Phantom Marriage: An Anthology
Author: Penny Jordan; Miranda Lee
Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Romance; Contemporary; Women; New Adult
Description: Read this classic romance by New York Times bestselling author Penny Jordan, now available for the first time in e-book! ** She had weathered life’s storms alone.** Tara had been only seventeen when she’d given herself to James. She had borne him twins in secret, inventing a short-lived marriage to protect her fatherless children and to hide her shame. The years had brought Tara added wisdom, though time hadn’t dulled the pain of James’s rejection or the aching pleasure of their remembered passion. Meeting him again was a shock, but Tara was determined never to let him know the price she had p
Publisher: Harlequin

Read this classic romance by New York Times bestselling author Penny Jordan, now available for the first time in e-book!

She had weathered life’s storms alone.

Tara had been only seventeen when she’d given herself to James. She had borne him twins in secret, inventing a short-lived marriage to protect her fatherless children and to hide her shame.

The years had brought Tara added wisdom, though time hadn’t dulled the pain of James’s rejection or the aching pleasure of their remembered passion.

Meeting him again was a shock, but Tara was determined never to let him know the price she had paid in silence for her first and only love.

Originally published in 1983.

Read this brand new romance by USA TODAY bestselling author Miranda Lee!

She resisted him once…

But this billionaire is playing to win!

A luxury villa on Capri will be the latest jewel in playboy Leonardo Fabrizzi’s crown, until he discovers Veronica Hanson stands to inherit it. She’s the only woman to ever resist his charms, but he’s determined to tempt her into sensual surrender! He seduces her cleverly and slowly and their explosive chemistry is spectacular. But so are the consequences when Veronica reveals she’s pregnant!

Originally published in 2018.

Phantom Marriage

Penny Jordan

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

CHAPTER ONE

IF she didn’t hurry she was going to be late picking the twins up again, Tara acknowledged, glancing in resignation at the heavy-duty watch which looked so incongruous against the fragility of her wrist.

Today Chas has been more difficult than ever. Twice he had had the model in tears, and only her own deft soothing had enabled them to carry on.

It was not merely luck and knowing the right people that had taken Chas to the top as a fashion photographer, and even when she was appalled at the brutal, uncaring way he treated his models, Tara still found it possible to admire his skill, and the driving desire for perfection his unyeilding determination evidenced.

Today he had been particularly savage, and not just with the model, and Tara knew the reason why. Ever since she had started working for him as his personal assistant he had made his desire for her very evident. In a way she knew she ought to be flattered that he wanted her when so many beautiful girls were only too ready to share his bed, but then Chas was cynical and hardbitten enough to know that his models were only too happy to sleep with him if it meant it would further their career, whereas she… She stifled an impatient sigh as he gave terse instructions to her regarding the development of some of the shots he had taken. Photography had always been one of her interests, and when she had been left alone after the twins were born she had turned to it as a means of earning a living. Eventually she hoped to have a studio of her own, and this she had made plain to Chas when she first went to work with him. As far as work went she couldn’t fault him. He was marvellously patient in showing her all the tricks of the trade and helping her with her own photography; unstinting with both genuine praise and genuine criticism, and was now allowing her to take on some of their more routine work entirely unsupervised. An ad they had done for stockings several weeks ago had brought a positive paean of praise from the client, and Chas had given her full credit for her work. No, it was not where work was concerned that Chas was becoming impossible. In a way it was almost ludicrous that he should find her desirable; at twenty-four and the mother of six-year-old twins she had long ago ceased thinking of herself as the object of any man’s desire.

‘And don’t forget, we’ve got that weekend assignment coming up,’ were Chas’s final words as she hurried to where her car was parked.

It was an assignment Tara was privately dreading. They had received a commission to take some fashion shots at Leeds Castle which would take up an entire weekend. Tara had protested that she couldn’t possibly leave the twins, but Chas had overruled her, saying that his housekeeper would be delighted to look after them for her. The real reason she didn’t want to go was that she sensed that Chas would use the weekend to force her into an affair with him—an affair she didn’t want, but offending him might ultimately mean losing her job, which she enjoyed very much and which was extremely well paid.

Sighing, she eased herself into her ancient Mini, adjusting the driving mirror as she did so, pausing as she caught sight of her own reflection. Twenty-four; she grimaced wryly. She didn’t look it, which was ridiculous when she remembered that at eighteen she had looked older. Eighteen… She grimaced, tossing the thick length of her brown-blonde hair off her shoulders. Normally she wore it in one single plait for work but this morning they had overslept and there hadn’t been time. Her face free of make-up belied her years, freckles standing out plainly across the bridge of her nose. Her hair had a natural tendency to curl, tiny tendrils feathering across her forehead. Her eyes were an unusual mixture of hazel-green; hazel one moment, jade green the next, in accordance with her mood. As a child she had been volatile, given to impulsive gestures, but age and experience had cured her of that.

She switched on her engine, swearing mildly as she glanced again at her watch. Her skin was faintly tanned still from a trip she had made to Greece with Chas earlier in the year. Her mother had looked after the twins for her, but grudgingly. She had never really got over the fact that they had been born illegitimate. Tara grimaced as she pulled out into the main stream of traffic. It had not been purely for the twins’ sake that she had invented a ‘deceased husband’ for herself when she moved to London shortly after their birth. As she had quickly discovered in the months following their arrival, while some areas of ‘sophisticated’ society now quite happily condoned the birth of children outside marriage, in male eyes there was still an element of the ‘fallen woman’ attached to girls who admitted to fatherless children, and Tara had grown sick of the men who had offered friendship and affection merely because they assumed her unmarried mother status meant they would quickly gain access to her bed. They had soon learned their mistake, just as she had quickly learned from hers. She had left the small town where she had gone to stay with her aunt and uncle to await the birth of the twins, and started anew in the safe anonymity of London where no one cared enough to question her youthfully widowed status.

It had been a lucky move. She had managed to get the twins enrolled at an excellent nursery, while she herself had gone to college to complete the education so rudely shattered by the discovery of her pregnancy. It had been impossible for her to go to university, but she had gained a sound grounding in secretarial work, which had meant that at least she had been able to earn enough to keep a roof over their heads. An unexpected Premium Bond win had provided the money for the deposit on the small terraced house she had bought in what had been a very unfashionable part of London, but which was now fast moving up-market as more and more young couples made it their home, and there had been sufficient money left for her to afford the fees at the small private kindergarten the twins were attending. This last expense was a bone of contention between Tara and her mother. Her mother had moved to the same town as Tara’s aunt and uncle after the twins’ birth, complaining bitterly that she could no longer stand the shame of living in the same place that had witnessed her daughter’s disgrace. Tara’s father had been killed in a road accident when Tara herself was five and she could barely remember him, so her mother and her aunt and uncle had been the only family she had known. All three of them now felt uncomfortable with her, she acknowledged, and so her visits to them were infrequent. Her mother considered private education to be morally wrong, but Tara had pointed out to her as gently as she could that she wanted the best for the twins.

When she had first discovered that she was pregnant her mother had wanted her to have her child adopted, but Tara had remained adamant that she wouldn’t. There had been no possibility of marriage to their father, of course. Her eyes darkened, the fingers gripping the steering wheel suddenly white. Oh God, how that still hurt after all these years when surely she ought to have put it long behind her, but James’s total rejection of her still had the power to wound. It wasn’t even as though he had the excuse of being a young innocent as she had been herself. An unwillingness to face up to his responsibilities was something she could have understood and accepted in a boy of eighteen, but in a man of twenty-seven… As always when she thought of James bitterness welled up inside her. The first time they met she hadn’t realised what was to come. He had simply been the father of a younger school friend.

Memories suddenly threatened to come crowding back, and with the skill of long experience, she dammed them up, concentrating on her driving and the evening ahead.

It wasn’t far from the studio to the kindergarten, which was one of the reasons she had chosen it.

To her relief there were still other cars parked outside when she arrived; mothers waiting to collect their offspring, and she smiled in wry amusement, acknowledging the incongruity of her shabby Mini amongst so many luxuriously expensive boxes on wheels.

An elegant blonde woman smiled at her as she eased herself from the Mini. Tara smiled back vaguely, eyes searching the playground for the twins’ familiar dark heads, and a small pent-up sigh escaped the full warmth of her lips when she spotted them playing on the slide.

Outwardly neither twin bore the slightest resemblance to her; both had inherited their father’s darkly attractive looks, softened by baby chubbiness, and an undeniably coquettish femininity in the case of Mandy.

Tara grimaced a little as she thought of her pretty, wilful little daughter. Already the little girl seemed to exhibit a perverse delight in thwarting her mother, and Tara recognised unwillingly in the little girl’s behaviour a need for the firm and loving hand of a father. Mandy was all female and had been from the moment of her birth, just as Simon was a sturdy miniature replica of his father. Like Mandy he too suffered the lack of a father, although in Simon it showed more in the pensive seriousness of his eyes and his tendency to cling a little too much to the protection afforded by Tara.

Simon as always saw her first and came running over to her, flinging his arms round her jean-clad knees, while Mandy followed in his wake, dark curls flying.

‘You’re late,’ Simon accused when she had kissed them both.

Tara sighed. ‘I know, darling.’

‘Is Uncle Chas coming round tonight?’ Mandy demanded. Chas occasionally popped round in the evening to discuss work, and Mandy tended to disapprove of his visits.

As Tara was explaining to them that it was unlikely, the blonde woman who had smiled so tentatively at her before suddenly approached with a toddler, her smile deepening to recognition as she came closer.

‘Tara!’ she exclaimed in pleased accents. ‘I thought it was you.’

She mustn’t have looked at her properly the first time, Tara decided, suddenly feeling ill, otherwise she would have recognised her instantly, despite the sophistication that seven years and the apparent addition of a wealthy husband had given.

‘Susan.’

Did her voice sound as weak as she felt?

‘What a fantastic coincidence,’ the other girl chattered on blithely, obviously unaware that Tara wasn’t sharing her pleasure. ‘It must be at least seven years since I last saw you. You never even told me that you were leaving Hillingdon,’ she added reproachfully. ‘Are these your children?’

‘Yes.’

Tara was desperate to escape, but it was impossible while Susan admired the twins, and picked up her own toddler, who, she informed Tara, was just three and was called Piers.

‘After his grandfather,’ she added, pulling a slight face. ‘Do you know, I just can’t get over meeting you like this. Of course the chauffeur normally collects Piers from school. What are you doing with yourself…’ Her eyes slid to the betrayingly ancient state of Tara’s Mini in comparison to her own elegant BMW. ‘You married, of course… Your husband…’

‘John died before the twins were born,’ Tara lied huskily, bending down to check the fastening on Simon’s shoes, glad of the excuse to hide her expression from the girl who had once been one of her closest friends. Dear God, why did this have to happen? Why did she have to run into Susan of all people like this?

Susan was instantly sympathetic.

‘Oh, you poor thing!’ she exclaimed, glancing significantly at the twins as she added, ‘No problems there, I hope? I can still remember what the lack of a father did to me, although it wasn’t the same thing. Mother divorced my real father when I was four. I don’t suppose I ever mentioned that to you before—I hated people knowing. She’s remarried again, you know,’ she added conversationally, patently unaware of the sudden tensing of Tara’s body. ‘The older she gets the younger her husbands get. She’s living in the States now. I think of all the fathers she provided me with James was my favourite. In the old days I never used to admit he wasn’t my father. He was wonderful fun, do you remember…?’

Did she? Tara forced a smile from a face that felt as though it would crack apart and expose her anguish to the world and managed to croak, ‘Yes…’

‘Look, we must get together,’ Susan announced enthusiastically. ‘We’ve so much to catch up on. We’ve just bought a house in the country—for Piers mainly. At the moment we can only use it at weekends, although his father is hoping to transfer his business down there eventually. We’re going down this weekend, why not come with us? The twins would love it, I’m sure.’

‘I…’

‘Don’t refuse,’ Susan begged. ‘Think about it. Here’s my phone number.’ She scribbled it down on a piece of paper and handed it to Tara. ‘I couldn’t believe it when you left Hillingdon like that, although I suppose at fourteen I was really too young for you to take me into your confidence. But you’d been so marvellous to me at school; like the sister I’d never had. Do you remember? You seemed to know instinctively how I felt about the problems I was having with Mother. I suppose that was something we shared, although for different reasons. Do you, like me, want to give your two all the love and affection we never had?’ She broke off as she realised that her car was blocking an exit, hurrying Piers towards it, calling over her shoulder to Tara, ‘Now don’t forget—you’re spending next weekend with us!’

All the way back to the house Tara felt completely numb. Susan of all people! She had spoken the truth when she said that they had had much in common. Susan had been one of the juniors at school when Tara was a prefect. She was always in trouble; stubborn, rebellious, undisciplined, but beneath her outward brashness, her seeming precocity, Tara had recognised the same inner despair and vulnerability she felt herself. It hadn’t been an easy task breaking down the barriers of years to discover the real Susan. The supposed sexual exploits which had so shocked one of her form teachers had, as Tara had suspected, been no more than fabrication; but there had been a great danger that Susan would fall into the trap of promiscuity in the intensity of her search for someone to give her the love and security she craved. To nullify the effect of a mother who was too distant and wrapped up in her own needs and desires to see what was happening to her child.

They had grown very close; as close as sisters, as Susan had claimed. When she had discovered that Susan was often left completely alone in the huge barn of a house which was only one of Mrs Harvey’s homes, Tara had taken to spending the occasional weekend with her. She herself had been studying for A-levels then, and following her example Susan had started to take a much keener interest in her own work. ‘A miniature do-gooder,’ had been one of the less cruel tags Susan’s mother had applied to her, because despite her lack of interest in her child, Mrs Harvey had been bitterly resentful of Susan’s friendship with her.

In those days she had known very little about Susan’s background. Her mother and father were seldom at home; in fact the first time she had met Susan’s father she hadn’t realised who he was. It had been during one of the weekends she had spent at Susan’s home. She had woken in the night and wanted a drink. Downstairs in the kitchen she had been on the point of opening the fridge when she realised she wasn’t alone. Fear had been quickly followed by curiosity when she had realised that the tired, gaunt-looking man slumped over the kitchen table was the fabled father Susan adored, and an oddly maternal wave had swamped her when he raised his head and looked at her with exhausted eyes.

She had cooked him a meal; she recalled it vividly. He had eaten without appetite, and it was only years later, suffering from jet lag herself, that she had realised just how unwelcome her ministrations and cooking had probably been, but he had been too kind to let her see it. James had a weakness for children and lame dogs, but the trouble had been that she hadn’t been a child, although neither of them had realised it until too late.

‘Mummy, I’m hungry!’

Mandy’s imperative cry broke through her thoughts. Tiredly she switched off the car and helped them out. The casserole she had prepared that morning before leaving for work smelled appetising as they walked into the kitchen. Sending both twins upstairs to change their clothes and wash, Tara set about preparing their meal. Although five o’clock was rather early for her to eat, she preferred to share her meals with the twins rather than eat alone; vivid memories of lonely meals eaten in solitude at the kitchen table while her mother looked on a strong deterrent against subjecting her own children to the same thing.

Mealtimes were normally the highlight of her day. Over their food the twins normally regaled her with the happenings of their day, and she made a point of listening seriously. Simon normally spoke with wide-eyed solemnity but Mandy, almost too quick for her own good, could easily spot when an adult was simply indulging her.

They came downstairs together dressed in identical dungarees.

‘Simon couldn’t fasten his sneakers,’ Mandy told her, ‘so I had to do it for him.’

Suppressing a sigh, Tara inspected their newly washed hands. It was quite normal for Mandy to be more advanced than her brother at this stage, she knew, but she was concerned that Mandy’s possessively maternal attitude to her brother, although delightful, might prevent Simon from learning to stand on his own two feet.

Both children ate hungrily. Tara was an excellent cook and mainly through firm insistence in their early years, neither twin was faddy about food. Her budget might not stretch to luxury items, Tara reflected, but at least the twins had a well balanced and healthy diet; and as far as she was concerned they were far better off without too many sweets and chocolates.

Mandy promised to have her own slender build, but already Simon was heavier, and she suspected he would grow up to resemble his father.

After dinner she always set aside an hour to play with the twins and read to them. Mandy with quicksilver impatience grew bored with reading, but Simon was always anxious for more. Almost identical in looks, by nature they were vastly different, Tara reflected.

Her mother had started a campaign obviously intended to steer her towards marriage; its benefits to the twins always stressed whenever she went home, but so far Tara had resisted. For, one thing, marriage would mean telling someone about the twins’ paternity, which she had no desire to do; for another it meant exposing herself once more to their rejection.

Other girls, she knew, suffered the same experience she had done without the same results, but then she had always been acutely sensitive; too sensitive, she acknowledged, recognising that some of her fear for Simon sprang from the fact that she feared he had inherited this vulnerability from her.

It seemed almost incredible now that her body had ever experienced the aching pleasure which was now only a dim memory, but which had once driven her to forget all her principles and scruples to the extent that nothing mattered save for James’s possession of her, even though she had known quite well that at the time his actions were blurred and his mind dazed by a lethal combination of exhaustion and jet lag.

Not a pretty memory, and one which had served to help her keep a cool control over her emotions ever since. He loved her, James had said, but his later actions had not borne out those words. What he had felt for her had simply been a momentary desire, and she, fathoms deep in love with him, had encouraged and incited him into making love to her. The twins were the result of that careless lovemaking, and on them Tara had poured out all the love she had been forced to bottle up inside her.

Casual affairs were just not her thing, and while there had been plenty of men who had made it plain that they desired her, Tara had always held them at a distance. So far Chas had been the most determined, but Tara had held her ground, and it gave her no pleasure to know that Chas’s sudden spurts of temper against the models were fuelled by sexual frustration caused by her refusal to sleep with him.

So far she had managed to walk the dangerously fine line of keeping their personal relationship completely separate from work. As a photographer Chas was a professional down to his fingertips, but Tara worried that one day he would break what was obviously a self-imposed rule, and remind her that he had it in his power to make her unemployed. So far he had not used that weapon, and she honoured him for it. However, there was this weekend job coming up involving taking some fashion shots at Leeds Castle. She had racked her brains for a legitimate excuse for not going, but so far none had been forthcoming. The twins could go with them, Chas had said easily when she commented that she could not simply abandon them for an entire weekend.

It came to her that Susan’s invitation would provide a cast-iron excuse for refusing to go; it would also prevent Chas from guessing her fear that if she simply refused the assignment he would press his suit even harder, forcing the confrontation she had so far managed to avoid.

CHAPTER TWO

THE morning didn’t get off to a good start. For one thing, Tara’s alarm failed to go off on time, and she was eventually woken up by Mandy tugging impatiently at the bedclothes.

Tara normally got up an hour before the twins, using the time to wash her hair and do her make-up. Although far from vain she considered presenting the right image an important part of her job, although sometimes it was hard to strike the narrow dividing line between appearing too glamorous or too staid. Normally she settled for simply keeping her hair clean and glossy, using the minimum amount of make-up and dressing in clothes that didn’t impede her work and yet still looked smart.

This morning there was no time to wash her hair, and she plaited it quickly while she supervised the twins’ breakfasts.

Simon for some reason had decided that he loathed boiled egg and was morosely engaged in pushing his sulkily round his plate.

‘Simon, eat up!’ Exasperation sharpened her voice and she sighed when the little boy’s face crumpled.

‘I’m sorry, darling.’ A swift hug and a kiss banished the threatening tears, although Simon was obviously not going to let her off easily.

‘My tummy hurts,’ he complained. ‘Mummy, I don’t want to go to school. Why can’t I stay at home with you?’

‘Because I have to go out to work,’ Tara told him firmly, surreptitiously checking his pulse and temperature. Both seemed normal. Simon’s pain was more imaginary than real, she suspected, and sympathised with him, remembering how often she had suffered similar afflictions.

‘Are we going to stay with that lady for the weekend?’ Mandy demanded as Tara bustled them outside to the Mini. ‘Where does she live?’

‘I don’t know,’ Tara was forced to admit. ‘In the country somewhere.’

‘The country?’ Simon perked up immediately. ‘On a farm?’ he breathed hopefully.

Although it was ridiculously early to be worrying about careers for the twins, Simon’s very evident love of the countryside and its inhabitants led Tara to believe that he would be happiest in some sort of outdoor life connected with farming.

‘Not a farm, I don’t think,’ Tara told him.

‘But we can go, can’t we?’ Mandy pleaded. ‘We never go anywhere. Everyone else in our class is always going away.’

Allowing for childish exaggeration, Tara knew the criticism was well founded. The twins’ school fees meant that there was very little money left over for luxuries such as holidays, although they did spend weekends with her mother and aunt and uncle occasionally. These visits were not always a great success; her mother had never been able to fully conceal her disapproval of the twins’ birth, and all the time they were in her company Tara was on tenterhooks in case her mother made some unguarded reference to James.

As disapproving as she had been of Tara herself, it was for James that she had reserved a bitter, intense hatred which had not waned with the years.

And yet in many ways she was more to blame than James, Tara reflected tiredly. By the time she had realised the true nature of her feelings for him it had been too late for her to turn back. Susan’s mother was rarely at home; she had a partnership in a business in New York and spent much of her time there, and Tara with adolescent logic, fathoms deep in love, had somehow managed to dismiss her almost entirely from her mind, not attempting to hide her love for James.

With the added wisdom the intervening years had brought Tara could see things more objectively from James’ point of view; married to a woman several years his elder, a woman who spent most of her time away from home leaving him alone, a taxing, struggle business to run—was it so very surprising that he had given in to the impulse to take the solace she had so innocently offered?

Perhaps not, but surely he must have known so much better than she had that there was no future for them? Surely he should have had the sophistication and worldly wisdom to call a halt before matters finally got out of hand? That was what she could not forgive him—that he had carelessly disregarded the consequences of allowing a mixture of boredom and sexual desire to overcome the barriers which should have existed between them.

She had been seventeen to his twenty-six—not a vast difference in terms of years, but in terms of experience…

‘Mummy, we’re here!’ Mandy announced shrilly, drawing her attention to the fact that she had been about to drive past the school.

After leaving the twins Tara drove straight to the studio. The moment she walked in she sensed that Chas was in one of his difficult moods. He grunted without looking up from the camera he was engrossed in. A model Tara recognised from previous sessions was sitting tensely on a bentwood chair, the atmosphere in the hot studio thick with tension.

Summing up the situation at a glance, Tara shrugged out of her coat and filled the kettle in the small kitchen attached to the studio. Without saying a word she placed a mug of coffee in front of Chas and went across to chat to the model. She was nineteen, with several successful ad campaigns behind her, and Tara knew from the schedules that she had come in to sit for some practice shots for a Vogue feature.

‘Is he always like this?’ she asked Tara in an agonised whisper. ‘I remember last time I came here…’

‘It’s just his way,’ Tara soothed her. ‘He’s an artist with the camera and a perfectionist.’

The other girl grimaced. ‘It’s at times like these that I wish I’d done as my parents wanted me to and gone on to university!’

Chas’s brusque, ‘If you two have quite finished on the girl talk, perhaps we can get some work done,’ put an end to their conversation.

It was lunchtime before Tara even had time to draw breath. Chas was in the kind of mood where he seemed almost driven, and it was both mentally and physically exhausting trying to keep pace with him.

At two o’clock Chas finally announced irritably that he supposed they ought to break for lunch, and Tara went thankfully to buy them some sandwiches before he changed his mind. It wasn’t unusual for him to insist on working right through the day without stopping, and the hungry grumbling of her stomach had been distracting her attention for almost an hour.

When she got back to the studio the model had gone and the phone was ringing. The ‘Do not disturb’ sign on the darkroom door meant exactly what it said, as she knew from experience, and reaching for the phone she dumped her sandwiches on the table.

The crisp, cool tones of the twins’ headmistress sent tremors of fear jangling along her nerves.

‘The twins—’ she began urgently, but Mrs Ledbetter was obviously used to dealing with anxious parents, because she said soothingly, ‘Nothing to worry about, Mrs Bellamy, it’s just that Simon has been complaining of stomach ache all morning. Our Matron has checked him over and we can’t find anything wrong. He probably just wants a bit of coddling.’

A thin flush of colour ran up under Tara’s fine skin as she tried to dissect the calming words to discover if they held an implied rebuke. One of her greatest burdens in bringing up the twins alone was that she couldn’t be at home with them. She had never tried to contact James after that first time when Susan’s mother had laughed in her face at her naïveté, and there was no one to support the twins apart from herself, so work was a basic necessity. But that didn’t stop the guilt, she thought shakily as she hung up, having assured Mrs Ledbetter that she was leaving immediately for the school.

Did every working mother experience this knife-sharp anguish every time her child cried for her and she couldn’t be there? Guilt was a burden women seemed fashioned by nature to bear.

Not daring to risk disturbing Chas, she wrote a brief note displaying it prominently on his desk, then hurried outside to her Mini.

Simon was waiting for her in the school’s sick bay, looking pale and lethargic. Mandy was with him, and she leaped off her chair and rushed towards Tara, crying importantly, ‘Simon’s been sick, and he was crying, but I’ve been looking after him’

Tara praised her warmly; for all her ebullience and apparent resilience Mandy was still vulnerable, as all children were vulnerable when they lacked the love of one parent.

‘I don’t think there’s really anything much Wrong,’ Mrs Staines, the Matron assured her with a kind smile. ‘A couple of days in bed and some spoiling will probably work wonders.’

A couple of days in bed! Tara groaned, fighting back her dismay. That meant taking two more precious days from her holiday allowance. Chas would be furious. Normally during school holidays she managed to come to an arrangement with a neighbour who lived close to her and who was willing to look after the twins for her, but she was away visiting her parents, and anyway Tara doubted that Simon in his present mood would accept anyone apart from herself.

‘Some country air, that will bring the roses back to his cheeks,’ Matron pronounced.

‘Can we go to the country, Mummy?’ Simon pleaded on the way home. He had perked up when he saw her, but he was still listless, and Tara’s heart smote her. Poor little scrap; his sickness was no less real for being caused by emotional rather than physical malaise.

‘All right,’ she gave in, ‘but remember, Susan might have changed her mind.’

‘She said we could,’ Mandy pointed out with irrefutable logic, ‘and people should always do things when they say they will.’

Tara suppressed another sigh. Right now she did not feel up to explaining to her daughter the ethics governing adult behaviour, and it sank still further when she reached home to discover Chas’s car parked outside.

He saw her drive up and came striding across to the Mini.

‘So, how’s the wounded soldier?’ he asked Simon affably but with narrowed eyes and a certain grimness that alerted Tara’s defence mechanisms.

His cool, ‘You fuss too much,’ as she unlocked the front door and bustled the twins into the kitchen, reinforced her feelings. ‘He looks as right as rain to me.’

‘Matron said I was to have two days at home,’ Simon told Chas informatively. ‘Mummy is going to stay with me, and then we’re going to spend the weekend in the country.’

‘Are you now? Is that true, “Mummy"?’ Chas demanded bitterly. ‘Funny, but I had the distinct impression that you and I had a date for this weekend.’

‘I never promised I would come, Chas,’ Tara reminded him. ‘As it happens, we’ve been invited away for the weekend,’ she crossed her fingers childishly behind her back, ‘and in view of Simon’s sickness I feel it would do them both good to get away from London.’

‘Really?’ Anger kindled in his eyes. ‘Now isn’t that just a dandy get-out? Well, let me lay it on the line for you, Tara. I want you and you damn well know it. I’m not prepared to play games either.’

Tara felt sick. Here came the crunch; the inevitable catastrophe she had been trying to avoid for weeks.

‘Meaning?’ she forced herself to say.

‘You know what I mean,’ Chas replied in a low voice.

‘And if I don’t agree?’

His answer was simply to glower at her before flinging the door open and striding angrily through it.

She had known it had to come, and Chas’s attitude had only reinforced all her own doubts about the feasibility of her continuing to work for him, but she could not deny that giving up her job at this particular minute in time was something she simply could not afford to do.

‘Why are you looking like that, Mummy?’ Simon demanded suddenly. ‘Does your tummy feel funny too?’

‘Sort of,’ she agreed wryly. ‘Now come on, you’d better go and lie down if you aren’t feeling well.’

It was early evening when she finally decided to ring Susan to accept her invitation for the weekend. They had nothing to lose by going, Tara decided, and besides, she felt totally unable to cope with the twins’ disappointment were she to refuse.

Susan sounded ecstatic when she thanked her for the invitation and accepted it.

‘You’ll have to give me directions on how to find the place, though,’ Tara warned her. ‘Where did you say it was?’

‘In the Cotswolds,’ Susan told her airily. ‘But don’t worry about getting there. I’ll send someone to pick you up if you just tell me what time would be convenient, and give me your address.’

On the point of refusing, Tara remembered the luxurious BMW she had seen outside the school, and contemplated the luxury of being driven in such a vehicle. Susan had mentioned her chauffeur and doubtless this task would be given to him.

They chatted for several minutes, and when Tara mentioned her job Susan was obviously impressed. ‘Chas Saunders?’ she exclaimed in tones of awe. ‘You lucky thing! He’s incredibly sexy, isn’t he? I’ve never met him myself, but I’ve heard about him.’

‘Who hasn’t?’ Tara agreed drily. Chas and his female companion of the moment were popular gossip column fodder.

‘You’re not involved there yourself, are you?’ Susan asked, obviously picking up the undertone in her voice.

Tara’s wry, ‘Chas is strictly a one-night-stand man,’ was an evasive answer, but it seemed to satisfy her friend, who laughed and said teasingly, ‘Yeah, but what a night!’ before announcing that she had to go as she could hear Piers crying.

* * *

With the mercurial resilience of children the world over, Simon declared in the morning that he felt well enough to return to school and Tara was able to go back to the studio.

She drove there with mounting dread. Chas was alone in the huge room when she opened the door. He looked up, scowled, and then ignored her as she removed her jacket and hung it on the coat-stand. They were supposed to be doing some outdoor shots, so she had dressed comfortably in jeans, and a checked shirt worn underneath a thick, sleveless sheepskin waistcoat.

When she had removed her coat she turned round to find Chas assessing her slim jean-clad body thoughtfully. Despite her resolve colour rose in her cheeks. She turned away, intending to put the kettle on, but Chas’s ‘Tara,’ halted her in her tracks.

‘Look,’ he began irately, ‘I’m sorry about yesterday. I lost my cool, a fatal tactical error.’ He grimaced wryly, running lean fingers through his sun-streaked fair hair. ‘God, I thought I’d learned years ago not to stampede my prey, but it seems I was wrong. You’re determined to spend this weekend with your friend?’

Dry-mouthed, Tara nodded her head. What was he going to do? Fire her?

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he surprised her by saying in a harsh voice. ‘I thought you knew me better than that. I’ve never had to apply pressure to get a woman into bed with me in the past, and I’m damned well not starting now. I want you, Tara,’ he said frankly, ‘but I want you willingly. Sex should be a mutual pleasure, not something to be endured. Why?’ he asked helplessly. ‘Is it just me who revolts you, or is it men in general? You’ve been married, had kids—hell…’

‘I’m sorry, Chas,’ Tara broke in quietly. ‘And no, it isn’t you.’ A small smile tugged at her mouth as she remembered how Sue had described him. ‘You know better than that,’ she teased lightly. ‘It’s just that you’re a one-night-stand man, and I’m a woman with two children dependent on her who…’

‘Wants the opposite sex to keep its distance from her,’ Chas finished astutely for her. ‘Even if I offered permanency, it wouldn’t make any difference, would it?’ he pressed. ‘You’re still too involved with the guy you married—the twins’ father, that’s the straight up and down of it, isn’t it? For God’s sake,’ he muttered with suppressed violence, ‘when are you going to come out of mourning and realise that life is passing you by? Okay,’ he said wearily when he saw the stubborn set of her lips, ‘I can see I’m battering my head against a brick wall, but if you ever change your mind…’

‘You still want me to keep on working with you?’ Tara asked shakily.

His eyebrows rose, mockery in the brown eyes. ‘Sure I do,’ he confirmed. ‘It’s good for my ego having such a sexy lady about the place, and besides,’ he paused and grinned, ‘you’re the best assistant I’ve ever had.’

It was with a much lighter heart that Tara went about her work, and she accepted with pleasure when Chas suggested that she take the Friday afternoon off in order to prepare for the weekend away.

‘This doesn’t mean I’ve given up,’ he warned her, ‘simply that I’m declaring a cease-fire, okay?’

She was still smiling when she reached home, even though she was now entertaining grave doubts about the wisdom of agreeing to Sue’s invitation. As the Monday was a Bank Holiday Susan had insisted that the three of them stay over for the extra day, and knowing the twins’ propensity for getting themselves and their clothes grubby, Tara was kept busy washing and ironing prior to their visit.

Neither of the twins would have much in common with Sue’s toddler, she reflected as she packed their cases, but as they prepared for bed on the Friday night, both of them were so excited about the weekend ahead that Tara’s heart smote her.

They got so few treats of this nature, it would have been grossly unfair of her to deprive them of it simply because she couldn’t face up to the past.

Her mother and James were now divorced, or so Sue had said. What had happened to him? Tara wondered. She had learned from her own mother after the twins’ birth that Sue’s mother had had a considerable shareholding in the company James had inherited from his father. He had rarely discussed business with her; their time together had been too precious, too highly emotionally charged for Tara to want to waste any of it discussing business.

Forget James, forget the past, she told herself sternly, unwilling to acknowledge the small ache which threatened to flare into agonising pain if she let it. Why had she never been able to free herself from the spell of the past? Other girls suffered similar mishaps and went on to make successful marriages elsewhere; to forge loving relationships with other men—why hadn’t she been able to? Was it because she had felt guilty about what had happened? Guilty and besmirched. The attitudes of the small village in which they lived were very narrow, and as well as the burden of James’s rejection she had also had to bear the bitter anger of her mother.

If she had not woven such romantic daydreams around James none of it would have happened; but she had refused to see the truth, that he was simply a man trapped in an unhappy marriage who had turned to her for sexual solace and had never for one moment felt a tithe of the love for her that burned within her for him.

CHAPTER THREE

SHE woke up with a headache; a heavy unrelenting pressure behind her eyes and a lethargic disinclination to do anything, much less spend an entire weekend having to be polite to virtual strangers. But she couldn’t disappoint the twins, neither could she run the risk of Chas catching her out in a lie. She wished desperately that he would cease his pursuit of her. In other circumstances she would simply have given him a cool rebuff, but he was her employer and she could not afford to lose her job.

The twins were wildly excited, making her feel guilty about her own dread of the weekend ahead. For some perverse reason Mandy, who normally disdained feminine frills in favour of jeans and sweat-shirts, decided that she wanted to wear a pretty cotton pinafore Tara had bought for her several weeks previously, and by the time the requisite underskirt and spotless white blouse had been found to wear with it Tara’s head was thumping nauseously.

Susan had arranged for her chauffuer to pick them up at ten o’clock, and by a miracle by ten to the packing was done and the twins ready, which was more than could be said for her, Tara decided feverishly, tugging a comb through her hair and applying lipstick deftly to the soft curves of her mouth.

The unexpected sunshine had prompted her into a new outfit she had bought for work and not yet worn She had seen it in a small boutique off South Moulton Street, reduced because of its small size, and had bought it knowing that it would be just right for the receptions Chas sometimes held in the evening as a publicity exercise.

A rich, vivid blue, it was a three-piece in pure silk with a camisole top which just skimmed the curves of her breasts, and a softly shaped skirt gathered into a deep waistband and topped with a matching jacket, whose sleeves she rolled back in the fashion she had seen adopted by the models who came to the studio.

Working in such an environment meant that she had developed a keen eye for adapting prevalent trends to her own personality. The silk brushed sensuously against her skin; she had left her hair in a soft cloud against her shoulders, and the sample of the new Armarni scent the Vogue Beauty Editor had given her had been used to good effect. Such samples were her one and only perk. At Christmas she had been presented with what amounted to almost a full trousseau of luxurious Italian underwear by the manufacturer; a gesture of his gratitude for the effect of advertisements Chas had photographed, although such munificence was relatively rare.

Today she was wearing some of it; the briefest of satin bras trimmed with handmade lace to match the dainty suspender belt and briefs that were part of the set.

Vanity was largely responsible for today’s primping, she decided, giving herself a last brief look in her mirror. Even though at one time she and Susan had once been as close as sisters a wide gulf yawned between them now.

Susan was a rich man’s wife, and it showed, and although she would never be guilty of patronising a less fortunate friend, Tara had no wish to earn her pity by arriving in inexpensive chain-store casuals.

First impressions always counted, Tara reminded herself and when she and the twins stepped out of Susan’s Rolls she didn’t want them to look like the poor relations.

Susan had explained to her that she and her husband would be driving down to the country ahead of them, which was why the Rolls was free to transport Tara, but despite the knowledge that her appearance was both chic and sophisticated she couldn’t stop the tiny bubbles of anxiety forming in the pit of her stomach when the twins’ joint shrieks announced the arrival of their transport.

Not wanting to keep the chauffeur waiting, Tara sped downstairs, picking up their case with one hand and ushering the twins through the front door with the other. Outside she told them to wait while she checked her handbag for keys and money, and carefully locked the door.

The sight of the immaculate Rolls seemed to have a subduing effect upon the twins, because they clung uncertainly to Tara’s side as she hustled them towards the waiting car.

As they approached it the driver’s door opened and a man emerged. Her first thought was that he wasn’t wearing a uniform, but this was quickly submerged by a sickening wave of recognition mingled with stunned disbelief.

‘Tara!’

He said her name evenly, the inflection which in the past had sent her weak-kneed with pleasure totally banished. He had changed; or was it simply that her perception of him had changed from that of a bemused teenager to that of a disillusioned woman?

‘James.’ Somehow she managed to force a stiff smile from features as tautly fragile as eggshells. Now she was the one clinging to the twins, filled by an overwhelming impulse to turn on her heel and seek the sanctuary of her home.

James barely glanced at his children, and watching his cool disregard of them, Tara forced back an hysterical impulse to laugh. So much for all those daydreams she had woven during the long lonely months of her pregnancy when she had fantasised about James appearing to discover that she was the mother of his child and being overcome by love for both of them.

‘Quite a surprise,’ she managed to say calmly. ‘Susan never mentioned that you would be picking us up.’

‘A last minute arrangement,’ James told her briefly Without looking at her. ‘I’ve just returned from the States and when I invited myself down to Dovecote for the weekend they suggested that I give you a lift so that they could give their chauffeur a weekend off.’

‘Susan should have telephoned, I could have used my own car.’

Tara flushed when his eyes suddenly fastened on her face; no longer the warm, teasing dark blue she remembered but as hard and flat as river pebbles and totally without expression as they surveyed her heightened-colour and defensive grip on the twins.

‘Mummy, you’re hurting me!’ Mandy protested, casting an upward glance at the tall, dark-haired man watching them; a glance which Tara noticed was full of coquettishly innocent appeal.

‘Why don’t we all get in the car!’ James suggested, bending to relieve Tara of the weight of the case. Their fingers touched accidentally, and Tara withdrew as though she had been burned by live coals.

‘Explicit but unnecessary,’ James told her crisply, stowing her case away, ‘I got the message the first time round.’

Tara assumed that he was referring to the shock which must have been apparent when she saw him step out of the car. This meeting must be as unwelcome to him as it was to her, she reflected miserably as she followed the children to the waiting car, but at least he had had the advantage of being forearmed.

The first ten minutes of their journey passed easily enough as the twins exclaimed over the luxury of their transport; Tara couldn’t help wishing that James had not ushered her into the front passenger seat, but it seemed gauche to make a fuss about it. After all, he could scarcely have any more desire for her company than she had for his!

He was both the same and yet different, she decided, stealing a brief glance at his impassive profile. There was a total and unrelenting male hardness about him now that she did not remember; when she was seventeen he had seemed the epitome of all her adolescent dreams; gentle, understanding, tender. No one would ever dream of attributing those virtues to the man now seated next to her.

His dark hair was still untouched by grey; and although he was wearing a discreetly expensive suit she suspected that physically he had changed little in the seven years they had been apart. There had been a supple arrogance about the way he had walked towards her which suggested that he was a man at the peak of physical perfection. She remembered the cataclysmic night he had returned from California; then his skin had had the silky sheen of a sun tan, his body a rich bronze. Her palms tingled as though she could still feel the soft suppleness of his flesh against them, and she shuddered deeply, wrenching her thoughts away from the past.

In the back seat the twins were playing a game, vying with one another in their attempts to count as many cars of a particular type as they could.

‘Susan tells me you’re a widow.’

He hadn’t taken his eyes off the road. Tara felt as though a huge boulder were stuck in her throat.

‘Yes,’ she agreed, forcing out the lie.

‘I’m sorry.’ The words were a formality. ‘What happened?’

‘John was killed abroad,’ Tara said huskily, repeating the fabrication which had become familiar to her over the years. ‘Before the twins were born. They never knew him, nor he them.’

‘A mutual loss,’ James said quietly. ‘You’ve never thought of remarrying?’

‘One has to be asked,’ Tara heard herself saying drily, to her own surprise. ‘Besides,’ she moved restlessly in her deep hide-covered seat, ‘I believe one parent who really cares is more important than two who quarrel.’

‘You yourself lost your father, if I remember rightly,’ James commented. ‘At least with your own experience to call upon you’ll be able to ensure that your own daughter doesn’t fall into the same traps.’

‘People normally make their own mistakes,’ Tara said tiredly. Although the comment had been delivered in a perfectly flat emotionless voice she had been vividly reminded of one occasion when they had been together and he had accused her of trying to turn him into a father-substitute. She had been furious, reminding him that it was eight years that separated them, not eighteen.

‘You’ve been working in America?’ she asked him, deliberately trying to change the subject.

‘I have various business interests there, some jointly with Susan’s mother. Susan will have told you that she’s married again?’

‘Yes. Actually I didn’t realise…’ Tara broke off and moistened her suddenly dry lips. She had been going to say that the had not realised they were divorced, but the remark had provocative undertones she wanted to avoid.

‘That Hilary would venture into marriage again?’ He shrugged. ‘Like many women of her wealth and generation she tends to make a career of it. This one’s number four.’

‘Four!’ It was too late for her to hide her surprise. As far as she knew James had been Hilary’s second husband.

‘You sound surprised?’

‘I hadn’t realised you’d been divorced long enough for her to have remarried twice. I…’

‘You didn’t stay around long enough to find out.’ The cool comment nonplussed her. It was almost an accusation, but what did James possibly have to accuse her about? He had been the one who had rejected her; who had laughed with Hilary about her foolish love for him, and who had coldly turned his back on her, leaving her to face the trauma of the twins’ birth alone.

‘What was I supposed to do?’ she asked in a bitter, low voice. ‘I couldn’t put the clock back, I…’

‘So you scuttled off into a nice, safe marriage?’

Colour burned along her cheekbones, her fingernails digging into the palms of her hands. She would never, never have agreed to this weekend if she had had the slightest suspicion that James was going to be there. How on earth was she going to endure it? Especially if he was going to keep taunting her with these barbed remarks.

Simon distracted her attention excitedly, pointing out some sheep grazing in a field. They had turned on to the M4 and were travelling west.

To Tara’s surprise, just after twelve James pulled off the motorway and took a minor road which wound its way down a narrow B-road bordered by high hedges laced with early summer flowers.

‘I told Sue that I’d give you lunch,’ he explained, answering Tara’s unspoken question. ‘The house is a large one and although she does have some help she and Alec go down there primarily to relax.’

Before Tara could object he turned into an immaculate drive, marked ‘Country Club—members only.’

‘Relax,’ she was instructed. ‘I’m a member and they’ve been warned to expect us. I own a house locally myself, although at the moment it’s occupied by some American friends of mine.’

The country club had once been a farmhouse and the large barn had been converted into an attractive restaurant with high oriel windows set along the length of it and a separate bar inside which occupied a galleried landing.

The twins were entranced, as much by the novelty of eating out as by their surroundings. Mandy gravely confided to James, as she attached herself to his side, that it was just as well she had worn her best dress.

The comment invited a response, and Tara’s unwary heart lurched when James bent his head equally gravely and said, ‘You look very pretty in it. Blue suits you.’

‘Mummy chose it,’ Mandy informed him, visibly expanding. ‘I normally wear jeans ‘cos they’re more fun to play in. Have you got any children?’ she asked him forthrightly. She was at that stage when the niceties of curbing personal questions were ignored and seemed to have developed a thirst for knowledge about other people’s private lives.

‘Mandy…’ Tara warned, but James silenced her, lifting his eyebrows and saying smoothly. ‘Regrettably, no.’

Hypocrite, Tara thought resentfully as they were escorted to a table. He didn’t want any children, any responsibility for lives other than his own.

However, despite his lack of parental experience he was very adroit at ordering suitable food for the twins and keeping them occupied while they waited for their meal to arrive. Like Tara herself, their school believed strongly in the importance of good manners, and Tara felt a small thrill of pride at the way Simon and Mandy adapted to their surroundings. They were drawing admiring smiles from other diners, and one woman en route to her table stopped off to speak to James, whom she obviously knew, staring rather hard at Tara and the twins.

‘Margot, let me introduce Tara and the twins to you. Tara is an old schoolfriend of Sue’s. Margot is one of Sue’s neighbours,’ James explained. ‘Like you, she’s a widow.’

‘Only I don’t have any children, darling,’ the other woman pointed out, eyeing the twins unfavourably.

She was somewhere in her late thirties, Tara estimated, although she concealed the fact well, but in her job Tara had become adept at judging what lay beneath the most skilfully applied make-up. She was also subtly warning her that James was strictly private property, Tara acknowledged. She could have him, she thought vehemently, pushing away her sweet untouched and refusing to acknowledge the swiftly stabbing pain their relationship brought, and dismissing the nauseous feeling in her stomach as the result of too much to eat.

Watching the waiter’s deferential attitude towards James, Tara was vividly reminded of the one and only occasion they had dined out together. It had been Sue’s fifteenth birthday; and she had been dizzy with delight when he announced that he had booked a table at a locally acclaimed restaurant. Even the knowledge that Sue was to accompany them had done nothing to dissipate her mother’s disapproval, Tara remembered. She also remembered the brief kiss James had pressed on her untried lips before pushing her out of the car when he took her home. That kiss had changed everything between them.

‘Physically the twins aren’t like you at all.’ James’s cool observation cut across the disturbing memories of the past. ‘They must take after their father.’

Her fork clattered noisily on to the floor as an abrupt movement dislodged it. Her face the colour of the tablecloth, Tara bent to retrieve it, glad of the opportunity to escape James’s too seeing eyes.

‘Do they?’

Was he blind? she wondered hysterically. Could he really not see in the twins’ features the many resemblances to himself that struck her every day?

‘Strange,’ he mused, frowning a little. ‘They remind me of someone.’

Tara thought her heart would stop beating, but somehow she managed to shrug noncommittally, turning away to urge the children to finish their meal.

‘Did I know him?’ There was a terse urgency in the question that caught her off guard.

‘I…’

‘You met him when you went to stay with your aunt and uncle, or so I heard in the village. It must have been a whirlwind courtship,’ he sneered, glancing meaningfully at the twins. ‘Or did you afford him the same privileges I once thought belonged exclusively to me?’

If they hadn’t been in public there was no way she could have prevented herself from hitting him. As it was, it was only by a supreme effort of will that she was able to prevent herself from screaming the truth at him.

With that one sentence he had managed to destroy the last fragile, lingering remnants of her romantic daydreams; beliefs she had clung to without even being aware that she was doing so. His words forced her to admit that what for her had been the experience of a lifetime had for him been nothing more than the gratification of momentary lust, otherwise he could never have spoken to her as he just had.

From somewhere she mustered the dignity to say calmly, ‘The personal relationship I enjoyed with the twins’ father is something very precious to me, and I don’t discuss it with anyone.’

‘Including your children,’ James pointed out astutely. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard them mention him once. Did you love him so much that you can’t even bear to share his memory with his children? You did love him, I suppose? Unless my memory deceives me you were an extremely sensual creature; hot-blooded, shall we say,’ he added drily, his mouth twisting, ‘but with a certain prudishness curiously at odds with your real personality. I suppose in those circumstances it wouldn’t have been impossible for you to marry young; to legalise those desires of which your mother had taught you to be so ashamed.’

Tara was relieved that the twins were too engrossed in their own conversation and their surroundings to pay any attention to them. Where her face had been pale, now it was hotly flushed, words of bitter denial trembling on her lips, but all she could manage was a fierce, choked, ‘I did love him, and you have no right to say such things!’

‘No right?’ His laughter was bitterly harsh. ‘My God, you can say that, when…’ He broke off as Mandy suddenly claimed his attention, and not wanting to prolong the conversation, Tara hustled both children out of their seats, saying feverishly that it was time they were on their way.

James unlocked the car and made sure the twins were comfortable in the back, but when Tara would have joined them he forestalled her again, firmly closing the door and then reaching past her to unlock the passenger door.

His arm brushed against the thin silk of her jacket and she froze, as physically aware of the hardness of his flesh as she would have been had their contact been skin upon skin. She always had been acutely aware of him, and that at least had not changed. He was a disturbingly sensual man and her body, no longer that of a girl, naïve about the opposite sex, responded instinctively to him, the bones in her skull clenching against the knowledge of her vulnerability to him. Being close to him was like losing a toughened outer layer of skin; a physically painful process leaving nerve endings far too close to the surface and every one of them reacting to his proximity. Even so, she refused to move away, telling herself that to do so would be stupidly selfconscious, but all her hard-learned composure was not enough to slow the hurried thudding of her heart or stop the aching tension of her throat.

His fingers gripped the door handle; lean and brown, a discreet sheen of gold at his cuff, the immaculate shirt protruding exactly half an inch below the expensive wool of his suit jacket. The door opened and his free hand was on her elbow; an automatic gesture of assistance, and yet somehow Tara sensed that it had been deliberate, although it was impossible to know why, especially when, risking an upward glance into his face, she surprised upon it a look of acute dislike, reinforced by the swiftness with which his hand was withdrawn.

At best she should have felt nothing; at worst relief, but instead what she did feel was a bleak and terrifying sense of rejection.

Old habits died hard, she told herself cynically as he closed the door on her and walked round the front of the car; and somehow she had never recovered from the habit of being rejected by James.

Her flesh still tingled where he had touched it, and although the twins were soon drowsy and on the verge of sleep, Tara herself found it almost impossible to relax.

It was a relief when the Rolls finally turned into the cobbled forecourt of what James explained to her had once been a Cotswold farmhouse. Now the cream stone was weathered with age, and early flowering pale yellow roses smothered the front south-facing wall.

The farmhouse, although large and rambling, had a comfortable, welcoming ambience that helped to soothe a little of Tara’s taut anxiety, especially when Sue came hurrying out to greet them the moment she heard the Rolls. James and Tara were hugged unceremoniously. ‘This is lovely!’ Sue exclaimed with genuine warmth as she led them inside.

A copper bowl full of the same roses Tara had seen outside gleamed on a polished mahogany table. The hall was square with warm panelling and a parquet floor. An intricately carved banister curved upwards and out of sight, a tall window on the half landing flooding the hall with light and trapping dusty motes in its golden gleam.

A cream labrador had materialised from outside, throughly enjoying the fuss the twins were making of her. Firmly detaching them, Tara followed Sue towards the stairs.

‘I’ll just show you to your rooms and then we’ll have a cup of tea and a chat. Oh, it’s all right,’ she smiled when she saw the twins’ disappointed faces. ‘We don’t stand on ceremony down here, and although Alec tends to disapprove Misty is allowed upstairs.’

‘Where is Alec?’ James asked.

‘In the study. He had to bring some work up with him. I think he’ll appreciate a helping hand. Alec manages one of James’s companies,’ Sue explained to Tara with a grin. ‘That’s how I met him.’ She grimaced as a thin childish cry pierced the warmth of the afternoon. ‘There’s Piers—furious! I put him down for a sleep after lunch. It’s a miracle he’s slept this long really. I keep telling myself it’s time we provided him with a brother or sister—at the moment he tends to be the centre of attention and he knows it. Remember,’ she commented to Tara taking the next flight of stairs, ‘how we used to say that neither of us would settle for just one child after our own experiences?’ She laughed. ‘I knew you meant it, but I didn’t guess how you were going to achieve it!’

‘I’ve put the twins next to you,’ she added. ‘The rooms have a connecting door. Oh, and by the way, the plumbing arrangements are somewhat archaic as yet, so you and James will be sharing a bathroom. I hope you don’t mind?’

‘She doesn’t mean literally,’ James murmured jokingly, so that only Tara could hear, adding, ‘Don’t worry, you’re quite safe. I’ve reached the age where I restrict my indulgence in water sports to swimming and sailing.’

‘You’re in your normal room, James,’ Sue told him as they reached the landing. ‘And these are your rooms,’ she told Tara, pausing outside a heavy oak door. ‘This part of the house was once the barn, but it’s been converted into living space.’

James had disappeared, into his own room, Tara presumed, and she felt free to echo Mandy’s sigh of pleasure when Sue opened the door to reveal an attractive bedroom with open beams and a tiny mullioned window.

‘We’ve tried to keep as much of the country atmosphere as possible without being too earnestly authentic,’ she explained.

‘It’s lovely!’ Tara enthused admiringly. The room was decorated in pastels and soft greens; pretty fresh cotton curtains at the windows and a traditional American patchwork quilt on the bed.

‘James brought that back from one of his trips,’ Sue told her. ‘Do you find him very changed?’

‘A little older,’ Tara said cautiously.

‘I was thrilled when he called to say he was back in England. We don’t see as much of him as we’d like—the companies take up most of his time. It’s funny really, in many ways he means more to me than my mother, although he’s scarcely the traditional father figure.’

‘You must have been very sorry when their marriage broke up,’ Tara said, hoping that her voice wouldn’t betray her.

Sue shrugged. ‘Not really. I could never understand why James married my mother.’ She frowned. ‘There was always something odd about it, and not just because he was younger than her. You know, when I look back I can’t believe that he ever loved her or that she loved him.’

‘There are other reasons for marriage,’ Tara said emotionlessly.

‘I know, but somehow I could never imagine James marrying without a deep emotional commitment—he just doesn’t strike me as that kind of man. Look, I’ll go downstairs and ask Mrs B., our treasure, to make us a pot of tea and some orange for the kids, and you come down when you’re ready and I’ll introduce you to Alec. We’ll be in the sitting room. It looks out over the gardens, first left in the hall.’ She walked towards the door, paused and then said impulsively, ‘I’m so glad you and James could both be here together. It’s almost like old times…’

They viewed ‘old times’ differently, Tara thought tiredly as she unpacked for the twins and herself; Simon and Mandy had made themselves at home almost immediately, and within twenty minutes of Sue leaving them they were ready to return downstairs with Tara; their hands and faces washed and the clothes they had travelled in exchanged for dungarees and tee-shirts.

Everyone else was already in the sitting room, as Sue had called it, but what in actual fact was a generously proportioned room furnished in tones of pale lemon and soft blue, with huge french windows opening on to the gardens.

Misty the dog fanned her tail gently on the floor when she saw the twins. Simon beamed with pleasure, twisting round to tell Tara in hushed tones, ‘I think she likes me.’

Alec, Sue’s husband, turned out to be a pleasant, sturdy-looking individual in his late twenties, obviously devoted to his more effervescent wife. He greeted Tara enthusiastically, telling her with a smile that he had heard a good deal about her from Sue over the years.

‘I always regretted losing touch with you,’ Sue added. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I came back from that duty holiday in New York with my mother to find you’d left the village, and then when your mother told me you’d married…’

‘You’re a widow, Sue tells me,’ Alec continued, his smile sympathetic.

Feeling a dreadful fraud, Tara nodded.

‘It can’t have been easy for you.’

Again that quiet sympathy.

‘I’ve been lucky,’ she replied huskily. ‘Especially in my job.’

‘You work for Chas Saunders the photographer, so Sue says.’ James interrupted.

His tone rather than his words made Tara flush. She was well aware of the reputation Chas had, the number of affairs he was reputed to have indulged in, and she could tell without him putting it into words that James suspected she was one of the many strings to Chas’s bow.

‘You must lead a very glamorous life,’ Sue commented with a trace of envy, ‘mixing with models and celebrities.’

‘I don’t know so much about “glamorous”; it’s certainly hard work,’ Tara told her ruefully, accepting a cup of tea. Mandy was crouching on the floor, distracting the attention of young Master Piers, who had been busily engrossed in unravelling the thread sewing a small motif to his velour jumpsuit, while Simon was quite happy stroking Misty.

Alec and James resumed the conversation they had obviously been having before her entry, and Tara grimaced a little when Sue said softly, ‘You’ve got two great kids there, Tara. It must have been terribly hard for you—and them. I can remember exactly how it felt only having one parent.’

‘Yes, I worry about it sometimes,’ Tara admitted. ‘You know,’ she pulled a face, ‘all the usual things—is Simon being deprived of a masculine influence to pattern himself on; are both of them suffering emotionally from the lack of a father and the fact that I have to work.’

‘You know even now, I can hardly believe it,’ Sue marvelled. ‘I never thought you’d marry impetuously like that. You always used to talk about having a career and…’

‘Girls of seventeen are notorious for changing their minds when they fall in love,’ James commented sardonically behind them, making Tara start. She hadn’t realised he was listening to their conversation and covered her momentary confusion by saying evenly, and truthfully, ‘Having the twins is something I’ve never regretted.’

Mandy was trying to pick up Piers, her small features compressed with the effort.

‘Do you know, she does remind me of someone,’ Sue murmured. ‘What do you think, Alec?’ she appealed to her husband.

He studied Mandy for a moment and then shook his head. ‘Probably a similarity of expression that she shares with Tara.’

‘Mm, but neither of them look like Tara…’

‘We look like our daddy,’ Mandy said importantly, deciding it was time she joined the conversation. ‘Mummy told us that when we were little.’

‘So you do talk to them about their father,’ James commented sotto voce.

‘Sue, I wonder would you mind if we went upstairs to rest for a while?’ Tara asked her hostess, ignoring James’s taunt. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got a headache, and…’

‘Of course you can,’ Sue interrupted before she could finish. ‘You poor thing! I remember those terrible headaches you used to get. But don’t worry about the twins—they can stay down here. Mrs B. normally organises a nursery tea for six, although we don’t normally eat until about eight.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s four now, so you’ve got three hours before you need to do anything.’

Feeling terrible, Tara started to protest, but Sue overruled her. ‘It’s not an imposition,’ she corrected firmly. ‘I’m dying to get the twins to myself; I can see Mandy is going to be a treasure where Piers is concerned, and Simon can help by taking Misty for her tea-time walk.’

Knowing when she was defeated, Tara thanked her again and headed for her room. Once there she stripped off her suit and pulled on a thin wrap before curling up on the large double bed. She had taken a couple of her headache tablets and as they started to take effect her drowsy mind became full of memories of the past, of James, and as she hovered in the twilight world between waking and sleeping she felt the present slip away from her and she was once again seventeen, on the brink of love and womanhood.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘AND you will stay the night with me, won’t you, Tara? If you don’t I’ll be all on my own, and you promised you’d help me with my maths.’

Tara grinned down at the earnest fourteen-year-old face. If she was honest with herself she would admit that in many ways she preferred Susan’s home to her own; for one thing it was always warm and for another they could spread their school books out without incurring any of the harsh criticism such behaviour normally invoked from her own mother.

Tara suppressed a small sigh as she thought of her mother. Aunt Mary had once told her that her mother had been a pretty and popular girl before her marriage, but Tara found that hard to accept now, and during her last visit she had heard her aunt commenting in an undertone to her mother that she was too hard on her. It wasn’t fair, Tara reflected rebelliously. On the one hand her mother refused to allow her out to parties or the cinema with the other girls from school, telling her that if she wanted to make anything of herself she would have to work hard so that she could get good A level passes and go on to university, and yet when she tried to study Tara invariably found that her mother had a dozen or more small jobs for her to do, all accompanied by muttered grumblings about the untidiness and laziness of teenage girls.

She and her mother had never been close. Tara did have a very dim memory of the days when her father was alive, when their small house had seemed a happier, warmer place, but he had died over ten years ago and althouth there had been sufficient insurance to keep Tara and her mother in modest comfort there was no extra for the luxuries she had seen in Susan’s home.

‘You are coming, aren’t you?’

‘I promised I would, didn’t I? Of course I’m coming,’ she told her.

Some of Tara’s classmates were scornful of the friendship which had sprung up between Tara and the three years younger Susan, but for all her lack of years Susan had a worldliness that bridged the age gap and sometimes made Tara’s heart ache for the loneliness concealed behind the air of defiance.

‘I’ll see you at four, then,’ Susan announced, jumping up from her sitting position on the floor at Tara’s side as the bell signalling the end of the lunch break went.

‘I thought third-formers weren’t allowed in these studies,’ one of Tara’s classmates commented caustically, entering the room as Susan left. ‘Honestly, Tara, you shouldn’t encourage her, spoiled little brat! Mummy wanted to send her to boarding school, but she’s been expelled from so many she couldn’t find one to take her. God, what I wouldn’t give to have rich parents,’ she groaned, rolling her eyes theatrically. ‘No more school for me!’

For all the scorn some of the girls heaped on Susan’s head, there were very few of them who weren’t secretly impressed by her mother’s wealth. Hilary Harvey had become a legend in the few short months she had lived in Hillingdon. She had bought what had once been the local Manor House and spent literally thousands on modernising it. Interior decorators had come down from London; a kitchen such as most of the inhabitants of Hillingdon had only seen on American soap operas had been installed, together with several luxurious bathrooms.

Tara had been unwillingly impressed when Susan had shown her round, but, sensible beyond her years, she had sensed loneliness and uncertainty beneath Susan’s apparent gloating manner, and so she had pushed aside any feelings of jealousy and concentrated on finding the real Susan, hidden away behind the defensive barricades.

‘God knows why you should want to be friends with her anyway,’ her classmate commented in disgust. ‘You’ve always been such a goody two-shoes, and for all that she’s only fourteen I’ve heard…’

‘I’m not interested in what you’ve heard, Jill,’ Tara cut in quietly. ‘It’s only gossip anyway.’

Malice gleamed in the other girl’s pale blue eyes. Tara had never run with the crowd and kept herself slightly aloof from the giggles and whispered confidences concerning boy-friends and dates which were bandied about between the other girls during free periods and lunch breaks, and this, coupled with her intelligence and faint air of disdain, had generated jealousy among some of the girls, including Jill Blady.

‘Huh, Miss High and Mighty,’ Jill interrupted bitterly, ‘but not too high and mighty to make friends with the richest girl in the neighbourhood, even if she is three years younger than you and nothing but a little tart!’

Before Tara could retort she had slammed out of the study, leaving Tara alone. She managed to put the unpleasant incident out of her mind during the afternoon. English literature was one of her favourite lessons and it was easy to lose herself among the heady pleasure of Shakespeare’s Sonnets.

At four o’clock when she went to collect her bicycle from the shed she found Susan waiting for her, her expression so wary and uncertain that she forced herself to put Jill’s envious comments out of her mind and concentrate instead on the younger girl. Was she really thought of as a ‘goody-goody’ by her peers? she wondered uncertainly as they cycled leisurely down the country lane which led to Susan’s home. It was an unpleasant thought, and one that made her want to examine her own motives for befriending Susan more deeply. It was true that they were divided by age and culture, and yet there was something about Susan, an air of aloneness, that called to something within herself.

‘You’re not listening,’ Susan protested. ‘My father’s coming home soon. You’ll love him, Tara.’

Tara hadn’t met Susan’s father, although she had heard a lot about him. Susan adored him and talked of him constantly. Tara had built up the impression of a kindly, indulgent man who was no match for his aggressive, domineering wife.

‘Is your mother coming back as well?’ Tara asked unenthusiastically. She had only met Susan’s mother once and had gained the distinct impression that Hilary Harvey hadn’t liked her; an impression which was confirmed when Susan had confided artlessly that her mother generally disliked all her friends.

The Manor House had been built during the reign of Queen Anne and the mellow late afternoon spring sun bathed the front of the building in a golden glow. Tara, always acutely sensitive to moods and surroundings, felt touched by a nostalgia she could barely understand as she brought her cycle to a halt several yards from the house.

‘Come on,’ Susan called, less attuned to the golden perfection of the afternoon. ‘I’m hungry!’

A housekeeper looked after the house in Susan’s mother’s absence; providing meals and a watchful eye, although it was far less strict than Tara’s mother’s, and Tara was often slightly shocked by the amount of freedom Susan was allowed.

Even now she felt a little surprised by the ease with which she had been able to persuade her mother to allow her to stay overnight with Susan.

When they had first met Susan had talked glibly of the sophisticated life she had led with her mother, but once she had realised that Tara wasn’t impressed by her tales of wild parties at her Swiss boarding school, of the drinks and drugs indulged in by the teenage set in which she claimed to move, Susan had swiftly dropped her pseudo-sophisticated image.

Mrs Lear, the housekeeper, expressed relief when she saw that Tara was with Susan.

‘It’s my daughter,’ she explained briefly. ‘Her husband rang me a few hours ago. Gayle has started the baby and Jonathan wants to stay with little Peter while he’s at the hospital. I didn’t want to leave Miss Susan on her own, but if you’re staying overnight…’

‘We’ll be fine,’ Tara assured her. ‘You go to your daughter, Mrs Lear, don’t worry about us.’

When Mrs Lear had gone Tara briskly set about preparing an omelette for their evening meal, watched by Susan with undisguised awe.

‘Grief!’ she exclaimed watching Tara’s expertise. ‘I can’t even boil an egg.’

‘You’re going to have to find a rich husband, then,’ Tara teased, ‘or hasn’t your mother told you yet that the best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?’

‘My mother believes that the best way to get a man is to buy him,’ Susan retorted cynically, the bitter expression on her young face shocking Tara into silence. She had heard rumours in the small town about Susan’s mother, but had naïvely dismissed them as mere gossip. What was Susan implying? That her mother was unfaithful to her father? No one apart from Susan seemed to mention Mr Harvey. Susan’s mother was the one who controlled the family reins. Susan had once told her that her mother had been left a lot of money by her parents and that this money was invested in various businesses in America, where Susan’s grandparents had lived. But what of Susan’s father? What did he do for a living? Susan had said vaguely once that he was abroad ‘working’, and knowing how sensitive she was on the subject of her parents Tara had been reluctant to pry. Susan was fiercely defensive of her father, but privately Tara suspected he was too gentle and weak to stand up to his strong-willed wife, even to protect his child. She knew it was wrong of her, but she tended to despise him a little. Couldn’t he see that Susan needed him?

This thought was very much uppermost in Tara’s mind when she undressed for bed in the room next to Susan’s. As she had discovered during previous visits to the Manor House, Susan suffered from frightening nightmares, often crying out in the night for her father, although in the morning she appeared to remember nothing of them.

She didn’t know which was worse, Tara mused as she slid in between the expensive pure cotton sheets—having a father one rarely saw, or being deprived of one altogether as she had been.

She fell into a light sleep from which she woke abruptly, ears straining in the heavy silence without knowing what she was listening for.

It was the dryness of her throat that prompted her to go downstairs to the kitchen in search of a cooling drink. She knew the house well enough not to need to switch on any lights. The kitchen door was ajar and she pushed it open, automatically flinching as her bare feet came into contact with the icy cold ceramic floor tiles. She was just about to turn on the cold tap when the atavistic prickling of the tiny hairs on her arms warned her that she wasn’t alone. She swung round in panic at the precise moment that strong fingers gripped her bare upper arms, warm male breath brushing her hair as an incredulous voice proclaimed softly, ‘Sue?’

Responding automatically, Tara stammered, ‘Sue’s in bed. I’m her friend Tara…’

‘Lord, yes,’ the husky voice continued tiredly. ‘She mentioned you in her last letter.’ Her arms were released and Tara saw his bulky shadow move as he reached for the light switch.

As the harsh brilliance flooded the kitchen she blinked hazily, forgetting the transparency of her thin cotton nightdress—a year old and almost outgrown, the thin fabric stretched tight across the taut swell of her high breasts. When she opened her eyes she reeled in shock, recognising even in her naïvety and inexperience the potent masculinity of the man standing opposite her. Tiredness did nothing to detract from the lean suppleness of his six-foot-odd frame, a thin black polo-necked wool sweater clinging to the powerful muscles of his shoulders and chest, narrow black trousers revealing the taut thrust of male hipbones and thighs. Against her will Tara’s gaze returned to his face, and her eyes rounded with surprise as they recognised the smouldering sensual appeal of dark blue eyes and the dangerous attraction of the hardboned, totally male face in which they were set.

‘Who… who are you?’ she demanded hesitantly at last, striving to hang on to her dignity and the responsibility Mrs Lear had thrust upon her shoulders. The hideous possibility that this man might be some undesirable acquaintance of whom Susan’s mother would undoubtedly disapprove could not be ignored. One glance had been sufficient to convince her that this man, whoever he was, was no fit companion for a fourteen-year-old girl. He bore all the signs of experience and cynicism which even Tara recognised as being a lethal and highly explosive mixture, and yet despite her revealing attire there was nothing in the icy blue eyes to make her feel uncomfortable as they skimmed quickly over her pale worried face and slender, coltish body.

‘Where’s Mrs Lear?’ he demanded calmly, ignoring Tara’s question, indifference giving way to anger as her expression betrayed her and he exhaled smokily, his eyes darkening. ‘Don’t tell me Hilary’s left Sue in this barn of a place with no one but another schoolgirl for company?’

‘Mrs Lear had to leave unexpectedly,’ Tara told him hurriedly, recognising instinctively the tone of authority in his voice and wanting to protect the housekeeper. ‘How did you get in? The doors were locked—I checked myself.’

‘And now you’re looking at me as though I were Lucifer himself,’ he mocked softly. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you. Nothing so dramatic. I used this.’ He produced a key, and grimaced suddenly, flexing his shoulders. ‘God, I’m tired! Transatlantic flights are a refined form of torture. There wouldn’t happen to be any milk in the fridge, would there?’ When Tara nodded he dropped wearily into a chair, legs stretched out in front of him, leaning backwards eyes slightly closed, hands clasped loosely in front of him. ‘Be a good girl and pour me a glass,’ he said softly without moving.

Compelled by a will stronger than her own, Tara did as he demanded, and placed the glass in front of him on the table.

‘It’s all right, I don’t bite,’ he told her sardonically, making her jump as she pushed the glass hesitantly towards him, and she wondered how he had known she was nervous when his eyes were closed.

‘How is Sue?’ he asked when he had drained the glass. ‘She’s had a rough time recently, poor kid. Hilary isn’t the best of mothers. No comment?’ he said wryly. ‘Tactful but unnecessary. Hilary herself makes no secret of the fact that she finds motherhood an unwanted chore. Now why are you looking at me like that?’ Suddenly the blue eyes were open, watching her with an unwavering glance that was acutely perceptive.

‘I’ll get you something to eat,’ Tara heard herself saying nervously. ‘You must be hungry. Travelling always makes me feel hungry.’ She was babbling nonsense, but she couldn’t seem to stop, her eyes constantly avoiding those searching blue ones as she bustled about the kitchen.

‘Okay, I can understand why you don’t want to discuss Sue’s mother—but there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?’ her companion continued perceptively, leaning across to take the carton of eggs Tara had removed from the fridge from her suddenly nerveless fingers. His hands were warm and hard, his fingers lean, the nails clean and well manicured. She found herself studying them in helpless fascination, strange, unnerving emotions stirred into life as she imagined those fingers against her skin, touching her… She shuddered violently and pulled away, appalled by the direction of her thoughts, shocked by their unwanted sensuality and the fear that this stranger might read it in her eyes.

‘What’s the matter?’ he drawled sardonically. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

‘Sue has two parents,’ Tara retorted unwisely, breaking the eggs neatly into a bowl. A mother and a father,’ she emphasised,

‘And?’ One dark eyebrow rose interrogatively, the blue eyes narrowed; concentrating on her face, suddenly steely.

‘And…’ Heavens, why did she feel like this, so awkward and clumsy, lost for words in front of this intimidating man?

‘And she misses her father,’ Tara said huskily at last. ‘She misses him and loves him, and he must know what her mother is doing to her, but he makes no effort to intervene.’

‘Go on…’ She had captured his attention now and the blue eyes had hardened. Her courage deserted her. She swallowed, wishing she had never spoken.

‘You were saying,’ the hard voice continued, ‘Sue misses her f…’ he paused and then finished smoothly, ‘her father. You have a very revealing face, Tara, and it tells me that you don’t altogether approve of Sue’s father.’

‘She needs him,’ Tara said quietly, ‘but he’s never here. He lets her mother bully and hurt her. Oh, I don’t suppose he can help it,’ she added quickly. ‘It can’t be easy for a gentle-natured man to stand up to someone like Mrs…’ Her voice faded gently and she bit down hard on the tremulous softness of her lip, wishing she had never allowed herself to be dragged into this conversation.

‘Is that how Sue describes her father?’ Tara’s companion asked in an odd tone. ‘As weak and uncaring?’

Once more Tara’s expression betrayed her, and a vivid flush stained her skin, making it unnecessary for her to admit that she had drawn her own conclusions from Sue’s adoring remarks about the father who seemed to have so little time to spend with her.

‘Sue loves him very much,’ she murmured haltingly. ‘I’d better go back to her. Who shall I say?’ She was remembering suddenly the key he had shown her.

He smiled sardonically, replacing the empty glass and getting to his feet. ‘Sorry, I’m forgetting the formalities, aren’t I? I haven’t introduced myself. James Harvey,’ he told her briefly, watching the realisation dawning in her eyes. ‘That’s right,’ he told her softly. ‘Sue’s weak uncaring father—or rather stepfather. Didn’t it ever occur to you when you were jumping to all those rash decisions that stepfathers have to tread very warily with children who aren’t legally theirs?’

Stepfather! He was Sue’s stepfather! A mass of conflicting emotions seized her, paramount among which was a sense of sick disbelief that this man could actually be married to Sue’s mother, combined with a bitter chagrin that she had been stupid enough to voice her opinions of him to his face so blithely.

‘Don’t worry about it.’

For the first time Tara saw the harsh features relax and glimpsed behind the austerity the compassion which must have drawn Sue to him. But why had she never told her that he was her stepfather? Did she really need to ask herself that question? Tara thought wryly, remembering Sue’s vulnerability.

‘Don’t wake Sue up now,’ James Harvey continued. ‘I’m half dead from the flight and all I want right now is a few hours’ sleep. Come on.’ He paused, hanging back to allow her to precede him through the kitchen door, but as she drew level with him Tara stumbled. His right hand shot out grasping her firmly round the waist. Tara could feel the hard bite of his fingers against the soft flesh of her ribcage, and her heart started to race and jerk, her inarticulate apology lost in the darkness as James Harvey switched off the light, withdrawing the support of his hand. As she turned away his fingertips brushed accidentally against the taut curve of her breast, and Tara shuddered deeply without understanding the violence of her reaction.

He was Sue’s stepfather, for heaven’s sake, she reminded herself, hating her body’s momentary physical response to his accidental touch.

They walked upstairs together, James leaving her on the landing making his way to the suite of rooms occupied by Mrs Harvey when she was at the Manor. It was a long time before Tara fell asleep again.

In the days that followed and she got to know James better Tara gradually discovered that beneath the sensuality and cynicism which had been the two things about him which had struck her most at their first meeting did indeed lie the compassion she had expected from Sue’s description. She also learned something about herself, something she would have given much not to learn and something which kept her awake at night and unable to concentrate on her school work during the day; she was terrifyingly attracted to Sue’s stepfather. Teenage infatuations and crushes had bypassed Tara completely, so that her feelings for James came as an abrupt and frightening shock; as much for their strength as for their sensuality. She constantly caught herself daydreaming about how it would feel to be held in his arms, to be kissed by his hard male mouth, her body tortured into fierce passion by the expertise of his lovemaking. Such thoughts disturbed and alarmed her, tormenting her to the point where she felt selfconscious and tonguetied in his presence, the disturbed state of her mind betrayed by the swift colouring of her skin whenever they met. Sue, lost in the pleasure of having his sole attention, seemed unaware of her friend’s reaction, and Tara alternately longed for and yet dreaded Sue’s mother’s return.

Sue and James seldom mentioned her, and Tara suspected that the marriage was not a happy one. Why had James married Hilary? Tara often wondered. He was considerably younger than Hilary, an immensely attractive and virile man in his late twenties with a successful business which he had apparently inherited from his uncle. Her mind refused to accept that James might love Hilary. So why had he married her? Tara was not as naïve as her classmates liked to think. For one thing, she was extremely widely read and by no means ignorant of the power that wealth wielded, and yet everything within her revolted against the idea of James marrying Hilary for financial gain. It was none of her business, she reminded herself, firmly closing the door on her doubts, concentrating instead on the heady pleasure of the increasingly precious time she spent with James. That Sue was always there as well did not detract from her enjoyment. Her burgeoning love for James was her own secret and she meant to keep it that way. James treated her much as he treated Sue, although sometimes there was a look in his eyes when they rested on her that made the blood beat faster in her veins, frightening her that he might guess how she felt about him. On those occasions she was more careful than ever not to betray herself.

One afternoon when the two girls had cycled back to Sue’s house together after school, Tara found herself alone with James when Sue was taking a transatlantic call from her mother. Tara’s own mother was beginning to complain about the amount of time Tara was spending with Sue, reminding Tara that she had important A levels coming up and adding bitingly that it was a fine thing indeed when a man married a woman close on ten years his senior and that she had no need to guess the reason why.

Her mother seemed to have taken an intense dislike to James. Tara had noticed it on the first occasion that James had run her home—the morning after his arrival it had been, and when she saw his lean frame uncurling itself from the interior of the Porsche car, Tara’s mother’s mouth had turned down angrily, her eyes hard and watchful.

‘How’s the studying coming along?’ James asked casually reaching for the knot in his tie and loosening it tiredly. It was June and the whole month had been unusually warm. Tara’s skin had been turned creamy gold by the sun, a tiny smattering of freckles marching across the bridge of her nose.

‘Fine,’ she responded unenthusiastically, absurdly conscious of the lean column of James’s throat where his unbuttoned shirt revealed the warm flesh. Her breath seemed to be oddly constricted in her throat, tiny frissons of awareness shivering over her skin bringing out tiny goosebumps on her arms.

James frowned, warm brown fingers curling round her upper arm as he asked frowningly, ‘Cold?’

With his fingers circling her skin, the warm male scent of him tantalising her nostrils, and her eyes on a level with the darkly curling body hair exposed by the opening of his shirt, it was as much as Tara could do to shake her head.

‘So what are these?’ Tara shivered as James’s eyes rested on the small goosebumps. ‘Tara?’

James’s hands left her arm to grip her shoulder and Tara knew that he must be able to feel the way her body trembled. Uncertainty and fear mingled in the eyes she kept averted from him, her one fear that he might guess the truth.

‘Tara?’

This time there was a husky urgency in the way he said her name that brought new sensations washing over her. She looked up just in time to hear James swear suddenly as he released her, and Sue came rushing into the room.

‘It was Ma,’ she announced unnecessarily. ‘She’s sending me a cheque for my birthday.’ She pulled a face. ‘Big deal—it’ll take her all of two minutes to write it out and have her secretary post it.’

‘Didn’t your mother want to speak to James?’ Tara heard herself asking in a shrilly challenging tone that surprised herself as well as Sue.

‘Hilary never did have much time for talking to the men in her life,’ James responded drawlingly, to Sue’s surprised ‘No,’ the smile he gave Tara mocking as he added, ‘Shocked? How young you are, Tara!’

The way he said it wasn’t complimentary and there was a closed-up bitterness about his face that warned Tara from pushing the matter further. Sue started to talk about her birthday. She wanted James to take her out for a meal; to take them both out, Tara realised in dismay as the younger girl’s excited chatter burst in upon her own private thoughts.

‘No, really, she protested. ‘There’s no need to invite me, Sue… I…’

‘It will be my pleasure to escort you both,’ James interrupted calmly. ‘I’ll book a table for us. Don’t refuse,’ he muttered softly to Tara under cover of Sue’s eager enthusiasm. ‘Can’t you see how bitter she feels that her mother can’t be bothered? She thinks a lot of you, Tara—and with good reason, don’t let her down now.’

Sue’s anxious, ‘You are coming, aren’t you?’ only underlined his comment, and Tara heard herself saying weakly, ‘Of course I am,’ even though she knew in her heart of hearts that she was playing with fire.

Tara’s mother, when she told her, made no secret of her disapproval. ‘Dinner at a hotel for a fourteen-year-old? Foolish nonsense!’ she snorted, and Tara had to plead with her to be allowed to accept the invitation. Her clothes were chosen for her by her mother, and apart from the jeans and tee shirts she favoured out of school hours Tara had very little in her wardrobe other than her school uniform and one or two sensible and staid outfits which she loathed wearing.

Sue, in contrast, had more clothes than she knew what to do with. Her mother gave her a generous allowance—conscience money, Sue called it scoffingly—and when Tara confided her doubts about dining at the prestigious Davenport Arms, which was the town’s most expensive hotel, in the childish ‘best’ clothes which were her mother’s choice, Sue dragged her upstairs to her bedroom, flinging open her wardrobe doors to announce, ‘Take your pick—there’s sure to be something here that will fit you. You’re taller than me, I know, but you’re so slim…’ She rummaged through the tightly packed cupboard, ignoring Tara’s protests.

‘Here, try this,’ she mumbled, flinging half a dozen outfits onto the bed and reaching into the depths of the wardrobe to produce a crinkle cotton dress in a cool shade of green, the colour deepening to jade at the hem.

The dress was similar to several Tara had seen in Hillingdon’s shop windows—at least at first sight, but when she picked it up from the bed where Sue had flung it, she realised instantly that it was a far more expensive model than anything Hillingdon had ever stocked. The cotton was soft and fine, the full skirt banded with rows of handmade lace dyed to match the fabric, a peasant-style neckline with tiny puffed sleeves was trimmed with satin ribbon, and when she held the dress against her Tara knew instinctively that it might have been made for her. Later she was ashamed of how little persuading she needed to try the dress on. As Sue had suggested, it fitted her perfectly, causing Sue to say blithely, ‘There, I told you, and it suits you far more than it ever would me. I’m too plump for such a full-skirted style. There’s a flounced petticoat to go with it,’ she added before Tara could speak, ‘and a toning cotton waistcoat. Here, take them.’

Tara tried to protest, but Sue wouldn’t listen. ‘If you don’t take them they’ll never be worn,’ she insisted. ‘Ma bought them for me—another conscience-easer.’

Tara dressed for Sue’s birthday meal without enthusiasm. To her surprise her mother had made no comment about the dress Sue had ‘loaned’ her. As Sue’s birthday had fallen on a Saturday and there was no school Tara had the whole day to get ready. She had never spent so much time getting ready to go out. She washed her hair, letting it dry naturally, and grimacing a little over its stubborn tendency to curl. Most of the girls at school had short hair, but she preferred to keep hers long. A touch of green eye-shadow emphasised the colour and size of her eyes, mascara darkening her thick lashes. Wriggling into Sue’s dress, Tara studied her reflection in the mirror and pulled a wry face. She had forgotten that the style was meant to be worn slightly off the shoulders and the neckline revealed the straps of her bra slightly.

After experimenting for a few minutes Tara was forced to the reluctant conclusion that it would be better to do without her bra altogether rather than risk everyone catching glimpses of her straps. She shuddered to think of James’s reaction to such gaucherie; no doubt in the circles in which he moved women thought nothing of a little thing like not wearing a bra. Having removed it, Tara studied her reflection critically. With the waistcoat on she looked perfectly respectable. She refused to think about the softly provocative thrust of her breasts beneath the fine cotton fabric without it.

She had just finished applying a delicate coat of pale lip-gloss when she heard James’s Porsche draw up outside.

Sue was seated in the back, but when Tara reached for the door, James emerged from the car and opened the front passenger door.

‘Sit in the front with James,’ Sue insisted. ‘Doesn’t she look fantastic?’ she demanded of her stepfather. ‘That dress really does something for her, doesn’t it?’

Tara was glad of the falling dusk to conceal her flushed cheeks. Was it merely her imagination or had James’s eyes lingered deliberately on the taut curve of her breasts?

It was barely ten minutes’ drive to the hotel. The car-park was already quite full when they arrived. A uniformed commissionaire unbent enough to smile warmly at them, plainly recognising James.

They were shown to one of the tables set apart from the main body of the restaurant in one of the window alcoves. Beneath them the river flowed smoothly, its banks illuminated with coloured lights. A re-vamped longboat was tied up at the hotel’s mooring and there was just sufficient light for them to be able to pick out the intricate designs painted on it.

‘What a fantastic life,’ Sue said dreamily. ‘Always on the move, new faces, new places.’

‘What about you, Tara?’ James asked. ‘Do you yearn for change and excitement?’

‘I’d like to see something of the world,’ Tara admitted slowly. ‘But people are the same the world over; problems don’t disappear simply because one changes one’s surroundings.’

‘Very true—and a very profound statement for a girl your age. What do you know of life’s problems?’ James scoffed lightly.

The mockery in his tone inflamed Tara’s already over-stretched nerves. Perhaps she was being oversensitive, but it seemed to her that James constantly referred to her age—or lack of it, to be more precise, and always in that same tone of sardonic mockery.

‘It isn’t always necessary to personally experience something to know about it,’ she retorted angrily. ‘There’s such a thing as imagination…’

‘Nothing that’s worth experiencing can ever be truly experienced second-hand,’ James told her softly, and something in his voice brought the colour surging to Tara’s cheeks, forcing her to realise that with James she was way, way out of her depth and that it was folly to treat him as she might a boy of her own age.

To please Sue she joined her in ordering steak Diane, followed by a rich chocolate mousse, although she noticed that James refused the rich sweet in favour of a wedge of Stilton and some water biscuits. In honour of the occasion he had also ordered a bottle of wine—a warm, full-bodied Burgundy of which Sue had only taken a mouthful before pulling a wry face.

James had laughed, and Tara had forced herself to empty her glass even though privately she shared a little of Sue’s dislike of the wine.

It was hot in the restaurant and while they were waiting for their coffee Tara surreptitiously removed her waistcoat, conscious that her cheeks were already betraying a heated flush—a combination of the unaccustomed strength of the wine and her own tense state. James was talking to Sue and as she straightened up from slipping her waistcoat on to the back of her chair, Tara found that his glance was focused on her, his eyes probing the soft hollows of her throat and the fragile bones of her shoulders before moving slowly downwards. Her heart seemed to lodge in her throat, her mouth was dry. Under the thin cotton of her dress her skin burned, the totally unexpected burgeoning of her nipples beneath his deliberate scrutiny, flooding her with shamed embarrassment. She longed to reach for the protection of the waistcoat she had just discarded, but her mortification was too great for her to do anything but sit rigidly in her chair, longing for the evening to be over. Tears seemed to have lodged in the back of her throat. What on earth must James think of her? She still couldn’t fully understand what had happened, but even in the midst of her inexperience she was aware of the sudden melting sensation in the pit of her stomach, the desire beating up hotly inside her.

Her hands started to shake, the palms damp her face paling. It was just a silly schoolgirl crush, she told herself, something millions of teenage girls experienced—childish really. But there was nothing childish about the physical longing swamping her; about her suddenly urgent need to feel James’s lean hands on her body where his eyes had lingered.

‘Tara?’ She realised that Sue had asked her a question and forced a shaky smile. ‘Are you okay? You look pale. I was just saying that I’m ready to leave, unless you want more coffee.’

Shaking her head, Tara fought down the feelings tearing into her, deliberately hanging back as they left the restaurant in the hope that Sue would get into the front of the Porsche with James.

She was out of luck. As James unlocked the car Sue announced sleepily, ‘Mm, I’ll sit in the back. I’m going to stretch out there and I’ll probably be asleep before we get home.’

The night had turned cool, and Tara shivered in her thin dress as she slid into the Porsche’s luxurious seat.

‘Cold? The heater will soon be working.’

James made no further comment until he brought the car to a halt outside Tara’s home.

She fumbled with the door handle in her anxiety to get out of the Porsche, biting back a startled cry as James leaned across her, his breath fanning her cheek, as he thrust open the door. Tara thanked him without daring to look up, turning quickly to say goodnight to Sue, her slight movement checked by the pressure of James’s hand on her arm as he said quietly, ‘She’s asleep.’

Tara knew she had started to tremble. She started to move away, startled eyes widening as James muttered something under his breath, his arms fastening round her, his lips brushing the slightly parted curve of hers.

His husky, ‘I’ve been wanting to do that ever since I met you,’ discomposed her even more. Common sense told her that she ought to move away, to make some mundane comment that would break the spell which seemed to hold them both in thrall, but instinct urged her to remain where she was, savouring the intoxicating proximity of James’s body, the heady delight of the hand that curved just below her breast.

‘Sue was right.’ In the darkness James’s eyes gleamed softly. ‘That dress does suit you. I like it.’ His hand cupped the soft swell of her breast, his thumb stroking lightly over the sudden hardening of her nipple. Tara sucked in her breath in mingled shock and desire. James bent towards her and excitement spiralled crampingly through her.

‘God, I must be going crazy! You’re still a child…’

‘No, I’m not.’ All at once it was too late to pretend any more, tonight without being aware of it she had crossed the Rubicon that divided adolescence from womanhood, and she knew with an instinct as old as time that what she felt for James was no mere teenage idolatry. ‘I love you, James,’ she heard herself saying huskily. ‘I want you, I…’

His groaned, ‘You don’t know what you’re saying,’ was lost against her skin as he buried his mouth in the warmth of her throat. Tara knew that she should object, but everything that was feminine in her was glorying in her response to his touch. In the back seat Sue stirred and James drew away. He was breathing hard, a disturbing glitter icing his eyes, and Tara knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that he wanted her.

‘Tara, it’s no use,’ he told her emphatically. ‘It just can’t be. If you were older, more experienced, or if I were less…’ She saw him shake his head. ‘I just can’t do it to you, much as I want you. It wouldn’t be fair.’

‘So what is fair?’ Tara hissed back, for once forgetting the huge gulf between them; fogetting his married status and the difference in their ages and knowing only that he was a man who desired her and whom she in turn loved intensely. ‘Is it fair to make me feel like this and then push me away?’

His smile was full of self-mockery. ‘Oh, Tara,’ he said softly, ‘Don’t tempt me. It’s for your sake that I’m doing this. Have you the slightest idea of the effect you have on me, or just how hard I’m finding it to stop myself from driving home with you and taking you to my bed? I want you in the fullest sense of the word. I’m a man, Tara, not a boy, and I’m way, way beyond playing the games you haven’t even started to experiment with yet.’

In the back seat Sue moved restlessly again. Torn with pain and chagrin, Tara pushed away his restraining arm and got hurriedly out of the Porsche, tears stinging her eyes.

In the morning Tara couldn’t understand what had come over her. In her narrow single bed she rolled herself up into a small tight ball, groaning with the realisation of her own folly. It had to be the wine; she could think of no other reason for her behaviour. She had actually let James see how she felt about him—no, not simply let him see, but told him.

In the normal course of events she would have spent part of her Sunday with Sue, but feeling completely unable to face James, Tara told her mother after breakfast that she intended to go out for a walk and would be gone for most of the day. Her mother raised no objections; before her friendship with Sue Tara had been a keen walker.

Congratulating herself on removing herself from any further embarrassment, Tara pulled on a casual denim jacket to match her jeans and opened the front door. Sue would think her behaviour odd, she knew, but she could always explain it away somehow later. If only fate would be kind and somehow make it imperative for James to leave the country without her ever having to set eyes on him again!

Tara was so engrossed in her thoughts that at first she didn’t notice the scarlet Porsche cruising slowly towards her. As she drew level with it it stopped, and her eyes widened as she recognised it and James. Footsteps faltering, Tara glanced wildly behind her, but it was too late. James was already slamming the car door and advancing purposefully on her, his mouth compressed in a grim line.

‘Running away won’t solve anything, Tara,’ he said curtly, grasping her arm. ‘You and I have to talk. I intended waiting until you showed up at the house, but something told me that you might prefer flight to fight.’

‘We’ve nothing to say to one another,’ Tara muttered, refusing to lift her head to meet his eyes. ‘Please let me go, you’re hurting me!’

‘I could hurt you one hell of a lot more if we don’t talk this thing through now,’ James interrupted brusquely, swearing suddenly as he saw her face, and hustling her into the car without ceremony. Tara felt too weak to object.

‘Tara.’ Through her tears she saw James push one hand wearily through his hair. He was frowning and she longed to smooth away the furrows with her fingertips. ‘Tara, there’s no need to feel bad about what happened last night, or to feel that you can’t face me again. No, don’t deny it,’ he said softly when she started to protest. ‘I’ve been there—a long time ago, perhaps, by your standards, but I can still remember. There’ll be other loves; other men,’ he told her softly, ‘and you can’t know how much I regret…’

‘My stupid crush on you?’ Tara broke in bitterly, reaching for the door handle and turning blindly away from him.

James’s fingers reached the lock before her and then curled warmly round her wrist, the pressure of his grip forcing her towards him.

‘For God’s sake, Tara, what the hell are you trying to do to me—to us?’ he muttered savagely. ‘You can’t be so innocent that you don’t know how much I want you; how I’m having to fight against my own desire for your protection.’ He grimaced suddenly, his mouth wry. ‘How do you think I could live with myself if I allowed what there is between us to reach its natural conclusion? A woman’s first sexual experience is something deeply important in her life, yours shouldn’t be with a married man who isn’t free to…’

‘Make love to me?’ Tara finished for him. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t be. I don’t care if I never see you again in my whole life,’ she announced dramatically. ‘I hate you!’

This time he made no attempt to stop her leaving the car, and Tara walked several miles before she calmed down enough to realise that her childish words stemmed more from pique than any genuine hatred. How could she hate him when she loved him so much? As she tried to untangle her muddled thoughts she knew that James had been right and that there was no future for them; that he was trying to protect her, and probably save himself the embarrassment of her crush on him. And then she remembered the look in his eyes when he had said that she must have known that he desired her, and her pulse quickened betrayingly, a dizzying image of how it would be to have James as her first lover, initiating her into the pleasures of lovemaking, sweeping aside common sense and logic.

It was late afternoon before she returned home, drained and exhausted, but not too tired to dream yearningly of James, crying his name over and over again until the sound of her own voice woke her.

It was lunchtime the following day before Tara saw Sue. The younger girl looked unhappy.

‘James has flown back to America,’ she announced miserably. ‘He had to leave suddenly yesterday.’

Tara’s heart plummeted. Had he really had to leave, or had it simply been a fabricated excuse to remove himself from her vicinity? She knew that logically she should be grateful and that he was only behaving as he should, but she felt bitterly hurt that he had gone without saying a word to her.

A month went by, and then two. Tara had expected that her feelings would diminish in the face of James’s absence, but to her consternation they seemed to flourish. The mere sound of his name on Sue’s lips was enough to set her heart pounding; the glimpse of a tall dark-haired man all that was needed to increase her pulse rate a hundred-fold.

Exams had come and gone, and Tara alternately longed for and yet dreaded the results.

One sultry afternoon in August, bored with her own company, she set out for Sue’s house. Sue’s mother was due to return at the end of the month. She was spending several weeks in Hillingdon before returning to New York. Would James be with her? Tara daren’t ask.

It was too hot for cycling and by the time she reached the house she was exhausted. The sun had disappeared and the air was full of the sullen electricity that presaged a thunderstorm. Tara shivered despite the heat. Thunder was something which had always terrified her.

The storm broke just as she turned into the drive, vivid streaks of lightning splitting the sky accompanied by fierce rolls of thunder so loud and close together that Tara was convinced the storm was almost overhead. She abandoned her bike in her terror and raced for the house at the same time as the heavens opened. On the short sprint to the back door she got soaked, but to her relief the handle turned easily beneath her shaking fingers, although there was no sign of Sue in the kitchen.

Calling her name, Tara waited, trying to block out the sound of the storm. Moisture dripped from her hair and her jeans were soaked at the hem and waistband.

It was ten minutes before she finally admitted that the house was empty. Sue often left the back door unlocked because she had a horror of losing her key and being locked out, and Tara guessed that she had probably cycled into Hillingdon to change her library books or do some shopping.

The sky had turned from brassy gold to dark pewter, the thunder increasing in volume with every passing second. Tara tried to turn on the radio in an effort to distract herself, but there was so much interference she abandoned the idea. A vivid flash of lightning lanced the sky, striking one of the oaks in the park beyond the house. A small terrified scream broke past her trembling lips. There was no way she could find the courage to leave the house while the storm was still in progress, and held rigid with terror, Tara simply stood in the middle of the kitchen, ears and eyes straining to detect some lessening in the fury outside.

She was concentrating so much on the storm that she never heard anything else until the kitchen door jerked inwards suddenly and she swung round at the sound, eyes dilated with fear, her skin stretched tightly over the delicate bones of her face.

James stood there, dressed in a formal business suit, briefcase in one hand. She registered the fact that he looked tired, and then everything else was forgotten as another clap of thunder sounded almost overhead. She screamed and ran instinctively for the protection of his arms, his rough, ‘Tara, what the hell…’ muffled against her hair as his arms tightened round her instinctively, the sudden impetus of her flight rocking him back on his heels.

‘Stop it, stop it!’ Tara whimpered, covering her ears with her hands to try and blot out the sound of the thunder, terror pouring through her veins like a floodtide.

‘Hush! It’s all right, nothing to be afraid of,’ James soothed. ‘Are you here on your own?’

She nodded. ‘I came to see Sue, but she was out.’ She flinched as another jagged flash of lightning split the sky.

‘You’re soaked!’ James exclaimed. ‘I’ll get a towel for your hair.’ He started to move away, but Tara clung desperately to his shoulders, her eyes begging him not to leave her.

‘It’s all right,’ he soothed. ‘Now just wait here and I’ll be back in a second.’

He disentangled her fingers from his jacket and walked back into the hall.

A fresh roll of thunder had Tara clenching her teeth and digging her fingernails into the soft skin of her palms. He wouldn’t be long, she told herself. What a fool he must think her! She must try not to panic. She was just congratulating herself on succeeding when an almighty clap of thunder seemed to shake the house to the foundations, lightning zigzagging electrifyingly just outside the window. Tara’s control broke, on a terrified scream she flung open the kitchen door and raced up the stairs, her feet taking her automatically to the room she knew belonged to James. She pushed open the door without pausing, barely aware of James’s smothered curse or the fact that he was just emerging from his bathroom with only a towel draped round his hips, until his hands gripped the soft flesh of her upper arms as he caught hold of her.

His ‘God, Tara, what am I going to do about you?’ was lost as she flung herself into his arms, shivering with a terror that obliterated everything else.

As though he sensed that words alone would not be enough to soothe her, James drew her slowly towards the window. ‘Look,’ he said quietly, ‘the storm’s dying away. It’s passed over us now, we’re quite safe, Tara.’

The quiet confidence in his voice reached out to the wild panic shivering inside her and had a calming effect. Her terror started to die down and all at once she became intensely conscious of the hard warmth of his thighs against her own and the smoothly satin feel of his skin beneath her fingertips.

‘Tara…’

She knew from the tone of his voice that in another minute she would be released and pushed gently outside his door, and the knowledge was almost unbearable. She wanted to stay with him; to revel in the heady pleasure of touching him, of exploring the sculptured male contours of his body, to feel it respond to her own.

A tiny inner voice pleaded caution, but she ignored it.

‘Tara…’

‘Don’t send me away, James,’ she pleaded huskily. ‘Please… I’ve been thinking about… about what you said before you left, and…’ Head bowed, she studied the dark criss-cross of hairs curling against his chest, a weak, yielding sensation turning her stomach to jelly.

‘And,’ James prompted harshly, ‘I seem to remember that the last time you saw me you told me you hated me. If you merely want to repeat the sentiment, don’t bother, it’s one I can easily do without.’

He had changed during the last two months, Tara acknowledged, studying him properly. His face seemed leaner, the bones harder, and there was a smouldering intensity in the way his eyes lingered on her body that she had not seen before.

‘I don’t hate you, James,’ she said steadily, taking a deep breath. ‘I love you, and even though…’ Even though you don’t love me, she had been about to say, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to frame the words. ‘And… I want you to be my first lover. I…’

She got no further. Her body was crushed against the bronzed male flesh, James’s mouth plundering the soft hollow at the base of her throat, sending flickering tongues of fire licking through her veins.

‘You don’t know what you’re saying,’ James muttered hoarsely. ‘Nothing’s changed… nothing at all,’ he added thickly. ‘I still want you so much it’s like a gut pain, even though I know I must be half out of my mind. Stop me, Tara,’ he warned huskily, nibbling seductively at her throat. ‘Stop me now, for God’s sake, because I’m warning you, there’s no way I can stop myself.’

‘I don’t want to stop you,’ Tara whispered back breathlessly. ‘Make love to me, James.’

The hours that followed were something she had never forgotten; a time of magic and delight.

James had been a considerate lover, drawing from her untutored body a response that shook her to her soul, drawing her gradually into a melting frenzy of need so that the pain of his possession was quickly swamped by the urgent tide of her own desire. It had been then that he had told her that he loved her; at the same time cursing himself for what had happened. Tara had merely smiled lazily, supine and relaxed, her body still awash with pleasure. For her the regret and remorse had come later—six weeks later to be precise—when she had discovered that she was to have his baby, and she had gone to him to seek his help and advice. But he hadn’t been there, and it had been Hilary she had had to face; Hilary who had laughed in her face when she asked uncertainly for James. Hilary who had told her cruelly that she had been merely one of his many brief diversions and that they had laughed about it together; laughed about her.

She had left without telling Hilary the truth. Later from Sue she had learned that James had flown to New York several days before Hilary had been due to leave for Hillingdon. They had met there briefly but not returned together. Tara knew why: Hilary had told her. ‘Can’t you understand, you silly little girl,’ she had said mockingly, ‘he’s had what he wanted from you—it’s over, and this is his way of telling you so. He doesn’t want you, my dear; you would bore him silly, all he wanted was a little divertissement—you poor little fool,’ she added, ‘Did you really think he cared? My dear, if I hadn’t been neglecting him so shamefully he would never even have looked at you. My God, it’s almost pathetic! What do you, a gauche inexperienced girl, have to offer a man like James; a man who enjoys the best that life has to offer and the women who can provide him with it?’

Tara remembered how she had been sick on the way home, humiliatingly and thoroughly. That had been the night her mother had taxed her with the truth and she had been forced to admit it, and life had never been the same again. She had thought herself grown up the afternoon James made love to her, but she hadn’t been. She finally grew up in the small living room of her home when her mother told her that she would have to have her illegitimate child adopted and she had refused.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE sound of footsteps approaching her bedroom door alerted Tara to the fact that she was no longer alone. Dragging her thoughts away from the past, she shivered slightly as she opened the door.

‘Feeling better?’ Sue questioned sympathetically, adding when she nodded her head, ‘You still look dreadfully pale. Your Mandy is a delight,’ she added, smiling. ‘You should see her with Piers—she’s so motherly. Simon’s a darling as well.’

‘He’s very sensitive,’ Tara told her. ‘Too much so, I sometimes think.’

‘At the risk of voicing a cliché, do you think perhaps he needs a father?’

‘A man to pattern himself on?’ Tara grimaced. ‘Despite what the psychologists would have us believe I still think the security of one parent is better than two who quarrel.’

‘I couldn’t agree more, and I’m glad you’re still as romantic as you always were. I’d have been bitterly disappointed if you’d been prosaic enough to say you might marry some pleasant, unexciting man merely to provide the twins with a father. Which reminds me, I came up here to tell you that Mrs Barnes is giving them their tea.’

‘I’ll go down and collect them,’ Tara murmured, following her friend to the door.

‘Tara—’ She paused, turning to glance at Sue’s faintly clouded face. ‘Do you find James much changed?’ Sue asked her hesitantly. ‘Alec says I’m imagining things, but there seems to be something different about him.’

‘It’s so long since I last saw him that I’m bound to find him changed,’ Tara told her in a clipped voice.

‘He never married again after Mother, you know, and yet I distinctly remember overhearing Mother tell him in the middle of a row that she’d never divorce him to let him go and marry someone else, so he must have thought about it.’

‘And changed his mind when he realised what he was giving up,’ Tara suggested sardonically, immediately wishing the words unsaid when Sue stared at her reproachfully.

‘Tara!’ There was shock and disbelief in her voice. ‘I know some people thought that James married Mother for her money, but I never expected you’d be one of them. You always seemed to get on so well. You know,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘I always had the impression that there was some mystery about their marriage. One moment Mother had gone to the States on business—something to do with the death of one of her partners—and the next she was back, married to James, and yet I can never remember them actually seeming happy together.’

It was natural that Sue should want to make excuses for James, Tara thought tiredly—hadn’t she once done exactly the same? His marriage had been the one thing they had never talked about. The young possessed a wonderful facility for seeing only what they wanted to see, she thought cynically, but James hadn’t been a young teenager; how had he managed to blinker himself to the reality of his marriage? Or hadn’t it been necessary? Why fool herself, she had never been anything more than a simple entertaining interlude, a momentary diversion, the piquant sensation of being the subject of a young girl’s love.

‘Oh, I know James and Mother couldn’t have married for love,’ Sue was saying, ‘but I can’t believe that he married her purely for financial gain.’

‘No indeed,’ Tara agreed blandly. ‘I doubt that purity had much to do with his motives at all!’

Sue pulled a face as she opened the kitchen door. All three children were seated round a large well scrubbed table. The kitchen was decorated in an attractive farmhouse style, and Mrs Barnes, the housekeeper, smiled warmly as Sue and Tara walked in.

‘Mummy, I’ve eaten all my tea,’ Mandy announced importantly, ‘and helped to feed Piers. Simon has been playing…’

‘No, I haven’t,’ Simon interrupted, scowling horribly at his sister.

‘Then why haven’t you eaten that?’ Mandy demanded triumphantly, pointing to several small pieces of carrot still on Simon’s plate.

‘Because I’m not hungry,’ Simon countered, while Tara hid a sympathetic smile. Simon wasn’t over-fond of carrots, and she was forced to hide another smile when Mandy announced, ‘Simon can’t have any icecream if he doesn’t eat his carrots, can he, Mummy?’

She had just finished pointing out that since Mandy herself had been allowed a bar of chocolate earlier in the week even though she hadn’t been able to eat her sprouts, it was hardly fair to demand now that Simon be deprived of his treat simply because he disliked carrots, when Alec and James came into the kitchen, the dog at their heels. The labrador made straight for Simon, tongue lolling as she sat expectantly at his side, eyeing the despised carrots with a hopeful gleam in sherry brown eyes.

Alec pounced on his son, drawing shrill screams of pleasure from the little boy as his father hoisted him on to his shoulder.

‘Alec you’ll make him sick, he’s only just finished eating,’ Sue protested. ‘Put him down.’

Simon was engrossed in the dog, Sue and Alec in their son. At the opposite end of the table, Mandy, sturdy independent Mandy, glanced from her high stool down to the floor and then hopefully, enchantingly up at James’s lean height. Tara felt a huge lump come into her throat, and something raw and painful turned over in her breast.

‘Mandy—’ she began warningly, but it was already too late. Mandy had turned to James, a winsome smile planting dimples either side of her upturned mouth, her arms stretching upwards imperiously.

Tara’s heart quaked for her small, 5.0 vulnerable daughter. Never in all her six years had Mandy ever made the slightest gesture of appeal to a member of the despised male sex, and Tara wished with all her heart that she had not chosen to make her first to James Harvey of all people.

She saw James step forward and then grimace, his eyes hooded and unreadable as he turned away from the small girl.

Mandy’s face dropped, tears filling her eyes and, her maternal instincts up in arms, Tara rushed forward, clasping Mandy in her arms and swinging her down to the floor, her expression bitter with indignation and contempt as her eyes clashed hotly with James’s.

Later when they were getting the children ready for bed, Sue, who had obviously witnessed the incident, said uncertainly, ‘I can’t understand what’s come over James. He’s always seemed so fond of children.’

‘As long as they’re not mine,’ Tara supplied acidly.

‘I just don’t understand it,’ Sue repeated. ‘It’s so out of character.’

Not as far as she was concerned, Tara reflected grimly. Unlike Sue she was under no delusions as to James’s true character. Behind that handsome face, that virilely male body lay nothing but an arid desert incapable of supporting any real emotion.

She dressed for dinner reluctantly. At best it could only be an awkward meal. Sue was already aware of the emnity which existed between her two guests; and Tara could not forgive James for the way he had deliberately turned his back on Mandy—on his own child. She tugged impatiently at her hair, anger sparkling in the jade depths of her eyes as she applied eye-shadow and mascara.

Sue had said that while they invariably changed for dinner when they were in the country it was only into clothes they could relax in, and with this in mind Tara elected to wear a dress which had been one of the ‘free samples’ she had been given by one of the fashion houses. Designed along the lines of an Eastern kimono, the heavy cream silk was embroidered delicately with flowers and butterflies in soft iridescent colours that caught the light whenever Tara moved.

The gown was tied with a matching sash and secured by hidden press-studs. Tara had worn it on several occasions and felt extremely comfortable in it. Fastening her hair into a smooth chignon, she checked her appearance again in the mirror before stroking her throat and wrists with Van Cleef’s ‘First’, a Christmas present from Chas, and then feeling that she had done all she could to prepare herself for the evening ahead, Tara slipped on a pair of high-heeled gold sandals and opened her bedroom door. Her heart dropped as she saw James on the point of leaving his room. A narrow-fitting velvet jacket and narrow tapering dark trousers added to his height, emphasising the subtle play of muscles beneath the tailored fabric. He paused as he saw Tara approach, his eyes moving slowly over her body.

Tara felt as though she were frozen to the spot, completely incapable of moving, forced to suffer the hated subjugation to his will as his glance stroked mercilessly over every inch of her body, leaving her nerve endings acutely sensitised to the aura of raw maleness emanating from him. An electric silence seemed to spread out around them, even the sound of her own heartbeat unnaturally loud in her ears.

Somewhere in the distance Tara registered the opening of a door, and then Sue’s voice shattered the silence, her generous,

‘Tara, you look fantastic—where did you get that gorgeous creation from?’ restoring some semblance of normality to the atmosphere. Drawing a shuddering breath, Tara managed to find the coherency to explain how she had come by her gown.

‘A perk?’ James sneered openly. ‘And that satisfies you? Being paid for your services with a handful of cast-off dresses? My dear, you’ve sold yourself cheap indeed.’

‘James!’ Sue looked shocked and upset. ‘Tara, I’m…’

‘Forget it,’ Tara told her, forcing a smile. ‘Contrary to what James seems to suppose, Chas pays me for my work,’ she emphasised the word deliberately, ‘in the usual coinage—and neither am I his mistress, paid or otherwise. Even if I wanted to have an affair with Chas, I wouldn’t,’ she added for good measure. ‘I’ve got the twins to think about, and I happen to think that children learn best by example.’

‘Very noble,’ James sneered. ‘Quite a metamorphosis. When did it come about?’

‘James…’

There was no mercy in the look he turned upon Tara, when Sue murmured his name James’s expression softened, his arm coming round her shoulders in an affectionate gesture that filled Tara with a welter of conflicting emotions.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ he told her. ‘Tara’s tougher than you think. Aren’t you?’

There was no kindness in the dark blue eyes as they held her captive and to her horror Tara felt tears burning the back of her throat.

She managed to make some brittle comment, something cynical and mocking which brought an uncertain smile to Sue’s lips, and as though that exchange had set the tone for the evening it passed in a state of armed guardedness which made Tara’s skin prickle with tension. And to think she had come away this weekend to try and relax! She was beginning to think she might have been better off with Chas after all. Her expression must have betrayed her, because Alec teased suddenly, ‘Where did you go—you looked almost wistful?’

‘I was thinking of Chas,’ Tara said without thinking. ‘I was supposed to spend the weekend with him.’ She was about to add that they had been going to work when she saw James’s cynical grimace, contempt darkening his eyes as he murmured for her ears alone, ‘What was that you were saying before dinner? It’s always advisable when you tell lies to at least remember some of them.’

‘Thanks,’ Tara replied sweetly in the same low voice. ‘I take it you’re speaking with the benefit of experience.’

It was worse, far worse than she had imagined it could be, she acknowledged shakily when they were all sitting in the drawing room. Alec had insisted on pouring her a large brandy, and that, on top of the wine they had had with the meal, had combined to make her feel distinctly lightheaded. Tomorrow the first thing she was going to do was to make some excuse for returning home. There was simply no way she could endure another twenty-four hours in James’s company. How dare he look at her with such contempt and loathing, such derision, when she was the one with the grievance, with the right to feel those emotions? Tara drank her brandy slowly. The rich warm liquid fired the anger burning up inside her. Quite when anger turned to drowsiness she didn’t know. One moment she had been listening in a desultory fashion to the conversation between Alec and James. Alec, it was apparent, held James in high regard—Sue had gone to see Mrs Barnes about the arrangements for breakfast—and the next waves of drowsiness were sweeping over her, drowning out the low hum of male voices until consciousness faded.

In some dim and distant fashion Tara was aware of being lifted and carried, of a warm comforting sound against her ear, like the echo of a sea-shell found on the beach. For the first time in years she felt warm and safe. She murmured something in her sleep, curling inwards to the source of the warmth, muttering protestingly as the warmth was removed.

‘Tara.’ The coolly firm male voice was familiar and not to be ignored. Reluctantly she opened her eyes, shock widening them and darkening the pupils to jade as she realised that she was lying fully dressed on her bed with James leaning over her.

‘Relax,’ he told her sardonically as she tensed and edged away. ‘You’re quite safe.’ The cynical look in his eyes brought a vivid flush of colour to her pale cheeks. ‘Or perhaps that’s it,’ James said softly, studying her rich colour with hard eyes. ‘Perhaps you don’t want to be safe, eh, Tara?’

‘Get out of my room.’ Even to her own ears her voice sounded shaky rather than firm. ‘Just get out,’ she reiterated huskily.

When he had gone she lay staring at the ceiling, forcing herself not to remember how it had felt to be held in his arms, but the moment she closed her eyes it swept over her in shuddering waves; the sensation of being held close to him, of being safe. With a tortured groan Tara rolled over, trying to blot out the memories.

* * *

‘After we’ve had breakfast, I’m going to take Misty for a walk by the lake,’ Simon announced proudly over his cornflakes. Tara smiled at him, mentally wondering just what sort of pressure she was going to be subjected to once they got home concerning the addition of a puppy to their household.

‘Oh, that reminds me, James,’ Sue murmured, ‘There was a phone call for you this morning.’ She pulled a slight face as she turned to Tara, ‘A neighbour of ours, who seems to have attached herself to James.’

‘Yes, I believe we met her yesterday,’ Tara responded, allowing herself a tight smile. ‘They make a very… well matched couple.’

She could tell that James was looking at her, but she refused to return it. Much to her amazement Mandy, despite James’s rejection of her the previous evening, was doing her level best to engage his attention.

Tara watched them out of the corner of her eye, burningly resentful when James tried to ignore Mandy’s beguiling smiles. Was it because Mandy was her daughter? she wondered bitterly. Poor little Mandy, she had no idea of her handicap.

‘I’m going for a walk after breakfast,’ Mandy announced to James. ‘Do you like going for walks?’

‘Mr Harvey is far too busy to go for walks with little girls,’ Tara interrupted hastily, trying to divert Mandy’s attention, but the little girl clung to the subject like a limpet.

‘Why not?’ she demanded with enquiring eyes. ‘Doesn’t he like little girls?’

‘She certainly knows how to load her questions, doesn’t she?’ Sue murmured under her breath to Tara. ‘And will you look at James? Game, set and match to Mandy in one go, I believe!’

A sudden wail from Piers saved James from having to reply, and watching him hold the little boy as Sue retrieved the toy her son had flung to the floor, Tara felt a sharp pain stabbing through her. While his own children were ignored and unwanted James lavished time and affection on Susan’s little boy. Telling herself that she was being ridiculous, Tara got up abruptly. She was glad James would be going out, that would make it much easier for her to make her excuses to Sue and leave early. She could pack their things while the twins went for their walk.

‘Don’t worry about them, they’ll be quite safe in the garden,’ Sue assured her.

From her window Tara had an excellent view of the garden and the attractive lily-strewn pool. Guessing that Sue would be busy with her son for some time after breakfast, she decided to wait for half an hour or so before broaching the subject of their departure. She was packing the twins’ case when something drew her to the window. Glancing out of it, she studied the countryside. One could forget how fresh and green everything was, living in London. If her dream ever came true and she was able to set up her own business it would be somewhere quiet; some small market town where Simon could have a dog and… A dog! Her heart suddenly thudded heavily as she saw Misty rushing excitedly into the pool after an inaccurately thrown stick. The dog was paddling vigorously, its golden tail sweeping the still water. A terrible sense of dread suddenly swept over Tara, and her blood turned to ice as some sixth sense kept her glued to the window, sick terror rising up inside her as she saw Mandy’s familiar dungaree-clad frame wading purposefully after the dog. She opened her window and called, but it was obvious that the little girl couldn’t hear her.

Filled with sick panic, Tara flung open her door and ran swiftly downstairs. The dog had been swimming, not paddling, and Mandy wasn’t much taller than the labrador.

Thoughts, wild and terrible, flashed through her mind in the precious minutes it took her to race down the path towards the lake, her heart pounding like a drum, the same refrain falling over and over again from tense lips, ‘Please God, don’t let any harm come to her, please, please God!’

Sue and Alec, alerted by her frantic race through the house, were somewhere behind her, but when Tara reached the pool there was no sign of the blue dungarees or the dark-haired little girl. Fear clawed at her, icy terror flooding through her veins.

‘Mum, over here!’ She responded automatically to Simon’s high-pitched cry, turning towards the sound.

Some bushes shielded him from her view. She pushed past them, careless of scratches on her arms and legs. Simon was standing on the grass behind the bushes. Lying at his side was a wet and obviously chastened Misty and several yards away lay a tiny limp figure like a boneless rag doll, a tall man on his haunches beside her, jeans plastered wetly to his legs as he bent over her tiny figure.

‘Mandy!’

The cry was torn from her lips, as Sue and Alec reached her, Sue’s arm going protectively round her shoulders.

‘James?’

There was an urgent question in Alec’s voice as he hurried across the grass.

‘She’s all right,’ James assured them without turning. ‘Just shocked and frightened. She didn’t realise the water was so deep. She saw Misty go in…’

Tara shuddered and broke free of Sue to go and kneel beside Mandy’s prone form. ‘I know,’ she said huskily. ‘I saw it all from my window; I guessed what was going to happen, but there wasn’t a thing I could do…’

‘Mandy wanted to get Misty’s stick,’ Simon interpolated in an uncertain voice. ‘It was floating away.’

How many times had she warned them against the dangers of water? Tara wondered tiredly, but it was no use blaming the twins. The blame was hers. If anything had happened to Mandy! She shuddered deeply. If she hadn’t been so wrapped up in her own thoughts, so selfishly determined to put as much distance between James and herself as she could… Mandy stirred and opened her eyes.

‘Mandy!’ Tears rose in Tara’s eyes, as her self-control threatened to give way. ‘I’ll take her upstairs,’ she began, but it was James who lifted the slight body in his arms, his eyes unexpectedly tender, before he veiled his expression from her with lashes which she had always maintained were far too thick and long for any man.

‘There’s no need—’ she began formally, but Mandy herself overruled her by murmuring huskily, ‘No, Mummy, I want James to carry me.’

Upstairs in the twins’ bedroom James placed Mandy carefully on the bed.

‘I’ll get Doctor Lewis out just to take a look at her,’ Sue announced.

The blue dungarees were filthy and soaking, and Tara stripped them off, running a bath in the adjacent bathroom. A subdued and worried Simon had crept into the room and was sitting down watching Mandy’s pale face.

James turned to go, but Mandy started to protest so much that he turned back.

‘I want James to give me, my bath,’ Mandy announced. There was a hectic flush on her cheeks, and fresh alarm flared as Tara saw it.

‘James has got to go out,’ Tara reminded her. ‘And you haven’t thanked him yet for rescuing you. I still don’t understand how you managed to get there before me,’ she told him. ‘I was watching from my bedroom.’

‘So was I,’ James told her grimly, ‘but I used the backstairs—much quicker. It’s all right,’ he told her when Mandy made another plea for his company, ‘I’m not going out, as it happens. Come on, young lady!’ He scooped Mandy up in his arms and, watching him, Tara could almost have believed she had imagined the dislike with which he had looked at the little girl only the previous day.

When Doctor Lewis arrived he pronounced Mandy to be suffering from nothing more than too much pond water and mild shock. ‘Kids are blessedly resilient,’ he told Tara sympathetically, eyeing her pale cheeks. ‘Far less vulnerable than we tend to think, although they can tend to play up a bit. I dare say they’ll give you more than the odd grey hair before they’re done,’ he added to James with a grin.

Shock wrenched through Tara, her eyes widening and fastening on James’s as he frowned slightly. With every thud of her heart she expected the doctor to comment on the likeness between James and Simon, so absurdly his father in miniature that Tara couldn’t believe James himself couldn’t see it, but to her relief he said nothing. Although when Sue had escorted the doctor back downstairs, Simon frowned consideringly and said questioningly, ‘Why did the doctor think James was our daddy? Doesn’t he know we haven’t got one?’

‘I don’t think he does, darling.’ Tara bent down, ruffling the dark hair, keeping her face deliberately averted from James.

‘I wish we did have a daddy,’ Simon sighed wistfully. ‘If we had a daddy we could live in the country and have a dog.’

‘I can’t honestly see Chas Saunders providing either of those requirements,’ James murmured dulcetly in Tara’s ear as he turned to leave the room. ‘Can you?’

The warmth of his breath against her ear caused her to shiver faintly. Now that the ordeal was over and Mandy was safe reaction had set in. Her legs felt like jelly, the cessation of adrenalin being pumped into her veins inducing a lethargic and shivery sensation that made her long to lie down on her own bed.

The atmosphere during lunch was slightly subdued. At least she need not fear that Sue would repeat her invitation, Tara thought inwardly, toying with the delicious seafood salad Mrs Barnes had prepared without the enthusiasm the food warranted.

‘When I think what might have happened!’ Sue commented, shuddering as she voiced all their thoughts. ‘I won’t be able to rest until that pool is filled in, Alec.’

‘You need eyes in the back of your head with kids about,’ Alec agreed, bending to grin at Simon. ‘Kids and dogs, who’d have them?’

For Simon’s sake Tara was trying to behave as normally as she could.

After lunch she excused herself to slip upstairs and check on Mandy, who was still sleeping, and when she returned, to her surprise she heard Simon’s voice coming from the library, the high-pitched boyish tones mingling with the deeper, more measured timbre of James’s.

‘James is teaching me to play chess,’ Simon announced importantly when Tara put her head round the door.

‘And he’s proving an extremely adept pupil,’ James informed her, the smile he gave his son for a few brief seconds transporting her to the past to the James she had once known, although the smile was doused when he turned to her.

‘Did my daddy like chess?’ Simon asked her curiously.

Tara swallowed hard, dragging her eyes away from James’s lean fingers toying with one of the small black pawns, her whispered ‘Yes’, a brief whisper of sound. Dear God, she had thought she had known pain, but it had been nothing to this raw agony she was experiencing now. What was the matter with her? Was she still stupid enough to believe in fairy godmothers who had only to wave their magic wands and everything was rosy? What did she want? It was a question she daren’t answer, and one that haunted her all through the long afternoon.

It was a relief to go to bed and know that in the morning she would be returning to London with the weekend safely behind her. Apart from the trauma of Mandy’s accident it had raised too many ghosts, brought too much fresh pain. With sudden terrible clarity she remembered those first few seconds when she had seen Mandy lying on the grass; when James had moved towards her, grasping her arms, his grip somehow comforting and reassuring; her body turning traitor as it responded instinctively to the lean masculinity of the hands gripping her arms.

CHAPTER SIX

SOME time during the early hours Mandy’s thin, high-pitched cry brought her from sleep, her reactions automatic as she hurried towards the twins’ room.

The bedroom door was already open when she reached it, but that fact didn’t register until she was inside and saw the tall male figure bending over the narrow single bed.

‘Mummy!’ Silently, Tara took the precious weight of her daughter from James, rocking her much as she had done when she was a baby. Mandy’s crying had woken Simon, who was sitting up in bed, rubbing sleepily at his eyes.

It took half an hour to settle Mandy back in bed and asleep. James had slipped away quietly while Tara was talking to Mandy, soothing and comforting her.

‘It was all dark and wet, Mummy,’ Mandy told her, shivering, ‘and I thought I was never going to escape…’

Making sure that both twins were asleep, Tara switched off the light and hurried back to her own room. Once there she couldn’t sleep. A warm bath would help to relax her, she decided, but later, sheathed in her silk negligee set, droplets of water gleaming on her skin, Tara acknowledged that she was no nearer sleep, her nerves were still tense. There was a brief tap on her bedroom door and as she swung round it opened to admit James, a beaker in one hand.

‘A malted drink,’ he informed her, proffering the beaker. ‘I heard you moving about and guessed you were having trouble getting to sleep. It must be hard for you, trying to bring up the twins on your own,’ The terse admission touched the inner core of pain she tried so hard always to deny, her fingers trembling as she took the beaker and thanked him coolly.

‘Look—’ He raked angry fingers through his hair,
his expression bitter and compressed. ‘We’re both adults now, Tara,’ he said grittily, ‘we both inhabit the same league—for God’s sake can’t we at least make an effort to treat one another as normal human beings?’

His words caught her off guard. She turned, to hide her expression from him, and stumbled awkwardly against him, her foot catching in the hem of the skirt. He reached instinctively to catch her, steadying her, mockery lightening his eyes as he drawled softly, eyeing the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, ‘Quite takes me back. Remember?’ He had removed the beaker from her nerveless fingers and Tara shuddered deeply, wrenching her eyes away from the mesmerising scrutiny of his.

‘You might not have changed, James,’ she told him thickly, trying to control her shallow breathing, ‘but I have.’

‘Meaning?’

There was an ominous ring to the word, but Tara refused to heed it. Every instinct she possessed screamed to her to bring this scene of intimacy to an immediate end.

‘Meaning I don’t want you near me… touching me,’ she added huskily, underlining the words by withdrawing from him.

Savage fingers clamped round her arms, the dark blue eyes as cold and hard as steel.

‘Oh, you don’t, do you?’ he murmured softly. ‘Well, let’s just see how true that statement is, shall we?’

Fear caught her by the throat; a different fear from the one she had experienced this morning, but equally paralysing. She tried to take a step backwards, gasping as her thin silk robe parted, leaving her exposed to the cynical cruelty of his gaze. Ice blue eyes moved insolently over the soft curves of her breasts, the delicate rise and fall of the fine lace covering them more an enticement than a barrier to the steely probing glance.

Tara reached instinctively for the lapels of her gown, but James’s free hand grasped her wrists, forcing them down with a painfully harsh grip, his soft, ‘No need for modesty—not where we’re concerned, surely?’ bringing a sick shudder to her slender frame.

His fingers probed the area already scorched by his eyes, flicking aside the fragile protection of her robe to expose the slender curves of her body in the pale sea green nightgown.

‘Silk,’ James drawled admiringly, wringing a fresh shudder from Tara as his thumb rubbed sensuously against the fabric covering her breast. ‘There are generally only two reasons why women wear expensive nightwear,’ he commented sardonically, ‘and they are either because it was a gift from some doting male, or because they hope to use it to entice a lover. I wonder which is true in your case, Tara?’

‘Neither,’ she told him furiously. ‘It was given to me by one of Chas’s clients and I don’t…’ Just in time she caught herself back from admitting that she didn’t have a lover to wear the nightgown for; had never had a lover, apart from him.

‘You don’t what?’ James sneered. ‘Adorn yourself in silk and satin for the delectation of your lovers? I wouldn’t have thought a woman of your experience would make a mistake like that. Haven’t any of them ever told you how arousing it can be undressing one’s lover?’

‘I suppose you’re speaking from experience,’ Tara grated at him, forcing herself to stand rigid without betraying her body’s reaction to its close proximity to his. ‘I suppose a man like you would need that kind of deliberate titillation to…’

‘To what?’ James mocked. ‘Stimulate my flagging desires? Don’t bank on it, Tara,’ he warned her.

With a tremendous effort Tara managed to summon all her flagging willpower, desperation lacing her voice as she said huskily, ‘Look, James, I think this has gone far enough. I’m tired, and… and I’d like you to leave my room, or…’

‘Or what?’ he goaded her. ‘You’ll scream? I think not.’

He bent his head, the soft words stirring the tendrils of hair curling across her forehead, and Tara froze, her throat locked and aching.

‘Well, Tara?’

She stared up at him wildly, still unable to believe what was happening. He was like some dark catalyst, disturbing the even pace of her life, forcing to the surface all the dark, swirling currents she had fought successfully to subdue.

‘James, no!’ Her hoarse moan only invoked a bitter grimace, the dark blue eyes boring into hers as he paused purposefully, before sliding his hands upwards to grip her shoulders and bending his head to brush his lips tauntingly across the quivering softness of hers while she lay against him, totally incapable of offering the resistance her mind was urging upon her.

‘What an excellent actress you are, my dear,’ James murmured against her mouth. ‘If I didn’t know better I’d say you were still that untouched child I…’

‘Destroyed?’ Tara said bitterly, gasping with pain as she tried to draw away, and his fingers dug into her shoulders, wincing as his face darkened, his mouth curving cruelly as he reached for the fragile straps of her nightgown, sneering,

‘Very effective, but a waste of time. I know you, Tara, and I happen to possess an excellent memory. How long was it, by the way, before you married the twins’ father? They’re six, so Sue told me. Scarcely a good augur of your fidelity, I venture to suggest. You couldn’t have married him much more than six months after you’d sworn eternal love for me.’

‘I never loved you,’ Tara lashed out at him, driven by merciless pain to inflict similar wounds to him to those which had just rent her, although logic told her that he was impervious to anything she could possibly say to him. ‘I was a foolish child…’

‘Who turned into a woman in my arms,’ James told her smokily. A muscle clenched suddenly in his jaw as he added with a controlled violence that shocked her, ‘Did you tell him that he wasn’t going to be the first, Tara, and why? Or didn’t he care?’

‘Should he have done?’ Her fear fell from her as anger beat up hotly inside her. ‘Couldn’t he have loved me as a person? But then I suppose that’s something outside your experience,’ she added quietly. ‘You aren’t capable of feeling that sort of emotion, are you, James?’

The look in his eyes frightened her. She took an involuntary step backwards, which was a mistake as it brought her up against the bed. The smile curling James’s mouth possessed a wolfish ferocity that sent fresh fear spiralling through her.

‘Perhaps it’s time I reminded you exactly what kind of emotion I can feel,’ he threatened softly, his hands grasping her waist and then moving slowly up her body until he was cupping her breasts.

Tara hardly dared to breathe. Her heart seemed to be fluttering in her rib cage like a trapped bird. His hands burned through the thin silk, and to her horror she could feel the instinctive swelling of her breasts and knew that James was aware of it as well. His hands left her breasts and as though she were watching a film in slow motion Tara watched him take the fragile neckline of the pale silk and rip it savagely from neck to hem, exposing the pearly outline of her body to his vulpine gaze.

‘James!’ Her husky protest went ignored as his hands slid over her shoulders and down her back, the hard pressure of his thighs burning against her.

His mouth fastened on hers, depriving her of breath, reinforcing his superior strength. This was not the man she had loved, Tara admitted numbly as her swollen lips were forced apart and cruel fingers captured her breast. She moaned deep in her throat, trapped between the bed and James, every feeble effort she made to escape bringing her into more intimate contact with the arrogantly male contours of his body. Her bruised lips were released, but James did not set her free.

‘What’s the matter, Tara?’ he goaded. ‘Afraid that you aren’t as indifferent to me as you’d like to think?’

Tara laughed bitterly. ‘Aren’t I?’ she mocked. ‘Can’t your vanity take the fact that you can’t arouse me?’

‘No?’ Too late Tara realised her mistake. The hands which had held her with bruising ferocity relaxed their grip. ‘We’ll just see about that, shall we?’

A quiver of alarm shivered through her, but Tara was determined not to give in, forcing herself to ignore the sensual seduction in the way James slid his hands over her body, moulding her to him, bending his head…

Compressing her lips, she averted her head, but once again James was too clever for her and the descending mouth touched not on her closed lips but on the sensitive flesh of her neck, moving erotically over the spot where a tiny giveaway pulse had started to hammer rapidly. His mouth moved sensually along her shoulder and Tara felt herself being forced backwards on to the bed. It dipped protestingly beneath their combined weight, sensations she had almost forgotten existed rushing over her as the hard compact male frame covered her nakedness, the brush of the dark hairs covering James’s chest and exposed by the opening of his robe acutely sensitising the tender flesh of her breasts and arousing emotions she had sworn never to give way to again.

‘Oh no, you don’t escape that way,’ James muttered savagely when she turned her head, stiffening her body. His fingers tightened in her hair, jerking her head painfully round and leaving her vulnerable to the possession of his mouth.

She had forgotten it was possible to feel like this, Tara thought dazedly; forgotten how overwhelming and powerful desire could be; how it could sweep aside logic and self-respect and build up into a vortex of need that sucked one down, devouring and possessing. James’s weight pinned her to the bed. A faint flush lay across the high cheekbones, and Tara knew with a sense of shock that he was angrily aroused and making no secret of the fact, no allowances for her innocence and youth, as he had done in the past. This time it almost seemed to give him a savage kind of pleasure to let her feel the hard maleness of his thighs and the desire that flamed hotly in his eyes. His hand cupped her breast, his thumb stroking deliberately against the soft pink nipple. Tara bit back a gasp at her body’s shaming reaction; at the swelling response of her flesh to his caress.

‘You want me, Tara,’ he told her thickly, ‘and God help me, I want you.’

As his lips brushed tantalisingly over the aroused centre of her breast, shudders swept her, a tidal wave of desire building up inside her, obliterating the intervening years. Suddenly she was seventeen again and desperately in love. In mindless reaction her hands locked behind James’s neck, her fingers buried in the thick darkness of his hair, her lips pressing hungry kisses on his skin as she felt his responsive shudder and gloried in the savagely possessive sweep of his hands over her body, willingly yielding up its treasures to his male domination. This time she made no attempt to avoid the heated urgency of his kiss on her body, arching naturally to the thrusting intimacy of his, her hands sliding inside his robe to caress the satin-smooth skin within, reaching for the loosely knotted belt.

Her movements were ruthlessly intercepted, with bruising pressure, contempt lacing James’s triumphant smile as he knelt over her, forcing her to submit to his cynical scrutiny, his measured, ‘Who can’t arouse you, Tara?’ drawl bringing a tinge of colour to her otherwise completely pale skin.

What had possessed her? She could scarcely believe what had happened.

‘Oh, don’t worry, I don’t imagine I’ve performed some miraculous feat,’ James told her. ‘I’ve no doubts at all that almost any sexually experienced male could arouse exactly the same reaction.’ He released her suddenly, grimacing with distaste. ‘I’ve proved my point—but don’t expect me to do the gentlemanly thing and give you the physical satisfaction your amoral little body so obviously desires. I read the papers, Tara,’ he added. ‘Chas Saunders and his sexual athletics get plenty of newspaper coverage.’

Tara could have denied his allegations, but sickness clung to the back of her throat, a heavy tiredness seeping through her. What did it matter what he thought? she asked herself bitterly. If he wanted to think she was one of Chas’s women then let him. She didn’t care what he thought about her—but she did, she was forced to admit half an hour after he had gone, leaving her dry-eyed and aching with misery. It was unfair, she thought bitterly. How could her body have betrayed her so easily? How could she have forgotten so quickly the humiliations of the past? The dull pain that nagged at her she tried to dismiss as mere unappeased sexual desire, but intelligence told her otherwise. Her reaction to James couldn’t simply be dismissed as merely a physical aberration. Listening to the regular chimes of the grandfather clock in the hall below, Tara was forced to admit the truth. No matter how much she might loathe and despise herself for it, she was still attracted to James, if only on a chemistry-based level which defied logic and intelligence. If mere sexual need had caused her reaction to him she would surely have experienced that need at least briefly during the seven years they had been apart, but she had not done so; not with Chas, not with anyone.

* * *

Heavy-eyed and drained, Tara forced herself to chat normally with Sue over breakfast. The younger girl was trying to persuade Tara to make another visit later in the month, but Tara steadfastly refused, pleading pressure of work. Mandy seemed to have recovered completely from her ordeal, although Tara was determined to keep her off school for a couple of days just to make sure. She was flirting outrageously with James, and just for a moment a shaft of jealousy pierced her. Tara was stunned. Jealous of her own daughter—a child? She could hardly believe it, and yet for all James’s attention to Mandy, Tara sensed that something inside him was held back. While the twins ate their breakfast Tara took the opportunity to ask Sue in a low voice if she had the number of a taxi firm.

‘A taxi?’ Sue stared at her. ‘But, Tara, what do you need a taxi for? Everything’s arranged. James will drive you back to London.’

‘There’s no need to put him to so much trouble,’ Tara demurred, her eyes clashing and locking with his across the width of the table, his smooth, ‘It’s no trouble, I have to drive to London anyway,’ making her clench her hands into small impotent fists. She would have thought he would jump at the opportunity to be rid of them, but for some machiavellian reason of his own he seemed determined to torment her still further.

‘Don’t you want to go with James?’ Simon enquired doubtfully when breakfast was over and she had taken the twins upstairs with her to put on their jackets. He was far too perceptive, she admitted to herself, too aware of adult undercurrents, and she was not sure it was good for him.

‘Not want to travel in a Rolls-Royce? Of course I do, silly!’ she said bracingly.

This time James made no demur when she slid into the back seat with the twins, and Tara ruthlessly suppressed what almost amounted to a stab of disappointment.

As they drew nearer to London, Mandy started to bombard James with questions, wanting to know where he lived and worked. He answered her patiently and yet his mouth was compressed. Tara could see it in the driving mirror. A hot wave of colour scalded her skin suddenly as she remembered how her mouth had touched it intimately—could it really only have been less than twenty-four hours ago?

Soon the familiarity of the London suburbs began to claim the twins’ excited attention. James remembered the street without needing directions and the Rolls came to a smooth halt outside their door.

Without a word he left his seat and came round to open their door, lifting Mandy from Tara’s side, the sleeve of his immaculately tailored business suit brushing against her bare arm, sending tiny frissons of awareness racing through her.

She wasn’t going to invite him in for a drink, she decided shakily as she slid towards the door. He was placing Mandy on her feet, but the little girl tugged on his sleeve as he released her, lifting her face trustingly as she demanded—and got—a kiss.

At her side Tara felt Simon wriggle impatiently. ‘Girls!’ he announced scornfully as James’s fingers curled warmly round Tara’s arm as he helped her out. ‘They’re soppy!’

‘Aren’t you going to kiss Mummy?’ Mandy demanded of James when they were all standing on the pavement, eyes rounding innocently as she looked from her mother’s flushed face to James’s set one.

‘You’re blushing,’ Simon accused Tara with mischievious glee. ‘Mandy, Mummy’s blushing!’

‘Stop it, you two,’ she commanded firmly. ‘Adults don’t go round kissing one another—both of you know that perfectly well.’

‘Uncle Chas kissed you,’ Mandy supplied trenchantly. ‘I saw him, when we were supposed to be in bed. I came down for a drink of water and he was kissing you.’

The look James gave her made her writhe in mortification. Tara could remember the incident quite vividly; Chas had come round unexpectedly one evening to discuss the following day’s shot—or so he had claimed. They had been sitting together on her shabby settee when he had abruptly taken her in his arms and started to kiss her. She had pushed him away almost immediately, but she had had no idea that Mandy had witnessed that brief, unwanted embrace.

‘God knows it’s none of my business,’ James said savagely to her in a low undertone, ‘but don’t you ever think of those kids instead of indulging in your own selfish pleasure, or do you want them to grow up knowing what you are and despising you for it? I’m not their father, but…’

Tara started to laugh hysterically. ‘That’s right,’ she told him in a high, almost unnatural voice. ‘You aren’t their father, and you aren’t my keeper!’ Before he could retaliate she pushed past him, shepherding the two curious children up the garden path. They hadn’t been near enough to catch the fiercely whispered exchange, but they were aware of some of the undercurrents flowing between the two adults. Not their father—God, if only he knew, Tara thought sickly when they were safely inside the house and the Rolls had moved smoothly away. And how dared he take that high moral tone with her when he was the one who had destroyed her innocence—no matter how freely she had given it—and who had then left her to the tender mercies of his wife; a woman who had derided and scorned her until she had stumbled from her presence weeping and humiliated, her pride torn to shreds and all her bright dreams for ever tarnished. And he had known, even encouraged Hilary to behave as she had—that was the thing she could never forgive. Lacking the courage to tell her that their brief affair was over, he had let Hilary do his dirty work for him, hiding behind the pretence of business affairs abroad, letting Hilary rip the bright fabric of her dreams into pitiful shreds. Tara writhed inwardly even now to remember how Hilary’s voice dripped venom as she told her how she and James had laughed about her pathetic adoration for him; how James had told her about their affair, deriding her innocence and inexperience.

‘Did you honestly think he meant any of it, you little fool?’ Hilary had mocked her. ‘My dear, James is a man, and like any other he’ll take what’s offered—especially when it’s offered as freely as your body was, but that’s all you were to him, my poor child—simply a body; a physical experience. Surely you must have realised that?’

And so Tara had left the house, her plea to James for counsel about the coming baby unspoken. It would have been hard enough to have confided in him believing he loved her, but knowing that she had been no more than a brief diversion; an amusement… Her pride had revolted, and even if James had been in England instead of America, and readily accessible, she knew that nothing would have dragged the truth from her.

CHAPTER SEVEN

FOR some reason Tara found it hard to settle back into her normal routine. Chas, as she had anticipated, was offhand and cutting with her on her first morning back at work, but she had learned to deal with his moods and for all his bouts of bad temper found him far easier to cope with than James. Perhaps because she was not emotionally involved, she admitted inwardly.

The twins too were taxing her patience. Both of them were now back at school, but Simon talked constantly of their weekend in the country while Mandy made constant references to James.

The situation came to a head one evening after they had been back for ten days. Tara had had to cope with a particularly aggravating Chas all day, his mood switching violently from sullen bitter silence to furious hectoring, coupled with an openly sexual harassment which had brought her own temper to boiling point,

Arriving late at school hadn’t helped. Over tea Simon was unusually withdrawn and quiet. Watching him push his food uneaten round his plate, Tara forced down her impatience, reminding herself that it wasn’t his fault that she had had a bad day.

‘Simon, what’s wrong?’ she asked him at last when Mandy had been excused from the table to go and watch a favourite television programme.

His stubbornly wooden, ‘Nothing’, accompanied by evasive eyes and pushed-out bottom lip, weren’t convincing, and real concern pierced her.

‘Come on,’ she said gently. ‘It can’t be that bad, can it? Have you had a quarrel with Davy?’

Davy was his closest friend at school, an angelic-looking blond youngster with a fearsomely deceptive smile and a highly developed magnetism towards mischief.

Simon’s brief, ‘No,’ wasn’t reassuring.

‘What is it, then?’ she probed.

‘Why haven’t we got a daddy?’

The unexpectedness of the question had her completely lost for words for a moment. The twins both knew the story of their ‘father’ and his death, and although he was rarely mentioned Tara had always answered any questions they had raised and had rather prided herself on her handling of the situation and their ready acceptance of it. Suddenly it seemed that she had been congratulating herself too soon.

‘Simon, you know why,’ she said as calmly as she could. ‘Your father was killed in an accident before you were born.’

‘So when we were born we didn’t have a daddy?’ Simon persisted.

Puzzled by his insistence, Tara went carefully over the story she had invented when she first came to London, pregnant and alone. She knew it off by heart and Simon listened impatiently. As soon as she had finished he burst out, ‘David Roberts says that children who don’t have fathers when they’re born are bastards.’

It was obvious that while Simon was unaware of the true meaning of the word he had just quoted, he knew that it conveyed some insult, and worse, set him apart from his peers.

Tara was at a loss to handle the situation. On more than one occasion she had lain sleepless at night wrestling with her conscience and with the fairness of withholding from the twins the circumstances of their birth, especially as they grew older. She knew instinctively that they would want to seek a closer identity with their father when they were older—she would have done herself—but she had told herself that by lying to them she was saving them the inevitable heartbreak of being rejected by James, and the events of the weekend had only reinforced that decision. James had made it more than plain that he wished to remain aloof from them—and his attitude had hurt, which was ridiculous really—after all, he had no idea that they were his children. But even had he done so Tara could not envisage him acting any differently, there had been more than mere indifference in his behaviour, and she suspected his attitude sprang from the fact that they were her children.

Trying to sound as calm as possible, she gently reassured Simon, taking care to stress the fact that David Roberts had been wrong, without placing too much importance on the slur of illegitimacy.

‘Well, if we did have a daddy, why don’t we have any photographs of him?’ Mandy asked, having wandered in from the other room, and fixing her mother with accusing eyes so like her father’s that for a moment Tara felt almost flustered.

Her story had always been that hers had been a whirlwind courtship and marriage with her husband departing overseas almost immediately after the honeymoon, and so she was able to say quickly, ‘There just wasn’t time.’ Her mythical husband had supposedly been an orphan, a move which Tara had felt would satisfactorily explain away the lack of paternal family as the children grew, but coupled with the twins’ grudging acceptance of her story was guilt because she was lying to them, and not for the first time she questioned the wisdom of her decision to conceal from them the existence of their father.

‘I wish we did have a daddy,’ Mandy continued, obviously loath to let the subject drop, warming to her theme as she added innocently, driving the breath from Tara’s lungs, ‘One like Uncle James.’

Tara’s heart sank as she approached the school gates and saw Sue talking to the twins. Fond as she was of her friend she was not in the mood , for idle conversation. Chas’s mood had worsened with the week, and all she could do was say a heartfelt mental, ‘Thank God it’s Friday!’

Sue beamed when she saw her, her smile turning to a worried frown as she saw the tiredness and strain in her eyes.

‘Why, Tara,’ she exclaimed, ‘Aren’t you feeling well?’

‘I’m fine,’ Tara lied. ‘Just a little tired. Come on, you two,’ she instructed the twins, hoping that Sue would take the hint and not press the subject, ‘get in the car.’

‘We’ve been talking to Uncle James,’ Mandy announced blithely, unaware of the consternation her words caused her mother. ‘He came in his big car…’

‘And was outrageously flattered by your daughter,’ Sue informed Tara with a chuckle. ‘It seems he’s her number one candidate for a father.’

Fear and pain tightened a stranglehold on her throat, but somehow she managed to force a shaken smile.

‘I came a little early because I wanted to ask Mrs Ledbetter if I could take Piers out of school for two weeks next month. We’re going to the States to see Mother.’ Sue pulled a face. ‘A duty visit, I’m afraid—anyway, James was kind enough to drive me down. He’ll be here to pick me up shortly… Ah…’ her face broke into a smile, ‘here he is now.’

Tara froze as she turned and saw James advancing on them. He was dressed formally in a dark navy and wine business suit, oddly incongruous among the mothers and children in brightly coloured dungarees, tee-shirts and jeans. Mandy, who had been holding her hand, pulled away and before Tara could stop her she had launched herself on James, who, much to Tara’s astonishment, lifted her daughter from the ground and swung her up in his arms. Some sixth sense drew her attention to Simon, unnaturally still at her side, and her heart dropped as she saw the wistful, almost tremulous expression on his face as he watched James with Mandy. As though he too was aware of the little boy’s reaction, James put Mandy down and, totally ignoring Tara, and the possible damage to his clothes, dropped to his haunches in front of Simon so that they were on the same level, and asked him how he felt about a visit to the Zoo.

Simon’s face was radiant, and Tara had to stifle a swift stab of resentment that James should so easily charm her children.

‘You’ll have to blame me,’ Sue told her, obviously reading the annoyance in her eyes. ‘Alec and I have to go shopping before we leave for New York—you know Mother, I daren’t appear in anything but the very latest fashion or she’ll disown me, and James has very kindly agreed to play nursemaid for an afternoon tomorrow. We’d already decided that his best bet was probably the Zoo. Piers adores the penguins.’

Tara wanted to protest that James should have asked her before including the twins in the outing, but now the damage was done and she could not refuse without disappointing Simon.

‘You know why he’s doing this, don’t you?’ said Sue with another chuckle. ‘He wants reinforcements.’

For a moment Tara looked blank, and then enlightenment dawned. Sue was intimating that she too was included in the invitation. Anger, and something else she wasn’t prepared to acknowledge, sprang to life inside her and speaking without thinking Tara said coolly. ‘Then I’m afraid he’s going to be disappointed—I’ve got something else on tomorrow.’

‘Then we’ll just have to manage on our own, won’t we?’ said James smoothly, getting to his feet with lithe grace. He towered over her and Tara was forced to tilt back her head to look up at him as he asked, ‘What time shall I collect the twins? I thought we’d make an afternoon of it and include tea in the curriculum.’

Tara managed to stammer out a time, too mesmerised by the cobalt depths of his eyes to register anything else. No man had any right to possess such eyes, she thought despairingly; they saw too much, probed too deeply.

The sun suddenly broke through the clouds, dazzling her so much that she swayed. The hard warmth of the arm round her waist, the tangy smell of male aftershave as James steadied her, sent awareness of him rocketing through her, the brush of his jacket against the bare skin of her arm causing her to shiver with a heightened sensitivity that alarmed her.

Sue’s sudden spurt of laughter brought her back to earth. ‘Do look at Simon!’ she urged them. He was studying a small girl on the opposite side of the road, tiny blonde bunches of hair framing a pert little face. ‘Children are the most fantastic mimics,’ she whispered. ‘When he stands like that he’s the image of James. He must have picked it up over the weekend.’

An icy shiver turned Tara cold with fear. She couldn’t look at James; and she didn’t need to look at Simon. She was well aware of how like his father he was.

She must have managed to make an adequate response, because there was no visible reaction from either James or Sue. Calling the children to her, Tara hustled them towards her Mini, Simon still chattering excitedly about the unexpected treat to come. As she unlocked the small car something wholly outside her own control made her turn. Across the few yards that separated them her eyes met James’s hard stare. Shaken, Tara dragged her gaze away, trying not to give in to the waves of anxiety sweeping her.

She must be going mad, she decided as she drove home; she must be to think that there had been something even vaguely threatening in James’s expression. What possible reason could he have to threaten her? If anything the boot should be on the other foot.

The twins’ excitement mounted through the morning to fever pitch, so much so that Tara admitted to a faint feeling of relief when James finally arrived, Piers safely ensconced in the back seat of the Rolls.

She saw him walking up the path through the small front garden; heart thudding heavily against her ribs as she opened the door to him. Dressed in narrow black cord jeans, a matching shirt and a pale lemon blouson jacket in soft, expensive leather he looked years younger and less austere and yet somehow far more lethally sensual. His smile for the twins was warm and genuine, slashing virilely attractive grooves from nose to mouth. A treacherous weakness invaded her stomach as she watched him. What was the matter with her? Surely she wasn’t regretting refusing to go with them?

‘Ready?’

While the twins clamoured a noisy assent Tara enquired in stilted tones what time she should expect them back.

The look James gave her made her long to hurl something heavy and preferably dangerous at his head. Cynicism burned in the dark blue eyes, disdain etched in the sardonic curl of his mouth. Without a word being spoken he somehow managed to convey the impression that she had some ulterior reason for wanting to know the times of the twins’ return. Seething, she tried to control her anger as he told her coolly that it would be early evening before they returned, his mocking, ‘Long enough for whatever you might have in mind,’ striking sparks of anger in her own eyes.

The twins had been gone half an hour when Tara heard the knock on the door. She had been upstairs cleaning the windows, and groaned at the interruption, suspecting that it was more than likely to be the neighbour who kept an eye on the twins for her and whose husband, she knew, was an avid Saturday armchair sportsman.

Grimacing to herself, she hurried downstairs, flinging open the door, as she apologised for her ancient jeans and tee-shirt, her apologies coming to an abrupt halt as she saw Chas leaning laconically against the door frame, a huge bunch of hothouse roses in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other.

Her feeble, ‘Chas… What on earth…’ was silenced as he pushed her gently inside, following her in and closing the door behind him.

‘Where’s the terrible twosome?’ he enquired mock seriously, depositing the champagne on the hall table and following Tara through into the sitting room, with the roses.

‘Out,’ Tara told him vaguely. ‘But Chas, what on earth are you doing here and…’

‘Call it a small apology,’ he told her wryly. ‘I haven’t been the easiest person in the world to work with recently, and as one of the models commented to me yesterday, it would serve me right if I lost the best assistant I’ve ever had.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Only a tiny little thing as well—remember her, the kid we were using for the shoe shots?’

Tara did. A tiny elfin brunette with huge brown eyes and a pixie hairstyle whose size three feet were ideally suited for shoe modelling.

‘It seems I’m guilty of sexual harassment, among a whole host of other crimes, so I decided to take her advice and come round and offer a small peace-offering.’

Tara laughed, rescuing the roses. ‘If this is what you call a small peace-offering, I’d hate to think what a large one would be!’ she told him.

‘A weekend in Paris at least,’ Chas responded with a wicked grin. ‘Only somehow I don’t think it would have the desired effect.’

Feeling more at ease with him than she had done for some time, Tara laughed again.

‘Look, I’m sorry, Tara,’ he reiterated. ‘I have been giving you a bad time recently, I know. A combination of things if I’m honest—not least of which is your delectably sexy body. Okay, I know it’s a sexist remark,’ he admitted before she could speak, ‘but that’s the way I am. You’re a very desirable woman, and I found it as frustrating as hell having you working so closely with me and yet knowing that you’d turn a freezing look on me the moment I tried to make a pass. It didn’t do a lot for my ego, I can tell you, but I consoled myself with the fact that I probably wasn’t the only man you’d given the “touch me not” treatment. Anyway, what I’ve come round to say is simply that I’ve come to my senses if you like, and from now it will be strictly business between us—okay?’

Tara smiled at him, wondering with a sudden flash of intuition if a certain dainty, dark-haired model had anything to do with his sudden volte-face, but she was too wise to make any comment, and when Chas suggested they toast their new-found friendship in the champagne he had brought she did not demur, even though drinking Moët-Chandon at three o’clock in the afternoon wasn’t one of her normal habits.

It was five before Chas left. They had started to talk about work; and without the sexual innuendo which normally antagonised her so much she had found him such an interesting companion that Tara was barely aware of how much time had passed.

By the time he left she was beginning to feel quite lightheaded—the champagne bottle was two-thirds empty, and a couple of stubs from the thin cigars Chas smoked lay in the ashtray she had had to find for him; the rich smell pervading the room so that Tara was subtly aware of how very rare it was for her to entertain a man even in the most innocent way.

When he had gone she finished cleaning the windows and then decided to have a bath and wash her hair before the twins returned. The arrangement was that Sue would bring them back, so after her bath Tara simply pulled on clean underwear, jeans and a sweat-shirt, leaving her damp hair to dry naturally.

She was just beginning to pick up the threads of a complicated family saga—a book she had received as a Christmas present and which was still unread—when the doorbell rang. Glancing at her watch, Tara frowned. It was barely six o’clock.

She opened the front door expecting to see Sue and the twins outside, but to her dismay only James stood there, still wearing the same clothes she had seen him in earlier in the afternoon, the dark jeans and shirt giving him a faintly dangerous, look in the gathering dusk.

Her first thought when she realised he was alone was that some accident had befallen the twins, but before she could voice her fears, James was inside the house, closing the door behind him, assuring her calmly that they were perfectly all right.

‘Sue and Alec were delayed, and so instead of eating at the Zoo Sue’s taking them to a McDonalds. We tried to ring you, but couldn’t get through, and as she was concerned that you might be worried, I volunteered to come round and soothe your maternal fears. It seems I needn’t have bothered.’ His eyes were resting on Chas’s cigar stubs and the almost empty bottle of champagne, and to her annoyance Tara felt herself flush. Cynicism darkened his eyes and she longed to refute the accusations lying heavy but unspoken in the silence between them.

‘I’m sure you must have plans of your own for the evening,’ Tara managed pointedly.

‘Meaning that you have?’ James countered softly, crossing the room and picking up the receiver of the telephone, which Tara realised she must have accidentally knocked because it was already partially off the stand, explaining why Sue hadn’t been able to get through to her.

‘A sensible precaution,’ James murmured sardonically. ‘Are you expecting the same “friend” who visited you this afternoon to pay a return call, or.…’

Tara didn’t let him finish.

‘For your information,’ she burst out angrily, ‘my visitor hapened to be my employer. He came round to…’

‘To drink champagne with you and bring you roses?’ said James in a voice icy with venom. ‘But of course. Quite natural behaviour in an employer. God, Tara, I’d thought better of you,’ he told her, his mouth curling fastidiously. ‘I can understand that you want a man in your life—after all, you’re a very sensual woman—but Chas Saunders of all people! God, have you no pride? Don’t you mind sharing his bed with every little model girl who catches his eye?’

‘In this house the bed is mine,’ Tara pointed out with syrupy sweetness, controlling her growing fury, ‘so the question doesn’t really arise.’

‘Then perhaps it ought to,’ James gritted at her. ‘Perhaps it’s time you gave him a taste of his own medicine. I can’t believe you’ve become spineless enough to let him flaunt his little affairs in front of you… God knows he makes them public enough!’

‘Thanks for the concern!’ Tara felt a rush of bitter anger. How dared he stand there and lecture her, criticise Chas, when he… ‘Or is it really as altruistic as it seems?’

The look of murderous anger in his eyes made Tara realise she had gone too far. She stepped backwards, suppressing a small cry of fright as James’s hands tightened round the frail bones of her shoulders.

‘What are you trying to suggest?’ he asked softly. ‘That I want to share your bed myself? Why not? It would be an interesting exercise if nothing else—a study in comparisons; the girl you were and the woman you’ve become. Although I suppose you’re going to tell me that if your husband hadn’t died you’d never have got involved with a man like Saunders. Strange how women always blame the man!’

Tara tried to respond, but her mouth had gone dry. Tiny beads of perspiration gathered on her skin, fear coiling sickly through her stomach, a fear that was shot through with a peculiar sort of excitement. Nauseous disgust rose up inside her. What was the matter with her? Did she really find the thought of James making love to her arousing? She shivered beneath the crushing grip of his hands, wanting to find the words which would break the spell which seemed to hold her in thrall and yet somehow unable to find them, and then with a tiny inarticulate cry she pulled free of him and ran headlong up the stairs, a petrified creature in flight, unaware of where she was going, only knowing that she must at all costs escape from the menace of her pursuer.

Her bedroom offered frail sanctuary. The champagne glass she had brought upstairs with her and emptied while she was taking her bath—with a ridiculous feeling of depravity—was empty on the bedside table. She stared at it blindly, gasping with shock as she heard the soft footfall behind her and the ominous click of the door. She swung round, eyes widening in outrage. James leaned laconically against the closed door. He had discarded his jacket and his skin gleamed silkily bronze in the vee-necked opening of his shirt. Her eyes slid helplessly from broad shoulders down to a narrow waist and lean hips, stopping short in burning confusion.

‘What are you doing up here?’ she managed in a husky voice. ‘Please go…’

‘You ran, I followed,’ James interrupted smoothly. ‘That’s the way the game goes, isn’t it?’ His glance sharpened suddenly and he crossed the room, lifting the glass, his lips curling back from his teeth.

‘Very romantic,’ he sneered. ‘A glass of champagne shared in the aftermath of love—or to give it its proper name—lust!’

‘Something you’re an expert on!’ Tara flung at him, all caution leaving her as her anger welled up inside her, her protests silenced by the swift capture of her arms; the lethal menace in eyes no longer blue but dark, deep pools of rage.

‘What are you trying to do, Tara?’ James mouthed softly against her ear. ‘Provoke me, or arouse me?’

‘Neither,’ Tara denied, trying to pull away from him, hating the weak, draining sensation spreading through her body; the overwhelming longing to melt against the male form behind her, to be lifted in James’s arms and…

A deep shudder ran through her, and as though her thoughts were crystal clear to him James turned her slowly in his arms, threading his fingers through the newly washed softness of her hair, his lips a mere breath away as he murmured almost to himself, ‘Why not… why the hell not?’ and then his lips were brushing hers, lightly, almost tentatively, playing on her quivering flesh like an expert on a finely tuned instrument, knowing where and how to draw the most exquisite pleasure from it. Shudder after shudder exhausted her; a mindless, powerful pleasure sweeping over her, her body overturning her will, responding to a mastery it recognised and craved.

Thoughts, half formed and wildly unreasonable, fluttered in her mind like so many moths beating their wings uselessly.

‘Tara.’

Her name was a whispered sigh, felt rather than heard, her lips quivering beneath the sensual brush of skin against skin. James’s fingers slid from her hair to her throat, stroking sensuously, wild pulses leaping to life in flesh that traitorously rejoiced in his touch.

‘Tara, Tara, you’re a witch, you bewitch me,’ James groaned against her throat, tugging impatiently at her sweat-shirt. ‘Seven years…’ Beneath the fleecy fabric of her shirt his palm shaped her breast, dragging a reluctant groan from her throat.

Somehow her hands were inside his shirt, trembling against the musky warmth of his body, shaping the taut bones of his shoulders, her body trembling as his teeth nibbled erotically at the tender flesh of her neck.

A tinge of colour darkened James’s skin. It seemed to burn to Tara’s touch. She felt his hand on the waistband of her jeans, and common sense told her she ought to protest, but the hard muscularity of his body against hers, the heated pressure of his thighs, all combined to overrule her innate caution and the sensuous writhing of her body against the tautly male contours covering it brought a jerked protest from James’s lips before they were buried against hers, tasting the inner sweetness of her mouth.

Her jeans and shirt fell disregarded to the floor, the hardness of James’s hands as he moulded her lissom femininity against the fierce heat of his thighs burning into her like a brand, his dark head bending to the creamy hollow between her breasts.

His muttered, ‘God, Tara,’ sent tiny, explosive waves of response shuddering through her, her body pliant in his arms as he dropped on to her bed, taking her with him.

‘Tara…’ His voice was hoarse, forcing apart her closing eyelids, making her focus on the darkly aroused face. ‘Undress me,’ he commanded huskily. ‘Before, you were too shy, too… unknowing, so nervous in my arms that I was terrified of hurting you, but now we meet as equals, capable of giving equal pleasure.’ His hand reached for the brief laciness of her bra, unclipping it to expose the creamy contours of her breast with their rosy aureole, his quick, sharp breath shivering across her already aroused flesh. When he bent his head to touch his lips to first one hardening nipple and then the other pleasure surged through her in a wave that was almost painful in its intensity; almost too much to endure as he repeated the caresses with growing urgency, his body hardening against her in unashamed arousal.

Lean fingers stroked softly over the gentle swell of her stomach and painful emotion shivered through her.

‘Tara, I want you… don’t make me wait too long,’ James muttered against her skin. ‘You’re a woman now, not a girl, and…’

‘And that means you can take what you want from me?’ Tara demanded bitterly as his words sank in. Anger and remorse filled her. What a fool she had been, to be so easily beguiled by the desires of her own flesh—no, not simply her flesh, she admitted with a sinking heart, but her mind and heart as well. Her reaction to James hadn’t changed at all, nor the reason for it. Brought face to face with that knowledge, she was forced to admit to herself why she had rebuffed all the men who had approached her; why she had refused to allow any other man into her life—she still loved James. Loved him and resented him for his callous desertion of her, and now he was back, making it plain that while he despised her, he wasn’t immune to her body. She would be a fool if she fell into that trap again.

He felt her body stiffen and raised himself on his elbows, staring into her eyes, desire giving way to biting contempt as he enunciated with icy cynicism, ‘So that’s the kind of game you like to play, is it? I think I preferred you as you were…’

He was up on his feet, his back to her as he tucked his shirt into his jeans, turning swiftly as she reached for her sweat-shirt, disdainful eyes raking the slender vulnerability of her body.

‘Why did you encourage me to follow you up here? So that you could turn me down? You needn’t have bothered,’ he told her insultingly. ‘Sooner or later I’d have remembered that taking you means taking something that’s been had by God knows how many others before me—and desirable though you are, I’ve discovered a certain fastidiousness that prevents me from fully enjoying your undoubted charms.’

His lips curled back from his teeth as he watched her, lying stricken like a wounded doe, unable to take in the enormity of his insults. He had reached the door before she recovered her voice, her bitter, ‘A very recent fastidiousness, I would venture to suggest—it certainly didn’t worry you when you married Sue’s mother…’
‘Why, you…’

For a moment Tara thought he was actually going to strike her and cowered back, fear mirrored in her eyes, but with an almost superhuman effort he seemed to gather himself together to thrust out of the room, leaving her alone as she listened to his footsteps descending the stairs, and the harsh slam of the front door, followed within seconds by the soft purr of the Rolls.

CHAPTER EIGHT

SPRING had given way to summer; in his newly relaxed mood Chas had made no demur when Tara had asked him for time off to be with the twins during the holidays. Today he was in a particularly good mood, she reflected as she heard him whistling in the other studio and wondered now much his benign humour had to do with his growing relationship with Nina, the petite dark-haired model.

He had brought her round to see Tara only the previous weekend, grinning as foolishly as any teenager, and Tara had a strong suspicion that his bachelor days were numbered. At Nina’s insistence he had brought the twins a present each; a complicated building kit for Simon and a nurse’s outfit for Mandy. As always the twins had been cool towards Chas, although they had both taken Nina to their hearts.

‘Doing anything special tonight?’ Chas enquired as she went into the studio to tell him that she was on the point of leaving. When she shook her head he muttered something to the effect that he might call round later, although he didn’t say why.

Tara had planned to spend some of the summer holiday with her family, but when she reached home there was a letter waiting for her from her aunt telling her that their plans had had to be cancelled owing to the fact that her uncle had suffered a minor heart attack.

A brief phone call to her aunt assured Tara that her uncle’s condition was not too serious, but of course it was out of the question to visit him with two boisterous children, and her heart sank as she replaced the receiver.

She was still feeling depressed when Chas arrived, grinning from ear to ear as she let him into the house.

‘What’s wrong?’ he demanded as she made him a cup of tea. ‘You look as though you’ve lost a tenner and found ten pence.’

Briefly Tara explained. ‘The children get bored cooped up here all through the long summer holiday, and Simon in particular enjoys staying in the country.’

‘Can’t you wangle another few days with that friend of yours?’ Chas suggested, eyeing her thoughtfully when she shook her head with vehemence. Tara felt sure that Sue would generously welcome a visit from them, but there was no way she wanted to stay with her friend again as long as there was the slightest chance that she might see James. Her face burned as she remembered their last confrontation. And to make matters worse the twins never tired of singing his praises.

‘Hmm, well, perhaps this has arrived just in the nick of time,’ Chas suggested, handing her a plain thick, white envelope with her name scrawled across the front.

Puzzled, Tara took it from him, putting down her mug of tea as she turned the envelope experimentally in her hands.

‘Come on, open it,’ Chas demanded impatiently. ‘It won’t bite!’

Slowly she did as he instructed. Inside the envelope was a piece of matching notepaper folded in half. A cheque fluttered out as she opened it and fell to the floor.

Totally bemused, Tara bent down and picked it up, her eyes widening as she saw the amount and her own name inscribed on it.

‘Before you say a word, it’s a bonus you’ve well and truly earned,’ Chas told her firmly. ‘Some of those shots you suggested for that last Vogue assignment were pure inspiration, and the commissions resulting from it ought to make me feel ashamed that that cheque isn’t twice the size it is.’

‘Chas…’ Words formed a tight lump in her throat and she spread her hands despairingly, knowing that tears weren’t far away.

‘Use it to give the kids and yourself a damn good holiday—you need it,’ Chas told her, adding wickedly, ‘Believe me, I’ll get more than my money’s worth back in the long run.’

It was silly to cry, but the cheque and Chas’s warmly friendly manner, both so very welcome after the traumas of the last few months, overwhelmed her.

Chas reacted automatically, providing one of the large soft handkerchiefs he invariably had to hand out to the models he reduced to tears, and taking her in his arms.

It was sheer luxury to sob weakly against his shoulder as though he were the brother she had never had, and she was forced to smother a small laugh when he exclaimed in avuncular tones, ‘Come on now, no more tears; you should be smiling, not crying.’

‘I am,’ Tara protested, proving it with a rather wobbly and watery grin.

‘Mummy…!’ Accusing blue eyes stared up at her as Mandy rushed into the kitchen and came to a standstill in front of her mother.

‘Why has Uncle Chas got his arms round you?’ she demanded critically, eyeing Chas with disfavour.

‘Mummy was feeling upset and I was kissing her better,’ Chas responded wickedly, deliberately teasing the little girl, raising his eyebrows expressively in Tara’s direction when Mandy frowned.

‘Something tells me I’m not altogether popular in that quarter,’ he murmured under his breath to Tara, when Mandy had retreated. ‘And by the way, who’s this Uncle James I’ve been hearing so much about?’

‘No one,’ Tara lied forcefully, flushing a little as Chas scrutinised her features closely, but to her relief he ventured no comment, simply saying that it was time he left as he was taking Nina out to dinner.

* * *

Armed with Chas’s very generous cheque, Tara spent her lunch hour the following day arranging for the twins and herself to spend a fortnight on the edge of Dartmoor, a venue which she felt offered equal attractions for both the twins; Simon would enjoy the moor and the wild life and Mandy the coast and the sleepy, quaint villages. She had been fortunate enough to be able to rent a small cottage not far from the coast, and even after allowing for all expenses there was still enough money left to equip the twins and herself fully for their holiday.

Shopping would have to wait for another day, she decided firmly as she glanced at her watch and saw how late it was. To make up the time she had spent shopping Tara decided to work later than normal. A phone call to her neighbour elicited a promise to collect the twins from school and keep an eye on them until her return home. Janice had a key for the house, and Tara had no qualms about leaving the twins in her care.

She was a little surprised by Janice’s flustered, almost bemused expression when she knocked on her front door later in the afternoon. Janice was a no-nonsense type, unflappable and possessed of a strong streak of Northern common sense.

‘My, my, you have been playing the dark horse, haven’t you?’ she grinned, rolling her eyes expressively as she led the way into her sitting room. ‘And no wonder! Where on earth did you find him?’ she added, further puzzling Tara. ‘He’s gorgeous enough to make me think twice about my Tom—and that takes some doing, I can tell you!’

Tara was just about to tell Janice she had no idea what she was talking about when movements in the garden caught her eye. Her heart dropped, furious anger mingling with disbelief as she saw the twins playing a bastardised game of football with James—a James, moreover, who appeared perfectly at home in Janice’s minute back garden wearing jeans and an open-necked shirt, his dark hair ruffled by the breeze and his exertions. As she watched Tara saw Mandy clamouring to be picked up, her face alight with pleasure as James swung her heavenwards in muscular dark arms. How dared he! she thought bitterly; how dared he seek to subvert her children’s affections, to alienate them from her by… By doing what? her conscience demanded sardonically. By playing with them? by behaving like the father he actually was?

It didn’t matter; he still had no right, her anguished heart protested—it was wrong, unfair of him to allow the twins to become so fond of him when his appearance in their lives could only be brief. Hadn’t she herself experienced the pain of loving him and losing him? Didn’t she know from experience how much it could hurt? And yet watching him with the twins Tara admitted that her primary overriding emotion was not fear for the twins, but a gut-wrenching envy, especially of little Mandy, held so protectively in his arms. She was being foolish, she chided herself; how could she be immature enough to be jealous of her own child? Surely she couldn’t really want to be in her place. She hated James.

‘You still love him,’ an inner voice told her, ‘more than ever, and that’s why you’re so jealous.’

She stood blindly, watching the trio outside, trying to assimilate what her heart told her was true. She did still love James, had never stopped loving him, if the truth were known. All those years when she had pretended to hate and despise him she had been merely whistling in the dark, forcing herself to feel the emotions convention demanded of her, but they were unreal, dissolving like the fragile fabrications they were when faced with reality.

A terrible ache began somewhere deep inside her. Janice touched her arm, her face concerned, and she made some light remark which seemed to banish her friend’s unease.

Like a sleepwalker she went into the garden, one part of her mind registering with deep pain the defiant expression on Mandy’s face, and the worried one on Simon’s. With absolute recall she remembered how often she had spoken sharply to the twins whenever James’s name was mentioned; how she had stopped them from talking about their visit to the Zoo, and remorse filled her.

Dropping down on one knee, careless of the damp grass and her best suit, she held out her arms to them impulsively.

Simon reached her first, his smile radiant. Mandy held aloof for a couple of seconds, glancing uncertainly at James before running across the lawn to join her twin.

‘Quite a touching sight!’ James’s voice came from somewhere above her, and Tara refused to acknowledge the gibe, although tears stung her eyes. ‘What a pity Saunders isn’t here to witness it. I hear from the twins that he’s an extremely frequent visitor these days; even to the extent of bringing them presents.’

The critical tone of his voice scraped painfully across Tara’s already taut nerves.

‘What are you trying to imply?’ she demanded bitterly, ‘That Chas is trying to buy the twins’ favour with toys?’

‘Hardly,’ came the sardonic retort, ‘they’re far too sensible and astute to be open to bribery.’

His meaning was cynically plain and drove the colour from Tara’s face.

‘Chas doesn’t need to resort to bribery,’ she enunciated with deadly calm, letting her fury swamp the pain his taunt had caused. ‘And I could remind you that you’ve been very generous to the children yourself.’

This time it was her turn to use innuendo, but her sarcasm was lost on her victim. Grimacing slightly, he eyed her with an icily distant scrutiny before saying softly, ‘Unlike your boy-friend, my interest is solely in the children.’ His gaze flicked her like a whip as he added cruelly, ‘I don’t need to resort to bribery to induce a woman to share my bed, and in that regard you’re perfectly safe, my dear Tara.’

‘As I was the summer I was seventeen?’

The bitter, hurt words were out before she could stop them, and in the ear-shattering silence that followed Tara turned cold with dread.

‘You still remember that?’

James’s tone was carelessly light. ‘You amaze me. I should have thought my image had long ago been supplanted by the man you married so quickly afterwards—the twins’ father. What was he like?’ he asked unexpectedly, drawling the words in a coolly insulting fashion that suggested that he found it extraordinary that any man should want to marry her. Here was her chance, her opportunity to destroy him as he had once destroyed her by extolling the virtues of her supposed ‘husband’, but somehow the lies would not come. In her kitchen she saw Janice making a pot of tea, such an ordinary homely task so far removed from her own state of mind and the vulnerability she experienced whenever James was near her.

‘Well?’

‘Our daddy was killed abroad,’ Mandy supplied eagerly. ‘Before we were born.’

‘And Mummy loved him very much,’ Simon piped up, obviously remembering what Tara had told him.

‘Did you? He seems a strangely disembodied character to me, far too much so to have generated this all-consuming “love”. Did you “love” him?’

She had every intention of saying ‘Yes’, every intention in the world, but somehow the words would not come, and James was looking at her with sharply narrowed eyes while the world seemed to rock to a standstill and she felt he was looking into her heart and reading the truth engraved on it.

‘I… I loved the twins’ father very much—and still do,’ she managed in a husky whisper, only realising when the words were spoken exactly what she had said. Hysterical laughter bubbled up inside her. She had just told James how much she loved him while he, all unknowing, continued to look down the length of his arrogant nose at her, his eyes as chilly as winter skies. How much more sardonic he would look if he knew the truth—that she had been foolish enough to love him then and that she had compounded that folly by loving him now.

He walked with them back to the house, and although every instinct screamed at her not to do so, politeness demanded that Tara ask him in. He wandered into the kitchen while she was preparing the twins’ supper, picking idly at the bowl of salad she was preparing, Mandy at his side, saying disapprovingly, ‘You shouldn’t do that, should he, Mummy?’

‘No, he shouldn’t,’ Tara agreed automatically.

‘Perhaps he’s hungry,’ Mandy added. ‘Can he stay for tea?’

‘I’m sure Uncle James has other things to do,’ Tara told her firmly. ‘Now be a good girl and go and wash your hands. We’re having strawberries for afters tonight.’

‘Really? My favourites,’ James admitted, to Mandy’s obvious delight.

‘Then you are going to stay?’ she demanded, all excitement.

James looked enquiringly at Tara. ‘If your mummy doesn’t mind,’ he assented. ‘Contrary to her supposition, there’s nothing I’d rather do than share supper with my very favourite twins.’

Supper was a hectic meal. Watching James with a twin either side of him in her small dining alcove, Tara couldn’t help contrasting their surroundings with those he must normally enjoy. The furniture was old—junk shop bought most of it, lovingly painted and refurbished, but with no pretences to being anything other than what it was. The curtains had been a lucky buy and home-made, she had painted the woodwork and papered the walls herself. She had also sanded the floorboards, stained them and made the multi-coloured rag rug lying on the floor. Up until now she had been perfectly content with her small home and its contents, but suddenly she was bitterly conscious of how shabby it was. Some of Simon’s paintings from school were pinned on the wall, a jar of flowers Mandy had picked for her adorning the bookcase. The meal itself was very plain—chicken salad and plenty of wholemeal bread and butter for the twins to fill up on before she gave them the strawberries she had bought as a treat and the icecream she made herself and which she knew they loved.

When it was time to get the sweet she brought in the three previously prepared dishes and a bowl of icecream, placing the dishes in front of James, Simon and Mandy.

‘Aren’t you having any?’ Simon questioned her innocently.

Avoiding James’s eyes, Tara shook her head. ‘I’m on a diet,’ she said lightly. The truth was that the strawberries had been an expensive luxury, barely large enough to stretch to the three of them, and her face flamed as she dwelt on what conclusions James would draw from the incident. There was scant chance of her deceiving him as easily as she had deceived Simon, she thought bitterly, and humiliation welled up inside her as she imagined his disdainful contempt. In the circles in which he moved, people thought nothing of ordering out-of-season strawberries for breakfast if they felt so inclined.

After supper she left him playing on the floor with the twins while she cleared the table. She was elbow-deep in hot sudsy water when he surprised her by strolling into the kitchen, taking up a stance against the fridge, reminding her unbearably of the circumstances of their very first meeting. If she had known then what the outcome of their relationship was to be, if she could turn back the clock, would she? She thought of the happiness the twins had brought her, and knew the answer.

‘I’m sorry—about the strawberries.’ The husky timbre of his voice shivered across raw nerves, anger snapping in her eyes as she turned towards him.

‘So am I,’ she agreed evenly. If he thought his comment would embarrass her then she would quickly disabuse him. ‘I was looking forward to them.’

Just for a second she thought she saw amusement and admiration, gleaming in his eyes, but it was gone too swiftly for her to be sure she had not imagined it.

His smooth, ‘Then perhaps you’ll allow me to make reparation,’ stung, underlining the huge social gulf between them. She was a single parent struggling to bring up two children on a slender salary; he was a wealthy man, he drove an expensive car, wore expensive clothes. And yet looking at him now, the tanned column of his throat exposed by the open-necked shirt, his folded arms unconsciously drawing attention to muscled forearms, she was conscious not of the differences between them, but the musky scent of his body, the fine tracing of hairs curling over his chest, and the trembling, weakening desire coursing through her to go to him and slide her fingers over his skin into the thick darkness of his hair, to press her lips against the warm column of his throat and feel his body clench in fierce need.

Angry with herself, she tried to stem the feelings growing inside her and said acidly,

‘How, by flaunting your wealth? By “buying” me, the way you’ve bought the twins?’

Scorn trembled through her voice and Tara knew that he was angry. Even so, she was caught off guard when he moved towards her, gripping her waist with fingers that punished her flesh, his grated, ‘What do you prefer? Payment in kind?’ sending trickles of tension coursing icily down her spine.

She tried to articulate; to demand that he release her, telling herself that this was a ridiculous, farcical situation, but when she raised her soapy hands to fend him off they clung damply to his shirt, his body tautly muscled and warm beneath her fingers, sending erotic messages flashing to her brain until she was drowning in the heady sensation of being close enough to him to breathe in the male scent of him and to be beguiled by memories of the past, rising up to swamp the present.

She must have made some involuntarily movement, some gesture of defeat, because she saw his response to it in the sudden narrowing of his eyes before they dropped to her mouth and his head bent slowly towards her.

She knew that he was going to kiss her, but what she hadn’t bargained for was the hard brutality of a kiss that took without giving, ravaging the softness of her lips, reducing her to the mere recipient of some male-driven aggression that found relief in the rape of her mouth. Before she could move his hand stroked upwards, his palm burning into the tender skin of her breast.

Just for a moment she experienced a traitorous urge to yield, to mould her body to his and respond with fierce need to the raw sexuality of his embrace, but just in time self-respect urged her to resist. She was confusing the hard, cynical man who held her in his arms with the tender lover he had been in her youth—and he had been tender, no matter what might have followed later. As though he sensed her withdrawal, James raised his head and stared down at her, studying her swollen mouth and shadowed eyes.

Turning on his heel, he left the kitchen without a word to her, leaving her drained and sick to her soul with self-revulsion because she had so nearly given in to the dangerous undertow of desire whispering falsely in her ear that to be made love to by James once again, no matter through what motivation, was more than worth all the tears and heartache which would inevitably follow.

How could she so easily have forgotten all her hard-earned lessons, have been ready to throw away the self-respect and self-confidence she had built and nourished so painstakingly since the twins’ birth?

In the distance she registered his goodbyes to the twins and their disappointed response. It was not Mandy’s fault, she told herself tiredly later in the evening when she was bathing the little girl, and she came very close to losing her temper with her when she kept insisting that ‘Uncle James’ was her very favourite man. It was not Mandy’s fault at all. If anything it was hers, but knowing that didn’t make bearing her burden of guilt any the easier.

CHAPTER NINE

FOR two weeks Tara saw and heard nothing of James, and then one afternoon in Knightsbridge, where she had gone searching for some props Chas needed for a ‘County’ shot he was filming, she saw him coming out of an expensive-looking mews, a slim, dark-haired woman clinging to his arm.

For a moment Tara simply froze, and then realising how easily he could turn his head and see her she panicked, darting into the first shop door she came to.

As it happened, it was a dress shop and she was able to make a pretence of browsing while James and his companion strolled past.

Tara recognised her immediately. It was the woman who had come over to their table in the restaurant the day he had driven them down to Sue’s. The dull ache inside her became a sharp pain, jealousy a bitter gall tainting the back of her throat.

When she was sure that they had gone she escaped from the expensive and slightly overpowering environs of the shop. She was grateful for Chas’s forbearance when she returned to the studio minus several of the items he had asked for, but one look at her pale face and huge, agonised eyes had warned him against questioning her. He had seen that look on too many women’s faces to mistake it, and he found himself wondering about the man who had brought it to Tara’s. Outwardly she was so cool and in control; unflappable and pleasant always and yet retaining a detached, keep-your-distance air that never failed to intrigue him. She was adept at holding people away from her, and yet he had sensed from the very first moment she had come for her interview that beneath the cool surface lurked a woman of deeply felt emotions. Recognising that in her present disturbed state she was not likely to work to optimum proficiency, he suggested they make an early night of it. Surprised, but too wrapped up in her thoughts to question his decision, Tara thanked him.

As though catching her mood from her the twins were particularly awkward during the evening—not just Mandy but Simon as well, and, her temper frayed by her brief sighting of James with his woman friend, Tara snapped crossly at them when they baulked at going to bed. That the battle was a nightly ritual and never normally bothered her was forgotten, their disobedience bringing to a head the churningly disturbing emotions she had been feeling all afternoon—no, not just all afternoon, she admitted to herself as she thankfully closed Mandy’s bedroom door behind her, but for several weeks. Ever since she had been forced to admit to herself that she still loved James. Mandy’s parting comment hadn’t helped either, but a brief smile tugged at Tara’s lips nevertheless, as she recalled Mandy’s piped and scathing, ‘You’re just cross because Uncle Chas doesn’t come round any longer—well, we don’t care. We don’t like him, we like Uncle James!’

If only she knew, Tara thought tiredly, regretting her impatience with them. She would make it up to them in the morning, she decided, thank goodness it was Saturday, they could all go out for the day. It would do them good to get away from London. They could drive down to Brighton, play on the beach. It was time she put James firmly behind her, she told herself. He didn’t care any more about her now than he had done before—probably less, and it was unfair of her to take her own pain out on the twins.

She said nothing to the twins of her decision to take them out for the day over breakfast, and was glad when she went out to the car and saw with a sinking heart the slow puncture in the front nearside tyre.

Her spare tyre wasn’t in the best of conditions, and rather than risk the journey without it, Tara decided to change the wheel and then drive to her local garage where she knew she could get another. She could also fill up on petrol at the same time, and instructing the twins to behave while she was gone, she hurried back out to the car, suppressing a faint smile.

The pair of them had been thoroughly subdued over breakfast, so much so that she had been tempted to plead for their forgiveness, but they would cheer up soon enough when they learned what she had in mind. Her mind on the picnic meal she intended to prepare, Tara completed her business at the garage and drove quickly home.

As she drew up outside the house the first thing she noticed was that the front gate was open, and she frowned. The twins were strictly forbidden to leave the garden when she was not with them. She glanced at her watch. She had been gone just over twenty minutes, hardly long enough for them to get bored enough with their own company to want to flout one of her strictest rules. She must have left the gate open herself in her haste, she reassured herself, but nevertheless her heart pounded sickly and her footsteps sounded anxious as she hurried up the path and pushed open the door.

Silence greeted her, a silence which made her stomach churn in agonised protest, her gaze desperately flying from one object to another as she called the twins’ names.

No answer. She hurried into the kitchen on legs suddenly desperately weak. On the floor lay the smashed pieces of a china teapot—part of a set her mother had given her the previous year. The china wasn’t particularly to Tara’s taste, but knowing how offended her mother would be if she didn’t appear to treasure it the twins were strictly forbidden to touch. Her heart lurched into her stomach as she contemplated the broken teapot which she dimly remembered had been wedged awkwardly in one of the bottom cupboards, at a slightly dangerous angle. She remembered that she had made a mental note to move it to a safer place and had then completely forgotten. There was evidence that some washing up had been in progress and it didn’t take any great powers of deduction to realise that the teapot had met its unfortunate fate during this operation. Recalling how cross she had been with the twins the previous evening, Tara realised that they had probably gone into hiding somewhere fearing retribution. The thought lifted her stricken spirits, and she hurried upstairs expecting to find the twins in one of the bedrooms, all innocent smiles when taxed with their ‘crime.’

The bedrooms were empty, and fear gnawed at her again. Downstairs she made a thorough search of the house before going into the garden. Could they have gone to see Janice?

Her neighbour was sympathetic but couldn’t help.

‘The little imps,’ she chuckled when Tara had explained what had happened, ‘they’re probably hiding somewhere in the garden.’

‘No,’ Tara told her tightly. ‘Oh God, Janice I’m so frightened! You were my last hope. One hears such dreadful things…’ She shuddered, burying her face in her hands, making no protest when Janice pushed her down into a chair and disappeared into her kitchen. She could hear her moving about and started to get up, but Janice reappeared, carrying a mug.

‘Hot, sweet tea—yes, I know you don’t take sugar, but it’s the best thing for shock. Look, let’s go through the whole thing again. I’ll come back with you and we’ll go right through the house. Panic makes people do odd things; ten to one they’re tucked away somewhere in the house, too scared to come out and admit what they’ve done. We’ll soon find them,’ she comforted practically. ‘Drink your tea.’

Numbly Tara did as she was told. Deep in her heart of hearts, she wasn’t convinced by what Janice had said. The twins had run away, she was sure of it. She remembered how cross she had been with them, how subdued they had appeared this morning and how tragic the broken teapot must have appeared. Oh God, what had she done? Allowing her own children to believe a china teapot mattered more to her than them!

This and other equally morbid thoughts ran through her head as Janice hurried with her back to the house.

Half an hour later Janice, now as pale as Tara was herself, was forced to concede defeat.

‘There’s nothing else left but to call the police, love,’ she said softly. ‘Shall I do it, or…’

Tara shook her head. ‘I’ll do it,’ she managed in a voice that cracked with pain.

The sergeant on the other end of the line was patient and helpful. ‘Just take your time, madam,’ he urged her when she broke down in the middle of describing Mandy’s pink dungarees. ‘I’ll send a W.P.C. round to talk to you, but meanwhile we’ll get some patrols searching for them. You just sit tight.’

The woman police constable was about Tara’s own age, pleasant and yet slightly distant. Tara had to go over every detail of the children’s clothing and the events of the morning yet again for her while she wrote it down.

‘Do you often leave the twins on their own?’ she was asked at one point, and the question drove the blood from her face. What was the woman trying to imply? That the twins were latchkey ‘orphans’, whose mother didn’t care one way or the other?

‘Never,’ Tara told her huskily. ‘I was gone twenty minutes… twenty minutes…’

Seeing the real agony in her eyes, the policewoman tactfully refrained from pointing out how many other parents had said something similar and had lived to regret those very few minutes.

‘Have you any idea what might have happened to them?’

Tara took a deep breath.

‘I think they’ve probably run away,’ she said huskily. ‘We had words—last night. I was going to take them out for the day today for a treat.’ Tears welled in her eyes and overflowed. There were other questions—questions that horrified and appalled her, hinting at child battering and worse, but while one part of her mind was outraged, Tara recognised that such questions were a necessary part of the procedure.

Janice too was questioned. She was in tears now as well, and Tara was asked if there was anyone she wanted with her—a boy-friend perhaps, the policewoman suggested.

Tara shook her head. ‘I don’t have one,’ she told her.

‘What about Chas?’ Janice suggested. ‘You need someone with you.’

Tara explained to the policewoman who Chas was, and as though somehow she were divorced from the proceedings Tara registered the fact that the girl was putting in a radio request for Chas to be contacted, her own voice saying inanely, ‘Please don’t bother him,’ over and over again, echoing in her ears like some vague recording.

The long day wore on. Chas arrived, full of concern and shock, Nina with him. The policewoman disappeared and reappeared a little later, her manner much more warm and comforting, and Tara suspected that she had been doing a little discreet digging in the social service records, making sure that neither Tara nor the twins had any record of past incidents.

‘Don’t worry,’ she was assured over and over again, ‘they’ll be found.’ But would they? London was such a vast place, the twins so terribly vulnerable. All the evils that could befall two young children filled her mind in crashing waves, terror after terror blanking out the sympathy of everyone with her. At one point, unable to stand the inactivity any longer, she begged to be allowed to go put with the patrols, but was gently refused.

‘It’s better if you stay here,’ she was told. ‘When we find them the first person they’re going to want is you.’

She heard, but didn’t accept. She was the last person they wanted, otherwise they would never have run away.

‘Their father is dead, is that right?’ The policewoman was asking her the question and just for a moment Tara longed to tell the truth and have James at her side to face this terrible ordeal with her, but sanity prevailed and she nodded her head quickly, averting her face, not wanting anyone to guess that she was lying.

‘And they’ve no relatives they could go to who live locally?’

She had answered all these questions already, but sensing that merely the automatic response of replying would occupy and free from pain some tiny part of her brain, Tara slowly responded.

Afternoon dragged into evening. The police left. They would keep her informed, she was told. Chas took Nina home, but then returned, insisting on making a light omelette which Tara couldn’t touch.

‘There’s honestly no need for you to stay with me—I’ll be pefectly all right,’ she insisted to Chas for the umpteenth time, but he overruled her objections, coming towards her and taking her in his arms.

‘For God’s sake try and let go a little, love,’ he said softly. ‘This isn’t the time to preserve that stiff upper lip act you’re so good at. What are friends for, after all?’

She started to cry, and he produced a large handkerchief, pushing the tangled hair out of her eyes. They heard footsteps in the hall, and Chas smiled down at her.

‘Sounds like the police are back,’ he told her. ‘Let’s hope they have some good news.’

That he suspected they wouldn’t have was apparent to Tara in the way in which he kept his arm round her, holding her against him as though he feared she would break into a thousand fragile pieces.

The door opened and she heard herself repeating the prayer she had been saying all day long. ‘Please God, let them be safe. Please, please, God!’

The footsteps stopped and she lifted her heady confusion and disbelief mirrored in her eyes as they met James’s contemptuously bitter ones.

‘My God!’ he whispered savagely. ‘Even now with your children missing you haven’t a thought in your head but your own physical satisfaction!’

Tara ignored the latter part of his statement, concentrating on his initial words, her croaked, ‘How do you know about the twins?’ drawing a grim darkening of his eyes, his mouth sour as he told her brutally,

‘I know because they’ve spent all afternoon with my housekeeper, too damned frightened to come home to you, and all over some crazy teapot they broke!’

Anger and pain rushed over her in a massive, turbulent wave. ‘All afternoon?’ Her voice registered shock and bitterness. ‘You mean you’ve known all afternoon and not let me know? Is this your idea of some sort of punishment for being an unfit mother, do you…’

Chas silenced her, his face nearly as white as her own.

‘If I weren’t a civilised human being I’d throttle you with my bare hands,’ he told James slowly. ‘Have you any idea of the agony you’ve caused her, of what she’s had to endure today? To say nothing of the fact that half the local police force is out looking for those two kids? You ought to be locked up!’ he finished in disgust.

‘Uncle Chas, I take it?’ James sneered back. ‘Comforting the grieving mother. All this performance today has nothing to do with the fact that those two kids don’t want you as their father, of course?’

Tara felt Chas’s surprise and looked up at him despairingly. He responded with a quick smile and a tiny squeeze of her arm.

‘It’s what Tara wants that concerns me,’ he replied smoothly. ‘And I think we’d better telephone the police. You’ll have some explaining to do,’ he warned James. ‘I’m not sure about the law concerning minors, but I would have thought simple common sense would have led you to report the fact that they were with you…’

‘I’m sure it would,’ James agreed quickly, ‘if I’d known. I was out of town for the day, and the first I knew of their arrival was when I got home. They refused to tell Mrs Hammond their surname or where they came from—my stepdaughter, who would have known, is away at the moment and she was obliged to wait for my return. When I did return I lost no time in coming straight round.’

‘You could have telephoned,’ Chas pointed out, reaching for the telephone as he spoke.

‘So I could,’ James agreed smoothly, ‘but the twins seemed rather reluctant to face their mother, so I decided to drive round instead in the hope that I could persuade her to return with me so that we could sort this whole mess out.’

Right at that moment Tara would have promised to go to the ends of the universe with the devil himself if it meant getting the twins back safely.

Refusing Chas’s offer to accompany her, she waited impatiently for him to finish reporting the twins’ safety to the authorities, so that they could leave.

‘They want to speak to you,’ he told James, handing him the receiver.

‘I’d better go, love,’ he told Tara in a low voice. ‘Unless you want me to come with you?’

‘No, thanks.’ Tara smiled up at him, kissing his cheek affectionately unaware of the fact that James was watching him or that his eyes had darkened furiously.

‘You just can’t leave him alone, can you?’ he threw at her when Chas had gone and they were on their way out to his car. ‘What’s so special about him? Or is it simply that he’s good in bed?’

Tara refused to respond to his taunts, huddling as far away from him as she possibly could as he slid into the Rolls.

He drove in silence through the London traffic, and just before they drew up in front of it, Tara recognised the mews block she had seen him emerging from with the dark-haired woman.

Something must have registered on her face, because he grasped her arm as she reached for the door, forcing her round to face him.

‘Something wrong?’

Some devil prompted her to say coolly, ‘Perhaps I object to my children being exposed to the sort of careless morals you seem to favour.’

She had expected him to let the subject go, but instead he prompted in a dangerously quiet tone, ‘I could say I find that remark extraordinary coming from you, but instead I’ll ask you to elucidate. Meaning what exactly?’

‘Meaning that I saw you leaving this mews yesterday with a woman,’ Tara told him proudly, refusing to be quelled by the rage she could sense boiling up inside him but kept tightly battened down.

‘She’d called on me to talk to me about some investments she was worried about.’ James shrugged broad shoulders. ‘An innocent enough meeting, and very far from your fevered imaginings of the two of us making love in my bedroom.’

But not from hers, Tara thought inwardly. She had desired James, and she hadn’t bothered to hide that fact from her.

‘Any more nasty cracks like that and you’ll have me thinking you’re jealous,’ James taunted as he took her arm and directed her up the four steps to the dark green front door, his threat leaving her speechless with fear.

Inside the house was far less grand than she had anticipated.

Several panelled doors led off the small square hall with its polished parquet flooring and single oval table holding a pot-bellied brass container and an attractive arrangement of flowers.

A flight of stairs led upwards, but it was on the opening door in the hall that Tara concentrated.

Disappointment flooded her as a tall, middle-aged woman walked in.

‘The twins’ mother, Mrs Hammond,’ James introduced her. ‘Tara, meet Mrs Hammond, my housekeeper.’

‘I’m sorry if the twins have caused you any anxiety or trouble,’ Tara began awkwardly, wondering what on earth the housekeeper must think, but her apology was brushed aside by the older woman’s rich laugh.

‘Well, I was concerned,’ she admitted, ‘Simply because they wouldn’t tell me who they were, and I knew someone must be worrying about them. Too well dressed and polite for it to be anything else,’ she added, restoring some of Tara’s equanimity. ‘But Mandy’s a real caution, isn’t she? Oh, but you look so pale,’ she added to Tara. ‘You must have been worried half to death!’

‘I was,’ Tara agreed, ho longer ashamed to admit it, or concerned at what conclusions James might draw from the tears sparkling on her long eyelashes. ‘I can’t tell you how much, but what I don’t understand is how they got here.’

‘Apparently Mandy had memorised my address,’ James told her quietly. ‘They used their pocket money and somehow—God knows how—managed to make their way here.’

Tara’s stomach tightened as she thought of the appalling risks they had all unknowingly run, the terrible things that could have happened to them.

‘There, it’s all over now,’ Mrs Hammond comforted her, and as a great wave of dizziness swept over her, Tara heard Mrs Hammond’s anxious voice appealing to James to catch her.

When she opened her eyes she was lying on a watered silk bedspread in a room decorated in palest eau-de-nil, Mrs Hammond hovering anxiously on one side while James stood, tall and saturnine, on the other.

‘The twins…’

‘They’re both fast asleep,’ James reassured her. ‘You can go and check for yourself if you like. It would be pointless waking them now,’ he added, glancing at his watch. ‘It’s gone ten now… You might as well stay the night and then I can run you all home in the morning.’

Tara wanted to protest, but Mrs Hammond was already agreeing, murmuring something about coming in a little earlier in the morning to cope with breakfast.

‘Mrs Hammond doesn’t sleep in,’ James told her, correctly reading her mind. ‘But you’re quite safe.’ Mrs Hammond had obviously not overheard the comment and James’s eyes were sardonic as he murmured the words.

On shaky legs, Tara followed him to the room the twins were sharing. The two of them were tucked up in a large double bed. Tara bent to kiss them unable to resist the urge to touch them. Mandy opened her eyes, happiness filling them as she smiled drowsily, her smothered ‘Mummy’ balm to Tara’s aching heart.

James made no attempt to ignore the tears pouring down her face as she left the bedroom, but Tara was beyond caring. Relief coursed through her, drowning out every other emotion, including the dragging tiredness she had experienced during the day.

James left her at the door of the eau-de-nil room. The bedroom had its own adjoining bathroom, tiled in the same soft green, the bath reflecting the colour like a huge mother-of-pearl shell. Perfumed bath oil and soft fluffy towels hinted that she wasn’t the first female to use this room, and Tara had to smother a swift stab of jealousy. She was being ridiculous, she told herself. Any woman James had staying in his home would surely share his room and not sleep alone. No wonder Mrs Hammond did not live in. It had been plain to Tara that she thought very highly of her employer, and no doubt James fostered that impression.

She was still wearing the old jeans she had put on that morning—a lifetime ago—and her tee-shirt was stained with oil from changing the car wheel. When she looked at her reflection in the mirror she was appalled at the dishevelled, untidy picture that met her eyes. Her hair curled wildly round her face, unusually pale, her eyes dark pools of pain, her mouth free of lipstick. Distastefully Tara removed her jeans and the grubby tee-shirt. Beneath them she was only wearing a pair of briefs and a flimsy lace bra. Faced with the prospect of donning worn clothes in the morning, she shuddered. At least she could rinse her underclothes through; being nylon they would dry overnight, and she had started on her self-imposed chore before she realised that she had nothing to sleep in.

Shrugging she started to run her bath, helping herself to a generous capful of the expensively perfumed oil, the warm water helped to soothe away some of her tension, but Tara did not linger in the bath. All at once she was swept by exhaustion and knew that if she didn’t make an effort to reach the bed she was likely to fall asleep where she was.

Drying herself on one of the luxuriously thick towels, she padded across to the bed and was just pulling back the bedclothes when, with only a brief knock, James came into the room. In one hand he was holding a pair of pyjamas, and Tara felt the blood rising betrayingly under her skin as he looked at her, his eyes lingering longest on the rounded swell of her breasts above the confining edge of her towel.

‘I realised you had nothing with you, and I brought you these,’ he told her, proffering the pyjamas. Tara reached forward to take them, keeping a tight grip of her towel, feeling herself tremble beneath his gaze.

‘What’s wrong?’ he jeered. ‘Surely you’re not shy. You’ve been married and widowed, had lovers…’

His words were designed to be insulting and some spark of defiance Tara hadn’t known she possessed stirred her into saying coolly, ‘What are you trying to do? Ease your conscience because you took my virginity?’

‘Took it?’ The dark eyebrows rose, his mouth tightening in a thin, cruel line. ‘I don’t recall that there was much taking involved—or is that the line you perfected for your husband? Work hard at it and you might even be able to convince yourself that it was rape. That’s the next step, isn’t it? But we both know that wasn’t the case, don’t we?’

‘It wasn’t rape, perhaps, but it was deliberate seduction,’ Tara countered, too angry to care what she was saying, ‘and in my book that’s nearly as bad.’

‘Time seems to have affected your memory,’ James drawled, only the dark line of colour along his cheekbones warning her that he was fighting to control his temper. ‘As I recall it, we were both equal partners.’ His eyes dropped again to her breasts, his soft, ‘Perhaps I ought to refresh your memory as it’s so badly at fault,’ freezing the blood in Tara’s veins. She moved backwards instinctively, wincing as she felt the hard frame of the bed behind her knees, one hand going up instinctively to ward off the implacable male frame, but James ignored her. Unwilling to bear the contempt in his eyes, she closed her own, tensing as she waited for those hard hands to wrench away her frail protection, but the assault never came. Instead she felt James’s hands on her shoulders, stroking and massaging away the tension of the day, encouraging her head to fall forward heavily on to his chest as one arm slid round her back to support her. The rhythmic stroking continued, lulling her into a false sense of security, no protest escaping her lips as James’s hands moved gently over her back relaxing taut muscles.

At first the sure touch of his fingers was simply relaxing, but then, gradually, other feelings sprang to life inside her. Beneath the towel Tara felt her breasts swell and tauten, her arms automatically encircling James’s neck, her fingers burrowing into the soft thickness of his hair.

She felt him lift her on to the bed but was beyond making any form of protest. She wanted this sense of closeness, this union of flesh against flesh, this sense of desiring and being desired, and she refused to let any other emotion intrude.

Somehow her hands found their way inside the opening of his shirt, clinging to the moist warmth of his skin, exploring the maleness of his body with a sensuality she had never possessed at seventeen. Then she had merely gloried in her love; simply accepting the physical perfection of their coming together, but now, with experience on her side, Tara was well aware of the intense male virility of James’s body, of the strength in the broad shoulders and tapering chest, of the sensual pleasure to be had from pressing her palms against the fine dark hair shadowing his chest and feeling its slight rasp against her skin.

Now it was his mouth that stroked erotically against her skin, probing the hollow at the base of her throat, moving upwards to investigate the perfect delicacy of her ear before tracing the shape of her cheekbone while his thumb probed the half parted softness of her mouth, sending waves of pleasure shuddering through her body.

Her fingers tugged at the buttons denying her access to the contact she craved with his skin, a small moan of pleasure stifled in her throat as James possessed her mouth, obliterating everything but the driving need to respond to the male pressure of his body, the tautly muscled potency of his thighs as he moulded her body to his, her impatient fingers at last able to push aside his shirt and explore the vital maleness of his skin.

The fear she had experienced during the day seemed to have released her from normal convention and restraints. Husky moans breathed against the tanned column of his throat as her lips explored its warm contours only incited James to increase his subtle torture of her aching body. Her towel was tugged firmly away, her breath catching in her throat as James bent his head to stroke softly over the aroused pink tips of her breasts, with lips that teased and tormented before giving an exquisite pleasure that tied her stomach muscles in knots and sent a wild desire burning along her veins, her fingernails scoring the smooth flesh of his back as her body responded to his touch.

When it came to lovemaking, James was a master of the art, Tara acknowledged hazily, as he caressed the slender length of her thighs, inciting her to writhe wantonly against him, her fingers trembling as they followed the downward path of dark body hair to the belt fastened snugly above his hips. In James’s face, Tara could see the desire she knew must be in her own. As he reached for his belt, he muttered something, a tide of darkly red colour running up under his skin as he demanded hoarsely, ‘You do it for me,’ his hand guiding hers to the metal buckle.

Twenty-four hours ago she could never have imagined herself in such a situation, and the girl she had once been would have shied away from such a request. But she was not a girl any more, she was a woman, and while James had been her only lover the instinct she had been taught to subdue as a teenager now came to the fore, guiding her now. She heard James’s stifled gasp of pleasure and felt the shudder that ran through his body when her fingertips brushed the vulnerable flesh of his stomach, with a tiny thrill of pleasure, bending her head to place light kisses where her fingers had touched, glorying in his unmistakable response, although she wasn’t given long to exult in her brief ascendancy.

With a swiftness that left her breathless she was jerked against the pulsating male body, her mouth captured and subjected to the burning pressure of male lips that seemed determined to imprint their texture and desire against hers in a way that she could never forget, the hardened thrust of James’s body as he parted her thighs and slid between them driving every sensation but the need for his possession completely from her mind.

The silken brush of flesh against flesh was unbearably arousing. Her stomach clenched instinctively, her body aching for the pleasure it knew instinctively James would give. They kissed and clung, stroking feverishly, feeding the furnace of desire they were both feeling. James’s control was the greater. Feeling she could stand it no more, Tara pressed herself wantonly against him, murmuring her need against his mouth, her fingers twining in the silky darkness of his hair. They were wrenched rudely away, and icy shivers’ coursed through her body as the mantle of passion dropped from James like a borrowed cloak.

Cupping her face between his hands so that she was forced to meet the scorn in his eyes, he glanced slowly along the slender paleness of her body. By the time his gaze returned to her face, it was awash with colour.

‘Now,’ he said softly, no vestige of passion or desire left, ‘now tell me again how it was between us. Tell me the way you told the man you married. Tell me that you never really wanted me.’

CHAPTER TEN

THANK goodness, even now she was not sure how she had managed to pack it in, Tara reflected, studying the bulging boot to the car. A quick glance over her shoulder assured her that the twins were playing happily in the garden. Since the day they had run away she had to fight against a tendency to be too over-protective with them.

She had been too keyed up and anxious that morning at James’s house to talk to them, but afterwards when they were all home she had spoken to them both carefully, warning them of some of the risks they had run and reassuring them that the loss of her teapot meant nothing.

Mrs Hammond had been all sympathy. She had brought Tara breakfast in bed, telling her a brief anecdote about her own daughter. ‘And it’s always the silliest little things that lead to upsets,’ she told Tara, plainly aware of the accident to the teapot.

There had been the ordeal of thanking James for his care of the twins to endure, her eyes never moving from the third button of his shirt, her whole body tensed in shame and self-loathing as she tried to blot out memories of the previous night.

‘I suppose it’s no good my warning you that the twins will never accept Saunders as their father?’ was all James said when he had listened to her stumbling speech.

‘Who says they’re going to be asked to?’ Tara fired back, misery giving way to choking anger. ‘The twins have a father,’ she reminded him, ‘and my relationship with Chas is purely my affair.’

‘So you don’t intend to marry him?’

‘Shocked?’ The taunt slipped off her tongue. ‘How very hypocritical of you! At least Chas and I are free to enter into a relationship with one another.’

‘You’ve changed, Tara,’ came the acid response. ‘The Tara I knew would never have settled for anything second-rate—or is it simply that your ability to love completely died with your husband?’ he demanded with a harshness that shocked her.

Tara laughed mirthlessly. How close he was to the truth, but not in the way he imagined.

‘Well?’ he probed bitingly.

‘When I lost the twins’ father I lost almost everything worth having in life,’ Tara told him truthfully. ‘Now, can I go?’

* * *

‘Is it time yet?’

Simon was standing on one leg surveying the car hopefully. Both he and Mandy had been thrilled when Tara told them they were going away on holiday. Too young yet to draw comparisons between the holiday they were having and those enjoyed by their schoolmates, they had talked of nothing else for the last three weeks, and Tara had encouraged them, hoping that in their excitement they could all forget the trauma of the afternoon they had run away. Even now she could not come to terms with the pain of it—they had run away to James! She had explained to them both that Chas was her employer and friend, but nothing more, and there had been a noticeable improvement in Mandy’s manner towards him ever since. In fact the only cloud on the little girl’s horizon was the absence of her beloved ‘Uncle James’. On several occasions she had begged Tara to telephone him, worried because he had not been round to see them, and Tara had explained as gently as she could that James had his own life to live. But now they were off to Dartmoor for a fortnight, and Tara was determined that nothing was going to spoil what amounted to the first proper holiday she and the twins had ever had.

The drive down to the cottage was relatively uneventful. They stopped to eat the packed lunch Tara had prepared, just off the motorway, before resuming their journey, and it was just gone six when at last they turned on to the rutted track leading to the cottage.

It was just as Tara had visualised, one of a pair crouched beneath overhanging eaves, its grey stone walls grizzled with age and smothered in pale cream roses.

A smiling, plump woman in her thirties emerged from the adjoining cottage as Tara followed the twins out of the car.

‘Hi,’ she greeted them, ‘I’m Margaret Burton, your new temporary neighbour. Fancy a cup of tea, or would you prefer to be left alone to settle in?’

Seeing that the twins were already eyeing the large and friendly-looking mongrel dog that had followed Margaret out of her “cottage with interest, Tara accepted.

Over tea she learned that the Burtons had been coming to Dartmoor for several years.

‘Of course now that the kids are growing up they’re beginning to show an interest in more exotic venues—we took them to Paris at Easter and we’re spending a week in Holland later in the year; they’re just reaching that stage where they’re beginning to tire of the beach, so we’re force-feeding them with a little culture.’ She chuckled as she spoke and glanced at the twins before saying warmly, ‘Your two will love it here, I’m sure. It isn’t far to the coast, and there are some wonderful beaches. My husband will be back with our three shortly. They’ve gone into Dartmouth on a shopping spree—we’re here for a month this time and needed to re-provision. Once you’ve settled in we must go out for a drink together one evening. Gill, my eldest, is fourteen and well trained as a baby-sitter, if you fancy the idea.’

By the time Tara got up to leave she felt as though she had made a friend, as had the twins with the Burtons’ family pet, Robot, as the large mongrel was somewhat improbably named.

By the time she had prepared a light meal, discovered how the Calor gas cooker and other equipment worked, and unpacked the car, it was almost time for bed. A quick shower in the minute but attractive bathroom still damp from the twins’ baths, and her eyes closed the moment her head touched the pillow.

It must be something to do with the country air, Tara decided drowsily the following morning when she opened her eyes to sunshine and bird song. She couldn’t remember when she had last enjoyed such a deep and untroubled sleep. The morning was warm and languorous, and she experienced a feeling of letting go, of relaxing in a way she had not done in years; not since the twins’ birth, she admitted to herself, a little disconcerted to realise how tense she had actually become without knowing it, unaware of each further winding of her already over-stretched nerves until her tension was something she had learned to live with.

The first two days of their holiday were spent exploring their environs. There were plenty of attractive walks close at hand, the twins’ favourite being to the farm, where they went every morning with the Burton children to collect milk and eggs. The farmer who owned the cottages called to check that they had everything they wanted, and warned Tara in a very friendly way about the danger of allowing the children to run free on the moor—something she had no intention of doing, and when he discovered how fascinated Simon was by the farm and its animals he invited them all to spend a morning there.

Simon returned starry-eyed and ecstatic. He had actually been allowed to touch a week-old calf, all wobbly-legged and big-eyed; Mandy had preferred the ponies, sturdy moorland creatures which ran free on the moorland pastures.

On the third day of their holiday Tara packed the twins and their swimming gear into the car and on the Burtons’ suggestion drove to a beach they had recommended as being ideally suited for children.

They saw the sea long before they reached it, unbelievably blue, tiny waves shimmering silver under the clear sky.

The tiny bay—it was really nothing more—was reached by descending steep steps cut into the cliffside, but once reached it more than repaid the effort involved. The cliffs sheltered the bay from the light breeze, heat bouncing off the pale golden sand. Only a dozen or so other families had braved the steps, and Tara was glad to see that the beach was completely free of icecream sellers and the like and completely uncommercialised.

Both the twins could swim, but Tara made sure that they never entered the water without her. Watching them playing together like baby seals, their newly tanned bodies gleaming with the seawater, she experienced an overwhelming need to share the moment with James; to exchange with him a look of doting parenthood over their oblivious heads. Pain swept her, her eyes drawn involuntarily to the other families on the beach; complete units, mothers and fathers with their children. She was being foolish, she warned herself; she was an adult and knew better than to fall into the trap of the ‘perfection’ of family life, and yet the pain inside her wouldn’t go away. She closed her eyes on betraying tears, shocked by the images shimmering against her eyelids of herself and James, lying together beneath the hot sun, his hands on her body. Forcing the images away, she tried to concentrate on the present, to blot out all memories of the past, on her love for James, and her yearning need to have him with her.

Margaret had been marvellous about not asking questions, and although Tara had been a little perturbed when she first discovered the cottage was not on its own, she admitted now that she was glad of a little adult company, especially when it was as unobtrusive as Margaret and Sam’s.

The twins too, had made fast friends with the Burtons’ two younger children, Philip and Robert, aged ten and twelve respectively, while Gill made no secret of the fact that she adored the twins.

‘You wait,’ Margaret had predicted gloomily, watching her with them. ‘This year it’s kids, next it will be boys!’

Later in the afternoon Tara drove into Dartmouth to do some shopping. She bought postcards to send to Chas and Janice, and was amused when Mandy announced importantly that she too had postcards to write and asked for stamps to stick on them.

Her school friends, no doubt, Tara decided, passing over the requisite stamps. Poor little girl, this was the first opportunity she had had to send rather than receive, and she was obviously determined to make the most of it, even though the stamps were not the exotic variety she received from her friends.

That evening they had supper with the Burtons, and when Margaret suggested that they stroll down to the village pub for a drink, Tara felt relaxed enough to agree.

There was a moment, when she urged the twins to behave themselves for Gill, when she remembered coming home to the shattered teapot and the appalling silence that accompanied it, but she banished it firmly, reminding herself how she had always striven to allow the twins some measure of independence. Simon had disconcerted her by clinging a little to Sam Burton, and watching him blossom and gain confidence as he copied the Burton boys she had experienced a twinge of fear that she was depriving him of the male influence he seemed to need.

It was a pleasant walk to the pub—crowded with holidaymakers and locals, and Tara thoroughly enjoyed the hour or so they spent there before walking back, although she couldn’t help noticing on the return journey how Margaret slipped her hand companionably into Sam’s, and the teasing smile they exchanged. A great sense of desolation overwhelmed her. She had to stop feeling like this, she warned herself. She simply could not succumb to morbid envy every time she witnessed intimacy between another couple.

The days passed pleasantly, the good weather holding. They toured the moors one day and ate a picnic lunch in the shade of a tumbledown cottage, Simon entranced by the sturdy ponies who watched them inquisitive and greedy. All three of them were tanned, scarcely recognisable from the city dwellers who had arrived such a short time ago. They must try and do this every year, Tara decided as she set the car in motion. It had done them all good.

The following day Margaret announced that they were visiting a nearby safari park and invited the twins to go with them.

‘I won’t suggest that you come,’ she told Tara. ‘Have a day on your own. Read a book, laze about. Something tells me you don’t get many opportunities to be alone.’

Silently blessing Margaret for her kindness, Tara passed on the invitation to the twins. As she had suspected, they were thrilled, and although she felt a tiny pang when she saw how blithely unconcerned they were that she was not to accompany them, she told herself that it was only right and natural. Simon in particular had been too clinging.

They left after breakfast, waving enthusiastically to her from the Burtons’ Range Rover.

When they had gone Tara washed up and made the beds before unearthing a book she had brought with her. If anything the weather had improved, today the sun shone from a cloudless sky with only the merest suggestion of a breeze. Donning her bikini, Tara wandered into the attractive cottage-style garden at the back of the cottage. After a while her book failed to hold her attention. She could hear a bee humming drowsily nearby, and a pleasant lethargy crept over her. She closed her eyes.

Footsteps crunching on the gravel woke her. She sat up, swivelling round to see the intruder, then all the breath left her lungs on a painful gasp as her eyes travelled incredulously upwards over lean, jean-clad thighs to James’s dark inscrutable face.

For a moment she thought she must be hallucinating and that her dreams had conjured him up out of nowhere. She blinked, dazzled by the sunlight bouncing off his sunglasses, wishing he would remove them so that she could at least see his eyes. He moved, and the thin body-hugging shirt exposed the fluid muscles of his torso.

‘James!’ Her voice ached over his name. ‘What… what are you doing here?—How did you know where to find us?’

‘Mandy sent me a postcard.’ The grimness round his mouth seemed to relax a little. ‘She put your address on it, but I would have found you anyway, if it had meant searching every inch of the country.’ He removed his glasses and Tara shrank from the anger she saw blazing in his eyes.

‘How could you?’ he breathed, walking towards her, his stance almost menacing as he towered over her. She longed to scramble to her feet, but something kept her where she was, her heart pounding in longing and fear.

With a swiftness that startled her he dropped down beside her, so close that she could see the faint shadow along his jaw where he had shaved. A need to reach out and touch him overwhelmed her, but she refused to succumb to it.

‘Did you honestly hate me that much?’ he demanded, his voice curiously uneven. ‘So much that you kept the existence of my own children from me?’

Tara was too stunned to speak, but any hopes she had nourished of denying his allegation were quenched as he grasped her shoulders, almost shaking her in his anger, his harsh, ‘And for God’s sake don’t compound your crime by denying it; the truth is written all over you, even if I hadn’t seen the birth certificates with my own eyes!’

With a crawling sickness Tara’s mind swept back to those first despairing days after the twins’ birth. She had been too drained and weary to rationalise, too hurt by James’s betrayal, and when they had brought her the forms to fill in in the space designated ‘father’ she had written James’s name almost before she realised it.

James’s bitter ‘Why, damn you?’ and the shake that accompanied it dragged her from the past, and her own bitterness welled up to meet his.

‘What was I supposed to do?’ she cried. ‘I was seventeen—what choice did I have? An abortion? I couldn’t, and that I was only an amusing interlude to you was made more than clear to me, as I’m sure you’ll remember.’

She turned her face away, hating herself for the telltale tears rolling down her face, gasping when James grasped her chin, forcing her eyes to meet him.

‘Will I?’ he asked smoothly. ‘You’ll have to make allowances for my advancing years, I’m afraid and remind me afresh, starting from the moment you discovered you were pregnant.’

For a moment she was tempted to refuse, hating his cynical attitude. Of course he didn’t remember—why should he? To him she was merely one more fool among many. Anger stirred, whipping soft colour into her cheeks.

In a voice that trembled she reminded him of how he had disappeared after they had made love without a word to her, and how she had foolishly believed that he loved her. How terrified she had been when she discovered she was pregnant, how she had plucked up her courage to visit the house, hoping to ask his advice and how she had been met with scorn and mockery when Hilary told her the truth.

‘And you told her you were pregnant?’

Tara shook her head proudly. ‘There was no point. I knew then that you wouldn’t help me, that you’d never meant any of the things… that you didn’t care about me the way I cared about you,’ she managed to enunciate clearly.

When she lifted her eyes he was looking away from her, his face set and hard as though it had been carved in granite. He turned his head and the pain and desolation in his eyes took her breath, leaving a tight agony in her chest when she tried to breathe.

‘I had no idea,’ he said simply. ‘And it wasn’t like that at all, Tara. God, if you hadn’t been so young, so innocent… but I didn’t want to burden you, to spoil what there was between us. I went away simply to give you a breathing space—to allow you to grow up and discover if what you professed to feel for me was real or imaginary. Can you imagine how I felt? I’d taken your sweet innocence when I had no right. My marriage might have been a farcical sham, but I was still married—although I’d asked Hilary for a divorce long before you and I met. However, my marriage is something we can discuss later. I loved you,’ he told her simply. ‘Perhaps I had no right, but I did. When you offered me yourself so sweetly I couldn’t stop myself although I suffered a hell of bitter regret later. I went away vowing to give you the opportunity to make up your own mind, telling myself that it was only right that you should meet and fall in love with boys your own age, but when I came back and discovered you’d married, I was forced to admit to myself how much I’d been counting on your love, how much I wanted your sweetness, your body against mine.’

Tara swallowed, unable to believe her ears.

‘You mean what Hilary told me wasn’t true?’ she managed to croak at last. ‘I wasn’t merely one of a long string of brief affairs?’

James shook his head. ‘You were the only one—and you weren’t a brief affair,’ he told her roughly. ‘Let me tell you about my marriage. My father owned a small engineering company which he had built up over many years. My mother adored him and when he died I thought I would lose her too. Up until then I’d never met Hilary, although I knew she owned some shares in the company. She arrived several weeks after my father’s death—she spent the weekend with us. I found her glossy and hard. She was the antithesis of everything I looked for in a woman, but she made it plain that she was attracted to me. I was twenty-four and made the mistake of laughing at her.’

‘She left, and then a week later I received in the post some photo-copies of letters my father had written to her and which made it plain that they were lovers. If I didn’t agree to what she wanted she was going to show them to my mother. I was caught in a trap. I knew it would totally destroy my mother to learn the truth—I couldn’t really believe that my father had actually loved Hilary, but he had obviously desired her and made love to her, and my gentle mother would never be able to understand.

‘I got in touch with Hilary, suspecting that what she had in mind was that I should fill my father’s shoes, so to speak. We were having problems with the company at the time. My father had generously given a longstanding employee a block of shares, which meant that he no longer had overall control, and I was desperately trying to buy the shares back. What Hilary had to suggest appalled and infuriated me. An affair wouldn’t restore the damage I had caused to her pride, apparently. I had laughed at her and for that she demanded marriage. Oh, I refused—at first, but she’s a shrewd and determined woman. She held on to the threat of those letters, and she had almost managed to buy a controlling interest in the company. In the end I capitulated. We were never lovers,’ he told Tara bluntly, ‘but the mere fact that I’d married her salved her wounded ego. My mother died twelve months after we were married. That was the summer before I met you. I asked Hilary for a divorce and went on asking her, but she refused. It didn’t really matter, I knew sooner or later she would take a lover and grow bored with tormenting me, and there was no one else I wanted in my life, until I met you. I tried to hold back, not to sully you with the total mess my life had become, but you were like cool, pure spring water after a surfeit of sour wine, and the more time I spent with you the more I longed for you. I left England determined to give you a chance to grow up unfettered by my desire, and also to insist again that Hilary gave me a divorce. I’d already asked her when she met you.’

Tara had been silent while he spoke, but now tears choked her of breath and she longed to reach out and convey her anguish for him.

‘I thought I was going to go mad when I discovered you were married,’ James said quietly, ‘and for a while perhaps I did. I concentrated on freeing myself from Hilary—I blamed losing you on her. I also managed to buy enough shares to gain control of the business. As I had suspected, Hilary had taken a lover and our divorce eventually went through, and I was a free man again—only I wasn’t free, Tara,’ he said huskily. ‘You haunted me. When Sue told me that she’d met you again I told myself I wasn’t going to get involved, that the past was dead and that the sensible thing was to avoid you. She told me that you were a widow with two children. I told myself I didn’t want to know, but somehow I found, myself urging her to allow me to drive you down to her home. I wanted to feel indifference towards you. I wanted to dislike the twins. I couldn’t bear the thought of you giving birth to another man’s child, but somehow they destroyed my defences and the hatred I’d expected to feel towards them became channelled towards your dead husband. I was jealous of Chas Saunders, but he was a known rival, something I could contend with, especially when I realised the twins didn’t like him. But their father… And when you kept insisting that you still loved him…’ He broke off suddenly, an arrested expression crossing his face. ‘Him, or me, Tara?’ he demanded huskily. ‘Did you love the man you married to protect the twins, or when you told me you loved their father, did you mean me?’

‘For God’s sake,’ he muttered savagely when she refused to speak, ‘stop torturing me like this. Have you any idea what I’ve been through? Forced into dragging what titbits of information I could out of the twins, trying desperately to build up a mental picture of the man who’d supplanted me, and all the time you resisting me. That’s why I went to Somerset House. I thought if I had a name I might be able to discover something about him, instead of which I discovered that I was a father… Tell me about him, Tara,’ he urged. ‘What was he like? What…’

Tara moistened her lips with her tongue, fear a coiled knot inside her. She was about to release her last defence, to expose herself to possible ridicule and pain and yet something drove her on, pushing aside caution.

‘He didn’t exist,’ she answered nervously. ‘There was no man, no husband.’ She glanced down at the cheap gold wedding ring she wore. ‘I made it all up… At first I wasn’t going to, but men… people…’

‘Were crass enough to believe because you’d been to bed with one man without the benefit of clergy you were willing to do so with more?’ James suggested softly. ‘Oh, my poor love!’ His hands were framing her face, the long fingers trembling slightly against her skin. Like tiny shoots from a vulnerable plant, emotions started to grow inside her, hope flowering in her eyes as she looked up at him.

‘About the twins,’ he continued. ‘Now that I’ve discovered that I am their father.’ He paused expectantly and the light died out of her eyes. Of course he didn’t still care about her—she had been a fool to think he might.

‘I’m not giving them up,’ she said stiffly, tensing her body in preparation for the confrontation to come.

‘I’m not asking you to. We can share them.’

‘On alternate weekends?’ she demanded bitterly.

‘I had something a little better than that in mind.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as marriage,’ James told her softly.

For a moment Tara was silent, and then the pain began.

‘You’re prepared to go to those lengths to get two children you didn’t even know you’d fathered until a matter of days ago?’ She injected as much scorn as she could into the words, but James ignored it.

‘Them,’ he agreed, ‘and their mother. Tara, have you any idea what I endured when I returned from the States and discovered you’d gone?’ he demanded urgently. ‘Oh, I told myself it was all for the best, that I was too old for you, but none of it helped. I tortured myself night after night, imagining you confessing our lovemaking to your husband, dismissing it as just one of those things, when for me the memory of how it had felt to hold you in my arms and taste your first sweet cries of desire was something I could never forget. I loved you then and I love you now,’ he said slowly.

‘You love me?’ Still she couldn’t believe it, although hope trembled and grew again, her own love reflected in her eyes as she lifted them to his face. And then as though suddenly words could no longer convey how he felt, James reached for her murmuring against her mouth, ‘Perhaps this will convince you,’ as he possessed it with all the raw hunger she had dreamed of and which he had kept concealed from her on the other occasions when he had kissed her.

They were completely alone in the garden and she had neither the desire nor the will to resist when he lowered her on to the grass, removing the brief scraps of her bikini, the sun stroking moltenly over her body, before he covered it with his.

Their lovemaking was a white-hot need consuming them both, her body electrically responsive to his touch, his possession a shattering climax to their need for one another.

Later, as long shadows crept across the garden and their voices were drowsy with content, James reached for her again. This time there was tenderness and sensitivity in the drift of his hands over her body; as though both knew and acknowledged that there would be many many times like this when they could give and take pleasure from one another. Tara, revelling in her freedom to touch and draw from him a response he no longer made any attempt to hide, marvelled that she had not seen before that it was more than simply a desire to humiliate her that had driven him to touch her, but she had been held fast in her own despair.

‘The twins,’ she murmured drowsily, as his fingers cupped her breast, stroking the pale flesh. ‘What are we going to tell them?’

James bent his head to place sensuously warm lips against the swelling flesh before answering.

‘The truth—when they’re old enough to understand,’ he said firmly, ‘For now let it simply be enough for them that we’re going to be married. It’s my opinion that fatherhood is something that has to be earned. They like me, and I think will accept me in their lives. It’s the man who shows his Jove by being there during their childhood who merits the term father, not the one who gives them life!’

Tara knew he was right. Mandy would be ecstatic to have James as her father, and so would Simon in his quieter way, and as James had said, there was time enough to tell them the truth when they were old enough to accept it. She looked down at the dark head pillowed against her breast, and love stirred inside her, her fingertips moved sensitively over a bronzed shoulder, pleasure curling through her as she felt James’s warm breath against her skin.

‘Love me?’

James raised his head and smiled teasingly, ‘Is that a question or an invitation? Either way the answer is yes. Do you love me?’

Happiness flowed through her veins like wine, making her lightheaded. ‘More than words can say,’ she told him. ‘Shall I show you?’

His answer was in the kiss they shared, the rising need she felt in his body, the urgency of his hands as they caressed her willing flesh. She remembered how she had fantasised about making love with him on the beach such a short time ago, believing the reality impossible. She grinned inwardly. Not tomorrow but perhaps tomorrow night she might suggest a walk along that moon-drenched sand.

‘Why are you smiling?’ James demanded against her lips.

‘Because I’m so happy,’ she told him simply, and responded joyously to his murmured, ‘Show me.’

* * * * *

She resisted him once…

But this billionaire is playing to win!

A luxury villa on Capri will be the latest jewel in playboy Leonardo Fabrizzi’s crown—until he discovers Veronica Hanson stands to inherit it. She’s the only woman to ever resist his charms, but he’s determined to tempt her into sensual surrender! He seduces her cleverly and slowly, and their explosive chemistry is spectacular. But so are the consequences when Veronica reveals she’s pregnant!

Enjoy this entertaining story of pregnancy and passion!

The Italian’s Unexpected Love-Child

Miranda Lee

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

LAURENCE SHOOK HIS head as he read the investigator’s report for the second time. Frustration consumed him, along with dismay. He’d assumed his daughter would be married by now. Married with children. She was twenty-eight, after all. Twenty-eight and beautiful. Very beautiful.

His eyes moved over to the photo attached to the report, his heart filling with pride when he saw that his genes had produced a truly gorgeous creature. Gorgeous, but childless.

Such a waste!

Sighing, he returned to re-read the report.

Veronica had been engaged three years earlier to a doctor she’d met at the children’s hospital she worked in. She was a physiotherapist and her fiancé an orthopaedic surgeon. Tragically, he’d been killed in a motorcycle accident two weeks before their wedding. After that, there was no evidence of her ever dating anyone again. She didn’t even seem to have many friends. She’d become a loner, still living with her mother and not doing much of anything besides work, which she did from home now, rather than in hospitals.

Laurence understood grief. He’d been devastated when his wife of forty years had died several years ago, not of the cancer—which they’d both expected would take her, given she’d carried a dangerous cancer gene—but of a stroke. He’d retreated into himself after that, retiring permanently to the holiday home they’d bought together on the Isle of Capri, never looking at another woman, never wanting to move on, as the saying went. But he’d been seventy-two at the time of her death, not in his twenties. His daughter was still young, for pity’s sake.

But she wouldn’t stay young for ever. Men could father children for a long time, but women had a biological clock ticking away in their bodies.

As a geneticist, Laurence knew all about human bodies and human genes. His in-depth knowledge on the subject was the reason behind his having donated his sperm to Veronica’s mother in the first place. His gesture had been inspired more by hubris than caring, however. Male ego. He hadn’t wanted to go to his grave without passing on his oh-so-brilliant genes.

Laurence shook his head from side to side, remorse filling his soul, as well as guilt. He should have contacted his daughter after Ruth died. Then he would have been there for her when her fiancé had been killed.

But it was too late now, he accepted wretchedly.

He was dying himself—ironically, of cancer. Liver cancer. Too late to do anything, really. His prognosis was not good. Advanced liver cancer was not very forgiving, though he only had himself to blame. After Ruth had died, he’d drunk far too much for far too long.

‘I did knock,’ a male voice intruded. ‘But you didn’t answer.’

Laurence looked up and smiled.

‘Leonardo! How lovely to see you. What brings you home so soon after your last visit?’

‘It’s Papa’s seventy-fifth birthday tomorrow,’ Leonardo said as he walked along the terrace and sat down in the afternoon sunshine, sighing appreciatively as he gazed out at the sparkling blue Mediterranean. ‘Dio, Laurence. What a lucky man you are to have a view like this.’

Laurence glanced over at his visitor with admiring eyes. How well Leonardo looked. How handsome. And how full of life. Of course, Leonardo was only thirty-two, and a man of many talents—not least of which was everything women would find both fascinating and irresistible.

This last thought evoked a deep thoughtfulness.

‘Mamma said she invited you to the party but you declined. It seems you have to go back to England tomorrow to see your doctor.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Laurence agreed as he folded the report carefully so that Leonardo couldn’t see it. ‘My liver’s playing up.’

‘You do look a little jaundiced. Is it serious?’

Laurence shrugged. ‘At my age, everything is serious. So, have you to come to play chess and listen to some decent music, or to try to buy my home again?’

Leonardo laughed. ‘Can I do all three?’

‘You can try. But my answer to selling this place will be no, as usual. When I’m dead and gone you can buy it.’

Leonardo looked startled, then uncharacteristically sombre. ‘I hope that won’t be for some years yet, my friend.’

‘That’s kind of you to say so. Now, do you want me to open a bottle of wine or not?’ he asked as he rose from his chair, carrying the report with him.

‘Are you sure that’s wise, under the circumstances?’

Laurence’s smile was wry. ‘I don’t think a glass or two is going to make much difference at this stage.’

CHAPTER ONE

VERONICA SMILED AS she accompanied her last client of the day to the front door. Duncan was eighty-four, and a darling, despite suffering terribly from sciatica. But he wasn’t a complainer, which Veronica admired.

‘Same time next week, Duncan?’

‘Can’t, love. Wish I could. You keep me going, you really do. But it’s my granddaughter’s twenty-first next week and I’m flying up to Brisbane for her party. Thought I might stay a week or two at my son’s place while I’m there. Be warmer, for starters. This last winter in Sydney has got right into my bones. I’ll give you a call when I get back.’

‘Okay. Now, you have a good time, Duncan.’

She watched Duncan shuffle his way down Glebe Point Road in the direction of the small terraced house where he lived. Most of her clients were locals, elderly people with lots of aches and pains, though she did treat a smattering of students from nearby Sydney University. Young men, mostly, who played rugby and soccer and came to her for help with their various injuries.

Frankly, she preferred dealing with her older male clients. They didn’t try to hit on her.

Not that she couldn’t handle the occasional pass. Veronica had been handling male passes since she’d reached puberty, the natural consequence of having been born good-looking. No point in pretending she wasn’t. She’d been very blessed in the looks department, with a pretty face, dark, wavy hair, good skin and large violet eyes.

Jerome had called her a natural beauty.

Jerome…

Veronica closed her eyes for a few seconds as she tried to wipe all thought of that man from her mind. But it was impossible. Jerome’s sudden death had been hard enough to handle, but it was what she’d learned after his death that had truly shattered her.

She still could not believe that he’d been so…so wicked.

Naive of her, she supposed, given what her mother had suffered at the hands of the man she’d married. Still, as she’d grown up, Veronica had never bought into her mother’s cynicism towards the opposite sex. She’d always liked men. Liked and admired them. Yes, she’d grown up understanding that some men were players. But she’d always steered well clear of those. When a couple of her boyfriends had proved to be a bit loose on the moral side, neither of them had lasted long.

Veronica wasn’t a prude. But she couldn’t abide men who flouted society’s rules just for the hell of it—who were disrespectful, insensitive or downright reckless. Her perfect man—the one she’d always envisaged marrying—would be none of those things. He’d be successful, and preferably handsome. But most importantly he would be decent and dependable. After all, he wasn’t going to be just her husband. He was going to be the father of her children. At least four children, she’d always pictured. No single-child family for her.

When Jerome had come along, she’d thought he was perfect husband-and-father material.

But Jerome had not been perfect at all. Far from it.

Veronica gritted her teeth as she walked down the hallway towards the kitchen. She supposed she still had her work. Her personal life might be a non-event, with her dreams of a happy family shattered and her trust in relationships totally destroyed, but her professional life was still there. There was a lot of satisfaction in easing other people’s pain.

Veronica was just filling the kettle with water when her mobile rang.

Probably someone wanting to make an appointment, she thought as she pulled her phone out of her pocket. She didn’t get many personal calls these days.

‘Yes?’ she answered a little more abruptly than usual. Thinking about Jerome had left a residue of simmering anger.

‘Is that Miss Veronica Hanson?’ a male voice asked; a rich male voice with a slight accent. Possibly Italian.

‘Yes, speaking,’ she confirmed.

‘My name is Leonardo Fabrizzi,’ he said, at which point Veronica almost dropped her phone. Her fingers clutched it more tightly as she tried to get her head around who was on the other end of the line.

Because surely there couldn’t be too many Italians called Leonardo Fabrizzi in this world?

It had to be him. Though perhaps not. The world was full of coincidences.

‘Leonardo Fabrizzi, the famous skier?’ she blurted out before she could think better of it.

There was dead silence for a few tense seconds.

‘You know me?’ he said at last.

‘No, no,’ she denied quickly, because of course she didn’t know him. Though, she’d met him. Once. Several years ago, at an après ski party in Switzerland. They hadn’t been properly introduced, so of course he would not recognise her name. But he’d been very famous at the time, a world-champion downhill racer with a reputation for recklessness, both on the slopes and off. His playboy status was well deserved, she’d learned that night, shuddering at how close she’d come to becoming just another of his passing conquests.

‘I… I’ve heard of you,’ she hedged, her voice still a little shaky. ‘You’re famous in the ski world and I like skiing.’

More than liked. She’d been obsessed with the sport for a long time, having been introduced to it as a teenager by a classmate’s family. They’d been very wealthy and had taken her along on their skiing holidays as company for their very spoilt but not very popular daughter.

‘I am no longer a famous skier,’ he told her brusquely. ‘I retired from that world some time ago. I am just a businessman now.’

‘I see,’ she said, not having skied herself since Jerome had died. Her interest in the sport—and most other things—had died along with the man she’d been going to marry.

‘So how may I help you, Mr Fabrizzi?’ It suddenly occurred to her that maybe he’d come here to Australia on business and was in urgent need of treatment after a long flight. He might have looked up Sydney physiotherapists online and come up with her website.

‘I am sorry,’ he said in sombre tones, ‘But I have some sad news to tell you.’

‘Sad news?’ she echoed, startled and puzzled. ‘What kind of sad news?’

‘Laurence has died,’ he told her.

‘Laurence? Laurence who?’ She knew no one called Laurence.

‘Laurence Hargraves.’

Veronica was none the wiser. ‘I’m sorry, but that name means nothing to me.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘That is strange, because your name meant something to him. You’re one of the beneficiaries in his will.’

‘What?’

‘Laurence left you something in his will. A villa, actually, on the Isle of Capri.’

‘What? Oh, that’s ridiculous! Is this some kind of cruel joke?’

‘I assure you, Miss Hanson, this is no joke. I am the executor of Laurence’s will, and have a copy of it right in front of me. If you are the Miss Veronica Hanson who lives in Glebe Point Road, Sydney, Australia, then you are now the proud owner of a very beautiful villa on Capri.’

‘Goodness! This is incredible.’

‘I agree,’ he said, with a somewhat rueful note in his voice. ‘I was a close friend of Laurence and he never mentioned you. Could he have been a long-lost relative of some kind? A great-uncle or a cousin, perhaps?’

‘I suppose so. But I doubt it,’ she added. Her mother was an only child and her father—even if he knew of her existence—certainly wouldn’t have an English name like Hargraves in his family. He’d been an impoverished university student from Latvia who had sold his sperm for money and wasn’t even on her birth certificate, which said ‘father unknown’. ‘I’ll have to ask my mother. She might know.’

‘It is very puzzling, I admit,’ the Italian said. ‘Maybe Laurence was a patient of yours in the past, or a relative of a patient. Have you ever worked in England? Laurence used to live in England before he retired to Capri.’

‘No, I haven’t. Never.’ She had, however, been to the Isle of Capri. For a day. As a tourist. Many years ago. She recalled looking up at the hundreds of huge villas dotted over the hillsides and thinking you would have to be very rich to live in one of them.

Veronica wondered if Leonardo Fabrizzi was still rich. And still a playboy.

Not that I care, shot back the tart thought.

‘It is a mystery, all right,’ the man himself said. ‘But it doesn’t change the fact that you can take possession of this property once the appropriate papers are signed and the taxes paid.’

‘Taxes?’

‘Inheritance taxes. I have to tell you that, on a property of this considerable value, the taxes will not come cheap. Since you are not a relative, they stand at eight percent of the current market value.’

‘Which is what, exactly?’

‘Laurence’s villa should sell for somewhere between three-and-a-half and four million euros.’

‘Heavens!’ Veronica had a substantial amount of money in her savings account—she spent next to nothing these days—but she didn’t have eight percent of four million euros.

‘If that is a problem, then I could lend you the money. You could repay me when you sell.’

His gesture surprised her. ‘You would do that? I mean…it could take some time to sell such a property, couldn’t it?’

‘Not in this circumstance. I would like to buy Laurence’s villa myself. I often visited him there and I love the place.’

Veronica should have been grateful for such an easy solution. But for some reason she was reluctant just to say yes, that would be great, yes, let’s do that.

He must have picked up on her hesitation, despite her not saying a word.

‘If you’re worried that I might try to cheat you,’ he said, sounding somewhat peeved, ‘you could get an independent valuation. Which amount I would be happy to pay in full. And in cash,’ he added, highlighting just how rich he was.

Veronica rolled her eyes, never at her best when confronted by people who trumpeted their wealth. Jerome’s parents had been very rich. And had never let her forget it, always saying she was a very lucky girl to be marrying their one and only child.

Hardly lucky, as it turned out.

‘Perhaps you would like some time to think about all this,’ the Italian went on. ‘I imagine this has all come as a shock.’

‘More of a surprise than a shock,’ she said.

‘But a pleasant one, surely?’ he suggested smoothly. ‘Since you didn’t know Laurence personally, his death won’t have upset you. And the sale of his villa will leave you very comfortably off.’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she mused aloud.

‘I do hope you don’t think me rude, Miss Hanson, but I noticed your birth date on the will. I know women don’t like to talk about their ages but could you please confirm for me that the details are correct?’ And he rattled off the date.

‘Yes, that’s correct,’ she said, frowning. ‘Though how this Laurence person knew it, I have no idea.’

‘So you were twenty-eight as of last June.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re a Gemini.’

‘Yes. Though I don’t think I’m all that typical.’ According to a book on star signs she’d once read, she could be light-hearted and fun-loving one day, and serious and thoughtful the next. That might have been true once but she seemed to be stuck these days on the serious and thoughtful. ‘You believe in star signs, Mr Fabrizzi?’

‘Of course not. It was just an idle remark. A man is master of his own destiny,’ he stated firmly.

Spoken like a typically arrogant male, Veronica thought, but didn’t say so.

‘You’re sure you know of no one called Laurence Hargraves?’ he persisted.

‘Absolutely sure. I have a very good memory.’

‘It is all very curious,’ the Italian admitted.

‘True. I’m finding it pretty curious myself. So, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Firstly, how old was my benefactor?’

‘Hmm. I’m not quite sure. Let me think. Late seventies, is my best guess. I know he was seventyish when his wife died, and that was some years back.’

‘Quite elderly, then. And a widower. Did he have any children?’

‘No.’

‘Brothers and sisters?’

‘No.’

‘What did he die of?’

‘Heart attack. Though I found out after the autopsy that he also had liver cancer. He told me the weekend before he died that he was going to London to see a doctor about his liver. Instead, all he did was make a will, then dropped dead shortly after leaving his solicitor’s office.’

‘Goodness.’

‘Perhaps a mercy. The cancer was end stage.’

‘Was he a heavy drinker?’

‘I wouldn’t have said excessively so. But who knows what a lonely man does in private?’

Veronica was taken aback at how sad he suddenly sounded. This evidence of empathy made her like Leonardo Fabrizzi a little bit, which was a minor miracle. Playboys were not her favourite species.

Though maybe she was doing him an injustice. Maybe he had changed. It was, after all, several years since the night he’d cast his charismatic eye on her and casually suggested she join him and the blonde dripping all over him for a threesome.

No, she thought with a derisive curl of her top lip, men like that didn’t change. Once a player, always a player.

‘If you give me your email address,’ he continued, ‘I’ll send you a copy of the will and you can get back to me with your decision in a day or two. Alternatively, I could ring you at this time tomorrow and we can talk some more. Would that be suitable?’

‘Not really.’ She and her mother always went down to the local Vietnamese restaurant for dinner early on a Saturday evening. ‘What time is it in Italy at the moment?’ she asked, not liking the idea of waiting to make a decision. ‘You are in Italy, aren’t you?’

‘Si. I’m in Milan. In my office. It is nine-twenty.’

He really did speak beautiful English, very polished with correct grammar, all in a mild but disturbingly attractive accent. Veronica had always found Italian men attractive, having met quite a few during her obsessive skiing years.

One, however, stood out amongst all the rest…

‘Right,’ she said crisply. ‘The thing is, I would like to talk to my mother first. Ask her if she ever knew a Laurence Hargraves. Maybe she can clear up this mystery for us. But, no matter what I find out, I can’t see there will be any problem with your buying the villa, Mr Fabrizzi. Much as it would be lovely to have a holiday home on Capri, I really can’t afford it. I will ring you back in about an hour or so. Okay?’

‘Certo. I will look forward to your call, Miss Hanson.’

They exchanged relevant details, after which he hung up, leaving Veronica feeling slightly flustered. Which irritated the hell out of her. She thought she was over being affected by any member of the opposite sex, especially one with Leonardo Fabrizzi’s dubious reputation.

Giving herself a mental shake, she retreated down the hallway and made her way up the stairs to the extension her mother had had built a few years back, a necessity once Nora had started up her home-help business on the Internet. The upstairs section included a small sitting room, a well-appointed office and a spacious bedroom and en suite. As it turned out, the extension had become a real blessing after Jerome’s death, with Veronica able to convert her mother’s old front bedroom into a treatment room for her own home-based physiotherapy business.

It wasn’t until Veronica reached the upstairs landing that her thoughts returned to the annoyingly fascinating Italian and the astonishing reason behind his call. All of a sudden, an idea of who Laurence Hargraves might be zoomed into her head. An astonishing idea, really. Not very logical, either, knowing her mother. But the idea persisted, bringing with it a strange wave of alarm. Her heartbeat quickened and her stomach tightened, sending a burst of bile up into her throat. She swallowed convulsively, telling herself to get a grip.

What you are thinking is insane! Insane and illogical! The man was English, not Australian. Besides, Mum would not lie to me—not over something like this.

Finally, after scooping in several deep breaths, she lifted her hand to tap on her mother’s office door, annoyed to see her hand was shaking. Her mouth went dry. And her heart started pounding again. Not quite a panic attack, but something close.

‘Yes?’ came her mother’s impatient query.

It took an effort of will to turn the knob and go into the room.

‘Mum,’ she said on entering, pleased that her voice wasn’t shaking as well.

Her mother didn’t look up from where she was frowning at the computer screen.

‘Yes?’ she repeated distractedly.

Veronica walked over to perch on the corner of her mother’s desk, gripping the edges with white knuckles. ‘Mum, does the name Laurence Hargraves mean anything to you?’

Veronica had seen people go grey with pain in the course of her work; seen all the blood drain from their faces. But she’d never seen her mother go that particular colour.

Strangely enough, as she watched her mother’s reaction, Veronica no longer felt panic. Just dismay. And the fiercest disappointment. Because now she knew the answer to the mystery, didn’t she?

‘He was my father, wasn’t he?’ she said bleakly, before her mother admitted to anything.

Nora groaned, then nodded. Sadly. Apologetically.

Veronica groaned as well, her face screwing up with distress, her hands balling into fists in defence of the flood of emotion which threatened to overwhelm her. Not since she’d discovered the awful truth about Jerome had she experienced such shock and anger. Funny how you could suspect something, but when you were actually faced with some awful truth your first reaction was still pained disbelief, quickly followed by outrage and anger.

‘Why didn’t you tell me the truth?’ she threw at her mother in anguished tones. ‘Why give me that cock-and-bull story about my father being some impoverished sperm donor from Latvia? Why not just tell me you had an affair with a married man?’

‘But I didn’t have an affair with Laurence!’ her mother denied, her face flushing wildly. ‘It wasn’t like that. You don’t understand,’ she wailed, gripping her cheeks with both hands as tears filled her eyes.

For the first time in her life, Veronica felt no pity for her mother’s tears.

‘Then how was it, Mum?’ she asked coldly. ‘Make me understand, especially why you didn’t tell me the truth about my father’s identity.’

‘I… I couldn’t tell you. I gave Laurence my word.’

Veronica could not believe she was hearing this. She’d given her word to some adulterer? The mind boggled.

‘Well, your precious Laurence is dead and gone now,’ Veronica snapped. ‘So I don’t think your giving him your word matters any more. I dare say you’ll also be surprised to hear that my errant father has left me something in his will,’ she finished up caustically. ‘I’ve just received a call from the executor. I’m now the owner of a villa on the Isle of Capri. Lucky me!’

Nora just stared at her daughter, grey eyes blinking madly.

‘But…but what about his wife?’

‘She’s dead too,’ Veronica said bluntly. ‘Quite a few years ago, apparently.’

‘Oh…’

‘Yes. Oh.’

Her mother just sat there, stunned and speechless.

‘I think, Mum,’ Veronica bit out, her arms crossing angrily as she tried to contain her emotions, ‘That it’s time you told me the truth.’

CHAPTER TWO

LEONARDO EMAILED OFF a copy of the will then settled back down at his desk, trying to put his mind to studying the designs for next year’s winter range. But his mind wouldn’t cooperate. It remained firmly on the call he’d just made to Sydney, Australia.

Who in hell was Veronica Hanson? And why had Laurence never mentioned her?

A great-niece, perhaps? Leonardo speculated. Most people did like to leave their estates to relatives.

Though, if that were the case, why not leave her some money as well? Why just leave her the villa, then leave the rest of his considerable portfolio of cash, bonds and shares to cancer research?

It was a mystery all right.

Hopefully, Miss Hanson’s mother would provide some pertinent information.

Glancing at his watch, Leonardo saw that less than ten minutes had passed since he’d hung up. He could hardly expect a call back this soon.

Unfortunately.

Leonardo’s sigh was one of exasperation. He had no hope of concentrating on anything until he heard back from Miss Hanson. Patience had never been one of his virtues. But he had no alternative on this occasion but to wait.

Still, he didn’t have to wait in here, at his desk, pretending to work. Jumping up, he decided to get himself some coffee, bypassing his PA’s offer to get it for him with the excuse that he needed some air.

Leonardo needed some air a lot. He’d described himself as a businessman to Miss Hanson. But whilst Leonardo had quite enjoyed setting up his top-of-the-range sportswear company—and making a huge success of it—being just a businessman was not the way Leonardo ever saw himself. He was a sportsman, a man of action. A doer, not a pencil pusher. He actually hated offices and desks. Loathed meetings of any kind. And despised sitting for too long.

His spirits lifted once he was outside the building and into the fresh air. The sun was shining and a mild breeze was blowing. Milan in late August was glorious, though too busy, of course, the streets filled with tourists.

Leonardo breathed in deeply and headed for his favourite cafe, which was tucked away down a cobbled side street and never too crowded. There, his espresso was already waiting for him by the time he reached the counter, the female barista having spotted him as he strode into their establishment. He drank the strong black liquid down in one gulp, as was his habit. She smiled at him as he smacked his lips in appreciation, her big brown eyes flashing flirtatiously. She was a very attractive girl, with the kind of dark eyes and hair which Leonardo especially liked.

‘Grazie,’ he said, then placed the empty cup back on the counter, keeping his own smile very brief and not in any way flirtatious. Best not to encourage the girl. She might think he wanted more from her than good service.

There was a time in his younger years when he would have jumped into bed with her weeks ago. But he had more control over his hormones these days. And he was miles more careful, having narrowly escaped being trapped into marriage by a fortune-hunting female a few years back, shuddering whenever he thought of how close he’d come to being shackled for life to a girl he didn’t love.

Leonardo shuddered anew as he strode from the cafe and headed back to his office.

Of course, he could have refused to marry the girl, even if she had been pregnant. Which it had turned out she wasn’t. But Leonardo hadn’t been brought up that way, having it drummed into him as a young man that, if he ever fathered a child, he’d better marry the mother pronto. Because if he didn’t do the honourable thing then he wasn’t ever to bother coming home again.

Such an outcome would have been untenable to Leonardo. His parents meant the world to him. So, yes, he would have married the girl. And loved his child. But his life would not have been the life he’d planned for himself, which was no marriage and children until he was ready to settle down. Which he certainly hadn’t been back then.

Thank God his uncle had stepped in and demanded another pregnancy test by an independent doctor. Leonardo’s relief at the news there was no baby had been a lesson well learned. After that he never believed a girl when she said she was on the pill. And he always used a condom. Always!

As an added precaution, he only dated women these days who were less likely to be looking at him as a meal ticket for life. Women with careers of their own. Money of their own. And minds of their own.

On Leonardo’s part, he had no intention of marrying until he met the love of his life. Which he hadn’t so far. Strange, given all the clever and attractive girlfriends he’d had. But none had captured his heart. None had inspired the kind of wild passion he’d always imagined being truly in love would engender. Yes, sex with them was satisfying. But not mind-blowing. It never compared to the thrill of hurtling down a snowy mountain, knowing that he was going faster than any of his competitors.

Leonardo sighed. Ah, those were the days. Days which would never be repeated, his many falls and injuries having caught up with him by the time he’d turned twenty-five, forcing his retirement from the sport. Yes, he’d been a famous skier, as Miss Hanson had pointed out. But fame was fleeting and life moved on. Seven years had passed since then; seven successful but, perversely, frustrating years. He should have been satisfied with his life. Fabrizzi Sport, Snow & Ski was doing very well, with stores in all the major cities in Europe. He’d become a wealthy man in his own right, not just the spoiled only grandson of a billionaire.

But Leonardo wasn’t satisfied. Sometimes he was consumed with the most awful emptiness, the result perhaps of not having been able to fulfil his ambitions on the ski slopes, injury always having got in the way of success in major championships. There was a restlessness living inside him, a manic energy at times which refused to be quelled, no matter what he did.

And he did plenty. He still skied in the winter, though not competitively. He went yachting and waterskiing in the summer, along with mountain climbing and abseiling. Recently, he’d gained his pilot’s licence for both small planes and helicopters. His frequent holidays were hectic with activity, but he inevitably returned to work still burning with a fire undimmed.

The only time Leonardo had really relaxed was when he’d been on Capri, sitting on Laurence’s terrace, looking out at the sparkling blue sea and sipping one of his friend’s excellent wines.

Thinking of Capri sent his mind back to Laurence’s mystery heiress. Hopefully she would ring him soon and tell him that he could buy the villa. Because he not only wanted it, he needed it. Life without Laurence’s company would be bad enough. Life without the calming influence of his friend’s beautiful home would be a bitter disappointment.

Leonardo glanced at his Rolex once more, then headed back to his office, not wanting to take Miss Hanson’s call in the street.

CHAPTER THREE

VERONICA LAY ON her bed, her head whirling with what she’d discovered. She found it almost impossible to process her feelings. Was she still angry or just terribly sad? What her mother had told her had sort of made sense, and was much better than her mother having slept with a married man. And, yes, she understood why her mother had promised to keep her father’s identity a secret, even if it still upset her.

What puzzled her the most, however, was the will. Now, that didn’t make sense. Why leave her anything at all? Her father must have known it would stir up trouble and leave so many questions unanswered.

Her father…

Tears filled Veronica’s eyes. She’d had a father. A real father, not some unnamed sperm donor. He hadn’t been a nobody, either. He’d been a famous scientist, a groundbreaking geneticist with a brilliant brain. Oh, how she wished her mother had told her years ago.

But of course she hadn’t been able to. She’d given her word. Down deep, Veronica understood that. Good people honoured their promises. And her mother was a good woman. But, dear God, her father was dead now. Dead and gone. She could never see him or talk to him. Never know what he was like.

‘Are you all right, love?’ her mother asked tentatively from the doorway.

Veronica blinked away her tears then turned her head to smile softly at her very stressed-looking mother. She was well aware that her mother had suffered a big shock too. She had to be worried that her much-loved daughter might never forgive her.

Whilst Veronica still harboured some natural resentment at the situation, she could not blame her mother for what she’d done. If anyone was to blame, it was Laurence Hargraves. The stupid man should have gone to his grave with his secret intact and not left her anything at all! Then she could have gone on being blissfully unaware of having a father whom she would now never have the opportunity to know.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she said with feigned composure. ‘It’s just a shock, that’s all.’

‘I know. And I’m so sorry. I don’t know what possessed Laurence to put you in his will. I truly don’t. It was sweet of him, in a way, but he must have known that the truth would come out, and that then you’d be upset.’

‘People do strange things when they’re dying,’ Veronica said with a degree of understanding. She’d seen it time and time again in her work. Once, when she’d been treating an old lady, the woman had confessed she was dying and on impulse had wanted to give Veronica a beautiful ring she was wearing. Veronica had declined, knowing that the woman had a daughter who would have been most hurt by such a gesture. But the old lady hadn’t thought of that. Maybe this Laurence hadn’t thought through the consequences of his will.

Or maybe he’d known exactly what he doing.

The trouble was she would never really know either way. Because she didn’t know the man.

‘Would you like me to make you some coffee, love?’ her mother asked.

‘Yes, that would be nice,’ she replied politely, thinking what she really wanted was to be left alone. She needed to think.

Her mother disappeared, leaving Veronica to ponder the reason why her father had chosen to make his identity known at this late stage, when he could no longer be a living presence in her life. What she wouldn’t have given to have a real father when she’d been growing up, when she’d been at school, when her bitchy so-called friends would tease her about having come out of a test tube. She’d laughed at the time. But she hadn’t found their jibes funny at all. The hurt had struck deep. Teenage girls, she’d found, had a very mean streak. It was no wonder she’d always gravitated to boys when making close friends.

Thinking of boys reminded Veronica that there was one very grown-up boy she would have to ring back shortly.

Leonardo Fabrizzi.

She wasn’t looking forward to telling him that Laurence Hargraves was her biological father. He was sure to ask her lots of questions.

Still, she had lots of questions she wanted to ask him. After all, if he was close enough to her father to have been made executor of his will, then he had to have known him very well. Maybe he had a photo or two that he could send her. She would dearly love to know what this Laurence looked like.

Veronica was nothing like her mother in looks. Nora Hanson was quite short with brown hair, grey eyes and a rather forgettable face and figure. In truth, she was on the plain side. Veronica had always assumed she’d inherited her striking looks from her biological father. Maybe now she’d have the opportunity to see the evidence for herself.

This last thought propelled an idea into Veronica’s brain which had her sitting up abruptly then scrambling off the bed. She raced out into the hallway and bolted down to the kitchen, where she snatched up her phone which she’d left lying on the counter.

‘Goodness!’ her mother said, startled perhaps by her sudden exuberance. ‘Who are you ringing?’

‘The Italian I told you about. Leonardo Fabrizzi. I promised to ring him back once I’d talked to you.’

‘Oh,’ Nora said, looking pained. ‘You’re not going to tell him everything, are you? I mean, does he have to know about your being Laurence’s daughter? Can’t you just sell him the villa and leave it at that?’

‘No, Mum,’ Veronica said firmly. ‘I can’t just leave it at that. And I am going to tell him I’m Laurence’s daughter. For one thing, it makes a difference to the inheritances taxes if I’m a relative. On top of that, I won’t be selling Mr Fabrizzi the villa straight away. There’s something else I have to do first.’

‘What?’

Veronica told her.

CHAPTER FOUR

LEONARDO’S HEART JUMPED when his phone finally rang, then began to race when he saw it was her at last. Why was he suddenly nervous? He wasn’t a nervous person. On the ski slopes, he’d been known for his nerve, not his nervousness. The press had called him Leo the Lion because of his lack of fear. When he’d retired, he’d chosen the image of a lion as the logo for his sportswear company.

‘Thank you for calling me back, Miss Hanson,’ he answered, putting the phone on speaker as he leant back in his leather chair and did his best to act cool and businesslike. ‘Was your mother able to tell you anything enlightening?’

‘She certainly did.’ Her answer was crisp, her voice possibly even more businesslike than his own. ‘It seems that Laurence Hargraves was my biological father.’

Leonardo snapped forward on his chair. ‘Mio Dio! How did that happen?’

‘It seems Mr Hargraves came to Australia about thirty years ago to do genetic research at the Sydney University. He was given a house as part of the deal and my mother was hired as his housekeeper.’

‘And what? They had an affair?’ Leonardo found the concept of Laurence being unfaithful hard to believe. Laurence had been devoted to his wife. They’d been an inseparable couple, their love for each other very obvious to everyone who knew them.

‘No, no, nothing like that. Though my mother said that she and Laurence became quite good friends during the two years she worked for him. With Ruth too. She said she was a lovely lady. No, they didn’t have an affair, or even a one-night stand.’

‘I don’t understand, then.’

‘Mum had me through IVF. I thought my biological father was an impoverished law student from Latvia who sold his sperm for money. That’s what I’d always been told. But it was a lie. Laurence was the sperm donor.’

‘I see… Well, that explains everything, I suppose. Though not the secrecy.’

‘Did you know that Laurence’s wife couldn’t have children?’

‘Not exactly. Though I did know they’d never had children. I didn’t know which of them was the cause of their childlessness. Or whether they’d just decided not to have children. It’s not something you can ask without being rude. Obviously, the problem was Ruth’s.’

‘Yes. Mum told me Ruth had very bad cancer genes which ran through her family and had killed off all her relatives. She decided as a young woman not to pass any of those genes on and had a total hysterectomy. She met Laurence through his work on genes and they fell in love. He told my mother he didn’t overly mind about not having children as his love for Ruth was all-consuming. And so was his work. In fact, his work was the reason behind his becoming my biological father.’

‘His work was the reason?’ Leonardo was not quite getting the picture.

‘Yes. When my mother confided to Laurence that she planned to have a baby through IVF at this particular clinic, he was appalled.’

‘Appalled? Why?’

‘Because he thought they didn’t know enough about the prospective sperm donor’s genes. Yes, the clinic records showed the one she’d chosen was tall, dark and handsome. And intelligent. But Laurence questioned his medical and mental backgrounds, the details of which he said were superficial at best. He said she was taking a risk because she didn’t know enough about the sperm donor’s DNA, whereas his own had been thoroughly checked out. By him.’

Leonardo nodded. Now he understood what had happened.

‘So he offered his own sperm instead,’ he said.

‘Yes. When Mum initially refused, he argued with her about it. Made her feel that if she didn’t agree she was being silly.’

Leonardo nodded. ‘Laurence could be very persuasive when he wanted to be. He introduced me to classical music. And opera. I told him I hated opera but he proved me wrong in the end. Now I love it. I can well understand how he talked your mother into using his sperm. He would have convinced her that she owed it to her child to make sure she wasn’t carrying any unfortunate genes. But what about Ruth? I gather she didn’t know anything about this arrangement?’

‘No. He insisted they keep it a secret from his wife. He said it would upset Ruth terribly if she found out. Mum had to promise to put “father unknown” on the birth certificate and go along with the charade of my father being a Latvian university student.’

‘That makes Laurence sound a bit heartless.’

‘That’s what I thought. Mum said he wasn’t but I don’t agree. Okay, so he bought her the house we live in. Big deal! She still had to live on the single mother’s pension until I went to school and she could go back to work. I mean… Okay, so he didn’t want to upset his childless wife… I get that, I guess. But why didn’t he contact Mum and me after his wife died? Why leave me to find out he was my father after he was dead? What good was that?’

‘I’m sorry, I cannot answer those questions, Miss Hanson. I am as baffled as you are. But at least he left you his villa.’

‘Yes. I’ve been thinking about that too. Why leave me anything at all? And why this villa? On the island of Capri, of all places. He must have had a reason. He was a highly intelligent man, from the sounds of things.’

Something teased at the back of Leonardo’s mind. Something about the last day he’d talked to Laurence. But the thought didn’t stick. He would think about it some more later, when he was calmer.

‘Maybe he just wanted to give you something of value,’ he suggested.

‘Then why not just give me money? From reading his will, I gather he had plenty.’

‘I must admit that thought had occurred to me too, Miss Hanson.’

‘Oh, please stop calling me that. My name is Veronica.’

‘Very well. Veronica,’ he said, and found himself smiling for some reason. ‘And you must call me Leonardo. Or Leo, if you prefer. I know Australians like to shorten names.’

‘I prefer Leonardo,’ she said. ‘It sounds more… Italian.’

Leonardo laughed. ‘I am Italian.’

‘You speak beautiful English.’

‘Grazie.’

‘And grazie to you too. Now… I have made a decision about the villa. I appreciate your offer to buy it, Leonardo. And I will sell you the villa. Eventually. But, first, I want to come and stay there for a while. Not too long. Just long enough to find out all I can about my father…’

CHAPTER FIVE

EXCITEMENT FIZZED IN Veronica’s stomach as the ferry left Sorrento on its twenty-minute ride to Capri. The day was glorious, not a cloud in the sky, the water a sparkling and very inviting blue.

It had taken two weeks for her to organise this trip. She hadn’t wanted to leave her patients in the lurch by departing abruptly so she’d seen them all one more time—or contacted them by phone—telling them that she was taking a much-needed holiday.

Naturally, she hadn’t been about to blurt out the truth behind her trip to Italy. That would have set a cat among the pigeons, sparking far too many questions. They’d all been sweetly understanding, bringing her to tears on a couple of occasions, because they mistakenly thought she was still grieving Jerome’s death.

Which she had been, in a way. For far too long.

But not any more.

Finding out about her real father had been a big shock. But it had also given her the impetus to stop living her life like some mourning widow. Hence her new and rather colourful wardrobe, which had put a serious dent in her savings. But how could she come to this gorgeous and glamorous island looking drab and dreary?

Veronica refused to concede that the effort she’d made with her appearance had anything to do with Leonardo Fabrizzi. As nice as he’d been to her on the phone, he still was what he’d always been. A player.

Curiosity had sent Veronica looking him up on various social media sites and there’d been plenty to look at. Since his retirement from competitive downhill racing, Leonardo had made a name for himself in the world of fashion, Fabrizzi being considered the name in active wear. His company had boutiques in all the main cities in Europe, as well as one in New York. Veronica noted that the press articles didn’t call them shops or stores. No. Boutiques they were called, the kind where only the rich and famous could afford to shop.

Aside from news about his business acumen, it showed Leonardo had also led a very active social life, his name connected with many beautiful women of the type wealthy playboys invariably attracted. Models. Actresses. Heiresses. He’d had countless gorgeous creatures on his arm over the years—and undoubtedly in his bed. Leopards didn’t change their spots. And neither had Leo the Lion.

It was feminine pride, Veronica told herself, which had made her put her best foot forward today. And her best face. All women liked to feel attractive, especially when in the company of a man as handsome and as charismatic as Leonardo Fabrizzi.

And she would be in his company within the next half an hour. Leonardo had made all the arrangements with Veronica over the phone. He was going to meet her at the dock then take her straight to the villa which, she’d learned, was perched above the Hotel Fabrizzi, a small establishment which Leonardo’s parents had been running for over a decade.

This news had surprised Veronica as she’d learned via the Internet that the Fabrizzis were from Milan, Leonardo’s grandfather having set up a textile manufacturing company after the war, becoming extremely wealthy over the years. He’d had two sons and heirs, Stephano and Alberto. What she hadn’t learned—though admittedly she hadn’t looked very hard—was what had happened after the grandfather had died. After all, she was coming to Capri to find out about her own father’s history, not Leonardo’s.

Thinking once more of the reason behind this trip made her heart beat faster. Soon, hopefully, she’d have answers to all the questions this unexpected inheritance had raised. Soon, she’d find out everything she wanted to know about her biological father. What he’d looked like. What he’d liked. What he’d been like!

Veronica no longer harboured any lingering anger over her mother’s lies. What was done was done. No point in going on and on about it. The blame—if there was any blame—lay at her father’s feet. Okay, so she was still upset at his not having contacted her earlier. After all, if he had wanted to keep his identity a secret, why leave her his home in his will?

This was the question which bothered her the most. His leaving her this villa.

Why, Dad? Why?

Her heart caught at finding herself calling him Dad like that. Caught, then turned over. She’d never called the student from Latvia Dad, not even in her thoughts. He’d just been the sperm donor. Not a real person. Just some tadpoles in a test tube. She’d never tried to picture what he looked like. She’d blanked her mind to him. Not so Laurence Hargraves. He was real in her head. Very real. She couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Tears pricked at her eyes, filling them quickly then threatening to spill over. When the girl seated across from her on the ferry started staring at her, Veronica found a smile from somewhere, blinking the tears away before pulling her phone from her straw bag. She’d promised her mum she would take photos of everything and send them to her.

So she did, starting with the ferry, the sea and the approaching island.

* * *

Leonardo wasn’t on the pier waiting for her. Instead there was a middle-aged man holding a sign with her name on it. He looked very Italian, with curly black hair and dark eyes. Clearly, he didn’t know what Veronica looked like, as he was scouring the crowd of tourists with a worried look on his face.

When she walked right up to him and introduced herself, his face broke into a radiant smile.

‘Signora Hanson,’ he said with a thick Italian accent, dark eyes dancing. ‘Why, you are molto bella! Leonardo should have told me.’

Veronica smiled. She didn’t speak Italian but she could recognise a compliment when she heard one.

‘Where is Leonardo?’ she asked, disappointed at his no-show.

‘He said to tell you he is sorry. He was held up. Business. He is flying in soon.’

‘Flying in? But there is no airport on Capri.’

‘There is a helipad. At Anacapri. I am to give you a sightseeing tour then take you there to meet him. Here. Let me take your luggage.’ He tossed the sign with her name on it in a nearby bin.

Veronica didn’t have the heart to tell him she didn’t really want a sightseeing tour, so she just smiled and said, ‘How lovely,’ then climbed into the back of a long yellow convertible that looked like a relic from an early Elvis Presley film.

She was glad after less than a minute that she’d put her hair back into a secure ponytail. The breeze coming off the sea—plus the wind caused by Franco’s rather cavalier driving—would not have made for a pretty result. Veronica tried to appreciate the sights but she really wasn’t in the mood. She’d been so looking forward to meeting Leonardo her disappointment was acute. She politely declined a visit to the Blue Grotto, admitting at that stage that she had been to Capri once before, many years ago, her one-day tour having included a visit to the grotto.

‘It’s a lot busier these days,’ she said, noting the long line of boats waiting to go into the famous cave.

Franco frowned. ‘Too busy. But, come the end of September, things will be better. The cruise ships. They will stop coming. Will you be here then?’

‘Unfortunately not.’ September had only just arrived and her return flight was for just over three weeks’ time.

‘It is too warm for the top to be down,’ Franco decided at this point, and pressed a button which sent a canvas top up and over, shading her from the sun. Which was perhaps just as well, Veronica’s pink-and-white striped top having a deep boat neckline which might catch the sun on her neck. She always lathered herself in sunscreen. She didn’t want to burn.

Once Veronica put aside her disappointment over Leonardo’s no-show, she enjoyed the tour. Franco was a very agreeable guide, his knowledge of the island that of a man born and bred there. It turned out he was also married to Leonardo’s older sister, Elena. They had three children, a boy and two girls.

She wondered if Leonardo had told him she was Laurence’s daughter. Possibly not yet, she decided, swallowing back the questions she was dying to ask about her father. Maybe another day…

Finally, after getting a text on his phone, Franco headed for Anacapri and the helipad.

Despite telling herself there was nothing to be nervous about, Veronica’s stomach tightened and her heartbeat quickened. By the time Franco reached the top of the hill and parked, she found she could not sit in the back of the taxi any longer. Leaving her straw carryall on the back seat, she climbed out and walked around, lecturing herself all the while about her upcoming meeting with Leonardo.

Yes, he’s very attractive, but he’s a playboy, Veronica. Quite a notorious one. Don’t ever forget that. Play it cool when you come face to face with him. Don’t, for pity’s sake, let his good looks—and his undoubted charm—distract you from your quest. You’ve come here to find out about your father, not flutter your eyelashes at Leonardo Fabrizzi.

A helicopter approached from the direction of the mainland. Veronica shaded her eyes to watch it, despite already wearing sunglasses. The helicopter was black with red writing on the side and tinted glass, so she couldn’t see who was sitting in it. As it came in to land, the wind from the huge rotor blades hit her like a mini tornado. Thank God she’d chosen to wear her new white jeans, and not the sundress with its gathered skirt. As it was, a few strands of hair came loose from her ponytail, whipping across her face. Finally, the helicopter’s noisy engine shut down and the blades slowed. A side door on it slid open and out jumped a man, a tall dark-haired man in a pale grey suit and a blinding white shirt open at the neck with no tie.

Veronica recognised Leonardo instantly, despite his hair—which he’d worn disgracefully long back in his skiing days—now being cropped short. It suited him, however, showing off his face to better advantage, highlighting his sculptured features and strong jawline. Still, she’d already known about his new haircut, having studied many images on social media during the last two weeks.

He was, however, even better looking in the flesh than in recent photos, two-dimensional images not able to capture the total essence of this man. He was, Veronica accepted as she watched him stride towards her, not just the stereotype of tall, dark and handsome. Leonardo was more than that. Much more, as evidenced by the way her heart began racing within her chest. Aside from his looks, there was the way he moved. The way he walked. The set of his broad shoulders. The angle of his head. He was the total male package. Arrogant. Confident. And super sexy.

As he drew nearer, her heartbeat accelerated further.

Did he do this to all women? she wondered with exasperation. Did he make them forget everything that life had taught them about males of the ‘player’ species? Did he make them want to act like fatuous female fools?

Possibly.

Probably!

Veronica sarcastically renamed him ‘tall, dark and dangerous’ in her head.

It was a good thought to have. A sensible, soothing thought, giving her the willpower to draw in several deep, gathering breaths, consciously slowing her heartbeat and untangling the knots in her stomach. No way was she going to have her head turned by Leonardo Fabrizzi. She’d avoided that trap all those years ago. Surely she was better equipped not to fall for it this time.

All you have to do is think of Jerome…

He was staring at her, she knew, despite his sunglasses hiding the expression in his eyes. She could sense his penetrating gaze behind the opaque lenses, perhaps because his dark brows were drawn slightly together, forming two little frowning lines. It made her glad she was wearing sunglasses herself. That way he wouldn’t see into her eyes which she knew were, indeed, the windows to her soul.

Not that her soul was bothered by Leonardo Fabrizzi. It was her body which was bothered currently. Her silly, possibly frustrated female body which had been too long without the comfort of a man’s arms around her, without the wonderful feeling of being held, kissed and caressed.

‘Veronica?’ he said in that sexy voice which by now she was familiar with.

Her smile felt forced. ‘Yes,’ she confirmed.

His smile was light. And wry. ‘I should have known you’d be beautiful,’ he said. ‘Laurence was a very handsome man. Welcome to Capri,’ he added, stepping forward to draw her into a very Italian hug.

Her arms were trapped by her side as he pulled her close, the strength and warmth of his body bypassing her resolve to be sensible around him. Oh, God. She could feel herself melting in his arms. Feel her blood charge hot and heady around her veins. Her neck flushed. So did her face.

‘Goodness!’ she exclaimed, pulling back out of his embrace before she combusted. ‘I’d forgotten how very demonstrative Italians were.’

Leonardo’s eyebrows arched. ‘You don’t hug hello in Australia?’

‘We do. Though usually just relatives and close friends.’

‘How very odd. If I overstepped the mark, then I apologise. Come. It is too hot to be standing out here in the sun.’ He took her elbow and turned her back towards where the taxi waited for them, Franco still behind the wheel.

She resisted pulling her arm away, thinking that would be too rude. And too telling. He was just being a gentleman, after all. But, oh, it worried her, that wildly pleasurable sensation which had charged up her arm at his touch.

‘You don’t have any luggage?’ she asked when he dropped her arm to open the back door of the taxi.

‘No need. I keep spare clothes here at my parents’ hotel. My Capri clothes, I call them. No business suits for me when I stay here, isn’t that so, Franco?’ he said as he handed her into the car and climbed in after her.

‘Si, Leo. You are a different man once you come here.’

‘Have you been looking after our visitor? Shown her the more famous sights?’

‘Si. But Veronica, she not want to go to Blue Grotto.’

‘I’ve seen it before.’ Veronica jumped in before Franco could say anything further. ‘I came here as a day tripper when I was in my early twenties. It’s a very beautiful cave but I didn’t want to queue up to see it again.’

Leonardo nodded. ‘Understandable. Actually, the only way to see Capri is by air. I will take you up in the helicopter tomorrow.’

‘Oh,’ she said, thrilled and terrified by his offer. ‘You don’t have to do that.’

‘But I want to. And you will love it. Let’s go, Franco. I’m sure Veronica is anxious to see her father’s villa.’

Oh, Lord, Veronica thought as the taxi moved off. Her father’s villa. The reason she’d come here. And the last thing she’d been thinking about since the very handsome Leonardo Fabrizzi had stepped off that helicopter less than five minutes ago.

CHAPTER SIX

LEONARDO SETTLED INTO the back seat of the taxi and tried to act normally, not like a man who was finding the girl next to him disturbingly attractive. Disturbing, because he wasn’t in the mood to be attracted to any girl at the moment, having decided after today’s fiasco in Rome that the female sex was nothing but trouble.

At the same time, he owed it to his friend’s memory to be hospitable to his daughter. And to satisfy Veronica’s very natural curiosity about the father she’d never known. It was a pity, however, that she had to possess the type of allure which he’d always found difficult to resist. He adored tall, elegantly slender brunettes, especially one whose hair was long and which, once released from a ponytail prison, would cascade down her back in loose curls like the tresses of some mediaeval princess. Combine that with a delicate oval face, clear porcelain skin and a lush mouth and you had a package which would tempt a saint.

And he was no saint.

Hopefully, when she took her sunglasses off, she would have small squinty eyes and a bumpy nose, but he doubted it. Laurence’s eyes had been one of his best features and his nose had been nicely shaped. If his daughter took after him—and he suspected that she did—she would be a classical beauty, with a superb brain and an enquiring mind.

The many hours Leonardo had spent with Laurence stood out as some of the most enjoyable times of his adult life. It hadn’t been just his house he’d enjoyed but the man himself. His company. His knowledge. His probing questions.

Leonardo sighed as he was reminded how much he missed his friend.

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there to meet you off the ferry, Veronica,’ he said. ‘I had some unexpected trouble at my boutique in Rome which I had to attend to.’

She turned to glance his way, her jeaned thigh briefly brushing against his. ‘Something serious?’

‘Yes and no. The manager was…what is the expression?…dipping her fingers in the till.’

‘That’s dreadful. Did you have her arrested?’

Leonardo’s laugh was very dry. ‘I would have liked to, but she threatened to ruin me if I did that.’

‘How could she ruin you?’

Leonardo shrugged. ‘Perhaps “ruin” is an exaggeration. She threatened to accuse me of sexual harassment if I had her arrested. In the end, I paid her off and she left quietly. But I’m not sure I trust her to keep her silence. She might still put something nasty on social media about me.’

‘Like what?’

‘She could say that to get her job in the first place she had to sleep with me.’

‘But that’s slander!’

‘Not exactly. I did sleep with her. Once. It was a mistake, but I could not take it back after it happened, could I?’

‘Well, no. I guess not.’

Leonardo noted the dry note in Veronica’s voice. She probably thought he was a playboy. Which he was, in some people’s eyes. But not of the worst kind. He tried not to hurt women’s feelings, but unfortunately the opposite sex often equated lust with love. He glanced over at Veronica and wondered if she was that type.

This thought brought another one.

‘I didn’t think to ask over the phone if you had a boyfriend,’ he said. They’d talked about their professional lives but hadn’t touched on the personal. He’d told her about his sportswear company and she’d explained that she worked from home as a physiotherapist, treating mostly elderly patients. She’d sounded oddly spinsterish over the phone. He could see now how wrong that impression had been. A beautiful woman like her would surely have a love life.

Her face betrayed nothing. But she stiffened a little.

‘No,’ she replied after a small hesitation. ‘No one at the moment. No one serious, at least,’ she added with a wry little smile.

‘Ah. You like to play the field.’

Her laugh was both light and amused. ‘If you like…’

He did like. Oh, yes, he liked that idea a lot, forgetting all about the antagonism towards the opposite sex that this morning’s confrontation had evoked in him. Suddenly, the prospect of keeping this lovely lady company this coming weekend was not a duty but a pleasure.

‘We have arrived,’ he announced when Franco turned his taxi through the high stone walls into the courtyard of the Hotel Fabrizzi. ‘What do you think, Veronica? Is not my parents’ hotel a delightful little establishment?’

CHAPTER SEVEN

HARDLY LITTLE, VERONICA THOUGHT, glad to turn her eyes away from this extremely handsome and annoyingly charismatic man. Lord, but he could charm the pants off any woman!

Except me, she reassured herself, blithely ignoring her thudding heartbeat.

‘It’s lovely,’ she said as the taxi came to a halt in front of a columned portico.

The hotel itself was two-storeyed and dazzlingly white, with terracotta tiles on the roof and dark wooden frames around the windows and doors. To their right as they alighted was a large pergola covered in grape vines, under which sat a long wooden table with equally long benches on either side and two large cushioned chairs at each head of the table. The closest was occupied by a huge ginger cat, basking in the dappled sunshine. When Leonardo walked over to stroke it, it purred loudly but did not get up.

‘This is Gepetto. He’s my mother’s cat and very old. He was here when my parents bought this place thirteen years ago. The previous owners abandoned him.’ Leonardo smiled a rueful smile. ‘He’s not de-sexed. Mostly because we can never get him into a cage. He doesn’t mind being stroked but don’t ever try to pick him up. He can be quite savage. I’m told there are many ginger kittens on Capri.’

Veronica looked at Leonardo and wondered how many offspring he’d sired over the years. Though perhaps he was too careful for that. Wealthy playboys would learn to practise safe sex from an early age, she imagined. There certainly hadn’t been anything about paternity suits levelled against him on the Internet.

‘Must go, Leo,’ Franco called out as he dropped Veronica’s case onto the portico then climbed back into the taxi. ‘I will see you tonight,’ he directed straight at her.

‘Tonight?’ Veronica echoed but Franco was already gone.

‘My parents will invite you to dinner,’ Leonardo explained. ‘The whole family will be there to meet you. They are very curious over the long-lost daughter of their friend and neighbour.’

‘Oh.’ It sounded like there would be a daunting lot of people gawking at her.

‘Don’t say no,’ he advised. ‘They would be most offended if you did.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of saying no,’ she said, just as two people emerged from the hotel out into the sunny courtyard.

Veronica saw immediately where Leonardo got his looks, because this had to be his parents. Both of them were surprisingly tall for Italians. Despite being obviously in their seventies, they both stood with straight backs, their faces beaming with happiness at the sight of their son.

‘Leonardo!’ his mother exclaimed, and hurried over to throw her arms around him.

‘Mamma,’ he said warmly, holding his mother’s face and covering it with kisses.

His mother laughed and smiled, hugging him even tighter.

Veronica watched with a tightness in her own chest. Was it jealousy she was feeling? Or just envy? She and her mother loved each other dearly but they weren’t much into physical demonstrations of their love. The occasional hug, maybe. Her mother had kissed her goodbye at the airport. Just one kiss. On the cheek.

Of course, Italians were like this. They were a passionate people, given to touching and kissing at the drop of a hat. Australians not so much, though they were improving when it came to showing affection—especially in Sydney, where immigration was the highest, with people from other cultures bringing with them new and possibly better ways.

Finally, Signora Fabrizzi disentangled herself from her son’s arms and turned to face Veronica whilst Leonardo’s father had his turn at hugging and kissing his son.

‘And you must be Veronica,’ she said, her Italian accent not as heavy as Franco’s. ‘Laurence’s secret daughter. I am Sophia, Leonardo’s mamma. And this is Alberto, his papa. My, but you are lovely, aren’t you? Let me see your eyes,’ she added, and without a by-your-leave stepped forward and swept off Veronica’s sunglasses.

‘Mamma!’ Leonardo chided, but laughing. ‘Don’t be rude.’

‘I just wanted to see if she had Laurence’s eyes,’ his mother explained sheepishly. ‘See, Leonardo? They are the same violet colour. The same shape. Now I believe she is really his daughter.’

Leonardo muttered something in Italian, having removed his own sunglasses, perhaps so that he could see the colour of Veronica’s eyes more clearly. Their eyes met, with nothing now to mask their feelings. Veronica stiffened at the naked desire which zoomed across the space between them. It was the same way he’d looked at her that night all those years ago. She’d resisted him then. But could she resist him now? Did she even want to?

Hopefully, he wouldn’t put that question to the test. Because, for whatever reason, she didn’t feel as strong today as she had back then. Which was odd, really, since she had her experience with Jerome to help immunise her against the attractions of men such as Leonardo Fabrizzi. She wished now that she hadn’t suggested she was the free and easy type when it came to men. The urge to seem sophisticated in his presence had been acute. Female vanity, she supposed. But it had been a mistake.

Leonardo finally extracted them from his parents’ overwhelming welcome with the excuse he should take Veronica up to see her villa.

‘I will see you soon, Mamma,’ he said, shepherding them both back inside whilst he retrieved Veronica’s luggage, and her sunglasses, at the same time. ‘After I’ve got Veronica settled in I’ll come back down and you can tell me all the gossip.’

His mother called out something from the hotel foyer in Italian. His reply was in Italian also. Despite only knowing limited Italian, Veronica gleaned it was about dinner tonight.

‘Haven’t you been home for a while?’ she asked as he handed over her sunglasses, which she popped into her shoulder bag. Their eyes met again and something lurched inside her. He just stared at her for a long moment, and she stared right back, thinking how beautiful he was. Not just handsome. Beautiful.

Oh, dear…

‘It’s been a month since my last visit,’ he said at last.

Not so very long ago, Veronica thought. She’d been imagining it must have been much longer, judging by the prodigious joy of his parents’ welcome. Clearly, Leonardo was the apple of his mamma’s and papa’s eyes.

‘This way,’ he said, then took off through the paved pergola, pulling her case behind him. Veronica had to hurry to keep up with him, his stride fast and long.

‘It was my father’s seventy-fifth birthday,’ he tossed over his shoulder. ‘It was also the weekend before Laurence died. Now, watch your step on this path. It’s very steep but it’s the quickest way up to your villa from here. There’s another road for deliveries and such, but you have to drive a fair way round to get to it, and I don’t keep a car on the island.’

It was steep, but she was fit and didn’t have much trouble with the incline, or the rather uneven stone steps. Clearly, they’d been there a long time, as had the inhabitants of this island. Franco had given her a history lesson this morning during her sightseeing tour, telling her how the Roman emperor Tiberius had moved to Capri ages ago and had used the Blue Grotto as his private swimming pool. She’d possibly heard the same story when she’d been here before as a tourist but she’d long forgotten it. But she hadn’t forgotten how impressed she was by all the beautiful white villas which dotted the island. Now one of them belonged to her. For a while, at least.

Her eyes lifted but the villa was hidden from view by a grove of olive trees. She could just glimpse the roof, which had terracotta tiles just like the Hotel Fabrizzi.

‘Did you see Laurence that weekend?’ she asked, glad to return her attention to the reason why she was here. Which wasn’t to go gaga over Leonardo but to find out all she could about her father.

‘I did,’ was all he said.

‘And?’ she prompted.

‘I’ve been trying to recall what we talked about. I knew you’d ask me,’ he added with a wry glance over his shoulder.

‘And?’

He stopped walking and turned to face her. ‘It’s difficult to remember. We spent many hours together over the last few years, Laurence and I. He taught me to play chess. But I never could beat him. He was way too good.’

‘I’ve never played chess.’

‘It’s not an easy game to master,’ he said, and started walking up the steps again, this time by her side rather than in front.

‘Do you like red wine?’

‘Not really.’

‘Laurence was a red wine buff. He has the most incredible cellar.’

‘I noticed he left you his wine collection in his will. Have you collected it yet?’

‘No need. You’re selling me the villa, remember?’

‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I forgot. Oh!’ Veronica exclaimed in surprise as the villa came into view.

It wasn’t what she’d been imagining. Somehow she’d been picturing a smaller version of the Hotel Fabrizzi. But it wasn’t like that at all. Yes, it was mainly white. And, yes, the roof tiles were terracotta. But that was where any resemblance ended. The building was rectangular, and all on the one level, with a cloistered veranda which ran the entire length at the front. Beyond this shaded area, the main wall of the house had a lot of sliding glass doors with no obvious front door.

‘Come,’ Leonardo said, and led her up a small cement ramp onto the wonderfully cool veranda. Once there, Veronica stopped and turned to gaze out at the Mediterranean.

‘Oh, Leonardo,’ she said with a sigh of both amazement and contentment. The olive grove stopped one looking down and perhaps having the magnificent vista spoiled by the sight of buses, towns and tourists. All you could see from where she was standing was crystal blue water all the way to the horizon, with just the occasional sailboat or yacht, which hardly seemed to be moving. Everything was peaceful, soothing and, oh, so beautiful.

‘Perhaps now you understand why I want to buy this place.’

‘Yes indeed,’ she said, aware that he’d moved to stand close to her, so close that she could smell his aftershave, or his cologne, or whatever that wonderful scent was which emanated from his skin. She’d smelt it before in the car but had done her best to ignore the effect it had on her.

Ignoring it again, she turned and looked up at him.

‘And if I decide not to sell it to you?’

For a split second, anger zoomed into his eyes. But then he laughed. ‘You can’t afford not to. The taxes on this place will be considerable.’

‘Not so considerable if I can prove I’m Laurence’s biological daughter.’

‘And how do you plan to do that? He’s been cremated, according to his wishes. You would need his DNA.’

‘There must be something of his DNA in this place. A hairbrush, perhaps? Or a toothbrush?’

‘Perhaps…’

‘Don’t look so worried, Leonardo. I will sell you the villa, but only after I’ve got what I came here to find out.’

‘Which is what, exactly?’

‘What my father looked like, for starters. There was a small article about him on the Internet, but no photos. Mum didn’t have any photos, either. But, more importantly, I want to find out what kind of man he was.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

LEONARDO LOOKED DEEP into Veronica’s lovely violet eyes and wondered if she’d be happy with what she found out. Laurence’s looks wouldn’t present a problem, since he had been a male version of her. But Laurence hadn’t always been an easy man to warm to.

He’d been somewhat introverted, for starters, a typical scientist. Brilliant, but not the most sensitive of men. Leonardo imagined that as a young man emotions were not something Laurence had been familiar with.

His obsessive love for his wife must have thrown him for a loop. Because it clearly hadn’t been in Laurence’s nature to love like that. Her death had derailed him for a long time. Ruth had been the more social of the pair. She’d loved going to parties and entertaining at home.

It was obvious Laurence had just gone along with her wishes to keep her happy. After she’d gone, he’d sunk into a deep depression and had refused to accept any invitations, other than at Christmas, when Leonardo’s mamma would force him to come down to the Hotel Fabrizzi for Christmas dinner. Even then, he’d been a right misery, leaving the table as soon as it was polite and sitting by himself, not talking to anyone.

Leonardo couldn’t help having felt sorry for him, priding himself on having been the person to drag Laurence out of his mourning. Every time he’d come home to visit his parents, he’d made the effort to visit him up at his villa, their friendship deepening when Leonardo had broken his ankle rock climbing a couple of years back and had come home to recuperate. Laurence had become frustrated with watching Leonardo struggle up the path on crutches to visit him and had insisted he move in with him until his ankle healed.

It was during that time together that their real friendship had begun, Leonardo having confided to Laurence over a bottle of wine one night how devastated he had been when he’d been forced to retire early from competitive skiing. No one in his family had ever understood how upset he’d been at the time. His parents had simply been pleased that he was no longer risking his neck on the slopes. Uncle Stephano had been of a similar mind-set, saying there was just as much satisfaction in succeeding in business as in sport.

None of them had had a clue.

But Laurence had. He’d understood totally, his empathy coming as a surprise.

‘There is nothing worse for a man, Leonardo,’ he’d said gently, ‘than to have a goal snatched away from him, right when it is within reach. I know how that feels. I was on the verge of making a huge scientific discovery when all my funding for that particular research was suddenly cancelled. There was nothing I could do at the time. It was at the start of my career and I had no reputation to fall back on. I felt quite suicidal. Fortunately, I met Ruth around that time, and she made me see that there was more to life than science. One day, my boy, you will find a new dream, one which you can fulfil. Meanwhile, try to enjoy what you have, which is a lot.’

It had been sound advice. Looking back, Leonardo could see that their mutual confidences had resulted in an affection for each other that was unconditional. Leonardo had accepted Laurence’s flaws, and vice versa. It had made for an ease of companionship which hadn’t required the usual male tendency to try to impress. With Laurence, Leonardo had been able to be himself. He missed that.

‘Laurence was a good man, but he was basically a loner,’ he told Veronica, couching his words carefully. ‘Most scientists are, I would imagine. Their work is a huge part of their life. Ruth used to get him to socialise. She liked entertaining and having guests to stay. But after she died he reverted to type. Mamma often invited him to dinner and to parties but he usually declined, except at Christmas. I guess I knew him better than anyone on Capri. He was very open with me. But, even then, it’s obvious he had his secrets.’

‘You’re talking about me,’ she said.

‘Yes. You came as a shock, I can tell you.’ In more ways than one. Over the phone she’d come across as brusque and spinsterish, so he’d been expecting a plain woman. But Veronica was anything but plain. She was utterly gorgeous. Leonardo suspected that he would have difficulty keeping his hands off. Already he wanted to run his fingers through her hair, to pull her to him and kiss her until she forgot all about what her father had been like. Leonardo knew he could make women forget all sorts of things, especially once he got them into bed. Make himself forget too. Sex soothed the dissatisfied beast in him. That, and gazing out at this hypnotic and wonderfully relaxing view.

Leonardo turned to gaze out across the sea for a long moment. Soon Laurence’s villa—and this view—would be his. But until then he’d have to make do with other methods of relaxation.

He turned back to face Veronica with his most charming smile in place, the one which always melted the ladies and made it oh, so easy when he came across a female he fancied. And he fancied this one. More than he had in a long time, Leonardo conceded. She actually reminded him of a girl he’d come across one night many years ago. A girl very similar to Veronica in looks. A girl who’d caught his eye but who’d rejected his drunken invitation with the disdain it had probably deserved.

She’d been Australian too, he suddenly recalled.

His brows drew together as he stared at her again. Surely not?

His eyes searched hers, then travelled down her delectable body and up again. It was a long time ago, and he’d never known her name. All he’d known was that she was Australian and that she’d worked as a masseuse at a neighbouring ski resort. Sven had raved about her and asked her to one of their after-competition parties. Leonardo’s retirement party, as it had turned out.

‘This might seem an odd question,’ he said, ‘but did you ever work as a masseur in a ski resort in Switzerland? About seven or eight years ago, it would have been…’

* * *

Veronica’s stomach flipped right over. She hadn’t expected him to recognise her. Not on such a brief acquaintance so many years ago. They hadn’t even been properly introduced.

But it seemed he had recognised her. Or almost had. What to do? Lie, or tell the truth?

She did so hate lies. Jerome had lied to her. A lot.

‘I didn’t think you’d recognise me,’ she said simply. ‘It was so long ago.’

He blinked his surprise, then smiled a rather rueful smile. ‘That’s how you knew I was a skier,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she agreed. Not to mention a playboy.

‘Why didn’t you tell me we’d met before?’ he demanded to know, not angrily, but in a rather puzzled tone.

‘I thought you might find the circumstances…embarrassing.’

He laughed. Not a loud, in-your-face belly laugh. Or an amused chuckle. More of a harsh bark.

‘I admit, it wasn’t one of my finer moments.’

‘Really? I got the impression it was your usual après ski behaviour. None of the other people there seemed surprised.’

‘I can’t say I noticed. I was very drunk, Veronica. My career as a downhill racer had ended that day and I didn’t take it well. One injury too many, I was told,’ he added with a flash of remembered pain in his eyes.

She just stood there in a stiff silence, not prepared to excuse his behaviour that night so easily.

He laughed again, this time with a flash of dry humour. ‘I can still remember what you said to me. In your dreams, mate.’

‘Yes, well, when I go to bed with a guy,’ she said rather tartly, ‘I like to have his total attention. I’m not big on sharing.’ And wasn’t that the truth!

‘Believe it or not, I am usually a one-woman-at-a-time man.’

‘If you say so.’

He smiled a crooked smile. ‘You must have a very bad opinion of me. First, from that night. And then from what I told you about the business today in Rome.’

Veronica didn’t want to offend the man, but she was way past letting him whitewash his behaviour. It galled her to think he imagined she would fall for his ‘poor little me’ act.

‘Leonardo,’ she said firmly. ‘Let’s not pretend. Your reputation precedes you. It always has, even back in your downhill racing days. You’re a player. You change your girlfriends as often as you do your clothes. I’ve seen dozens of photos of you on social media. But never with the same girl on your arm.’

His eyebrows lifted, his dark eyes glittering with the most irritating satisfaction.

‘You checked me out on the Internet?’

Veronica heaved an exasperated sigh. Trust him to take her admission as a measure of sexual interest.

‘Of course I did,’ she told him in a matter-of-fact manner. ‘I’m not a fool, Leonardo. I wanted to know what kind of man you were these days. I wanted to see if you could be trusted.’

‘And?’ He still didn’t seem offended or worried, that twinkle staying in his eyes.

‘As a businessman, your reputation is spotless.’

‘But not as a boyfriend,’ he said with laughter in his eyes.

‘Well…’

‘Come, come—don’t quibble. Australians are well known for being straight shooters. Tell me what you think of me as a boyfriend.’

Veronica straightened her spine. ‘I would say you weren’t a very good bet in that regard. Not if a woman wanted commitment.’

‘That would depend on the woman,’ he countered. ‘I have no objection to commitment when the time—and the woman—is right. But then, not every woman is looking for commitment. Take you, for instance…’

‘What? Me?’

‘Yes, you.’

‘What about me?’ she demanded to know, angling her head to one side as she glared up at him.

He smiled. ‘You are in your late twenties and have no one serious in your life. Yet you are a very beautiful woman. I can only conclude that you have chosen to stay—what is the term?—footloose and fancy free.’

Veronica hadn’t blushed in years and she didn’t blush now. But she felt quite hot inside her body, the kind of heat which came from being turned on. He was turning her on, this devilishly handsome Italian, with his verbal foreplay and his suggestive smiles.

All of a sudden she thought about what it would be like to have sex with him. Would he be as good a lover as he obviously thought he was?

Yes, she decided, a decidedly erotic shiver rippling down her spine.

Sex wasn’t something that had ever been that important to Veronica. It was the romance she enjoyed. The love. Orgasms for her had always been in short supply, even with Jerome, who’d been more than competent in bed. But he hadn’t been all that passionate.

Naturally not, she thought bitterly. His passion—and his love—had lain elsewhere.

Veronica stared up into Leonardo’s dark, sexy eyes and just knew he’d be passionate in bed. Passionate, uninhibited and extremely imaginative. There wouldn’t be a form of foreplay or a sexual position he hadn’t tried and revelled in. Any man who could have offered a threesome so casually was into anything. Orgies as well, no doubt.

Such thoughts made it difficult to speak at all, let alone find the right reply. Veronica licked her dry lips, then swallowed.

‘I haven’t been lucky when it comes to men,’ she said quite truthfully.

‘That is sad. But you are still young. There is no need to panic yet.’

Now it was her turn to laugh. ‘That’s a matter of opinion. It seems only yesterday that I was twenty. Now, in two years, I’ll be thirty.’

‘You wish to get married and have children?’

Veronica shrugged. Once upon a time, she would have said yes in a heartbeat. Now, she wasn’t so sure. Marriage didn’t seem as straightforward as it once had. She suspected that falling in love again would be difficult for her, for starters. And, without love, marriage was out of the question.

‘Only if I meet the right man,’ she said. Which certainly won’t be someone like you, she thought, despite the desire Leonardo could evoke in her with shocking ease.

‘When you sell me this villa,’ he replied, ‘You will be rich. And men will be chasing you like mad. Possibly not the right kind of man, though, so you will have to be careful. Come,’ he said, and retrieved a key from one of the large pots full of geraniums that sat along the sunny edge of the veranda. ‘Time for you to see your inheritance from the inside.’

CHAPTER NINE

‘DON’T LOOK SO WORRIED,’ Leonardo said as he inserted the key into the lock of one of the sliding glass doors. ‘We don’t have a crime problem on Capri. Perhaps a little pickpocketing, occasionally, but not serious crime. Laurence always kept a key in that pot so that Carmelina could get in when he wasn’t around.’

‘Carmelina?’

‘One of my sisters. She used to clean for Laurence. And shop. I asked her to go through the place this week and stock up with food. And, no, you do not have to pay her. She was happy to do it.’

‘That was very kind of her. Do you have her number? If she speaks English I would like to thank her.’

‘Everyone in my family speaks English. And you don’t have to ring her. You can thank her when you see her tonight. At dinner.’

‘Oh, yes. Dinner…’

Dinner tonight with his family was going to be a trial, she thought. But not as much of a trial as handling Leonardo’s disturbing presence right here and now. She needed a break from his overwhelmingly attractive persona so that she could get a grip on her treacherously excited body. Veronica had the awful suspicion that if she let him stay with her any longer she might do something foolish. Once they went inside together, they would be alone. In this gorgeous house. With bedrooms and beds. She didn’t trust herself. Or him. Not that he would force himself upon her. She didn’t think that. But it was obvious Leonardo would not waste time when he fancied a girl.

And he fancied her, if the looks he kept giving her were anything to go by.

‘Leonardo,’ she began as he slid open the first of the huge glass doors.

He swung round to set those incredibly sexy eyes upon her. ‘Yes?’

‘Would you mind terribly if I walked through the house without you? I just want to soak it all in by myself. And I really do need to ring my mother. Let her know I’ve arrived and everything’s okay. She worries, you see.’

Veronica knew she was babbling, but Leonardo was the sort of man who could make a woman babble. She would have to get control of that before tonight. He was sure to seat her right next to him at dinner. Already she was wondering what to wear.

His smile hinted that he understood she was slightly afraid to be alone with him. Or maybe she was just imagining it. Guilty conscience and all that.

‘Let me just put your luggage inside,’ he replied, and turned to where he’d left it.

Panic almost had her screaming at him to leave it, but she held her tongue just in time, instead dredging up the cool smile she’d used on men for the past three years but which was in danger of deserting her. With Leonardo she wanted just to smile fatuously at him and agree with everything he suggested. She’d already agreed to let him take her sightseeing tomorrow. In a helicopter, no less.

Helicopters frightened the life out of her. She didn’t like the idea that if the engine conked out and the rotor blades stopped you’d drop like a stone. No hope of gliding down to a soft landing. Not that you could do that in a big plane. Maybe she could suggest tonight over dinner that they cruise around in a boat instead. Not a small sailing boat. One with a big crew, to stop him from pouncing once they were at sea.

As soon as her black wheelie case was safely inside the enormous living area, he took her gently by the shoulders and gazed down into her ever-widening eyes. Lord, was he going to kiss her?

He didn’t. She just wished he had. Instead, he shook his head at her, as if he knew what was going on in her head.

‘You should have a rest this afternoon,’ he advised. ‘Dinner with my family is not a quick event. Mamma will want to impress you with all her best dishes, so don’t eat too much before you come. I shall be here to pick you up at seven.’

‘What…what should I wear?’

He shrugged. ‘Nothing formal. If you wear a dress, then bring a wrap. Or a jacket. The evenings start warm but cool down quickly. Arrivederci, Veronica.’

And then he did kiss her. Not a big, swooping, passionate kiss. Just a peck, really. But on her lips. A light, lovely kiss which made her long for more. And then he was gone, not looking back once as he’d stridden away from her, his long legs carrying him down off the veranda and swiftly out of sight.

Veronica just stood there for long moment, staring blindly after him, not breathing, not thinking. Only yearning. No…craving. She craved Leonardo Fabrizzi. It was a stunning realisation. Because she’d never craved a man like that before. She knew it wasn’t love she was feeling. It was lust making her heart thud and her lungs ache from not breathing. She gasped in then, sucking in the gloriously fresh air, clearing her light-headedness to a degree.

Crossing her arms, she hugged herself, then turned and stared through the glass doors at the view of the sea once more, using its soothing quality to find some common sense, asking herself what did it matter if she lusted after this man? What would it matter if she even had sex with him? It didn’t have to lead anywhere. It wouldn’t lead anywhere. Anyone who knew anything about Leonardo Fabrizzi would know that.

A slow smile spread across Veronica’s face as she thought about Leonardo. What a devil he was. But a very charming devil. And sexy as hell. A girl would have to be dead to resist him.

‘And I’m far from dead,’ she said aloud as she unwrapped her arms and spread them wide. ‘I’m over Jerome. I’m here on the gorgeous Isle of Capri. And I’m about to inspect my father’s equally gorgeous house!’

CHAPTER TEN

IT WAS GORGEOUS. The living area, especially. It was open plan, but not overly modern, though it did have all the mod cons. The floors were Italian marble in swirls of white and grey, the rugs very colourful. The furniture was an eclectic mixture of stuff one might see in an English home, the two sofas rather formal and chintzy, the armchairs large, squashy and very country. The dining table was oval-shaped, and made of an almost black wood, with six matching high-back chairs around it, the seats covered in green velvet. In the middle of the table sat the most glorious green glass…thing. Not a bowl. Or a vase. More of a sculptured shape with no visible purpose other than to be beautiful.

Possibly Murano glass, Veronica decided, having briefly visited Venice and the island of Murano during the Italy-in-a-week tour she’d undertaken when she’d been twenty-one. Whatever it was, she loved it. Had her father chosen it?

Thinking of her father sent Veronica hurrying over to the far wall where there was a selection of photos arranged on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. At last, she would see what her father looked like.

Her eyes immediately went to the wedding photo, which was black-and-white and showed the bride dressed in a long, straight gown and a heavy lace veil which had gone out of fashion aeons ago. She was short, slim and pretty in a soft blonde way. The groom was very tall, dark and handsome. Strong looking, with an air about him that was impressive at first glance until you looked a second time. His face was turned towards his bride, his expression both loving and vulnerable. Here was a man very deeply in love, with a love that surprised him.

Turning the frame over, she saw there was writing on the back:

Laurence and Ruth

On our wedding day, March 1968

Twenty-two years before I was conceived, Veronica thought.

The other photos showed them growing older, some of them alone and others in groups. Laurence had aged very well, keeping his thick, lustrous hair even when it had turned grey. His wife had faded with time, growing frailer with the years. But her smile remained bright and warm, her eyes loving whenever they were lifted to her husband. Which was often. He in turn always had his hands on her somewhere, either on her shoulders or around her waist. His body language was both protective and possessive. Yet not in any way threatening. Despite Ruth being the more fragile looking, Veronica suspected it was she who had worn the trousers in their relationship. Only one photo showed the colour of her father’s eyes. They were, as everyone had pointed out, violet, just like hers. They were shaped like hers too.

It pleased her, then made her sad.

She would have loved to know her father when he had still been alive. Instead, all she could do was pick over other people’s memories of him. And stare at old photos. Suddenly, the tears came, rolling down her cheeks and dripping off her nose. Thankfully, they didn’t last long, Veronica pulling herself together by turning and looking through the mainly glass wall at the view beyond.

What was it about that view? It was only water, after all. Did the Mediterranean possess some kind of magic? Or was it Capri that was magical?

Whatever, it did the trick, bringing a sense of peace to her soul and an acceptance of the situation. At least she had some sense of her father’s memories now. And photos. And this lovely villa. For a while, anyway. What a shame she could not live here permanently.

‘Don’t start wishing for the moon, Veronica,’ she told herself sternly, then turned and went to discover the rest of her father’s home.

* * *

Two hours later, after taking more photos than she could count, Veronica sent them to her mother’s phone then rang her.

‘Hel…lo?’ came a very fuzzy voice after several rings.

‘Oh, dear,’ Veronica said, wincing. ‘I’ve woken you up. Sorry, Mum. I forgot about the time difference.’

‘No trouble,’ she said, sounding a little more awake.

‘What time is it?’

‘Er…just after four. In the morning. What’s up?’

‘I’m here on Capri, in the villa.’

‘What’s it like? Not a crumbling ruin, I hope.’

Veronica laughed. ‘Hardly. I’ve taken heaps of photos and sent them to you. Have a look and see for yourself.’

‘Just a sec. Oh, yes. I’ve got them. Oh…wow! That is some view. Is that the view from the villa or somewhere else?’

‘No, that’s the view from the villa.’

‘No wonder the place is worth heaps. That view alone is worth millions.’

‘I agree. And the villa is fantastic.’

‘Yes, it’s lovely. Not very Italian-looking inside.’

‘No. The decor is more English but the bones are Italian. Lots of marble on the floors and in the bathrooms. And the fireplace is very Italian. The kitchen is modern, despite the wooden benches. And the huge cooker.’

‘Four bedrooms, I notice. Yet they didn’t have children.’

‘Leonardo said they used to entertain when his wife was still alive.’

‘What’s he like, this Leonardo chap?’

Veronica swallowed. To lie or not to lie? She didn’t want her mother worrying about her. And she might, if she said he was utterly gorgeous and she fancied him like mad.

‘Oh, he’s a typical Italian. You know the type. Very charming.’

‘And very good-looking,’ her mother said, startling her.

‘How would you know that?’

‘After you left I looked him up on the Internet. He’s quite the playboy, isn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ Veronica admitted. ‘But harmless, once you know the species.’

Her mother laughed. ‘Remember that Brazilian exchange student who chased after you during your first year at university.’

Veronica groaned. ‘How could I forget?’

‘He got you in the end, though, didn’t he?’

‘Mum! How on earth did you know that? I never said.’

‘You always did like guys who refused to take no for an answer.’

She did, she supposed. Jerome had been like that. He’d pursued her like mad. She hadn’t really wanted to go out with a doctor. Certainly not a surgeon. She knew the hours they worked. But she’d given in after the tenth lot of roses had arrived, and then she’d fallen in love with him, agreeing to marry him in a few short weeks. She’d never suspected Jerome had had a secret agenda. Never suspected anything.

‘Has he made a pass at you yet?’ her mother asked slyly.

Now she really did have to lie. ‘No. He said something about a girlfriend in Rome. Though I am going to his family’s place for dinner tonight. They own a hotel just below the villa. It’s only a short walk down some stone steps. But first I must have a sleep. I’m exhausted.’ And hungry, she suddenly realised.

‘You might be exhausted but you sound happy. Happier than you’ve been in years. I was angry with Laurence for putting you in his will at first but now I’m grateful. This inheritance has been good for you, love. You’re sounding like the girl you were before you met Jerome.’

Veronica blinked. ‘Don’t you mean before Jerome was killed?’

‘No. I mean before you met that bastard.’

Veronica was truly taken aback. ‘But I thought you liked Jerome. I mean…before we found out about him.’

‘I just pretended to like him. For your sake. I always thought he was up himself. And so was his family. Talk about snobs!’

‘They were on the snobbish side,’ Veronica admitted.

‘They thought you weren’t good enough for their precious son. Little did they know he wasn’t good enough for you.’

Veronica sighed.

‘Now, none of that,’ her mother said. ‘Go back to the girl who rang me a few minutes ago. She’s the girl you used to be before Jerome. She was a terrific girl who knew how to have fun. That man turned you into a try-hard. And then he turned you into a bitter cow like me.’

‘Oh, Mum, you’re nothing of the kind.’

‘Yes, I am, and I hate myself for it. I don’t know how you’ve put up with me all these years. The one thing I truly regret is that I didn’t try to help you out of your unhappiness. To my shame, I just let you wallow in it.’

Veronica was so astonished by her mother’s words she couldn’t think of a thing to say.

‘Of course, I liked it that you didn’t have anyone else but me,’ her mother confessed. ‘And that you were living and working from home. I used to smugly think, now she knows what it’s like to have your trust in men destroyed. Laurence’s will was a wake-up call to me, I can tell you. When I saw how upset you were, it nearly killed me. I vowed then and there to stop being so selfish and to encourage you to get out there and make a life for yourself. I’m sure not all men are as rotten as Jerome, or that excuse for a husband I once had. There are good men out there. Men like your father. He was a good man. Very loving and loyal to his wife. I’m sure there is someone out there just right for you. Meanwhile, if this Leonardo makes a pass at you, then go for it, darling. He’s one hot hunk.’

‘Wow, Mum, I don’t know what to say!’

‘You don’t have to say anything at all. Just accept my apology and go have some fun. Oh, and one last thing.’

‘What?’

‘Please don’t feel you have to ring me all the time. Nothing worse than going on holiday and feeling you have to check in with your mother. But feel free to send any photos and the odd text. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ she agreed with a smile on her face.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

LEONARDO LEAPT UP the stone steps two a time, excited by the prospect of seeing Veronica again. And having her meet his whole family. They were excited to meet her as well, his two sisters very curious over this girl who was Laurence’s biological daughter.

Carmelina had liked Laurence a lot, but then she was the one who had seen him the most, being his cleaner as well as Ruth’s sometime carer. She’d been astonished by the news that he had a secret daughter, and relieved when she heard that Veronica had been conceived through IVF and not some sordid affair.

The sun had set but it was still light, a golden hue hovering on the horizon. A silvery half-moon was up as well, bathing Laurence’s villa in soft moonlight.

Leonardo bounced up onto the terrace and was about to press the front doorbell when the sliding glass door opened and there stood Veronica, looking even more beautiful than she had earlier that day. Gone were the jeans and simple striped top and in their place a sexy lilac sundress which left her shoulders bare, the halter neckline hinting at just enough cleavage.

Across her right forearm lay a black lacy cardigan.

‘I won’t need to bring a bag, will I?’ she asked, looking up at him with sparkling eyes, their violet colour darker than they had been in the sunshine. Dark and sexier.

‘Not on my account,’ he replied with a smile. Dio, but she was delicious. Her hair was still up. Not severely but softly, with dark curls kissing her pale cheeks and throat. Her mouth was glossed in a plum colour, her eyes shadowed in a silvery grey which matched the moonlight. He couldn’t wait to bring her home after dinner and take her to bed. She wouldn’t say no. He could already feel the heat sizzling from her skin. Could feel his own as well, his hot Italian blood charging through his veins.

Thank God he was wearing loosely tailored slacks. They stopped his erection from being obvious. Leonardo didn’t like being obvious.

She smiled back at him. ‘I’ll just lock up and put the key in that ridiculously obvious pot. I hope this building and its contents are insured,’ she added as she did just that.

‘They are,’ he assured her, amused by her concern over security.

‘Did you have a good look at everything?’ he asked her as he took her elbow and guided her from the terrace.

‘Yes. It’s a lovely house. I had a look at some photos of Laurence as well. I do take after him, don’t I?’

‘You do. In looks. But you’re much nicer.’

She halted at the top of the stone steps. ‘What do you mean? Wasn’t my father a nice person?’

Leonardo instantly regretted his tactless words. ‘He was a very nice person,’ he said, regrouping quickly. ‘But you’re even nicer.’

‘Oh…’ Her cheeks coloured a little, her eyes blinking with the most charming embarrassment. ‘How can you say that? You don’t really know me.’

‘I am a quick judge of people. And a good judge, I believe.’

‘You weren’t with that girl in Rome,’ she shot back, startling him into laughter.

‘True. There are times when my hormones lead me astray.’

‘I think your hormones lead you astray a lot,’ she said drily, making him wonder if perhaps she would say no to him tonight. He hoped not, because he wanted this girl more and more with each passing moment.

‘Come,’ he said, and closed his fingers more tightly around her elbow. ‘Mamma is champing at the bit to feed you.’

* * *

‘I don’t think I could eat another bite,’ Veronica whispered to Leonardo a couple of hours later.

‘Try,’ he whispered back.

‘I hope you don’t think it rude of me, Veronica,’ Sophia said rather loudly from where she was sitting at the end of the table furthest from them. ‘But I must ask you—your mother…why she not just get married if she wanted a bambino?’

‘Mamma,’ Leonardo chided with a wry shake of his handsome head. ‘That is a rather rude question.’

‘No, no,’ Veronica said straight away, not wanting to offend Sophia, who was really a lovely person. Veronica already liked her enormously. She liked all of Leonardo’s family. And there were twelve of them sitting at the table under the pergola that evening. Alberto and Sophia had three children, Veronica had learned when introduced properly. Elena was the oldest, followed by Carmelina and then Leonardo. Elena was married to Franco, the taxi driver, and they had three children. Marco was eleven, Bianca was nine with the youngest, Bruno, a precocious seven. Carmelina was the only shy one of the family. She was married to Alfonso, who worked at the Hotel Fabrizzi as a handyman-cum-gardener. They had a son, Luca, who was ten and a daughter, Daniele, who was eight.

‘It is a fair question,’ Veronica went on. She presumed Leonardo had explained how Laurence had come to be a sperm donor, but even he didn’t know the reasons behind her mother’s decision to have a baby that way. ‘My mother actually was married when she was younger. But her husband was not a good man. He gambled away all their money, treated her badly then left her to run away with another woman. A rich widow. She had a nervous breakdown and lost her job. In the end she had nothing and could only get work as a housekeeper. She was very bitter about men and vowed never to trust one ever again. But as she got older she desperately wanted a baby.

‘Around this time she was employed by Laurence. He was in Australia doing research at the Sydney University. His job came with a large house in nearby Glebe, along with a live-in housekeeper. That was Mum. She liked Laurence, said he was a decent man. They became friendly and one day she confided in him her plan to have a baby by artificial insemination.’

‘And that was when Laurence offered his sperm instead of some stranger’s,’ Leonardo intervened. ‘He didn’t want to risk the baby having a bad gene, like Ruth apparently had. That was the reason Ruth didn’t have children, by the way. She was worried they would inherit her bad gene. But Laurence knew his genes were fine.’

‘Better than fine,’ Leonardo’s father said with a big smile on his face, his accent much stronger than Leonardo’s. He waved his arms around a lot. ‘Just look at the beautiful girl he produced. He would have been so proud of you, Veronica. You are molto bella. Your mamma must be very happy that she listened to Laurence.’

Other members of the family chimed in with their compliments as well.

Veronica tried not to blush. But, really, the whole family had been gushing and fussing over her all evening. She loved the attention but it was a bit overwhelming. She hoped and prayed that both Elena and Carmelina would get up and go soon. Unfortunately, the children didn’t seem at all tired, and tomorrow was Saturday, after all. Not a school day. She couldn’t claim she was wilting, either, having had a long nap this afternoon.

The beginning of a yawn took her by surprise.

‘Tired?’ Leonardo murmured in her ear.

‘No,’ she confessed with a soft sigh. ‘Not really.’

‘Good,’ he said quietly so that only she could hear. ‘I will tell everyone you have jet lag and need to go home to bed.’

Veronica was tempted, but when she turned her head and saw the devilish glint in his eye she found herself not wanting to do as he obviously wanted her to do. Not yet. As madly attractive as she found him, as fast as her heart was beating, her days of being a pushover with the opposite sex were well and truly over.

‘No,’ she said with a coolness which surprised even her. ‘No, I don’t want to do that. I’m not fond of lying.’

‘A little white lie won’t hurt anyone,’ he grumbled. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being thwarted.

‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ Veronica retorted. ‘Your mother would be offended. She’s gone to a lot of trouble with this meal.’

‘Very well, but be warned—I can’t protect you from Mamma’s never-ending questions if you stay.’

‘What was that?’ Sophia immediately jumped in. ‘Are you talking about me, Leonardo?’

‘Veronica was just complimenting you on the food, Mamma,’ he said, showing Veronica how smoothly he could lie. ‘She said you have gone to a lot of trouble.’

Sophia looked very pleased. ‘She is welcome.’

Veronica smiled at her, glad now that she had stayed. But she almost wished she’d said yes to Leonardo’s suggestion when Sophia went on to ask her a multitude of questions about her life back in Sydney, finally asking if there was a boyfriend waiting for her at home. It was a reasonable question, she supposed, but she was always reluctant to discuss her personal life. Or lack of one. It was a relief when Leonardo answered for her.

‘Not at the moment, Mamma,’ he said. ‘I asked Veronica just that earlier today and she claimed not to be lucky when it came to men. Perhaps she will be luckier now that she is an heiress,’ he added with a slight edge in his voice.

Sophia rattled off something exasperated in Italian before apologising, then returning to English. ‘I said you would not need the money to be attractive to men,’ she told Veronica.

Veronica had a feeling she’d just been lied to, as everyone else at the table exchanged knowing looks. She’d heard Leonardo’s name in there somewhere, not her own name.

‘She might be divorced,’ the precocious Bruno suddenly piped up.

An embarrassed silence settled on the table for a long moment.

‘There’s a thought,’ Leonardo muttered. ‘Are you divorced, Veronica?’

CHAPTER TWELVE

SHE BLINKED UP at him, startled, he thought, by his question.

‘Absolutely not,’ came her firm reply. ‘I’ve never been married.’

Leonardo wasn’t sure why he was relieved at this news.

Why was he so pleased to hear Veronica wasn’t in that category?

He had no idea. Neither did he wish to worry about it.

‘But you do wish to get married?’ Elena asked her.

Leonardo noticed Veronica’s hesitation to answer. But then she smiled and said, ‘Yes, of course. If I ever meet a man I can both love and trust.’

Ah, Leonardo thought. She had been burnt in the past. And burnt quite badly, by the sound of things.

‘You should marry an Italian,’ Elena continued. ‘They make very good husbands.’ And she gave Franco a loving glance.

My sister is as bad as my mother, Leonardo decided. Always matchmaking.

‘I think it is time I took Veronica home,’ he said, and stood up abruptly. ‘She has had a long day, and I’m taking her sightseeing by helicopter tomorrow morning.’ He knew that mentioning this would stop any objections to his escorting Veronica home. His mother and sisters would be satisfied with this news and could plan further matchmaking in their absence.

Not that any of it would work. Firstly, he didn’t really want to get married just yet. And, even if he did, he wasn’t about to marry an Australian girl who would be going home soon, never to return. Yes, he found Veronica extremely attractive. And, yes, he aimed to get her into bed before the weekend was out. Before this night was out, actually. But once she sold him the villa that would be the end of things. She would return to her life in Sydney and he would go on as before.

Leonardo looked down at Veronica who hadn’t made a move to stand up. Surely she wasn’t going to object?

She glanced up at him with those big violet eyes of hers, and once again it zapped between them—the sexual chemistry that had been there from their first meeting, and which he’d been trying to ignore all evening. It was impossible to ignore it any longer. It was like an electric shock, making every muscle in Leonardo’s body contract as he battled to harness his desire into some semblance of control. But he knew, as surely as he knew he was on Capri, that the moment he took this glorious creature into his arms nothing would stop this night from reaching its inevitable conclusion.

And his satisfaction would be sublime!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

VERONICA SUCKED IN her breath sharply. My God, the way he was looking at her. It was downright scary. But, oh, so exciting. And like nothing she’d ever experienced before. Jerome had never looked at her like that, as though he wanted to possess every part of her, body and soul. The thought thrilled her, then turned her on to the max.

Her lips dried as her heartbeat took off. So this was what real lust felt like—and she accepted only in that moment that this was something new to her. Yes, she’d been attracted to men before. Yes, she’d been to bed with a few. And, yes, it had been pleasant enough. But nothing to write home about. Jerome had been an improvement in the bedroom department. But then, she’d imagined herself in love with Jerome. And he’d obviously known what he was doing. He’d been in his late thirties, after all. But she’d never wanted him with this kind of passion, never felt her whole body react this way just to a look.

My God, she was on fire! She regretted putting on her wrap earlier, although she knew, deep down, that one small short-sleeved cardigan wasn’t responsible for the heat gathering in every pore of her body.

‘Come,’ Leonardo commanded, and held out his hand to her.

Yes please, she thought with a jolt of uncharacteristic boldness. Very uncharacteristic. Veronica wasn’t the type of girl whose focus in sex was constantly on having an orgasm. She’d always been more into how she felt about the man making love to her than if she came or not.

Not so with this man. He brought out the female animal in her, not the soul mate. She just wanted him to…

Veronica hated the F-word. But it was appropriate on this occasion. Because that was what Leonardo did to women. He didn’t care about them. Or love them. He just screwed them silly till he got bored, and then he walked away.

His fingers closed around hers and he drew her slowly to her feet, then helped her slide out from behind the seat. Her knees held her upright, thank heavens, but it was a bit of touch and go. Thank heavens he kept a firm hold of her hand or she might have stumbled, a dizzying weakness having overtaken her. Veronica could feel everyone’s eyes upon her. Could they see what was going on in her head? she wondered dazedly. Which was what, exactly? Nothing that children should know. Her mind was filling with R-rated images of herself and Leonardo tumbling together naked in a bed.

There were four bedrooms in the villa. She wasn’t sure which one figured in her fantasy, her mind more on what they were doing, not where they were.

Somehow Veronica managed to say goodnight to everyone, as well as thank Sophia for the wonderful meal. She endured several hugs and kisses, and then Leonardo was leading her away—not hurrying, she noticed, for which she was both grateful and irritated. He obviously wasn’t feeling the same urgency she was.

‘I’ve remembered one of the things I talked to Laurence about that last weekend,’ he said as he led her along the gravel path that led to the stone steps. ‘Mamma’s infernal matchmaking brought it all back to me.’

‘Oh?’ was all she could manage in reply, until guilt arrived. What on earth was wrong with her? She’d come to Capri to find out about her father, not crave hot sex with the executor of his will!

She stopped and turned to face Leonardo. ‘What was it?’ she asked, doing her best not to think how handsome he was in the moonlight. And how sexy.

‘I complained to him about Mamma going on and on about my getting married and having a family. Papa was just as bad that weekend. He said he wanted me to have a son to carry on our family name. The only other Fabrizzi alive is my uncle Stephano and he doesn’t have any children. Papa said it was my duty to get married and have a family.’

‘But you don’t want to get married,’ she pointed out. Leonardo was a playboy. Always had been. Always would be. Hadn’t his parents got that yet?

He pulled a face. ‘I admit the idea of marriage doesn’t appeal at the moment. I like my life the way it is for now.’

‘Have you told them that?’

‘Not exactly. I want to please them, but…’ He shrugged, as though the decision was out of his hands. He turned and they headed up the ancient steps, Leonardo recapturing her hand.

As much as his touch sent an exciting charge shooting up her arm, this time Veronica refused to be totally distracted by it.

‘What did Laurence say?’ she asked. ‘Did he give you any advice?’

‘He said that I would change my mind about marriage when the right girl came along. He said falling in love did that to even the most confirmed bachelor.’

‘That was naive of him, wasn’t it?’ came her slightly caustic comment. Because Veronica wasn’t fooled by this man’s charm, or his avid attentions. She doubted that Leonardo would ever meet the right girl. He was programmed to fall in lust but never in love.

He said nothing for a few seconds, not turning to face her till they reached the top of the steep incline.

‘You are very cynical. Some man hurt you, didn’t he? And, no, I don’t want to hear the sordid details. I hate it when girls feel they have to tell you every moment of every bad relationship they’ve had. It is usually man-bashing. And boring. And turns me right off. Not that anything you said would turn me off tonight,’ he added with a smile so criminally sexy that her toes curled up in her shoes. ‘You could tell me you were the secret mistress to an Arab sheikh and I would still want to take you to bed.’

How did she keep a straight face? Somehow, she managed. Because she needed to show this arrogant Italian playboy that she had his measure. And was a match for him in every way.

‘That’s an interesting thought,’ she said with brilliant nonchalance. ‘No. I’m not the secret mistress of a sheikh. There are actually two of them. Mine are into horse racing. Plus riding of another kind,’ she added with a saucy glance. ‘And, my, they do keep me busy.’

It was only a momentary coup, but it was worth it to see his eyes widen in shock for a few seconds. But all too soon he realised that she was pulling his leg. His laugh was rueful.

‘You are a devil in disguise, aren’t you?’

‘Not quite as much as you, Leonardo. But, yes, I do like being footloose and fancy free at the moment.’ Lord, this lying business could get to be a habit! ‘Though I do intend to get married. Eventually.’

‘When you meet the right man,’ he pointed out in an echo of what she’d said earlier.

‘Exactly. Which I’m sorry to say is not you, Leonardo. I prefer my future husband to be a little less…travelled.’

He grinned. ‘But not your lovers.’

‘No. Not my lovers. There is something to be said for experience in the bedroom. Practice does make perfect, I’ve found.’

His eyebrows lifted. ‘So you have had a sheikh or two in your bed?’

She gave him a coy glance. ‘I’m not a kiss-and-tell kind of girl.’

‘Thank heaven for small mercies,’ he said, surprising her constantly with how well he spoke English, knowing all the right phrases and idioms. ‘But let me remind you that I haven’t even kissed you yet. Not a proper kiss, anyway.’

‘No. You haven’t.’

‘Should I remedy that?’

‘Not out here,’ she said with a flash of panic, aware suddenly that she wasn’t ready yet for their verbal foreplay to become reality. Maybe she would never be ready. The way she was feeling was quite frightening. So were the images which kept popping into her head.

Veronica’s hand trembled a little as she retrieved the key from the geranium pot and unlocked the sliding door. It was cooler inside. Pity she wasn’t. She didn’t turn to see if he’d followed her—because she knew instinctively he would have. Instead, she switched on the lights then walked quickly over to the kitchen area, finding safety behind the long breakfast bar before turning to face him.

‘Would you like something to drink?’ she asked him. ‘Coffee? Tea? Water?’ she finished drily.

His smile showed he recognised her action for the delaying tactic that it was.

‘I would prefer a glass of cognac. Or a port. Laurence has a magnificent one which he used to buy by the case-load. Have you been down to Laurence’s wine cellar yet?’

‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I couldn’t find it.’ In truth, she hadn’t really looked.

‘I’ll show you where it is,’ he offered, and held out his hand to her again.

‘I need to go to the bathroom first,’ she prevaricated. Although, now she thought about it, it was the truth. Her bladder had suddenly started protesting.

Veronica dashed off to the master bedroom which had an en suite bathroom. When she returned to the living area a few minutes later, Leonardo was there, his left arm resting on the marble mantelpiece as he stared broodingly into the empty fireplace.

‘I still can’t believe Laurence is dead,’ he said, glancing back up at her with touchingly sad eyes.

Veronica was quite moved by his grief.

‘He should have contacted you earlier,’ he went on with an angry flash in his dark eyes. ‘He was your papa. He was your flesh and blood. It was wrong of him to keep you a secret.’

‘I think so too,’ she agreed with a catch in her throat. ‘But it’s too late now.’

‘Si. Much too late. I do not understand what he was thinking.’

‘Neither do I.’

Leonardo frowned. ‘Possibly he wasn’t thinking at all. He was very depressed after Ruth died. Very grumpy too, at times. But I still liked him. He was good to me when I needed him. I miss him. Terribly. As strange as it might seem, he was my best friend, despite our age difference. He was always totally honest with me. And I liked that.’

‘Honesty is a good virtue in a friend,’ Veronica choked out, struggling a little with this conversation. She would liked to have been her father’s best friend too.

‘I have made you sad,’ Leonardo said with a combination of regret and frustration in his voice. ‘I did not walk you home to make you sad. Now, no more delaying tactics,’ he went on with suddenly hungry eyes. ‘I don’t want coffee, or cognac. Not even that port I told you about. I just want you, Veronica. Only you…’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

ONLY ME, VERONICA thought breathlessly as she watched him remove his arm from the mantelpiece and slowly walk towards her.

He could not have said anything more perfect. Or more seductive. If ever she’d needed to be wanted the way Leonardo professed to want her, it was now.

This time, she went into his arms without hesitation. And without any more qualms. Or worries. It was as though with those impassioned words he’d blinded her to the slightly sordid reality of the situation and turned their assignation into something sweet. Romantic, even.

Her arms wound up around his neck and slowly pulled his mouth down onto hers. But within seconds of his lips meeting hers the timbre of the moment changed. Suddenly, there was nothing sweet or romantic about his kiss. Or her response to it. The inner fire which she’d been desperately trying to douse all day sprang back into life with a vengeance. It was like the most savage bush fire, the ones which scorched everything in their path. Up on tiptoe, she pressed her open mouth to his like a woman dying of thirst, with the moisture of his mouth her salvation. When his tongue dived deep, her lips closed around it and sucked hard. He gasped, then moaned, then lifted her up off her feet. She wrapped her legs around his waist and he carried her like that into the master bedroom. There, he threw her across the bed, his breathing ragged as he glared down at her.

‘Dio,’ he muttered, shaking his head as he kicked off his shoes and started stripping off his clothes.

Veronica tried to think. Tried to will herself to move. But her mind was all on him, on this magnificent male animal whom she wanted as she had never wanted anyone before. Her hungry gaze ogled him shamelessly as he undressed, her eyes stunned by his rapidly unfolding beauty. Naked, he was everything she’d imagined and more. Not too big or too small. No flaws. Just perfect in every way. She loved the olive colour of his skin, and the sculptured look of his stomach muscles. She loved his broad shoulders and his long, strong legs. Skier’s legs. But most of all she loved the length and strength of his erection.

When she started thinking of how he would feel sliding into her she did move, her hands reaching up under her skirt and ripping off her panties, uncaring that she’d ruined them. A need was possessing her, a need so powerful and impassioned that there was no room for shame. Or decorum.

‘Hurry,’ she choked out.

For a long moment he just stood there beside the bed and stared down at her, his expression stunned. Veronica groaned with frustration, lifting her skirt up and spreading her knees.

‘Just do it,’ she begged, her desire now desperate. She was so turned on she feared she might come with him still standing there staring at her. ‘Please, Leonardo…’

Finally, he fell upon her, entering her with little finesse, taking her hands and scooping them up above her head, holding her captive against the bed as he pounded into her. Surprisingly, she didn’t come straight away, moaning and groaning as her head whipped from side to side. He kept saying things to her in Italian. Not romantic-sounding words. Hard, hot, perhaps angry, words. After what felt like for ever she came, and he came with her, their bodies shuddering together, their mouths gasping wide. Veronica squeezed her eyes shut, afraid to look into his, afraid of what she might see.

Please God, not disgust!

He let her arms go with a sound she could not identify. Whatever, it didn’t sound happy.

‘I did not use protection,’ he growled.

She opened her eyes, not to an expression of disgust, but anger.

‘You did not give me time!’ he accused her in harsh tones.

He was possibly right. But she hadn’t exactly put a gun to his head and forced him to have sex with her. If he’d wanted to use a condom, he could have. She opened her mouth to apologise then closed it again. Why should she say sorry? Practising safe sex was as much his responsibility as hers.

‘You don’t have to worry,’ she shot back at him. ‘I won’t get pregnant.’

Veronica knew her body well and her period was due next Monday. She should have ovulated more than a week ago.

He clasped the sides of her face and glowered down at her. ‘You are on the pill?’ he demanded to know.

His attitude both frightened and annoyed her. If she told him she wasn’t, he would probably have a conniption. Or a tantrum. She could imagine that Leonardo would have had tantrums as a boy. He was spoiled rotten. That much was clear. She hated lies, but there were times when a little white lie was the only option.

‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘What do you think I am, a fool? And, whilst we’re asking each other personal questions, I hope you don’t make a habit of practising unsafe sex.’

‘Never!’ he said, looking quite offended.

‘Before tonight, that is,’ she pointed out archly.

It shocked Veronica how quickly her feelings for Leonardo could go from uncontrollable desire to outright dislike.

He reared up onto his elbows with a strange look on his face. Was that shock in his eyes? Or just confusion? Clearly, he wasn’t used to losing control as he just had.

‘I think I should go,’ he said and suddenly withdrew, scrambling up off the bed and reaching for his clothes.

Tears of hurt and humiliation stung Veronica’s eyes. Suddenly, she felt both used and very cheap. She must have a made a sound because he turned and saw her distress.

‘No, no,’ he said hurriedly, sitting back down and pulling her up into his arms again. ‘You were lovely. I am just not used to acting so foolishly. It has thrown me. There was this girl once. But no,’ he said with a bitter laugh. ‘I will not bore you with the details. Needless to say, it is a case of once bitten, twice shy when it comes to risking an unwanted child.’

Understanding dawned. He’d been targeted once before by a gold digger, some girl who’d tried to trap him with a pregnancy.

‘I would not try to trap you with a baby, Leonardo,’ she said gently, and stroked the back of his head, feeling suddenly tender towards him. Thank God she was certain there would be no unwanted pregnancy from tonight’s mistake. ‘It’s a rotten thing for a girl to do.’

‘It is.’

‘Did she have a baby, this girl?’

He drew back and smiled a relieved smile. ‘Happily, no. She wasn’t pregnant at all. She just said she was.’

‘What a wicked deception.’ Veronica knew all about wicked deceptions. They scarred people. This girl had scarred Leonardo, trying to trap him into marriage before he was ready. And no doubt without love involved.

Leonardo sighed heavily, then stood up and started dressing. ‘I would have married her,’ he confessed as he zipped up his trousers.

‘But why, if you didn’t love her?’

‘It is a question of honour,’ he said, pulling on his shirt. ‘The baby would have been mine.’

‘That is a little old-fashioned, Leonardo. Honestly, an Australian man wouldn’t have felt obliged to marry such a girl.’

‘But to walk away from your own child,’ Leonardo said, frowning. ‘That is not right. I could not do that.’

‘You didn’t have to walk away. You could have paid child care and demanded visiting rights. Why marry when there’s no love involved? To do that is not right, either.’

His smile was wry. ‘Italians feel differently on the subject.’

Veronica shook her head. ‘Then you are different, all right.’

‘Apparently so. Now, I really must go, or Mamma will start getting ideas. She already likes you enormously,’ he added, laughing. ‘If I stay any longer she will be planning our wedding before the weekend is out.’

Veronica laughed too. ‘Then you’d definitely better go.’

‘I’ll pick you up at ten tomorrow morning. Don’t wear a dress or a skirt. We’re going in a helicopter, remember?’

‘Okay.’

‘Ciao.’

She watched him leave, thinking that perhaps she should have told him she was afraid of helicopters. But she didn’t want to sound like a scaredy-cat. She liked it that he saw her as a bit of an adventuress. Which she had been, once. She’d thought nothing of travelling to the snowfields in Europe on her own every year when she’d been doing her uni course. She would save up all year from her two part-time jobs and splurge the lot every January, backpacking from one ski resort to the next. It wasn’t till the last year of her course that she’d been able to make it a working holiday, using her qualifications to get a job as a remedial masseuse at one of the top ski resorts.

That was where she’d run into Leonardo.

Who would have believed what fate had had in store for her when she’d rejected him that night? Veronica would never have imagined that she would actually have sex with Leonardo several years later. Or that she would jump into bed with him so quickly and so shamelessly. For years after the night of that party, she’d told herself firmly that she’d imagined how turned on she was at the time, and how difficult it had been to resist him. But she’d known, the moment he’d introduced himself over the phone two weeks ago, that he was the most dangerously attractive man she’d ever met.

Yes, she’d come to Capri to find out about her father. But she finally admitted that she’d also come because of Leonardo. To meet him again and see if all her sexual feelings about the man were just fantasies or the real McCoy. Well, now she had her answer, didn’t she? The desires he could evoke in her—oh, so effortlessly—were real. Very real.

Not dangerous, though. Unless she did something stupid, such as fall in love with him.

Which Veronica resolved not to do. She wasn’t a silly young girl any longer. She was an adult, with a wealth of experience behind her. She knew precisely what she was dealing with.

Leonardo was a playboy and a commitment-phobe. He pretended that one day he would settle down but she very much doubted it. Clearly, he didn’t want to sleep with the same woman for the rest of his life. All he wanted to do with the opposite sex was have fun.

Well, that was what she wanted from him, Veronica decided. Just fun.

To want anything more would be crazy.

And she wasn’t crazy. She was, however, crazy about Leonardo’s body. Oh, Lord he was just so gorgeous. Her stomach lurched as she recalled how it had felt when he’d entered her. She could hardly wait till tomorrow.

Showing her Capri by helicopter wouldn’t take long, Veronica imagined as she hurried inside. She had no doubt that when he brought her home afterwards he would stay for a while. Maybe even for the rest of the day. Things tonight had been so rushed. Thrilling, yes, and very satisfying. Had she ever had an orgasm like it?

All her internal muscles squeezed tight as she tried to relive the moment when she’d splintered apart in his arms. But the memory was already fading.

I needed to experience it again. And again. I don’t want to ever forget.

Veronica reached the master bedroom where she stared at the indentations their bodies had made on the bed. Tomorrow, she vowed, they would not be having a quickie on top of the quilt. They would lie naked together in the bed. She would insist Leonardo make love to her more slowly, with plenty of adventurous foreplay. Veronica had never been into oral sex all that much, but she suspected she would be with Leonardo. Just thinking about going down on him made her quiver with anticipation. She could hardly wait. She would also insist that before he entered her he remembered to use a condom. Then, whilst she was totally protected, she would whisper for him to do everything to her.

A shudder ran through Veronica at this last thought. Her feelings for this man, she finally accepted, were dangerous. And threatening to run out of control.

Get a grip, girl, came her stern warning. You will be going home to Australia in three weeks’ time and Leonardo will become nothing but a memory. Have fun with him, like your mother said, but never forget that this will just be a fling, not a for ever moment.

Veronica went to bed with this warning at the forefront of her mind. She fell asleep surprisingly quickly. And didn’t dream. Which, when she woke, seemed a good portent for the day ahead. The weather looked excellent, the sun already up, the skies clear and cloudless. A good day for sightseeing, especially by air.

Now, what was she going to wear?

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

VERONICA DIDN’T DISOBEY Leonardo’s instruction and wear a dress, despite being tempted, as she’d bought a couple of lovely sundresses for this trip. Instead, she sensibly chose three-quarter-length cuffed blue jeans, teaming them with a peasant-style pink-and-blue blouse and flat brown sandals. She gave in to vanity, however, and left her freshly shampooed hair down, hoping that her straw sunhat would control her sometimes wayward waves.

Not the only wayward thing about her, she accepted as ten o’clock approached. Despite all her warnings of the night before, her heartbeat took off and a perversely delicious tension invaded her lower body. Several deep breaths later, things hadn’t improved.

Leonardo was right on time, his own outfit just as casual as her own. He too was wearing blue jeans, matched with a simple white T-shirt and lightweight navy jacket. The day might be sunny but it wasn’t hot. She suspected his clothes were designer labels, because the fit and materials were superb. But she also suspected he would look just as good in anything. It was a case of the man making the clothes rather than the other way round. Leonardo was a total hunk who just exuded sex appeal. All of a sudden, Veronica wished they weren’t going anywhere. She wanted to grab him and drag him inside. Wanted to spend the whole day in bed with him.

Hopefully, her eyes didn’t say as much. She did have some pride left. Not a lot, she decided ruefully. But enough. Though, it wavered when he said how lovely she looked. Lord, but this was one wickedly seductive man.

‘I’ll just get the rest of my things,’ she said, quickly putting her sunglasses on, then grabbing her straw bag and hat.

Locking up was achieved without any embarrassing fumbling, Veronica depositing the key in the geranium pot before glancing up at Leonardo.

‘Let’s hope all your wine is still there when we get back,’ she quipped drily.

He grinned. ‘It will be. Have you found the cellar yet?’

‘No. I keep forgetting to look.’

‘I’ll show you where it is when we get back. This way,’ he said, and cupped her left elbow, leading her not towards the stone steps but round the back of the house, where a taxi awaited them on the gravel courtyard.

It wasn’t Franco’s yellow convertible. This one was olive-green and much smaller. With a proper roof.

‘Saturday is Franco’s busiest day,’ Leonardo explained as he steered her towards the already opened back door. ‘This is Ricardo. Ricardo, this is Veronica, Laurence’s long-lost daughter.’

Ricardo smiled at her. ‘She looks like him,’ he said, then just got on with the driving.

‘Does everyone on Capri know who I am?’ she asked quietly.

Leonardo shrugged. ‘Pretty much. You can’t keep any secrets on Capri. Why? Does it bother you?’

‘I guess not.’

‘By the way, the Hotel Fabrizzi is fully booked for tonight. With a group from America. I hate the noise, so I might have to throw myself on the mercy of one of my neighbours.’

Veronica’s heart flipped over, but she managed to keep a poker face, determined not to let this devil know how excited she was by the thought of having him stay with her the whole night.

‘Oh?’ she said in a superbly nonchalant tone. ‘Which neighbour were you thinking of asking?’

‘There is only one who has a suitably large guest bedroom.’

‘Will everyone on Capri know that you stayed at my place?’ she asked him quietly, so that the driver couldn’t hear.

‘Not everyone. But Mamma certainly will.’

‘Will that cause you problems?’

Leonardo shrugged. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

Veronica didn’t doubt it.

‘Let it be on your head, then, Leonardo,’ she told him. ‘Don’t come crying to me when your parents mistakenly think your intentions towards me are serious.’

‘Who says they aren’t?’ he asked with a look that she couldn’t decipher.

It rattled her, that look. His dark eyes fairly smouldered at her from under half-lowered lids. She was still wondering what it meant when his tautly held lips split into a wide smile.

‘Got you,’ he said with a nudge against her ribs.

‘You are a wicked man, Leonardo Fabrizzi,’ she said, both annoyed and flustered that she would think, even for a moment, that Leonardo was anything other than a highly accomplished playboy.

Leonardo grinned. ‘She says I am a wicked man, Ricardo. Is she right?’

‘You, Leonardo?’ Ricardo threw a shocked glance over his shoulder. ‘No, no. Leonardo—he is a good man. When my Louisa got sick, he pay for her to go to the best doctors in Rome. The best hospital. He always do things like that. We all love Leonardo on Capri.’ And he glared at Veronica in the rear-view mirror.

‘I was only joking,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Tell him, Leonardo.’ She poked him in the ribs.

‘She was only joking, Ricardo,’ he reassured the taxi driver. ‘She loves me too, don’t you, Veronica?’

Lord, but he was incorrigible. She rolled her eyes at him. ‘But of course, Leonardo. How could I not?’

‘I have no idea,’ he retorted, his expression one of barely controlled amusement.

Her palm itched to smack him. The man was a devil, wicked to the core. Or so she wanted to believe. But some inner instinct told Veronica that his wickedness was only skin-deep, that he had a genuinely warm heart. His love for his family and his friends spoke of a different man from the callous playboy who flitted from woman to woman, using them for his pleasure without care or commitment. Without love.

It seemed odd to her, now that she thought about it more deeply, for an Italian man of Leonardo’s family background not to want to get married and have a family of his own. She wondered what it was in his past that stopped him from settling down. She doubted it was that close call with the unwanted pregnancy. Perhaps it had something to do with his early retirement from the sport he’d been so passionate about. She might have asked him, if she’d imagined for a moment he would tell her the truth. But Veronica knew instinctively that he would not discuss his innermost feelings, certainly not with a woman who was just a ship passing in the night.

This last thought bothered her for a few seconds, until common sense came to the rescue. She was just a ship passing in the night. That didn’t mean their brief encounter couldn’t be both memorable and enjoyable. Veronica was determined not to complicate the weekend with qualms about what she was doing with Leonardo. She was an adult. She was entitled to a sex life, entitled to have some fun for a change. Even her mother thought so.

So why was she feeling as though she was running a risk in spending more time with this man? Why did the thought of his making love to her again bring a measure of anxiety along with the inevitable excitement? It annoyed her, this waffling in her head. He wasn’t worried. Just look at him sitting there, totally relaxed in her company.

Their arrival at the helipad might have been a welcome distraction from her mental to-ing and fro-ing. Unfortunately, the sight of the helicopter brought new worries. She’d forgotten, for a moment, how frightened she was of flying in one.

‘Oh, dear,’ she said, her stomach somersaulting as she stared at the fragile-looking craft. It wasn’t the large one Leonardo had arrived in yesterday. This was just a glass bubble with blades attached.

‘What is it?’ Leonardo asked straight away. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘That helicopter,’ she blurted out, pointing at it as they both climbed out of the taxi. ‘Is that the one we’re going up in?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘It looks…small.’

‘It is small. It’s built for just two passengers.’

She turned to stare at him with wide eyes. ‘But…but…’

‘Don’t worry. I’m a licensed helicopter pilot. And that particular helicopter is brand new.’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

‘ARE YOU OKAY?’ Leonardo asked Veronica gently as he strapped her in. She did look a little pale.

‘I… I suppose so.’

‘Here. Put this on,’ He gave her a headset that had a microphone attached. ‘Once we’re up and running, it’ll be noisy and you’ll need this to communicate.’ He showed her how to put it on before turning and putting his own on.

‘Have you always been afraid of flying?’ he asked, never having experienced such fear himself. He loved flying, especially when he was the pilot.

‘Only in helicopters,’ she told him.

‘I see. Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.’ When he leant over and touched her cheek Leonardo was surprised at how tender he felt towards her. How protective. She seemed so vulnerable all of a sudden, nothing like the rather bold creature of the night before. He would have kissed her if the microphone hadn’t been in his way. Instead, he smiled over at her, catching her eye and sending her a silent message of reassurance.

* * *

Veronica’s heart flipped over at the almost loving look Leonardo sent her. For a split second, she almost believed he cared about her. This was his skill as a seducer, she supposed. To make women think he cared.

But he didn’t. Not really. She knew that. Perversely, knowing the sort of man she was dealing with made no difference to her female reaction, either to his warm smile or the promise of safety in his eyes.

‘We’ll start with Capri, then I’ll take you over for a bird’s eye view of the Amalfi coast,’ he told her as she started up the engine. ‘We might even fly over Mount Vesuvius.’

‘But…but…’ she protested, having presumed that within fifteen minutes she’d safely be back on the ground. Capri was, after all, a rather small island.

‘No buts today, Veronica. I’ve hired this little beauty for four hours and I don’t intend to waste them. After you’ve seen the Amalfi Coast, we’ll set down at Sorrento for lunch. I’ve booked us a garden table at the best trattoria in town. Then, if we have time, we’ll fly south for a quick peek at Naples from above before heading back here. How does that sound?’ he asked with a quick glance her way as they lifted off.

Veronica’s stomach lifted off with them, so all Leonardo got in answer to his possibly rhetorical question was a sucked in gasp.

‘Breathe,’ he told her firmly. ‘And stop worrying. I’m a very good pilot.’

She didn’t doubt it. But his reassurance didn’t stop her anxiety. Or the gymnastics in her stomach. His breathing advice did eventually work. Either that, or she was soon so distracted by the magnificence of the view below that she forgot to be afraid.

Leonardo circled the island three times, pointing out the same places of interest that Franco had shown her. But everything looked better from up in the sky. Better and even more beautiful. The ancient Roman ruins. The huge rocks jutting out of the sea. The small towns and the cute little beaches. Some of the villas they flew over were splendid, with ordered gardens and big blue swimming pools, whilst others were much smaller, surrounded by different types of garden. Clearly, these houses were owned by the ordinary people who’d always lived here, not the billionaires who’d bought properties on Capri for other reasons. Privacy, perhaps. But more likely to impress. Veronica suspected there were quite a few of those.

Not Leonardo, however. Veronica was sure he didn’t want to buy Laurence’s villa to impress. It wasn’t that kind of place. Was it just the view he coveted, or something else? She would like to ask him but not right now. Right now she didn’t want to say or do anything to spoil the memory of what she was seeing.

Suddenly, the helicopter swung to the right and set off away from Capri, heading for the mainland.

‘Time for the Amalfi coast now,’ Leonardo said into her earphones.

She’d thought Capri was amazingly beautiful from the air, but the Amalfi coast soon showed her why it was one of the most visited tourist spots in Italy. Veronica hardly knew where to look. It was just one spectacular town after another. All of them hugged the shore with lots of the buildings perched on the very edges of breathtaking cliffs which plunged into the sea. Once again, most of the villas were white, which at the moment shone brilliantly under the midday sun.

‘You like?’ Leonardo said when she sighed her admiration.

‘Oh, Leonardo, your country is incredible. But also a little bit scary. I wouldn’t like to drive on that road down there.’ And she pointed to the one that hugged the cliffs.

‘You would love it, in the right car. A Ferrari would be perfect.’

‘And I suppose you own a Ferrari?’

‘But of course. Unfortunately, it is in Milan. I could drive it down one weekend, if you would like me to.’

‘Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t ask you to do that. It’s too far.’

He shrugged. ‘The roads are good. And the car is fast.’

‘I don’t doubt it, with you behind the wheel. You have a thing for speed, don’t you?’

‘Si. It is a passion of mine. To do things fast. I love anything which gets my heart beating. My uncle says I am an adrenalin addict. The only time I slow down is when I’m on Capri.’

‘And not always then,’ she said drily.

He laughed. ‘If you’re referring to what happened last night, then that was more your fault then mine. When we get back to the villa I will show you how relaxed I can be in bed. Sex is one thing I don’t usually rush. I like to take my time with a woman. When she lets me,’ he added, casting her a rueful glance.

Veronica was thankful she wasn’t a blusher, but his pointed remark evoked a blossoming of heat deep inside her. She couldn’t wait for them to get back to Capri. And back to bed.

Lord, but he made her totally shameless. But then he was shameless too. She’d never met a man who spoke so openly about sex, and who just presumed she wouldn’t say no.

Which of course she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Lust had taken possession of her body, a lust so strong and so fierce that it might have frightened her, if she hadn’t been so turned on. The level of her sexual excitement propelled her past all common sense and conscience. She wanted Leonardo. And she would have him. After all, there was nothing to stop her, least of all Leonardo himself. He wasn’t about to say no, was he?

‘It’s time for lunch,’ he said abruptly. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m suddenly very hungry.’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

LEONARDO DIDN’T WANT to bother with lunch. He wanted to take her straight back to Capri. It wasn’t food he was hungry for. It was Veronica.

He didn’t dare look at her again as he flew as fast as he could to Sorrento. That last glance had almost undone him in a way he couldn’t begin to process. Because it was outside even his experience. Over the years he’d had countless sexual adventures with countless beautiful women. But Veronica was unlike any he’d ever encountered, a strange mixture of siren fused with the most bewitching vulnerability.

Uncharacteristically, he wanted to ask her about this man—or men—who’d hurt her in the past, but experience warned him against going down that road. Asking a girl about her emotional baggage was fraught with danger—the danger of getting emotionally involved himself. He didn’t want that, especially with Veronica. Why, he wasn’t sure. A reason hovered at the edge of his mind, a reason which threatened to derail him totally. So he ruthlessly pushed it aside and concentrated on what he was good at where women were concerned.

Sex.

* * *

Veronica had always been able to pick up on people’s emotions by their body language. After she watched them for a while, she could see past their facade and tune into their pain, both physical and mental. It was what made her a good physio: the way she talked to her clients whilst treating them, the way she could find out what was bothering them and subtly offer some advice.

So, when Leonardo suddenly turned all stiff and silent next to her, she knew something was bothering him. But what? This time she had absolutely no idea.

They landed safely, if a little roughly, in Sorrento, a strong breeze off the sea moving the small helicopter around a bit. Strangely, Veronica had ceased to worry about surviving the flight, her focus entirely on the man beside her. She ached to say something which would break the awkward silence that had unexpectedly developed between them. Finally, just as he shut down the engine and the blades started to slow, she thought of something suitably innocuous.

‘Oh, Lord, I forgot to take any photographs,’ she said with true regret as she took off her headset. ‘When I woke this morning to such good weather, I planned to take pictures of everything and send them to Mum.’

When he took off his own headset and smiled over at her, Veronica’s heart squeezed tight with relief.

‘Don’t panic,’ he said, his eyes holding hers. ‘You can take photos on the way back, both of Sorrento and Capri.’

‘You’re right,’ she replied, once again struck by the beauty of Leonardo’s eyes. ‘I can do that. No need to panic.’

But if her thudding heart was anything to go by there was every reason to panic. She didn’t want to fall in love with this man. That would be a disaster!

Keep it light and keep it sexy, she lectured herself. Don’t start worrying about what he was worrying about a minute ago. It probably wasn’t anything serious, anyway. It certainly wasn’t anything to do with you.

‘Gosh, we’re up high here,’ she said as he helped her down from the helicopter.

‘Sorrento is built up on a volcanic shelf. Which reminds me. I didn’t take you over Vesuvius. Sorry. I forgot.’

‘That’s all right. Flying over a volcano in a helicopter isn’t on my bucket list.’

His eyes sparkled with genuine amusement, his earlier worries clearly gone. ‘You’re too young to have a bucket list.’

‘Never too young for a bucket list,’ she quipped back.

‘Perhaps you’re right.’

He took her elbow and directed her over to a waiting taxi.

‘What would be on your bucket list?’ she asked him on the way. ‘If you ever made one, that is.’

‘There isn’t anything I want to do that I haven’t tried.’

Except marriage and children, came the unexpected and unwanted thought. But then Leonardo didn’t want marriage and children, did he?

Never forget that, Veronica. The man is a playboy. Which translates as a man who’s stayed as a boy and who plays at life. Not a man to start having serious thoughts about. Or to care about.

‘You should get your phone out and take some photos on the way to the restaurant,’ he advised her. ‘And again, once we’re inside. This particular trattoria is a rather special place.’

It was. Very special. And very beautiful.

The formal dining room inside was extremely glamorous, worthy of a palace. Veronica snapped several shots of the plush surrounds and elegantly set tables. But they didn’t eat there, Leonardo ushering her through to what could only be described as a garden room. It reminded Veronica of eating under the pergola last night. But this was on a much grander scale, with glass and iron-work tables instead of wood, and the plushest of cushions on the chairs. Above, across an intricate framework hung a canopy, not of grape vines, but an assortment of climbing vines which boasted scented flowers of all colours. The sky could be glimpsed through the odd break in the foliage, suggesting that this room would be unavailable if it was raining.

But it wasn’t raining. The day was glorious, as was the setting, the service and the company.

‘What would you like to drink?’ Leonardo asked as he perused the drinks menu. ‘I won’t be having any alcohol myself. I never drink when I’m flying. I’ll just be having mineral water.’

‘Then I will too,’ she said, not wanting to be tempted to get herself tipsy to soothe her nerves. If she was going to have a fling with Leonardo—which undoubtedly she was—then she preferred to do it with a clear head.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked. ‘You don’t even want one glass of wine?’

‘No, your company is intoxicating enough,’ she quipped flirtatiously.

Surprise flashed into his eyes for a split second, followed by a wry smile.

‘You don’t have to flatter me, Veronica,’ he said. ‘I’m a sure thing.’

She couldn’t help it. She laughed.

‘I’m so glad to hear that, Leonardo,’ Veronica said, deciding this was the way to play it—light-heartedly and a bit naughtily. ‘Last night was over far too quickly.’

‘I fully agree. It was little more than an entree. But, speaking of food, here comes the waiter. Would you like me to order for you?’

‘Si,’ she said, and he grinned at her.

Veronica had no idea what he ordered but felt confident it would all be delicious.

The mineral water arrived quickly, as did a small plate of herbed bread.

‘Would you mind if I asked you something personal?’ she said once the waiter departed.

‘That depends,’ came his careful answer. ‘I told you before, I don’t discuss past relationships.’

Her smile was amused. ‘You don’t have any past relationships to discuss, from what I’ve read. No, I’m curious about why you want to buy the villa so much. Is it just the view, or somewhere private to escape to when you visit your parents?’

‘I suppose it’s a bit of both. But it also holds good memories for me. The weeks I stayed with Laurence after I broke my ankle were some of the happiest in my life. I learned to control my usual restless self and found pleasure in activities other than the physical. Of course, I have your father to thank for that. He was a man of the mind more than the body. And a very good teacher.’

Veronica found it hard not to feel jealous. How she would love to have spent weeks at the villa with her father; to be taught chess by him, and listen to his favourite music sitting by his side on the terrace. She might have even learned to appreciate wine.

Still, it was good to hear nice things about him, even if it was second-hand information.

‘How did you break your ankle?’ she asked. ‘Skiing, I suppose.’

‘No. Rock climbing.’

‘Oh, Lord, you are a one, aren’t you?’

He shrugged. ‘I can’t help it. I like physical challenges.’

‘Perhaps you should stick to less risky ones.’

‘Like making love all night, perhaps?’

Their eyes locked, Veronica seeing the sizzling hunger in his, knowing that her own eyes were just as hungry.

It was fortuitous that the entree arrived at that moment, a steaming pasta dish with bacon, aubergine and mushroom. Veronica welcomed the opportunity to look away from Leonardo’s hot gaze.

‘This is delicious,’ she said after a couple of mouthfuls. ‘Glad it’s just a small serving, though. It’s rather filling.’

‘That’s why I ordered grilled swordfish for the main, with just a light salad. I wanted to leave some room for dessert.’

Veronica winced. ‘I hope it’s not as fattening as that dessert your mother served me last night.’

‘Not quite.’

When it finally arrived, Veronica gave him a droll look.

‘You are such a liar,’ she said as she eyed the large custard-filled pastry served with a huge dollop of whipped cream. But it was too mouth-watering to resist. Just like Leonardo.

‘I thought you might need some extra calories to survive the night ahead,’ he drawled.

Veronica tried to think of a witty comeback but she couldn’t, her mind having gone blank at his provocative remark.

The dessert was followed by coffee which would have brought Lazarus back from the dead, and which left Veronica feeling quite hyped up. But underneath the caffeine-induced buzz lay some very female nerves. Silly, really, given she’d loved their passionate encounter last night.

But this was different, wasn’t it? Last night had been brilliant but spontaneous. To plan sex, to anticipate it as she had done all day, was not conducive to calm. It was like sitting an important exam. No matter how many times you’d done exams before, no matter how much you’d studied the subject, there was always that fear of something cropping up that would throw you.

Best leave everything up to him, Veronica determined as he paid the bill then steered her out to another waiting taxi. He obviously knows what to do. He’s had enough practice.

The flight back to Capri was still a welcome distraction, Veronica taking photographs of absolutely everything.

‘Mum’s going to want to come here for a holiday after I send her these,’ she said at one point.

‘Then she should,’ Leonardo replied. ‘She can stay at the villa.’

‘It’ll be your villa soon.’

‘True.’

‘She could stay at the Hotel Fabrizzi,’ Veronica said with a mischievous glance. ‘I can recommend it.’

‘Would you come with her?’

‘Probably. But if I did we wouldn’t stay at your parents’ hotel. Sophia might think I’d come back to see you and start matchmaking again.’

When he just shrugged at that, she shook her head at him. ‘You really shouldn’t encourage her, you know. She honestly thinks you’re in the market for a wife.’

‘I’ve found that to argue with Mamma only encourages her more. Besides, I will be in the market for a wife. One day. When the right girl comes along,’ he added in a drily amused voice.

She snorted at that. ‘Your mamma will be long gone by then. You are a cruel man, Leonardo.’

‘Not at all,’ he denied. ‘I am a very kind man. But at the moment I’m also a very single man. And enjoying it,’ he added with the wickedest glance thrown her way.

A sexually charged shiver rippled down her spine, heat spreading through her lower body. Her nipples hardened and her belly tightened. All from just a look.

Oh, my.

‘Go back to taking your photographs, Veronica,’ he ordered thickly. ‘And I’ll go back to making sure we get down safely. There’s a strong wind blowing over Capri and this is a very light machine.’

He got them down safely, but he was right about the wind. It whipped her hair into a right mess on the way to the waiting taxi, which thankfully wasn’t Franco’s. No way did she want to make idle conversation with Franco who, she suspected, was somewhat of a gossip.

Finger-combing her hair into some semblance of order, she climbed into the taxi ahead of Leonardo, who told the driver to take them to the Hotel Fabrizzi. She winced at this, not wanting to endure talking to any of Leonardo’s family, especially not his mother.

‘It’s all right,’ he whispered to her. ‘Mamma will be busy inside. You can dash off up the path to the villa and I’ll follow shortly. I just have to collect a few things for my overnight stay.’

‘But what will they all think?’ she whispered back.

He shrugged again, that dismissive shrug he used a lot. ‘I refuse to live my life by other people’s expectations. Now, hush up.’

She fell silent then. And so did he.

It was only a short drive from the helipad to the hotel. But the silence made it seem longer. It was so sexy, that silence, sending Veronica’s head spinning with desire. By the time they turned into the courtyard she was agitated beyond belief. She hurried out of the taxi then rushed away from him, under the pergola and up the steep steps. She didn’t look back. She knew he would soon come after her; knew they would soon be together.

Another erotic shiver raced through her as she dived into the pot to retrieve the front-door key. No, not a shiver this time. A shudder. The kind of bone-shaking shudder that a floundering ship might make. It reminded Veronica of her earlier idea that she and Leonardo were ships passing in the night.

If only that were true…

They weren’t ships passing in the night, without consequences or complications. They were on a collision course.

Veronica shuddered again as she ran inside. She was still nervous but not afraid. She should have been afraid. Why wasn’t she afraid? Why was it that she didn’t care about consequences or complications? Was this what lust did to you—made you reckless and foolish? Made you uncaring of anything but the promise of pleasure?

Not that Leonardo was a promise of pleasure. He was pleasure.

Such thinking made Veronica feel hot and sticky all over. She winced at the thought that she might smell of perspiration. And other things…

She’d always been very particular about personal hygiene, hating it when clients came to her without having a shower first. Would she have time for a quick shower? she wondered.

It had only been a minute since she’d left Leonardo. Surely it would be at least another five minutes before he made an appearance? His mother was likely to collar him and ask him innumerable questions about their day together.

Veronica was already stripping as she hurried towards the master bedroom with its lovely en suite bathroom.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

LEONARDO WAS GRATEFUL that the hotel was rather chaotic inside, with guests coming and going. He was able to slip into his room and get what he needed for the night without being accosted by his mother or father. Elena did grab him on the way out from where she was stationed behind Reception.

‘Going somewhere?’ she asked in Italian after eyeing his overnight bag.

‘I’m staying in Laurence’s guest room tonight,’ he replied, also in Italian. ‘I can’t stand the noise when this place is full.’

‘Veronica doesn’t mind?’ his sister asked with a knowing glint in her eye.

‘Why should she mind? She came here to find out about her father. I had more to do with Laurence than any of you so I can tell her everything she wants to know.’

Elena smiled. ‘She’s very beautiful. She’s also very nice. She would make some lucky man a good wife.’

He just smiled, told her not to meddle and left.

But his smile didn’t last for long.

It annoyed him lately, how much his family were trying to press him into settling down. He had no intention of marrying some poor girl just to secure an heir. Who cared about carrying on bloodlines and family names these days? It was archaic.

Leonardo hurried as he headed for the path which led up to the villa.

Still…it probably was a mistake to stay the whole night with Veronica. He’d always kept his sex life away from Capri. He’d never brought a girlfriend to his parents’ hotel, knowing that it was a bad idea. He came here to relax, not get himself into a total twist. Laurence’s villa used to be his sanctuary, his refuge. When he’d sat on the terrace, soaking in the view and sipping some of Laurence’s fine wine, all his inner demons used to slip away. He hadn’t thought about that awful time when the true love of his life—competitive skiing—had been snatched away. He hadn’t paced around like he did in his office. He hadn’t needed sex to distract him. He’d actually relaxed.

He wasn’t relaxed now, was he?

Hell, no. That witch of a girl had undone him, big time.

Leonardo charged up the stone steps two at a time, lust making him impatient.

The sliding glass door being open made him laugh. Not too worried about security now, eh, Veronica? Her mind was obviously on other things. He’d felt the sexual tension in her in the taxi. Seen the desire in her dilated eyes.

She wouldn’t need much foreplay the first time, he decided as he walked in, dumped his bag in the guest room then went to look for her. The whole day had been foreplay.

When he heard the shower running, Leonardo strode purposefully in its direction.

He’d never actually been in Laurence’s bedroom before. But it was a mirror image of the guest bedroom at the other end of the house, just with different furnishings. The bathroom was exactly the same too, the floor and walls covered in grey-and-white marble tiles.

Veronica was in the shower. Naked, of course, her nudity obscured slightly by the glass screen. Even so, he stared.

He hadn’t seen her naked before. God, but she was lovely. He adored every inch of her slender but very feminine figure. She had just enough breast. Just enough everything. Leonardo had never been attracted to voluptuous women. He preferred athletic-looking girls.

She must have sensed him standing there in the doorway, staring at her, because suddenly her head whipped round and their eyes met through the wet glass. Did she blush, or was it the heat of the water making her cheeks pink?

When he stepped forward and slid back the screen, she snapped off the taps, then spun round to face him, nervously touching her hair that she’d bundled up on top of her head.

‘I… I didn’t think you’d be this quick,’ she said shakily. ‘And I was hot.’

That she was, he thought. But he wasn’t crass enough to say so. Instead, he handed her one of the two white towels hanging nearby. She grabbed it and wrapped it around her dripping body, her eyes still touchingly vulnerable. Surely she couldn’t be shy? She certainly hadn’t been last night.

‘I might have a quick shower myself,’ he said. ‘I could do with cooling down a bit.’

And wasn’t that the truth. Leonardo already planned to make it an icy cold shower. The last thing he wanted was a repeat of last night’s performance. He’d acted like some randy school boy, unable to control himself.

‘Why don’t you get us both a couple of glasses of wine?’ he suggested. ‘And I’ll be with you ASAP.’

‘Oh. Oh, all right. Does it matter what wine?’

‘No. Whatever Carmelina put in the fridge is okay with me.’

* * *

Veronica tried not to think as she went in search of the wine; tried not to feel embarrassed at his catching her in the shower. After all, he wasn’t embarrassed. She suspected that nothing embarrassed him. Certainly not nudity.

There were several bottles of white wine in the door of the fridge. Veronica selected a Chablis, then searched the kitchen cupboards for glasses. There were lots, especially wine glasses. One set attracted her. They were quite large, but with long, fine stems in a beautiful shade of green glass. Was it her father who’d liked green glass? she wondered. Or his wife?

This last thought reminded Veronica how quickly she’d been distracted from her quest to find out everything she could about her father. It was all Leonardo’s fault, she decided when he walked in, obviously naked beneath the white towel draped low around his hips.

Lord, but he was just so beautiful; the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. She couldn’t think of any model or movie star who could compare. He was just so perfect. His face. His skin. His body.

It was his body she kept staring at now. She’d become rather used to his handsome face and his lovely olive skin. But she wasn’t used to seeing this much of his gorgeous body. Last night was just a blur in her mind. Over far too quickly. Her heart pounded as her eyes travelled over him from head to toe.

Talk about every woman’s fantasy come true!

Veronica had always been attracted to fit men. Not the muscle-bound, weight-lifting type. She preferred the runners and the rowers, men with flab-free stomachs and long, strong legs. Leonardo had all that and more. His shape was perfection in her eyes, from his naturally broad shoulders to his flat stomach, his small waist and slim hips anchored by long, sexy legs.

Her hand surprised her when it didn’t shake as she handed him a glass of wine.

He took it and lifted it to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers over the rim. The air in the room suddenly felt thick with a tension which she knew could only be eased one way. But she stayed exactly where she was, lifting her own glass and taking a deep swallow. Not that she needed any alcohol to make her body zing. Every nerve-ending she owned was already electrified.

He drank the whole glass with agonising slowness, all the while just looking at her. Not at her body, but deep, deep into her eyes, searching for a sign perhaps that he could proceed. Either that, or he was just cruelly making her wait.

Finally, just when the anticipation became almost unbearable, Leonardo put his glass down on the nearby counter and closed the gap between them. A slow smile curved his mouth as he took her glass out of her hands and placed it next to his. When he turned back she thought he was going to kiss her. But he didn’t. Instead, he reached up and pulled her hair down from the loose knot into which she’d wound it before her shower. It tumbled down around her naked shoulders, thick, soft and wavy. Her crowning glory, her mother always said.

‘I’ve been wanting to do this all day,’ he murmured as he ran his fingers through her hair.

Veronica blinked. ‘But my hair was down all day.’

‘I meant I wanted to touch it.’

‘Oh…’

‘And to touch you.’ His hands left her hair and trailed down the sides of her throat then moved under her hair to her shoulders. He cupped them gently, then pulled her close, his mouth descending to hers as though in slow motion. Her own arms hung limply at her sides whilst her head grew light with the most dizzying waves of desire. Despite her seeming attitude of submission, her lips were already parted by the time his made contact, his low groan showing her that he was as turned on as she was. But still he didn’t hurry, his tongue sliding sinuously into her mouth until she was beside herself with longing and need.

Her moan betrayed the extent of that need. Leonardo’s head immediately lifted.

‘Si,’ he rasped. ‘It is torture, is it not?’

She didn’t answer him. She couldn’t.

‘You deserve to be tortured,’ he ground out as he suddenly bent to scoop her up into his arms. ‘You are the sort of woman who drives men mad, with your big violet eyes and your flirtatious ways.’

Veronica found her tongue as he carried her back to the master bedroom. ‘I think you’ve got that the wrong way round, Leonardo. You are the sort of man who drives women mad. And you know it.’

He looked shocked for a second, and then he shrugged. ‘I do have a good record with the ladies.’

Veronica couldn’t help it. She started to giggle, and then she really started to laugh.

He threw her onto the bed as he had the night before, his hands finding his hips as he glared down at her.

‘I don’t see what you find so funny,’ he growled.

‘Don’t you?’ She stopped laughing but the corners of her mouth kept itching to smile. He, however, remained standing there with his legs apart, his hands clamped to his hips and his eyes all narrowed and angry. Talk about a typical Italian male! They really didn’t have a great sense of humour. But she liked them all the same with their proud, passionate ways.

‘I thought we were going to have sex, Leonardo,’ she said. ‘Not argue.’

His sensually carved lips pouted in the most deliciously sexy way.

‘I do not want to have sex with you, Veronica,’ he said in clipped tones.

Her eyes widened, her dismay acute. ‘You don’t?’

‘No. I don’t. We did that last night. Today, I want to make love to you.’

Her heart flipped right over. Okay, so they were only words, but they were lovely words. Loving words. It had been so long since she’d heard loving words said to her. Too long, perhaps. Leonardo’s words touched the very depths of her soul.

Be careful here, Veronica, came the protective warning. Be very careful.

‘I’d like that,’ she said, trying not to sound too needy.

‘Good.’ His face softened as he reached down and plucked the towel away from her. But his eyes stayed hot. Hot and hungry.

‘Bellissima,’ he murmured, then tossed his own towel away.

He was the one who was bellissimo, Veronica thought, looking away from his stunning erection as she wriggled herself around on the bed so that the back of her head rested on the pillows. Leonardo climbed onto the bed, stretching out next to her. He propped himself up on his left elbow whilst he caressed her with his right hand, first one breast and then the other, his gaze intent on the reactions of her nipples, which tightened under his touch.

When she made a small gasp of pleasure, his eyes lifted to hers. ‘You like that, don’t you?’ he said, smiling softly.

‘Yes,’ she choked out.

‘What about this?’ he asked, taking the nipple furthest from him between his thumb and forefinger, and slowly but firmly starting to squeeze.

‘Oh, God!’ she cried out as an electrifying shard of sensation rocketed through her body, making her belly tighten and her thighs quiver.

‘And this?’ he went on, holding the nipple with a hard grip and twisting it from right to left.

She moaned. It was not a moan of protest or pain. But it wasn’t pleasure, either. This wasn’t making love, she thought wildly. This was something else, something dark, delicious and troubling. Troubling because she liked it too much.

‘No, don’t,’ she half-sobbed after he kept doing it. ‘Don’t.’

To give him credit he stopped straight away. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you,’ he said, his expression remorseful.

‘Just kiss me,’ she said shakily.

He did. And it was lovely. She wrapped her arms around him and drew him down on top of her. Soon, the kissing wasn’t enough, of course. Dear heaven, but she wanted him so much. Her legs moved out from under him, spreading wide, her knees lifting in blatant invitation. He groaned, then obliged, sliding into her after only a momentary hesitation. It was fantastic, the feel of his flesh filling hers, the way he rocked back and forth inside her. Her hips moved with him, urging him deeper and deeper. He groaned again, the sound one of torment and frustration. When his rhythm picked up, the sensations were mind-blowing. She’d never felt such pleasure. Or such tension. She was panting and praying, wanting to come but not wanting it to end.

‘Dio,’ he growled, then came, his violent ejaculation propelling her into an orgasm that was as powerful as it was primal. Her fingernails dug into his back as her body bucked under his. Her mind was just as splintered, uncaring of anything but the ecstasy of the here and now.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

LEONARD COULDN’T BELIEVE he’d done it again. He’d lost control and not used a condom. Yet he’d put a couple on the bedside chest earlier, along with his phone and his watch.

Not that it mattered, he supposed.

Or did it? Could he really trust that Veronica was on the pill, like she’d said?

He withdrew abruptly, rolling away from her with a worried sigh.

‘What is it?’ she asked straight away. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ he muttered, angry with himself now. ‘Just…’ He glanced over at her, not wanting to spoil things between them, but he simply had to say something. ‘I didn’t use a condom again.’

‘Oh,’ she said, blinking as though she herself had only just realised. ‘I meant to ask you to use one. But I forgot.’

‘I guess it doesn’t matter, since you’re on the pill,’ he went on. ‘But let’s face it, even the pill isn’t one hundred percent safe.’

Now it was her turn to sigh. ‘True.’

He wished he hadn’t brought the matter up. What they’d just shared had been incredible and he hated that he might have ruined the chance of more of the same.

‘Look, Leonardo,’ she said with an edge to her voice. ‘Trust me when I say there’s nothing for you to worry about. Aside from anything else, my period is due on Monday. If by some perverse twist of fate the worst happened, then I would handle it. I certainly wouldn’t use a baby to trap you into marriage.’

He couldn’t help being shocked. ‘You’d have a termination?’ He didn’t believe in abortion; he had been brought up to think of all life as sacred.

‘I didn’t say that,’ she snapped, sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. ‘I need to go to the bathroom.’

* * *

Veronica just made it onto the toilet before the tears came. She didn’t know why she was so upset. Perhaps because one minute she’d been lying underneath Leonardo’s utterly gorgeous body, thinking she’d died and gone to heaven, and the next he’d rolled away from her, leaving her feeling both abandoned and unloved. He’d spoiled her little romantic fantasy with his worries about having unsafe sex.

It did bother her a bit that once again she herself hadn’t thought of protection, especially after she’d planned to insist on it this time. But of course at the back of her mind she’d known she was ninety-nine percent safe. Did he honestly think she’d deliberately risk falling pregnant to a man like him?

The very thought appalled her. At the same time, it upset her that he would think she was anything like that other girl who’d lied to him so shamefully.

But you lied to him too, Veronica. By omission. You let him think you’re on the pill but you aren’t. Just because you know it’s the wrong time of the month to conceive is not an excuse. You still lied to him.

Guilt had her biting her bottom lip. As did regret. The trouble was it was too late to tell him the truth now. He was a cynical man, and possibly ignorant of how well a woman could know her own body. He wouldn’t understand that there really was very little risk. She was as regular as clockwork. The only time in years when it had been disrupted was when Jerome had died. Shock and stress, the doctor had said. But eventually everything had settled back into its normal rhythm, not missing a beat since.

Veronica sighed then stood up. Whilst washing her hands, a quick glance in the vanity mirror showed a tear-stained face and very messy hair. Without stopping to think, she dived into the shower again, turning on the taps, squealing when it came out freezing cold at first. She squealed again when Leonardo suddenly pulled back the screen door.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked anxiously.

‘The…the water was c-cold,’ she stammered. ‘It…it’s getting warmer now.’

His frown smoothed out, replaced by an apologetic smile. ‘I am a fool,’ he said. ‘I trust you, Veronica. Truly I do. Forgive me?’

He didn’t wait for a reply, stepping into the shower with her and pulling her into his arms. They kissed under the warm jets of water. Then kissed some more. Leonardo ran his hands up and down her back, then stayed down, cupping her buttocks and yanking her hard against him. His head lifted then and he laughed. ‘See what you do to me? Anyone would think I hadn’t had sex in months.’

‘Poor Leonardo. How long has it been, then?’ she asked him with a coquettish glance. ‘A whole week at least?’

‘Longer than that,’ he protested.

‘Two weeks?’

‘You really do have a bad opinion of me. Let me assure you that, since Laurence passed away, sex has been the last thing on my mind.’

His mentioning her father made Veronica sigh. ‘I came here to find out about my father, and all I’ve wanted to do since I arrived so far is be with you. You’re like a drug, Leonardo. A very addictive drug.’

‘Is that a criticism or a compliment?’

‘I’m sure you’ll take it as a compliment.’

‘If you insist,’ he said. And he grinned down at her. ‘Come. I’m not one for making love in showers. I much prefer the comfort of a bed.’ So saying, he leant past her and turned off the taps before pushing open the glass door. The nearest towel rail was empty, however, both towels still on the bedroom floor where Leonardo had dropped them.

‘There are more towels in the utility room,’ Veronica informed him—not very helpfully, since the utility room was some distance away.

‘I think we’ll just make a dash for the bedroom. Use the towels we left there.’

‘All right,’ she said, wringing out her hair so that it wouldn’t drip too much.

They were like two naughty teenagers who’d gone skinny dipping in the sea and had to run for their clothes. They both made a dive for the nearest towel, actually having a mock tug-of-war before Leonardo gave in and let her have it. She didn’t wrap it around herself this time, just rubbed herself dry then bent forward and wound it around her wet hair, before straightening and scrambling into the bed, where she sat up against the pillows with her arms crossed over her bare breasts and her turbaned head feeling ridiculously heavy.

‘All done,’ she said.

Leonardo shook his own head at her. ‘No way,’ he said. ‘I’m not making love to you with a towel on your head. Take it off.’

There was something in his eyes which put paid to the momentary temptation to refuse. Leonardo, when crossed, was nothing like his usual smiling, charming self. His whole face darkened, his shoulders stiffened. No wonder he’d been such a fierce competitor on the ski slopes. He didn’t like to lose. And he didn’t like a woman to say no to him.

‘My hair’s still wet,’ she complained, even as she removed the towel and tossed it away.

‘I like you wet,’ he replied, his good humour restored. As was his sexually charged persona.

Veronica tried to find something saucy to say back but he’d already climbed into the bed beside her, and then he pulled her down under him.

‘None of this, either,’ he said as he took hold of her arms and placed them up above her head on the pillows. He didn’t hold them there, thank God. She would not have liked that. Or maybe she would have. She seemed to like everything he did to her. She certainly liked it when he slid down her body and started making love to her with his mouth. She loved it, just as she’d imagined she would. He knew exactly where to kiss and where to lick. His lips and tongue were knowing enough, aided adeptly by hands which knew how to move and lift her to give that questing mouth better access to all of her.

He shocked her at times, but she never wanted him to stop. The only sounds coming from her open, panting mouth were the gasps and groans whenever she came: three times in as many minutes. She could hardly believe it. Multiple orgasms were unknown to her personally. She’d heard of them but thought they existed only in books and the imagination of fiction writers.

Not so. This was real. This was her, about to come again.

This time, Leonardo stopped just in time, sliding up her body and into her, taking her breath away with the size of his erection. Clearly, doing what he’d been doing had been a huge turn-on for him as well.

She expected to come straight away but, strangely, she didn’t. Maybe she’d run out of orgasms for the day. But slowly, and quite deliciously, his steady rhythm stoked the fire back into her. Her hips began to move with him. He groaned, then whispered her name with the kind of warmth and passion that she’d never heard on any man’s lips. Certainly not Jerome’s. His love-making, whilst skilful, had been on the clinical side.

Suddenly, something broke within her. Something she could not identify. Not a physical thing but something deeply emotional, evoking a sense of bonding which compelled her to take her arms down from the pillow and wind them tightly around him.

‘Leonardo,’ she whispered back.

Only then did she come. And so did he, their bodies surrendering, not in a clash of wild shuddering but in gently rolling spasms which made Veronica want to cry. She did cry. But silently. The spasms seemed to go on for ever, which was just as well, giving her tears time to dry and for some common sense to return.

I have not fallen in love with Leonardo, she told herself sternly. He’s just very good at this. Very, very good. Get a grip, Veronica.

She might have got a grip if she’d had time. And if she wasn’t so exhausted. But sleep beckoned, a dark curtain having already fallen over her mind. Her body soon followed. She didn’t see Leonardo frown down at her as he withdrew. She couldn’t worry about his body language, which spoke of concern and confusion.

* * *

Leonardo lay beside her, unable to sleep, which was unusual for him after so much sex. He was troubled. The thought that he liked Veronica too much troubled him. Way too much.

Because let’s face it, Leonardo, he thought to himself, what you felt when you made love to Veronica just now far surpassed anything you’ve ever felt before. It had been more than sex. It had felt suspiciously like what he’d imagined falling in love would be like.

The problem was he didn’t want to fall in love with Veronica. He didn’t want to fall in love with any woman just yet but, if it had to happen, he certainly didn’t want it to happen with a twenty-eight-year-old Australian girl who carried way too much emotional baggage and who obviously believed he was some kind of man whore.

He wasn’t. Not in his book. Okay, so his girlfriends didn’t last very long. They bored him after a while, as did many aspects of life nowadays. But he only ever had one girlfriend at a time, and not nearly as many as social media suggested. He didn’t cheat on them. Never. He always broke up with them before entering another relationship. Yes, he did have the occasional one-night stand. But only when he was between girlfriends, and only when he was in one of his dark, restless moods.

Leonardo could feel one of those dark moods descending right now. God, but he hated it when he felt like this. So out of control. He’d been out of bloody control ever since he’d met the girl beside him, who was sleeping like a baby with not a worry in the world. Damn her with her violet eyes and her oh, so kissable mouth. And damn Laurence for leaving his villa to her.

Laurence…

If only Laurence were still alive. He’d used to be able to get Leonardo out of his black moods. He’d put on some classical music, pour him some wine and they’d sit on the terrace, if it was summer, or by the fireplace in winter, not always talking, sometimes just listening and drinking. Relaxing.

He supposed he could get up and do that now. But it wouldn’t be the same, doing any of that by himself. It wouldn’t work, either. He needed Laurence’s logical reasoning and pragmatic presence to do the trick. He’d had a way about him, that man. If Leonardo were honest, Veronica had a similar way. She was great company and very easy to talk to. He’d thoroughly enjoyed their sightseeing trip this morning. And their lunch in Sorrento. Unfortunately, the sexual chemistry flaring between them was difficult to ignore, bringing an irritation which he’d struggled to control.

That was what bothered him almost as much as possibly falling in love—his lack of control. Though maybe they were both wrapped up in the same package. He still could not get over not having used protection. What on earth had he been thinking?

But it was done now. And truthfully, it had felt fantastic. Was that what was tricking him, his level of physical pleasure? The sheer intimacy of it all?

Possibly. He liked that thought. It made sense. He probably wasn’t falling in love with her at all. He was just blown away by how great it felt without using a condom. It was many years, after all, since he’d had the pleasure of spontaneous sex. He’d liked that there’d been no need to turn away and risk spoiling the moment. No matter how quick you were, that was sometimes very annoying.

A yawn captured him. Maybe he could sleep now that he’d worked out his emotions.

Leonardo rolled over and put an arm around Veronica. She snuggled back into him till they were like two spoons fitted together. Leonardo smiled with contentment, then fell fast sleep, happy with the thought that she would be there for him when he awoke.

CHAPTER TWENTY

SHE WASN’T.

Leonardo’s eyes opened to an empty space next to him. He stretched, wondering what time it was and how long Veronica had been up. The blinds in the bedroom weren’t down, and he could see that it wasn’t yet night. Reaching for his phone, he checked the time. Not that late. Only six-thirty, and daylight saving meant it would be light for some time yet.

Rising, Leonardo headed for the bathroom where he’d dropped his clothes. Five minutes later, he left the bedroom in search of Veronica. He found her sitting at Laurence’s desk, which was tucked away in an alcove in a corner of the living room. She was dressed too, a mug of steaming coffee at her elbow, her eyes fixed on the computer in front of her.

Laurence’s computer.

‘There you are,’ he said, and she swung round in the chair to face him.

God, but she was beautiful, he thought. Even without make-up and with her hair up.

‘I didn’t want to wake you,’ she said coolly, and picked up her coffee, ‘So I had a shower in the guest room and got dressed there. I’ve been trying to get into my father’s computer, but it’s password protected.’

‘I know the password,’ he offered.

‘You do?’ She blinked up at him in surprise.

‘He gave it to me when I was staying here with my broken ankle. I couldn’t sleep some nights so I would get up and play poker on the computer. What are you hoping to find?’ he asked as he came over and tapped in the password, which wasn’t exactly obscure. Just Ruth with her birthdate after it. Of course, he had to lean over her shoulder to do that, his nostrils immediately assailed with a faint but tantalising scent. Not perfume. Possibly just shower gel.

‘Anything, really,’ she said, and quickly stood up. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

‘Si. Grazie.’

‘Why are you speaking Italian all of sudden?’ she demanded to know.

He shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’

‘No. Yes. I mean, I understand a few words, but I’d prefer you to use English.’

‘Fine.’ He smiled at her then sat down in front of the computer. ‘Let’s see if I can find anything enlightening for you.’ He brought up Laurence’s email account and tapped in the same password, guessing that it would be the same.

It was. Of course, there was a whole heap of spam, sent after Laurence’s demise. He deleted it all then backtracked to the days before Laurence had left for London. One email jumped out at him. It was from a private investigation firm in Sydney and was accompanied by a PDF. Leonardo downloaded it, frowning as he began to read, his frown deepening by the time he’d read the report, which wasn’t overly long, but which included an attached photograph.

‘I remembered from lunch that you liked your coffee black and strong,’ Veronica said as she set a steaming mug down on the desk next to him. ‘Have you found something?’

Had he found something? Dio, had he ever!

Veronica peered over Leonardo’s shoulder at the computer screen.

‘My God,’ she gasped, pointing at the screen. ‘That’s me.’

‘That it is,’ Leonardo said slowly.

‘But…but…’

‘It’s attached to a recent report from a private detective agency based in Sydney,’ he explained. ‘Clearly Laurence wanted to find out how you were faring before he died. Also clearly,’ he added, glancing up into her widening eyes, ‘What he discovered made him decide to change his will and leave you his villa here on Capri.’

‘What…what does it say about me?’ she asked, obviously shaken by this news.

And well she should be, Leonardo thought, not sure if he felt sad for her. Or furious that she had deceived him.

‘I think it best that I print out the report and let you read it for yourself,’ he said with creditable composure.

‘All right,’ she agreed.

‘Perhaps you should also sit down.’

* * *

Veronica sank onto the nearest dining room chair, her heart sinking as well. She knew exactly what the report would say, her mind scrambling to find some excuse she could give to Leonardo as to why she’d let him think she’d been out there, socialising and having an active sex life, one that required her to take the pill. Oh, Lord! She had to keep that lie going. Leonardo would be understandably furious if she told him she wasn’t on the pill.

Her stomach tightened as the printer spat out the report.

She wondered if the investigator had found out the whole truth about Jerome as well.

Possibly not. He’d hidden his affair well.

‘Here,’ Leonardo said, and slapped the pages down on the dining table. He was angry with her, she could see. Which was understandable.

The report wasn’t long. Only three pages. But it spelled the situation out exactly as she’d feared. It made her sound like some grieving widow, not the bitter wronged woman she actually was. Or had been.

But she wasn’t that woman any longer, was she? Leonardo had shown her she’d been a fool to hide away, nursing her grievances and shunning the opposite sex. Okay, so he wasn’t the kind of man to pin any future hopes on. Which was bad luck. She did so like him. But he’d still been good for her, giving her back her libido, along with a more optimistic way of looking at the opposite sex. She would remember him for the rest of her life.

Veronica decided then and there to embrace the truth. Though, not as far as Jerome’s affair. Leonardo had already said he didn’t want to hear any man-bashing. And, really, it was none of his business. Neither would she be telling him she wasn’t on the pill.

‘Well?’ Leonardo prompted, having drawn out a chair opposite her and sat down. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’

Veronica’s lifted her eyebrows in a nonchalant gesture. ‘There’s not much I can say. The report has spelt it out and it’s all true. My fiancé was killed in a motorcycle accident just before our wedding. I was devastated, then deeply depressed for a long time. And, yes, ever since then I’ve lived the life of a nun. There haven’t been any sheikhs or any other men in my life, or in my bed, for three years.’

‘Not exactly the impression you gave me, is it?’ he threw at her.

Her shrug was a brilliant echo of the shrugs he often used. ‘What can I say? When I found out Laurence was my father and that he’d left me a villa on Capri, I finally saw the error of my ways. I decided then and there to throw off my nun’s habit and start living life again.’

His lips pursed, his dark eyes narrowing with obvious distrust.

‘So when did you start taking the pill?’ he demanded to know.

‘Girls take the pill these days for many reasons,’ Veronica said haughtily, but with her fingers crossed under the table. ‘It protects you from osteoporosis, as well as reducing premenstrual tension. It is not always about avoiding an unwanted pregnancy, although nothing beats a condom for safe sex,’ she added tartly for good measure.

The best defence was always attack. Or so she’d read.

He looked both distracted and offended. ‘You keep on saying things like that,’ he snapped. ‘I assure you, I am perfectly safe. And I am not as bad as you think.’

‘Yes you are, Leonardo. But no sweat. I like you the way you are. You’re great fun, and fantastic in bed. On top of that, I certainly won’t have to worry about leaving you behind with a broken heart when I go back to Australia.’

His mouth opened then closed like a floundering fish’s.

She might have laughed if her last words hadn’t made her own heart lurch all of a sudden. Maybe she was the one who should worry about going back with a broken heart.

Leonardo finally found his tongue. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he said, sounding totally flummoxed.

‘You don’t have to say anything, do you?’

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

LEONARDO TRIED TO keep his outrage going, but it was hard in the face of her nonchalance over the situation. When she smiled at him, he simply had to smile back.

‘Truly,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘You are impossible!’

‘So my mother tells me. Oh, Lord, that reminds me,’ she said, jumping up and leaving the report on the dining table.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To get my phone and send Mum the photos I took today. I might ring her as well. You go drink your coffee and see if you can find anything more on that computer. Then afterwards you can show me where the wine cellar is. I also might have to rustle up something for us to eat. I don’t know how late it is, but I’m starting to feel darned hungry.’

She dashed off, leaving Leonardo staring after her with hunger of a different kind.

Shaking his head at himself, he reached over and picked up the report, reading it through again. Nothing new struck him, though this time he felt more compassion for Veronica’s plight. It must have been very hard for her, losing the man she loved shortly before their wedding. The first time he’d read the report his reaction had been shock, plus anger at the way she’d deceived him. Leonardo was never good with female deception. Now, admiration crept in with his compassion. It had been brave of her to throw off her depression and come to Capri. Brave to adopt a brighter, happier personality, instead of the dreary one which came across in that report.

Laurence had done a good thing, leaving her this place. Though, damn it all, he should have contacted his daughter earlier. She was his flesh and blood. Okay, so she might not have been conceived in the normal way, but what did that matter? She was still family.

When Leonardo folded the pages over then stood up, a memory teased his mind, a memory of Laurence doing exactly the same thing that last weekend. Clearly, he’d been reading this very report when Leonardo had come to visit him. But, also clearly, Laurence hadn’t wanted to tell him about it. Instead, he’d folded the pages and hurried away, hiding the contents from him. Why? Leonardo was puzzled. They’d been very close friends. With Ruth dead and Laurence himself dying, there’d been no reason why he shouldn’t have told him that he had a daughter in Australia. They could have discussed the situation together.

But Laurence had remained silent on the matter, choosing instead to drink wine and make idle conversation with Leonardo about his family’s constant pressuring him to get married. Leonardo felt quite hurt that his friend hadn’t confided in him about his secret daughter. Instead, he’d hurried off to London, changed his will then died without explaining why he’d structured his last wishes that way.

Leonardo could only speculate. He didn’t know. He supposed it had to have been to get Veronica to come here personally. Though, there had been no guarantee of that. She could have sold the place from Australia and never darkened this doorstep. Still, Laurence wouldn’t have thought of that. He really hadn’t had a great imagination. If he’d decided something would happen a certain way, then it had to happen that way. It was as well that he’d made him executor of the will. Leonardo suspected that, if he hadn’t met Veronica all those years ago, she might not have come to Capri.

What a terrible thought!

So was the thought that Veronica would soon be leaving. He wondered how he could persuade her to stay longer. It wasn’t just the sex. It was her company—rather like having Laurence still here, only better.

He had just sat down at the computer again when Veronica returned.

‘I didn’t ring Mum,’ she explained. ‘I just sent her the photos and a text. She told me the other day that I didn’t have to ring all the time and that I should just have a good holiday away from everything. I took her at her word this time. Did you find anything more on the computer?’

‘No,’ he replied, not wanting to admit that he hadn’t even looked, that he’d been reading the report again.

‘Oh, well. At least we have an idea now about why he left me his house. He must have known Mum would tell me he was my father and that I’d want to come here and find out all about him.’

Leonardo had his doubts about that, but declined to say so. Laurence had had a very unemotional way of looking at most things. His daughter had some of his pragmatism but, being a physiotherapist and not a geneticist, this possibly inherited characteristic had been softened by her more caring profession and her sex. She could be tough, he could see that. But she was still all woman, with a woman’s tendency to surrender herself totally in bed. Just thinking about how she felt under him fired his testosterone once more. It pained him to think that one day she would just be a dim memory.

But she’s not gone yet…

Leonardo walked over to her and took her in his arms. ‘If he hadn’t left you this villa,’ he said, ‘today would never have happened.’

‘What a horrible thought,’ she said, her voice teasing but her eyes sparking with instant desire.

‘I’ll get some pizzas delivered afterwards,’ he pronounced as his mouth slowly descended.

‘What about the wine cellar?’

His lips hovered above hers, his heart thundering in his chest as he fought for control. ‘I’ll take you down there afterwards as well. Though, you might find it a little chilly without your clothes on.’

He thrilled to her widening eyes, plus his recent knowledge that she wasn’t nearly as sexually experienced as she’d pretended to be. Hell, he was the first man she’d slept with in three years. He vowed to make this weekend something she would never forget. But to do that he would have to concentrate on her pleasure, not his. Even now he could feel his body racing away with him.

He breathed in deeply, telling himself that making love was not the same as a downhill skiing competition. It was not a case of first to finish in the shortest possible time. It was more like ice-skating, where technique and artistry instead of speed won the day.

He kissed her slowly, doing his best to concentrate on her reactions and not his own. If only she hadn’t wrapped her arms up around his neck. If only she hadn’t pressed her breasts against him. If only she hadn’t moaned…

It undid him, that moan.

To hell with taking things slowly! All thought of control was abandoned as he started stripping her where they stood.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

‘THIS IS ONE of the best pizzas I’ve ever tasted,’ Veronica said truthfully as she took another large bite.

They were sitting out on the terrace, night having descended. They were fully dressed again, a necessity with the evening air having turned fresh.

‘But of course,’ Leonardo said smugly. ‘It’s Italian. But this wine is French.’ And he picked up one of the glasses of red which sat on the small table between them.

He’d finally shown her where the cellar was, the entry behind a doorway that she’d mistaken for a closet. It was an enormous basement and, yes, chilly, with wall-to-wall shelves only half-filled with wine. Veronica had stared at the empty spots and felt sad at the thought of how much her father must have drunk to get liver cancer.

‘I did know it was French,’ she said with a roll of her eyes. ‘Even an Aussie philistine like myself can recognise a French label when they see it. I’ll have you know that I know a few Italian words as well.’

‘Oh, really? Tell me some.’

‘Let’s see… There’s pizza, and arrivederci, and grazie, and bellissima. And the best one of all. Si. I like that one. Si.’

‘You’ll be speaking like a native in no time,’ he said drily.

‘Si,’ she repeated, her eyes smiling at him over the rim of her wine glass.

His eyes twinkled back at her.

‘So how come you speak such good English?’ she asked after she’d put her glass back down and picked up her slice of pizza.

‘I did learn English at school. But I’d have to say my command of the language was mostly due to the fitness trainer my uncle hired for me when I became serious about my skiing. He was English and he refused to speak anything but English. His name was Hugh Drinkwater and he was quite a character. He was also a very bad skier. But that didn’t matter. He wasn’t teaching me to ski. I had a coach for that. He taught me the discipline of fitness. Believe me when I say there is no one better than an Englishman when it comes to discipline. He was ex-army and took no prisoners.’

‘But you liked him,’ she said, having heard the affection in his voice.

Her statement seemed to surprise him. ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose I did. But he was a hard taskmaster.’

‘A necessity with you, I would imagine, Leonardo.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come, now. You’ve been shockingly spoiled all your life. You would have needed someone tough to whip you into shape.’

He laughed. ‘You could be right there.’

‘I am right. So, what happened in the end? What were the injuries which forced you to retire before you wanted to?’

‘Too many to enumerate. I broke practically every bone you could break at one time or another. And pulled just about every muscle.’

‘I read that you were a very reckless skier. But very brave,’ she added, not wanting to offend him.

‘I was a risk-taker, that’s true. You have to take risks to win. Apparently, I took after my grandfather in that regard. Though his risks were in business, not on the ski slopes. My uncle inherited his talent for making money, but not my father. He hated the cut and thrust of the business world. When my grandfather died, Papa took his share of the money, put most of it into the bank and bought that hotel down there with the rest.’ He nodded down the hillside to where the Hotel Fabrizzi stood. ‘Papa’s a hard worker but he likes a simple life. Running a small hotel suits him.’

‘And your mother?’ Veronica asked. ‘Does she like life on Capri?’

‘She loves it. So do my sisters. I love it too, but only in small doses. It’s too quiet for me. When they came to live here, I stayed in Milan with Uncle Stephano. I wanted to ski professionally and I couldn’t do that from here. He sponsored me and taught me the textile business during the off season. There’s nothing I don’t know about manufacturing and selling fabrics.’

‘Do you still miss it?’ she asked. ‘The skiing life?’

When he shrugged, she saw that that was what he did when he didn’t want to answer a question, or face something.

‘You couldn’t do it for ever, Leonardo,’ she pointed out. ‘Age would have caught up with you, even if injuries didn’t.’

‘I would have liked to do it a little longer,’ he bit out. ‘I was favourite to become world champion that year.’

‘We don’t always get what we want in life, Leonardo,’ she said with a touch of her old bitterness.

‘True,’ he said, not picking up on her change in mood. But it had changed, the happiness which Leonardo’s company brought to her spoiled by thinking about Jerome’s treachery.

She stood up abruptly, having found that doing things was the best antidote for unhappy thoughts. At home, she would distract herself with work. Housework, if she wasn’t seeing a client at the time.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked her.

‘Cleaning up,’ she replied as she swept up the dirty plates.

‘I can see that. But why? It can wait, can’t it? You haven’t finished your wine and I was enjoying our conversation.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Really. Talking to you is like talking to Laurence. He used to make me open up and tell him my worries. It’s a relief sometimes to confide in someone else, especially someone nice and non-judgemental. And it’s far cheaper than seeing a therapist.’

Veronica stood there, holding the plates, genuinely surprised by his admission.

‘I can’t imagine you ever seeing a therapist.’

‘I did for a while. Being forced to retire affected me terribly. But, in the end, I realised that going over and over my feelings wasn’t doing me any good, so I stopped.’

Veronica put the plates back down and settled back into her chair.

‘Yes, I’m not sure that’s the right way to get over things. The world seems obsessed with celebrating anniversaries at the moment, especially ones remembering quite wretched events. I honestly think it’s a bad thing to dwell on the past. I did it for far too long. You have to accept reality and then move on.’

Even as she said the brave words, Veronica recognised it was a case of easier said than done. After all, until recently she’d hugged her misery around her like a cloak, afraid to move on, afraid of some other man hurting her as Jerome had done. But at least she had finally moved on. And she doubted Leonardo would hurt her. She wouldn’t let him, for starters, this last thought crystallising her decision to end their fling tomorrow. It was too much of a risk to keep on seeing him. He was way too attractive. And way too good in bed.

But she wouldn’t say anything until she had to. Hopefully, he wouldn’t take it badly, or as a blow to his ego, which was considerable.

Veronica picked up her wine glass and took a deep swallow.

‘You are meant to savour this type of red wine,’ Leonardo chided. ‘Not drink it like water.’

‘Ooh. Pardon me for breathing. I did tell you that I prefer white wine but you insisted on my trying one of the reds. Is this better?’ she asked, lifting the glass to her lips and taking a delicate sip.

‘Much better. I apologise if I sound snobbish. It’s just that this particular wine is one of the best ever bottled and needs to be sipped to be appreciated.’

‘It is nicer when sipped. Okay, I forgive you.’

‘Grazie,’ he said, and smiled over at her.

Her heart lurched anew, warning bells going off in her head.

Veronica searched her mind for the best subject to quell any growing emotional involvement with this man.

‘Tell me, Leonardo,’ she said. ‘On the night we first met, all those years ago, if I’d said yes would you have really enjoyed a threesome with me and that blonde bimbo?’

His dark eyes glittered. ‘But of course. Though my mind would have been on you all the time. I wanted you like crazy.’

Veronica’s fingers tightened around her wine glass. Why, oh, why had he had to add that last bit? ‘Were you in the habit of having threesomes?’ she asked stiffly.

‘No. Like I told you, I was very drunk that night.’

‘Your friends didn’t seem shocked by your suggestion.’

‘My friends were also pretty drunk. And stoned, some of them.’

‘Yes, I noticed that.’

Leonardo sighed. ‘It was a common thing in the circles I moved in.’

‘And what about now? Do you take drugs now?’

‘I never took drugs back then. I didn’t like them.’

‘I see…’ Did she believe him? She supposed she had to, since he would have admitted it if he had taken them. He wouldn’t see any reason to hide his actions.

‘And what about you, Veronica? You went to university which, I am told, is rife with drugs. Did you ever indulge?’

‘Never. I hate drugs.’

‘That is a good thing. They ruin people’s lives.’

‘They certainly do,’ she said.

They both fell silent for a few moments, Leonardo being the first to speak again.

‘We are getting too serious. After we’ve finished our wine, we shall go back to bed.’

For a split second his presumption—and his arrogance—annoyed her. But the thought of the pleasure that awaited her in bed with Leonardo trumped any sense of feminine outrage.

Whilst she sipped the rest of her wine, her mind was already there, naked in bed with him. The only concession she made to her pride was that, this time, she would be the one making love to him. First with her mouth, then with her whole body. She would be the one on top, with him at her mercy. She would thrill to his moans and wallow in his arousal. She would do to him what he’d done to her. She would not stop until he begged her to.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

‘I HAVE TO GO.’

Veronica looked up from where she was loading the dishwasher to see Leonardo standing there, showered and dressed with his overnight bag in his hand. She herself was still naked underneath her bathrobe.

‘But you haven’t even had breakfast yet,’ she said on straightening.

Leonardo dropped the bag and come forward to take her into his arms. ‘I know,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘But it’s almost eleven. The hotel guests will have left and Mamma will be expecting me for Sunday lunch. After that, I have to return to Milan. I have an important meeting in the morning which I must attend. Still, it’s best I go whilst you still have some reputation left. I will claim I slept in the guest room but I doubt anyone will believe me.’

She pulled back and lifted cool eyes to his. ‘You told me I shouldn’t care what other people think.’

‘Mamma and Papa are not other people. They are my parents. Now, don’t make a fuss. I will return. Though, not next weekend I’m afraid. I have things on.’

‘What things?’

‘A charity ball on the Saturday night which my company sponsors every year.’

‘Oh. And I suppose you’ll be going with some glamorous model on your arm?’

‘No. I told you, I have no girlfriend in my life at the moment, other than you. If I asked you, would you come with me?’

Her heart fluttered at his invitation. She was seriously tempted, until she remembered her decision last night to end their affair today. It was a painful decision but a necessary one. ‘I came here to find out about my father, Leonardo, not go flitting all over Italy to attend fancy dos. And I am not your girlfriend,’ Veronica pointed out a little tartly.

‘You could be. All you have to do is stay here in this villa and I will make Capri my second home.’

Exasperation joined temptation with this particular offer. Because it was a typically selfish suggestion on his part. He didn’t want her on a for ever basis. He just hadn’t had enough of what she’d given him last night. And, brother, she’d given him a lot!

‘I don’t think that would work, Leonardo,’ she said archly. ‘I’m not cut out to be mistress material.’

His dark eyes glittered. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’

‘I would. Besides, what would your parents think? Not about me but about you. They would finally have to face up to the fact that you’re an incorrigible playboy with no intention of getting married.’

‘Maybe you could change my mind on that score.’

She laughed. ‘Please don’t insult my intelligence.’

His frown contained frustration. ‘Why do you persist in thinking so badly of me?’

‘Let’s not argue, Leonardo. I’ve had a lovely time this weekend and I want to remember it fondly.’

‘How long are you actually staying?’

‘My return flight is in three weeks’ time. I leave on a Sunday.’

‘Then you’ll still be here the weekend after next.’

‘Yes…’

‘What say you meet me in Rome that weekend? By then you will have found out everything you can about Laurence. I will show you the city and we’ll have another great time together. My uncle has a lovely townhouse he’ll let us use. Or I can book us into a hotel.’

Don’t say yes! came the savage warning from deep inside her. You’ll regret it.

At least she didn’t say yes straight away. There again, she didn’t say no, either.

‘I’ll think about it,’ was what she said.

He smiled, looking supremely confident in her saying yes in the end.

‘I will ring you tonight.’

‘Please don’t.’

‘I will ring you tonight,’ he repeated, giving her a brief peck before picking up his bag and striding away, not glancing back over his shoulder even once.

She stared after him, her heart thudding fast in her chest, her head in a whirl. Because she was already looking forward to his call tonight.

Oh, Veronica. You should have told him no straight away. You should have put an end to this once and for all. Tell him tonight. Be strong. Be firm. Now, ring the airline and make an earlier booking. You need to go home ASAP. Before it’s too late.

* * *

She didn’t ring the airline, of course. She procrastinated, spending the next couple of hours going through the drawers in her father’s desk, looking for Lord knew what. She didn’t find anything enlightening, only the typical stuff you found in household drawers. Papers of every kind, copies of old bills, receipts for things bought over the years, pamphlets and brochures. There wasn’t anything about her, or his will. After that, she tried to open his computer but it had shut down again, and she needed his password, which she didn’t have. She hadn’t thought to ask Leonardo to write it down but she would tonight, if and when he rang.

She wasn’t so sure that he would ring. Out of sight was possibly out of mind where Leonardo was concerned. Not so in her own case. He was constantly in her mind, her thoughts troubling her. For they were no longer thoughts of lust but…dared she think it?…thoughts of love…?

Her memory recalled several times during the night when their love-making had taken on a highly emotional edge. At least for her it had, especially when she’d followed through with her idea to be the one in control. That was a laugh. She had never been in control. Not once, either of her body or her soul. It seemed it was impossible for her to be that intimate with this man and not have her heart join the proceedings.

Leonardo himself made it extremely difficult for her to remain the sexual sophisticate she’d vowed to be. His passion was her undoing, plus his tenderness, especially after she was recovering after yet another explosive climax. He would always hold her close and murmur sweet nothings in her ear. He didn’t tell her he loved her, instead using other euphemisms which any foolish female would swoon to. Sometimes he talked to her in Italian, possibly saying dirty things. She had no way of knowing. But the words didn’t sound dirty. They sounded…romantic. No matter how much Veronica tried to tell herself this was just lust between them, she no longer believed it. Not on her side, anyway.

Leonardo, of course, was a different story. He was an accomplished seducer. And lover. A playboy, let her never forget. He operated in the bedroom on autopilot, knowing exactly what to say and do. Yes, he wanted to see her again. Why not when the chemistry between them was so good? Clearly, he hadn’t had his fill yet.

Veronica knew that to spend another weekend with him, this time in Rome being wined, dined and romanced, would be very silly indeed. At the same time, how could she resist it?

Oh, Lord…

Sighing, Veronica rose from her father’s desk and went in search of further distraction. She found some in a pile of photo albums she discovered on the top shelf of the linen press. They were numbered from one to five, tracing Laurence’s life from when he’d been a baby. Veronica soon became engrossed in them, marvelling at how much they’d looked alike as infants before their different sexes had too much of an influence. It was also a shock to see a mirror image of herself in his mother. Clearly, the maternal genes had been the dominant ones, Laurence’s father being a very ordinary-looking man with pale eyes and hair.

Each album showed her father at a different stage in his life. She went through them slowly, enjoying the glimpses into Laurence’s life at various stages. His school years, then his days at university, where it seemed he must have been quite good at athletics. There were several photos of him running in races, a few of him crossing the line in first place. Veronica had been quite a good runner herself at school, though she preferred skiing.

Album number three was totally devoted to his wedding to Ruth and their honeymoon, which had obviously been spent in Italy. They’d toured most of the major cities, as well as visits to Sicily and Capri. Possibly this was where their love affair with the island had started. Album four covered the middle years of their marriage, with lots of pictures of Laurence at work and Ruth in her garden. Veronica gasped when she saw a group shot taken at a party, with her mother in the background serving drinks. What surprised her most was that she was smiling. It made Veronica wonder if this was after she’d fallen pregnant. Nora had always claimed that the day she’d found out she was expecting was the happiest day of her life. Laurence wasn’t in the same photograph, but Ruth was, smiling her usual warm smile at the camera.

Album five followed the later years of their marriage, including snaps of various holidays, plus lots of the renovations they’d made to this villa. It had been a bit of a wreck when they’d bought it, though the view had always been great. This last album wasn’t full, ending abruptly with a photo of Ruth looking very fragile, and Laurence hovering protectively behind her chair, his violet eyes worried.

Veronica suspected that Laurence’s will to live had died with his wife’s death. She wouldn’t mind betting that that was when he’d started drinking heavily. Sad, really. If only he’d reached out to her instead of killing himself slowly. They could have become friends. She could have given him a reason to live. Instead, he’d just withered on the vine, so to speak, not caring about his health or his long-lost daughter. Leonardo seemed to be the only person in the world he cared about. And that was possibly only surface caring.

Or was it?

Veronica’s anger at her father’s actions regarding herself was making her judge him harshly with others. Clearly, he’d been very fond of Leonardo. And very trusting of him as a man. You didn’t make a person executor of your will if you didn’t have good faith in their integrity and honesty.

Honesty and integrity were not words she normally associated with playboys. Yet, strangely, they did seem to apply to Leonardo. Just because he wasn’t in a hurry to marry and have children didn’t mean he wasn’t a good person. He had remarked more than once that she had no reason to think so badly of him. Veronica vowed to be fairer in her assessment of his character in future. Though fairer did not mean stupider. It was still risky to keep on seeing him. She really didn’t want to fall for him any more deeply than she already had. At the moment, her heart was still relatively safe. Leaving Leonardo would hurt, but she would survive.

As Veronica closed the last album and put it on top of the pile, something slipped out of the back pages and fluttered to the ground. It was a small photograph, she saw on picking it up. Of herself as a newborn baby. On the back was written her name, her date of birth and her birth weight. Nothing else.

Had her mother sent it? Or had her father hired another detective agency all those years ago?

Only one way to find out for sure, she supposed.

Veronica carried the photograph into the bedroom where she’d left her phone. She tried to work out what time it was in Australia but she had no idea; her brain seemed to have gone on holiday. She’d just have to take a chance that her mother wasn’t asleep, because she simply couldn’t wait.

Her mother answered fairly quickly, and without sounding fuzzy.

‘You’re still awake,’ Veronica said, guessing that it had to be close to midnight.

‘I never go to bed too early. You know that. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong. I just need to ask you something.’

‘What?’

‘Did you send my father a photograph of me after I was born?’

‘What? Oh, yes, actually, I did. It was one of his conditions. But I wasn’t to send it to his house. It went to his place of work back in London. He was worried that his wife might find it by mistake.’

‘So he did care about me, then?’

A heavy sigh wafted down the line. ‘I suppose so, love.’

‘Why do you doubt it?’

‘It was just something he said at the time, back when he found out I was pregnant. He seemed keen to see how much you were like him. He had this thing for passing on good genes, as you know. He lived and breathed his work.’

Veronica pulled a face. ‘Sounds like I was just an experiment for him.’

‘No, no, I wouldn’t go that far. It was only natural that Laurence would be interested in seeing what you looked like. You have to understand…he probably would have liked to have a relationship with you. To love you like a real father. But he couldn’t. He was hamstrung by his love for his wife. He adored her. She came first with him.’

‘Then why didn’t he contact me after she died?’ Veronica snapped.

‘I don’t know, love. Oh, please don’t get all worked up about this. Life and relationships are complex things. And people don’t always do the right thing. I dare say Laurence regretted a lot of things in the end. Maybe he tried to make up for his absence in your life by leaving you that villa,’ her mother suggested. ‘You have to admit, it’s a very beautiful place.’

Veronica opened her mouth to tell her mother he’d had her investigated recently, but then decided against it. She needed to think about her father’s reasons for doing what he had without her mother confusing her with endless speculations.

‘Maybe he didn’t expect you to sell it,’ Nora went on regardless. ‘Maybe he wanted you to live there.’

‘Maybe. I guess we’ll never know now, Mum,’ Veronica said, hoping to stop her mother from any further speculating. ‘Anyway, I can’t live here. Not permanently.’ She could not bear the thought of running into Leonardo whenever he came home, or being within a short plane trip of wherever he was.

‘Why not rent it out as a holiday place? You’d get a good rental. And then you could holiday there yourself occasionally.’

‘No, Mum. I need to come home,’ she said firmly.

Her mother was always good at picking up her feelings. ‘It’s because of that man, isn’t it?’ she said sharply. ‘Leonardo Fabrizzi.’

‘Yes, Mum.’

‘You haven’t fallen for him, have you?’

‘I think I might have. A little.’ She gave a dry laugh. ‘Actually, more than a little. So I need to get out of here before it gets more serious. On my side, that is. Leonardo isn’t the kind of man to get serious over any woman.’

‘Oh, dear. It’s all my fault, telling you to get out there and have fun. I should have known you’d be extra vulnerable after all these years of having no man in your life.’

‘It’s not your fault, Mum. I’m just a fool. Anyway, I’m going to ring the airlines and move my flight forward a week. So expect me home on Friday week. There’s no risk before then. Leonardo can’t make it back here until that weekend, by which time I’ll be safely gone.’

‘Lord. You make it sound like you’re afraid of him.’

‘Not of him, Mum. Of my own silly self.’

‘Is he that irresistible?’

Veronica closed her eyes, her mind immediately conjuring up an image of him looming over her in bed last night, his dark eyes glittering wildly, his voice rough with desire as he told her what he was going to do to her. All night long.

‘He is to me,’ Veronica choked out. And possibly to all the swathes of women who’d come before her.

‘Then you had better come home.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

BY THE TIME Leonardo picked up his car at Milan airport he’d come to the conclusion that he was actually falling in love for the first time in his life. He’d missed Veronica like mad within minutes of leaving her. At first, he’d put his feelings down to missing the fantastic sex they’d had together, not realising that his feelings came from something way deeper than that.

Lunch with his parents had been tedious as he tried to sidestep their escalating hopes over his relationship with Veronica. He’d lied, saying that they weren’t romantically involved, but he could see they weren’t buying it. They kept looking at each other with that knowing glint in their eyes until in the end he stopped bothering with the lies, saying instead that, yes, he liked Veronica a lot, but she was going home to Australia in three weeks’ time and there was no point in pursuing the girl. He scoffed at the suggestion that he invite her to stay with him in Milan for a while.

He was no longer scoffing at that idea. In fact, he thought it was a very good idea. He could not wait to ring her and suggest it. It was a pity that the ski season hadn’t started yet. Then he could have taken her skiing. But no matter. There were many other places he could take her. Venice, perhaps. Girls loved the romance of Venice.

By the time Leonardo arrived home—he owned a house not that far from the airport—he could hardly contain his excitement. Of course, he couldn’t tell her he loved her. Yet. That would be premature. And not conducive to achieving his goal, which was her loving him back. He could see Veronica was wary of relationships, though why that was, he wasn’t sure. Her fiancé had been killed. He hadn’t run off with some other woman. The hurt he sometimes glimpsed in her eyes when talking about men must have come from some other earlier man’s treatment of her.

Yes. That had to be it.

Leonardo hurried inside, the house very quiet. He always gave his housekeeper the weekend off when he went to Capri. Francesca was a widow in her fifties and lived in most of the time, but on her weekends off she liked to visit her daughter who lived in Florence, so she wouldn’t be back until the morning. A glance at his Rolex showed it wasn’t too late to call Veronica. It was only twenty-past nine. Pulling out his phone, he hurried upstairs and lay down on his bed, stretching out before bringing up her number and hitting the dial icon.

She took her time answering. The thought that she’d seen who was ringing and simply didn’t want to answer was a worrying one.

‘Hi,’ she said at last. ‘I’m glad you rang.’

His spirits rose immediately.

‘I have something I wanted to ask you,’ she went on, her voice brisk and businesslike, reminding him of the voice she’d used when she’d discussed arrangements with him over the phone from Australia. It made him rethink his tactics, knowing instinctively that she wasn’t just going to say yes to what he wanted. Maybe he should concentrate on getting her to come to Rome in a fortnight’s time. Asking her to come visit him in Milan seemed a step too far at this early stage.

‘What is it?’ he replied, trying not to sound crestfallen, which was something Leonardo rarely felt when it came to women.

‘I need the password to Laurence’s computer,’ she said.

Leonardo frowned. ‘What for?’

‘I’ve been going through his things. I thought I should go through his computer as well, have a look at his search history. It might give me a few clues.’

‘Clues to what?’

‘To why he left me this place, for starters,’ she said sharply. ‘Which reminds me, what happened to his phone?’

‘His phone?’

‘Yes. I would imagine my father was well up on technology. He was an intelligent man. He would have carried a smart phone with him everywhere.’

‘Yes, he did. I have it in a drawer at work, along with his wallet and his watch.’

‘Oh.’

‘If you want them, I could give them to you when we meet up in Rome,’ he offered.

Her hesitation to answer straight away was telling. Leonardo’s heart sank.

‘I… I haven’t made up my mind about that yet,’ she said carefully.

At least she hadn’t said no outright. Still, Leonardo wasn’t used to women waffling where his invitations were concerned. He wasn’t sure what to say next.

‘If you don’t fancy Rome, then how about Venice?’

‘Venice?’ she echoed.

‘Yes. The city of love.’

‘I thought that was Paris,’ she returned, her voice quite cool, making him instantly regret his use of the word.

‘You sound like you’re not too keen,’ he said, knowing that he sounded put out, but unable to harness his disappointment.

‘I told you, Leonardo. I think it’s best we don’t keep seeing each other.’

‘You don’t really mean that.’

‘You’re just not used to girls turning you down.’

‘Possibly. But I honestly believe we have something special. I’d like to explore things further between us.’

She laughed. She actually laughed. ‘I know the kind of exploring you mean and I’m sorry, Leonardo—I do find you terribly attractive, but I can’t see any future for us.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I just know.’

‘Is it my playboy reputation which worries you?’

‘Partly.’

‘I’m not as bad as the media make out.’

‘If you say so.’

She didn’t sound convinced and Leonardo was beginning to despair. So he played his trump card.

‘What if you’re the right girl Laurence said would come along one day?’

He heard her suck in her breath sharply.

‘You’re just saying that,’ she bit out.

‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m not. Look, I’m as surprised as you are. But surely you can see the chemistry between us is stronger than usual?’

She said nothing, though he could hear her breathing down the line. It was very fast.

‘For pity’s sake, you can’t go back to Australia without giving us the chance to find out our true feelings for each other.’

‘You promise me you’re not just saying this to get me into bed again?’

‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

Her sigh was long. ‘If you’re playing with me, Leonardo, then you just might die. By my hands.’

Her passionate words excited him. And gave him confidence. She must care about him to feel that strongly.

‘I’m not playing with you,’ he reassured her.

‘I hope not.’

‘I can see you have had your trust in men severely damaged. I can only think some man in your past treated you very badly. A player, is my guess. Am I right?’

‘Yes and no. He wasn’t what you would call a player, just an extremely selfish man who thought of no one’s wishes but his own.’

‘And you think I’m like that, thinking of no one’s wishes but my own?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘No,’ he denied hotly. Though he suspected he was guilty of some selfishness.

‘In that case, please do not ring me again until next Sunday evening, at which point I will give you my answer about the following weekend.’

‘What harm could there possibly be in my ringing you? I like talking to you, Veronica. You don’t sugar-coat your answers. You certainly don’t flatter me the way most women usually do.’

‘You’re using flattery now to get your own way.’

He ground his teeth with frustration. ‘You constantly misread me.’

‘I don’t think so, Leonardo, but you could prove your good intentions by doing what I ask.’

‘Very well,’ he bit out. ‘I won’t ring you until next Sunday evening.’ With that he hung up, too annoyed with her even to say goodbye. Lord, but she was one difficult woman!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

VERONICA DIDN’T SLEEP well that night, tossing and turning until well after midnight, then waking with the dawn. For a long time she lay there, thinking about Leonardo. Already she was regretting her tough stance of the night before, knowing full well that when next Sunday came she would say yes to spending the following weekend with him. Which meant she wouldn’t be ringing the airlines today and changing her flight to an earlier one.

The romantic side of her wanted to believe he was falling in love with her, but the sensible, pragmatic side kept warning her that it was too good to be true. It was just as well, she decided in the end, that she’d forbidden him to ring her this week. At least that way she wouldn’t be swayed by his sexy voice and, yes, his flattery. Veronica vowed to keep her head and to use this week to do what she’d come here to do: find out everything she could about her father.

It was a stroke of luck that at eleven that morning, after Veronica had spent hours going through her father’s computer without finding a single enlightening thing—he obviously only used it for the most basic correspondence and banking—the front doorbell was rung by the one person who possibly knew more about Laurence than anyone else living on Capri.

Carmelina, Leonardo’s sister and Laurence’s part-time housekeeper.

‘Good morning, Veronica,’ she said when Veronica opened the sliding glass door, her English more formal than her brother’s. ‘I am sorry if I woke you.’

Veronica sashed her bathrobe and smiled at Carmelina. ‘You haven’t. I’ve been up for hours. I was just too lazy to get dressed.’

Carmelina smiled back. She was in her mid-to late thirties and still very attractive—as all the Fabrizzis were—with dark eyes and hair and the loveliest olive skin.

Good genes, her father would have said. Veronica smiled at the thought, pleased that she could think of her father without feeling frustrated with him.

‘I have come to do the cleaning,’ Carmelina said. ‘Leonardo. He is a messy boy. He drops towels and does not pick up.’

‘Oh, no, no, no,’ Veronica said. ‘I couldn’t possibly let you do that. I am quite capable of doing my own cleaning. Trust me. I am not that lazy. I have all day and nothing much else to do. But, now that you’re here, I would like to talk to you. About my father,’ she added quickly when Carmelina looked a little alarmed.

They had coffee together out on the terrace, Carmelina also admiring the view, despite no doubt having seen it countless times. The day was warmer than the previous day, and the sea breeze delightfully cooling.

‘I wish I didn’t have to sell this place,’ Veronica said.

‘Do you have to? I would like you to live here. You would be a very nice neighbour.’

‘I can’t afford the taxes,’ she said, having realised that proving Laurence was her father would be virtually impossible. There wasn’t a single personal item of his in his bedroom or bathroom, everything having been cleared out and the whole house thoroughly cleaned.

‘If you married Leonardo,’ Carmelina said, ‘he would pay the taxes. He is very rich.’

Veronica smiled at the wonderful simplicity of Carmelina’s solution. If only life was that straightforward. ‘You all want Leonardo to get married, don’t you?’

‘Si,’ Carmelina said. ‘But only to someone nice. Like you.’

‘We’ve only just met, Carmelina.’

‘No matter. I love my Alfonso the first day I meet him. Leonardo likes you very much. I can tell.’

‘Yes, but…’

‘You like him too.’

‘I do, but…’

Carmelina frowned over at her, waiting for her to continue.

‘I don’t think Leonardo is ready for marriage yet.’

‘Oh, pah! He is ready. He just needs a push.’

‘Pushing doesn’t always work, Carmelina. Not with someone like Leonardo. He has to make up his own mind. You should tell your mother and father to back off.’

‘Laurence thought he needed a push.’

‘What? What did you say?’

‘I said Laurence thought my brother was ready for a wife. He said he just needed the right girl. Maybe he was thinking of you, Veronica.’

It was a stunning thought, and one which Veronica would never have imagined. But it was possible, she supposed. Maybe that was why he’d left her this villa. And why he’d made Leonardo the executor of his will. So that they could meet and fall in love. It was a hopelessly romantic idea which seemed uncharacteristic of what she’d learned about Laurence.

But maybe it was true. It certainly appealed to her own romantic side.

‘Tell me, Carmelina, what kind of man was my father?’

Carmelina tipped her head on one side as she considered her answer.

‘He was very English,’ she said at last. ‘He did not like to show his feelings. Not like Italians. When his wife died, he did not cry. He just sat out here and did not speak. For days and days.’

Veronica’s heart turned over. ‘Oh, how sad.’

‘Yes, that was what he was. Sad. Very sad.’

‘Was that when he started to drink too much?’

‘Si. He try to hide it but I see the empty bottles.’

Tears pricked at Veronica eyes. If only he’d contacted me, she thought. If only he…

She stood up abruptly. ‘I don’t think I want to talk about that any more.’

Carmelina shook her head as she stood up also. ‘You are just like him. You are afraid to show your feelings. Come. You need a hug.’

* * *

The rest of the day went very well. Carmelina helped Veronica give the house a quick tidy-up while the sheets and towels were in the washing machine. After remaking the bed with fresh linen and replacing the damp towels with fresh ones, Veronica jumped in the shower. Half an hour later both girls left the house arm in arm to go shopping. Not for clothes or even food. It was more of a look-but-not-buy expedition where Carmelina showed Veronica the best places to buy both, as well as the easiest ways for her to get around. They walked some, caught a bus and finally, when they were tired, they called Franco to come, pick them up and drive them home.

‘You ladies look like you have fun,’ he said in his usual jolly manner.

‘We did, Franco,’ Veronica assured him. ‘Carmelina was a marvellous guide. Almost as good as you,’ she added with a sparkling smile.

Franco beamed, catching her eye in the rear-view mirror. ‘Si. I am the most best guide on Capri. With the best car too. You call me any time you need ride, Veronica. I will not charge you.’

‘Ooh. I will tell Elena,’ Carmelina said cheekily.

‘She will not care. Elena knows I love her. She not jealous.’

Carmelina laughed. ‘She’s very jealous of any pretty girl who smiles at you.’

Veronica grinned. ‘Then I will try not to smile at him when he gives me a lift.’

‘Si. Good idea.’

Franco drove round to the delivery entrance to the villa, probably to avoid his wife seeing Veronica in his car. But Veronica was just grateful that she didn’t have to climb those steep steps. Her new sandals were starting to rub and she suspected she might have the beginnings of blisters. Saying goodbye to both Franco and Carmelina, she took herself wearily inside, ready to have a siesta. It wasn’t late—only three—but Carmelina had wanted to get back before the children arrived home from school.

Veronica immediately went down to the bedroom where she dropped her bag by the bed, slipped off her sandals and crashed onto the cover, sleep finding her in less than a minute. When she woke the light outside showed that the sun was very low in the sky. Sighing, she rolled over and reached for her bag, rifling through it for her phone. Once retrieved she checked the time. Six twenty-three. She’d been asleep for over three hours.

She rose and made her way to the bathroom. It wasn’t until then that the thought occurred to Veronica that her period hadn’t arrived yet. She wasn’t overly worried. Although her period was usually as regular as clockwork, her poor body had been through the mill lately, what with the shock of finding out about Laurence, followed by the nervous exhaustion of travelling here, not knowing what she would discover.

Veronica suddenly recalled how her reproductive system had shut down for a while after Jerome had died. This might be something similar. It didn’t cross her mind that she might have fallen pregnant. The thought did occur to her, however, that if her cycle had been disturbed she would have to ask Leonardo to use condoms, if and when she went away with him again. Which could present a problem. What reason could she give when she’d already had unprotected sex with him many times?

Oh, dear. Perhaps she just shouldn’t go away with him. After all, her female intuition kept warning her that he was all hot air about their sexual chemistry being extra special, implying that he might be falling in love with her.

Unfortunately, at the same time, her own feelings kept overriding common sense, tapping into his appeal to give him a chance to show her he wasn’t the player she thought he was. It would be difficult to deny him that chance when she was absolutely crazy about him.

But if he put a foot wrong that weekend then that would be that. And putting a foot wrong could include making a fuss when she asked him to use protection. If he cared for her as he said he did, then he should just do as she wanted, no questions asked.

Suddenly she regretted demanding he not ring her until Sunday. She would so like to hear his voice. Dared she ring him herself?

No. Perhaps not. Nothing good ever came of a girl seeming too eager. She would content herself with reading one of the very interesting looking novels her father had in his bookshelf next to his desk. It seemed he’d liked spy stories, a genre which had never overly appealed to her. But she supposed if her father had liked them then maybe so would she. So she selected a medium-sized tome with the provocative title of One Spy Too Many and took it out onto the terrace. There she settled, soon engrossed in what turned out to be a real page-turner.

It was hunger pains which finally forced Veronica to lift her eyes from the book. That, and the light fading so much that she was forced to go inside if she wanted to continue to read whilst she ate. Either that or turn on the outside lights. But that always attracted insects.

Dinner was poached eggs on toast. More of a breakfast than a dinner meal but it was enough for now. She’d had a huge plate of pasta at lunchtime. She hadn’t come to Italy to get fat, though it would be easy…the food was so delicious.

When her period still hadn’t arrived by the time she’d finished the book late that night, Veronica resigned herself to her cycle temporarily having gone walkabout. When it had happened before she’d gone to the doctor in a panic, thinking she’d contracted some dreaded disease, but after an examination and some tests the doctor had told her that she was perfectly fine. The worst thing she could do, the doctor had said, was worry. His advice had been to eat healthily, take plenty of exercise and do things she enjoyed. Which had been a little hard back then when nothing had made her happy.

Not so on the Isle of Capri.

Veronica decided to follow that doctor’s instructions to a T. The next morning she rose early and went for a walk before breakfast. Nothing too adventurous, just down the road and back again. Then after breakfast she made her way carefully down the steep path to the Hotel Fabrizzi and asked Elena—who was sitting at a computer behind the reception desk in the coolly spacious foyer—if there was a map of Capri she could borrow. Elena showed her a stand on the wall which contained maps, as well as lots of brochures of tourist activities on Capri. Veronica sorted through them and took one of everything which interested her.

‘Thank you, Elena,’ she said.

‘You are welcome,’ came her warm reply. ‘Mamma said if I saw you to ask you to come to dinner tonight. Nothing like the other night. It will just be her and Papa.’

‘How nice of her. That would lovely. Is she here?’

‘She is busy doing the rooms with Carmelina at the moment. Can I say you will come?’

‘Of course. What time do you think?’

‘Seven. And don’t eat too much before you come. Mamma likes to feed her guests until they burst.’

Veronica laughed. ‘Yes. I did notice that last Friday night.’

‘Have you heard from Leonardo?’ Elena suddenly asked.

‘He rang me on Sunday night to thank me for letting him stay. But not since then.’

Elena frowned. ‘He was strange at lunch on Sunday.’

‘Strange? What do you mean?’

‘I do not know. He was not the brother I am used to. He was too quiet. I wondered if you had argued with him.’

‘No. Not at all.’

‘Mamma does not understand Leonardo. She and Papa keep pressing him to marry but he is not ready to settle down yet.’

‘Leonardo will never be ready to settle down,’ Veronica said, any foolish dreams she’d been harbouring totally shattered by voicing the truth out loud.

Elena’s eyes showed her surprise. ‘You know him well enough already to know that?’

‘We met briefly many years ago,’ Veronica explained. ‘I knew then what kind of man he was.’

‘He is a not a bad man,’ Elena defended hotly, dark eyes flashing.

‘No, but he is restless. And dissatisfied with his life. He never got over his retirement from competitive skiing. I hope your mamma and papa don’t think he’s going to marry me. Because he won’t.’

Elena sighed. ‘They must have hope, Veronica. Please don’t say any of this to them tonight.’

‘Okay. I’ll just play happy tourist.’

‘You are more than a tourist. You are Laurence’s daughter.’

Veronica left the hotel with her map and several brochures, troubled by her conversation with Elena. Perhaps because she’d finally accepted that loving a man like Leonardo was a sure path to misery.

Seeking distraction, she set herself the task of familiarising herself with all the established walks, as well as exploring the towns of Capri and Anacapri. Both were beautiful towns—quaint and historical—but she preferred Anacapri because it was smaller and out of reach of the day-trippers. She sat down at an al fresco table in the piazza there and had a lovely lunch—though not too big, given she was going to the Fabrizzis’ for dinner that night. After lunch she bought a bottle of water and set off for another walk which took her down a steep, winding path to the most delightful little beach. There she sat on a smooth rock for a couple of hours, sandals off, her hot feet cooling in the tepid water.

The walk back up was not so delightful, but she took her time, though vowing not to do quite so much the following day. Her period still hadn’t come but she’d decided not to worry about it. She couldn’t will it to come, could she?

Once back at the villa, she had a long shower, followed by a short nap before dressing for dinner. Nothing too fancy, just a pair of black cotton culottes and a black-and-white wrap-around top that had elbow-length bat-wing sleeves. She left her hair down, having freshly washed and styled it.

‘How lovely you look,’ Sophia gushed before giving her the obligatory hug. ‘But you have caught the sun, have you not?’

‘I have,’ Veronica confessed. ‘I was silly and took off my hat while I was at a beach. The breeze and the water tricked me into thinking I was cool.’

‘A little sun doesn’t do any harm,’ Alberto said, and came forward to give her a hug also.

Veronica wondered if she’d ever get used to all the hugging, then realised she wouldn’t have to. Soon, she’d be back home in Australia and back to her less demonstrative lifestyle.

It was a rather depressing thought.

‘We do not have any guests in the hotel tonight,’ Sophia told her. ‘We can eat in the dining room, if you wish. Or on the big table in the kitchen.’

‘Oh, please, in the kitchen.’

Sophia beamed at her, her wide smile very satisfied. ‘Good. Come. Alberto wishes to give you some of Alfonso’s prized limoncello before we eat.’

‘It is very good,’ Alberto said. ‘You will like.’

She did like. And she said so.

‘Alfonso also makes his own wine,’ Alberto added.

‘He’s very clever, then,’ Veronica said.

The table in the kitchen was quite large. Sophia had set just one end with Alberto at the head and herself and Sophia flanking him. The food,, as Veronica had expected, was simply delicious, but not too over the top, just a meatball and spaghetti dish, all washed down with what she suspected was some of Alfonso’s home-made wine. Dessert was a coconut cake which was very tasty. The coffee afterwards was strong, but Veronica didn’t say anything, just added cream and sugar and gave up the idea of sleeping until the wee hours of the morning.

Not that it mattered. She didn’t have to go anywhere tomorrow.

The meal ended around nine, Veronica surprised that not once had Sophia and Alberto brought up the subject of their son. In turn, she resisted the temptation to question them about her father, deciding she wanted just to enjoy their company and forget about everything else for tonight. They asked her about her job, which she explained, confessing that she worked six, sometimes seven days a week. They looked horrified, claimed she must be in need of a holiday, then made a lot of suggestions about how she should spend the rest of her time on Capri. They insisted she see the Blue Grotto again, but warned her to go very early in the day or very late, so that she didn’t get caught up with all the day-trippers. Also on the list was the chairlift up the mountain, both of which she agreed to do.

After another round of hugs, and a promise to join the whole family for lunch next Sunday, Veronica left to walk home slowly, thinking what lovely parents Leonardo had. Much nicer than Jerome’s parents.

Jerome…

For the first time in three years, Veronica was able to think about Jerome without feeling one bit upset, or even bitter. Finally, she was able to look at what he had done more objectively. Yes, it had been wicked of him to lie to her about loving her when he had loved another woman—a married doctor with whom he had worked. Even more wicked to plan to marry her and have children with her because he wanted a family, because the so-called love of his life refused to leave her husband and children and marry him. At the same time, she hadn’t wanted to give Jerome up. She’d wanted to have her cake and eat it too. Veronica would never have found out the horrible truth if the woman hadn’t broken down at Jerome’s wake and confessed everything.

Veronica still hated Jerome and his lover, but they no longer had the power to destroy her life. She was free of them at last.

She had her father to thank for that. Her father and, yes, Leonardo.

A sigh came to her lips, a sigh for a dream which she accepted was just a dream. Leonardo wasn’t going to change. Leopards didn’t change their spots. He was taken with her because she was different, that was all. And maybe she was taken with him because he was different from the Australian boyfriends she’d had. Not just better looking but more passionate. More…exotic. And definitely more erotic.

A shiver ran down her spine when she thought of how much she loved the ways he made love to her. Nothing seemed wrong to her when she was in his arms.

Another sigh wafted from her lips, this one the sound of resignation.

There was no use pretending she could resist the temptation to spend another weekend with him, especially if she could spend it with him in Venice. She would insist on that. If she was going to risk another broken heart, then she could at least have it broken in Venice.

Her mind made up, she decided to tell him the good news when he rang her on Sunday evening.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

BY THE TIME Friday morning came, Veronica really started to worry about her missing period. It was no use. She couldn’t help it. She knew the odds of her being pregnant were very small, but not impossible. Her stomach somersaulted at the thought.

Because what if she was pregnant? Lord, what a disaster!

Logic told her she was panicking for nothing, but logic didn’t always figure in life. She kept telling herself that she didn’t feel pregnant. There was no light-headedness, or being sick in the mornings, or swollen nipples. Of course, all those symptoms usually came later, not after just one week.

Sighing, she arose and dressed, still not having fulfilled her bucket list of activities for Capri. This morning she planned to go on the chairlift up the mountain, then later in the afternoon she would take a trip out to the Blue Grotto. Sandwiched in between she would walk, walk and walk some more. If nothing else, all the walking should make her sleep tonight. She didn’t want to lie there worrying about having Leonardo’s baby growing inside her body.

It would have been a marvellous day, Veronica thought as she finally trudged up the steps to the villa just after six, if that last horrific thought hadn’t plagued her mind every five minutes. Not that having a baby was horrific. It was having Leonardo’s baby that horrified her. Because the stupid man would offer to marry her. And the last man on earth she wanted to be married to was a playboy—hardly a recipe for happiness for ever. Okay, so she was in love with the man. Stupidly. Hopelessly. And, yes, if there was to be a child, she would be severely tempted to say yes if he proposed. After all, she had personal experience of growing up without a father and she wouldn’t wish that on any child.

And in truth Leonardo would probably be a good father. But he would be a hopeless husband. And undoubtedly unfaithful. That was something she could not bear, not after her experience with Jerome. If and when she married, she wanted her husband to be so besotted with her that he would not even look at another woman.

Veronica retrieved the key from the geranium pot, let herself in, dumped her hat and bag on the lounge then walked over to the kitchen area. There, she put on some water for coffee before heading for the bathroom, where a visit to the toilet showed nothing of note.

Naturally.

Cursing under her breath, she flushed the toilet, washed her hands and went back to make herself the coffee. Cradling the mug in her hands, she wandered out to the terrace in the hope of finding some peace with the soothing water view. She didn’t. For the first time since coming here, she found no pleasure whatsoever in gazing out at the Mediterranean. Her mind was too full of worry to find pleasure in anything. She was severely tempted to ring her mother and talk things out with her. They were very close, and rarely kept their problems from each other. Not only that, her mother was much less emotional than she was, and not given to dramatising situations or making mountains out of molehills.

The intelligent part of Veronica’s brain told her that the odds of her being pregnant were very low. But she needed someone else to reassure her that she was panicking unnecessarily. So, as she sat there sipping her coffee, she worked out what time it was in Australia. All you had to do, she’d discovered after putting the question into her father’s computer, was take off two hours from the current time, then change the a.m. to p.m. and vice versa. By eight tonight, it would be six in the morning in Australia, the time her mother usually rose come rain, hail or shine.

It was just after seven here now, and Veronica decided to get herself something to eat. By the time she picked up the phone an hour later, a nervous tension was gripping her stomach. She didn’t want to worry her mother with what was possibly a non-existent problem but she desperately needed her advice.

‘Veronica?’ her mother answered. ‘I didn’t expect to hear from you. What’s up?’

Trust her mother to twig straight away that there was something wrong.

‘Nothing, I hope.’

‘That sounds ominous.’

‘Sorry, I’m not trying to alarm you. I just want to run something by you. Mum, you know how I’m always very regular. With my period, I mean.’

‘Yes…’ her mother said warily.

Veronica sighed. ‘Well, I’m late.’

‘Ah.’

‘Yes, ah. I don’t think I’m pregnant, but it is possible if ovulation was delayed.’

‘Are you telling me you had unprotected sex with a playboy?’

She sounded aghast. And highly disapproving.

Veronica steeled herself. ‘Yes. I’m afraid so.’

‘Oh, for pity’s sake! How come? I would have thought this Leonardo Fabrizzi would be more careful than that.’

‘The first time, it just sort of happened. I mean…we both got carried away.’

‘That doesn’t sound like you.’

‘It’s not. But I did. Then when Leonardo came to his senses he asked me if an unwanted pregnancy was on the cards. I told him it wasn’t. At the time I assumed I’d already ovulated. The trouble was he assumed I was on the pill.’

‘And you let him think it.’

‘Yes.’

‘After which he was happy not to use a condom, like any man.’

‘Yes,’ she said again, but this time with a deep sigh.

‘Oh, dear…’

‘You think I’m pregnant, don’t you?’

‘Not necessarily. But it’s well known that a girl is always extra vulnerable to a man at the time she ovulates. It’s Mother Nature.’

Veronica began to feel sick.

‘Look, that might not be the reason you lost your head over this man. You did say he was pretty irresistible.’

‘He is.’

‘You’d have to be very unlucky to be pregnant. Look, why don’t you buy a pregnancy testing kit and find out one way or another?’

‘I can’t do that. Not here on Capri. Everyone knows everyone on this island. It would soon get around and Leonardo’s parents might hear.’ She shuddered at the thought. ‘Anyway, it’s way too early to get a reliable result.’

‘Not necessarily. I saw a show on TV that said those tests can tell pretty early these days.’

‘I suppose I could catch a ferry over to the mainland and buy one there.’

‘Buy two. That way, you can take a test a few days apart and be sure.’

‘That’s a good idea. Thanks a lot, Mum. You always know what to do.’

‘Not always. But at least it would put your mind at rest. Now, are you still coming home early, or has that idea gone by the board?’

‘I’m not sure now. I haven’t changed the flight yet.’

‘Let me know what you decide. And what the results of the test are. What do you think you’ll do if you are pregnant?’

‘Come straight home.’

‘And do what?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

NEGATIVE. IT WAS NEGATIVE!

Veronica stared at the testing stick for a long time before dropping it on the bathroom floor then burying her face in her hands. Oh, thank God, thank God.

After a few sobs of relief, Veronica dropped her hands from her face, picked up the stick and threw it into the small bin under the vanity.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want a baby. Just not Leonardo’s. At least, not right now. If by some miracle he was genuinely in love with her and wanted a future with her then, yes, having his baby would be the best thing in the world. She’d always wanted children, but only after she was married. No way did she want to go down the single mother road, like her own mother.

Not that she could be absolutely sure yet that she wasn’t pregnant, she thought as she stripped off and stepped into the shower. It was still early days. But the girl in the chemist yesterday—it was called a farmacia in Italy—had assured Veronica that this particular test was the latest and best and could detect a pregnancy as early as a week. Given it was now Sunday morning, nine days after she and Leonardo had first had sex, then the test should be accurate. But she would take the test again in a few days, having followed her mother’s advice to buy two kits.

But she wouldn’t worry about that today. Today, she could at least go to lunch with the Fabrizzi family without having to pretend that everything was fine. But first she would text her mother with the good news.

* * *

‘Veronica,’ Elena whispered to her during dessert. They were sitting next to each other in the middle of the long table under the pergola, with children on either side.

‘What?’ Veronica whispered back, immediately tensing up at the urgency in Elena’s voice.

‘I need to speak to you after lunch. Alone.’

‘All right.’

About what? Veronica wondered, her stomach rolling over with sudden alarm. Nothing good, that’s for sure.

Finally, after lunch was over and all the thank-yous and goodbye hugs had taken place, Veronica looked at Elena and said, ‘Would you have the time to walk back with me, Elena? I know you must be good with technology since you do all the bookings for the hotel and I need some help with Laurence’s computer.’

Elena smiled at her inventiveness. ‘Yes, of course. Franco, would you look after the children for me?’

‘So what did you want to talk to me about?’ Veronica asked as soon as she had Elena safely alone.

Elena stopped walking. They were halfway up the stone steps.

‘Are you going to see Leonardo again?’

Veronica decided not to lie to Elena. ‘Yes. Next weekend.’

Elena frowned. ‘Here?’

‘No. We’ll meet up somewhere. Rome, possibly. Or Venice.’

‘Are you in contact by phone?’

‘He’s going to ring me tonight.’

Elena frowned. ‘Do you know where he went last night?’

‘Yes. To a charity ball in Milan.’

‘Do you know who he went with?’

Veronica stiffened. ‘No. Who?’

‘Lila Bianchi. She’s an Italian model. Very beautiful. Very sexy.’

‘He…he said he was going alone,’ Veronica choked out.

Elena stared at her, then shook her head. ‘I knew it. You are in love with him.’

‘I…’ Veronica closed her eyes against the dismay which flooded through her. She’d known all along what kind of man Leonardo was. But even she hadn’t thought he would lie to her like that.

‘Come,’ Elena said, and took her arm. ‘I will show you the photos. They are all over social media this morning.’

When they got up to the villa, Elena pulled her phone out of her pocket and brought up the photos of the ball. There were several of Leonardo with this Lila woman draped all over him. In one photo they were dancing cheek to cheek. In another, she was kissing his neck. The final straw, however, was the one of him going arm in arm with that creature into some apartment building.

Nausea swirled in Veronica’s stomach, bile rising into her throat. She swallowed, then looked away. ‘I don’t want to see any more,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen enough.’

‘I am ashamed of my brother,’ Elena said forcefully. ‘He is not worthy of you.’

‘No,’ Veronica agreed. ‘He isn’t.’

‘Are you going to see him again?’

‘No.’

‘Please don’t tell him I showed you the photos. He will be very angry with me.’

‘I won’t even mention that I have seen them. I’ll make up some excuse and tell him that I’m going home ASAP.’

‘Oh. Now I feel awful. I should not have told you. I have spoiled your holiday.’

Veronica’s smile was sad. ‘You did the right thing, Elena. And I thank you. Please don’t worry. You’ve saved me from making an even bigger fool of myself.’

‘Leonardo is the fool,’ Elena snapped.

‘He will be a lonely old man one day,’ Veronica muttered, then came forward to give Elena a hug. ‘He won’t ever have what you and Carmelina have. Yes, you’re right. He is a fool. Now, go back to your husband and children and be happy. I have to ring the airline and change my flight.’

After Elena left, Veronica slumped down on the terrace and tried to get her head around those awful photos, especially the last one she’d looked at. Impossible to pretend there was any logical explanation for them. They spoke for themselves. Leonardo had gone to the ball with that creature and no doubt taken her to bed afterwards.

This last realisation brought a wealth of pain. And a rush of tears.

How could Leonardo have lied to her like that? she agonised. What kind of man was he?

The kind of man you’ve always known he was, came the bitter answer.

A playboy and a player.

No way, Veronica determined as she dashed away the tears, was she going to give him the opportunity to lie to her again. And he would lie, if she confronted him with those photos when he rang her tonight. No…she intended to do what she’d said to Elena. Make up some excuse why she had to go home ASAP and then cut him dead.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

LEONARDO HAD TO have a lie-down late that Sunday afternoon, something which he couldn’t remember doing in years. Last night had been a nightmare, with Lila having latched onto him as soon as he’d arrived at the ball and made it impossible for him to extricate himself from her clutches without being rude. If she hadn’t already been contracted as the main model for next season’s ski-wear, he would have told her to get lost in no uncertain words.

Of course, she’d been totally stoned. On top of that, she’d had an argument with her boyfriend and come alone, determined to find some man to make the boyfriend jealous. Leonardo had been an excellent mark, since he was handsome, rich and, in a way, her boss. He’d been in a no-win situation from the start, unable to get rid of her, yet knowing full well that everything he did would be photographed and misinterpreted, fodder for all the gossip websites and magazines.

Never had a night seemed so long, or so emotionally exhausting. He’d had to smile and make speeches, all the while worrying what Veronica would think if she saw reports of him dancing with Lila at the ball. Not that she was likely to. Capri was rather isolated when it came to mainland gossip. Though there was always social media. Nowhere was safe any more. Best he tell her about it upfront tonight, even the part about having had to see the stupid girl safely home at some ungodly hour. She would understand. Surely? Veronica was quite the pragmatist. And not given to dramatising things.

A glance at his watch showed it was just after four in the afternoon. He’d promised to ring her this evening. When did evenings start, exactly? he wondered. Seven? Eight? He wanted to hear her voice. Wanted to hear her say, yes, Leonardo, of course I’ll spend next weekend with you. Wherever you like, darling.

He doubted she would go that far. Just ‘yes’ would do for now.

Dio, he was tired. Yawning, Leonardo closed his eyes and drifted off.

* * *

Veronica couldn’t get a flight until Wednesday, not on the same airline and without spending a small fortune by upgrading to business class. She supposed she could last until then. Her flight took off early in the morning, so she would make her way to Rome on the Tuesday then stay at one of the airport hotels that night.

She spent the rest of the afternoon keeping busy so that she didn’t fall into a depression. She packed, cleaned the bathroom then returned to the living room to read another of her father’s books. This time, it didn’t hold her attention. In the end, she put it down and went out onto the terrace.

By the time her phone rang just after seven, she felt very down. But furious as well. When she saw Leonardo’s name on her screen, she wanted to throw the damned phone against the wall. But she didn’t. Her fingers tightened, as did her lips.

‘Leonardo,’ she said in a rather droll tone. ‘You remembered to ring.’

His hesitation to answer showed he’d heard the sarcastic edge in her voice.

‘But of course,’ he replied at last. ‘Did you doubt me?’

Doubt him?

No, she didn’t doubt him. She’d known he would ring.

‘I don’t have a lot of faith in the opposite sex,’ she said truthfully. ‘But I’m very glad you rang,’ she swept on. ‘Unfortunately, my mother is not well and I have to go home earlier than expected, so I’m afraid I can’t join you next weekend.’

Again, a few seconds went by before he spoke. ‘What is wrong with her?’ he demanded to know, as though sensing she was lying to him.

‘She’s always had a weak chest. When she gets a cold, it quickly becomes bronchitis, which sometimes turns into pneumonia.’ Actually, this was quite true. But of course Nora didn’t have a cold at the moment.

‘She has pneumonia?’

‘Not yet. But it’s heading that way if she doesn’t rest.’

‘I see.’

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Leonardo, but it’s a case of family first. My flight leaves on Wednesday morning. Anyway, it’s not as though we were going anywhere. It was just a fling, as you very well know.’

‘No, I do not know,’ he bit out. ‘Maybe it was to begin with but I thought… I hoped…’

He actually sounded upset.

Too bad, Veronica thought angrily. The man was a bastard. And a liar. The only thing he hoped for was more sex.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said with little apology in her voice, ‘But I did warn you. Now, about the villa…’

‘You want to talk business with me?’ His astonishment was obvious.

‘Why not? You still want the villa, don’t you?’

‘I don’t feel like talking business with you right now,’ he said coldly. ‘I will contact you via email after you arrive home. Goodbye.’ And he hung up.

Veronica blinked at the abruptness with which he’d ended the call, all her anger dissipating in the face of the reality that it was over. Never again would he kiss her. Never again would he hold her in his arms. Never again…

Before she could work out her emotions, she threw herself down on the lounge and wept long and hard.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

IT SEEMED TO take for ever for Tuesday to come. On the Monday Veronica bit the bullet and walked down to the Hotel Fabrizzi, repeating her lie about her mother’s illness and saying her goodbyes, as well as quietly reassuring a worried Elena that she hadn’t mentioned anything to Leonardo about the photos she’d shown her. All the Fabrizzis seemed genuinely sorry to see her go, which made Veronica feel even worse than she was already feeling.

Later that day she rang her mother and did her best to sound composed.

‘I’m coming home even earlier than I said. My flight leaves Rome on Wednesday morning.’

‘Oh, that’s a shame. You really needed a long holiday.’

‘Perhaps. But not here.’

‘I see,’ she said with a wealth of knowingness. ‘Have you taken the second test yet?’

‘No. I’ll do it when I get home.’ If by some awful twist of fate it was positive, she didn’t want to be here when she found out.

‘Right. Do you want me to meet you at the airport?’

‘Heavens, no. That madhouse? I’ll catch a taxi home.’

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ she asked, sounding worried.

‘I’ll survive, Mum. See you on Wednesday. Take care.’ And she hung up before she could burst into tears again.

When Veronica finally came to pack the second pregnancy test, she stared at it for a long time. Then curiosity—or maybe it was masochism—got the better of her. So she carried it into the bathroom and did what she had to do.

Afterwards, she put the stick down on the vanity and walked out, unable to stand there waiting. Was it her imagination or were her breasts suddenly tingling? Surely fate couldn’t be that cruel? She paced around the bedroom for the required time then charged back into the bathroom, snatching up the stick.

‘Oh, no!’ she cried when she saw the result. ‘It can’t be!’

But it was. It very definitely was. She was pregnant with Leonardo Fabrizzi’s child.

Her stomach suddenly heaved and she only just bent over the toilet in time. After flushing away her dinner, she washed out her mouth and returned to the bedroom, where she collapsed on the bed. Her head continued to whirl and she could hardly think straight.

How could this have happened? she wailed to herself.

The usual way, you idiot, returned her pragmatic side. You took a risk and now you’re going to have to pay the price. Serves you right for relying on the rhythm method. What sensible girl does that these days? And what sensible girl sleeps with a playboy like Leonardo Fabrizzi without using condoms?

‘Oh, God… Leonardo,’ she groaned aloud.

He was going to be even more upset than her when she told him. More than upset. He’d be furious with her for having lied to him about the pill. But she would have to tell him about the baby at some stage, because no way was a child of hers going to be brought up without knowing who its father was. Lord, no!

Perhaps she wouldn’t tell him until she was safely past the three-month stage when the threat of miscarriage had passed.

Thinking about miscarrying her baby made Veronica realise that deep down she didn’t want that to happen any more than she wanted to have a termination. This was her child growing inside her, a child born out of love. She could at least admit to herself that she loved Leonardo. Which was perverse, given the kind of man he was. But then life was perverse, wasn’t it?

Her hands came to rest across her stomach as she contemplated what it would be like to be a mother. She hoped she would be a good one. Kind and caring, but not a helicopter mother. Her own mother hadn’t been that, for which she was grateful. She’d allowed Veronica considerable freedom as she’d grown, encouraging her to work as well as to study, to become her own person. She knew she had considerable strength of character when needed. And she would need it now.

* * *

The next morning she had a good breakfast, after which she washed everything up—there wasn’t enough to load a dishwasher—then finished off packing her one case. At eight-thirty she locked up and placed the key back in the geranium pot. Thankfully the weather was still good, if a little cloudy. She hadn’t called a taxi, Franco having insisted that he would pick her up from the Hotel Fabrizzi to drive her down to the jetty. She stood for a long moment on the terrace, gazing out at the gorgeous view and putting it into her memory bank, though she suspected it might not be the last time she saw it. Leonardo would not let his child go easily. Neither would Sophia and Alberto. But she would not think about that yet. Time enough when she had a healthy ultrasound in her hands.

As she headed off towards the path, tears pricked at her eyes. She turned to have one last, longing look at her father’s villa, wondering at the same time if he’d ever envisaged this happening when he’d made his will. Had he hoped that she and Leonardo would end up together? It seemed rather fanciful.

Dragging her case behind her, she started walking down the steep path, dashing away tears at the same time. It happened so quickly. She caught her heel in something and pitched forward. A scream of terror burst from her lips as she crashed down onto the uneven stone steps. Her head hit something and everything went black.

* * *

Veronica woke slowly to a dull headache and a strange bedroom, not to mention a strange man sitting on a chair beside the bed she was lying in. He was quite elderly with a neat white beard and white hair—though perhaps he was not as old as he looked, since his blue eyes were clear and his face not too wrinkled.

‘Where am I?’ she asked groggily. ‘And who are you?’

‘You’re in a guest room at the Hotel Fabrizzi, and I’m Dr Waverly.’

She blinked at him. ‘You’re English.’

‘Yes. I semi-retired to Capri many years ago but continued to practise for people who wanted an English-speaking doctor. I was Ruth’s doctor until she died. And Laurence’s, when he deigned to go to a doctor. Which wasn’t often. Sophia called me in because she thought you would be best with an English doctor. So, how are you feeling, my dear?’

‘Rotten.’

‘I can imagine. You had a bad fall and you’ve been unconscious for over a day. Concussion. Would you mind if I examined you?’

Veronica blinked, struggling to remember the circumstances of this fall.

‘What kind of examination?’

‘Nothing too intrusive. I just want to check you over. Make sure you’re on the road to recovery.’

‘How long did you say I’ve been out of it?’ she asked as he took her blood pressure.

‘Just over twenty-four hours.’

‘Oh, Lord!’ she said, sitting up abruptly. ‘I’ve missed my flight. I have to ring Mum and tell her.’

‘Leonardo’s already rung her and explained.’

Veronica gaped at him. ‘Leonardo’s talked to my mother?’

‘It seems so. And he wants to talk to you. Shall I call him in? He’s just outside.’

‘No!’ she cried out.

‘He knows about the pregnancy, Veronica.’

She slumped back on the pillows, her head thumping. ‘But how?’ she choked out.

‘You never stopped talking about it when you were semi-conscious. You were worried that you might lose the baby.’

‘Oh…’

‘You haven’t, by the way. Your baby’s fine.’

Veronica closed her eyes, tears of relief leaking out. Being pregnant by Leonardo wasn’t ideal, but she didn’t want to miscarry.

‘It is Leonardo’s, isn’t it?’ the doctor asked gently.

She nodded wearily.

‘Are you absolutely sure you’re pregnant?’

‘I did one of those tests. It was very positive.’

‘No need for a blood test, then.’

‘You can do one if you like.’

‘Knowing Leonardo, perhaps it would be best.’

‘Yes, I would imagine so,’ she said, somewhat bitterly. ‘Though he needn’t worry about my trying to trap him into marriage. Because I wouldn’t marry him, no matter what!’

The doctor made no comment, just got a syringe out of his bag and took a sample of her blood. ‘You don’t love him?’ he asked after a while.

She refused to answer, her emotions a mess, anger and distress mingling with fear. Leonardo was here. And he’d talked to her mother! What had they talked about? What had Nora told him?

The doctor looked perplexed. ‘I think I should tell Leonardo to come in.’

Before Veronica could protest, he stood up and carried his bag outside. Through the open door she could hear the murmuring of voices. And then there he was, standing in the doorway, looking as handsome as ever but rather strained. There were dark shadows around his eyes which held an expression of real concern.

Or possibly she was mistaken about that. Maybe it was just controlled anger fuelling the tension in his face.

After a momentary hesitation, Leonardo came in, closed the door and sat down in the chair the doctor had vacated.

‘Dr Waverly said you must rest easy for a few more days,’ he said coolly. ‘Your blood pressure is up.’

‘I feel fine,’ she returned stubbornly, and looked away from him.

A silence fell in the room, Veronica aware of the pulse beating in her temples.

‘Were you ever going to tell me about the baby, Veronica?’ he demanded to know. ‘Or was I just to be a sperm donor, like Laurence?’

Outrage had her head whipping back to face him.

‘Do you honestly think I would deliberately get pregnant by you? Or that I would choose to be a single mother? I know how hard that life is.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, I can appreciate that. And, no, I don’t think you deliberately set out to get pregnant. But you were never on the pill, were you?’

‘Oh, God. Mum told you I wasn’t, didn’t she?’

‘No. I was just guessing. Your mother did tell me about Jerome, however. I think she wanted to explain why you mistrusted my intentions so much, and why you would try to bolt home once you realised you were pregnant. Which, by the way, was news to your mother. She said you did a test and it was negative.’

‘The first time it was,’ she muttered. ‘I did a second test later on and it was positive. If you don’t believe me, ask Dr Waverly. He’s taken a blood sample to double-check. I thought you might want proof,’ she threw at him, her top lip curling with contempt.

‘No,’ he denied with amazing calm. ‘Not really. I can see that you’re not lying. But you did lie to me about being on the pill, didn’t you?’

‘Not at first,’ she said with a frustrated sigh. ‘You asked me if there was any danger of a pregnancy and I told you there wasn’t. That was because I’m always very regular and I honestly thought there was no risk of conceiving that weekend. You just assumed I was on the pill and it seemed easier to let you think that.’

‘So what went wrong?’

‘I don’t know!’ she wailed, stuffing a fist against her trembling mouth and shaking her head. ‘I guess finding out about my real father upset my cycle somehow. I could hardly believe it when I was late.’

‘I see,’ he said slowly. ‘Don’t you want my baby, Veronica?’

She opened her mouth to snap that of course she didn’t. But then she shut it again. She could not keep lying to him. She just couldn’t. So she didn’t say anything.

‘I want it,’ he said softly into the silence. ‘And I want you. I love you, Veronica.’

Her eyes grew wide with shock, and the most awful hope.

Oh, Veronica, don’t fall for the ‘I love you’ ploy, she told herself sternly.

‘You’re just saying that because you want your child.’

‘I am not in the habit of lying,’ he returned. ‘Which reminds me,’ he continued before she could laugh in his face. ‘Elena told me about the photos she showed you. Of me and Lila at the ball. I didn’t lie to you, Veronica. I went to that ball alone. Lila threw herself at me as soon as I got there and it was impossible to extricate myself from her cling-on tactics without making a scene. I wouldn’t have been so tolerant if she hadn’t been hopelessly drunk and very upset over a fight with her boyfriend. She wasn’t making a serious play for me, Veronica. We’ve known each other for years and there’s nothing between us. She was just trying to make her boyfriend jealous. And it worked too. They’re back together again. I was going to tell you all about it when I rang last Sunday night but you didn’t give me the chance. If you don’t believe me, I’ll have her come down here personally so that she can explain her behaviour.’

Veronica stared at him for a long time without blinking. Could he be telling the truth? Maybe he did care for her. Maybe he even loved her. Just the hope of it sent her head into a whirlwind.

Leonardo leant over and took both her hands in his. ‘I care deeply for you, Veronica. It took me a while to accept my feelings but they are real, I assure you. When I rang you last Sunday and you said what you said, in such a cold voice, I was devastated. Because I’d arrogantly thought you cared for me back.’

‘I… I do care for you,’ she said hesitantly. ‘But…’

‘But you think I’m a playboy who is incapable of commitment and true caring.’

‘Yes…’

‘I have been a bit of a bad boy in the past, I admit. But I haven’t been all that bad for some years now. Yes, my girlfriends don’t last long. Perhaps because I didn’t fall in love with any of them. But I never cheated or treated them shoddily. If nothing else, I’ve always been a gentleman.’ And, lifting her hands to his lips, he kissed every finger gently. Reverently. Lovingly.

Veronica’s heart turned over.

His head lifted at last and he looked deep into her eyes. ‘I love you, Veronica. More than I ever thought possible. Dare I hope you love me back?’

She could not speak, her heart too full. Tears flooded her eyes. It was all too good to be true. She found it almost impossible to believe.

His sigh was heavy. ‘I see you still don’t trust me. Understandable, considering what you went through with that other unconscionable bastard. But, if you just tell me that you love me, I will move heaven and earth to prove to you that I am a man of my word.’

‘I… I do love you. But how…how do you propose to prove yourself?’ she asked, moved by his passionate declaration.

‘By not proposing marriage, for starters, even though that is my dearest wish—to have you as my wife. I have a lovely home in Milan where I think we could be very happy together. But I can see you are not ready to take that step yet. So this is what I propose instead. Your mother said I was welcome to stay at her home whenever I liked, so I will take her up on her offer. I can run my business over the Internet. I have excellent staff who are very capable. So I will come to Sydney and live there with you—without sex—until you can see first-hand and up close what kind of man I am. An honourable man who will make you a good husband and a very good father.’

‘You would do that for me?’ she choked out, overcome with emotion.

‘I would do anything for you.’

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, sitting up and throwing her arms around his neck.

He held her close, kissing her hair and telling her over and over how much he loved her.

Veronica could scarcely believe the wave of happiness that claimed her. She’d been so unhappy for so long. So cynical as well. But Leonardo had blasted that cynicism to pieces just now with his incredible offer. She wasn’t too sure about the ‘no sex’ part, but if he could do it then so could she.

* * *

And so it was that just over three months later, on the evening after they went together to have their first ultrasound—the baby was healthy and a boy—Leonardo took Veronica out for dinner where he produced the most glorious ring and asked her to marry him.

* * *

Leonardo would remember the look on her face for ever. It was filled with a joy which came not just from love but absolute faith. It had taken time for her to totally trust him. Time and sacrifice on his part. He was not a man used to denying his male urges. But it had been worth it in the end.

‘You were the right girl that Laurence talked about,’ he said as he slipped the diamond ring on her finger. ‘This was what he wanted when he made sure that we would meet.’

‘That thought did occur to me once too,’ she replied, surprising him.

He was very thankful now that he’d never told her what he’d found on Laurence’s phone. He hadn’t been sure that she would be pleased with her father researching the female biological clock the day before he’d gone to London and changed his will. He would not have liked Veronica to assume that her father was more concerned about her being childless than anything else. It was possible, he supposed, but Leonardo preferred to believe that his friend wanted his daughter and his friend to meet, fall in love and hopefully marry.

Whatever his motives, it had all worked out in the end.

I have found a new dream, Laurence. A better one. I am going to be the best husband and father in the whole of Italy. Maybe even in the whole world!

Hopefully, if Laurence were able to observe things from heaven—or wherever he was—he would approve.

As for Leonardo’s own family, they would be over the moon now that marriage was on the horizon. His mamma was already making preparations for a big wedding on Capri. Nora had been in constant contact with her and the two women were happy little conspirators.

He smiled over at Veronica, who was touching her ring and looking very thoughtful.

‘What is it?’ he asked, very in tune with her feelings by now.

‘I was just wondering…’

‘Wondering what?’

‘If I could spend tonight in the guest room. With the man I adore.’

Leonardo took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as emotion claimed him. He’d always thought that nothing would ever surpass winning a race on the ski slopes.

He was so wrong.

EPILOGUE

March the following year…

‘YOU LOOK ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL,’ her mother said, her voice catching.

They were alone in the master bedroom of Laurence’s villa, getting ready for what was going to be the wedding of the year on Capri. The official invitations numbered over three hundred, with guests coming from all over the world, their expenses paid for by Leonardo. The wedding was to take place in Santo Stephano, the main church on Capri, the reception at the Grand Hotel Quisisana, a five-star hotel which exuded both history and luxury.

Veronica didn’t like to think of what the bill might be, Leonardo having brushed aside her worries with his usual savoir faire.

‘I am not going to stint on our wedding, Veronica,’ he’d said when she’d broached the subject. ‘You deserve everything I can afford to give you.’

It seemed that what he could afford was one hell of a lot. Her wedding dress had been designed by one of the best designers in Milan, with Veronica not even having been told what it had cost. And the gown was, in truth, a breathtakingly lovely creation, designed to hide perfectly her six-and-a-half-month baby bump without compromising on elegance.

There was a floor-length under-dress made in white chiffon, which was princess-line in style and sleeveless, with a scooped neckline and softly gathered skirt. Over this lay a long, white lace coat that had long sleeves and flowed out the back in a train. There was only one button, just under her bust, though one could hardly call it a button. It was a jewelled clasp, made of pearls and diamonds, as were the drop earrings that Leonardo had given his bride as an additional wedding present. Her hair was up, a circlet of flowers crowning her dark tresses. Attached at the back was a simple tulle veil that had a small face veil which could be brought over her face then lifted during the ceremony.

Veronica looked at her mother and smiled. ‘I do look good, don’t I?’

‘I think that’s an understatement, my darling daughter. Laurence would be so proud.’

‘I like to think so,’ she said, still feeling a little sad when she thought of the missed opportunities with her father.

‘Come, now. No sad thoughts today. You are on your way to be married to one of the nicest, most sincere men I have ever met. Not to mention the most generous. But first, we have to join the others and have photos taken on the terrace.’

The ‘others’ were considerable. Veronica had been unable to resist asking both Elena and Carmelina to be her matrons of honour, Leonardo going along with her by making Franco and Alfonso his best men. All their children were in the wedding party as well as flower girls and page boys. They were thrilled to pieces to be asked and promised to be very good, even the precocious Bruno having given his solemn word. The matrons of honour were in sky-blue silk and carried white bouquets, the flower girls in white with white-and-blue posies. All the men—and boys—had chosen to wear black tuxedos, all made in Milan, their lapels carrying white roses.

Nora—as mother of the bride—had chosen pale lemon, her elegantly styled suit also having been made by a top designer in Milan. She looked lovelier—and happier—than Veronica had ever seen her. Her mother was in the process of selling her home-help business and moving to Capri, where she would live in Laurence’s villa, looking after it for Veronica and Leonardo for when they could come and stay. Which Veronica vowed would be often. The happy couple had already made their permanent home in Milan, the nursery all ready for their son’s arrival. Francesca, Leonardo’s housekeeper, was very excited at the thought of having a baby in the house. Luckily, she and Veronica liked each other, which had pleased Leonardo greatly.

Last in the wedding party was Dr Waverly, who’d agreed to give Veronica away. He’d seemed a good choice, being a friend of her real father, and of his vintage.

The photos took a good while, the sky being a little cloudy, though every now and then the sun would peep out. At least it wasn’t raining. The weather on Capri in March could be very capricious. At last the photos were all finished to the photographer’s satisfaction and it was time to head to the waiting cars, the bride having chosen to travel in Franco’s yellow convertible, the rest in other equally colourful taxis. Just as Veronica made her way off the terrace, the sun came out again, bathing the villa in glorious light. Veronica glanced over her shoulder and thought how her father’s home had never looked more beautiful.

Her father…

Yes, she hadn’t known him in life, but she’d got to know him in death, lots of people having filled her in on his character. No, he hadn’t been a perfect man, but he had been a good man, and a brilliant scientist who’d made a difference in the world through his work. He’d also been a man capable of great love. Veronica felt she had inherited that quality from him, because she loved Leonardo and their unborn baby more than she could ever have thought possible. She could not wait for her son to be born and to see what their genes would produce. A very special child, she was sure. Very special indeed.

But none of this would have happened, she thought as she gazed back at the villa, if her father hadn’t left her his home in his will.

‘Thank you, Dad,’ she murmured, her heart filling with gratitude and love. ‘Thank you.’

* * *

Their son was born in May, three weeks early, obviously impatient to come into this world. He was perfect in every way, captivating everyone who saw him. They called him Antonio Laurence Alberto Fabrizzi. His grandfather was thrilled. At last, a boy who would carry on his name. Antonio’s two grandmothers were besotted, but not as much as his parents, who vowed to have more children as soon as possible.

* * * * *

ISBN-13: 9781488083730

The Italian’s Unexpected Love-Child

First North American publication 2018

Copyright © 2018 by Miranda Lee

All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 22 Adelaide St. West, 40th Floor, Toronto, Ontario M5H 4E3, Canada.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.

www.Harlequin.com

Now, read on for a tantalizing excerpt of USA TODAY bestselling author

Jennie Lucas’ next book,

THE HEIR THE PRINCE SECURES

An exquisite encounter with a Sicilian leaves Tess alone, penniless and pregnant. Until Stefano returns, discovers his unknown heir, and reveals he’s royalty! Now to protect his tiny daughter, he’ll make Tess his Cinderella bride!

Keep reading to get a glimpse of

THE HEIR THE PRINCE SECURES

CHAPTER ONE

LOVE MEANT EVERYTHING to Tess Foster.

NOT JUST LOVE. Romance. Pink roses. Castles and hearts.

As a lonely teenager living in the attic of her aunt and uncle’s Brooklyn bakery, Tess tried to keep her romantic dreams secret. In a modern world of easy hookups and one-night stands, it was embarrassing, even shameful, to be an idealistic virgin waiting for true love. As other girls giggled over their first fumbling sexual experiences in the back seats of cars, Tess kept quiet and hoped no one would notice that she spent her own Saturday nights with dusty books in the library, dreaming of handsome princes.

She’d known, even then, that when she finally gave herself to a man, it would only be to someone she truly loved. She’d wear white on her wedding day and lose her virginity on their honeymoon. She’d settle for nothing less than the fairy tale.

Then, at twenty-four, she met Stefano.

One moment, she’d been working as a waitress at a glamorous cocktail party hosted by a Spanish media mogul. Carrying a silver tray of champagne flutes through a crowd of movie stars and tycoons, Tess had been lost in thought, worrying whether she’d be able to afford another semester of design school.

Then a handsome stranger’s dark, smoldering gaze had pierced her heart, making her lose her breath.

That had been it. That one look from him had almost brought her to her knees.

Because no one had ever looked at her like that. It was as if Tess, the hopeless, invisible wallflower, had suddenly become the most desirable, fascinating woman in all the world.

And the man who was looking at her…

Dark and sexy, he’d stood arrogantly apart, his perfectly cut tuxedo a mere veneer of civilization over his powerful, muscular body. His dark eyes had burned through her as he came toward her, moving with an almost feline grace.

“Buonasera,” he’d said huskily.

Tess had turned the silver tray toward him so fast the flutes nearly knocked over. Her voice had squeaked. “Champagne?”

“No.” With a sensual smile, he’d glanced at the martini already in his hand. “I don’t want champagne.”

“Something else, then?”

His voice was husky, with the barest trace of an accent. “I want your name.”

And that had been the start of the most spectacular night of Tess’s life. When she’d finished her shift at the party, he’d whisked her off in his chauffeured town car to an elegant, romantic dinner at the most exclusive restaurant in New York. Afterward, he’d suggested they go dancing. When she’d said she didn’t have a dress, he’d stopped at a designer boutique and bought her one that sparkled and swayed against her skin.

She’d tried to resist, but she couldn’t. Not when he’d looked at her like that.

Tess had danced in his arms for hours before he’d kissed her, leaving her intoxicated, breathless. He’d invited her to his suite at the luxurious Leighton Hotel. Looking into his dark, hungry eyes, she’d known only one answer.

“Yes,” she’d whispered.

In just one night, he’d ruthlessly taken her virginity. And more than that: he’d dazzled her lonely, romantic heart into loving him.

But the next morning, waking up alone in the cold, gray dawn, she realized that she’d never even learned his full name.

A few weeks later, she’d found out she was pregnant. Her uncle had been furious, her aunt disappointed in her.

For the last fourteen months, even as Tess’s two best friends, Hallie Hatfield and Lola Price, had rolled their eyes, she’d stubbornly insisted that Stefano would someday return to claim her and their baby. After all, even if she didn’t know his last name, he knew hers. Stefano could find her anytime he wanted.

If he hadn’t come yet, there had to be a good reason. Maybe he had amnesia, or his plane had crashed on a desert island. Those things happened, didn’t they? Tess imagined every reason she could think of, except for the obvious one. Her friends thought she was nuts.

But Tess had to believe Stefano would return. Because, otherwise, she’d surrendered all her dreams for nothing. She’d given up her chance for a career, for marriage, for one love that would last her whole life—all for a one-night stand that had left her pregnant, abandoned and alone.

If Stefano didn’t come back, it would mean the world was a cold and unforgiving place, and all the fairy tales her mother had read her as a child were wrong. Tess didn’t want to live in a world like that. So she’d done her best to believe.

Suddenly, tonight, she couldn’t.

Not for one more second.

Tess’s shoulders drooped as she wearily pushed her five-month-old baby’s stroller out of the Campania Hotel New York. It was ten o’clock on a warm, humid night in early September, but the night was just getting started. The streets were crowded with people leaving restaurants and streaming out of Broadway theaters, their faces animated and bright as they passed beneath the sparkling lights of the hotel’s porte cochere.

Tess felt empty and sad. She’d just watched her friend Hallie sing at her husband’s luxury hotel. After Hallie’s amazing performance, Cristiano had publicly declared his love for his wife.

She was glad for Hallie, truly she was. Her friend deserved every happiness, especially after what she’d gone through. Normally, Tess would have told herself that seeing a couple so deeply in love proved that it might still happen for her, too.

But not tonight.

She’d been up since four that morning, working at her uncle’s bakery while also caring for her baby. She felt sweaty and exhausted. Tendrils of her long red hair were plastered to her neck. Even Tess’s jaunty handmade outfit, a vintage-style shirt and midi pencil skirt with mixing patterns, was wrinkled. She looked down at her adorable sleeping baby, her plump cheeks and dark hair, and a hard lump rose to her throat.

For over a year, she’d ignored her uncle’s criticism, her aunt’s disappointed sighs and her friends’ teasing. She’d told herself Stefano would come back to her. But after seeing Hallie and Cristiano together, so happy together in their own little world, Tess had realized she was fooling herself.

Give it up. A memory came of Lola’s tart voice. He’s never coming back, Tess.

Tess stopped. As streams of people passed by her stroller on both sides of the sidewalk, she savagely wiped tears off her cheeks. She’d planned to take the subway back to Brooklyn with her baby rather than ask Hallie for a ride and risk crying in front of her. Her friends always teased her about being too cheerful and optimistic. She couldn’t let them know how she really felt inside.

But that was wrong. Hallie was her friend, and Tess had left without so much as a farewell. Taking a deep breath, she tried to smooth her face into a smile. She’d go back inside now and congratulate Hallie. And if she asked why Tess was crying—

As Tess started to turn, she walked into a wall.

Not a wall. A man.

For a second, she saw stars from the blunt force of hitting her head against his chest. Dizzy, she shook her head, mortified.

“I’m so sorry,” she blurted out. “It was my fault—”

Then she saw him.

For a second, Tess couldn’t breathe. Her heart pounded in her throat as she tilted her head back to stare at the man’s handsome face, his sharp cheekbones and jawline shadowed by the lights of the hotel’s grand porte cochere.

Tall and dark-haired, the man wore a sleek black jacket that emphasized his broad shoulders, and trousers that fit snugly over powerful thighs. His tailored shirt was open a single button at the neck.

He wasn’t strictly handsome, perhaps. His aquiline profile was a bit too arrogant, the set of his square jaw too thuggish. But he gave the impression of intense masculine beauty. His face was arresting, his body powerful, giving him the look of a dark angel.

The man’s eyes widened, the irises so dark as to be almost black against his olive-colored skin.

Tess’s lips parted.

“Stefano?” she whispered, gripping the handle of the stroller for balance. “Is it really you?”

She knew those dark eyes. That handsome face. Those cruel, sensual lips. She knew every bit of him. She’d dreamed of him, day and night, for over a year.

“Tess,” he murmured.

His low, husky voice caressed the short syllable of her name. So he was real, then. He was real.

“You came back for me,” she whispered. Joy rose inside her, brighter than all the lights of Broadway and Times Square put together. “You came back!”

His jaw tightened. He looked down at her from his lofty height, his broad shoulders towering over her. “What do you want?”

What did she want? She wanted to throw her arms around him, to cry out her happiness to all the world. After a difficult year, with everyone mocking her, this proved that happy endings still happened as long as your heart was true and you had faith. She’d been right!

But, as Tess moved to throw her arms around him, Stefano stepped back from her.

Something was wrong. She bit her lip, bewildered. “I am so happy to see you. Did you just get back?”

“Get back?”

“To New York.” When he didn’t answer, she continued with a blush, “Our night together, you said that you had to return to Europe but you’d be back soon—”

“Oh. Yes.” His chiseled face was dark with shadow beneath his hard cheekbones as the lights of passing traffic moved past them on the avenue. “I’ve been in New York often this summer. And now for Fashion Week, of course.”

“You’ve been here all this time?” A chill went through her as her joy withered inside her. She whispered, “And you didn’t want to see me?”

Stefano frowned. His voice was a low baritone. “I liked you very much, Tess. It was an amazing night. But…”

“But?” she croaked.

Coming closer, he looked down at her, his dark eyes glittering. “But it was just a night.”

To him it had just been a one-night stand, nothing more? One night, easily enjoyed and easily forgotten?

Tess’s cheeks went hot as she remembered telling him in bed, in the hushed quiet before dawn with their naked bodies still intertwined, “I’m already falling in love with you.”

In her innocence, Tess had meant every word. She’d been intoxicated by sensual pleasure she’d never imagined. In just twelve hours, he’d given her the most intense happiness of her life, more emotion and joy and beauty than she’d known for twelve years before. If that wasn’t love, what was?

Now, looking at his coldly handsome face, Tess realized that her honesty had been a fatal mistake. Because when she woke the next morning, he’d been gone.

“Your Highness!” A young girl caught up behind him on the sidewalk. She was obviously a model—tall, slender, dark-haired and incredibly beautiful in a white dress that set off her dark skin. She held out a small notebook to Stefano. “You forgot this.”

“Thanks, Kebe,” he said gruffly.

She tossed her dark curls. “See you in Paris.”

She left in a perfect catwalk stride.

“Who was that?” Tess whispered.

“A friend,” he said. His dark eyes flicked briefly to the sleeping baby in the stroller behind her. “Well. It was nice to see you again.” His expression was cool. Courteous. Distant. “Goodbye.”

Pain and shock spread through Tess’s body, making her knees shake.

He hadn’t been looking for her.

At all.

He’d rejected her long ago. She just hadn’t known it till now. Stinging tears filled her eyes.

All this time she’d dreamed of him as a romantic hero who was desperate to return to her. The truth was that Stefano simply hadn’t wanted to see her again.

Over the last year, as Tess had dropped out of college to work full-time at her uncle’s bakery, struggling to provide and care for their baby, Stefano had been traveling the world, enjoying himself. In fact, it seemed he’d just been out on a date with a beautiful girl who looked barely eighteen. Whom he’d promised to see again in Paris.

Stricken, she looked at him with tears in her eyes.

Stefano’s expression hardened. “Tess, it was for the best.”

Wordlessly shaking her head, she backed away. For so long, she’d held out hope, imagining one perfect love brought by destiny, by fate. She’d remained faithful to Stefano’s memory, dreaming of the day her handsome prince would return on a white horse to whisk her and the baby to his castle.

But Stefano was no prince.

Her friends and family had been right.

Tess gripped the stroller for support as anguish and exhaustion punched through her.

They’d been right.

“Come now. Don’t act like your heart’s broken,” he said sharply. “How long did it take you to get over me? A few days?”

“How can you say that?” she whispered.

He looked pointedly at the baby in the stroller. “She’s yours, isn’t she?”

Yes. And yours. The words rose inside her, but got caught in her throat.

“And what about her father?” he demanded. “How would he feel if he knew you were here now, talking to me?”

“You tell me.”

“How would I know?” Reaching out, he cupped her cheek. For a moment, in spite of everything, she closed her eyes, shivering at his touch as a flash of heat pulsed through her.

Stefano dropped his hand. “Let’s not try to make more of our night than it was.” He glanced at the baby. “Obviously, you quickly moved on. So did I. Our night was enjoyable enough. But it was meaningless.”

Enjoyable enough?

Meaningless?

It was the final straw. She felt a flash of despair, the destructive kind that froze to the bone.

“Our night didn’t mean anything to you?” Heart in her throat, she whispered, “You changed my life.”

“Sorry,” he said coldly.

She felt the word like a bullet.

“Fine.” She closed her eyes briefly, shuddering. “We’ll survive alone.”

Knees shaking, she turned and walked away from him as fast as she could, away from her broken heart, from her shame that she’d so foolishly believed in the fairy tale. She fled the glittering lights of the Campania toward a shadowy side street, desperate to reach the far-off subway entrance, where she could sob in peace.

* * *

Prince Stefano Zacco di Gioreale stared after Tess, shocked by the jolt of her words, by the raw emotion he’d seen on her face and, most of all, by his body’s reaction to seeing her again.

Tess Foster was even more beautiful than he remembered. He’d lied when he’d said he’d quickly moved on. The truth was that he’d spent the last year trying not to recall her hauntingly lovely heart-shaped face, her red hair, her bright emerald eyes, her sweet pink lips. He’d tried to forget her lush body and the way she’d felt naked in his arms.

Most of all, he’d tried to erase the memory of her intense, heartfelt whisper the next morning. I’m already falling in love with you.

For the last year, he’d done his best to forget. He’d told himself he had. Still, when he’d returned to New York in July to preside over the launch of Mercurio’s flagship store, there was a reason he’d chosen to stay at the Campania Hotel rather than return to the Leighton, which had all those sweet, savage memories of their night together.

From the moment he’d first seen her carrying a tray of champagne at Rodrigo Cabrera’s cocktail party, he’d known he wanted her. He’d felt drawn to Tess in a way he’d never experienced before. Or since.

He’d made it his mission to seduce her. As beautiful and vivacious as Tess was, it had never occurred to him she might be a virgin. Not until it was too late, not until he’d already pushed himself into her, both of them gasping with ecstasy. His body shivered at the memory.

He’d felt guilty afterward, though. There was a reason he didn’t seduce virgins. They fell in love too easily and cloyingly imagined a future that bored Stefano to tears. He avoided them at all costs. Virgins didn’t know how to play the game. Play it? They often didn’t even know there was a game.

His worst fears had been proven true when, after the most spectacular sexual experience of his life, Tess had ruined everything with her outrageous declaration of love.

So he’d left. He took no pleasure in it. He would have preferred to see her again for many more sensual nights.

But she’d given him no choice. If she was already imagining herself in love with him after twelve hours, what would she do when he eventually ended their affair? Throw herself off the Empire State Building?

So Stefano had left. For her own good. He had nothing to offer a dreamy-eyed idealist with a heart full of love. Better to set her free immediately, before anyone got hurt.

The existence of the baby proved he’d made the right choice. Judging by the infant’s size, Tess couldn’t have waited long before she took another lover.

An image came to Stefano of another man taking Tess in his arms, doing exactly what he’d done, possessing her in furious, desperate need, in a hot tangle of limbs and sweat and pleasure. Scowling, he pushed the thought away.

At least Stefano had used protection. Obviously, the other man hadn’t been so careful. The unknown man had gotten her pregnant with his dark-eyed baby.

He was surprised Tess wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. He would have thought a romantic girl like her wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less than happily-ever-after.

Stefano, a billionaire prince who’d been raised in a Sicilian castle, didn’t believe in such fairy tales.

But he couldn’t stop his eyes from watching Tess hungrily as her small figure disappeared down the dark street, her shoulders drooping and red hair flying as she pushed the stroller ahead of her.

Stefano’s hand tingled. Raising his hand, he looked at his fingertips beneath the hotel’s bright lights.

All he’d done was touch her cheek. That brief, simple touch had scorched his hand. All the emotion and desire he’d repressed for a year had suddenly roared into greedy life, burning him like a fire. Shocked, he’d dropped his hand.

As he watched Tess disappear down the block, he felt a new sense of loss. Why? Why did he still feel so drawn to her? He’d had beautiful women in his bed before. Why couldn’t he forget this particular one?

Stefano forced himself to turn away. It was better this way, he repeated to himself. He started to walk toward the hotel’s entrance. He stopped.

Something didn’t make sense. He frowned.

If Tess was so happy in her new relationship, raising another man’s child, why had she been so overjoyed to see Stefano? She’d looked at him like unicorns were dancing on rainbows. Like all her dreams had suddenly come true.

Our night didn’t mean anything to you?

He could still hear the tremble of her voice, still see the shadows cross her lovely, troubled face.

You changed my life.

And as she’d spoken she’d looked away.

Toward the stroller.

Toward her baby.

Her dark-haired, plump-cheeked baby.

“We’ll survive alone,” she’d said.

We. Not I.

A low growl came from the back of Stefano’s throat. Turning, he pursued her grimly down the street.

Even with his longer stride, it took him time to catch up with her. He reached her at the end of the dark street, almost at the edge of Times Square. Grabbing Tess by the shoulder, he forced her to face him as the colorful lights of the electronic billboards lit up the sky brilliantly behind her.

“Wait,” he ground out.

Tess had been crying, he saw. Her green eyes glittered like emeralds in her pale face. She lifted her chin fiercely. “Wait for what? For you?” She wiped her eyes. “What do you think I’ve been doing for the last year?”

Her voice was quietly accusing. Against his will, Stefano’s gaze fell to her full, pink lips, and lower still.

Tess’s hourglass figure should have been illegal in the modern world. Her flowy long-sleeved blouse was tucked into a midi pencil skirt, like a sexpot librarian. It showed her curves to perfection—her full breasts, tiny waist, and big hips a man could wrap his hands around. Her red hair tumbled over her shoulders, the color of roses, the color of fire.

She was different from any other woman he’d ever seen. He wanted her. Even more than before. More than he’d ever wanted any woman.

With all his relationships over the years, his mistresses always knew love wasn’t part of the equation. He only dated experienced, beautiful women he enjoyed having in his bed and on his arm. In return, they enjoyed his body, his prestige and the lifestyle he could provide.

If he was honest with himself, it had all grown rather tedious. Mechanical. He’d started to wonder which of them was using the other one more. Which was why he’d stopped having love affairs, even one-night stands, after his night with Tess. He hadn’t wanted any other woman.

Why? Why did he want only her? Was it simply because he knew she was forbidden? Surely he couldn’t be selfish enough to desire something only because he knew he couldn’t have it?

Even now, he found his gaze lingering on her full hips, her plump, generous breasts. Her colorful outfit, with its ridiculously whimsical fabric, set off her amazing figure. His eyes lifted from her breasts to her bare collarbone, up her swanlike throat to her lovely heart-shaped face.

Her pink tongue nervously licked the corners of her mouth. His whole body felt electrified. All he wanted to do was kiss her.

Clenching his hands at his sides, he forced himself to turn toward the dark-haired baby in the stroller. She was still sleeping peacefully, her old-fashioned, collared dress half-covered with a blanket, clutching a stuffed giraffe toy in her plump arms.

No. She couldn’t be. But even as Stefano told himself there was no resemblance, suspicion pulsed through his body, tightening his chest from his shoulders to his taut belly.

“Tell me about the baby,” he said.

“What do you want to know?”

“Her name.”

“Esme.”

“Her surname?”

“Foster, like mine.”

His jaw tightened. “And her father?”

Tess stared at him, then looked away, her lips pressed in a thin line. Groups of tourists walked by them on the sidewalk, laughing and chatting in bursts of different languages. She stubbornly refused to look at him, or answer.

“Tess,” he demanded, coming close enough to touch her, his tall, broad-shouldered form casting a shadow over her smaller one.

Colorful lights swept over her red hair like a halo, as Tess finally looked at him. Her green eyes were half filled with hope, half with anger, as she said in a low whisper, “You, Stefano.”

Copyright © 2018 by Jennie Lucas

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