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

by Carole Mortimer

  Silence. Just the muted chatter of the other diners.

  ‘Sophia has been talking,’ he said, with nerve-shredding quietness. Dull colour laid a path over his angular cheekbones and his mouth was tight with displeasure.

  But all Anna could see was a bewildered ten-year-old boy whose adored mother had suddenly disappeared from his life. And whose father, just when he needed him most, had turned his back on him and the tiny sister he found himself responsible for. He would have played with Sophia, who’d been little more than a baby, given her the love she wasn’t getting from any other quarter, tried to take the place of both parents, growing up with responsibility, a strong sense of duty deeply ingrained.

  Hence his decision to marry the mother of his own son—despite her being, in his eyes, just another greedy woman on the make. No matter what she said in her own defence, circumstances had conspired to make any belief in her impossible. But she could, and would, defend his sister.

  Leaning forward, her eyes brimming with compassion, she told him softly, ‘Don’t be cross with Sophia. She’s so pleased about the wedding—she just came out with it, said she’d never thought she’d live to see the day. I asked why, naturally, and she told me about your mother only marrying your father for the money that could buy her the glittering lifestyle she wanted. Then leaving him for some other well-heeled guy when she saw the supply was in danger of drying up. How your father was so devastated he didn’t even want to have anything to do with his children. She said I was family now, and should know.’

  Lifting her slender shoulders in a tiny shrug, she added, ‘You’re her big brother and she loves you, and she’s happy for you, thinking you’ve finally found a woman you can trust enough to love.’ Her voice flattened. ‘I didn’t prick her bubble—tell her how very wrong she is because you don’t trust me at all. And you certainly don’t love me.’

  But he had done. Once. She was sure of it now. Her heart was hurting, her throat tightening as knowledge of what she’d lost swamped her.

  She’d thought of little else since he’d exploded that bombshell about what had happened the night he’d dumped her, washed his hands of her and walked away. It added up. It was the missing piece of the jigsaw.

  He had loved her. When they’d met on Ischia he’d concealed his true identity because he’d wanted to be loved for himself, not his wealth. He had meant every word when he’d said he loved her.

  But Dad, with his usual bull-at-a-gate tactics, had killed that love dead as the dodo. He must have recognised his daughter’s new boyfriend from the pages of the financial papers he took, and had barged straight in and asked for massive investment in that crazy safari park idea, convinced that everyone would see his latest surefire money-making scheme as the world-beater he alone thought it was.

  She was sure it had happened that way, and Francesco’s earlier reference to wild animals in his garden clinched it. Didn’t it just!

  She toyed with her cutlery, not able to eat. And, no, she hadn’t broached the subject with her father, insisted he tell her exactly what he’d said to Francesco that evening. Because if he’d confirmed what she already believed she would have blown her top, accused him of ruining her chance of true happiness, causing so much ill-feeling that her approaching wedding day would be even more of an uncomfortable farce than it was going to be.

  Besides, she loved her eccentric father unconditionally. Creating a real rift between them would be dreadful. What was done was done, the outcome unchangeable. Because of what had happened to him when he was a bewildered, vulnerable small boy Francesco was programmed to suspect any woman who vowed she loved him of having ulterior and mercenary motives.

  ‘I’m sorry. This isn’t working.’ A slight gesture had the waiter gliding forward with the bill, and Anna watched his eyes frost over, his strong, lean face hard as the transaction was completed.

  He stood, every line of his magnificent body tense, his eyes inward-looking, and Anna scrambled to her feet, her legs shaking like an ill-set jelly.

  Their cosy date, with him spelling out the slick, totally unreal guidelines for their future, had been blown out of the water because she’d opened her big mouth, told him things he didn’t want to hear.

  He would never believe she hadn’t had a clue as to who he really was when their baby was conceived, and he despised her for trying to tell him otherwise. He was furious because Sophia had spilled the beans about what their mother had done, how their father had behaved towards them as children. It was a period of his life he never talked about, and he obviously resented her knowing.

  Had he, like her, come to the conclusion that their marriage was on the rocks before it even happened?

  A black cab was already waiting. Francesco handed her in. He had a whole lot of thinking to do. Finding the truth was now imperative—and that included a long overdue talk with her father.

  He’d been off his head to have believed he could put a shiny gloss on their future—paste over the fissure-like cracks, pretend they didn’t exist.

  Insisting on marriage hadn’t all been about his son. Anna herself was at the core of it. At last he was honest enough to admit that he still loved her. He wanted to believe she still loved him. But if what came out of his conversation with her father failed to convince, then he was not going to follow in his own father’s footsteps and enter a marriage where one partner loved and the other just took.

  Initially he’d believed he could make the marriage work for the sake of his son. Rub along, shut out the past, be civilised—with the bonus, of course, of great sex. But now that he’d finally faced up to the fact that no woman had ever been able to affect him as she did, that he loved her, he knew it could never work. It would fail, as his parents’ marriage had, leaving him bitter and hurting.

  ‘I’ll walk.’ He gave the address, passed notes to the driver, turned back to her, his eyes bleak. ‘I’ll see you at the altar.’

  Maybe.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘YOU look so beautiful!’ Beatrice Maybury’s eyes were misty as Sophia, elegant in a suit of amber-coloured silk, finished fastening the myriad of tiny buttons at the back of the elaborately beaded white satin wedding gown and adjusted the filmy veil.

  ‘Fantastica!’ Sophia sighed. ‘So romantic—Francesco is a lucky man!’

  Anna tried to smile.

  Difficult.

  There was nothing remotely romantic about this wedding.

  Sophia fussing, Cristina preening, proud as a peacock in her lemon-coloured wild silk bridesmaid’s dress, hopping from one foot to the other in excitement, demanding, ‘Is it nearly time to go yet?’ Mum sitting in regal splendour in her blue and gold brocade coat and amazing hat, nursing Sholto and looking dotingly at everything she laid her eyes on, the coming ceremony itself—all this was nothing but an elaborate stage set, with herself as one of the principal actors, playing her part in a fantasy of cruel unreality.

  She hadn’t seen Francesco since they’d left the restaurant.

  ‘It’s bad luck for the groom to see his bride so close to the wedding,’ Mum had informed her. ‘He’s booked into a hotel—you’ll see him at the altar!’ Too interested in trying to decide which shoes went best with her mother-of-the-bride outfit, she had failed to notice the bleakness in her daughter’s eyes.

  The strangely chilling mood he’d been in when they’d parted had given her the impression that he’d washed his hands of her. Standing at the altar with her was the very last thing he wanted!

  It was a horrible situation, she thought with utter misery, her self-esteem flat on the floor. He was only marrying her for the sake of the tiny son he so obviously adored, and she’d allowed herself to be as good as blackmailed into accepting him. Which would be OK, she supposed glumly, if she really was the sneaky money-grubber he believed she was.

  But she wasn’t! She’d stopped being blinkered and admitted she still loved the brute! And that made everything so very much worse!

  She’d made one last des
perate attempt to convince him of her integrity, but that had had the effect of changing him from someone who was willing to sweep the past under the carpet, to make the best of a bad job with a semblance of grace, in to someone who gave the impression that he never wanted to set eyes on her again!

  ‘Stop daydreaming!’ Sophia chided affectionately, putting a bouquet of white roses into her trembling hands. ‘The cars are here.’

  And so was her father. Looking good in his hired morning suit, a white carnation in his buttonhole, proud as punch as he took in his daughter’s wedding finery.

  As soon as they were alone he gave her a gentle hug, being careful not to squash pristine perfection, bringing tears to film her eyes. He was her father, and she loved him, and she knew he loved her, but he had been the cause of Francesco’s unshakeable distrust of her.

  ‘Nervous, poppet? Don’t be—you’ll make Bride Of The Year, and good old Dad’s here to make safe passage!’

  Too churned up inside to ask him what he was talking about, she found out, to her horror, when they walked through the outer door to face a small army of photographers, pushing, crowding, firing questions. Her head was swimming as Dad, with the help of the uniformed driver, allowed her to gain the sanctuary of the car without too much loss of dignity for the short drive.

  There would be more of them waiting at the church she guessed. She supposed with a lurch of her already churning stomach that the marriage of one of the world’s most eligible bachelors to a nobody made a story of sorts.

  Cinderella!

  Her heart wrenched. Without the happy ending!

  ‘Poppet—I’m sorry. It’s all my fault,’ William Maybury said gruffly as the car purred forward.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Anna muttered tiredly. The photographers weren’t snapping like crazy because of him. It was all down to who Francesco was.

  ‘No—listen. I had a long chat with your young man last night. He asked me to go to his hotel. It was late when I got back, and you’d gone to bed, and this morning it’s been hectic, so—’

  ‘Dad, I don’t want to talk. Not now. Please!’ Her face pale and set, she turned her head away.

  She simply could not bear to hear yet another paean of praise for the paragon! She couldn’t blame her parents for being overwhelmed by the generosity that would enable them to live out their lives in luxury and security—they were practically unable to talk of anything else and she could understand that—but she didn’t want to hear any more. Their future security had been bought at a mile-high price to herself!

  Doing her best to ignore the photographers, Anna entered the fashionable church on her father’s arm and saw Francesco waiting. Tall, achingly handsome, his morning suit clothing the perfection of his lithe body with elegance and style.

  So her vague doubts that he’d show at all, that he’d washed his hands of her, had been unfounded. Her steps faltered. In a way it would have been better if he had left her standing at the altar! It would have been a clean break. She would have got over it. Eventually. Living the rest of her life loving him, knowing he thought she was—

  ‘Chin up, poppet.’ Her father’s hand tightened on her elbow, urging her forward. ‘Everything’s absolutely fine, I promise!’

  What the heck did he know? was her irreverent thought as his hand fell away and she found herself standing at Francesco’s side.

  He was looking at her, his too attractive features set, his eyes dark with emotion as they raked her pale face and huge haunted eyes. His voice was thick as he murmured, low and emotive, ‘I love you Anna. Love you. ’

  The ceremony passed in a blur, Anna’s head spinning, asking herself the same questions over and over. Had he really said that? Or had she misheard? A panic-induced, hopeless illusion? And, if he had said it, was it because he’d taken one look at her and, fearing she’d take flight, grab her little son and run, said the one thing guaranteed to root her to the spot?

  It seemed no time at all before they were in the car to take them to the reception at some fancy hotel or other. The blonde iceberg had told her which one but she hadn’t really taken it in.

  ‘Did you mean what you said?’ she questioned tightly, her tummy flipping.

  He settled his long, elegant frame at her side and the car moved forward. His smouldering eyes moved over her. He took both her trembling hands in his. ‘You are unbelievably beautiful. How could I not mean every word? I love you, cara.’ He lifted her hands to his lips, turning them over to place softly lingering kisses in her palms, and her heart jerked painfully.

  Was he just saying that? Using lavish helpings of that devastating charm he could conjure out of thin air just to keep her sweet until the public ordeal of the reception was over? His ego wouldn’t stand the humiliation of having his new bride look one iota less than totally ecstatic.

  Or did he mean it? How could he?

  He raised his head, said something in his own language that sounded like a violent expletive. Then, ‘We have arrived. There’s no time to say what I must. Anna—’ he cupped her face briefly ‘—trust me. I love you, and I swear I will prove it to you for the rest of my life!’

  His avowal threw her off balance. He looked and sounded so sincere. And the way he held her hand and didn’t let go until they were seated for the banquet, the focus of two hundred pairs of eyes, almost convinced her that a miracle had happened.

  She so wanted to be convinced. And she allowed herself to be as the lavish wedding feast progressed and his eyes rarely left hers. They were the love-drenched eyes of the man she had first fallen in love with on that sun-soaked Italian island almost a year ago, and all doubts fled when, under cover of the applause and laughter at the end of Fabio’s best man speech, Francesco reached into an inner pocket and slid a huge sparkling yellow diamond onto her finger above the plain gold band.

  ‘I noticed you don’t wear the ring I more or less forced on you—with such gross insensitivity.’

  ‘You were impatient,’ she excused, green eyes huge. ‘I couldn’t make up my mind. In any case.’ Her small chin came up. ‘I didn’t want anything from you that wasn’t given with love.’

  Smouldering silver eyes met hers, and his voice was thick as he confided, briefly touching the ring that glittered on her finger, ‘I chose this for you because the blonde stone reminded me of your lovely hair. It was in my pocket as I drove to Gloucestershire all those months ago. I was going to ask you to be my wife. It was chosen with love.’

  He had loved her then, had wanted to marry her. Then everything had gone pear-shaped. Dad had blundered in and ruined everything. The stark reminder of cold reality sent an icy spasm round her heart and her eyes brimmed.

  Nothing had changed. Not really. How could it when whenever she tried to convince him that she’d had no idea of who he was when they’d met he as good as accused her of lying? His private opinion of her must still be rock-bottom.

  She couldn’t fault his efforts to do just what he’d suggested in that restaurant—sweep what had happened under the carpet and put a glossy veneer of togetherness on their marriage. But—

  ‘We have to talk. Properly talk,’ she mumbled raggedly, hating the thought of living with a much-loved husband who, deep in the secret places of his heart, believed she was only with him for what she could get out of him. His protestations of love would only be made to ensure their marriage wasn’t a battleground, an unfit arena for his son’s upbringing.

  ‘Of course.’ He took her hand in his. ‘Later.’ His charismatic smile lit his spectacular features as he stood, drawing her with him. ‘We are now expected to lead the dancing.’

  Aware of music coming from the ballroom, and the gradual exodus of guests from the lavishly appointed dining room, Anna swallowed a sigh.

  The show must go on!

  Pinning a smile on her face, she allowed herself to be swept into a slow waltz, melting into the lean, hard strength of his body because she couldn’t help herself, willing herself to believe that a miracle could happe
n, that he really had changed his mind about her, really did love her.

  She snapped out of the dreamy state of complete capitulation that being held in his arms always induced when Fabio tapped him on his shoulder and claimed her.

  Later, halfway through a dance with someone whose name she couldn’t remember, had perhaps never known, she excused herself on the grounds that her feet were killing her, took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and went to find somewhere secluded to sit.

  As arranged, Peggy and Arnold had taken Sholto home to be fed, changed and put down to sleep, and Francesco had done his duty, dancing with her mother, his sister and his cousin Silvana.

  Finding a chair against a far wall, she sat, her eyes homing in on her husband, now dancing up close and personal with the redhead who had been with him on that never-to-be-forgotten weekend when she’d catered for his cousin and her husband.

  Sick to her stomach, her emotions all over the place, she swallowed the contents of her glass in one go. The slinky redhead had been his latest squeeze that weekend. Now she was all over him, making a public spectacle of them both. Her face flamed. How dared he invite an ex-lover to his wedding? Or was he planning to reinstate her?

  ‘Dance?’

  Anna glanced up, about to refuse, saw Nick looking decidedly gloomy, and said, ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m not much good at this,’ he said, ‘and proved it by treading on her foot.

  ‘Not to worry.’ Avoiding his size twelves would take her mind off what Francesco was doing with that woman! ‘We can just shuffle. Where’s Melody?’ The invitation had been for both of them.

  ‘She couldn’t make it. We were both gutted. We were looking forward to it, and to spending her weekend off here in London—booked a hotel and everything. Dammit—sorry!’ he grumped, as he steered her into another couple. Holding her tighter, until she felt she would never be able to breathe again, he explained dourly, ‘She’s a vet nurse. There’s only three in the practice. One’s on holiday, and the one who was supposed to be on duty came down with a viral sickness, so poor old Mel had to fill in. So I’m on my tod.’