Blackmailed For Her Baby (Bought For Her Baby Series Book 4)

by Elizabeth Power

  There’s no need for me to want you either, but I do! It was a lost and mocking sense of hopelessness within her. ‘And I told you I wasn’t comfortable being waited on. I wasn’t born to it as you were,’ she reminded him, wondering if he could detect that tremulous note in her voice that sprang from imagining how it might have been if she’d been the one accompanying him tonight, sitting there beside him, coming home with him, having him take her to bed. ‘What are you worried about? Afraid I might inveigle you into putting me on your payroll so I can stay here permanently?’

  He laughed softly, a sound that made her nerve-endings quiver from the roots of her untidy hair to the tips of her grubby toes. ‘What position do you suggest?’ His voice was pure seduction. ‘Serving me on a domestic level? Or would you prefer something more…personal?’

  The innuendo was obvious, causing a swift, needle sharp pain to pierce her heart.

  How could he talk to her like this when he was so obviously involved with Miss Snipe-a-Minute Magdelena? She wanted to hit him. Or worse, reach up and drag his head down so that she could taste and feel and savour his hard, insistent mouth; feel the tension in his body as it grew rigid with its need of her as it had that day he had taken her to Capri.

  Cheeks reddening with anger and the wild imagery she just couldn’t seem to get a grip on, she snapped, ‘Haven’t you got something far more pressing to do?’

  He followed her sweeping glance to where Magdelena was just disappearing into the shadows created by the castle before turning back to her, a muscle pulling at the side of his cynical mouth.

  ‘Some commitments, as you know,’ he murmured deeply, ‘have to be honoured.’

  Oh, and he’d honour her all right! Libby thought resentfully. With his company. His charisma. And then his bed!

  Futilely she tried to rid herself of the mental picture of his dark head bent to a full, olive-skinned breast; of those long-fingered hands shaping the dips and curves of a female body brought to fever-pitch for him, pleasuring as they had done so exquisitely with her only a couple of weeks ago.

  ‘You don’t have to explain anything to me. I’m not your keeper.’

  That cruelly sensual mouth that she couldn’t seem to drag her eyes from moved in the wryest of gestures. ‘True. But I would have thought you would welcome anyone championing the cause of a charity originally set up in England for the benefit of chronically sick and deprived children and their families, even if it’s merely attending a dinner organised in its honour. After all, it was your original concept, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Rainbows in Reach?’ Flabbergasted, Libby stared up at him. How had he found out about that? It was a low-key undertaking, operated through her manager to safeguard not so much her privacy as that of the families of the children she’d been determined to help provide with a holiday of a lifetime. It was what her so-called ‘other homes’ were for.

  The UK-based charity was thriving, but the expansion of something similar in Europe had brought problems when the development company of a small group of villas that had been scheduled had run into difficulties with redundancies, bankruptcies and even fraud rumoured amongst its directors. It had hit the charity hard so that it had looked as though they might have to quell their hopes of extending Rainbows to the European continent until an anonymous donor had stepped in just a few weeks ago with his own developers and the pledge of a million pounds.

  ‘You’re backing them?’ Libby whispered as realisation dawned.

  ‘Do you have a problem with that?’

  She shook her head, too dumbfounded to speak. ‘How did you find out I was the founder?’ she said eventually. ‘It isn’t common knowledge…’

  ‘Any more than was that first hostel you opened for homeless single mothers and their babies with the money my father gave you?’ he astounded her further by revealing, chuckling at the shock that was written all over her face. ‘I always make it my business to do a thorough investigation of every project I put my money into,’ he went on to inform her then, ‘but I didn’t realise you were the silent benefactor behind the UK charity until someone let it slip last week.’

  And yet he had offered his support even before he had known.

  A wave of emotion surged through her. Admiration. Respect. And a love so strong for him it was almost too much for her slender being to contain.

  He wasn’t like Marius. Or Sophia. Or even Luca. He was of a different breed, she thought, recognising it with her soul as surely as her senses recognised the night breezes that fanned her skin and the whistling insects that made such harmonious sounds in her ears. He was like his grandfather. A man of integrity. A strong leader. Yet caring and considerate, too.

  Stay here. Stay with me.

  Her heart was paralysed with longing so that she couldn’t move. Couldn’t tear her gaze from those alluring eyes that burned with almost painful intensity.

  The sound of a car door slamming dragged her cruelly back to her senses.

  Magdelena! Magdelena waiting for him. Magdelena, with whom he was going to spend the evening—and probably the night as well!

  ‘I’ll take that,’ he said quietly when she made to move past him, causing her breath to lock when his long fingers brushed her breast as he relieved her of the box which was beginning to feel like a ton weight in her arms. ‘Now, go and take a long relaxing bath.’ His voice was deep and warm and suddenly oddly husky. ‘You look as though you could do with some gentle pampering, carissima.’

  But not by you! Never by you!

  She didn’t stay for him to see how much his endearment and the sensuality of that accidental touch had affected her, fleeing to her room, where, with her head pressed back against her locked door, she cried with that debilitating sense of loss she had known after he had left her that first time at the hospital, the day that Luca had died.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘YOU won’t ever go away again, will you?’

  It was a question Giorgio had been asking since the day his mother had arrived and now, tucking him up for the night, Libby tried to conceal the anxiety that seemed to squeeze her heart.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Fran had asked when her friend had phoned her that afternoon and Libby had decided to come clean and explain about her marriage to Romano’s brother. ‘Persuade that dynamo to let you have your son back so you can bring him home to England with you? Be sensible, Blaze. He’s theirs. You only gave birth to him,’ she stressed with a frankness that nevertheless hurt for all its well-meaning intent. ‘That counts for nothing in their eyes, I suspect—and you can hardly blame them.’

  Now, seeing those big brown eyes looking up at her for reassurance, she smiled and gently kissed the little boy’s soft cheek. ‘I’ll always be part of your life, Giorgio.’

  Somehow.

  His trusting smile was a further twist on her heart.

  ‘Zio Romano says he might have a surprise for me—but that it’s a secret and that I mustn’t tell anyone.’

  Despite her concerns, Libby laughed, then a little more seriously advised, ‘Then I don’t think you should tell me, Giorgi. Secrets are secrets because they’re shared between two people. When we pledge to share a secret it means we’ve made a promise to someone. And you know what we do with promises, don’t you?’

  ‘Keep them,’ he announced very importantly.

  ‘That’s right.’

  Gently she ruffled his thick, dark hair, inhaling his clean scent as she kissed him again. She was fortunate, she knew, to have been given this chance to be with him. That Romano had come to find her, no matter how much he hadn’t wanted to. So why couldn’t she stop worrying that she might suddenly be banned from seeing him again? Have to face the turmoil of endless days and nights not knowing how he was?

  The night was drawing in after she finished showering and substituted shorts and T-shirt for a low-cut white camisole and black silk trousers.

  Still too early for dinner, she was tripping along the corridor, intent on going downstairs,
when she happened to glance out of the window overlooking the courtyard.

  Romano and Magdelena were having what looked like a very animated conversation in the softly lit area by the fountain. Magdelena was obviously annoyed about something, throwing out her arms in typically Italian fashion.

  Libby had seen Magdelena Moretti here several times since the night of Giorgio’s birthday, invited—as far as Libby could deduce—as a guest of Sophia’s as much as Romano’s.

  Now, as the woman made to flounce away, Romano grabbed her wrist and brought her pivoting back to face him. His back was turned to Libby so that she couldn’t see his expression, but the two of them seemed to be facing each other in silence for a long moment before Magdelena launched herself straight into his arms.

  Libby’s hand shot up to stifle a small cry from the pain that was scything through her. If only she could leave here! she agonised, and knew that she would if it weren’t for Giorgio. But she couldn’t. Not yet! Not until they threw her out. And then…

  Then what would she do? she wondered, shutting her eyes to blot out the sight of that intimate embrace. Go back to England? Carry on as she had done before, just living for her work? Existing from day to day? She couldn’t! Being torn away from her child now would be like having a limb torn off only worse, because at least a torn limb would heal.

  She had told Giorgio she would always be part of his life from now on. She had also told him that it was important to honour one’s promises. Which was why she had told her manager on both occasions when she had spoken to him yesterday that she was seriously reviewing her future and her career. If it meant giving up modelling and getting some mundane job—any job—then she would, just so long as she could stay in Italy. Stay near Giorgio…

  ‘They look very good together, don’t they?’

  Sophia Vincenzo’s warm approval of the couple in the courtyard had Libby swinging round. Romano’s mother was wearing a particularly satisfied smile.

  ‘Yes. Yes, they do,’ she responded quickly, battling to pull her tortured features back in line and hoping she’d managed to sound as though it didn’t matter to her one way or the other.

  Well, it was true, wasn’t it? she thought, glimpsing Romano leading Magdelena out of the courtyard, one strong arm lying across her slim shoulders. They did look good together.

  ‘It would be a merging of two old Italian families if Romano decided to settle down with her,’ Sophia enlarged, oblivious to the increasing anguish that was clawing at Libby’s insides. ‘It is what I’ve been hoping for. What his father always hoped for. I’ll see you at dinner,’ she concluded, before carrying on her way to her rooms, leaving Libby to continue her journey downstairs on legs that felt as heavy as lead.

  Ten minutes later, sitting beneath the soft lights in the pergola, somewhere in the grounds she heard a car door slam; the sound of an engine starting up.

  Romano and Magdelena. Going out for the evening, she deduced, shutting out the pain of that speculation by trying to absorb herself in An Appreciation of Impressionist Art.

  She enjoyed art and the book was one she had borrowed before from the castle’s extensive library. Tonight, though, the bright colours of the glossy prints seemed to swim before her eyes in a sickening jumble so that all she could see leaping up at her from each page was Romano holding the other woman in his arms, and Magdelena kissing him, shaping his face—hungrily, almost desperately—as though she wanted to carry the impression of it with her for all time.

  A light footfall on the tiles edging the pergola made her glance up, startled.

  ‘Is it a good book?’

  Romano’s voice was as warm and caressing as the night breezes that were fanning her bare skin.

  ‘If you like impressionism.’ Her heart was leaping so hard she thought it would jump right out of her chest. Why hadn’t he gone out?

  ‘Which you do, I take it.’

  He was standing in front of her now, blocking out everything but the strength and leanness of his powerful body casually attired in a black and grey tailored shirt and black fitted trousers. His smile sent quivers of sensation along her veins.

  ‘It’s just a glimpse of something fleeting and more real in some ways than a conventional depiction of a thing,’ she answered, lifting her chin as she said it. ‘Everything’s transient, isn’t it?’ she added with a sadness she couldn’t contain. ‘Nothing lasts.’

  The intensity of his gaze was mesmerising as it strayed to the pulse she could feel hammering in the hollow of her throat.

  ‘I suppose it doesn’t,’ he said. ‘But only because it’s constantly being replaced and renewed and so can never become stale.’

  ‘And never stable.’ She felt understandably low—depressed—and was trying very hard not to let him see it.

  A pleating of masculine brows seemed to indicate that he wasn’t entirely unaware. ‘You prefer stability?’

  Libby shrugged. ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

  He moved over to the cushioned garden seat situated at an angle to hers. Disconcertingly she heard the pale cane squeak beneath his weight.

  ‘In the scheme of things—especially in nature—everything changes,’ he conveyed to her impassively. ‘The earth. The moon. The sun. Morning. Night. That’s why Monet set up numerous easels in his garden. So that he could work on multiple paintings of the same subject to catch the light in all its changing moods. From dawn right through till dusk.’

  ‘Yes, I’d heard that,’ she imparted with a fleeting smile, absurdly stimulated from sharing even that little piece of knowledge with him. ‘He must have loved what he did obsessively to have shown such commitment. Otherwise he could have driven himself mad and wound up hating it with a passion!’

  Surveying her, Romano leaned back, his chin supported by an arm resting on the back of his chair. ‘Love. Hate.’ Those sensually carved lips twisted almost sardonically. ‘Where is the dividing line, I wonder, if one is driven?’

  Now he wasn’t just talking about art.

  The air between them seemed to crackle with a dangerous electricity. Heat radiated through her, making her nerve-endings tingle, her throat go dry.

  Caught in the snare of his regard, she lowered her gaze, only to find it riveted on his dark, lean hand. A very masculine hand, furred with silky black hairs and which, with its partner, had pleasured her with a skill that had tipped her over the edge that day on Capri, until she had been sobbing, begging for him, mindless with need.

  And suddenly all she could think of was those long hands sliding up under her top, caressing her aching breasts, which, despite everything she had just seen, were already thrusting against the lace-edged silk of her top.

  And he knew it, she realised, mortified, reading it in the smile that played around that passionate mouth, feeling that blaze of attraction flaring between them until she felt scorched by its fierce intensity, feeling its molten heat at the secret juncture of her thighs so that she had to do something—say anything—just so long as she could drag herself back from its dangerous spell.

  ‘Giorgio told me that you’ve got a surprise for him.’ Darn! Why had she had to blurt that out? ‘He did say, though, that it was a secret.’

  ‘Did he?’ Suddenly he leaned over, making her breath shiver from the brush of his fingers as he closed the heavy book that was resting on her lap and relieved her of it with one swift, economic movement.

  How had he known she would be here? she wondered, her heart knocking against her ribs. Did he realise that she came and sat in here most evenings after Giorgio had gone to bed? Reading to escape her reckless feelings for him; her fears for the future?

  ‘That’s right. But it isn’t a secret. Not any longer,’ he said, disposing of the book on the low cane table beside him. ‘I told him that very soon he might possibly be presented with an aunt.’

  ‘An aunt?’

  A sister of one’s mother or father. Or one’s uncle’s wife! Like some automated machine her mind processed the information, working
it out.

  ‘You’re getting married?’ Her voice seemed to crack under the strain of saying it, and her stomach muscles suddenly felt as though they were being squeezed in a cruel vice. ‘So who’s the lucky lady? No, don’t tell me! Let me guess.’ She was rambling, but she couldn’t stop herself. If she had then he would have heard the screaming of her tortured heart. ‘Not the volatile Magdelena?’

  An eyebrow tweaked almost imperceptibly, but all he said was, ‘That sounds as though you don’t like her.’

  Did he care—one way or the other?

  ‘It doesn’t really matter what I like, does it?’ she reminded him painfully. ‘As long as your mother likes her.’

  Surprisingly he threw back his head and laughed at that. ‘I do believe,’ he said, ‘that she has always had great expectations for me in that quarter.’

  ‘Congratulations!’ Dear heaven! How could she bear it? Sit here and congratulate him as if she didn’t feel a thing? As if she didn’t feel as though she was suddenly dying a very slow and agonising death? But she persisted anyway. ‘When’s the happy day to be?’

  ‘It hasn’t been agreed yet.’

  ‘But it’s definite.’

  ‘Si.’ There was no mistaking the certainty in the deep, rich chocolate voice. ‘Giorgio needs a mother.’

  She leaped up then, her loose hair burnished by the soft lights in the overhanging vines as she swung round to retort, ‘Giorgio has a mother! And I don’t think I like the prospect of my son being brought up by that…that woman!’

  He sat back with both arms curling over the back of his chair now, thumbs hooked into his waistband, the way the action parted his casually buttoned shirt revealing the tantalising shading of hair that furred his chest. ‘Does that mean you’re objecting to the possibility of my marrying her?’

  ‘You can do what you like!’ Libby breathed, desperate to keep him from guessing how much she cared. ‘It’s only Giorgio’s interests that concern me. And don’t tell me I’m in no position to object because you’re his legal guardian—I know that! Believe me, I’ve never stopped regretting relinquishing my rights to him! But I did! And now I’m expected to sit back and allow that…that patronising fiancée of yours…’ the word seemed to stick in her throat ‘…to take control of his life? To bribe him into doing anything he doesn’t want to do and then give him a pat on the head like some little lap-dog when he does it?’