Mistress to the Mediterranean Male (Mills & Boon By Request)

by Carole Mortimer

  ‘I can’t believe you actually said that,’ Anna told him in a strangled tone. Shut away in the back of beyond, unable to speak the language, with no friends or family to support her, producing one baby after another—like on a conveyor belt! The mental image alone was enough to give her hysterics! ‘You want loads more children?’

  His narrowed-eyes appraisal was full of amusement as he said, ‘Given our track record, amante, it’s a foregone conclusion. Swept away by lust just about covers it, wouldn’t you say?’

  An unsubtle reminder of her wanton behaviour last night, when the thought of precautions had not entered her head. Or his. On purpose? Did he intend to keep her permanently pregnant, surrounded by so many children she wouldn’t have the time or energy to notice when he strayed?

  Her ashen face did the impossible and turned even whiter. As if properly seeing her for the first time, he gave an impatient click of his tongue, swept his hand beneath her elbow and escorted her to the door. ‘You look terrible. Go back to bed and rest for a couple of hours. Peggy will bring breakfast to you at ten.’

  Opening the door to her room, he placed a hand in the small of her back, eased her over the threshold and drawled, ‘And, by the way, if wearing those ugly things is your idea of shaming me, of paying me back for seeing through your attempt to bamboozle me last night, you’ve failed.’

  He meant the baggy T-shirt and undeniably cheap and badly cut jeans she’d bought from the market around which she’d dragged a disapproving and reluctant Sophia on that shopping trip.

  Rallying as he began to close her into her bedroom, furious that he should automatically assume that her emotionally riven declaration of love was a pack of lies, she rounded on him, faint colour brushing her pale cheeks.

  ‘You are the most self-centred male I have ever met! Everything I do or say has to be meant for you, doesn’t it? Well, listen up—every thought I have doesn’t revolve round you. I bought this cheap gear to wear to save that fancy stuff you’ve lumbered me with!’ She was getting into her stride, almost enjoying herself—and the startled light in those smoke-grey eyes. ‘Sholto loves his morning bath, which means he squirms and wriggles and soaks me. And he dribbles when I burp him. So, no, you didn’t even enter my head when I dressed this morning!’

  And she closed the door on his astonishment.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  FRANCESCO tossed his suit jacket over the fax machine, loosened his tie. The room he used as his home office was his only oasis of peace.

  Returning after an absence of more than two weeks, he had found the large London house uncomfortably full of relatives. Anna’s parents had been fussing over the wedding gifts that had, apparently, been arriving by the truck-load. Declining to join them in the general oohs and aahs, he had been almost knocked off his feet by his niece’s exuberant greetings, and had only been able to extricate himself from her stranglehold around his neck with the arrival of Fabio, his brother-in-law.

  ‘Cristina—let Zio Francesco breathe!’ He had grabbed the squirming six-year-old by the waist and un-plastered her from her uncle’s chest. ‘He will admire your bridesmaid’s dress later, at a time of his convenience! Right now he has things to do.’

  After exchanging a wry grin with the older man, he had found the wedding organiser holding court with her usual brisk efficiency in the ground-floor sitting room with Sophia, as he would have expected, nodding, agreeing and exclaiming excitedly. Anna had been sitting mute, with a face like stone.

  The wedding was two days away. He wanted it over. Although he’d been back for a scant twenty minutes he was already finding the preliminaries irritating, making him edgy. He had never thought the day would dawn when he’d actually embrace the notion of marriage to a proven gold-digger without running the proverbial mile, when he’d be positively aching to be alone with his family. His wife. His baby son.

  But it had. And that state of affairs surely meant his mental faculties had been severely impaired! Or was he a sensible guy, sure of his ability to handle the future, doing what was right for all concerned?

  His hard, sensual mouth twisted wryly. What was that old saying? Never make a wish, it might come true.

  Once entranced, besotted, eager as a callow youth—his dearest wish had been to make Anna his wife. Now that wish was about to come true. But how different from the wedded bliss he had envisaged!

  And Anna? Her wish to marry into great wealth was about to be granted. But she acted as if she were about to keep an appointment to have her limbs severed from her torso without benefit of anaesthetic rather than go through the ceremony that would see the fulfilment of her avaricious dreams.

  Had she, too, painted a rosy mind-picture of their glittering future together? Spoiled and pampered, with an adoring, blinkered husband dancing attendance on her slightest whim?

  If so, tough! He wasn’t his father!

  Impatiently, Francesco ran a finger round the inside of his shirt collar and undid the top button. Something had to be sorted out. Now. They couldn’t spend the rest of their lives together indulging in not so lightly veiled warfare.

  The past two weeks or so had been spent visiting his company head offices across the world. Promoting, demoting, putting the most able and trustworthy managers in place to take the burden of day-to-day decisions off his shoulders in order to leave him free to spend much more time with his son. Little Sholto would grow to manhood knowing that his father loved him, wanted to be around him, spent quality time with him, would be there for him whatever happened.

  Now all that had to be done was to reach an understanding with his bride-to-be.

  He found her in the garden. Sholto lay on a rug in the dappled shade. His rounded limbs were bare, punching joyfully energetic holes in the warm late-afternoon air, and Anna was beside him, propped up on one elbow, gently tickling his tummy, her lovely face softened and glowing, her abundant hair precariously massed on the top of her head.

  For long moments he stayed where he was, his heart so full he thought it might burst. Love for his tiny son, he rationalized. Nothing else. This overwhelming emotion could be nothing else.

  He had loved Anna once—loved her beyond reason. But that had died at the exact and damning moment when her father had tried to part him from a hefty wad of the folding stuff. He still lusted after her. He only had to look at her and his whole body went into overdrive, aching to possess her. Lust wasn’t pretty, but it was reality. And he always faced reality.

  His impressive shoulders squared, he strolled forward. ‘In two weeks he has grown,’ he observed, annoyed by the definitely husky quality of his voice. His annoyance intensified by a thousand per cent when he noted how she stiffened at his arrival on the idyllic scene.

  Stifling the desire to make the cynical observation that she didn’t go as rigid as a plank of toughened steel when he touched her, but melted into his arms like warm honey, he lifted his son and held him aloft in his arms, grinning like the besotted fool he was, exulting as his action produced crowing sounds in the precious infant.

  ‘He smiled at me!’ he enthused, forgetting his future bride’s less than welcoming body language for the moment, revelling in the bubbly, crinkly movement of the tiny mouth. ‘I swear it wasn’t just wind!’

  In this mood her son’s father was irresistible, Anna thought sourly. But no way was she about to succumb, give way, let her heart reach out to him with love and then wait for the inevitable cruel accusation or unpleasant revelation to hit her. She would not live her life see-sawing from one violent emotion to another.

  She stood, brushing non-existent creases from the fine cotton skirt she was wearing with a matching jade green sleeveless top, and Francesco said, with a touch of dryness that made her ears sting, ‘Don’t let me drive you away! It is good for our son to have the company of both parents.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself! It’s time for his evening bath and feed,’ Anna countered matter-of-factly, refusing to let him get to her on any level. No way would she allow
him to think his presence had her scuttling away like a frightened rabbit. She wouldn’t give him the ego-trip of thinking he could affect her behaviour. ‘You can carry him up to the nursery and hang around if you want to,’ she conceded calmly, and set off towards the house.

  Even though her heart was pattering like mad, she was proud of the way she’d managed to let him know she could take his presence or leave it. She nearly fell over her feet when he, following with Sholto, confirmed warmly, ‘I would like that. And tonight we dine out. It is arranged. Sophia will take the monitor—she is looking forward to babysitting. You and I need to talk away from the eyes and ears of our assembled family members.’

  Taking her seat at the pricily secluded and intimate table in one of London’s most fashionable restaurants, Anna felt, ridiculously, like a fluttery girl embarking on her first date.

  Her escort, eye-swivellingly handsome in his white dinner jacket, had turned all female heads as they’d been shown to their table, and Anna couldn’t blame them. Francesco Mastroianni was one class act. She was probably the envy of every female in the place. But she wasn’t going to let that go to her head, because she knew that nothing was what it seemed. Very far from it.

  And she wasn’t going to get flustered because those silvery grey eyes of his were quite definitely appreciative and amazingly proprietorial, nor react when he remarked softly, his accent pronounced, ‘You are very beautiful. The dress suits you. But, like me, every man in the room is probably wanting to remove it from you.’

  She would not blush. She would not! Neither would she give way to the silly impulse to pluck at the dipping neckline of the understatedly sexy red dress and simper, Oh, this old rag!

  Instead, she laid aside the menu she’d been given and said, ‘This is your idea. You order for me. You said you wanted to talk. Well, I’ve got something I want to say to you.’

  ‘And that is?’ One sable brow arched lazily, his gorgeous mouth taking on the slow half-smile that infuriated her because it usually meant he was patronising her.

  So she said, ‘My parents tell me they are to live at your London address. Permanently. Everything thrown in—even a part-time job of sorts at your London office for Dad.’

  ‘And they are not pleased?’

  ‘You know damn well they are!’ It was a dreadful struggle to keep her voice down, to button her lip as Francesco gave their order, indicated that the wine waiter should open the bottle of champagne that had been waiting on ice for their arrival.

  Since their arrival two days ago her parents had hardly stopping singing the praises of their so-generous future son-in-law—going on and on about how much they were looking forward to living here, being able to go to the theatre whenever they wanted to, wander round the shops and galleries when the mood took them, take in all the sights, and wasn’t it a blessing that they both got on so well with Peggy and Arnold, who were to be kept on to look after them? It had been the first she had heard of it, and it rankled.

  ‘So? Your point is?’

  ‘That you arranged all that without telling me. You really know how to make sure I know just how unimportant I am.’ Her sense of exclusion had been shockingly painful. Her eyes sparked emerald fire, wild rose colour flooding her cheeks as she accused, ‘And my wedding—you briefed the blonde iceberg. I wasn’t consulted about anything!’

  ‘But she kept you up to speed?’ He was fingering the stem of his glass, and though she was doubting her own eyes, was he really looking just slightly discomfited?

  ‘I was told what flowers I would have, what food and wine would be served at the reception and so on, if that’s what you mean. All done and dusted—with the distinct impression that if I wanted the slightest change I’d be told to go and sit in a corner, and not speak until spoken to!’

  Not that she cared what arrangements were made, because as far as she was concerned the ceremony would be the equivalent of being handed a life sentence, bound to a man who viewed her as a necessary evil.

  Francesco leaned forward, his laid-back façade showing signs of cracking, ‘If there is something you’re not happy with then it’s not too late to change it,’ he assured her rapidly, taking the wind out of her sails. ‘She is, I am told, the best wedding organiser around, but—’

  ‘No,’ Anna put in with deflated honesty. ‘There’s nothing I or anyone could object to.’ So he was willing to take her concerns on board? It was news to her! ‘It was the principle of the thing.’

  ‘Of course. I’m—’ He broke off impatiently as the deferential waiter served their first course, and as soon as they were alone again resumed. ‘I’m sorry you haven’t been consulted. My fault. Truth is, the last few weeks have been hectic. There were decisions to be made. I made them, acted on them. That’s how I operate. But—’ he smiled at her, making her defenceless heart flip ‘—I shall teach myself to think twice where you have concerns. You won’t be kept in the dark in future. Starting now.’

  His eyes held hers, reaching her, and for a moment she felt as if she were floating out of her body. She despised herself for still craving this man she loved to bits, even though she knew he saw her as a greedy liar, but her flesh trembled in reaction to the rough velvet of his voice as he told her, ‘As you know, your father’s debts have been cleared, and I now own Rylands. They were happy to sell to me. Apparently your mother has long wanted to move to somewhere more easily managed. And it seemed like a good idea to offer them the permanent use of my London home. Besides,’ he intoned flatly, as if what he had to say was distasteful to him, ‘I thought a token position on the board might stop your father from filling my garden with wild animals.’

  Mutely, Anna nodded, resolutely ignoring the jibe about wild animals because it made her feel ill, concentrating on her mother’s astounding confession.

  When her parents had broken the news that they’d be living permanently at Francesco’s London address she’d asked Mum if she would miss her family home, and she’d confessed no, not at all. She’d suggested selling up and cutting their losses to Dad many times, but he’d always flatly refused to entertain the idea. It was her family home and he wasn’t going to see her lose it because of a few business setbacks. He would never forgive himself. In the end she had had to put her foot down—they’d almost quarrelled—and then their saviour, in the form of the generous Francesco, had happened along.

  His smile was back as he explained, ‘Major renovation work is soon to start on the house and grounds. And, if you agree, I’d like it to be kept in the family. In the normal course of events the house would have been part of our son’s heritage. As you know, we will spend most of our time in Tuscany, but Sholto needs to learn something of his English roots. Rylands would be ideal for summer holidays—a traditional British Christmas, maybe. What do you think?’

  He was actually asking her opinion instead of letting her know through a third party after the decision had been made! The fact that his prime concern was what was right for his son was something she would have to learn to live with. Her needs and wants didn’t come into it. The knowledge was chilling.

  ‘You’re right.’ He always was—or thought he was! But in this instance she agreed with him. ‘Having a base in the English countryside will be good for Sholto.’ And all the dozens of other children he expected her to give him!

  She laid down her fork, her appetite disappearing like dew in hot summer sun, as Francesco said, ‘I wanted to talk to you, discuss our future.’ His beautiful mouth twisted wryly, ‘To date we have been like duellists, circling each other, waiting for the opening to strike—apart from that one unforgettable night when you came to my bed, and that ended sourly, too. It mustn’t go on,’ he stated, with a sincerity that sent shivers up her spine. ‘We are to be married. We have a son. The only sensible thing to do is to forget everything that has gone before, and go forward together in harmony.’

  He raised his champagne flute and gave her the smile that always managed to splinter her heart. ‘A toast to our future. Le
t it be calm. No more fighting! I give you peace in our time!’ His eyes were wicked, sexy, warm, reminding her forcibly of the time on the island when happiness for her had been his glance, his smile, his touch, drenching her in the sadness of loss.

  Make the best of a bad job, she translated with an inner shudder. Hardly the best recipe for wedded bliss. But then she hadn’t expected that, had she?

  She stared at the glass, at the straw-coloured liquid alive with diamond-bright bubbles, and her throat closed up. With inner reluctance she slowly raised her glass to his. No more fighting. Sweep the past—the hurt—under the carpet. Take whatever the future held with calm stoicism. Never complain, never look into the past, never be seen without a serene smile on her face.

  A marriage like tramlines. Running parallel, never meeting except on the most basic physical level. Whambam, thank you, ma’am! Always being careful. Careful not to say or imply anything that might bring up things that had been said or done, nasty accusations that had to stay hidden under that carpet.

  She didn’t know if she was going to be able to live like that. She owed it to herself to try—again—to make him believe her. Remembering how he had met her earlier attempts with cringe-making cynicism, she shivered.

  After recklessly draining her glass, she watched him refill it as pork roulades and individual dishes of beautifully cooked vegetables were placed on the table. She didn’t think she could eat any of it, and told him flatly, ‘I might be about to break this peace you suddenly seem to find less taxing than sniping at each other, but—and this is important to me—you have to know that I had no idea of who you were or what you were worth until weeks after you dumped me.’

  She bit her lip. His eyes were cold, his mouth tight. He was determined not to believe her! But she’d started this, so she would finish it.

  Her voice firm, belying the quaking going on inside her, she said, ‘Cissie showed me an old magazine. There was an article about you—your successes in the financial field.’ Pointless to mention the simpering arm candy. ‘Know this about me—I am not the same as your mother.’