The Marchese's Love-Child (7 page)

He didn't; nor did he burst into tears when Sandro had gently but firmly removed his thumb from his mouth.

She had said defensively, 'He doesn't really do that any more. Only when he's tired—or frightened.'

'All the more reason, then, to take him home,' Sandro had retorted unarguably.

She could only imagine the kind of scene that would erupt once her father returned, and her mother had some solid support.

'I'll make your father sell the house,' she'd hissed at Polly as she was leaving. 'Marquis or not, I'm going to fight this man through every court in the land.'

Polly sighed silently. She really doesn't know what she's up against, she thought unhappily. And I'm only just beginning to find out, too.

Only twenty-four hours ago or less, she'd been planning for her life to change, but not to this extreme, catastrophic extent. She'd seen a period of struggle ahead, but never the bleak desert of loneliness that now threatened her.

'He may not win,' she thought. And only realised she'd spoken aloud when Julie said, 'Are you all right, Miss Fairfax?'

Polly jumped, then mustered an attempt at a smile. 'Yes, fine,' she lied.

Julie studied her dubiously. 'I saw some white wine in the fridge while I was getting the eggs. Why don't you sit down and put your feet up, while I do the dishes, and then I'll bring you a glass?'

I don't want a glass, thought Polly. I want a bottle, a cellar, a whole vineyard. I want the edges of my pain blurred, and to be able to stop thinking.

She cleared her throat. 'I know Sandro—the marchese— instructed you to put Charlie to bed, but I'd really like to do it myself, if you wouldn't mind.'

'Sure, Miss Fairfax.' Was that compassion in the other girl's voice? 'Anything you say.'

Charlie was tired, and more than a little grumpy, especially when he realised his usual playtime in the bath was going to be curtailed. By the time she'd wrestled him into his pyjamas, Polly felt limp, and close to tears.

'Let me take him.' Julie spoke gently behind her. 'You look all in.'

Polly submitted, standing in his doorway, while her grizzling son was tucked in deftly and firmly.

He'll never settle, she told herself with a kind of sour triumph, only to be confounded when he was fast asleep within five minutes.

She stood at the side of the cot, watching the fan of dark lashes on his cheek, and the small mouth pursed in slumber. She ached to snatch him up and hold him. To run with him into the night to a place where they would never be found.

But she was crying for the moon, and she knew it. Even if there was such a place, she hadn't enough money to go on the run, or enough skill to outwit Sandro for long. And she couldn't afford to provoke his wrath again. She needed to reason with him—to persuade—even to plead, if she had to. Besides, on a purely practical level, instinct warned her that if she attempted to leave, whoever waited in the shadows opposite would step out and prevent her from going.

She sank down onto the floor, and leaned her head against the bars of the cot, listening to Charlie's soft, even breathing. And thinking of all the nights of silence that could be waiting for her.

When she finally returned to the other room, she discovered gratefully that the sofa bed had been opened and made up for the night, and the glass of wine was waiting with a note that said, 'See you in the morning..'

She took a first sip, then carried the wine into the bathroom, and began to half fill the tub with warm water, softened by a handful of foaming bath oil. No shower tonight, she told herself. She wanted to relax completely.

She took off her clothes and slid with a sigh into the scented water, reaching for her wineglass.

It would help her sleep, she thought. And tomorrow, when she was more rested, things might seem better. After all, she knew now the worst that could happen to her, and there must be a way of dealing with it that would not leave her utterly bereft.

She leaned back, resting her head on the rim of the bath, and closing her eyes.

Yes, tomorrow she would make plans. Find out if she qualified for legal aid. and get herself a lawyer of her own. Someone who would negotiate with Sandro on her behalf, and allow her to maintain some kind of distance from him.

I really need to do that, she thought. To stay calm—and aloof. I can fight him better that way.

And at that moment, as if he were some demon she'd conjured up from her own private hell, she heard his voice, low, mocking and far too close at hand.

'Falling asleep in the bath, mia bella’ That will never do. Surely you don't wish Carlino to become motherless so soon?'

CHAPTER FOUR

Polly started violently, giving a strangled cry of alarm as the glass jerked and the wine spilled everywhere.

She looked round and saw Sandro leaning in the doorway, watching her with cool amusement.

She tried to sit up, remembered just in time that there weren't enough bubbles to cover her, slipped on the oily surface, and was nearly submerged. She grabbed the rim of the bath, gasping in rage, and saw Sandro walking towards her.

'Keep away from me.' Her voice rose in panic.

'I am coming to rescue your glass, nothing more,' he countered silkily. 'If it breaks, you could hurt yourself badly.' He took it from her hand. 'Besides, how shameful if I had to tell people that the mother of my child drowned while drunk,' he added, his mouth slanting into a grin.

'Just keep me out of your conversations,' Polly said hotly, aware she was blushing under his unashamed scrutiny. 'How the hell did you get in here?'

'I told Julie not to lock the door when she left.'

'You did what?' Polly almost wailed. 'Oh, God, how could you? You realise what she'll think?'

He shrugged. 'I am not particularly concerned.' He gave her a dry look. 'Anyway, I imagine one look at Carlino told her all that she needs to know. We cannot hide that we once had a relationship.'

'Yes,' she said. 'With the emphasis on the "once". But not now, and not ever again, so will you please get out of here? Before I call the police,' she added for good measure.

Sandro shook his head reprovingly. 'Your skills as a hostess seem sadly lacking, cara mia. Perhaps you feel at a disadvantage for some reason?'

'Or maybe I prefer company I actually invited here,' Polly threw back at him. 'And you'll never be on any guest-list of mine.'

'You entertain much, do you—in this box? I'm sure you find the sofa that turns into a bed a convenience—for visitors who linger.'

"This is my home,' she said. 'And I assure you it caters for all my needs.' She paused. 'Now I'd like you to go.'

Quite apart from anything else, it was uncomfortable and undignified crouching below the rim of the bath like this. And the water was getting colder by the minute, she thought angrily.

His brows lifted. 'Without knowing why I am here? Aren't you a little curious, Paola mia’

'I can't think of one good reason for you to inflict yourself on me again,' she told him raggedly. 'Can't you understand you're the last person I want to see?' She sent him a hostile glance. 'Unless you've come to tell me that you've had a change of heart, and you've decided not to proceed with the custody application.'

'No,' Sandro said gently. 'I have not. I simply felt that we should talk together in private. Maybe even in peace. Who knows?'

'I know.' Her voice was stormy. 'And we have nothing to discuss. You want to rob me of my son? I'm going to fight you every step of the way. And my parents will be behind me.'

'No.' Sandro inclined his head almost regretfully. "They will not.' He raised the glass he was still holding. 'Now, I am going to pour you some more wine. I think you are going to need it.'

He allowed her to absorb that, then continued. 'So, I suggest you stop trying to hide in that inadequate bath, and join me in the other room.' He took a towel from the rail and tossed it to her, then walked out, closing the door behind him.

Polly scrambled to her feet, holding the towel defensively against her as she stepped out gingerly onto the mat. She began to dry herself with hasty, clumsy hands, keeping an apprehensive eye on the door in case Sandro chose to return.

Not that she could do much about it even if he did, she thought, grimacing. And it was ridiculous, anyway, behaving like some Victorian virgin in front of a man who'd seen her naked so many times before. Someone who'd kissed and caressed every inch of the bare skin she was now so anxious to conceal.

Instead of this burning self-consciousness, she should have pretended it didn't matter. Demonstrated her complete and utter indifference to his presence whether she was dressed or undressed.

Fine in theory, she thought. But much trickier in practice.

Especially if Sandro had interpreted her apparent sang-froid as provocation...

Her mouth felt suddenly dry, forcing her to abandon that train of thought for one just as disturbing. What was that comment about her parents meant to imply? What had been said in her absence—and, dear God, what pressure had been brought to bear?

She needed to find out, and quickly.

She looked down at the small pile of clothing she'd discarded earlier. Common sense suggested she should put it back on. Use it as part of the armour her instinct assured her that she was going to need.

But in the end, she opted for the elderly cotton robe hanging on the back of the door. It was plain and prim, without an ounce of seduction in its unrevealing lines, she thought, fastening the sash in a tight double bow. Her equivalent of a security blanket, perhaps.

Then, drawing a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and marched defiantly into the living room, only to halt, disconcerted, when she found it deserted.

The door to Charlie's room was ajar, however, and she ran, stumbling slightly on the skirts of her robe, and pushed it open.

Sandra's back was to the door, but he was bending over Charlie's cot, his hands reaching down, and she felt her heart miss a beat. Was he planning to snatch her baby while he thought she was safely in the bathroom?

'What are you doing in here?' she hissed. 'Don't touch him. Don't dare.'

Sandro straightened, and turned. 'I saw this on the floor.' He held up a small brown teddy bear. 'I was replacing it.' He paused. 'And I came in simply to watch my son sleep. A pleasure that has been denied me for the past two years,' he added coldly.

'And which you want to deny me permanently,' Polly flung at him, tight-lipped.

His smile was wintry. 'Just as you would have done to me, mia cara, if fate had not intervened.' he returned unanswerably.

He held the door, allowing her to precede him back into the living room.

He looked round him, his expression disparaging. 'And this is where you have allowed him to spend the beginning of his life? In this conigliera’

'And what precisely does that mean?'

'A hutch,' he said. ‘For rabbits.'

She bit her lip. The room did seem to have shrunk suddenly, or was it just the effect of Sandro's presence? And the bed being open and made up didn't help either. In fact it was a serious embarrassment.

'It was all I could afford at the time,' she said. 'And it works,' she added defiantly, thinking of the hours she'd spent painting the walls, and stripping and stencilling the small chest of drawers which held Charlie's things, and which just fitted into his room. He gave no credit, either, she thought bitterly, for the way she kept the place neat and spotless.

'One word from you,' he said harshly, 'one hint that you were incinta, and it would all have changed. My son would have come into the world at Comadora, in the bed where I was born, and my father and grandfather before me.' He took her by the shoulder, whirling her to face him. His voice was passionate. 'Dio, Paola, why did you not tell me? How could you let me exist without knowing?'

'Because we were no longer together.' She freed herself from his grasp. 'I made a decision that my baby was going to be part of my life only, and that I wanted nothing from you.' She paused. 'Didn't I make that clear enough at the time?'

'More than clear.' His mouth twisted. 'What I could not understand was—why.' He frowned. 'You could not have truly believed I was Mafioso. That is impossible—assurdo.'

'Why not? It was evident there were things you hadn't told me,' Polly countered. "Things you didn't want me to know.' She shrugged. 'What was I supposed to think?'

'Not, perhaps, to give me the benefit of the doubt?'

'No,' she said. 'Any more than you decided to tell me the truth. And I expect we both had our reasons.'

'Si,' Sandro said quietly. 'But I also have regrets, which you do not seem to share.'

'You're wrong.' She looked down at the floor. 'I wish very much that I had never met you.'

'Unfortunately for us both, the situation cannot be changed.' His voice was a drawl. He picked up her refilled glass from the chest of drawers and handed it to her. 'Shall we drink to our mistakes?'

Polly realised she was holding the glass as if it might explode. 'This isn't a social occasion,' she reminded him tautly. 'You said you came here to talk.'

'And I would do so,' he said, 'if I thought you were in any mood to listen.' He paused. 'I had better fortune with your parents.'

Polly stiffened. 'What have you been saying to them? If you've threatened them...'

He gave her a weary look. 'With what? A cattle prod, perhaps?' His mouth curled. 'Once again, you are allowing your imagination to run away with you, mia cam.'

She flushed. 'You're trying to tell me they gave up without a fight. I don't believe it.'

'Your mother, I think, would have gone to any lengths to thwart me,' he said. 'Your father, however, was more reasonable.'

'He thinks I should simply hand Charlie over to you?' Her voice broke on a little sob. 'Oh, how could he?'

'No, he knows that even if he made the kind of sacrifices your mother was demanding, he would still not have the financial resources for a lengthy court battle.' His smile was brief and hard. 'Especially if it took place in Italy,' he added softly.

The colour deepened in her face. 'You'll go to any lengths— pull any dirty trick to win, won't you?' she accused in a stifled voice.