ Polly said, ‘when you would have found these clothes perfectly acceptable.’

  ‘But then we are neither of us the same people,’ he said, gently. ‘Are we, Paola?’

  ‘N
o,’ she said. ‘We’re not. And, as a matter of interest, who was the Sandro Domenico you once claimed to be?’

  ‘You are interested?’ His brows lifted mockingly. ‘A step forward, perhaps. Domenico was the name of my late father, and was given to me as a second name at my christening. I used it when I did not wish to reveal my true identity.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t I guess?’

  ‘So, will you allow me to make reparation for that, and accept that I wish to show my gratitude to you for agreeing to marry me, and how better than with a corredo di sposa?’

  ‘I don’t want your gratitude,’ she said stonily. ‘Or a trousseau of designer dresses. Just the space you promised me.’

  ‘Does that exclude you from having lunch with me at my hotel—the Grand Capital? There are things we need to discuss.’

  Polly bit her lip. ‘If I must.’

  Sandro shrugged. ‘You overwhelm me,’ he told her drily. ‘Shall we say one o’clock in the bar?’

  ‘Lunch in a restaurant?’ Polly gave her angelically smiling son a dubious glance. ‘I’m not sure Charlie could manage that.’

  ‘He does not have to,’ Sandro said briskly. ‘I have arranged for him to spend some time with friends of mine, Teresa and Ernesto Bacchi, so we can talk without distraction.’

  Polly drew a swift breath. ‘That’s very arbitrary,’ she said mutinously. ‘I might not like these friends of yours.’

  ‘Well, you will meet them later today, so you can judge for yourself,’ he said, shrugging.

  ‘And it might upset Charlie, too.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ he said. ‘They have twins his age. And he is more adaptable than you think.’ Sandro smoothed the little boy’s hair back from his forehead. ‘Tell Mammina,’ he whispered. He pointed to himself. ‘Who am I?’

  ‘Papa,’ Charlie said promptly, and hid his face on his father’s shoulder.

  Polly made herself laugh and applaud. How easily Sandro had won him over, she thought. But why should she wonder at that?

  Before he’d even spoken to her that first day in Sorrento, she’d been aware of the intensity of his gaze, her own mouth curving shyly—involuntarily—in response to his smile. Her heart had thudded in anticipation of the moment when he would come to her side.

  Dear God, she thought wearily. She’d been seduced with just a look. A number-one, first-class pushover.

  She turned away blindly, murmuring about finding her bag, and then the door buzzer sounded to announce Julie’s arrival.

  She’d decided it would be hypocritical to have a battle with the nanny over concerns that she actually shared, so she greeted her with a polite word, and smile instead.

  She took herself into the kitchen to make more coffee while Julie received her instructions for the day.

  At the moment Sandro ruled, and there was nothing she could do about it, she thought, leaning against the cramped work surface while she waited for the kettle to boil.

  She was still inwardly reeling from the shock of his return, and its traumatic aftermath, but her confusion wouldn’t last forever. Soon, she would be back in control of herself, and she’d make damned sure that more of a partnership was established over Charlie’s parenting than existed at the moment.

  Something that might be easier once she was officially Sandro’s wife—and one of the few advantages of the forthcoming marriage, she thought painfully.

  When she returned to the living room, Sandro came over to her, having relinquished Charlie to his nanny.

  ‘I must go,’ he said. He took out his wallet, and extracted what seemed to be an obscene amount of money, which he placed next to Charlie’s photograph on the chest of drawers. ‘For taxis,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow there will be a car and driver for your use.’

  ‘Public transport has always been perfectly adequate,’ Polly informed him loftily, conveniently forgetting how often she had cursed its delays and overcrowding.

  Sandro shrugged. ‘Then spend it as you wish,’ he said. ‘In this, at least, the choice is yours.’

  Ignoring her mutinous glance, he took her hand and bowed over it.

  ‘I will not kiss you, bella mia,’ he said softly. He lifted her imprisoned fingers, drawing them lightly over his unshaven chin, the topaz eyes meeting hers in open challenge. ‘I would not wish to mark your exquisite skin.’

  Polly mumbled something incoherent, and withdrew her hand from his with more haste than courtesy, aware that Julie, in spite of her training, was watching open-mouthed.

  And probably thinking every inch of me is grazed to the bone, she thought, cringing inwardly.

  If you only knew, she told the other girl silently. If you only—truly—knew…

  And found herself sighing under her breath.

  She handed in her notice at Safe Hands, aware that she was causing a slight shock wave, but unable to explain or defend her decision. Far too tricky, she thought.

  And then, of course, she had her parents to face.

  She’d expected her mother to be instantly on the attack when she arrived at the family home, but Mrs Fairfax was upstairs, lying on her bed with the curtains drawn. The look she gave Polly was subdued, almost listless.

  ‘So, he’s persuaded you,’ she said heavily. ‘I supposed he would. A man like that. I—we didn’t realise what we were taking on.’

  Polly took her mother’s cold hand in hers. ‘It won’t be so bad,’ she said, wondering which of them she was trying to convince. ‘And Italy’s such a beautiful country. You’ll be able to come and visit as often as you like. I’m sure Sandro will want that,’ she added, mentally crossing her fingers.

  ‘Crumbs from the rich man’s table,’ her mother said with a harsh laugh. ‘How could I ever have imagined it would end like this—that he’d come to find you?’

  ‘She’ll be all right,’ her father told Polly comfortingly as they went downstairs. ‘I’m going to take her down to Cornwall for a few days. She loves it there, but we haven’t been able to go recently.’

  ‘No.’ Polly bit her lip. ‘Because you’ve been too busy looking after Charlie. Maybe the break will do her good—stop her brooding.’ She hesitated. ‘Dad—about the wedding—when it happens…’

  ‘You want us to stay away?’

  She shook her head vehemently. ‘I’m counting on you to give me away, but how is Mum going to feel about it?’

  ‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it,’ he said gently. He gave her a searching look. ‘Sweetheart—tell me something.’

  ‘If I can.’

  ‘Charlie’s father,’ he said. ‘Was it just a temporary fling, or did you really care about him?’

  She looked away. ‘I—cared,’ she said in a low voice. ‘But I discovered that—he didn’t.’

  ‘Well, at least he’s trying to put things right now, no matter what your mother says.’ He gave an awkward chuckle. ‘Even asked my permission, which threw me.’ He put his hand on her shoulder. ‘It won’t be easy, I know, but maybe you could try meeting him halfway?’

  But he would have to want that too, she thought. And he doesn’t. Besides, how can I meet him anywhere when I don’t even know who he is? And never did…

  She suppressed a sigh, and her little smile was wintry. ‘Perhaps that’s a bridge I have to cross.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘Good luck with Cornwall. I’ll be in touch.’

  She didn’t want to be late for lunch, so she reluctantly spent some of Sandro’s money on a taxi after all.

  She hadn’t changed into anything more formal for their meeting, just added her favourite pair of earrings—the tiny enamelled cornflowers on delicate silver chains. But she began to wish she had dressed more smartly as she walked across the Grand Capital’s marble foyer, skirting the fountain and the groups of elegant women who’d gathered there to chat before lunch.

  Sandro was already sitting at the bar when Polly entered. He was laughing at something the barman had said, and she hesitated, almost stunned, as the full force of his a
ttraction hit her once more like a punch in the throat.

  Nor was she the only one, she realised, recovering her breath. Women were sending him predatory looks from all over the room. No change there, then, she thought drily, remembering the same reaction every time she’d walked down a street with him in Sorrento.

  And the scar on his cheek had not detracted from his appeal in any way. On the contrary, thought Polly, he looked like some Renaissance swordsman injured in a duel.

  At that moment, he looked round and saw her. He slid off the stool, coming across to her, his mouth curling in faint cynicism as he registered her instant tension.

  ‘Cara,’ he said softly, and took her hand. ‘So you have decided to join me. I could not be sure. But I am delighted.’ He leaned towards her, his gaze travelling to her mouth, and Polly flinched, freeing her fingers from his grasp.

  ‘Still no kiss?’ His tone was mocking. ‘Even though I have learned my lesson from this morning, and shaved more closely in anticipation?’

  ‘I don’t consider that any particular inducement,’ Polly responded stonily. ‘I’ve agreed to marry you, and I see no need for any—embellishments.’

  ‘Now, there we disagree. I see I shall have to teach you the difference between public and private behaviour, my reluctant bride.’ He smiled as he spoke, and only Polly was aware of the ice in his voice. ‘But we will discuss that later.’

  He took her to a corner table, and signalled to a hovering waiter. ‘What would you like to drink. Is it still Campari and soda?’

  More unwanted memories, she thought, biting her lip. She said coolly, ‘Just a mineral water, please.’

  ‘Last night you drank white wine.’

  ‘Today I need to keep a clear head.’

  He gave her a thoughtful look, then turned to the waiter. ‘Mineral water, per favore,’ he directed. ‘For both of us.’

  The waiter departed, leaving a silence behind him that Sandro was the first to break.

  ‘Have you had a productive morning?’ he asked.