by Sara Craven
Well, she could not fault him for obeying her wishes, she thought. But she alone knew that she was lonely, and that her sense of isolation would only increase once she reached Comadora.
‘Now take the dress off and hang it away,’ Teresa cautioned. ‘Sandro must not see you in it before the wedding.’ She paused. ‘Is all well with you, Paola? You are quiet today.’
Polly stepped out of the dress, and slipped it onto a padded hanger. ‘Well, for one thing, there’s Julie.’
‘Oh?’ Teresa’s eyes twinkled. ‘Has she fallen in love with Alessandro?’
‘No, of course not,’ Polly said. ‘At least, I don’t think so.’
Teresa giggled. ‘They all do. I had a nanny from Australia when the twins were born, and each time Alessandro came into the house she would go pink—like a carnation—and refuse to speak for hours.’
Polly’s brows lifted. ‘And how did he react?’
‘Ahime, he did not even notice.’ Teresa shrugged. ‘It is endearing how little vanity he has in such matters.’
‘Well, his arrogance in other ways more than compensates for that,’ Polly said crisply, zipping herself into a pretty blue shift dress.
‘You would not think so if you had known his father, the Marchese Domenico,’ said Teresa. ‘Now, there was a supreme autocrat. And of course that old witch he brought to the house after his wife died encouraged him to think he could do no wrong. She and Bianca, her secret weapon.’
Polly put her wedding dress away in the wardrobe. She said, ‘What was she like—Bianca? Was she beautiful?’
‘An angel.’ Teresa waved a languid hand. ‘A dove. Submissive and so sweet. I longed to bite her and see if there was honey in her veins instead of blood. And taught by nuns,’ she added darkly. ‘She wore her purity like a sword—every inch of her being saved for the marriage bed.’
She sighed. ‘No wonder Alessandro looked for amusement elsewhere.’ She stopped dead, clapping a hand over her mouth, looking at Polly in round-eyed horror. ‘Dio, Paola. My mouth will be my death. Forgive me—please.’
Polly sat down at her dressing table, and ran a comb through her hair. She said quietly, ‘There’s nothing to forgive. I’m really under no illusion about Sandro—or myself.’
‘Cara,’ Teresa shot off the bed where she’d been sprawling, and came to kneel beside Polly. ‘Listen to me. Ernesto—myself—every friend Sandro has—we are so happy that you are together. And that you have given him a son that he adores. Let the past rest. It does not matter.’
‘Bianca died,’ Polly said. ‘That makes it matter.’
‘You think he wished to marry her?’ Teresa demanded. ‘No, and no. It was the contessa, who saw to it that Bianca had the old marchese twisted round her little finger. With Sandro, he was always harsh, but Bianca was his sweetheart, his darling child. And Bianca wanted Alessandro.’
‘Yet you say they weren’t lovers.’
Teresa gave her a worldly look. ‘But whose choice was that? Ernesto, who has known Alessandro since they were children, told me that she used to watch him constantly—try always to be near him. He said—forgive me, this is not nice, and Ernesto is never unkind—that she was like a bitch on heat.’ She shrugged. ‘And for her, he was unattainable.’
‘Then why did he agree to marry her?’
‘His parents’ marriage had been an arranged one,’ Teresa said. ‘It was made clear to him what was expected of him in turn. And perhaps he felt it was a way to please his father at last. He was only twelve when his mother died, and after that his relationship with the marchese became even more troubled. And Sandro was wild when he was younger,’ she added candidly.
She gave Polly a serious look. ‘But you can understand, cara, why his relationship with Carlino is so important to him. Why he wishes to make his own son feel loved and secure.’
‘Yes,’ Polly said quietly. ‘I can—see that.’
Teresa got to her feet, brushing the creases from her skirt. ‘But you were telling me of Julie. There is some problem?’
‘She’s having some time off this afternoon to go for a job interview.’ Polly sighed. ‘Apparently, she’s only on a temporary contract with us, which lasts until we get to Italy and then Sandro’s staff take over, and she flies back. I—I’m going to miss her badly, and so will Charlie. And she’s someone I can talk to in my own language.’
‘Then ask him if you may keep her on.’ Teresa shrugged. ‘It is quite simple.’ She gave Polly a wicked grin. ‘I am sure that you can persuade him, cara. Do as I do. Wait until you are in bed, and you have made him very happy. He will give you anything. And the rest of the servants will be pacified when they have your other bambini to care for.’
Polly’s blush deepened painfully, but she made herself speak lightly. ‘That’s the kind of cunning plan I like.’
The way things were between them, he was more likely to fire Julie instantly, she thought ruefully when Teresa had gone. But she could always ask, although it wouldn’t be in the way the other girl had suggested.
Not that she had the opportunity for the rest of the day. In the afternoon, she went to visit her parents in a last-ditch effort to get them to come to the wedding.
But Mrs Fairfax, still in her dressing gown and looking pale and wan, was adamant, insisting she wasn’t well enough to go, and needed her husband with her in case of emergency.
And she alarmed Charlie by hugging him too tightly, and weeping.
Polly got back to the hotel feeling as if she’d been run down by a train, her only comfort her father’s quiet, ‘She’ll come round, sweetheart. She just needs time.’
Sandro was out, and, although she planned to tackle him about Julie on his return, he was still missing by the time she eventually admitted defeat and went to bed.
He was spending the eve of his wedding with Teresa and Ernesto, who were going to act as their witnesses, so she would just have to catch him first thing in the morning before he left, she told herself.
Charlie had already been collected by Julie, and taken down to the dining room for breakfast, when she woke, so she had the bathroom to herself.
She bathed and put on one of her new dresses—primrose silk with a scooped neck, and slightly flared skirt. Nailing her colours to the mast, she thought with faint defiance as she crossed the drawing room to his door.
‘Avanti.’ The response to her knock was cool and casual, and Polly, drawing a deep breath, opened the door and went in.
The curtains were drawn back, filling the room with sunlight, and Sandro was in bed, lying back against the piled-up pillows, reading a newspaper and drinking coffee from the breakfast trolley beside him. His skin looked like mahogany against the pristine dazzle of the white bed linen.
He glanced up, his brows snapping together as he saw her.
‘Buongiorno,’ he murmured after a pause. ‘You will forgive me if I do not get up,’ he added, indicating the sheet draped over his hips which was quite clearly his only covering. ‘Would you like coffee?’
‘No, thank you.’ Polly shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, praying she would not blush, and wondering if it was possible to look at someone without actually seeing them. And certainly without staring. And particularly without feeling that treacherous excitement slowly uncurling inside her. ‘I’ve had breakfast.’
‘How virtuous of you, cara,’ he drawled. ‘They bring an extra cup each morning, presumably because they hope I will eventually get lucky. I think I shall have to tell them to stop.’ He refilled his own cup. ‘So—to what do I owe this extraordinary pleasure?’
Polly gritted her teeth. ‘I—I’ve come to ask you a favour.’
His brows rose. ‘You fascinate me, bella mia. Especially when you choose my bedroom to make your request.’
‘Well, don’t read anything into that,’ Polly said shortly. ‘It’s just that I seem to see so little of you these days.’
Sandro moved, stretching slowly and indolently, letting the concealing sheet slip a
little. ‘You are seeing enough of me this morning, carissima,’ he drawled. ‘Or do you want more?’
She glared at him. ‘No.’
‘You disappoint me,’ he murmured. ‘But if it is not my body, I presume it is money. How much do you want?’
‘Money?’ Polly repeated in bewilderment. ‘Of course it isn’t. I haven’t spent half the allowance you made me.’
‘I would not grudge more.’ Folding his arms behind his head, Sandro studied her through half-closed eyes, frankly absorbing the cling of the silk to her body, a faint smile curving his mouth. ‘You seem to be spending it wisely.’
She flushed under his scrutiny. ‘Thank you—I think.’
‘Prego.’ He continued to watch her. ‘I hope you do not wish me to persuade your mother to attend the wedding. I should hate to disappoint you.’
She bit her lip. ‘No. I’ve accepted that it’s a lost cause. Besides, she wouldn’t listen to you. You—you seem to make her nervous.’
‘Mi dispiace,’ he returned without any real sign of regret. ‘I seem to have the same effect on you, cara mia. So—what is it?’
She swallowed. ‘I’d like Julie to stay in Italy with us, and go on looking after Charlie—please.’
Sandro moved slightly, adjusting the sheet to a more respectable level. He sent her a meditative look.
He said, ‘Paola, I have a houseful of staff who are dancing for joy at the prospect of looking after the future marchese. He will not lack for attention, I promise you.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘But he’s used to Julie, and he likes her. Anyway, the others will speak Italian to him, and he might feel lost at first.’ She hesitated. ‘And I like Julie too, and I can talk to her in English. In spite of Teresa’s coaching, I’m going to feel pretty isolated.’
‘Davvero?’ His tone was sardonic. ‘You do not feel that you could talk to me, perhaps?’
That was what Teresa had said, she thought, biting her lip again. She looked at the floor. ‘That isn’t very likely,’ she said constrictedly. ‘After all, we’re not marrying for any kind of companionship, but for Charlie’s sake.’
‘Does one rule out the other?’ He was frowning slightly.
‘I think it has to,’ Polly countered, with a touch of desperation. ‘And after all, you—you won’t always be there,’ she added, feeling dejectedly that she was losing the argument. ‘You have your work—your own life to lead.’
‘No,’ he said, quietly. ‘That is true.’ He shrugged a naked shoulder. ‘Va bene. If that is what you want, I agree.’
‘Oh.’ Polly found herself blinking. ‘Well—thank you.’
‘Is that all? I am disappointed.’ The topaz eyes glinted at her. ‘I was hoping for a more—tangible expression of gratitude.’
Polly stiffened. ‘I don’t think I understand.’
‘And I think you do.’ He smiled at her, and held out a hand in invitation. ‘Is one kiss too much to ask?’
She wanted to tell him to go to hell, but there was too much riding on this transaction.
She said coldly, ‘You’re not as generous as I thought.’
‘And nor are you, carissima,’ he said gently. ‘Which is why I have so far asked for so little. Besides, you will have to kiss me tomorrow at the wedding. It is tradition.’ His smile widened. ‘And you certainly need the practice.’
There was a taut silence, then Polly trod awkwardly to the side of the bed. Ignoring his proffered hand, she bent to brush his cheek with swift, unyielding lips.
But before she could straighten, Sandro had grasped her wrists in an unbreakable hold, and she was being drawn inexorably downwards, losing her balance in the process. She found she was being turned skilfully, so that she was lying across his body, the outrage in her eyes meeting the mockery in his. Mockery mingled with something altogether more disturbing. Something that, in spite of herself, every pulse in her body leapt to meet.
He said softly, ‘But I will not settle for as little as that, Paola mia.’
And her instinctive cry of protest was stifled by the warmth of his mouth on hers.
He kissed her deeply and thoroughly, holding her imprisoned in one arm, while his other hand twined in her hair to hold her still, defeating any attempt she might make to struggle. Forcing her to endure the sensuous and unashamedly possessive invasion of his tongue, as his mouth moved on hers in sheer and unashamed enticement.
Robbing her, she realised numbly, of any real desire to fight him. Awakening very different memories—and longings.
The heat of the sun pouring through the window—the unforgettable scent of his naked skin—the pressure of his lithe, muscular body against hers sent the last three years rolling back, and they were lovers again, their bodies aching and melting to be joined together in the ultimate intimacy, yet deliberately holding back to prolong the sweetness of the final moments.
He had always wooed her with kisses, she remembered dazedly, arousing her with a patient, passionate tenderness that splintered her control, and sent her reason spinning, so that she clung to him mutely imploring his possession.
Why else had she been unable to see that bringing her to eager, quivering acquiescence was the work of a practised seducer?
Yet even now, it seemed, she was unable to resist him, or the sensual magic of his lips.
When he lifted his head she was breathless, her heart thudding unevenly against her ribcage—which he must have known, because his hand had moved and was gently cupping her breast, his thumb stroking her hardening nipple to a rapturous peak through the silk of her dress.
He looked down at her, his eyes glittering and intent, asking a question which she was too scared and confused to answer. She only knew that if he kissed her again, she would be lost. And as he bent to her once more, a soft moan, half-fear, half-yearning, parted her lips.
And then, swiftly and shockingly, it was over, as the telephone beside the bed suddenly rang, its stridency shattering the heated intensity within the room like a fist through a pane of glass.
Sandro swore softly and fluently, but his hold on her relaxed, and she forced herself out of his embrace and off the bed, and ran to the door.
She flew across the intervening space, snatching at the door handle to her own bedroom, but as she did so it opened anyway, and she half fell into the room beyond.
As she struggled to recover her balance, there was a cry of ‘Mammina’ and Charlie, looking angelic, came scampering towards her from the bathroom, with Julie close behind.
‘He had a little accident with his cereal this morning,’ she told Polly, trying to look severe. ‘I’ve just had to change his top and trousers. You wouldn’t believe how far he can spread one small bowl.’
As Polly bent to him, fighting for calm, the door opposite was flung wide, and Sandro came striding towards them, his face like thunder, tying the belt of a robe he’d clearly thrown on as an afterthought.
Polly scooped Charlie up in her arms, and turned to face him defensively.
He halted, staring at her, his ominous frown deepening. He said in Italian, ‘We need to talk, you and I. Now.’
‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ Polly said, nervously aware that Julie had vanished with discreet haste back into the bathroom. She reverted to her own language. ‘I should have known I couldn’t trust you.’
His mouth twisted contemptuously. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I think, my beautiful hypocrite, that you realised you could not trust yourself. It is that simple. So why, for once in your life, can’t you be honest?’
He took a step towards her, and she recoiled, still clutching Charlie, who was beginning to wriggle. She said hoarsely, ‘Don’t touch me. Don’t dare to come near me. You—you promised to leave me alone.’
‘That will be my pleasure,’ Sandro hit back. ‘Now, be silent. You are frightening our son.’ Charlie was squirming round, his lip trembling, holding out his arms to his father, and Sandro took him from her, soothing the little boy quietly.
He said, ‘He wil
l spend the day with me. I will telephone to say when he may be collected.’ He carried him back to his own room, where he turned and looked back at Polly, his eyes icy with warning.
He said too softly, ‘And, as long as you live, signorina, never—never again use our child as a barrier between us.’
The door closed behind them both, leaving Polly shaking and alone in the middle of the room.
‘Are you all right, Miss Fairfax?’ Julie was regarding her anxiously from the doorway.
Polly mustered her reserves. ‘Yes,’ she lied. ‘Fine. A—a misunderstanding, that’s all.’
‘I thought at first that the marchese had come to give you the good news,’ Julie said. ‘He spoke to me as I was going off duty yesterday evening, and suggested that I should go to Italy as well, to help Charlie to settle in. Isn’t that great? I was going to tell you myself, first thing, only his lordship there did his trick with the cereal.’
Polly’s hands slowly curled into fists. He knew, she thought, fury uncurling inside her. He knew exactly what I was going to ask, and used it against me. A ploy to get me into bed with him. And—dear God—I was almost fool enough to fall for it. To give in.
‘Miss Fairfax?’ Julie was looking puzzled. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘Yes,’ Polly said, summoning a hurried smile. ‘I’m delighted. That’s—absolutely wonderful. Just what we both wanted.’
She paused. ‘And Charlie’s spending the day with his father, so you have some free time to go and pack for the Campania. Mind you take a couple of bikinis too,’ she added over-brightly. ‘Apparently the palazzo has a pool.’
Julie’s face lit up. ‘Well—if you don’t mind…’
When the other girl had gone, Polly walked over to one of the sofas and sat for a long time, with her face buried in her hands.
She was angry, but her anger was mixed with guilt too. It was wrong of her to use Charlie like that, but the truth was she hadn’t dared allow Sandro to touch her again. Or come within a yard of her, for that matter.
