The Marchese's Love-Child (10 page)

'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, cam, 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?'

'No,' 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 attraction 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 favored 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.

'I suppose so.' Polly gave a slight shrug. 'I resigned from my job, and visited my parents, who are planning a holiday in Cornwall.'

'I have not been idle either,' he said. 'The legal requirements for our marriage are being fast-tracked, so I have decided it would be best if you moved here to my suite until the wedding.'

'I—move in with you?' she repeated blankly. 'What are you talking about?'

'Finding a flat to rent for such a short time could be a problem,' he explained. His mouth curled slightly. 'But do not be too disturbed, cara. The suite has two large bedrooms.'

She said in a hollow voice, 'There are three of us. Four with Julie.'

"The bambinaia will work only in the daytime. At night, we will care for Carlino ourselves. You have been doing that since he was baby,' he added. 'So it is scarcely a hardship. He can decide whose room he shares each evening.' He gave her a cool smile. 'An excellent arrangement, don't you think?'

Her voice shook. 'You don't want to know what I think.'

'Probably not,' he agreed drily. 'But you will not be forced to endure my company for too long. We shall leave for Italy and Comadora immediately after our wedding, and, once there, I will do my best to keep out of your way. In view of my work commitments, it should not be too difficult.'

Polly gave him a pleading look. 'Can't we do a deal over this? As it's only for a short time, couldn't Charlie and I stay at the flat?'

'Unfortunately that is impossible.' His hand closed over hers, his thumb stroking her soft palm, sending tiny tremors through her senses which she was unable to ignore or control. 'You see, carissima, I need you near to me,' he whispered huskily. 'Especially at night. Just in case you decided to try and escape me after all.'

At that moment, the waiter arrived back with their drinks, and a colleague came hurrying with menus and a wine list.

Polly withdrew her hand from his clasp, not trusting herself to speak, longing for a sliver of ice long and sharp enough to pierce her tormentor to the heart.

She took refuge behind her menu while she regained her equilibrium.

Last night had been bad enough, she thought broodingly. She'd never envisaged having to move in with him, but she realised now that she'd been naive. There were probably plenty of other options, but his will was paramount, and he was letting her know it.

Yet he'd been so different once; gentle, humorous, patient—and adoring, or so she'd believed.

Now, she thought, wretchedness gnawing at her, it seemed that treacherous, deceitful and arrogant were more accurate descriptions.

He'd simply played the part of the sincere lover, as a ploy to keep her in his bed, trusting and eager, all summer long.

Yet, while she knew this, how was it possible that his lightest touch still had the power to stir her to the depths of her being, reigniting needs and longing that should be dead?

It was madness, and she needed to become sane again, or her existence, even on the outskirts of his life, would become intolerable.

She'd never felt less hungry in her life, but she knew she should eat something, so decided on consomme and chicken in wine sauce to follow. Fuel, she thought, for the next battle.