The Italian's Trophy Mistress

Diana Hamilton

Synopsis:

Cesare Andriotti was powerful, rich, sexy - and always got what he
wanted. Beautiful Bianca Jay was no exception, and though she hadn't
been easy to win, he had finally made her his mistress.

But Cesare realized he didn't know her - didn't know what made her tick,
what went on behind those hypnotically sensual amber eyes. She intrigued
him so much he found himself proposing - only to be turned down! And
that determined him to make the elusive Bianca completely his - mind,
body and soul?.

3

THE ITALIAN'S TROPHY MISTRESS

She's his in the bedroom, but he can't buy her love...

The ultimate fantasy becomes a reality

in Harlequin PresentsŽ.

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The Bedroom Surrender by Emma Darcy

4

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this
book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to
the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any
payment for this "stripped book."

ISBN 0-373-12321-3 THE ITALIAN'S TROPHY MISTRESS First North American
Publication 2003. Copyright Š2002 by Diana Hamilton.

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or
utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any
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including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information
storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission
of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road,
Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of
the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same
name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual
known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books U.S.A.

Žand TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with Žare
registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the
Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

Visit us at www.eHarlequin.com Printed in U.S.A.

5

'Darlings-have you heard? Henry Croft is divorcing his third wife and
moving on to number four!'

Across the candlelit dinner table Claudia Neill's black eyes sparked
with what Bianca Jay could only describe as malicious glee, and a shiver
inched coldly down her spine as Cesare's younger sister continued, the
sympathetic curve of her mouth at odds with the spiteful relish of her
tone. 'Amanda's absolutely gutted, of course. The poor thing's been
living on a knife-edge since Henry was photographed at the Oscars with
that busty little film star-whose name escapes me for the moment-but you
know the one. Bit parts, mostly, huge blonde hair down to her waist.
Used to sing in a pop group. Mind you, poor Amanda will get lots of
lovely alimony-'

Claudia gave a languid shrug, her naked shoulders smooth as silk above
the little black slip dress she was wearing. 'However big the
settlement, it won't make up for being dumped for a younger, flashier
model, will it? But what did poor Amanda expect? Marry a man with a
roving eye, an image to live up to and more money than he knows what to
do with and you can think yourself lucky if you last more than a couple
of years!'

6

Was she supposed to answer that? Bianca wondered grittily as she tried
to ignore the sudden lurch of her stomach. For the hundredth time she
wished she hadn't so weakly agreed to come. But Cesare had told her,
'I'm sorry about this, especially as it's my first night back in London.
But it's my little sister's birthday and I promised to give her dinner
at my apartment. There'll only be the four of us. You, me, Claudia and
Alan. And they won't stay late; I believe their babysitter won't stay
beyond eleven-she can't take the strain of trying to get those two
little monsters to stay in bed! And then there will be just the two of us.'

And, as always, she had found him dangerously impossible to resist.

Throughout the evening she'd been thinking of that danger. It was a
subject that had been occupying her mind almost constantly over the past
few weeks. To tell him their six-month relationship was over before she
got in too deep, did herself some serious damage. Or go on as they were,
knowing that the day would inevitably come when he would tell her their
affair was over. It was a decision she simply had to make.

'Of course-' Claudia was practically purring now, smiling sideways at
her doting husband, one hand dipping a silver spoon into her strawberry
sorbet, the other playing with the sapphire pendant that had been
Cesare's birthday gift to her '-Alan's not wealthy enough to trade me
in, so I guess I'm pretty safe.' A fluting laugh, as artificial as
tinsel, then her dark eyes fed on Bianca's suddenly pale face. 'And at
least you

and Cesare know where you stand, don't you, my darlings? All the fun of
a temporary affair with none of the chores of marriage.'

'Chores?' Alan lifted one sandy brow in an imitation of pained outrage,
and Claudia rolled her dark eyes.

'Oh, you know, caw-squabbling over my dress allowance, dealing with the
twins' tantrums, organising babysitters-'

But Bianca wasn't listening. That had been a direct dig at her mistress
status. It wasn't a status she was remotely proud of. A rich man's
trophy, to be paraded around all the right places, casually introduced
to his circle of exalted friends, and just as casually dropped when
someone new and exciting piqued his interest.

She had met Cesare Andriotti through her PR work, organising the opening
shindig for the latest in the string of luxury hotel, leisure and
conference complexes owned by his illustrious family and bearing the
Andriotti name.

It had been lust at first sight, she recalled, ignoring the friendly
bickering going on between Claudia and her husband.

She'd known it was dangerous, not what she wanted. She was
career-driven, independent, and had no time for a steady personal
relationship-a husband and family wouldn't fit in with the largely
unsociable hours she worked, with the often draining emotional
commitments she already had.

And how many times had she told herself that

8

Cesare Andriotti was the kind of man she had most reason to despise?

Countless.

Wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice, drop-dead handsome, with
barrow-loads of Italian charisma and the almost indefinable touch of
arrogance that sent delicious shivers down the spine of any female in
his vicinity. The kind of men who had everything, who took mistresses,
showered them with gifts, and felt they had the perfect right to drop
them flat-very politely, with oodles of charm, of course-just when they
felt like it.

She had tried to keep him at arm's length-at least, that was what she
had told herself she'd been doing- but within a month of first meeting
him she'd become his mistress. She simply hadn't been able to help
herself. He had overwhelmed her, ridden roughshod over each and every
one of her objections-moral, practical and self-preserving.

His eyes were on her; she could feel them. Her spine tingled. He'd been
watching her ever since his sister had made that barbed comment about
them having only a temporary affair.

She refused to turn her head and look at him, meet those incredibly
sexy, slate-grey moody eyes, let her own eyes linger on that passionate
mouth or devour the lean and whippy lines of that elegantly clad,
seemingly indolent body. To do so would mean she would be lost, the
ever-hardening resolve to end their affair blown apart in her body's
consuming need for him.

'Might I ask a favour, sir?' Alan asked gruffly, reddening as he
amended, 'Cesare.'

Alan Neill was Head of Accounts for the UK side of the huge financial
empire, had fallen in love with Claudia Andriotti when she'd been
visiting Cesare at his London apartment and had never quite come to
terms with the fact that his boss was his brother-in-law.

Bianca's heart went out to him.

At thirty-four years of age, heading up the Andriotti business empire
since his father's retirement four years ago, Cesare struck awe into the
hearts and minds of everyone who met him. Alan was out of his depth. He
was thoroughly nice, too stolid and loyal ever to even think of
betraying his pretty, temperamental wife; Claudia would never have to
worry about being traded in.

At his wife's pointed arch of one fine, dark brow Alan stumbled on,
'Would it be possible for us to have the company jet in early August? It
seems a bit much to ask but, the fact is, the twins would be a nightmare
on a commercial flight. Won't keep still, into everything, and you know
how shrill three-year-old boys are when they get over-excited.' He
pushed his fingers through his thick sandy hair and made an abortive
attempt at a lightly relaxed laugh. 'I'd hate to inflict them on
fare-paying passengers.'

'Darling-' Claudia placed a delicate, scarlet-tipped hand on her
husband's sleeve '-do stop rambling. Of course Cesare won't mind.' She
smiled at her

10

brother, her long lashes fluttering. 'Mamma and Papa insist we take the
boys out to Calabria for their wedding anniversary in August. And I'm
quite sure you have your orders, too! So, if we may, we'll join you on
the flight out and back again? But if you can't make it-' she pouted
prettily '-then please may we have the use of the Lear?'

Bianca covered her wineglass with her long, tapering fingers as Cesare
made a move to refill it, looking directly ahead, anywhere but at him,
carefully keeping a slight smile on her face, her expression on the
politely interested side of bland.

But she wasn't listening to a word of the affectionate family
conversation. Claudia had probably been twisting her big brother round
her tiny finger since she had first learned to walk!

Any arrangements that were being made for the family reunion wouldn't,
of course, include her.

Meeting up with his sister and brother-in-law on one or two social
occasions had been unavoidable, hence her inclusion in this private
birthday celebration. She was important to him for the nights they could
spend together. For now. But not important enough to be included in a
visit to his parents.

She hadn't met Cesare's twin nephews, whose precocious misdemeanours
were now being so fondly discussed. But she'd heard about them.

Right at the start of their affair Cesare had told her, in response to
her probably gauche comment that she wasn't into long-term commitment,
Neither am I. Why should I marry? My sister has already done her duty
and presented the family with twin boys.'

His long fingers had been relaxed on the stem of his wineglass, the
slight smile that had always both unnerved her and captivated her
playing around his mouth as his eyes had slid lingeringly over her
features. 'Our arrangement suits me perfectly.'

At least he was honest, she thought tiredly as she watched the waiter
from the firm of caterers Cesare always used when he entertained at his
London apartment glide towards them with a tray of coffee. As she knew
to her cost, many men in his rarefied financial position married and
divorced with monotonous regularity.

That conversation had taken place back in the early days, she reminded
herself as the waiter deferentially placed a gold-rimmed coffee cup in
front of her. But things were changing. Cesare was beginning to want
things she didn't dare to give.

And now was the time to make a clean and decisive break before she was
left with a shattered heart, aching regrets and a desperate yearning for
things that could never be, things she hadn't wanted in the first place,
shouldn't even be thinking about wanting now.

Placing her linen napkin on the table amongst the beautiful china, the
Venetian glass, she murmured, 'This has been delightful, but I really
must go. Enjoy the rest of your birthday, Claudia.'

A polite social smile on her face, Bianca rose to her feet. She was
shaking inside with the enormity of what

12

she now knew she had to do, but no one must know it.

Claudia's eyes were bright, almost chillingly knowing as she uttered
with obviously false regret, 'Darling, must you? Really? I would hate to
think Alan and I had cramped your style!'

'Not at all,' Bianca made herself reply lightly and turned to Alan, who
had risen awkwardly to his feet. 'Please. Enjoy the rest of the
evening,' she said, before forcing herself to walk out of the elegantly
appointed dining room with at least the outward appearance of unhurried
grace.

Cesare was following, as she had known he would. She heard the scrape of
his chair as he rose from the table, the low murmur of his velvety voice
as he made his excuses, and her stomach twisted sharply inside her.

In the adjoining vast sitting room Bianca snatched her mobile from her
slim evening bag and punched in the numbers of her usual minicab firm
with shaking fingers. Her breath was coming in rapid, shallow gasps as
she ended the call and Cesare, right beside her now, said, 'Cara mia,
what is wrong? You were to stay with me tonight. Don't go. For three
weeks I have ached for you.'

He placed both hands on her shoulders and she felt her body go rigid.
His low-pitched sexy drawl swamped her with longing, the possessive
pressure of his fingers burned through the tawny-coloured silk that
clothed her shoulders, reinforcing the mindlessly

driven need to turn in his arms, loop her hands against the back of his
beautifully shaped proud head, tangle her fingers in the thick, silky
luxuriance of his jet-black hair and drown in the passion of his kiss.

Fighting against the incredible danger, Bianca moved away, putting
much-needed space between them, blinking fiercely to stop the prickle of
tears becoming a flood. He'd asked her what was wrong. Everything was
wrong. Their no-strings, right-hearted affair was becoming much deeper
and darker, at least as far as she was concerned.

She was growing too dependent on him, inclined to be unreasonably
angered and hurt when he had to cancel a date, missing him until she
ached all over, could think of nothing but him when he was out of the
country, her ears on permanent alert for the phone call that would tell
her he was back in London.

She was falling fathoms deep in love with him, that was the answer to
his question!

But no way could she tell him. No way!

Love wasn't part of their 'arrangement'.

A long, easy stride brought him in front of her. The slightly musky,
slightly sharp scent of him engulfed her, pushing the words she knew she
had to say to him back down her throat, making the struggle to
reassemble them well nigh impossible.

'Stay,' he said gently. 'I need you. If there's a problem-with work,
with anything-I'll handle it.' The slight but inescapable pressure of
his fingertip beneath her chin forced her eyes to meet his. Slate-grey
enigmas

14

fringed with thick dark lashes above the proud jut of his cheekbones,
the thinly arrogant blade of his nose at certain odds with the savage
passion of his beautiful mouth. He was so shatteringly handsome he made
her heart ache.

His automatic assumption that he could effortlessly solve problems that
would tie lesser mortals in knots made her throat tighten with
near-hysterical reaction. It had nothing to do with wealth or position
and everything to do with his sheer masculine virility, the dynamism of
his personality.

'I can't.' Bianca managed the reply to his request through lips so numb
they felt as if they didn't belong to her, her eyes still held to the
mesmerising force field of his.

'Why? I thought it was all arranged.' His long, lean fingers curved
gently around her jaw and his head lowered just a little. A preliminary
to kissing her senseless?

Unwilling to take that risk, she jerked her head away, dragging in an
anguished breath. Of course she'd meant to stay, drawn to his presence
like the proverbial moth to the flame, saved only by antennae that had
sensed and finally and unmistakably understood the danger before it had
been too late.

Her fingers digging into the soft kid of her slim evening bag, she
mentally formed the words that once spoken would be completely final.

He would accept what she said with a word or two of polite regret; he
had too much pride to ask her to

reconsider. From the moment the words were out it would be over. There
would be no going back.

A steadying breath, a straightening of her shoulders, a flick of a
tongue-tip over lips that felt stiff and dry. 'It's over, Cesare. I
won't be seeing you again.'

There, it was out, the bald statement that would leave her with some
self-respect, that would save her heart from permanent damage. It had
taken all her resolve to say the words that had felt as if they were
being dragged from her, dropping like stones into an atmosphere that had
suddenly become charged with more than the effect of her tightly wired
nerves.

The tension was coming from him now, a subtle hardening of his strong
jawline, a momentary flicker in the depths of those enigmatic eyes, a
lifting of the dark head, emphasising the whippy power of a six-foot
frame that was outrageously masculine. It made her shudder in
instinctive response.

Cesare gritted his teeth against a violent internal surge that seemed to
be tearing him apart and had to use all his self-control to prevent
himself from taking her in his arms and kissing her lovely mouth until
she retracted her words.

She couldn't leave him. He wouldn't let her!

Pulling a sharp breath through his nostrils, he closed his eyes briefly
before allowing them to dwell on her face. Beautiful. There was a touch
of the exotic about her creamy skin, the smooth black hair, lush mouth
and long amber eyes, her slender, perfectly formed body clothed tonight
in glowing tawny silk.

16

She couldn't disguise the way her soft lips trembled, but there was a
cold light of determination in her eyes that told him that, although the
touch of his lips to hers, the slide of his hands, moving slowly from
her slender shoulders to the globes of her breasts so tantalisingly
delineated beneath the thin silky fabric, would ignite the conflagration
of passion they were both helpless before, nothing would change her
decision.

A vague uneasiness at the way their relationship had been going had been
eating away at him for many weeks. Her refusal to move in with him, the
look of pain when she'd refused the gifts that had been meant to give
her pleasure, the way she had never once invited him into her home, her
soft evasiveness when he'd questioned her about her family, her
upbringing, her hopes for the future.

He knew as little about her now as he had done when he'd first met her
and had known, with shattering immediacy, that he'd wanted her in his bed.

Despite the gossip, he hadn't had as many mistresses as he'd been
credited with. And when the time for parting had come, as it inevitably
had, there had been no rancour on either side, no heartache.

So was it the mystery of her that made her different? He didn't know. He
only knew that he had never felt like this before. Emptied of his normal
assurance, his self-sufficiency, filled instead with a yearning pain.

Denying the temptation to reach out and touch her, evoke the magic that
would keep her with him just

one more time, he thrust his hands into the pockets of his
narrow-fitting black trousers and said with an impulsiveness that rocked
him back on his heels, 'Marry me, Bianca.'

19

Marry him!

The shock of Cesare's proposal had turned Bianca to stone, the only
movement detectable being the frantic beating of her heart as it
hammered against her ribs. Only the arrival of Denton, Cesare's
manservant, a few seconds later, snatched her out of the fantasy land
where she and Cesare were bound together by love until death did them
part and plunged her back into stark reality.

'Your cab's arrived, Miss Jay.'

Just five cockney-accented words were all it took to clear her head,
strengthen her resolve, move her out of the paralysing shock that had
held her immobile, allow her to focus on Denton's impassive, homely
features, force out a pallid smile, a word of thanks, turn again to
Cesare, not meeting his eyes, and push the single word 'goodbye' through
her lips.

And walk from the room, anguish a tight band around her heart, leaving
behind the man she was growing to love with more passion than reason,
pointedly ignoring his offer of marriage as if it were beneath her
consideration, that insult the final and firmest nail in the coffin of
their relationship.

As the cab made uneven progress towards Hampstead through the
late-evening traffic Bianca pressed her fingertips against the burning
pressure of her eyelids. She would not cry. She couldn't allow herself
that luxury. And even thinking about that shock proposal of marriage was
counter-productive. If anything, it made everything worse. Far worse.

A permanent relationship was the last thing Cesare wanted; hadn't he
told her that much?

So why that shock proposal of marriage?

Shuddering as her stomach tied itself in nauseating knots, she forced
herself to face facts, to find an answer to that question. He obviously
hadn't yet tired of their nights of blazing, unforgettable passion, she
ticked off mentally. Cesare still wanted her physically, perhaps because
the time they'd spent together had been governed by the foreign travel
made necessary by his business commitments, her refusal to move in with
him, her insistence that when she stayed with him she left at dawn,
alone, taking a cab back to the home she shared with her mother.

So their time together had been snatched-and inevitably all the more
precious for that. There had been nothing routine or predictable about
their affair. Therefore, it followed, Cesare hadn't yet grown bored.

Hence the surprise proposal. Bind her legally until he tired of her, It
was the sort of thing that was taken for granted in the
ultra-sophisticated circles he moved in. The sort of thing that brought
devastation in its wake, as she knew only too well.

It was over, she lectured herself staunchly as the

20

cab drew into the street where she lived. She had done the right, the
sensible thing and now she had to forget Cesare Andriotti, forget the
brief dead-end affair that had started to mean far too much to her, and
concentrate on the immediate and problematic future.

Giving mental thanks for Aunt Jeanne's willingness to be co-opted,
Bianca paid off the driver and stood for a moment in the warm late-May
evening, readying herself to enter the house.

She had to put her own anguish aside and get to grips with the love and
duty she owed to her mother. Without Aunt Jeanne's presence, she
reminded herself, she would have been unable to attend Claudia's
birthday dinner party this evening, an event which had helped her to
finally make up her mind about ending her affair with Cesare.

And without her aunt's promise to keep an eye on her sister, Bianca's
mother, she would have had to have asked her boss, Stazia, for an
extended period of leave, at least until her mother's problems had been
resolved.

Expelling a short sigh, she turned to face the house that wouldn't be
theirs for much longer.

The steps up to the white-painted door sheltered by a stone pediment,
the empty window-boxes on either side that she really should have
planted up weeks ago, the elegantly curtained windows. The desirable
facade proclaimed respectability but hid anything but.

As if to reinforce her wry observation the door in front of her was
flung open and a golden-skinned

youth wearing a singlet and boxer shorts half fell, half hurtled down
the steps followed by sundry articles of clothing accompanied by her
mother's cut-glass tones, now raised in ringing, withering scorn,
'Damned sprog! What do you think I am? Desperate?' Her tone lowered
scathingly. 'And a word of advice-polish up your wares before you
attempt to sell them.'

Backlit by the hall illumination Helene Jay's tall, bone-thin figure,
wrapped in a filmy, ruffled robe, was bristling with outrage, her
carefully tinted copper hair writhing about the ageing beauty of her far
too heavily made-up face.

Ignoring the youth who was scrabbling around for his scattered
belongings, Bianca mounted the steps. Her heart was somewhere near the
soles of her feet and she wanted to collapse into floods of tears. To
weep for what she had thrown away tonight and what she faced in the
immediate future.

But letting go was out of the question. For the larger part of her
twenty-five years she had had to be the stronger part of the
mother-daughter relationship and now her mother needed every bit of
support she could give her.

Two weeks ago her mother had been having the contents of her stomach
unceremoniously pumped out. An overdose of sleeping pills and vast
quantities of alcohol. 'One teeny drink too many and I forgot I'd
already taken my pills-too silly of me, darling,' had been the excuse
she'd feebly proffered.

But Bianca wasn't so sure. Approaching her fiftieth

22

birthday, no regular man in her life, her once fantastic looks fading
rapidly, Helene Jay was pitifully vulnerable. Her always volatile
temperament was daily growing more brittle. Anything could happen.

Reaching her mother's side, Bianca took her arm, inwardly flinching at
the extreme thinness of the flesh beneath her fingers, and turned her
gently back into the hall, closing the door behind them.

'Helene-don't-' she exhorted, her voice riven with compassion as a
sudden storm of sobs shook the older woman's frame. She couldn't bear to
see her mother like this, her thick black mascara smudged into
panda-like circles, her scarlet lipstick gravitating into the fine lines
around her mouth.

'That little creep was a gigolo! I had no idea! How could I have?' she
wailed brokenly. 'He assumed I had to pay for male company!'

'Then he's obviously either completely stupid, or blind.' Bianca did her
utmost to soothe the already battered ego, her shaking fingers reaching
a tissue from her bag to mop the mascara-streaked tears from her
mother's face, murmuring with what she hoped was the right balance of
humour and concern, 'I thought you and Jeanne were settled for the
night, watching television.'

Helene jerked her head away, her recent humiliation momentarily
forgotten. That programme you said was unmissable was deadly boring and
Jeanne's got no conversation to speak of-discussing knitting patterns
and recipes is her idea of sparkling repartee-and do

stop treating me like a child, darling. I know you mean well, but it can
be stultifying! I needed a drink and as this house has become a positive
temperance hall I went out to get one.'

And unknowingly picked up a gigolo, Bianca thought despairingly. Years
ago her mother had never lacked attentive male company but as time had
crept inexorably onwards adoring lovers had become demeaning one-night
stands, her spending on the latest fashions more incautious, her
drinking habits more injurious.

This latest incident with the golden youth who had wanted payment for
services about to be rendered could be the final nudge that could tip
the fading, once fabulously beautiful woman clear over the edge.

And where the heck was Jeanne?

As if in answer to Bianca's unspoken question a stout, elderly woman
descended the stairs, tying the belt of a serviceable fawn dressing gown
around what passed for her waist.

'I heard shouting-such a commotion! I came as soon as I could.'

As soon as she'd located her false teeth and removed her curlers, Bianca
translated wearily. To Aunt Jeanne respectability was all.

'I heard a man's voice, calling you names-and you screeching.' Her mild
blue eyes hardened as she took in the ravaged state of her younger
sister's face. 'You told me, Helene, that you were tired and fancied an
early night. So I went up early, too.' She vented a long

24

sigh. 'You tricked me. I didn't come all this way to look after you to
be made a fool of.'

Cesare bade his sister and brother-in-law goodnight, impatient to end
the evening that had dragged so slowly since Bianca's departure
carefully concealed behind a bland smile that didn't reach his eyes.

The caterers had left half an hour ago and Denton was doing some
unnecessary clearing up in the kitchen. Curtly dismissing him for the
night, Cesare turned off the lights and headed for his study.

Normally, the quiet, book-lined room was a peaceful oasis in his hectic
working life. No fax machines, computer screens or telephones to spoil
the relaxing atmosphere. Whatever the pressures, he made it a rule never
to bring his work back to whichever home he happened to be using at the
moment.

But tonight, he knew, he wouldn't be able to relax anywhere on earth
until he could get his head round what had happened.

Dumping an inch of malt whisky in a squat crystal tumbler, he paced the
room, his stride rapid and edgy, anger holding his shoulders rigid.

She had said it was over. Just like that.

In his experience it didn't happen that way. His occasional affairs had
been ended by him, the demise carefully signalled weeks in advance. The
parting was amicable with gentle words of regret, a lavish gift-a car,
jewellery, an exotic holiday-according to the lady in question's
preferences.

But never like this. Never!

And never before he was ready to end it!

Slamming his empty glass down on the leather-topped desk, he scowled at
the spines of the books on the shelves, not seeing them. The anger that
raged through him in a roaring torrent demanded release.

And where in the name of all that was sacred had that proposal of
marriage come from? Porca miseria- his mind must have gone walkabout!
The words had slipped out without any direction from his brain, shocking
him.

His hands balled into fists and his jaw clenched until his teeth ached.
She had simply ignored what he'd said. Not by a flicker of those
fabulous lashes had she revealed that his monumentally crazy offer of
marriage had made the slightest impact,

Many women would have killed their own grandmothers to hear those words
from his lips!

Bianca Jay had simply looked through him and walked away!

No one, but no one, humiliated Cesare Andriotti and got away with it!

His ebony brows flared as he bit out an expletive in rawly vented
Italian. Then, collecting himself, he dragged in a deep breath, meant to
be calming but not quite hitting the mark.

He had wanted Bianca Jay from the very first moment of seeing her. She
hadn't been a pushover but he'd got what he'd wanted from her in the
end. But somehow, on a level he'd never encountered before,

26

it had been far more complicated than the slaking of physical lust
within the confines of a sophisticated affair.

The beautiful, elusive Bianca had begun to intrigue him. In bed they
shared a mind-blowing ecstasy but out of it she kept him at a distance,
never letting him get to really know her.

She'd flatly refused to move in with him and put their relationship on a
semi-permanent basis, and had made it abundantly plain that she would
accept none of the gifts he had instinctively wanted to shower on her,
had refused to speak of her background, her family, easily and prettily
changing the subject whenever he'd brought it up.

And although he'd increasingly wanted to know what made her the woman
she was he'd respected her need for privacy, battening down his
ever-growing desire to solve the mystery of her, pin down the
elusiveness that was part of her tantalising contribution to their
relationship.

Impatiently sloshing another inch of whisky into his glass, he took it
to his desk and extracted a slim notebook from one of the drawers.
Riffling through it, he found the number he wanted.

What had happened this evening had changed all the rules. Respecting her
privacy was now completely out of the frame.

Sitting on the comfortably upholstered swivel chair, he reached for the
phone, his shoulders relaxing, his

eyes darkening and narrowing as his anger hardened into something
darker, needier. Don't get mad, get even!

'It's not going to work, is it?' Jeanne said decisively as she stirred
the third spoonful of sugar into her breakfast coffee.

Dressed this morning in a light tweed skirt and cotton blouse, every
iron-grey curl in its designated place, she looked what she was:
sensible, stolid and utterly reliable. Sighing, Bianca had to agree with
her aunt's blunt statement. In the past she had coped alone with her
mother's growing excesses, her startling mood changes, but after the
overdose episode she had been really frightened.

For the first time ever she'd sought outside help in the shape of her
widowed Aunt Jeanne. Her amber eyes misted with tears as she recalled
her aunt's immediate offer. 'She can stay with me in Bristol while you
wind things up that end and find somewhere else to live. And I'll spend
the next week or two with you until she's feeling more herself, keep an
eye on her while you're out at work. From the sound of it she shouldn't
be left too much on her own.'

Bianca had grasped the offer with both grateful hands. The lease on this
house expired in a couple of months. Hunting for a flat she could
afford, holding down her demanding job, deciding what to do about the
furnishings-all while coping with her mother's problems-would have been
a nightmare.

28

Newly discharged from hospital, feeling frail and needy, Helene had
listlessly agreed. But on the evidence of last night's return to her
former addictions, alcohol and men, it was obvious that she wouldn't
settle for five minutes in her sister's tidy little semi in a quiet road
on the outskirts of Bristol.

'I love my sister but I can't take the responsibility; it wouldn't be
fair on either of us,' Jeanne admitted. 'What she needs is professional
help-one of those fancy clinics you read about, where film stars and
footballers go to get themselves sorted out.'

'If only!' Bianca gave a wry smile as she passed her aunt a rack of
fresh toast and sat to pour herself some desperately needed strong hot
coffee. 'She refuses to see her GP about her problems, mainly because
she won't admit she has any. But she'd probably go for a fancy,
up-market clinic. It would suit her image!' She took a grateful sip of
the aromatic brew in her cup and added prosaically, 'Unfortunately,
there's no way we could afford that sort of treatment.'

'Nothing left of the settlement?'

'That went years ago.' Bianca lifted her shoulders in a weary shrug. Her
mother's divorce settlement had been recklessly spent on the latest
designer clothes, lavish parties, an endless supply of drink.

"Then ask your father to pay for treatment. He's extremely wealthy, by
all accounts. And it's mostly his fault she's the way she is.' Jeanne
spread butter lavishly on her toast. 'You know, I always used to envy my
little sister. When she married Conrad Jay I

thought she had everything. Wealth beyond her wildest dreams-a bit "new
money", but you can't have everything. At least his financial clout
bought their way into the most glittering social circles. She was so
beautiful and I was plain. But now I'm glad-about being plain.' She took
a healthy bite. 'If you've never had any looks you can't lose them and
get all bitter and twisted about it. That said, you should approach your
father for help.'

'No.' The refusal was instinctive. Seeing Jeanne's quick frown, Bianca
knew she had to elaborate and excuse her apparent stubbornness.

Although the sisters had kept in touch through the years, via the
occasional phone call or letter, their lives had barely touched. There
was so much her aunt didn't know. And because Helene was sleeping off
the effects of last night's binge and the resulting aftermath, when
she'd thrown her sister's offering of a mug of sweet cocoa-'To help you
settle, dear'-at the sitting-room wall then had hysterics, Bianca and
Jeanne could at least have a frank and full discussion.

'I only met my father once. I was twelve,' Bianca explained. 'It was New
Year's Eve and he was visiting London-he was living in the States at
that time. He wanted to see me-he'd never shown an atom of interest
before. I went to his hotel hating him, not because he'd never so much
as acknowledged my existence, but because of what he'd done to my mother.'

She leaned back in her chair, remembering that dreadful day. 'A week
before, something had gone

30

wrong for Helene-don't ask me what, I can't remember-but she'd started
drinking and getting maudlin and told me I was old enough to be told
what a louse my father was.

'She was twenty-one when she met and married him. For two years she was
blissfully happy, living the high life, and then she suspected he was
seeing someone else. So she deliberately got pregnant with me, thinking
that would stop him straying. But it didn't work. He left her for the
latest sex symbol on the social scene. As part of the divorce settlement
he bought a twenty-five-year lease on this house. And that was that; she
never saw him again. I think she had loved him desperately, and never
really got over it.'

Bianca shrugged, knowing she was probably about to shock her
ultra-respectable aunt. 'I grew up in the changing company of a variety
of ''uncles''. She could have married any one of them-they always seemed
to be besotted. But there was always something wrong with them-in a
nutshell they weren't Conrad Jay. She never stopped loving him but she
needed these men in her life to convince herself that she was still
desirable, worth something.'

She pulled a wry face. 'So there was I, twelve years old and hating my
father, when that surprise phone call came through. Helene put me in a
taxi to the hotel and my father put me in another to take me home.

'In between I told him exactly what I thought of him for the way he'd
hurt my mother and said that under no circumstances would I ever agree
to see him

again. All this in front of his latest new wife. She couldn't have been
more than seven or eight years older than me. So perhaps you understand
why he is the last person I would ever appeal to for help. I have no
idea how to contact him, even if I wanted to. And the moral of this
story is something Helene once said to me-never marry a rich man. They
know the price of everything and the value of nothing.'

Advice which had stuck more firmly than she'd realised, cemented in
place by the damage such a marriage had done to her mother, the years of
coping with the after-effects. Advice which had stood her in good stead
when Cesare had made that shock offer of marriage.

Pushing him and what he had come to mean to her roughly out of her head,
Bianca rose from the table and forced herself to think instead of how to
handle the problem of helping Helene and holding down the job that was
essential if she were to provide for them both.

Right at this moment it seemed completely impossible.

33

He had her!

Had her exactly where he wanted her!

Cesare slid the sleek black Ferrari into a fortuitously vacant kerbside
slot in front of the Hampstead house and switched off the ignition, the
iron fist of inner harshness crushing that gut-punch of triumph,
hardening his icy resolve.

His mouth flattened into a line of grim determination. Whatever the
beautiful minx thought, he hadn't finished with Bianca Jay yet, not by a
mile. The information he had at his fingertips would ensure that, until
he said it was over, their affair would continue. On his terms this
time, not hers. His Italian pride demanded it.

She would be taught that no woman brushed an Andriotti male aside as if
he were of no more importance than a fly! It was a salutary lesson he
would take great pleasure in giving.

Flicking a glance at the fagade of her home, he battened down the
recurring upsurge of anger with steely control. Don't get mad, get even,
he reminded himself. Her carefully hoarded secrets were his now and he
would use every last one of them to his own advantage.

Exiting the car, he activated the top-of-the-range security system, his
mouth hard and flat as he mounted the steps and pressed the doorbell.

Yesterday's phone call to her boss, Stazia Lynley, had elicited the
information that she had just received a surprise call from Bianca
herself, requesting an indefinite period of unpaid leave, so unless she
was in the habit of going shopping at eight in the morning she would
answer the summons.

His loins kicked and hardened at the mere thought of seeing her again,
of drowning in the witchery of her beautiful amber eyes, in the special
just-for-him look of steamy sultriness that swamped the glorious,
glowing depths when they lay together in tangled sheets. Two eager
bodies, hours of mind-melting passion, melding her physically to him.
Yet keeping her just out of reach, he reminded himself. Because he'd
never known the truth of her; the real Bianca Jay had been carefully
kept from him.

Until now.

Switching off lust was far harder than blocking out anger, he conceded
edgily as he pressed his thumb against the bell-push again and kept it
there. But by the time he heard the rasp of the bolts being drawn back
his face was as bland as a slashing bone structure, a blade of a nose
and a passionate mouth could ever hope to be.

'Cesare-' His name on the lustiness of her lips was a falling sigh, as
if seeing him here was more than she could hope to cope with, and as the
quick flush of telltale

34

and immediate colour receded he noted that her skin was ashy pale, her
eyes dark-circled as if she's spent the past night in wakeful worry.

He hated to see that, although he knew he shouldn't. Compassion
shouldn't come into the equation in his dealings with the witch who had
taken his ego and stamped on it. Why should she sleep easily when he'd
lain awake all night, alternately plotting revenge or consumed with
anger and damaged pride?

Impatiently consoling the stubborn part of himself that felt pain at her
distress with the knowledge that her anxiety over her mother would soon
be ended, and quelling the stab of guilt over having brought her from
her bed-as evidenced by the rumpled state of her long, silky black hair,
the robe hastily flung on and belted over her naked body-he responded
coolly, 'We need to talk.'

'There's nothing to say.' Her voice was wary and the hand that gripped
the edge of the partly open door was white-knuckled. Her heart had leapt
into her throat and was staying there, beating fast enough to choke her.

She had never thought to see him again, truly believing that having been
told their affair was over he would watch her walk away with little or
no regret, shrug his impressive shoulders and begin the process of
finding the next willing candidate to share his nighttime activities. It
was the sort of thing men like him did.

Eyes that had been downcast since that first split

second of recognition now flicked wide to meet his head-on. And as that
familiar hot excitement permeated her bloodstream she wished she'd kept
her eyes firmly on the floor.

Clad in a perfectly tailored light silky grey suit, the crisp white
shirt emphasising the olive tones of his skin and the tough, shadowed
jawline that was always dark no matter how often he shaved, the dark
charcoal of his tie that matched the broody, moody colour of his eyes,
he looked exactly what he was-all-sophisticated Italian male, king of
the heap, effortlessly in total command of who he was, what he did.

Bianca sucked in a sharp, much-needed gulp of air. The incredible impact
of him had hit her with the usual enervating body-blow, making it
impossible for her to do anything to deny him entry when he calmly
walked past her into the hall.

'Where?' he asked succinctly, his narrowed eyes watching her with
immovable cool, one dark brow elevating slightly to emphasise his question.

Wordlessly, every inch of her skin quivering beneath the covering of
soft dove-grey satin, Bianca led the way to the sitting room at the back
of the tall, narrow house, her mind flittering like an intoxicated gnat
as she sought reasons for his presence.

To call her names because she'd ended their affair before he'd had time
to grow bored with the relationship? That didn't seem in character. To
him and many other men in his position affairs such as theirs had been
were ephemeral and easily forgotten.

36

To beg her to return to him, or to repeat his crazy proposal of
marriage? Both seemed unlikely. His Italian pride wouldn't let him beg.

But if he did, her tired mind panicked, would she be able to resist when
she only had to look at him to be swamped by this incredible need?

She really didn't want this, her weary brain shrieked in protest. To see
Cesare again was more than she could handle on top of everything else.

Her boss hadn't been one bit pleased at her inability to put a time
limit on the amount of leave she needed. It was impossible to say how
long it would take to find alternative, affordable accommodation and
organise the move, somehow persuade a stubborn Helene to seek medical
help, convince Jeanne that her presence was essential for a while longer.

Closing the sitting room door behind them, Bianca gave him what she
hoped would pass as a look of impatience, desperately trying to keep the
revealing mute misery from her eyes.

Cesare Andriotti should have looked out of place, his potent masculinity
at odds with Helene's choice of ultra-feminine decor. But, as always,
she thought with grudging admiration, he took control, his surroundings
fading into insignificance before the force field of his commanding
personality as he gestured her to one of the pair of delicate Edwardian
chairs flanking a rosewood tripod table in the window embrasure, before
taking his time about seating himself.

His long legs loosely crossed at the ankles, his arms

resting on the delicate rosewood supports, his dark head tipped back
against the high, velvet-upholstered back of the chair, he looked
totally relaxed, only the cold, brilliant glitter of his eyes telling
her that, whatever his reason for being here, he meant business.

The silence sizzled with sexual tension, with the stinging expectation
of she knew not what. The way he was looking at her now was doing her
head in, his incredibly sexy, moody eyes sliding over her as if he was
assessing every curve, line and hollow of her lightly clad body,
awarding her desirability points out of ten.

Biting her lip, she managed thickly, 'What do you want, Cesare?' And in
a last-ditch attempt to stamp some of her own authority on this
unlooked-for meeting, she added, 'I honestly don't have much time; I've
a lot to get through today.'

And watched her words misfire as he ignored her pathetic attempt to take
control and listed smoothly, 'Your lease runs out shortly and on your
salary I doubt you can afford to renew it. Therefore the need to find
alternative accommodation is imperative. Not easy, not when one
considers the price of property in London, and Helene Sinclair's liking
for the luxuries of this life.' He steepled his fingers, the tips
resting against the sensual curve of his lower lip. 'Am I not right?'

Gazing at him speechlessly, Bianca felt what little colour she did have
drain out of her face. How did he know her mother's maiden name? Who
could have

38

told him that the twenty-five-year lease that had been part of her
mother's divorce settlement was coming to an end?

She had been so careful to keep her personal life, her worries and
concerns, out of their relationship. Not because she was ashamed of what
her mother was rapidly becoming-falling in love with a wealthy
sophisticate who thought it was his right to change his wives as often
as he changed his cars had been to blame for the mess Helene was making
of her life-but because opening up to Cesare would have made her even
more vulnerable than she had been where he was concerned.

Besides, he wouldn't have been interested in her problems. Theirs had
been the sort of affair he was used to, with both partners keeping to
the ground rules. No strings, no commitment and certainly no messy
soul-baring to bore the socks off him.

Unaffected by her silence, he continued remorselessly, 'A sought-after
and very lovely model in her late teens and early twenties, your mother
became used to admiring attention and the rewards of a big salary.'

He tilted her a look that told her he was amused by the way her mouth
had fallen open with horrified disbelief at what she was hearing. 'Of
course,' he opined smoothly, 'after her marriage to your father she
would have become used to a life of idle luxury, the glitter and glamour
of the international social scene, where all she had to do was look
beautiful and collect the homage of enchanted males. After the divorce,'
he continued with chilling silkiness, 'she'd long since lost

the work ethic. But that didn't matter, did it? There was a substantial
settlement.

'However-' his eyes impaled her, a helpless prisoner of his verbal
torture '-the money drained away. Spent on wild parties, her racketty
friends, the endless search for flattery. The excesses worsening during
the last few months-places she was discreetly barred from and those she
was rather too publicly thrown out of. Helene has more than a few problems.'

Again the infuriating upward drift of one eloquent brow. 'Need I say more?'

Shaking with shock, everything she'd kept from him out in the open, she
felt desperately nauseous. He was gloating over her problems, he just
had to be, and in that moment she hated him with a violence that
threatened to shatter her completely.

Was this-this utterly hateful gloating-his way of getting back at her
for ending their affair, for having the temerity to ignore his
dangerously tempting, shock proposal of marriage?

Her body held immobile by the weight of his knowledge, her lips moved
with awkward stiffness as she forced out, 'How the hell do you know all
this?'

'Simple.' He had the gall to smile; the slow curving of his passionate
mouth that had once had the power to enslave her now filled her with a
wave of disgust that sent shivers shuddering down her spine, 'Through a
private investigator. Blakely's the head of his sphere. A phone call, a
name, an address, and he came up with a wad of interesting information.'

40

Anger brought her spine to attention, thrusting her breasts tight
against the silky fabric. Flushing, she saw his gaze drop, fastening on
the pouting globes, lingering, exactly like a caress.

Determinedly ignoring the way her skin fluttered, the sudden and
definitely unwanted pooling of heat at the juncture of her thighs, she
said as frostily as she could manage, 'Well, bully for you! Though I
can't imagine what satisfaction you could hope to gain from digging the
dirt on my family.'

'No?' His smile was pure menace.

Bianca had heard it said that Cesare Andriotti was the most ruthless
bargainer on the planet. She had never seen that side of him before, and
now that she had she felt her blood run cold. And her mouth trembled as
she listened to the slow, self-assured pace of his next words.

'I get complete satisfaction. Does that answer your question? You see,
cara mia, I have not yet grown tired of our affair, and until I'm
sated-I, not you-it will continue.'

'No!' The instinctive and vehement repudiation was wrested from her. It
wasn't going to happen! With each day that had passed she had fallen
more and more in love with him. Ending their affair had been the hardest
thing she'd ever had to do. To continue with it until he decided to say
goodbye and move on would do even more damage to her already battered heart.

'In return-' he deliberately ignored the sheer anguish of that single
word, steeling himself to discount

the wretchedness in her golden eyes, eyes that had once glowed with
incandescent pleasure on seeing him '-in return I will make your
problems go away. I have already spoken to Professor Vaccari. Marco is
an expert in the field of the addictive personality and he has agreed to
give Helene the counselling she so obviously needs. Also, I will renew
the lease on this property so that after two or three months on the
island a fit and balanced Helene will have a home to return to.'

'You can't!' Her head was spinning so wildly it was all she could think
to say. Even a short-term lease would cost many thousands. It was
unthinkable-

'On the contrary.' His dark eyes slid to the way she was clutching the
arms of her chair, her fingers white with the pressure she was exerting,
as if she was desperate to find something real and solid to cling onto.
'I can do what I want to do. Before, when you shared my bed so
willingly, you went against what I wanted. You refused to move in with
me, refused my gifts.'

His lips pulled back against his teeth as he remembered. He'd seen her
refusals as statements of independence, of distance, and he could barely
admit, even to himself, how they'd hurt, how he'd experienced a crazy
sense of loneliness. Ridiculous, of course.

'You can refuse again, naturally. That is your choice. But think about
it for a moment,' he slid in when her eyes widened as they winged to
his. 'Your problems will remain. And do you honestly think

42

Helene will go to her GP and ask for the help she needs? Or isn't her
well-being your first priority?'

Of course it was! How dared he imply otherwise? She loved her mother and
felt deeply sorry for her, understanding only too well what had made her
the woman she was. Suddenly her eyes stung with tears and she blinked
furiously and gritted her teeth to stop her mouth trembling.

Watching her, Cesare felt an iron band tighten around his heart. Was she
stubborn enough, so determined to keep him out of her life, that she
would refuse to consider his offer?

Was he, for the first time in his life, about to be denied something
he'd set his mind on having? The thought that he might lose what he most
wanted- Bianca Jay in his life and in his bed for as long as he wanted
her there-gave him a hitherto unknown sensation of panic.

He rigorously quelled the feeling he refused to admit to, and his voice
was silkily seductive as he brushed his own emotions aside and worked on
hers with the skill of a master. 'Think of an island in the sun, a
beautiful villa, expert professional care for Helene. You and I
together, staying close by. And we're good together, you know we are.
Keeping your part of the bargain shouldn't be too much of a problem.'

But it would! He could have no idea how big the problem would be!

It was almost too tempting. To be where she most

longed to be, a longing that went far beyond the wonder of feeling the
length of his body against the arching eagerness of hers, skin against
skin, mouth against mouth, a longing that went so much further,
encompassing a need to be loved, a need for the total commitment he
obviously couldn't or wouldn't give.

Unconsciously she shook her head. That deep longing belonged in the
past. She couldn't want to be loved by a man who would use blackmail to
get what he wanted. She wasn't that crazy, was she? Gathering her
wandering thoughts, she forced herself to return to what he had said.

'You talk about an island, about treatment. Where? For how long?'

She knew her voice sounded flat. Deliberately speaking in a careful
monotone was the only way to stop herself railing at the man who had
been her lover and who now came in the guise of an enemy. For only an
enemy could make demands that would leave her heart in ruins. 'And how
do I know this professor whatever-his-name-is could help my mother?'

It all sounded too far-fetched to be believable. He was playing cruel
games, he simply had to be, and how could she ever have imagined herself
sinking fathoms deep in love with a man who would stoop to such
measures? Nervous energy suddenly coursing through her, Bianca got to
her feet and fled to the door, flinging it open. 'Please go.'

Cesare didn't move, but his eyes followed her every enticingly fluid
movement.

44

She was angry now, sensationally so, her head flung proudly back on her
slender neck, her glorious hair a dark and silky tangle, her eyes
flashing amber warnings, her fabulous body taut, every curve lovingly
highlighted by the sheen of her flimsy robe. His heart jumped in his
chest and his body hardened. He had never wanted her as much as he did
at this moment.

He ached to take her in his arms, rediscover every inch of her with hot
masculine pleasure, to kiss her until neither of them knew where they
were, to stamp his brand of ownership on her until she took back the icy
statement she'd made on the night of Claudia's birthday dinner.

It took a supreme act of will-power to get the wayward instincts of his
body back under control and an act of cool determination to regain
mastery of the situation. Levering himself slowly to his feet, he leant
back against the delicate table, his legs crossed at the ankles, his
hands deep in his pockets, facing her across the length of the room.

'In answer to your questions, Professor Vaccari is the best there is. I
would not have retained his services for an unspecified length of time
had that not been the case. And my island is off the coast of Sicily-a
few acres only, but beautiful. The villa will supply all the luxury
Helene could want, with the added benefit of being isolated from the
temptations of the dubious pleasures of city nightlife. Helene will
receive expert and sympathetic counselling, on that you have my word.
You and I will be close at hand. You will see

her every day to judge her progress back to full health and ensure that
she doesn't feel entirely cut off amongst strangers. And you will come
to my bed whenever I call,' he taunted softly.

Bianca ground her teeth together until her jaw ached. She was seeing a
side of Cesare Andriotti she didn't like at all, a side she had never
guessed at during the time she had been slowly but only too surely
falling in love with him. Arrogance was too tame a word to describe the
way he was backing her into a corner.

Dimly aware of the sound of movement in the main body of the house, the
aroma of coffee and toast that meant Jeanne was up and about and making
breakfast, she closed the door. Expecting him to take his marching
orders had been a futile exercise, and one she was deeply regretting
now. It made her look a complete loser.

But she wasn't a loser, or not completely. She jerked her chin up,
levelling him an icy glance down the short length of her elegant nose.
'To pay for Helene's treatment I spend my nights in your bed,' she
stated grimly. 'It seems small recompense for the amount of hard cash
you'll be laying out. Do you think you can just dig into the bottomless
Andriotti coffers and buy what you want?'

His eyes gleamed darkly. Dio, he had never paid for a woman in his life,
but he would willingly bankrupt himself for this woman to avenge himself
for the way she had so insultingly dismissed him from her life.

46

Drawling deliberately, he countered, 'It is what people do, I think. See
commodities they want and go out and buy them.'

So she was a 'commodity' now, was she? she fulminated angrily, then felt
her shoulders sag in a draining kind of despair because when it came
right down to it that was all she'd ever been to him. Or ever could be.
The only anomaly being, in her case, her outright refusal to accept the
gifts-the 'payments'-he'd tried to lavish on her.

Wrapping her arms around her body, she leant back against the door, her
eyes closing as she tried to find a way out of this humiliating
nightmare. As far as Helene was concerned, what he was suggesting
sounded ideal. A luxurious villa on an idyllic island, fresh air,
sunshine and someone sympathetic and qualified to help her back to
health, back to a sensibly constructive as opposed to a destructive
lifestyle.

The only impossible downside would be having to share Cesare's bed. Not
a problem in the past-even now she could feel her body's response to the
memories of how it had been for them-but now being forced into
compliance to his will, knowing she was being bought and paid for, a
victim of his cruel games, waking every morning to wonder if today would
be the day when he told her he had tired of her. Part of her hoping it
would be, the other part wanting him to stay with her for ever.

But would sleeping with him for her mother's sake be a problem? her
weary mind slotted in. Her past

attempts to get her mother to see her GP had met with total failure. But
an Italian island belonging to the wealthy Andriotti family, luxury on
tap, a few sessions with the top man in his field would appeal to the
part of her that was firmly stuck back in her heyday, the universally
envied wife of a handsome millionaire. She would feel special and
pampered, not just a number in a long NHS queue.

Cesare was still waiting for her response. She could feel his eyes on
her, burning her skin. Crunch time, she thought, her insides giving a
hollow lurch.

Laving her dry lips with the tip of her tongue, she lifted her eyes and
bargained throatily, 'In principle you don't give me much choice, but I
want to alter the terms. Aunt Jeanne goes with Helene and I move in with
you, here in London, if that's what you want.' She paused for a fraught
moment to clear the constriction in her throat. 'That way you won't have
to be away from your work and neither will I. I can look for alternative
accommodation and that means you won't have to lay out I don't know how
many thousands on renewing the lease here.'

And that way, at least, she wouldn't feel so sullied, her job would be
safe and she could flat-hunt without worrying about what Helene was
getting up to. And as soon as he'd tired of her-and, given what little
she knew of his track record, that wouldn't be too far in the future-she
would at last be free of him.

The silence stretched for long moments; she could hear her own
breathing, ragged and jumpy, the muted

48

tick of the mantel clock. He didn't appear to have heard a word of what
she'd said, his expression not altering by a flicker of an eyelash.

Until he smiled. Just a lazy curving of the corners of his mouth as he
enunciated the single word, 'No.'

It was settled over breakfast. Jeanne, tracking her niece to the sitting
room, had insisted 'her visitor' join them for the meal. And Cesare, as
Bianca had known he would, charmed her aunt on side.

'It's exactly what my sister needs. I had thought Bianca and I could
cope between us, but, frankly, we can't. And I could do with a holiday,
too. I haven't had one since my husband died-it's really most generous,
Mr Andriotti. Most.'

'Not at all, Jeanne.' Cesare, accepting his second cup of coffee after
appreciatively working his way through half a grapefruit, poached eggs
followed by toast and honey, gave her the kind of smile that would turn
any woman to mush. 'Bianca and I have been close friends for quite some
time. If a friend of mine needs help, then I'm only too happy to do what
I can.'

And not a single word about what his 'close friend' was going to have to
do to secure this wonderful and so generous solution to Helene's little
problem! Bianca pushed her untouched plate of toast away with huff
worthy of a spoiled brat and unguardedly met his eyes.

Sexy eyes. Her insides looped the loop even while the palm of her hand
itched to swipe that sardonically knowing smile off his handsome face,
and she was

saved from blurting out the truth and seeing Jeanne's grateful
approbation turn to shocked outrage by Helene's entrance.

Mornings for Helene didn't normally begin before noon, and her early
appearance must have been down to hearing a male voice, Bianca deduced,
noting the full complement of warpaint, the obligatory ruffled,
semi-transparent negligee.

Rising to pour her mother the strong black coffee that was all she ever
took for breakfast, she abandoned Jeanne to perform the necessary
introductions. Detecting the unmistakable smell of whisky on Helene's
breath, Bianca mentally caved in.

She and Jeanne had systematically rid the house of alcohol, or so they'd
thought. Helene must have a secret stash.

Defeat left her drained. She switched off and allowed the master of
persuasion to use his considerable charm to make Helene see that a
'holiday' on a beautiful Italian island, with the undivided attention of
a brilliant professor, was exactly what a woman of her sensitive nature
needed.

Famous names-actresses, minor royalty, big-time sports
personalities-were dropped like gilded hooks into the conversation. 'So
many of the rich and famous often burn themselves out and owe their
complete rejuvenation to Professor Vaccari' clinched the matter.

If Cesare Andriotti still classed her with the rich and famous, then
that was more than fine by Helene Jay.

50

It made her feel just beautifully important, someone really special again.

Mutely, Bianca began to clear the breakfast dishes while Cesare said his
goodbyes, promising to fax the details of their travel arrangements
through during the next twenty-four hours. There was a hollow feeling
inside her that had nothing to do with her inability to eat breakfast as
she watched Helene flutter in his wake when she saw him to the door.

'I must get to the station and wait for the first train to Bristol,'
Jeanne announced, her plain features pink with pleasure. 'It's bound to
be much hotter on that island than it is here, so I must fetch some of
my cooler things. I'll make sure I'm back later this evening. You can
cope, can't you? She must have sneaked a bottle in-I could smell it on
her.' The pink flush of pleasure deepened to condemnation. 'We can't get
her to that professor person soon enough!'

A sentiment Bianca could only agree with, but the price would be
cripplingly high. Annoyingly, her eyes swam with tears as she bent to
load the dishwasher.

Cursing her mangled emotions, she furiously blinked the moisture away at
Helene's approach, her amused, 'Who's a dark horse, then? I knew you
were seeing someone-a girl doesn't creep in at dawn because she's been
late-night shopping! But Cesare Andriotti, of all people! Darling,' she
said quietly, sounding absolutely sober now, 'do be careful. He's
gorgeous, charming and loaded and obviously a generous lover, so have a
fling with him by all means, but don't fall in love with him. Been
there, done that and it isn't worth the heartbreak.'

Tell me about it, Bianca thought grimly as Helene left the room,
probably to finish what was left in that secret bottle.

The next few weeks-or as long as it took for Cesare to decide he'd tired
of her-promised to be the worst of her life. Yet there was this feverish
burning deep inside her when she thought of the coming nights, her part
of the bargain, the way he could turn her into a wanton, wild thing with
one touch, one explicit look from those sinfully moody, sexy eyes...

He had always been able to reach her on that level. From the first
moment of her setting eyes on him their affair had seemed inevitable
and, to her deep shame and regret, nothing he had done or said this
morning had changed that.

53

Cesare piloted the helicopter from Palermo on the final leg of the
journey. Was there no end to this man's talents? Bianca thought sourly.

Helene, sitting up front, was indulging in non-stop, hyper chatter, too
excited by the VIP treatment they'd received since leaving London in the
Andriotti private jet to be pining for a drink. Yet.

In contrast, Jeanne was completely silent apart from the odd stifled
moan, ferociously gripping the edges of her seat, her skin pale and
delicately tinged with green, her eyes tightly closed.

Easy enough to explain away her own edgy silence by pretending to be
similarly affected, Bianca reflected drearily, even if the way her
stomach was churning had nothing to do with feeling airsick but was
entirely down to the sublimely self-assured creature who was piloting
the craft.

She put her fingers on the nape of her neck, vainly trying to ease some
of the tension. Thankfully her hair was still securely anchored in its
battery of pins, reinforcing her intention to look as dowdy as possible-
hence her lack of make-up, plain grey cotton trousers and unglamorous,
shapeless T-shirt.

Helene, though, was dressed to kill. A brand-new designer trouser suit
in acid yellow-'Darling, I can't fly to Italy wearing any old
rag!'-which had meant another heavy load on her credit card. A bill
which she would have to pay, somehow, Bianca accepted tiredly. At the
moment she wasn't earning and if Cesare stretched her punishment out
into months instead of weeks she would lose her job for ever. Stazia
wasn't noted for her patience. It didn't bear thinking about.

'My island.' Cesare's deep tones at last cut through Helene's chatter
and Jeanne uttered a heartfelt groan as the machine dipped low over a
green mound, fringed with pebbly beaches and surrounded by deep,
translucent seas. The villa.'

They hovered, hawklike, over the white-walled, sprawling dwelling that
appeared to be linked to a small natural harbour by a dusty white track.

Bianca heard Jeanne's squawk of terror as they plummeted towards the
ground, and reached over to grasp her aunt's hand comfortingly, only
slowly and with difficulty releasing the punishing grip when they landed
gently and Cesare cut the engine.

The wait for the rotors to come to a standstill seemed interminable.
Under any other circumstances, Bianca guessed sourly, Cesare would have
exited long ago, his athletic body bending low to avoid the circling
blades, in true macho fashion.

But mindful of the two middle-aged women in his care he was waiting. And
talking. Explaining about the luxuries on tap, the villa's well of pure
spring

54

drinking water, the generator, the swimming pool, the full complement of
staff who had arrived by boat the day before, Professor Vaccari who was
already installed and waiting to meet them-on and on until Bianca wanted
to hit him.

Her female relatives were hanging on his every word as if he were the
most perfect thing ever to walk on two legs, Bianca noted on a fierce
flare of acid frustration. They would rapidly change their minds if they
knew they were only here, being treated like valued guests, because
Cesare, the Wonder Man, wanted her in his bed until he decided he'd had
enough of her!

But to see her mother cured of her dependence on alcohol, feverish
shopping bouts and the need to be the centre of attention-no matter how
demeaning- would be worth the sacrifice of her career and her
self-respect, she staunchly reassured herself when at last they stood on
the small plateau of grass with the arc of the almost impossibly blue
sky above them and the whisper of the translucent sea on the rocky beach
far below. But despite the warmth of the late afternoon sun she was
shivering inside.

Deliberately keeping her eyes away from Cesare who, out of the sharp,
beautifully cut business suits she was used to seeing him in, was now
wearing stone-coloured combat trousers topped by an olive-green T-shirt
and looking frighteningly hunky, she made herself take a painstaking and
inordinate interest in the mule-drawn cart that was waiting to transport
their

luggage-the large bulk of it Helene's-up to the villa.

The mule wore a wide-brimmed straw hat. Holes had been cut in the brim
to accommodate its long ears. The driver's name was Giovanni and he,
too, wore a battered straw hat and when he grinned and said 'Buonasera,'
she saw that his teeth were blackened stumps in his deeply tanned
leathery face. She wondered if this wizened elderly man was a fixture on
the island, employed to look after the villa, or whether he and his mule
had been transported over from the mainland too.

Far easier to concentrate on the old man and the mule than watch the way
the sunlight gilded Cesare's olive-toned skin and painted dark chestnut
highlights onto his expensively barbered night-black hair.

'Come.' Cesare's voice, breaking into her thoughts, made her nerve ends
splinter and the touch of his fingers as his hand cupped her elbow made
her mouth run dry. If she closed her eyes she would see images of him,
of his golden skin, of those long hands touching the smooth pale skin of
her body, the smouldering desire in his smoky charcoal eyes as he
lowered his head to kiss her.

Not only see the images that were indelibly printed on her brain, but
feel them. Feel the burning heat of his skin against hers, the
cataclysmic, mind-blowing magic of his kiss, the prelude to the sheer
out-of-this world ecstasy of the heat and urgency of the shared climax
of their lovemaking. Feel the way her heart

56

blossomed with that growing and oh, so dangerous love for him.

A small, anguished groan left her lips as, unconsciously, she shook her
head to chase away those unwanted mind pictures. Jerkily, she tried to
move away from him, but his fingers tightened, and, as if he knew
precisely what effect his close proximity was having on her, he sounded
lightly amused as he pointed out, 'The track is not so steep. See, cara
mia, the others have no difficulty. They will reach the villa long
before us. So why don't you try to stop acting like a stubborn child, or
do I have to carry you?'

Said with just the faintest touch of sarcasm. But inside his heart was
thundering. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and kiss that sulky
mouth into eager submission. Hear those throaty little mews of pleasure
that always sent him spiralling out of control and filled him with the
primitive urge to possess her, to have her begging for him, and only him.

One look from those fabulous golden eyes would be all it took to jerk
him out of the controlled mastery of the situation that had been his
ever since she'd ended their affair, just one look-

But, her eyes firmly on the two figures ahead of them, ascending the
dusty white track as it curved round the gentle green hillside, she now
knew how she had to act to make him wish he'd never blackmailed her into
continuing their affair and said frostily. 'Don't be ridiculous, Cesare.
I don't need carrying and

I'm neither a child, nor stubborn. I'm simply bored with the situation I
find myself in.'

She felt his simmering, impotent fury as she began to walk steadily up
the track. Boredom didn't come into it, of course. In fact her nerves
were skittering about all over the place, her heart pounding as if she'd
just run a marathon. If her inspired tactics worked he would soon want
to see the back of her. He wouldn't want a woman who yawned her head
off, or began trimming her fingernails when he made love to her!

She'd ended their affair because she'd broken all the rules and found
herself falling in love with him. It had been a bad feeling, making her
feel lost and lonely, but there had been dignity in it. But now she was
expected to be the sex slave of a man she didn't love at all, and had
been mad to ever even think she did-as she repeatedly had to remind
herself-and being a toy bought and paid for until he threw her away was
so very much worse.

There was no dignity in that. All she could do in defence of what little
pride that remained to her was try to make the situation as unpleasant
and demeaning for him as it was for her!

Cesare watched her walk away in blistering silence. Fury beat at his
brain. Turning abruptly, as if the very sight of her might make him
erupt completely, he helped Giovanni load the last of the luggage into
the cart, talking to him in their native language, his voice calm,
melodious. But inside he was still seething.

So the thought of being his lover bored her, did it?

58

She had ended their affair because he bored her!

Dio! But he would teach her differently! By the time he decided to end
it she would be begging him to let her stay, clinging, pleading,
promising him the earth, moon and stars if only he would keep her with
him. Or his name wasn't Cesare Gianluca Andriotti!

It's all quite beautiful!' Helene enthused brittly. "Don't you agree,
darling?'

'Yes.' Bianca forced the response through lips that felt as thick and
numb as planks. Maria, the housekeeper, had given them the guided tour
of the villa. All Bianca could recall was cool marble floors, light airy
rooms furnished with understated elegance, and now they were on a
terrace overlooking a sweep of lawn that descended gently to a
white-beached cove lapped by an azure sea.

Maria had brought a frosted jug of fruit juice to the table and Bianca
knew she should drink some because she was feeling dehydrated, but her
stomach was a tight knot of tension, her throat clenched and aching.
Helene had looked at her glass as if it were poison and the glitter of
her eyes told of her need for alcohol.

At least Professor Vaccari looked capable of handling her, Bianca
thought, grasping at the only positive aspect of this foul situation. In
his mid-fifties, at a guess, with close-cropped greying hair and the
profile of a Roman senator, he had kind, clever eyes and an aura of calm
competence.

He now rose from his seat and pressed a discreetly

placed bell-push on the wall behind him. 'Ladies, if you will-Maria will
come and show you to your rooms. Giovanni has taken your luggage up and
Rosa will have unpacked for you. We will meet here in one hour to dine.'

The professor's lightly accented voice was infused with gentle authority
and Helene shot from her own seat with more alacrity than grace. If
she'd hidden bottles of forbidden alcohol in her suitcases, then they
would have been spirited away by Rosa on his instructions, Bianca guessed.

'Shall we go up then, darling?'

As Maria appeared Helene stretched out a hand to her daughter, her brows
peaked with mute entreaty, but Cesare supplied incisively, 'Bianca and I
will be staying elsewhere-a mere ten minutes' walk away.' He moved away
from the terrace wall where he'd been a silent, brooding presence,
obviously intent on allowing the professor to take charge of the
proceedings, lead the conversation where he would.

Although she'd known what he'd intended Bianca felt the colour drain
from her face as she faced the hateful and now immediate reality of her
situation. The bargain he'd made was to remain their dark secret and if
her mother were to benefit from her time here then she mustn't even
suspect that her daughter was an unwilling partner in Cesare Andriotti's
bed.

It cost her a lot to dredge up a smile, to disregard the sudden flare of
maternal anxiety in Helene's eyes and say, 'I'll see you every day. For
lunch, maybe.'

60

This to let Cesare know that he couldn't dictate her every movement,
bargain or no bargain. The carefully concocted lightness of her tone
meant to allay her mother's fears. Fears that she would fall in love
with the type of man her own husband had been.

On a sudden surge of emotion she rose to hug her mother, holding her
close, her heart clenching painfully as she felt the frailty of the bony
body beneath the brave new designer suit. The coming sessions with the
professor had to work out, they simply had to!

In a choky voice, for Helene's ears only, she gave the needed
reassurances. 'You'll be fine. Just fine. Honestly you will. Just
concentrate on getting well and happy. And I'm not going to get
emotionally involved with Cesare, believe me. So don't worry about me-
promise?'

The mute nod of her mother's head was all she needed. With the promise,
'I'll see you some time tomorrow,' Bianca turned away, her eyes bright
with the tears she was desperately trying to hold back, and met the
dark, unreadable intensity of Cesare's gaze.

Her chin came up. If he thought she was playing to the gallery, behaving
with mawkish sentimentality, then so be it. Why should she care what he
thought of her? All that mattered was Helene's well-being. Meeting his
eyes with a look meant to convey withering scorn, she stated, 'We'll
make ourselves scarce, shall we?'

Cesare's perfect body stiffened slightly and a dull flush of anger
stained his angular cheekbones. Dio, but

she was getting to him! Showing him the lamb wouldn't go willingly to
the slaughter! And watching her fold Helene in that loving embrace had
made him feel bad about himself for the first time in his life. It was
not something he was comfortable with.

Making a tight gesture towards the flight of steps that led down from
the terrace he said through his teeth, 'Down there. Wait for me.' Then
he turned to watch Helene and Jeanne follow Maria back into the house,
exchanging a few words with his old friend Vaccari while he got rid of
the startling and shameful need to turn Bianca over his knee and paddle
her delectable backside.

The thought of using physical violence against a woman was utterly
abhorrent to him and had never before entered his head. He didn't know
what was happening to him, or why this one woman should arouse such
intense and warring emotions in him.

The silent ten-minute walk took them over the brow of the hill that
sheltered the villa from the storms that could come out of nowhere and
down the other side to a cup-shaped valley.

In any other circumstances Bianca would have found the experience full
of delights, from the wild-flower-strewn grass at her feet, the scent of
wild herbs on the still, warm air, the magical views of one or two of
the other distant volcanic islands in the Aeolian group that seemed to
float like misty smudges on the azure sea. But she might just as well be
walking on a

62

London back street, in the rain and in the dark, for all the pleasure
the surroundings gave her.

Even though her hastily formed plan seemed to be working-her idea of
making it plain that she viewed the continuation of their affair as
nothing more than a boring chore-the tension was getting to her, a
tight, spiralling knot deep inside her that threatened to unwind with
explosive consequences at any moment.

Despite the slightly cooler air as the sun dipped towards the misty
horizon, perspiration was sticking her clothes to her body, beading on
her forehead and on the nape of her neck. Cesare hadn't attempted to
touch her, hadn't spoken a single word, his obvious and brooding anger
telling her her tactics were working. All she had to do was keep them up.

It was a scary feeling.

Her heart stopped and then raced on at redoubled speed when they
suddenly reached their destination. The little stone-built house, half
hidden by a slab of volcanic rock, sat in the sea of ferns that bordered
a dancing crystal stream and looked idyllic, the perfect lovers' hideaway.

Reminding herself that there was nothing perfect about the situation,
Bianca swallowed the stubborn pride that had made her match his silence
and asked stiltedly, 'What is this place?' because somebody, at some
point, had to say something!

Pausing in the act of pushing open the hewn plank door, Cesare gave her
a grim smile. 'Our love-nest?'

He raised one sable brow interrogatively, then answered his own question
drily. 'Perhaps not.'

The thick dark sweep of his lashes hid his expression and Bianca gave
him a frigid stare, lifting her slender shoulders in a throwaway shrug.
There was no 'perhaps' about it. Love had never entered their
relationship except on her part. And how could a sane woman love such a
monster?

'To be entirely factual-' his mouth curved, as if her glare had amused
him but only very slightly '-the former owner of the island lived here
until he died. He was what you might call a recluse, working a small
patch of land to grow capers and a few vines, fishing, harvesting the
wild rosemary, making a living for himself. Now it is used as overspill
accommodation for the extra staff needed when the family and their
friends use the villa for autumn holidays,' He stood aside for her to
enter, his tone clipped when he asked, 'Curiosity satisfied?'

Bianca didn't answer. There was no way she could make the attempt when
there was a lump the size of Gibraltar in her throat. She stepped over
the threshold, lowering her head to hide the incipient tears from his gaze.

Stupid to mourn what had been, the joy they'd found in each other, the
way he'd turned on that fabled charm, flirting with her, the million and
one things they'd talked about, the million and one ways they'd found to
pleasure each other, the touch of his hand,

64

the look in his eyes that had told her he'd wanted her, had found her
beautiful.

Stupid to mourn what had never been real. In any case, it was over. Any
tender feelings she'd had for him had died when he'd thrown blackmail at
her. So why did she feel as if part of her had died, too?

Stupid!

Cesare pulled in a long breath, watching her narrowly as her eyes swept
the long, low-ceilinged room that lay beyond the old plank door, simply
furnished with a Calor gas stove, stone sink, table, chairs and chunky
wooden cupboards.

The nondescript clothes she'd chosen to travel in did nothing to hide
the enticing curves of her slender body, or to render her movements any
the less graceful. And the scraped-back style of her hair today merely
emphasised the slim vulnerability of the achingly beautiful lines of her
neck and throat.

Bunching his hands into fists, he swallowed a despairing oath. He didn't
want it to be like this; this spiky stand-off was the last thing he
wanted! He wanted it all back again, just as it had been-to see her
smile, her lips curving sometimes with her slightly offbeat humour, or
slowly, enticingly, seducing him with promises of sheer heaven. He
wanted to see her eyes sparkle for him across a candlelit dinner table,
to touch her hand, fingers instinctively interlacing, and know that
before the night was out they would be stripping the clothes from each
other's eager bodies.

His entire body clenched as she slowly reached out

to gently touch the petals of the wild flowers in an earthenware bowl in
the centre of the solid wood table, placed there, no doubt, by whichever
of the staff had readied the old stone house for occupation. The
cheerful beauty of the blossoms seemed inappropriate-a bunch of thistles
would have been more apt!

He ached to hold her in his arms, to feel those soft curves melt into
the hardness of his body. Already he could feel his breathing thicken,
the muscles surrounding his manhood tighten.

Gritting his teeth, he ignored the certainty that he could make her eat
her words, admit that their love-making didn't bore her-Dio, but he knew
her body so well, knew exactly how to touch her, where to stroke, where
to kiss, where to suckle, until she became a writhing, slick, furnace of
passion...

But he didn't want that. Not just sex. Suddenly, inexplicably, he wanted
more.

His body urged him forward, every muscle and sinew straining to take
what he knew could be his while his brain wrestled with this new
conundrum, trying to write it off as nonsense, telling him that he'd be
taking a step into the unknown if he stuck to the fantasy of wanting
more from this one woman than he'd ever imagined he could need.

'It's not up to the standard of the villa.' His voice sounded grim as he
broke the silence, but he couldn't help that. 'I'm afraid you'll just
have to do without life's pleasant luxuries.' He knew the comment was
unfair. Bianca was the least pampered and avaricious

66

woman he had ever known, but something inside him prompted him to lash
out, even though he despised himself for it.

He might not have spoken, only the faint tremor of her hand as she drew
it back from the flowers told him she had heard every word and was
probably, and rightly so, treating them with the contempt they deserved.

Expelling a short breath, he told her shortly, 'Take a look around. Get
acclimatised while I check out the generator,' then turned his back on
her and strode back through the door.

Outside, he sank onto a wooden bench, his long legs outstretched, his
head tilted back against the rough, sun-warmed stones of the wall.

The generator would be fine. His staff were paid well to ensure that
everything on the island ran like well-oiled clockwork. He'd simply
needed any excuse to put space between them, to try to sort out what was
going on inside his head.

That sudden and bewildering need to build something stronger and more
enduring with a woman than sex and a transitory pleasure in her company
he viewed with scepticism. It had never happened before and was only
happening now, he analysed, because she'd put a huge hole in his pride,
a hole that needed to be filled by her complete and utter compliance.
Not only in bed, but something more-wresting from her the final
submission. Love. Commitment. Eternal togetherness.

Once he had that his pride would be satisfied.

His mouth curled down on that degrading thought. It was unworthy,
contemptible. He dismissed it. His pride would have to learn to live
with a gaping hole.

Springing to his feet, he raked his fingers through his hair. His
initial plan was cancelled. It wouldn't work. Forcing her to share his
bed until he called it a day had been the cruellest, most insane idea
he'd ever had. He couldn't now imagine how he'd ever come up with it in
the first place.

What if the dangerous plan turned round and bit him, if it was he who
never wanted to call it a day? If he became the one who craved complete
commitment?

Just thinking about it turned the whole idea of self, of who he was and
what he wanted, on its head.

And sent a shaft of debilitating sensation clear through the length of
his body.

He knew exactly what he had to do.

Helene's treatment, under the wise and expert guidance of Marco Vaccari,
would stand. Not because it was part of the iniquitous bargain, but
because Cesare genuinely wanted to help. If Bianca had problems he had
to do what he could to lift them from her slender shoulders. And after a
week, say, the time necessary to see her mother settled, Bianca would be
free to return to London and her career, free to find another man to
pleasure her until he, too, began to bore her.

That thought lanced through him like a sharp-edged burning sword.
Breathing deeply to control and conquer

68

the searing pain of unaccustomed jealousy, he lifted his chin and
re-entered the house.

And called her name.

The devilish game was over.

69

Bianca heard Cesare call her name and everything inside her immediately
froze into a tense, waiting stillness and all she could hear in the
following deep silence was the thunder of her heartbeats. Then a tight,
sexually insistent sensation began down in the centre of her body,
making the blood curl hotly through her veins and her breath come in
shallow, tortured little gasps.

Was this it, then? Had the time come for her to keep her part of his
cruel bargain? To submit, to wait for him to mount the stairs and come
to her, strip the clothes from her already shamefully sensitised body,
to touch, caress, to plunder?

Did he know, damn him, that she only had to think about those clever
hands of his on her body to be more than eager to submit to anything he
wanted, a willing wanton, to burn and tremble for his touch, to feel the
liquid heat pooling between her thighs?

Did he know that? Or was it her humiliating secret?

She'd been standing, wooden limbed, in the second of the two bedrooms.
Both were identically furnished. Twin beds separated by a small night
table, a chest, a large hanging cupboard.

Her suitcase was in here. There was no sign that

70

he'd brought anything with him, but the cupboard held clothes that she
presumed were his. Casual trousers, a pair of well-worn jeans, shirts in
the softest, lightest cottons. She'd withstood the utterly ridiculous
temptation to touch them, to hold them to her face, and had quickly
closed the cupboard door to stare at the night table as if the innocuous
piece of furniture were the most important thing in the universe.

Would he lift it out of the way, push the beds together, or would he
take what he wanted from her and then move away, sleeping alone?

In the past, in the short time left to them after repeatedly and
languorously making love, before she'd left him around dawn, they'd lain
entwined together, not ready to relinquish the drugging sensation of
skin on skin, flesh bound to flesh...

As Cesare called again Bianca pulled herself together. Fatal to allow
him to come and find her. He might think she was actually inviting...

Her mouth dry, her heart pounding, she plunged from the room and down
the short flight of stairs to find him doing nothing more threatening
than placing a pan of water on the stove. Crunch time seemed to have
been delayed. Desperately, she moistened her lips with the tip of her
tongue, willing her wretched knees to stop shaking.

Her only defence against the power of his attraction, the destructive,
needy pulse of her flesh, was to act as if she viewed this enforced
togetherness with bored resignation. But how to manage that when he could

make her pulses sing with just one look from those sultry, wickedly sexy
dark eyes?

'Ah, there you are.' He didn't look at her, simply adjusted the burner
beneath the pan and added salt from a terracotta pot. 'I'm making an
early supper.' He turned then, his hands on his narrow hips, the
prosaic, unemotional words that would give her her freedom dying on his
lips in the face of what he was seeing.

Dio, but she looked done in, her skin pale, almost ashen, those glorious
eyes full of tension, her lush mouth tightened against too-revealing
tremors, her rigid pose definitely defensive.

His heart clenched with compassion. He had done this to her and he hated
himself for it. He said softly, his voice thickening in his throat, 'Why
don't you take a shower while I cook? No bath, I'm afraid-I know you
prefer it-but we need to conserve water.'

And still she stood there, as if frozen to the spot. He watched a shiver
flutter over the exposed skin of the forearms that were protectively
crossed about her body, saw the resulting goosebumps. It made him feel
sickeningly guilty and it took all his will-power to put a stop to the
instinctive need to close the small distance between them, to hold her,
comfort her, apologise for forcing her into this situation.

But one touch would be a touch too many. He knew he would inevitably
give way to the primitive urge to kiss her senseless, reclaim the magic
of everything they had once had.

72

No way could he let himself do that because there was something
different here, something deeper. Never during their time together had
the need to offer comfort arisen. They had been equals, neither of them
asking or needing anything from the other apart from an uncomplicated
pleasure in each other's company and great sex. Superficial, definitely,
but what they had both wanted, surely?

There was nothing superficial about what was going on in his mind right
now. It was deep, it was tortuous, and he damned well didn't understand it.

'Go. Supper in fifteen minutes.' It cost a lot to smile, find a light
tone of voice that didn't betray his inner turmoil, but it was worth it.
She flinched, jerked herself out of her trancelike state and headed back
towards the stairs.

The small bathroom was basic but scrupulously clean and the needles of
warm water went some way towards easing the tension from her bones.

Wrapping herself in a fluffy white towel, Bianca headed back to the
bedroom they were obviously meant to share, opening her suitcase and
scanning the contents, eventually plucking out a fresh pair of jeans,
old and worn to a comfortable softness, and a workmanlike plain dull
green shirt.

Defensive dressing, she recognised wryly. And boy, did she need it! The
smile he'd given her when he'd told her she had fifteen minutes before
supper was ready had filled her with a flurry of confusion. It was

as if she had the old Cesare back, the perfect, considerate lover whose
touch she had craved with a desperation beyond reason. It had taken a
whole load of will-power to stop herself bursting into ridiculously
feeble tears and asking if they could please, please, go back to the way
they had been.

A foolish, demeaning and dangerous course. She wouldn't let herself end
up like her mother, a rich man's trophy, easily won and just as easily
discarded. Ending up broken in heart and spirit.

Suitably armoured, her hair hanging down past her shoulders in damp,
decidedly unglamorous tendrils, Bianca made her way downstairs, her nose
twitching at the aroma of garlic.

There was a bowl of salad on the table, a bottle of wine, two glasses,
and he was ladling the contents of the pan onto two plates as she
stepped through the door. Pasta with an olive oil and garlic dressing,
sprinkled with pecorino cheese.

Bianca's stomach gave a hungry gurgle and Cesare's mouth twitched.

'Dig in. If you're as hungry as I am you won't want to stand on
ceremony.' Cesare smiled for her, spoke lightly as he pulled out a chair
for her and poured gutsy Sicilian red wine into two glasses.

Thankfully matching his mood, Bianca smiled right back at him. She could
afford to relax for just a short while, couldn't she? Go with the flow
until it was time to put up her guard again and handle him as she would
handle any enemy. The state her nerves were in she

74

owed herself that much, didn't she? And no way would she let herself be
trapped into his web of seduction if that was what this new, smoother
mood was all about.

If he insisted she share his bed-as was his stated intention-then she
would force herself to be as responsive as a plank of wood. And maybe,
as the coup de grace, she would manufacture a coughing fit at the
strategic moment!

But when that moment came wouldn't she be as lost in the wonder, the
sheer sizzling excitement of what he could do to her, to do anything of
the sort?

Firmly pushing that unnerving thought right to the back of her mind, she
helped herself from the bowl of crisp green salad he handed her and
opined as lightly as she was able, 'So we can add cooking to your list
of no doubt endless accomplishments, can we?'

'Spaghetti is simple and about as much as I can manage with any hope of
success. Fortunately, I know you like it.' That, and her preference for
taking a bath rather than a shower, was the sum of his small knowledge
of the essential woman.

He took a healthy swallow of his wine and leaned back in his chair,
thoughtfully watching her as she ate. Before he handed her back her
freedom and allowed her to leave his life, he would try to discover just
what made her tick, find the real and lasting truth of Bianca Jay, the
essence of her.

The rational part of his brain told him to forget it. Getting to know,
really know, the woman who would

soon have no part to play in his life would be an exercise in futility,
but his heart said something else entirely. He would make the elusive,
enticing, enigmatic little witch open up to him because on some level it
was deeply important.

A shudder racked its way through the length of his body as he watched
her raise her glass to her mouth. He wanted those lips on his, opening
for him, warm for him, inviting the heady intimacies they had once so
gloriously shared. He wanted her. He wanted her

But it couldn't happen. She had told him their affair was over and now
he'd finally come to his senses he would let her go. But first, and gently-

'Bee-how badly did your father's desertion affect you?'

Bianca replaced her glass on the table and picked up her fork. She
hadn't expected to be addressed by that fond diminutive and she hadn't
expected that kind of question, but maybe she should have done. It
seemed entirely logical. After all, he'd probably gone to a whole heap
of expense to gain the background information she'd been so careful to
keep from him. He just wanted to fill in the details, make sure he got
his money's worth!

What had she got to lose, anyway? He'd already taken the most important
things from her: her job, her self-respect. Besides, keeping him talking
would delay the inevitable. Bed.

'Not at all,' she responded flatly, laying down her

76

fork instead. 'You don't miss what you never had. My father showed no
interest in me, never wrote and asked for a photograph, not even when I
was newborn, apparently. He did ask to meet with me once,' she admitted
with a telling, throwaway shrug of her narrow shoulders. 'I was twelve
years old. The meeting was a disaster. I haven't seen or heard from him
since.'

'But it affected Helene badly, didn't it?' Cesare lounged back in his
seat, his veiled eyes taking in the way that last remark had made her
stiffen her spine, firm her lush mouth. 'Some of what she was going
through-is still going through, even after all these years-must have
rubbed off on you.'

'Perhaps.' She conceded that point because it was the truth, but added
tightly, 'Does it matter?'

'I think so.' She was back behind her self-protective wall and he was
going to break it down, find the truth of the woman who had been his
lover for what, with hindsight, had probably been the best six months of
his life.

His line of reasoning would leave him open to a large and probably
painful session of ego-bashing. But he could take it, he would have to
if he wanted to know where she was coming from.

Pouring more wine for both of them, he verbalised his conclusions with a
calmness that belied the internal knife-thrusts of regret. 'Because of
Helene's inability to come to terms with the way her husband dumped
her-possibly for someone younger, with longer legs, perter breasts and
bigger hair-you are afraid of committing your emotions to any man.
Especially the sort of man your father is-men who only have to snap
their fingers and wave a gold-plated cheque-book around to get exactly
what they want.'

Spot on! Well, bully for you! she fumed, hating the feeling of being
under a microscope. This intrusion into her psyche was unwarranted. On
his part their relationship had been, literally, skin-deep. Great sex
had been all he'd ever asked for!

Refusing to give him the satisfaction of telling him his analysis was
absolutely right, she picked up on the other point, her eyes clashing
defiantly with his. 'As I recall, you never wanted emotional commitment.
You'd have run a mile if you thought I wanted anything of the sort. So I
don't know what you're complaining about.'

'Touche.' His dark eyes danced and his long, sensual mouth curved wryly
and Bianca's heart kicked violently against her ribs.

The charismatic machismo that was so uniquely his flayed her, it really
did. He only had to turn the smouldering power of those incredibly sexy
charcoal eyes of his on her to bring her body to stinging, exhilarating
life. And if he knew why she'd ended their affair- because she'd fallen
fathoms deep in love with him- he'd laugh his socks off and then run
that mile!

He looked totally at ease though, one arm relaxing over the back of his
chair, the long fingers of one hand idling on the stem of his wineglass,
so unconfrontational that his next remark shook her.

78

'So you use men. Stay around until you get bored. And then move on to
the next lover.'

'Isn't that what you do?' she flung at him just as soon as she'd
recovered the ability to speak at all. Pot calling the kettle black
seemed an entirely apt cliché at this moment.

'There haven't been as many women in my life as you possibly imagine.'

Bianca took a reckless gulp of wine, then levelled at him, 'So that
makes it all right, does it?'

Was it her imagination, or had all the bones in his face tightened with
suppressed anger at her nasty little quip? She gave a little huff of
scorn for her own foolishness. He had every right to think as he did.
She'd been the one to end their affair and earlier today she'd as good
as told him he bored her.

As an impression it was as far from the truth as it could possibly get,
but it was the only one that could make him back off. No red-blooded
male-and Cesare Andriotti was more red-blooded than most-would want a
woman who gave the impression that she found it as exciting as a cup of
cold tea to be sharing a bed with him.

And as if picking up on her train of thought he remarked coldly, 'You
obviously love Helene, worry about her. So much so that you'd agree to
continue to have sex with a man who apparently has started to bore you.'

So it was getting to him, was it? Well, that had been her intention, the
only way to defend herself. And now

was the time to ram her message home, hurt that Italian pride of his,
dent it so badly that he would never, ever, want to touch her again.

'If I was backed in a corner and had no other option,' she agreed just
as coldly. 'As you, of all people, have every reason to know. And I'd
even marry you,' she taunted, deep, gut-twisting hurt making her voice
hard because she'd begun to want to be his wife, for him to love her as
she knew, deep down, she still loved him. 'You did ask me, remember?
Which, coming from the man who told me-and really meant it-that he
enjoyed his bachelor freedom too much ever to fall into that sort of
trap, was a real eye-opener, believe me! What did you have in mind? Tie
me down legally until your attention began to wander, if it was the only
way you could have me in bed?'

Cesare snapped to attention, a dull stain of colour creeping over his
cheekbones, his fists clenching until his nails bit into his palms. The
little witch was punching beneath the belt! He'd hoped her obvious
uninterest in his proposal would have kept her off that particular
embarrassing subject! And, Dio, but he didn't know what his intention
had been!

That offer of marriage had sprung out of nowhere, certainly not from his
reasoning mind, just as had his plan for exacting revenge by way of
blackmail-thus going against every principle he'd ever held. Sprung out
of the driving and possibly insane need to keep her with him at any cost!

He pushed his chair back from the table and was

80

on his feet at the very moment she did the same. He felt physically
sick. He vented a savage oath in his own language, wishing to hell he
knew what was going on here, why this one woman could get to him the way
she did.

Watching through slitted eyes as she headed for the door, he asked
grimly, 'Where are you going?'

'Out. Anywhere. Away from you!' she flung back at him as she dragged
open the door. She just had to get away before she broke down entirely,
weakly admitted that she hated the way things were between them now,
confessed that she really despised herself for wanting to hurt him, that
she loved him, warts and all, and then found herself promising to stay
with him for just as long as he wanted her.

It was beginning to get dark as Bianca stumbled to the top of the grassy
incline at the rear of the stone house, back the way they had come just
an hour or two earlier. Now the sky was an arc of dusky amethyst,
clearing to a band of aquamarine on the horizon where it dipped down to
the misty sea.

Below her, not too far away, she could see the lights of the villa. It
would be easy enough to make her way down there, ask-Maria, was it?-to
find her a room for the night, fabricate some excuse for the request.

But it would be the coward's way out and she couldn't take it. This was
between Cesare and herself and she had to think her way through it.

Turning her back on the beckoning lights, she walked slowly on until she
came across a deep grassy

hollow and sank down on the turf that still retained the heat of the sun.

Drawing her legs up, she looped her arms around them and laid her head
against her knees, her hair falling like a dark curtain, cutting her off
from everything but her jumpy thoughts. She sucked in a thick gulp of
air, tasting the salt of her tears at the corners of her mouth.

Things couldn't go on this way, they simply couldn't. She couldn't keep
her side of the devilish bargain; it would do too much damage. She still
loved him, fool that she was, and making love with him, knowing that for
him it was simply lust and a primitive need to punish her, waiting for
him to wash his hands of her, would be like consigning herself to a
nightmare that would have no ending.

A harsh sob racked her slender frame and she drew her elbows to her
knees and pressed her fingertips as hard as she could against her
tightly closed eyelids. Giving way to this swamping, absolute misery
would get her nowhere. She knew what she had to do so there was no point
in pretending she didn't.

It was unworthy of her to use the devious ploy of making him believe
she'd finished their affeir because he bored her. She had to come right
out with it and tell him she refused to keep her side of the bargain. He
might stoop to blackmail but he wouldn't stoop to rape!

And as for Helene, well, she would have to take her chances where her
mother was concerned. Surely

82

Cesare wouldn't tell her to pack her bags and throw her off the island?
He couldn't be that heartless.

In all the time she'd known him he'd never said a cruel word against
another living soul, or dealt a cruel deed. Only towards her, and that
only after she'd punctured his arrogant pride.

She wished she'd never met him!

She burst into tears.

His chest heaving from his exertions, his shirt sticking to his back,
Cesare half ran, half slid down the steep grassy slope.

He'd panicked, he freely admitted, as he'd scoured the island, looking
for her. The northern end first because there the cliffs were sheer, the
edges crumbling. With Bianca alone, in the near dark, and not knowing
the terrain, anything could have happened.

Panic had been pushing him on towards the villa to enlist Marco and
Giovanni in the search when the heart-rending sound of a muffled sob had
stopped him in his tracks, stopped his heart for an endless moment
before it had hammered on.

The beam of his powerful torch had picked out her hiding place and the
mixture of relief and remorse had made him light-headed.

A crouched bundle of sheer misery, she looked wounded, and as he reached
her and drew her to her feet his only need was to comfort her.

Drawing her bowed head gently into the angle of his shoulder, he felt
his heart swell with some wrenching and nameless emotion. Then, feeling
the fine tremors that shook her, he silently and savagely castigated
himself for what he had done to her.

Well, no more. No more demands. He would ask nothing more of her, only
that she find happiness. 'Bee, don't cry, I can't bear it,' he murmured
raggedly. Her hair was silky soft beneath his lips. He inhaled deeply of
her elusive, personal perfume and forced himself not to react.

'I'm sorry,' he uttered thickly as the warmth of her skin beneath her
light clothing met the warmth of his and started the usual minor
conflagration that he knew would quickly become spectacularly major if
he didn't do something about it.

Such as tell her she was free of him, of his unfair demands. And tell
her right now.

Sliding a not quite steady forefinger beneath her chin, he made her lift
her head and look at him and recognise his sincerity, but the words died
in his throat, choking him, when the starlight illuminated the golden,
drowning depths of her utterly beautiful eyes, the lush, slightly
tremulous curves of her sinfully kissable mouth.

Bianca started to say something and immediately and comprehensively
forgot what it was.

The austere lines of his face mesmerised her; the dark intensity of his
eyes, shadowed by those amazingly thick lashes, melted her bones, made
her so stingingly aware of the heated pressure of the strong,

84

capable hands locked on either side of her waist, of the way their
bodies were just touching, breast to thigh, of the tingle deep inside
her that was rapidly becoming an insistent throb.

Incapable of moving away-as some distant only-just-functioning part of
her brain told her she should- Bianca slid her hands to the wide span of
his shoulders, her palms flat, and as her fingers curved instinctively
into the tightly muscled structure she felt his chest expand with a
rapid intake of breath just before his dark head dipped down, to take
her lips with his hungry mouth.

85

Bianca's mouth welcomed his as eagerly and instinctively as it had ever
done in the past, opening for him, tasting him, all her senses exploding
in the glorious wonder of him and what he could make her feel.

Looping her arms around his neck as his hands strained her even closer
in an urgency that spoke of desperate hunger, she became what she always
had been for this one man: the original compliant female to the
masterful, demanding male, parting her feet, the arch of her hips
lifting, straining towards his hard male arousal in unspoken, willing
invitation.

The harsh intake of his breath when he finally allowed their lips to
separate sent a quiver of needle-sharp anticipation right down to the
soles of Bianca's feet, and when his hands feverishly skimmed her body
she groaned with pleasure and reached for him, kissing him again with a
passion that sent her into orbit. Her last coherent thought was that it
wasn't in her power to stop this happening.

With boneless accord they sank down to the soft, sweetly scented grass,
clinging to each other wordlessly until he broke the kiss and uttered a
spate of Italian endearments, adding thickly, 'Bee, I need you, I can't
get enough of you!'

86

The strand of shocking, aching vulnerability in his husky voice nearly
broke her heart. She, with her cowardly self-defence mechanism, had done
this to him. Cesare really did believe he'd begun to bore her and the
first wholly rational thought she'd had since he'd laid down his terms
for the treatment Helene needed zipped through her brain with
diamond-bright clarity.

She loved him far too much to see the personal pride that was so much a
part of his charismatic persona brought down low. She simply couldn't
bear it, she thought emotionally.

The need to give reassurance, the love she couldn't deny no matter how
hard she tried, had her shaky fingers lifting the hem of his T-shirt to
give her access to the hard, bronzed flesh beneath.

Touching the warm skin with the tips of her fingers, she felt his chest
expand, heard the sharp intake of air and bent her head to lave one hard
male nipple and then the other with the moistness of her tongue, the
caressing exploration of her hands moving from the wide span of his
shoulders to the arch of the ribcage that sheltered his heavily beating
heart.

But when the palms of her hands slid over taut flat muscles and her
fingers curled round the button on the waistband of the casual combat
trousers his whole body went rigid as he stated through his teeth, 'You
don't have to do this.'

His hands took her wrists in an iron grip but she could feel the
trembling of his bones as he sought to control what she was doing to
him. Her voice sultry,

Bianca told him, (I do. I want to. You excite me. Why else would I be
trying to seduce you?'

Then, her long hair lying like a silken cloud over his skin, she placed
her lush mouth just above that disputed button, heard his muffled
wrenching groan, his grip on her captive wrists slackening as he gave
himself up to the waves of spiralling pleasure that obliterated his
normally monumental will-power.

No other woman had ever been able to sap his will, no other woman had
had this much power over him, was his last coherent thought as his whole
world contracted into the small area of rocketing sensation and
scorching expectancy, concentrating only on each tingling movement where
the backs of her fingers brushed against his skin as she undid that
button and then slowly, so very, very slowly, slid the zip down,
exposing him to the softly warm night air, to her eyes, her hands, her
mouth.

The delicate sensuality of her exploration made him shake, his spine
arching, his breathing ragged and shallow, the exquisite pleasure she
was giving him pushing him to the outer limits of control until, with an
almost feral groan, he clamped his hands on either side of her bowed
head and lifted her away, turning her pliant body until she lay beneath him.

He was taking control now and the little minx had been lying. Their
love-making didn't bore her, she was as turned on as he was! He vented a
soft, guttural cry of triumph before he took her mouth with scorching
passion, revelling in the way her eagerness matched

88

his own, the way her body moved with that dragging, mind-blowingly
erotic rhythm beneath his own.

Separating for the few moments it took to remove her T-shirt and then
his own was tantalising torment. The pert, aroused breasts gleamed in
the starlight, a tempting banquet no red-blooded male could resist.

Deliberately tormenting her while holding himself in check, he ran his
fingertips over her tight nipples, watching the way her eyes closed and
her lips parted on a sigh of unadulterated pleasure. Bianca, registering
his sinfully sexy tone as he asked, 'Does this bore you, mia cara?'
answered thickly and decisively.

'No!'

All her defences were down, and she knew that lying to the man she
loved, trying to hurt him, had been the most shameful thing she'd ever done.

That he would hurt her in the end was a foregone conclusion and
something she would have to learn to live with. Loving him would lead to
a level of destruction she couldn't bear to think about, but playing
safe, pretending indifference was unworthy.

On a sob of blind emotion she reached out for him, running her hands
over his shoulders, down to his taut waistline, felt the tight shudder
of desire ripple through him and cried thickly, 'Love me, Cesare-make
love to me!'

Dawn was almost upon them when they untangled limbs that felt heavy with
satiation. Bianca, brushing

the thick tangles of her hair away from her face, felt her heart swell
with almost painful tenderness.

She loved him so much! She would stay with him for as long as he wanted
her and ask nothing in return. Not his ring on her finger, his name, the
privileges his vast wealth could buy. Just let her life be part of his
for as much or as little of his future as he was willing to give her.

As he sat up, flexing his impressive shoulder muscles, his broad back
turned towards her, she said lightly, her love for him brightening her
eyes, 'A night under the stars has a lot to recommend itself! But I
guess it's time to make a move?'

She reached out to touch him, to underline the feeling of closeness that
had always been theirs after making love, and the brightness faded from
her eyes as he flinched away, reaching for his discarded clothing and
dressing with a fluid efficiency that put a cool area of distance
between them.

Shivering in the cool dawn air and catching her breath to swallow the
feeble cry of disbelief at the way he seemed to be blocking her out,
Bianca scrambled into her own clothes while Cesare waited, his mouth set
in a forbidding line, apparently intent on watching the last of the
stars fade from the sky.

When she finally got round to stuffing her feet into her flat-heeled
sandals he turned and gave her a cool glance. 'Ready? There's a short
cut back. Follow me and watch your footing.'

Just that. Nothing more.

90

Following as he made his way up the far side of the hollow, Bianca felt
a lump of icy dread form around her heart, weighing her down. Was he
still frigidly angry? Because she'd had the temerity to end their
affair, before he'd been ready to call it a day, because of her snippy,
confrontational behaviour ever since he'd laid down his terms?

Was this to be her punishment? The payment he demanded for what he was
doing for Helene? Using her when he needed sex and ignoring her the rest
of the time!

Could he possibly be that cold and unfeeling?

'Cesare-wait!'

They were walking downhill again. She, like a deferential servant, three
paces behind. The brittle silence between them stung her, at complete
odds with the soothing murmur of the sea, the chatter of a stream, the
distant, lonely cry of a gull.

He stopped. Waited. His face like stone, wiped clean of any expression.
'Yes?'

Panting slightly, more from a mixture of dread and burgeoning anger at
the way he was treating her than the brisk pace he had set, she planted
her hands on her hips and demanded recklessly, determined to get through
this barrier he'd erected at any cost, 'What's wrong? I imagine you'd
treat a common prostitute with more respect-at least you'd spare a
polite word or two during the time it took to put your trousers back on!'

Her self-admittedly crude taunt, hissed out through

her teeth, left him unaffected. His already taut jawline simply clenched
a fraction more before he clipped, 'Having never needed the services of
one, I wouldn't know,' and strode on. That was all.

Fighting the impulse to scream after him like a fishwife, Bianca
followed. Love hurt but she wouldn't run from it again. She would force
him to explain his behaviour, and if this was the pattern he had set for
their time here together then she would tell him to get lost!

She might love and want him until thoughts of him filled her days and
nights to the exclusion of just about everything else, but she wasn't
about to let herself be treated like a no-account tramp!

They were approaching the stone house in the opposite direction from the
one they'd used yesterday. It meant crossing the stream and he was
waiting there, by the single plank that formed a makeshift bridge.

'There's no handrail and the wood gets slippy,' he explained tersely.
'Give me your hand-no, on second thoughts-' Bending, he scooped her up
into his arms and strode across the narrow, slippery plank as if he were
walking along a well-paved road.

Bianca clung onto his shoulders, fear coiling inside her as the narrow
bridge bent and swayed beneath their combined weight. Not because she
thought they might fall into the deep pools, onto the lumpy rocks, but
because of the way he was holding her. Like a tiresome sack of potatoes
that had to be transported. An irritating chore while her whole body
ached for him.

As he dropped her to her feet on the threshold of

92

the door he'd obviously neglected to close the night before when he'd
set out to find her she commanded tightly, 'Talk to me, Cesare. You owe
me that much.'

She met his veiled eyes. He looked like an austere stranger, hard-edged
and ruthless. She put a hand to her throat where a pulse was beating
frantically and willed him to say something. Anything.

There had to be an explanation for the way he was acting. Trouble was,
she was pretty sure she knew what it was.

'Of course. Later.'

The concession came but it didn't give her any hope for an outcome she
could live with. Last night shouldn't have happened, she told herself
wretchedly. It had made everything so much worse, binding her stupid
heart more closely to him, getting her in deeper than it was safe or
sensible to be.

She should have stuck to her original idea of making him back off but it
was too late now. She had hated the thought of hurting him, demeaning
him, wounding his pride. Love had won but had left her the loser.

Miserably, she watched him walk inside the house, his shoulders as hard
and as rigid as the look he turned on her when he said, 'I need to
shower first. Make the coffee, would you?'

At any other time during their passionate relationship he would have
insisted she join him, not relegated her to the role of skivvy. She was
seeing a side of her lover she had never seen before, the side that made

him such a formidable business opponent, top dog in his field, earning
him the awed respect of staff and rivals alike.

Bianca shuddered convulsively. Their affair, which had been inevitable
since they'd first set eyes on each other, had developed into a
relationship that had delighted and enthralled her and had eventually
imprisoned her within the strands of love. And seeing the danger ahead
of her she had struggled to get out. Now it had turned sour, his
treatment of her this morning reinforcing everything she had always known.

Cesare Andriotti had no time in his life for commitment, no room in his
heart for love. He simply didn't believe in its existence.

Dispiritedly, she began to make coffee.

As Cesare left the bathroom, dressed now in fresh denims and a stark
black shirt, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee hit him and his heart
clenched.

Last night had been a huge mistake; it had made doing the right thing a
thousand times more difficult. When she'd started to make love to him
he'd felt an utter heel, hating the thought of her touching him simply
because she was keeping to her side of the infamous bargain he'd forced
on her.

Yet he'd wanted her so badly he had literally ached all over.

At least, he thought grimly as he fastened the soft leather strap of his
wrist-watch, she had proved herself a liar.

94

He no more bored her than she bored him! A growing indifference to his
love-making hadn't been the real reason for her decision to end their
affair-no matter how much the little minx had tried to pretend it had
been. He stamped down hard on a sudden and searing stab of elation, on
the memory of the long night of exquisite passion. All that was over.
Finito.

His dark eyes hardening, he headed down the stairs. Whatever her real
reasons, he told himself firmly, no doubt she thought them sound. And he
had no right to demand the continuation of the affair simply because the
thought of it ending left him in the unusual and uncomfortable position
of feeling bereft.

She was already pouring coffee into two earthenware mugs when he entered
the room. He murmured her name, Bianca, inside the privacy of his head.
A plea? A yearning for something he couldn't put a name to?

He tightened his mouth. He'd get over it, whatever it was. He'd find a
replacement, no trouble. If he could be bothered. Right at this moment
he couldn't imagine anyone else in her place.

He'd get over that, too.

'Coffee smells good.' He sketched a smile. Poor little Bee! No wonder
she'd lashed out at him with that taunt about prostitutes! But putting
distance between them had been necessary. Vital. Still was.

Allowing things to go back to the way they'd always been between them,
the feeling of close companionship after great sex, laughter, gentle
teasing,

would have robbed him of all his will-power. And he needed every last
bit of it if he were to stick to his intentions and make belated amends
for what he had done.

She flicked him a quick look from beneath her lashes and the muscles
around Cesare's heart contracted. She looked exhausted. Bianca Jay,
normally so perfectly groomed, cool and sophisticated, had grass stalks
in her wildly tumbled hair, her workmanlike clothes were grubby and
decidedly rumpled, her soft mouth drooping, her huge, usually sparkling
eyes looked hurt and bewildered.

The urge to close the distance between them, take her in his arms, tell
her she looked adorable, kiss those soft lips until she smiled for him
again, take care of her, was almost irresistible.

Denying it with all the will-power at his command, he took one of the
mugs she'd placed on the table. Took a long, much-needed swallow, made a
production of looking at his watch to buy himself a second or two of
time and said tonelessly, 'I have to go if I'm to be back in London
later today.' He set the mug back on the table. 'I suggest you move into
the villa for a few days to satisfy yourself that Helene is settling in.
I'd tell you to stay as long as you like but I know you're anxious to
get back to work.'

Another look at his watch, a glance through the small window, anything
to stop himself from looking at her, watching the look of painful
bewilderment flicker over her expressive features. 'I'll be using the

96

'copter, of course, but when you're ready to leave Marco will arrange
for Giovanni to ferry you to Palermo in the launch. There are daily,
non-stop flights to London.'

'What are you saying?' Bianca could barely get the words out. She felt
as if she were suffocating. Pulling out a chair from the table, she sat
down heavily, convinced that her legs were about to give way beneath her.

She searched his face for any sign of softening. Nothing. His
shatteringly handsome features were stark and he looked as if he would
never smile again. Or certainly not for her.

As she laved her suddenly dry and tremulous lips he turned his head away
and answered harshly, 'That you are free to go. I forced you to come
here. It was a despicably dishonourable thing to do. You wanted to end
our affair and, at that time, I did not. But that is no excuse for what
I did. I give you my apologies, and your wish. It is over.'

Not meeting her eyes, he dipped his raven-dark head in her direction and
strode out through the door.

97

'Why won't you move in here with us?'

Helene pouted as she filled two cups from the coffee-pot. 'We live in
the lap of luxury here and I could see more of you than a ten-minute
flying visit each morning. And you'd be company for Jeanne. Besides,
don't you get lonely now Cesare's gone?' Her voice sharpened, anxiety
etching into her tone. 'Please don't tell me you're hoping he'll change
his mind and come back? You're being a fool to yourself if you do. He
definitely said his next visit would be when he joined the family
holiday at the end of the summer.'

Bianca reluctantly dragged her eyes from the view from the terrace, the
sparkling sea that danced to the shore and broke in curling foam against
the pebbles, and gave her attention back to her mother.

'Because I don't want to eat into the time you spend with your professor.'

That wasn't the real reason she had refused to move into the villa, of
course it wasn't; it was nowhere near it. Since Cesare had left three
days ago she'd been feeling too wretched, too confused about her own
feelings to be able to keep up a relaxed front for more than ten minutes
or so at a time. She wasn't fit company for anyone.

Bianca stirred her coffee and found a smile from

98

somewhere, adding, 'Besides, I enjoy fending for myself, just chilling
out. And Giovanni brings fresh produce every day. This morning it was
quail-I shall have fun figuring out how to cook it!'

'Really?' Helene commented drily. She didn't look in the least impressed
by the blithe, 'all's well with my world' act, Bianca noted, and quickly
changed the subject.

'How are things going with your professor?'

She was sure he knew what he was doing. Helene looked far more relaxed
than she had done for almost as long as Bianca could remember. Instead
of constantly fiddling with her hair, her jewellery, playing with her
teaspoon, her mother's hands were folded in her lap, resting on the soft
blue cotton of her sundress.

'Marco. His name is Marco. People pay through the nose to attend his
private clinics-did you know that? Anyway, we get along remarkably well.
He's a relaxing person to be around. We walk, we talk and sometimes we
simply sit and listen to music.'

'Right. Good.'

What else was there to say? Professor Vaccari was obviously playing a
softly-softly game. Perhaps he wanted his patient completely relaxed,
physically fitter, before he made her face up to her past trauma and
enabled her to finally put it behind her.

Not knowing a thing about the kind of therapy Helene was undergoing,
Bianca decided it made no sense at all to probe deeper, and, casting
around for something to say to keep her mother off the subject of
Cesare's disappearance because she really didn't

want to have to talk about him, she asked in what she hoped passed for a
tone of idle curiosity, 'Where's Jeanne this morning?'

'Wandering.' Helene gave an impatient sigh. 'She isn't used to having
nothing to do. Marco suggested she occupied herself by making a
collection of the wild flowers here on the island-pressing them and so
on. So she left after breakfast wearing the most ridiculous sun-hat I've
ever seen. I'm actually thinking of asking her if she'd like to leave
when you do. As a holiday it simply isn't working for her. She won't
sunbathe, she won't swim-she's too old and stout, so she says, for such
things-and she keeps worrying about leaving her house unoccupied. I
really can't think why she was invited in the first place.'

'Cesare thought she'd keep you company while you settled in,' Bianca said.

She only realised she'd walked right into a trap and steered the
conversation where she hadn't wanted it to go when Helene leaned back in
her chair, narrowed her eyes and remarked drily, 'And you, darling? You
were obviously meant to keep him company, or why would he have whisked
you away to some stone shack or other? And why, after a mere twenty-four
hours, did he take himself off? Is he giving you the run-around?'

Suspicion of men's motives had marred her mother's life for as long as
Bianca could remember. Helene craved male adulation because it shored up
her self-confidence, which had been decidedly shaky since Bianca's
father had traded her in for a newer model

100

But she had never trusted any of her lovers enough to give her heart. It
was still too preoccupied with her twisted love-hate feelings for her
former husband.

Bianca swallowed jerkily. Now was the time to tell her mother what she
wanted to hear, to make what had happened real and final.

She lifted her cup and drained the contents, buying time. Her reluctance
to admit their affair was over made no kind of sense. To protect herself
from further emotional damage she'd wanted her relationship with Cesare
to end, hadn't she? So why was she so superstitiously afraid of putting
it into words?

'You were right,' she said as coolly as she was able. 'Cesare and I were
involved.' The hand that replaced her cup on its saucer shook. Bianca
prayed her mother hadn't noticed. 'But not any more. It's over.'

The spoken admission made her shiver, her stomach clenching in a tight,
cold knot. And in the few beats of assimilating silence she concentrated
hard on the whisper of the sea, the cry of a bird, the heat of the sun
on her bare arms and on the length of her legs exposed by her neat white
shorts.

Concentrated on anything to stop herself from weeping and reinforcing
Helene's fears that history was about to repeat itself.

'And you're happy about that?' Helene probed quietly, leaning forward.

Forced to meet her mother's eyes, Bianca knew she wouldn't be able to
manage a smile and made up for it by giving a slight shrug, fishing her
sunglasses from

the back pocket of her shorts and putting them on. 'It was never serious.'

That had been the understanding, the point made by both of them at the
outset. Things had turned out very differently for her.

The smile of sheer relief on Helene's face lifted it from the gauntness
of the past few months to a semblance of her once vibrant loveliness.
'That's all right, then-if you're sure? Darling-' she reached out a
hand, sunlight glittering on her rings, and Bianca took it, her bones
smarting from the pressure. '-I'm truly, truly grateful to your former
boyfriend, please don't think I'm not. He's been more than generous. But
I'd have warned you off him long ago if I'd known you were involved,
that he was the man you'd been with when you crept home at dawn. He's
what? Thirty-fourish? And unmarried, rich as sin and handsome as the
devil. That puts him firmly in Category B.'

A bubble of near hysterical amusement at the idea of anyone trying to
squash the proud and self-confident Italian into any kind of category
produced the first smile Bianca had given since Cesare had left her.
'Category B?' she queried on a squeak.

'Men who would rather die than be married,' Helene answered acidly.
'They have the looks and the money to attract whomsoever they fancy at
the moment, then they ditch them when the novelty wears off. If they
marry at all it will be some time in their late sixties when their looks
and energy are going. Then they'll use their wealth to buy some gorgeous

102

young thing to boost their egos and dance attendance on them in their
declining years.'

'Cynical!' Bianca chided, removing her hand from her mother's grasp,
surreptitiously massaging her crushed fingers beneath the top of the
table as she tried to ignore the much more painful lump in her throat.
Helene's character assassination had been spot on.

'And Category A?' she asked as a diversion.

"The man I married. Your father. The restless serial husband forever in
search of the next younger, prettier trophy wife.'

Alarm bells rang as Bianca noted the familiar bitter tone. She said
gently, 'It was a long time ago. You must try to put it behind you.
Brooding about it only makes you unhappy.' And turn to the bottle, she
added inside her head and wondertd how her mother was managing in this
alcohol-free zone but didn't dare to ask.

Helene's mouth tightened. 'Easy enough to say if you don't know what
you're talking about! If you ever fall in love, and I mean really in
love, you'll realise that forgetting isn't that easy. And when you do
fall for someone make sure he's not a love rat. Find a nice, ordinary
guy who'll still love you when you get wrinkles and begin to sag all over!'

The arrival of Professor Vaccari, followed by Maria with a tray of fresh
coffee, gave Bianca just the excuse she needed to leap to her feet. She
knew now how difficult forgetting could be!

'My dear, please don't let me drive you away!' His open smile
encompassed both women as he took one

of the vacant chairs at the table, but Bianca backed off, tempering her
abrupt departure with, 'I'm going to find a quiet beach for a swim-I
might as well make use of what the island has to offer while I'm here.'

'Yes, of course. Talking of which-' Marco Vaccari smiled his thanks at
the departing Maria '-Cesare asked me to take care of your travel
arrangements when you do decide to leave. It would be helpful if you
gave me twenty-four hours' notice.'

'And don't make it too soon, darling,' Helene put in, pouring for the
professor. 'The agency won't fall to pieces if you're away for a couple
of weeks. And join us for dinner tonight-promise? I don't see nearly
enough of you.'

'I'm cooking quail, remember?' Bianca passed that off with ease. After
half an hour, at most, her efforts to appear relaxed, without a care in
her head, would be wearing thin. Tomorrow, maybe.'

By tomorrow she might have got her co0nfused emotions back into some kind
of order, be able to hear Cesare's name without feeling the familiar tug
of misery, the sting of tears behind her eyes, the draining sense of
loss, she told herself without a great deal of hope as she skirted the
imposing villa and headed inland.

At least the information that she and Cesare were history had laid her
mother's fears at rest. She didn't want to give her anything to worry
about while the long haul of her recovery was in its initial phase.

She would always be grateful to Cesare for giving Helene this
opportunity, even if the price he'd initially

104

demanded had been cruelly high. And perhaps the hardest part of all was
the way he'd relented, realised how wrong he'd been and apologised.

It showed he did have principles and only served to make her love him more.

And loving him at all was the very last thing she wanted.

Standing under the shower as the long hot afternoon drew to a close,
Bianca closed her eyes as the water sluiced away the salt and sand from
her tired body.

She had explored every inch of the island, swum from the most secluded
cove she could find and gazed out to sea, wondering how such a perfect
place could seem like purgatory. But not for much longer; she'd be
leaving at the end of the week. Tomorrow she'd ask Marco to make the
travel arrangements for both herself and Jeanne.

Having come across her aunt as the older woman had been trudging back to
the villa around noon, she had noted the disgruntled look on the red,
perspiring face beneath the battered-into-strange-shapes sun-hat, the
unsuitable flowered nylon dress, the swollen ankles and heavy walking
shoes. 'You look in need of a long cold drink. How's it going?' she
asked with sympathy.

'Don't ask!' Jeanne waved a bunch of wilting flowers under Bianca's
nose. 'I've been packed off to make a collection of wild flowers-like a
Victorian child! I was looking forward to this holiday-I didn't realise
there'd be nothing to do. No shops, no little cafes where I could sit
and people watch. Helene spends

most of her time with the professor, understandably, so she doesn't need
my company and you're behaving like a hermit! It wouldn't be so bad if I
could make myself useful around the villa. But Maria won't hear of it.
There's an army of servants for just the three of us.' She huffed out a
disapproving breath. 'None of them speaks more than two words of
English-apart from Maria, who apparently doesn't think it's quite the
thing to chat with the guests, and Ugo who flew your Signor Andriotti
away in the helicopter. And he, Ugo, is only interested in flirting with
the maids. He's some kind of steward, from what I could gather. He'll
probably be back any time now, flashing his white teeth and posturing
for all those giggly girls! Strutting his stuff, I think you young ones
call it!'

Bianca smothered a smile. Jeanne was plainly bored out of her socks and
greatly disapproving of the absent Ugo. Making up her mind there and
then, she said, 'I'll be leaving for London at the end of the week.
Would you like to come with me?'

She should have spent more time with her aunt, she recognised guiltily,
not hidden away, licking her wounds. It was time she got on with her
life and stopped mourning over a lost lover. She would not let herself
follow in Helene's self-destructive footsteps!

Now, drying herself on one of the huge fleecy towels, she decided to
walk over to the villa right now and ask Marco to make those travel
arrangements, for the two of them.

Helene wouldn't be pleased; she had obviously wanted her to stay on for
another week at least. But

106

she had her own life to lead, the shattered pieces to pick up, and over
the years her mother had become far too dependent on her for emotional
support and the day-to-day practicalities of their lives.

It would be a wrench, Bianca knew that, but if Helene was to make
progress she would have to learn to stand on her own feet, take
responsibility for her own life. It would not be easy for either of
them, she conceded sadly. Looking out for her mother had become the
major part of her life.

In the bedroom she and Cesare were to have shared, and hadn't, she
selected a cool, sleeveless silky shift in shades of cream and amber and
a pair of low-heeled strappy sandals. Leaving her dark hair loose to her
shoulders, her only make-up a little moisturiser, she decided she'd pass
muster for an early evening visit.

She wouldn't stay long, just relay her request and wander back and
decide whether she could be bothered cooking the quail.

Leaving the little stone house, she heard the unmistakable sound of the
helicopter blades and her heart jumped into her mouth. Then settled back
into its normal position, although still feeling decidedly fluttery.

It would be the posturing Ugo, of course it would, back from the
fleshpots of Sicily, probably bringing in fresh supplies.

How could she, even for one moment, have clutched at the hope it might
be Cesare? He had made it crystal clear that they wouldn't be seeing
each other again.

Taking a few minutes to recapture her errant breath, she chided herself
for that moment of terrifyingly soaring hope. She had wanted a clean
break and finally he'd given it to her, so how could she be stupid
enough to want to see him one more time? Her battered heart was already
hurting badly enough, so why twist a knife in it?

On that eminently sensible thought, she gathered herself together and
began to walk along the track, taking her time because she didn't want
to confront her mother in a state of breathless agitation. That lady had
very finely tuned antennae where her daughter was concerned.

In the event there was no sign of her. Bianca mounted the steps to the
terrace where the evening meal was to be taken. The table was set for
three, fine linen, costly silver, candles already flaming steadily
within glass holders.

And the dashing young man, resplendent in tightly sheathing
cream-coloured jodhpurs and a flowing black shirt, just had to be Ugo.
He seemed to be overseeing a dimpling doe-eyed maid who was placing a
crystal jug of iced water on the table, the only liquid refreshment that
would be served with the meal.

'The elusive signorina!' Ugo padded forward as soon as he became aware
of her presence. Bianca noted the predatory gleam in his black eyes as
he swaggered towards her. In a studiedly languid movement he lifted her
hand, kissed the backs of her fingers and said in heavily accented
English, 'How may I help you? Are you to dine with your family? I do
hope so, one so beautiful should not hide herself away.'

Suppressing a snort of wry laughter, Bianca explained,

108

'I'm not staying. I just want a few words with the professor.'

No wonder her strait-laced aunt disapproved of him, she thought as he
dismissed the obviously piqued maid with a shooing movement of his free
hand. Far too handsome, far too obvious and far too fond of himself, as
far as Bianca was concerned he was a joke. She wondered how often he
practised that slightly lopsided, would-be seductive smile in front of
the mirror and decided that, although his teeth might be very white,
they were too big.

She tugged at her hand, trying to remove it from his grasp, but his
fingers merely tightened as he husked, 'If you were mine I also would
hide you away, but I would not leave you!'

This was going beyond a joke! She opened her mouth to tell him as much;
it stayed that way, but no words came. Her throat had tightened with shock.

Cesare, closely followed by the professor, had emerged onto the terrace
from open French windows. In a casual, cream-coloured suit, his dark
shirt open at the neck, he looked fantastic. Heat rushed through her
body and the shock of seeing him again, when she'd thought she never
would, stopped her breathing.

Tension had hardened his bronzed features and his narrowed eyes looked
black with temper as he vented a string of harsh Italian that had Ugo
stiffening, dropping her hand as if it were a red-hot coal and muttering
something in the same language that sounded decidedly defensive before
sloping away towards the rear of the villa.

He must have flown in with Ugo, she decided, and whatever had brought
him back it certainly wasn't the pleasure of her company. Dull colour
stained his high cheekbones and his mouth looked so furious she
shuddered with reaction.

Then pulled herself together. His reasons for being here were no
business of hers. This was his island, his villa; she was the interloper.

Dragging her eyes from the now savage glitter of his, she fastened them
on the professor who was trying to disguise a wicked grin, cleared her
clogged throat and stated, 'My aunt and I would like to leave-'

She got no further because Marco Vaccari let the grin rip, casting a
sidelong glance at his glowering compatriot as he inserted, 'Jeanne has
already told me of your intentions and the matter is in hand.
Unfortunately the earliest commercial flight I could book you on is
Monday next. I hope that won't inconvenience you?'

Hell! Another five days on the island instead of the two she'd been
counting on. Impatience to get back to some kind of normality made her
grit her teeth. At least the company jet hadn't been called into
service; she didn't want to owe Cesare any more than she already did.
And she managed, more or less, gracefully, 'No, of course not. You'll
want my credit-card details.'

'It has been taken care of.'

Sheer frustration balled her hands into fists. Whichever way she turned
she got deeper in debt to her former lover. She loathed the feeling of
being a

110

paid-off mistress! Refusing to look at Cesare, who was burning holes in
her skin with the intensity of a gaze she could feel and didn't want to
have to see, she watched as the professor wandered down to the table and
wondered why he seemed to find the whole situation vastly amusing.

'You will join us for dinner?' His eyes twinkled at her. 'Your mother
and aunt will be down at any moment. We would all be so pleased to have
your company.'

'Sorry.' Bianca sketched a thin smile. 'I have a date with a quail.' And
turned to head back the way she had come, forcing herself not to run.

She was behaving childishly, she scolded herself. Not giving Cesare as
much as a 'hello' was not only juvenile, but ill-mannered. She should
have been able to handle the situation with more sophistication; he
would expect that from his ex-lovers.

She was still breathing shakily after that unexpected encounter. He'd as
good as said they wouldn't be seeing each other again, so finding him
here had been a shock to her system, especially since she'd done nothing
but think of him over the last three days.

An arm casually draped around her shoulder had her feet stumbling to a
standstill, her heart jumping to her throat and suffocating her. 'Wait
for me,' Cesare said, then urged her forward with the gentle pressure of
his hand. 'And a word of warning, give young Ugo a wide berth. He's a
dyed-in-the-wool womaniser.'

'It takes one to know one!' The tart words were out before she could
stop them. Bianca's feet slowed to a

stop again, her skin flushing with shame. I'm sorry, that was uncalled for.'

Insults would get her nowhere and would only serve to demean what they
had once had. Shrugging his arm away, she stole a look at him beneath
the heavy fringes of her lashes and looked swiftly away.

He was smiling, damn him! Smiling with that quick brilliance that took
her breath away. His being here, being close, wasn't helping her
recovery one iota. It was putting it into reverse. But he wasn't being
deliberately cruel. He didn't know how deeply she loved him. Had never
known. Would never know.

Walking on, she questioned unsteadily, 'What brings you back?' She knew
it wasn't simply to torment her. As far as he was concerned she was the
one who had wanted to end their affair and he had eventually agreed. He
would have put her very firmly behind him so it seemed the right
question to ask. Polite conversation.

'I left something behind.'

Had his accent thickened, his voice grown huskier? Something quite
terrifying inched down Bianca's spine. Stop it! she told herself,
quickening her pace. Stop looking for something that isn't there!

'Right,' she responded gruffly, though what he'd left behind she
couldn't imagine-nothing that she'd seen lying around, that was for sure.

'And I have something of importance I need to discuss with you.'

They had reached the little house and Bianca had her hand on the grainy,
sun-warmed planks of the

112

door. With sudden insight she said, 'I'm glad. I wanted to talk to you,
too. About the lease on the Hampstead house. I don't want you to do
anything about it. Our-' again she felt her face flush fiercely '-our
bargain no longer stands. You're already doing a great deal for Helene
and I'll always be truly grateful for that, but that must be as far as
it goes.'

'Ah,' he said softly, so softly she felt the impact of that single
syllable feather lightly over every inch of her skin, and the way he was
looking at her, as if he had a secret that pleased him, made her very
nervous.

How he had missed her! Cesare's veiled eyes travelled from the shining
fall of her hair to those beautiful, anxious eyes, the lush curve of her
mouth and the body beneath the soft silk she was wearing.

All mine! he thought possessively, stamping down the imperative, hungry
need to close the small distance between them, to hold that tempting
body against his, devour her mouth, lose himself in her answering passion.

He had to wait. Rushing things wouldn't get him what he wanted.

Opening the door for her, he ushered her into the darkening room and
told her gently, 'The lease has already been taken care of. The
Hampstead house is Helene's for as long as she wants it.'

'No!' Bianca gasped, her eyes challenging his in the dying light.
Frustration was burning a hole in her brain, her eyes glittering with
sudden angry tears. 'You can't do that!'

'It is already done. The documents were signed this morning.'

Bianca closed her eyes to block him out and clamped her mouth shut to
stop herself from screaming in frustration. And when she'd won control
back she gritted, 'Then somehow I'll pay back every penny. I may have
been your mistress but I won't be paid off! The thought of it makes my
skin crawl-so if this is what you came to discuss you may as well take
yourself off right now! I've said all I'm going to on the subject. I'll
repay every penny if it takes me the rest of my life!'

'Cara,' he soothed, moving just a little closer, his eyes softening.
'What I have done has nothing to do with anything as crude as a pay-off
for services rendered. You mustn't even think that. I want to help. I-'
He bit off the rest of the sentence before the impetuous words were out.

She wouldn't want the burden of his confession of love. Bianca Jay
wasn't into that kind of emotional commitment. Her mother's experiences
and the resultant mess she'd made of her life were responsible for that.
Forcing a smile, a light tone, he added, 'Discussing the lease was not
on my agenda.'

'Then what is?' she threw at him, stung beyond bearing by what she
translated as the thread of amusement in his voice.

Wishing the question unasked when he turned to flick on the light and
sauntered slowly in the direction of the stairs, telling her, 'That is
for me to know, but you'll find out later. After I've showered. I think you

114

mentioned quail. I'm looking forward to it. Be a good girl and open the
wine, hmm?'

Slowly, slowly, he told himself as he mounted the stairs. His instinct
to turn back, to take her in his arms, run his hands over her lovely
body, kiss her until she responded with the sheer magic of that passion
he had begun to crave above all else was completely out of order.

If he were to get her to agree to what he wanted more than anything else
in this world, then his arguments must be slanted to appeal to the
rational part of her mind.

And he could do it! he thought on a sharp stab of triumph. When it came
to the negotiating table, no one could best him!

115

Seething now, her emotions in utter turmoil, Bianca watched Cesare turn
the corner at the head of the stairs and disappear.

Open the wine, like a good girl-yes, sir! Anything you say, sir! she
fulminated spikily.

Dish up the quail-oh, yeah?

Savagely disgruntled, Bianca reached the plate with the two small birds
Giovanni had presented her with this morning out of the fridge and
thumped it down on the table. If Cesare wanted quail for supper he could
darn well cook for himself. She had lost her appetite.

Stamping over to the open door, she crossed her arms over her chest and
leaned against the frame, breathing in great and hopefully calming gulps
of the soft evening air. She could smell the sea and the sweetly sharp
aromatic scent of wild rosemary.

According to the principles of aromatherapy, wasn't rosemary supposed to
clear the head and clarify thoughts? Well, in her case, it wasn't working!

For the life of her she couldn't figure out what he was doing here.

Using the place as a comfort station after his flight from London?

116

No, of course not, that didn't make any sense at all. Facilities back at
the villa were far superior-great sunken marble baths, large enough to
accommodate an entire football team, five-course gourmet meals, an army
of willing servants to tend to his every need.

And he hadn't come to collect something he'd left behind because there
wasn't anything, unless he meant the clothes in the hanging cupboard.
Which didn't make the remotest sense, either.

Just knock-around casual gear, which he surely wouldn't have been pining
for. He had an apartment in London, another in New York, a villa-quite
superb by all accounts-in the hills above Rome. Each would house a
wardrobe of exclusive designer statements suitable for every possible
occasion.

Which left the lease.

Bianca gritted her teeth until her jaw ached. The thought of the amount
of money he must have spent on that sent her blood pressure into the
stratosphere. But he'd said that news of the extended lease hadn't been
on his agenda. In any case it could easily have waited until she was
back in London, the contentious matter dealt with through their solicitors.

Attempting to work out his motives for being here would probably give
her permanent brain damage, but at least it took her mind off the other
aspect. The pleasure/pain of seeing him again, being close to him
physically if not emotionally, the quiver of sensual excitement that
made her will-power crumple when

she looked at him, the loving him, always loving him, that now seemed to
be her unenviable destiny.

'Insubordination suits you.'

She hadn't heard him come to stand behind her. His voice, honeyed,
smooth and slow was like a fingering caress. It made her breath catch in
her throat, her pulse rate go haywire and sent feathery flutters of
sensation down the length of her spine.

'I wouldn't jump to fill your orders either!' he offered lightly. But he
would, he knew he would. He'd jump through hoops and back again if she
asked him

to!

He put his hands on her shoulders, just lightly, very lightly, nothing
sexual, nothing to kindle the conflagration that ignited wildly when
they touched each other. Easy did it. Nice and easy...

He could feel the tension in the slender bones beneath his fingertips.
Feel the transmission of heat. Gently, he turned her to face him and
immediately dropped his hands to his sides in case the temptation to go
on touching, to massage those tight muscles until they relaxed for him,
until she looped her arms around his neck and drew his head down for a
kiss that would send them both into orbit, overrode his common sense.

Sex for them had always been out of this world. But it wasn't the way
forward. If it had been he wouldn't have been facing a certain battle of
wills. Rational persuasion was the only way forward.

Forcing his gaze from the long amber eyes that always, since the first
time of seeing her, had made him

118

feel as if he were drowning, he said softly, 'Let's face the cooking
together, shall we? It will be a first and I'm always open to new
experiences.'

Like the intriguing possibilities of a new mistress when the current one
began to pall, she thought dourly, then squashed the uncharitable
thought because he was only talking of cooking together.

He had cooked for her on their first evening here; previously they'd
eaten out or the estimable, multi-talented Denton had rustled up
something tempting at Cesare's London apartment. Steeling herself, she
followed him back into the large living-room-cum-kitchen.

He had changed into a vest-style T-shirt that drew her eyes to those
broad shoulders and strong arms, the tanned skin that gleamed like
polished silk. And the stone-coloured jeans that clipped his neat
backside and moulded his long thighs were positively sinful.

Ignoring the all-too-customary lurch of her heart, the hot, pulsating
sensation that flooded her system, she joined him at the table. If he
wanted to play house then she would be wise to humour him. Asking him
why he was here when everything was well and truly over between them,
when his presence gave her equal measures of delight and anguish, making
everything impossible for her, would be far too dangerous.

'What do we do with these?' She pointed at the quail, her tone matching
his for lightness, or at least she hoped it did. 'Roast them like
chickens, or what?'

'Whenever I've been served quail it comes wrapped

in bacon.' He gave her a soft, sideways smile. 'Do we have any?'

'I'll see.' She'd meant to sound cool and not too interested, but she'd
just sounded breathless. Why had what he'd just said made it sound as if
they were a couple when they both knew they weren't?

Rooting in the fridge gave her the excuse she needed to move well away
from him, cool down her fevered brain. And when she finally emerged with
the bacon she could have put her hands on immediately, had she been so
minded, he had finished setting the oven at some probably guessed-at
temperature and was crashing around in a wall cupboard for a roasting
pan, she noted, resentment for what he was doing to her- and for that
dratted lease-making her eyes mutinous and her mouth tighten and turn
down at the corners.

'There were herbs, as I remember, made into a stuffing. Choose some,
would you, while I act the gentleman and chop an onion?' A pause, a
simmering look in his dark smoky eyes that made the space between them
sizzle until she felt hot and frenzied, then, 'Friends now, Bee?'

He gave her that totally disarming grin of his and she melted. If she
could separate friend from lover, compartmentalise the two aspects of
their relationship that had previously gone hand in hand, it would be
infinitely preferable to getting so wound up that she ended up, as she
surely would, instigating an emotional shouting match. Surely she could
manage that

120

for a couple of hours, the time it would take to cook supper and eat it?

So friends, for the space of time it took to make a meal, was what she
would aim for. And after he'd eaten he would surely go, leave her to
nurse the new wounds he'd inflicted in privacy.

After making that decision, sticking to it, it was easy, well,
relatively so, as they worked together, creating an enormous
salad-having quirky arguments over what to put in it, and compromising
by using everything-while the quail sizzled in the oven.

The wine was opened, left to breathe, and Cesare unearthed a folding
table and two chairs from an outhouse and carried them down to the side
of the stream, placing an ornate oil lamp on the table because it was
getting quite dark now.

Inviting her to sit, sharing a corner of cheese with her because both
their stomachs were grumbling, his with hunger and hers, she suspected,
with the nervous tension she was doing her best to hide, Cesare poured
wine while they waited out the final ten minutes of cooking time. 'I've
never done this before. Dined with my feet in ferns, on food cooked by
two bumbling, amicable amateurs, at a table that looks as though it
might fall to pieces at any moment.' He raised his glass to hers. 'To
the simple life.'

'I'll drink to that!'

But her reply to the toast had a hollow ring and she hoped he hadn't
picked up on it. If he saw them now as just good friends, then she owed
it to herself to go

along with it. But there was nothing simple about the way she was feeling.

After the way they had parted she had no idea why he'd returned, why his
mood was so different. He complicated everything! Seeing him again
deepened her sense of loss, of desperate desolation.

The game birds were not only edible but actually perfectly cooked. They
congratulated each other, and Bianca managed most of her share before
her throat finally closed up with nerves.

If she asked him why he was here he probably wouldn't give her a
straight answer, any more than he had done earlier. And was he intending
to stay the night, or was he going back to the villa?

The latter, she devoutly hoped. He had agreed that their affair was
over. So why would he want to sleep in the other twin-bedded room when
he had all the luxury and convenience of the other place at his disposal?

And surely to goodness he wasn't expecting to sleep with her! It was
over. He'd agreed! He couldn't expect one last night together for old
times' sake, could he? And if he did would she be strong enough to resist?

The prickles of excitement deep inside her at the mere thought of what
might happen told her that her ability to resist him was zero, and that
would be catastrophic because it would put any progress she had made
towards erasing her love for him into sharp reverse!

She was getting so wound up she could barely sit

122

still, never mind watch his relaxed mood, and when the insects began to
bite she had the perfect excuse,

'I think I'll turn in, something's decided to snack on my legs.'

The catch in her voice betrayed her inner tension but his lazy, I guess
you're absolutely right,' told her that, thankfully, he hadn't picked up
on it.

He got to his feet exactly when she did. In the pool of lamplight he
looked strangely mysterious, nerve-quiveringly dangerous, the planes and
angles of his face thrown into harsh relief. A convulsive shudder,
delicious and scary, rushed through her tense body. He was so gorgeous,
he was everything she wanted. Everything she couldn't have.

To disguise an anguished whimper, Bianca bent to scratch an itchy lump
on her ankle and wished he'd do the right thing and say goodnight, walk
away. In a minute she would make a fool of herself and burst into tears!

'Don't scratch!' Cesare chided gently. 'There's a tube of ointment in
the kitchen cabinet where the sticking plasters and aspirins are kept.
Use it after you've showered.'

Swallowing around the lump in her throat, she said a muffled, Thanks'
and scrambled up towards the house. A few paces on, she stopped. Turned.
He had every right to expect more than a headlong flight. Friends, he'd
said. So friendliness was what he'd get; any deviation from that path
would let him know that her emotions ran much deeper than that.

He wouldn't be able to see her clearly in the darkness and that was a
bonus, and he'd moved out of the pool of lamplight so she couldn't see
him properly, either, and that was another bonus.

Finding a note of something approaching cheerfulness, she said, 'Thanks
for your help. Making supper was fun. You'll need the torch to find your
way back-you know where it is, help yourself. 'Night, Cesare.'

A slow pulse of silence, then, 'Goodnight, Bee.' And that was it, all
there was. Making herself walk at a normal pace, Bianca made it into the
house, then flew up the stairs. She didn't want to be around when he
followed to collect the torch. She didn't want to have to see him again.
Ever. It hurt too much.

Standing under the warm, soothing water of the shower, Bianca reflected
miserably that she knew now exactly why he had spent the evening with
her, what he had intended to discuss.

Despite that earlier uncharacteristic descent into blackmail-for which,
she reminded herself fairly, he had apologised-Cesare Andriotti was a
civilised man. He was faithful and loyal while his affairs lasted and
was too urbane and sophisticated to want to see them end acrimoniously.

So in the end there had been no need to have that discussion. 'Friends,
Bee?' he'd asked and to protect herself she'd gone right along with it.

Since she'd been the one to end their affair in the first place, he
could have no idea of her true feelings

124

for him. He couldn't begin to imagine how being forced into his company,
compelled to play-act, had been sheer, unmitigated torment.

A flood of tears mingled with the needle spray of the shower. Goodbye,
Cesare, she said inside her head. And started to sob.

Cesare fetched the torch and went back to extinguish the oil lamp,
taking his time over clearing everything away.

There had been a few spiky moments-such as when she'd blown a gasket
over that lease-but on the whole the evening had gone to plan.

Plan One to kick off with. Nice and easy on the surface. She could have
no idea how he'd ached to take her in his arms, make love to her,
explain the serf-knowledge that had hit him like a thunderbolt when he'd
got back to London, how the ache had turned into a physical pain.

Opening the door of the small medicine cupboard, he extracted the tube
of ointment, switched off the kitchen light and mounted the stairs.

Time to put Plan Two into operation. Letting her know he would still be
here in the morning.

There was a strip of light showing beneath the door of the bedroom she
was using, the room they were to have shared until he'd come to his
senses and realised just how deplorable his behaviour was.

The air in his lungs felt thick and heavy as he tapped on the door,
probably inaudibly, and pushed it

open. And just stood there, on the threshold, his heartbeats ratcheting
up a gear as he fought to hold onto his determination not to make any
sexual advances in any way, shape or form.

She was sitting on the edge of one of the beds, naked. A muscle jerked
convulsively in his throat. His heart skipped a beat. Her body was
perfection and he knew it so well, every tempting, warm and willing inch
of it. The high, firm, beautiful breasts, the curve of her slender arms,
the indentation of her tiny waist, the soft mound of curls at the apex
of her thighs, the utter magic of her...

If he touched her, and one touch was all it had ever needed, she would
share the magic of her body with him tonight. He knew that. They had
never been able to resist each other.

But this wasn't about sex. This was about something on a different level.

Her eyes had darkened as he'd made that regrettably smouldering
appraisal and then she made a dive for the towel, formerly discarded on
the floor, and held it in front of her in an act of belated and, in
their case, unnecessary modesty.

It was the act of his life, but he managed a small smile, a contrite,
'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.' He aimed the tube of ointment
in her direction and watched it fall with a gentle plop on the sprigged
cotton coverlet at her side. Then, forcing his hungry gaze away from the
unendurable temptation of her, he strode over the narrow, polished
boards and whisked

126

the pillow and crisp cotton sheets from the other, unoccupied bed.

'What are you doing?'

'Making a bed up in the other room,' he answered her strangled question,
heading back to the door before the temptation to stay, to run his hands
through the heavy, silky fall of her hair, down the cleanly graceful
line of her spine, to fasten his hands on her hips, lift her, turn her
and draw her towards the throbbing, eager evidence of his manhood, got
the better of him.

'See you in the morning,' he managed before he closed the door to her
bedroom behind him, then stumbled into the other room and let out a
long, shuddering sigh.

Plan Two successfully started. Though right at this moment the
consolation was pretty thin.

Dropping his gleanings from her room onto the nearest bed, he walked
over to the window and stared out at the starry night. Abstinence from
the exquisite pleasure they'd always been able to give each other would
be a small price to pay if the end result meant he got what he wanted.

Bianca Jay as his wife.

And he always got what he wanted, didn't he?

He had five days to prove to her-as a starting point-that they could
find pleasure in each other's company without sex. Prove that they could
be buddies, best friends. That they could live together harmoniously,
with mutual respect and consideration.

Five days.

As soon as he'd known that he had to have her permanently in his life,
that the initial offer of marriage that had so shocked him at the time
had been his instincts telling him what his mind was too closed to
admit, he'd phoned Marco and told him to forget his former instruction
that the company jet would be waiting for Bianca at the Palermo airport
when she said she was ready to return to London. His old friend was to
book her on a commercial flight-and not put her on standby-which would
mean, especially at this time of year, that he had a few days' grace.

Bianca wouldn't trust a declaration of his undying love. It would be the
last thing she would want to hear. From her earliest childhood she'd
been conditioned to distrust men like himself, men with enough money to
buy whatever and whomever they wanted.

He had to teach her to trust him in everything beyond the bedroom door,
and when that was accomplished they could go back to being lovers as
well as best friends and spend the rest of their lives together as man
and wife.

She need never know that without him realising it he'd been falling in
love with her throughout their affair.

He had to keep that to himself, though hopefully not throughout their
lifetime together. At some stage during me years to come, her trust in
him firmly established, she would learn to love. It was all he could
hope for, all he wanted.

One last look at the stars and he turned to make up

128

his single bed. All he had to do was to convince her that they could
have a good life together. Close friendship, fun and laughter, great sex.

It would be enough for her to start with, a good beginning, wouldn't it?

129

Bianca crawled out of bed at just before seven the following morning,
unable to lie there, sleepless, trying to control the platoon of
super-lively butterflies that had taken up residence in her stomach for
one more moment.

She felt like death and, peering blearily into the small wall mirror,
she knew she looked like it, too.

Eyes puffy from repeated bouts of weeping, supported by bags big enough
to pack a picnic in, a mouth that looked sulky and drooping-

Furious with herself for letting Cesare get her in this state, she
collected a pair of lemon-yellow shorts and a sleeveless, light cotton,
button-through toning shirt and padded to the bathroom.

The warm steam that clouded the mirror and chrome fitments was testimony
to the fact that he had risen before her. The tantalising echo of the
distinctive aftershave he always used made her heart clench and her eyes
glitter with a sudden resurgence of despised tears.

Get a grip, she told herself fiercely as she whipped her short cotton
nightshirt over her head. Just grow up, will you? What was there to moan
about? By falling

130

in love with him she, and she alone, had brought this emotional mess
down on her own head.

Theirs had been a truly adult affair. He'd told her from the outset that
he wasn't the marrying kind, obviously to nip any expectations she might
have had in that direction neatly and decisively in the bud.

And even if he had been the marrying kind and she'd taken him up on the
breathtaking and ill-considered proposal he'd flung at her when she'd
told him their affair was over, she wouldn't have been able to trust him
not to treat her the way her father had treated her mother, she reminded
herself as she brushed her teeth ferociously.

She'd get over him, given time. And the process was starting right this
minute!

Half an hour later she descended the stairs, marginally refreshed, her
shoulders high and her backbone nicely stiffened, her glossy black hair
primly secured back off her face with a trailing, lemon-yellow chiffon
scarf.

No sign of Cesare. Bianca didn't know whether to be bitterly
disappointed or deeply relieved. The latter, she told herself
vehemently. Seeing him, being with him, did her no good at all. With any
luck he had gone over to the villa for breakfast, to discuss Helene's
progress with the professor.

Her movements deliberately precise, she began to make coffee. The
outside door was wide open and it was going to be another glorious day,
wall-to-wall

sunshine, enough breeze to temper the heat and make the sea dance and
glitter.

'Coffee smells good. Just what I needed.'

That all-too-familiar sexy voice stunned her. In the act of reaching for
an earthenware mug from the top shelf of the dresser, she froze, the
fine hairs on the back of her neck standing to attention, the platoon of
butterflies awaking from their brief slumber to dance around with
renewed and manic vigour.

She felt as if she were performing in slow motion as the fingers of her
right hand closed around the cool surface of one mug, transferred it to
her left hand and reached mechanically for another.

Turning slowly, she carefully placed the mugs on a work surface before
they dropped from her suddenly nerveless fingers and shattered on the
stone floor.

'I thought you'd gone to the villa for breakfast.' Even her voice seemed
strange and echoey, as if she were having to push the words through
great empty caverns of time and space. Her mangled heart contracted,
then started to pound in her eardrums, making her feel dizzy.

He was gorgeous, there was no other word for it. And she loved him, she
just couldn't help it, couldn't make it go away.

'No. I was up early and went walking,' he supplied with apparent
offhandedness. To take himself out of temptation's way, he thought
grittily, to get his priorities straightened out again.

He'd fought a battle royal with himself in the early

132

hours of the morning, desperately wanting to go to her. Just to lie at
her side to watch her wake in the morning, because she'd always refused
him that simple yet now all-important pleasure.

He'd wanted to kiss her sleepy eyelids, brush her tousled hair off her
face, rub his fingertips over the dreamy, just awakening, curving lips,
kiss her there, there and everywhere, hold her warm and boneless body
close to his heart, make slow, sensuous love to her...

When the sensible part of his brain, the part that told him to hold his
horses, stick to his original agenda, had looked like facing a crashing
defeat, he'd hurled himself out of bed, showered in stinging cold water,
dressed and taken himself off, walking like a man possessed until he
regained his control.

Then back for another shower, hot water to sluice away the sweat and
strain, a decent shave, then outside to wait. Wait for her.

And she was worth waiting for. Dressed in cool, fresh yellow, her long
legs just lightly tanned, inviting his touch, her breasts tantalisingly
free, the lovely curves just discernible beneath the light fabric of her
top if he looked hard enough...

The sharp thrust of desire to release that row of pearly buttons from
their moorings, part the filmy fabric and run his hands over the shape
of her, kiss, suckle, adore was almost too fierce to resist.

Pulling in a jagged breath, he smothered a raw internal groan, poured
coffee for them both, pushed the debilitating lustful thoughts right out
of his head and asked prosaically, 'Sleep well?'

'Fairly,' she answered with massive overstatement, her skin dampening
when he lifted his eyes from his task to connect with hers.

As always, the effect was shattering. Heat curled deep inside her tummy
and quivers spread all over her. Sucking breath into her lungs, she
noted that his dark, arching brows were pulled together in a tiny frown
as he stated the obvious. 'You are very pale.'

Bianca shrugged that aside and lifted her mug, cradling it in both
hands. A sleepless, tormented night didn't help a girl greet the morning
with glowing radiance! But she could hardly tell him that. He was still
watching her closely as he imparted, 'I'll make toast. Would you like an
egg to go with it?'

'Nothing for me, but you go ahead.'

Again that slight and puzzling frown. He started to say something, then
obviously changed his mind and Bianca left him to it, taking her coffee
outside to sit on the bench in the shade.

Cesare had taken away the folding table and chairs he'd unearthed last
night and there'd been no sign of used dishes and pans in the kitchen.
He'd done all the clearing-up after them and she couldn't in complete
honesty fault him for anything.

He hadn't tried to share her bed, to relive old times for just one more
night, and she was trying her damnedest not to fault him for that! But
the sorry truth was, she wanted him so badly she was like a cat on

134

hot bricks around him, despising herself for it because it was
counter-productive, not helping her on her long, lonely journey away
from loving him.

When Cesare joined her on the bench her tummy flipped right over. Hoping
he wouldn't notice, she carefully eased more space between them, and
when he held out his plate of lavishly buttered toast to her she
muttered, 'No, thanks,' and turned her head away.

The wretched butterflies would instantly reject anything she attempted
to swallow, she just knew it, and because it absolutely had to be said,
she asked, 'Why are you here? Tell me.'

'Why not?' Cesare casually countered through a mouthful. 'I found I had
to come back to the island and you're stranded here for a few more days,
so we might as well keep each other company.'

Just like that! And his 'few days' were too damned many! Didn't he know
what his company was doing to her?

No, of course he didn't, she answered herself dourly. In the sort of
circles he moved in the ending of an affair was no big deal. And,
assuming the participants were civilised and sophisticated, they could
remain friends.

As he was demonstrating!

Unconsciously grinding her teeth, Bianca decided she'd preferred it the
other way. As he'd been when he'd apologised, agreed their affair was
over and walked away from her, detached, cold, remote.

At least it had drawn a definite line under their relationship. This
way, his way, was nothing more than torture!

Through a brain positively spinning with the helpless savagery of her
thoughts, she heard Cesare confide, 'I thought we might take the launch
out today, visit one or two of the other islands. I called in at the
villa earlier and asked Maria to send someone down to the Bella Alegra
with a picnic hamper.'

About to tell him no way, no, thanks, she took rapid mental stock,
changed her mind and wisely kept her mouth shut. If she said she
wouldn't go, then he probably wouldn't go, either. At least a day spent
island hopping would give her something else to think about. She would
just have to concentrate on what she was seeing and try to forget he was
with her.

At least she wouldn't have to fight off-or eagerly submit to?-his sexual
attentions! He was highly sexed, as she knew only too well, and he
certainly wouldn't have kept to a separate bedroom last night if his
intentions had lain in that direction!

'You'll need a hat, dark glasses and sun-screen,' he was listing as he
glanced at the face of his watch. 'You won't want to get burned.'

She had already been badly burned. By him! Bianca thought scathingly as
she went back to her room to collect the things she'd need. But there
was still time to change her mind, she thought indecisively as she
dithered about, pushing a tube of sun-screen, tissues and dark glasses
into a padded cotton shoulder bag.

She could spend her regular twenty minutes or so

136

with Helene and the rest of the day at the villa with Jeanne. She
couldn't see her restless, energetic ex-lover sticking to her like glue
in that situation. A day of idleness, listening to her aunt's ramblings,
wouldn't appeal to him in the slightest.

But the thought of deliberately opting for Jeanne's company instead of
Cesare's left her feeling hollow, she conceded with a sense of defeat.

Like any addict, she thought despairingly, she couldn't get enough of
him, even though she knew his company was very, very bad for her.
Spending more time with him would be a serious set-back to a process of
recovery that had barely even started.

She carefully kept her eyes on the island scenery as they walked over
the hill and down to the cove together; Cesare was naming the
neighbouring islands he was aiming to head for and Bianca was too
churned up inside to take any of it in. Only forced to emerge from her
getting-her-nowhere thoughts when Ugo, carrying a large cool-box, padded
up behind them.

She made herself smile, and answer when the model-boy-perfect Italian
claimed their attention with his 'Buongiorno, Signor, Signorina.'

He slid to a halt in front of them, his eyes wandering down the length
of Bianca's bare legs, a slow smile quirking his full lips until Cesare
barked something in Italian that wiped the smile off his face and had
him putting the cool-box on the stony ground, his head downbent,
deferential, as he received what Bianca took to be a string of orders
from his employer.

Watching the young Italian walk back along the track, Bianca felt her
heart give a sudden lurch. Cesare's scathing reaction when he'd found
her talking to Ugo yesterday evening had been exactly the same. Surely
he wasn't actually jealous?

Either that or he had taken a sudden irrational dislike to his employee.
The latter, she had to concede, seemed far more likely.

'Come, follow me,' he instructed with a terseness that was at odds with
the lightness of his earlier mood. Then more smoothly, 'And watch where
you put your

feet.'

Bianca levelled him a look through the screen of her lashes. From where
she was standing it seemed to her that the moderation of tone in that
final instruction had caused Cesare quite a lot of effort, and his dark
head was very erect as he carried the cool-box along the top of the
natural rock terrace that sheltered the small, deep water cove from the
storms that, so he now informed her, could come out of nowhere.

The launch was moored alongside, tied up to a sturdy iron ring concreted
into a fissure in the rock. Clambering down necessitated taking his
proffered hand, and produced sensations that she tried quite desperately
to ignore.

The cool-box stowed away, Cesare untied and started the powerful engine
and Bianca moved down to the stern, settling on a padded bench as the
Bella Alegra headed for open waters, and blanked her mind to everything
but the tug of the wind, the sun on her

143

face, and the green, green depths of the glassy, translucent water.

'This looks the perfect spot,' Cesare said. 'Don't you think so, Bee?'

Whipping her straw hat off her head, she fanned her flushed face, her
smile spontaneous as she had to agree, 'Perfect. And I'm starving!'

Leaving the Bella Alegra tied up in the tiny harbour of Cesare's
island's nearest neighbour, they had walked through the tiny fishing
port with its shady piazza boasting a single cafe, past the humble pink
and white houses perched on terraces, and had headed up the steep,
unmade winding road until they had found this small secluded cove with
its crescent of white sand and its backdrop of the towering rim of a
long-extinct volcano.

It was extravagantly beautiful and suddenly she was fiercely glad she
had swallowed her misgivings and agreed to spend this day with him.

He had been the perfect companion throughout the long morning, cruising
slowly past ancient volcanic rock formations, deep grottos where the
water turned a dark and mysterious olive-green and the silence was
intense, past weird and wonderful formations of hardened lava and gentle
green slopes where sheep grazed.

He had explained things of interest, like the fact that Homer had
mentioned the islands in his 'Odyssey', how volcanic eruptions over the
long centuries had left their coasts sharp and menacing within a mile of
soft

rolling inland hills. She had found his knowledge of this constellation
of little islands hugely fascinating.

Now he extended one lean, tanned hand. 'Hold onto me and we'll soon
satisfy your appetite.' The huskily intimate tone of that sexily
accented voice of his made her catch her breath with a fierce and
forceful longing.

Taking his hand as they clambered down the narrow, steep track to the
beach so far below, she told herself firmly not to read anything into
that statement. How could she when he'd been the perfect gentleman,
charming, entertaining, never touching her unnecessarily or giving her
that smouldering look that had always emptied her mind of everything
except the driving, insistent need to make love with him?

But the simple clasp of his hand, his long fingers curling around hers,
made her heart expand within her chest and she could no more have
deprived herself of his touch, his body warmth, as they walked over the
sandy beach to the shade of a towering rock than she could have stopped
breathing.

It was Cesare who withdrew his hand from hers as he bent to open the
cool-box. Watching him, soaking up the sheer predatory grace of him,
Bianca almost burst with emotion. Being with him was both necessity and
torment. He didn't know it, but he was desperately loved.

As she sank down on the sand her eyes drank in his every movement, every
glorious, gorgeous inch of him as if this were the last time she would
ever see him.

His dark head bent, the tanned skin of his arms

144

glowing with health, and his smile as he finished what he was doing and
handed her a loaded plate was her downfall.

'Thank you.' She could barely manage even that; her throat had closed up
completely and tears stung the back of her eyes. She wanted to beg him
to love her as passionately as she loved him. But it would be a waste of
time because he couldn't. Why should he shackle himself for life?

He was rich, powerful and stunningly charismatic, unused to fidelity,
oversexed, with a low boredom threshold. Why should he commit to one
partner for life when he could play the field with impunity? And hadn't
he told her as much himself?

She swallowed hard on something that threatened to turn into a sob, and
her body went taut as he came to sit on the warm white sand beside her.
She was an idiot, an utter fool. Weak enough to beg him to take her
back, to give her as much of his life as he wanted to spare her. Cretin!

Sure that she was firmly on schedule to follow in Helene's footsteps,
forever wanting the one man she couldn't have, she gazed unseeingly at
the food on her plate. Her ravenous appetite had now completely disappeared.

Cesare was holding out a glass of cool white wine. After a tiny pause
Bianca took it, her fingers shaking. If she drank lots and lots perhaps
it would blunt the sharp edge of the pain, take the sting out of the fizzing

tension that had to be coming from her, because he had nothing to get
all wound up about, had he?

A solitary gull called overhead and the sea curled lazily onto the shore
and above it all she could hear her own rapid heartbeats, the snag of
her breath as she fought to control her powerful awareness of the silent
man at her side.

Wishing he'd say something-because she simply couldn't-anything to break
the spiral of tension, she tipped her head back, felt her sun-hat
slither off, and drained the contents of her glass in two long swallows.
Then she shuddered violently because normally she drank very little, and
maybe, oh, heaven forbid, she was like Helene, the life sentence of
unrequited love driving her to drink!

She gripped the stem of the glass so tightly her fingers hurt and then
his fingers covered her own as he took the glass from her and set it
down on the sand. When his eyes met hers she saw something that looked
like anguish in the dark charcoal depths and couldn't understand why
that might be.

His thick black lashes flickered then held steady. 'Bee, we have to
talk. I can't keep this up any longer. I have something to say to you.'

His eyes burned into hers like a blowtorch and a ripple of apprehension
coursed through her. Whatever he wanted to say would mean trouble. She
could feel it in her bones!

145

He hadn't planned this, Cesare thought on a shaft of self-contempt as
Bianca's eyes flared with something that looked like alarm, then
flickered and dropped beneath the intensity of his.

Today and tomorrow had been earmarked for companionship only, with
shared enjoyment for all they did and saw, easy conversation, a return
to the closeness they had always shared. Without making love, or even
coming near it. And not the merest hint of what he really had in mind,
persuading her to marry him when he knew marriage was the last thing she
wanted.

But it hadn't been easy and had proved impossible when with every breath
he took he burned to tell her how he really felt, what he wanted from
her. A character fault, he decided glumly. Want something, go right out
and make it happen had always been his philosophy.

Praying he hadn't blown it by jumping in with two left feet before he'd
given himself enough time to work on her, demonstrate how good they
could be together, that what they had shouldn't be lost, he made a
conscious effort to lighten up. One thing was sure, he couldn't
backtrack. He had to go on, but carefully.

He dug the fork into the plate of chicken in aspic

he'd given her and held the tempting morsel to her

lips.

'Eat first, talk after,' he prompted gently. 'I don't want you passing
out on me-you didn't eat breakfast remember?'

He saw her lowered eyelids flutter, a muscle in her throat jerk
convulsively. He clenched his teeth together. For a few hours this
morning she had been back to the way she had been during the first weeks
of their relationship: warm, carefree, vital. Now the wariness that had
positively screamed at him since he'd returned to the island was back in
spades.

She flicked him an unreadable look through her thickly fringing dark
lashes, then opened her lips to accept the tasty offering. A silent
groan wrenched its jagged way through him. He would not give in to the
brain-blanking desire to kiss her until neither of them knew where they
were! He would not!

Light yet logical was the way to play this. Appeal to her bright
intelligence, not to her senses.

Carefully, he curved the fingers of her one hand around the fork and
settled the plate in the other, picking up his own now unwanted food,
giving it a glance that curled his stomach and putting it straight down
again.

She was a highly intelligent woman and would see the sound sense of what
he was about to suggest.

Wouldn't she?

He cleared his throat, the sound raw. He felt like a gauche,
inexperienced teenager and found the unprecedented

144

sensation deeply unsettling. Cesare Andriotti reduced to a mass of
nerves, to speechlessness, when he was about to make a pitch for
something he wanted! Totally unheard of!

'Bianca-' Thankfully his voice didn't come out falsetto as he'd
genuinely feared it might! 'I want you to marry me.'

Her head came up. Her beautiful eyes widened. The light tan she'd
acquired deepened them to amber jewels. She'd tied her hair back in a
long, floaty lemon-yellow thing but strands were escaping, framing her
lovely face with black silk. Her soft lips parted and he snapped back to
his senses and lifted one hand to silence whatever it was she'd been
about to say.

'Don't answer yet. But promise me you'll think about it?' It was the
best he could hope for; it would take a lot to erase the impression
she'd taken away from that initial proposal, an impression he'd
subsequently said nothing to negate.

'I'm learning new things about myself every day,' he told her, his voice
low and husky. He tried to smile but didn't quite make it. She had put
her plate down and drawn her knees up to her chest, looping her arms
around them-a defensive gesture if ever he'd seen one.

She wasn't looking at him, but staring far out to sea, as if she could
ignore what he'd said by pretending he didn't exist.

He was obviously no great shakes in the proposal department, he thought
wryly as he reached out to

touch her shoulder just lightly to claim her attention. Feeling her
bones tense, he knew a moment's sheer panic. Battening it down, he found
control and began to share his thoughts with her. 'I'm not very good at
this, am I? I've never done it before, never thought I'd want to. When I
proposed that first time I shocked myself. I didn't know where it had
come from and you were right to ignore me. But don't ignore me now. Look
at me, Bee.'

For a moment he thought she was going to ignore that request, shut him
out completely. He held his breath, then vented a sigh of relief as she
shrugged his hand from her shoulder and turned her head, her long golden
eyes narrowed like a cat squaring up for a fight. At least he had her
attention.

Holding the glitter of her gaze, he went for broke. 'I know you don't
think much of the institution of marriage, and neither did I until I got
back to London after leaving you on the island. It hit me then-why I'd
asked you to marry me that first time. It was out of blind gut instinct.
I want you with me permanently and marriage is the best way to make that
happen.'

She'd pulled her lips tightly back against her teeth, he saw, as if to
stem a flow of scathing words. For some reason she'd wanted to walk away
from their relationship-following the pattern Helene had set over the
years, distrusting men because it had been bred in her? Not wanting to
let herself care too much, protecting herself? He honestly didn't know.

'Leaving aside fantastic sex, we're good together,

146

we always have been.' He had to impress that on her that he wanted to
share more with her than physical pleasure. 'The mistake many couples
make is marrying because they enjoy making love together. Passion blinds
them. When the heat of excitement dies down everything starts to go
pear-shaped because there's nothing else, and they discover they
irritate each other and end up disliking each other-and cluttering up
the divorce courts.'

Was he making any impression on her? Frustratedly, he didn't think so.
She was saying nothing, her expression guarded.

His voice raw, he stated strongly, 'We have more than mere physical
attraction going for us and I think it's worth hanging onto. I know we
could make it work.'

Bianca looked away, quickly, before he saw the give-away shimmer of
tears in her eyes. His proposal was tempting, far, far more than he
knew. But in all of this he'd said no word of loving her.

But why should he when love didn't come into it? He couldn't bring
himself to say that magic little word, tell a lie. Whatever else he was,
Cesare wasn't a liar.

Huffing out the breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding, she
turned her head and met his eyes. Her breath caught in her throat, every
nerve ending in her body tingling. He looked so sincere, as if he
really, truly, wanted her for his wife. The very thought of agreeing to
what he wanted made her head spin.

Knowing she had to stay calm, not let herself give

in to the desperately real temptation to tell him what he wanted to
hear, setting them on a headlong course to the altar, she said as
tonelessly as ravaging emotions would allow. 'What you're
suggesting-marriage because we rub along well together-is hardly
rational." 'Are human relationships ever entirely rational?' he
countered. 'All I'm saying is that ours has always been fantastic. In my
opinion, as I said before, it's worth hanging onto. That's one of the
things I learned. Listen to me, cara,' he commanded rawly as she turned
her attention back to the horizon.

'Since I'm marooned here with you I can hardly do anything else,' she
muttered, picking up handfuls of the soft white sand and tossing them as
far away as she could possibly get them to go.

Watching her, sensing her emotional agitation as if it were his own, he
stamped firmly on the impulse, to take her in his arms and make love to
her until she gave him her promise. It could be done, he knew that. But
that way the battle would be too easily won, the victory always uncertain.

'Another thing I learned was not to despise myself. I did, you know,' he
said with soft assurance when she flicked him a sudden disbelieving
glance. 'I positively loathed myself that night, our first on the
island, when you walked out into the night. I followed, of course I did;
you didn't know the layout, the dangers-anything could have happened. I
was out of my mind with worry. I'd already made up my mind to tell you I
agreed to end our affair. It was what you wanted

148

and the most dishonourable thing I'd ever done was to try to force you
to continue with it until I decided to end it.'

Her slight shoulders were drooping now, as if what he was saying was too
much to bear, but he said because it was necessary, 'I found you and we
ended up making love, because we couldn't help ourselves. I knew, after,
that I had to get out. If I didn't I'd find myself, despicably, holding
you to your side of that diabolical bargain.'

'I'd stopped fighting you by then,' Bianca admitted heavily, remembering
her decision to stay with him for as long as he wanted her because each
day she was finding herself more deeply in love with him. She hadn't
wanted to love him but had got to the point when fighting it had become
impossible.

'I know, cara, I know,' he said softly, something catching in the region
of his heart and squeezing tightly. 'The way we made love that night
told me that. But I couldn't let myself take advantage of you. So I
went. I'd hardly set foot back in England before I realised I'd left
something important behind. You. I'm not a cruel man, cara. That hellish
bargain I forced you to accept was down to the same gut instinct that
had produced that first proposal. I'd do anything, stoop to anything to
keep you permanently with me.' A smile warmed his voice and made the
back of her neck tingle. 'So I forgave myself for my bad behaviour
because at last I understood it, and came back for you.'

'How permanent is permanent?' she returned immediately, her fingers
curling into the palms of her hands until she thought they might draw
blood. Helene's words of warning were ringing in her ears, loud and
clear. She didn't want to listen but she couldn't block them out.

And Cesare said heavily, determined not to lose on this issue, 'I'm not
your father, Bee. You've had the unfortunate experience of growing up
around a mother you obviously love, seeing her go downhill, go to
pieces, because of what happened between her and your father. Bee-' he
reached for her hand and took it, holding his breath, his heart punching
his breastbone until her fingers at last curved acceptingly around his
own '-life doesn't come packaged with a cast-iron guarantee. But some
things are worth taking a chance on. Unlike your father, I'm not an
uncaring bastard. You could try to trust me.'

Bianca's soft mouth trembled as she met the dark intensity of his eyes.
He was so beautiful. All of him. His lithe, powerful physique, the proud
tilt of his dark head and the hard, clean line of his jaw. And the
strength of those long fingers entwined with her own was sending the
familiar shock waves of sensation

through her.

She loved him so much and wanted to trust him. Trust him to be faithful
and loyal, even if he didn't actually love her. He had put them both
through hoops of fire before reaching the conclusion that he wanted her
as his wife, which was one huge admission for the

150

man who'd openly stated he saw no reason for surrendering his bachelor
freedom.

Surely, in return, she could trust him?

She'd trusted him implicitly when he'd said that despite the ending of
their relationship her mother would continue to get the specialist help
she needed from Professor Vaccari.

Couldn't she just as easily trust him on this?

She really, really wanted to!

Tears welled and spilled over as she gave an emotional gulp, and,
groaning, feeling as if his heart were being torn apart, Cesare folded
her in his arms and held her, whispering driven endearments in his own
language.

Her head cradled against the hard, muscular wall of his chest, Bianca
listened to the sensual sounds of his native Italian, heard the heavy
beat of his heart and just melted and looped her arms around his neck,
her fingertips wandering feverishly in the short crisp hair at his nape.

Cesare gave a groan of satisfaction and gathered her more closely, his
hands skimming from her shoulders down to her tiny waist, grazing the
sides of her tingling breasts. 'Don't cry, cara mia,' he husked. 'I
can't bear it.'

'I'm not crying,' Bianca lied, gulping back another rising sob. 'I'm-I'm
just confused!'

Not knowing whether she was on her head or on her heels, fighting a
battle with herself. But she knew she was losing when he brought his
hands up to cup

her cheekbones, mesmerising her with the steadfast power of his eyes,
the firm, unsmiling line of his chiselled mouth.

'Don't be,' he strictured. 'Just think about what I said. That's all I
ask. You have four more days and nights to reach the conclusion I have.
That we're happier together than we are apart.'

She closed her eyes to block out the hypnotic temptation of him, of what
he was asking of her. Her fingers stilled and splayed, pressing against
his head. The touch of his hands set her on fire, promising heaven, but
still no word of love.

If he said he was in love with her she'd take the chance. But he never
would. And would the rest- sexual compatibility, close friendship,
precious and important though that was-be enough to keep him with her
throughout their lives?

If, in the future, he did fall in love for the first time, with someone
else, or simply grew bored with a relationship that had grown tired once
passion had faded, and left her, then her life wouldn't be worth a

row of beans.

Just as her mother's hadn't been worth living after the only man she had
ever loved had walked out on

her.

Bianca shuddered, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her until
she felt Cesare's lips, feathering over her closed eyelids, and heard
the seductive whisper of his voice as he murmured, 'So sad! I am offering

152

you my name in marriage, not a choice of methods for your own execution!'

He would think she was a prize idiot, overreacting to a massive extent.
He had no idea how deeply she loved him. Her soft lips wobbled and he
took them with his own with an explosive hunger that burned out what
little brain she had left and her body became instantly eager, answering
his hunger with her own, and there was nothing more important than this,
this fiery response to the way their mouths clung and mingled, to the
frantic way he was undoing the buttons of her shirt, his heartbeats
matching the wild drumming of her own as her breasts peaked into his
hands and her own fingers slid beneath the hem of his T-shirt, touching
his tight, burning skin.

This was heaven, this was right. Her sighs of pleasure whispering into
his hungry mouth, her skin against his, burning, exciting, silk against
hair-roughened satin, the way their clothing disappeared as if by magic,
the way he found her softly curving woman's hips with the sliding,
sensuous drift of his hands and positioned her beneath the narrow, hard
span of his and sank himself into the slick heat of her...

153

Bianca came awake slowly and stretched lazily, a dreamy smile curving
her passion-swollen lips.

The bedroom windows were open wide, catching the breeze, the light
curtains swaying. She could hear the distant sound of the sea.

Turning her head, her dark hair spread against the crisp white pillow,
she stretched out a hand to the empty space where he had been.

A low gurgle of laughter escaped her. Cesare had risen early, probably
because he couldn't take any more middle-of-the-night punishment!

The two single beds, pushed together, had parted company twice during
the night, depositing them both in the gap in the middle, all tangled up
in each other, in sheets and pillows.

The shock of the rude awakening, of naked bodies trying to rid
themselves of strangling sheets and smothering pillows, sort out which
limbs belonged to whom and which did not, had almost instantly turned
into something else entirely, the melting into each other, the slow
stroking and kissing that had turned into driven passion on both occasions.

'I'm going to have to tie them together with anchor chains,' Cesare had
vowed as he'd pushed the beds

154

together for what had turned out to be the final time. 'Or we'll have to
squash onto one of them, or sleep on the floor. Or we could, at a pinch,
get Giovanni to trundle a double from the villa over on his mule cart.
I'm getting much too old for such shocks to my system!'

But he'd been laughing, and so had she as she'd stood by, her arms full
of bedlinen. And at that moment, right at that moment, she'd known she
would agree to marry him. What they had was far too good to throw away.
It might be a chance, a scary chance, but she'd take it because she now
couldn't bear to think of the other option.

After they'd made love on the beach he hadn't mentioned the subject of
marriage. He'd been giving her the time he'd promised. She'd grabbed the
reprieve with both hands, feeling lighter in heart than she had in a
long time.

It had been dark when they'd moored the Bella Alegra. Cesare had
produced a torch from a tool box to light their way across the island.
And in the little stone house, with the lamp lit because they both
preferred the cosier, more intimate atmosphere, they had finished off
the contents of the cool-box, the bottle of wine, and Cesare had said,
sounding pretty serious, 'Giovanni can collect the empty box in the
morning. I don't want Ugo anywhere near you. He's damned good at his job
but when I saw him eyeing you up I wanted to beat him to a pulp.'

He was actually admitting to jealousy!

Possessive, Bianca thought on a whirr of something that put her on a
high, producing the insane idea that he really did love her. Only to be
followed by the flattening knowledge that Cesare was one of the most
up-front people she'd ever met. He didn't hide his feelings or pretend
he didn't have them. He said what he felt, and devil take the
consequences, and always meant what he said.

If he loved her he would have said so.

Now, luxuriating back against the pillows, her mind made up, she knew
that love could grow. She would make him a good wife, the best, make
sure he didn't stray.

But hadn't Helene done exactly that-even to the extent of deliberately
getting pregnant with her as she'd desperately tried to hold onto her
husband?

Before that niggle could gain a firm foothold Cesare entered the room
and she turned her head on the pillow and gave him a beaming smile,
drenching herself in the gorgeous perfection of him. Intensely male,
very, very sexy, his lean body dressed this morning in cutoff denims and
nothing else, he answered her smile with one of his own that sent her
heart off into orbit.

'Coffee,' he said, putting the mug down on the night table within her
reach. He sat on the edge of the bed. (I have used my brains, cara. I am
a genius! All I have to do is remove the castors from the beds and they
won't roll apart whenever they feel like it! But first-' he took her
hands '-I shall make breakfast. Will you be able to eat some?'

156

'But of course.' She smiled at his suddenly serious expression. 'I enjoy
being waited on. Besides, I'm ravenous.'

'Yesterday morning you were so pale. You couldn't eat so much as a
corner of toast,' he reminded her, searching her features with his dark
head tipped slightly to one side.

'So?' That had been yesterday, her emotions had been in a mangled mess.
This was today and entirely different.

'So you might be pregnant,' he answered slowly. 'Have you thought of
that? Out on the hillside I didn't use protection. I must take the blame
for that. I was negligent, not prepared, and you swept me away. And if
nothing happened then, then consider yesterday on the beach, and when
the bed threw us on the floor.'

Bianca struggled up against the pillows, her amber eyes fixed to his. It
was a possibility, of course it was. In the past Cesare had taken the
necessary precautions, believing in safe sex. Something had happened,
fierce emotions had seen common sense fly out of the window. 'Would you
mind?' she asked.

'As long as you were happy with it, I would be ecstatic.' He lifted her
hands to his lips and brushed light kisses over her fingers. 'That is
another thing I have recently learned about myself. I want a family.
Previously, I believed I didn't want to be tied down- well, you know
that-Claudia, in producing twin boys, had done my duty for me. I was
mistaken.'

'And now?'

The pressure of his fingers increased until it became almost painful. 'I
want a family,' Cesare stressed firmly, even as his heart leapt with a
sudden blistering surge of wild elation. 'If you are already carrying my
child then you will marry me!'

That unmissable note of triumph had been a bad, bad mistake, Cesare
chided himself harshly as Bianca pulled her hands away from his and
reached for her coffee-mug, cradling it, her eyes holding his steadily.
He saw a tiny muscle jerk at the corner of her mouth and cursed himself.

Shifting slightly on the bed, he quickly embarked on a damage-limitation
exercise. 'You are sensible enough, cara mia, to understand that
marriage would be best for you and our child-should there be one. That
is what I meant. We would be a family, and that is important. But it
wouldn't stop you continuing your career,' he quickly assured her. 'You
are brilliant at what you do and I know how much it means to you. A
full-time nanny would be employed, and I promise you I would not spend
nearly as much time working. I would spend time with our child.'

Her expression hadn't softened. If anything, those golden eyes were now
glittering dangerously. He swore savagely inside his head. He was saying
all the wrong things!

All he was trying to do was to assure her that an unexpected pregnancy
needn't mean she had to lose out on a single thing. That he didn't want
her to be, or feel, trapped.

158

In sheer desperation he tried to inject a note of levity, something to
bring her back to him again. 'I think I would make a wonderful
house-husband!'

It didn't raise the smallest smile, a joking agreement that he would
look great in a pinny, a frying-pan in one hand and a squalling baby in
the other.

'It's far too early to talk about pregnancy, or lay down orders about
what I would be expected to do.' Bianca forced the words out through
lips that felt as stiff as lumps of wood. 'And if you don't mind, please
leave. I'd like to shower and dress.'

Cesare's head came up and his shoulders went rigid. Without another word
he stood up and walked out of the room and Bianca glared at his
retreating back, at the proud angle of his head, with mutiny in her eyes.

So he didn't like being dismissed. Well, tough! And he arrogantly
thought he could call all the shots. Well, he couldn't!

Putting her cooling coffee back on the night table, she shot out of bed.

Had it suddenly struck him, back in London, that she might have
conceived? Was that why he'd come back to the island and proposed?

Not because, as he'd so convincingly said, what they had together was
too good to lose-but because, although he didn't mind losing her and
what he had fatuously reported as being so wonderful about their
relationship-as he had clearly demonstrated when he'd walked out on her
and told her he agreed to the ending of their affair-if there was to be
a child from that night on the hillside, he didn't want to lose it!

All Italian men wanted children, didn't they? They doted on them. It had
just taken Cesare longer than most to recognise it. Faced with the
possibility of a child, he had been taken over by his Italian genes. She
was just a necessary appendage!

He didn't love her, but he would love their child with a mind-blowing
extravagance and would probably burst with pride the first time he held
it in his arms!

Although their child was probably nothing more than a wish for him, one
that he hadn't known he'd had, he had got everything planned. He would
reschedule his work, delegate a lot more, to spend time with it while
she, an out-of-focus blob on the periphery of that close little circle,
could take herself off to work, keep out of the way until night-time,
when he would do his best to father another child with her because he
would have become addicted to the idea of his own family and wanted a
whole horde of children in his own conceited image!

Catching a glimpse of her red-with-temper face in the mirror, she made a
determined effort to calm herself down. She was being hysterical,
twisting things.

There was almost certainly a thread of truth in the fabric of her
thoughts, but could she really believe, after the sincerity of what he'd
said yesterday, that she was completely unimportant to him, except as
the possible carrier of his child?

160

She would ask him, demand the truth, but only when she was sufficiently
calm to speak and act rationally.

Marrying him because he truly valued their relationship, as he'd said,
was one thing. She could go along with that and hope that he would learn
to love her if only half as much as she loved him.

Marrying him because that was the only way he could get complete control
over their baby-sole control if she did as he obviously expected her to
do and continued with a demanding career that often kept her at work
well into the night-would be simply untenable.

And even if she wasn't pregnant, would the pattern emerge when she did
conceive and produce a child?

Switching the shower on at full blast, she drowned out her groan of
self-disgust. She was doing it again, attributing devious motives when
without asking point-blank she had no way of knowing the truth of what
he was thinking.

'Would you like more coffee?' Cesare asked, his voice chillingly polite,
cutting right through her, sending a shiver down her spine.

Bianca shook her head numbly. She had damaged his pride and hated being
at odds with him. Their warmth, their closeness, had been the thing
she'd valued most highly during their relationship.

He had produced scrambled eggs and orange juice for breakfast and they
had eaten in a silence punctuated now and then with stilted remarks
about the weather, the supplies they were running low on and must
remember to ask Giovanni to carry over from the

villa.

A day of skirting warily around each other was not to be thought of, and
Bianca knew that if they didn't get talking soon she would explode.

So now was the time to find out what really lay behind his proposal of
marriage. Strive for an easy tone, nothing in the least way
confrontational. 'Cesare, may I ask you something?'

'Anything!' His heart jerked inside him. The frost he'd put in her eyes
with his blundering had melted. Her lovely features so earnest instead
of frozen with contempt. Now was the time to try to redeem himself,
explain that he'd only been thinking of her, of what she wanted because
she was the only important consideration in his life.

He smiled for her in relief and wondered if she could see the love in
his eyes, and if she'd welcome it or shy away from it because she didn't
want the depth and responsibility of an emotion she couldn't

return. 'Ask away.'

The tip of her tongue peeped out to moisten her lips and the look she
slanted at him through the heavy, dark veil of her lashes was open and
direct. He reached for her hand across the table and just as their
fingers touched an irritating burbling from his mobile phone brought his
slashing brows together in a frown.

'You left it on the dresser,' Bianca told him when

162

his scowl deepened as he turned his head and sought the source of the
untimely interruption.

She gently withdrew her fingers from his. 'You should have turned it
off,' she told him, grinning at the way he struck the side of his head
with the heel of his palm before pushing back his chair and stalking
across the room.

Very few people had his private mobile number. His parents, his sister
and his executive PA. It had better be more than a mere babble of
chatter to excuse this attack on his privacy at such a moment.

It was. He listened in grim silence for a few moments, barked a few
terse words, switched off and vented a stream of what Bianca could only
assume to be colourful Italian curses.

'Trouble?' she asked when the tirade subsided. And that was probably a
huge understatement because he pulled in a deep breath that expanded his
muscular chest and sucked in his washboard-hard stomach.

Trouble I could do without,' he conceded, his eyes softening as his gaze
feathered her face. 'Especially now. Cara-' he walked back to her, took
her hands and drew her to her feet '-my chief accountant has been caught
with his fingers in the till. The police are involved. I have to fly to
Rome. Today. Now.'

His hands lifting to either side of her head, his fingers tangling in
her hair, he lifted her face and said rawly, 'I'll be gone for a few
days, a week at most. Promise me you'll wait? Cancel that flight? Ugo
will see Jeanne safely onto the plane. Wait here for me?'

Her throat convulsed. Cancel that flight back to a normal
getting-on-with-her-life situation when nothing had been resolved about
his true reasons for wanting her to marry him. Surely that would be
equivalent to saying yes, buying a pig in a poke? And as if he'd read
her mind, answered her question, he said heavily, 'If you're not here
when I get back I'll know you've thought about my proposal and have
decided to reject it.' His fingers curved around her cheekbones, his
eyes stricken as he warned tautly, 'In that event, and if you prove to
be pregnant, then I will want, and get, equal rights in the care of our
child. But I beg you, wait for me,' he breathed roughly, then dropped an
achingly slow kiss on her mouth before releasing her abruptly and going
up to change, taking the stairs two at a time, leaving Bianca staring
after him, her mind in a muddle, swimming with all those unasked questions.

165

The sense of doom was overwhelming. Despite the brilliant sunshine, the
sparkling tranquil sea and the lazy peacefulness of the island, the
feeling of it persisted, pressing down on Bianca until she didn't know
what to do with herself.

For two whole days now she'd asked herself the same questions over and
over again and got precisely nowhere.

If only that wretchedly intruding phone call had come through fifteen
minutes later she would now know exactly where she stood.

A convenient body for all those children Cesare, in his extravagant
Latin way, had now decided he wanted? Convenient because they were
mostly on the same wavelength and the sex was great. Someone who could
be sidelined, safely out of the way while she continued her career,
while he hired a nanny to look after her children and he wallowed in the
living evidence of his own virility?

Or would she be valued for herself?

Sometimes she thought the former. At other times she was sure of the latter.

If she could have had the time to ask him, would he have told the truth?
Of course he would, Bianca assured herself firmly. He didn't tell lies.
She slapped the bowl of salad she'd been haphazardly preparing down on
the work surface. He'd been frighteningly up-front about what would
happen if she proved to be pregnant and rejected him. Equal rights. Or
perhaps sole custody? The very thought chilled her.

Unconsciously, she put her hand on her flat tummy. They were both
jumping the gun here; she was in the middle of her cycle, or
thereabouts. They would both have to wait to be sure. If she missed her
next period she would buy one of those testing kits...

Then the thought that she was probably not pregnant at all made her
bones go weak and shaky and her throat close right up.

She actually did want Cesare's baby! And did that mean she would accept
him anyway? Keep her fingers crossed for their future happiness, tell
him that if he brought a nanny in she would send her straight out again
because, despite what he might want, she was going to be a full-time
mum? That although he would have his say, of course he would, no way
would she allow her baby to grow up to be a spoiled brat, indulged in
every possible way by a doting father!

Convinced she was getting close to losing her mind, Bianca walked out
into the sunlight. She'd missed visiting Helene since Cesare had
reappeared and felt decidedly guilty, so she would walk across to the
villa and invite herself for lunch, spend some time with her

166

mother and tell Jeanne that she wouldn't be returning to the UK with her
after all.

You owe it to Cesare-and let's face it, to yourself, too-to stay, to
hear what he has to say, she told herself.

Lunch was already in progress, on the terrace as usual. Marco handed her
into a vacant chair while Maria bustled forwards to lay an extra place.

'What a surprise!' Helene's greeting was acid. 'Where have you been?
It's been two days since Signor Andriotti flew himself off again.'

Her mouth took on the petulant droop Bianca dreaded as Helene added,
'While I wouldn't presume to claim a minute of your time while you had
more interesting company, I would have thought you could have spared me
half an hour since you've been left high and dry again.'

'Sorry.'

Bianca gave Helene an apologetic smile and the professor put in gently,
'Our children grow up, Helene, they have their own lives to lead. But
they don't grow away unless they're pushed in that direction.'

He handed Bianca a dish of pasta with creamy mushroom sauce and said, 'I
lost my wife many years ago and sometimes I don't see either of my sons
for months on end. They lead busy lives, but I know if I needed them
they'd drop everything to be with me.'

Bianca added crisp green salad to her plate, watching Helene. She was
looking at Marco Vaccari with limpid eyes but her mouth was still sulky.
Her mother

had relied on her for so many things over the years, for support-both
emotional and practical-and, latterly when her money had run out,
financially as well. It had been a drain on her energy, her resources,
Bianca admitted silently, and hoped the professor could work some kind
of miracle and help Helene grow into a happy, self-reliant woman.

But if that didn't happen then she would have to be around, trying to
stitch the pieces together. She loved her mother far too much to abandon
her.

Her simmering rage against her father, the man whose behaviour had
pushed his wife to the brink, was broken by Jeanne's practical, 'Have
you done your packing yet, Bianca?'

'No.' Bianca swallowed a mouthful of the delicious pasta. The timing was
a bit off, but she would have to

tell them.

Glancing around the table, she said steadily, 'I won't be leaving with
you after all. That's what I came to tell you. The plans have been
changed. I'll be staying on here at least until Cesare gets back from
Rome, and probably for a few days longer.'

She waited for Helene's explosion.

It came quickly. Her mother dropped her fork with a clatter, dark colour
staining her face. 'You can't stay.' Her voice was thin and high.

'The arrangements have all been made, you can't just cancel them! You
told me your affair was over, so why are you hanging around, waiting for
him? I've nothing against him personally, how could I have

168

when he's been so generous to all of us? But he'll hurt you in the end,
if you let him. Look at what's happening now! He's obviously giving you
the run-around! Besides...' she played her trump card '...as soon as
your flight was booked, I phoned Stazia Lynley and told her you'd be
back at work next week. She was very relieved; you can't let her down.
Do you intend to lose your job because some man's dangling you on a
piece of string?' Her voice was rising hysterically now, her hands shaking.

Bianca's heart plummeted. Whenever Helene looked at Cesare Andriotti she
saw danger for her daughter, saw her own sorry history repeating itself.
It was irrational, of course, but a part of her neurosis. And Bianca's
having been constantly exposed from her earliest years, some of it had
rubbed off on her.

Inwardly shaking, Bianca reached over the table and touched Helene's
hand. 'Cesare wouldn't deliberately hurt me,' she attempted to soothe.
'Or anyone else, for that matter. He's not that type of man.'

And knew with a deeply felt conviction that it was the truth. His
reasons for wanting to marry her weren't based on love, but they were
genuine, and, even if they stemmed solely from the fact that she might
be pregnant and he wanted his child, he would never try to hurt her. He
wasn't a cruel man.

He had tried to be, but in the end his sense of what was right had
stopped him.

'Believe me, I wouldn't stay on here if I thought he was giving me the
run-around!' Her words had been

meant to comfort her mother, lighten the tension. But Helene jerked to
her feet, knocking her chair over as she fled back into the house.

'Don't-let her go. It is for the best.' Marco laid a restraining hand on
Bianca's arm as she rose to follow. 'One of the things Helene has to
learn is that you will not always be around to dry her tears and make
everything safe for her again.'

Jeanne shrugged her plump shoulders and helped herself from the fruit
bowl. 'And there was me, thinking she was improving! Eating better and
putting on some weight and not climbing the walls because she can't have
a drink!'

Marco smiled, leaning back in his chair. 'Your sister's not an
alcoholic. She used drink as a crutch. When she no longer needs a crutch
she will be able to have the occasional social drink without any ill
effects whatsoever. And she's had a difficult morning.' His kind eyes
turned to Bianca. 'It's been the first tough session of her counselling,
so you mustn't mind her tantrum! She is making progress, and she will
progress much further. But it will take time.'

Which was something of a comfort, Bianca consoled herself as the lunch
party broke up and she accompanied Jeanne to the marble-paved poolside,
settled her in a comfy lounger in the shade of a huge green umbrella,
and left her to sleep off the effects of several helpings of pasta, a
generous slice of banana tart topped with cream and a large number of
grapes. But how much time had Marco in mind? Would the

170

news that her precious daughter had agreed to marry Cesare Andriotti
prove an insurmountable set-back? she worried as she walked back across
the island in the early afternoon heat.

Because she would marry him, she knew that now. Whatever his reasons,
hers were the right ones. She loved him and life without him would be so
severely impoverished she couldn't now bear to think of it.

The clarity of her decision made her heart sing. Taking a book down to
the shady, ferny place on the banks of the stream, she began the long
wait for his return.

'You are here-thank goodness!' Jeanne trudged through the open door as
Bianca was beating eggs for her lunchtime omelette. 'When you didn't
drop by at coffee-time I knew I'd have to find you even if I did have to
search the whole island! It's the heat-!

Jeanne flapped a plump hand in front of her red, perspiring face. 'And,'
she added darkly, 'all this wretched weight I've put on! The food's too
good to resist and there's nothing to do but sit around. It's just as
well I'm leaving tomorrow or I'd be too fat to move, even if I wanted to!'

Smiling sympathetically, Bianca motioned her aunt into a chair and
crossed to the fridge to pour her a glass of chilled orange juice,
explaining, 'I didn't drop by this morning because I didn't know if I
should. I would have phoned through to the professor to ask his advice,
but I don't have the number.'

She had already used her mobile to contact Stazia and explain that
Helene had been wrong, she wouldn't be turning up for work quite so soon.

The news hadn't gone down well; she hadn't expected it to have done. But
waiting for Cesare took precedence over her career, over everything
else, if she was honest. 'So maybe I'll come by later and hope to catch
him alone. Or-' she turned, the glass of juice in her hand '-you could
ask him for me when you get a moment alone with him. I'll give you my
mobile number. I don't want to do the wrong thing and upset Helene any
more than I did yesterday.'

'You couldn't.' Jeanne accepted the glass and took a thirsty gulp.
'Upset her any more than you already have, I mean. Personally, I don't
know how much good this mumbo-jumbo counselling is doing her. She should
have gone to a proper clinic, that's what I say. And pull herself
together. I don't approve of you having a fling with that young man
because I'm happy to admit I'm old-fashioned that way. But I wouldn't go
berserk about it!'

'What happened?' Bianca felt for the back of a chair and sat down
quickly before her suddenly weak legs gave way beneath her.

'That's what I had to come and tell you. Marco said he could handle the
situation-I think he had to give her a sedative last night-he said that
you had to make your own decisions. But it's my opinion you have the
right to know.'

Bianca's stomach turned over, 'Know what?' she

172

prodded, prodded too sharply, she regretted Jeanne's eyebrows rose
haughtily.

'Your mother's insisting that if you don't leave with me in the morning,
then she will. She means it and there's no one can stop her. Except you.'

173

His mouth tight with pain, Cesare endlessly paced the uneven top of the
stone wall, staring out to sea, waiting for the Bella Alegra' return. He
had lost all track of time.

He had lost everything.

Bianca hadn't waited.

'If you're not here when I get back I'll know you've thought about my
proposal and have decided to reject it.' His own words rang hollowly in
his ears.

The woman he had learned to love with a depth and breadth that had
shaken him out of his earlier, empty conviction that freedom was the one
thing he valued above all else had walked out of his life, leaving him
completely enslaved, wearing the shackles of unrequited love.

His mouth made a cynical curve as he remembered how he'd felt when he'd
shut down the helicopter's engine, run through the check-list and
scrambled out beneath the still-rotating blades.

Elated!

Returning earlier than he had dared to hope, he'd known she would be
there, would have cancelled her flight out this morning. His beautiful
Bianca would be waiting for him because what they had was so precious.
He knew it, and so by now must she!

174

And if she was still undecided over whether or not to bind her life to
his for as long as they lived, then- Dio!-he would do everything in his
power to persuade her!

Reaching the top of the track, he had come face to face with his old
friend. Marco would have heard the racket of his approach, he could
hardly have missed it, and had obviously come out to greet him.

Impatience to be with Bianca, see her glorious smile, touch her, urged
him to keep going, just a nod of greeting, a 'see you later,' but
politeness stopped him, but only briefly, he told himself.

'How are things?' The question would be expected.

'Settled down now.'

The answer wasn't. Something had obviously happened while he'd been
away. The chef throwing a wobbly? It wasn't unknown. Ugo causing a
cat-fight between competing members of the younger female staff?
Whatever, it could wait. His reunion with Bianca couldn't.

'Did Jeanne get away OK?' He remembered to enquire, as he would have
done after any departing guest.

'Yes. Both of them. Her and Bianca.'

For a stunned moment he hadn't been able to believe it. And when the
shock had worn off the pain had begun.

'Ugo took them both in the launch in plenty of time to catch the London
flight...'

Then more, Cesare only caught fragments through the blind beating of a
brain that was struggling to come to terms with the unthinkable.

She had gone. She hadn't waited. The message was clear and he wasn't
able to bear it.

And still Marco was talking, bits and pieces that were of no interest to
him...'tantrums and mood swings'...'giving way since childhood, I would
imagine'...'regrettable'...'prognosis good, fortunately.'

He couldn't remember now, how he had finally excused himself, could only
remember coming down here to wait for the Bella Alegra.

She might have given Ugo a message for him. Hope flared briefly and just
as quickly died again. She wouldn't need to, would she? Her departure
had been her message. No other was needed.

He swore savagely, bunching his fists into the pockets of his jeans, the
sun beating down on his head, perspiration making his skin slick. And
still he waited.

There would be no message, he knew that, but Ugo could pilot the bird
back to Palermo, dump him there because he was in no fit state to take
the controls. There was nothing here for him now. He never wanted to see
this wretched place again.

He would head for his villa on the outskirts of Rome. Hole up, get drunk
for a week to anaesthetise the pain that was cutting him in two. And
then, somehow, get on with his life. Try to forget...

Sitting in the prow, Bianca willed the launch to go faster. At least the
island was in sight now, a misty blob on the horizon. She couldn't wait
to get back there, tear up that letter and wait for Cesare. Ugo was
still trying to make conversation, but beyond

176

the nods and abstracted smiles she'd lobbed in his direction she had
made little contribution.

He probably thought she was crazy.

Waiting to check their luggage in, Jeanne had said, 'Maybe you did the
right thing, maybe you didn't. All I can say is, sticking to your
original decision to leave with me settled her down again. She insisted
on joining me for early breakfast this morning. She was bright as a
button. Well, she would be, wouldn't she? She's got her own way. Got you
out of the wicked clutches of the evil squire, or whatever the Italian
equivalent is!'

Jeanne shuffled forward as the queue in front of her moved and Bianca
went very still. Ugo pushed their trolley-load of luggage forward.
Acting as escort to two women was boring him; Bianca could see that from
his expression. One of the women was openly disapproving, the other
unflatteringly impervious to his flirtatious overtures.

Ungluing her feet from the floor, Bianca touched her aunt's shoulder.
'I'm going back.'

Turning, she began to unload her luggage from the trolley, ignoring
Ugo's almost comically raised eyebrows. And Jeanne said, 'What about
Helene?'

'What about her? Don't get me wrong, I do care about her, but I care
about Cesare more. He's asked me to marry him. He asked me to wait for
him on the island. This is my life, Jeanne, I'm not going to mess up
because Helene's riddled with neuroses. I've always been there for her,
and I always will be. I'd do

anything for her except turn my back on the man I

love.'

Even if he didn't love her?

Bianca ignored that niggle. It didn't matter. He wanted her with him,
and that would be enough because she wanted to be with him more than
anything else in the universe.

'She'll throw a fit!' Jeanne warned. 'Probably.' The last of the luggage
removed, her aunt moving to the head of the queue, Bianca added, 'Marco
will handle her. That's what Cesare's paying him to do and I have
complete confidence in the professor's ability!'

She had felt light-headed, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from her
shoulders. Still did. And the island was beginning to take on form, a
rounded green hump in the sparkling azure waters, it looked like a child's

drawing.

Her tummy crawled with excitement. The first thing she would do when she
got back to the little stone house was tear up that letter. She'd left
it on the table where he would be sure to find it, sealed with his name
on the envelope.

The words she had written, she saw now, were an open admission of
defeat. Explaining the complete reversal of any progress Helene might
have made when she'd learned that their affair was ongoing. The marriage
proposal hadn't been mentioned and she'd be grateful if he wouldn't
mention it, either. She'd gone on to say that she thought it best if
they didn't see each other for some time.

178

She heaved a sigh of relief. Thank heaven she'd come to her senses in
time! Then turned her thoughts to the happier subject of how she'd pass
the coming days of waiting time.

After she'd disposed of that letter she'd change out of the simple
oyster-coloured cotton suit she'd chosen to travel in. Put on shorts and
a loose top, top up her tan and wish the time away, her ears constantly
straining for the roar of the helicopter engine. And maybe-All her
thoughts flew out of her head as her eyes picked out the solitary figure
on top of the stone wall that formed the mooring jetty.

Cesare! It could have been almost anyone, but she knew it was him. He
was back already! As the Bella Alegra powered closer her breath
thickened in her throat, her heart beating hard and fast. By now he
would have read that letter. How would he be feeling? Gutted? Or just
plain angry because she might, just might, be carrying his child?

And why was he waiting, his eyes glued to the fast-approaching launch?

Because he intended to order Ugo to take him

straight back to Palermo, to catch the next flight to

London, to track her down and not let her out of his

sight until he knew whether or not she was pregnant?

That didn't make sense, she thought frantically. Not

when the helicopter could get him there in no time at

all, when his company's private jet was standing by.

Pushing useless guesses right out of her head as the

Bella Alegra sidled alongside, she hiked up her narrow

skirt and scrambled over the side and ran along the wall towards him.
His face was like stone.

It didn't matter-she could change it! She could make everything right
again! And knew she was right when she flew over the uneven stones
towards him, her arms held wide open, reaching for him, and saw the huge
grin that transformed the rigid features to sheer radiance.

'Cara mia!' She was in his arms, and he was hers, she just knew it. His
kisses were fevered and beneath her clinging hands she could feel every
last one of the fine tremors that raged through his hard body. 'I was
told you were on your way back to England. I was stunned when I saw you.
I thought I had lost you!'

His eyes went black. 'You will marry me.' The raw words weren't framed
as a question and, reaching up, she stroked her fingers across his
slashing cheekbones, down to his hard jaw and over his passionate mouth,
her answer an immediate and unequivocal yes.

His eyes flared with sudden triumph. He feathered light, teasing kisses
over her mouth. 'I knew you would!'

'Such conceit!'

Her hand fisted as she put a mock punch on his jaw as punishment and he
grinned and pulled her back into the circle of his arms, his mouth
descending, making her whole world rock and she was clinging, her head
spinning when he put her slightly away and said wryly, I was forgetting
we had an audience. When

180

I'm with you, I forget what my own name is-everything!'

Which was a lovely thing to hear, but the kissing simply had to stop.
Ugo was watching, grinning from ear to ear, and she just knew he'd be
cheering and whistling, if he'd dared.

She also knew that the news of Cesare's marriage offer would spread
round the villa tike wildfire. Ugo had to have heard every word she'd
said to Jeanne. Helene would go ballistic!

But that would be Marco's problem, she consoled herself as Cesare took
her hand, instructed Ugo to have her luggage brought over, and led her
onto the inland track.

Slipping an arm around her waist, he confessed, 'I was going out of my
mind, thinking you'd gone having decided you couldn't be my wife. You
were just accompanying your aunt, seeing her safely to her flight. Yes?'

Her feet faltered to a stop. If their relationship was to flourish she
had to be completely honest. 'No, Cesare. I was leaving. When I told
Helene I wasn't, said I was waiting for you to come back, she lost it.
Whatever progress she'd made was wiped out when she vowed she'd leave
the island if I didn't.'

Her slim shoulders lifted in a tiny shrug. 'What could I do? I couldn't
let her lose this opportunity to get herself sorted out once and for all.'

'But you came back,' he said softly. That had to mean something. That
she really cared for him, could even be falling in love with him? That
she'd worked

through the way she'd been conditioned since birth to distrust any man
who didn't have a mortgage, drive a second-hand car, and live on credit?

Time would tell. He was far too cagey to push it. It was time to lighten
up. She had agreed to marry him, hadn't she? That, for the moment, was
joy enough. As they crested the hill he challenged, 'Race you down to
the house-loser gets to seduce the winner!' and, without giving her time
to draw breath, took the steep incline like a swallow in flight.

Pausing halfway down, he looked back. She was walking at a snail's pace,
smiling serenely. She waved him away as he sprang back up towards her.
'Carry on-I'm looking forward to paying the loser's penalty!' she cried
airily.

But he came on up, anyway, scooping her up into his arms, his voice
husky with laughter and something a whole lot deeper as he told her, 'It
will be a dead heat and then we can seduce each other!'

Which was fine by her, more than fine, she thought dizzily as he carried
her over the threshold and slid her down the hard length of his body as
he set her on her feet. He bent his dark head to kiss her with a soft
and beautiful slowness and Bianca had scarcely got her breath back when
he stated without the merest hint of compromise, 'As soon as the
arrangements can be made, we will marry. And tomorrow I will see Helene
and convince her that I am not like your father, that I will never do
anything to hurt you.'

'Thank you,' she murmured, her eyes suddenly misty with tears, not
registering what he was doing

182

until his arm snaked out to take the envelope addressed to him from the
table where she'd left it.

'For me? To tell me why you'd left?'

Bianca nodded, her blood running cold at the thought of what might have
been.

'Is there anything in it apart from the reasons you've already given?'
He tore the unopened envelope in two and then in two again, his eyes
glinting wickedly. 'No matter. I have you; I have your promise. There is
no need for anything else.'

As he strode over to deposit the shreds in the waste basket, Bianca
questioned tentatively, 'I was about to ask you a question before that
phone call, do you remember?' She would ask it again because she had to
get things straight. But whatever his answer it wouldn't change a thing.
She was bound to this man with an invisible, unbreakable cord.

'I remember.' He grinned at her over his shoulder. 'And I remember being
enraged by the interruption! So ask away, amore.'

She ran her tongue over her dry lips as he walked back to her. 'Did you
propose because you thought I might be pregnant?'

He stopped in his tracks, clearly taken aback. Then his sensual lips
curved in a wide smile. He reached for her hands and carried them up to
his mouth, dropping kisses on the backs of her fingers. 'If you think
about it, I first asked you to marry me, back in London, when pregnancy
wasn't a possibility. The second time was after I'd left you. I realised
I loved you and had to have you with me for the rest of my

life. I didn't even consider pregnancy until that morning when you
looked so pale and couldn't manage to eat a thing. It hit me then that
we might be making a baby between us. I admit to using that possibility as a

lever.'

Bianca's mouth had fallen open, her face running with colour. 'Say that
again,' she managed around the huge lump that had formed in her throat.

'I admit-and apologise for-'

'No, no, no!' She shook her head wildly. 'The other-you said you-you
loved me?'

Cesare veiled his eyes and he looked almost humble. 'It just slipped
out, cara. I simply hoped you would see the sense of marrying me and
would allow me the pleasure of teaching you how to love me.' Then his
proud head came up as he growled quietly, 'Of course I love you-what
else do you think this is

all about?'

'Oh, Cesare!' Flinging her arms around him, she burrowed her head into
his chest, burbling incoherently, and with no small difficulty he held
her slightly away from him, tilted her chin and brushed the teardrops
from her flushed face.

'What are you trying to say, amore?'

'That you should have told me! What else?' Her hands curled round the
solid muscles of his upper arms. She tried to shake him really hard but
made no impression whatsoever. 'Why do you think I ended our affair?
Because I'd fallen for you in a big way. I wanted out before I got in
too deep. You didn't want love, commitment-'

184

He blocked out her words with his mouth and several long,
soul-shattering minutes later he breathed huskily, 'It's all I want now.
Loving each other, living for each other, for always.' He brushed her
hair from the side of her face, finding the sensitive hollow behind her
ear. 'I think it's time to pay the penalty we both owe for ending that
race in a dead heat, don't you?'

Bianca could only nod, her eyes smouldering and her limbs quivering with
the all-too-familiar sizzling heat as they moved, twined around each
other, to the staircase. Only when he paused to take his mobile from the
back pocket of his jeans did she manage to find a croaky voice. 'What
are you doing?'

Punching in numbers, he gave her that heart-stopping, dazzling smile.
'Asking Maria to send someone over with champagne. We have much to
celebrate.' The fingers of his free hand dipped beneath the neckline of
her suit jacket, and began with supreme dexterity to undo the buttons.
'Shall we begin?'

Speechless, her breath taken away, Bianca could only nod, her glowing
eyes telling him that things just kept getting better.

185

EPILOGUE

Eleven months later...

Bowls of golden daffodils decorated the large airy room and from the
tall windows the view of the roiling, richly timbered countryside
stretched for ever.

Bianca would never regret their decision to base their main home in the
heart of the English countryside. It was perfect. She breathed a sigh of
pure happiness as the tiny body wriggled in her arms. Flavia Alegra
Andriotti was just over two months old and looked almost heartbreakingly
adorable in her christening gown. She had a shock of dark hair and her
father's dark charcoal eyes, incredibly long lashes and the tiniest toes
imaginable.

Bianca's sense of soaring happiness was complete when Cesare, looking
magnificent in his exquisitely crafted dark suit, came to stand behind
her, clasping his arms around her waist, his hands resting on her flat
tummy.

'Mrs Hammond has just seen the last of our guests out.'

He had insisted they have a housekeeper, and she'd turned out to be a
treasure. As his wife, he'd informed her, she would have enough to do
looking after their

186

baby and attending to his needs, he'd added with that special gleam in
his handsome eyes, needs which were many and varied.

His hands slipped beneath the hem of her sleek tawny-red suit jacket,
massaging gently, and she caught her breath, turning her head, her mouth
finding his.

He smiled that supremely confident smile of his, she could feel it, and
the fingers of the hand that wasn't wrapped around her baby went to the
ruby necklace he had given her on Flavia's birth. Diamonds were too cold
for her, he'd told her. Fiery rubies were more suited to her passionate
nature.

Feeling her body's immediate response to him, she could only agree.

Releasing her with marked reluctance, Cesare took their daughter from
her arms and murmured, 'You may invite Helene and Marco to stay on for
supper. But I warn you, love of my life, do not encourage them to
linger! I have plans for an early night.'

Her eyes glowed for him. She was the love of his life, and he was hers.
She placed her fingers against the carved beauty of his sensual mouth,
then, breaking the intimate moment, she glanced over to the far end of
the room where her mother and Marco Vaccari were relaxing in armchairs
in front of the log fire.

Helene looked a different woman. She'd gained some much-needed weight,
her hair was its natural honey-brown with only a hint of grey, and her
makeup was discreet. But, far more importantly, she'd found serenity.

'Something tells me those two have news for us,' Cesare imparted
quietly. 'Marco looks like a dog with two tails and Helene is sporting a
huge diamond on her ring finger. I'm amazed you didn't notice it.'

Bianca tucked her hand beneath his arm. 'How could I, when I only have
eyes for you?' she asked, dimpling, as they walked together towards the
other couple who were too engrossed in each other to see them coming or
hear Bianca's husky whisper, 'If they are newly engaged, I couldn't be
happier. And maybe, they would like to spend time on their own,' she
suggested huskily as his hand sneaked around her waist and drifted down
her spine. "There's that lovely restaurant between here and the next
village-'

'That's my girl!' His hand curved around her hip and the usual elemental
something sizzled between them. 'I'm sure they'll understand if we tell
them our bedroom door is eagerly awaiting our arrival!'

He was incorrigible! Irresistible! He was her life. Smiling, she moved
forward to muscle in on the last of their guests' murmured conversation.