Convenient Brides

Catherine Spencer

Melanie Milburne

Lindsay Armstrong

MILLS & BOON®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Italian’s Convenient Wife

By Catherine Spencer

Some people know practically from birth that they’re going to be writers. Catherine Spencer wasn’t one of them. Her first idea was to be a nun, which was clearly never going to work! A series of other choices followed. She considered becoming a veterinarian, a hairdresser, a nurse. As a last resort, she became an English teacher and loved it.

Eventually she married, had four children and always, always a dog or two or three. How can a house become a home without a dog? she asks. How does an inexperienced mother cope with babies, if she doesn’t have a German shepherd nanny?

In time, the children grew up and moved out on their own—as children are wont to do regardless of their mother’s pleading that they will remain babies who don’t mind being kissed in public! She returned to teaching, but a middle-aged restlessness overtook her and she looked for a change of career.

What’s an English teacher’s area of expertise? Well, novels, among other things, and moody, brooding, unforgettable heroes: Heathcliff…Edward Fairfax Rochester…Romeo…Rhett Butler. Then there’s that picky business of knowing how to punctuate and spell, what ‘rules’ of sentence structure are and how to break them for dramatic effect. They all pointed her in the same direction: breaking the rules every chance she got and creating her own moody, brooding, unforgettable heroes.

Chapter One

CALLIE had been eighteen the last time that deep, dark Mediterranean voice had seduced her into forgetting everything her mother had taught her about “saving” herself for the “right” man. The kind who’d greet her at the altar with a full appreciation for what her pristine white gown and flowing veil signified. The kind who’d cherish the prized gift of her virginity on their wedding night.

Eighteen.

Nine years and a lifetime ago.

Yet although the phone awoke her from a deep sleep at the ungodly hour of four in the morning, she recognized at once who was calling. And so did her heart. It contracted as painfully as if a huge fist had closed around it and was squeezing the very life from her body.

“It is Paolo Rainero, Caroline,” he said. And then, as if she needed further clarification, “Ermanno’s brother. Your sister’s brother-in-law.”

And my first love. My first lover. The only one.

Callie cleared her throat. Swallowed. “Buon giorno,” she said, groping for the bedside lamp, and wished her Italian rolled off her tongue with the same fluid, exotic ease that he brought to English. “What a surprise to hear from you after all this time, Paolo. How are you?”

He let a beat of time pass before answering, and in that short but endless silence, any fledgling hope she’d entertained that he was in the U.S., and wanted to renew acquaintance with her for the pure pleasure of her company, shriveled and died. Fear slithered up her spine, leaving her skin unpleasantly clammy, and she knew with sudden, chilling certainty that he had nothing good to tell her.

As if to ward off the blow he was about to deliver, she asked with desperate good cheer, “Where are you calling from?”

“Rome. Caroline—”

“Are you sure? You sound as close as if you’re just next door. I’d never have guessed you’re half a world away. It’s amazing what—”

He recognized her mindless babble for the delaying tactic it was. “Caroline,” he said again, cutting her off more forcefully this time, “I’m afraid I have bad news.”

The children! Something had happened to the children!

Her mouth ran dry. Freed from the vicious hold, her heart hurled itself into a punishing, uneven beat somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach. “How bad?” she asked shakily.

“Very bad, cara. There has been a yachting accident. An explosion at sea.” He paused again. Another horribly telling hesitation. “Ermanno and Vanessa were aboard at the time.”

“With the children?” She forced the question past parched lips.

“No. With four guests and a crew of six. They left the children with my parents.”

A thread of relief wound its way through her mounting dread. “And? Don’t leave me hanging like this, Paolo. How badly is my sister hurt?”

“I’m saddened to have to tell you, there were no survivors.”

The softly lit room swam before her eyes. “None at all?”

“None.”

Her beautiful, generous, loving sister dead? Her body blown to pieces, mutilated beyond recognition?

Callie scrunched her eyes shut against the horrifying images filling her mind. Clutching the phone in a white-knuck-led grip, she whispered, “How can you be so sure?”

“The explosion was visible for miles. Other yachts in the area raced to the scene to lend assistance. Search and rescue vessels went into immediate operation. Their efforts met with no success. It was clear no one could have survived such a blast.”

“But what if they were thrown into the sea and made it to shore? What if you stopped searching too soon? Vanessa’s a strong swimmer. She might—”

“No, Caroline,” he said. “It is not possible. The devastation was too great, the evidence, too…graphic to be mistaken for anything other than what it was.”

He had never before spoken to her with such kindness; with such compassion. That he did so now nearly killed her.

A huge balloon of grief rose in her throat, almost choking her. A sound filled her ears; echoed repeatedly in the dimly lit bedroom. A sound so primitive, she could barely conceive that it poured from her.

Paolo’s voice pierced the black, terrible mists enveloping her. “Is there anyone with you, Caroline?”

What sort of question was that? And by what right did he, of all people, dare to ask it? “It’s not yet dawn, and I’m in bed,” she said rawly. “Alone.”

His voice caressed her. “You should not be, not at a time like this.”

Not in bed? she wondered. Or not alone?

“You are in shock, as are we all,” he continued, clarifying his remark. “Is there no one you can call on, to help you get through the next few hours until the necessary travel arrangements are in place?”

“Travel?”

“To Rome. For the funerals. They will take place later in the week. Naturally you will attend.”

Naturally! Nonetheless, she bristled at his tone, so clearly that of a man not accustomed to being thwarted. Some things never changed.

“I’ll be there,” she said. “How are the children coping?”

“Not well. They’re old enough to understand what death means. They know they’ll never again see their parents. Gina cries often, and although he tries to be brave, I know that Clemente sheds many a private tear, too.”

Pushing aside her own grief to make room for theirs, Callie said, “Please give them my love and tell them their…their aunt Callie will see them soon.”

“Of course—for what it’s worth.”

Anger knifed through her, intense as forked lightning. “Are you questioning my sincerity, Paolo?”

“Not in the least,” he replied smoothly. “I’m simply stating a fact. Of course the twins are aware they have an aunt who lives in America, but they don’t know you. You’re a name, a photograph, someone who never forgets to send them lovely gifts at Christmas and on their birthdays, or postcards from the interesting foreign places you visit. But you found the time to come to see them only once, when they were infants and much too young to remember you. For the rest, you depended on their parents to bring them to America to visit you—and how often did that occur? Two, three times, in the last eight years?”

His sigh drifted gently, regretfully, over the phone. “The unfortunate truth is, Caroline, you and the children are almost strangers to one other. A sad case of ‘out of sight, out of mind,’ I’m afraid.”

He might see it that way, but Callie knew differently. Not a day went by that she didn’t think of those two adorable children. She spent hours poring over fat albums of photographs depicting every stage in their lives, from when they were just a few hours old, to the present day. Her staircase wall was filled with framed pictures of them. Their most recent portraits occupied pride of place by her bed, on the mantelpiece in her living room, on her desk at the office. She could have picked them out unerringly in a crowd of hundreds of children with the same dark hair and brown eyes, so well did she know every feature, every expression, every tiny detail that made them unique.

Strangers, Paolo? In your dreams!

“Nonetheless, I am their aunt, and they can count on me to be there for them now,” she told him. “I’ll leave here tomorrow and barring any unforeseen delays, should be with them the day after that.”

“Then I’ll send you the details of your flight later today.”

“Please don’t trouble yourself, Paolo,” she said coolly. “I can well afford to make my own reservations, and will take care of them myself.”

“No, Caroline, you will not,” he said flatly. “This has nothing to do with money, it has to do with family looking after family—and regardless of how you might perceive it, we are inextricably connected through the marriage of your sister to my brother, are we not?”

Oh, yes, Paolo, she thought, smothering the burst of hysterical laughter rising in her throat at the irony of his question. That, and a whole lot more than you can begin to imagine!

Mistaking her silence for disagreement, he said, “This is no time to quibble over the fine print of our association, Caroline. No matter which way you look at it, we have a niece and nephew in common, and must rally together for their good.”

How nauseatingly self-righteous he sounded! How morally upright! If she hadn’t known better, Callie might have been fooled into believing he really was as honorable and responsible as he made himself out to be.

“I couldn’t agree more, Paolo,” she said, with deceptive meekness. “I wouldn’t dream of turning my back on the twins when they need all the emotional support they can get. I’ll be in Rome no later than Tuesday.”

“And you will allow me to make your flight arrangements?”

Why not? Pride had no place in the tragic loss of her sister, and Callie was having trouble enough holding herself together. She couldn’t afford to squander her strength when she had much bigger battles to wage than besting Paolo Rainero on the trifling matter of who sprang for the price of her ticket. She could pay him back later, when everything else was settled. “If you insist.”

“Eccellente! Thank you for seeing things my way.”

You won’t thank me for long, Paolo, she thought. Not once you discover that when I come home again, I’m bringing those children with me!

Outside the converted eighteenth-century palazzo whose entire top floor housed his parents’ apartment, the traffic and crowds, both so much a part of everyday Rome, went about their noisy business as usual. Immediately beyond the leather-paneled walls of his father’s library, however, a mournful hush reigned. Dropping the receiver back in its cradle, Paolo left the room and made his way down the long hall to the day salon where his parents waited.

His mother had aged ten years in the last two days. Weeping and sleeplessness left her beautiful eyes ringed with shadows. Her mouth trembled uncontrollably. Silver, which surely hadn’t been there a week ago, glinted in her thick black hair. She clutched his father’s hand almost convulsively, as if only by doing so could she anchor herself to sanity.

“Well? How did she take the news? Is she coming for the funerals?” Cultured, wealthy in his own right, influential, and deeply respected in the international world of high finance, Salvatore Rainero did not surrender easily to defeat. But Paolo heard it in the subdued tone with which his father uttered the questions; recognized it in the slump of those broad, patrician shoulders.

“She’ll be here.” Paolo shrugged wearily, his own sense of loss lying heavy in the pit of his stomach. “As for how she took the news, she was shocked, bereft, as are we all.”

His mother dabbed at her eyes with a fine linen handkerchief. “Did she mention the children?”

“Yes, but nothing that you need to worry about. She sent them her love.”

“Does she have any idea that—?”

“None. Nor did it occur to her to ask. But she was unprepared for my call and most probably not thinking clearly. It’s possible she might wonder, over the next two days. And even if she does not, once they’re read, we won’t be able to hide the terms of the wills from her.”

His mother let out an anguished moan. “And who’s to say how she will react?”

“She may react any way she pleases, Lidia,” Paolo’s father said grimly, “but she will not create havoc with our grandchildren, because I will not allow her to do so. In declining to take an active role in their lives for the past eight years, she forfeits the right to have any say in their future.” His fierce gaze swung to Paolo. “Did you have to work hard to persuade her to let us bring her over here at our expense?”

“Not particularly.”

“Good!” A spark of triumph lightened the grief in the old man’s eyes. “Then she can be bought.”

“Oh, Salvatore, that’s cruel!” his wife objected. “Caroline is mourning her sister’s death too deeply to care about monetary matters.”

“I have to agree,” Paolo felt obliged to add. “I suspect the poor thing was so numbed by my news that I could have persuaded her the moon was made of cheese, if I’d put my mind to it. Once she gets past the initial shock of this tragedy, she might well change her mind about accepting our offer. We met only briefly and nine years ago at that, but I remember her as being a singularly proud and independent young woman.”

“You’re wrong, both of you.” His father heaved himself up from the sofa to pace the length of the room. “She was anything but proud in the way she threw herself at you after the wedding, Paolo. If you’d given her the slightest encouragement, you’d soon have followed in your brother’s footsteps, and found yourself at the altar, too.”

Again, Paolo’s mother spoke up, unnaturally vigorous in her defense of someone she hardly knew, he thought. “You’re being unfair, Salvatore! I spoke to Caroline at length when she was here, and she was very excited about starting her university studies that September. I don’t believe she’d have abandoned her plans, even if Paolo had encouraged her.”

But there was no even if about it, Paolo thought, a disconcerting pang of shame rising from the ashes of the murky memories suddenly looming up in his mind. Despite his many other excesses in those days, alcohol wasn’t among them. But the night of his brother’s wedding, he’d had too much champagne to remember much beyond the fact that the bride’s pretty sister had been young, impressionable, eminently desirable and willing—though not nearly as experienced as she’d pretended to be.

One night with a novice had been enough to make him regret having seduced her. He wasn’t accustomed to his women being so generous, so trustingly naive. Caroline’s wide-eyed innocence, her sincerity and simple goodness, unnerved him—him, Paolo Giovanni Vittorio Rainero, a man afraid of nothing and no one. But she’d made him look too deep inside himself and he hadn’t liked what he saw.

He was the one who came from a long line of blue bloods, yet beside her he felt undeserving; an emotional pauper with little of worth to offer a girl who could have been a princess. She deserved better than what he could give her.

Facing her the next morning…well, in all truth, he hadn’t. Couldn’t. Her lowered gaze, the crushed disappointment touching her lovely mouth, and knowing he was the one who had put them there, had been more than he could bear. Hangover notwithstanding, he’d made a fast escape.

He hadn’t expected to run into her again, when he stopped by his parents’ apartment, a few days after the wedding. But he’d recognized at once that her earlier infatuation for him had metamorphosed into chilly disgust. A week had been more than long enough for her to realize Paolo Rainero wasn’t at all her kind of man.

Judging from the tone of their recent phone call, time hadn’t exactly mellowed her opinion of him. If his parents’ hopes for the future were to be realized, he was going to have to work very hard to polish his image, and charm her into compliance by whatever means necessary.

The realization did not sit well with him. In fact, it left a distinctly bad taste in his mouth. Seduction for seduction’s sake, whether or not it involved the physical, had long since lost its flavor, especially when it came with a hidden agenda.

“Where are the twins now?” he inquired.

“Tullia took them to the park,” his father said. “We thought a change of scene would be good for them.”

Paolo thought so, too. Huge bouquets had arrived daily since the accident, tokens of sympathy from the family’s vast circle of friends and acquaintances. The overpowering scent of lilies filled the apartment with funereal solemnity. There’d be enough of that at the church on Saturday, and again on Monday, when the immediate family accompanied the remains to the island for the private burial rites.

His mother drifted to the balcony overlooking the rear courtyard. “I don’t know how the children would cope without Tullia,” she said fretfully. “She’s been with them since they were babies, and they cling to her now. They seem to need her more than they need us.”

“And they need us more than they need an aunt they wouldn’t know from Adam,” Salvatore interjected, slipping an arm around her waist and leading her from the room. “Come, Lidia, my love. Stop worrying about Caroline Leighton and start looking after yourself. You’ve barely closed your eyes since we heard the dreadful news, and you need to rest.”

She went unresistingly, but turned in the doorway at the last second. “Will you still be here later, Paolo?”

“Yes,” he said, his glance locking briefly with his father’s and correctly reading the plea he saw there. “I’ll be here for as long as you both need me. You can count on me to do whatever must be done to keep our family intact.”

Although determined to keep such a promise, he hoped he could do so and not end up despising himself for the methods he might have to employ.

The Air France Boeing 777-200 touched down at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris just after eleven o’clock on the Tuesday morning, completing the first leg of her journey to Rome. She’d left San Francisco exactly ten hours earlier, which wasn’t such an inordinately long time to be in the air, especially not when she’d reclined in Executive Class comfort the entire distance. But the fact that it was only two in the morning, Pacific Standard Time, played havoc with Callie’s inner clock, not to mention her appearance.

She’d never been able to cry prettily, the way some women could, and her face bore unmistakable evidence of weeping. It would take considerable cosmetic expertise and every spare second of the two hours before her connecting flight to Rome, to disguise the ravages of grief. But disguise them she would, because when she faced Paolo Rainero again, she intended to be in control—of herself and the situation.

Perhaps if, after deplaning, she’d been less involved in plotting her strategies, she might have noticed him sooner. As it was, she’d have walked straight past him if he hadn’t planted himself so firmly in her path that she almost tripped over his feet.

“Ciao, Caroline,” he greeted her, and before she had time to recover from the impact of Paolo Rainero’s voice assaulting her yet again out of the blue, he’d caught her by the shoulders and bent his head to press a light, continental kiss on each of her cheeks.

She’d wondered if she’d recognize him. If he’d changed much in nine years. If the dissolute life he’d pursued in his early twenties had left only the crumbling remains of his formerly stunning good looks. Would the aristocratic planes of his face have disappeared under a sagging layer of flesh, with his sleek olive skin crisscrossed by a road map of broken veins? Would his middle have grown soft, his hairline receded?

She’d prayed it would be so. It would make seeing him again so much easier. But the man confronting her had lost nothing of his masculine beauty. Rather, he had redefined it.

His shoulders had broadened with maturity, his chest deepened, but not an ounce of fat clung to his frame. The clean, hard line of his jaw, the firm contours of his mouth, spoke of singleminded purpose. There was dignity and strength in his bearing. Authority in his somber, dark brown gaze.

He had a full head of hair. Thick, black, silky hair that begged a woman to run her fingers through it. And only the faintest trace of laugh lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes.

Stunned, she stared at him, all hope that he’d prove himself as susceptible to the passage of time as any other man, evaporating in a rush of molten awareness that battered her with the force of a tornado.

It wasn’t fair. He’d shown a flagrant disregard for the frailty of human life, driving too fast, living on the edge, and daring death to slow him down. At the very least, he might have had the good grace to look a little worn around the edges. Instead he stood there, splendidly tall and confident—and still dangerously attractive, despite the tragic reason for his coming into her life again.

Woefully conscious of her own disarray, both physical and mental, and unable to do anything about either, she stammered, “Why are you here?”

He smiled just enough for her to see that he still had all his teeth, too, and that they were every bit as white and even as she remembered. Amazing, really. She’d have thought some irate husband would have knocked a few of them out by now. Paolo had had quite a taste for other men’s wives, when he wasn’t seducing virgins.

“Why else would I be here, but to meet you, Caroline?”

She wanted to smack him for the way he seemed to suck the oxygen out of the atmosphere and leave her fighting to breathe. “Well, in case you’ve forgotten, you booked me all the way through to Rome, and we’re not even in Italy yet.”

“There’s been a slight change of itinerary,” he said, rolling his R’s in melodic cadence. “You will be traveling the rest of the way with me, in the Rainero corporate jet.”

“Why?”

He lifted his impeccably clad shoulders in a shrug. “Why not?”

“Because there’s no need. I have a ticket on a regular flight. All other considerations apart, what about my luggage? The inconvenience of my not showing up—”

“Do not concern yourself, Caroline,” he purred. “I have seen to it. By standing here throwing up obstacles, you inconvenience no one but me.”

Another thing about him remained unchanged. He was as arrogant as ever, and it was still all about him! “Well, heaven forbid you should be put out in any way, Paolo!”

He regarded her with benign tolerance, the way she might have regarded a fractious two-year-old trying to bite her ankle. “You are exhausted and sad, cara, and it’s making you a little capricciosa,” he decided, relieving her of her carry-on bag with one hand, and cupping her elbow with the other.

“That shouldn’t come as any surprise, all things considered!”

“Nor does it, which is why I thought to spare you the tedium of spending time waiting here in a crowded airport, when it is within my power to have you already safely arrived in Rome before your originally scheduled flight leaves Paris.”

“I don’t mind the wait.” She tried ineffectually to squirm free of his hold. “I’m actually looking forward to the chance to freshen up after being cooped up in an aircraft for ten hours.”

“Be assured, the company jet has excellent facilities, all of which are at your disposal,” he countered. “Come, now, Caroline. Allow me to spoil you a little, especially now when you have all you can do to hold yourself together.”

Supremely confident that he’d overcome her objections, he swept her out of the terminal and into the back of a waiting limousine. After a brief exchange with the uniformed driver, Paolo joined her, settling himself beside her close enough that his body warmth crept out to touch her.

Unnerved, she inched farther into the corner as the car joined the traffic heading out of the airport toward the city center. Noticing, he smiled and said, “Try to relax, cara. I am not abducting you and I intend you no harm. You’re perfectly safe with me.”

Safe with him? Not if he was anything like the man he’d been nine years ago! Yet his concern seemed genuine. He appeared more tuned in to her feelings, and less focused on his own. Could she have misjudged him, and he had changed, after all?

Callie supposed anything was possible. Heaven knew, she was nothing like the girl he’d seduced, then cast aside so callously. Perhaps they’d both grown up.

“Ah!” His shoulder brushed hers as he leaned past her to look out of the window. “We’ll soon be there.”

Huddling even farther into the corner, she said, “Where’s ‘there’ exactly?”

“Le Bourget. It’s the airport most commonly used by private jets.”

Soon—much too soon for Callie’s peace of mind—they arrived, and in short order had cleared security, passed through the departure gate and were crossing the open tarmac to where a Lear jet waited, its engines idling. Buffeted by the wind, she mounted the steps to the interior, and barely had time to fasten her seat belt before the aircraft was cleared for takeoff.

Was she crazy to have allowed Paolo to coerce her into changing her travel plans? she wondered, as Paris fell away below, and the jet turned its nose to the southeast. Did he have an ulterior motive? Or was she looking for trouble where none existed?

“You’re very silent, Caroline,” he observed, some half hour later. “Very withdrawn.”

“I just lost my sister,” she said. “I’m not exactly in a party mood.”

“Nor am I suggesting you should be, but it occurs to me you might wish to discuss the funeral arrangements…” He paused fractionally, his long fingers idly caressing a glass of sparkling water. “Or the children.”

“No,” she said, turning to stare at the great expanse of blue sky beyond the porthole to her left. “Not right now. It’s all I can do to come to terms with the fact that I’ll never see Vanessa again. I keep hoping to wake up and find it’s all a horrible dream. Perhaps once I’ve seen the children, and your parents…How are they coping with this terrible tragedy, by the way? Your parents, I mean?”

“They’re even more devastated than you claim to be.”

Sure she must not have heard him correctly, she swung back to face him and found him watching her with chilling intensity. “Are you suggesting I’m faking how I feel, Paolo?”

Raising his glass, he rotated it so that its cut crystal facets caught the light and flung it at her in a blur of dazzling reflections. “Well, if you are,” he said silkily, “it wouldn’t be the first time, would it, cara?”

There was nothing kindly in his regard now, nothing compassionate, nor did he pretend otherwise. In that instant, she knew that she should have listened to her instincts. Because, in stepping aboard the Rainero corporate jet, she’d made a fatal mistake.

She’d put herself at the mercy of a man who, whatever his stated reasons for meeting her in Paris, no more cared about her now than he had nine years ago. He was exactly the same callous heel who had ruined her life once, and given half a chance, he’d do the very same thing a second time.

Chapter Two

“SO YOU don’t bother to lash out at me for such a remark?” he drawled. “You don’t take exception to the fact that I imply you’re less than honest?”

Swamped in an anger directed as much at herself as at him, Callie retorted, “Don’t mistake my silence for an admission of guilt, Paolo. It’s simply that I’m floored by your audacity. You may rest assured I take very great exception to your accusation.”

“But you don’t deny the truth of it?”

“Of course I do!” she spat. “I have never lied to you.”

“Never? Not even by omission?”

Again, she was left speechless, but from fear, this time. He couldn’t know the truth—not unless Vanessa or Ermanno had told him.

Oh, surely not! They stood to gain nothing by doing so, and would have lost what they most cared about.

“You’ve turned rather pale, Caroline.” Utterly remorseless, Paolo continued to torment her. “Could it be that you remember, after all?”

Less certain of herself by the second, Callie fought to match his offhand manner. “Remember what, exactly?”

“The day your sister married my brother—or more precisely, the night following the wedding.”

So her secret was safe, after all! But as relief washed over her, so, too, did a wave of embarrassment. “Oh,” she muttered, helpless to stem the heat flooding her face. “That!”

“That, indeed. Let me see if I recall events accurately.” Ever so casually, he tapped the rim of his water glass. “There was a moon, and many, many stars. A beach with powder-soft sand, lapped by lazy, lukewarm waves. A cabana that offered privacy. You in a dress that begged to be removed…and I—”

“All right,” Callie snapped. “You’ve made your point. I remember.”

As if she could forget—and heaven knew she’d tried hard enough to do just that! It was the night she gave him her virginity, her innocence and her heart. Not even the slow passage of nine years could dim the clarity of those memories…

“Isn’t he the most divinely handsome man you’ve ever seen?” Radiant in her pearl and crystal encrusted wedding gown, Vanessa had peeked from behind the drapes fluttering at the French windows of the suite set aside for the bride and her attendants. In the grounds below, her groom chatted with the more than three hundred guests who’d arrived that morning in a flotilla of private yachts, and were now milling about the terrace.

As weddings went, Callie supposed this one came as close to fairy-tale perfection as reality could get. Isola di Gemma, the Raineros’s private island, was aptly named—truly a jewel, set in the shimmering Adriatic, some thirty miles off the coast of Italy.

But, like her sister, she barely noticed the huge urns of exotic blooms framing the flower-draped arch where the ceremony was to take place, or the rows of elegant white wrought-iron chairs linked together with white satin streamers. Instead she inched out onto the narrow Juliet balcony, the better to spy on the groom’s tall, dark-haired younger brother, busy adjusting the gardenia in the lapel of his white jacket.

He’d landed by helicopter on the island the night before, arriving just in time for dinner, and Callie’s mouth had run dry at the sight of him. Charming and handsome, with a worldly sophistication to match his good looks, he reduced the young men she usually dated to pitifully clumsy boys.

She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since. She’d even dreamed about him. Vanessa’s wedding might be a fairly tale, but in Callie’s opinion, the best man was the stuff princes were made of.

“Yes,” she breathed to her sister, leaning over the balcony to get a better view. “He’s…divine.”

Perfect. Godlike!

As if he could read her mind, he glanced up, trained his gaze directly on her, and sent her a slow, conspiratorial smile, as if, between them, they harbored a secret too deliciously wicked to be shared with anyone else. At that, an unfamiliar sensation trickled through her, startling and sweet. Suddenly weak at the knees, she clutched the balcony railing.

“Come away from there, both of you,” their mother had scolded. “It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride beforehand, and while having the maid of honor fall headlong from an upper floor balcony might amuse some people, I doubt it would impress your future father-in-law, Vanessa.”

How true! Salvatore Rainero had made scant secret of the fact that he had reservations about his son’s marriage to an American. That he considered Audrey Leighton and her two daughters socially inferior, and quite possibly fortune hunters, had been apparent from the outset, but Ermanno had remained adamant. He intended to marry Vanessa with, or without, his father’s approval.

Fortunately his mother, Lidia, had scoffed at her husband’s suspicions, and given the couple her blessing, thus smoothing over the tensions threatening their future. Whatever his other personality flaws, Salvatore was a doting husband who adored his wife. If she was willing to embrace into the family their son’s choice of a mate, he’d swallow his misgivings and indulge her wish to throw a lavish wedding.

And lavish it was, with champagne enough to float a boat, a feast worthy of royalty—the Raineros actually had been members of the nobility in times gone by, which probably accounted for Salvatore’s elevated notions of grandeur—and a two-foot high wedding cake created by an army of Rome’s most renowned bakers and pastry chefs. For Callie, though, the high point of the whole affair had been when the best man escorted her onto the dance floor and took her in his arms.

She melted in the warmth of his dark-eyed gaze, in the bold intimacy of his hands sliding down her spine and urging her close. Intoxicated by his scent, by the sheer power of his masculine aura, she let him mold her body to his, and cared not one iota that his father scowled from the sidelines.

“So beautiful una damigella d’onore outshines the bride,” Paolo murmured hotly in her ear. “It is my good fortune that my brother chose to marry your sister, and left me with the greater prize.”

No boyfriend had ever spoken to her with such unfettered, lyrical passion, nor held her so close that she could feel the hard thrust of his arousal pressing against her, undeterred by a pair of finely tailored black trousers or the folds of a silk chiffon bridesmaid’s gown.

No boyfriend had dared slide his arm so far around her waist that he could brush his fingers up the under-slope of her breast and, in so doing, incite a wash of heat between her legs.

All of which, she concluded dizzily, was what separated the man from the boys.

Later, he danced with his mother, the mother of the bride, and the other four bridesmaids. Waltzed sedately with an elderly widowed aunt. Twirled the flower girls around the terrace, much to their shrieking delight. Boogied with other men’s wives, then returned them to their husbands, flushed and breathless and decidedly reluctant to let him go.

Finally, with the wedding festivities reaching a fever pitch of laughter and music and wine, he sought out Callie again.

“Come with me, la mia bella,” he urged, tugging her by the hand beyond the flare of twinkling lights illuminating the terrace, and into the shadows of the garden. “Let me show you our island, made all the more lovely by moonlight.”

The mere idea left her quivering with anticipation, but, “I think we’re supposed to stay until the bride and groom leave,” she replied primly.

“But they will not leave,” he assured her, snagging an open bottle of champagne chilling in a silver wine bucket. “Italian weddings do not end with the setting sun, cara mia. They are celebrated well into the small hours of the morning. We will return before anyone has the chance to miss us.”

She fought a brief, losing battle with her conscience, knowing her mother wouldn’t approve of her abandoning her maid-of-honor duties to run off with the best man. But wedding decorum couldn’t hold a candle to Paolo’s magnetic pull.

Fingers entwined with his, she followed him as he skirted the shrubbery separating the garden proper from the shore. The moon cast a path of hammered silver over the sea, and feathered in black the clumps of grass lining the beach.

“It’s breathtaking,” she whispered, entranced by the sight.

But Paolo grinned, his teeth blindingly white against the night-dark olive of his skin, and dragging her farther away from the light and music of the wedding, said, “You have seen nothing, yet, bella. Follow me.”

She knew the first thread of uneasiness, then. What, after all, did she really know about him? But as if he sensed her sudden qualms, he cupped her chin and, raising her face to his, said thickly, “What, Caroline? Are you not at all the woman I took you for, but a shy, untutored girl, unused to the attentions of a man like myself? If so, you have but to speak out, and I will take you back to your madre.”

“No,” she said, the faintly scornful laughter in his voice spurring her to recklessness. “I want to be with you, Paolo.”

He kissed her then, a hot, openmouthed kiss drenched in passion. She’d never been kissed like that before, with such ardent finesse. Never savored the heated taste of a man. Never realized that the thrust and retreat of his tongue in the dark moist confines of her mouth could arouse an elemental craving for the same invasion, there in that cloistered, feminine part of her no boy had ever stirred to awareness.

Conscious of the dull, sweet ache in her lower body, she let him guide her around a small outcropping of rock, to a secluded crescent of beach. A cabana stood in the lee of the low cliff. A private, safe place, perfect for an illicit tryst.

Without a word, she went inside with him. Let him pull her down beside him on a long, cushioned bench. Laughed, and pretended she was used to champagne, drinking it directly from the bottle, as he did.

It coursed through her blood. Stripped away her inhibitions. She felt his hands toying with the tiny straps holding up her gown, the cool play of night air on her bare breasts.

In some misty recess of her mind, it occurred to her that she should stop him. But he was flicking his tongue in her ear, whispering, in Italian, words of love no sane woman could resist: tesoro…bella…te amo…

Then his mouth was at her breast, and she was clutching handfuls of his hair and gasping with startled pleasure. She wanted more, and so did he. She heard his muttered curse, and the whisper of fragile chiffon splitting.

He pressed her down on the bench, ran his palm under her skirt. Up her legs. Between her thighs.

She stiffened, not so much afraid, as embarrassed. She didn’t want him to discover that her satin panties were damp…there, in that private place.

He stilled his hand immediately, and lifted his head to look at her. Although moonlight filtered through the latticed window openings, his face was shadowed, preventing her from reading his expression clearly, but she heard again the sudden doubt in his voice. “You want me to stop, cara mia? You are, perhaps, not as eager or willing as you led me to believe?”

“Of course I am!” she whispered, at once desperate and terrified. Desperate for him to continue, and terrified tha the would.

“You are sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure!” she cried, as if, by protesting loudly enough, she could silence the voice of conscience battling to be heard, and listen only to the yearning in her heart. “I want you to make love to me, Paolo.”

When he seemed still to remain unconvinced, she took a hefty swallow of the champagne. Then, riding high on the false courage it gave her, she put the bottle aside and did the unthinkable. She clamped her thighs together, imprisoning his cupped hand against her. At the same time, she reached down and dared to touch him.

He was so hard and big that the fabric of his trousers was pulled taut. Enthralled, she shaped her fingers delicately over the contours of his erection.

Confined though it was by his clothing, his flesh throbbed. She could feel it. And all because of her!

His muffled groan of pleasure filled her with a heady sense of female power. All sleek muscle and tensile strength, he stood well over six feet tall. In physical confrontation with any other man, he would doubtless prove a formidable opponent. Yet she, at only five feet six inches, and weighing no more than a hundred and fifteen pounds, held him captive in the palm of her hand, both literally and figuratively. He was her prisoner; her slave!

Bolder by the second, she unsnapped the fastening of his trousers and inched open his fly. Wove her fingers inside his briefs until, freed at last, he sprang, hot and heavy and smooth as silk, into her hand.

She cradled him. Stared in dazed wonder. She wasn’t entirely ignorant. She knew how men were put together. In the privacy of their rooms at the exclusive all-girls’ boarding school she’d attended, she and her friends had pored over forbidden magazines and giggled furtively at illustrations that left little to the imagination. But nothing she’d learned had preparedher for the power and primitive beauty confronting her now.

“Oh!” she breathed, drawing tiny circles along his length until she reached its tip.

Any notion that she was in control fled then. With a low growl, he sent her skirt floating up around her waist, yanked off her panties and flung them carelessly to the floor. Looming over her, he pushed her legs apart and drove inside her.

Pain, sharp as slivered glass, pierced her champagne-in-duced euphoria, and she bit his shoulder to silence her cry. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. It should be slow and lovely and tender. He should be holding her close and telling her he loved her, not pulling away with a shocked, “Dio! You are vergine?”

Vergine—virgin!

Fiercely she locked her arms around his neck and tugged him down until her breasts lay flattened by his chest. “No,” she whispered. “Don’t worry, Paolo. I’m not a virgin.” And it wasn’t a lie, not really, even if it would have been, if she’d said the words a few minutes earlier.

“But yes!” Supporting his weight on his elbows, he stroked her cheek with trembling fingers. His voice was ragged with regret, his touch gentle. “Tesoro, I would not have treated you so…would not have brought you here—”

“Hush!” she protested softly, and when he went to withdraw, held his sleek, pulsing flesh captive between her thighs. Because, surprisingly, the discomfort had passed and so had the fear. Now, her body welcomed his invasion. Craved it, even. “This is what I want, it’s what I need…please, Paolo!”

He remained unconvinced, however, and afraid her introduction to intimacy would end before it had properly begun, she relied on blind instinct to guide her, tilting her hips and rocking against him in flagrant invitation.

His response was immediate and powerful. Seeming driven by demons he couldn’t control, he gave a moan of despair and drove deeply inside her, again and again, as if trying to outrun the enormity of something he wished he’d never started but hadn’t a hope of stopping.

Finding herself again in unknown territory, Callie tried to respond appropriately to the wild ride she’d initiated. She wasn’t sure what was expected of her, or how it would end, but she was very sure that she didn’t want to disappoint him.

She found, though, that it wasn’t so difficult to match her rhythm to his, or to murmur his name with heartfelt desire. When the tempo of their lovemaking increased, her little cry of pleasure was unpremeditated. When she dug her nails into his shoulders, she did so with unrehearsed joy and a real sense of anticipation.

Then he spoke, his words urgent with command. “Si,” he panted, cupping her bottom and seeming to hold himself on the brink of destruction. “Don’t hold back, tesoro! Let it happen now! Let me feel you come!”

And at that, she froze.

Come? She didn’t have a clue how to come! But she knew she was supposed to, and she knew if she didn’t that she’d disappoint him after all, and she’d seen enough movies to have some idea of what orgasm was all about, and what did one more little deception matter at this stage of the game? So she thrashed her head from side to side, jiggled convulsively up and down on the bench, and uttered a long-drawn-out, breathy, When Harry Met Sally kind of “Ooh! Ooh, Paolo, yes!”

It seemed to work because, after a brief, disbelieving pause, Paolo tensed, shuddered violently, then collapsed on top of her, his chest heaving.

It was over. She’d survived her ordeal by fire and emerged relatively unscathed—or so she believed until he pulled away from her, and drawled, “We’ll take a rest, then try that again, Caroline. And the next time, you will come.”

She wished the earth would open up and swallow her. But by then too deep into a charade entirely of her own making to escape, she continued the lie. “I don’t know what you mean, Paolo.”

“No,” he said, disgust and amusement layering his voice. “I’m well aware of that. But it will be my pleasure to educate you in the fine art of true sexual completion. And when I am done with you, cara, you’ll never again have to pretend to come—at least, not when you’re with me.”

“You’re looking more ghastly by the minute, Caroline. Decidedly unwell, in fact. Are you feeling airsick? If so, I can have the steward bring you something to ease your discomfort.”

The past had roared back to haunt her so vividly that it took a moment for Callie to resurface in the present, and realize the man observing her with mild concern now was the same man who’d humiliated her so thoroughly nine years before.

“No,” she said, sipping her water to settle her queasy stomach. He, and not the jet, was the one making her feel ill. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“And I’m hardly convinced! Did I perhaps strike a nerve? Nudge your conscience a little?”

How complacent he was, lounging carelessly on the settee next to her. How insufferably sure he wielded the upper hand.

“You reminded me how callous you are,” she said. “I can’t believe I’d forgotten.”

“Callous?”

“That’s right. Only a complete cad would hark back to one insignificant night buried in the past, when his brother and sister-in-law have been recently killed and left two children orphans.”

“Hardly orphans, Caroline,” he replied, not the least put out by her comment. “The children have grandparents and an uncle who care deeply about them.”

“They have an aunt, too. And I care every bit as deeply about them as do you or your parents.”

“Yes?” He stroked his jaw idly, and shot her a glance halfhidden beneath his thick, black eyelashes. “Unless I’m mistaken—and I seldom am, by the way—we’ve already had this discussion, not two days past. For reasons which defy explanation, you chose to be nothing more than an aunt-in-name-only to the twins, which makes your professed deep attachment to them rather difficult to swallow.”

So here it comes, Callie thought. At last we’re getting down to the real heart of the matter.

Somehow controlling her voice so as not to betray the apprehension rippling through her, she said, “I’d find that remark offensive, if it weren’t so ludicrous. As it is, your arrogant assumption is nothing short of laughable. You have no idea what kind of connection I feel for those two children.”

He shrugged, an elegant, carelessly dismissive gesture. “I repeat, it is hard to imagine you feel any connection at all, considering how little time you’ve spent with them.”

“We lived half a world apart. Not exactly ideal for dropping by whenever the mood takes you.”

He indicated the plush leather upholstery in the aircraft cabin, the fine crystal and china on the mahogany table, the monogrammed linen napkins. “Thanks to advances in aerospace engineering, not to mention comfort, the world grows smaller every day, Caroline.”

“I lead a very busy life, and so did my sister.”

“Indeed, yes.” He nodded. “She traveled widely with my brother. He was heavily involved in the family automobile business, particularly as it pertained to our foreign dealerships.”

“I know that. Vanessa and I kept in close touch, even if we didn’t see each other often.”

“Then you must also be aware that once Clemente and Gina started school, they weren’t always free to accompany their parents. They stayed, instead, with their grandparents.”

“And your point is?” Although she tossed the question at him nonchalantly enough, Callie sensed where the conversation was leading, and another ominous chill ran up her spine.

“That my mother and father have invested a great deal of time and effort in the wellbeing of their grandchildren.” Leaning forward, he leveled a telling stare her way. “And that, in case you’re wondering, is the real reason I chose to meet you in Paris. Because if you harbor any notion that you’re going to disrupt the status quo, I intend to disabuse you of the idea before we touch down in Rome. I will not have my parents made any more upset than they already are.”

Unfortunately that would probably be unavoidable, but Callie decided now was not a good time to tell him so. Instead, choosing her words carefully, she said, “I don’t take pleasure in inflicting unnecessary pain on anyone, Paolo. It’s not my style.”

“My father will be particularly glad to hear it. My mother is suffering enough. He won’t tolerate you, or anyone else, adding to her misery.”

Ah, yes! The refined, reserved, decidedly suspicious Signor Salvatore Rainero thought all he had to do was snap his fingers and the rest of the world would gladly leap to accommodate his wishes.

Well, Ermanno hadn’t, and nor was Callie about to do so. Not that she relished heaping more grief on the Raineros who were unquestionably suffering greatly, but they weren’t the only ones with rights.

“Just so that we understand one another, Paolo, I won’t be bullied, not by you or your father. I have just lost my only sister—”

“And I, a brother. That should not make us enemies.”

“It seems not to make us friends, either, all your talk on the phone about my being family notwithstanding.”

“There is family, and then there is family, Caroline. You would be making a mistake to interpret my words as being anything more than an attempt to offer you comfort and sympathy at a time when you need both. My loyalty, first, last and always, lies primarily with my blood relatives.”

Goaded beyond caution, she shot back, “So does mine. Whether or not you like it, the twins are related as closely by blood to me as they are to you Raineros, and I promise you, I’m not about to take a back seat on your say-so. Far from it, Paolo. I intend to take a very active role in my niece’s and nephew’s future.”

His jaw tightened ominously. Fixing her in a glance so lethal that she shivered, he said softly, “Then I was mistaken. We are indeed fated to be enemies—and you should be aware that I make a formidable foe, my dear. Ask anyone who’s ever crossed me, and they’ll tell you I take no prisoners.”

Chapter Three

IN CONTRAST to the bright day outside, the Rainero family crypt was dim, and terribly, terribly cold. The kind of cold that seeped into a person’s bones. A dead cold. Even if the sun had been able to penetrate the thick stone of the outer walls, its heat would have been rendered ineffectual. Not even raging fire could touch the vault’s smooth, thick marble floor and interior walls. They were impervious.

For Callie, this final part of the funeral proceedings was the most difficult to bear. The church in Rome had been filled with people, with human warmth and emotion. The swell of the organ, the scent of incense, the flowers, the ritual of prayer and hymns—they’d spoken of hope, of eternity. But here, on Isola di Gemma, with only the immediate family and a priest present, the finality of death hit home with a vengeance.

The small gathering of mourners formed a semicircle. Beside her, somber in a black suit and tie, Paolo stood with his head bent and his hands clasped at his waist.

Next to him, his mother wept silently, the tears running unchecked down her face. Her hands cupped the shoulders of the grandchildren in front of her, keeping them close, letting them know they were not alone.

Salvatore Rainero completed the group, his face unreadable, but Callie knew, if it had been left to him, she would not have been included in this final ceremony. Ever since her arrival at the Raineros’s Rome apartment, he had remained civil, but distant.

Nor had he been the only one. The children had greeted her with faces shuttered with pain and eyes downcast.

“Hello,” she’d murmured, her heart breaking for them. “Do you remember me?”

“You’re our aunt from America,” Gina replied politely, “and Mommy’s sister.”

“That’s right. She brought you to visit me when you were three, and then again when you turned five.” She knelt down and drew them into a hug, “Oh, my darlings, I’m so dreadfully sorry about what’s happened. I never thought that the next time we were together…”

Her voice broke and she fought to hold back the tears. “You still have your nonna and nonno, and your Uncle Paolo, but I want you to know that you have me, too, and I love you very much.”

They stood stiff as boards, tolerating her embrace because they were too wellmannered to push her away. But she felt their indifference anyway, and it hurt. It hurt badly.

In marked contrast, their grandmother had held out her arms and welcomed Callie with soft murmurs of sympathy. Lidia’s kindness, when she had her own burden of grief to bear, had filled Callie with guilt.

Small wonder Paolo was so protective of his mother. She was a woman who gave first to others, and thought of herself last. That she would shortly face losing her grandchildren to a virtual stranger would be a devastating blow.

Not that Callie had any intention of denying either grandparent access to the twins, nor Paolo, either, come to that. Her reasons for claiming the children weren’t based on malice or vengeance. They had to do with promises made over eight years before, when the children were newborn. But the Raineros would soon discover what Callie had realized long ago: that even with the best intentions, maintaining close ties with someone who lived half a world away was difficult at best.

Of course, in her case, there’d been more to it than a matter of miles. At nineteen, the only way she’d been able to cope with her situation had been to put geographical distance between herself and her children.

When Vanessa and Ermanno had first suggested adopting the twins, it had seemed the best solution. Best for the children, at least, because what had Callie to offer them but a heart full of love and not much else?

Her sister and brother-in-law, on the other hand, could give them the kind of life every child deserved: a stable, comfortable home, the best education money could buy, and most important, two parents. Wasn’t having both a mother and a father every child’s birthright?

At fifteen weeks pregnant, and beside herself with worry and grief, Callie had thought so. But as time passed, she had grown increasingly less sure. They were her babies. She had conceived them and carried them in her womb almost to term.

With the sweat pouring down her face and no loving husband at her side to cheer her on, she gave birth to them. Heard their first tremulous cries. And when they were placed in her arms, they’d filled the huge empty hole in her heart left by the man who would never know he’d sired the two most beautiful, perfect children in the world.

Give them up? Not as long as she had breath in her body! But in the end, and even though it had nearly killed her, she’d made the sacrifice. For their sakes. Because they deserved better than what she could give them. Because she was only just nineteen and hadn’t the wherewithal to support one child, let alone two. Because in allowing Vanessa and Ermanno to adopt them, they’d be with family and she’d know they’d always be cherished and loved. Because, because, because…

Who could have foreseen how tragedy would intervene and give her a second chance to take her rightful place in her children’s lives? And it was her right, wasn’t it? She was their birth mother.

Her gaze slid again to where they leaned against their grandmother, their little faces pinched with cold. Gina had cried herself to sleep last night and rebuffed Callie’s attempts to comfort her. She’d wanted her nonna. Natural enough, Callie had reasoned, but that didn’t soften the blow of rejection.

Clemente’s sadness was more contained. He said little, but the loss showed in his eyes—a mute uncertainty where, two weeks before, there had surely been absolute faith in a parent’s indestructibility. In his child’s world, the elderly might sometimes die, but mothers and fathers never did.

A sudden sob welled up in Callie’s throat. So much loss and sorrow for all of them, but especially the children. How could she justify tearing them away from everyone dear? How could she expect them to uproot themselves from the familiar, and settle in a foreign place, with a woman they barely knew?

And yet, how could she walk away from them again, when Vanessa had told her that, in their wills, she and Ermanno had named Callie the twins’ sole guardian. Ignore her dead sister’s wishes?

Promise me you’ll take over, if something should happen to us. Lidia and Salvatore are past the age where they can keep up with two active children on a fulltime basis, and Paolo is no more fit to be a father than he is to look after a puppy. But you, Callie, you’re the perfect choice…the only choice…

Was she, after all? Had too many years gone by? Unsure of anything but a renewed sense of loss, Callie covered her mouth to suppress a sob.

A hand in the small of her back took her by surprise. “This is hard, I know, but lean on me, cara,” Paolo murmured, urging her close. “It will soon be over.”

He was wrong. It would never be over. No matter how things were resolved, someone would end up being dreadfully hurt.

The jolt of compassion, of the urge to pull her into the shelter of his arms and protect her, shook Paolo to the core. He’d thought himself armed against her. Believed his alliance with his parents too invincible to be breached by the one person who could wreak utter havoc and heartbreak on his family.

After their confrontation en route from Paris to Rome, that Caroline was capable of just such action was a foregone conclusion. He’d seen the determination in the tilt of her chin, in the sparks shooting from her lovely blue eyes. Had heard the implicit threat behind her declared intent to play a very active role in the twins’ future.

The insecure, anxious-to-please young maid-of-honor at his brother’s wedding had turned into a steelyspined woman on a mission. That, since her arrival, she’d shown hints of a softer side, especially in her dealings with his mother and the twins, was something Paolo had done his best to ignore. She was, after all, intelligent enough not to alienate those she most needed as allies.

Yet all that notwithstanding, her smothered sob touched him profoundly. All at once, she was not a one-person army bent on war, but a sadly outnumbered creature badly in need of a defender. The quivering droop of her mouth, the sheen of unshed tears glimmering in her eyes, rendered her powerless.

She had walked alone, with her head held high, as the family made its way through the grounds to the crypt. But when the brief burial ceremony ended, he tucked her arm through the crook of his elbow and, disregarding the censure in his father’s surprised glance, escorted her back to the villa.

“I remember the last time I was here,” she said quietly, stopping on the limestone path to gaze at the sea, turning dark now as the sun sank lower. “I never dreamed that when I came back again, it would be to bury my sister.”

He clasped her cold hand and squeezed it gently. “None of us did, Caroline.”

A tear sparkled on her lashes, clung there a moment, then broke free to trickle down her cheek. “I miss her desperately. Even though we lived so far apart, she was always there when I needed her.”

“I know. She loved you very much.”

“Yes. Far more than you can begin to understand.”

The rough edge of passion suddenly charging her grief, overlaid his sympathy with mistrust. In the last six years, as he’d gradually taken more control of the family business interests, he’d learned a lot about reading other people. His finely tuned instincts told him now that Caroline was hiding some sort of secret, one so onerous that even indirect reference to it left her eyes haunted with a sorrow that had to do with more than her sister’s death.

Although he wished it could be otherwise, instinct also warned him to unearth that secret before she used it as ammunition in the custody battle he knew was in the offing. Anxious not to alert her suspicions, he said casually, “Before he takes the motor launch back to the mainland, Father Dominic will stay to commiserate with my parents, over a glass of wine. I can’t speak for you, but I’ve had about all I can take of well-meant homilies on everlasting life. Right now, all I know is that I’ve lost a brother, and you’re the only person who really understands what I’m going through. Will you take a walk through the gardens with me, before the sun goes down completely?”

“I’d rather be with the children.”

He’d been afraid she’d say that, and had his reply all ready. “Jolanda will be supervising their early dinner. You’d be better off spending time with them later, before they go to bed.”

“Who’s Jolanda?”

“Our resident housekeeper. She and her husband live on the island and keep the villa prepared for whenever the family decides to visit. You don’t need to worry, Caroline. She’s known the children all their lives. They’re very comfortable with her.”

She shrugged, drawing his attention to how narrow and delicate her shoulders were beneath her black silk coat. “I suppose a little fresh air can’t hurt. Anything’s better than the scent of lilies. They used to be one of my favorite flowers, but all they are now is a reminder…”

“For me, too.” He steered her along a side path that wound through the manicured grounds. “Ermanno never liked them, either.”

“Were you and he very close?”

“Very, especially in the last few years. He was my mentor, my hero. If it hadn’t been for him, I’d never have amounted to anything more than a rich man’s idle son, with no ambition beyond catering to my self-indulgent lifestyle. I’d probably be dead myself, if it hadn’t been for him.”

He stopped, momentarily unable to continue as the absolute truth of his last statement hit home, and underlined yet again the extent of his personal loss. He could see the disgust on Ermanno’s face, hear it in his voice, as clearly as if it were just yesterday that he’d taken Paolo by the scruff of the neck, shaken him like a dog with a rat, then flung him down in the dust.

You make me ashamed to admit you’re my brother! You bring disgrace to the Rainero name, to everyone and everything you touch. What will it take for you to behave like a man, instead of a spoiled boy? How often will you break our mother’s heart before she turns her face to the wall and gives up, because living with the fear of what you’ll do next is more than she can bear? How many wrecked cars, and broken hearts, Paolo? How many fathers out for your blood, because of your treatment of their daughters? How many husbands seeking vengeance for their ruined marriages?

Well, this time the Rainero name and money won’t get you off the hook. This time, you take your punishment, and it starts with facing our father. Did you know he had a heart attack when the police showed up at his door to tell him that you’d been arrested for brawling, and that he lies now in a hospital bed, with no guarantee that he’ll survive? Do you even care?

For once, Paolo had had no glib answers. No pitiful excuses or shifting of blame. After a night in jail, with the dregs of Roman society keeping him company, he’d seen himself through Ermanno’s eyes, and it had sickened him.

At his side, Caroline gave a start of surprise. “What do you mean, you’d probably be dead yourself?”

“I was not a model son,” he said, soberly. “It took seeing my father clinging to life in a hospital bed, and knowing that I had put him there, for me to recognize the error of my ways.”

“Now that you mention it, I remember Vanessa telling me he’d been ill. Some sort of cardiac problem, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Fortunately his willpower was stronger than his heart. He made an amazing recovery.”

She made a face. “He’s the type who would.”

Too amused by her candor to take offense, he said, “You don’t much like him, do you?”

“No,” she said bluntly. “He never thought the Leightons were good enough to be associated with the Raineros.”

“As he got to know your sister better, he changed his mind about that. He even went so far as to say she was like a daughter to him.”

“I suppose he didn’t have much choice but to accept her. At least she didn’t put his life at risk, the way you say you did. Exactly how did you bring that about, by the way?”

“I publicly embarrassed him. He is a very proud man—too proud, some, including you, might say. But he was always a loving father, and it hurt him very deeply when I showed myself to be less than deserving of his affection, let alone his trust.”

“You appear to get along well enough now. How did you redeem yourself?”

“I accepted responsibility for my actions. Instead of taking for granted the privileges that came of being the son of wealthy parents, I started earning them. I took my intended place in the family business.”

“Sat behind a fancy desk in a fancy office, and dished out orders to underlings, you mean?” she said scornfully.

“No, Caroline. I started at the bottom, taking orders and learning from men often younger than myself, and worked my way into a position of authority only after I’d earned their respect. To coin a phrase often used in America, I smartened up.”

“Better late than never, I suppose.”

This time, he understood her tone, and the oddly closed expression on her face. “Yes,” he said. “And that brings me to a subject we’ve both avoided mentioning, except briefly. I refer, of course, to the night of my brother’s wedding.”

She went to pull her arm free of his. “I really don’t want to talk about that again.”

Trapping her hand, he said, “I’m afraid we must. At the very least, allow me to apologize. I deeply regret having behaved the way I did. I’m afraid I treated you very unfairly that night.”

“You did a lot more than that!” she cried heatedly, then clapped a hand to her mouth as if she’d accidentally bitten off the end of her tongue and was trying to stem the flow of blood.

Curious at her outburst, he said, “What do you mean, Caroline?”

“Never mind,” she mumbled. “It doesn’t matter.”

“If it can cause you such distress all these years later, it certainly does.” Tugging her to a stop, he turned her to face him. “What were my other sins?”

“Well, you’re so proud of how smart you are, so figure it out for yourself, for heaven’s sake!” All flushed and flustered, she glared at him. “It wasn’t just that night, it was…it was the next day…and the next week.”

Again, she seemed on the brink of some revelation which, at the last second, she thought better of. “But we were together just that one time, Caroline.”

“Yes, and you couldn’t have made it any clearer I’d better not expect a repeat performance!”

“Did you want one?” he asked, refusing to acknowledge the untoward stirring of desire such a prospect inspired.

“Absolutely not!” she said, vehemently. “But that was no reason for you to parade another woman under my nose.”

“There were always other women in those days, cara.”

“And you made it abundantly clear that I was just one of them.”

“Mea culpa! My behavior was inexcusable.” He cupped her chin, again forcing her to meet his gaze. “But without trying to shift blame, I feel justified in pointing out that you were not entirely without fault. You let me believe you were sexually experienced when, in fact, you were anything but.”

“I’m surprised you even remember!”

“Such bitterness, so long after the fact, is out of all proportion to the incident,” he said, regarding her thoughtfully. “What aren’t you telling me, Caroline? What’s been eating at you all this time, that you’re still so full of anger toward me?”

She grew very still, and very pale. “Nothing. Seeing you again, here on this island, just brings everything back, that’s all.”

“What do you mean by ‘everything’?”

“You…laughed at me. Made me feel inadequate…hopeless at sex.”

“Then I should have been horse-whipped. You were a novice, yes, but you were enchanting, too. Ethereal in a gauzy confection of a gown that made you look like a princess.”

And with skin as fine as purest silk…and flesh so firm and tight that a man would have had to be made of stone not to respond with blind, untempered passion…!

“Never mind trying to flatter me at this late date, Paolo,” she said coolly. “I know I made a fool of myself.”

A vicious streak of desire licked through his blood. “What if it isn’t flattery? What if I’m finally admitting to a long-overdue truth? You’re a beautiful woman, Caroline, and I don’t believe for a minute that I’m the first man to tell you so.”

She blushed and ran the tip of her tongue over her lower lip, drawing his eye to the delicious curve of her mouth, and leading him to wonder how many men had tasted it in the last nine years. She was more than beautiful; she was exquisite. Fine-boned, delicately featured…and seductively feminine, in a refined, understated way. How had he managed to dismiss all that, the first time around?

She held the collar of her coat close to her throat and shivered, although her color remained high. “I think I’d like to go inside now.”

“Do I embarrass you by speaking so frankly?”

“No, but I’m surprised. We’ve been pretty much at odds ever since Paris. In fact, you’ve barely addressed a single word to me in the last four days, and now you’re suddenly full of compliments. Forgive me if I find that rather suspicious.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “I’m having second thoughts about you. Perhaps I’ve misjudged you. Isn’t that possible?”

“Possible.” She tilted her shoulder in a tiny shrug. “But not probable.”

“Then perhaps you misjudge me.”

“Equally possible, I suppose.”

“And just as improbable?”

“I’m willing to keep an open mind on the matter.”

A curious lightness filled him, blurring the sharp edges of his grief. Tucking her arm firmly in his again, he said, “Then I propose we call a truce, at least for now.”

Thoughtfully she tipped her head to one side, a slight movement only, but it was enough to send her hair sliding over her shoulder in a fall of cool, blond silk. It took all his self-control not to catch it in his hand and let it spill between his fingers. “I guess it won’t hurt to try.”

He wasn’t quite so sure. All at once, none of the truths to which he held fast seemed quite as absolute anymore.

“I have decided we shall remain here for another week,” Salvatore announced, when the adults congregated in the day salon for coffee, after dinner. “This is a peaceful place, a place to start the healing.”

“Another week?” Callie glanced from Lidia, to Paolo.

Neither seemed inclined to question the head of the household. Typical, she thought. The master speaks, and the other two jump to obey his commands. “I’d hoped to be back home by then.”

Salvatore inspected her down the length of his aristocratic nose. “We have no wish to detain you, if you’re in a hurry to leave us, Caroline.”

“It’s not that I’m in a hurry, Signor Rainero. You’ve been more than kind hosts and I’m grateful. However, I have obligations in San Francisco.”

“And they are uppermost in your mind at this time, are they?”

How smoothly he managed to shift the context of her words and leave them cloaked in unflattering connotation! “Not at all,” she said, meeting his gaze defiantly. “But I came here in a hurry and left others to take over my responsibilities at work. I hardly feel entitled to be absent any longer than is absolutely necessary.”

“I understand.” He waved his hand as if he were bestowing a benediction. “You are a career person. I confess I had forgotten. In my family, you see, the women are content to be wives and mothers. That is their career.”

“What happens to those who don’t want to marry or have children?”

“There is no such creature,” he said, scandalized. “To have a husband and bear his children is an honor no self-respecting Italian woman would reject.”

Callie couldn’t let such an arrogant, outdated remark go unchallenged. “You’re living in the dark ages, if you believe that! ”

Paolo directed a look at his father and smiled. After a barely perceptible pause, Salvatore smiled, too, albeit thinly, and said, “I daresay I am a little out of touch. Tell me what it is you do, my dear, that you find so absorbing.”

A little unnerved by his abrupt turnabout, she said, “I’m an architect.”

“You must be very clever. What is your area of expertise?”

“I specialize in the restoration of Victorian houses.”

“An admirable undertaking.” Salvatore nodded approval. “We are not so different in our thinking, after all, in that we both recognize the importance of preserving the past. You must have spent years acquiring the knowledge to embark on such a career. Remind me again where you attended school.”

“In the States,” she replied evasively, suddenly uncomfortable at being the center of his probing attention. He could nod his handsome head and twinkle his dark eyes all he pleased, but he had a mind like a steel trap, and it was busily at work trying to put her off balance.

Nor was he the only one. Not about to let her get away with such a vague answer, Paolo said, “You’re being much too modest, Caroline. As I recall, you won a scholarship to one of America’s Ivy league universities. Smith, wasn’t it?”

“Smith?” Salvatore sat up straighter. “Then it’s small wonder you don’t have time for marriage or children. It would be a pity to waste such a fine education. How long were you there?”

“I wasn’t,” she said, desperate to steer the conversation into safer channels. “And I didn’t say—”

But Paolo cut her off. “You mean, you didn’t go to Smith, after all? Why ever not?”

“What does it matter?” she shot back irritably. “The point I’m trying to make, if you’d do me the courtesy of letting me finish a sentence, is that I never said I didn’t want children. In fact, I shortly hope to take on just such a responsibility, and very much look forward to doing so.”

“You’re getting married?”

“You’re pregnant?”

Almost simultaneously, Salvatore and Paolo fired the questions at her.

“Neither,” she said, aware that she’d painted herself into a corner. But there was no escaping it now, not unless she wanted to give the impression she didn’t care what happened to her niece and nephew, and really, what was the point in delaying the inevitable?

Bracing herself, she said, as tactfully as she knew how, “I’m talking about Gina and Clemente. I know this probably comes as a shock to you, and please be assured I’m not trying to be deliberately hurtful, but I’m well able to provide a home for the twins in the States, and I’m wondering if their living with me might be good for them, at least for a while.”

Lidia’s coffee cup fell from nerveless fingers, and spread a dark stain over the sofa’s pale silk upholstery. “Oh, Caroline, why would you say such a thing?” she wailed softly, her face crumpling. “Do you think we do not love them enough? That we will let them forget their mother?”

“No, Lidia,” Callie said gently. “I know how dearly you love them. But I love them, too, and I believe I’m wellequipped to take their mother’s place.”

“The hell you are!” Salvatore roared, slamming his hand flat on the coffee table as Lidia buried her face in her hands. “You foolish woman, do you seriously think we will stand idly by and allow you to tear our grandchildren away from the only home they’ve ever known—and not only that, but to live with a woman who puts career before home and family?”

“Those are your conclusions, Signor Rainero, not mine. I wouldn’t dream of relegating the children to second place. Just the opposite, in fact. I’d take an extended leave of absence from my work, and devote myself entirely to looking after them. As for tearing them away from you, that’s utter nonsense and the furthest thing from my mind. I hope you’ll visit them often. But I also believe a complete change of scene will benefit them at this time. I think learning something of their mother’s country—learning its customs, seeing where she grew up, things like that—will help preserve her memory more indelibly for them.”

“What you believe or think is of no consequence, young woman!” Salvatore informed her blackly.

“Father,” Paolo intervened, shaking his head at his parent in what struck Callie as a distinctly cautionary manner, “be sensible and calm down before you have another heart attack. And you, Momma, dry your tears. Caroline is merely expressing an opinion to which she’s obviously given careful thought, and frankly, what she’s suggesting isn’t entirely without merit. She is the closest substitute for Vanessa, after all, and could well fill her empty shoes better than you’re willing to recognize.”

But his father, purple with rage, was beyond sensible. “You’re taking her side against us?” he bellowed. “Where’s your sense of loyalty, man?”

“Exactly where it’s always been, with you and the children. But they’ve suffered enough, without ending up being the pawns in an ugly tug-of-war, which is why I propose we direct our energies to finding a compromise that will satisfy everyone.”

Lowering his voice, Salvatore said with such deadly emphasis that Callie’s blood ran cold. “What need is there to talk of compromise when I know full well, as do you, that those children belong to us in a way that supercedes any claim this Johnny-come-lately aunt thinks she might have?”

“What if I can prove differently, Signor Rainero?” Callie said, goaded past all caution. “What if I plead my case before a family court judge, with evidence to support my claim?”

Hissmileresembledadeath’sheadgrimace.“Thenprepare for a long and fruitless battle, my dear, because there is not a court in this country that will uphold a foreigner’s right to interfere in the upbringing of children of Italian citizenship.”

Sick with fear, she said, “Those children were born in the United States and are half American.”

Cursing, Salvatore lunged up from the sofa, and strode to where she sat on the other side of the coffee table. “They have no ties to America,” he thundered, looming over her threateningly. “They are Italian in every way that counts.”

Paolo immediately intervened by pushing his father aside none too gently. “That’ll do, le mio padre! You resolve nothing by browbeating our guest in such a fashion, and have said enough.”

A timely reminder, Callie thought, realizing belatedly that she, too, had said more than enough. Salvatore wasn’t the only one at fault. For all that she’d not intended it to be so, she’d allowed herself to be provoked into speaking rashly and inflicting pain, and for that she was sorry.

Paolo was right, she realized dazedly. There was no clearcut solution to the situation in which she and the Raineros found themselves. They had to find a compromise, one which would not trample anyone’s rights, least of all the twins’.

Her children’s welfare had always dictated her choices. It was why she’d made that promise to Vanessa in the first place. But she had neither the heart nor the stomach to enforce it for enforcement’s sake. And nor, she acknowledged dazedly, would Vanessa expect her to do so.

Things had changed from what they’d been eight years ago, and so had the people—no, the person, Paolo, as closely involved as she herself. He was not the same man who’d loved and left her without a second thought. Perhaps, in view of that, what she’d perceived to be her inalienable rights weren’t so inalienable, after all.

“Caroline?” Paolo approached her with outstretched hand. “I could use a little air, and so, I think, could you.”

“Yes,” she said, grateful for the suggestion.

A week ago, she’d been so sure she had all the answers. To find herself suddenly rethinking the whole issue of what was best for the children left her shaken and confused.

She needed to escape the tension in the room and clear her head. She needed to come to terms with her own abrupt change of heart and try to figure out exactly where that left her. And she could do neither pinned in Salvatore’s inimical glare.

Chapter Four

“WHERE are we going?”

“Away from a confrontation grown too painful for all of us.”

Callie’s rational mind cautioned her not to trust every word that came out of Paolo’s mouth, nor blindly follow where he led, just on his say-so. He might be a much more admirable man than he’d once been, but he was still a Rainero and, not five minutes ago, had admitted his first loyalty lay with his family. But the sure clasp of his fingers around hers warmed her soul; the compassion and, yes, the tenderness in his voice, soothed her battered spirit. In a house suddenly filled with such a wealth of enmity and mistrust, he was her only friend, because even Lidia must have lost sympathy for her now.

Taking her hand, Paolo led her out of a side entrance and along a path to a miniature two-story villa, some fifty feet removed from the main house, and hidden from it by a high hedge of flowering shrubs. Lights showed behind the draperies at the upper windows.

“Who lives here?”

“Jolanda and her husband.”

“We’re visiting them?”

“No. The night is mild. We’ll take adrive around the island.”

“I didn’t know there were any roads here. I’ve only ever seen the helicopter pad and the boat dock.” Not that Callie in fact cared, one way or the other, but it was easier to focus on the insignificant than dwell on the scene they’d left behind: Lidia weeping and distraught, and Salvatore almost foaming at the mouth with rage and hatred.

“Hardly roads,” Paolo said, sliding back a huge metal door on the main floor of the housekeeper’s quarters, to reveal a late model Jeep parked inside a garage that also served as a handyman’s workshop. “More like dirt tracks which can be accessed only by a four-wheel-drive vehicle like this, especially during the winter rains. Rather basic transportation, I’m afraid,” he commented dryly, helping her climb into the passenger seat, “but it’s the best I have to offer.”

“Basic” was too kind a description. Once clear of the welltended grounds of the villa, the Jeep bucked and jolted over the rocky terrain, sometimes veering frighteningly close to the edge of the cliff. Yet rather than fearing for her life, Callie felt safer and more comfortable than she had, back in the luxury of the villa. At twenty-four, Paolo had driven his low-slung luxury sports car like a maniac bent on self-destruction, but he handled the Jeep with masterful skill, and her pulse, which had raced erratically during the showdown with Salvatore, gradually settled back to normal.

“Thanks for rescuing me from your father’s wrath,” she ventured, the knots in her neck and shoulders lessening. “For a moment there, I thought he was actually going to hit me.”

“My father would never strike a woman, Caroline.”

“You could have fooled me. He was out of control.”

Paolo debated her statement for a moment, then conceded grudgingly, “Sadly, I must agree with you. He hasn’t been himself since we learned of the accident. But even if he’d so far forgotten himself that he’d attempted to touch you, I would have prevented it, even if it meant physically restraining him.”

At that, a comforting warmth stole through Callie. Paolo was a big, strong man, but so was Salvatore. Restraining him would not have been easy. “You’d have fought your father? For me?”

“I would fight any man threatening a woman,” Paolo replied flatly. “But if you’re asking me if I would embark on such a course lightly with my father, be assured I’d do so only as a last resort. A better solution by far was to defuse the situation by removing you.”

“Why? Because I dared to tell him things he didn’t want to hear?”

“Because it’s not good for him to become so disturbed. His heart cannot take such stress. But seeing my mother hurt and suffering is never easy for him.”

“I’m truly sorry I upset her. She’s a remarkable, lovely woman, and it hurts me to know that I hurt her. But don’t ask me to feel sorry for your father, Paolo. He’s nothing but a bully when someone dares voice an opinion that doesn’t coincide with his, especially if that someone happens to be a woman—and a Leighton, to boot.”

“And again, I apologize for his behavior. He should not have treated you as he did.”

“I don’t want your apology, nor his, either,” she said wearily. “All I ask is to be recognized as having the right to some say in the future of my niece and nephew.”

“I give you my word that no one will deny you that right. One way or another, I’ll find a way to keep everybody happy.”

Before she could ask him how he expected to achieve the impossible, he turned off the main track and steered the Jeep down a narrow, less traveled path which ended on a small promontory overlooking the Adriatic.

“This last week has taken a toll on all of us,” he said, bringing the vehicle to a stop on the lip of the cliff. “We’re each dealing with grief in our own way, and liable to speak hasty words we immediately regret. My father’s certainly guilty of that.”

Shame-faced, she stared at her hands, clutched tightly in her lap. “No more than I am. I spoke out of turn. I should never have phrased my concerns in such a way that they came out as a threat.”

“You mean, you aren’t serious in wanting to take the children back to America with you?”

The moment of truth came out of the blue and left her gulping back a sob. “Oh, Paolo, I’d be lying if I said it’s not what I’ve hoped for. But the more I see of them, the more I realize it’s not about what I want. It’s about what’s best for them. And I’m no longer sure I have the answer to that.”

“Perhaps none of us has,” he said quietly, “which is why I brought you here. Sometimes, focusing on something else, even if it’s only for a short time, helps restore our perspective and lead us to solutions we might never otherwise have considered.”

“I wish I shared your optimism.”

“There’s no reason you can’t, if you put your mind to it. Please, cara, try for a little while to forget about what the future holds, and simply enjoy this moment.” He stabbed a finger at the Jeep’s windshield. “Look out there, and tell me, did you ever see such a night?”

In truth, it was spectacular. Although the grounds of the villa were lushly planted with all kinds of tropical trees and flowers, there was little vegetation native to the island. By the light of the moon, hanging full and round and yellow just above the horizon, the bare landscape assumed an austere beauty that was almost ghostly.

Paolo leaned both arms on the steering wheel and gazed across the moon-dappled water. “Tell me about your life over the last nine years, Caroline. My mother has mentioned how very excited you were about attending Smith College, and that you spoke of it often, when you were here for the wedding. What made you decide against it?”

You did, she could have told him. Because of you, all my dreams turned into nightmares…

“You might as well take it off,” he’d said, lifting one corner of her mangled maid-of-honor gown. “It’s past saving.”

An unforgiving sliver of moonlight confirmed his assessment. The full, filmy skirt sagging disastrously where it had torn away from the bodice, and the smear of blood near the hem, indicated she’d done a lot more than take an innocent stroll in the garden.

“And wear what?” she cried, appalled at the thought of having to account for how she’d managed to ruin a dress that had cost a small fortune, never mind everything else she’d done.

“Nothing, of course. We’re going swimming.”

“In the nude?” More rattled by the minute, she stared at him. “Someone might see us!”

“I doubt that will happen, but what if it did?” he returned carelessly. “I wouldn’t be embarrassed.”

No, he wouldn’t. The way he peeled off the rest of his clothes until he stood before her as naked as the day he was born, was proof enough of that. And the way she stared, as if she couldn’t get her fill of him, was nothing short of shameful.

“Well? Are you coming with me?” he said, standing straight and tall as a Roman god. “Or would you prefer to go back to the reception, looking like something washed up on the beach by the tide?”

Heaven help her, but at the sight of him, so beautifully male, so gloriously virile, that same prickling, giddy excitement swept over her afresh, and all she wanted was to go with him again down the illicit path of sexual discovery. Tomorrow was soon enough to worry about looking her mother in the eye, about offering explanations for behavior that was inexcusable. Tonight was made for first love.

Her white kid shoes, satin panties and fine lace stockings already lay heaped on the cabana floor. Before she lost her nerve, she took off everything else and, worshiping him with her eyes, murmured breathlessly, “Of course I’m coming with you.”

Watching her strip had aroused him. Touching himself, he fastened his gaze on her small, high breasts, then let it dip to the shadow at the juncture of her thighs. And again, that wicked rush of heat left her damp and molten, and aching for something just beyond her frame of experience.

He stepped close enough for his penis to nudge gently against her. “That’s more like it,” he murmured huskily, rolling her nipple gently between his forefinger and thumb.

A quiver puckered her flesh and brought it to a vibrant, electric life that left her entire body yearning ever more desperately for that elusive “something.” She would have collapsed on the wooden floor and dragged him down on top of her, if he’d let her. But he backed away, teasing her with a smile, and catching her hand in his, ran with her across the sand to the water.

Once there, he dragged her, laughing, into the waves until they swirled around his chest. Only then did he pull her close and kiss her, tangling his fingers in her hair and driving his tongue deep into her mouth. Exhilarated, she returned his advances. His teeth were smooth, his lips warm, his tongue bold and hard, just like his erection.

She wound her arms around his neck, let her legs float up to encircle his waist. He slid his hands beneath her bottom, and with one finger, found the tiny bud of flesh hidden between the plump folds at her center.

It sprang to life like a wild thing, urgent and hungry for a satisfaction only he knew how to provide. Another slick, quick stroke from his clever finger, a little pressure in just the right place, and a lightning bolt shot through her.

“Oh…!” she gasped, and buried her face against his neck.

“Si, bella…now it begins for you,” he murmured, and touched her again, more insistently.

This time, a hidden coil sprang free in a backlash of sensation so wicked that she’d have leaped clear of the water had he not locked his arm around her so firmly. A helpless moan, borne deep within her, escaped her lips and hung in the still night.

“E ancora,” he urged, tormenting her a third time…a fourth…a fifth, until, at last, her body responded with the elemental might of a sleeping volcano awakened at last.

She tensed, clenched her eyes shut, and sucked in a drowning, desperate breath as a wave of tremors, each more powerful than the last, gave way to an onslaught of earthshattering spasms. Then the world as she’d known it exploded on her soft, high scream.

“I didn’t know!” she breathed, long minutes later. “I had no idea…!”

“You do now, Caroline,” he said, droplets of water running over his shoulders, and the heat of passion in his voice. “So let us proceed to the next phase of your education.”

There was no question of returning to the villa after that. They didn’t even make it back to the cabana. Right there, under the stars, with the warm Adriatic curling around them, they came together in a wild tangling of limbs and lips; of hands and tongues and fractured breathing.

To have him fill her completely, and know that they were joined not just in body, but in mind and heart as well, was surely the next best thing to heaven. “Oh, Paolo!” she whispered when, panting and depleted, they staggered ashore together. “You’re a wonderful teacher!”

“And you, an exemplary student.”

She turned her head and looked back along the beach. The faint sound of music drifted on the air. Just beyond the limestone outcropping, a rocket shot into the sky and cascaded back to earth in a free-fall of brilliant stars.

Fireworks, she realized. The wedding celebrations continued unabated, not in the least diminished by the absence of the best man and maid-of-honor. “I don’t want to go back there tonight,” she told him.

“Nor shall you,” he replied. “There are showers in the cabana, and a supply of towels. We will stay there until the villa is asleep, and return before it awakes at dawn.”

They bathed together, a playful, happy experience, laced with the promise of greater intimacy to come. Later, when she lay on a bed of thick white towels, he parted her legs and put his mouth on her. Stroked her with his tongue. And after her initial shocked reaction, she reveled in the forbidden pleasure he gave, awash in wonder at the sensuality she’d never guessed was hers to enjoy.

If their first time together had been embarrassing, and the second amazing, the third offered an unequivocal taste of sheer paradise, such that, when he collapsed on top of her, spent, she couldn’t help herself. “I love you, Paolo!” she gasped brokenly. They were the only words to describe the depth of emotion rolling over her.

For the longest time, he didn’t reply. Seemed unable to look at her, even. When he finally spoke, it was to say with calculated indifference, “It grows late, tesoro, and you are tired. We should sleep for a few hours. Regain our strength for yet another pleasurable encounter.”

When he awoke, though, just as the sun crept over the sea, Paolo was no more interested in making love to her than he was to remain cooped up on the island a second longer than he had to.

“We had fun, yes?” he said, climbing in to his clothes. “But the wedding fever is over, and it’s back to life as usual. For you, that means returning to America and your fine university.”

“Don’t you believe in marriage, Paolo?”

“For some people, perhaps.”

His shrug spoke volumes. But she was a devil for punishment, and couldn’t let go gracefully. “But not for you?”

“The world is full of beautiful women, Caroline,” he said cheerfully. “How can I be expected to choose just one?”

“Do you even believe in love?”

“But of course! I love women—all women.” He smiled his charming, devil-may-care smile. “I am Italian. I love love!”

She tried to smile back, and started to cry instead as all her hopes went up in smoke. “I thought I was special, but I’m just the latest in a long line of willing conquests, aren’t I?”

“Don’t do this, cara,” he said, rolling his magnificent brown eyes. “Don’t spoil our glorious time together with tears and recriminations.”

“I suppose I should be flattered you spared me one whole night. Silly me, to have thought it was the beginning of something lasting, something b…beautiful!”

“Ah, Caroline…!” Briefly he touched her face and let his fingers linger almost regretfully at her mouth, before stepping firmly away. “You see your world through rose-colored spectacles, cara mia, whereas I learned long ago that mine is painted in ugly shades of gray.”

If she hadn’t known then that she meant nothing to him, he drove the point home a few days later. On the Thursday before they were to fly back to the U.S., Callie and her mother stayed overnight in Rome, with the Raineros. The next morning, just as they stepped out to the street where a taxi waited to take them to the airport, Paolo drove up in a fire-red Ferrari.

He had a woman with him; a sultry, voluptuous, darkhaired beauty in a skimpy top and a thigh-high skirt, who sat so close beside him that she was practically in his lap. But when he went to kiss her, she laughed, pulled away and rolled her tongue provocatively over her full, red upper lip.

Suddenly Callie saw herself through his eyes—a pathetically naive girl with a bad case of puppy love. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to continue their affair. He liked his women sophisticated, sure of themselves and elusive. The more difficult the chase, the better he liked it.

She was so far out of her league, it was laughable. Rather than being the object of his desire, she’d been an amusing bit player. Someone to laugh about with his male friends. A convenient and willing body to keep him entertained until a better prospect showed up.

If only it could have ended then, with her humiliation complete, her heart in pieces, but her future, at least, intact. But he was not to be so easily dismissed. A month later, she discovered she was pregnant, and all that bright and shining opportunity she’d thought was hers for the taking, lay in shambles.

There would be no Smith College, no graduation summa cum laude. She had let down all the people who believed in her: her mother, who’d been so proud of her scholastic achievements; the board of governors at her private school, who’d awarded her their highest scholarship prize; her headmistress, who’d written such a glowing letter of recommendation to the college on her behalf.

And Vanessa.

“You’re what?” she exclaimed, after Callie confided in her sister. Their mother was away at the time, visiting a cousin in Florida, but Vanessa and Ermanno were in New York on the first leg of their year-long honeymoon-cum-business tour, and drove up to spend the weekend with Callie, who’d stayed home. “Good grief, Callie, I didn’t know you were seeing somebody. Have you told Mom?”

“No. I found out just before she left for Florida. She’d have canceled the trip if she’d known.”

Still reeling, Vanessa said, “I can’t believe it! You always claimed you didn’t have time for a steady boyfriend. When…who?”

It had taken all Callie’s courage to mumble, “Your brother-in-law. The day you got married.”

“Paolo?” Vanessa clapped a hand to her mouth, aghast. “My God, Ermanno will kill him!”

“Ermanno can’t know. Don’t tell him, please!” Callie begged.

But Vanessa stood firm. “I’m not keeping a secret like this from my husband. He has a right to know.”

Outraged when he heard, Ermanno’s first reaction was that he’d see to it Paolo did the honorable thing and married Callie.

She flatly refused to consider the idea. “I’m not compounding one grievous mistake with another. Marriage is out of the question, even if you could drag Paolo to the altar, which I highly doubt.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Ermanno said, after a moment’s reflection. “The last thing you need is a husband incapable of fidelity. We must find another solution, one which will keep this shameful secret from my father. It would destroy him, to learn that his favorite son has disgraced our family in such a way.”

He spoke without rancor, and when Callie remarked on it, shrugged philosophically and said, “I accepted long ago that, in my father’s eyes, Paolo is the golden boy who can do no wrong. I’m not saying my father doesn’t love me, too, but my brother…it’s different with him, and that’s just the way it is.”

“Your father sometimes doesn’t use the sense he was born with,” Vanessa declared, planting a loving kiss on her husband’s cheek. “But I, thank goodness, do!” Then, turning to Callie, she said, “We’ll figure out a way to help you, honey. I take it you’ve seen a doctor?”

“Yes. He pointed out my choices—abortion, adoption or keeping the baby.”

“And?” Vanessa eyed her anxiously.

“I can’t terminate the pregnancy. I couldn’t live with myself, if I did.”

Visibly relieved, her sister asked, “What about adoption?”

“Oh, Vanessa!” Callie’s eyes overflowed again. “I don’t think I could go through with that, either. Giving my baby away to strangers—” She stopped to mop her tears. “I’m so ashamed. How am I ever going to face Mom.”

“Never mind the shame,” Vanessa declared. “The point is, pregnancy isn’t something you can keep secret for very long. Soon, everyone will know, including Mom.”

“No! I could move away. Get a job. Save my money—”

“There is no need to worry about money,” Ermanno said quietly. “That is one thing I can do something about.”

“And you have to tell Mom, Callie. She’ll be shocked, of course, but you know she’ll stand by you. Maybe, with her help, you’ll be able to keep the baby.”

“I don’t think I can stand to see the disappointment in her eyes,” Callie said miserably.

As it turned out, she didn’t have to. Tragically, on the drive home from Florida, their mother was killed in a headon collision in North Carolina. She never knew she was about to become a grandmother.

The hot splash of tears on her face drew Callie back to the present—that, and Paolo’s voice, low and concerned, observing, “What did I say to make you cry, Caroline?”

“You asked me why I didn’t go to Smith,” she said, swiping her fingers over her cheeks. “If you must know, it was because of my mother’s death.”

How plausibly the lie rolled off her tongue! Accepting it without hesitation, he said, “Ah, yes! I remember now that she died not long after Ermanno married Vanessa.”

“That same summer. My father left us when I was six and Vanessa eleven, so for most of my life it had been just my mother, my sister and I. Then, in the space of two months, I was alone.”

Except for your babies, of course!

That had been the next shock to hit her.

“Definitely twins,” the obstetrician to whom her doctor referred her had declared confidently. “Two for the price of one, young lady. You’re going to have to take very good care of yourself for the next five months. We don’t want a premature delivery.”

Oh, the blistering shame, to be the youngest daughter of the late, respected Audrey Leighton, president of the Junior League, pillar of society. To be pregnant and unmarried—with twins. Oh, God! Oh, God!

“You weren’t really alone. You still had your sister, and Ermanno, too.”

Oh, yes. More than you can begin to know! “I seldom saw them. They were traveling all over the world for the better part of a year.”

“So they were—until Vanessa was put on bed rest because of her pregnancy. They stayed in California then, until after the twins were born, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” she said, with guilelessly misleading honesty.

“And you were there for the birth?”

Callie stared fixedly at the moonlit sea, hating that she had to mouth another lie, albeit by omission. “Yes.”

“My mother planned to be there, also, but the babies came almost a month earlier than expected.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Actually only ten days early, thanks to the excellent care Callie had received. But Vanessa and Ermanno had planned their story carefully, to avoid just such a situation as Paolo described.

He shifted in his seat and then, shockingly, stroked the back of his hand down her cheek. “Ah, Caroline,” he said softly. “I see how it hurts you, that you were there to welcome the children into the world, and yet could not be here, to see them grow up.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” she cried, scrunching her eyes shut against the painful images forcing their way to the forefront of her mind.

To give birth, to hold her babies close to her heart and smell their sweet, newborn smell—and then, ten days later, to let them go? There were no words to describe the emptiness, the agony.

Even after all this time, the picture remained as painfully sharp as if it had happened just yesterday: Vanessa, wearing a yellow dress and matching jacket, Ermanno in a pale gray suit, and each of them holding a tiny bundle wrapped in a soft white blanket.

You know we couldn’t love them more, if they were our very own, Callie.

Never fear that they will want for anything, Caroline. They will have the best that money can buy.

Before stepping into the waiting limousine, Vanessa turned one last time to Callie. We’ll give them brothers and sisters. They’ll be part of a big, loving family—and so will you, Callie. You’ll be their darling aunt.

But the other children never materialized. Vanessa had been unable to conceive. Oh, Callie! she had wept. If it weren’t for you, I’d never have known the joy of being a mother. Thank you so much, darling, for the gift you gave us.

“Then tell me all of it,” Paolo urged. “Tell me what it is that haunts you with such sorrow.”

“My sister died last week,” she said, choking back a sob. “Isn’t that enough?”

Sliding his arm around her shoulder, he pulled her close and cupped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “There’s more,” he insisted. “I hear it in your voice. I see it in your eyes. What is it you’re holding back? Please, Caroline, let me help you.”

“You?” Her laugh verged on the hysterical. “I hardly think so!”

“Why? Because, the first time I held you in my arms, I was too foolish to realize your true worth?” He expelled a huge sigh of frustration. “That was a long time ago, cara. Trust me when I tell you, I’ve changed for the better since then.”

Temptation nibbled at the edges of her resolve. Quickly, before it gained too powerful a hold, she replied, “Easy for you to say, Paolo, but where’s the proof?”

“Here.” He tapped a fist to his chest. “I admit that when I met you in Paris, I viewed you as a threat to my family, and was prepared to squash you flat at the first hint of sabotage. But I’ve watched you, this last week. I’ve seen your kindness to my mother, the way you sit with her and try to comfort her when your own heart is also breaking. I’ve seen how patient you are with the children, how loving, even though, more often than not, they rebuff your overtures.”

His hand strayed down her throat, stole around her neck. “If it were within your power to do so, I believe you would change places with Vanessa, just to give them back their mother. Yet something more than that is eating you alive. I know it, and it worries me, even as my heart tells me you’re incapable of sinister motives.”

“My heart hears your words and wants to believe them,” she countered tremulously, “but my head tells me actions are what count.”

“Then let your head be the best judge of this,” he said, and before she could guess his intent, let alone utter a protest, his mouth came down on hers and fastened there in a burst of heat that set her blood on fire.

Chapter Five

SHE’D felt faint stirrings of desire with other men since he’d initiated her into the art of love, nine years before. Kinder, less dangerous men. More sympathetic and deserving men. But always, Callie had withheld herself, even if her current love interest hadn’t known it. When it came right down to that moment of ultimate surrender, she hadn’t been able to let go. Not once, since the night she’d conceived Paolo’s children, had she permitted herself the freedom to respond without reservation or inhibition.

But if she’d spent the intervening years suppressing her sexual urges, Paolo had clearly spent the same amount of time fine-tuning his. The once-reckless womanizer had matured into a virtuoso seducer whose finesse laid instant waste to her resistance.

The very second his mouth touched hers, all thought of selfpreservation fled her mind. With just a kiss, he turned her world on its ear, and nothing mattered but to prolong the pleasure of being in his arms again; of awakening after a long and arid sleep, and feeling, with every cell in her body, every beat of her heart, the sweet, sharp trickle of desire permeating her blood. Without a moment’s pause, she was ready to sell her soul all over again, if that’s what it took to satisfy the raging hunger he inspired.

Her lips softened, parted. How else could she drink in the essence of him? When his tongue trespassed beyond the bounds of friendship and entered the forbidden territory of lovers, she held it prisoner, drawing it ever deeper into her mouth.

She cradled his cheek. Let her fingers steal up to knot fiercely in his thick, black hair. She swayed against him, arousing both him and herself by brushing her nipples lightly against his chest.

His hand skated from her throat to her ribs, and settled urgently, possessively, at her hip. For the first time in what seemed like eternity, she again experienced that scalding rush of heat between her legs. Sensed the distant tremors gathering strength within her, forerunners of a starving passion that would be satisfied with nothing less than complete fulfillment.

How disastrously it all might have ended, had he not exercised some restraint, was anybody’s guess. But again, with a discipline his younger self had never shown, he pulled them both back from the brink. “Forgive me, Caroline,” he said hoarsely, shoving her almost roughly into the far corner of the passenger seat. “I should not have done that.”

Dazed, disappointed, she swiped her hand across her mouth and injected a hard-won note of outrage into her reply. “Why did you then?”

“I couldn’t help myself.” He hesitated, and if she hadn’t known him to be the most confident man she’d ever met, she’d have thought him unsure he should utter his next words.

At length, though, he went on, “I find myself drawn to you. You touch me—against my will, I might add—with your selfcontained grief. I see the way you swallow when the pain almost gets the better of you, and I wish I could comfort you. But I forfeited that right a long time ago, and of the many things I regret having done, it’s that I’ve given you no reason to trust me now.”

Another silence, this one full of brooding frustration, before he burst out savagely, “Dio, if it were within my power, I would have us meeting here for the first time, with no painful history to sour your view of me!”

“We were both young and foolish, Paolo,” she said, an unsettling stab of guilt attacking without warning. She was the injured party, the one who’d given up everything—or so she’d told herself these many long years. Yet in line with other recent self-insights, as she watched him, listened to him, she suddenly wasn’t quite so sure.

“But I was the greater transgressor.” Fleetingly his hand ghosted over her hair and down her face. “You were little more than a child, Caroline, and so anxious to please that it disgusts me to remember how I took advantage of you. If I had a daughter, I would kill the man who dared to treat her, as I treated you.”

Tell him! Say the words: You do have a daughter, Paolo, and a son, as well! Then let the chips fall where they may. Dare to believe that the truth can indeed set a person free.

The urge to confess rose, as strong and surprising as her earlier guilt. She had to bite her tongue not to give in to what was surely the ultimate folly. A moment’s lapse in judgment could cost her everything because, no matter what he might say now, his repentance would surely turn to outrage when he learned the secret she’d kept from him all this time.

“You do not answer me,” he said, a world of weary regret in his voice.

“What do you want me to say? That I forgive you?”

“No. That’s asking for far more than I deserve.”

His candor was killing her! Too ashamed of her hypocrisy to look him in the eye, she stared again at the swath of moonlit sea. “No, it’s not. In the last week, we’ve both learned that life’s too short to waste it bearing grudges. So let’s forgive each other, Paolo, for the mistakes we’ve both made.”

“What are yours?” he asked, with just a trace of humor in his tone. “That you were too beautiful for your own good? Too sweetly appealing for mine?”

Humbled yet again by his selfderision, she said, “I chose to be a stranger to my own flesh and blood, just as you accused me of doing. I stayed away from my niece and nephew, when I should have made an effort to grow closer to them.”

“You’re here for them now, cara.”

Yes, but deep in her heart, she was terribly afraid she’d left it too late. Her children didn’t want to know her.

They turned to Lidia to dry their tears and sing them to sleep. They ran to Paolo when it hit them that Ermanno could no longer be there for them. Even Salvatore occupied a special place in their hearts, regardless of Callie’s belief that he was far removed from the typically warm, loving Italian patriarch they deserved. When all was said and done, the Raineros were her children’s true family, and she had only herself to blame for that.

Blinking away the persistent threat of tears, she said, “I mean nothing to them. You said so, yourself.”

“They are afraid to love you.”

Another wave of pain engulfed her. “Afraid? Why?”

“Because they have learned too early what it is to have the very foundation of their lives knocked out from under them. As they see it, their parents have abandoned them, and so might you. You are kind and tender with them, everything a loving aunt should be. But they are not, I fear, willing to risk another loss, so soon after the first.”

“So how do I rectify that?”

“By not turning their world upside-down with impossible demands. Do not ask them to open their hearts to you, just because you happen to be their mother’s sister. Don’t be in too big a hurry to rush back to America. Rather, stay here in Italy long enough to earn their trust. Do that, and their affection will follow.”

“That could take months.”

He shrugged. “So? You already said you’re prepared to take a leave of absence from your work. Have you had second thoughts, and decided Gina and Clemente aren’t worth such a sacrifice?”

“Of course not! But—”

“But you have your own life, one you share perhaps with a lover?”

“No.”

“Then what’s so important about your schedule that everything has to conform to it, regardless of how it might affect other people’s?”

Seeing herself through his eyes, she cried passionately, “You don’t understand!”

“Then make me,” he said. “You say you want what’s best for our niece and nephew—”

“I do! I want to give them the kind of security that comes from knowing that they are deeply and irrevocably loved, even though their parents have died.”

“Which is exactly what I also want for them. So why, if we’re in agreement, are we fighting each other?”

“I don’t know!” she cried, frustration spilling over. He knocked all the starch out of her convictions with his powerful line of reasoning. “I can’t think straight when you badger me like this!”

“Is that what I’m doing, Caroline? Badgering you?”

No, you’re reinforcing a whole host of self-doubts about what I thought were entrenched beliefs in my rights, and I can’t deal with that, especially not with you sitting so close beside me that I forget to be prudent.

“Am I?” he said again, running his knuckles along her jaw in a caress so tender that it undid her.

Her vision blurred. “No,” she said, blinking furiously. “I’m feeling overwhelmed, that’s all.”

“Understandable.” Another pause followed, this one humming with a different kind of energy, before he said thoughtfully, “Given our common goal, can we not find a way to work together, instead of in opposition?”

Tamping down an improbable surge of hope, she said warily, “Exactly what is it you’re proposing, Paolo?”

“That you give me one year. Put your career on hold and take that leave of absence and live here. With me.”

“With you? You mean, in your house?”

“Exactly. At present, I own an apartment, but for the children’s sake, I would buy a villa on the outskirts of Rome. A place with a garden where they could play—one close to where they lived with their parents, so that they could attend the same school, and keep the same friends. In other words, I would make a home for them—and you.”

“You can’t possibly be suggesting that the four of us would all live under the same roof?”

“Why not?”

“Because your father wouldn’t allow it, for a start!”

“My father does not dictate my choices, Caroline. I am my own man.”

She didn’t doubt that for a moment. “Perhaps. But he’d never accept my place at your side.”

“He’d have no choice but to accept you, if you were my wife.”

“You’re suggesting we get married?” This time, there was no controlling her spiking blood pressure.

“Yes,” he said calmly, as if proposing marriage out of the blue was as common an everyday occurrence as brushing his teeth.

“But you don’t love me!”

“Nor do you love me. But we both love the children, do we not?”

“Well…yes.”

“Then is it not worth trying to give back to them a little of what they’ve lost—a home, two people who love them, a semblance of normality?”

To be his wife, to share a home with him and their children…had this not been the stuff her dreams were made of, for longer than she cared to admit? And yet, to grasp them now, on the strength of a whim, an impulse, was surely courting heartbreak all over again.

Quickly, before her foolish heart led her astray a second time where he was concerned, she said, “With a marriage in name only? I don’t think so, Paolo!”

“Nor do I. Such marriages stand no chance of succeeding.”

By then too confused to be delicate, she said bluntly, “Are you suggesting we sleep together?”

With enviable aplomb, he replied, “Why not? I admit, intimacy coupled with love makes for the best bedfellows, but between compatible, consenting adults, intimacy alone can nurture a closeness they might otherwise never know.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“Then they part as friends and go their separate ways, which is why I ask you to give me a year. If, at the end of it, we agree we cannot make the marriage work, we will end it.”

“And exactly how does that help the children?”

“It gives them a breathing space, a time to heal, among people who care about them enough to put their personal ambitions aside. At the same time, it allows them the chance to get to know you, which cannot be a bad thing if, as you say, you want what is best for them—because you surely must agree, no child can have too large a loving family.”

“I do agree. It’s this other thing you’re suggesting…this business of…of sex…”

“I’ve taken you by surprise, I know, Caroline, and I don’t expect an answer from you tonight. All I ask is that you consider my proposal.”

Consider it? Good grief, it was all she could do not to grab hold of it with both hands before he changed his mind! But his businesslike approach cooled her enthusiasm. He was proposing a marriage of convenience, even if it did include bedroom privileges, and she’d be a fool to forget that. The odds that they could make a success of such an arrangement were dim at best.

So, matching his detachment, she said, “I suppose that can’t hurt.”

“My father wants us to stay here another week, but I suggest we make it two. That should give you enough time to reach a decision, shouldn’t it?”

“I can’t imagine it’ll take me that long.”

“But if you say yes, as I’m hoping you will, the extra time will give the children the chance to get used to the idea of us being a family, before too many changes take place. Then, once they’ve accepted the idea, we can return to Rome, and concentrate on finding a place to live.”

“That makes sense, I suppose,” she said, and wondered how he managed to make what was surely a rash, improbable idea seem so utterly sane and workable.

“You were gone a long time, Paolo,” his mother said, coming out to where he leaned against the terrace balustrade, nursing a snifter of brandy. “Your father is in bed already.”

“And why aren’t you, Momma?” he asked fondly, noting the long silky robe she wore over her nightgown, and the embroidered satin slippers on her feet. “Aren’t I bit past the age where you have to wait up, to make sure I get home safely?”

“I’m too worried and sad to sleep. First, Caroline told us she’d like to take the children back to America with her—”

“We’ve known all along that was a possibility. It shouldn’t have come as too much of a surprise.”

“No, but it still came as a shock to hear it put into words so plainly. Then, after the pair of you left the house, I found the twins huddled at the top of the stairs, with their arms around each other. They were very upset and confused. I’m afraid, with their grandfather’s shouting, they heard more than was good for them.”

“My father was out of control. People on the mainland probably heard him. Were you able to reassure them?”

“I tried, but they heard Caroline, too. Their English is too good, Paolo. They understood every word that was spoken, and they’re frightened. Everything they’ve always been able to count on is crumbling around them.”

A sigh shook her slight frame, and Paolo realized that Ermanno’s death had taken an even greater toll on her reserves than had first been apparent. The silver in her hair grew more noticeable every day. The spring had gone from her step, and she’d lost a shocking amount of weight.

Nor was grief the only culprit. She was exhausted. Even with Jolanda’s help here on the island, and with the nanny, Tullia, standing by in Rome, caring for the twins exacted too heavy a toll on a woman of their grandmother’s years.

“My heart bleeds for Caroline,” she continued sadly. “She’s in an impossible position, even if she doesn’t yet realize it. She loves those children, and there’s no question but that their lives would be enriched by having her be a part of them. But even if she could force the issue by taking them to live with her in America, what good would it do, if they ended up hating her for it?”

“No good at all. Technically they are half-American, as Caroline says, but in their hearts and outlook, they are as Italian as I am. Their true home is here, and always will be, regardless of who wins this battle of guardianship. Not only that, they’re no longer babies. We speak of rights as if they’re exclusive to adults only, but the children have their rights, too, and they deserve to be heard.”

Another deep sigh escaped his mother. “Oh, Paolo! How are we ever going to resolve the difficulties facing us?”

“We’ll find a way, Momma. In fact, I might already have come up with a solution that will make everyone happy.”

His mother stepped closer, her face illuminated with sudden hope. “What kind of solution? Oh, tell me, please! I crave hearing some good news, for a change.”

“No,” he said. “You’ll have to be patient a little longer. It is too soon.”

Too soon for Caroline, and in all truth, too soon for him. The idea of marriage had struck him out of the blue, and before he’d had time to consider the wisdom of it, he’d proposed. And why? Because of a kiss that had been equally unplanned, yet one which had awoken in him a hunger not easily assuaged in the usual way. Rather, he’d been reminded of that long-ago night when he’d taken an innocent virgin and almost lost his heart in the process.

The depth of his feelings had terrified him then, and it terrified him now. At eighteen, she’d been a girl on the brink of life; one who deserved better than a man unprepared to accept responsibility for anything but his own pleasure and pursuits, and so he’d turned away from her.

Now, she was a woman and, in the space of a few days, she’d shown his life for what it really was: empty and superficial. Granted, at a professional level, he took pride in his accomplishments, and had believed that to be satisfaction enough. But because of her, he’d suddenly glimpsed the fulfillment of a deep-seated personal need that he hadn’t known existed. Plainly put, she exemplified all the things he’d once thought he’d never want.

Children, marriage, a place to call home—they’d taken on different meaning, this last week, yet with one kiss, she’d made them appear not merely appropriate at such a grief-rav-aged time, but eminently desirable, too.

He was not the twins’father, nor was Caroline their mother, but given the will to make it happen, together they could fill the void left by the tragic absence of parents, far better than either could hope to achieve alone. Like her, though, he needed time to adjust to the idea; to swing his mind set around from that of unattached bachelor, to family man. And he needed peace and quiet and solitude to do so.

“You should try to get some sleep, Momma,” he said, urging her inside the villa. “You’re worn-out.”

“Sleep?” She passed her hand over her face in a gesture of utter despair. “How can I sleep, with so much gone wrong in my family?”

“By allowing someone else to carry the load, for a change.” Taking her arm, he walked her to the foot of the staircase. “Put your worries aside, go to bed, and leave everything to me.”

He watched as she took the stairs one at a time. Seeing how slowly she moved, how she clutched the bannister and paused occasionally to catch her breath, reinforced his determination. He would not wait until he buried his mother as well, before he tookthe necessary steps to bring closure to his family’s distress.

When she at last reached her bedroom and closed the door, he returned to the terrace to finish his brandy, and pick up where he’d left off with his earlier musings. He’d always believed a man was responsible for directing his own destiny, but that he’d stumbled across such an ideal solution of how best to fill the hole left by Ermanno’s and Vanessa’s deaths, struck him as nothing less than serendipity.

Admittedly he entertained some reservations about his proposal. Try though he might, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Caroline harbored a secret of such momentous proportions that it might one day hurt his family. But that merely made marrying her that much more urgent. As her husband, he’d be in a position to effect some damage control.

There were other advantages, too. Whatever faults she might have, one thing remained unalterably clear: she was devoted to the twins, and ideally suited to share the responsibility of looking after them.

Furthermore, she was unattached, as was he. Even if he’d been seriously involved with another woman, he’d heard enough horror stories to make him reluctant to ask a stranger to step in as surrogate mother to his brother’s children. But Caroline was family. Her blood ran in the twins’ veins, just as thickly as his. Whatever their differences, in this one matter they were united.

If she was secure enough in the marriage, if he could make it so good between the two of them that she’d want to stay when the year was up, wouldn’t that be enough to neutralize whatever threat he feared she posed for his family? Wouldn’t it, in fact, be the best possible outcome for everybody, including the children?

Last, of course, there was the kiss—another unforeseen event which had affected him deeply. In that kiss, he’d tasted something of the ingenue he’d so carelessly cast aside nine years ago, and in his world, that kind of innocence was a rare commodity.

He hadn’t asked her if there’d been other lovers since him, because he hadn’t needed to. It had been there for him to see in her dazed surprise; in the nervous fluttering of her pulse, and her startled, uncertain gaze. A woman of experience did not respond so skittishly to a kiss, or to the suggestion of married intimacy.

And yes, there was that, too. Sharing a bed. Seeing her naked in the tub. Touching her in the privacy of their room, with lamplight casting golden shadows over her cool, smooth skin. Losing himself in her soft, warm folds, under cover of night.

The mere thought was enough to leave him hard and aching.

A sound penetrated the night; a thin, pitiful wail drifting down from one of the bedrooms behind him. Leaving his glass on the stone balustrade, he raced inside to investigate.

He was halfway up the stairs when he heard it again, coming from Gina’s room, at the end of the upper hall. The door to his parents’ suite remained closed, a sign that his mother had managed to fall asleep, after all, but Caroline’s stood ajar. Following the thread of light spilling over the floor from the room next to hers, he found her bent over Gina’s bed, attempting to gather the child into her arms and soothe her.

“Hush, darling,” he heard her murmur. “It was a bad dream, that’s all. You’re safe now.”

But Gina was inconsolable. “I want my mommy,” she sobbed.

“Mommy’s gone to heaven, but you have me, precious,” Caroline crooned. “You’ll always have me. I’ll never leave you, I promise.”

For a moment, he thought Gina was going to accept her. Just briefly, she rested her tearstained face against her aunt’s shoulder. Then she saw him standing on the threshold, and she pulled away, stretching out her arms to him, instead.

“Go away!” she cried to Caroline. “I don’t want you, I want my Zio Paolo.”

Caroline recoiled as if she’d been stabbed in the heart. Without a word, she rose from the edge of the bed to make room for him, and started toward the door.

“Don’t leave, Caroline,” he begged, catching her by the arm as she passed. “Let’s do this together.”

But, “You heard her,” she said. “She wants you, not me.”

“She wants her mother, cara mia, and her father, too. I’m her third choice only.”

“And I’m nothing,” she muttered brokenly, tearing free from his hold, and ran blindly from the room.

He let her go because there was misery enough in the atmosphere at that moment, and Gina needed comfort. But once the child had settled down again, he stopped outside Caroline’s room and knocked.

She didn’t answer, but she’d left it too late to pretend she was asleep. He’d already noticed the seam of light showing under her door, and heard her crying softly.

“You might as well answer, Caroline, because I’m coming in, anyway,” he said.

After a second of heavy silence punctuated only by an occasional sniffle, she spoke, her voice still muffled with tears. “What for? To rub my nose in the fact that my niece would rather deal with the devil himself, than with me?”

“Let me in, and we’ll talk about that,” he replied, not about to engage in any sort of discussion with a closed door between them.

She cracked it open an inch. “What’s the matter?” she inquired bitterly as, taking advantage of the moment, he lost no time stepping quickly into the room and closing the door securely behind him. “Afraid you might be seen fraternizing with the enemy?”

“Yes. The last thing either of us needs just now is for one of my parents to show up. My mother has enough to deal with, and my father would jump to the wrong conclusions. He has rather old-fashioned ideas, one of them being that unmarried female guests do not entertain men in their rooms, at least not when they’re staying under his roof.”

“That must have cramped your style over the years. No wonder you were so fond of the cabana on the beach.”

If he hadn’t known he’d only make matters worse, he’d have laughed at the picture she made. She stood there defiant as a child, hurling insults at him in an effort to stave off another onslaught of tears. She held a wad of sodden tissues balled in her hand, her eyes were all puffy and pink, and her dainty little toes peeped out from beneath the hem of a white embroidered nightgown she’d surely inherited from some oversize Victorian ancestor.

“Caroline,” he said mildly, careful not to betray so much as a smile, “I am not your enemy, nor do I consider you to be mine. This evening, I asked you to marry me, and I’m not here to tell you I’ve changed my mind. Rather, I hope that you now see the wisdom of accepting my proposal.”

“Actually I don’t,” she hiccuped, her words interspersed with a volley of ragged sobs. “Ginahates me, and so does Clemente. They’ll hate you, too, if you make me their stepmother.”

“But I cannot take care of them alone, cara. I need your help, and whether or not you believe it, so do they.”

“They need their mommy,” she insisted, an observation he’d have thought was plain enough for anyone to see, but which, for some reason, brought about an even more violent outburst of tears from her. Turning away from him, she retreated to the bed, collapsed in a heap on the rumpled covers, and buried her face in her hands.

He made a fatal mistake, then. Moved beyond words, he went to her. Lowered himself next to her on the mattress. And unwisely chose to cradle her in his arms.

Her tears splashed warm and salty against his neck, leaving his shirt collar damp. Her hair teased his senses with the fragrance of sweet-smelling shampoo. Her slender frame shook uncontrollably against his chest. And he was lost, all his honorable intentions to give her space and time to consider his marriage proposal, reduced to smoldering dust.

She was a woman in need of a man. And he was not a man to turn away from a woman in need—especially not when her name was Caroline Leighton.

Chapter Six

SHE could have tolerated anything else Paolo threw at her—mockery, scorn, disgust—used it to bolster her battered spirit, and thrown it back at him in kind. But his humanity completed the crushing despair Gina had begun with her rejection.

To Caroline’s acute embarrassment, she found herself sobbing with the abandonment of a child. Past the point of caring how he might view such weakness, she collapsed in his arms and let go.

The floodgates opened. The tears flowed without end, accompanied by convulsive, almost primitive gasps of animal pain. Throughout, he said not a word. Instead he anchored her to him, and waited patiently for the storm to pass.

Just as well. Her senses were numbed to anything but the terrible morass of misery threatening to engulf her. Without his solid strength, she’d have descended too far into hell ever to find her way out again.

At last, though, the spate of tears slowed to a dribble, with only an occasional hiccup to fill the silence. Weak as a newborn lamb, she sagged against him.

His shirt was soaked, but he didn’t seem to mind. Beneath the soggy fabric, his heartbeat, tireless and invincible, marked the passing seconds, its driving energy hers to use for however long she might need it. In a world gone increasingly crazy, he alone offered the haven she craved.

Eventually he said, “Feeling better, Caroline?”

Sounding like a woman with a serious adenoidal condition, she sniffled, “I suppose. It’s just so hard to accept that Gina wouldn’t turn to me for comfort. I understand it, up here.” She rapped her knuckles against her aching head. “I’m practically a stranger to her, after all. But my heart can’t seem to get the message.”

He stroked her hair; long, sweeping caresses of the kind a man might employ to soothe a frightened mare. “You do know you overreacted to her just now, don’t you? That this is about more than just the children?”

“Yes,” she admitted, perilously close to being swept under by another tidal wave of self-pity. “Every time I think I’ve accepted Vanessa’s death, it jumps up and bites me in the face all over again, and the least little thing sets me off. I’m an emotional wreck.”

“You’re allowed to be. We all are. Just because we’ve paid our last respects to those we love, doesn’t mean we’re over losing them.”

“But it’s not good for the children to see adults unable to cope. It frightens them.”

“Exactly. They need a return to stability.” His hand stilled briefly, and when he spoke again, his voice was laden with a huskiness she couldn’t quite decipher. “They need us in harmony, cara mia.”

She was beginning to think she needed him, far more than she’d ever have guessed. For reasons that defied logic, the man who’d once torn her life to pieces seemed to be the only one who could make her feel whole again. “Do you really believe we can make a go of marriage, Paolo?”

“Yes,” he answered, without a second’s hesitation. “I absolutely do.”

Trying to maintain a thread of common sense, she argued, “But apart from our both being committed to the children, what else do we have in common?”

He drew his hand down her face and cupped her cheek in his long, elegant fingers. “How about the fact that I find myself wanting more and more to stand between you and anyone who tries to hurt you, my lovely lady? That when I see you cry, I want to take your sadness and turn it to laugher? And if those are not reasons enough to convince you, then what if I tell you that, despite everything that has gone before, I trust you and want very much for you to know that you can trust me.”

“Trust takes times, Paolo,” she countered. “Like respect, it’s something that has to be earned.” And as long as I keep the secret of the twins’ paternity from you, I deserve neither your trust nor your respect…

“Some things a man has to take on faith, Caroline,” he said, his dark, beautiful eyes scouring her face.

Her heart pinched in guilty pain. “And you believe it’s worth it, to give up your single life for a woman you barely know?” she asked, struggling to turn a deaf ear on her conscience. She had to be sure, before she told him, she reasoned. Spilling out the truth prematurely could hurt their chances of making the marriage work for reasons other than convenience.

He’d suggested a trial period of one year, but she was still looking for a happy ending to last a lifetime. Crazy though she might be, she’d fallen in love with him nine years ago, and realized she loved him still. All that foolish business to do with her legal rights to the children—what had that been about, really, but a desperate attempt to defend herself against his hurting her again?

She had come prepared for a battle that had never taken place, she realized, and that she’d entertained, even for a minute, the idea of using the children as a weapon, left her sick with self-disgust.

His mouth curled in a faint smile. “If you’re asking me, will I be faithful, I give you my word it will be so. The reason I’ve not taken a wife sooner is that I was not willing to make a promise before God that I knew I couldn’t keep.”

Although it hurt to say the words, the question begged to be asked. “Yet you are now, with a woman you’ve admitted you don’t love?”

“Yes,” he said, with a candor that dealt a savage blow to her romantic fantasies. “Much has changed recently. Tragedy has struck and turned us all, particularly you and me, in a new direction. Suddenly we have children to consider. They must be our first priority. That much we owe them.”

“And what of the rest?” Common sense told her not to press the point, but she couldn’t help herself. “By themselves, children aren’t enough to hold a marriage together, and I ought to know. Despite having two young daughters and a wife who needed him, my father walked out on my mother and left her to bring up Vanessa and me on her own.”

“Then your father amounted to less than a man. To sire two children, then abandon both them and their mother is despicable.”

He took stock of her again. “Listen to me, Caroline, and believe me when I tell you, I will not desert you.”

“Then why bother to include the option to dissolve the marriage after one year?”

“Because I hoped it would make you feel less coerced. I am not so blinded by duty that I expect you to remain in a union you find intolerable. But let me make this much clear: if our marriage doesn’t last, it will be because you decide to end it.” His voice dropped suggestively. “And I intend to make it very difficult for you to arrive at such a choice.”

If the way his arm tightened around her shoulders hadn’t warned her of his next move, the sexy, smoky note in his threat did. Starting with her forehead, he skimmed his mouth from her eyes to her jaw in a string of kisses that ended at her lips.

Such a mouth should be against the law, she thought, all the reasons she should call a halt to his behavior evaporating. If, in the course of their marriage, he never did more than simply kiss her, she could die a happy woman.

But he was bent on more erotic pleasure. With a low murmur of approval, he eased her down on the bed—not that he had to expend much energy to do that; already, she was limp with pleasure. Then, with the unhurried expertise of a man who’d had much practice, he unfastened the row of small pearl buttons running down the front of her nightgown, and parted the fabric to lay bare her breasts.

Still not satisfied, he continued dispensing with the garment. It yielded to his efforts, sliding down her torso in a soft sigh of surrender until it puddled around her waist. Another tug, and he had it past her hips and down her legs until not an inch of her was spared his inspection.

She had carried his two children practically full-term, and although her body had weathered the experience far better than most, the signs were there, if he cared to look for them. Plagued by a belated attack of nervous modesty, she tried to curl away from his gaze. But to no avail. Shaking his head in reproof, he manacled her wrists in the tender steel of one hand and imprisoned them above her head.

Helpless as a butterfly pinned to a collector’s mat, she gave up the struggle and submitted to his absorbed scrutiny. His breath sifted over her, warm and light as a summer breeze.

“Magnifica…incredibile…!” he whispered, his sultry gaze scorching her flesh. “Venero, la mia bella!”

She’d studied enough Italian to know what his murmured words meant, but even if she’d been unfamiliar with the language, she’d have guessed that he liked what he saw. Only when his emotions ran high, be it from anger or, as now, from passion, did he lapse into his mother tongue with her.

What seduced her completely, though, was not that he eventually stopped looking and put his mouth everywhere on her, but that he did so with the reverence of a connoisseur examining a rare, exquisite work of art. Touches so fleeting they caressed her like a benediction.

Had he shown her the same tenderness the first time he’d seduced her, she’d probably have thought the melting delight he induced now was reward enough for giving him her virginity. But he’d taught her too well. She knew this was but a preface to much more explosive pleasure, and so did her body. The faint humming along her nerve endings, growing in volume until they buzzed, was evidence enough of that.

“Paolo…!” she sighed, squirming to free her hands from his grip. “Let me touch you…”

“Patience, my lovely,” he breathed in Italian, settling his mouth again at her throat. “We have all night to enjoy one another.”

“Not if your father finds you here.”

She wished she hadn’t reminded him. Abandoning her without a second’s hesitation, he rose from the bed and strode to the door. “Indeed not. He would awaken the entire household with his outrage.”

Regret leached away all the lovely anticipation building in her blood, and left her aching with disappointment. No point trying to delude herself that she’d feel differently in the morning and be glad she’d called a halt to things. She wanted him with a deep and vital yearning that had its roots in something far more enduring than the temporary release of good sex. She wanted to belong to him in every way that counted: physically, emotionally, spiritually.

She’d grown up without a father, or uncles or brothers. Of course, she had a son, as well as a daughter, but even for them, she had Paolo to thank. At the end of the day, he was the only man ever to have left an indelible impression on her soul.

At last accepting that it was something that neither time nor circumstance would ever change, she tossed aside the last of her pride and begged, “Paolo, please don’t go!”

“I must,” he said roughly, and before she could repeat her plea, the door had closed behind him.

Desolated, she gathered a fistful of sheet, and crushed it against her mouth to silence the wave of anguish threatening toerupt. To have come so close to heaven, and then, with a few ill-chosen words, to lose it all, was beyond cruel. It was inhumane, torture of the worst kind, and she wanted to howl at the unfairness of a world which would allow such suffering.

Then, miraculously, the door opened again, and Paolo was there again. Stunned, delighted, grateful, she said, “I thought you’d left and weren’t coming back.”

“Not coming back?” Locking her door, he tossed the key on the nearby dresser, and began to remove his clothes. “Caroline, my angel, I couldn’t stay away, even if I wanted to.”

By the time he reached the bed again, he was as naked as she was. And, like her, he’d changed over the years. The younger playboy son of the almighty Salvatore Rainero had matured into a man of impressive stature, and she was mesmerized by the magnificence of him.

He’d always been classically tall, dark and handsome, but at twenty-four there’d been a hint of softness in his build, an indication of too much fast living, coupled with a distinct lack of self-discipline. He’d worn too much jewelry. A heavy gold chain hung around his neck. Diamonds rimmed the dial of his gold watch. Another diamond graced the signet ring on his little finger. Smitten though she’d been at the time, she’d found such a conspicuous display of wealth somewhat tasteless.

Now, he wore only a slim gold watch which he discarded along with his clothes, and a simple chain that glimmered softly against his deep olive skin. His chest had deepened, his shoulders broadened with muscle more cleanly defined than before. His limbs were strong, his flanks lean, his belly flat and hard. And his masculinity…?

“Will I do?” he asked, standing close enough for her to reach out and touch him.

Heavenly days, but he was fearsomely endowed, impressively aroused! “I think you’ll do very well indeed,” she managed to say, drawing her legs under her until she knelt before him, “and not just for tonight.”

“What are you saying, Caroline?”

She drew in a tortured breath, and ran her tongue over her lips. “Yes. I’m saying, yes, I will marry you.”

A light flared in his dark eyes, a mixture of triumph and relief. “Then let me say this. Look at me now and see that I am far from perfect. Know that I will make mistakes, and there will be times when I might do or say things that make you wish you’d never agreed to become my wife.”

Lowering himself next to her, he pinned her in that forthright stare which had become so much his trademark, and continued, “It would be very easy for me to tell you that I love you, Caroline. But they are not words to be spoken lightly, and although you and I go back a long way, we have spent but a few days in each other’s company. So I will save such a declaration for a later time, when they will carry true meaning, and for now say instead, without reservation, that I admire you, and I desire you.”

He took her hand and placed it flat against his chest. “With every beat of this heart, I promise I will never deliberately cause you pain. I will never lie to you, and I will never betray our married covenant. Your honesty and gentleness…they inspire me, tesoro, and give me hope for the future.”

This time, conscience clamored to be heard, deafening her with pleas to come clean. This beautiful man was offering himself to her just as he was, unembellished by any false declarations brought on by spur-of-the-moment euphoria, but with a sincere, straightforward commitment to be the best that he could be, as her partner, as her husband.

And what had she to give him in return? A secret grown so burdensome that she didn’t know how to divulge it with-out ruining everything. She’d let chance after chance pass her by, because she’d believed hoarding the truth about the children was her only weapon against the man she’d viewed for so long as her enemy. Now, her silence stood to rob her of her most powerful ally.

One way or another, she had to tell him the truth—and soon. To wait to do so until they were husband and wife would strike at the very foundation of what their marriage was all about.

Do it now! her conscience urged. Tell him, and beg his forgiveness for waiting so long! It’s not too late. Together you can make this work. He’s not the same man anymore. He’ll understand. See how he’s looking at you…feel the tenderness in his touch. Do it now, before you lose your nerve.

“Paolo,” she began, her voice quivering with apprehension, “I’m not exactly perfect myself. There are…things about me that you don’t know about. Secrets you deserve to—”

“I long since guessed as much, Caroline,” he said, stopping her with a finger to her lips, “but nothing you have to tell me will change the fact that you are a good woman who will make a fine surrogate mother to Clemente and Gina. And isn’t that what our marriage is really all about?”

“Yes, but—”

“No ‘buts.’” He drew her hand down his chest until it nested against his groin. “We sit here naked beside each other, on a bed large enough to hold both of us and impatient passion yearning to be fulfilled, yet we squander our time with talking? No, la mia bella, the talking can wait for another day.”

His erection had diminished somewhat, but at her touch, it sprang up with renewed vigor. Hot, silken, urgent, it throbbed against her palm, and no amount of guilty conscience could hold her back from cradling him possessively.

“Yes,” he whispered, cupping her breasts and lowering his head to adore them with his mouth and his tongue. “Just so do we forge the bonds that will unite us.”

How could she disagree, when her blood surged with excitement, and her heart cartwheeled madly behind her ribs? How pretend she was unmoved by his attention, when his tongue dipped lower and slipped between the folds of her flesh to find her wet with need? And how in the world silence her smothered, frantic exclamations as the climax she’d denied herself for so long swept over her in a storm so violent that she almost screamed?

I love you…I love you…!

The words rang in her head, fighting to be aired aloud. “I want you,” she begged instead. “Paolo, I want you now, inside me…please!”

He reached for a small foil packet he’d tossed on the dresser, along with the door key, and the reason he’d briefly left the room finally hit home. “Give me a moment,” he replied, his chest heaving. “We have enough to cope with. Let’s not muddy the waters with a pregnancy neither of us wants or needs. If we remain married, it has to be from choice, not obligation.”

Too late, she thought, the ecstasy he’d so easily induced evaporating in the dismal knowledge that he’d just made confession that much more difficult for her to accomplish.

He put on the contraceptive. Then, oblivious to the real reason he’d cast a cloud on the moment, took her in his arms again. “You look downcast, my lovely. Do you not agree that for us to make a baby would be unfair, both to the child, and to the twins?”

“Of course,” she managed.

She must not have sounded convincing enough because he reared back, the better to search her face. “Yet you remain downcast. You surely don’t believe a condom spoils the pleasure either of us gives to the other?”

“No,” she said miserably.

“Then what?”

“I just want you to make love to me. You said we shouldn’t waste the night in talk, yet that’s what we seem to be doing.”

“Worry not, Caroline,” he murmured, his hands molding her to him, “the night is still very young. We have hours to spend together, and I have come prepared to make use of every one.”

He did stop talking then, and devoted himself to confirming what she’d known for years: that all it took to bring her senses to sizzling life was the right man.

No hurried, impatient seduction this time, but a leisurely, erotic tour of her body conducted with minute attention to every curve, every indentation, every smooth, bare stretch of skin. His eyes, heavy-lidded with barely leashed passion, blazed a trail of heat from her head to her toes. His hands shaped her every contour with the tactile dedication of a blind man. His mouth and tongue left a wicked, heavenly trail of discovery from the outer shell of her ear to the high arch of her instep; from her throat to the back of her knees.

And yet, although with every touch, he stoked her to fever pitch, not once did he trespass between her thighs to the cloistered fold of flesh screaming for his possession. He knew how to tantalize, to torment, until she was begging incoherently—garbled, frantic words of pleading known only to lovers dancing on the brink of destruction.

Beside herself, she dragged his mouth back to hers. Tasted on him the perfume of her body lotion, of herself. Slid her hands down his torso until she found him, pulsing slick and hard and hot within the condom—so close to losing control that the sweat gleamed on his forehead and left his lungs battered with the effort to withhold himself just a minute longer…another second. And in the end, as he’d always known he would, losing the battle.

With the deep, agonized groan of a man in agony, he plunged deep inside her. Held himself immobile, and clenched his jaw so hard, the veins stood out on his neck like ropes. A useless exercise, one he could never win. Because the demons of desire had too strong a hold—on him, on her.

Wrapping her legs around his waist, she imprisoned him and, for the first time since she’d conceived his children, she felt complete. Free to give, free to take, free to love with her whole heart and soul and body.

“Slowly, tesoro,” he whispered harshly, with a futile attempt to delay the inevitable.

But even if she’d been able to obey the plea, he could not. Driven by a hunger too long delayed, his own flesh betrayed him. He rocked against her, fiercely, urgently. Hypnotized by the consuming rhythm, she responded involuntarily and the storm prowling impatiently at the outer limits of her consciousness, let fly with the first distant roll of thunder.

A spasm clutched at her. Released her and retreated, to gather strength for its next onslaught. Clutched again, more tightly…and then again, this time so powerfully that she thought she might die.

Paolo stilled, tense as an overwound spring about to fly apart. “Ah, Caroline, mia bella…mio amore!” he muttered, dragging the words from the very depths of his being, then drove into her one last time, a deep, hard, hungry, merciless thrust.

It spelled the end, of order, of coherence, of life as she knew it. She dissolved, became nothing—a moonbeam caught in a spinning web of sensation. Sound filled her, rushing like the wind, lifting her. She heard a voice that once was hers crying out as sensation rippled over her, carried her forward implacably, and hurled her past the point of no return.

She toppled, would have fallen off the edge of the earth, spun off into eternity, had Paolo not held her fast. His body shuddered, groaned; a mighty ship fighting an impossible sea. He was drowning, and so was she. And it didn’t matter, because they were together, welded limb to limb, body to body, heart to heart.

She surfaced a long time later, a new woman with a new life, in a new world, one composed of serene moonlight slanting through the windows to splash the dark purple shadows of her room with pale blue stripes. Paolo sprawled on top of her, spent and breathless. And she loved it. Loved the damp warmth of his breath against her neck, the exhausted weight of him.

Again, the words fought to escape. I love you…I’ve loved you forever…

He stirred, lifted his head and regarded her from passionsated eyes. “I suppose I should go so that you can sleep in peace.”

“No,” she said, stroking his beautiful face. “You should stay. I want you to stay, Paolo. Don’t ever leave me again.”

“I hoped you’d say that,” he said, a sleepy smile curving his mouth, and still buried inside her, he rolled to his side and drew her close again.

When she next became conscious of time, the moon had slipped beyond the house and left her room in total darkness. But she didn’t need light to know that, in sleep, she and Paolo had lost their intimate connection. Now he lay with his leg flung over her, and the way his palm closed possessively over her breast told her he, too, was awake, and hungry for her all over again.

The sweet, lazy pace of their second loving stole her breath away. This, she thought, sinking her teeth into her lower lip as the pleasure built to a slow crescendo, is how it will be between us from now on. Sometimes fast and furious, and sometimes so unbearably tender that it will make me cry.

It won’t matter if he can’t say the words, because I’ll feel his love, just as I do now. Then I’ll be brave enough to tell him things I might not dare to say in the bright light of morning. Share secrets that won’t seem so frightening under cover of night. Tell him the truth about the babies. And he’ll forgive me, because he’ll see that I did what It hought was best at the time.

The past won’t matter anymore, because we’ll have the future, and we’ll have our children. We’ll make up for lost time, and accept the way fate has brought us together again. Vanessa and Ermanno’s deaths won’t seem such a terrible waste, but, rather, part of God’s greater, grander plan.

“Caroline,” he whispered urgently, straining against her.

Inflamed by the passion in his voice, she replied, “I’m here,” and contracted around him with a soft cry as his seed ran free.

Chapter Seven

HAD it not been for the perpetual shadow of Vanessa’s and Ermanno’s deaths, the next two weeks would have numbered among the happiest of Callie’s life. In line with Paolo’s wishes, everyone stayed the extra two weeks on the island, although she’d have preferred it to be just he, she, and the children, seeing it as the ideal chance to meld them into a foursome without any outside interference.

But, mindful of too many changes at once, Paolo asked his parents to stay behind, too. “Maintaining a sense of continuity with the familiar,” he reasoned, “will help the twins accept their new living arrangements more readily.”

His insight and obvious deep concern for them warmed Callie’s heart. How could she help but adore him, when he gave so much of himself to children he didn’t even know were really his? Coupled with her own love for them, it could only strengthen the odds in favor of the marriage.

She also suspected Paolo had spoken with his father; perhaps gone so far as to warn him to curb his hostility, because Salvatore grew, if not all warm and fuzzy toward her, at least not as openly antagonistic.

“It is good to see you getting along better with our grandchildren,” he decreed at breakfast, a few days after she’d accepted Paolo’s proposal. “I believe they begin to feel some affection for you.”

Oh, she hoped so—she thought so! Certainly, they’d shown themselves more willing to include her in their activities. “Will you come, too, Zia Caroline?” Clemente wanted to know, the afternoon Paolo suggested a sunset cruise in thet hirty-nine-foot luxury cruiser moored in the protected marina below the villa.

“Of course,” she told him, and had to blink back a rush of tears at the smile that lit up his face.

Her baby boy…her son! Strong and handsome as his father, but with a gentleness that reminded Callie of Lidia, and of her own mother. How proud Audrey Leighton would have been, of both her grandchildren.

Another day, Gina decided the time was ripe for a game of hide-and-seek. “Zia Caroline and I will play against you and Clemente,” she ordered her uncle, shepherding everyone outside to an iron gate overlooking a formal garden in the grand Italian style, “and you will not cheat.”

“If you say so,” Paolo replied meekly, which made Callie smile.

Gina was definitely her father’s child, strong-willed, forthright, and independent. She made up her own mind about things, regardless of outside influence. “I didn’t much like you at first, even though Nonna said I must,” she’d announced bluntly the previous evening, while she allowed Callie to braid her hair,“but you’re actually quite nice now that I’ve got to know you better. I wouldn’t mind if you stayed with us forever. It’s not as good as when Mommy was here, of course, but it’s nice to have someone who knows how to do my hair. Nonna isn’t very good at it, and when Zio Paolo once tried, he made a terrible mess of it.”

“We’ll hide first,” she decided now, directing her brother and Paolo to cover their eyes and count to a hundred. Then taking Callie’s hand, she ran with her along a crushed gravel path lined with marble statuary. “Follow me, Zia,” she said. “I know exactly the place to hide.”

Skirting a pond filled with lily pads floating around an elaborate stone fountain, she ducked between two stone benches and through an opening carved in a hedge. “Behind this,” she whispered, pulling aside a trailing vine to reveal a natural grotto filled with ferns. “They’ll never find us here. This is my secret place. I’ve never shown it to Clemente. Only Mommy knows about it…” Her voice wavered briefly. “And now you.”

“I’m very honored that you’d share it with me,” Callie said thickly, hearing the sudden desolation in the child’s voice, and desperately wanting to comfort her. But she knew well enough that Gina wouldn’t welcome a display of affection she hadn’t initiated herself.

“You won’t tell anyone else, will you, Zia Caroline?”

“No,” she promised. “Nor will I ever come here unless you invite me.”

Sighing, Gina wandered deeper into the grotto. “Mommy and I used to light candles sometimes,” she said, suddenly despondent. “Up there, see, in those little glass jars. Then we’d sit on cushions we brought from the house, and talk about private things that boys and fathers don’t understand. But I don’t think the candles would be a good idea today.”

“No,” Callie said softly. “That’s something special that belonged just to you and your mommy. Also, we don’t want to give ourselves away, and there’s enough light filtering through from outside that we can see quite well.”

In fact, in the dim green light and with the vine swinging gently in the breeze, sending waves of shadow rippling over the sandy floor, the effect was a little like being in an underwater cave.

Suddenly Gina tipped her head to one side, listening intently, then pressed a finger to her lips, her mood brightening. “I can hear them coming,” she whispered. “Let’s hide at the very back. We can sit on the rocks.”

It was darker there, and much cooler. Enough that Callie shivered and wished she’d worn a jacket over her light sweater. Gina must have felt the chill, too, because without waiting to be invited, she curled up close beside her.

Callie held her breath, ever so casually draped her arm around her daughter’s shoulders, and braced herself for a rejection that never came. Instead, to her indescribable pleasure, Gina snuggled closer and said, “You feel nice and warm, Zia…just the way Mommy used to.”

Approaching footsteps ruled out the possibility of a verbal reply, and just as well. The aching lump in her throat would have prevented Callie from doing more than choke on any attempt at a response. Instead, she acknowledged the enormous compliment by tucking Gina more securely in the curve of her arm.

“They couldn’t have come this far,” Paolo said, from immediately outside the entrance to the cave. An inch closer, and he’d have stepped past the vine and found them. “There’s nothing here but a path to the beach, and we’d see them if they’d gone there.”

“Gina often comes this way. I’ve watched her, and even followed her once, but I lost her. Sometimes, she’s almost too smart for me,” Clemente said, an admission that left Gina snorting on a giggle.

Paolo cleared his throat, rather loudly, Callie thought. “We’d better double back, then. They might have run behind the hedge and are already waiting at the gate. If they’re not, we’ll look in the atrium. There are all kinds of places they could hide in there.”

Their voices faded as they hiked back toward the villa. “Boys are so easy to fool,” Gina crowed, once silence descended again. “They’re not a bit like us, are they, Zia Caroline?”

“No,” she said, tearful emotion still swirling dangerously close to the surface. To hold her daughter like this, to share confidences, and private jokes, were gifts beyond price, and she wouldn’t have traded them for all the riches in the world. “Should we make a run for the gate now, do you think?”

Gina shook her head. “I quite like just sitting here with you,” she said shyly, and just like that added the touch of perfection to an already extraordinary day.

Later, over predinner drinks, Paolo cornered Callie, and under cover of the general buzz of conversation, murmured, “Did you enjoy hiding out with your niece in the grotto?”

She laughed, taken aback. “You guessed we were there?”

“Of course I guessed! Even if I didn’t know this island like the back of my hand, I’d have been hard-pressed not to hear the tittering filtering through that convenient screen of shrubbery.”

“Then why didn’t you call us on it?”

Warming her to the core with his slow smile, he said, “The two of you seemed to be bonding. I decided it was best not to disturb you.”

Flustered at the way his gaze lingered on her, she averted her eyes and said, “You do that rather often lately, you know. Your parents will begin to notice.”

“Do what?”

“Smile at me, look at me, as if we’re up to something wicked.”

“But we are, Caroline. We’re secretly engaged.”

“The way you’re behaving, it won’t be a secret much longer.”

She wasn’t exaggerating. He frequently locked glances with her—across the dinner table, or while they were taking morning coffee with his parents in the solarium, or during an evening game of chess between him and his father—and the look in his eyes, the curve of his mouth, would send the heat rushing to her face. They were the smiles, the glances, a lover bestowed on his lady—the kind that said he couldn’t wait to undress her.

And it seemed that he couldn’t. Every night without fail, after the rest of the household slept, he’d come to her. She’d lie in her bed, her body naked beneath the sheet and trembling with expectation. The door would open, and she’d see his silhouette outlined briefly against the night light shining in the upstairs hall before he stepped, silent as a shadow, into the room. A second later, the lock would snick softly in place, and he’d cross to the bed.

She’d rise up on the mattress to meet him, and they’d come together in a flurry of eager hands, and hungry lips, and labored breathing. He’d kiss her all over, bring her to orgasm with his finger, his tongue. Then, while she was still shimmering with ecstasy and he was thick and heavy with desire, he’d plunge inside her, and rock so urgently that she sometimes wondered how the condom he always used didn’t split apart.

Oh, yes! Regardless of whatever else might occur during the day, she could always count on the nights!

“Let’s take a walk on the beach,” he suggested, catching her as she finished lunch, toward the end of the second week. “We need to talk.”

Overhearing, the twins chimed in. “Us, too, Zio Paolo?”

“Not this time,” he said. “What I have to say to Caroline is private for now, but I promise to share the secret with you soon. In any case, you have to spend the afternoon catching up on your studies, otherwise when you go back to class, you’ll find yourselves behind your school friends.”

The minute they were out of earshot of the villa, Caroline asked, “Is there a problem?”

“Yes,” he said, curbing a grin at the anxiety printed all over her face. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, the other day—about my parents figuring out what we’re up to—and you’re right. I don’t seem able to stay out of your bed, and sooner or later, I’m going to get caught. Quite apart from the indignity of such an occurrence, I resent having to sneak around like a teenager.”

“So what do you want to do about it?”

He clasped her hand and helped her over the low wall separating the gardens from the beach. “Announce our engagement and make it official.”

Her fingers tightened around his. “Do you think the children are ready to hear it?”

“I think there’s only one way to find out.”

She chewed the corner of her mouth uneasily. “What about your parents?”

“I don’t consider their reaction to be particularly relevant, cara. We did not reach this decision lightly, and hardly need their blessing.”

“It would be nice to have it, though,” she said wistfully. “It’s been a long time since I really felt part of a family.”

“You’ll be a crucial part of the one we make together, Caroline. The children and I will be your family. And you must know my mother will welcome you as a daughter.”

“It’s not your mother I’m worried about.”

This time he did laugh at the expression on her face, which reminded him of a child being forced to swallow bad-tasting medicine. “I’ll deal with my father. He won’t give you any trouble.”

She kicked at the sand, sending it spraying up around her ankles. She had very nice ankles. Very nice everything. “When are you thinking of telling them?”

“Tonight, before dinner. I’ve instructed Jolanda to prepare something special. We’ll toast to the future with champagne, although the children will have to make do with sparkling fruit juice.”

“And you’re absolutely sure you want to go through with the marriage?”

“Absolutely.” Surprised at the note of apprehension in her voice, he slowed to a stop. “Aren’t you?”

“Yes, Paolo,” she said. “After the way things have been between me and the children this last while, I think I have a fighting chance of making it work with them.”

“And with me?”

She lifted her shoulders in a faint shrug. “I want to make you happy.”

“You already do, cara mia.”

“I do?”

“Why else do you think I can’t keep out of your bed?”

Her blue eyes all at once alight with impish laughter, she said pertly, “Because you’re afraid of the dark?” and danced away from him when he tried to grab hold of her.

Prompted by a burst of desire as fierce as it was unexpected, he chased her behind a jutting pillar of sandstone and caught her to him, reveling in the feel of her body, pressed warm and soft against his; in the scent of her hair, her skin.

The idea of claiming her as his wife now seemed to him as natural as breathing. Without knowing exactly when or how it had happened, she’d wormed her way so thoroughly into his heart that he couldn’t imagine life without her.

Could it be that he, whom a previous mistress had tearfully dismissed as “unable to commit to anyone who wasn’t family” had finally met his match? It seemed so to him, because if what he felt for Caroline didn’t amount to love, then how else to describe the light that filled his spirit at the mention of her name, or whenever she walked into the room?

Unsure that she was ready to hear the words he longed to speak, he adopted a teasing tone and said, “Running away isn’t acceptable, Caroline. Now that you’ve agreed to make our engagement public, you officially belong to me.”

“Oh?” She lowered her lashes, flirting shamelessly with him. “Am I in trouble, then?”

“Most definitely. I shall have to devise some kind of punishment, to keep you in line.”

“Will you accept this as an apology, instead?”

Without warning, she rose up on her toes and kissed his jaw, then ran her tongue down the open neck of his shirt to the base of his throat. The response which jerked through him, sending the blood rushing to his loins, was so powerful and instantaneous that he almost came.

Shaken that his control could be so suddenly and severely tested, he glanced back along the beach. Assured they were well out of sight of the villa, he spun around and bracing himself against the pillar of sandstone at his back, pinned her to him.

She wore a pleated skirt with a hem that just covered her knees. It took but a moment for him to lift it, and inch his finger inside the elasticized leg of her panties.

She was hot and swollen and wet. Already whimpering with need, and reaching for him.

Another moment and she had the fly of his blue jeans unsnapped. He sprang into her searching hand, fully erect and pulsing on the brink of explosion.

Heart thundering, fingers fumbling, he ground out, “Your underwear’s in the way.”

“Rip it, then,” she panted, “but for God’s sake, hurry up!”

Sliding his hands beneath her sweet, slender buttocks, he lifted her until her legs were twined around his waist. “This is craziness, tesoro! I don’t have a condom with me.”

“I don’t care!”

Nor did she! Reaching down with her free hand, she tore at her cotton panties until she’d uncovered herself, and could guide him home. Her flesh welcomed him, hot and tight as a silk glove. He drove into her, filling her completely.

“Ahh!” Her head fell back, and she closed her eyes, the first ripples of orgasm already taking hold. “Faster, Paolo…harder…deeper…!”

They could make a baby, and his conscience cared that he was taking such a risk. But his body belonged to her, and he could no more reclaim it than he could count the grains of sand beneath his feet. She possessed him without mercy, and when he came in a hot, shuddering burst, she clamped her legs more tightly around him and milked him of every last drop of seed.

Spent, he buckled at the knees, and taking her with him, sprawled on the beach in a tangle of limbs. Sand trickled over them, cool, impersonal, nonjudgmental. But he could not so easily exonerate himself.

Stroking the hair back from her face, he said, “You realize I could have impregnated you? That we could already have placed our marriage in jeopardy?”

“Because of a baby?” Her eyes stared back at him unfocused, still glazed with the residue of passion. “How could an innocent baby possibly do that?”

“By placing an impossible strain on all of us. Already, we are stand-in parents to two children in need of security. They should not have to compete with a third who is our own blood child.”

Her gaze flickered, slid away from his.“ They wouldn’t have to, if we made them feel just as loved,” she said, feverishly attempting to restore order to her clothing—a hopeless task where her underwear was concerned, but she seemed determined to try to repair it. Seemed determined to do anything, however hopeless, rather than acknowledge his very real concerns.

Catching her hands, he forced them to be still. “Look at me, Caroline, and stop trying to fix something as insignificant as a pair of cotton underpants, when we have bigger problems facing us. You say we’d love our niece and nephew as much as a child of our own, but how can you guarantee that would be the case? Think of it, cara! A baby you carried in your womb for nine months which, once it was born, would demand all your attention. How could you possibly divide yourself fairly among three, when your heart truly belonged to only one?”

“How could I not?” she whispered, her eyes swimming in sudden, inexplicable tears. “Gina and Clemente are my own…sister’s children.”

He could have kicked himself. Vanessa’s death was never far from her thoughts, and all he’d accomplished by airing his concerns was remind her of her recent loss. “Forgive me,” he said contritely. “I didn’t mean to make you cry, nor do I blame you for my carelessness.”

“You should,” she replied, her mouth trembling uncontrollably. “I’m the one who insisted we make love.”

Smiling despite himself, he said, “In case you haven’t noticed, cara mia, no woman can seduce a man unless he’s willing! Protecting you from an unplanned pregnancy is my responsibility, and I let you down.”

“Well, you’re probably worrying for nothing,” she said, pulling herself together a little. “It’s the wrong time of the month for me to conceive.”

“But we can’t rely on that as a foolproof method of contraception,” he pointed out gently.

“What are you suggesting, then? That if I’m pregnant, I sneak back to Rome and find a back-street abortionist?”

“Dio, no!” he exclaimed, shocked almost speechless. “Caroline, tesoro, I would never permit you to have an abortion. All I’m saying is that, in view of what happened between us this afternoon, making a formal announcement of our engagement has become that much more imperative. Should it turn out that you are, in fact, pregnant, a wedding arranged to take place quickly would eliminate any suggestion that we married for the sake of an unborn child. It’s the least we can do for the twins, to let them be assured they’re not an afterthought in the arrangement.”

Subdued, and seeming still too embarrassed to look him in the face, she sifted sand between her fingers and mumbled, “Oh…yes…I see your point.”

“Then we’re agreed. We’ll move forward without delay. Will two weeks give you enough time to prepare?”

“More than enough,” she said, at last meeting his gaze. “We’re in mourning, Paolo. A big wedding would be inappropriate.”

“It doesn’t have to be a grand affair, to be memorable. But if I have my way, this will be your only shot at being a bride, and you deserve something more than a brief ceremony crammed in between the many other things we have to do in order to set up house together. One thing at a time, however.” He climbed to his feet, put his own clothing to rights, then extended a hand to her. “Comealong, my love. Let’s return to the house and prepare for an eventful evening ahead. Wedding details can wait until after we’ve broken the news to the family.”

“Engaged?”

Paolo’s announcement, delivered during the cocktail hour, brought the entire room to a standstill. Lidia’s mouth fell open and she clasped her hands at her breast, a ray of pure joy lighting her face for the first time since the funerals. The children merely looked mystified, but were sufficiently impressed by the sudden electricity charging the atmosphere to stop bickering over the puzzle they were working on, and slink closer to each other on the sofa.

Poor lambs, Callie thought, watching them. They’d learned at far too young an age that life could deal some vicious blows on the innocent, and were obviously afraid another was in the offing.

Salvatore, however, the only one who’d responded verbally to the news, and not very agreeably at that, said again, with more emphasis this time, as if Paolo had spoken in foreign tongues, “Engaged? To Caroline?”

“That’s right,” Paolo said. “I proposed to her, and she accepted. Congratulate me, Father.”

Salvatore scowled and favored her with a look loaded with such suspicion that Callie halfexpected him to accuse her of entrapment. “When did all this take place?”

“Several days ago.”

“And you wait until now, to spring the news on us?”

“Caroline needed some time to decide if she wanted me for a husband.” Paolo smiled at her over the rim of his aperitif glass. “I’m very happy to say that, after due consideration, she decided she does.”

Clemente spoke up, his brow furrowed in confusion. “How can you and Zia Caroline get married? Uncles shouldn’t marry aunts.”

“Especially not in this case,” his grandfather muttered in an aside.

Shooting his father a quelling glare, Paolo explained, “They can if they’re not related to one another, Clemente.”

“I don’t understand how.”

“Well, when you’re grown up, you and Gina might be aunt and uncle to each other’s children, but you could never marry her because she’s your sister and you’re her brother.”

Clemente digested that information quickly enough. “I wouldn’t marry her even if I could,” he declared. “She’s too bossy!”

Ignoring him, Gina appealed to Paolo, her little face anxious. “Does that mean you’re going to live in America with her, Zio?”

“No. We plan to live in Rome, quite near your old house.”

“Oh, this is wonderful!” Lidia exclaimed, setting down her vermouth and embracing first Callie, then Paolo. “The best news in the world! When is the wedding to be?”

“As soon as you and Caroline can put one together,” he said. “Preferably within the next two or three weeks.”

“So soon? Paolo, a wedding takes time to arrange.”

“Not this one,” Callie interjected. “We want something small and private.”

“What’s the big rush?” Salvatore asked, his radar still obviously on high alert. “We are a family in mourning.”

“Which is exactly why we want to keep the fuss to a minimum.” Paolo turned to the twins. “But there’s more. Zia Caroline and I would like to make a home for the two of you. We want you to come and live with us.”

“So that’s what this is really all about!” Salvatore blew out a breath of undisguised relief. “I was beginning to think you’d taken leave of your senses.”

Paolo fixed him in a severe look. “If you cannot be happy for Caroline and me, Father, then at least have the good grace to keep quiet.”

By then oblivious to the mounting tension, Gina bounced up and down on the sofa in excitement. “Can I be a bridesmaid? My friend Anita was a bridesmaid when her uncle got married, and she wore a pretty dress, with flowers in her hair.”

Callie was about to say no, it wasn’t going to be that kind of wedding, but Paolo spoke up first. “Of course you may. Every bride should have a maid to help her on her wedding day, just as every groom should have a best man.” He eyed his nephew. “Are you willing to take on the job, Clemente, or do I ask someone else to do it?”

“I’ll do it,” Clemente said solemnly, “but first I have a question. Everything you say makes Gina and me feel happy, Zio Paolo, but how can that be right when our parents just died?”

Callie’s heart constricted. “Oh, honey,” she said softly, drawing him to her, “don’t ever feel you don’t have the right to be happy.Your mommy and daddy wouldn’t want that, at all.”

“But won’t they think we’ll forget them, if we come to live with you?”

“No,” she assured him. “Because they know we’ll never be able to take their place. We’re just standing in for them.”

“Will they know we’ll still miss them?”

How sensitive he was, this young son of hers. Moved, she said, “Of course they will. We’ll all miss them. But I think they’ll feel better knowing your uncle and I are there to look after you.”

“They have their grandmother and me,” Salvatore reminded her sourly.

“Yes.” She spared him a passing glance. “But even you must agree that children can never have too many people who care about them, and whether or not you believe it, Signor Rainero, your grandchildren’s welfare is something I hold very dear to my heart.”

If he wasn’t impressed by her remarks, Clemente was. His mouth curving in a tiny smile, he said, “You’re nice, Zia Caroline.”

“Nice enough to be given a hug?”

He screwed up his face, debating the question. “Okay,” he said finally, and came into her embrace.

It was the first time she’d ever felt his arms close around her as if he meant it, instead of as if it was a duty he was compelled to perform. Struggling to hang on to her composure, she looked to Paolo for help.

“Enough of trying to strangle my future wife, young man,” he decreed, all mock indignation mixed with laughter. “And no tears from you, Caroline, or you, Momma! Tonight is for celebrating.”

“So that’s why there’s champagne chilling,” Salvatore said, drumming up a token smile. “Well, since you’ve both made up your minds, I suppose I should propose a toast.”

Chapter Eight

DINNER that night was almost festive. Almost.

“We’ll have to find a dress for your big day, Caroline, and also one for Gina,” Lidia said. “I would so love to go shopping with you and introduce you to my favorite designer.”

“You’re welcome to come shopping with me, but I hadn’t thought of buying anything too extravagant,” Callie said, only to be shot down, surprisingly, by Salvatore.

“If you’re worried about money,” he pronounced bluntly, between sips of the very excellent champagne served with the meal, “do not be. A suitable wedding outfit will be our gift to you.”

Was he deliberately condescending to her, as if he feared she might appear at the altar wearing red sequins and feathers, Callie wondered, bristling, or was this his heavy-handed way of welcoming her into the family?

“That’s very generous of you, Signor Rainero,” she replied coolly, “but it’s not the money I’m concerned about. I’m well able to buy my own dress, and Gina’s, too. But the kind of wedding Paolo and I want doesn’t call for a designer gown. I’m certain I can find something suitable in any good department store, of which I’m sure there are many in Rome.”

Ever mindful of his aristocratic heritage, Salvatore covered his contempt at such a suggestion with a strenuously benign smile—the kind, Callie was willing to bet, that would leave his face aching for the next half hour. “My dear lady, the Raineros do not shop in department stores! You’ll find plenty of other opportunities to wear a designer gown, once the wedding is a fait accompli.”

He paused, long enough to take another sip of champagne and fastidiously dab his linen napkin to the corner of his mouth, then concluded, “Indeed, one such item of haute couture will not begin to fill your needs. As my son’s wife, you will attend many formal functions, and frequently find your photograph dominating the society pages of Italian newspapers, not to mention the more respectable international magazines. You might as well accept that fact, and start out the way you’ll be obliged to carry on.”

At her side, Paolo stiffened and covered her suddenly clenched fist warmly with his hand. “Caroline’s role as my wife is something she and I will determine together, Father, without input from you, or anyone else,” he said evenly.

“I’minterfering, am I?” Salvatore’s amusement showed as ingular lack of remorse. “Very well, I’ll keep my opinions to myself, provided you allow me one concession.” He directed another too-amiable smile Callie’s way, this one even more fixed than its predecessor. “That, as the newest member of my family, Caroline, you call me Suocero, which in Italian means—”

“Father-in-law,” she finished for him. “Yes, Signor Rainero, I’m aware of that. I took several university courses in Italian, and am quite fluent in the language.”

He regarded her with sly triumph, as if he’d just caught her red-handed in a lie. “I don’t understand. Didn’t you say you studied architecture?”

“That is correct.”

“Then why such an interest in learning Italian?”

Because I wanted to be able to communicate with my children, in the event that they didn’t learn English.

“The influence of the Italian Renaissance and Baroque period on modern architecture is huge. I spent one summer session studying in Florence, Milan and Venice. A working knowledge of the language was essential.”

“One summer, hmm.” Continuing to regard her narrowly, he plucked at his lower lip with one finger. “Was that the same year you visited your sister and her children?”

“Yes. At the end of the semester, I came to Rome and spent a few days with Vanessa and her family.”

“They were an afterthought, were they?”

“Hardly!”

“I don’t remember you coming to see us,” Gina chimed in.

Silently blessing the child for causing a distraction before she lost her temper with the mistrustful old fool destined to be her father-in-law, Callie explained, “That’s because you were very little then, Gina. Still babies, really, not even two years old. You probably only remember coming to see me in San Francisco, when you were older.”

Clemente nodded enthusiastically. “I remember doing that! You live in a town house, at the top of a hill, and you have a fireplace in your salon, and if you stand at the window and look down the hill, you can see an island with an old prison on it.”

“That’s right,” she said, pathetically grateful that he’d kept a little part of her life locked away in his memory. “It’s called Alcatraz. I’ll take you to visit it some time, if you like.”

“How can you do that? It’s a long way away, and I don’t want to live in America.” Gina turned accusing eyes on her uncle. “You said we’re going to live here, Zio Paolo.”

“We are,” he said soothingly. “But we might take a holi-day in San Francisco, once in a while. You wouldn’t mind that, would you?”

“Not as long as I don’t have to stay there. I’d miss Nonna and Nonno, and all my friends.”

“Just as we’d miss you,” her grandfather said, his glance again settling on Callie with brief and telling intent. “Far too much to allow you to live so far away.”

Allow? she fume dinwardly. Who did he think he was? God?

She had to bite her lip to keep the lid on her annoyance. Why didn’t he just come out and say he didn’t trust her, and the whole idea of her marrying into his illustrious family turned his stomach? she thought, defiantly returning his stare.

Most young wives, if they had any problems at all with their husbands’ parents, seemed more often to be at logger-heads with the mother-in-law. Clearly, in her case, Salvatore was going to be the difficult one.

Hard-pressed to conceal the acid in her tone, she said, “In case you missed it the first time around, Signor Rainero, the whole purpose of our making a home for the children is to create as little disruption to their lives as possible. Relocating to San Francisco, or anywhere other than Rome, for that matter, would be counterproductive, don’t you think?”

He inclined his head in regal assent, and the meal ended shortly after. And not a moment too soon, as far as Callie was concerned. She’d had about as much of Salvatore’s overbearing attitude as she could take for one day, and when Lidia asked if she’d like to help get the children settled for the night, she leaped at the chance.

Perching on Clemente’sbed, with him leaning affectionately against her on one side, and Gina cuddled up next to her on the other, and watching the telltale expressions sweeping over their adorable little face as Lidia read, in English, another chapter from Sarah Plain and Tall, Callieknewadeepthankfulnessfor the changes that had come so unexpectedly into her life.

This was what she’d missed with her children—the small, everyday rituals they’d cherish the rest of their lives—and to be given the chance to take part in them at last was nothing short of a miracle.

“Sarah’s like you, Zia Caroline,” Gina decided, when Lidia finally closed the book.

Callie laughed. “You mean, plain and tall?”

“No,” Gina said, shocked. “You’re pretty. You look a lot like Mommy. But you’ve come to look after us because she can’t anymore, and that’s what Sarah did in the story, as well.”

“Yes.” Stabbed by one of those sudden pangs of loss that crept up on her so frequently, Callie dropped a kiss on her daughter’s head. “And just like Sarah in the story, I’ll never leave you.”

Clemente tugged on her sleeve. “Or me?”

“Or you, sweetheart.”

His father closed the library door, went directly to the antique carved butler table where coffee and liqueurs waited, and poured two glasses of grappa. “All right, there’s no one here now but the two of us,” he said, handing one glass to Paolo. “So tell me, my son, what’s really behind this preposterous idea of marrying Caroline Leighton?”

“I already told you. I want to put the pieces of the twins’ lives back together, the best way I know how.”

His father curled his lip scornfully. “And we both know you don’t need to marry that woman, to do it. Or, if you feel you must take a wife in order to provide a mother figure, that there are a dozen other women more suited—possibly a hundred!—who’d jump at the chance to take on the job.”

“But none as dedicated as Caroline to your grandchildren’s welfare. Even you can’t deny that she loves Gina and Clemente.” His gaze clashed with his father’s. “I expect you to find that reason enough to give us your blessing, even if you disapprove of my choice.”

For a long moment, their gazes remained locked in silent combat—two men used to getting their own way, Paolo thought grimly, the difference being that the elder had years more experience in winning.

This time, however, his father was the first to break eye contact. “At least you don’t insult my intelligence by claiming to be in love with her,” he growled.

To ward off the chill of evening, Paolo knelt and put a match to the fire laid in the marble hearth. “How I feel about Caroline is irrelevant to this discussion.”

A clever, smooth answer, delivered with enough dispassion that even his own father couldn’t detect the lie. But there was no deceiving himself. His feelings for Caroline had undergone a huge change. He’d been falling more in love with her every day, and hadn’t hit bottom yet. Probably never would.

Strange how things work out sometimes, he thought, poking at a log. Who’d have expected that what began with a funeral, would end with a wedding? That mutual sorrow would provide the breeding ground for love? Certainly not he!

The day he’d met her in Paris, he’d viewed Caroline as his family’s self-declared enemy, one he was prepared to defeat by any means available. He’d been fooled by her aloof reserve, her icy control, seeing both as symptoms of a woman too self-involved to be touched by anyone’s tragedy but her own. There’d been nothing left of the sweet innocent he’d once seduced.

Or so he’d believed at the time. Little by little, though, her brittle facade had cracked, beginning as early as that same afternoon when the twins’ nanny, Tullia, brought them back to his parents’ apartment from the park. At the sight of them, Caroline, who’d been taking tea with his mother in the salon, jumped up so abruptly from her chair that her cup overturned in its saucer.

“Oh!” she’d whispered brokenly, flying across the room to where the children hovered in the doorway, and folding them in a fierce hug.

He’d heard a world of love in that single syllable; a lifetime of something that, if he hadn’t known better, he’d have identified as a regret painful beyond bearing. The twins, though, still frozen with a grief too large for any child to comprehend, had remained unmoved, not caring about her enough either to reject or accept her.

“Can you not say ciao to your aunt?” he’d asked them, surprised and not a little chagrined at how sorry he felt for her.

“Ciao,” they’d recited obediently, and tried to wriggle free.

After that, for him, it had been downhill all the way. The cracks in her composure had grown increasingly more noticeable, try as she might to hide them. At any other time, his mother would have noticed, and done her best to console their guest. But his mother was drowning in her own sorrow, and able to offer limited comfort at best.

As for his father, so deeply ingrained was his antipathy for her that, if Caroline had collapsed in a broken heap at his feet, he’d have stepped over her without a second glance, and sent for the maid to clean up the mess.

Paolo, though, grew more enamored by the hour,even if he’d been slow to realize it at the time. How else to explain why he couldn’t keep his hands off her, or stay away from her at night, or bear not being within touching distance during the day?

Why else had he proposed to her?

Oh, he might fool everyone else with his altruistic motives, and yes, his niece and nephew had figured hugely in his decision, but no use fooling himself. He wanted Caroline despite all the practical reasons for marrying her, not because of them. He was hooked, plain and simple. And loving every minute of it!

Unable to keep the smile off his face, he dusted off his hands and picked up his glass again, aware that his father watched him closely.

“You say your feelings for Caroline are irrelevant, Paolo?” he said scornfully. “Then I say, either you’re lying to me, or worse, you’re lying to yourself.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion, Father.”

His father responded with a derisive snort. “Opinion, nothing! Admit it, man: you’re besotted with her! She’s sbewitched you with her smiles. Undone you with her tears. And that is why, for your protection and that of my grandchildren, I intend to have my team of lawyers draw up a watertight prenuptial agreement. That the wretched woman’s all sweet compliance now is no guarantee she’ll remain so in the future.”

Stopping dead in his tracks, Paolo struggled to contain the surge of anger scalding his throat. When he at last trusted himself to speak, he did so with feral intent. “Listen well to what I’m about to say, Father, and take it to heart,” he snarled, turning slowly to face him. “First, you will do no such thing. And second, you will never again refer to my future wife with such contempt. I will not tolerate a repeat of it, for any reason.”

“Bravely spoken, Paolo,” his father returned, “but I’m afraid you can’t control my feelings anymore, it would seem, than you can control your own.”

“But you can control your tongue. You can and will treat Caroline cordially and with civility. And if you defy me on this, then prepare to be deprived of the pleasure of my family’s company.”

His father sank back in his chair, his color hectic, his breathing labored. “You would not dare deny me access to my own grandchildren!”

“Try me,” Paolo said, refusing to show his alarm at the symptoms his father presented.

“Let me remind you that I am the head of this household, Paolo,” he blustered, fumbling beneath the lapel of his dinner jacket.

“As I will be head of mine. You’d do well to remember that.”

His father’s color receded, leaving his skin an unhealthy gray. “You accuse me of not showing proper esteem for your fiancée, yet dare to address me with such disrespect?”

“I honor you as my father, but I would be less than you expected of a son if I were to let you ride roughshod over my wife. What, after all, has Caroline done to offend you? Is it the fact that it took a tragedy of monumental proportions for her to make the effort to come to Italy? The belief that, if it weren’t for her connection to our family by marriage, she wouldn’t register on your social scale? Your perceived notion that she poses a threat to your grandchildren? Or is it that she has carved out a successful life for herself, without once having to appeal to you for help, and refuses to be cowed by your attempts to put her in her place?”

“She shows no regard for our family’s rich ancestry,” Salvatore sputtered. “No understanding of my grandchildren’s fine heritage. She is too American in her outlook and demeanor.”

Frustrated, for this was an old and tired argument brought out and dusted off whenever someone veered too far from revered tradition, Paolo tried one last line of reasoning. “You once said the same about Vanessa, Father, and later admitted you’d misjudged her.”

“She was different. She showed regard for our way of doing things. She embraced our values and our customs.”

“And Caroline will do the same. Why else would she have so readily agreed to live here? Please, Father, put your doubts aside. Our family has been sadly depleted in recent weeks, and there are precious few of us left to carry on the name. We need to stand together now, not engage in pointless disputes that can do nothing but tear us apart.”

For a moment, his father glowered at the suggestion, clearly ready to stand toe to toe with him on the idea. Then, abruptly, he leaned his head against the high back of his chair and closed his eyes. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said grudgingly. “Perhaps we need to make the best of what we have left. For that reason, and for the sake of my grandchildren, I will try to overcome my misgivings and welcome Caroline, as I welcomed her sister before her.”

“You’re very good with the children, Caroline,” Lidia remarked, as they made their way downstairs after tucking Clemente and Gina into their beds. “I hope they come to realize how fortunate they are that you’re willing and able to step into Vanessa’s shoes.”

“I don’t suppose I’ll ever really fill them, Lidia, but I promise I’ll do my very best.”

“I know you will. But you’re giving up so much—your home in America, your profession, your friends. It’s a lot to ask, especially when you’ve worked so hard to build a successful career.”

But architecture had never been more than a substitute for what she really wanted. She’d have given it up in a flash, if she’d been able to keep her babies.

“For the next few years, being a mother and a wife will be my career, and I have no regrets about that,” she said. “Architecture will still be there, when I’m not needed on the homefront.”

“Oh, you’ll always be needed, my dear,” Lidia said with a laugh. “Just because children grow up doesn’t mean they don’t still need their mothers.” Pausing at the foot of the stairs, she rested her hand on the newel post and shot a tentative glance Callie’s way. “Forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, but have you and Paolo talked about having more children?”

“Not really. Why do you ask?”

“Because having another baby might help close old wounds.”

What an odd thing to say, Callie thought. Yet Lidia was regarding her with such compassion that she couldn’t take offense. But the remark was enough to bring to the forefront the burden of guilt forever lurking in the back of her mind, and it left her stomach tied in knots.

Everything she’d ever longed for, and thought she could never have—her children, Paolo, true peace of mind, real happiness—lay within her grasp. But losing her sister and brother-in-law was a terrible price to pay for such a gift, and she had all she could do right now to cope with that. Confession, she had decided, would have to wait.

Suddenly, though, she wanted to tell this kind and gentle grandmother the truth. Wanted to ask her advice on how best to break the news to Paolo. And desperately wanted to know that whenever she did confide in him, at least one other person would be there to lend support, if she needed it.

From the outset, she’d felt a universal connection with Lidia, the kind that existed only between women. Lidia was not one to judge another person harshly or unfairly. Also, she was a mother; she’d understand that nothing was straightforward or simple when it came to protecting one’s children.

“Lidia,” she began hesitantly, “is there some place we can talk without being disturbed?”

“My sitting room. We’ll be quite alone there. The men are enjoying their brandy in the library and won’t mind if we take a few minutes for ourselves, I’m sure.”

She led the way toward the back of the villa, to a little room with a glassed-in solarium at one end. Furnished with white wicker and pastel prints, it was as pretty and welcoming as Lidia herself.

“Have a seat, dear,” she said, closing the door and indicating a love seat upholstered with plump cushions, “and tell me what’s on your mind. Is it to do with the wedding?”

Callie had often wondered how she’d ever broach the subject. Had been sure she’d never find the words. But in the end, there were few from which to choose. “No, it’s about the twins…about when they were born, and why I’ve stayed away from them all these years. The thing is, Lidia, the day Vanessa and Ermanno got married—”

Astonishingly Lidia leaned forward and pressed a finger to Callie’s lips. “Hush, Caroline! There’s no need to explain, and no need at all to feel ashamed or guilty for something that happened so long ago. You were very young at the time, very inexperienced and, I daresay, very frightened.”

Callie’s jaw sagged in shock. “You know?”

“Yes, my dear. I saw you stumbling back here, the next morning, with your pretty dress in disarray, and guessed Paolo had kept you out all night. I was very disappointed in him, at the time. Very angry. But that’s all in the past, cara—a longforgotten mistake that doesn’t matter at all, now that you and he have found each other again.”

“I don’t think you quite understand what I’m trying to tell you,” Callie mumbled. “The fact is, Lidia—”

But even as she gathered her courage to finish what she’d started, a knock came at the door. A moment later, Paolo poked his head into the room.

“So this is where you’re hiding,” he said. “Am I interrupting something important?”

“Not at all,” Lidia said, patting Callie’s hand briskly. “We were just enjoying a little mother-daughter talk, but we’re done now.”

“Good, because I’ve got a nice fire going in the library, and the coffee’s waiting. Also, Father seems a bit under the weather and—”

Lidia rose hurriedly from her seat. “Then I’ll go to him at once. Are you coming, Caroline?”

Left with little other choice, Callie followed her. When she reached the door, Paolo folded her hand firmly in his and bathed her in a smile so intimate that she went hot all over.

Noticing, Lidia slowed down long enough to fix them both in a fond gaze and said softly, “Have I told you how happy I am that the two of you have come together as a couple like this? Knowing you’re forging a future together, and giving my grandchildren the next best thing to the parents they’ve lost, gives me the strength to accept the tragedy that has struck our family.”

“It’s been hard for all of us, especially you, Momma,” Paolo said, pushing open the library door, “but things are going to get better from now on.”

“Not if I have to wait much longer for my coffee,” Salvatore boomed, hauling himself out of his chair and coming to meet them. “Lidia, mia bella, I’m glad you’re here. Something I ate at dinner gave me indigestion, but seeing your smiling face makes me feel much better.”

He wasn’t the easiest man to get along with, but his abiding love for his wife was genuine and unmistakable, and for that Callie had to admire him. She could only hope to inspire a fraction of the same devotion in Paolo.

The library, with its paneled bookshelves, rich wine-red damask draperies and blazing fire was warm and cosy. Insisting he was quite recovered, Salvatore accepted a cup of coffee and fell to discussing business with Paolo. Reassured, Lidia resumed quizzing Callie about the wedding.

Where did she want to be married—in Rome, in a church, or here on the island, with a makeshift chapel and the family priest? Would she invite friends from America? What about after the ceremony—a lunch, or a dinner reception? And a honeymoon—surely she wasn’t going to deny herself and Paolo the chance to be alone together for a few days, when the children had their grandparents and a nanny to look after them?

“I suppose we do need to nail down some details,” Callie said, after Lidia had taken her husband off to bed.

“Starting with an actual wedding date.” Blowing out an exasperated breath, Paolo joined her on the velvet couch in front of the fire. “As you’ve probably gathered, my father tends to steamroll over anyone who disagrees with his idea of how things should be done. The sooner we’re married and in a place of our own, the better.”

“He is rather…opinionated.”

“Very tactfully put, tesoro!” he replied, with a laugh. “What do you say we set the date for two weeks from Saturday? That should allow us enough time to meet all the legal formalities.”

“I hadn’t thought about those. Are they very complicated?”

“Only in that you’re a U.S. citizen. You have your passport with you, of course, but if you also happened to bring your birth certificate—”

“I did. I always carry it with me.”

“Then the only other requirements are for you to make a sworn declaration before the Consular Officer, at the U.S. Embassy in Rome, to the effect that you’re legally free to marry me. You’ll then have to do the same before an Italian official, and for this, you’ll need four witnesses to verify your claim. My parents make two, so it’s a matter of finding two more, which might entail bringing a couple of your friends over from America for a couple of days.”

“Actually not,” she said. “A friend of mine and her husband have rented a villa on the Amalfi coast for the winter. He’s a writer, researching material for his next book.”

“Do you know where they’re staying?”

“No. But I can phone her mother in the morning, and find out.”

“Excellent. If they’ll help us, I’ll arrange for them to be flown to Rome as soon as possible. Once we have those notarized documents, we can then obtain a license in four days, instead of having to wait the usual three weeks.”

“We’re not leaving ourselves much time, considering everything else that has to be done,” she murmured, settling contentedly into the curve of his arm.

“I agree.” He stroked her hair. “So now that everything’s out in the open, I suggest we return to Rome tomorrow, begin making the necessary applications, and start looking for a place to live. And once there, you’ll find it much easier to finalize the wedding arrangements, and shop for whatever you need.”

“What about the children? Will we leave them here?”

“No. It’s time they were back at school. Time we all picked up the threads of our lives and moved forward.”

“Your parents, too?”

“Especially my parents. My father needs to busy himself with something other than interfering with our plans. And my mother…” He glanced at Callie from beneath lowered lashes that were much too long and lush to be wasted on a man. “I know she’s not your mother, Caroline, but if you were serious about letting her help you with the wedding, it would mean the world to her.”

“She already knows I’m absolutely depending on her to help. She’s a lovely woman, Paolo, inside and out. Don’t ever worry that I’ll resent her.”

“You won’t mind calling her Suocera?”

“I’d call her Mother, if she’d let me!”

“I’m sure she’ll be thrilled. She misses Vanessa as much as she misses Ermanno. She and your sister were extremely close.”

He tightened his hold, pulling her more firmly to his body. “We’re going to make this work, Caroline,” he promised, his mouth hovering over hers. “We’re going to make something good out of this tragedy that has brought so much sorrow to our family.”

When he held her like that, and looked at her as if she were the only woman in the world for him, she’d have believed him if he said he could turn granite into gold. What had begun as a teenage infatuation based on sex, had evolved into something deeper and much more enduring.

In the space of a few weeks, he’d established himself not just as the love of her life, but as her lodestar. Nothing was impossible, as long as she had him at her side.

Reaching up, she traced her fingertips over the planes of his face, memorizing each feature. The dark sweep of his eyebrows, the carved cheekbones, the strong jaw. And the mouth that could flatten with displeasure, soften with amusement, or, as it did right now, curve with sensuous promise.

“We should make an early start tomorrow, and you’re looking very sleepy, Signorina Leighton,” he murmured, his lips brushing hers. “As your fiancé who is most concerned that you not appear as a bride hollow-eyed with exhaustion, I consider it my duty to take you to bed.”

“I think that’s a very good idea,” she said.

They left for Rome the next morning, traveling by motor launch the short distance to the mainland, then the remaining two hundred and fifty miles in the private jet.

“Will you stay with us, Caroline?” Lidia asked, as they began their descent to Rome. “You’d have your own suite of rooms and all the privacy you want.”

“Thank you, but I think it’ll be more convenient for everyone if I book into a hotel,” she replied, having already discussed the subject with Paolo, the night before.

“You’ll stay with me in my apartment then,” Paolo had said, when she’d expressed the fact that being under Salvatore’s suspicious eye, twenty-four hours a day for most of the next two weeks, didn’t exactly have her bursting into joyful song.

But tempting though it was, she’d declined Paolo’s offer, too. “Bite your tongue!” she’d scolded. “Your father has enough reservations about me as it is, without my compounding the situation by openly cohabiting with his son and heir outside the bonds of matrimony.”

Paolo had conceded her point, albeit reluctantly. “Then since I plan to spend every night with you anyway, I’ll reserve a room for you at a hotel conveniently close to my place. We’re both consenting adults, Caroline, and what we do behind closed doors is nobody else’s business.”

“Caroline’s right, Momma,” he told his mother now. “We’re going to be on the run, taking care of the hundred odd things needing to done before the wedding. It makes more sense for her to come and go without having to disturb you.”

“But you’ll still be seeing plenty of me, Lidia. I’m counting on you to help me with the wedding itself,” Callie was quick to add.

“You already know I’ll be only too happy to do whatever I can. Have you decided yet where you’d like to be married?”

Paolo shrugged. “A hotel, probably.”

Seeing the disappointment his mother couldn’t quite hide, Callie said, “If it’s at all the same to you, Paolo, I think I’d like to be married at your parents’ home here, in Rome.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You would?”

“Well, it’s quite lovely, and certainly big enough for what we have in mind. I think we could have a beautiful wedding there.” She glanced at his parents. “If it’s okay with you, of course.”

“My family is always welcome in my home,” Salvatore declared magnanimously. “We’d be honored to host your wedding.”

Lidia, though, fairly squealed with unabashed delight. “Oh, Caroline, we’d love it! You must come over as soon as possible, and tell me how you’d like to have things done. The salon can easily accommodate at least forty guests, and if the weather is good, as it often is at this time of year, we can open the doors to the roof garden—perhaps even have the ceremony out there. Let me know where you’re staying, so that I can keep in touch.”

“I’m booking her into the Hassler,” Paolo said.

“Perfect!” Lidia nodded, pleased. “You’ll love it there, Caroline, my dear. It’s right in the heart of the city, at the top of the Spanish Steps.”

They landed shortly after, and scarcely had the jet rolled to a stop on the tarmac than the race against time began.

Chapter Nine

“WHAT do you think?” Twirling on the boutique’s small, carpeted dais for Lidia’s inspection, Callie showed off the last of three possible choices for her wedding dress, an exquisite creation of ivory silk chiffon cascading in a froth of creamy ruffles from the waist to the hem.

“They’re all lovely,” Lidia sighed. “I couldn’t begin to choose just one. If it were up to me, I’d take all three.”

“You’re not helping!” Callie scolded with a laugh. “I really need some input here.”

“I like the blue dress best,” Gina said dreamily, clasping her hands beneath her dimpled chin. “You look beautiful in that, Zia Caroline. Just like a princess.”

The designer, Serena, tipped her head to one side and inspected Callie as if she were a specimen under glass. “It’s your wedding, signorina, and a day to be remembered. If you can’t make up your mind about these three, why not choose the white gown you looked at earlier? It is classically elegant, and with a hat, or perhaps a wisp of veiling—”

“Oh, no hat or veil,” Callie protested. “We’re having a very small, simple wedding.”

Serena exchanged smiling glances with Lidia. “There is no such thing. Small, yes, but simple? Never! In any case, you dress not for the guests, but for your groom. For him, you must have what you’d call in America ‘a show stopper,’ so that when you’re grandparents yourselves, he will look at you and see not a woman in her sixties, perhaps with graying hair and a waist not quite so narrow, but his beautiful bride from years before.”

Would he ever see her in such a romantic light? Callie wondered, examining the gown from all angles in the floor-to-ceiling curved mirror to the rear of the dais. Or would she forever be the other half of an equation arrived at for the children’s sakes—because, although he acted as if he loved her, and although he called her darling and sweetheart, he’d never actually come straight out and said I love you.

But then, neither had she. In truth, she couldn’t, not yet. She was afraid it would seem too much as if she was trying to soften him up and buy his forgiveness, if she bared her heart before she bared her conscience.

She’d hoped to have done that by now, but somehow the right opportunity never presented itself. The days were too full of other things, other people, and the nights…oh, how could she spoil the sweet intimacy of lying naked in his arms? How survive the agony, if he pushed her away and left her to sleep alone, too angry and disappointed to stand the sight of her?

The gown ebbed over her toes in a flurry of tiny waves. No question about its being the most spectacular of the three finalists, but although she wasn’t normally superstitious, it suddenly crossed her mind that she’d worn silk chiffon at Vanessa’s wedding, and it hadn’t turned out to be a lucky choice. Paolo had tired of her within hours. She wasn’t about to risk the same thing happening again on her own wedding day. She had enough to contend with, without tempting fate unnecessarily.

Mirroring her thoughts, though for different reasons, the designer said, “Signora Rainero is quite right, of course. All three outfits beg to be worn by a woman of your slender shape, but with your blond hair and blue eyes, the burgundy velvet makes the most dramatic statement.”

Callie shot a smile at her daughter, who perched on the edge of her little gilt chair, clearly enthralled with the whole procedure of outfitting the bride. “For the opera or theater, perhaps, but for my wedding, I’m leaning more toward Gina’s choice. I’d like to try the blue dress again.”

The luscious, shimmery silk jersey slipped over her skin like cool cream, falling from a high empire waist to drape in graceful folds around her ankles. More lavender than blue, it changed from smoky-lilac to silver, depending on how the light caught her every movement. Tiny crystal beads adorned the bodice and short sleeves, with another band of beading at the hem.

Gina was right. Callie might not be a princess, but in that dress, she felt like one.

“Yes,” she decided. This was the best choice. It felt right, it looked right, and it was the most elegantly beautiful thing she’d ever owned.

Serena immediately took charge. “An excellent decision, signorina! If you’ll now decide on a pair of satin shoes from these in the display case over here, my assistant will adjust the gown’s hem so that you don’t trip over it as you come to meet your groom. Once that’s taken care of, I’ll send the shoes to be dyed to match your dress, and make sure everything’s ready for delivery to your hotel by tomorrow afternoon.”

“I know you’re meeting Paolo for lunch and would like to shop for something for Gina to wear, before then,” Lidia said, as they left the boutique and stepped out into the elegant Via Condotti, “but we have time enough to make another stop first, and my dear, you look as if you could use a rest.”

“I am finding it all a bit overwhelming,” Callie confessed. After the peace and quiet of Isola di Gemma, the frantic pace of Rome took some getting used to.

“Then a good cup of coffee is what you need, and I know just the place, no more than a five-minute walk from here. After that, I’ll have my driver take us to Bonpoint which carries a wonderful line of children’s clothing. I’m sure we’ll find exactly the right thing there, for Gina.”

A few minutes later, over cappuccino and almond biscotti, Callie said quietly, “Thank you, Lidia, for your help. I’d never have been able to do this without you. I wouldn’t have the first idea where to shop, let alone how to get around the city.”

“But you do have me, and not just to help you prepare for your wedding. Don’t ever forget that I’m no more than a phone call away, any time you need me.”

“Then let me ask you something now,” Callie said tentatively. “When’s the best time for a woman to reveal everything about her past to the man she plans to marry—before or after the wedding?”

Lidia pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I think it depends on the kind of secret. I’m not sure confession is necessarily good for either party. So let me answer you with a question of my own. Do you love my son, Caroline?”

“Yes,” she said, hugely relieved at being able to admit at least this truth freely, even if it wasn’t to Paolo himself. “With my whole heart.”

“Then consider this. We all carry secrets, and some are best kept to ourselves, especially if sharing them brings nothing but pain and heartache.”

But would it bring pain and heartache to Paolo to learn the children were his? Or would it destroy him?

Seeming to sense her quandary, Lidia went on, “What’s past is past, cara, and nothing you do now is going to change it. For what it’s worth, my advice is to concentrate on today, my dear, and on tomorrow. On the secure life you’ll have with Paolo and the children. They are what matter now. You and Paolo have arrived at this marriage quickly. Everything is still very new between you. Perhaps when you’re all more settled, then will be the time to share your most closely guarded secrets.”

“What are you talking about, Nonna?” Gina piped up, a timely reminder that little pitchers had big ears.

Lidia exchanged a discreet glance with Callie, then took her napkin and mopped the creamy mustache from her granddaughter’s upper lip. “About your being a good little girl and finishing your milkshake, so that we can shop for a pretty dress for you. Hurry now, darling, or we’ll run out of time.”

They found exactly what they were looking for at Bonpoint, one of Rome’s most exclusive shops for children. A full-length silk taffeta dress shot through with blush-pink and palest lilac, and festooned around the waist and neck with tiny satin rosebuds.

By the time it was layered in tissue paper and put in a box, Callie realized she was running late for her lunch with Paolo, but, “My driver will take you,” Lidia said, calmly ushering her to the Mercedes limousine waiting at the curb. “You won’t keep Paolo waiting more than a few minutes—just long enough to be fashionably late, my dear.”

Paolo saw her the minute the car drew up outside the restaurant and she stepped out, all flushed, breathless and beautiful.

“You weren’t the only one shopping,” he said, after she was settled across from him at his favorite table, and had taken a sip of the champagne he’d ordered. “But you are late, cara mia, which prompts me to think I should have bought you a watch, instead of this.”

Her mouth fell open in delicious shock as he snapped open the sterling silver jeweler’s box, and showed her the platinum ring nesting inside on a dark blue velvet dome. “Paolo!” she gasped, turning rosy all over again. “It’s…it’s…!”

“An engagement ring.” He shrugged with deliberate nonchalance. “I thought it was about time you had one. Will it do?”

“Do?” She pressed a hand to her mouth and shook her head, apparently at a loss for words.

“It’s a very good diamond, Caroline,” he said, knowing she was more than pleased with his choice, but enjoying teasing her anyway. “Certified VS1.”

“It’s not a diamond, it’s a pigeon’s egg!”

“Three carats only. Not so very big.”

She swallowed. “Compared to what, the Hope Diamond?”

“Not even close! The Hope Diamond is more than fortyfive carats, and quite a different cut from this.” He took the ring from its box. “Shall we see how it looks on your finger?”

It fit, as he knew it would. He’d “borrowed” a pearl dinner ring she sometimes wore, and taken it with him when he purchased the diamond, which accounted for the engagement ring sliding over her slender knuckle now as if it had at last come home. “How does it feel?”

“Perfect!” she breathed, turning her hand this way and that to admire the gem’s fiery clarity. “As if it belongs on my finger, and no one else’s.”

“It does, tesoro.”

Just as you now officially belong to me and no other man!

“But much too extravagant for the occasion, Paolo.”

“How so?”

“Well, we’re not exactly…like other couples who get engaged.”

Not in love, you mean? Speak for yourself, my darling! If I thought you were ready to hear it, I’d shout my love for you from the rooftops.

Shaken yet again by the depth of his feelings, by the vicious streak of possessive jealousy attacking him, he spoke more harshly than he intended. “Don’t make an issue out of nothing, Caroline. It’s a bauble, that’s all. One I can well afford.”

“But you don’t have to buy me,” she quavered, obviously crushed by his reply. “I’m coming into this marriage with my eyes wide-open. I know it’s not for the usual reasons.”

Remorseful, he lifted her hand and kissed it. “What I should have said is, one I can well afford, and which you well deserve. Admittedly ours might not be the most conventional marriage, but where is it written that only the ordinary deserves recognition?”

“I don’t know,” she said, the sheen of tears still in her eyes, but the beginnings of a smile touching her lips.

“There you have it, then. We’re making up our own rules as we go along, and among them is the absolute necessity of your wearing my ring.” He leaned across the table confidentially. “You are a very beautiful woman, you know, and Italian men are famous for finding beautiful women irresistible. I’m simply staking my claim before someone else beats me to it.”

Her smile blossomed, became dazzling. “The world’s also full of women who’d give their eyeteeth for a man as handsome as you, so here’s another rule. If I wear a ring, then you must, too. A wedding ring, that is.”

“Of course. Some traditions are worth preserving. Shall I order my jeweler to make a ring for me that will match the one I’ve commissioned him to design for you?”

“No,” she said. “What you can do is give me this man’s name, and I’ll speak to him myself. Rule number three…you don’t get to pay for your own ring.”

Their lunch arrived just then, and the conversation drifted to other things. “Did you find a wedding dress?” he asked, over his tortelli and truffles.

“Eventually, yes. One for Gina to wear, too. And I believe your mother’s shopping for an outfit, this afternoon.”

“Then everything’s running on schedule. Tomorrow your friends fly up from Amalfi, and we take care of the paperwork to get the marriage license. And this afternoon—”

She looked up from her langoustine salad. “We have plans for this afternoon?”

“Indeed yes! While you were busy buying clothes—”

“You were buying jewelry?”

“Among other things. I also checked out a few villas that sound interesting. I’ve earmarked a couple for you to see.” He pushed aside his plate and took a quick glance at his watch. “If you’re finished, we have just enough time for coffee, before we head to the first appointment.”

“Is it far from here?”

“A little over half an hour’s drive north of the city, at Manziana, which is close to where Ermanno and Vanessa lived.”

She propped her chin on her fist, her expression troubled. “I’ve been thinking about that,” she said. “Might it not be best if we lived in their house?”

“I believe, from something Ermanno once said, that under the terms of their will, it is to be sold and the proceeds held in trust for the children.”

“I was wondering about that, as well. When do you expect the wills to be read?”

“Whenever it’s convenient. Our lawyers have contacted us already, to set a date, but since there’s no hurry on that, and you and I have so much else to do, I’ve put them off until after we’re married.”

“I’d have thought it might be better to get it over and done with now. Close the book on the old before starting out with the new, as it were.”

“The children are the sole beneficiaries, Caroline, and from a legal standpoint must be present for the readings. But we both know that their parents’ deaths are never far from their minds, and right now, they’re excited about our wedding. Why spoil it with such a grim reminder of all they’ve lost?” He eyed her quizzically. “Did I overstep the mark by not discussing it with you, before I made such a decision?”

She shrugged. “Oh, it’s not that, Paolo. But couldn’t we be the ones to buy the house? It would surely be easier on the twins, to be back in their own home.”

“Without their mother and father?” He shook his head. “Think about that, Caroline. We’d be imposing our expectations, our changes, on a household set to other rules. Is that fair to the children?”

“You make it sound as if we’ll treat them like strangers!”

“More to the point is that we’re the ones who, in a way, will be the strangers, trespassing on hallowed ground. I can hear the twins now: Mommy didn’t put my underwear in that drawer, Zia Caroline. You’ve moved Daddy’s favorite picture from his desk, Zio Paolo.”

She stirred her coffee thoughtfully. “I see your point. Maybe we are better off starting out in a place that holds no memories.”

“Well, some memories will come with us, of course, and that’s as it should be. But this will be our home, in which we’ll do things our way, and establish our traditions.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“I’m always right!” he informed her, and laughed at the way her beautiful blue eyes widened.

“I can see we’re going to have to learn to compromise,” she said.

“I suppose we are. But you know, Caroline, our getting married is about more than just the children. It’s about us starting a life together as husband and wife.” He inspected her over the rim of his coffee cup. “Which brings me to another point. Ermanno and Vanessa chose a house big enough for four, and a couple of live-in staff. I hope, once the twins have made the adjustment to living with us and feel secure in their new home, that we’ll add to our family.”

Again, she turned all rosy and flustered. A charming picture, he decided. He’d have to make sure he caused it often. “I thought you didn’t want to bring a baby into the mix?”

“Not right away, but—” He stopped abruptly, as a thought occurred. “Or are you trying to tell me you think our romp on the beach left you pregnant?”

“No,” she said. “I know for a fact that I’m not.”

“Then there’s no problem. We wait until the time is right, yes?”

Another smile played around her mouth. “If you say so, signor.”

“I say we get out of here, before I forget myself so far as to drag you under the table and make love to you,” he replied, the desire she so easily stirred in him making itself felt. “That could take quite some time, and I want you to see these villas while it’s still light outside.”

Manziana, she discovered, lay close to Lake Bracciano, between rolling green hills. And the houses Paolo had selected? They were mansions! Palaces! Beyond anything she’d ever dreamed of occupying.

The first, Villa Santa Francesca, a rectangular stuccoed building surrounded by several acres of land, including an old English-style garden, had two floors, with the master suite on the main opening directly to the pool terrace. It also came with its own private chapel and small cemetery.

This last was what decided Caroline to choose the second. The children, she figured, hardly needed other people’s grave sites as a constant reminder of what they’d lost.

Il Paradiso Villa sat directly on the shores of the lake, with sweeping views from the distant hills, to the dome of St. Peter’s on the horizon. Gracious stone balusters marked the edge of the terrace, with wide steps leading down to a sandy beach. Fountains splashed in quiet corners, sometimes spilling from ancient carved gargoyles on the villa walls, sometimes from three-tiered stone basins set among the lawns and flower beds.

There were stables, with quarters attached for stable hands, and a swimming pool. A tennis court and a putting green. A coach-house converted to hold five cars, with accommodation above for a housekeeping couple.

The house itself boasted hardwood floors rubbed to a satin finish by the passage of many feet over the years. A huge wine cellar lay below a big, rustic kitchen equipped with the most modern appliances, as well as a massive, ancient stone fireplace. A pool table, left behind by the previous owners, stood in the middle of the games room. Seventeenth-century frescoes adorned the ceiling in the entrance hall and main receptions rooms.

A carved winding staircase led to six bedrooms with attached bathrooms, as well as a nanny’s suite. A smaller staircase at the end of the upstairs hall accessed the third floor where, in addition to an attic that begged for the sound of children playing on rainy days, there were also two more rooms for live-in maids.

“What do you think?” Paolo, who’d left her to wander from one area to another without interruption or comment from him, joined her in the master suite after she’d ended her tour.

“It’s incredible.” She flung out her hands, encompassing everything from the stunning views outside, to the fine architectural proportions of the house itself. “This home was built with love and an eye for beauty.”

“It’s also undergone some major and much needed renovation. The plumbing is fairly new, also the electrical system.”

“But it’s lost nothing of its integrity in the process. Whoever undertook the upgrading did so with sensitivity to the original design. It’s a masterpiece, Paolo! A gem of a house. It has a warmth I can’t define that makes a person feel welcome, the minute she steps through the front door.”

“Are you saying you can see yourself living here?”

“Oh, yes!” She closed her eyes in bliss. “Yes!”

“I was hoping that would be so.” He snaked his arm around her waist and pulled her back to lean against him. “It’s my choice, too,” he said, resting his chin on her head. “The agent’s waiting downstairs. What do you say we make an offer on the place?”

She laughed and turned in his arms. “One too good to refuse?”

“Is there any other kind?” he murmured hoarsely, and covered her mouth with his in a kiss that stole her breath away.

An hour and two phone calls later, they drove back to the city with a signed contract in their possession.

And so the pieces fell into place, day after day, hour after hour, for the next week.

An early evening candlelight ceremony, they decided, under a marquee on the Raineros’s roof terrace, followed by a cocktail reception. Throughout, a harpist to play selections from Purcell, Vivaldi, Beethoven, and Pachelbel. A four-day honeymoon in Venice afterward, during which time the children would stay with their grandparents.

Meetings with the caterer, the florist. Deciding on a menu, a color scheme. Choosing furniture for the new house. Writing thank-you notes for the gifts that started arriving within hours of the invitations being delivered by hand to a guest list which, somehow, swelled from a modest thirty to a mind-boggling sixty-five, sixty of whom Callie had never met.

Being photographed for an article in a society magazine. Taping a television interview—an event which brought home to Callie just how newsworthy the Raineros were. Good thing she’d followed Lidia’s advice and splurged on several more designer outfits.

And during her free time? Shopping, shopping and more shopping! Finalizing the paperwork required by the authorities for a US citizen to marry in Italy. Dinner with Paolo’s parents, during which time Salvatore alternated between genial and withdrawn, and occasionally looking as if just the sight of her at his table was enough to give him indigestion.

Haute couturiste Serena had been right, Callie realized dizzily. Her “simple” wedding had ballooned out of all proportion to what she’d originally expected.

The days were a mad scramble; a wild, exhilarating ride on a carousel running amok, with Paolo often too busy to keep her company. But the stolen nights she shared with him made up for it. Long, lovely hours made all the sweeter for the whispered plans, the murmured endearments, the quiet intimacy.

Then there were the children, the shadowed grief in their eyes lessening, their excitement at the new life awaiting them with their aunt and uncle most of the time driving away the ghosts of what they’d lost.

“I love you, Zia Caroline,” Gina confided. “You remind me of Mommy.”

“I’m glad we’re coming to live with you and Zio Paolo,” Clemente said solemnly. “It won’t be exactly the same, but you’ll sort of be our parents, won’t you?”

It was all too good to be true, Callie thought, as the days wound down until there were only two left before she became Signora Paolo Rainero.

She was right.

It was. Much too good to be true.

Chapter Ten

EVERYTHING fell apart on the wedding eve.

Callie had agreed to spend her last night as a single woman with the Raineros, “because no bride should wake up alone in a hotel room on her wedding day,” her future mother-in-law had decreed.

Consequently, Lidia had arrived at the hotel earlier in the afternoon, to help Callie pack her belongings into a set of new leather suitcases embossed with her married initials—all except for the wedding ensemble, of course, which was sheathed in layers of tissue paper inside a protective vinyl garment bag.

After one last sweep through the rooms to make sure nothing had been left behind, they’d summoned a bellboy who loaded everything into the Rainero limousine waiting outside the hotel’s front entrance, and within minutes were being driven through the rush hour traffic to the apartment.

Paolo had been tied up all day at his office, making sure his responsibilities were covered by others during his honeymoon absence, but planned to join Callie and his parents for dinner that evening. He had not yet shown up when Callie and Lidia got there, shortly after five, but must have arrived some time between then and seven o’clock when, having laid out her lingerie for the next day and hung up her wedding gown, Callie showered and changed into a sleek black dinner dress, then made her way down the long hall to the library, for the customary predinner drinks.

The library door stood ajar, showing a fire leaping in the hearth, and Paolo and his father conversing quietly. Callie was about to announce herself when a fragment of the conversation between the men caught her attention.

“You believe this is the only way?” she heard Salvatore say.

“Without a doubt,” Paolo replied. “My policy has always been, know your enemies and keep them close if you want to retain control. A man can’t fight if he refuses to face facts, Father. He has to recognize what he’s up against.”

“What do you think she’ll do, when she finds out?”

“She’ll deal with the situation, because she doesn’t have any other choice.”

“What if she can’t handle it?”

“She can. She will.” He handed his father a glass: dry vermouth over ice, as usual, Callie noted peripherally, an uneasy chill prickling her skin. “You know better than to be deceived by appearances. Underneath that fragile exterior lies the heart of a lioness. I’d have thought you’d figured that out for yourself, by now.”

“How can any man know what really goes on inside a woman’s head?” Salvatore sank into his favorite chair and stared moodily into the flames. “Hell, half the time, I can’t even see inside yours, and you’re my own flesh and blood.”

Smiling, Paolo leaned against the carved mantelpiece, his glass cradled in his hand. “Don’t tell me you still think I made a mistake in asking Caroline to be my wife?”

“No. Your mistake lay in being in too much of a hurry. If you’d asked me before you proposed, I’d have recommended you think long and hard before taking such a step.”

“Momma thinks it’s the smartest move I’ve ever made.”

Salvatore shrugged and drank deeply from his glass. “As I just said, I don’t pretend to understand what makes a woman tick. But why waste my breath? You’ve made up your mind, and I’m not going to change it at this late date, so let’s get back to what we were talking about a moment ago. I still think I should take care of business, and send for my lawyers. They could be here in minutes and have everything sewn up before dinner’s announced—and read Ermanno and Vanessa’s wills while they’re at it.”

“No.” Paolo shook his head emphatically. “You do whatever you feel you must to give you peace of mind, but the wills wait until after the honeymoon. It’s not as if they hold any surprises, after all. We both know what to expect. But I’m this close to getting what I’ve been hoping for—” he held up his hand and extended his forefinger and thumb a millimeter apart “—and I’m not about to risk tossing a spoiler in the works now, with my wedding day only hours away.”

Suddenly weak at the knees, Callie stepped away from the door and sank onto a nearby chair.

What business was Salvatore referring to?

Why would reading Vanessa and Ermanno’s wills act as a spoiler?

Why had Paolo lied to her when he said delaying the reading was best for the children, when his reasons clearly had nothing to do with them, but plenty, apparently, to do with her?

And most urgently, what the devil had he meant when he spoke of knowing his enemies and keeping them close?

The questions battered at her without mercy. And hot on their heels came the brutal answer, smashing her fragile happiness and laying bare the flimsy foundation on which it was all based. It had been staring her in the face from outset, as she’d have realized if only she’d kept her wits about her, and refused to allow sex to enter the picture.

Probably Paolo had known all along about her being the children’s sole appointed guardian. Not so surprising really; Ermanno had likely mentioned it at some point over the years, never expecting it was something that would ever actually come to pass. Tragically it had, but by delaying the reading of the wills until after she became his wife, Paolo could pretend ignorance of the fact. What had he thought? That by marrying her first, setting up house with her, and drawing Clemente and Gina firmly into the picture, he’d render her powerless?

Oh, Paolo! she mourned silently. Don’t you know that you didn’t have to go to such lengths to get your own way? I love those children far too much to throw their lives into chaos, just to gain the upper hand. There was no need to seduce me, to ensure my cooperation; no need to make me fall in love with you all over again. You could have had it all, without resorting to trickery and deceit.

Crushed, she buried her face in her hands. This was what happened, when a woman forgot that history had a way of repeating itself. How did the old saying go? Kick me once, shame on you. Kick me twice, shame on me!

“Caroline?” His voice, filled with duplicitous concern, broke into her misery, close enough for his breath to drift warmly over the back of her neck. “What are you doing, sitting out here in the hall, tesoro? Are you not feeling well?”

“No,” she mumbled, and bit the inside of her cheek to hold her tears in check. She would not cry in front of him. She would not let him see how much he had hurt her. “I’m feeling lousy. Sick to my stomach, thanks to you and your father.”

“What in the world are you talking about?” he exclaimed, urging her to her feet and steering her into the library.

She had to hand it to him. He covered his tracks well, putting on an act of innocent confusion that would have fooled the most hardened cynic. “As if you don’t know!” she said bitterly. “The next time you’re plotting some underhand scheme, remember to close the door first, to prevent your victim from overhearing.”

“Victim…overhearing…? I don’t understand—”

“Obviously she was eavesdropping,” Salvatore cut in. “Hardly an admirable character trait in a wife, if you ask me.”

“I’m not asking you.” Paolo aimed a repressive stare his father’s way, before turning his full attention on Callie again. “I don’t know what you think you overheard, cara—”

“Enough to know you’ve played me for a fool for the last time.” Numb with pain and disappointment, she tugged the engagement ring from her finger and placed it carefully on the library table. “Since there isn’t going to be a wedding, I won’t be needing this any longer.”

Incredulous, he said, “Don’t be ridiculous! Of course there’s going to be a wedding!”

“Oh, let her go, if that’s what she wants!” his father snarled impatiently. “You don’t need her, Paolo. You never did.”

“In fact, he did and does,” Callie snapped, fixing the imperious old coot in a withering stare. “But what neither of you appear to appreciate is that I don’t need him.”

“I was under the impression that we needed each other,” Paolo said stiffly. “When did all that change, Caroline?”

“About five minutes ago, when I discovered I’m merely the means to an end for you. Controlling the children’s future is all that matters to you, and to do that, you have to go through me. It’s just too bad I’m not willing to let you use me like that.”

He closed his eyes in a slow, frustrated blink. “Dio, will you stop talking in riddles and speak plainly, woman? You’re making absolutely no sense.”

Woman? Affronted, she drawled, “My goodness, Paolo, whatever happened to tesoro?”

“Whatever happened to the Caroline I thought I knew?” he returned, a noticeable touch of frost coating his words.

“She put two and two together and came up with four. You somehow found out that I’m named sole guardian of Vanessa and Ermanno’s children. That means I get to decide where and with whom they now live. If I so choose, I can take them back to the States with me, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me. So how do you prevent that happening? By proposing a marriage you’d never have entertained if it weren’t that you thought it was your only option.”

She stopped just long enough to swallow the lump in her throat. “What really sickens me, though, Paolo, is that you didn’t have to go to such extremes to get your own way. I admit, when I first came here, it was with the intention of exercising my legal rights, but I soon realized the only rights that counted were the children’s. I was prepared to leave the twins here, with the people they love the most, and settle for being an aunt who loved them enough to put her own feelings aside and focus on theirs.”

“Paolo…Caroline, what’s going on?”

At the intervention of a fourth person, the three them swung round to find Lidia hovering in the doorway, her face mirroring the anxiety in her question. “Your raised voices carried so clearly upstairs, I was afraid the children might hear. Did I really understand you to say the wedding is being canceled?”

“That’s right,” Callie said. “It seems I’ve been living in a fool’s paradise, Lidia. I’ve known from the beginning that ours was a marriage of convenience, but I had no idea until a few minutes ago that the man I was prepared to call my husband actually perceives me as his enemy.”

Although Paolo didn’t move a muscle, his bogus display of artless confusion froze into a stony displeasure that radiated from his entire body. “What the devil are you talking about, Caroline?”

“I’m quoting you, that’s all.”

“Then you’ve lost your mind,” he declared flatly. “I have never once referred to you as my enemy.

“Oh, please!” She rolled her eyes in eloquent disgust. “My Italian might not be flawless, but it’s more than adequate enough for me to have understood every word you exchanged with your father. Know your enemies, you said. A man has to know what he’s up against.”

“What makes you think I was referring to you?”

“Because of what else you said, particularly the part about your not losing everything you’ve worked so hard to achieve. Let’s see, exactly how did you put it? Ah, yes!” She imitated his earlier gesture, holding her forefinger and thumb just as he had. “Something along the lines of ‘reading the wills can wait. I’m not going to risk losing everything I’ve worked for, with my wedding day just hours away.’”

Lidia turned mystified eyes on her son. “You said that, Paolo?”

“That, and a lot more,” Callie told her, the pain she’d so far managed to subdue threatening to rise up and devour her. “Including the fact that you think he’s making the smartest move of his life. Silly me, Lidia, to have believed you were actually on my side.”

“Caroline, darling…!” Lidia started toward her, arms outstretched.

But Callie shied away, so close to bursting into tears that she couldn’t bear to be touched. “Don’t, please! It’s over.”

“It is not over,” Paolo snapped, his tone iron-hard, his face tight with anger. “But we will continue this discussion in private. You will not drag my mother into it—or my father, either. This is between you and me, Caroline, and no one else.”

“There’s nothing to discuss, Paolo. I’ve made up my mind.”

“As I have made up mine,” he informed her, taking a step closer. “We agreed to marry for the children’s sakes, and regardless of what you think you know or don’t know, I will not allow you to renege on that promise at this late date.”

I will not allow…! There it was again, that autocratic Rainero trait rearing its ugly head with damning effect. Standing her ground, even though part of her wanted to cower, she spat, “You don’t have any choice. We’re not living in the Middle Ages. You can’t force me to marry you.”

“No, I can’t,” he agreed stonily. “And if you really do suddenly find the idea to be so abhorrent, then of course I will bow out of your life graciously. You should know, however, that these ‘legal rights’ you speak of are not quite as straightforward as you seem to think.”

“Don’t try to intimidate me at this stage of the game, Paolo. I’ll stand by my word not to take the children back home with me, but that doesn’t mean I’m about to relinquish all say in their future. You’ll be answerable to me for the decisions you make that affect them. Even in Italy, a will’s a will.”

His smile and his sudden lapse into his native tongue made her blood run cold. “Precisamente, Caroline, mio amore! And the wills drawn up by my brother and your sister, less than a year ago, assign guardianship equally between you and me, something to which, as co-executor with my father, I can attest with the utmost certainty. And since you’ve already agreed that the children belong here…” He spread his hands expressively.

She staggered as if he’d landed a blow to her midriff and knocked the wind out of her. “I don’t believe you!”

“It’s true, Caroline,” Lidia said, and from her tone and the wounded sympathy she saw in the woman’s eyes, Callie knew that it was.

“Now that you’re fully in the picture,” Paolo continued remorselessly, “you might wish to reconsider your position because, Caroline, as you must now realize, I don’t have to marry you, at all. I proposed to you because I thought it would be the best thing for the children, for you, and yes, for me. I still believe that to be the case. But I must warn you that, if you elect to walk away, there is not a judge here in Italy, in the United States, or in Outer Mongolia for that matter, who will support your right to have any say in the children’s future. You’re hoist by your own petard, my dear. Either you decide to go through with this marriage, or you accept a very secondary role in your niece and nephew’s lives.”

His unflappable delivery of news that knocked out the very foundation on which she’d based her assumptions was devastating enough, but it was Salvatore’s smug complacency that drove her to a terrible recklessness.

Without stopping to think about the consequences, she blurted out, “I think a judge might disagree with that, if he knew I’m really the twins’ birth mother!”

For perhaps ten seconds, she had the satisfaction of knowing she’d put them all at a loss. The silence following her bombshell positively thundered. Then all hell broke loose.

“Good God!” Salvatore exploded, practically foaming at the mouth. “Is there no limit to the lengths you’re prepared to go, to destroy this family?”

“It’s true!” she sobbed wildly, the tears she’d so far held back flooding down her face in torrents. “I am their real mother!”

“It’s a lie, something you’ve concocted out of desperation,” he roared. “How dare you come into my house and pull such a stunt? And what’s the matter with you, Paolo, that you stand there not saying a word? You have only to look at those children to see the family resemblance. They are Raineros to the core.”

“Of course they are,” Callie cried, beleaguered on all sides when even Lidia’s expression turned faintly disapproving. “They look like their father!”

Salvatore grabbed the mantelpiece to steady himself. “You’re saying you had an affair with your sister’s husband?” he sputtered.

“No. I had a one-night stand with his brother who, in those days, thought nothing of seducing a virgin, and even less of protecting her against pregnancy!”

The fallout from this second bombshell, delivered too soon after the first, left Lidia so agitated that Callie was afraid she might collapse, and rendered Salvatore temporarily dumbstruck. He soon recovered however. “Your story is preposterous! Do you hear me? Preposterous!”

But Paolo stood as if he were encased in ice, a terrible emptiness in his eyes, a terrible deadness in his voice when at last he spoke. “So this is the secret you’ve been nursing all this time. I’ve known all along there was something. Just for the record, cara mia, what did you hope to gain, by waiting until now to make your dramatic announcement?”

With a futile attempt to control her tears, she said, “I tried to tell you sooner. The first night you came to my room, I started to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.”

He inclined his head in mute agreement. “I remember something of the sort. Even so, if what you’re saying is the truth—”

“It’s not!” Salvatore exploded, thumping his fist on the mantelpiece. “Her story is full of holes. Think about it, Paolo! Why would she not have come to you, if she was carrying your children, instead of passing them off as her sister’s? Why not give you the chance to do the right thing by her? And what did she hold over Ermanno’s head, that he kept such a secret from his own brother?”

“Nothing! I did nothing!” Callie protested, fired by the injustice of his accusation. “There was no need. Ermanno was furiouswith Paolo. As disgusted with him as you are with me.”

“Then why didn’t my brother confront me?” Paolo demanded.

“He wanted to. He was prepared to force you to do the honorable thing and marry me.”

“You’ll be saying next that you talked him out of it!”

Restored by a blistering anger, she returned Salvatore’s mocking glare. “As a matter of fact, Signor Rainero, that’s exactly what I did. I had no wish to take a husband who had to be dragged to the altar with a shotgun in his back.”

“A noble sentiment, my dear, but hardly credible,” the old man said scornfully.

“Oh, it’s credible enough,” Paolo interjected. “Especially when you consider how being the mother of twins would have curtailed Caroline’s lofty career ambitions. So she chose the easy way out, and gave away her babies. I suppose we should thank her for not having placed them with strangers.”

“It was for that very reason that Vanessa and Ermanno begged to adopt them—one I resisted, at first, I might add. If I’d had my way, I’d have kept my babies. Giving them up was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

“But Ermanno and Vanessa managed to persuade you anyway!” Salvatore crooned sarcastically. “Tell me, signorina, how much did they have to pay you?”

“That’s enough, Father. Let her finish. I can hardly wait to hear the rest.” Paolo’s words cut through the atmosphere, sharp as a knife blade. “Do go on, Caroline. You agreed to their suggestion because…?”

“Because I was barely nineteen, alone, and too young to take on single parenthood with one baby, let alone two. Because Ermanno knew your father would be humiliated by the public disgrace his favorite son had brought on the family name, and your mother would have been crushed.”

She drew a long, shaky breath. “But most of all, because you weren’t fit to be a husband or a father. Even your brother, who loved you dearly, agreed you were nothing but a playboy, and that the last thing I needed was to find myself married to a man incapable of fidelity. So we did what was best for the children.”

“And, coincidentally, what was best for you. You could pursue your dreams unencumbered by guilt or responsibility.”

“Oh, I carried my share of guilt, Paolo, and more grief than you can begin to imagine. Because of one mistake, my entire life changed. No more going to Smith, not when I was sticking out a mile in front, advertising my condition for the whole world to see. No more carefree sharing an apartment with two friends from school. Instead I went sneaking off to university in California where no one knew me, and worked as a waitress to afford the rent on a basement room, where I lived until I went into labor.”

Something crossed his face then, a fleeting expression of such bleak despair that it broke her heart. In that brief and telling moment, she realized the extent of the damage she’d done, and all she wanted was to run to him and kiss away the hurt she’d inflicted. But he spoke before she had the chance.

“You didn’t have to be without money. Whatever else my shortcomings, I’d never have denied you adecent place to live.”

But not a place in your life, Paolo! Not a place in your heart…!

“My pride had taken enough of a beating. I wasn’t about to accept handouts from you, or anyone else.” She spared Salvatore another scathing glance. “Not even from Vanessa and Ermanno, al though they tried hard enough to help me out. But they’d done enough in offering to adopt my babies, and the money they gave me I put into a trust account for the children. They’ll in herit quite atidy sum when they turn eighteen.”

Salvatore curled his lip. “A very touching story, I’m

sure.”

“And every word of it the truth.”

“So you say.”

“You’d like to see the trust fund statement?”

“No. I have seen something far more compelling. I have seen the children’s birth certificates. Ermanno and Vanessa are plainly stated as the parents.”

“Those certificates were issued after the adoption took place, as the law requires. But I have a copy of the official papers, which I had to sign in order to make the adoption legal. If that’s not enough to convince you, Signor Rainero, then by all means arrange for a DNA test at a laboratory of your choice, here in Rome, since you have such a low opinion of anything American.”

“Gladly. I will see to it first thing in the morning.”

But Paolo, who’d distanced himself to stand slumped before the fireplace with his back to the room, spoke over his shoulder. “It is not necessary. I accept the truth of what she says, and now I will deal with it—and with her.”

He’d scarcely finished speaking when Gina and Clemente’s high, excited voices carried down the stairs, followed a second later by the sound of their feet.

“My children do not need to witness this, ” he said, straightening his shoulders and turning back to face his parents. “Keep them occupied, please, and away from here until I am done.”

“Of course.” Lidia gestured to her husband. “Come, Salvatore. You don’t belong in here, either.”

For once, he didn’t argue. Instead he let her lead him from the room and close the door.

Callie could hear her heart thundering in the silence they left behind. Paolo in his present frame of mind was a force to be reckoned with, and she had only herself to thank for that. “What do you mean, you’ll deal with me?” she asked, fighting to control her mounting dread. “Exactly what do you have in mind, Paolo?”

Chapter Eleven

IF EMERGING the winner was what he wanted, Paolo knew he’d achieved it. Caroline stood before him, her lovely face drained of color, her big blue eyes glassy with shock, her beautiful mouth—that mouth able to lie so convincingly for so long—quivering helplessly.

But the only victory he’d ever wanted was to win her trust, with the hope that, in time, he’d win her love, too. That she was capable of the kind of monumental deception to which she’d just confessed showed how little he’d succeeded.

Even so, seeing how her body trembled, how she groped for the back of the chair in front of her to keep herself upright, melted the frozen core which, for the last several minutes, had held him paralyzed. Despite everything she’d done, part of him wanted to wrap her in his arms and comfort her. But the betrayal cut too deep. This was not a situation that could be resolved with a quick kiss-and-make-up.

Steeling himself to remain unmoved, he said, “Why don’t you sit down? This could take a while.”

“I can’t imagine it’ll take any time at all,” she said, lowering herself into the chair as if every bone in her body hurt. “What’s left to say? That you’re disgusted by my actions? Furious? Save yourself the trouble, Paolo. How you feel about me is already written plainly enough on your face.”

“This might come as a surprise, but you’re not foremost in my thoughts right now. I’m more concerned about our children, Caroline—about how and when to tell them we’re their parents, and what that news will do to them.”

“Maybe they shouldn’t be told.” She gnawed wretchedly on the corner of her lower lip. “Maybe it’s best to keep the secret and let them go on believing Vanessa and Ermanno are their parents.”

“Even the most closely guarded secrets have a way of leaking out. Already, what until tonight was known only to you, your sister and my brother, is now shared by three more people. The chances of it one day accidentally being revealed to our son and daughter are significant. And even if they weren’t, I’m not inclined to perpetuate a lie that never should have been told in the first place. They have a right to a truth that affects them so profoundly.”

“Then when I tell them, I’ll explain that it was my fault, that I’m the one who chose to withhold it.”

“When you tell them? Oh, no, Caroline, that’s not how it’s going to be. We tell them together—all of it. How it came about that you placed them with your sister, and why.”

“If we do that, they could end up hating both of us.”

“That’s a risk I’m prepared to take.”

“No. You stand to lose too much. They adore you. You’ve been part of their lives from the start, whereas I—” She stopped as a sob shook her, and pressed a fist to her mouth. “I’ve yet to earn a truly secure place in their hearts. My betrayal won’t inflict such lasting damage.”

As it always had, her grief touched him too profoundly. She looked so fragile and alone, huddled in her chair; so innocent! Horrified to find his own throat thick with emotion, he looked away and reminded himself of the enormous deceit she’d practiced. There’d been nothing innocent about that.

“The day has yet to dawn that I’ll hide behind a woman’s skirts,” he said roughly. “I’m not proud of the way my children were conceived, but I’m very proud to be their father, and that’s something I intend to make clear to them from the outset.”

She sighed dispiritedly. “Then let’s get it over with. One look at your mother’s face, and they’ll have guessed something’s terribly wrong. It’s not fair to leave them wondering if it’s because of something they’ve done.”

“My thoughts exactly. They can’t be sent off to bed believing there’s going to be a wedding tomorrow—not unless a miracle occurs and we somehow manage to salvage something worthwhile from this debacle.”

She raised her tearstained face to his. “That’s not going to happen, and we both know it. I’ve made too many mistakes.”

“The most critical of which was in not trusting me enough.”

“I wanted to tell you about the children, Paolo.”

“I’m not talking just about that. Even as recently as tonight, you overheard me say something to my father which you didn’t understand, but instead of showing faith in your future husband, you chose to think the worst of him.”

“What you said sounded so…incriminating.”

“We were discussing my father’s health. Today, his cardiologist told him he’s living on borrowed time and urgently needs open-heart surgery. He’s afraid, not so much of the procedure itself, but of being left an invalid, and becoming a burden to my mother. These are the things you heard us speak of, Caroline…the ‘enemies’ which he’d prefer to ignore, but which must be faced and overcome.”

Consternation, shame, embarrassment—the emotions ranged over her face, one after the other. “I’m truly sorry!” she whispered. “If I’d known, I’d never have confronted him the way I did. I’d have shown him more sympathy.”

“He wouldn’t thank you for it. For a smart man, my father can be incredibly obtuse at times. He seems to think not talking openly about his problem might lessen its seriousness. That’s why he’s yet to confide in my mother.”

She massaged the bridge of her dainty little nose, as if to ward off a headache. “Then how do his lawyers fit into the picture? He was adamant that he wanted to consult with them as soon as possible.”

“He has a horror of falling ill before the surgery can take place, and ending up in hospital on life support. To avoid such a possibility, he wants to draw up a living will.” He shrugged. “As for dealing with Ermanno and Vanessa’s wills at the same time, he feared from the start that you might try to take the children away from us, and believed that the sooner you found out you shared guardianship with me, the sooner your plans would be derailed.”

“You didn’t agree with him?”

“At first, perhaps. You were pretty clear about your intentions, and I admit I thought you posed something of a threat.”

“But you didn’t act on it. Why not?”

“Everyone was raw with grief. We needed to pull together for the children’s sakes, not engage in a tug-of-war over who had control of their future. They’d suffered enough. Then, things changed. I came to see you not as an outsider bent on destroying a family, but a tenderhearted woman incapable of hurting those she loved. All at once, the idea of our joining forces in marriage made perfect sense—not for the usual reason, perhaps, but for very good reasons, nonetheless.”

“None of which ruled out dealing with the wills.”

“True. But we were on the island, the lawyers were here in the city, there were over two hundred miles separating us from them…” He shrugged. “Suddenly it no longer mattered who was named guardian. More important matters had come to the fore. There was a wedding to arrange, a new life to plan, a future to build. The children were excited again, looking forward, instead back. The wills could wait.”

He grimaced, the pain of realizing just how much they’d lost, hitting hard. And all because, in their race to get married, they hadn’t taken the time to build a foundation of trust. A sad case of good intentions gone wrong, and four lives thrown into upheaval because of it.

“Nevertheless, if you’d told me about the change—about us sharing guardianship, things might never have come to this,” she said.

“Are you suggesting learning that would have prompted you to tell me the truth about the twins’ birth? Because if so, I’m not buying it, Caroline. You had plenty of opportunity to come clean.” He swiped a hand down his face, weary of the whole pointless back-and-forth. “Porca miseria, what does it matter? The damage is done, and bickering about who’s at fault solves nothing, and merely delays what we have to do next.”

“Speak to the children, you mean?”

“Yes. I’ll get them. While I’m gone, give some thought to how you want to handle this, because there’s no quick and easy way to pass along the kind of news they’re about to hear.”

They were absorbed in a game of Chinese Checkers with his parents when he found them. Unnoticed, he lingered in the shadow of the arch leading to the day salon, and looked at them as if seeing them for the first time.

His children…his son and daughter! Wonder and dismay swept over him in equal parts. How could have held them in his arms as babies, and not recognized them as his? How have looked into their eyes and not seen the truth?

“Zio Paolo!” Gina glanced up and caught sight of him. “What have you and Zia Caroline been doing all this…?”

His face must have given away too much. Her question dwindled into silence. Her smile wavered. Her little face closed. Tragedy had sharpened her intuition to a fine edge. Without his saying a word, she flinched as if to ward off another unkind stroke of fate, and sidled nearer to her brother.

For Paolo to pretend everything was the same as it had been an hour ago would have been cruel. “I’d like both of you to come with me,” he said soberly. “Caroline and I have something to tell you.”

Without a word they left their game, clutched each other’s hands and followed him down the hall to the library.

Caroline stood next to the hearth, twisting a sodden handkerchief in her fingers. A lamp on the mantelpiece shed a halo around her head, highlighting the pale gold of her hair, but leaving her face in shadow. Even so, the twins saw at once that she’d been crying and, as children usually did when confronted by an adult’s tears, clung even tighter to each other and hung back, more apprehensive than ever.

“Did somebody else die?” Clemente ventured in awhisper.

“No,” Paolo hastened to reassure him. “We do have news that’s going to come a sashock, but it’s nothing quite that bad.”

“Well, whatever it is, it’s making Zia Caroline look sad. Did you have an argument?”

Paolo glanced at Caroline. A tear rolled down her face. Unable to speak, she left him to answer, but now that the moment was upon him, he, too, struggled to find the right words. “We’ve…decided to postpone the wedding,” he began. “We won’t be getting married tomorrow, after all.”

“But you have to!” Gina wailed. “You said you would! You said we were all going to live together, and you always keep your promises!”

Her outburst prompted Caroline to jump in. “Don’t blame Zio Paolo. It’s my fault everything’s changed.”

“Why is it your fault?” Clemente asked. “What did you do, Zia Caroline?”

“I kept a secret from your uncle, and from both of you,” she said tremulously. “A secret I should have told you about, a long time ago. I shared it with Zio Paolo just a little while ago, and now I want to share it with you. The thing is…”

She closed her eyes and inhaled a long, deep breath, the kind a person might take before a death-defying leap from a very high cliff into a raging river. “Oh, my darlings, I wish there was a kinder way to tell you this, but I’m afraid there’s no way to soften the blow of what you’re about to hear.”

“So just say it in ordinary words,” Clemente said, fixing her in an unwavering stare. “Just tell the truth. That’s what you’re supposed to do, when you get in trouble.”

Gina inched closer. “Have you decided you don’t love us enough to live with us?”

“Oh heavens, no! I couldn’t love you more if you were my own children, because, you see…you really are my children…and I’m your m…mother.”

Astounded, Clemente said, “How can you be our mother? You’re our aunt.”

Caroline clapped a hand to her mouth and looked helplessly at Paolo, her eyes telegraphing her dismay. Help me!

Pretty choked up himself, he felt no better able to answer his son’s question than she was. He saw the confusion her news had created in his children, and wished he could offer an explanation that wouldn’t rock their world. If ever there was a time to whitewash the truth, it had to be now. But he couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t.

“You’re silly,” Gina informed Caroline bluntly. “You aren’t our mommy. Our mommy’s dead.”

“Yes, she is,” Caroline said, her voice drenched in tears. “And you’re right. She was your mommy in all the ways that really mattered. But there’s more you need to know.”

Gina stuck her fingers in her ears. “I’m not going to listen to you, Zia Caroline! You’re saying bad things.”

“Gina, sweetheart! I know this is hard for you to understand, but—!”

“La-la-la…” Gina caroled. “I can’t hear you! La-la-la-la!”

Clemente nudged her in the ribs. “Shut up, Gina! We have to listen.”

She glared at him mulishly. “You can, if you want to, but I’m not going to.”

“I’m afraid you both need to hear this, my angels.” Caroline appealed to them both with outstretched hands. “Won’t you please let me try to explain?”

Torn, they looked to Paolo for guidance. He nodded en-couragement, and kept his distance. For now, at least, he’d let Caroline handle things her way.

Taking a seat in the middle of the sofa, she patted the space on either side in invitation for the twins to join her. They approached warily, and perched on the edge of the cushions like two frightened little birds ready to take flight at the first sign of danger.

“You must be very confused,” she began, “and I’m sure you’ll have many questions, once you hear the story I’m about to tell you. I just want to begin by saying there’s nothing you can’t ask me, and I promise to answer you as truthfully as I know how.”

She stopped then, as if she wasn’t sure how to launch into the details, but Clemente, never one to be easily sidetracked, gave her the opening she needed. “I want to know why you said you’re our mother, when you’re not.”

“But I am,” she said. “I know I wasn’t here to look after you, the way other mothers look after their children, but I gave birth to you. Do you know what I mean by that?”

“Yes.” Gina regarded her sourly. “Once, when Nonno took us to see some people who live on a farm in the country, a pig started having her babies. She pushed them out of her bottom.”

The look of sheer horror on Caroline’s face was such that, despite the gravity of the moment, Paolo had to hide a smile. Well, you asked for it, he thought. Now deal with it, my dear!

“Yes…well…” Regrouping, she took a breath and continued. “I didn’t have a daddy to help me, and I was very young, only just nineteen—”

“That’s old,” Gina said flatly.

“I suppose, when you’re only eight, it is, but I wasn’t quite old enough to look after two babies by myself.”

Looking more suspicious by the second, Clemente said, “So what did you do, sell us?”

“No, darling. There wasn’t enough money in the world for that. Instead I gave you to my sister, because she had a husband who could be your daddy, and a house where you could live, and because she loved me so much that I knew she’d love my babies, as well. But it made me very sad to say goodbye to you. I wished so much that I could keep you.” Her lower lip quivered. “I missed you every day, and cried for you every night.”

“Why didn’t you have a daddy for us? Did he die, as well?”

Her glance met Paolo’s, then flickered away. “No. I just didn’t tell him I had you.”

“Why not?” Clemente persisted.

Like a deer caught in the headlights, she raised her eyes to Paolo again. “At the time, I didn’t think he’d want to know.”

“Does he know now?”

Again, that hunted, helpless look crossed her face. “Yes. And he’s very angry with me for causing so much trouble in the family.”

“I’m angry, too!” Gina, always the more volatile of the two children, jumped up from the sofa. “I don’t care if you borned me. You’re still not my real mother and I don’t care if you don’t marry Zio Paolo, because I hate you! And if you try to make me come to America with you, I’ll run away!” She charged across the room and flung herself at Paolo. “I’m staying here with Zio and Nonna and Nonno. They’re my real family, not you!”

“Gina,” he said, gently unwinding her from his leg, “don’t you want to know who your father is?”

She looked up at him, her big brown eyes stormy. “I already know! It’s my daddy.”

“Your other father,” he amended, crouching down to her level. “The one who’d very much like to introduce himself to you and your brother.”

Clemente inched across the library to join them. “Do you know where he is, Zio?”

“Yes.” His eyes stung embarrassingly and he had to swallow twice before he could go on. “He’s right here in this room, and he loves you very much.”

For a moment or two, his children stared at him blankly. Then, as the impact of his words sank home, their expressions underwent a change, from uncomprehending to amazed; from fearful to relieved.

“You?” Clemente exclaimed in hushed tones.

“Mmm-hmm. Afraid so.”

Gina speared him with a scathing glare. “You made us with her?”

“Hey,” he said, stroking his knuckles up her soft, sweet cheek. “Whether or not you like it, Caroline is your birth mother, and as your birth father, I won’t let you be rude to her. Whether or not you’re ready to accept it, nothing changes the fact that she gave you the best parents in the world when she let your mommy and daddy have you.”

“I suppose.” Gina chanced another look Caroline’s way. “If you don’t marry my uncle, will you go back to America?”

“Probably,” Caroline said. “Unless—”

Gina grabbed hold of his leg more tightly. “Promise you won’t make us go with her! Promise, Zio Paolo!”

“That’ll never happen, unless you want it to,” he assured her. “We’ll have to work out something else.”

Something else?

Alone in the library, with no stomach for dinner or company, Caroline stared into the fire. Her children had left the room without so much as a single glance her way. She’d heard their voices, low and tearful, fading down the hall as Paolo took them to the dining room. And even though they’d given her no reason to think they might, she’d waited on tenterhooks, praying that before they went to bed, they’d come back to say good night. Now, with the clock approaching ten, hope had died and she was left with the realization that she’d lost everything that mattered the most to her: her fiancé, her children, her future. She didn’t even have a place to hide, she thought, exhaustion seeping into her bones, because the mere idea of spending the night in the room awaiting her, with her honeymoon trousseau neatly stowed in suitcases she’d never use, and the wedding dress she’d never wear hanging in the old-fashioned wardrobe…well, it was unthinkable.

A log shifted in the fireplace, sending new flames shooting up the chimney. Something on the corner of the library table caught their reflection. Her engagement ring, she realized, left where she’d placed it.

“Discarded just like me,” she whimpered, heaving herself to her feet to retrieve it, and cringed at the whining self-pity she heard in her voice.

If her life had come crashing down around her ears, she had only herself to blame. She’d known from the outset why Paolo had asked her to marry him. Even if sex had entered the picture in grand fashion, his proposal had had nothing to do with love, and everything to do with convenience. If only she’d kept that reality in the forefront of her mind, instead of drifting into the fantasy land of what if? the conversation she’d overheard wouldn’t have had the power to derail her so completely.

She cupped the ring in the palm of her hand. It was perfect—the only perfect thing in her relationship with Paolo, and perhaps that should have been enough to warn her that it didn’t belong on the finger of a woman capable of lying so unforgivably to the man she planned to marry.

At least she’d never confessed to her love for him. That was one secret she had managed to keep to herself, and thank God for it! She couldn’t have endured Paolo’s indifference to such a revelation, or worse, his pity.

Suddenly the door opened and Paolo appeared, carrying a tray. “You missed dinner,” he remarked, his tone so devoid of emotion that it gave no clue to his mood, “so I brought you something to eat.”

“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”

“Starving yourself isn’t going to solve anything, Caroline.” He advanced into the room and proffered the tray. “You can manage a roll and a little cheese and antipasti, I’m sure.”

But just the sight of food left her queasy. “No,” she said, turning her face away. “I really couldn’t eat a thing.”

“Something to drink then. We could both use a shot of something strong.” He moved to the table and she heard the clink of the heavy crystal stopper as he removed it from the decanter of grappa waiting to be served with the after-dinner coffee. “Will you join me?”

“Why not?” She didn’t much care for the stuff, but she’d have swallowed drain cleaner if it would dull the pain.

He poured an inch of the liquor into two glasses and joined her by the fire. “Are you up to talking?”

Listlessly she took the glass. “Is there anything left to say?”

“We can hardly leave things as they are, Caroline. Regardless of how we feel about each other right now, we have two children to consider.”

“Have you been with them all this time?”

“Yes. It took a while for them to fall asleep.”

She took a sip of the grappa and grimaced as it burned its way down her throat. “I’m not surprised. They’re miserable and upset, and who can blame them?”

He flung himself down in the chair opposite hers. “They don’t know what to feel, how to react. Just when they thought they could count on their world coming together, it’s fallen apart. Again.”

“And all because of me.”

He studied the liquid swirling in his glass. “I’d say we’ve both managed to make a royal mess of the situation.”

“Probably because it was never about us in the first place.”

“Oh, it was about us all right,” he said flatly. “Let’s not deny our relationship blossomed beyond anything we’d first anticipated. But somewhere along the way, we forgot the children were the primary reason we decided to marry, and as a result, we hurt the ones we supposedly were trying to protect. It’s going to take a long time and a great deal of patience to rebuild their trust in the two people they should most be able to count on.”

“Is that even possible, Paolo?”

“In all honesty, I’m no longer sure it is. But this much is certain—I will not have my children’s lives subjected to any more upheavals. They’ve been traumatized enough, and it ends now. Tonight has changed everything.”

Absently smoothing the ball of her thumb over the diamond she still held in her hand, she looked across at him, hollow with pain, and saw her own anguish mirrored in his eyes. “Whatever we might have had…it’s gone, hasn’t it?”

“Well, you tell me, Caroline,” he said, bleakly. “Is there any reason I should argue the point? Do you see any way to pick up the pieces and put them together again?”

Chapter Twelve

HOW DID the old saying go? You can glue together a plate that’s been broken, but the cracks will always show, and it will never be the same as it was before. Never again as strong or beautiful.

“If I could wave a magic wand and make everything better, I would,” she told him on a sigh. “I wish…oh, I wish for so many things, Paolo, but most of all, that I could turn back time and do things differently.”

“I wish for the same, but it’s too late for that. So I ask you again, can you see a way to pick up where we left off, and salvage what’s left of the plans we made?”

Could she? The ramifications of his question tore at her.

Could she look at Clemente and Gina every day, and see her children, yet know that when they looked at her, they saw not their mother, but someone masquerading in the role?

I hate you…I hate you…!

Dear God, could she hear those words from her daughter again, and not die from the pain of it?

“Well, Caroline?”

“Have you discussed such a prospect with the children?”

“No. They don’t deal well with uncertainty. And in the event that you and I manage to reconcile, I won’t pretend they’ll readily accept it. They’re wary and resentful. In their eyes, you intruded on sacred ground when you laid bare the truth about Vanessa and Ermanno. Warming up to you again will take some doing, but it’s happened once already, and it can happen again.”

“I suspect earning their trust—and yours—is going to be the more difficult task.”

“That, too.”

Exactly! She’d loved him from the day she met him, but to tell him so now wouldn’t ring true, because why wait until she had nothing left to lose before she risked all by baring her soul? No, the time for that kind of admission was when she could say the words without sounding desperate or needy. When she could be brave enough to say the words and not expect anything in return.

Desolate, she cupped her elbows and hugged herself against the chill that pervaded her despite the roaring fire. A bone-deep weariness had penetrated, dulling her mind, numbing her body. “I’m not sure I have the right to try,” she said sadly. “In all honesty, Paolo, so much has happened tonight that I’m not sure about anything anymore.”

After a pause during which his gaze seemed to pierce her to the very core, he said, with heart-wrenching regret, “I can see that you’re not, and I won’t press you anymore tonight because, to tell the truth, I don’t have any answers, either. In an ideal world, we’d sweep aside our differences and go ahead with our plans, but too much damage has been done. We’re all bruised and hurting, and healing isn’t going to happen overnight.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“I propose we step back from the situation and give ourselves some breathing room. Just because there’s no returning to the way things were doesn’t mean we can’t learn from our mistakes and build something even better. But whether that’s possible, only time will tell.”

In other words, no promises, and only a very little hope. But at least he phrased it graciously enough to leave her with her dignity intact. She didn’t have to grovel or beg.

He left his seat and came to stand over her. “You’re wornout, Caroline,” he said, pulling her to her feet. “Go to bed and try to get some sleep. We’ll both see things more clearly after a good night’s rest.”

“I can’t sleep just yet. I’d rather sit here by the fire a while longer, and try to sort through my thoughts.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it and say buona notte.” He bent his head and dropped a kiss on her cheek. “We’ll talk again in the morning.”

Slumping back into her chair after he left, Callie felt the walls of the library close in on her in claustrophobic despair, and knew she had to get out of the house if she had any hope of restoring some kind of order to the chaos in her mind.

The children were asleep, and Paolo and his parents were talking quietly among themselves. She heard them as she crept past the salon door, Lidia sounding anxious, the men’s deeper tones reassuring, but all their voices too low for her to distinguish the exact words.

Just as well they were so preoccupied. It gave her the chance to sneak into her bedroom for her purse, then let herself out of the apartment and walk as far as the square on the corner, where she hailed a taxi.

Forty minutes later, she let herself into the villa on Lake Bracciano, which she and Paolo had bought just days before, when the future had looked full of promise. The new draperies she’d ordered hadn’t yet been installed, allowing the moon, rising full and bright over the lake, to shine through the windows. Not bothering to turn on lamps, she wandered from room to room.

Copper-bottomed pots hung from an iron bracket mounted on the beamed ceiling above the work island in the kitchen. The two refrigerators, already stocked with basics, hummed contentedly side by side. Brass fireplace tools glimmered on the wide stone hearth. Blue and white dinnerware lined the shelves of the glass-fronted upper cabinets.

In the dining room, twelve damask-covered chairs flanked the banquet-size rosewood table. “We’ll use it when we entertain,” Paolo had said, when she’d questioned the need for something so ostentatious, “but for everyday meals with the children, we’ll eat in the breakfast room.”

The same flawless attention to detail greeted her at every turn throughout the house. Elegant furniture, gleaming floors, sparkling bathroom fixtures, pristine linens, tasteful accessories.

Perfect on the outside, she thought miserably, but ultimately empty at its heart because the absolute sense of security and trust that turned a house into a home, was lacking. Had it been just she and Paolo, they could have gone ahead with their plans, willing to risk failure. Willing to make mistakes, to fight and make up, and hope that, in the end, they’d succeed in forging an unbreakable bond.

But they were not just a man and a woman drawn together by a powerful chemistry. They were parents, and as such did not have the right to stake their children’s happiness on a game of romantic Russian roulette.

The only way they could ever stand before God and State, and exchange vows to love and honor one another until death did them part, was when they believed without a shadow of doubt that they could keep those promises.

That time was not now, and indeed might never come. And that, she realized sorrowfully, made her only choice clear. For now, at least, she had to love them all enough to let them go.

The decision made, she curled into a ball on the silk upholstered sofa in the formal drawing room, drained of all emotion. She didn’t move again until first light.

He heard her key in the lock and met her in the foyer when she let herself into the apartment, just after seven the next morning.

“Where the devil have you been?” he seethed, so beside himself with anxiety that he was tempted to shake her until her teeth rattled, at the same time that he wanted nothing more than to hold her in his arms and never let her go.“ Do you have any idea what kind of thoughts raced through my mind, when I discovered you’d left without a word to anyone?”

“I didn’t think you’d notice,” she said meekly. “I’m sorry if I worried you.”

Stunned, he stared at her, noting for the first time how crumpled her clothing was. Her eyes were shadowed, empty of life, her face so pale, her skin was almost transparent. Approaching her cautiously, he said, “Dio, Caroline, where did you spend the night?”

“I went to Manziana, to the villa on the lake.”

“Our villa?”

“Yours and your children’s,” she corrected him.

“They’re your children, too, for God’s sake! You’re their mother.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I gave them life, but that’s not enough to make me their mother.”

He raked a frustrated hand through his hair. “What are you saying, Caroline? That you’re walking out on them again, because you can’t stand having to be second-best to your sister?”

“I’m walking away. There’s a difference.”

“Then please explain it to me.”

“Although it kills me to leave them, at this point I think the best thing I can do for my children is to go back to the States.”

“Caroline—!”

“Listen to me, Paolo. Right now, they need you and your parents far more than they need me. They need the security you’ve always brought to their lives—the routine of the familiar. They need to know that regardless of what happens down the line between you and me, their lives have regained the kind of stability they lost when Vanessa and Ermanno died. As things presently stand, I can’t give them that, dearly though I’d like to.”

And dearly though he’d have liked to argue the point, in his heart Paolo had to agree with her. First things first. The children took priority. “Why couldn’t we both have shown such wisdom sooner?” he muttered.

“Well, better late than never,” she said, showing far more acceptance than he was able to command. “So I take it you agree that I should go?”

“Would it make any difference if I said no?”

She smiled, a faded imitation of the kind of warm, open smile he was used to, and shook her head. “No.”

“Then I agree. When do you plan to leave?”

“As soon as possible. Today, if it can be arranged.”

“Well, go if you must, but know this—you and I are not finished.”

“I hope not.”

“We’ll keep in touch.”

“Yes, please! I want to know how the children are—how you are.”

He touched her face, stroking his hand down her cheek and along her jaw. “Same here,” he returned thickly.

She left that afternoon, and spent the long hours between Rome and San Francisco endlessly reliving the pain of her final good byes. Lidia’s tears and hugs and murmured sympathy. Salvatore, so gray in the face, she’d been ashamed that she’d hadn’t seen for herself that he was not a well man. The children, their gazes darting between her and Paolo, as if they feared they were to blame for things not working out.

“Are you really going back to America?” Gina asked, not sounding quite as pleased about the idea as Callie thought she would.

“Yes.” Aching to take her daughter in her arms and never let her go, Callie made do with a brief hug and knew the feel of her child’s warm, sweet little body would forever remain imprinted on her heart. “It’s time, sweetheart.”

Clemente had tugged at her sleeve. “Does that mean we’ll never see you again?”

She’d exchanged teary glances with Lidia. “Oh, no! I’ll be back often to visit, and if ever you decide you want to come to see me, all you have to do is let me know the date and time, and I’ll be waiting for you.”

Gina pulled away, her lip quivering, her glare defiant. “Sometimes, you really make me want to cry, and don’t you know you’re not supposed to do that?”

“Yes,” she said. “And that’s why I’m leaving, because I don’t want to make anyone cry anymore.”

“We should get going now, if you don’t want to miss your flight,” Paolo murmured at her elbow, sensitive to the emotional storm about to burst. Over her objections, he’d insisted on driving her to the airport.

Misty-eyed, she hugged Lidia again, and pressed a last kiss on her children’s foreheads. Then, half-blinded by tears, she turned to Salvatore. “Goodbye, Signor Rainero, and good luck with your surgery,” she said, her voice shaking. “I really do wish you the very best.”

He cleared his throat and half made a move toward her. “You don’t have to leave because of me, Caroline.”

“I’m not,” she told him. “I’m leaving because of me.”

Nor did it end there. She had to get through that last scene at the airport, with Paolo. “Don’t come inside with me,” she said, as he drew up in front of the international departure building, and practically fell out of his car in an effort to escape before she flung herself at him and sobbed all over his starched white shirt.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he retorted, and tossed the keys to the nearest parking valet. “I’ll come with you to collect your boarding pass, and walk you as far as the security gate.”

The first-class ticket he’d reserved made short work of checking in, but saying goodbye…? There was no quick and easy way to do that, not when he stood there, his gaze searching her face, and hers devouring his. Not when his mouth lifted in the ghost of a smile and he reached out to tuck a wisp of hair behind her ear.

And oh, most especially not when his hand slid around the back of her head and he inched forward for a kiss that should have brushed fleetingly against her cheek, but instead landed on her lips and lingered there, excruciating in its sweetness.

“Remember what I said before, tesoro. This is not the end, it’s merely a time-out,” he murmured, his dark brown gaze scouring her face.

“I hope you’re right,” she said, making no attempt to stem the tears. “But I came from a broken home. I know what it’s like to live with parents who put up with each other for the sake of their children. And it’s not true what the so-called experts say. A bad marriage isn’t better than no marriage at all. It taints everything it touches, especially the children. So unless we can both make the right kind of commitment to each other…”

“We can,” he said. “It’s just going to take time. Once the children have come to terms with everything—”

“You must board now if you wish to make your flight, signorina,” the attendant at the desk interrupted. “The pilot has been cleared for take-off and we’re about to close the gate to the aircraft.”

Callie nodded and turned to Paolo one last time. “See you,” she said, the smile she almost managed dissolving into tearful misery.

“Si,” he replied, and when she went to walk away, reached for her one last time. “See you, too, my Caroline.”

Chapter Thirteen

WE’LL keep in touch, Paolo had said, on that last afternoon in Rome, but apart from a brief email to acknowledge hers telling him she’d arrived home safely, she didn’t hear from him again, and eventually stopped waiting for the phone to ring, or another message to arrive. Better to stay busy and pick up the threads of her old life, than yearn for a new one that might never come to pass.

So she flung herself into her work, staying at the office long after everyone else left, and sometimes bringing projects home with her. Then, almost a month after she left Italy, she was called to Minneapolis to supervise a hotel restoration.

She stayed a week, and arrived home too late on the Friday night to do anything but fall into bed, exhausted. The next morning, she awoke just after eight to the kind of warm, sunny early December day that made San Francisco the envy of so many other cities throughout North America. But for her, the sun never really shone anymore.

A day for catching up, she decided morosely, wrapping a towel around her wet hair after she stepped out of the shower, then slapping a mud pack over her face and throat, before wandering to the kitchen to scrounge up something to eat. Not that she was hungry, which was just as well, because nothing too appetizing awaited her. The refrigerator was empty, apart from half a loaf, the limp remains of a head of lettuce, and a block of cheese suspiciously green around the edges.

First on her to-do list, once she was dressed and fit to be seen in public? A trip to the supermarket, followed by a walk down to Fisherman’s Wharf where one of the restaurants might possibly tempt her to eat lunch. Shopping in Union Square for a shower gift for a colleague’s forthcoming wedding. Picking up a movie to watch that evening, when she curled up by herself on the couch, in front of the fire.

Oh, yes, and checking her mail and messages, just in case he’d been in touch. Any chore, no matter how small, to distract her from the gaping, aching hole in her heart that never seemed able to heal.

She’d plugged in the coffee maker and popped bread in the toaster, while waiting for the mask to work its magic, when the doorbell rang. Peeking from her living-room window, she could see nothing in the street immediately below her front entrance, although a black Lincoln was parked illegally at the curb, a few houses away.

The morning paper must have arrived, she concluded. She stopped delivery during her absence, and asked for it to be resumed today. Tightening the belt holding her terry cloth robe closed, she picked her way past her still-unpacked suitcase and downstairs to the foyer.

She slid back the lock, opened the front door just wide enough to reach out one arm and grab the paper, and almost fainted at the sight awaiting her. Two little faces peered back. Faces she hadn’t thought to see again for a very long time, and even then, not wreathed in shy smiles.

“Gina…Clemente…?” she croaked, afraid she was caught up in a cruel dream.

“Hello, Zia Momma,” they chorused, looking so mightily pleased with themselves that, for all that she was too shocked to think straight, she knew they’d rehearsed the greeting ahead of time. Then, taking a second look at her, they nudged each other in the ribs and subsided into a fit of giggles.

Fairly sagging against the door frame, she pressed a fist to her racing heart. “What in the world are you doing here?”

“Well, you said we could visit you whenever we wanted, so we did,” Gina said, as if only an idiot would fail to see the logic of such a move. “Aren’t you going to invite us in?”

She dragged the door wider and gestured weakly. “Of course. But how—who brought you?”

“I did,” the deep, dark Mediterranean voice that had haunted her night and day for the last month, supplied. “May I come in, too?”

She recoiled in horror. “Paolo?”

“Well, I didn’t expect you’d roll out the red carpet,” he said, his trademark charming smile not quite as poised as usual, “but I hoped you’d be at least a little pleased to see me.”

“I’m wearing a towel on my head!” she squeaked. “I’ve got a mud pack slathered all over my face! Why would I be pleased to see anyone, let alone you, looking the way I do?”

“You’re beautiful in my eyes, Caroline,” he said, following the children into her foyer and closing the door, “although you ought to know your cosmetic clay is cracking badly. Perhaps you shouldn’t be talking until it’s finished cooking, and satisfy yourself with just listening to us, instead.”

“I wasn’t expecting company!”

“You mean, you didn’t get my message, telling you we’d be stopping by?” He shrugged philosophically. “Oh, well, too late now. We’re already here. I’d kiss you hello, but this doesn’t seem the most appropriate moment to do so. Close your mouth, darling. You’re beginning to drool.”

Thoroughly restored to his usual in-charge self again, he pushed her ahead of him up the stairs, and somehow she made it all the way without tripping over her feet, even though her pulse was racing so fast, it left her dizzy.

“Please make yourselves at home and excuse me a moment,” she managed, showing her three guests into the living room, and promptly fled to her en suite bathroom.

Her children were here, and they were smiling at her!

Paolo had called her “darling!” He’d never called her “darling” before!

And, oh dear heaven, when she most needed to put on her best face, she looked like a reject from a bad Halloween party! Although she had no memory of doing so, she’d started to cry, and her tears had left soggy ravines in her blue mud pack.

Appalled, she splashed cold water over the offending mask, and wiped it away with a facecloth. Whipped off the towel and dragged a comb through her hair. At least it had enough natural bounce not to hang in rats’ tails around her face.

No time for makeup, she decided, afraid if she took too long to get ready, Paolo might grow tired of waiting. A spritz of cologne would have to do. And clothes, of course—underwear, a pair of pale green linen slacks, and a cream cashmere sweater she’d bought at Nordstrom’s and never bothered to wear, because she’d had no one to dress up for.

“I poured us both coffee,” Paolo said, handing her a steaming mug when she returned to find him and the children in her kitchen. “Sit down, darling, before you fall down.”

Darling, again!

“Thank you.” She seized the mug gratefully. She needed fortifying. Badly! “I’m sorry I can’t offer you cookies, or something, but my cupboards are rather bare right now,” she told the children, aware they were watching her as if they thought she might suddenly sprout two heads. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have stocked up—”

“I’ll take us all out for breakfast later,” Paolo said. “But we have business to discuss first. A proposition we’d like to put to you.” He cocked an eyebrow at the twins. “Which one of you would like to begin?”

After a pause, Clemente cleared his throat. “I will.”

“Well, get on with it then,” Gina prompted, when he seemed unable to decide what to say next. “It’s really easy. Just ask her if she’ll come back home with us.”

Callie’s heart quite literally stopped. For the longest second in recorded history, she hung suspended between heaven and earth, unsure where she was going to end up.

“Will you?” her son finally asked, timidly. “We’ve talked about it a lot, and we really wish you’d say yes. We didn’t think we would, but we miss you. And now that we’ve had time to think about it some more, we don’t mind that you’re our mother. It’s really quite all right, in fact.”

“Except you’re only our Other Mother,” Gina put in. “You can’t take our real mommy’s place.”

“No,” Callie whispered, those damnable tears threatening again. “I know I never could, nor would I wish to. No one can ever replace your mommy. She was much too special, to all of us.” She chanced a look at Paolo, who leaned against the kitchen counter, his face impassive. “But as far as my coming to live with you—”

“You might as well,” her pragmatic little daughter piped up. “Zio Poppa says the house is way too big for just the three of us.”

“Poppa?” Surprised, she looked his way again.

He gave another shrug. “They’re coming around, Caroline. They’re ready to deal with the truth.”

“Is that why you brought them to me?”

“Not entirely. I have my own agenda, too.” He drained his mug and set it on the counter. “Is there someplace the kids can entertain themselves with something on television, so that you and I can have a little privacy?”

“There’s a set in the living room, and although I can’t swear to it from personal experience, my married friends tell me their children love Saturday morning cartoons.”

“Good enough.” With a sweeping motion, he herded the childrentothelivingroom,andwasbackwithinminutes.Alone.

“Do you care for more coffee?” she asked, suddenly not sure she was ready to hear what he had to say.

“No,” he said, closing in on her. “I don’t need coffee, but I very much need to do this.”

He kissed her, then. At length. With his whole heart. With tenderness and restrained passion and a promise of better things to come.

“Ah, Caroline,” he murmured, when they both surfaced for air. “I’ve waited much too long to do that. And even longer to beg your forgiveness, and tell you that I cannot live with-out you.”

Afraid to burst the bubble of hope taking shape all around her, she said, “The children are too much of a handful?”

“No, tesoro. The children are exactly what they’re supposed to be. Impossible to predict, not always easy to please, and thoroughly adorable. But my being only half the equation they need leaves me too often at a loss.”

Disappointment, cold and damp as a San Francisco fog, clouded the clear surface of that magical bubble. “If you’re here because you can’t manage them on your own, the solu-tion’s pretty straightforward. Hire a nanny.”

“If that’s all it would take to ease the ache in my heart, I would. But my problem runs much deeper. Learning to be a father occupies me well enough during the day, but the long, empty hours of the nights, Caroline, are when a man must look into his heart and accept the truth that’s been lurking there for weeks.”

“You need a woman.”

“I need you.”

“Because my being the children’s birth mother makes me the best candidate for the job? We’ve gone that route once already, Paolo,” she said, the disappointment swirling around her now so thick and black it almost choked her, “and look how it ended.”

He dragged his fingers through his hair, more beside himself than she’d ever thought to see him. “Caroline, mio amore, I’m here to beg your forgiveness.”

He had tears in his eyes, she realized. They sparkled like diamonds, touching her so deeply that her heart turned over.

Shame tinting his words, he went on, “I seduced you and cast you aside without a second thought, even knowing, as I did by then, that you were an innocent, no more able to match a man of my experience than the babies you eventually bore because of me.”

“That doesn’t excuse my keeping the pregnancy from you. I should have told you right away.”

“What woman in her right mind would have risked her children’s future by confiding in such a man as I was then? Yet when we met again, both devastated by grief, you welcomed me into your arms and your bed with the same sweet gen-erosity which, if I’d not been too consumed with selfishness to recognize it, you’d given yourself to me, the first time.”

Overcome, he stopped and turned away from her. “I’m making a fool of myself, and embarrassing both of us,” he choked.

Daring to touch him, she laid a hand against his shoulder. It trembled at the contact. “Not if you’re speaking from your heart, Paolo,” she said softly. “There’s no shame in that.”

He drew in a great, shuddering breath. “I don’t need you because of the children, or because I lie alone in bed every night, aching for you. I need you because I love you, Caroline.”

The sun, shining patiently since dawn to little effect, bathed her in a flood of warm, golden light. “Love me?”

“Love you,” he reiterated shakily. “More than you can begin to know.”

“Are you sure?”

“You are my heart, my life,” he said, turning back and catching her hands. “God forgive me, I’ve known it for weeks and been too proud to admit it. But saying goodbye to you at the airport, watching you walk away, really brought it home to me. Seeing you leave…it nearly killed me, Caroline.”

“Why didn’t you say something before now, then?” she cried, mourning all the wasted days, the pain-filled hours. “I’d given up hope of ever hearing from you again.”

“There were difficulties to be ironed out, with the children, and I wanted them resolved before I came to you. We’re a package deal, I know, tesoro, but you’d been through enough. I couldn’t put you through more.” He dropped to one knee before her, and pressed her hand between both of his. “But the worst is over and I’m here now, doing the right thing for all the right reasons, and begging you to give me another chance.”

She longed to believe him. Wanted to grab the brass ring he was offering, and never let it go. But old heartache made her wary. “Does your father know you’re here, and why?”

“My father is recovering from triple bypass surgery. But yes, he knows, and if it matters any, he’s in much more mellow spirits now that his health is on the mend. He won’t give you any more grief. As for my mother, she waits anxiously to hear that I’m bringing you home again. But after all is said and done, mio amore, it’s what you want that counts.”

He gazed up at her, his expression sober, his eyes speaking volumes of uncertainty. “You already know I’m far from perfect, and always will be. As you’ve no doubt discovered for yourself, my faults are legion. But I give you my most solemn word that, if you’ll give me another chance, I’ll spend the rest of my life making our marriage something so rare and beautiful that you’ll never regret becoming my wife. One way or another, I will win your love.”

What point in pretending, when her heart was bursting to speak a truth too long held in abeyance? The time was past for playing mind games.

“Oh, Paolo,” she wept, the tears streaming down her face. “Don’t you know it’s already yours to keep, for however long we live? I’ve loved you for nine years. I couldn’t stop now, even I tried.”

His jaw dropped. “How could I have known, when you never said a word?”

“At first, I was afraid to tell you, in case I scared you off. When you proposed, you did make it clear that ours was to be a marriage of convenience, after all.”

“Caroline, after all those nights we spent together, you surely knew the terms of the contract had changed!”

“I…dared to hope. Things seemed to be different. But when you never confirmed it, I thought it was just my imagination. Not only that, but to tell you how I felt, when I knew I was keeping the secret of the children’s birth from you—well,that didn’t seem right, either. Then the truth came out anyway, but in such a way that it ripped apart the fabric of your family’s life. After that, I didn’t think you’d want to hear me say, I love you. I thought I’d left it too late, and you wouldn’t want me at any price.”

In one swift move, he was on his feet and folding her in his arms. “Not a chance,” he said huskily. “This is where you belong, next to my heart for the rest of time. Marry me, and I will never let you go again. Come home again, Caroline. Your children need you desperately, and so do I.”

“He’s telling the truth, Zia Momma,” Clemente said, apparently finding Saturday morning cartoons on television not nearly as riveting as reallife romantic drama in the kitchen.

“Yes, he is,” her daughter chipped in. “So you might as well say yes, because we got a puppy after you left, and he’s lonely without us. We need to get back to him fast, before he chews another hole in the rug.”

Disentangling herself from Paolo’s hold, Callie stepped back far enough to rest her gaze on one beloved face after another.

Her children, so beautiful, so forgiving, that she wanted to fall down on her knees and thank God for the gift of them.

Paolo, so strong and sure, he made her believe in miracles. How could she not, when three of them stood around her, close enough to touch?

She took a breath. Held open her arms and felt her heart soar as her children raced into her embrace. “I love you,” she whispered into their sweet-smelling hair. “I always have and I always will.”

“So don’t cry then,” Gina sniffled. “We decided we love you as well, so let’s just get on with it, then we can all go home. Don’t you know it’ll soon be Christmas, and we’ve been waiting for you to come back, before we put up a tree?”

She heard Paolo’s stifled laughter, felt his hand at her waist. Looked up and saw the love in his eyes, and the hope. “Well, that won’t do at all,” she said. “It takes time to put up the perfect Christmas tree. Don’t just stand there, Paolo. We’re all starving. Take us to breakfast, then take us home, my love.”

“I was hoping that would be your decision, tesoro, which is why I have the jet fueled up, breakfast already waiting on board and my pilot ready for take-off as soon as I give him the word. How long will it take you to pack?”

“No time at all,” she said, leaning into him and loving the strong steady beat of his heart beneath her hand. “Everything I need is right here in this room.”

His Inconvenient Wife

by

Melanie Milburne

Melanie Milburne says “I am married to a surgeon, Steve, and have two gorgeous sons, Paul and Phil. I live in Hobart, Tasmania, where I enjoy an active life as a long-distance runner and a nationally ranked top ten Master’s swimmer. I also have a Master’s Degree in Education, but my children totally turned me off the idea of teaching! When not running or swimming I write, and when I’m not doing all of the above I’m reading. And if someone could invent a way for me to read during a four-kilometre swim, I’d be even happier!”

Don’t miss Melanie Milburne’s exciting new novel, Castellano’s Mistress of Revenge, available February 2010 from Mills & Boon® Modern™.

To Phyll Meikle and Ina Shepherd, the Fairy Godmothers

Chapter One

SHE hated it when he was late.

Emily checked her watch for the fifteenth time and sighed. Why couldn’t Danny be on time for once? The doorbell sounded and she flew to her feet, swiftly checking her reflection in the hall mirror as she rushed past. Taking two deep, calming breaths, she opened the door with a big welcoming smile plastered on her mouth.

‘You?’ She stared at Danny’s older brother in shock. ‘What are you doing here?’

Damien Margate’s dark eyes swept over her red cocktail dress and back to her face before he responded coolly, ‘Danny can’t make it. I’ve come in his place.’

Emily’s mouth dropped open and a fluttering feeling of panic stirred deep in her stomach.

‘He’s…he’s not…hurt or something, is he?’

Damien shook his head as he moved past her and into her tiny flat.

‘Not yet,’ he said with a cryptic edge to his voice.

Emily’s eyes flew to his, her expression guarded.

‘But I don’t understand. Danny knows how important tonight is to me. Why hasn’t he phoned and told me himself he can’t make it?’

Damien shrugged in that detestably aloof way that had annoyed her the first time she’d met him.

‘Like you, I am not always party to my younger brother’s intentions. I realise how insulting it must be to you to have to tolerate my presence instead of his, but as I’m here now you can make up your own mind about whether you wish to be accompanied by me.’

She opened and closed her mouth, not trusting herself to speak. Her eyes travelled over his tall figure, imposing in the black dinner suit, his classic bow-tie perfectly sym-metrical with his collar points. Danny would’ve still been tying his as he rang the doorbell. But then, Danny was nothing like Damien.

‘I wouldn’t like to take up your valuable time,’ she began with an attempt at sarcasm. ‘I’m sure you’ve got much better things to do than escort me to a literary awards night.’

‘On the contrary.’ His eyes travelled to hers, their dark depths unreadable. ‘I had nothing better to do…this evening.’

Emily felt herself seething. How dare he come here and ridicule her? He knew how much she hated him, especially since he’d expressed his views on her proposed biography of his and Danny’s aunt, Rose. He’d accused her of ingra-tiating herself into the family in order to fabricate a parcel of lies about an old lady who could no longer defend herself.

‘No hot date tonight?’ Emily’s mouth curved into a mocking smile as she added, ‘Or did she decide to spend the evening with her husband after all?’

She knew she shouldn’t have said it almost the second the words had left her lips. His eyes hardened, their dark chocolate depths glittering with suppressed anger.

‘I take it Danny’s been filling your head with nonsense again?’ His tone gave nothing away but Emily could sense his usual iron-clad control was wavering. Knowing she’d been able to rattle his cage even slightly made her feel powerful, something she wasn’t used to feeling around Damien Margate.

‘I didn’t realise it was a family secret,’ she said recklessly. ‘At least not another one.’

He closed the gap between them in one stride, one of his hands taking her slim wrist in a gentle but firm hold. She had to crane her neck to get eye contact; he was a good four inches taller than his brother’s six feet and it made her feel intimidated, which, she was certain, had been his intention.

‘A word of advice, Miss Sherwood.’ He spoke evenly but a threat lurked behind the words. ‘You might have plans to write a book about a relative of mine, but that doesn’t give you free rein to speculate on my personal life, either publicly or privately. Is that understood?’

She tried to out-stare him but it was impossible. Her eyes flickered to the knot of his bow-tie and then back to his firm, disapproving mouth.

‘I’m not the slightest bit interested in your private life,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘If indeed you have one. Now, please let me go.’

His hold on her wrist tightened just a fraction to counter her attempt to pull away.

‘The way I see it, you have two choices. You can go to this cocktail party on your own, which will set tongues wagging on why you’re not being partnered, or you can come with me. What’s it to be?’

‘The tongues will certainly wag if I turn up with you,’ she pointed out. ‘Danny is my boyfriend, not you.’

‘Danny is unavailable this evening,’ he reminded her. ‘Won’t being partnered by me authenticate your plans to document my aunt’s life?’

She wished she could throw his offer in his face but he was right. A member of the family being present would be noted by the press and that in itself would give some sort of credibility to her book. If she went alone it could easily add to the speculation that she’d already alienated the Margate family. One whiff of a problem and her publishers would pull the plug.

She needed this next book to sell. Her agent was temperamental at the best of times, and since her last biography had floundered ignominiously she really had no choice. But why couldn’t it have been Danny who escorted her? After all, they were known to be an item and that would surely lift her profile.

‘Well?’ Damien’s hand on her arm felt like a rope burn. She could feel her skin prickling in reaction to his flesh on hers.

‘It seems I have very little choice in the matter.’ Her voice was tight with resentment.

He let her arm go but his eyes still held hers.

‘It matters little either way to me, but I would guess this evening is of paramount importance to you. Isn’t that correct?’

She’d been nominated for a small award, along with two other biographers. Promotion, particularly self-promotion, wasn’t her thing but her agent had insisted.

‘I need the advance buzz. This is going to be an important book,’ she said somewhat breathlessly. ‘People want to know about the private lives of celebrities.’

‘They deserve to know the truth,’ he said, ‘not some fabricated fairy story guaranteed to boost sales.’

Emily gave him a challenging look.

‘Why should you care? I’m not planning to write anything about you.’

‘I can assure you, Miss Sherwood, that if you so much as write a single word about me you’ll personally answer to the consequences.’

‘Oh?’ She gave him a scathing look. ‘Is that supposed to frighten me? If so, I’m afraid it won’t be successful. I plan to write a book about your aunt and nothing you say is going to stop me.’

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ His eyes glittered dangerously. ‘You might have wrapped my younger brother around one of those quick-typing little fingers of yours but I’m another story entirely.’

Something about him made her uneasy. She hadn’t felt so reprimanded since high school, when she’d forgotten to bring her gym gear to class. Damn him for making her feel so childish and irresponsible. She’d show him! Let him do his worst—tonight was her chance to haul herself out of financial ruin and nothing he could say or do was going to stop her.

She schooled her features into a guileless smile.

‘I understand perfectly, Mr Margate. I am very honoured that you’ve seen fit to accompany me to this cocktail party in place of your brother. I’ll just get my wrap and we can get going.’

She flounced away to snatch up her purse and wrap, a victorious little smile hovering around her mouth. He might think he could threaten her with his diamond-sharp gaze but she still held the upper hand. There were things about him he had no idea she knew. It gave her a much needed boost of confidence to imagine his reaction when she finally dished the dirt on him and the rest of his family.

The cocktail party was in full swing when they arrived. Emily’s agent, Clarice Connor, came towards them, a vision in voluminous carmine chiffon, a glass of champagne raised in a toast.

‘Darling! How fashionably late you are.’ She air-kissed Emily’s smooth cheeks before eyeing Damien up and down. ‘My, my, my,’ she drooled, ‘the older brother instead. How clever of you, Emily.’

‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’ Damien extended a hand, his expression shuttered.

Clarice took his hand, clasping it towards her ample bosom. ‘The pleasure’s all mine. How wonderful that you could come tonight.’ She turned to Emily. ‘Where’s the boy?’

Emily’s mouth tightened when she saw the sardonic gleam in Damien’s eyes at Clarice’s words.

‘He’s—’

‘He sends his apologies,’ Damien cut in before Emily could think of something to say. ‘Something important cropped up.’

‘Well—’ Clarice waved a careless taloned hand ‘—he’s served his purpose, hasn’t he, my love?’

Emily felt her cheeks storm with colour.

‘But how nice that you could make it.’ Clarice simpered at Damien. ‘I mean, with your busy social schedule and all.’

Damien gave her a slight nod.

‘I’m sure this evening will be very worthwhile,’ he said with a cool smile.

‘Indeed.’ Clarice turned towards Emily. ‘There’s a journo from the Melbourne Age who wants to interview you. I’ve spoken to him about making an appointment but he insists on speaking to you this evening. I think you should do what you can to promote this new project as much as possible, even if it means mixing with people you wouldn’t normally mix with.’ At that she gave Damien a meaningful look, but he had already turned to speak to someone who’d just arrived.

Emily watched as the elegant woman approached him, her clinging black dress outlining her stunning curves as she walked across the floor.

‘Damien! How lovely to see you.’

Something in Damien’s face must have warned the woman of the presence of Emily. She gave Emily an all-encompassing look.

‘Hello. Are you someone important?’

Emily didn’t know quite what to make of the woman’s greeting. She flicked a glance at Damien but his face, as usual, was impassive.

‘Nerolie, this is Emily Sherwood,’ Damien said. ‘Miss Sherwood, this is Nerolie Highstock.’

Nerolie’s eyes didn’t quite reflect the smile that hovered about her thin lips. ‘Oh, are you a writer as well? I’m afraid I’d never heard of you until this evening.’

As insults went it was well aimed. Emily knew she didn’t qualify for the Booker Prize, but her first book had been well received and moderately successful even if her last hadn’t quite made the top ten. Nerolie enjoyed the top ten status her only book had achieved with prima donna fastidiousness. Emily wasn’t one to criticise her success, even if she privately thought it had been a matter of being in the right place at the right time, which in Nerolie’s case had been her agent’s bed.

‘I suppose that depends on the genre one reads,’ Emily said cuttingly.

Nerolie chose to ignore that and turned to Damien.

‘I suppose you’re here to make sure Miss Sherwood be-haves herself? I’ve heard she was quite ruthless with the skeletons in the previous closets she’s raided.’

‘So—’ Emily met the other woman’s cold eyes with a flash of fire in her own ‘—you have read my other books? I thought you hadn’t heard of me before?’

Nerolie gave her a sweeping glance.

‘I’m afraid, Miss Sherwood, I have no time for the money-making mud-raking that constitutes most of today’s unauthorised biographies. I prefer fact to fiction every time.’

‘And how do you decide just what is fact and what is fiction?’ Emily queried.

Nerolie Highstock’s cold grey eyes hardened. ‘I’ve always believed in getting things straight from the horse’s mouth.’

‘And what if the horse refuses to speak?’ Emily asked, flicking a glance towards the tall, silent figure between them.

Nerolie’s thin mouth tightened before she responded chillingly, ‘I’m sure there are some horses that are best left alone. You’d do well to acknowledge that, Miss Sherwood, before one of them kicks you in retaliation.’ With that parting shot she swung away to speak to another guest, and Emily smiled a self-satisfied little cat’s smile.

‘Miaow,’ Damien breathed just near her left shoulder.

She felt the warm brush of his breath on her bare skin and shivered in reaction. She stepped away from him, glaring up at his mocking expression.

‘I wasn’t aware you were on intimate terms with the likes of Ms Highstock. What a pity she doesn’t have a husband to make the chase all the more alluring.’

The fire in his eyes could have burned her if it hadn’t been for the timely arrival of the guest of honour. The chief editor of the publishing house tapped the microphone as a prelude to his speech and all eyes turned towards the small podium.

Emily felt the steely presence of Damien Margate at her back. He wasn’t quite touching her, but she knew if she moved even a fraction backwards she would encounter his rock-hard frame. As if under the influence of a magnetic field, all the way through the loquacious speech Emily felt her body threatening to betray her by rocking backwards to touch him. She had to will herself to stand perfectly still—every muscle tense, every nerve under tight control just in case she gave in to the temptation.

She was concentrating so hard she missed her name. She suddenly became aware of everyone’s eyes on her and, stumbling forward, approached the podium. She knew she’d been nominated for the award for her first book, but had put any thought of success out of her mind after the collapse of her second. The small award presented to her totally surprised her.

Afterwards, she couldn’t quite recall what she had said. She knew she’d thanked Clarice and her two editors, but apart from that it was all a blur. Her mouth spoke, words spilling out in a more or less educated and articulate order, but all the while she felt the cold hard stare of Damien Margate, which made her palms resting on the lectern moisten as she gripped its edges for support.

Several people swarmed around her afterwards for au-tographs and she was grateful for the reprieve. She wasn’t looking forward to the drive home, feeling sure there would be hell to pay for her reckless taunts earlier.

She didn’t know what had come over her tonight. It really was none of her business what Damien got up to in his private life. His aloof carriage was an attraction for her, she conceded privately, but only because she was a writer and such guarded subjects held a certain appeal. It was absolutely nothing to do with him personally. He didn’t even have the boy-next-door good looks which caused her to gravitate towards Danny. Danny’s playboy blue eyes and fly-away blond curls were what she went for, not the dark and brooding, too-tall-to-kiss features of someone like Damien.

She cast a covert glance towards him across the crowded room and was startled to see him looking at her. She felt her cheeks grow warm, turned to the next person waiting for her autograph in the queue and distractedly scribbled something on the flyleaf of her first book.

Eventually the evening came to a close and Emily had no choice but to face Damien, who was waiting to one side as the last of the guests farewelled her.

‘Thank you for coming.’ Emily smiled, shaking the last of the hands.

Clarice had already made her way out, and short of handing out freebies to the catering staff Emily had no choice but to pick up her evening purse and join Damien.

‘Ready?’ He looked down at her flushed features, a sa-tirical smile lurking about his firm mouth.

‘I…yes.’ She gathered her wrap around her shoulders. ‘But I can easily get a cab. I wouldn’t want to interrupt any of your plans for the rest of the evening.’

‘You seem in rather a hurry to get rid of me,’ he observed. ‘I would’ve thought you’d relish the opportunity to milk the situation for all it’s worth.’

A frown of puzzlement settled between her brows and he continued, ‘You could conduct your own private interview with me. Who knows what you might find out to put in your next book?’

Emily shifted her eyes from the piercing laser of his.

‘I have no wish to interview you, or indeed spend any more time with you than is absolutely necessary out of common politeness. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to use the bathroom. I’ll meet you in the foyer in…five minutes.’ She swung away, her head high, and walked stiffly towards the conveniences.

Her exit was only slightly spoilt by her cannoning into an elderly gentleman coming out of the male toilet on her own way in. Emily bolted inside the correct door, her colour high.

She stood in front of the gilt-edged mirror and took some calming breaths. Her hair was tumbling out of its restraint on top of her head, falling in curly tendrils around her cheeks. Her blue eyes looked wide, the dark pupils dilated, the lashes fluttering as if in panic.

She washed the dampness off her hands and quickly made her way out of the bathroom. Instead of heading for the foyer she turned towards the nearest fire escape and tiptoed down the echoing stairs to freedom.

The night had cooled somewhat and the street was packed with crowds spilling out of Sydney’s theatres and cinemas. Emily joined the bustling throng and made her way towards a small café three blocks away, which she and Danny had been to many times. She pushed open the glass doors and scanned the room for a quiet corner in which to gather herself until she felt it was safe to go home without running into Damien.

Her eyes came to rest on a fly-away blond head in the left corner. It was bending towards a bright red-gold female head, hands entwined intimately on the table between them.

Her breath caught in her throat and her stomach clenched in shock. Just then a large hand settled on her shoulder and she felt the warm presence of Damien Margate brush her body from behind.

‘My car’s just outside if you’d still like a lift.’

Emily turned past his broad shoulder and stumbled blindly from the café. She pushed herself through the clots of people, almost turning her ankle as she tripped on a discarded beer can.

She felt him grasp her elbow. She didn’t pull away, and his fingers slid down her arm and took her hand into the strength of his.

‘Come on.’ He gave her hand a little tug. ‘This way—my car is down here.’

She followed him silently, her hand still captured in his, her mind tumbling with images of Danny and her replace-ment sitting together at the very table where she’d sat with him, discussing their plans for the future.

A single tear escaped before she could stop it and she brushed it away viciously. Damien flicked her a glance before unlocking his car.

‘Come on, get in. I have something I wish to say to you.’

Emily got in without a word. Shock and dismay still pumped through her veins, as well as a deep resentment that Damien Margate of all people was sole witness to it.

Chapter Two

EMILY didn’t realise till it was too late that he’d not taken the route to her apartment. Instead he had turned the car towards Double Bay and pulled in before an imposing house of mansion-like proportions.

‘I want to go home,’ she said in a petulant tone.

‘I’ll take you home when I’ve finished with you.’

Emily wasn’t sure she liked the ominous edge to his words. What could he possibly want to say to her? A flutter of panic flapped in her stomach like the wings of a startled bird. Surely he didn’t intend to hurt her? She glanced at him covertly and tried to reassure herself. She’d interviewed dangerous criminals whilst researching her second book, through the grille of a prison cubicle with armed guards beside her. Who was going to come to her aid if Damien Margate had something sinister planned?

She followed him mutinously into the large house, her eyes widening at the opulent marble in the foyer as he opened the front door. Inside, a bronze statue of a young Rose held pride of place, the subtle down-lighting casting her beautiful features in relief. Emily stood transfixed, her fingers aching to reach out and touch the classic lines of the exquisite face.

‘She was only nineteen when she posed for that,’ Damien said from just behind her left shoulder.

‘She…she’s beautiful,’ Emily breathed. ‘Who’s the sculptor?’

He moved towards one of the formal rooms, signalling for her to follow him.

‘No one you’d know.’

‘Try me,’ she said, intrigued.

He shook his head.

‘It was never meant to be a public piece so there’s no point telling. He’s long dead, and Rose—’ he shrugged himself out of his dinner suit jacket ‘—Rose isn’t around to give her permission.’

‘Where is she?’ Emily asked, already knowing his answer. ‘Danny insisted he didn’t know but surely you do?’

His eyes held hers for a long moment.

‘Rose is where people like you cannot harm her, and for as long as I have breath that’s where she’ll stay.’

‘But that’s hardly fair on her adoring public,’ Emily pointed out. ‘The mystery surrounding her disappearance from public life has intensified speculation. All you’d have to do is release a statement about her whereabouts and people would leave her alone.’

His face clouded with anger as he loosened his tie and flung it towards his jacket over the back of one of the plush leather sofas.

‘I’ve seen what the public do to people they no longer have any use for,’ he said. ‘Anyway, why should I give you the privilege of that information? You’d have it in the press within minutes and a hefty cheque in your bank account to follow. I’ve seen how you work. What you don’t know you make up and the public fall for it.’

‘I wasn’t aware you took such an active interest in my work.’

‘I’m not interested. I just know how people like you operate. That’s what this little interlude with Danny was all about, wasn’t it?’

‘What?’ She stared at him.

He gave a harsh laugh.

‘Don’t bother pretending to be broken-hearted over his defection. No doubt you’ve milked him dry for all the inside information. Now you’ve got what you need for your book it shouldn’t take all that long to get over him.’

Emily’s face drained of colour. ‘Danny and I were—’

‘Did you sleep with him?’ he asked baldly.

‘That’s none of your business.’

He shrugged carelessly. ‘I was just wondering how far someone like you would go. I assume you’d stop at nothing to get what you want.’

‘You’re disgusting,’ she spat.

He gave her a wry look. ‘But you picked the wrong brother, didn’t you?’

Emily clenched her fists by her sides and wished she had the courage to slap his face.

‘I mean you should have worked on me instead. I’m Rose’s power of attorney, not Danny. He knows nothing of Rose’s affairs.’

‘I wouldn’t lower myself—’ She left the rest of the sentence hanging, her derisive expression filling in the rest.

He gave a harsh laugh as he reached for the door of the drinks cabinet in the wall unit. ‘Danny was playing with you just as much as you were playing with him. You both got what you deserved.’

‘So where do you fit in?’ she asked. ‘Why the Sir Galahad routine tonight? Or did you want to witness my fall from grace?’

He poured two measures of brandy into two glasses and handed her one before he spoke.

‘Danny is a coward when it comes to confrontation. As for me—’ he raised his glass towards her ‘—I love a fight.’

Emily felt like throwing the brandy in his face and had to tighten her fingers around the glass to stop herself from doing so.

‘All the same, I bet you enjoyed it.’ She flashed him a malevolent glare. ‘In fact, you couldn’t have planned it better.’

‘I had no idea he was going to be in that café tonight.’

‘Didn’t you?’ she accused.

‘I’m not so callous as to rub your nose in it like that, whatever you might think of me. Danny called me and asked if I’d fill in for him tonight—end of story.’

‘How magnanimous of you!’ She gave him a withering look. ‘Tell me, what else did he ask you to do for him?’

‘I do have some limits.’ He reached for his glass. ‘Sleeping with the enemy is one of them.’

She almost choked on her brandy. ‘As if I’d let you!’

His eyes ran over her speculatively as he twirled his glass.

‘You’d do anything for a story, isn’t that how it goes?’

‘Not quite anything.’

He laughed and sipped at his brandy.

‘You look like some Victorian virgin, compromised by the head of the household, but you’re hardly that, are you? I’ve heard about your little affair with the subject of your first book. It didn’t quite pay dividends, though, did it? Although perhaps tonight’s award is some sort of late compensation.’

‘You can’t believe everything you read in the press,’ she said, taking a huge gulp of brandy.

‘Oh?’ His dark brows lifted. ‘What happened? Did he get sick of sharing a bed with a notebook? I can imagine it must be quite off-putting to be cornered with an interview pad in one’s more intimate moments.’

‘Better than being cornered by one’s partner’s husband,’ she put in.

His glass clinked on to the surface of the table with a sharp snap.

‘You’re very determined to spar with me, aren’t you? But I wonder if you have what it really takes?’

‘Try me,’ she challenged. ‘I can give as good as I get.’

‘That remains to be seen.’

She sipped at her brandy, her eyes averted.

‘You’re very close to Rose, aren’t you?’ she asked after a long pause.

‘You’ll have to try a little harder with me if you want information.’ He gave his glass another twirl.

‘I wouldn’t waste my time. You haven’t got anything I want anyway.’

‘You seem very sure of that,’ he commented.

‘What are you offering?’

‘What do you want?’

She took another careful sip of her drink before responding.

‘I’d like to know why Rose disappeared from public life.’

‘I thought it was common knowledge she’s become an alcoholic recluse,’ he said evenly.

Emily bit her lip. Danny had told her that story was true. She hadn’t made up her mind yet whether to assert it as a fact, but she knew if her agent got wind of it she’d insist on releasing it. It was sure to boost sales, and sales were what she needed most.

‘I have it on good authority,’ she began uncertainly.

‘You picked the wrong authority,’ he said. ‘I’ve already consulted my legal representatives. That’s what I wanted to discuss with you tonight.’

Emily’s eyes widened in alarm. She could tell by the look on his face that something of great import was coming.

‘I want you to withdraw your plans to write the book.’

She stared at him in shock.

‘You…you can’t be serious!’ She plonked her barely touched drink on to the nearest surface, uncaring that some of it spilled over the sides and dribbled towards the cream carpet.

‘Write it and be sued—your choice.’

She swallowed the bile of fear in her throat.

‘So this is why you escorted me tonight?’ she threw at him venomously. ‘It wasn’t to protect me from your brother’s perfidy—it was to deliver your own fatal blow.’

Damien put his own drink aside and faced her. ‘I don’t wish to personally harm you in any way,’ he said, ‘but I must insist on protecting my family at all costs.’

‘So destroying my writing career doesn’t come into it at all?’

He hesitated over his reply.

‘There are always casualties in these types of situations. It’s nothing personal.’

‘Don’t make me laugh!’ she scoffed at him. ‘You’re intent on bringing me down, aren’t you?’

‘Nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, I feel rather sorry for you.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘You’re a pawn in the game. People like you are always the ones who lose in the end.’

Emily’s eyes flashed with the fire of resentment. ‘Please enlighten me. I’m sure you’re absolutely dying to anyway.’

He gave another of those could-mean-anything shrugs.

‘You’re under the thumb of your agent and editors. It’s my guess that half the time you’re writing what they want, not what you really want to write at all.’

Emily suddenly felt exposed, vulnerable.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said off-handedly. ‘I write what the public wants to read.’

‘Lies? Conjecture?’

‘No. The truth.’

He gave a rough snort of disbelief as he reached again for his drink.

‘You’re as deluded as the public who read you. You wouldn’t recognise the truth if it laid itself out in front of you.’

‘OK, then,’ she challenged. ‘Tell me the truth. Why has Rose disappeared from public life? If you’re such an advocate for the truth then enlighten me.’

‘What? And have you fund your pension by revealing the private arrangements of an old lady who no longer wishes to be in the public eye?’

‘She was in the public eye for over thirty-five years. Surely that counts for something?’

‘No. Not if she doesn’t desire it,’ he said. ‘Celebrities are not public property unless they give their permission to be so. Rose decided that enough was enough and the rest of her years should be spent in seclusion. I respect that and so should you.’

‘But why all the secrecy?’ Emily asked. ‘Lots of celebrities quietly retreat from public life without question. Rose’s sudden departure has fuelled the public’s interest. One statement from you and I could tie up all the loose ends and she could live the rest of her life in peace.’

‘You never give up, do you?’ He eyeballed her over the rim of his brandy glass. ‘Always on the hunt for information, always the investigative journalist.’

Emily reclaimed her glass and took a tentative sip. She didn’t drink brandy as a rule, but didn’t want to appear unsophisticated in his company.

‘I’m committed to providing the public with what they want.’

‘Even if you hurt innocent people in the process?’

Emily bit her lip once more. She was still haunted by the images of the parents of the target of her previous book. They’d pleaded with her to represent him differently but she’d had to follow her agent’s directions.

‘I do what I’m told to do.’

‘Well, I’m telling you to halt the book. Write something else. Anything but a book about my aunt.’

‘I can’t do that. That award I received will ensure my success. My agent is already pushing for a contract from my publisher.’

He reached for his jacket, which was lying across the sofa.

‘How much?’ he asked, fanning open the leather pouch of his wallet. ‘I can cover your losses. How much?’

Emily felt sick, cheapened by his implied insult.

‘You couldn’t afford me,’ she stated in a flat tone.

One of his dark brows lifted.

‘I could cover your costs and set you up for a new book. Something a little less controversial.’

‘Controversy sells,’ she said. ‘I need sales or my career is over.’

‘How much?’ he asked again, brandishing his wallet.

Emily gave him a scornful look. ‘Is that what you say to all the girls?’

His expression clouded. ‘I’m making you a generous offer—take it or leave it.’

‘I’ll leave it,’ she said arrogantly. ‘I’ve got a lot riding on the release of this new book.’

‘You’re willing to risk everything for it?’ he asked.

‘Do your worst, Mr Margate.’ She glared at him. ‘I’m not frightened of you.’

‘You should be,’ he warned. ‘I have the means to totally destroy your literary career.’

‘I’m increasingly fascinated as to why you would want to,’ she said archly. ‘It seems to me you’re very threatened by the exposure my proposed book represents. It makes me start to wonder exactly what it is you’re so protective of. According to my sources, you and Danny have had very little to do with Rose over the last fifteen years. I can’t help wondering why you’d be so motivated to protect her now.’

‘Tell me, Miss Sherwood.’ His eyes held hers with determination. ‘Do you come from a close family?’

Emily lowered her gaze and concentrated on the amber fluid in her glass. ‘I have two siblings. My parents died some years ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She looked up at him. There was a sincerity about his simple comment that touched her unexpectedly.

‘It’s OK,’ she said dismissively. ‘My…family have never been close. My parents divorced when I was four. I’m used to being alone.’

Damien perched on the edge of one of the leather sofas and cupped his brandy balloon in one large hand.

‘Is that why you’ve chosen to write biographies?’

‘What do you mean?’

He twirled the glass in his hand reflectively.

‘Writing about other people’s families must answer some sort of need of your own, surely?’

She decided against responding to his comments and instead wandered out of his line of vision to inspect the walnut bookcase. He was certainly an eclectic reader, she observed, but there was no sign of an Emily Sherwood title. The tinge of pique she experienced was both unexpected and unsettling.

‘Isn’t that why you delve into other people’s private lives? To make up for the close family you didn’t have yourself?’ he added.

‘I find people’s lives interesting.’ She turned to face him again. ‘Even those who aren’t famous in any way. It has nothing to do with me personally. Besides—’ she gave him a provocative look ‘—it’s about making money—lots of money.’

‘You callous little bitch,’ he snarled, tossing his wallet on to the coffee table. ‘This isn’t about money at all. This is about power, isn’t it? Danny’s unfaithfulness has given you even more reason to hurt the Margate name now, hasn’t it?’

Emily tried to outstare him but his eyes were burning with a hatred that frightened her. She drained her brandy and put the empty glass down with a betraying little clatter on to the coffee table next to his abandoned wallet.

‘You have a very poor notion of a biographer’s life if you think I would spend months of my life researching a book at great personal cost to simply abandon the task just because one of the relatives couldn’t keep his fly zipped.’

Damien’s eyes narrowed as he stood before her.

‘Danny and Louise Morse have been on and off together for months. If you’re such a hot-shot investigative journalist you should’ve picked that up from the outset.’

Emily’s face suffused with colour but she maintained her poise. Damien Margate was a formidable opponent but he had a lot to lose. Danny had been a pleasant and entertaining distraction for her—useful too, in providing her with access to family albums and journals. But she hadn’t been in love with Danny by any means. She’d been toying with the idea of sleeping with him, however, and that did make her feel very foolish. She didn’t usually make those sorts of errors of judgement.

‘Perhaps I’m like you,’ she taunted him rashly. ‘I don’t mind sharing.’

He moved quickly, and the sofa behind her blocked her exit so effectively that she suddenly found herself jammed up against his chest, his long strong legs tangling with her shaky ones.

‘I seem to remember warning you about making careless statements about my private life.’ He glowered down at her. ‘But you don’t listen to warnings, do you?’

Her voice, when it came out, seemed to be squeezed out of her chest. ‘I…I’m not frightened of you.’

‘Yes, you are.’ One of his fingers lifted her chin to make her meet his diamond-sharp eyes. ‘You’ve got everything resting on this new book, haven’t you? And I’ve got every reason to stop you from writing it.’

‘You can’t stop me.’

‘Oh, can’t I?’ The light of challenge in his eyes made her stomach free-fall in panic.

‘I’ll fight you.’

‘Go on, then.’ He gave a half-grunt of mocking laughter. ‘Fight me.’

She ached to scratch his face. Every nerve in her body wanted to claw at him, bring him to his knees, turn the tables on him so it was him begging, not her.

She met his eyes, her breath catching in her throat at his nearness. His face was so close, his eyes burning into hers. Her legs threatened to dissolve beneath her and yet she didn’t have either the strength to pull away or the inclination. Part of her wanted to find out just how far he would go. That same part of her wanted to see if she could push him that little bit further…

His mouth found hers, shocking her with its heat and purpose. This wasn’t a kiss of experimentation; this was a kiss of premeditated punishment. His firm lips opened over her startled mouth and he entered it with a single thrust of his tongue that sent her rocking backwards, but his strong arms around her gave her no choice but to stay imprinted along the length of his probing and insistent frame.

She should have been fighting him, but instead of her hands pushing him away they grasped at his shirt sleeves, her fingernails embedding in the silky fabric, pulling him even closer to her fevered body.

His tongue duelled with hers moistly. Heat flicked along her veins, ran up her legs and pooled between her thighs where his very male body was imprinting a message older than time.

One of his hands left the back of her head and slipped under the tiny shoestring strap of her cocktail dress. The flimsy ribbon-like strap fell away and the crest of one creamy breast was before his hungry eyes. She could feel the heat of his gaze as his eyes travelled over the smooth, proud mound, the dusky redness of her nipple clearly visible as the strap slipped a little further.

His mouth found the sensitive skin of her neck, his tongue grazing the underside of her jaw, trailing a relentless path back to her waiting mouth.

‘No!’

Somehow she found the strength of will to push him from her. She stood in disarray before him—her mouth swollen with his kisses, her breasts burgeoning from his touch, her legs shaking from the heat of his maleness pressing against her so intimately.

‘No?’ His dark eyes were sardonic, his mouth a thin line of derision.

She had to look away. His satirical gaze made her feel cheap and colour flooded her face.

‘I won’t tell Danny,’ he said insultingly. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

Emily felt sick. The nausea rose like a tide in her stom-ach. How had she got herself into this situation? Her big night of fame had turned into a farce of mammoth proportions. He’d swiftly manoeuvred the situation so that it was she who was cast in the role of the fool. He was in control, had been from the first, and was now just waiting for an opportunity to dispense with her for good.

‘If you think you can manipulate me by such means, think again,’ she spat at him. ‘I’m well used to the groping hands of desperate men, and I know how to deal with them.’

One dark eyebrow rose expressively. ‘I would hardly describe myself as desperate, but please enlighten me all the same.’

‘You’re just like all the rest.’ Her eyes flashed with hatred. ‘You think you can snap your fingers and women will come running, but I’ve got news for you. I know the only women you’ve had have been other men’s cast-offs, and I’m not going to add myself to the list.’

Emily knew she’d gone way too far. The glitter of venom in his dark eyes impaled her to the spot. He was just a breath away, and she flinched as one of his hands circled her wrist and tugged her back into the wall of his chest.

‘Not only are the words you write dangerous,’ he rasped. ‘So are the ones that come out of that delectable mouth of yours. But I’m going to make you regret every one of them.’

‘I told you—you don’t frighten me,’ she gasped as his rock-hard pelvis collided with hers.

‘You have one week to come to a decision,’ he contin-ued, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘If at the end of that week you have failed to withdraw your proposal to write this book, any further dealings we have will be via my lawyers.’

‘You can’t do that!’

His eyes glinted challengingly. ‘Watch me.’

Panic beat a tattoo in her chest. If her publisher got wind of a threatened suit they’d pull the plug immediately, with-out sparing her a single thought.

She pushed herself away from him and, snatching up her purse and wrap, headed for the door.

‘I’ll take you home,’ he said, reaching for his keys.

She swung around to glare at him.

‘I’d rather crawl on my knees than accept a lift from you.’ She wrenched open the front door of his house and flung back at him, ‘I’ll see you in court.’

Chapter Three

EMILY hailed the first cab she could and sat shivering in the back seat, her heart thumping with adrenalin as she recalled Damien Margate’s threats. The familiar lights of the city blurred in front of her agitated eyes as she contem-plated her next move.

She didn’t have the means to fight someone like Damien. Her literary career was already hanging by a thread—her agent, Clarice, had warned her only a few days ago of the importance of the success of this next book.

Emily paid her fare and stood looking up at her tiny apartment as the taxi drove away. She’d worked so hard to have a place to call her own. The success of her first biography about a prominent politician had paid the deposit and furnished it. The failure of her second book had rattled her security somewhat, but she’d clung on with fervent promises to her bank manager as well as a part-time job at a local restaurant.

She dreamed of the day when she could write full-time, but so far that possibility had eluded her. So she scratched at bits of notepaper and tapped at her old lap-top whenever she could, working frantically to deadlines, trying hard to please editors and pandering to Clarice, who claimed to believe in her but often acted as if she couldn’t wait to weasel her way out of her contract.

Emily sighed as she waited for the lift. She wouldn’t give in without a fight, even if it took every ounce of courage she had. Damien Margate probably thought he could scare her with a few idle threats but she’d show him. She had all weekend to plan her counter-attack.

She slept fitfully, too wound up to relax enough to drop off. As soon as eight o’clock came around she called Clarice, who answered the phone groggily. ‘Yes?’

‘Clarice, it’s me, Emily. I want to go on tour to promote Rose’s Cupboard.’

Emily heard the sound of Clarice’s bedsprings protesting.

‘But you haven’t written it yet.’

‘So what? I won that award. People will go out and buy my previous titles. I want you to ring around and organise as many book signings as you can for Going For Vote. And not just bookshops—I’ll do shopping centres, radio shows and breakfast television.’

‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this,’ Clarice said. ‘You told me after Tyson’s Trial you were never going to self-promote again.’

‘I know, I know—but this is different.’

‘Does the boy know about this?’ Clarice asked.

‘This has absolutely nothing to do with Danny,’ Emily said firmly.

‘What about that brother of his? I don’t suppose this was his idea?’

‘Damien Margate is a stuck-up prig who probably hasn’t read anything but the Financial Times since high school. I want to promote myself, and nothing and no one is going to stop me.’

‘Attagirl!’ Clarice cheered. ‘Give me a couple of hours—I’ll see what I can organise at short notice.’

‘Thanks, Clarice,’ she said. ‘You won’t be sorry. I know this one’s going to be a hit.’

‘Yes, well, it’d better be, my love. We can’t afford another disaster like Tyson’s Trial. That sort of bad publicity is best left for movie stars, not authors and agents.’

Emily hated being reminded of her book about a young offender. When Tyson had committed suicide behind bars it seemed everyone had blamed her, including his distraught family. It had taken her months to even think of writing again, and then only because of a chance encounter with Danny.

He’d come into the restaurant where she worked and as she’d served him he’d chatted to her in a flirting and easy-going manner. When he’d signed his credit card she’d noticed the Margate name. She’d made some comment about the famous stage actress Rose Margate, who had taken the theatre world by storm, only to mysteriously disappear from public view without so much as a departing interview.

‘She’s my aunt,’ he’d said, pocketing his credit card, his light-blue eyes glinting at hers.

Emily had taken up his offer of a late-night drink somewhere. That somewhere had been his plush Northbridge apartment, and that evening had restarted her writing career with a bang.

Clarice Connor had been beside herself once Emily’s synopsis landed on her desk. ‘An unauthorised biography of Rose Margate? Wonderful, darling! But do you have to sleep with this Boy Wonder to get all the inside info?’

‘Not yet—’ Emily had laughed ‘—but it’s tempting.’

She hadn’t known about Danny’s older brother until Damien had come to the restaurant one evening with an elegantly dressed woman on his arm. She’d seen his name in the reservations book and was too much of a journalist not to notice the gold wedding band almost embedded into the flesh of his date’s left ring finger. Danny had told her of his brother’s affair with a prominent businessman’s wife but he’d insisted on her not mentioning anything to do with his brother in her book. Emily had been intrigued, of course, but after a while had taken it to mean that Danny was just being protective.

Rose’s Cupboard had proved to be much harder to research than she’d expected. Danny had been generous, handing her various letters and photo albums and two dogeared childhood journals. The library had provided numerous paper clippings, and several theatres had shown her through their archives, where Rose’s beautiful face adorned many a promotional poster. But, while Emily had been able to piece together Rose’s early years and much of her per-forming years, there were still yawning gaps that made the task of documenting her life extremely difficult.

She’d probed Danny for relatives and friends to interview, but it seemed the Margate family didn’t have many close friends and what relatives there were, such as Damien, were very tight-lipped.

At last she had decided to approach Damien Margate one more time. He was, after all, Rose’s power of attorney. Perhaps he might come to agree with her that Rose’s adoring fans genuinely deserved to know what had become of her.

Emily had made an appointment at his office and sat fidgeting in his plush waiting room for over an hour. Somehow she’d known the delay was deliberate.

When he’d finally summoned her into his office she had had to fight to keep her temper under control. Irritated with having to wait, annoyed at being treated like a persistent fly, she had plastered a determined smile on her face and taken the seat he’d offered on the other side of his desk.

‘What can I do for you, Miss Sherwood?’ he drawled, ignoring his own chair to remain standing behind the expanse of his desk. ‘Are you after some financial advice?’

Emily worked even harder on her smile, resenting him even more for not sitting down and giving her craning neck a rest.

‘I was hoping we could have a talk about your aunt—’

‘No.’ His single word was delivered both adamantly and sharply.

Emily took a calming breath and tried again. ‘But what if you were the main collaborator on the biography?’ she asked. ‘I’d only write what you wanted me to write. You’d have total control.’

Damien’s hawk-like eyes pierced her blue gaze.

‘I told you before, I have no intention of revealing information about my aunt to anyone, and most particularly not to you.’

Emily clenched her hands in her lap, desperately fighting the desire to slam them down on his desk in frustration. She was certain he could tell she was losing her cool and it made her all the more determined not to do so. All the same, her nails had imprinted themselves in her palms by the time she trusted herself to speak once more.

‘But wouldn’t it be better for someone like me to work closely with the family, to present the public with the truth, rather than allow the constant speculation to continue?’ She forced herself to meet and hold his hard gaze. ‘The various rumours that have circulated about her disappearance after her last performance haven’t been all that flattering.’

There was a lengthy pause before he came from behind his desk in two easy strides and stood before her. Emily shifted in her seat, her throat threatening to close over as she had to crane her neck even further to hold his gaze.

‘Just how closely are you prepared to work with my family?’ he asked in a voice as smooth as velvet.

Emily swallowed. ‘I…really want to do this book. I’m prepared to do whatever it takes.’

One of his brows rose speculatively. ‘How very intriguing. I don’t think I’ve met anyone quite so passionate about their work before.’ His dark gaze followed the path of her nervous tongue, snaking out to moisten her dry lips. ‘It makes me wonder if all that passion could have some other, more pleasurable outlet.’

Emily could feel the warmth of his body within inches of hers. She’d only have to lift one of her damp hands from under her thighs where she’d trapped them to touch him. Her stomach hollowed at the thought of those hard thighs touching hers, that strong mouth commandeering hers, those masculine hands touching her in places she secretly ached to be touched…

‘I…I think it’s time I left,’ she croaked, getting to her feet with no trace of her usual grace and ease of movement. On the way up her foot caught the edge of the chair-leg and pitched her forward awkwardly. He caught her easily, steadying her in the strong band of his arms, his warm, minty breath caressing her startled face.

‘What’s the hurry, Miss Sherwood? Or perhaps I should call you Emily, since you’re so keen on getting up close and personal with my family?’

Emily tensed as she felt his hands slide down her arms to grasp both of hers in his. She felt the brush of his thighs against hers and her breathing quickened in spite of her earlier determination to maintain a cool composure in his disturbing presence.

‘Let me go,’ she said, wishing she didn’t sound quite so breathless.

She felt his hands tighten fractionally on hers.

‘But I thought you wanted to get close to us Margates?’ he taunted, pulling her even closer into his body. ‘Really close.’

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she said, and tried to remove herself from his iron grasp, but his hold, though unbruising, was very firm.

‘I’m disappointed. I thought you had more spirit.’

‘I’ve got more sense than to allow you to—’

‘Allow me to what? Kiss you?’ His eyes caught her defiant ones. ‘Or what if I were to take it one step further?’

‘I’ll scream,’ she warned. ‘And I’ll report you for assault. You have no right to hold me against my will like this, and I—‘

His mouth closed over her tirade and her instant response to his lips on hers betrayed her even further. Her mouth opened under the pressure of his searching tongue as his hard thighs ground against the softness of hers. His tongue explored her mouth at a leisurely pace, and although a part of her knew she should be clawing at his face to stop him her hands had somehow found their way around his neck instead, and embedded themselves into the thick pelt of his dark hair just above his collar.

He let her go abruptly and she almost fell, clutching at the edge of his desk for support.

‘I can see why Danny’s so taken with you,’ he said, putting her from him. ‘But I’m not going to fall for your undoubted charms and spill the beans quite so readily as my brother.’

‘You’re not close, are you?’ she observed.

‘You know what they say—you can choose your friends but not your relatives.’

‘Yes, I do know that.’

He must have sensed something in her tone, for his penetrating gaze captured hers once more.

‘Family loyalty is very important to me. I will do anything to maintain it.’

‘I’m sure that’s very admirable.’

‘You probably have no idea how far I’d go to protect my aunt.’

‘I think I’m getting the picture,’ she answered. ‘You’ve shown absolutely no scruples so far.’

He surveyed her face for a long moment.

‘Is this how you usually go about interviewing people for your books? Apart from those you sleep with first?’ His tone dripped with sarcasm as his dark brown eyes ran over her suggestively.

She lifted her chin defiantly, her eyes flashing.

‘I assume you’re referring to your brother?’

‘I’m sure he won’t be the only one, but, yes, I was referring to him.’

‘Your brother has been a fount of information,’ she lied.

Damien’s mouth twisted.

‘No doubt he has, given the temptation.’ His eyes slid to her breasts and took their time returning to her face. Emily’s spine went rigid with anger and her hands tightened into fists at her sides.

‘Mr Margate—’ she fought her temper back under con-trol ‘—I am researching an accurate biography on your aunt’s life. As I in no way wish to alienate her relatives I was hoping I could interview members of her family in order to present the public with an authentic account of both her personal and professional life. If you don’t cooperate then I’ll have to resort to other means.’

‘Why bother coming to me? Why not do what you people usually do and make it up as you go?’

‘I don’t work like that,’ she said. ‘I believe in telling it as it is. That’s why I want this to be an authentic account. Your aunt was—I mean is—a special person and—’

‘My aunt is no longer public property,’ he said implacably. ‘You might think bedding my younger brother gives you automatic licence to document everything to do with the Margate name, but I’m afraid you’re sadly mistaken.’

‘When did you last see your aunt?’ she asked.

‘That’s none of your business. Now get out.’

‘But surely—’

‘I said get out, Miss Sherwood, and I meant it.’

Emily drew in a deep breath, her colour high.

‘Mr Margate, I don’t wish to cause trouble, but I—’

‘Get the hell out of here. Do you hear me?’

Emily turned and slammed the door behind her, her legs shaking in reaction. She fumed at her own cowardice all the way down in the lift. She berated herself for not standing up to him, for not calling his bluff, but somehow he’d made her feel so pathetic. She’d felt like a mangy cat scrambling for crumbs at his feet. How was she to write this book without help from Rose’s nearest relatives? Rose had never married, never had children. Damien and Danny were her only living relatives since their father, her brother Donald, had died.

Emily didn’t want to speculate. She didn’t want to rely on innuendo or gossip. She wanted to write the truth about a woman the public had loved and still missed. She didn’t want a repeat of Tyson’s Trial. She didn’t want to fail this time. She couldn’t fail this time.

Danny called her at lunchtime. Emily had her arms full of washing and had to balance the phone against her chin to speak to him.

‘I’m sorry about last night,’ he said. ‘How did the cocktail party go?’

‘Fine.’ She grimaced as her pink g-string fell to the floor. ‘I won an award for Going For Vote. Your brother was very…’

‘Damien?’ Danny blurted. ‘Was he there?’

Emily frowned as a hand-towel joined her g-string at her feet.

‘Didn’t you ask him to fill in for you?’

‘The last thing my brother would do is help me,’ Danny said bitterly. ‘I wonder what he’s up to?’

‘Yes, well, that’s exactly the same question I was wanting to ask you,’ Emily said.

‘I was going to tell you—’ Danny began.

‘Before or after we had sex?’

‘You must think I’m an absolute cad.’

‘Suffice it to say I had noticed the family likeness.’

‘So, you’ve had dealings with Damien, then?’ His tone was dry.

‘You could call it that.’

‘I hope he wasn’t too hard on you. He can be a little protective of Rose.’

‘A little protective?’ Emily gave a snort of derisive laughter which sent two more articles of clothing to the floor. ‘Anyone would think he was her son, the way he carries on—’

There was silence at the end of the line.

Emily stared at the pile of clean washing on the floor in front of her, their tumbled disarray not unlike the thoughts in her head.

‘Danny? Is that possible? Could Damien be Rose’s own son?’ she asked, clutching the telephone with both hands.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Emily—you know Rose never married.’

‘That’s not what I asked. Could Damien be her son? A child from a relationship in her past?’

‘Damien’s my older brother. He’s four years older than me, and even though he doesn’t necessarily look like me he’s very much like my father.’

‘But you don’t get on, do you?’

‘Lots of brothers don’t get along. It doesn’t mean they’re not related.’

‘But haven’t you ever wondered? I mean, Damien being so different from you. You told me several times that he and your parents were often at loggerheads.’

‘You told me the same thing yourself—that’s just Damien. He’s got a chip on his shoulder, that’s all. If I were you I’d give him a wide berth. He doesn’t always play by the rules and I wouldn’t want to see you get hurt.’

‘I’m touched by your concern for my feelings,’ she said with heavy irony.

‘Emily, I really am sorry about last night, but Louise and I go back a long way.’

‘All the same, you could’ve told me yourself. It wasn’t very pleasant having your brother there to gloat over my dismissal.’

‘You’re not dismissed. Can’t we still be friends?’

‘That depends a little on your brother.’

‘What do you mean?’

A vision of Damien’s threatening expression crowded her mind.

‘Never mind. I’ll talk to you later. I’ve got things to do.’

Emily gathered up the fallen clothes and dumped them on the nearest sofa. She went to her research file to look for the collection of Margate family photographs Danny had given her to copy. Laying them around her on the floor, she inspected each of them once more.

There were numerous ones of the infant Danny, his platinum hair standing on end as he frolicked in the shallows of the surf, or chased after a shaggy-looking dog with a ball. However, the photographs containing Damien seemed to be an afterthought. He always seemed to be to one side of the camera focus. Was it a coincidence? Or was it a deliberate attempt to shut the dark and brooding boy out of the family centre?

There was a larger photograph of the boys’ father, Donald Margate, tall and austere-looking as he gazed out over the top of his shining car. Emily could see Damien’s likeness in the breadth of shoulders and sooty hair. Their mother, Cora, had a flowered scarf tied around her ashblonde hair, her pretty face wistful. As Emily searched back through each of the photographs she came to realise with an uneasy feeling that the only time Cora Margate smiled was when she was looking at her younger son, Danny. Why hadn’t she seen all this before?

Emily put the photos to one side and considered her next move. She had a week before she signed the preliminary contract with her publisher. A week before Damien Margate’s threats could be activated. A week to find out the truth.

Clarice phoned her half an hour later with four engage-ments for her in as many hours.

‘You’re being interviewed first thing Monday for the breakfast show,’ she said gleefully. ‘After that it’s straight to the radio studio at NMDA. Then there’s a morning tea meeting with the editor of Writers’ Review and after that an interview with Nadine Brereton and Damien Margate.’

‘What?’ Emily gasped.

‘Nadine Brereton—you know, from that current affairs programme on pay TV. She wants to—’

‘I know who Nadine is,’ Emily said agitatedly. ‘But why Damien Margate?’

‘I thought you’d be thrilled. What a coup this is! The nephew of Rose has finally agreed to an interview.’

‘But I’ve had numerous interviews with Danny—’

‘I know, my love, but he’s just a boy compared to Damien Margate. He’s the one with the inside information on Rose’s whereabouts. He’s the one you should’ve been setting your sights on, not that perfidious little playboy who doesn’t know when to keep either his lips or his zip shut.’

Emily grimaced at the bald truth of Clarice’s observation. Danny Margate was shallow and self-absorbed. Damien, however, was something else. She wasn’t sure she could handle him. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to try. What if he told the interviewer of his plans to sue? What if her editor heard the interview? How could she stop him from destroying her publicly?

‘Tell me the times—I’ll be there,’ she said to Clarice, rummaging for a pen and paper. She jotted down the en-gagements and rang off, assuring her agent-cum-publicist that she’d be there with bells on, even though deep inside her courage was slipping alarmingly.

She dressed with care for the morning programme. Her hair was neatly styled into a slick French chignon and her subtle make-up was perfect. Her slim-fitting suit was hardly designer, but its shell-pink suited her colouring and, with a string of pearls and matching earrings, it would have to do. She faced the male interviewer with feigned confidence as he asked her about her research for Rose’s Cupboard, even announcing the various outlets where she’d be present signing her other two books. But once the bright lights of the cameras moved off her face she couldn’t wait to escape.

‘Well done.’ Clarice beamed. ‘I liked the way you hes-itated over the question about Damien Margate, and the delicate blush was perfect.’

‘I wasn’t blushing.’ Emily rounded on her in irritation. ‘Those damn camera lights are hot as hell.’

Clarice smiled, her eyes sparkling.

‘Come on,’ she said, taking Emily’s arm. ‘We’ve got to get to NMDA before nine and the traffic’s horrendous.’

Emily followed in her wake, her legs starting to tremble at the thought that in less than two hours she was going to have to face Damien Margate in person.

Chapter Four

AFTER Emily finished the radio interview, which barely lasted three minutes and was in her opinion a complete waste of time, she joined Clarice in the foyer of the Regent Hotel near the Rocks. Clarice had already ordered her a lime and soda, and pushed it towards her when she sat at the table.

‘Nadine telephoned to say she’ll be a few minutes late. She’s organised to interview you and Damien in one of the hotel suites upstairs.’

Emily felt uncomfortable at the implied intimacy of such an arrangement. A hotel suite? She and Damien Margate?

Clarice checked the diamond-studded watch on her wrist. ‘He’s late.’

‘He’s not late,’ Emily said, picking up her drink. ‘He’s tactical.’

Clarice’s eyebrows rose. ‘You know him intimately, then?’

Emily shook her head. ‘No, but I know how his type works. He’s a power freak. It wouldn’t do for him to be here early, pacing the joint, at everyone else’s mercy. He’ll come at the last minute as if it’s him that’s conducting the interview, not Nadine Brereton.’

Clarice took a deep, reflective sip of her gin and tonic.

‘You really should’ve been a crime writer, darling. You’re so good at reading people.’

‘Not all people.’ Emily pushed her drink to one side. ‘But there’s something about Damien Margate that intrigues me.’

‘He is rather sexy. Tall, dark and brooding,’ Clarice mused.

Emily flicked a fiery glance at her agent. ‘He’s a stuck-up pig. I wouldn’t give him the time of day if I had a choice—’

Clarice suddenly got to her feet and extended a rose-tipped hand to someone just beyond Emily’s left shoulder. ‘Mr Margate! How good of you to join us.’

Emily wished the floor would open and swallow her, but seemingly the architects responsible for the plush interior of the Sydney Regent had not adequately prepared for such contingencies. The floor under her feet remained resolutely stable. However, the hand she reluctantly offered trembled as she extended it towards him.

‘Mr Margate,’ she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes.

‘Miss Sherwood.’ He nodded, his dark gaze raking her mercilessly as his hand swallowed hers.

‘Nadine won’t be a moment,’ Clarice gushed. ‘She’s setting up a suite for you both.’

Damien’s brows rose speculatively as he turned his gaze back to Emily. ‘That sounds promising.’

Emily refused to respond to his satirical look and instead turned to inspect the menu on the table in front of her.

‘I saw you on the breakfast show,’ he said, taking the chair next to hers.

Emily had no choice but to look at him. ‘I’m surprised. I thought you had no time for the media,’ she said, re-inspecting the menu.

‘I like to keep myself informed of the latest developments,’ he commented drily.

Emily shrugged dismissively. ‘I hope you weren’t disappointed.’

‘On the contrary. I was surprised you spoke so magnan-imously of me.’

She met his dark gaze levelly. ‘I could have said a whole lot more, but kind of figured the PG rating of the show would preclude the bit about you forcing yourself on me.’

He didn’t even flinch. ‘I didn’t realise you had such scruples,’ he said with a wry twist to his mouth. ‘Perhaps I should’ve gone for broke.’

She glared at him, sparks of vitriol brightening her blue eyes. ‘In your dreams, Mr Margate,’ she drawled insolently.

He laughed as he shifted his chair to make way for the approaching Nadine, her film crew trailing her like devoted slaves.

‘That remains to be seen,’ he said cryptically and, standing, turned to greet the crew.

They were led to one of the deluxe suites where the lighting men were already setting up. Cameras were being positioned and make-up assistants buzzed about with palettes of foundation to counteract the harsh lighting on Nadine Brereton’s face.

‘Now, if Miss Sherwood would sit here—’ Nadine directed her with a perfectly manicured hand ‘—and if Mr Margate sits here, next to me, we can get things rolling. Ready Joe?’

The head cameraman nodded as he focused in on his subjects.

‘Hello, and welcome to Afternoon Muse. This is Nadine Brereton reporting live from the Regent Hotel, and with me are two intriguing guests. Firstly, I have beside me a biographer who is proposing to write about the illustrious, and may I say somewhat mysterious life of one of Australia’s most noted stage actresses, Rose Margate. I also have with me the nephew of Ms Margate, Mr Damien Margate, who has kindly agreed to an interview. Firstly, Miss Sherwood, is it true that you are currently facing intense family opposition in order to document Ms Margate’s life?’

Emily faced the camera squarely, her expression determined. One whiff, she reminded herself, and her contract would be shredded along with her career.

‘No, not exactly. One family member has been incredibly generous with his time and attention. His input has been crucial to my research.’

Damien’s derisive snort was audible to Emily, but she hoped it would be edited out in the short delay to transmission.

‘That would be Rose’s other nephew, Danny Margate?’ Nadine clarified.

Emily nodded. ‘Danny Margate is extremely fond of his aunt and wanted an authentic and accurate account of her life for the public to enjoy.’

‘Is it true that you haven’t actually interviewed Ms Margate personally?’

‘That’s correct.’

Nadine Brereton tilted her head in an imitation of puzzlement. ‘But how can one document someone’s life accurately without having directly interviewed the person?’ she asked.

‘Biographies don’t usually give word-for-word accounts of people’s lives. Very often biographies of famous people are written long after they have passed away. Writers use various sources of information, such as journals, photographic records, interviews with close friends and family,’ Emily explained.

‘But the Margate family—apart from Danny Margate, that is—have been most uncooperative, isn’t that correct?’

Emily glanced at Damien, who was still sitting to one side of her, his expression inscrutable.

‘I’m sure they have their reasons,’ she said diplomatically.

‘Mr Margate.’ Nadine turned to Damien. ‘What is your major objection to Miss Sherwood’s account of your aunt’s life?’

Damien’s eyes slid from Emily’s to face the camera.

‘I have no objection to biographies per se. I do, however, have an objection to biographies that are written against the express wishes of family members.’

‘So you’ve been against this from the outset? Is that correct?’ Nadine probed.

Emily’s hands tightened in her lap and her breath stalled in her chest as she waited for his reply to Nadine’s question.

‘My aunt Rose chose to leave public life fifteen years ago. She gave more than thirty-five years of her life to her fans, oftentimes leaving little time for herself. She has not in any way authorised this account of her life and therefore neither do I.’

‘Is it true that you intend to take legal action if this book, Rose’s Cupboard, is released as planned?’

Damien’s expression became shuttered. ‘I am hoping to avoid legal action,’ he said, flicking a glance Emily’s way.

Emily crossed her fingers and prayed her editors were so busy with their huge slush pile they wouldn’t be watching.

‘Miss Sherwood—’ the camera swung back to Emily ‘—are you prepared to fight for your right to write Rose’s Cupboard, no matter what it takes?’

Emily met the dark challenging stare of Damien’s eyes before turning back to Nadine.

‘Months of work have gone into researching this book. Rose Margate has thousands of fans who long to hear about her life, especially since she disappeared from the theatre. This book will be a collection of photo memorabilia as well as an account of her earlier years, which I’m sure will be of great interest to many.’

‘Mr Margate—’ Nadine addressed Damien once more ‘—there will be many who no doubt agree with Miss Sherwood. What harm can it do to have a collector’s item such as Rose’s Cupboard to celebrate the magnificent achievements of one of Australia’s most loved actresses?’

‘If Rose’s Cupboard was going to be written with the express wish of highlighting the many outstanding achievements of my aunt I would have no objection. However, Miss Sherwood already has a reputation for exploiting those she chooses to write about, sometimes with tragic consequences. I have nothing against Miss Sherwood trying to make a living, but I am determined she will do it with someone other than a member of my immediate family as her subject.’

Emily rose angrily in her chair, but the cameraman had swung to Nadine, who was wrapping up for a commercial break at the director’s urgent signal.

‘Looks like you, the public, will have to decide for yourselves. Is biographer Emily Sherwood exploiting the Margate name for her own gain? Or is she simply offering the public a treasured documentation of a much loved celebrity’s life? You know the e-mail, you know the phone number, you know the channel,’ she quipped. ‘Let me know what your opinion is. Thank you to my guests, and when we return I’ll be speaking with the head of the new emergency clinic recently opened at St Stephen’s Private Hospital. Back in a moment.’

‘That man is going to need more than an emergency clinic before I’ve finished with him!’ Emily hissed at Clarice as she swept past the camera tripods.

‘Now, now, my pet,’ Clarice soothed. ‘Think of the extra sales after that little exchange. That’s exactly the sort of publicity you need.’

Emily glared across to where Damien was standing talking to Nadine Brereton. He looked back at her, his eyes darkening challengingly as they meshed with hers. She turned on her heel and swept from the room, not caring whether Clarice was ready to leave or not. She had to get out of there, and fast, before she lost control. Never had she felt so angry. Damien Margate had manipulated the interview to cast her in the role of devious money-hungry reporter, stopping at nothing to get a cheap story.

She stomped towards the nearest lift, stabbing at the call button savagely.

‘Miss Sherwood?’

Emily swung round at the sound of his deep voice.

‘Don’t you “Miss Sherwood” me, you—you—bastard!’

His brows rose at her vehemence as the lift opened behind her. She stepped in and tried to block him joining her. The lift doors pinged open against the steel of his out-stretched arm and she moved to the back of the carriage, her back tight against the wall, her eyes blazing with rage.

‘I want to talk to you,’ he said calmly.

‘You just did,’ she spat. ‘In front of about three million people!’

‘In private. No cameras, no interviewers.’

‘Why?’ She regarded him suspiciously. ‘So you can touch me up when you feel like it?’

His jaw clenched and she felt a thin thread of victory at cracking his cool composure.

‘You didn’t offer too many objections at the time,’ he reminded her ungallantly.

She didn’t have the chance to retaliate as just then the lift doors opened and he began shepherding her out towards the hotel exit.

‘What are you doing?’ She tugged at his hold on her arm. ‘I’m not going with you!’

Damien’s hold tightened as he signalled for the concierge to hail a cab.

Emily was speechless. His hand around her slim wrist was biting into her flesh, and even though she dragged her feet as he tugged, her body kept following in his wake as if of its own volition.

He bundled her unceremoniously into a cab and barked out an address that in her distress and anger she didn’t quite catch.

‘This is abduction!’ she railed. ‘Excuse me!’ She tapped on the perspex shield surrounding the cab driver. ‘This man is abducting me—please take me to the nearest police station.’

The cab driver just smiled, muttered something and shook his head uncomprehendingly. Emily glared at the driver’s identification photo on the dashboard and swore. The name printed there was as foreign as his heavy, unintelligible accent, and she stamped her foot in anger and frustration.

‘I’ll have you charged,’ she flared at Damien.

‘You and whose army?’ he mocked.

She ground her teeth and dug her nails into his arm where it still had hold of her other wrist.

‘Stop it, you little wildcat!’ He swore as he sucked at his arm.

A funny sensation pooled in Emily’s lower belly at his action. Her breath caught in her lungs as she watched as his mouth salved the broken skin of his forearm.

The cab pulled in to the kerb and Emily instantly recognised Damien’s Double Bay house. He reached across to pay the fare and she flinched as his arm brushed against her breast.

‘Get out,’ he said, opening the door for her.

‘Get lost.’

He reached for her wrist with an exasperated sigh and she found herself bundled out on to the pavement with little regard for either the short skirt she was wearing or the expensive silk stockings which hadn’t appreciated the seatbelt buckle on the way past.

‘Now look what you’ve done!’ She indicated the long ladder running up under the hem of her skirt.

‘Touché,’ he said, indicating the blood-lined scratch on his arm with a sardonic tilt of his dark head.

She had no choice but to accompany him inside. He practically frogmarched her to the front door, deactivating the alarm on his way through, only letting go of her arm once the heavy door had shut behind him.

She faced him mutinously, her chest still pumping with fury at his mishandling of her. ‘If you so much as lay a finger on me I swear I’ll—’

‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

Emily crossed her arms protectively across her chest. ‘Then why the kidnap routine? Or is this how you usually ask a girl round for coffee?’

He gave a disarming laugh.

Emily felt her own mouth twitching but clamped her teeth down to stop it. He had a nice laugh; she’d give him that. Deep and melodious. And the way his dark brown eyes crinkled at the corners softened his normally harsh features, making him almost handsome.

‘Would you like some coffee?’ he asked, still smiling.

She shook her head.

‘I want to go home.’

‘Well, I’m going to have a coffee, so come and talk to me while I get it ready.’ He left her standing there, so, rather than stare at her own outraged reflection in the huge mirror in the foyer, she followed him into the spacious kitchen down the hall.

‘If you weren’t researching my aunt what would you be working on right now?’ he asked conversationally, and she wished she’d stayed put. She didn’t want to talk to him about herself. She didn’t want to talk to him, period.

‘Nothing,’ she said despondently, perching on a stool against the granite bench. ‘More’s the pity.’

‘Money troubles?’ he asked, reaching for the kettle.

‘Not if I get an advance on this book,’ she said, giving him a hard look, wondering if he’d been investigating her financial records.

He spooned ground coffee into the jug and filled it with boiling water, then leaned back to study her.

‘I hope you understand that this is nothing personal. I don’t wish you to face financial ruin, but then neither do I wish to see my aunt exploited to pay for your next holiday.’

‘Nothing personal?’ she fired at him. ‘You damn near assaulted me! What could be more personal than that?’

‘As is typical of people with your choice of career, your imagination is once again working overtime.’

‘And I suppose it was my imagination that ripped my stockings to shreds and dislocated my wrist?’

He closed the distance between them and picked up her arm, turning it over in his hands as gently as if it were priceless porcelain.

‘No bruises,’ he said, letting it go again.

She pouted and cradled her arm against her stomach.

‘It still hurt like hell.’

As he depressed the filter his gaze settled on the petulant bow of her mouth.

‘You are such a drama queen. You’re wasted as a writer—I can think of at least three daytime soaps you’d slot into brilliantly.’

She spun away from his mocking smile and moved to inspect the view from the kitchen window.

‘How do you have your coffee?’ he asked.

‘Black with—’ Then she remembered she wasn’t having coffee. ‘Nothing. I’m having nothing.’

He poured two mugs of coffee and handed her one.

‘The sugar’s on that shelf behind you; teaspoons are in the drawer in front of you.’

Emily breathed in the aroma of freshly ground coffee and wished she hadn’t been so adamant. She’d been up since four a.m. and the breakfast show had offered her everything but breakfast.

Damien leaned his hip against the granite bench and sipped his drink, his eyes never leaving her face.

‘I have decaf, if you’d prefer,’ he offered laconically.

‘What I’d prefer is you being straight with me. What’s the point of all this?’ She waved her arm to encompass the scene before them. ‘You didn’t bring me here to have coffee.’

‘The coffee’s a bonus.’

She rolled her eyes expressively. ‘Let’s cut through the play-acting and get to the point. What do you want from me?’

He pushed himself away from the bench and closed the distance between them. He put his coffee cup down beside her own untouched one and his eyes locked with hers. She drew in a sharp little breath that pricked at her lungs all the way down.

‘I told you what I wanted the other day,’ he said, his voice gravelly and deep.

Her eyes flickered to his mouth and back to his chocolate gaze.

‘I…I can’t do that.’ She swallowed. ‘I just can’t.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

She licked her bone-dry lips, fighting for time. ‘Please, I need to write this book and I need it to sell. You’re in finance—surely you must know how it is? I can’t survive without it. I have commitments, a mortgage—’

‘Withdraw the book proposal and I’ll see to your commitments.’

‘What?’ She gawped at him.

‘You heard. Withdraw it and I’ll settle all your debts.’

‘You can’t be serious?’ She stared at him incredulously. ‘Surely there must be some sort of catch?’

‘There is,’ he stated simply.

‘And that is?’

He paused. She held her breath, somehow knowing instinctively that she wasn’t going to like this. She was right.

‘I want you to marry me.’

Emily’s mouth dropped open and her eyes threatened to pop right out of her head. ‘Is this some sort of sick joke?’ she asked once her voice returned.

He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. ‘No joke—I’m serious.’

She stared at him in horror. ‘You’d go that far to stop me?’

He shrugged again. ‘Take it or leave it. I have the means to set you up so you don’t have to pen another unscrupulous word.’

‘I can’t believe you’d go to such lengths—’

‘It would be a marriage in name only,’ he said.

‘Now who’s auditioning for a daytime soap?’ she quipped drily.

‘I mean it. I find myself in the unenviable position of needing a wife on paper. Taxes and so on, if you understand.’

‘I hear there are desperate women in Asia looking for an Australian passport,’ she put in.

‘I’ve decided that you’ll do.’

‘I’m flattered—I think.’ She frowned at him darkly. ‘Tell me, what was it that won you? My looks, or my way with words? Or perhaps it was that glimpse you got of my inner thigh when you slaughtered my stockings in the taxi?’

He laughed and reached for his coffee. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’ He chuckled. ‘You’d be wasted on a daytime soap. You deserve your own show.’

‘I’m glad you’re finding this amusing because I sure as hell am not. What am I supposed to say to my agent, not to mention my publisher?’

He sipped at his coffee in a leisurely manner before answering her. ‘I think you should tell them you’re getting married and wish to stall the writing of your book for a few months.’

‘Months?’

‘Weeks, then,’ he acceded. ‘Who knows? By then, if you behave yourself, I might even arrange for you to interview Rose personally.’

Emily stared at him, her heart leaping in her chest. ‘You’d allow that?’

He shrugged again. ‘Let’s wait and see. I’ll make a decision after we’re married.’

‘So, either way you win?’

‘That depends on the way you look at it,’ he said smoothly. ‘You stand to gain the biggest scoop of your career in exchange for being my wife.’

‘I guess you’re right,’ she said, reaching for her nearly cold coffee. ‘It depends on the way you look at it.’

Chapter Five

DAMIEN watched the play of emotions on Emily’s face as she stoically finished her coffee.

‘There are a few issues we need to discuss if you do decide to take me up on my offer,’ he said as she put her cup down.

‘What sort of issues?’ She looked up at him suspiciously.

‘A marriage of convenience is exactly that. One of con-venience, hopefully for both parties.’

‘Oh, really?’ Her look was scathing. ‘Do I get three guesses as to who’s the winner in these particular convenience stakes?’

‘I know you like to think you’re paying the ultimate price, but in reality if you refuse you might be missing out on the chance of a lifetime.’

She shot him another scornful look over her shoulder as she strode towards the front door. ‘You must think I’m a complete fool if you think for one minute I’d accept your offer of marriage.’ She wrenched at the doorknob but before she could turn it Damien’s large hand closed over hers and turned her effortlessly to face him.

‘Think about it, Emily,’ he said in that silky tone that sent shivers of reaction up her spine every time. ‘No more money worries. No more deadlines. You could sit back and relax, just do what you want to do, write exactly what you want to write, without the pressure of others’ expectations.’

‘And what exactly is it you get?’ she asked, trying to create some distance between the heat of their bodies.

He took his time answering. His eyes scanned her face for long seconds before dipping to the shadow between her still heaving breasts, returning to her outraged blue gaze with an unreadable light in his own.

‘I get the privilege of your charming company. What more could a man want?’

Emily’s resentment knew no bounds at his taunting tone. She scowled at him furiously and tried to remove her hand from his but he held her firm.

‘I won’t sleep with you,’ she said flatly.

‘So.’ His mouth tilted in a sardonic grin. ‘You are tempted to accept my offer?’

‘Of course not!’ She gave her hand a vicious tug and freed herself. He laughed and opened the door behind her. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you home. We can talk about this some more in a few days.’

Emily followed him out to where he had two luxurious sports cars garaged. She set her mouth in a tight line and muttered as she got into the Lamborghini he’d opened, ‘I think it’s disgusting for people to have more than one car. You can only drive one at a time anyway, so what’s the point other than to show off an obscene amount of wealth?’

Damien slid into his own seat and started the car with a throaty roar before glinting across at her. ‘Tell me, Emily. How many pairs of shoes do you have?’

‘Shoes?’ She looked at him blankly.

‘I’ll rephrase my question. How many pairs of feet do you have?’

‘One, but that’s totally different and you know it. I need different shoes for different outfits. A car is a car. It gets you from A to B and that’s all you need it to do.’

‘I use my cars in much the same way you would use shoes. It depends on my mood.’

‘So what sort of mood are you in on a Lamborghini day?’ she asked, twisting slightly to look at him.

He returned her look with a dark glint in his deep brown eyes. ‘You’d better put your seat belt on, Emily,’ he warned. ‘You’re in for one hell of a ride.’

Emily sucked in her breath and snapped the belt into place. But, although his driving was both fast and powerful, somehow she knew he wasn’t talking about the car.

Emily didn’t know whether to be relieved or resentful when she heard nothing from Damien Margate for over a week. It was a long few days, especially as the owner of the restaurant she worked at had informed her regretfully that he no longer needed her services. The news of her dismissal couldn’t have come at a worse time. She was already a month behind on her credit card repayments, and the bank had called twice about the mortgage on her small apart-ment. Never had she needed an advance on a book more than now, but with the looming spectre of Damien Margate standing over her she had little chance of achieving it.

She found herself thinking about him far more than she wanted. She told herself it was because she was bored with not writing, but deep down she knew it was because there was something about him that intrigued her. On the surface he presented himself as a cool and aloof man who knew how to handle any situation. He liked to be in control and engineered it wherever possible. What she didn’t understand was what he was hoping to achieve by offering her a proposal of marriage. Did he think he could stop her from writing about his family simply by insisting she become a part of it? On the contrary, her joining the Margate clan, small as it was, could only assist her in her attempt to document Rose’s elusive life. She’d have access to information, private information, that would ensure the success of her book.

From her precarious position it was an attractive offer. He wasn’t quite the playboy his younger brother was, but Emily was starting to see that perhaps that was a good thing. Danny had been prepared to sell all the family secrets for a few simple dates and a mention on the acknowledgements page. Damien, on the other hand, was prepared to go as far as offering to marry her to stop her from revealing anything about his family. How could two brothers be so different? What possible motivation could each of them have to act in such disparate ways?

The doorbell sounded, suddenly jolting her out of her reverie, and she opened the door to find the object of her thoughts towering over her. She stood in confusion for several awkward moments, feeling threatened and excited all at the same time. It was as if she was on the edge of a precipice: one step forward and she would fall; one step backwards and the jagged jaws of her desperate financial situation threatened to consume her.

Emily teetered on the edge. Her mouth tingled in remembrance of his determined kisses. Her legs trembled at the recall of his rock-hard frame pressing against her.

‘Are you going to stand there gawping at me all day or are you going to ask me in?’ Damien said.

‘I…’ She opened the door wider and he stepped inside. ‘I was expecting someone else,’ she lied, to cover her confusion.

‘Danny?’

‘No.’

‘Have you found a replacement for him yet?’ he asked.

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ he countered. ‘I’d hate to think any wife of mine had someone on the side.’

‘Your confidence is misplaced. I haven’t said I’m going to marry you.’

He pierced her gaze with his. ‘Bankruptcy is a serious state to be in. It can have all sorts of unexpected repercussions.’

‘So can marriage,’ she said.

‘That’s true, but I’m sure you’ll be adequately compensated.’

Emily hoped so. If she married him she’d eventually meet his aunt, and the chance of establishing a relationship with her would give her an ideal opportunity to document her life. Maybe Rose Margate would like and trust her enough to authenticate the biography herself, without Damien being able to stop her. It was worth a try. Besides, he’d already assured her the marriage would be on paper only. She had nothing to lose, but everything to gain.

She took a steadying breath and, lifting her face, met the penetrating look in his eyes.

‘I can’t imagine why you’re so keen to tie yourself to someone who detests you so much.’

‘I told you before—’ his eyes glinted ‘—I like a fight.’

‘Aren’t you worried I might take the money and run?’

‘Try it,’ he said. ‘See how far you get before I catch you.’

Emily’s stomach did another little flip-flop. ‘So—’ her tone was flippant in an effort to disguise her nerves ‘—do I get a diamond the size of a cantaloupe? Oh, and I don’t like gold; I always wear silver.’

‘I’ll have a marriage contract drawn up tomorrow,’ he said.

‘A contract?’ She looked at him in alarm.

One dark brow lifted in an arc.

‘You surely didn’t think I’d enter into something as se-rious as marriage without a prenuptial contract, did you? I’m prepared to be generous—very generous—in settling whatever debts you may have accrued, but I’m not going to sit back and watch you take me to the cleaners once it’s over.’

‘It makes no difference to me. But I’m wondering what exactly it is you get out of this arrangement.’

‘I told you.’ He turned slightly so she had to tilt her head to keep eye contact. ‘I need a wife on paper. A dependent wife will ease my tax situation, and in the process I get some sort of control over what you write about my family.’

‘I take it once I become your wife everything I write will have to be first cleared by you?’

‘That’s the deal.’

‘It’s not very attractive from where I’m standing.’

‘No?’

‘No. I’m not used to being scrutinised so closely.’

‘Don’t your editors keep a close watch on you?’ he asked. ‘Is that why your second book flopped?’

She hated to be reminded of her failure. It was like a sword being twisted in her gut and she hated him for bringing it up now, when she needed as much confidence as possible. She gnawed her bottom lip and tried to think of a stinging reply but her mind went blank.

He must have sensed her inner distress and changed the subject. ‘My lawyer will contact you. What would you pre-fer—church or register office?’

She shrugged dismissively, forcibly suppressing her ro-mantic dream of being married on a sun-drenched beach. ‘I don’t care.’

‘I’ll let you know the details in a few days. It will take me a while to organise things.’

‘Take all the time you want,’ she said. ‘Believe me, I’m in no hurry.’

His mocking laughter annoyed her beyond endurance.

‘And another thing,’ she added, before he could taunt her again. ‘I absolutely insist on my own room and my own bathroom. I don’t like sharing.’

‘I’m not all that keen on sharing either,’ he said. ‘And I’m not just talking about bathrooms. So if you’re thinking about entertaining yourself with an array of boyfriends, forget it.’

‘So I’m supposed to be celibate indefinitely?’ She stared at him incredulously, incensed by his double standards. Everyone knew he was having a rip-roaring affair with a colleague’s wife—Danny had told her.

‘For the time being,’ he answered evenly.

‘And what about you?’ she asked. ‘Are you going to take the vow of celibacy as well? I wonder how you’ll explain that to what’s-her-name.’

A dark glitter came into his eyes and she took a step backwards but came up against the wall. His hands settled either side of her head and she swallowed deeply, trying not to give in to the panic that thumped in her chest.

‘I’ll call you,’ he said, and bent his head briefly to brush his mouth against hers. She felt her lips cling to his, but before she could respond he stepped away from her and turned and left without a backward glance.

Emily ran her tongue over her lips and tasted him. She fought valiantly against the impulse to peer through the window and watch him drive away, but once she heard the roar of his car she gave in to the temptation, assuring her-self it was just to check what sort of car mood he was in today. She tweaked the curtain aside just a fraction to see his hand lift in a wave from the driver’s window of his black Jaguar. She hastily thrust the curtain back into place. She felt exactly as if she’d been stalked by a stealthy jungle cat, just biding its time to make a final, fatal pounce.

Emily left the lawyer’s office with Damien three days later, her fingers still tingling from holding the pen to the contract that had been drawn up between them. She’d signed her name and immediately felt as if she’d signed her life away—her writing life at least. Even though she’d read the fine print as carefully as she could, the words had meant very little to her. She’d been far too conscious of Damien’s lean brown hand resting on the table near hers as she bent over the contract. His long lean fingers had been splayed on the desk within touching distance of hers. She had imag-ined those very fingers touching her in places that would thrill her senses into fervent, panting life. The words had blurred and she’d hastily scrawled her name, hoping he couldn’t see how much he affected her.

The day of the wedding arrived with a speed that did little to settle the hive of nerves that had been fluttering in Emily’s stomach ever since she’d signed the prenuptial contract. She glanced at the wilting roses in her hand and wondered if they were an omen. The sticky heat of October had done its worst with her makeshift bouquet, but its biggest revenge was on her hair and her dress. The former was tumbling from its diamanté clip in haphazard tendrils, and the latter was plastered to her back in sticky patches that made her feel uncomfortable.

She wondered privately why she felt so disappointed. It wasn’t as if this was a real marriage in any sense of the word. Damien had presented her with an offer too good to refuse. She still felt sick to her stomach at the thought of the bills he’d paid on her behalf, but tried to reassure herself that he’d known exactly what he was letting himself in for—as she had too.

A paper marriage. She couldn’t help a wry inward smile. What the hell did that mean? Clarice had been surprisingly accommodating at the news. She thought it was all a publicity stunt and encouraged Emily to milk it for all it was worth. Emily hadn’t enlightened her. She didn’t want to face her agent’s rage at her decision to postpone the book just yet. Besides, it suited her to keep her own motives for accepting Damien’s offer under wraps. They weren’t all that clear in her own head, let alone easy to explain to anyone else. She kept telling herself it was purely because of her financial situation. And because it would throw her into the pathway of Rose.

It had nothing whatsoever to do with the heat and fire of Damien’s mouth on hers. Nothing whatsoever to do with the crawl of desire in her belly every time he came within touching distance. She hated him, she reminded herself relentlessly. She hated him.

And yet here she was, standing beside him before the heavily made-up marriage celebrant, who looked like an extra from a B-grade movie, repeating her vows as if she meant them, listening to the deep voice of Damien standing beside her, a silver wedding band in his hand, poised to slip on to her waiting finger.

The ring was a perfect fit and Emily wondered if that too was an omen of a different sort. Damien didn’t kiss her, however. He simply thrust the ring on her finger and turned to lead her past the small gathering of his friends who’d come to witness the event.

It was ironic that Danny, not Damien, was the first to kiss her after her nuptials.

‘Congratulations, Emily,’ he said, hugging her far too tightly. ‘I’m sure you and Damien will be very happy.’

She must have said something in reply but later couldn’t recall just what it had been. She hoped it had been suitably polite and fitting for a new bride because she sure as hell didn’t feel like one.

‘Darling!’ Clarice Connor sidled up to her, waving the mandatory champagne. ‘What a clever girl! Now you’re related to Rose Margate! Just think of the fame and fortune to follow.’

Emily gave a vestige of a smile. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I get an interview,’ she said flippantly.

It was unfortunate that Damien chose that moment to approach his new wife. Guilt at her careless words flooded her face in flushing tides as his own face clouded in suppressed anger.

‘Having fun, my love?’ he taunted.

‘Ecstatic,’ she returned. ‘I can’t wait for the honeymoon.’

He gave her a chilling look before he turned to speak to one of his colleagues.

The evening was interminable. Emily’s fake smile made her face ache with the effort of keeping it firmly in place. She longed for a warm bath and a soothing cup of tea, but no one seemed in too much of a hurry to leave the new bride and groom to their own devices, so she had no choice but to go on pretending to be the happy, blushing bride.

Finally it was over. The last guest left and the limousine transported Damien and her back to his house in Double Bay. He opened the door and waited until she stepped through. She hesitated, her last two alcoholic drinks giving her a courage that was more foolish than Dutch.

‘Aren’t you going to carry me over the threshold?’ she asked provocatively.

‘I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with your legs,’ he said, brushing past her. ‘Your things are in the green room,’ he tossed over his shoulder as he threw his suit jacket towards the hall stand. ‘Goodnight.’

Emily chewed her bottom lip. ‘Goodnight,’ she answered, but he’d already moved beyond the range of her soft voice.

She waited until she heard the click of his bedroom door before she moved. With dragging steps she made her way upstairs and found the room he’d allocated for her.

After a bath she curled into bed and stared sightlessly at the ceiling above her. She turned over and clamped her eyes shut on the images of her wedding day. How far from her dreams had she travelled? A mocking husband who’d married her to stop her from writing a book about his aunt. What sort of a reason for marriage was that?

Emily sat upright in bed. Perhaps her suspicions were right. Perhaps Rose wasn’t his aunt at all, but more closely, intimately related. Why else would he go to the sort of trouble he had? What she hadn’t been able to find out before should be much easier now she was married to Damien.

Married to Damien. The very words made her spine tingle, but she didn’t know precisely which emotion precipitated it. She wasn’t exactly frightened of him—not really. He made her feel agitated, angry too, but she wasn’t in fear for her safety. She’d noticed on occasions how gentle he could be. Even today at the wedding he’d scooped up his friend’s little girl of fifteen months and cuddled her while she undid his bow-tie with chubby fingers. He’d laughed that deep melodious laugh and Emily’s stomach had shifted, wondering if…

She slammed the pillow with one fist, knocking a lamp sideways with a splintering crash. She reached blindly to retrieve it but a shard of glass pierced her hand and in the darkness she felt the stickiness of her blood dripping on to the floor.

The door flew open and a blinding light flashed on.

‘What the hell happened?’ Damien stood in the frame of the door, his body bare but for a pair of silky boxer shorts.

Emily’s eyes squinted at the sudden light and she clutched at her bleeding hand. ‘I cut myself,’ she said, stemming the flow with the edge of her short nightie, which left her long legs uncovered and her bright yellow bikini briefs on show.

‘How?’

‘I tried to commit suicide but failed,’ she said through clenched teeth.

‘That’s not funny,’ he rasped as he stepped over the broken lamp. ‘Let me look at your hand.’

She unwrapped it from the hem of her nightie and his gentle touch as he inspected the wound made her want to cry. She bit down on her lip and fought against the tears.

‘It doesn’t need stitching, but it needs dressing. Come to the bathroom and I’ll clean it for you.’

He hesitated when she didn’t move.

‘Emily?’ He peered at her as she huddled over her bent knees. ‘Come on, it’s not that serious. One bandage and you’ll be as good as new.’

A tiny sob escaped and he saw the slight tremor of her slim shoulders.

‘Emily?’ He touched her gently on the shoulder. ‘Are you OK?’

She was crying in earnest now, and he bent down to her level, one determined finger locating her wobbling chin and lifting it upwards. Her blue eyes were swimming with tears and his chest felt tight at the raw emotion reflected there.

‘Perhaps we should take you to hospital,’ he said. ‘It might be a severed tendon or something.’

Emily pushed him away with her good hand and stum-bled towards the bathroom. ‘It doesn’t need stitching! I’m not crying about my hand!’

‘Then why are you crying?’ He followed her into the en suite bathroom, sidestepping the droplets of blood she left in her wake.

‘I’m not crying,’ she howled, reaching for the tap.

‘Don’t worry about the lamp.’ He turned the tap on for her and handed her a face cloth. ‘It wasn’t anything special.’

‘I’m not crying about the bloody lamp!’ She sobbed into the wet facecloth, her hand stuffed into a towel like an oversized boxing glove.

Damien shook his head and gathered her into his arms, patting her slender back as she burrowed into his body.

‘Is your hand hurting?’ he asked.

She shook her head against his chest.

‘Can I have a look at it again to make sure it’s not serious?’

She nodded and unfolded herself from his arms.

He unpeeled the towel she’d wrapped around it and inspected the wound once more. The blood was slowing and he opened the cupboard above them to retrieve a bandage, which he deftly wrapped around her hand, securing the end with a tiny clip.

‘There—that should keep the bleeding under control,’ he said with an encouraging smile.

Emily sniffed and he reached out behind her and passed her a tissue.

‘All better now?’

She nodded and mopped at her eyes.

‘Sorry. Weddings always do this to me.’

His mouth twisted into an amused smile. ‘Emily Sherwood—you are absolutely priceless, do you know that?’

She blinked up at him, her eyes still shiny with tears. ‘Isn’t my name Margate now?’ And with that she burst into tears all over again.

He changed the sheets on her bed and politely left the room when she removed her blood-stained nightie to put on a fresh one. She was sitting propped up against the pillows when he returned with a glass of hot milk on a small tray.

‘You look about ten years old,’ he said as he set it down beside her.

‘I feel about a hundred,’ she replied.

He perched on the edge of her bed and handed her the glass of milk.

‘Twenty-six is young to be an established author,’ he observed as she sipped her drink.

‘I’m not established. One bad book and it’s all over.’

‘Perhaps you should choose your subjects a little more carefully,’ he advised.

‘I intend to.’

‘What will you do next? Another biography?’

She hesitated over her reply.

‘I thought I might try my hand at a soap opera script. I’ve heard there’s good money in it, and less chance of being sued.’

‘Is that why you agreed to marry me?’ he asked. ‘Just to avoid being sued?’

She found his question unsettling. It still wasn’t clear in her mind why she’d agreed to marry him.

‘Getting a divorce is the same as being sued,’ she said. ‘Lots of money changes hands and everyone ends up bitter.’

He took the empty glass from her and set it back on the tray.

‘You sound very cynical. Did your parents go through an acrimonious divorce?’

‘Is there any other type of divorce?’

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’ He got to his feet. ‘Let’s hope if we end this marriage we do so with respect and dignity.’

‘What’s with the “if”?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you mean “when”?’

He gave her a long look before he picked up the tray from beside her. ‘This marriage will end if and when I decide.’

‘Don’t I have any say in it at all?’

‘That depends.’

‘On what?’

‘I’ll let you know.’

‘What sort of answer is that?’ She sat upright in the bed, wincing as her injured hand caught the edge of the lamp table.

‘It’s all the answer you’re going to get for now, so be a good girl and go to sleep.’

‘Stop treating me like a little kid!’ she stormed. ‘I’m not your daughter, for God’s sake, I’m your wife.’

He put the tray back down and approached the bed, a glint lurking in the melted chocolate depths of his eyes. Emily’s own eyes widened in alarm as his tall figure loomed over her prostrate form. His hands came down either side of her, effectively trapping her.

‘Is that an element of pique I hear in your voice, my love?’ he asked silkily.

‘I’m…I’m not your love,’ she said hoarsely.

‘No,’ he agreed, and her heart squeezed painfully in her chest. ‘But you are my wife, as you so cleverly reminded me.’

‘I’m…I’m not really your wife,’ she croaked. ‘I’m just a paper wife—remember?’

His eyes ran over her face, dipped to the shadowed cleft of her nightgown where her breasts lay secretly aching for his touch.

‘You’re a very beautiful and very tempting paper wife,’ he said against the corner of her trembling mouth.

‘Please…’ She shrank back against the pillows, suddenly terrified she’d betray herself if his mouth so much as touched hers.

‘Aren’t paper wives allowed to kiss their husbands goodnight?’ he asked, running an idle fingertip along the fullness of her bottom lip.

‘I…’ She ached to take his finger into her mouth. Her lips swelled with the need to feel his tongue graze hers and thrust into the moist cavern of her mouth. Her legs sagged against the mattress with the weight of need as he leaned inexorably closer.

‘Goodnight, Emily,’ he said, planting a soft breath-like kiss on her mouth. Then he lifted himself away from her and, picking up the tray, closed the bedroom door behind him on his way out.

Chapter Six

IT WAS a long night. Emily tossed and turned, trying to find a comfortable spot for her hand and a restful space for her tortured mind, but both eluded her. She watched as the sun rose defiantly in the east as if to spite her, its searing heat an added insult to her sleep-deprived state of mind.

Damien was in the kitchen when she came downstairs, looking disgustingly refreshed and handsome in a dark business suit and light blue shirt with perfectly toned tie.

‘Good morning. Did you sleep well?’

‘No, I did not,’ she snapped irritably.

His gaze slid to her bandaged hand. ‘Hand giving you trouble?’

‘A bit.’

‘Are you a breakfast girl?’ he asked, reaching across to pour some skimmed milk into a jug.

‘A what?’

‘Do you eat breakfast? Or are you one of those people who insist on skimping on the most important meal of the day?’

Emily eyed the bowl of home-made muesli he had in front of him.

‘I’ll have what you’re having,’ she said, dragging out a stool.

He handed her a bowl and the container of muesli. She went to open it but it proved too awkward for her injured hand. He got up from where he was reading the morning paper and took the container from her.

‘Here, let me.’ He dished out a hearty portion, then reached for the milk and began pouring. ‘Tell me when.’

‘When,’ she said, and thanked him as he pushed the bowl and a spoon towards her.

‘We made the social pages.’ He pointed to the newspaper in front of him.

Emily wasn’t sure she really wanted to see what the press had made of their unexpected union, but she came round and leaned over his shoulder all the same.

‘I look fat.’

He chuckled in amusement. ‘You look beautiful.’

She sat back down opposite and toyed with her cereal, her brow furrowing as she relentlessly chased a sultana around her bowl.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘Not regretting it already, are you?’

‘What?’ She looked across at him. ‘Oh, no. I was just thinking.’

‘About what?’

She crushed the hapless sultana with the edge of her spoon before looking back at him. ‘Why didn’t your aunt Rose come to your wedding?’

His eyes hardened as he surveyed her face. ‘I was won-dering how long it would take you.’

‘What do you mean?’ Her stomach tightened at the caus-tic tone of his voice.

‘Here was I, thinking you’d at least wait a few days, maybe even a week or two before you made your move.’

‘What are you talking about? What move?’ She looked at him blankly.

He got to his feet, pushing his bowl away with an angry movement of one hand.

‘It’s why you agreed to marry me, isn’t it? The real reason, I mean.’

She swallowed the lump in her throat and stared at him speechlessly.

‘An interview with Rose was the icing on the wedding cake, isn’t that right?’

‘I—’

‘Don’t bother to deny it—it’s written all over your face. Anyway, I heard you talking to your agent about it.’

‘But I didn’t mean it! I was joking!’ She found her voice at last.

‘I told you before that Rose is off limits. It will be her decision if she wants to be interviewed by anyone, and that includes you. Being married to me doesn’t automatically give you any special privileges.’

‘You can say that again,’ she muttered darkly.

‘What was that?’ He snagged her uninjured arm and turned her towards him. ‘You’re not happy with our current arrangement? If so, I can always reinstate your mortgage and credit card debt, not to mention starting legal proceedings against anything you might be thinking of writing.’

A cold despair settled in her chest at the hatred in his eyes.

‘I hate you,’ she said bitterly.

‘Hate is good. I can handle hate. Hate me all you like—see if I care.’

Emily pulled at his hold, desperate to escape before her anger turned to grief. ‘Let me go! You’re hurting me.’

‘Don’t push your luck with me, Emily,’ he warned. ‘I’m prepared to be reasonable. Don’t make me regret my decision to help you.’

‘Help me?’ she flared at him. ‘Have I missed something here?’ Her lip curled in scorn. ‘Oh, I get it now! You married me to help me. I’m so glad I’ve finally figured it out.’

‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.’

‘Neither does marriage,’ she threw at him.

‘Well, I can assure you neither will bankruptcy, so let’s give this a try first.’

‘I’d rather starve than spend another day with you!’ she retorted.

‘You’re acting like a child, Emily,’ he reprimanded her sternly. ‘Do yourself and me a favour and grow up.’

It was all too much for her. Her lack of sleep, the emotional roller coaster of her disappointing wedding day and her injured hand finally cracked her fragile hold on her emotions. She bent her head and burst into tears.

‘Oh, Emily,’ he groaned, and gathered her to him. ‘I’m being a brute to you. I’m sorry. Hey, come on—no more tears. I prefer it when you’re throwing punches at me.’

She cried all the harder and he pulled her even closer. He bent his head to the fragrant cloud of her hair and let her cry. Her soft little body was nestled against his as if it had been fashioned just for that purpose. Her breasts were jammed up against his chest and he could feel the buds of her nipples pressing through the silk of his shirt. His trousers tightened over his groin and his breathing quickened as he fought against the rising desire pumping through his veins.

‘I’m sorry.’ Emily came up for air, her nose bright pink and her eyes still trickling tears. ‘I’m not good without sleep.’

‘I’m the one who should apologise. Let’s call a truce. Down all arms and see if we can get through the rest of today without a cross word.’

Emily nodded, scrubbing at her eyes with her sleeve.

‘Here.’ He handed her his handkerchief and she dabbed at her eyes.

‘I feel foolish.’ She gave the handkerchief back. ‘I hardly ever cry.’

‘Sorry to have that effect on you.’ His tone was wry.

She looked up into his eyes and suddenly realised his arms were still around her. She could feel the muscles in his thighs pressing against hers, and the unmistakable pressure of his maleness issuing its own insistent message.

‘Emily.’ His body shifted slightly against hers, his eyes darkening with desire. ‘This is not such a good idea.’

‘What isn’t?’ Was that her voice? That tiny breathless whisper?

His body collided intimately again with hers and she gasped.

‘Oh, that,’ she croaked.

‘Yes, that.’

There was an infinitesimal pause. She gazed up at him, her breath stalling in her throat as his eyes burned into hers. Then, as if in slow motion, his head came down towards hers. His lips moved over hers with a deepening pressure until his tongue probed and swiftly entered her mouth. Emily sagged against him, her legs weakening as his tongue danced with hers, drawing from her a response she hadn’t known she was capable of.

His lips moved to the silky texture of her neck, the underside of her ear and back again to her mouth. Emily strained to get closer to him, her feminine softness moulding itself to every hard plane of his body until he groaned against her mouth, ‘This is crazy.’

She didn’t respond in words. Instead, she unbuttoned his shirt and released his tie with fingers not quite steady. His chest was smooth and muscled, a fine sheen of sweat already beading at the fervent touch of her searching fingers.

His hands began a search path of their own, slipping underneath her T-shirt and deftly unhooking her bra. His warm hands captured the weight of her breasts and she gasped at the sensation of his exploring fingers discovering her contours, and then his mouth, when he bent his head to their hardened peaks.

He swept back to her mouth as her hands went to his belt. He jolted at her touch, but she continued her mission with a wantonness that surprised herself even more than it did him.

She felt him press her back against the table, the urgency in his hands and tongue preparing her for the inevitable. There was no turning back. Her track pants were at her ankles, his suit trousers at his knees, his fingers searching for her slick moistness.

‘Yes, oh, yes!’ She rocked against his hand and he pulled her down the table until his fingers were replaced with his own heat and length. She cried out at the force of his first thrust, her legs wrapping around him tightly to prolong the sensation. He steadied himself, slowing just a fraction, his breathing ragged.

Emily gloried in the loss of control she’d evoked in him. She’d brought him to the brink of unbearable desire and even now he was struggling to keep himself in check in order to bring about her pleasure before giving in to his own.

She could see it in the passion-contorted features of his face as he drove into her. She could feel the rigid control wavering as he hunted for her mouth once more. She felt the desperation in his fingers as they located the tiny swollen nub of her desire and coaxed her towards ecstasy at the same time as his throbbing length filled her again and again as he retreated and returned, each time firmer, deeper.

She almost screamed with the pleasure of her release. She bit down on his shoulder to dampen the sound, her nails raking his back as he continued his assault on her senses. His own climax soon followed, his agonised groan of pleasure like music to her ears. She held him to her, wanting to prolong the sensation of being filled by his liq-uid warmth, but he was already moving from her.

‘That should never have happened.’ He pulled up his trousers, his eyes not quite meeting hers.

‘Wasn’t it good for you?’ she asked pertly, adopting a pose of streetwise promiscuity when nothing could have been further from the truth. She hitched up her track pants and combed her fingers through her ravished hair as if she’d just returned from a jog around the block.

Damien gave her a sweeping glance, his eyes still reluc-tant to mesh with hers. ‘I’ve certainly no need to ask you the same question,’ he said. ‘My back feels as if I’ve been on a rack, not to mention that gnaw you gave my shoulder.’

‘Well, you know the saying.’ She reached for the cereal bowl she had discarded earlier and picked up her spoon. ‘If you can’t stand the heat—get out of the kitchen.’

Damien frowned at her as he tucked in his shirt.

‘Have a good day at the office,’ she added, and opened her mouth over her spoon.

He picked up his tie off the floor, where she’d tossed it earlier, and draped it loosely around his neck. This wasn’t how he’d planned things. Emily was up to something, he was sure. Somehow she’d switched the tables on him—quite literally, he thought, with a wry glance towards the table they’d just christened.

‘I’ll call you later.’ He scooped up his jacket and made his way to the bathroom.

She heard him leave the house a few minutes later. The sound of his car roaring out of the driveway triggered a deep sigh in her chest as she contemplated spending the rest of the day alone.

Emily used the morning to explore Damien’s house, her ears constantly pricked in case he was to return unannounced. She moved from room to room and from floor to floor to familiarise herself with her new surroundings, each room offering a clue to the mysterious man she’d married. It was a beautiful house, but it was definitely not a home. It didn’t even feel particularly lived-in. Some of the rooms were stale from being unused for so long, so she opened window after window as she went through each room, stopping to rearrange the stiff cushions on the velvet sofas in the formal lounge to make them a little more welcoming.

Damien’s bedroom she left well alone. As she skirted past a pool of heat trickled into her belly at the remem-brance of their passionate union this morning.

Her previous experience of sex had been somewhat limited. Her first had been little more than a teenage fumble that had been embarrassingly interrupted by the boy’s parents returning home. The second had been Raife Norton-Floyd, who’d claimed to love her but had already been married. The irony of her situation made her smile ruefully. Damien claimed he didn’t care for her at all, and yet had married her within days of asking her. Who could make sense of men?

The garden was an outside version of the interior of the house. It, too, was beautiful in its way, but unwelcoming with its array of neatly landscaped plants that offered a green screen from the nearest neighbours but very little in the way of blossom and fragrance.

Emily sat on the sun-lounger near the pool and dangled her toes in the cool water, watching as the ripples travelled outwards in ever-widening circles. Just like her life, she reflected. The circles of her life were moving further and further beyond her control, at least ever since Damien had entered her life so forcefully.

She was a married woman, in every sense of the word. She was finally free from her crippling financial burden but shackles of a different kind had settled about her, holding her in Damien’s controlling hands.

She found it difficult to unravel her feelings about him. Sometimes she thought she hated him; other times she found herself thinking about him, his darkly handsome fea-tures filling her head until there was no room for her own thoughts. She pictured his smiling mouth when she flew back at him with some witticism, and she could recall the warmth and comfort of his arms around her when she’d hurt her hand and he’d gathered her close. She didn’t understand him, couldn’t imagine why he’d acted the way he had in marrying her. But then she thought about the very deep and loyal love he obviously felt for Rose, stopping at nothing to protect her. If only someone, some day, would love her like that!

Emily went back into the house and fetched her purse and the set of keys Damien had given her. She walked towards the cafés and shops, stopping to buy huge bunches of flowers as well as the latest bestseller—unfortunately not her own. She grimaced ruefully as she handed over the money.

Some time later she stepped back and inspected her floral handiwork. ‘Mmm, that’s much better.’

She had planted spilling blossoms in each of the formal rooms, their sweet fragrance soon wafting through the long corridors.

She selected a classical choral collection CD from the state-of-the-art hi-fi console and, turning up the volume, listened as the ethereal sound filled the empty house with beatific strains that sounded as if they were coming down from heaven. She shut her eyes and wrapped her arms around herself, standing in the centre of the huge sitting room to let the magic of the perfect blend of young male voices seep into her very bones.

She didn’t hear Damien’s car return. Nor did she hear him enter the house. It was only when he entered the room that she sensed his presence. She swung around, her eyes springing open, her cheeks flaming.

‘I…I was just listening to some music,’ she gabbled in embarrassment.

‘You and most of the neighbourhood, it seems,’ he observed drily as he turned the volume down several notches with the remote control.

‘I like it loud,’ she defended.

‘You can turn it up later, when you start yelling at me. But for now I want to talk to you.’

‘I don’t yell.’

‘Don’t speak too soon. We’ve only been married twenty-four hours.’

Emily turned away to pick up another CD, effectively dismissing him.

‘Emily, look at me.’

She rolled her eyes and faced him. ‘Yes?’

‘I can sense you don’t wish to discuss what happened between us this morning, but discuss it we must.’

‘What’s to discuss? It was just sex.’

‘Such jaded cynicism in one so young astounds me. Nevertheless, even people who have “just sex” must take full responsibility for having done so.’

‘And your point is?’ She arched one brow pertly, her pose insolent.

‘Are you on the Pill?’

She couldn’t hold his gaze, and instead turned to retrieve one of the fallen petals from the flowers she’d arranged on the walnut sideboard.

‘Of course I’m on the Pill,’ she snapped. ‘And I haven’t got any nasty diseases so you can breathe easy.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. However, this isn’t just about you—it’s about me. It was wrong of me not to protect you this morning. I was a little unprepared.’

She did glance up at him at that.

‘Shall I distribute condoms in each of the rooms just in case it happens again?’ she asked.

‘It won’t happen again,’ he stated implacably. ‘It must not happen again. Is that clear?’

‘So it’s all my fault now? How typically male! Just because you can’t control your own lust you conveniently throw it all back on me.’

‘You were extremely provocative—’

‘I was wearing a fluffy tracksuit, for God’s sake!’ Her voice rose in anger.

‘You’d look sexy in a garbage bag!’ he shouted.

‘You’d better turn the music back on,’ she threw back. ‘You’re shouting.’

‘I’m not—’ He ground his teeth and lowered his voice. ‘You are so damned annoying you’d make a mute person shout. I came home early to apologise—’

‘You came home to get yourself off the hook,’ she fired back. ‘Don’t worry—there’ll be no paternity suit from me. I wouldn’t dream of being so irresponsible as to contribute to the replication of your likeness.’

‘As I said on a previous occasion—you have a charming way with words.’

‘Yeah? Well, so do you.’ She turned away and plucked at the petals in her hand.

‘What are all the flowers for?’ he asked suddenly, noticing what she was doing. ‘Who died?’

‘This place is like a mausoleum. I thought it needed a little softening.’

‘You’re probably right. I don’t spend much time at home. I hadn’t noticed.’

There was a lengthy silence. Emily scrunched the petals to a mush in her hand and waited for him to continue the conversation.

‘I thought we could go out for a meal this evening,’ he said at last.

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Come now, Emily,’ he chided. ‘Humour me. I hate eating out alone and there’s a great Thai restaurant a few blocks from here.’

She felt herself wavering. What harm could it do to spend an evening with him? It wasn’t as if she had anything to lose. In fact, she stood to gain. What if he unknowingly revealed some information about Rose? What if she were actually to find out where she was living?

She joined him downstairs twenty minutes later, dressed in a black close-fitting top and silvery-grey slim-fitting trousers that clung lovingly to her toned thighs only to swing away at her ankles in shimmering folds. She’d left her honey-brown hair to fall about her shoulders, its soft curls framing her face.

‘I’m all out of garbage bags,’ she quipped as his eyes ran over her.

He chuckled. ‘Come on, you minx. I must have had rocks in my head to get mixed up with you.’

She didn’t respond. She was still trying to figure out her own motivations for tying herself to him. She was living in his house and bearing his name while the research notes of her book lay untouched. None of it made sense. Least of all her own treacherous heart.

Chapter Seven

THE restaurant was busy but the head waiter quickly bustled across to escort them to a quiet table in the corner. Once they were seated with a chilled glass of Chardonnay in front of them Emily started to feel her shoulders relax a little. She sipped at her wine and examined the menu, all the while conscious of the strongly muscled legs occasionally touching hers under the narrow table.

‘What do you fancy?’

Emily blinked up at him, her eyes wide.

‘Do you like it hot or—’

‘Oh!’ She coloured delicately, a vision of their passionately joined bodies flashing through her brain. ‘I thought you were talking about something else. Sorry—yes, I don’t mind—anything will do.’

‘Are you as easy-going with your choice of men as you are with your food?’ he asked.

‘Apparently,’ she said, taking another hefty sip of her wine.

He waited until the waiter had taken their order before he spoke. ‘You have a very sharp wit, Emily, but eventually it will cause you a great deal of trouble.’

‘I didn’t realise you were into prophecy,’ she retorted. ‘I thought finance was your thing.’

‘How many men have you had?’ His question was abruptly delivered. She picked up her glass and eyeballed him questioningly over the rim.

‘Slept with. Had sex with,’ he clarified at her quirked brow.

She pretended to be making some sort of mental tally as she twirled the glass in her hands. Then, after a pause, she shook her head.

‘Sorry, can’t quite remember. Never was all that good at maths. How about you? You’d have a well-tallied record, being in finance and all. How many women have you had?’

His mouth twisted into a reluctant smile. ‘Point taken. I’d momentarily forgotten about the Women’s Movement.’

She smiled back, suddenly enjoying this light-hearted banter. ‘I was worried there for a time that maybe I’d married a dinosaur.’

‘Why did you marry me, Emily?’

The question came from nowhere and startled her.

‘I…it seemed like a good idea at the time,’ she prevaricated.

‘For me, certainly,’ he acceded. ‘I stopped you writing your book in exchange for taking on your financial commitments. But what is it you get?’

She met his dark gaze levelly. ‘I get to be wined and dined and ravished on the kitchen table,’ she said flippantly, reaching again for her wine. ‘What more could a woman ask for?’

His brows met together in a frown. ‘Somehow I think you hide behind that mercurial wit for reasons I’m yet to discover.’

‘Prophecy, finance and psychology,’ she mused mockingly. ‘Mmm, you are a multi-skilled man.’

‘Tell me about your family.’ He swiftly changed the subject.

Her eyes skittered away from his. ‘I told you before, my parents died years ago.’

‘You also mentioned having two siblings.’

‘Did I?’ She marvelled at his keen memory but refused to be drawn any further. Discussions about her family were definitely off limits.

‘Brothers or sisters?’ he asked.

‘What is this?’ She frowned at him. ‘A career change for you? Are you thinking of writing a biography on my family?’

‘You seem very defensive about a few simple questions,’ he observed.

‘That’s rich, coming from you,’ she shot back. ‘I can give you addresses and phone numbers, if you like. That’s more than you’ve given me.’

‘So, we’re back to that again, are we?’ His eyes narrowed as he looked across the table at her. ‘Still hankering after the elusive interview with Rose. Was that what this morning was about? Part of the buttering-up process?’

She considered slinging the contents of her wine glass in his face, but then realised it was already empty. His gaze followed her hand as it moved towards the full tumbler of water between them.

‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ he warned, sliding his hand over hers. ‘Not unless you never want to eat in this restaurant again.’

Just then the waiter made a timely appearance with their food and Emily had to force her anger under some sort of control. She silently fumed, poking at the grains of rice on her plate, her appetite gone.

‘Try the green curry.’ Damien passed her the serving dish garnished with kaffir lime leaves. ‘It’s reputed to be the best in town.’

He spooned some on to her plate, the fragrant aroma teasing her nostrils. She prodded her fork at the succulent pieces of chicken in the creamy coconut sauce but didn’t carry any of it to her mouth.

‘Stop sulking,’ he said, after watching her toy with the food for endless minutes. ‘Personally, I don’t care if you eat it or not, but I resent having my own appetite spoilt by your petulance.’

‘I’m not sulking—I’m upset. When I’m upset I can’t eat.’

He gave an exasperated sigh and put down his fork. ‘Emily, I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just trying to make conversation with you. I wouldn’t have thought it was so unreasonable for a husband to know about his wife’s family.’

‘Ditto.’

He gave her a hard look and she returned it with a sharp glance of her own.

‘I don’t wish to discuss my family. It’s no one’s business but my own.’

He picked up his glass and said derisively, ‘Quite frankly, the only reason I’m the slightest bit interested in your family background is to find out how the hell you got so screwed up.’

Emily got to her feet and, with utter disregard for the swivelling heads of the rest of the diners, stormed from the table without a backward glance.

He caught her before she even got to the street corner.

‘OK,’ he conceded, taking her arm, ‘that was a raw nerve. I won’t touch it in future.’

She tried to shake off his hold but his other arm came around her as well.

‘If you don’t let me go I’ll scream.’ She opened her mouth in readiness but before the sound could escape his lips closed over hers. She gave a token struggle, but his mouth was determined and his arms strong as they pulled her into the warm shield of his body. She tasted wine on his tongue as it stroked along hers, drawing it into active response against his.

Somehow it didn’t matter any more who was kissing whom. Damien’s mouth had overpowered hers to begin with, but now her lips were conducting their own assault. She nipped gently at his full bottom lip, tugging at it with her small white teeth. He gave her an answering nip and she slid her tongue into his mouth.

He pushed her back against a high garden wall out of the glow of the street light. His lower body ground against hers as his hands found her breasts through the silk of her top.

Suddenly he stopped. His breathing was as ragged as hers as he stepped away from her, raking a hand through his dark hair. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but he shook his head warningly and pressed a none too gentle finger to her lips.

‘Don’t.’

‘Buffft,’ her lips protested against the pad of his finger.

He snagged her arm and began striding off towards his car, almost dragging her in his wake. Once in the car he drove silently but furiously towards home, his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel cautioning her to remain silent.

She waited until they were back inside the house before she spoke. ‘Has the embargo on my speech been lifted, or am I to—?’

‘You do it deliberately, don’t you?’ His expression was thunderous as he loomed over her.

‘Do…do what?’

His jaw clenched in anger as he fought to keep control. ‘This act of beguiling charm you’re so good at. One minute the injured innocent, next the seductive siren.’

‘I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.’

He gave a scornful grunt. ‘I can see what you’re up to, and I’ve got to admit I’m tempted to throw caution to the winds and take what’s on offer. But that would be playing right into your hands, now, wouldn’t it?’

Emily looked at him in bewilderment. ‘I think maybe I’ve missed something important. Can you back up a bit to that part about me looking sexy in a garbage bag?’

‘There!’ He threw a hand in the air expressively. ‘You’re doing it now.’

‘What am I doing?’ she asked, her eyes widening innocently.

‘Never mind.’ He turned away, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘I’m going away for a few days. On business.’

‘When will you be back?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘Two, maybe three days.’

‘You don’t have firm plans? I thought business people like you would run to very tight schedules.’

‘You’re starting to sound like a suspicious wife.’

She met his satirical gaze with a disdainful flash of her blue eyes.

‘I don’t care what mischief you get up to while you’re away. I’ll be too busy planning my own.’

His eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘Careful, Emily,’ he warned. ‘Don’t forget the terms of our deal.’

‘Could you run them past me one more time?’ She blinked up at him guilelessly. ‘I’m a little hazy on the details.’

‘Don’t play games with me, little lady. You know the terms. If you step out of line by speaking to the press or pursuing this notion of tracking down my aunt behind my back, watch out. The legal system will come down on you so hard you won’t know what hit you.’

Emily lifted her chin defiantly. ‘And what will your law-yers say when I tell them you broke your part of the deal by having sex with me? Isn’t this supposed to be a paper marriage?’

He gave a contemptuous sneer. ‘I’d like to see you prove it. It’ll be your word against mine and I know who they’ll believe.’

‘You don’t have such a squeaky-clean image yourself,’ she retorted. ‘How is Mrs Janssen, by the way?’

His expression darkened with suppressed anger. ‘Be very careful, Emily. Careless words can come back to bite you.’

‘Are you in love with her?’ Emily asked baldly. ‘Or is it just good old lusty sex?’

‘I refuse to answer that.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s none of your business.’

‘Oh, well.’ She shrugged dismissively. ‘I don’t care either way as long as you don’t paw me instead when she’s not available.’

‘That’s a despicable thing to say,’ he ground out.

She gave a cynical little laugh. ‘At least you’ll be telling her the truth when you say your wife doesn’t understand you. That usually reels them in, doesn’t it?’

‘I wouldn’t know—you tell me. You’re the one with the track record with married men. What did Raife Norton-Floyd do to lure you? Or were you his just for the asking?’

‘I don’t wish to partake in this conversation.’ She swung away, her colour high.

‘That’s a little inconsistent of you, isn’t it, Emily? You’ve taken pot shots at me all evening, but you don’t like it when the tables are turned, do you?’

She turned back to glare at him. ‘There would be absolutely no point in me discussing any of this with you because you’ve already made up your mind about me, and nothing I could say or do will change it.’

‘Go on, try me,’ he challenged her. ‘Tell me you didn’t have a rip-roaring affair with Norton-Floyd to get inside information on that funding scheme he was involved in. And tell me you didn’t chase after my brother to filch photos and journals you had no business seeing.’

Emily couldn’t think of a word to say in her own defence. She’d been caught off-guard with Raife. He’d been so polished and she so innocent she hadn’t seen the poten-tial for the disaster that eventually occurred. With Danny, she’d been lonely and he’d been friendly. She’d used him, but then, hadn’t he used her as well?

‘Your silence condemns you,’ Damien said.

Emily turned her back on him on her way to the door, her lips clamped tight against the anger that threatened to spew out of her mouth.

‘What?’ he taunted her. ‘No stinging parting shot?’

She paused, her hand frozen on the doorknob as she mentally counted to ten.

‘I have nothing I wish to say to you,’ she bit out.

‘Not even goodnight?’

She swung back to face him. ‘No, not even goodnight. I hope you have a bad night—a rotten night. I hope you toss and turn and your pillow feels like lead and—’

He laughed out loud. Emily’s tenuous hold on her temper snapped and she stomped back across the room to push a finger against his chest, her eyes sparking with venom.

‘Don’t you laugh at me!’

Damien captured her hand and she pulled against his hold, her nails embedding themselves into his palm.

‘Oh, no, you don’t.’ He undid the clench of her fingers and, grasping both hands in one of his large ones, held them over her head.

Emily felt the wall at her back and the press of his strongly muscled thighs on hers. Her chest heaved with impotent rage against his, her breasts rising and falling against him.

‘Let me go, you bastard!’

‘I just love it when you talk dirty,’ he drawled.

‘You won’t when I talk dirty to the press,’ she threatened recklessly. ‘When I tell them all about your affair with Mrs Janssen and about the way you forced me to marry you to cover it up.’

His brow furrowed, his hand still holding hers above her head. ‘Is that what you think?’

‘Isn’t it true?’ She glared at him frostily.

He shrugged one shoulder. ‘I thought I’d made my reasons for marrying you quite clear. I wanted to stop your book being written.’

She flicked her eyes upwards to her hands in his hold. ‘You wanted control of me, not just the book.’

The corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. ‘Now, that’s what I would call an impossible task. You don’t even have control of yourself, let alone anyone else being able to manage it.’

‘That’s because you make me lose control!’ she said crossly.

‘Is that so?’ His brow lifted speculatively as his eyes ran over her breasts, still rising and falling against his chest.

‘I don’t mean that way.’ Her tone was scathing.

‘Don’t you?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Then what was all that about in the kitchen this morning?’

‘That…that was…an accident.’

‘An accident?’ His lip curled expressively.

‘It was your fault,’ she accused. ‘You started it.’

‘And you could’ve finished it at any time, but you didn’t. I wonder why, Emily?’ he mused. ‘I wonder why?’

‘You’ve got tickets on yourself if you think it was anything other than the most basic animal attraction,’ she spat back.

‘So you do admit to feeling some sort of attraction towards me?’ His brown eyes questioned hers.

‘No.’

He gave a rumble of cynical laughter. ‘No, of course you wouldn’t. But we both know the truth, don’t we?’

‘The truth is I loathe and despise you.’

‘But you were prepared to marry me.’

‘Suffice it to say it was an offer too good to refuse.’ Sarcasm coloured her tone. ‘I would’ve settled for the Elephant Man if he’d offered to pay off my Visa card. You got there first.’

‘So I did.’ His eyes followed the nervous movement of hers. ‘So now you’re in my debt, so to speak.’

‘I…’ She moistened her dry lips. ‘I don’t quite see it that way.’

Damien’s hands slid down from around her up-raised wrists and instead settled on her waist. Emily stiffened. Her hands had nowhere to go but his shoulders, where they valiantly tried to push him away. But somehow the feel of his firm muscles under her palms distracted her from her task of putting as much distance between them as possible. His shirt was silky to the touch, his shoulders warm and broad underneath the pads of her fingers.

His eyes sought and held hers. She felt like a moth attracted to a searing flame in spite of the danger it represented, and the one thing she was becoming more and more certain of was that Damien Margate spelt danger.

‘Be a good girl while I’m away, Emily,’ he said, his fingers now light, almost like a caress about her waist.

She didn’t trust herself to answer. Her breath had stalled somewhere in the back of her throat at his nearness, his touch feather-light but electric all the same. All her nerves seemed to be leaping inside her body, each portion of her flesh craving for the brush of his long fingers.

His head lowered to hers, his mouth just a fraction from hers. ‘Kiss me goodbye,’ he commanded her gently.

She wanted to resist. Every rational part of her being insisted she resist the temptation to press her soft lips along the firm line of his, but it was overruled by a deep and irresistible desire to feel his mouth on hers once more.

She lifted her head just a fraction and their lips touched. It was like a match to tinder; heat coursed and exploded on impact, flames of passion licking between them uncon-trollably. His tongue found hers and played with it, danced with it, teased it. The answering moves of her own tongue tightened his hands about her waist, pressing her into the rock-hard wall of his chest while his lower body told her of his aching, throbbing need.

Suddenly she was free. He stepped away from her so abruptly it took her a couple of seconds to collect herself. She straightened her clothes and forced herself to make eye contact.

‘Goodnight, Emily,’ he said, his mouth set in a grim line.

Emily rolled her still tingling lips together before answering quietly, ‘Goodnight.’

He turned and left her standing there, listening to the mantel clock ticking away the minutes like the drone of a metronome keeping time to a tedious piece of music. Emily sighed and, crossing her arms against her chest, turned and stared sightlessly out of the window overlooking the bay while the persistent clock kept time in the background.

Chapter Eight

EMILY didn’t hear him leave the next morning. She’d lain awake most of the night, tossing and turning and thumping her lead-like pillow, trying to eradicate the memory of his kiss. By the time she did eventually fall into some sort of restless slumber Damien had left to catch the first flight of the day.

Later, as she made herself a small breakfast of toast and tea, she wondered if it was really consistent of her to feel lonely at the thought of him not returning to the house that night. She should be feeling relieved, she remonstrated with herself. He wouldn’t be missing her! He would have no doubt arranged to meet up with his lady-love interstate, away from the prying eyes of the local press, while she, his legal wife, sat twiddling her thumbs, wondering what to do with the rest of the day.

Emily pushed her second slice of toast away; she knew she had to do something with her time or she’d end up going crazy. As it was she spent most of her time thinking about Damien, and that was surely a pathway to disaster. He wasn’t interested in her other than as an entertaining diversion when his mistress was unavailable. And she didn’t like him—but there was something about him that drew her to him like a bee towards scented blossoms.

Animal attraction, she’d explained to him earlier, trying to find some sort of valid excuse for her own wanton behaviour. She knew she should be feeling shame about their passionate encounter, but for some reason she didn’t. She felt proud. Proud that a full-blooded man of such iron control as Damien Margate had let caution fly to the winds and let himself sink into the pleasure her young and eager body had offered.

It had been an awakening for her in more ways than one. She’d never felt such need before. She’d never felt her responses in such a wild and abandoned way, and never had she felt so complete, as if two halves of a whole had joined and the universe had sighed in relief at their union.

She wanted it to happen again but knew it couldn’t. He didn’t want a physical relationship with her because his only reason for marrying her was to protect his aunt. Their marriage was a sham, a façade they were both using for different reasons. The only trouble was, Emily wasn’t sure what her reasons were any more.

It had seemed the sensible thing to do in the beginning, especially with the bank breathing down her neck about the state of her finances. But now she was confused. Damien had cleared away her outstanding debt without even blinking a reproving eye over her credit card statement. He’d also refinanced her apartment so the allowance he deposited into her account each week covered her mortgage repay-ments at a rate she would have had no hope of equalling unless one of her books became a top ten best-seller—which she knew wasn’t likely in her lifetime. It had sur-prised her that he’d allowed her to keep it, but when she’d questioned him he’d informed her he had some clients who were desperate for accommodation. The hefty rent they were paying was also magically appearing in her bank account, which made her feel even more ambiguous towards him.

She wanted to feel angry at him, not grateful. Her dependence on him was increasing each day in subtle ways. Living in the same house, sharing meals and conversations with him, was making her see him in a different light. He was nothing like his more shallow brother Danny, for a start. Damien had a fine intelligence, a dry wit and a level of compassion that had taken her quite by surprise. His aloof nature, she was starting to recognise, was not just a protective device. He was a private person. Keeping his cards close to his chest was wired into his personality just as surely as Danny’s outgoing party-boy image was wired into his.

Emily wished she knew why it was so important for Damien to keep his aunt’s whereabouts a secret—a secret so safely guarded even his own brother didn’t know. What could possibly be his reason? Was she, as rumoured, a reclusive alcoholic? Or was it something else?

Emily wandered aimlessly around Damien’s house, trying to fill in the crawling minutes. Three days, he’d said. It seemed like a lifetime. The house was spotless due to the fastidious attention of Damien’s housekeeper earlier that morning. Mrs Tilberry had introduced herself grudgingly and, after giving her employer’s new wife an assessing glance, with a shrug of her hefty shoulders had turned and applied herself to the task of maintaining the sterile order of Damien’s house. Once she’d left, Emily had gone around and deliberately shifted the sofa cushions into a more relaxed position. Then, on her way past the huge gleaming gilt-edged mirror in the dining room, she’d left a complete set of her fingerprints in one corner. She smiled mischie-vously at her unrepentant reflection, satisfied at last.

The mid-afternoon sunlight beckoned her outside for a long walk, the earlier heat of the day having cooled with the onset of a light coastal breeze. Emily walked for several blocks, peering into gardens and admiring the huge mansions of the exclusive leafy suburb. Her tiny apartment in the inner suburb of Stanmore seemed so pathetic compared to the grandeur surrounding her. Thinking about the way Damien had helped her keep her property made her anger towards him increasingly harder to sustain, especially now, with him absent.

His absence seemed to have multiplied her tendency to think about him. He filled her mind. It was as if he’d taken up permanent residence there, and there was now no way of evicting him. She increased her pace, determined to erad-icate him from her thoughts, her feet pounding along the pavement, her head down against the playful breeze. She didn’t see the woman until she cannoned into her less than half a block from Damien’s house.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ Emily reached out a steadying hand to the older woman. ‘Are you all right? Did I hurt you?’

The woman grasped Emily’s arm with an unsteady hand while the other went to her blue-grey hair. She looked at Emily with penetrating dark, black-button eyes.

‘I’m fine. Just a wee bit shaken.’ Her voice was rich with a Scottish lilt.

‘I didn’t see you,’ Emily apologised. ‘My mind was on other things and I—’

‘Don’t go troubling yourself,’ the woman said with the hint of a rueful smile. ‘I’m not very steady on my feet these days.’

‘Do you have far to go?’ Emily asked. ‘I can walk you home if you like, to make sure you’re OK?’

The woman seemed to hesitate. Emily assumed her hesitation was because the elderly were so often the target of opportunistic thieves. She smiled reassuringly at her.

‘The truth is, I’m new around here. My…er…husband lives in number thirty-three. See, just there, the one with the high fence.’

The woman’s eyes brightened and a smile crinkled her soft face. ‘Just married, eh, lassie?’

Emily could feel herself blushing. ‘Is it that obvious?’

‘You’ve got blushing bride all over you like an Edinburgh fog.’ The older woman smiled. ‘So Mr Margate finally got himself a wee bride. Who’d have thought?’

‘You know him?’ Emily’s eyes widened.

‘I’ve not long been in Double Bay myself, but he is one neighbour I have seen now and again. He’s a rather handsome lad, isn’t he?’

‘I…Yes, he is.’ Emily blushed again, struggling a little with the Scottish accent.

‘My name’s McCrae,’ the woman said. ‘Maisie McCrae. I live in the next street.’

‘I’m Emily Sher—I mean Margate.’

‘So you didn’t keep your own name?’

‘I wasn’t all that attached to it, actually,’ Emily answered with honesty. ‘It’s really one of my stepfathers’ names so I didn’t mind relinquishing it.’

‘Well, you’ve certainly married into a famous family,’ Maisie said. ‘He has an aunt—what’s her name again?’

‘Rose,’ Emily offered.

‘Ah, yes. Rose Margate, a fine stage actress she was in her time.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Have you met her yet?’ Maisie asked. ‘She’s become a recluse. No one’s seen her for a wee while now.’

Emily wasn’t sure how to answer. She could hardly tell Mrs McCrae that Damien had forbidden her from meeting his aunt. How would she explain that?

‘I’m sure I’ll get to meet her soon, Mrs McCrae,’ she said after a slight hesitation. ‘Damien and I have been very busy and—’

Maisie gave a tinkling laugh. ‘And that’s exactly how it should be when you first get married, lass. Why would a young couple want old folk around when they have each other?’

‘Will you allow me to walk you home, Mrs McCrae?’ Emily asked in an effort to swing the subject away from Damien.

The images in her head of her body entwined with his were already wreaking havoc on her equilibrium, especially as Mrs McCrae was quite clearly a hopeless romantic who thought all marriages were made in heaven. She wondered what the older woman would say if she told her the truth. That Damien Margate had bought her literary silence, sealing the agreement with a ring on her finger and a brand on her body that just wouldn’t wash away.

‘Well, that’d be nice, lass,’ Mrs McCrae said, taking Emily’s arm with a tremulous hand. ‘I should really be using a walking stick, but they’re so ageing, don’t you think?’

Emily smiled and slowed her pace to match Mrs McCrae’s.

‘I’m sure you can buy quite nice ones,’ she offered positively.

Mrs McCrae gave her a scornful look. ‘Next you’ll be telling me it’s not ageing to wear underwear the size of yacht sails.’

Emily burst out laughing. She hadn’t laughed in so long the sensation felt strange and she quickly smothered the sound. Mrs McCrae looked at her and smiled.

‘You should smile more often. You have such lovely eyes. They dance the Highland Fling when you smile.’

Emily looked away in embarrassment and they continued in a companionable silence. There was something about Mrs McCrae that appealed to her. The faltering steps beside her filled her with compassion, and she wondered if the older woman had had a stroke recently. She didn’t like to ask, but pulled back her pace even more as they continued along the pathway.

Not long after they’d turned the corner Mrs McCrae stopped in front of a neat terraced house. ‘This is my home. It’s not as grand as its neighbours but I live alone.’

‘Did you…did your husband pass away?’ Emily asked uncomfortably.

‘He’s been long gone,’ Mrs McCrae said.

‘I’m sorry.’

Mrs McCrae’s bright eyes twinkled again. ‘Not all husbands are as irresistible as yours, my dear.’

Emily’s colour returned. ‘I should get going.’ She took a step backwards.

‘Come and visit me some time,’ Mrs McCrae said. ‘I don’t have many visitors. We can have tea and shortbread and a good blather.’

‘I’d like that,’ Emily said, and gave Mrs McCrae’s arm a little squeeze as she turned to walk home.

Two days later Emily was just sitting down to a snack of cheese on toast when the doorbell rang. She left her scanty evening meal and opened the front door.

‘Danny! What are you doing here?’

‘This is my brother’s house,’ Danny said, stooping to kiss her briefly on the mouth. ‘While the cat’s away and all that.’

Emily stepped aside as he came in, her forehead creasing into a worried frown. ‘I’m not sure Damien would appre-ciate your sense of humour. Where’s Louise?’

Danny shrugged and bent his head to smell the huge bouquet of flowers she’d put on the hall table only that morning. ‘Mmm, nice.’ He turned back to face her. ‘Louise is visiting her mother.’

‘So while the cat’s away and all that?’ Emily quipped darkly.

‘Come on, Em, have pity on me. Let’s have a drink and a chat. We’re supposed to be mates, aren’t we?’

‘You’re my brother-in-law now,’ she pointed out as he strode off towards the sitting room, where the well-stocked bar was located.

‘Even better,’ he said, reaching for the whisky decanter. ‘Damien won’t mind sharing. He’s used to it by now. Linda Janssen is his latest—apart from you, of course.’

Emily found his comments intensely irritating. She hated being referred to in the same sentence as Damien’s mistress—it made her feel used and cheap.

Danny looked at her as he lifted his glass to his lips. ‘You’re not falling in love with him, are you?’ he asked when she didn’t speak.

Emily felt the flush rise like a tide along her cheeks. ‘Of course not! You know why I married him.’

Danny’s laugh was mocking. ‘Yes, you married him for his money, didn’t you, my sweet?’

Emily’s mouth tightened. ‘I wouldn’t have put it quite that way,’ she said.

‘How would you have put it, Emily?’

Emily turned in shock at the deep sardonic sound of Damien’s voice at the doorway. ‘Damien!’ she gasped.

Damien’s brow lifted ironically. ‘Surprised to see me? How touching.’ He turned to his brother. ‘What brings you here, Danny—apart from my wife?’

Danny finished his whisky in one mouthful. ‘I thought I’d do the brotherly thing and entertain Emily for you. But since you’re home now I wonder if I could speak to you about something.’ He glanced briefly at Emily before adding, ‘In private.’

Emily swung away to leave the room, her face set in lines of tension. She didn’t trust Danny. She wondered why she hadn’t seen it before, the way he inveigled himself, got what he wanted and then turned away without remorse.

‘What is it this time?’ she heard Damien ask as she closed the door behind her. ‘Money?’

She wouldn’t listen through the keyhole, but how she wanted to! Instead she went back to her abandoned meal and sat down and stared at the cold cheese and limp toast. Very few minutes had passed before she heard the front door slam and the roar of a car soon after.

Damien’s unmistakable tread came towards the kitchen and Emily pushed her untouched food away.

‘I want to talk to you,’ he said as he entered the room.

Emily felt her stomach free-fall at the sheer height of him looming over her like some dark knight intent on righting the wrongs of his underlings.

‘I’m having my dinner,’ she said defiantly, pulling her toast back towards her.

He gave the small plate a cursory glance. ‘That’s not dinner—that wouldn’t feed a gnat.’

‘I’m not that hungry.’

‘Are you upset?’

She looked up at him.

‘Upset?’

‘You told me you can’t eat when you’re upset. Remember?’

‘Oh.’ She turned back to her plate. ‘No.’

‘Well, I am,’ he said.

She looked back at him at that. ‘Because Danny was here?’ she guessed.

‘That and other things.’

‘He’s your brother. I didn’t realise I was banned from speaking to him. Apart from your aunt, are there any other relatives you’d like me to keep away from?’

His expression darkened. ‘Who else have you entertained while I’ve been away?’

She got to her feet and slammed her chair in forcibly. ‘No one, although I don’t see that it’s any business of yours. I haven’t asked for a minute-by-minute account of your time away, although no doubt it would be very enlightening.’

One of his hands snaked out and caught her arm, pulling her back to face him. ‘I don’t want you to spend time with Danny alone.’

‘Oh?’ She arched one fine brow provocatively. ‘Why? Because you don’t trust him? Or is it that you don’t trust me?’

She suddenly found herself slammed up against him, her face far too close to his, her breasts rising and falling against the wall of hard muscle at his chest.

‘I don’t trust myself around you,’ he ground out, ‘let alone anyone else.’

She could hardly breathe but managed to ask, ‘Am I to be put under lock and key?’

His dark chocolate gaze fixed on her flashing blue glare. ‘No. I have other plans for you.’

‘Torture?’

He gave a bitter half-smile and her stomach lurched again. ‘That depends.’

‘On what?’ Her voice sounded breathless, husky even.

‘On this,’ he said, and covered her mouth with his.

It was torture, she decided some minutes later. Torture to be in his arms and know he didn’t care a jot for her. They’d moved from the kitchen to the sitting room but she couldn’t quite recall how. She’d locked her arms around his neck and closed her eyes as his mouth had worked its magic on hers, and when she opened them again she was being pressed to the expanse of the sofa and he was on top of her, each hard line of his very aroused body imprinting itself on hers.

His mouth moved from hers to trail a path of heat along her neck. She turned her head as he pressed soft, spine-tingling kisses along the sensitised skin, her hands tightening around his shoulders, her nails digging into his firm flesh.

‘You’re a wildcat,’ he breathed against her mouth. ‘Do you know that?’

She answered him with an open-mouthed kiss of her own, her nails digging even deeper. He returned her kiss while flames of uncontrollable desire licked along her flesh wherever his hands or fingers touched. Her clothes were a barrier that he soon dispensed with. She heard something tear and then realised it was the back of his shirt as she wrenched it out of his trousers. Two buttons flew through the air to land alongside her bra and top, and his tie coiled like a ribbon-dancer’s as it joined them on the floor.

She was lost. All her determination to resist him had disappeared, replaced with a desire so strong she had no hope of turning back its tide. It was like the force of a hurricane, overtaking everything in its path, hurling reason and intellect into the swirl of relentless desire.

His hands covered her breasts, moulding their firm globes under expert fingers, tracing her sensitised nipples in tiny circles until her breath locked in her throat as he replaced his fingers in turn with his mouth. His tongue rolled over each hard nub until she thought she’d scream with her need of him. Her body arched beneath him, her pelvis melting into the strength and purpose of his.

He entered her so deeply she shuddered at the impact. He checked himself, murmured something in her ear which in her overcome state she didn’t properly register. She let her body do the talking for her instead. Her legs tightened around his, her back arched to take him further, and she heard him groan as her hands raked along his back. Each movement of his body in hers brought her closer to the edge of ecstasy, only just out of reach but moving inexo-rably nearer. His mouth returned to hers, drawing a fiery response that left them both gasping for air.

Her cry of pleasure when it came seemed to fill the room. She bit down on his shoulder as the last of the waves rolled over and through her, and his answering groan of release was like a salve along her heated flesh.

It was a long time before either of them moved. Emily kept her eyes shut; her arms had relaxed their grip somewhat but were still around his neck. Damien’s chest rose and fell rhythmically, the steady beat of his heart close to hers.

‘Emily?’ He shifted his body and she immediately felt empty and alone. ‘Did I hurt you?’

She shook her head against his shoulder, not trusting herself to speak. He lifted himself up on one elbow to look down at her.

‘I shouldn’t have done that. I told myself I wouldn’t.’

‘It’s OK.’

‘No, it’s not OK. It’s not part of the deal.’

‘Please, Damien—’ She pushed against him to get up off the sofa. ‘It’s not a big deal. It was just sex.’

‘Thanks.’ His tone was resentful.

She flicked him a wry glance. ‘Very good sex,’ she said, stepping back into her discarded clothes.

‘I thought so too,’ he said as he reached for his trousers.

She had to look away.

‘Have you had dinner?’ she asked, plumping up the squashed cushions on the sofa, wondering privately what Mrs Tilberry would think if she’d seen the way their bodies had just flattened them.

‘No—’ she heard him sigh ‘—you know what aeroplane food is like.’

‘Can’t be much worse than soggy cheese on toast.’

‘Comes close, I’d say.’

She gave a reluctant smile as she turned to face him. He was looking at her intently, his dark gaze penetrating.

‘When you smile your eyes dance,’ he said. ‘You should smile more often.’

Emily looked away, her cheeks aflame.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. You just reminded me of someone, that’s all.’

‘Who?’

‘Someone I met the other day.’

‘Who?’

‘Your Scottish neighbour, Mrs McCrae.’

‘Never heard of her,’ he said dismissively.

He poured them both a drink and, handing her one, asked, ‘What did Danny want?’

She took a deep sip before answering. ‘We didn’t get to that.’

‘No.’ He put his drink down. ‘You were too busy discussing your motives for marrying me.’

‘It wasn’t quite how it sounded.’

‘Oh?’ His arched brow was sceptical.

‘I can’t see why you should be feeling affronted. You’ve made your own motives more than clear,’ she put in.

‘Have I?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m a smokescreen for the real love of your life. Everyone knows it.’

‘Everyone?’

‘Well, I know it.’

‘You know nothing. You just make it up as you go along to suit yourself.’

‘That’s not true,’ she said crossly, then, inspecting the whisky decanter intently, added, ‘Was she with you interstate?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

Emily turned to look at him. ‘Because I will not be made a laughing stock, that’s why.’

‘I wasn’t with Linda,’ he assured her. ‘I was catching up on clients.’

She turned away again, not wanting him to see the relief on her face. ‘If I’m to believe your word then you should at least believe mine.’

‘Point taken,’ he said, putting down his glass. ‘But I still don’t want Danny to visit you alone.’

‘Danny is nothing to me.’

‘Other than a way to gain access to my aunt.’

‘I’m keeping my side of the deal,’ she said. ‘Even if you’re not.’

His eyes moved away from hers and she felt a small sense of victory. An awkward silence fell between them. Emily finally broke it with, ‘I didn’t ask him to visit me.’

‘Perhaps not, but you were discussing me with him.’

‘Is that not allowed?’

‘Absolutely not,’ he insisted. ‘Would you like it if I discussed what just happened between us with another party?’

‘I didn’t tell him anything I wouldn’t have said to your face.’

‘If that’s supposed to reassure me, it doesn’t. You’ve said far too much to my face as it is.’

‘Only what you deserved to hear.’

‘Ouch.’

‘You have only yourself to blame.’

‘Be that as it may, I still think you should keep away from Danny,’ he said again.

‘You don’t like him, do you?’ she asked.

‘I don’t trust him,’ he answered. ‘Any more than I trust you.’

Emily felt an inexplicable pang of hurt deep inside but covered it with a sharp barb of her own. ‘That’s a harsh statement from his own flesh and blood. I thought brothers stuck together through thick and thin?’

‘Danny doesn’t always behave like a brother,’ he said, bending down to pick something up off the floor. He straightened and handed her one of her earrings, his fingers brushing hers as she took it from him. She re-inserted it into her ear lobe nonchalantly, as if nothing intimate had happened between them. She felt him watching her, her fumbling fingers betraying her façade of cool composure.

‘How was your business trip, anyway?’ she asked to cover her nervousness. ‘Successful?’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary.’ He picked up his tie. ‘How about you? Did you get any work done?’

‘Work?’

‘Aren’t you working on a new book or something?’

‘I…I’ve got writer’s block.’

‘So what does one usually do when such a condition strikes?’ he asked.

Emily shrugged. ‘Chocolate, lots of chocolate. Sometimes wine, but only when I’m really desperate.’

‘Red or white?’

‘Red,’ she said. ‘The full-bodied, headache-the-next-morning variety.’

He smiled and reached for a corkscrew in the drinks cabinet. ‘Are you desperate enough for this?’ He held up a gold-labelled Cabinet Savignon that she knew probably cost more than her first car.

‘Not desperate,’ she said. ‘But tempted.’

‘Good.’ He deftly uncorked the bottle and reached for two crystal glasses. He poured the blood-coloured liquid and handed her one.

‘Cheers,’ he said, lifting his glass to chink against hers.

‘What are we toasting?’ she asked. ‘Our paper marriage?’

His eyes glittered wryly as he took a sip of the wine.

‘It’s hardly a paper marriage now, is it?’ he said.

Emily took a deep sip of the wine before responding. ‘It’s hardly a marriage. I know nothing of you; you know nothing of me.’

‘I know what gives you pleasure,’ he reminded her.

Emily buried her flaming face into her glass. ‘I’m sure you’ve left a lot of very satisfied women in your wake,’ she bit out tartly, ‘but sexual satisfaction hardly constitutes a fulfilling relationship, let alone a marriage.’

‘But it’s important, surely? I mean, it would be a very stale relationship if there was no chemistry at all.’ He took another sip of wine and watched the fleeting emotions on her face.

‘What is it you want from me, Damien?’ she asked. ‘I’m getting a little mixed up over the fine print. I was under the impression this was to be a hands-off relationship, everything on paper. Wasn’t that the deal?’

He put down his glass and met her fiery gaze.

‘I didn’t intend to sleep with you—’ he began.

‘You haven’t slept with me!’ she railed, thrusting her own glass aside. ‘You just tear my clothes off when you feel like it and have sex with me. I haven’t spent the night in your arms once!’

‘Is that what you want?’ His voice rose in frustration. ‘To sleep with me? For this to be a physical marriage?’

Emily bit her lip and turned away, reaching for her glass to cover her feelings. One mouthful of good wine and she was asking for the moon. What was wrong with her?

‘No,’ she said determinedly. ‘I just want to stick to the rules.’

‘OK, then,’ he said. ‘I promise not to touch you. But you have to promise something to me. I want you to call your agent and tell her the book’s not going to be released—ever. That it’s not going to be written at all.’

‘But I thought—’

‘No. If that book is ever released I will sue.’

‘You’d still sue me? Even though you’re married to me?’ she asked incredulously.

His expression hardened. ‘Is that why you married me? Did you think I wouldn’t follow through? You’re a good lay, I’ll give you that, but I won’t see my aunt’s name dragged through the mud to fund your retirement, even if you are my wife.’

Emily was speechless. She stood there, the wine glass almost falling from her nerveless fingers.

‘I can’t believe you’d be so…so…’ She struggled to find the words.

‘So what, Emily?’

‘So…so inhuman.’

‘Who’s being inhuman now? You’re the one who wants to write a parcel of lies about a fragile old lady who never got a chance at happiness.’

Emily felt a wave of guilt rush through her.

‘Tell me, Emily, did you ever consider the outcome of the sort of book you write?’

‘I—’

‘Of course you didn’t,’ he cut across her. ‘You just sit at that computer of yours and tap away at someone’s life as if it means nothing but increased sales. The more scan-dal, the more sales—isn’t that right?’

There was nothing she could say. A lot of what he’d said was true. In the past she’d done exactly that: written any-thing with a hint of scandal in it to boost the interest in her work. It had definitely worked with her book about Raife Norton-Floyd, even if her own name had subsequently been dragged through the mud along with his. She’d thought by working on Rose Margate’s biography she could somehow resurrect her reputation, but Damien’s involvement in her life had changed all that. She was caught like a fly in a spider’s web, the intricate fibres wrapping around her, tying her invisibly to him. She couldn’t get away if she tried.

‘Call her now,’ he commanded, handing her the cordless telephone. ‘Tell Clarice Connor that you’ve had second thoughts. Tell her anything. Unless you do I will be making my own legal moves in the morning.’

Emily took the telephone from him, her hand almost shaking as she did so. ‘I’ll never get another contract,’ she said desperately. ‘I’ll be blackballed.’

His expression was resolute. ‘You’re now under contract to me. Cancel the book indefinitely. I’ll deal with any counter-suits personally.’

She dialled Clarice’s number and waited for her to answer. The answering machine cut in after the fifth ring and Emily hesitated. Damien stood in front of her, his arms folded against his chest in an indomitable pose, and she began to speak in a cold, detached voice, as if it were not her writing career she was destroying but somebody else’s.

She handed him back the telephone once she’d finished and snapped, ‘Happy now?’

He put the phone back on its recharging cradle and reached for his wine. ‘Once you get to know my aunt you won’t regret doing that.’

‘So you do intend for me to meet her some time?’ she asked. ‘What changed your mind? I must be a better lay than I thought.’

He frowned as he twirled the contents of his glass. ‘Don’t cheapen yourself like that.’

‘You said it, not me.’

‘I’m sorry—it was inappropriate. I was uptight and angry.’

It was a gruff apology but an apology for all that. Emily huddled herself into a corner of the sofa and sipped her wine.

‘I’m going to get myself something to eat,’ he said at last. ‘Would you like something?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry.’

He gave an exasperated sigh and left the room. Emily pushed her wine away and buried her head in her hands. How had she got herself into such a mess?

Chapter Nine

DAMIEN came back to the sitting room some time later with two omelettes on a tray and set them down in front of the sofa. Emily eyed the appetising food and shifted herself as far away as possible.

‘Are you expecting someone?’ she asked.

‘No. I thought you might be hungry by now.’ He handed her one of the plates and she hesitated.

‘I told you, I’m not hungry.’

‘Emily, you can’t not eat. You’re way too thin as it is. I can’t have people thinking I don’t feed you.’

She took the plate resentfully and poked at the omelette with the fork he’d handed her.

‘It’s not poisoned,’ he assured her.

‘I didn’t think it was.’

He sat down beside her and picked up the remote control for the television.

‘More wine?’ he asked.

She shook her head, prodding at the food once more. She tasted a small mouthful and was surprised at how hun-gry she felt once she’d sampled it. A short time later the plate was empty, and she pushed it almost guiltily on to the coffee table in front of them.

‘There’s a good movie on the other channel.’ He eyed her empty plate with approval. ‘Or would you like to watch the documentary on Four?’

‘I don’t mind. You choose,’ she said, settling back into the sofa. Her shoulders were starting to relax and her mind was becoming fuzzy from the wine she’d consumed.

Damien flipped through the channels and she stared sightlessly at the images in front of her, her mind taking her elsewhere. It was hard to see anything in her head other than the image of herself and Damien in the throes of passion together. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and he turned briefly to look at her.

‘We can watch the other channel if you’d like?’ he offered.

‘No—sorry—I was thinking about…about something else.’

She settled back down and forced herself to concentrate on the screen in front of her, all the while conscious of the strong male thighs within centimetres of her own. One of his arms was lying along the back of the sofa, so close to her head that if she so much as leant backwards she’d en-counter his long fingers. Just knowing they were there made it torturously tempting to do so. Her head felt heavy; her neck ached with the need to lean back and be supported by the caress of his hand. She shut her eyes and concentrated on the muffled words coming from the television. If she could just think about something other than him!

She woke some time later, her eyes springing open in shock, and found herself draped across Damien’s knees with one of his hands entwined in the weight of her hair.

He felt her stir and removed his hand. She sat upright and brushed at her sleepy eyes, her cheeks flushing at the way she’d virtually thrown herself across him in sleep.

‘I’m sorry. I must have drifted off.’

‘At least we can accurately say you’ve slept with me now, can’t we?’ he said, flicking off the TV with the remote control.

‘But you weren’t asleep,’ she pointed out.

‘No.’ He brushed a fine strand of her hair out of her face as he looked at her. ‘That’s true.’

‘Was it a happy ending?’ she asked, moving out of his reach.

‘What? The movie?’

She nodded.

‘Happy enough, I guess.’

‘You’re not a romantic, then?’ she asked.

‘What makes you say that?’

She shrugged one slim shoulder. ‘A hunch.’

‘Don’t measure me against other men’s standards, Emily. I’m not completely without feeling.’

‘I didn’t suggest you were.’

‘You don’t like me, though, do you?’ he asked.

Emily gnawed at her bottom lip, caught off guard by his question. ‘Am I supposed to?’

‘A few years ago you’d have been under oath to do so, but the Women’s Movement put paid to that. You don’t have to obey me, but I’d like to think you had some sort of respect for me.’

‘Respect is earned.’

‘I can see I have some work to do,’ he commented wryly.

She didn’t reply, but somehow his arm resting along the back of the sofa encountered her hair once more. She sat silently as his fingers threaded their way through the loose strands, her flesh tingling as he coiled the silky ends around one finger. She leant her head back to intensify the sensa-tion of his touch and turned her head towards him, her eyes meeting his. She stared at his mouth; the firm line of his lips was relaxed into a half-smile and his hand left her hair to cup her chin.

‘What am I going to do with you, Emily, wife of mine?’ he asked.

Emily swallowed, not trusting herself to answer.

‘You’re so sweet when you’re not hurling insults at me,’ he mused. ‘You sleep like a little child, curling up in my lap so trustingly.’

‘I dribbled on your trousers.’ She pointed to the damp patch on his knee in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. The air seemed to be tightening around them, pulling them even closer than they already were.

He glanced down at his knee and smiled. ‘So you did.’

Emily tried to move out of his hold but his fingers tight-ened fractionally on her chin.

‘No, don’t pull away from me. I want to talk to you.’

‘You don’t have to pinch my face off to do so.’

His fingers loosened, his thumb moving across to softly caress the smoothness of her cheek instead. Her breath caught in her throat at his nearness, his gentle touch stirring her blood into fervent life. His eyes locked with hers, their dark depths a whirlpool of mystery to her.

‘For someone who claims to dislike me so intensely, your body insists on giving the opposite message,’ he said.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

His mouth twisted into a half-smile, his thumb moving to brush over the fullness of her bottom lip.

‘Against your will, and probably against your better judgement, you really are attracted to me, aren’t you?’

Emily felt cornered. ‘You’re rich and powerful,’ she said glibly. ‘Most women find that attractive. But it’s a shallow sort of attraction; it won’t last.’

‘You seem very sure of that,’ he observed, dropping his hand from her face.

‘I can guarantee it. I’d give it six weeks, tops. After that the thrill of the chase fades and it all becomes a boring routine.’

‘Want to put it to the test?’ he challenged.

‘What?’

‘Let’s see if your theory is true. I challenge you to spend the next six weeks with me as a proper wife.’

‘You mean do your washing and ironing? Forget it! I’ve got better things to do with my—’

‘No. You know I don’t mean that. I mean sleep with me, be my lover and partner, not just on paper but in real life.’

‘You can’t be serious!’ She got to her feet and moved agitatedly across the room.

‘Of course I’m serious. I bet by the end of six weeks you won’t be bored. I can guarantee it.’

‘What if I am? What if you lose the bet?’

‘I won’t lose the bet.’ His tone was confident. ‘But if at the end of six weeks you want to move on I won’t stop you.’

‘You mean I can leave?’ She stopped and stared at him. ‘Get a divorce?’

‘If you feel it’s necessary.’

‘Of course it will be necessary. You can hardly want to spend the rest of your life tied to me any more than I want to be tied to you.’

‘Let’s not look too far ahead. Six weeks will do for now. As for the future, who knows?’

Emily bit her lip. This was getting way out of her control. She’d thought it was just her book she was relinquishing, but what about her heart?

‘I’m not doing the cooking and cleaning,’ she sniped at him. ‘And I absolutely insist on sleeping on the right-hand side of the bed. I have a thing about it.’

He crossed one ankle over his knee and, leaning back into the sofa, surveyed her defiant face. ‘Anything else?’

She pressed her damp palms against her thighs, wondering if she should tell him the truth. It had been months since she’d taken a birth control pill.

‘Emily?’

‘Yes, there is one other thing,’ she said firmly. ‘From now on I want you to wear a condom.’

‘If you insist, but you have my assurance that during the next six weeks I will remain exclusively yours, so to speak.’

‘I do insist.’

There was a tiny pause.

‘And what about you, Emily?’ he asked. ‘Will you remain faithful to me during that time also?’

She found it difficult to meet his probing gaze.

‘Naturally.’

He got to his feet and came to stand in front of her, his towering presence instantly eroding her courage.

‘If you are unfaithful there will be hell to pay. You do realise that, don’t you?’ he asked.

Emily stood her ground even though inside her stomach had turned to jelly at the light of warning shining in his eyes.

‘I realise you want to make me suffer as much as possible, and won’t let any opportunity pass that affords you the chance to do so,’ she said valiantly.

‘Your opinion of me seems to be disintegrating more each day,’ he reflected ruefully. ‘Who knows what it will be at the end of six weeks?’

‘I can tell you now,’ she said. ‘I’ll still loathe and detest you.’

His sardonic laugh irritated her beyond belief.

‘Are you sure, sweet Emily?’ His hand caught her uptilted chin once more, forcing her defiant eyes to meet his. ‘Don’t go staking your life on it, now, will you?’

She ground her teeth and pulled out of his grasp.

‘You’d just love it if I fell at your feet in lovelorn worship, wouldn’t you? But it’s just not going to happen. You’re everything I most dislike in a man. You’re arrogant, controlling and have an ego the size of a continent.’

‘You’re not quite my idea of a perfect partner yourself,’ he bit back. ‘Since we’re trading insults: you’re a promiscuous little madam who’d do anything for a good story. You’ve already proved it by hooking up with Danny, only to discard him to marry me because you thought it would throw you directly into Rose’s path. But your little scheme didn’t work, did it?’

‘Marriage was your idea, not mine.’

‘But it played right into your desperate little hands, didn’t it? I was wondering just how far you’d go and you did exactly as I expected. You sold your soul for money, my money. I heard you confess as much to Danny.’

There was nothing she could say in her own defence.

‘No come-back to flay me with?’ he taunted. ‘No witty pay-back to put me firmly in my place?’

‘I wouldn’t waste my breath,’ she spat at him.

The telephone rang shrilly on the side table and Damien reached out a long arm to answer it. He spoke into it briefly before handing it to her. ‘It’s for you.’

Emily took the telephone receiver and turned her back on him. ‘Hello?’

‘What the hell do you mean, you’re pulling Rose’s Cupboard from the drawing-board?’ Clarice Connor’s voice carried across the room. ‘You can’t do that!’

Emily took a deep breath. ‘I just did.’

‘Emily, you can’t be serious! Is this some sort of pub-licity stunt? I mean, marrying the nephew was good, so good that everyone wants the book! I’ve had everyone on my back for the past week, crying out for a date of completion. You can’t withdraw your proposal now.’

‘I have to.’

‘Who says? This is the big break we’ve been waiting for. You can’t afford to let this go. Damn it! I can’t afford to let this go.’

‘This is about me, not you, Clarice,’ Emily said. ‘I’m not writing it. I’ve got no other choice.’

‘Well, I’m quitting as your agent,’ Clarice said. ‘I’m not putting up with this any longer. I’m losing all credibility because of you. No one will want to be represented by me after this.’

‘I’m sorry, Clarice, but—’

‘You’re sorry?’ Clarice’s tone was scathing. ‘I’m sorry I ever took pity on you in the first place. I should’ve known after that Norton-Floyd affair you’d be nothing but trouble. I suppose the lure of the Margate millions has swayed you, has it? I never would’ve thought it of you. I never thought you’d sell yourself so cheaply.’

Emily flinched as Clarice hung up on her. She was very conscious of Damien’s silent presence behind her as she clutched the buzzing receiver to her chest.

She felt his hand on her shoulder, and his voice when he spoke was deep but gentle. ‘Give me the phone, Emily.’

She handed it to him, her hands not quite steady. He put the receiver back in its cradle and faced her. ‘I realise this has cost you, but believe me it’s for the best.’

‘Best for whom?’ she asked bitterly. ‘For you?’

‘For Rose.’

She brushed at the moisture in her eyes, angry that he was witnessing her professional humiliation.

‘I’ll be waiting on café tables for the rest of my life. No one will want to take me on after this—no one.’

‘That’s not true,’ he assured her. ‘You can change direc-tion—write something else.’

‘You make it sound so easy.’ She sniffed. ‘As if I could walk out there and tap the nearest agent on the shoulder now and say, “Take me on. I’ve had one success, one disaster, and I pulled the plug on my last one, but I’ll try and get it right this time.” As if!’

‘What did you do before you wrote your first book?’

‘I was a cadet on a local newspaper. I was propositioned by the chief editor once too many times and left.’

‘You should have taken him to court.’

‘With whose money?’ she asked. ‘And who would’ve believed me?’

‘What drew you to write about my aunt?’

Emily sat back down and took the wine glass he’d re-filled and handed to her.

‘I’m not sure. I guess it was the mystery of it all that grasped my attention. Here was a woman with the world at her feet and suddenly she disappeared, never to be seen again. No explanation, no farewell. Just silence.’

‘It was her choice.’

‘I realise that, but it didn’t make sense. Why throw away all that fame for obscurity? What possible reason could there be for such a dramatic turnaround?’

‘People have their reasons,’ he said. ‘Fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Some of the most popular celebrities can also be the loneliest.’

Emily sipped her wine and thought about his words.

‘Many people, such as yourself, have concluded Rose has become a reclusive alcoholic, but I can assure you that’s not true.’

‘If she would just give one interview, the gossip would go away and—’

‘No.’ His tone was adamant. ‘I won’t allow it.’

‘You won’t allow it? But what about what Rose wants?’

‘I speak to Rose every couple of days. I know exactly what she wants.’

Emily got to her feet and put her half-finished wine on the table. ‘I think I’ll go to bed now,’ she informed him curtly. ‘I’m tired.’

‘I’ll be up in a few minutes,’ he said, draining his glass.

She hesitated. ‘Do…do you want me to—?’

‘Yes,’ he said emphatically, his eyes burning into hers. ‘I do want you.’

She left the room on unsteady legs, her heart thumping in her chest. What had she agreed to? Six weeks of pleasure for what price? Her peace of mind or her heart?

She turned to the big bed and slipped in beneath the covers, burrowing herself into a tight ball. The linen smelt of his aftershave and she suppressed a tiny shiver of apprehension as she curled into the nearest pillow, willing her eyelids to close in instant slumber.

No chance. She tossed and wriggled, trying to find a comfortable spot in the huge bed, but it was impossible for her to relax. The light coming from downstairs annoyed her. The firmness of the pillow annoyed her. The thought of Damien joining her terrified her. How could she hold back her response to him? As much as she claimed to detest him, her body had other ideas. It craved him. Even now, in anticipation of him joining her in the big bed, she could feel the betraying moisture pooling in secret. Within minutes he would reach for her, his own body ready, poised for possession, and she would have no choice but to respond to its urge.

She clamped her eyes shut when she heard his footsteps. She turned her back and rolled into a tight little ball, willing herself to ignore the opening of the door; fighting against the desire to spring out of bed and escape to the other room, safe from the temptation of his touch. Her chest felt tight with the effort of controlling her erratic breathing. She felt like screaming, but still she lay silent, all her senses on full alert, waiting, both dreading but craving his presence in the bed beside her.

She felt the depression of the mattress as he lay down. He readjusted the pillow under his head with an audible grunt and she felt one of his legs touch hers as he stretched out his length. She held her breath, tensely poised in read-iness for his hands reaching for her.

‘You can relax, Emily,’ he said as he pulled the covers towards him. ‘I’m bushed and so are you.’

Emily let her breath out gradually. She lay in the dark and listened to his steady breathing, hardly daring to move in case she stirred him.

‘By the way—’ she felt him turn towards her ‘—you’re lying on my side of the bed. It was the right side you were so particular about, wasn’t it?’

‘I…it doesn’t matter,’ she said lamely, burrowing down amongst the pillows, pulling the covers back over her skimpy nightwear.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Because I’m too tired to fight you for it, but, believe me, if I wasn’t I’d win, hands down.’

Emily didn’t argue. She simply curled even more tightly on the left-hand side of his bed and shut her eyes, willing herself to oblivion.

It was impossible for her to sleep. She lay there fuming that he could drop off so easily while she was tossing and twitching with tension. How dare he? Wasn’t he the least bit affected by her lying next to him? She turned her pillow over one more time, laying her head back down on the cooler linen, but within minutes it again felt too warm for comfort. She considered getting up to open a window but didn’t want to risk waking him.

She sneaked a look at him in the soft glow of the moonlight but he appeared to be sleeping soundly. His face was relaxed. Gone were the deep lines of tension that had earlier been etched around his mouth. Emily wondered what sort of worries put them there. She realised with a pang of shame she’d asked him nothing of his work, what pressures he had to cope with each day. All she’d done was fight with him and try to get the upper hand.

She sighed and lay back to stare sightlessly at the ceiling. She wondered what it would be like to be really married to him. Not just on paper, and not just because he wanted to stop her writing her book, but because he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. She wondered what it would feel like to be loved so much, to have someone to lean on through life’s difficult passages, someone who’d always be there to talk to.

She shut her eyes against the sting of tears. Was it so much to ask to be loved? Especially when her life had always short-changed her in that department? She thought of her father, who’d left when she was four; and of her mother who’d been unable to cope and had taken out her rejection and hurt on Emily and her brothers. Her various stepfathers had joined her mother’s mission of bitterness against her children. Emily’s childhood had been about survival, not love.

She had read somewhere how unmet needs in childhood could influence some of the mistakes adults make in later life. Marrying Damien had been one of those mistakes, but she could see now why she’d done it. For so many years she’d lived on her wits, alone and struggling to keep her head above water. Damien had offered her a solution and she’d jumped at it, not thinking of the long-term implica-tions of such an arrangement. She hadn’t even stopped to give thought to protecting herself from pregnancy, which was an ever-increasing worry in the back of her mind. She couldn’t imagine what Damien would say if she were to tell him of her suspicions. He’d no doubt accuse her of setting him up for child maintenance, believing her to have deliberately orchestrated it to ensure a steady income for herself for the next eighteen or so years.

She felt sick. A wave of panic swept over her. Surely it was too early for morning sickness?

‘Will you stop wriggling and kicking me in the shins?’ Damien growled beside her, startling her out of her wretched reverie. His arms came around her, and before she could speak he lifted her over himself and repositioned her on the right-hand side of the bed, where his body had just been lying. ‘There, is that better?’

Emily was still lying in the circle of his arms, his long legs entwined intimately with hers.

‘Yes,’ she croaked.

‘Good.’ He shifted slightly and she felt the unmistakable heat of his arousal against her. ‘It feels much better for me too.’

His mouth came down and covered hers, his arms pulling her even closer to the warmth of his body. Emily sighed and opened her mouth to the urge of his tongue, her smooth thighs sliding apart to allow him to settle between them with his pressing need.

What was the point in crying for the moon when at least she had this paradise in his arms, even if it was only for another six weeks? Some people spent their lifetime without ever experiencing the completeness she felt as Damien’s lover.

Damien’s lover. How strange that sounded to her ears. She was his lover, and she loved him. There was no point denying it to herself any longer. She didn’t know quite how it had started; perhaps that first night when he’d tried to keep Danny’s perfidy away from her by accompanying her to the awards night. Or maybe it had been on the evening of their wedding day when he’d tended her injured hand with hands so gentle it had made her cry. Or was it because of this pleasure she was feeling even now in his arms? This mindless, frantic, all-encompassing pleasure that rocketed through her body in waves so strong she wondered if she would faint with the sheer sensuality of it all.

Chapter Ten

EMILY woke up alone. There was a note on the pillow next to her face. She sat up and, pushing the curtain of hair out of her eyes, began to read it.

Emily,

I have an early meeting. Some delegates from the firm are arriving from interstate. There’s a dinner scheduled for this evening. I’d like you to be there. I’ll pick you up at seven. D.

Emily stared at the strong handwriting, the clipped, efficient words that bore no resemblance to the passion and intimacy they’d shared just hours earlier.

She sighed. Fool! she remonstrated with herself as she flung back the bed covers. What had she been expecting? A declaration of undying love? She stubbed her toe on the bedside table and swore. Tears welled in her eyes, not from the pain in her foot but from the empty ache in her heart.

The telephone was ringing as she stepped out of the shower and she hastily draped a towel over her dripping body to answer it.

‘Emily? It’s Maisie McCrae.’

Emily clutched the slipping towel and tried to cover the surprise in her voice. ‘How are you, Mrs McCrae? I was going to visit you, but I thought—’

‘Please call me Maisie,’ she said. ‘I was wondering if you had anything planned for today?’

‘No, nothing.’ Then, remembering Damien’s note, added, ‘I do—I mean we have a dinner on tonight, but I’m free all day.’

‘A romantic dinner for two?’

‘No. It’s a work thing.’

‘You sound disappointed,’ Maisie said.

Emily didn’t know how to answer.

‘Well, I didn’t phone you to talk about your husband,’ Maisie continued, regardless. ‘I phoned because I was hoping you could visit me today.’

‘I’d like that,’ Emily said, thinking of the long, empty day ahead. ‘I’d like that very much.’

Maisie came to the door dressed in a dark blue trouser suit that looked comfortable rather than fashionable. Her thick blue-grey hair was tied back with a scarf and her pale face was unadorned except for a soft pink lipstick. She gasped in pleasure at the bunch of flowers Emily had brought her.

‘How delightful.’ She buried her face in the bouquet before turning to her with a smile. ‘I haven’t been given flow-ers for years. Come in and sit down. I’ll make us some tea.’

Emily followed her into the neat sitting room off the hall. The view over Double Bay and out across to Point Piper was breathtaking.

‘How beautiful!’ she exclaimed, going to the window.

‘I sit and look out there for hours,’ Maisie said. ‘I’m sure if I didn’t have such a marvellous view I wouldn’t be quite the hermit I’ve become.’

Emily turned to look at her. There was something about Maisie that was different. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but she sensed it all the same.

‘Are you really a hermit?’

Maisie sighed and handed her a china tea cup.

‘Some would describe it as such. I suppose some would even say I’ve become agoraphobic, but I don’t see it that way. If I have to go out I will, but I don’t choose to unless it’s absolutely necessary. I don’t like people staring at me, wondering what’s wrong with me.’

Emily lowered her gaze and concentrated on the border of roses running along the rim of the cup in her hand. ‘Have you had a stroke?’ she asked gently.

‘No.’ Maisie answered. ‘I’ve got Parkinson’s Disease.’

Emily’s eyes sought the older woman’s. ‘I’m so sorry. It must be difficult for you.’

‘I manage,’ Maisie said. ‘But enough about me. What do you do? Do you still work now that you’re married? I don’t suppose you have to with that rich husband of yours.’

‘I used to be a writer,’ she said despondently.

‘Used to be?’

‘I’ve been dumped by my agent. I had some trouble over my latest project.’

‘Tell me about it.’

Emily hesitated briefly before confessing, ‘I was all set to write a biography on…someone famous, but a relative put the brakes on.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘I couldn’t risk being sued. I was up to my eyeballs in debt anyway. I took the easy way out instead.’

‘What was the easy way out?’

Emily found it hard to meet the other woman’s eyes. ‘I accepted a payout.’

‘A generous one?’

‘From some angles, yes.’

‘But not yours?’

Emily put the cup she was cradling down.

‘I don’t know what to think any more,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I think he—’ she checked herself ‘—the relative was right. It must be hard to be in the public eye all the time. The person I was writing about decided to remove herself from it for whatever reason. I guess she had the right to do so. But then, how can such a celebrity turn her back on the very people who put her on the public pedestal in the first place?’

Maisie sipped her tea thoughtfully before responding. ‘It’s a difficult choice. I suppose it’s one of priorities and motivations. People have their reasons for their actions. We might not always agree, but each of us has to do what is right for us at the time.’

‘Yes, I guess you’re right,’ Emily said. ‘I just wish I could meet her and get to know her as a person.’

‘I take it you’re referring to your husband’s aunt?’

Emily privately marvelled at Maisie’s perception.

‘Yes.’

‘No doubt she’ll want to meet you eventually,’ Maisie reassured her.

‘Not as yet.’

‘Give it time,’ Maisie said. ‘You’ve only been married a short time, lass. Things can change.’

‘I certainly hope so,’ Emily said.

‘You’re not happy, are you, dear?’

She shifted uncomfortably under the black-button gaze. ‘I find happiness elusive at times.’

‘Do you love your husband?’

‘Yes.’

Maisie seemed satisfied with her answer and passed her a plate of shortbread. Emily took one and bit into it absently as she thought about what she’d just confessed to. Every breath she took was to keep her alive until the next time she was in his arms.

‘You seem a little troubled, Emily,’ Maisie said.

Emily lifted her distracted gaze to the woman in front of her. Maisie was looking at her intently, her probing gaze threatening to see through to the very fibres of her soul.

‘I’m a little on edge,’ Emily admitted at last. ‘Because I think my husband’s having an affair.’

Maisie examined the tea leaves in her cup before putting it down with a trembling hand.

‘What makes you think that?’ she asked.

‘I’ve been told.’

‘You can’t believe everything you’ve been told,’ Maisie said. ‘Sometimes you have to learn to trust.’

‘I don’t know what to do,’ Emily said desperately. ‘I haven’t loved anyone since I was four years old. What am I supposed to do?’

Maisie took one of Emily’s hands in her own and began to stroke it soothingly, her dark, intent eyes holding hers.

‘Tell your husband how you feel.’

‘I can’t do that.’ Emily lifted her tortured gaze to Maisie’s.

‘Why?’

‘Because he…’ She abandoned her sentence and stared once more at the rim of roses around her cup.

‘Just be yourself,’ Maisie said after a long silence. ‘He couldn’t possibly fail to love you. Just allow him to see you for who you really are.’

The pattern of roses beneath Emily’s gaze blurred. What was it about Maisie McCrae that saw through to her very soul? How had this old lady seen through her carefully constructed disguise of worldliness and I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude?

She hunted for a tissue under her sleeve to no avail.

‘Here.’ A soft pink tissue appeared as if by magic in her hand. ‘I’m a great believer in tears. God knows, I’ve cried enough of them in my lifetime.’

Emily sobbed into the quickly drenched tissue. She blew her nose and tried to get herself under some sort of control. ‘I never cry,’ she gulped. ‘I hate crying. Once I start I can’t stop.’

‘I understand.’

‘Do you?’ Emily lifted her face from the shield of her hands. ‘Do you really?’

Maisie McCrae nodded.

‘I’ve cried buckets over the years about all the things I should have done but didn’t. About all the things I did but shouldn’t have.’

Emily sensed a wealth of wisdom behind the older woman’s words.

‘What have you regretted the most?’ she asked, scrunching up the sodden tissue in her hand.

Maisie looked at her for a long moment.

‘I wish I hadn’t fallen in love with the wrong man. If only that hadn’t happened so many people’s lives wouldn’t have been affected.’

‘Your husband?’

Maisie shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Oh.’ Emily looked at her hands.

‘Life doesn’t always go according to plan,’ Maisie said. ‘It has a habit of twisting and turning when you least expect it.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Tell me about your family,’ Maisie said.

Emily tensed. ‘My father left when I was four.’

‘And?’

‘My mother remarried four times. Each time her choice was worse than the previous one.’

‘And?’

‘And I hated all of them.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they didn’t love me for who I was.’

‘That’s very important to you, isn’t it, Emily?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even after all these years it still matters to you what people think of you?’

‘Doesn’t everyone worry about that?’ Emily asked.

‘Only the very insecure worry about what others think,’ she said. ‘Those who are truly happy in their own skins don’t give a damn.’

Emily picked up her tea cup and pretended to drink the remaining dregs. She was beginning to think Maisie McCrae saw far too much.

‘I have to tell you something,’ Maisie said after a small silence.

Emily scrubbed at the last of her tears and lifted her gaze to the dark intense one opposite.

‘My name isn’t Maisie McCrae,’ she said with absolutely no trace of a Scottish lilt. She lifted a hand to her head and, to Emily’s amazement, removed the grey hair to reveal dark curls lightly peppered with silver. ‘I’m Damien’s aunt, Rose Margate.’

Emily gaped at the other woman in shock, her tea cup clattering into its saucer. Rose had the grace to look a little shame-faced.

‘I wanted to be certain I could trust you before I told you who I was.’

Emily’s mind raced back and forth as she came to grips with Rose’s revelation. She retraced their previous conversation and began to put the pieces together.

‘I thought there was something vaguely familiar about you,’ Emily finally managed. ‘You seemed to be able to see things no one else has seen.’

‘I only saw what you allowed me to see,’ Rose said. ‘What you should have shown Damien weeks ago.’

‘It’s too late,’ Emily said, her heart sinking in despair. ‘It’s far too late.’

‘There are things about Damien you should know,’ Rose said. ‘Damien is not Danny’s real brother. Their father, my brother Donald, had an affair. Damien was the product of that relationship, and because Cora had been unable to have a child she agreed to bring him up as her own. Not long after, she fell pregnant with Danny. I have reason to believe Danny isn’t Donald’s offspring. Cora was bitter about his earlier affair and decided on her own little pay-back.’

‘Oh, my God!’ Emily sagged in her chair. No wonder Damien hadn’t wanted her snooping around for information with those sorts of secrets in the family vault! Her heart squeezed tightly at the thought of his painful childhood, not all that dissimilar from her own.

‘Does Danny know about this?’ Emily asked.

Rose shook her head. ‘No, he was never told the details. Damien overheard a bitter argument between his parents and came to me for advice. We’ve always been close.’

‘Does Damien know who his real mother is?’

‘He hasn’t pursued it. It would’ve drawn too much attention to the Margate name. I left the theatre in the middle of a season. I’d been feeling the tremors for months, and I didn’t consider myself so much of a brilliant actress that I could pass off as a person in full health. I didn’t want people to point and comment on how much I’d deteriorated. I couldn’t bear it.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Emily said. ‘I should never have planned to write about you.’

‘I don’t hold it against you, dear. I deliberately set out to meet you that day, you know. I’d hoped the accent and wig would keep me undercover until I got to know you.’

‘You were very convincing,’ Emily confirmed. ‘But I did have this feeling I’d met you before.’

‘Donald, Damien’s father, and I were twins. The Margate family likeness is very strong. That’s why I wear a wig in public. I’ve not long come down from the country. Damien provided a safe rural haven for me for years, but recently I decided to move closer to medical help. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep my whereabouts a total secret.’

‘Of course I will.’

‘Tell no one you’ve met me. Not even Damien, and especially not Danny.’

‘Why not Damien?’ Emily asked.

Rose thought about it for a long moment before answering.

‘I think he needs some more time to get to know you. The real you.’

After leaving Rose’s, Emily caught a bus to Bondi Junction instead of going back to Damien’s house. She needed some time to think. Rose Margate had completely surprised her. It was ironic, really. The celebrated actress had given the performance of her life and she, Emily Sherwood-Margate, had fallen for it hook, line and sinker. She hadn’t even recognised the subject of the book she wanted to write because the subject of her book was still, after all these years, a phenomenal actress.

Emily couldn’t help smiling ruefully as she stepped on the bus. The Scottish accent had fooled her. How hadn’t she seen through it? The Margate likeness was so obvious now she was aware of it. The black-button eyes, the deter-mined chin, the penetrating stare…

Emily wanted to find something to wear for the dinner that evening, as well as squeezing in a hair appointment, and she forced herself to put her mind to the task. She didn’t want to think about Damien or his aunt. Doing so reminded her of her own part in adding to the pain of their lives. How Damien must hate her for what she’d tried to do! No wonder he’d been so determined to buy her silence.

It was close to six p.m. when she returned to the house, where she encountered Damien in a foul mood.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ he roared at her as soon as she stepped through the door.

She put her bags down and tucked an escaping strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I went shopping.’

‘All day?’

Emily blinked.

‘I’ve been calling you since ten o’clock this morning. I thought something must have happened to you,’ he contin-ued crossly.

‘Well, no doubt you’re disappointed, but here I am alive and well,’ she said archly.

‘You should’ve called me.’

‘On what number?’ She glared back at him. ‘I’ve only been to your office once and I have no idea what number to call.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He raked a hand through his hair. ‘You’re right, of course.’ He reached for the jacket of his suit, which he’d hung on the banister of the stairs. He took out a business card from his wallet and handed it to her.

She gave it a cursory glance before slipping it into her purse.

‘Well, now I’ll know who to call if I need financial advice.’ She brushed past him to go upstairs. ‘Excuse me, I have to get changed.’

‘Emily.’

She stalled on the first step, turning to face him.

He looked at her, clutching her shopping bags under one slim arm, her eyes sparkling with defiance, her beautiful honey-coloured hair defying the lotions and potions of expert application to cascade at random about her shoulders.

‘Never mind,’ he said, turning away. ‘I’ll wait for you in the lounge.’

Emily turned back and bolted up the stairs.

She came back down forty minutes later dressed in a calf-length cerulean sheath with tiny shoestring straps that emphasised the slimness of her shoulders and the gentle curve of her breasts. Her hair was still mostly on top of her head, apart from a few wayward tendrils that insisted on caressing her shoulders.

Damien’s eyes travelled over her appreciatively as she stood before him. ‘You look beautiful,’ he said.

‘Thank you.’

He opened the door for her and she walked through, conscious of his eyes following her every movement.

The journey in the car was painfully silent. Emily framed several sentences in her head but it never seemed quite the right moment to speak. He was either concentrating on traf-fic or on the issue of where to park, so in the end she remained silent.

He finally parked between two cars, not far from the restaurant in Neutral Bay. He opened her door for her and casually took her arm as they walked along the pavement towards the restaurant.

‘Every three months or so the interstate partners in the firm get together and run through various practice matters. These evening functions are a way for the wives—or husbands, as the case may be—to socialise. I hope you won’t find it too boring.’

‘I’ll try and make the best of it,’ she said, sneaking a glance at him.

He looked down at her and seemed about to say something when a couple stepped from a car just ahead of them. A booming voice greeted them.

‘Damien, my man! And this must be your charming bride.’ A huge paw grasped Emily’s hand and shook it vigorously. Another strand of her hair fell down at the impact and Damien slipped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her gently towards him.

‘Darling,’ he said, sending a shiver up her spine at his casually delivered endearment. ‘This is Hugo Brand and his wife Jeanne. This is Emily.’

Jeanne pressed a cold fish hand into Emily’s while Hugo looked on beamingly.

‘Never thought you’d get around to it, Damo.’ He grinned. ‘Just wait till you get a couple of kids running around your feet. You won’t know what hit you.’

Emily fought against the blush she could feel stealing along her cheeks but fortunately Damien was looking else-where. She looked up to follow the line of his gaze and watched as another couple approached them. The man was tall and blond, with the sort of Scandinavian good looks that always drew female stares. The woman was attractive also. Not quite as tall as the man, and a deep brunette with the sort of figure most women had to pay for.

‘Damien,’ the woman said, reaching up to kiss both his cheeks. ‘You look scrumptious.’

‘Now, now, Linda.’ The blond man chuckled. ‘The man’s got a wife.’

‘Andre and Linda Janssen.’ Damien pushed Emily for-ward. ‘This is Emily, my wife.’

Emily didn’t know how she got through it. Her hand went out and touched each of theirs briefly, and her face smiled as if she were really delighted to meet them both, but on the inside she was crumbling.

So this was Linda Janssen, his mistress. Andre didn’t look the type to turn a blind eye, but then, Emily thought, Linda didn’t look the type to be playing up either. She gave the impression she adored her husband, holding on to his arm as they made their way to the restaurant door, smiling up at him when he joked with Damien about the day’s meetings. Emily trailed along on Damien’s arm, feeling terribly out of place. The mouse-like Jeanne followed in Hugo’s wake, looking too shy to say boo to a goose. It was going to be a long evening.

The food was beautifully presented and arrived at exactly the right intervals along with the best of wines, both red and white, but later Emily could barely recall what she’d eaten, and she didn’t drink at all, other than to sip at a tall glass of iced water.

At some point during the dinner Damien turned to her with the bottle of red wine in his hand. ‘Drink, darling?’ he asked.

‘No, thank you.’ Her eyes flashed at him. ‘Darling.’

He reached beyond her to pass the bottle to Hugo, who took it with gusto, filling his own empty glass.

‘Damien tells me you’re a writer,’ Hugo said, swivelling his huge bulk towards her. ‘I’ve never met a real-life writer before.’

‘It’s not as glamorous as it sounds, believe me,’ she said.

Linda leaned across Jeanne to address Emily. ‘Is it true about the book you were going to write being cancelled?’

Several heads turned their way.

‘Yes.’ Emily flicked a glance in Damien’s direction before continuing. ‘I was given another offer too good to refuse. I decided to take it. The compensation so far has been adequate, although it may yet prove to be a foolish move on my part.’

‘Sounds intriguing.’ Linda reached for her wine. ‘Are you working on another book now?’

‘No, nothing at the moment,’ she said. ‘I’m considering a career change.’

‘Oh? What will you do?’ Linda asked.

‘I haven’t decided as yet. I’m still considering my options.’

‘That’s the trouble with women these days, Damo.’ Hugo leant across Emily, breathing wine fumes over her. ‘They’re too damned intelligent. Whatever happened to the women who wanted nothing more than a brood of kids and some housekeeping money once a week?’

Emily let Linda and Jeanne do the protesting for her. The spirited discussion carried on without her, while her mind was engaged elsewhere.

At last it was over. Linda and Andre were the first to make a move and Damien stood up with them, reaching for Emily’s hand.

‘Come on, darling,’ he said, looking down at her. ‘You look ready for bed.’

‘Damien!’ Linda scolded him. ‘You’re making the poor girl blush.’

Emily bore it with good grace, although she was deter-mined to give Damien an earful once they were alone. Hugo and Jeanne followed them out of the restaurant and left them to walk to Damien’s car alone.

Emily walked beside him, pulling her hand out of his once the others had left.

‘Wasn’t the food to your liking?’ Damien asked as he deactivated the central locking of his Jaguar. ‘You didn’t seem to be eating much.’

He opened the door for her and she slipped in under his arm, avoiding his eyes.

‘I wasn’t particularly hungry,’ she said once he joined her in the car.

‘You shouldn’t let people like Hugo upset you.’ He looked across at her as he turned the engine over. ‘He’s a harmless old bear.’

‘I wasn’t upset by Hugo.’

He drove towards the Harbour Bridge, his attention on the merging traffic. She waited for him to ask what had upset her but he remained silent.

‘Aren’t you going to ask?’ she snapped at him after some time had passed.

He glanced at her briefly before checking the mirrors to change lanes. ‘Ask what?’

She fumed, clenching her hands into tight fists in her lap. ‘Why I’m upset, of course!’

‘I would’ve thought that was more than obvious,’ he commented wryly. ‘You found spending an evening in my company utterly deplorable, didn’t you?’

Emily ground her teeth and bit out, ‘No, actually, what I found deplorable was having to spend the evening sitting opposite your mistress.’

‘You still seem rather convinced of that old story. But tell me, did you happen to notice her husband sitting beside her all evening?’ he asked.

‘That means nothing. You were sitting beside me all evening and it didn’t stop Linda from flirting with you.’

‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’ His tone was impatient.

‘Tell me you don’t have a special relationship with her,’ she demanded. ‘Go on. Tell me.’

‘I’m not going to allow this conversation to continue,’ he said, taking the Double Bay exit. ‘You’re not being rational and I’m getting angry.’

‘Oh, good!’ she taunted. ‘The aloof Damien Margate is about to explode with uncontrollable emotion. What fun this will be.’

‘Careful, Emily,’ he warned. ‘You might not like the consequences.’

He pulled into the driveway and she got out as soon as he stopped the car. He called her, but she continued to make her way to the house regardless. It was only when she reached the front door that she realised she didn’t have her key.

He came up behind her and unlocked the door over her shoulder, propelling her through with his other hand. He turned her to face him, the front door closing heavily under the thrust of his hand.

‘I don’t want to hear you speak of Linda Janssen in such a way again. Is that clear?’

Emily lifted her chin a fraction, her blue eyes refusing to be intimidated by his. ‘Why?’ she challenged him. ‘Does it make you feel guilty?’

He reined in his temper with an effort. ‘I won’t tell you again.’

‘What are you going to do Damien—darling?’ she goaded him recklessly. ‘Take me to court?’

‘No,’ he said, reaching for her before she could step away. ‘I’m going to take you to bed.’

Chapter Eleven

SHE should have fought him. She should have resisted his mouth and hands. But she didn’t. As soon as his lips ground against hers in a bruising kiss she was instantly caught up in a maelstrom of passion that had only one sure end. She returned his kiss with a blistering heat of her own, her tongue tangling with his, her legs threatening to give way beneath her as he crushed her to him.

One of the pictures hanging behind her wobbled precar-iously as their surging bodies collided with it in their haste. Damien steadied it with one hand while the other pushed aside one of Emily’s shoestring straps to gain access to her breast. She gasped as his hand shaped her, his thumb grazing a path over her engorged nipple as his mouth returned to hers.

She was sure he was going to take her then and there on the stairs. She was mentally preparing herself for it when he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to his bedroom, tipping her on to his bed and coming down on top of her, his mouth still hard upon hers.

Emily tore at his shirt with greedy fingers. His belt buckle was digging into her stomach so she removed it from his waist, flinging it to one side of the bed. Her fingers sought the zip of his trousers without shame, releasing it with a gasp of anticipation as his erection brushed against her hand. She held him, shaping him with exploring fingers, her heart leaping in her chest at the dark light of desire burning in his gaze as he looked down at her.

‘There’s a condom in the bedside table drawer,’ he said huskily. ‘You can put it on for me.’

She fumbled in the drawer and unpeeled the wrapper. She took her time, enjoying the power she had over him as he groaned at her feather-light touch, until he could stand it no more and pushed her back down on the mattress, pinning her with his strong thighs.

‘Tell me you want me,’ he demanded, nudging her intimately with his body.

‘I want you.’ She stared with unashamed longing at him.

He pushed her dress upwards, his gaze raking her boldly from the flat plane of her stomach to the tiny triangular lace that barely covered her. He hooked a finger under the lace and pulled it away, uncovering her femininity, his eyes feasting on her perfect form.

She held her breath as his mouth started at her belly button, trailing downwards until she could feel his warm breath on her intimately.

‘Oh, God,’ she gasped as his tongue separated her, toying with her until she was writhing with a pleasure so intense it was almost like pain. She let out a cry, a soft whimpering cry that rose and rose until she had to bite down on her bottom lip to stop herself from screaming out loud.

He slid back over her and entered her deeply, his own groan of need also sounding loud in the silence of the night. ‘You feel so damn good,’ he said against her mouth. ‘So unbelievably good.’

Emily could feel her pleasure building all over again with each deep surge of his body inside hers, bringing her to-wards new heights of feeling. Her body was soaring, all her tense muscles turning into molten liquid by the touch of his hands.

He timed it perfectly. Just as she was being swept away by another tide of earth-shattering sensuality his own release sounded in her ear: a deep guttural groan that sent shivers trickling through her, increasing her own pleasure with its heavy pulse.

He rolled away and, breathing heavily, lay with one arm flung across his eyes. Emily wriggled out of the remains of her dress and, picking up the nearest bathrobe, disappeared into the en suite bathroom.

She showered and brushed her teeth, stalling for time. She hoped he’d be asleep by the time she came out. Her passionate reaction to him embarrassed her; she was sup-posed to hate him but he had only to touch her and she was aflame. It made her feel far too vulnerable, as if he had the upper hand and she was just a pawn in his game.

She came out of the en suite bathroom to find him sitting up against the pillows on her side of the bed, leafing through a book. He put it down as she approached the bed, his expression slightly mocking.

‘Washing all trace of my detestable presence away, Emily?’

Emily straightened her spine and met the satirical glitter in his eyes. ‘You’re on my side of the bed.’

‘Am I?’ He put his hands behind his head in a make-me-move pose.

‘You know you are.’ She stood at the end of the bed and glared at him. ‘You’re doing it deliberately to annoy me.’

‘Why don’t you come and push me back to where I belong?’ he challenged her. ‘It could be fun.’

‘You’ve had your fun. Now move over.’

‘Now, now, let’s be fair. You had your fun too.’ His mouth curled upwards in a sardonic smile. ‘I made sure of that.’

Emily felt the colour of her shame rise from the very soles of her feet to pool in her cheeks like fans of fire.

‘Don’t be embarrassed, my sweet,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of, this chemistry we have together. Who knows? You might not even be bored after six months with me.’

‘I’d never survive that long. I’d kill myself.’

He laughed and she tore her eyes away from the ripple of muscle along his abdomen, the sheet he’d pulled over his legs doing little to disguise his nakedness.

‘So dramatic,’ he teased. ‘Come on, hop into bed and get some sleep. You look like a child who’s been kept up too late—all eyes and pouty lips.’

She clenched her fists and, moving to the head of the bed, flicked the sheet back angrily. She lay down stiffly, turning her back on him, keeping herself as far away from the warmth and temptation of his long muscular body as possible.

She felt the brush of his fingers along the base of her spine and shivered.

‘Come closer,’ he said temptingly. ‘I want to kiss you goodnight.’

Emily tightened her resolve another notch, clamped her eyes shut and pretended not to hear him.

His hand stroked the smooth curve of her bottom and then his body shifted towards her in one movement, the hard wall of his stomach grazing her as he settled behind her like a set of spoons in a drawer. Her breathing quick-ened as she felt the probe of his arousal between her thighs, and his arms closed around her, making escape, even if she’d had the will to exercise it, impossible.

Even though she kept her back to him he was still able to bring her to the pinnacle of pleasure, with gasping groans of release that reverberated throughout her body as his rocked against hers. His own sounds of ecstasy soothed her pride; at least it wasn’t just she who was rendered helpless by the touch of his hands. She too had sent him to paradise, and with that thought comforting her she drifted off to sleep, still locked in his arms.

The next three weeks passed for Emily in a haze of lazy days and passion-filled nights. A kind of unspoken truce became established between them. Damien usually left for work before she got up, and when he returned in the evening she was dressed for dinner. Sometimes they ate in; on other nights they went out. She visited Rose every few days or so.

Rose wanted her to visit even more often but Emily didn’t trust herself in case she accidentally let slip something about his aunt to Damien. The effort of keeping quiet about her clandestine relationship with Rose was taxing her already stretched nerves.

She did her best to remain civil around Damien, although by the end of the third week her temper was beginning to fray. She wasn’t used to so much time on her hands and her restlessness made her snap at him when he asked her what she had planned on Friday morning as he was leaving for work.

‘Nothing. A big fat nothing.’

He gave her a studied look as he deftly tied his tie. ‘Why don’t you come in and have lunch with me today?’ he suggested. ‘I’ll show you around the offices, introduce you to the staff.’

She lifted one shoulder half-heartedly.

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Call me before twelve. I’m with clients until then.’

‘I’ll see.’

‘As you wish.’ He stooped to drop a quick kiss on her pouting mouth. ‘Let me know what you decide. I’ve got to rush. Be good.’

She humphed and rolled over on her side, pulling the sheets back over her head.

After she heard his car leave she pushed the hair out of her eyes and swung her legs out of bed. That was when it hit her like a truck coming at full force down the highway. The nausea was so sudden and so vile she only just made it to the en suite bathroom before gasping out the meagre contents of her stomach. She clutched at the basin, glancing at her pale features in the mirror. Another wave hit her, making her lurch over the basin once more in desperation.

After a while it eased slightly, and she washed her face and returned to the bed to lie down until the light-headedness dissipated. She lay there in increasing panic. How could her body have betrayed her like this, falling pregnant without her permission? She wanted to blame Damien but knew it was really her own fault. She shouldn’t have stopped taking the Pill in the first place. She’d just got lazy.

She dragged herself out of bed and back to the bathroom. She had to have it confirmed first—it could be a false alarm, she reassured herself vainly.

‘Oh, God!’ she cried at her reflection in the fogged mirror. ‘What am I going to do?’

Emily stared at the dipstick in her hand, waves of panic sweeping through her at the confirmation of the pregnancy she dreaded. She’d rushed to the pharmacy and bought a double testing kit and both of the tests told her the same truth. She was having a baby—Damien’s baby.

She wished she could tell somebody, somebody who would reassure her it was all going to work out, but there was no one. She thought of calling Rose but decided against it at the last minute. Her friendship with her was still developing; she didn’t want to jeopardise it by bur-dening her with problems that were largely insurmountable.

She’d have to face it alone—she didn’t have any other choice. It wasn’t as if she could tell Damien, at least not yet. Perhaps she could simply disappear from his life, pre-tend she’d found somebody else and move on. Her heart quaked at the thought of his reaction. He liked to be the one calling the shots; that much she had learned in the few short weeks they’d been married.

Emily caught a bus to Centennial Park and walked for two hours, thinking about her dilemma. The cooling shade of the old trees calmed her enough to make her realise she had to take better care of herself from now on. No more scanty meals and irregular exercise.

She checked her watch and, seeing it was close to twelve, wondered if she should take up Damien’s offer of lunch after all. She hadn’t thought to bring her mobile with her, nor did she have his number on her, but she knew where his office block was and decided to go there in person.

She wasn’t sure what made her stop at the flashing pedestrian signal across the street from his building. Normally she would have raced across, just like everyone else, weaving her way through the bustling crowd, but this time she didn’t.

She saw Damien first. He was outside the front entrance, bending down to speak through a car window to someone sitting in the driver’s seat of a sports car. Several horns tooted behind the shiny Mercedes and Emily watched in horror as Linda Janssen leaned out of the window to kiss him, her hand grasping his, holding it to the ridge of the car’s open window. A cab driver tailgated Linda’s car and Damien stepped back and waved her off with a warm smile.

Emily turned and sped in the opposite direction, her heart thumping painfully in her chest. She almost fell to her knees in her haste to get away before Damien looked across the street. She checked over her shoulder once and was relieved when a line of buses blocked the intersection, giving her a lengthy reprieve.

She stumbled on to the first bus that sidled to a stop beside her, not caring where it was going. She paid her fare and huddled in a seat next to an old gentleman who smelt of mothballs and whisky. She sat and willed herself not to be sick, all the time wondering how she was going to face Damien later that day.

The bus took her to Waringah Mall, where she spent the afternoon wandering aimlessly around the shops, filling in time with cups of tea or glasses of juice from the various cafés. She was sitting staring at the uneaten raisin toast in front of her when she felt a shadow pass over her.

‘Emily!’ Danny Margate pulled out the chair opposite. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I…’ Emily gaped at him in shock. ‘I’m…I’m shopping.’

Danny looked at the floor near her feet, noting the ab-sence of any parcels.

‘Not very successfully, I’d say.’

‘I’m not in the mood for buying today.’

‘How’s Damien? Keeping you busy?’

Emily didn’t care for his insolent tone. ‘He’s fine.’

‘You don’t seem very happy to see me,’ he observed. ‘Especially when I have something in my possession I’m sure you’ll want very badly.’

She watched him closely, trying to gauge his mood. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s a diary,’ he said, picking up a slice of her abandoned raisin toast and biting into it.

‘Whose?’

He paused for effect. Emily felt like a trout being lured by a colourful but totally fake fly.

‘Rose’s.’

She stared at him incredulously. ‘You’d give me Rose’s diary?’

His smile didn’t quite reach his cold light-blue eyes. ‘For a price.’

‘Of course,’ she said cynically.

‘If you don’t want it I can offer it to someone else. I already have someone in mind.’

‘Who?’

‘Marsha Montford.’

Emily was familiar with the biographer’s work. Her last book had caused an even bigger scandal than her own. She felt sick at the thought of Damien and his aunt being subjected to the sort of ruthless tactics someone like Marsha employed to write a bestseller.

‘How much?’ she asked.

‘How much can you afford?’

Emily took her time replying. She didn’t want to commit herself, but neither did she want to give him free rein to destroy his brother and aunt in so despicable a fashion.

‘I’ll have to think about it,’ she hedged. ‘I’ll call you on Monday.’

His eyes glinted with triumph. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’ He got to his feet and handed her a business card. ‘I’ve got a new apartment in Bondi. Come and see me there on Monday afternoon, say two o’clock? We can finalise the terms then.’

Emily took the card, immediately feeling tainted by its presence in her hand. She felt as if she’d just stepped into a carefully laid snare, but it was too late to step back out of it now.

Danny waved a hand and was gone, disappearing into the crowd of Friday afternoon shoppers. She sat and stared at the card in her hand and wondered if today was going to get any worse. It hardly seemed likely, but she was wrong.

The bus she caught back to the city got swallowed up by a nasty traffic snarl approaching the Harbour Bridge. Emily sat clammily in the late-afternoon heat, her brow beading with perspiration in spite of the air-conditioning. The bus moved by millimetres every five minutes or so, as impatient drivers fought for their turn to merge into the already crowded lanes.

Emily began to think it would be quicker to walk, and was even considering asking the driver to open the door for her when all of a sudden the traffic started to flow. Relief seemed to spread through the bus as each of the other passengers settled back in their seats for the remainder of the journey.

She was exhausted by the time she walked up the path towards Damien’s front door. A raging thirst had given her a headache and her right foot had developed a blister on the heel. It was close to seven p.m. and she knew Damien would be wondering where she was. Before she could find her key in her bag the door opened and he stood there, all six feet four of him, his dark brown eyes raking her from head to toe.

‘I suppose it would be a complete waste of time to ask you where you’ve been?’ he drawled.

She brushed past him, her right shoe in her hand. ‘I could ask you the same question.’

‘I was at work all day,’ he said. ‘Waiting for you to call.’

Emily turned to look at him. ‘And was it a trying day at the office—darling?’ she asked with sugar-sweet derision.

He frowned as his gaze swept over her dishevelled form. ‘You don’t seem to be in a very good mood,’ he observed. ‘Has something happened?’

She could have screamed at him. Yes, I’m having your child! She could hear the words forming in her throat and hastily swallowed them. This was definitely not the right time to drop that particular bombshell.

‘I’m hot and tired. My bus was caught in traffic and I had to sit for an hour and twenty minutes while the lanes cleared. I have a headache too,’ she added despondently. And I saw you with your mistress in the middle of town and your brother is a creep who’d sell his grandmother to make a dollar.

‘Why don’t you have a shower and I’ll bring you up some paracetamol?’

Emily sighed gratefully and carried on up the stairs.

She was towelling her hair dry after her shower when he came into the en suite bathroom with a glass of water and two white tablets. She tucked the ends of the towel across her breasts and took the glass from him. She was raising it to her mouth just as he reached down to pick up something off the floor near the vanity basin.

‘What’s this?’ he asked.

She stared in horror at the scrunched up packet in his hand. It was the pregnancy test she’d used that morning.

Chapter Twelve

EMILY froze.

Damien unfolded the packet and stood looking at it for a long time. He scrunched it back up and tossed it in the bin near the basin. His expression when he turned to look at her was inscrutable.

‘I was going to tell you—’ she began uncomfortably. She cleared the restriction in her throat before continuing. ‘I’m pregnant.’

‘But I thought you said you were taking the Pill?’ His eyes lasered hers.

Emily lowered her gaze.

‘I suppose it’s rather impolitic of me to ask, but is it mine?’

Her stomach churned at the contempt in his voice.

‘What do you think?’ she asked, hoping he’d see beyond the mask of pride in her tone.

He sucked in a breath that she felt all along the length of her spine.

‘I think I’m finally starting to see why you married me.’

She didn’t trust herself to speak. His eyes hardened as they bored into hers.

‘I didn’t just solve your financial problems, did I? I also provided a convenient safety net for your love-child. Does Danny know?’

She shook her head, close to tears at his ready assump-tion that this baby wasn’t his. Did he really think so badly of her? That she’d use him in such a way?

He gave her a scornful look when she didn’t speak.

‘I can’t believe you managed to pull it off. Here I was, thinking I had outmanoeuvred you, while all the time you had me falling neatly into a snare of your own.’

‘Damien, I never intended this to—’

He dismissed her with a carelessly flung hand. ‘Me, of all people. The irony, if only you knew, is unbelievable.’

‘It’s not what you’re thinking—’

‘Don’t try and weasel your way out of this,’ he barked. ‘I should’ve seen it coming but I didn’t. Quite frankly, I didn’t think you’d go so low, but then it proves how deluded us men really are. I should’ve known there’d be a high price to pay for the pleasure I’ve had from that delec-table body of yours.’ He gave her another sweeping glance that chilled her to the bone. ‘When is it due?’

Emily was beyond the maths in her upset state. ‘I’m…I’m not sure. I don’t know how far along I am.’

He turned around and slammed his fist into the wall near the door. She shrank from the violence in his action, her eyes widening in alarm. She’d never seen him so out of control before and it frightened her.

‘Please, Damien,’ she choked. ‘Please listen to me.’

He pushed himself away from the wall and faced her, his eyes like savage pools of hatred. ‘I need to be on my own for a while,’ he said. ‘Don’t wait up.’

Emily watched him leave the bathroom, her heart breaking with each step he took away from her.

She heard the front door slam and then the roar of his Lamborghini as he sped out of the driveway as if the hounds of hell were after him. She sank to the floor and bent her head into her knees. There was nothing she could do—he’d already made up his mind. There was simply nothing she could do.

Emily crawled into bed some time later and slept fitfully until she heard the sound of Damien’s car returning. She heard him clatter about in the kitchen downstairs and then in the lounge, where she heard him switch on the television. The noise of the replay of a one-day cricket match made it impossible for her to go back to sleep. She listened to the background drone for a few minutes before she dragged herself out of the bed. She reached for her bathrobe and, giving the lounge a wide berth, headed for the kitchen for something to settle her squeamish stomach.

She was peering into the refrigerator when Damien spoke from behind her. ‘Can I get you something? Some toast or an egg?’ There was no trace of the earlier anger in his voice.

Emily shut the fridge and looked up at him. There were lines of tension around his firm mouth, but his expression remained impassive.

‘I’ll have some toast.’ She moved towards the toaster.

‘I’ll get it,’ he said, crossing the room. ‘You sit down.’

Emily sat down on the nearest kitchen stool and watched as he took bread from the freezer compartment and popped it into the toaster.

He leant back against the bench while he waited for it to cook, his arms folded across his chest. ‘I should apologise for my behaviour earlier,’ he said.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ She looked away, frightened she might start crying.

‘Yes, it does.’ She heard him reach for a plate and a knife. ‘I hadn’t taken into account at that stage the impact of this on you.’

‘What do you mean?’

He turned at the pop of the toaster and began spreading the toast with the margarine he’d taken from the fridge.

‘I was thinking of how your news impacted on me. I’m afraid I hadn’t given much thought to how it impacted on you.’

Emily retreated into one of her helpless silences.

‘I assume this pregnancy wasn’t planned?’

She shook her head.

‘Then what do you plan to do?’

‘I…I hadn’t thought that far.’

‘You not intending to…’ he paused as he searched for the right euphemism ‘…get rid of it?’

‘Of course not!’ She snatched at the toast he handed her and turned away. ‘This is my fault—I’m the one who has to face the consequences, not the totally innocent party.’

‘I don’t think you should tell Danny, at least not now. I don’t think he’d take it too well.’

Emily toyed with the toast on her plate with agitated fingers. Damien handed her the honey jar and a knife. Their fingers touched briefly and she pulled her hand away as if it had been burnt.

‘I hate to destroy any image you might have of your expected child’s father, but Danny’s prime motivation in life is to make money at someone else’s expense.’

‘Danny isn’t—’

‘I know what you’re going to say,’ he interrupted her. ‘I’ve heard it all before from the various girlfriends he’s had in the past. I’ve had to pay off quite a few before you came along.’

Emily’s stomach hollowed.

‘I wasn’t really his—’

‘Quite frankly, I’m not too interested in the details.’ He cut across her denial. ‘Danny is somewhat of a law unto himself. You’d be wise to give him a wide berth. Why not pass this child off as mine? No one will question it.’

No one but you! she thought despairingly.

‘But—’

He stalled her protest with a raised hand.

‘No, I insist. It will do me good to bring up someone else’s child. It will help me get a perspective on some old issues that keep cropping up.’

Emily pushed away her toast. ‘Damien, I need to explain—’

‘Please.’ He grasped her hand, stalling her confession. ‘I insist. We’re both adults. We can deal with this.’

‘But you don’t understand!’ she cried.

‘Oh, but I do,’ he said. ‘More than you’ll ever know.’

She gave up at that point. Her head was still pounding and the toast he’d made was lying untouched in front of her.

‘I’m so tired,’ she said in defeat.

‘Come on.’ He took her by the arm, helping her to her feet. ‘Let’s get you into bed where you belong.’

Emily leant on him gratefully, too exhausted to say the things she needed to say. Her mind was scrambled with a host of erratic thoughts. How could she prove this was Damien’s child? Would he consent to a DNA test? What would he say when he finally found out the truth, or would it be too late? Hadn’t they already said and done too much?

She slipped in between the cool sheets and closed her eyes. Damien drew the covers over her and stood by the bedside for a moment, thinking.

‘We should call a doctor,’ he said after a moment or two. ‘Have you checked out.’

‘I’m fine, really.’

‘You don’t eat properly,’ he said. ‘You’ve lost even more weight since we’ve been married. You’ve got to think about the baby.’

‘I know,’ she said into the pillow. ‘I’ll try.’

She sighed and closed her eyes, her body insisting on sleep even though her mind was tortured with the anguish of her situation. Her body won. Within minutes she was asleep, oblivious to the dark, concerned gaze of her husband, who was standing looking down at her.

The nausea hit her hard the next morning. As she dryretched over the basin she was aware of Damien listening on the other side of the en suite bathroom door.

‘Open the door, Emily,’ he commanded.

She retched again and turned on the tap.

‘I…I won’t be long,’ she gasped.

‘Open the damn door!’

She grabbed a towel with one hand and unsnibbed the door with the other.

‘Am I to be allowed no privacy?’ she flared at him. ‘I don’t need an audience right now.’

He stepped into the bathroom, his height and breadth instantly shrinking the room. ‘You shouldn’t lock yourself in here. You could faint, or something, and injure yourself.’

‘And why should you care?’ she sniped at him. ‘All your problems would be over then, wouldn’t they?’

His mouth set into a tight line as he looked down at her pale features, taking in her shadowed eyes and trembling bottom lip, which she was trying to disguise by biting down on it with her straight white teeth.

‘Emily…’ He touched her on the shoulder but she flinched away.

‘Excuse me…’ She bent over the basin again and he winced at the wretched sounds of her being sick.

‘Oh, Emily.’ His hand on the curve of her back was gentle as he stroked her.

‘I’ll be…I’ll be fine in a minute.’

She rinsed her mouth and washed her face. He handed her a towel and she buried her face in it.

‘Perhaps I should take you to a doctor.’

‘No.’ She put the towel in the washing hamper. ‘I just need some dry toast or something. It’ll pass in a few minutes.’

‘Go back to bed and I’ll bring some up,’ he offered.

Emily went back to the bed and lay down to wait for his return. She felt a rush of warmth at his gentle handling of her, as if he cared for her in some small way. But then, she reminded herself, he was just doing what any normal person would do for someone who was suffering.

Damien came back with tea and toast on a tray and set it down across her knees. ‘Here you go—breakfast in bed.’

‘Thank you.’ She tentatively nibbled at a piece of wholewheat toast, conscious of his watchful gaze.

‘I thought we might go out somewhere today,’ he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘That is, if you’re feeling better.’

Emily swallowed the mouthful of toast and asked, ‘Where were you thinking of going?’

‘What about lunch at one of the Bondi Beach cafés, followed by a leisurely walk around to Bronte? We could take our bathers and have a swim. It would do you good to get some fresh air.’

Emily wondered if Bondi was such a good idea. She didn’t want to run into Danny, certainly not while she was with Damien.

‘I’m not very good at beach swimming,’ she prevaricated. ‘I got swamped by a wave a few years ago. I only dip my toes in now.’

‘I’ll be with you,’ he assured her. ‘There’s only a small swell today. I just heard the surf report on the radio.’

She knew he was making a huge effort to make peace with her and found it hard to resist his easygoing charm. It was a side of him she hadn’t experienced and she wanted more of it.

‘All right.’ She picked up the second quarter of toast. ‘I’ll come.’

The crescent of Bondi Beach was a riot of colour and activity, crowds of people either sunning themselves on the golden arc of sand or swimming in the deep blue of the gently rolling swell.

They sat at one of the pavement cafés and Emily sipped at a freshly squeezed orange juice while waiting for the sandwiches Damien had ordered. An easy silence had fallen between them. Emily was trying to relax more in his company, feeling she too had to make some sort of effort as well.

‘You’re looking a little better already,’ Damien observed as he reached for his latte.

‘It’s a heck of a way to start the day,’ she said ruefully. ‘But I’ve heard it only lasts a few weeks.’

‘I hope so, otherwise you’ll fade away to a shadow. There’s not much of you now.’

‘There’ll soon be a whole lot more of me.’ She twirled the straw in her glass reflectively.

‘Emily—’ He shifted in his chair slightly. ‘I think we need to discuss our future.’

Emily’s heart sank. She felt certain this was the part where he would inform her of his intention to release her from their marriage. The deal was off. He’d got what he wanted—the book was never going to be written now. There was no real point in continuing, especially now he was convinced she was carrying his brother’s child. Was it too late to tell him the truth? All she had to do was open her mouth and say the words. But somehow she couldn’t. She didn’t want to tie him to her because of their child. She wanted him to love her just for her, nothing else.

She looked across at him, her fingers around the glass tightening to stop the slight tremble of her hand.

‘We don’t need to continue this arrangement,’ he said. ‘It’s not appropriate under the circumstances.’

‘I understand.’ She lowered her eyes to the glass in her hand.

‘I forced you into it, and it’s not fair to expect you to carry it through.’

‘When…’ She cleared her throat delicately. ‘When would you like me to leave?’

‘What?’

She raised her eyes to his but his expression was puzzled, his brow creased in a heavy frown.

‘I can go back to my apartment. Or, if the tenants don’t want to vacate it just yet, I can always rent something else.’

‘Emily, I’m not following you. What’s this about leaving?’

Now it was her turn to look puzzled.

‘Isn’t that what you want?’ she asked. ‘For us to dissolve this marriage—or arrangement, as you put it.’

‘I wasn’t talking about ending our marriage.’

‘You…you weren’t?’

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I was referring to our six-week deal. I’m calling it off.’

She blinked at him uncomprehendingly. ‘Off?’

‘Things are different now,’ he said. ‘You’ll need support over the next few months.’

‘You want me to stay?’ She stared at him. ‘For how long?’

He shrugged. ‘For as long as it takes. It’s not easy bringing up a child alone. I think we should at least make an effort to provide a stable home for him or her.’

Emily ignored the sandwiches that had arrived and focused on the tiny pearl of an orange seed in the bottom of her glass while she tried to unscramble the disorder of her brain. He wanted to stay married to her?

‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked, looking up again. ‘After all, you accused me of setting a trap. Why should you help tie the noose about your own neck?’

He gave her a long look. ‘As you said last night, why punish the only innocent party? This child has nothing to do with the machinations that brought about our marriage. And for that reason the marriage will continue in order to protect and nurture it.’

‘Do I get a choice?’

‘You’ve already made your choice. You chose to marry me, now I’m going to hold you to it.’

‘By force?’

‘No,’ he said implacably. ‘By insisting you face up to responsibility.’

‘I can’t see what you hope to gain by staying tied to me. Your opinion of me is hardly conducive to a happy union, especially in the long term,’ she argued.

‘Perhaps not, but the sex is good.’

Emily flushed and reached for a sandwich to cover her embarrassment. She bit into it and chewed slowly and pur-posefully so she didn’t have to respond.

‘I thought you’d be pleased. After all, isn’t this what you planned in the first place?’ he said.

‘I didn’t plan anything.’

He gave an embittered laugh.

‘I’m finding this conversation very unpalatable,’ she bit out.

‘Of course you would. But it’s about time we faced the implications of both our actions.’

‘You’re hardly innocent yourself,’ she pointed out. ‘Have you considered this baby might actually be yours?’

He gave her another one of the long studied looks she found so disquieting.

‘The thought had crossed my mind, but I immediately dismissed it. Why else would you have consented to marrying me unless you had a desperate need to do so, and in a hurry?’

‘Being a single parent these days is hardly the stigma it used to be,’ she pointed out.

‘But it’s a whole lot easier with money behind you to back you up,’ he replied with a touch of cynicism. ‘And that’s one thing Danny is short of right now—money.’

Emily found even the mention of Danny’s name sent sparks of tension and guilt all through her, especially since their chance meeting—was it only yesterday?

‘Have you seen him lately?’ Damien asked unexpectedly.

‘No,’ she lied. ‘I’m sure he’s very busy with his fiancée Louise.’

‘I’m afraid that’s all off,’ Damien announced dispassionately. ‘It seems Louise got wind of the details of Danny’s financial situation. He’s never really been all that good with money.’

‘So he comes to you for advice?’

‘He comes to me for money, not advice.’

‘Do you give it to him?’

‘Not always,’ he said, and then, changing the subject abruptly, asked, ‘Are you going to contact your family about your pregnancy?’

‘No.’

He gave her another of his penetrating looks. ‘You’re very isolationist. Is that wise?’

‘I like to be independent. There’s less hurt that way.’

‘Who hurt you? Your parents?’

Emily scrunched up her napkin and got to her feet.

‘I feel like that walk now,’ she said determinedly. ‘I’ll wait for you outside.’

Damien watched her make her way through the knot of tables to stand watching the cool blue of the ocean in the distance. He sighed and, collecting the bill, made his way to the counter to pay for the lunch Emily had barely touched and he’d had little appetite for.

Chapter Thirteen

THEY walked in silence along the foreshore leading to Bronte Beach. Neither of them seemed inclined to speak, content to simply enjoy the view and light sea breeze that was taking the stinging heat out of the unusually warm spring day.

At one stage of the walk Damien reached for Emily’s hand as she stumbled over an irregularity in the pavement. She didn’t resist, but allowed his hand to swallow hers as they walked on. To others walking past them she imagined it would be easy to assume they were a devoted couple, enthusiastically planning their future together. There was no outward indication of the underlying tension simmering between them, but Emily was aching inside at the assump-tions he’d made about her. It didn’t seem possible to change his mind about her.

‘Do you fancy a swim?’ he asked as they made their way past Tamarama Bay to Bronte Beach.

Emily flicked the sticky hair out of her face and looked out across the bay. ‘It’s sounding more and more appealing.’

‘Come on, then.’ He handed her the bathers and towel he’d been carrying in his backpack. ‘Go and get changed and I’ll meet you here in five minutes.’

Emily made her way to the changing-rooms and slipped into her slim-fitting black bikini. She looked down at her still flat stomach and wondered how long it would be until she began to show. It didn’t seem possible that inside her right now a tiny baby was beginning to grow. She thought there should be more of an outward sign, a certain glow in her features, an aura of delight clearly visible to others. But all she had was uncertainty, fear and hopelessness that the child’s father thought so poorly of her.

Of course, much of it was her own fault. She’d been little less than a virago the whole time she’d been with him, fighting him at every turn. How ironic now to realise how much she loved him when there was nothing she could do to convince him of her change of heart. He’d cynically assume it was another one of her ploys to ensnare him, to get him to provide a home and security for herself and her child.

She met him outside the changing-rooms with her clothes bundled under her arm. His eyes swept over her in an appreciative male manner, lingering momentarily on the gen-tle curves of her breasts. He reached for her clothes and put them along with his in the backpack. Emily feasted her eyes on his long lean body, the muscles of his stomach and chest rippling as he placed her things on top of his.

‘Come on.’ He reached for her hand once more. ‘Let’s get wet.’

She followed him down to the lapping surf, her hand still in his. She hesitated once the water foamed around her ankles and he stopped and turned to her encouragingly.

‘Come on, I’ll hold on to you. I won’t let you go.’

Emily allowed him to lead her further into the surf, wishing with all her heart that he would never let her go. She wanted to be by his side for ever, facing everything in life together—most particularly the birth of their child.

The water was now around her waist and she squealed as the cool waves lapped at her.

‘That’s enough,’ she told him. ‘I don’t want to go in any deeper.’

‘Where’s that fighting spirit of yours?’ he teased, pulling her in deeper. ‘Here comes a nice wave. Turn your back and jump.’

She did as he directed and laughed when the wall of water broke over her hips, splashing her right up to her breasts.

‘It’s cold!’ she squealed again.

‘Here’s another one—watch out!’

Emily turned and the wave hit her full on. She felt the rush of water drag at her legs but Damien’s hand was still tightly holding hers. She brushed the hair out of her eyes and smiled up at him.

‘We’ll dive under the next one.’ He smiled back at her. ‘Once we get out a bit it’s a whole lot calmer.’

‘I’m not going out there!’ Emily stared at the rolling breakers in front of them.

‘It’s just here that it’s rough, where the breakers are spilling. Look out beyond that last wave—nothing, just still water.’

She clung to his hand and allowed him to lead her out. After one or two big waves caught her she realised he was not going to let her go. She suddenly found herself enjoying it. A wave would roll towards them and he’d instruct her to turn her back and jump over it, and, just like a roller coaster ride, her body would be lifted up and then put down once the wall of water had passed. It wasn’t long before they were beyond the breakers, where the water was calm, the waves gently forming and rolling towards the shore, lifting their bodies from time to time before carrying on towards the sand, gathering momentum as they went.

‘I’ve never been out this far before,’ she said excitedly as she trod water beside him. ‘I’ve always been too scared.’

Damien smiled. ‘I’m glad you’re starting to trust me.’

Emily waited until the next roll of water lifted them both before replying. ‘But you don’t trust me. That hardly seems fair, don’t you think?’

He pulled her against him when a larger wave rolled towards them. Emily found her legs entwined with his, her breasts pushed up against his chest as the wave carried them forwards slightly until it went on without them to crash thunderously against the shell-encrusted shore.

He released her once the wave had gone and trod water beside her, his eyes dark and unfathomable.

‘Trust is a bit like respect; you have to earn it.’

‘It’s very hard to earn someone’s trust when they have a deep-seated bias against you,’ she said, pushing a piece of floating seaweed away from her.

‘You worked very hard to construct that bias, so I’m afraid you’ll have to work even harder to remove it,’ he said.

‘So it’s all up to me, then, is it?’ she asked, blinking the sting of salt water out of her eyes.

‘It’s up to both of us. We each have to make an effort, otherwise there’d be no point in pursuing this at all.’

She wanted to tell him there was no point. Certainly not while he had such misunderstandings about her. But just then a larger than normal wave began building behind them and he reached for her hand once more.

‘Come on, let’s see if we can catch this one to the shore.’

She followed his instructions and let the wave carry her with an exhilarating rush towards the beach. The wave spat her out in the shallows and she got to her feet, her long hair like a mermaid’s around her shoulders, her eyes shining with triumph.

‘I did it!’

He came towards her, his tall lean body glistening in the sun, his strongly muscled thighs cutting through the swirling water like a hot knife through butter. His eyes ran over her lightly.

‘So you did. Well done, and you kept your top on too. That’s some achievement.’

Emily had to smile. Her bikini top was full of sand and bits of seaweed and she’d had to clutch at her bikini bot-toms before she’d stood up to cover herself respectably.

‘Only just.’ She picked out a piece of sea lettuce from between her breasts and threw it back into the water. She looked back up at him, still smiling. ‘Thanks for taking me out there. I would never have done it by myself.’

He lifted his hand and removed another piece of seaweed from her hair, his body so close to hers she could feel the warmth of his flesh. She could see the crystals of salt water clinging to his dark eyelashes. His dark hair was pushed back off his forehead, the tense lines about his mouth no-where to be seen. She lowered her eyes to the smooth mus-cles of his chest, where droplets of sea water were trickling, making her ache to reach out and lick them away with her tongue…

A small child ran past them in the shallows and then toppled over as his little legs tripped in a gutter of sand underneath the foamy shallows. He came up screaming and Emily rushed to him, helping him up and reassuring him. The child’s mother hurried over, carrying another small child of about a year old on one hip.

‘Oh, thank you!’ she said gratefully to Emily. ‘He’s such a tearaway at times. I only turned my back for a second and he was back in the water.’

‘That’s OK.’ She stroked the little boy on the head. ‘He’s gorgeous. How old is he?’

‘Three going on thirteen,’ the young woman said rue-fully. ‘Come on, Matthew, let’s go and get an ice cream.’

The little boy trotted off with his mother and baby sister, turning once to wave back at Emily.

‘It seems you’ve got what it takes,’ Damien said as they walked towards their things on the sand.

She looked up at him, hunting his face for the derision she’d come to expect. ‘Meaning?’

He handed her a towel, his fingers brushing hers.

‘You’ll make a good mother. You have a natural affinity with children.’

She dried herself roughly as she replied, ‘You say that as if you had some doubt before.’

‘Not at all. I was just making an observation.’

‘How comforting to know you’re such an expert on de-termining whether a woman is good mother material or not. I’m glad I meet your exacting standards.’

He frowned at her as he slipped on his casual shirt, leaving it unbuttoned.

‘Would you rather I’d said you weren’t suited?’ he asked gruffly. ‘What is it with you? Every time I give you a compliment you throw it back in my face.’

‘I’m not used to hearing compliments from you.’

‘Well, then, I’ll have to work on that omission. Let’s start with this one: you look absolutely stunning in that almost-there black bikini. How’s that?’

Emily tossed her sand-encrusted hair. ‘It’s a good start.’

‘And I think you’ve got a beautiful smile when you relax enough to use it.’

She stared at him. How she wished she could tell him about her friendship with Rose. She still didn’t understand why Rose insisted she keep quiet about it. It just didn’t make any sense.

‘But I suppose Danny’s told you that many times,’ he added cynically when she didn’t respond.

‘Danny’s full of insincere compliments. I learned not to pay too much attention.’

‘Wise of you.’

They continued walking along in silence, the warmth of the afternoon sun soaking into their bodies. When they got back to Bondi Beach it was even more crowded than it had been earlier.

‘Let’s grab a coffee before we head home,’ he suggested, leading her across the busy street.

She fell into step beside him and when he finally found a vacant seat for her she slipped into it gratefully. She felt tired and more than a little out of her depth. He seemed so unreachable most of the time—aloof, distant, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with her. They’d shared such inti-macy, but ever since he’d found out about her pregnancy he’d kept his distance, hardly touching her, as if he couldn’t bear to do so. It made her feel so empty and alone, and she craved his touch all the more, even though she knew it was hopeless. His love was directed elsewhere—to Linda Janssen. She’d seen it with her own eyes; there was no point in pretending it didn’t exist. It did, and it was tearing her heart apart to even think about it.

The coffees arrived and Emily busied herself with toying with the milky froth of her latte with her teaspoon.

‘Emily.’

She looked up from her coffee; his eyes were on her, his expression serious.

‘Yes?’

He stirred his coffee absently before saying, ‘I think it’s about time I took you to visit my aunt.’

Emily’s fingers on her teaspoon stilled. ‘Has…has she requested it?’ she asked.

He gave a rueful half-smile. ‘Rose has been wanting to meet you for weeks, but I wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do. I’ve decided it’s time.’

‘What you mean is you didn’t think I could be trusted, isn’t that more to the point?’ she asked with a resentful edge to her voice.

‘What I think is largely irrelevant,’ he said evenly. ‘Rose wants us both to come to dinner tonight.’

‘Does she know…’ Emily chewed her lip briefly. ‘Have you told her about—?’

‘No.’ His eyes moved away from hers. ‘I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. She’ll find out soon enough. Perhaps you could announce it at dinner.’

‘I’m not sure my pregnancy would be an appropriate topic for a Double Bay dinner party,’ she said. ‘Especially since you’re claiming not to be the father.’

The silence was palpable. She lifted her eyes to his and then wished she hadn’t. The hard glint of barely suppressed anger reflected there frightened her.

‘How did you find out where she lives?’

Emily blinked at him, wondering what to say. He pushed his half-finished coffee away and stood up. She got to her feet and followed him out of the café, her steps dragging.

‘Get in the car,’ he commanded, opening the door for her, his tone frigid.

‘Damien, I—’

‘Get in the damn car.’

She got in the car and he shut the door heavily. She sat nervously as he went to the driver’s side and got in.

‘I expressly forbade you to make any contact with my aunt,’ he ground out as he started the car. ‘That was part of the deal.’

‘I didn’t make contact with your aunt,’ she said. ‘She made contact with me. Literally.’

Damien turned to look at her, his hands still white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

‘When? What do you mean?’

‘When you were interstate. I walked into her in the street three doors from your house and nearly knocked her over.’

He turned back to the task of driving through the intersection, his mouth set into a grim line. ‘What a windfall that must have been,’ he derided. ‘Tell me, did you take notes?’

‘Of course not! It was nothing like that.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘So, what else is new?’ she chipped at him. ‘You don’t believe a lot of things I tell you. Why should this be any different?’

‘How many times have you seen her?’

‘Several.’

He drove on in a rigid silence. Emily sat with her head turned to the passing scenery, her eyes seeing nothing. After a long pause he turned to glance at her.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because she told me not to.’

The traffic moved ahead and he turned back to concentrate on his driving.

‘All the same, you should have told me.’

‘What? And break a confidence?’ She glared across at him. ‘You’re always telling me how untrustworthy I am, how I’d do anything for a good story. I decided to prove you wrong for once.’

He frowned as he took the turn to Double Bay.

‘I don’t understand why she’d do that. She insisted I stop your book at all costs.’

‘Marrying me was rather an extreme measure, don’t you think?’

‘It was all I could think of at the time,’ he said drily, turning into his driveway.

‘What a pity you didn’t have time to think of something more dastardly, like boiling me in oil or tying me up for the crows to pick at.’

‘Believe me—’ he glanced at her darkly as he stopped the engine ‘—I haven’t ruled those things out.’

She tossed her head as she got out of the car.

‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ she warned. ‘Your aunt likes me, and I like her.’

‘Female solidarity,’ he muttered. ‘I never would’ve guessed.’

She followed him into the house, determined not to be intimidated by his mood. Why should she be the one feeling guilty when she’d done nothing wrong? Rose Margate had approached her, and once she’d felt comfortable with her had asked to continue the acquaintance. Emily hadn’t engineered any part of it, nor had she wanted to keep the arrangement quiet, as Rose had insisted.

Emily headed for the shower, leaving Damien to bring in the wet and sandy towels. Her head ached from the tension of it all, her skin felt the sting of a little too much sun and her heart felt heavy with its burden of love for a man who always believed the worst of her.

When she came downstairs an hour later he was talking on the telephone in the lounge. His gaze swept over her, taking in the close-fitting white sundress that offset the golden glow of her sun-kissed skin. Her strappy red sandals and simple red purse tied in beautifully with the colourful scarf she had used to draw her hair back from her face. The red-rose lipstick and dark mascara she wore were her only make-up apart from a spray of her favourite perfume.

He finished the call and faced her, his expression full of self-reproach. ‘It seems I have an apology to make.’

‘Oh?’ Her tone was flippant. ‘Let me guess—your aunt Rose verified my story, so now it’s OK to believe me?’

His mouth tightened. ‘Look, my aunt has refused to see anyone other than her driver, her doctor and me for years. You can hardly blame me for being suspicious.’

‘Would you like to check my purse before we go tonight?’ She handed it to him. ‘Just in case I’ve slipped in my Dictaphone or a miniature camera.’

He ignored her outstretched purse and looked at her grimly.

‘I don’t wish to argue with you. The very fact that Rose has invited anyone to her house this evening is a miracle. Let’s not spoil it for her by sniping at each other.’

‘Fine by me.’ She tossed her head.

They walked in silence towards Rose’s house. Emily glanced at Damien once or twice but decided against making idle conversation. She could tell by the set of his jaw he was keeping himself under some sort of iron control, as if he didn’t trust himself not to tell her what he really thought of her.

He finally broke the long silence as he opened Rose’s front gate.

‘I understand my aunt has informed you of her condition?’

‘Yes.’

‘I assume you understand how important it is to her that this goes no further than you or me?’

‘Does Danny know?’ she asked.

His glance towards her was razor-sharp.

‘Not that I’m aware of. And unless Rose insists otherwise it’d better stay that way.’

Emily didn’t like the way he was looking at her, as if she were the one most likely to spill the beans.

‘He won’t hear it from me,’ she assured him.

‘Good.’

Rose was dressed in a long flowing gown that looked as if it had previously been one of her theatre costumes. Emily loved the way she carried it off, in a manner that bordered on the eccentric. She waved a glass of soda water in one hand just like a fan and Emily watched as she swept Damien into her arms, just as a mother would a long-lost son. The obvious affection between Rose and Damien brought a lump to the back of Emily’s throat as she waited her turn to greet her.

‘Emily, you look ravishing—doesn’t she, Damien?’ Rose kissed both her cheeks and smiled broadly at her. ‘Was he very cross at our little secret, my dear?’ she added, winking towards the tall figure of her nephew standing at her shoulder.

Emily flicked a glance towards him as she answered, ‘He took it very well, all things considered.’

Damien’s eyes glinted, but she averted her gaze and, turning her attention to Rose’s dress, asked, ‘Is that one of your stage costumes?’

‘Yes, The Taming Of The Shrew. Isn’t it marvellous? Such a shame to gather moths in the wardrobe. I thought I’d air it tonight, since this is such a special occasion.’

‘It is?’ Emily looked between Rose and Damien as if she’d missed out on some important bit of information.

‘Yes,’ said Rose. ‘I’ve invited someone else this evening. Someone very special to Damien and me.’

Emily glanced back at Damien but his expression was inscrutable.

‘Who?’ she asked, turning back to Rose.

Rose grinned, looking as pleased as Punch that her first social gathering in fifteen years had begun so well.

‘Linda,’ she said proudly. ‘Linda Janssen.’

Chapter Fourteen

EMILY plastered a smile to her face and fought against the desire to faint.

‘She’ll be here soon,’ Rose was saying. ‘Andre can’t make it unfortunately—some stomach bug or other. Now, what can I get you both to drink? Champagne?’

Emily shook her head. ‘I’ll just have a soda water, thank you.’

Rose’s glance was speculative.

‘I’ve got a lovely white wine if you’d prefer?’

‘Emily’s not much of a drinker, Aunt Rose.’ Damien came to her rescue. ‘I’ll have some champagne, though. What sort is it?’

He distracted his aunt by investigating the expensive-looking bottle she had sitting in the ice-bucket, and Emily felt relieved beyond expression. She sat on one of the velvet sofas and tried to prepare herself for what was ahead.

What was Rose doing, inviting both her and Linda on the same evening? What did she hope to achieve? Rose knew of the gossip that surrounded Damien and Linda. Emily herself had witnessed their relationship in the middle of the city the day before. What could possibly be gained by rubbing her nose in it like this tonight? It didn’t seem the sort of thing Rose would do. Perhaps she hoped to smooth things over in this polite social gathering, was doing what she thought was best for her nephew’s marriage by confronting the issues head on.

Emily stared at the bubbles of soda in her glass and wished herself a thousand miles away. How had her life come to this?

The doorbell sounded and Rose left them while she went to answer it. Emily glanced at Damien, but he was standing twirling the contents of his glass, looking out of the window, his back turned towards her.

Rose came back in raptures over Linda Janssen’s long elegant mulberry outfit. Emily immediately felt gauche in her simple white sundress and got to her feet, her expression guarded.

‘Damien.’ Linda moved across the room and kissed both his cheeks affectionately. ‘And Emily.’ She turned to where Emily was standing awkwardly. ‘You look lovely. Marriage suits you—every time I see you you look more beautiful.’

Emily didn’t know what to say. Linda’s comments gave all the appearance of sincerity, but she wondered privately what might have been said instead if Damien and his aunt weren’t standing there.

‘Thank you,’ she managed to say. ‘I hope your husband is feeling better soon.’

Linda waved a dismissive hand as she accepted the glass of champagne Damien handed her.

‘He’s fine. Just a stomach thing. Now, tell me, Rose, what is this all about? It’s been positively years since you’ve had guests. What brought about this totally unex-pected event?’

Rose sat down on the edge of one of the sofas, her face radiant.

‘I have something I wish to announce.’

Emily sat on the edge of her seat, wondering if Damien had told his aunt of her pregnancy.

‘What is it?’ Linda, too, was on the edge of her seat.

Rose paused. It was obvious to Emily that something of great importance was about to be announced.

‘I’m going to have an operation,’ Rose said at last.

‘An operation?’ Linda and Damien spoke in unison.

‘What sort of operation?’ Emily put in.

‘A life-changing one,’ Rose announced proudly. ‘I’m going to have an experimental operation to implant stem cells into part of my brain. The part that is causing the Parkinson’s Disease.’

There was an awed silence.

‘Well?’ Rose got to her feet. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’

Damien got to his feet first and hugged his aunt. ‘Are you sure it’s safe? Have you considered the possibility of it going wrong? What then?’

‘Damien, darling—’ Rose touched his hand with her trembling one ‘—I can’t live like this any more. Shut away here like a hermit, hiding from the public in case they think I’m drunk. I have to do this—it’s my only chance.’

‘What are the risks?’ Linda asked.

Rose turned to face her. ‘Of course there are risks, but I have to take them. Epilepsy, paralysis, permanent brain damage.’

‘Oh, no!’ Emily gasped.

Rose turned to her and laid a hand on her shoulder re-assuringly. ‘Don’t worry, my dear. I’ve considered all the risks and compared to what I’m already suffering I don’t think I have much to lose. I don’t want to live like this any more. And in some ways you’ve been responsible for my decision.’

‘I…I have?’ Emily stared at her.

‘Yes. You’ve forced me to realise I can’t expect the public to simply accept my disappearance. They want answers. I owe that to them.’

‘You don’t owe them anything,’ Damien said implacably.

Rose swivelled to look at her nephew. ‘Damien, darling, Emily is right. I wouldn’t have the things I have if it hadn’t been for my public. I’ve been well supported over the years. It’s time I faced reality. I can’t expect the public to be fobbed off with vague excuses any longer. I want the truth to be told.’

‘But Aunt Rose—!’ Damien protested.

‘No.’ She held up her hand in protest. ‘I’ve made up my mind. I’m going ahead with this operation and I’m determined it will be a success. A positive attitude is what I need. Who knows? I might even perform again.’

‘Are you serious?’ Linda asked. ‘But that would be marvellous! A miracle, in fact.’

‘I know,’ Rose said, ‘and if I do I’d like Emily to write about my comeback.’

‘Aren’t we jumping the gun a bit, here?’ Damien interrupted. ‘You haven’t had the surgery yet. It’s probably a bit early to be planning Emily’s book signing.’

Emily glared at him resentfully.

‘Oh, darling.’ Rose smiled at him fondly. ‘I realise you’re trying to protect Emily from further disappointment, but think about it. If I do make a good recovery it will make up for giving up her book. I feel I owe that to her at least.’

‘You don’t owe me anything, Rose,’ Emily said quietly.

‘Oh, but I do.’ Rose was insistent.

‘When is the surgery to take place?’ Damien asked.

‘At the end of next week,’ Rose said. ‘Of course, this operation is still in the experimental stages, but some success has already been achieved and my doctor thinks it’s worth a try.’

‘I think you’re very brave,’ Emily said.

‘What about the press?’ Damien asked. ‘How are we to keep this private? Doctors and nurses are meant to maintain a confidential silence, but what about the other ward staff? One whiff of your name and someone stands to make a fortune out of it.’

Emily didn’t know where to look. Damien’s comments seemed to be directed towards her, as if he didn’t trust her not to rush out and release a press statement immediately.

‘Of course I’d like to keep things quiet for as long as possible,’ Rose said. ‘But it’s a large teaching hospital and this procedure will attract a lot of attention. I’m prepared for that.’ She looked at Damien directly, her dark eyes, so like his, bright with courage and conviction. ‘I must do this, Damien. It’s my last chance. Surely you must see that?’

Damien sighed and, putting down his drink, gave his aunt another warm hug. ‘I see that you’re a very determined woman who wants another grab at centre stage.’

‘And why shouldn’t I?’ Rose smiled up at him when he released her. ‘With you married now I feel I’ve got something to live for. God willing, there’ll be great-nephews and nieces, and I want to be in good health to enjoy them.’

‘Don’t rush the poor darlings, Rose.’ Linda laughed. ‘They’ve only been married a few weeks.’

Emily wanted the sofa to open up and swallow her. She felt the heat of Damien’s gaze on her but resolutely kept her eyes averted. She didn’t know what to make of Linda. She seemed to be very fond of Rose, and didn’t appear to be uncomfortable at all at being in the same room as Damien’s new wife. Was she so brazen, and he so without shame, that they would openly flaunt their clandestine re-lationship in such a way? There was certainly an intimacy about them both. Emily could see it in the way they looked at each other occasionally. A little smile, a knowing glance, the comfort and ease with which they greeted each other, usually with a kiss to both cheeks or a gentle squeeze of the hand.

Emily sipped at her drink and tried to stop looking at them. It was like a form of torture and she couldn’t imagine why Rose encouraged it.

The conversation moved to other things, and soon after Rose directed them to the elegantly laid table in the dining room.

‘Of course, I’m not much of a cook,’ she confessed. ‘I organised for Charlie to pick me up some take-away earlier.’

‘And not just any old take-away.’ Linda smiled knowingly at Damien and Emily’s heart gave another tight squeeze of pain. ‘Knowing Rose, it will be no less than some five-star restaurant she’s found in the telephone book.’

Damien grinned and poured Emily another glass of soda water while they waited for Rose to bring in the first course.

‘Should I help her?’ Emily half rose in her chair but Damien’s hand settled on hers, stalling her.

‘No, sit down. She hasn’t played hostess for years. Let her have her fun.’

Emily sat back down and wished she could think of something to say to contribute to the lively conversation Linda was having with Damien, but her mind kept wandering, going off at useless tangents to where her heart wasn’t breaking and her dreams weren’t being smashed by the hard heels of reality.

‘What do you think, Emily?’ Linda asked some time later, looking at her intently.

‘Sorry?’ Emily blinked, dragging her attention back. ‘Did you say something?’

Linda smiled patiently. ‘I asked if you thought Danny should be told about Rose’s surgery?’

Emily looked at Damien, but his expression was closed.

‘He…well, he is her nephew too,’ she said cautiously. ‘But isn’t that up to Rose?’

‘What’s up to me?’ Rose came in at that point, balancing a tray of oysters topped with sour cream and caviare.

‘We were discussing whether or not you wanted Danny to know about your operation,’ Linda said.

Rose handed round the entrées and waited until she’d sat down before replying.

‘I’d like to keep Danny out of this, if you don’t mind. I realise blood is thicker than water and all that, but Danny has rather a tainted sense of family loyalty, don’t you agree?’

Emily bent her head to her oysters and hoped her face wasn’t as hot and flushed as it felt. The very mention of Danny’s name caused her to feel guilt-stricken, and with Damien sitting beside her, and his opinion on the paternity of the child she was carrying, she knew it only made her reaction all the more damning.

‘Danny has quite a lot of responsibilities he has yet to accept,’ Damien said after a slight pause. ‘And I, for one, am going to make certain he faces up to them.’

‘Don’t tell me he’s got another girl into trouble?’ Rose asked, reaching for her wine. ‘After that last one I would’ve thought he’d have learnt his lesson.’

Emily was sure she was going to be sick. The oysters on her plate seemed to be staring at her, taunting her with their grotesque little deformed shapes, the caviare swirling into a red globule that looked just like blood.

‘Excuse me…’ She pushed herself from the table, stumbling over the edge of Damien’s chair.

‘Emily! Are you all right?’ Rose and Linda spoke in concerned unison.

Damien was on his feet, and his hand came around her so quickly that Emily didn’t have time to fall. She pushed out of his hold to get to the bathroom, her face as white as a sheet. She could hear Linda’s sympathetic tones trailing after her as she left.

‘Andre was the same. Sick as a dog. It’s this wretched bug that’s going around. Poor Emily.’

Emily heaved into Rose’s pink shell-like basin, too far gone to care that Damien was at her shoulder, witnessing her distress.

He handed her a face cloth, his other arm stroking the clammy skin under the back of her hair.

‘I shouldn’t have made you come out tonight,’ he said. ‘You really needed a quiet night at home.’

Emily washed her face and steadied herself against the basin.

‘Yes, well, given a choice I would’ve preferred my own company to that of your mistress, charming as she is.’

Damien met her shadowed eyes in the mirror.

‘Emily, there’s something you need to know about Linda,’ he began awkwardly.

Emily turned and faced him, their bodies so close they were almost touching. Damien stepped back to give her more room.

‘You love her, don’t you?’ she said in a flat tone.

Damien’s eyes gave nothing away.

‘I saw you,’ she continued bitterly before he could respond. ‘In town yesterday. I was coming to have lunch with you. You were outside your office; quite touching it was. She was blocking the traffic and you were leaning down to talk to her. Probably telling her your wife doesn’t understand you and asking could you meet her later.’

‘Emily—’ He frowned heavily. ‘You don’t understand. It’s not—’

‘I don’t understand?’ she flared at him, uncaring that their voices were probably carrying. ‘You know what I don’t understand? I don’t understand why I’m part of all this.’ She waved her hand around to encompass their surroundings. ‘I planned to write a book—against my better judgement, I might add, but I was desperate to make ends meet. Suddenly I find myself married to one of the key characters, who happens to be embroiled in an affair with one of his partner’s wives. I find myself becoming overly attached to the subject of my book, who then decides to come out of hiding after years of seclusion. I’m forced to sit through an evening with your mistress casting loving looks your way across the table, and on top of that I’m expected to eat oysters as if nothing is wrong.’

‘I realise how difficult this has been for you—’

‘Difficult?’ she railed at him. ‘You have no idea of what this is like for me.’

‘I understand, believe me. As soon as Danny’s name was mentioned I knew you’d find it awkward. But the sooner you get used to the idea that Danny is not going to stand by you, the better. He’s just not capable of it.’

‘This is not about Danny!’ she cried. ‘This is about you and me.’

‘I’ve already told you I’ll accept the child as mine,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘No one need know other than us.’

Emily turned back to the basin, her hands clenched as if hanging on to a lifeline.

‘Damien.’ Her tone was bleak. ‘I need to tell you something. Something important.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I need to tell you something first. It’s about Linda.’

Emily turned back to face him, her eyes widening in panic. He wanted to leave her for Linda; she was sure of it.

‘Linda is—’

‘Emily? Are you all right?’ Rose’s voice was just outside the door. ‘Damien? Shall I call the doctor?’

Damien sighed and, leaving Emily to wash her face, opened the bathroom door to his aunt.

‘That won’t be necessary, Aunt Rose,’ he said reassuringly. ‘We spent the day at the beach. Emily’s had a little too much sun. I’ll take her home shortly.’

His aunt murmured something Emily didn’t catch as she rinsed her face one more.

He turned back to her once his aunt had gone. ‘Do you want me to take you home?’

Emily shook her head. ‘This is your aunt’s first dinner party in fifteen years or so. I don’t want to be the one to spoil it.’

‘I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I can always come back once I’ve taken you home.’

Yes, Emily thought. And continue where you left off with Linda Janssen.

‘Do what you like,’ she said defeatedly. ‘It’s all the same to me.’

Damien sighed. ‘Come on,’ he said heavily. ‘I’ll take you home.’

He helped her into the house and hovered around as she made preparations for going to bed.

‘Shouldn’t you have something to eat?’ he asked as she pulled the bed covers back.

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘That seems to be your stock phrase,’ he commented drily. ‘But it’s hardly one that will ensure the health and well-being of your expected infant.’

‘I can’t see that it can be any concern of yours,’ she said, brushing past him to reach for her wrap.

‘Someone has to be concerned,’ he said.

‘Don’t trouble yourself.’ She tied the ends of her wrap viciously. ‘Anyway, I find your hypocrisy nauseating.’

‘And my presence as well, I take it?’

She flashed him a malevolent glance. ‘Go figure.’

He turned and left her without another word. Emily stared at the empty space he’d so recently occupied and bit her lip. She didn’t like herself in this mood, but what did he expect? How could he expect her to tolerate an evening in the company of his latest fling and not complain?

She threw herself across the huge bed and sobbed until there were very few tears left. She felt exhausted. Physically and mentally drained. As if all her energy had been tapped.

She must have slept. She woke to the sounds of someone moving about the house downstairs and sat up, brushing the hair out of her face and listening intently.

She heard Damien’s tread on the stairs. She’d become aware of every sound he made, her senses on full alert to his every move. He opened the bedroom door but she didn’t have time to slip down beneath the covers again and pre-tend to be asleep.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, turning on the lamp by the bedside.

‘I’m hungry,’ she said honestly, blinking at the increase in light.

‘I’ll get you something,’ he offered. ‘Aunt Rose sent a doggy bag for you in case you were feeling better.’

‘Not oysters, I hope?’

He gave a wry half-smile. ‘No, not oysters.’

He came back with a dainty portion of lemon chicken with spinach-flecked wild rice and a shell-like bread roll, all laid out on a tray, complete with damask napkin and silver cutlery.

Emily picked up her fork and nibbled at the food, conscious of his silent watchful gaze.

‘I hope Rose wasn’t too disappointed about me leaving,’ she said between mouthfuls.

‘She wasn’t disappointed, just concerned.’ He sat on the end of the bed and undid his black shoes. ‘I had to promise I wouldn’t upset you. She was most insistent.’

‘And did you promise?’

He swung his legs around to face her. She could see the tired lines etched in his face, his broad shoulders slightly slumped. He undid his tie and tossed it carelessly to the wing chair in the corner.

‘It has never been my intention to upset you,’ he said wearily. He lay down across the end of the bed, one of his shoulders just near her feet. He put one arm over his eyes, as if the light from the shielded globe above him was too bright for his tired eyes. ‘But I seem to have got us both into a God-awful mess, all the same.’

Emily wasn’t sure what to say. Her appetite had waned and she crumbled the bread roll with restless fingers as she sat there watching him.

‘The truth is, you caught me off-guard,’ he said.

‘I…I did?’

He still lay with his eyes closed against the light.

‘Your interest in Rose was too close for comfort. I had to do something to stop you writing about her. Marrying you was taking it to extremes, I know, but I didn’t really stop to think. I had to protect Rose and Linda, no matter what.’

‘Linda?’ Emily straightened in agitation at the mention of that name. ‘Why protect Linda? What has she got to do with Rose?’

Damien levered himself up off the bed, his gaze meshing with her questioning one.

‘Because,’ he said slowly and deliberately, ‘Linda is Rose’s illegitimate daughter.’

Chapter Fifteen

‘LINDA’S your cousin?’ Emily stared at him, her mouth dropping open. ‘You’re having an affair with your cousin?’

Damien shook his head, giving her a world-weary look.

‘I’ve said this so many times I’m sick of saying it. Linda Janssen and I are not having, have never had, nor will ever have an affair. However, I do care for her, very deeply. Both she and Rose have suffered greatly in the years they’ve been apart and I promised myself I’d do anything I could to protect them from any further pain, as you’ve more or less gathered.’

Emily pushed the tray to one side with unsteady hands.

‘Does…does Danny know?’

‘I think he suspects something, but so far we’ve been able to keep him out of it. Linda and Rose have only recently been reunited. Rose told me tonight she’s been wanting to tell you for weeks but Linda had sworn her to secrecy. She didn’t want the press to get wind of it and blow it all up in their faces. Linda’s adoptive parents needed time to adjust to their daughter activating the search for her mother. It was fraught with legal difficulties, and then you came in, informing the public of your plans to release a biography on Rose. It was a potential minefield and I had to act quickly.’

Emily needed time to absorb his words. They’d impacted on her deeply. She didn’t know how to deal with the fact that she’d been so wrong about him; that she’d been so blind. She’d accused him of having an affair when all the time he’d been trying to protect the two people he loved deeply. She’d planned to write about the family as if they were characters in a play of her own devising, not real people at all, with real emotions, real pain. She felt so ashamed.

She knew her silence was condemning her, but she couldn’t engage her mind and mouth to say the words she needed to say. To ask for the forgiveness she silently craved, to tell him of her own doubts and fears that had driven her from her unhappy childhood headlong into the deep, dark, secretive pool of his, stirring up secrets and adding to the speculation that had dogged him most.

‘I’ll leave you to get some rest.’ He spoke across her jumbled thoughts. ‘I’m flying to Brisbane tomorrow with Linda. I’m going to meet her adoptive parents, encourage them to meet Rose. They’ve resisted so far, but Linda feels it might help if I talk to them.’

‘Because of your own experiences?’ she managed to ask.

He gave her a long studied look.

‘Rose told you, didn’t she?’

Emily nodded, unable to speak, emotion clogging her throat, but he’d already turned away and didn’t see the glitter of tears welling in her eyes.

‘I want Linda to have what I missed out on. A proper and loving relationship with her natural mother.’

‘I understand,’ she said once she had control of her voice, but when she looked up he’d already gone.

When Monday finally came around, after one of the longest Sundays in Emily’s life, she changed her mind about visiting Danny at the address he’d given her. Instead, she called him on his mobile and left a message for him to meet her at Damien’s house. She felt safer that way, not trusting him to fulfil his side of the deal.

Emily looked at her watch. She had five minutes. Everything she owned was contained in the single bank cheque that lay in between the pages of her appointment diary on the sideboard. She’d sold her apartment within hours of releasing it. The real estate agent had at first questioned her haste, but he’d had an anxious buyer in the wings and the deal had been signed and with the lawyers before lunchtime.

She checked her watch. Three minutes.

She opened the door on his second knock and felt instantly nauseated as his greedy eyes ran over her.

‘I’m on time, Emily,’ he said suavely.

‘Let’s get this over with.’ Her tone was dark. ‘Where’s the diary?’

His cold blue eyes chilled her to the marrow but she held his gaze.

‘Where’s the money?’ he asked.

‘We never did discuss how much you want.’

‘You know me, Em.’ His eyes ran over her. ‘I’ve got expensive tastes.’

‘I can’t—won’t negotiate on this,’ she said. ‘Like you, I have limited funds.’

His lip curled. ‘Isn’t my brother paying his way?’

Her eyes glittered with anger. ‘I can’t imagine what you mean by that.’

‘Can’t you?’ He laughed.

‘No.’

‘Hasn’t he bribed his way into your bed yet?’

She knew she was blushing but could do nothing to stop it. ‘He didn’t have to resort to such tactics,’ she said. ‘I went quite willingly.’

His eyebrows rose speculatively. ‘Yet again he seems to have succeeded where I failed.’

‘You’re insanely jealous of him, aren’t you?’ she asked.

‘Jealous?’ His icy eyes spat chips at her. ‘He’s got nothing I want.’

‘No, I imagine not. Common decency and loyalty aren’t qualities highly valued in your book. You’d rather sell your soul than protect those who have loved and supported you.’

‘I suppose you’re referring to my aunt Rose?’ His mouth curled again. ‘She never had eyes for anyone but Damien. I didn’t get a look in.’

‘At least you had two parents who loved you.’

‘All the love in the world doesn’t pay the bills. I need money to survive, and Aunt Rose is hardly likely to leave me anything with Damien standing in the way.’

Emily frowned in disbelief at his callousness.

‘This is all about money, isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘You don’t care about your aunt or Damien, do you? You can’t possibly care about your family, otherwise I wouldn’t be standing here offering you money for a diary no one has any business seeing.’

‘But you want it, don’t you, sweet Emily?’ he sneered at her. ‘You want it so bad. You can finally find out all of Rose’s secrets and make your million dollars in royalties.’

She looked at him in disgust. ‘Of course I want the diary, but not for the reasons you think.’

‘I don’t care why you want it, you stuck-up little bitch. Just give me what you’ve got and I’ll go.’

‘Not until I tell you what I think of you,’ she flashed at him angrily. ‘You used me to get back at your family and I can never forgive you for that.’

‘Don’t make me laugh!’ Danny rocked back on his heels. ‘You came sniffing around me for information. I just gave you what you wanted.’

‘You exploited your own flesh and blood! How can you live with yourself?’

‘Don’t get all hoity-toity on me, Em,’ he taunted her. ‘You’re the one who’s exploited the Margate name. Tell me, was it worth it?’

‘What do you mean?’ She eyeballed him suspiciously.

‘Was it worth marrying my brother? I mean, you could’ve written the book and fought it out in court. Why did you marry him? Was it just the money?’

‘No,’ she said implacably. ‘It was never about money.’

‘Don’t tell me you love him—that would really make me laugh.’

She tightened her hands together and stayed silent, not trusting herself to answer him. He looked at her closely, his hooded eyes narrowing.

‘You’ve fallen for him, haven’t you?’ he asked. ‘You’re wasting your time,’ he added when she remained silent. ‘He’s only got eyes for that Janssen woman. Even her husband turns a blind eye.’

He doesn’t know! she reassured herself. He doesn’t know!

‘Tell me something, Danny.’ She walked to the side-board, picked up her appointment book and faced him. ‘Have you read your aunt Rose’s diary?’

His shoulders lifted in a shrug. ‘I’ve skimmed it, but I knew as soon as I found it you’d be interested. Now, let’s get down to business.’ His tone was becoming increasingly impatient. ‘Give me the money.’

‘Give me the diary.’ She held out her hand, her stance determined.

‘The money first.’

‘I want to see the diary.’

‘Try before you buy, eh, Em?’ He reached into the inner pocket of his loose-fitting jacket. ‘Wise of you.’

He handed her a worn leather-bound pocket-sized journal. She desperately tried to disguise the tremble of her hand as she took it. She felt tainted just touching it, never mind opening it.

She handed him her cheque and his eyes widened as he looked at the figure written there.

‘Not bad.’ He whistled through his teeth. ‘Damien must be paying dearly for the privilege of sleeping with you. What a pity I didn’t actually get around to sampling you for myself.’

She didn’t care for the sudden lascivious glitter in his frosty gaze as it ran over her once more.

‘But then,’ he added, ‘as someone so wisely said, “There’s no time like the present.”’

He reached for her, but she’d seen it coming and stepped backwards. She tripped over the coffee table and landed awkwardly. She righted herself just in time to see Damien send Danny flying across the room with a single punch that sickened her with its intensity. She closed her eyes against the violence, her stomach churning at the thought of Damien being hurt and she being too weak and pathetic to assist him.

She shouldn’t have worried. She opened her eyes to find him in front of her, offering her a hand. His dark hair was ruffled, the corner of his mouth was bleeding slightly and his right eye looked as if it was going to bruise horribly.

‘He’s gone,’ he said, still breathing hard. ‘He won’t hurt you now.’

She took his hand and got to her feet, her unsteady legs threatening to let her down when she needed them most.

‘I got the diary,’ she said weakly, handing it to him. ‘I got the diary…’

‘Yes.’ He took it and put it down on the coffee table. ‘I know you did.’

She looked up at him for a long moment. His eyes were warm and his mouth had softened, leaving no trace of the rigid lines of tension she was used to seeing there. His hands were on her arms, holding her to him, close but not quite touching.

‘Why did you marry me, Emily?’ he asked.

She couldn’t hold his questioning gaze.

‘I…I’m not sure…’ She bit her lip and, lowering her eyes, concentrated on the open neck of his shirt instead. ‘I think I needed to belong to someone—anyone.’

‘Anyone?’

She met his eyes bravely.

‘Not just anyone—you.’

He smiled and pulled her into the shelter of his warm body.

‘You have no idea how much I’ve longed to hear that,’ he said against her hair. ‘No idea at all.’

She breathed in the scent of him—a mixture of maleness and physical exertion and aftershave that sent her senses reeling.

‘I have to tell you something, Damien,’ she said against his chest. ‘Something very important.’

He held her away from him to look down at her.

‘You don’t need to tell me. I already know.’

She gazed up at him questioningly.

‘I heard it all,’ he told her. ‘I came home and saw Danny’s car. I decided to come in the back door and listen for a while. I learnt some things about my brother I didn’t know before, and some things about myself that shame me. Can you ever forgive me? I treated you appallingly. I have no excuse other than that I was as jealous as hell and jealousy blinded me to the truth that was staring me in the face all the time. I had so many preconceived ideas about you, but every day I spent with you showed me what a beautiful person you are. You hide behind a sharp wit and acid tongue but underneath you’re vulnerable and fragile. I should’ve realised it the day we were married.’

‘Are you…are you disappointed about the baby?’ she asked cautiously. ‘I didn’t mean it to happen. I hadn’t taken the Pill for months because…well, because I didn’t need to. I didn’t believe it could happen so easily. I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.’

‘No.’ His finger halted her speech by pressing against her soft lips. ‘You are not to blame. I am. And I hereby accept full responsibility by insisting you stay married to me for the next fifty years or so.’

‘You don’t have to do that,’ she said. ‘I can—’

‘You can what?’ he asked. ‘You’ve just sold your only asset. You have nothing to back you. How can you think of doing this alone?’

She bit her lip and stared at his neck again.

‘Come on, Emily,’ he urged. ‘Tell me you need me. I need to hear it much more than you need to say it.’

She looked up at him at that.

‘I love you,’ she said. ‘Do you know, you’re the first person I’ve really loved since I was a child?’

He smiled and held her close, his words stirring her hair when he spoke. ‘I love you more than I can say. You’re everything to me. I think that’s why I acted so outrageously by insisting you marry me as I did. I didn’t want anyone or anything to get in the way of my desire to tie myself to you.’

‘I don’t understand.’ She looked up at him incredulously. ‘I thought you hated me.’

‘I thought I did too, but my body had other ideas. Has it convinced you enough, or should I actively engage it to convince you a bit more?’

She smiled, her eyes dancing with happiness. ‘I’m not entirely convinced, but perhaps you have something in mind that will finally persuade me?’

His mouth came down and hovered just above hers.

‘I thought I’d start with this.’ He kissed her soundly. ‘And then I thought I’d move on to this—’ He kissed her again, but this time deeply, his tongue searching and finding hers. ‘And then…’

She sighed as his hands sought and found her breasts.

‘I’m still not quite convinced.’

His hands moved lower.

‘I’m not finished yet,’ he said huskily. ‘But give me time.’

She smiled against his searching mouth.

‘You have all the time in the world.’

Emily and Damien met Linda outside the recovery unit. Linda was pale; her hands would have been trembling except she had them so tightly clenched they didn’t get a chance.

‘Have you heard?’ Linda asked.

‘What? Is everything all right?’ Damien asked, reaching for her hands.

‘She’s come through,’ Linda said in a rush of relief. ‘The doctor is pleased with her recovery so far. He said it’s still too early to be sure but he thinks it went very well.’

Emily felt the sting of tears in her eyes as she saw the comfort and support Damien was giving to his cousin as he stood and hugged her silently.

‘Emily, darling.’ He reached for her and kissed the top of her head. ‘Why don’t we tell Linda our own exciting news?’

Linda looked between them, her eyes wide with anticipation.

‘What is it?’

Damien held Emily close to him as he announced, ‘We are having a baby. It was officially confirmed this morning.’

‘Oh, Emily, how wonderful.’ Linda enveloped her in a crushing hug. ‘It wasn’t a stomach bug after all!’

‘No.’ Emily smiled. ‘But for the next seven and a half months don’t let anyone come near me with an oyster. I just couldn’t bear it.’

Damien and Linda laughed and then, excusing herself, Linda left to return to Rose’s side. Damien looked down at Emily and, reaching inside his pocket said, ‘I forgot to tell you, darling.’ He took out the cheque she’d given to his brother. ‘This cheque has been cancelled.’

‘Cancelled?’ She looked at the slip of paper in puzzlement.

‘Yes.’

‘You mean I haven’t lost all my money? Danny didn’t use it?’

‘No, he didn’t.’ He reached into his pocket again and handed her another document.

‘What is it?’

‘The title deeds to your apartment. I was the impatient buyer.’

She stared at him in amazement. ‘You bought it?’

‘I thought we should keep it in the family,’ he said. ‘Who knows? One day one of our kids might need an apartment. I was thinking ahead.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’ Her eyes misted over.

‘You don’t need to say anything.’

‘I love you.’

‘Except perhaps that—every single day for the rest of our lives, OK?’ He smiled down at her.

Emily’s eyes danced with merriment as she lifted her mouth to his.

‘It’s a deal.’

His Convenient Proposal

by

Lindsay Armstrong

Lindsay Armstrong was born in South Africa but now lives in Australia with her New Zealand-born husband and their five children. They have lived in nearly every state of Australia and have tried their hand at some unusual—for them—occupations, such as farming and horse-training, all grist to the mill for a writer! Lindsay started writing romances when their youngest child began school and she was left feeling at a loose end. She is still doing it and loving it.

Chapter One

THE flight from Johannesburg to Sydney was long and tedious.

Therefore Brett Spencer didn’t take offence when his business-class neighbour showed a tendency to be chatty. Of course, the fact that she was a sultry honey-blonde in her early twenties and wearing a scarlet skin-tight top with a plunging neckline that showed her amazing cleavage had nothing to do with his inclination to be chatty back.

By the time dinner was served, they were getting along famously. She knew he was a doctor on his way home to Australia from a stint in the Congo studying and treating tropical diseases. He knew she was a dancer who had just finished a stint with a revue at the Sun City resort in South Africa. He also knew that she danced topless but drew the line at performing bottomless.

‘Very wise,’ he commented, ‘you could get sunstroke that way.’

Chantal eyed him suspiciously—she had true violet eyes set in an oval face and perfect creamy skin—then she giggled rather charmingly.

And over their marinated beef in a herb and mustard sauce served with a fine South African red, she poured out her life story. Born Kylie Jones, Chantal had refashioned herself in her pursuit of the only kind of fame she’d had the potential to achieve as she’d seen it. At the end of it, however, Brett had the strong impression that she might be a topless dancer with a fantastic figure but she was also a shrewd survivor in the jungle of life and not a bad kid either.

After dinner they watched the in-flight movie, a comedy they both enjoyed, and they had a nightcap as the big jet flew on and on and the cabin grew quiet.

But far from feeling sleepy, although they’d extended their chairs, Chantal had other things on her mind apparently. So, bathed in their tiny cocoon of light, they chatted on quietly.

She told him that she had the offer of two jobs, both revues, one in Melbourne, one on the Gold Coast. Since Melbourne was her home town the sensible thing to do was to take that one, she felt, but she hadn’t decided yet. Then she grew thoughtful and placed her hand lightly on his arm. He glanced at her shiny red nails then into her eyes, and guessed what was coming.

‘Do you have a partner, Brett?’

He said after the briefest hesitation, ‘At the moment, no.’

‘I don’t get the feeling you’re a loner, somehow.’ Her fingertips did a little tattoo on his arm.

‘Not always,’ he conceded. ‘The Congo has its limitations in that line,’ he added gravely.

‘Why don’t we get together? I do get the feeling you’re my kind of man.’

‘What kind is that?’ he asked, and assured himself the only reason he was pursuing this conversation was because he was over thirty thousand feet above the earth hurtling through the night, trapped, in other words, on a long and boring flight.

‘My kind of man?’ Chantal said dreamily. ‘There’s a song that says it all, I’ve danced to it often enough—a man with a slow hand. A man who knows how to make a girl feel a million dollars. Tell me you’re not that kind of man, Brett?’

He didn’t agree or disagree. He said instead, ‘I don’t think you should go around making those judgements on face value, Chantal.’

‘Oh, a girl can tell,’ she assured him. ‘’Specially in my line of work. It isn’t only looks and physique.’ She raised herself on one elbow and her gorgeous eyes drifted over him. ‘Not that they skimped on those when they were handing them out to you, but it’s an aura, I guess. The way you talk, the way you smile, a sense of humour.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s just there.’

For almost thirty seconds, as he stared into her eyes, Brett Spencer was tempted to prove her right—when they got to Sydney, naturally. One would have to be a block of wood, he reasoned, not to be tempted. But deep down he knew he couldn’t further complicate his already complicated life.

‘Chantal,’ he said quietly, and covered her hand with his free one, ‘thank you for the offer and don’t think this is easy to do, but—’

‘I’m not your kind of girl?’ she supplied a little bitterly.

‘On the contrary, you’re the kind of girl to dream about.’

‘The kind of girl you only think of in terms of sex?’

He paused and wondered, with a tinge of black humour, whether the flight was equipped with parachutes. He also praised his instincts that had seen him not divulge his surname. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I guess because I’m a bit older—’

‘How much older?’

He shrugged. ‘Thirty-five whereas you would be…twenty-one?’

She looked momentarily gratified. ‘Twenty-four.’

‘Even so, I’ve had eleven more years’ experience of this business,’ he said wryly. ‘I think it’s a good idea for two people to get to know each other before they take—that—plunge.’

‘If this wasn’t a plane I could show you different, Brett,’ she said huskily. ‘You have to start somewhere.’

How right you are, Kylie Jones—damn! Brett thought. I must be mad.

‘So,’ she continued, ‘let’s be honest. I’m not and never could be the right girl for you except as a one-night stand?’

‘Let’s put it another way—I’m not and never could be the right man for you.’

‘How do you like your women, then? All intellectual and upper crust? I can tell by the way you talk you’re both intellectual and upper crust yourself.’

‘It’s nothing to do with that. Chantal, if I’m not the right man for you, that doesn’t mean to say there isn’t a Mr Right out there—you’re lovely enough and nice enough. Just—’ he hesitated ‘—take it a bit slower. But for what it’s worth—’ he smiled down at her ‘—here’s looking at you, kid!’

She fell asleep eventually but he didn’t. Perhaps because his life was about to change drastically, he mused. He was going home for the first time in five years. Back to civilization to ride a desk, and he wasn’t at all sure about it. Yes, he knew he needed a break. Not only that but he had papers to write and a new disease to move on to. And it wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy civilization but for how long he’d be able to resist the call of the wild—the call to work amongst people who desperately needed help—was another matter.

Then there was Elvira Madigan. His best friend’s girl-friend whom he’d rescued and set up in his own home, a girl it had several times occurred to him to marry but for all the wrong reasons—well, almost all…

Chapter Two

THE first note on the fridge door said:

Dear Mum

Just want 2 let u know I’m not blind. I can tell there’s a new man in your life by the amount of time u spend fiddling with your hair—I hope he’s a better choice than the last one. But worse than that, I can c there’s not a bloody (note I do not use the F word) thing to eat in this fridge!!! Your loving son, Simon.

The second note in a more mature hand read:

Simon, on the contrary, this fridge is full of things to eat. True, there are no frozen, instant, microwavable meals, if that’s what you’re on about, but that’s because they’re not good for you on account of their high fat, sodium etc., etc., content. By the way, the B word is no more acceptable than the F word, so please discontinue its use.

Love, Mum.

A pencil drawing of a freckle-faced boy crying crocodile tears adorned the third note:

Mum, I’m only 10! I haven’t had the time 2 learn 2 cook yet! So what’s wrong with a frozen pizza now and then? Just 4 when I get desperate? Other kids eat them all the time and they don’t seem 2 be dying off because of them. Also, don’t forget u r a working mum and I’m your only son. Simon—growing boys of the world unite against hunger!

The last note was the longest:

Son, blackmail will get you nowhere. And what you’re implying is not true. I cook you two nutritious meals a day and I exhaust myself creating imaginative, filling and delicious lunches for you to take to school. So there is no need for you to add cooking to your array of skills at present. But if between meals is the problem, I’m quite sure you’re old enough to make a sandwich (or 6!) out of the cold meat, salad items, cheese and the like that this fridge holds in abundance. And if you’re really dying to drive the microwave, at this point in time for example, there’s some chicken casserole left over from last night that only needs reheating. Mum—overworked, undervalued mothers of the world unite!

There was a pencil sketch at the bottom of the note of a woman with six hands filled with pots and pans, a broom, an iron and with her hair pinned up with clothes pegs.

It was a pleasant kitchen that the fridge-cum-message board stood in. It had always been a pleasant room with terracotta tiles on the floor and a view of the garden, but there were added touches Brett Spencer did not remember as he turned away from the fridge with a lingering smile.

New yellow curtains with white daisies, pots of basil, thyme and parsley on the window sill, colourful jars of preserved chillies and other evidence of a cook who took her cooking seriously; a set of black-handled knives from carving through to chopping and paring in wooden block holder, a food processor, a garlic press, a bowl of lemons and a full spice rack.

At one end of the room was a round table with four ladder-back chairs. The surface of the table was cluttered with books, magazines, a fruit basket, a cricket ball and two baseball caps.

Then the back door opened precipitously and a boy pelted into the kitchen. He pulled up abruptly as he saw Brett.

‘Who are you?’

A little jolt of recognition ran through Brett. There was no doubting whose son the child was…

‘You must be Simon,’ he said lightly as the fair, freckled boy slung his school bag onto the table causing the cricket ball to roll off. ‘I’m Brett. I’ve come to see your mum.’

‘Gosh!’ Simon eyed him alertly, then picked up the ball and rolled the seam between his fingers. ‘Don’t tell me she’s got it right at last.’

‘Got it right?’

‘She has awful taste in men,’ Simon confided. ‘But you look pretty normal and if that’s your car in the drive, it’s real cool!’

‘Uh—it is—but what makes you say she has awful taste in men?’

‘Well, the last one had this thing about getting back to nature. He was forever taking us on hikes and orienteering expeditions and he was into birds and bush tucker and he didn’t believe in television and he never stopped trying to teach me knots and survival skills—I tell you, I was absolutely worn out when she finally saw the light! You’re not a back-to-nature-freak, are you?’ he asked warily. ‘I mean, you look OK, but I guess you can’t tell until you know a person.’

‘No, I’m not, but—’

‘Then there was the artist,’ Simon went on blithely, but screwed up his face. ‘He didn’t know one end of a cricket bat from the other and he was always putting her down.’

‘Putting her down?’

‘Mum likes her art conventional. He used to say she had the artistic appreciation of a hen. I used to tell her that a hen with a paintbrush could probably come up with better art than he could.’

‘Well done, but—’

‘You sure you’re not an artist in disguise?’ Simon eyed his khaki trousers and blue shirt.

‘Quite sure,’ Brett said wryly. ‘And I happen to like my art conventional.’

‘Then—’ Simon rolled his blue eyes ‘—there was the father-figure. Had to be the worst of all!’

‘Why was that?’

‘He was always trying to help me with my homework; he was mad about playing Scrabble and chess; he used to make up these general knowledge quizzes.’ Simon shook his head wearily.

‘Worse than the back-to-nature freak?’ Brett enquired gravely.

‘Yes. He had no sense of humour!’

‘That is tough to live with,’ Brett agreed.

‘More so if you have a mum who can be a little wacky at times. But he just didn’t get it so she used to try and be all serious. I love my mum the wacky way she is.’

‘Were there any that you liked at all?’

Simon chewed his lip, then looked as mischievous as only a freckled, ten-year-old boy could. ‘There was one I didn’t mind. Not that I liked him ’xactly, but he used to slip me five bucks and tell me to get lost for a while.’

‘I see. Incidentally you haven’t got that flipper quite right—can I show you?’

Simon handed over the cricket ball and Brett positioned it in his hand with his fingers on the seam and went through the bowling action in slow motion. ‘See? You need to flip your wrist over like this so it comes out of the back of your hand.’

‘You…like cricket?’ Simon asked with an awestruck look in his eyes. ‘More than Scrabble and chess?’

‘More than most things. So. You assumed I was the new man in your mum’s life?’

Simon shrugged. ‘Who else would you be? She’s got a new hairstyle and she painted her nails the other day. Isn’t that what girls do?’

‘They…yes, probably,’ Brett Spencer murmured.

‘And you’re here in the kitchen so I guess she told you to let yourself in—hey! You’re not a teacher, are you?’

‘No. And I am in the kitchen.’ Brett put the ball back on the table and they both turned as a woman came in through the back door.

‘Simon, sorry I’m late,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Did you get a lift home? I guess that’s got to account for the strange car. Who—?’ She stopped dead as her gaze fell on Brett Spencer, and dropped her purse.

It was five years since he’d last seen Ellie Madigan, Brett Spencer mused. Five years that had treated her kindly—either that or reaching thirty had brought together all her potential. Gone was the naive, unsure-of-herself girl his friend Tom King had introduced him to eleven years ago. Gone was the sick, desperate girl of not much later. Gone was the rather limp, colourless mother of a particularly energetic five-year-old she’d been on that last occasion.

In fact, until she’d frozen to the spot, she’d radiated energy. There’d been a spring in her step and a wry little smile on her lips. And she certainly wasn’t colourless. Her brown curly hair shone and was cut in an attractive short bob, her skin was smooth and fresh, her hazel eyes with their little flecks of gold were clear and expressive, and her slender figure beneath a short yellow skirt and a white stretch T-shirt made you doubt she could be the mother of a ten-year-old.

‘You!’ she said at last. ‘I didn’t know…I didn’t expect…’ She stopped and bent to pick up her purse.

‘My fault, I should have let you know, Ellie,’ Brett said. ‘I hope you don’t mind me letting myself in?’

‘Uh—well, it is your house.’ She swallowed visibly. ‘So you and Simon have got to know each other?’

‘I sussed out that he was the new man in your life—what do you mean it’s his house?’ Simon asked, turning to stare at Brett suspiciously.

‘We hadn’t got around to that yet,’ Brett murmured. ‘Simon, I’m Brett Spencer. We have met before but you were only five.’

Simon stared, then his mouth fell open as dawning comprehension came to him. ‘You mean you were my dad’s best friend? Jeez—’

‘Simon!’ Ellie murmured warningly.

‘But this is great, mon!’ Simon turned to his mother enthusiastically. ‘Not only that but this guy likes his art conventional, he’s not into the birds and the bees, he doesn’t mind a bit of wackiness—what more could you want?’

Ellie had to smile although weakly. ‘Simon—’

‘And he can bowl flippers! It just gets better! Though why you couldn’t tell me who he was I’ll never know. Um…guess what? I’ll leave you two alone for a while.’ Simon grinned wickedly. ‘And it won’t even cost you a cent,’ he added to Brett.

He took an apple from the fruit bowl, put one of the baseball caps on backwards, picked up his cricket ball and sauntered out.

‘Won’t cost you a cent?’ Ellie said dazedly as she sank down into a ladder-back chair. ‘What does that mean?’

‘One of your ex…one of the men in your life used to tip him five dollars to make himself scarce.’

The colour rose from the base of her throat, he noted, and spread to the clear fresh skin of her cheeks as she said, ‘You’re joking.’

‘Not unless Simon is given to making things up.’

‘Simon,’ she said bitterly, ‘is the most devastatingly honest person I know. Oh, no!’ She got even hotter. ‘Conventional art, the birds and the bees, wacky—he told you about them all?’

‘He ran through four of them.’

‘But why? How come you were discussing me like that?’

Brett grimaced. ‘He assumed because you had a new hairstyle there was a new man in your life, and because he found me in the kitchen and because I said I’d come to see you—that I was it.’

‘That still doesn’t explain…’ Her eyes were wide and incredulous.

‘It would appear—’ Brett chose his words with care ‘—that he hasn’t entirely approved of your choice of men.’

‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ Ellie’s voice rose. ‘I chose them all because I thought they could enhance a facet of his life I was unable to but he…’ She broke off and breathed heavily. ‘He was so sickeningly polite and determinedly unimpressed it was just awful.’

‘Perhaps you should have chosen them for yourself?’ Brett suggested.

‘Well, obviously I liked them, or I thought I did, until Simon got to work on them.’

‘Someone with a good working knowledge of cricket might have been a better bet.’

Ellie propped her chin in her hands. ‘What are you here for, Brett?’

He pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her. ‘The time has come to talk of many things—wouldn’t you say, Ellie?’

‘“Shoes and ships and sealing wax”…do you want your house back?’

Brett Spencer was thirty-five and six feet two. He had grey eyes, dark hair, a rather hard mouth when he wasn’t smiling and the aura of a man who knew what he wanted—and got it. The one thing he had never wanted was his best friend’s girlfriend, Ellie Madigan…

‘No.’ He fingered the blue shadows on his jaw. ‘Unless you have plans to marry someone and move out?’

Ellie smiled bleakly. ‘No. I would have thought that was obvious.’

‘What about the new man?’

‘Who said there was a new—?’ She paused and her gaze refocused on the other end of the kitchen. ‘You’ve been reading the notes on the fridge!’

He nodded wryly and looked at her neatly painted nails, a soft pretty pink. ‘Simon was certain of it.’

Ellie muttered something beneath her breath. ‘I have no plans to marry him.’

‘But you’re stepping out with him?’

‘I…’ She reddened again, then tossed her head. ‘If you call going to lunch and…oh, damn! I nearly forgot, I’ve asked him to dinner.’

‘Brave of you,’ he commented, and started to laugh.

‘It’s not funny!’ But despite her indignation a hidden tremor ran through Ellie—Brett Spencer was devastatingly attractive when he was genuinely amused.

‘Storming the Bastille might be child’s play compared to running the gauntlet of Simon for any of your suitors, Ellie. But I’ll be here to lend a hand.’

‘You?’ Her eyes widened. ‘You intend to stay here?’

‘I do.’ He shrugged.

‘For how long?’

‘I’ve moved back to Australia.’

Hazel eyes met grey ones. ‘But…?’ Ellie all but whispered and swallowed visibly.

‘I’m quite happy to share my house with you and Simon.’

‘So…’ Ellie cleared her throat. ‘So what’s the deal?’

‘The only deal is that we don’t have to rush in—or out—of anything at the moment.’

Ellie absorbed this. ‘Why have you moved back to Australia? You seemed to be content to spend most of the last ten years fighting disease in Africa.’

Brett moved his shoulders. ‘Perhaps I’m tired of Africa. Anyway, I’ve been offered a grant to set up a laboratory here to study Ross River Fever.’

Ellie blinked. Ross River Fever, a flu-like mosquito-borne virus, took its name from the river in Townsville, North Queensland, where it had first been identified. ‘That’s…interesting,’ she said lamely.

‘It is to me,’ he replied gravely. ‘I don’t expect you to be jumping over the moon about it.’

Ellie grimaced. ‘Sorry. I’m still in shock, I think. Why—didn’t it cross your mind to give me some warning of all this, Brett?’

‘It did but I didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily.’

‘Oh.’

‘You’re looking well, Ellie,’ he said then.

Don’t do it to me, Ellie prayed as his gaze swept over her. Don’t subject me to a summing up on a scale of one to ten as a woman, Brett, I know I’ve never registered on your scale either mentally or physically!

But he did it briefly despite her prayers, and you would have had to be a block of wood not to be affected, she knew all too well. Because Brett Spencer might be a dedicated doctor with an impressive history of research into tropical diseases behind him, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t look at you in a certain way that made you go weak at the knees. That didn’t blind you to the awesome possibilities of being found attractive by this tall, sometimes arrogant but rather divinely proportioned man with his worldly grey eyes.

In fact, she picked up a magazine and stood it on the table in front of her just in case her nipples decided to misbehave themselves, and she threatened to shoot herself if she blushed.

‘Thanks, I feel pretty good,’ she said brightly.

‘So, other than on the man front, life is treating you well?’

A fighting little glint lit her eyes for a moment at the ‘man front’ bit but she decided to ignore it. ‘Very well! I finally got my degree in speech therapy and I work part-time at a local clinic, mainly with children. I love it.’ Genuine enthusiasm replaced the fighting glint in her eyes.

‘Would I be wrong in assuming Simon—he’s so like Tom, isn’t he?—is also above-average bright?’

Ellie let the magazine fall. ‘You wouldn’t. He absorbs knowledge like blotting paper. I…it…that’s why I sometimes feel I need to broaden his scope.’

‘Then it’s a good thing I came home,’ Brett said lightly and stood up. ‘Would you mind if I unpacked and took a shower? I’ve been travelling for days and I need a shave.’

‘Not at all, if you’d just give me a few moments to clear your bedroom.’

He raised an eyebrow at her. ‘You’ve had other men in my bedroom, Ellie?’

‘I have not,’ she denied hotly. ‘My market gear is in there, that’s all.’

‘Market gear?’

‘I make kites and sell them at the local markets—I have a stall one Sunday a month, remember? It was a project I started so that one day I’d be able to repay you. All the proceeds,’ she went on stiffly, ‘are in a bank account that’s become quite substantial over the years. It’s all yours.’

‘My dear Ellie,’ Brett Spencer said with just the right mix of quizzical affection he might have accorded a dog that had brought him a bone, ‘you didn’t have to do that. Keep it as a nest egg.’

An hour later, Ellie closed herself into her bedroom and leant back against the door, not sure whom she was most furious with: herself, Brett Spencer or Simon.

She’d cleared Brett’s bedroom and she’d supplied him with a pink razor when he’d discovered that he’d picked up the wrong hand luggage from the plane. She’d listened with one ear as he’d called the airline and told them what had happened, including the possibility that the person he’d sat next to on the flight from Johannesburg might have been the one to pick up the wrong bag in Sydney.

She’d tried to contact the man she’d invited to dinner to cancel it but she hadn’t been able to reach him, so she’d got dinner under way although with definite trepidation, and she now had about an hour to herself.

And as she wandered over to her bedroom window she could see Brett bowling flippers to Simon.

Brett’s house had a lovely garden and a swimming pool. In fact it was a lovely house: brick, old, solid and mellow with bay windows and flourishing creepers on the walls, a red tiled roof. The rooms were large and high-ceilinged, some of the furnishings a little faded now, but to Ellie’s mind that only gave it the patina of a much-lived-in home. And as well as a lawn large enough to play cricket on, there was a shady paved terrace guarded by two stone lions that overlooked the pool, and suited the subtropical climate of Brisbane perfectly—she used it a lot; they often ate outside.

Not that she was really furious with Simon, she thought ruefully as she turned away from the window. Imparting the details of her love life, such as it was, to a complete stranger was…well, just Simon, a son she adored.

Brett Spencer was another matter. So was her reaction to him.

Her mind slipped down the years to her earlier reactions to him…

She’d met Tom King at university when she was eighteen and he was twenty-two, a civil engineering student, dashing and to-die-for handsome…He’d had his own apartment, a car, he’d played polo and he’d been wonderful to be with. Especially for a girl who had grown up in a repressive home life with a jealous stepmother after her own mother had died. Tom took life so differently, she’d often thought. There had been none of the undercurrents of her home life, none of the suspicions, none of the rules and regulations. It had been heady and intoxicating.

He’d been gregarious with a large circle of friends, but the friend he’d seemed to treasure most and even look up to had been Brett Spencer, a little older and a doctor. Brett Spencer, a man who’d tended to make you stop in your tracks and think, Wow!—even when you’d been in love with another man. Nor had it been so hard to put your finger on why he’d had that effect.

At twenty-four Brett had already had that air of knowing what he wanted and getting it; he’d been enigmatic, he’d played polo brilliantly but he’d obviously been an academic, he’d been laconic—at times he’d even been curt—but when that brilliant smile had crinkled his face and lit up his grey eyes, women had simply keeled over.

And gradually Ellie had discovered why Tom had thought so much of Brett. Their families had been close when they’d been children, they’d been to the same schools, they’d played on the same polo team and at thirteen, when Tom’s parents had died in a ski-lift tragedy, he’d gone to live with the Spencer family.

But she herself had never felt quite at ease with Brett Spencer. Not that he’d ever said anything, but she’d sometimes got the depressing feeling that he hadn’t taken her seriously, that he’d seen her as a passing romance for Tom, a sowing of his wild oats. To be honest, she’d sometimes wondered about this herself. She hadn’t fallen naturally into Tom’s crowd. She’d been having to put herself through university via a series of part-time jobs, she’d certainly not been as sophisticated as many of the girls in the crowd and she’d sometimes lacked confidence in herself.

And, in hindsight, she was able to identify that her reluctance to become Tom’s lover, not that she hadn’t wanted to, had led him to pursue her all the more.

By the time she was nineteen and had known him for six months, she’d succumbed to the pressure and surrendered her virginity to Tom King and life had been wonderful. A month later life had done an about turn and hit her hard. Tom had been killed in a freak polo accident and a few short weeks after it she’d discovered the contraception she’d used had failed and she’d been pregnant. So, where to turn? She’d had no intention of living with her stepmother’s disapproval on top of all the other things they hadn’t seen eye to eye about.

Then fate had taken a hand. Morning sickness had kicked in with a vengeance and she’d been standing on a pavement in the middle of Brisbane, clinging onto a parking meter feeling not only sick but dizzy and as if she’d been about to faint, when Brett Spencer had walked past, recognized her and come to her assistance. And after he’d restored her, it hadn’t taken him long to prise out of her what the problem had been. His expression, when she’d told him, had said it all—a kind of weary cynicism but not a great deal of surprise that she should have got herself into this situation.

But almost immediately, he’d got practical. He’d told her that he had settled Tom’s affairs but the hope of any assistance from his estate as the mother of Tom’s child would not be forthcoming. Tom’s lifestyle had eaten away his inheritance from his parents. In fact, all his assets had either been in hock or had had to be sold to meet his debts.

What Brett had then proposed, however, had surprised the life out of Ellie. He’d offered her a home and financial assistance—he’d offered her and her baby security with no strings attached while she’d found her feet again. It had been something of a mystery to Ellie why, at the time, she’d found the prospect oddly chilling.

Of course, she’d knocked the whole thing back at first for so many reasons, not least how little they’d known each other, but Brett Spencer had had other ideas. And on top of what had been turning out to be a difficult pregnancy, he’d finally worn her down. He’d even held her hand, as a doctor, when her son Simon had been born…

Ellie came back to the present. The amazing thing, of course, was that eleven years down the track she was still here.

For her part those eleven years had passed so fast, she sometimes had to pinch herself. But why had Brett been content to let the situation last for so long?

She ran a bath, poured in some salts and got into it absently. How many times had she wondered this down the years?

She squeezed the flannel over her breasts and watched the bubbles slide down her skin. Truth to tell, the only way to cope with providing Simon and herself with a stable, happy life in the circumstances had been to bury this question at the bottom of her mind.

But she had to ask herself now why she hadn’t made a break years ago. Before they’d got too settled in Brett’s lovely old Balmoral home with its views of the Brisbane River?

Because it had been so easy to float along with the tide, she answered herself. Brett had inherited the house from his parents. He might spend large chunks of his life away from it but he’d never planned to dispose of it so, it was there, he’d told her when he’d so efficiently reorganised her life for her, and it was silly for her not to use it. And it had also been home to Tom.

‘Only until I get on my feet,’ she’d warned, as if, she now marvelled, he’d suggested something faintly distasteful or illegal.

He’d shrugged and replied, ‘Whatever.’

So she’d moved into the house and Brett had maintained his city apartment. When Simon had been nine months old, he’d left on the first of his overseas projects and been away for a year, and from that time on his trips home had been brief and for the past five years he hadn’t come home at all.

Her contact with him had been via his solicitor, Gemma Arden, who in time had become a friend. Brett had arranged for Ellie to have an allowance and had insisted on meeting all costs of the upkeep of the house. He’d even provided her with a small car.

So much of this had gone against the grain with Ellie, she’d had a hard time rationalizing it. But by the time the effects of a complicated pregnancy and a protracted birth had worn off, it had all been well in place. Then, her limited prospects of taking care of herself and Simon had become apparent. She’d been forced to cut short her degree so she’d had no qualifications and, even with what part-time work she would have been able to get and a single mother’s pension, childminding would have cut into any wages drastically.

And although Simon was as fit and healthy as they came now, he’d not had a trouble-free run as an infant. Lactose intolerance, frequent ear infections that had eventually required grommets, and adenoid problems had plagued his early years. She’d often stopped to wonder wearily in those years how single, working mothers could possibly cope.

Some justification for the largesse Brett had showered on her had come, obviously, from the fact that Simon was his best friend’s child—perhaps even more than a best friend, almost a younger brother. The other thing, although Ellie didn’t see it as justification but it was a factor to be considered, she supposed: Brett was wealthy. There was a brewing empire in the family background and he was a shareholder.

But even though she’d gone with the flow, so to speak, she’d tried to be as frugal as possible. She’d never exceeded her allowance, she’d insisted on it being cut when she’d started earning money, and she’d hit on the kite-making as a way of paying something of it back.

The other thing she’d done was take extremely good care of his house. In fact she’d come to love it as if it were her own. She’d also discovered she had green fingers and his garden now looked better than it had ever done. And the house and garden had provided her with occupational therapy down the years.

Some help had come her way from her father until he’d been transferred interstate. What had happened to his only daughter might have perplexed and disturbed him but he’d adored Simon. And he wrote to Simon regularly and every year he paid for Ellie and Simon to spend a holiday with them.

But there was no doubt she’d needed some occupational therapy while she’d grappled with child-bearing and -rearing on top of losing Tom, and a life that had been turning out quite different from her expectations.

Thirty now, a single mother, essentially dateless—apart from the few men she’d hoped Simon might relate to—and desperate, she thought ruefully.

She sat up, reached for her loofah and started washing herself vigorously but it was no good. The underlying reason she was still in Brett’s home refused to be submerged beneath a lather of soap and the scrape of a loofah. It was still the perfect solution to her life, wasn’t it?

Chapter Three

‘I DON’T get this,’ Simon said stubbornly, half an hour later. ‘Now Brett’s come home, why do you need a date with another man?’

‘Simon, just set the table, please,’ Ellie responded. She glanced at her watch and then through the open door to the dining room. ‘We’ve only got about ten minutes.’

Simon stood his ground. ‘Who is this bloke?’

Ellie drew a deep breath. ‘His name is William Brooke. He’s a musician and I met him when he bought one of my kites—you remember the racing car one you helped me to make? Well, he really liked it and bought it for his nephew. We got talking and he asked me to have lunch with him. That’s all.’

‘What kind of a musician?’ Simon asked with palpable foreboding.

‘He…he’s a concert violinist.’

‘Mum! So that’s what it’s all about! You want me to start playing the violin—yuk! Martie Webster has to practise for an hour a day and it sounds like…it sounds as if he’s strangling cats.’

Ellie ran her fingers through her hair and smoothed the long indigo cotton-knit dress she’d changed into. She said, ‘Musical appreciation is something that can en-hance your life. I’ve always regretted not learning to play an instrument when I was a kid and I didn’t want you to grow up with the same regret. So—’

‘You’re the one who banned the bongo drums Grandad sent me for Christmas!’

‘That was different, that wasn’t music and I was in imminent danger of going deaf!’ Ellie picked up a ladle and stirred the soup she was tending.

‘Mum, I’m quite happy the way I am! You really don’t have to—’

‘Simon,’ Ellie spoke rapidly, ‘this has turned out to be a difficult day for me. I tried to put William Brooke off but he’s not answering his phone, therefore I can do nothing but expect him for dinner, so you will set the table because I’m telling you to, and because I’m your mum I’m entitled to tell you to do things and because you’re my son you’re entitled to listen to me. OK? And I’ll tell you something else—you’ll behave yourself tonight because if you don’t I’ll have a conniption—you wouldn’t like that, would you?’

Simon grinned. ‘The same kind of conniption you had when that guy reversed into you and tried to tell you it was your fault?’

‘Oh, much worse!’ She banged the ladle on the counter, then inspected herself for soup splashes.

‘All right, calm down, Mum. I’ll set the table.’

‘What about behaving yourself?’

‘I’m quite happy to behave myself so long as you understand that you don’t need to bring home all sorts of blokes to enhance my life.’ He walked through to the dining room.

Ellie picked up the ladle and turned to see that Brett Spencer had come into the kitchen via the back door. She couldn’t doubt, from the amusement of his expression, that he’d heard it all.

‘Don’t say a word!’ she warned him darkly.

‘OK.’ He put a box on the table and drew a chilled bottle of wine from it. ‘Your wine cellar appears to be non-existent so I nipped out to the bottle shop.’

He came over to the counter, opened a drawer and pulled out a corkscrew. Two minutes later he handed her a glass of wine and poured a beer for himself.

Ellie inspected the pale gold liquid in the crystal glass, then closed her eyes and sipped it gratefully. ‘You couldn’t—’ she stirred the soup gently ‘—also arrange to have me wafted to…to Africa or the moon for this evening?’

He was standing next to her, leaning against the counter. He was still looking amused. He’d changed, he’d shaved and there was something oddly reassuring about him mixed in with something that sent a frisson tiptoeing down her spine.

‘Sorry, no, but it may not be as bad as you think. I don’t suppose there can be two concert violinists in town called William Brooke?’

Ellie’s lips parted. ‘You know him?’

‘Yep. Known him for years. Not, I would have thought…’ he looked her up and down ‘…essentially your type, Ellie.’

Ellie took a gulp of her wine this time. ‘Before I get into what you perceive “my type” to be and how the hell you can know anyway—’

‘He’s gay.’

‘What?’

Brett shrugged.

‘But that’s impossible!’

‘You’ve turned him around?’

Ellie looked into those wry grey eyes and no amount of threatening to shoot herself stopped the tide of colour that rose to her cheeks. ‘No! I mean I haven’t even tried…I mean…I had no idea! Why would he want to take me to lunch and come to dinner—you must have it wrong!’

‘Because he likes you, because he’s interested in your kites—you could probably end up having a nice friend-ship with Will Brooke. If you were thinking of him in terms of a date, though…’ He shrugged. ‘That’s a different matter.’

This time Ellie choked on her wine.

‘I thought so,’ Brett said.

‘How would you know—anything?’ she asked dangerously.

He gestured in the direction of the fridge. ‘There is the matter of the new hairstyle, which is very attractive, incidentally. And according to Simon you don’t usually paint your nails.’

Ellie drained her glass and handed it to him. ‘I’ll have another one, thank you.’

‘Is that wise? So soon, I mean?’

‘It’s about the wisest thing I’ve done for years, Brett Spencer,’ she told him. ‘I have now added to the list of my dates—the list of a back-to-nature freak; an incred-ibly pretentious artist; an unbelievably pompous father-figure—a gay violinist! I can’t believe it.’

He poured her another glass of wine. ‘What about the one who tipped Simon five bucks to make himself scarce?’

She gazed at him over the rim of her glass. ‘He was married. Of course I didn’t know it until, well, I won’t bore you with the details.’

‘Ellie…’ Brett started to laugh, and the phone rang.

She picked it up and said a few words into it, finishing off with, ‘No, no, please don’t worry! I haven’t gone to any trouble at all!’ And she put it down with a sigh of relief.

‘Will can’t make it?’ Brett hazarded.

‘Will can’t make it,’ she agreed. ‘You have no idea how embarrassed I feel—what a fool I could have made of myself!’

He grinned. ‘You probably would have realized before it got to that stage—why did he put it off?’

‘They’ve got a concert coming up in a couple of days and the conductor has called for an extra rehearsal this evening—I could kiss him!’ She whirled around a cou-ple of times and planted a kiss on the top of Simon’s head as he came back into the kitchen.

Simon screwed up his face. ‘What’s with you now, Mum?’

‘You’re off the hook, kid. Mr Brooke can’t make it tonight.’

‘Brilliant!’ Simon responded. ‘So there’s just the three of us!’

‘Uh, well, I didn’t mean that necessarily. He’s still a nice person and I’d like to see him again but I won’t be asking him to teach you the violin—’ She stopped as the doorbell rang. ‘Must be one of your mates, Simon. Ask him if he’d like to stay for dinner. We’ve got more than enough, now.’

But as Simon disappeared she said in a rapid under-tone to Brett, ‘We could have a problem, you know.’

‘With Simon?’

‘Yes! Didn’t you hear what he said earlier?’

‘I heard. Is it out of the question, Ellie?’

Her eyes widened and she suddenly had difficulty breathing. ‘Are you suggesting…what I think you’re suggesting?’

‘I’m suggesting that you need a bit of help—’ He stopped as Simon, close by, could be heard talking to his mate. ‘Later,’ he said.

But ‘later’ turned out to be nearly a week away because by the time Simon was in bed that evening Brett told her that he had a headache, probably only jet lag, but since he couldn’t seem to think straight would she mind if they postponed their discussion?

Ellie agreed with alacrity and told him to go to bed.

The next morning, when he didn’t appear after she’d got Simon off to school, she decided she’d better check on him.

His bedroom was in darkness and there was no movement. She was just about to close the door and let him sleep on when he groaned. She hesitated, then crossed the room to pull one curtain back. The sight that met her eyes as she turned back to the bed was far from reas-suring.

The bed was a mess as if he’d been twisting and turning all night and he himself, as he sat up groggily, looked distinctly unwell. His eyes were heavy-lidded, he was hot and feverish and completely disorientated.

‘Brett, what’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘Surely this can’t be jet lag?’

He stared at her, blinking dazedly until, she gathered, she fell into place, then he dropped his head into his hands with another heartfelt groan.

‘I think we better get a doctor,’ she said with some concern.

‘I am a doctor.’

‘Well, maybe, but—’

‘Ellie, it’s the flu, that’s all.’ He lay back and closed his eyes.

‘How can you be so sure?’ She crossed to the bed and looked down at him, noting the beading of sweat on his forehead.

‘I’ve seen enough of malaria, yellow fever, sleeping sickness, cholera and the like in the past five years to know the difference. Besides which I spent a few days in Johannesburg with friends—one of them had it—it’s rampant in Jo’burg at the moment.’

‘Don’t you think we ought to get—’ she thought rapidly ‘—a blood test just to be on the safe side?’

He grimaced. ‘All right, Florence Nightingale.’

‘I’ll be right back,’ she retorted with a grin.

By the time the doctor arrived, she’d made Brett shower, she’d made up his bed freshly and she’d made him a hot lemon drink—he didn’t want to eat anything.

The doctor was of the opinion that Brett was right, it was influenza, with the symptoms possibly accentuated by jet lag, but he also said it never hurt to err on the side of caution. He left after taking a blood sample and cautioning Ellie to allow him plenty of bed rest and plenty of fluids.

For the next couple of days Brett slept mostly, ate very little and put up with her ministrations, as in trying to keep him comfortable and peaceful without a murmur.

Then he sat up one morning when she brought his breakfast and swore comprehensively.

‘I beg your pardon?’ She paused beside the bed with the tray in her hands.

‘Not you,’ he said urgently. ‘My bloody overnight bag! Has it turned up yet?’

Ellie put the tray across his knees, took her own cup of coffee from it and sat down in an armchair. ‘No. Sorry, I forgot about it. Is—’ she frowned ‘—it so important? Most people carry books, duty-free stuff and toiletries in their overnight bags.’

‘Most people…’ he eyed her sardonically in her fresh yellow cotton dress with little green sprigs on it ‘…carry stuff they don’t want to be parted from in their overnight bags,’ he disagreed.

‘Such as?’ She raised an eyebrow at him, then spied the one he’d brought home by mistake. It was standing at the bottom of the bed and she got up and opened it.

‘I’ve been through it a dozen times; there’s no clue to the owner’s address,’ he said impatiently.

She shrugged and began to pull stuff out of the bag item by item.

There was a book, two magazines, a toilet bag, a small stuffed dog—a child’s toy or a mascot perhaps—some duty-free perfume and a camera. The toilet bag revealed cosmetics, very expensive ones.

‘She was a woman—the person sitting next to you who might have picked up the wrong bag?’

‘She was a woman,’ he agreed sardonically.

Ellie pursed her lips, deducing that something about his fellow passenger had not endeared her to him. ‘She doesn’t seem to have anything she can’t live without in this bag,’ she commented.

‘Well, I did! I had a very important research file and I also had the disk it was backed up onto.’ He gazed at her broodingly.

Ellie fought her instincts for a long moment. Brett Spencer might be dynamite when he was fighting fit but over the last days she’d seen another side of him. A side that showed her he hated being sick and that he was restless even as ill as he felt. It had also brought her a lot closer to him physically than she’d ever been. And as she’d watched him try to be a good, grateful patient at the same time as she’d been exposed to him often only wearing short pyjama bottoms, she’d been both awed at how beautifully he was made and she was conscious of a growing affection.

In fact what she would like to do right now was slip her arms round him and tell him not to worry, she would get his bag back come hell or high water…

She sat down again, picked up her cup and cleared her throat. ‘OK, give me all the details and I’ll ring them for you. Do you know her name?’

‘Kylie Jones. But what I need is an address.’ He looked down at the tray and realized for the first time that she’d cooked him a fragrant herb omelette and there was glass of freshly squeezed orange juice plus a pot of real coffee. And that for the first time in days, he felt hungry. He sighed. ‘Look, I don’t know how to thank you, Ellie, and I’m sorry if it sounded as if I was swearing at you.’

‘Be my guest,’ she murmured, hiding an inward tremor as he smiled—admittedly a low voltage one of the real thing—at her. ‘I’ll get on to them right away, but I also have to go to work this morning—will you be all right? I managed to rearrange my days for the last few days but—’

‘I’ll be fine, Ellie.’ He reached for her hand. ‘Thank you so much, you’ve been a brick.’

Oh, dear, Ellie thought as she got ready for work and remembered the feel of his hand over hers, much more of this and I’ll be…what?

It wasn’t until late that afternoon that she was able to report any progress to Brett.

She made them some tea and took it into him. ‘You need the constitution of an ox to deal with this kind of thing,’ she said ruefully. ‘They keep putting you on hold and promising to call you back but, anyway, the gist of the matter is this. They cannot reveal names or addresses of passengers but they are doing their utmost to track down the person on the passenger list who was sitting next to you. However, they’re a bit baffled themselves because no one else has come forward with a “wrong bag” claim.’

She poured the tea and put his cup and a slice of cake on the bedside table. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Health-wise or state-of-mind-wise?’

‘I think I can gauge your state of mind.’

He looked faintly amused. ‘Do I resemble a bear with a sore head?’

‘Uh—disgruntled, disillusioned, disenchanted and—’

‘Disgustingly weak,’ he supplied.

She sipped her tea. ‘But better at all?’

He sat up and reached for his cake. ‘Thanks to your tender loving care, Ellie, yes, I’m starting to feel human again.’

‘Good. By the way, it is only the flu, the tests came back this afternoon. And, on your behalf, I threatened the airline that I would ring them hourly on the hour until the matter was resolved.’

One dark eyebrow shot up. ‘What did they say to that?’

‘I think they were tempted to offer me a free flight out of the country!’

He laughed.

‘Anyway, they’re a lot less inclined to fob me off with, “We have this matter in hand, Mrs Spencer”—I—uh—told them I was your wife.’

He raised his eyebrows but said, ‘You’re a gem, Ellie. How’s Simon? I haven’t heard much of him lately.’

‘He’s being very quiet so as not to disturb you. I thought it was wise to keep him away for a while anyway.’

‘I guess so. But he seems to have got over all his childhood ailments.’

‘Touch wood, he has.’

Brett drank his tea, then lay back with one arm behind his head and looked at her thoughtfully. She hadn’t changed out of her trim uniform, a white blouse with navy trim and a short straight navy skirt. She wore stockings, navy shoes with little heels and her medical badge was pinned to her collar. She looked capable but chic.

‘Is that where you acquired your nursing skills? From nursing Simon?’

She smiled. ‘What skills? All I’ve done is make your bed and keep you supplied with clean pyjamas.’

‘You’ve done a lot more than that. You’ve fed me, provided a peaceful environment, medicated me with…tisanes and hot lemon drinks and all the while you’ve been peaceful and restful about it.’

She thought for a bit. ‘I suppose if I did pick up anything from Simon’s early years it was that to be peaceful and restful helped.’

He moved. ‘I should be up and about tomorrow.’

‘I know this is a bit presumptuous since you’re the doctor, Brett, but my advice is to take it easy.’

‘I’m bored,’ he said flatly.

‘Well, that’s a good sign, but all the same—if you feel like reading now, how about I bring you some books or—?’

‘And lonely.’

Their gazes clashed. ‘Ah. OK,’ she said, thinking quickly. ‘I’m working on a kite so once I’ve got dinner out of the way—Simon is spending the night with a friend—if you really feel like getting up for a bit, you could help or just sit and talk to me.’

‘My pleasure, ma’am. What’s for dinner?’

‘Now that is a good sign,’ she told him laughingly.

When she’d gone to deal with dinner, Brett found himself contemplating several matters. Such as the fact that this might be his home, but nevertheless it now seemed very much Ellie’s home. Her personality was imprinted on it, it ran smoothly thanks to her organisation and both house and garden seemed to have a bloom to them although she’d changed almost nothing.

The ‘bloom’ of a much-loved home? he wondered. If so, what did that say about Ellie the person, Ellie the woman, Ellie—who had been so wary of his plans for her life but had never moved on?

Dinner was simple, but it was artistically presented and delicious. Grilled Atlantic salmon, a potato focaccia and a rocket salad with black olives and shredded Spanish onions.

Afterwards he sat with her for a while in the enclosed back veranda where she had her design desk and all her kite-making equipment and discovered there was more to kite-making than he’d realized. And it came to him when she told him how much her kites sold for and how many repeat customers she had that the nest egg he’d treated so lightly might be much more substantial than he’d guessed.

He watched her as she expertly measured, sawed and bevelled dowling. She’d changed into her yellow cotton dress but wore a butcher’s apron over it and had tied her hair back exposing an unexpectedly slender neck with damp curls clinging to it—it was a warm, humid night—and he asked her how she’d come to be such an expert.

She looked up with the little gold flecks in her eyes most noticeable. Then a shadow crossed those rather remarkable eyes. ‘My father taught me. We used to fly our kites together.’

‘Happy memories, Ellie?’

‘I think I told you that my mother died when I was ten? Well, my stepmother and I…just didn’t hit it off. It was only after Simon was born that I realized why she was so jealous even of little things like Dad and I making and flying kites. She couldn’t have children of her own. The ultimate tie to him she craved, I guess.’

For a moment Ellie sat quite still staring down the years then she shrugged and her nimble fingers resumed work.

And Brett thought, So that explains it. That lack of confidence in Ellie Madigan, that tantalizing vulnerability about her he remembered rather suddenly…

‘Tell me about your job?’ he suggested, and was grat-ified to see her brighten.

In fact she became animated as she told him how she seemed to be having quite a bit of success with children who stuttered and they discussed it medically for a while.

Then he said, ‘You obviously have a way with kids as well, Ellie.’

She glanced at him through her lashes. ‘I would say you have too, Brett.’

He shrugged. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘Oh, the way Simon took to you virtually on sight. Considering the fact that he thought you were the new man in my life—’ she grimaced ‘—that was quite a feat.’

He looked at her humorously. ‘I’ve always found it especially either heart-wrenching or gratifying to work with children. So we have that in common,’ he added almost to himself.

Ellie glinted him a questioning look.

He said nothing, however, and presently took himself to bed after thanking her for a nice evening. It shouldn’t have surprised him but it did touch him to find that his bed had been remade and there was a flask of juice beside it.

Ellie made herself a cup of tea one evening and wan-dered out onto the terrace. Brett had been home for a week and was recovered from the worst of his virus so she was beginning to wonder what lay ahead.

But it had been a busy week and she laid her head back and could only think that October was a pretty month in Brisbane. The jacaranda at the bottom of the garden was in full bloom, the African tulip tree beside the drive was dropping its waxy scarlet blooms and the hibiscus hedge beside the pool was in full flower. Not that she could see the wonderful colours but the white, mauve and violet blooms of the several ‘yesterday, today and tomorrow’ bushes she’d planted beside the terrace were perfuming the night air.

Brett was on the phone once again exhorting the airline to track down his overnight bag.

She sat down in a basket chair, pushed off her shoes and studied the pool, a crystal blue with its underwater lighting. Presently, something alerted her to his presence. ‘Pull up a chair,’ she invited without turning her head. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘No, thanks.’ He sat down and clasped his hands between his knees.

Ellie tucked her feet up. ‘Any luck?’

‘No. The passenger in question is still not at home at the address they have listed. Thanks to you they’re sending someone out on a daily basis, though.’

‘Damn—I suppose there’s not a lot more they can do.’

‘No.’ He studied his hands for a moment with an expression she couldn’t identify, then he shrugged and looked directly into her eyes. ‘So what do you think, Ellie?’

Ellie didn’t pretend to misunderstand. ‘About you and I—and the future? I don’t know what you’re proposing,’ she said slowly.

‘Maintaining the status quo for the time being.’

‘Brett, that’s fairly complicated—’

‘I don’t see why it should be.’

She glinted him an ironic little look. ‘I have the strong feeling that my difficulties in getting Simon to relate to any men in my life will only increase once he has you in his life.’ She gestured. ‘On a full-time basis.’

He sat back and crossed his hands behind his head. ‘That could have been a simple matter of the wrong choices, Ellie.’

She finished her tea and put her cup back carefully in the saucer. ‘OK, my choices may not have been that inspired—’

‘Have you ever fallen in love again—as opposed to wanting to enhance your son’s life?’

She was silent.

‘I guess it happened for you with Tom so you must have an idea of how it feels.’

She swallowed something in her throat. ‘No, not like that. I don’t think it can ever happen quite like that for me again.’

‘Or it may—’ he smiled at her ‘—suddenly spring up out of the sidewalk and hit you on the head.’

I wish you wouldn’t smile at me like that, she thought crazily.

‘Brett, there’s one thing I don’t understand—what’s in it for you?’ She saw him arrange his thoughts. He was sitting in a shaft of lamplight spilling out on to the ter-race from the lounge.

He looked around. ‘I’m at a bit of a loose end, to be honest.’

‘You…regret coming back?’

He shrugged—with a trace of unease, she thought. ‘No, but the transition from that kind of life to this—well, it’s going to take some adjusting. So, what’s in it for me at the moment? I feel at home here with you and Simon.’

Ellie felt a pleasant little glow and enjoyed the thought that she might be able to pay Brett back in this way. But presently she frowned. ‘Brett, you’ve been a bit scathing about my love life, or lack of it,’ she said dryly, ‘but what about you? Before you took off for places like the Congo, you weren’t exactly a loner.’

‘Perhaps not,’ he conceded, ‘but marriage and what I’ve wanted to do with my life so far just haven’t been compatible.’

‘That would be true,’ she agreed wryly. ‘Although it doesn’t rule out someone in the same line of work.’

He laid his head back. ‘Perhaps we’re both loners in a certain sense, Ellie. Me because of my work and you because of losing Tom.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean—?’ She stopped as she heard footsteps coming up the drive and someone calling her name softly.

Brett lifted his head and frowned. ‘Who…?’

‘Dan Dawson,’ she said. ‘You remember the people who live next door? Dan is their son. He works on an oil rig and spends some of his time off with them. Hi, Dan!’ She waved to the big young man crossing the lawn towards them. ‘Do you remember Brett Spencer? He’s come home.’

As it turned out, they remembered each other and, after shaking hands, Dan sat down with them. He was twenty-six and over the years he and Ellie had become friends. When he was home, he quite often called on her. He also appeared pleased to meet up with Brett again and brought him up to date on his career. At present he was stationed on an oil rig in the Timor Sea.

But when he got up to go, things took an unexpected turn. He said goodnight to Ellie but asked Brett if he could have a moment of his time. Brett looked surprised but suggested they step into the kitchen.

Ellie watched them go with a frown, then succumbed to her curiosity and crept round the terrace to a vantage point outside the kitchen window.

She arrived in time to hear Dan Dawson say to Brett Spencer, ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on Ellie—when I’m home.’

‘That’s good of you, Dan,’ Brett replied.

‘As a matter of fact,’ Dan continued, looking both embarrassed but determined, ‘although I haven’t told Ellie this yet, she’s the one who keeps me sane sometimes. Oil rigs can be bloody boring, but I’ve got a picture of her next to my bunk. Just thought,’ he said as Ellie’s mouth dropped open, ‘I’d let you know, old man. Because my contract is due to expire shortly and I’m thinking of coming back to Brissie full time and proposing to her. It’s what she needs now Simon is growing up.’

Ellie shut her mouth with a click and scuttled back to her chair, missing Brett’s response, but a moment later both men emerged and Dan walked away down the drive with a wave.

‘I don’t believe it!’ Ellie said as soon as he was out of earshot.

Brett grimaced. ‘I wondered if you’d be tempted to eavesdrop. Well? Why not? He’s nice enough.’

‘Brett, when I first moved in here Dan was still at school!’

‘You weren’t that long out of it yourself. He’s only four years younger, he doesn’t appear to have alienated Simon—’

‘But he’s never said a word to me, I had no idea! Oh,’ she groaned, ‘how do I get myself into these things?’

‘At least this is a genuine guy who would appear to have fallen in love with you.’

‘There is one disadvantage—I haven’t fallen in love with him,’ she pointed out. ‘That is the accepted reason to marry someone, isn’t it? A mutual falling in love?’

‘Sure,’ he agreed. ‘But Dan is right about one thing. Simon is growing up and you need help. You must be aware of this yourself or why else would you be experimenting with—?’

‘Don’t say it,’ she warned.

He grinned.

‘What did you say to Dan?’ She eyed him frowningly.

He considered. ‘I told him I had the same aspirations and may the best man win.’

Ellie closed her eyes. ‘I don’t think I heard you right.’

Brett studied her as her eyes remained closed, with a mixture of amusement and something else. Something that caused him to wonder if this woman hadn’t lain on the back roads of his mind for a long time in a way he’d failed to identify…Why else would he be issuing chal-lenges to the likes of Dan Dawson? Why else had he come home to stay? Why had she stayed in his home for so long? A question he’d asked himself before.

Then her lashes shot up and her eyes were accusing. ‘This is a game for you, Brett! I don’t appreciate it!’

He debated with himself for a moment. Was this the right time to tell her how his thoughts were running? Or was Tom still firmly entrenched in her heart?

‘Uh,’ he said as her gaze didn’t waver, even got fiercer, ‘there’s a certain territorial aspect involved, I guess. It may have led me to responding in kind. Don’t say it,’ he added softly as her expression changed. ‘Men!’

After a frozen moment an involuntary smile curved her lips. ‘How right you are,’ she agreed, but unheatedly. ‘Getting back to you, though,’ she said slowly, ‘in five years or whenever this bit of research is over, will you go off again?’

‘That remains to be seen.’

Ellie stared out over the lawn and couldn’t for the life of her understand what prompted her to say it, but she did. ‘You didn’t think I was good enough for Tom, did you, Brett?’

‘What gave you that idea?’

She twisted her hands. ‘I just got this feeling you thought I was a passing romance, a case of Tom sowing his wild oats. And when you found out about Simon,’ she said baldly, ‘it was almost as if you’d been expecting me to get myself into that situation.’

‘Ellie…’ He paused and sighed. ‘It wasn’t that you weren’t good enough for Tom. But it did cross my mind that you were rather naive and unsure of yourself in those days—and that you might have been looking for more than Tom had in mind.’

Ellie flinched. ‘We’ll never know, will we?’

‘I didn’t—I shouldn’t have said that—’

‘Don’t worry, I sometimes wondered it myself. It still doesn’t get us any further forward.’ She sighed suddenly.

‘Why don’t we have a trial period?’

She looked at him helplessly.

He laughed softly. ‘I’m not proposing a bed of nails. Only a trial period of going on as we have been.’

‘Is this what you came home in mind with, Brett?’

He sobered rather abruptly. ‘I didn’t have any preconceived plans—how could I? I didn’t know what the sit-uation was. But now I’ve got to know Simon…’ he paused ‘…and I’ve seen how things are, it seems like a good idea. It is,’ he said slowly, ‘the only thing I can do for Tom, now.’

She stared at him for a long, long moment.

‘Ellie, no disrespect intended towards your handling of Simon thus far—I think you’ve done a marvellous job with him. But it’s going to get harder.’

She put her feet down onto the cooling tiles. A breeze had risen and it was lifting Brett’s dark hair. She shiv-ered suddenly and stood up.

‘I’ll think about it.’

He got up and came to stand in front of her so they were only inches apart. And he watched her intently, her slim outline in the long indigo dress she was wearing again, her shuttered expression when normally she was like an open book, her new hairstyle—did she spend a lot of time fiddling with it? he wondered. It looked refreshingly natural to him…

‘Have I offended you?’ he asked quietly.

Yes! Of course she didn’t say it, but something in her heart said it for her as that frisson tiptoed up and down her spine again and she came alive, not only to him, but alive in a way no man had made her feel since Tom; achingly, dangerously starved of love…

‘No, Brett,’ she said with an effort. ‘I can never repay you for all you’ve done for us so perhaps I’m…to be honest, I feel as if I’ve already imposed on you far more than I ever should have. That’s why I really need to think about this. Goodnight.’

She checked Simon on her way to bed.

As usual, he’d fallen asleep with his lamp on and the latest Guinness World Records open beside him. As usual, his clothes were scattered everywhere. She tidied up quietly, put a bookmark in the book and put it on his bedside table. Then she simply stared down at her son for a while with new eyes. Was it because she lived with him all the time that the resemblance to Tom didn’t strike her so much these days? Was it so long ago now, anyway, that Tom had faded in her consciousness in more ways than one? Or was Simon simply his own person to her now?

But it was true that it was getting harder as a single mother with a growing son. Take the ‘skateboard, roller blade’ dilemma, she thought ruefully. Most of Simon’s friends had one or the other, if not both, but she hadn’t agreed to either because of the visions she’d had of broken limbs or broken heads, although her excuse to date had been the expense. But were her injury concerns le-gitimate?

Would a man have a better idea of a boy’s limitations? Would a man be better at enforcing the skullcap rule against peer pressure? Was she heading towards being a clinging, fearful mother, in other words?

Perhaps most of all, though, how was she going to provide Simon with a suitable role model?

She stared down at her sleeping child, then switched the lamp off and left the room quietly.

Her bedroom was a lovely room, serene, spacious and furnished in buttery creams and jade green. On this night she prowled around restlessly, however, once she’d changed into her pyjamas, until she finally forced herself to sit down at the dressing table, and, in the process of applying cleansing cream to her face, come face to face with her other dilemma—Brett Spencer as a man.

And the shocking revelation that he had offended her this evening because his proposition—even though she’d made him feel at home—was mostly based on helping with Simon. Which meant…?

When did it happen? she asked herself helplessly as she tissued off the cleansing cream and reached for her toner. Of course, he’d always been attractive, but it was one thing to acknowledge that in a man and another to feel desolated, as she did now, about him having no interest in her as a woman.

It was quite another matter to ponder whether, of all the batterings life had handed out to her, this might be the worst. And just when she’d thought she was doing so well, apart from the problem of a role model for Simon.

Then she stared at herself in the mirror and was forced to acknowledge it couldn’t have happened in the space of one week. So, for how long had she been burying in her subconscious the fact that she’d fallen in love with Brett Spencer? Way back to when he’d rescued her from public humiliation beside a parking meter?

She took an appalled breath. Was that why she’d always refused to admit it? Was that why she could never admit it to anyone but herself without being unfaithful to the memory of Tom?

If only he hadn’t come home, she thought despairingly. If only she’d got herself out of this position years ago. And how to deal with living under the same roof indefinitely? It might have been eleven years ago, but she could still vividly recall that fighting Brett when he’d made up his mind was not something she had excelled at previously.

You were also battling nausea, panic, grief and lone-liness at the time and then the threat of preeclampsia, she pointed out to herself.

She patted toner onto her face and finally took herself to bed. But her dilemma didn’t leave her, in fact it got worse as she contemplated one scenario after another. Brett having mistresses, for example, while he pursued the jolly cause of providing Simon with a role model. Had he kept up his apartment? she wondered. Because he wouldn’t be able to bring them to 3 Summerhill Crescent, Balmoral.

And what would he expect of her in that line, not being privy to the fact that no other man would do for her now—not ever being privy to that fact if she could help it? Perhaps—that they could roster his apartment, she thought rather grimly.

Oh, no, was her final thought before she fell asleep; it simply couldn’t work!

She was slow and dithery the next morning, and only just got Simon off in time for school. Fortunately it wasn’t a work day for her, and Brett wasn’t up yet.

So she brewed a pot of coffee and had a leisurely cup to get herself into a better gear and was about to start the housework when the front door bell rang.

She froze for a moment, thinking of Dan Dawson—yet another complication in her messy life!—but relaxed as she remembered that Dan always used the kitchen door. She was quite unprepared, however, for the girl who stood on the other side of the front door with an overnight bag in her hand. A stunning, extremely shapely blonde with true violet eyes, poured into a cyclamen stretch top and black leather trousers.

‘Hello?’ Ellie said. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I hope so,’ the blonde replied, and put the bag down. ‘Does Brett Spencer live here?’

Enlightenment hit Ellie—the bag was identical to the one in Brett’s bedroom. ‘You must be from the airline! Look, he’ll be so glad to get his bag back.’ She put the bundle of washing she had in her arms down on the hall bench and opened the screen door.

‘I’m not from the airline,’ the other girl said wryly. ‘I’m his fellow passenger—we had a great flight together!—and I must have picked up the wrong bag by mistake and I carted it all the way to Melbourne. Lucky there was an address inside his bag because there isn’t one in mine. But I’d really like to hand it over person-ally, not only because I feel such a clot, but because I want to explain that I got the flu, that’s why it’s taken me so long to bring it back.’

‘You—so you must be Kylie Jones?’

‘He told you about me? Great! Because I’ve got a thing or two to prove to Brett Spencer.’

‘Such as?’ Ellie enquired dazedly.

‘Between you, me and the gatepost—’ the girl low-ered her voice conspiratorially ‘—he may not think I’m the right girl for him, but I’ve decided to prove him wrong. By the way, my name is Chantal, I don’t use Kylie any more.’ She smiled at Ellie in a friendly way. ‘I guess you must be the cleaning lady?’

Ellie’s mouth dropped open as her brain synapses fizzed and spun beneath the weight of all this information. Then she looked down at herself. Her jeans were old and frayed. Her T-shirt, once bright pink, was now faded and had tangled with a non-colourfast navy-blue item in a long-ago wash. Her sandals were very comfortable but of a vintage that prohibited her from wearing them in public…

‘You could say that,’ she conceded at last. ‘I certainly do a lot of cleaning. But he’s not up yet so—’

‘Yes, I am. Chantal, you didn’t have to do this.’

Ellie swung round. Brett was standing behind her, obviously not long out of bed. His hair was hanging in his eyes, his shirt was hanging out of his cargo pants and his feet were bare. He looked moody and singularly un-impressed with this turn of events, but sensationally sexy at the same time.

And as if she, Ellie, did not exist, Chantal said with a secret, sexy little smile of her own, ‘Oh, yes, I did, Brett. Why don’t you ask me in for a cup of coffee? I’ve come a long way to restore your bag to you and I would have done it a lot sooner but I got the flu and went to stay with my mum for some TLC.’

Afterwards, Ellie was never sure why she acted as she did. At the time, she acted on impulse and—instinct? Whatever, she immediately invited Chantal in, adding, ‘There’s a pot of coffee on the stove, as it happens!’ And she resolutely ignored Brett’s steely gaze as she ushered Chantal in all her glory towards the lounge.

Brett followed, having retrieved his bag, which he put on a table and opened. And she thought she detected a genuine sigh of relief as he took out an envelope folder and a floppy disk container.

But just as Ellie was about to say she would have the coffee ready in two shakes of a duck’s tail, he sent her another steely glance, then transferred his attention to Chantal. ‘This is Ellie, Chantal. She’s not the cleaning lady, we’re living together.’

Oh, no, you don’t, Brett Spencer! It shot through Ellie’s mind. Whatever is going on between you and this girl, you’re not going to use me to get yourself out of it! No way!

‘Not really living together, just sharing the same house at the moment, Chantal,’ she said soothingly to the bitter look growing in those violet eyes. ‘Why don’t you explain it properly, Brett, while I get the coffee?’

‘No, Ellie, sit down,’ he ordered. ‘You too, Chantal.’ There was something so determined in his eyes, they both sank into chairs.

‘Chantal,’ he continued less severely, ‘would I be right in assuming you deliberately switched overnight bags?’

Chantal looked momentarily discomforted.

‘Since it was the only way you could come up with of staying in touch?’ he continued rather gently.

This time Chantal shrugged with her lips twisting. ‘Pretty clever, don’t you think? Of course I had no way of knowing there would be an address in the bag but at least I had something to go to the airline with.’

By this time Ellie’s synapses were short-circuiting. ‘Did you really switch bags?’ she asked Chantal, her eyes almost standing out on stalks.

‘Honey,’ Chantal said, then grinned charmingly, ‘if all you can get out of this guy is the sharing of a house, you might need to be a little inventive yourself!’

She stood up and smoothed her leather trousers. Then her gaze locked with Brett’s. ‘I decided to take your advice about not making certain assumptions at face value,’ she said simply. ‘I’m taking the Gold Coast job, I’ve got a flat in Brisbane and I’d really like to get to know you better. That’s all. Bye for now—I’ll let myself out!’ And she left. Reminding Ellie, although their fig-ures couldn’t be more different, of the way Dan Dawson had sauntered down the drive last night although there was another, more subtle difference. There had been a slightly self-conscious aura to Dan last night whereas Chantal was not in the least self-conscious, she was just—superb. And Brett’s gaze, although hard, stayed on the doorway for a long moment.

‘All right,’ Ellie said a few minutes later over a belated cup of coffee, ‘I accept that you didn’t intend to continue whatever it was you started with Chantal Jones on that long, boring flight. Mind you, I also take issue with that—you obviously got her hopes up in some way.’

Brett was silent but a faint grin tugged at his lips.

‘And I take issue with the fact that you show not one ounce of remorse!’

‘Ellie, all I did was talk to her. Then, when she made a rather obvious suggestion, I gave her some very good advice.’

‘So I noticed—she’s obviously taken it to heart, in fact!’

He shrugged.

And Ellie started to laugh softly. ‘A topless dancer!’

He raised an eyebrow at her. ‘She’s actually quite a nice girl.’

Ellie sat up and sipped her coffee, still chuckling. ‘She may be but I certainly don’t feel such a dumb klutz about the errors of judgement I may have made in the past!’

‘Well, I’m glad about that but I should point out that I have yet to make an error of judgement.’

‘I’d like to bet my bottom dollar it was touch and go, Brett!’ She looked across at him with her eyes sparkling with amusement.

He studied his cup and grimaced.

‘Actually, I quite liked her.’ Ellie looked wry. ‘I thought she handled herself with aplomb in the circumstances.’

‘If you can handle yourself topless you can probably handle anything with aplomb.’

‘What are you going to do about her?’ Ellie asked.

‘Nothing. What are you going to do about Dan Dawson?’

She frowned. ‘Are you implying there is any similar-ity between the two cases? I never led Dan on in any way!’

‘He does have a picture of you beside his bunk, Ellie.’

Words failed her briefly and when she could come up with anything, it sounded lame to her own ears. ‘It’s still not the same thing, I had no idea.’

‘You’re very judgemental for someone who wasn’t even there,’ he commented.

Ellie muttered something beneath her breath and stood up impatiently. ‘Since I’ve been mistaken for the cleaning lady, I may as well get on with it!”

He grinned fleetingly. ‘Chantal might have that effect on ninety per cent of the female population. I wouldn’t take it to heart. And I need to take myself to work.’ He paused, then touched her lightly on the chin with his knuckles. ‘Why don’t you give the cleaning a miss for a change? The place looks fine to me.’

How like a man, Ellie thought darkly as she methodically got through her chores, and could not, for the life of her, imagine Chantal washing floors. And later in the day, her woes were compounded when Dan Dawson came to call.

She found him hovering in the kitchen doorway looking embarrassed.

‘Oh—hi, Dan!’

‘Ellie, can I come in?’

‘Sure,’ she said and hoped the sense of helplessness she felt didn’t come across in her voice. ‘Sit down, if you like.’

But Dan told her that he preferred to stand and immediately embarked on a long and tangled explanation that nevertheless contained the kernel of what he’d told Brett the previous evening.

Nor was Ellie able to get a word in edgeways until he finished his monologue with the observation that at least it was out in the open now.

Ellie sank into a chair and wished herself at the South Pole. It didn’t happen, of course, and there was no dodging the hopeful look in Dan’s blue eyes.

She swallowed. ‘Dan, I can’t tell you how flattering this all is,’ she began. ‘But…I think I’m too old for you—’

‘No way, Ellie! Anyway, I prefer older women,’ he replied fervently.

‘But I had no idea!’

‘That’s because I’d rather be subtle about these things,’ he said proudly. ‘People look at me and don’t think I could have a subtle bone in my body—you know, oil-well rigger, tough and all that—but that’s not the real me.’

Ellie stared at him. He was no taller than Brett but a lot broader and all of it hard muscle. He had the neck and shoulders of a front-row forward, very large hands and feet, but he wasn’t bad-looking with thick fair hair and rather shy blue eyes. As a friend, he’d been fun, but what to do now?

‘Dan, I never thought you were unsubtle. In fact it’s been a real pleasure to know you but I just don’t think of you in the same way.’

‘Is it because of Brett?’

‘No! Good heavens, no!’ It was out before she could help herself and not only was it a lie but a tactical error because Dan relaxed visibly.

‘Maybe you just need a bit of time to get used to the idea?’ he suggested. ‘Why don’t you think about it?’

‘No, thank you, Dan,’ she said firmly. ‘And you def-initely must not give up your job because of me—’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ he interposed with a grin. ‘I’ve had my fill of oil rigs, I’ve saved a small fortune and I’m ready to lead a normal life now. You and Simon wouldn’t want for anything,’ he confided. ‘So have a think, Ellie.’

His gaze rested on her with an awful mixture of pride and tenderness—awful, because she couldn’t reciprocate and she hated to hurt his feelings—and Simon came pelting through the back door.

‘Hey, dude!’ he said to Dan. ‘I didn’t know you were home! Would you like to have a go at the new video game my grandad sent me?’

Chapter Four

‘YOU’RE looking very pensive, Ellie. Anything wrong?’

It was the same day but late in the evening. Brett had stayed out for dinner and just come home to find Ellie curled up in the lounge staring into space.

She stirred. ‘My life has just spun completely out of control, if you really want to know.’

He grinned. ‘Tell me?’

She hesitated, then shrugged. ‘I’ve had an offer of marriage.’

‘Dan came over to state his case?’ he hazarded.

‘He did.’

‘And you were able to let him down nicely?’

Ellie gazed at him broodingly. He wore jeans and a black polo shirt and was looking lean and strong from his broad shoulders down to his thick-soled black shoes. Not only lean and strong but terrifyingly attractive.

She released a slow breath. ‘It was like knocking my head against a brick wall.’

Brett sat down on a chintzy settee opposite her and rested his chin on his hand with a grimace. ‘How did you go about it?’

‘I tried to tell him I was too old for him.’

‘A bit of a cop out,’ he suggested wryly. ‘What did he say to that?’

‘He prefers older women.’

‘Ellie’, Brett said, when he stopped lauging, ‘why didn’t you just tell him the truth?’

‘I did!’ She looked tragic. ‘But he insisted I think about it. It was all so—I mean, I didn’t want to hurt his pride and—the sum total, I guess, is that this has to have been just about the most unromantic day of my life and there have been a few of those.’

Brett sobered. ‘You know,’ he said slowly, ‘the kind-est thing to do is simply to say no, thanks, Dan—rather than letting it drag on and keeping his hopes alive.’

‘I did that as well,’ she said. ‘It just bounced off him. Incidentally, is that how you handled Chantal Jones?’

His lips twitched. ‘Point taken, Ellie. But I did in fact tell her—quite pointedly—that I was not the man for her.’

‘What say Dan is as stubborn as Ms Jones?’

‘Just stick to your line. At least he has an oil rig he has to go back to shortly.’

Ellie sighed. ‘I think I’ll go to bed.’

‘No, stay a while.’ He got up and disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a glass of wine for her and a brandy for himself.

And he waited until she’d sipped some of her wine before he said, ‘Is the lack of romance in your life getting to be a problem, Ellie?’

She nearly choked on a sip of wine and the look she flashed him was full of hurt before she could compose herself.

‘I meant—’ she stood up resolutely and said with dignity ‘—that on top of being mistaken for the cleaning lady by Chantal Jones, being told by a man who then went off to play video games with my son that Simon and I would want for nothing if I married him…was all a bit lowering.’

‘I see what you mean,’ Brett replied gravely and stood up himself. ‘Well, then, would this help?’ His gaze wan-dered up and down her white cotton blouse tucked into colourful, flower-printed shorts. ‘While you were being such a cool, calm and efficient nurse there were times when I—barely—restrained myself from pulling you into bed with me and rendering you a lot less cool and calm.’

Ellie’s lips parted incredulously.

‘Don’t look so surprised. You were also very sweet and there is—’ he put his hands around her waist, nearly spanning it ‘—an awful lot of sweetness packed into this slender frame.’ His gaze dwelt on her breasts. ‘I cannot,’ he went on simply, ‘get it out of my mind.’

Ellie tried to speak but nothing came out.

‘Then there’s your perfume.’

‘I don’t wear perfume, it makes me sneeze,’ she did manage to say at last.

He smiled slightly. ‘That’s what’s so nice about it. Clean and fresh and—just you. And the way your hair curls.’

He paused and she felt his breath fan her forehead, then he went on. ‘So, you see, Ellie, on this day in fact, you have two men very much taken with you. I would call that quite romantic.’

‘Brett, if this is designed to massage my ego,’ she breathed, stunned, ‘you—’

‘Not at all,’ he denied as he slid his hands up beneath her breasts and watched intently for her reaction.

Ellie trembled and did battle with the mental images that came to her—of being pulled into his bed and made love to. But there was so much else to battle, how his hands below her breasts were causing her nipples to tin-gle, a sure sign they were about to misbehave them-selves. How his proximity and that intent query in his grey eyes were weakening factors, as if her body had a mind of its own and was hell-bent on melting with desire beneath Brett Spencer who was tall and strong and everything she wanted.

She swallowed and told herself to resist this, but he was more than a match for her. He touched each bur-geoning nipple beneath her cotton shirt with his thumbs and a streak of pure, hot sensuality flowed through her, causing her to gasp again although this time with delight.

‘Ellie?’ he said then, very softly, and pulled her close so he could kiss her and at the same time demonstrate that he was by no means unaffected.

When they separated finally, her heart was beating like a runaway train, she was gloriously alive to the splendours of Brett Spencer and the way he made her feel in his arms. As if she couldn’t get enough of him, and the finesse he employed. His touch on her most sen-sitive spots and the little questions he sometimes asked with his eyes—Is this OK?—and the way her body an-swered for her—Yes, oh, yes! The way he kissed not only her mouth but the soft hollows at the base of her throat, and the way he showed her that he was quite capable of driving her crazy with desire…

It was Simon who saved her, although it took her a little while to admit that she needed or wanted to be saved. But no sooner had they parted to catch their breath than they heard his door open and her maternal instincts took over in a flash, so that by the time Simon found them in the lounge she was back sitting in her chair trying to look as normal as possible.

‘What’s doing, guys?’ Simon enquired as he rubbed his eyes like a sleepy owl. His hair was standing up at the crown and his pyjama jacket was buttoned up crookedly.

‘Nothing much,’ Brett said from his position at the bay window where he’d been looking out over the dark-ened garden. ‘Can’t you sleep?’

Simon pulled a face. ‘I was dreaming of skate-boards—Mum, if I do the chores I do for pocket money for free for a while, would you be able to afford one then?’

Ellie opened her mouth but Brett spoke first. ‘I think it would be a better idea if you saved your pocket money so you could buy yourself one.’

‘That could take years!’ Simon objected. ‘I’d be old and grey by the time I could afford it.’

‘I doubt it.’ Brett looked amused. ‘And there is one way you could augment your earnings. You could clean my car once a week.’

Simon hesitated. ‘Would you also teach me to drive it?’

‘No!’ Ellie spoke at last.

‘Your mum’s right, you’re too young for that, mate.’

‘Thank you,’ Ellie said with a trace of bitterness.

Simon eyed her, then turned his attention back to Brett. ‘How much?’

Brett named a sum and Simon did some mental cal-culations that appeared to satisfy him to an extent. He said with a shrug, ‘It’s still going to take a while, but not as long as what Mum had in mind, I guess. Unless you’d like to loan me the money?’ he suggested to Brett. ‘I could pay you back interest.’

‘Simon!’ Ellie expostulated.

But Brett said, ‘No, old man. First principle of sound economic management—don’t get yourself into hock if you can avoid it.’

Simon considered, then shrugged. ‘OK. At least I might be able to sleep now.’ And he took himself back to bed.

Ellie waited until she heard his door close, then she said to Brett, ‘How dare you? I’m not sure I want him to have a skateboard in the first place!’

Brett came over to sit down opposite her again. ‘Ellie,’ he said quietly, ‘he’s a boy. You can’t coddle him.’

‘There’s a difference between coddling and wanting to protect him from all sorts of horrific injuries.’

‘He rides his bike around the place, doesn’t he?’

‘Yes, but the streets are very quiet round here—’ She broke off and sighed suddenly. ‘I know what you’re saying and I don’t want to be become a fearful mother, but it’s not easy.’

He said nothing, but just stared at her thoughtfully until she began to feel all hot and bothered at the mem-ory of what had taken place before Simon had inter-vened.

‘Ellie?’

She stirred and smoothed her shorts. ‘I don’t know what got into me. Could we just forget about it, please?’

He said one word. ‘How?’

Her gaze flew to his, then skittered away as she detected a momentary glint of compassion in his eyes, which was the last thing she wanted from Brett Spencer, she now knew.

‘Has there been anyone serious in your life since Tom?’ he asked then.

She looked away, but there didn’t seem to be any point in dissembling. ‘No.’

‘No one who made you feel the way I—we did—not so long ago?’ he persisted.

A tinge of colour stole into her cheeks but she said straightly, ‘No. And that’s another reason not to place too much…’ She paused, searching for the right word.

‘Credence on it?’ he suggested, but rather dryly.

‘Brett—’ she held his gaze deliberately ‘—this is not that easy to admit but it occurred to me a few days ago that I was thirty and essentially dateless and desperate. Well, not desperate, but, yes, starting to realize that…life was passing me by.’

‘So you’re saying any reasonable man could have produced that effect in you, Ellie?’

She bit her lip and wondered why he wasn’t a lawyer instead of a doctor. Then she decided to be a bit lawyerly herself. ‘Perhaps any reasonable woman could have produced that effect in you, Brett? If you’re on the rebound from Africa, a bit unsettled and at a loose end?’

‘On the other hand, and I must stress that you brought this up,’ he drawled, ‘it could be said that I’ve knocked back Chantal Jones in favour of you, Ellie.’

Her lips parted and a little glint of indignation lit her eyes. ‘Let’s get this straight—you knocked back Ms Jones because she’s a topless dancer!’

‘On the contrary.’ His lips twisted. ‘That’s a powerful inducement for a man. She’s an awful lot of woman and very—willing.’

‘I…I don’t see the connection!’ she protested.

He stood up and looked down at her with definite irony in his eyes. ‘I was just trying to point out the distinction between us. You appear to feel you’re ripe for the taking and you appear to be accusing me of taking advantage of that. But there has to be more to it than that otherwise…well, that was why I mentioned Ms Jones.’

Ellie stood up and drew herself to her full height of five feet four. ‘That is the worst case of twisted logic I’ve ever encountered!’

‘Not really, if you think about it,’ he murmured. ‘Which I’ll leave you to do now, Ellie. Goodnight.’

‘Before you go, Brett, if anyone else tells me to “think” about something—I’ll scream!’

‘You really do need some romance in your life, Ellie,’ he observed, and walked out.

Of course there was no way to stop herself from thinking about it.

In fact the only thing that was fortuitous about the next few days was the lack of Brett around the house to constantly remind her of what had happened. He became heavily involved in his grant and the setting up of his laboratory.

She also had to work three days in a row after that extraordinary encounter and get Simon away on a five-day school camp as well. He’d never been away from her that long before and she waved him off with a little pang; she’d also stayed up late the night before baking all sorts of goodies for him to take along.

In his absence she took the opportunity to put in more hours at work than she usually did. Not only, she freely acknowledged, in the cause of bettering her finances but because she was as confused as ever on the subject of Brett, and the less she saw of him, the better. She had already been to Dan’s and dispensed with one of her worries. He’d been understandably hurt, but he’d ac-cepted her refusal with a mixture of resignation and grace. They’d both agreed to remain friends.

But she still went hot and cold at the memory of being in Brett’s arms and the circles of her mind on the subject of how they’d affected each other remained just that—circles. Curiously, however, it became a sore point with her that when they did happen to meet he made no ref-erence to anything personal.

Or, she amended her thoughts, was the real problem that he didn’t have to? Just to know he was in the house made her jumpy and skittish, she acknowledged with gloom, because ‘skittish’ was not how she liked to think of herself. Just to have him come to her aid when a prototype kite she was testing got stuck in a tree was a severe trial for her, for example.

The ladder was too short for her to reach the first branch and she was standing on the lawn looking frus-trated when he came home. In five minutes he restored the kite to her, but watching him climb up and down the tree with fluid strength and ease awoke very similar sen-sations in her as he’d aroused a few nights previously. Causing her to be disjointed in her thanks, stilted, em-barrassed and feeling like a girl suddenly aware of her sensuality for the first time.

If he noticed, he made no comment.

But on the Friday evening, before Brett got home, Chantal arrived for an unannounced visit.

She came bearing a cold magnum of French cham-pagne and a gorgeous Barberton daisy in a pot for Ellie. Ellie explained that Brett wasn’t home but Chantal shrugged and suggested they sample the champagne themselves.

It was a beautiful evening, it was the end of a partic-ularly hard week, and Ellie found herself agreeing. So she got out some home-made cheese straws and they sat outside on the terrace.

‘I guess Brett’s told you all about me, the topless dancer et cetera, et cetera?’ Chantal said.

‘Well, yes, a bit.’

‘And you don’t take instant exception as in wanting to call me a whore and all the rest of it?’

Ellie grinned. ‘Don’t be silly! You’re very welcome here.’

‘How’s he doing?’

‘Brett? Uh…fine, as far as I can tell.’

‘Any women friends lurking around the ridges?’ Chantal enquired.

‘No-o. Not so far.’ Help! Ellie thought.

‘Of course, it’s only a matter of time. Guys like that don’t grow on trees,’ Chantal observed wisely.

‘No, I guess not. How’s the revue going?’

Chantal tipped a hand. ‘OK. Not as lavish as Sun City but I’m enjoying it.’

‘Thanks so much for the daisy!’ The colourful flower in its pot was sitting on the terrace table next to the silver wine cooler.

‘So tell me about yourself, Ellie, and how you come to be sharing a house with Brett?’ Chantal invited.

‘Oh, it’s a long story.’ But possibly better than dis-cussing Brett, it shot through her mind. ‘Briefly, though, it happened like this.’

At the end of it, Chantal raised her glass to Ellie. ‘I’m impressed with how you’ve handled your life. Where’s your kid?’

Ellie told her.

Chantal became thoughtful, then she said abruptly, ‘Do you think I’ve got any chance with him, Ellie?’

‘Chantal—’ Ellie reached for the champagne and topped up their glasses ‘—to be honest, I have no idea. Oh!’ She squinted down the driveway and saw Dan Dawson approaching.

‘What?’

‘Um…this man proposed to me recently. This could be a bit awkward,’ Ellie replied helplessly.

‘Tell you what, we could do each other a little favour here,’ Chantal murmured as Dan drew nearer. ‘If you were to ask me to stay on for dinner in the hope that Brett comes home and finds me here all legit, I could take care of it for you.’

‘You could?’ Ellie said blankly.

Chantal winked. ‘It’s all in a day’s work, honey.’

Half an hour later Brett Spencer arrived home to find a jolly threesome on the terrace drinking champagne.

‘Oh, there you are!’ Ellie greeted him. ‘Just in time, I was about to start dinner. Do sit down and entertain the guests while I tinker in the kitchen for a bit.’ She got up and went indoors.

‘Chantal. Dan,’ Brett greeted them noncommittally. ‘Excuse me for a moment, I need to—wash my hands.’ And he disappeared indoors hot on Ellie’s heels.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ he enquired, cornering her in the kitchen.

‘They both came to visit so I invited them to dinner,’ Ellie said innocently.

‘Are you mad—or drunk?’ He looked her up and down, taking in her hot-pink bike shorts and sherbet-yellow stretch top.

She responded with an assessing gaze up and down his attire of moleskins, a check shirt and desert boots and replied with the golden glints in her eyes laughing at him, ‘Neither. Well, I don’t think it would be wise to have any more champagne, but I’m quite sane. Chantal is taking Dan’s mind off things for me.’ She tilted her chin at him.

‘What do you mean?’

‘If you go out there you’ll probably see for yourself—it’s really quite amusing. But I guess men will be men.’

‘Ellie,’ he said dangerously.

‘Look, Brett,’ she returned, suddenly feeling stone-cold sober, ‘don’t start lecturing me or laying down the law, I’m not in the mood—she’s your problem, not mine. It so happens I quite like her.’

‘What about Dan?’

‘Dan…is no longer a problem. Now will you go outside while I get dinner? Otherwise I’m liable to do something I might regret.’

‘Is this all because of what happened the other night?’

‘Oh, that?’ She shook her head. ‘But I am missing Simon, I’m tired, overworked at the moment and it didn’t seem like a bad idea to sit down and have a glass of champers.’ She gestured with both hands palm out. ‘Things just got complicated from there on.’

‘Or three or four glasses?’ he suggested.

‘If I want to have six or eight, I will!’

‘OK.’ A reluctant smile twisted his lips. ‘Calm down. I’ll go and hold the fort.’

Fortunately, she had a frozen dish of stir-fry beef and rice, which she only had to heat and make a salad to go with it. And she set the table in the dining room, lit candles and called the faithful to dinner.

What conversation had taken place while she’d been in the kitchen, she had no idea, nor did she care.

As they sat down to eat, however, it was Chantal’s chair that Dan pulled out. And it soon became apparent that he still couldn’t take his eyes off her—not so sur-prising really, Ellie thought. Chantal in a Lurex boob tube with skin-tight leopard-skin print trousers and very high gold sandals was enough to poleaxe most men. And she’d hardly had to lift a finger to get Dan in.

Whether Brett was poleaxed, however, was impossible to tell, as was what he made of the situation, although he did play the good host. And Chantal continued to be mesmerizing, funny, gorgeous and she even helped clear up after the meal.

All the same, Ellie felt like Alice at the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party when Chantal and Dan left together, at Brett’s suave suggestion that Dan could see her to her car. And she collapsed into her chair and started to laugh until she got hiccups, although she hadn’t missed the searching, lingering glance Chantal bestowed on Brett and the way he’d countered it—with a severely unreadable one of his own.

‘Here.’ Brett handed her a glass of brandy. ‘It was all your idea.’

Ellie wiped her eyes. ‘Talk about being let off the hook in the most demoralizing way possible!’

He sat down with his own brandy. ‘You might have a better understanding now of the powers and perils of Ms Jones, Ellie. But I agree, it’s a relief to be let off the hook.’

‘Oh, I don’t think you’re off the hook, Brett!’

‘If you didn’t keep inviting her in and fostering a “women of the world unite against men!” spirit, I’d already be off the hook,’ he said with some asperity.

Ellie subsided. ‘Would she be out of the question if she wasn’t a topless dancer?’

‘No, it wouldn’t be out of the question even as a topless dancer, she could well have a heart of gold. The thing is, though, you would probably resent it if I tried to matchmake for you?’ He looked at her with consid-erable irony.

Ellie grimaced. ‘Point taken.’

‘Why have you stayed here for so long, Ellie?’

Her lips parted on the unexpected question and a glint of anxiety came to her eyes. ‘You sound as if you don’t approve—I’m sorry, you have every right not to…’

‘It’s not that at all. But you weren’t very much in favour of the idea at the time and I guess I have to wonder why you haven’t moved on in all these years.’

She swallowed and looked around. ‘I…it became like an anchor for me, I suppose,’ she said, ‘although I have wondered if it wasn’t the line of least resistance. But I seemed to feel safe here, then I grew to love it and I got involved in the garden.’ She shrugged. And sighed. ‘Nor can I ever thank you enough,’ she added awkwardly, ‘although I’m still determined to pay you my kite money.’

He sat down at the head of the table. ‘I don’t want payment, Ellie. And I sometimes think I took the line of least resistance. So far as helping with Simon.’

‘Oh, no,’ she assured him. ‘Without what you did for me, our lives would have been so much more difficult.’

‘In pecuniary terms, perhaps. There’s a lot more to life than that, though.’

She said slowly, ‘It’s not your burden, Brett.’

He didn’t answer, he seemed to be far away in fact, then, ‘About what happened the other night.’

But Ellie stiffened immediately. ‘I’d rather we forgot about that,’ she said in a cool little voice.

‘Why?’

‘In case you’re tempted to massage my ego once again.’

‘I wasn’t—’

‘Oh, yes, you were,’ she contradicted and shook her curls at him. ‘Maybe you’ve forgotten; if so, let me refresh your memory. Like today, I’d gone through two rather demoralizing sessions, one with Chantal Jones and one with Dan Dawson. The difference is that today I’m not feeling sorry for myself at all!’

‘Is that brandy on top of champagne talking?’ he queried with a smile at the back of his eyes.

‘Not at all,’ she denied. ‘It’s pure Ellie Madigan who doesn’t like being patronized, Brett Spencer.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that what you call it? I would have said it fell into the category of a mu-tual…conniption, which, incidentally, I enjoyed very much.’

She stared at him with pinched nostrils, then retreated to her bedroom with her brandy barely tasted.

She got a phone call from Simon early the next morning. There was a public phone at the camp that the kids were encouraged to use if they felt homesick—not that it was a problem for Simon.

‘How’s it going, Mum?’ he said cheerfully down the line. ‘Not suffering any withdrawal symptoms?’

‘I don’t get your drift, dude,’ she replied.

‘Just thought you might be missing your only son. I’ve never been away for so long before.’

‘Oh. Ah. Well, I’m missing you madly, of course, but I haven’t gone into a decline yet. How’s it going with you?’

‘Super,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘And on account of all the things you baked for me to bring with me, I’m just about the most popular boy in the camp. I tell you, no kid could have a better mum.’

‘That’s very sweet of you, Simon,’ she said a little huskily.

‘Now don’t go all gooey,’ he warned.

‘Wouldn’t dream of it!’

‘How’s it going with Brett?’

‘Uh…fine! But…’ she hesitated and frowned ‘…why do you ask?’

‘Why don’t you want him to know you like him a lot, Mum?’

The question down the line took her breath away. ‘Simon, I don’t…know what you mean.’

‘Well, I just reasoned that if you don’t mind him kissing you—’

‘Simon!’

‘OK, I wasn’t spying on you. I had no idea what was going on when I came out that night so I turned round and went back, then I came in again and made more noise about it. It wasn’t hard to see you were kinda shook up, Mum.’

Ellie was speechless.

‘But, look, it’s fine with me,’ Simon went on. ‘I think it’s the best thing that could happen to you. He’s real cool—hey, Mum, my money’s running out, see you s—’ The connection was cut by a series of beeps.

Ellie put the phone down slowly and went to make breakfast.

Brett was already at the kitchen table reading the paper. ‘Morning,’ he said. ‘Who was that?’

She eyed him moodily. Now that he’d recovered, he always got up at the crack of dawn and went for a jog then a brisk swim in the pool and, for some reason, it annoyed her immensely to see him looking so fit and relaxed, big, vital, tousled, blue around the jaw and almost insanely attractive.

‘That was my only son.’ She got out a pan and some bacon and eggs.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Homesick?’

Ellie put the bacon on, then she removed a segment of mouth-wateringly ripe pawpaw from the fridge, scooped out the seeds and cut it into two segments. She squeezed fresh orange juice over them, a dash of sugar and topped each segment with fresh strawberries. ‘On the contrary, he’s having a ball.’ She placed Brett’s fruit in front of him.

‘I see.’ Brett looked down at the plate, then up into her eyes. ‘Thanks. Ellie?’

But she turned away and went over to the stove where she busied herself with the bacon and eggs.

‘All right,’ she heard him say, ‘how about lunch, then?’

‘I’ve only just started breakfast,’ she responded tartly. ‘Isn’t it a bit soon to be wanting lunch?’

‘I was suggesting that I take you out to lunch.’

‘What for?’ She turned from the stove with a frown.

‘It’s Saturday, it’s a lovely day and it may just take your mind off your only son, who is not missing you at all by the sound of it. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,’ he added, his grey eyes dancing. ‘It only points to a well-adjusted kid. You could be a different matter, however.’

Ellie had a spatula in her hand, which she held aloft in outraged amazement. ‘Are you saying I’m badly adjusted?’

He grimaced. ‘No. Just a bit lost and lonely at the moment—probably quite natural for a mother of an only child. Uh—something’s burning.’

She turned back to the stove with a smothered exclamation and rescued the bacon.

‘Twelve o’clock suit you, Ellie?’

‘I haven’t agreed to go.’

She heard him get up as she cracked two eggs and added them to the pan and put some toast on. And the little hairs on the back of her neck rose, indicating he was standing behind her. The next moment the spatula was removed from her fingers and he turned her to face him.

‘Brett!’ she protested.

‘Ellie,’ he replied, ‘I don’t intend to take no for an answer.’

‘You can’t force me to go to lunch with you!’

‘There is an alternative,’ he said softly. His gaze roamed over her flushed face and the spot at the base of her throat where he had kissed her so pleasurably. ‘As an antidote to being lost and lonely, perhaps even having a slightly sore head from a rather generous intake of champagne yesterday, some really rousing sex can work wonders.’

‘D-don’t touch me,’ she stammered.

He smiled, the most enigmatic smile she’d ever seen. ‘How about lunch, then?’

‘All right,’ she said rapidly, ‘but I’ll probably be very annoyed about it!’

‘We’ll see.’ He handed her back the spatula and, adding insult to injury, dropped the lightest kiss on the top of her head. ‘Go to it, Mrs Beeton.’

He took her to a seafood restaurant across the river—and it was impossible to remain annoyed.

They made the crossing in one of the river cats, the fast catamaran ferries that plied the Brisbane River, and were a treat not only as a means of getting from A to B but as a way of experiencing one of Brisbane’s great resources, its river.

In fact, Ellie noted as they sat in the sun and skimmed over the water, the way Brett looked around it was as if he were taking his home town in through his pores, and loving it.

‘A bit different from the Congo?’ she said.

‘A lot different.’

‘You must have had some good times there, though,’ she suggested.

‘I had some great times and I met some great people, but home’s nice.’

Ellie sighed suddenly.

He looked a question at her.

‘I love Brisbane too,’ she said ruefully. ‘It’s just that I had great plans to backpack my way around the world before I reached thirty.’

‘You may find that the delay only means you’ll be able to do it in more comfort.’

‘I may need to find myself a rich husband,’ she said thoughtlessly.

He raised an eyebrow but said, ‘You’re looking very chic, Ms Madigan.’

Ellie glanced down at her outfit, a white, summery, sleeveless tunic top over a three-quarter-length gathered cinnamon skirt and matching sandals. She always liked the swirl of the skirt around her legs and she had a lovely straw hat with a wide brim on. ‘Thank you. You don’t look too bad yourself.’

She said it lightly, as a throwaway line, but it was all too true. With a breeze ruffling his dark hair and wearing a blue and white striped shirt, open at the throat, with his moleskins, he was extremely good-looking.

‘Thank you!’ He took her hand as the river cat docked. ‘After you, ma’am.’

They sat on the restaurant’s terrace beneath an umbrella overlooking the river and she refused a glass of wine in favour of a long, cool soft drink and ordered butterfly prawns. He ordered a beer and grilled schnapper.

‘Not inclined to have some hair of the dog, Ellie?’

‘No.’ She looked rueful. ‘I’m feeling fine now but I don’t drink during the day because I need my wits about me, I guess. Not that Simon’s here at the moment.’

He smiled. ‘Is he such a handful—Simon?’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘No more than any active ten-year-old boy, I suspect. He’s actually pretty good.’

‘You and he seem to have a great relationship.’

‘Even though I may have missed out on backpacking my way around the world, I think it’s helpful to be young enough to relate to your kids or—’ she looked impish ‘—perhaps there’ll always be a bit of kid in me.’

‘You certainly don’t look like the mother of ten-year-old.’

Ellie studied him through her lashes, then she said abruptly, ‘You’re still doing it, Brett, trying to massage my ego. But I can fight my own battles.’

He subjected her attractive outfit and immaculate grooming to another brief inspection.

‘All right!’ she said frustratedly, then had to laugh. ‘I guess Chantal has put me on my mettle, such as it is. But the only person I’m concerned about feeling good about me is me, not you about me, if that makes sense.’

‘Perfect sense,’ he murmured, with a wicked glint of humour in his eyes. ‘But before Chantal hit us, it had already occurred to me that there was almost a new you, Ellie, from the girl of Tom’s time and even the last time we met. A much more vibrant, confident person. Being thirty becomes you, Elvira Madigan.’

It was so long since anyone had called her that, Ellie almost did a double take. By the time she’d realized she’d been named after a Danish tightrope walker who’d had an affair with a Swedish army officer with tragic consequences, she’d changed her name in her mind to Ellie, and had used it ever since.

Now she said, ‘Don’t remind me.’

He looked amused. ‘I always thought it was rather attractive. But to get back to the you of now, I’m impressed, Ellie, and full of admiration for how you’ve coped with life. I know it can’t have been easy.’

She stared into his eyes, then looked away with a slight shiver. ‘You do what you have to, I guess, that’s all. But it hasn’t all been doom and gloom. I can’t imag-ine life without Simon now, he brings me so much joy.’ She smiled and sniffed.

‘I’m glad,’ he said simply.

Ellie frowned suddenly. ‘Is that why you want to stay around us now—apart from Simon, of course? Because I’m a better person?’

‘I didn’t say that. As a matter of fact, the first time you intrigued me and it occurred to me that I’d like to sleep with you was when you were nineteen and the day I found out what your real name was.’

If her synapses had been tested recently they now flashed in collective disbelief. ‘What?’

He lay back in his chair. ‘It’s true. That name and something a little lost, embarrassed and lovely about you definitely prompted the thought.’

Ellie could only stare at him.

‘I guess you’re wondering why I’ve never mentioned it?’ He raised an eyebrow at her.

‘Yes. No.’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘Why didn’t you?’

He shrugged. ‘First of all there was Tom. Then you were grieving for Tom and pregnant. And by the time Simon was born I knew I’d be away for long periods and I doubted you’d got over Tom anyway.’

‘So, what you’re saying…’ her voice was shaky ‘…is this. You’d thought about sleeping with me as opposed to falling in love with me? Just as it crossed your mind that Chantal was desirable but you could take it or leave it?’

‘I’m saying the time hasn’t been right to mention it, that’s all,’ he replied evenly. ‘It’s right now for more reasons than one. So that you know it isn’t something that’s jumped up out of the blue for me and—eleven years ago there was no Chantal or a stint in the Congo I was trying to readjust from.’

Ellie could only stare at him with her lips parted.

He smiled rather satanically and recommended that she eat her lunch before it got cold.

She blushed, and did as she was told. In fact she ate every morsel of her lunch in silence as a delaying tactic while she grappled with this revelation and how to handle it. But her thoughts were jumping like fleas, with a definite tendency to jump backwards rather than for-wards.

She’d been so sure she’d never appealed to Brett in any way. But suddenly, and clear as a bell, she remembered the day Tom had let slip her real name to Brett Spencer.

She’d experienced her usual embarrassment—she’d worn her hair long in those days and to cover the embarrassment she’d taken her scrunchie off, combed her fingers through her hair, then gathered it back into the scrunchie. As she’d lowered her arms she’d become aware that Brett’s gaze had still been on her, and for no reason she’d been able to think of she’d felt hot and bothered over more than her father’s explanation that, once they had a daughter, he and her mother could never seem to get beyond the name Elvira to go with Madigan.

But all she’d been able to put that feeling down to was yet another reason for Brett Spencer to disapprove of her.

Now, though, it all fell into place as she remembered also that he’d said, surprisingly gently, it was a pretty name. And she dipped her last prawn into the tartar sauce and felt her heart soar like a bird…

Moments later it came tumbling down as she rinsed her fingers in the flower-studded bowl. Two or three years perhaps, but eleven years was an awfully long time to wait to do anything about the feeling that had come to him.

She picked up her glass and studied the river traffic. There were seagulls wheeling noisily above a trawler as it steamed up stream, and the bow of a trim little blue and white yacht rose and sank gently as it sailed through the trawler’s wake.

Brett finished his fish and put his knife and fork together but she couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. She couldn’t, yet, work out what she’d be getting herself into if she admitted her true feelings to him. It was all so new, so…it was still pretty flimsy, she thought.

‘I gather I’ve floored you, Ellie.’

She had to look at him at last. ‘Perhaps,’ she conceded. ‘I had no idea.’

Their gazes clashed.

‘Well?’ he said softly.

Ellie felt her forehead bead with sweat as her pulses started to hammer and she had no doubt that at this point in time, at least, Brett was actively thinking of sleeping with her. It was there between them like an invisible conduit, allowing something in his gaze to arouse the most intimate sensations in her. It was like being ca-ressed mentally and not a whole lot different from the real thing—and this time she had no magazine to hide behind as these powerful sensations raced through her.

She moved restlessly as it became plain she’d aroused some quizzical amusement across the table. ‘Look, I don’t know what to say! I…it…it may be amusing for you, but it’s not for me.’

‘My apologies, I didn’t mean to laugh at you. But…’ he paused and frowned ‘…your reaction seemed to suggest it was out of the question for you to be found at-tractive and desirable.’

‘By you, yes,’ she conceded.

‘Is that because you never thought about me in the same way—discounting recent times?’

She swallowed and frantically tried to organise her thoughts. ‘No,’ she said rather bleakly, at last. ‘But that may only place me in the same category as—’ she ges-tured ‘—the waitress who served us. What I mean to say is it could be an occupational hazard for most women who cross your path. There is a huge distinction between that and…really being in love with someone, however.’

‘It all has to start somewhere, though.’

‘Only a man could say that!’ She eyed him darkly.

He grinned. ‘You’re wrong. It was said to me by a woman very recently as it happens.’

She blinked.

‘Chantal Jones,’ he supplied. ‘Your sister-at-arms.’

A reluctant smile tugged at Ellie’s lips. ‘She’s not really, and, forgive me, but I wouldn’t say you’ve completely cured yourself of her yet, Brett, but—start what?’

He sat back. ‘I wasn’t suggesting that you and I leap straight into bed, Ellie. Merely that we consider the future and the possibilities.’

It was like having cold water dashed over her and there was nothing she could do to hide it.

She said stiffly, ‘I think I’d like to go home now.’

‘This time I’ve offended you.’

She didn’t answer; she switched her gaze to the river, then looked at her watch. ‘I think there’s a ferry due shortly.’

‘Wouldn’t you like some coffee?’

‘No, thank you. And thanks for lunch but I’ve got that kite to finish off so I really ought to get home—’ She stopped abruptly and closed her eyes briefly.

At the same time someone walked up to the table, a svelte, attractive brunette, saying, ‘Brett Spencer—is it really you?’

He stood up. ‘Delia Saunders—is it really you?’ And an enthusiastic reunion followed.

‘But I’m no longer Delia Saunders, Brett! I married Archie McKinnon about three years ago, don’t know why I waited so long,’ Delia said humorously. ‘We’re deliriously happy!’

‘Congratulations, I always thought you and Archie were made for each other! Delia, this is Ellie.’

Delia did a speedy reconnaissance and must have liked what she saw because she sat down excitedly. ‘This is so fortuitous,’ she said. ‘It’s our third wedding anniversary next weekend and we’re having a party. Do please come, both of you!’

‘Why not?’ Brett said. ‘Thank you, Delia.’

‘I’m not going,’ Ellie said to the river.

‘Why didn’t you say so at the time?’

Ellie watched the wake of the river cat for a long moment, then tossed him an irony-laden glance. ‘How— without making a complete fool of myself? It was hard enough to know what to say at all.’

He shrugged. ‘Delia always gives wonderful parties.’

‘That’s not the point. Going out and about as a couple is—a complication we don’t need, surely?’

‘Why?’

‘Brett, you’re being obtuse—or something,’ she accused.

He grinned wickedly. ‘It would be a good way of getting to know another facet of each other, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘I’m not sure that’s what we should be doing or will be doing. I’m not sure at all,’ she said a little bleakly.

‘Well, think about it,’ he suggested. ‘In the meantime do you mind if I drop you off at home? I need to do a few things in town.’

Think about it, Ellie repeated in her mind as she let herself into the quiet house.

And was surprised to discover she felt like screaming again and shouting with a mixture of frustration and disbelief. What, precisely, did he have in mind? An affair? True, there’d been that moment when things had got electric between them. But despite his protestations of innocence he must have created some electricity for Chantal—quite possibly he was able to turn it on and off like a tap!

But how much of the real Brett Spencer did she know? Enough to make an informed decision on the subject of taking the quantum leap into his bed?

‘There’s something here that doesn’t gel,’ she said to herself, and with a sigh got to work on her kite.

Chapter Five

SIMON came home late on Sunday afternoon looking tanned and fit and glowing with enthusiasm. Causing Ellie to say with a trace of irony, after she’d welcomed him with open arms, that for such an avowed away-fromnature freak his enthusiasm for camping was a little surprising.

‘It’s all in the company, Mum! We had a ball, mid-night feasts, we played poker and I got to abseil down a cliff!’

She raised her eyebrows.

‘Just as well you weren’t there,’ he said with a cheeky grin. ‘You’d have been having kittens.’

Ellie upended his bag on the kitchen floor to find every piece of clothing mud-stained and damp. ‘Glory be,’ she murmured. ‘Did it rain a lot up there?’

‘Nope, not a drop!’

‘So?’ She picked up a T-shirt gingerly.

‘There was this fantastic waterhole. We used to pretend we were hippos and sing that song.’

“‘Mud, mud, glorious mud?”’

‘Yep.’ Simon dissolved into laughter.

‘You are aware that you’ve probably ruined all these clothes?’

‘No way,’ he said blithely. ‘You’re brilliant at getting out stains!’

‘I just hope your faith in her isn’t misplaced,’ Brett said, coming into the kitchen and eyeing the mound of clothes ruefully. ‘But it’s good to have you back, mate.’

‘Just between you and me, it’s good to be back,’ Simon said and cocked an eye in Ellie’s direction. ‘She been handling things OK?’

‘Simon,’ Ellie said severely.

‘She had a couple of lonely days,’ Brett answered, ‘but I kept an eye on her and I took her out to lunch yesterday.’

Ellie put her hands on her hips. ‘Would you two stop discussing me as if I wasn’t right here in this kitchen—or only about ten myself?’

Simon came over to her and put his arms around her waist. ‘Remember when you used to read me Winnie the Pooh years ago? And James James Morrison Morrison Weatherby George Dupree who took great care of his mother although he was only three? I wouldn’t have gone on this camp if I hadn’t thought I was leaving you in good hands—you’ve got to take care of the people you love!’ He hugged her.

For some reason as Ellie’s eyes met Brett’s over the top of Simon’s head she disturbed a narrowed thoughtful look in his. Then the moment broke, Simon moved away from her and announced that he was starving.

‘Some things never change,’ she said wryly. ‘Well—’

‘Let’s have a barbecue,’ Brett suggested. ‘Why don’t you sit outside and leave it all to us, Ellie? I reckon you deserve a break.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind—’

‘Do as you’re told, Mum,’ Simon said firmly.

‘Talk about having not one but two bossy males in the house,’ she marvelled, and looked around her kitchen a little apprehensively.

‘We’ll also clean up,’ Brett murmured, interpreting her look accurately. ‘Off you go. I’ll bring you a drink.’

To their credit, while they kept it simple, it wasn’t a bad barbecue the two men in her life presented.

Brett lit the fire and grilled sausages, steak and onions, at the same time instructing Simon in the finer arts of barbecuing. And between them they concocted new po-tatoes in their jackets brushed with melted garlic butter and sprinkled with chopped parsley; and sliced tomato drizzled with dressing and topped with basil.

‘I’m impressed,’ she said. ‘I may be able to hand the kitchen over to you two completely!’

Simon and Brett exchanged identical glances—expressions of extreme reluctance that made her laugh softly. ‘Don’t worry, only teasing. Thanks, guys!’ She raised her glass to them. ‘You’ve done good.’

They ate leisurely, enjoying the evening and the aroma of wood smoke lingering on the air although there were distant flashes of lightning on the horizon.

Then out of the blue Simon said, ‘What school did my dad go to, Mum?’

For a moment Ellie was floored and it was Brett who answered. He named a famous private school and added that it was his old school too.

‘Gosh! My best friend, Martie Webster’s dad went there, and Martie’s going when he gets to high school. Will I be able to, Mum?’

Ellie hesitated. ‘I don’t think so, Simon. It’s the kind of school you probably need to have your name put down for when you’re born. But…’ she paused as his face fell ‘…you must have other friends who are going to the local high school?’

He shrugged. ‘I guess so. I just thought it would be nice to go to my dad’s old school. And it would be nice to know a bit more about him.’

‘You look a lot like him, Simon,’ Brett said easily. ‘And did you know he lived in this house? He lost his mother and father when he was thirteen so he came to us.’

Simon looked around interestedly. ‘Could you tell me about that?’

‘Sure.’ Brett stood up. ‘Let’s do the dishes at the same time. And I guess your mum would like a cup of coffee.’

They left Ellie on the terrace—prey to some conflicting emotions. An ache in her heart because the time had finally come for Simon to think about his father. She’d tried to prepare herself as well as she could for the in-evitable questions and had fallen at the first fence—not even remembering what school Tom had been to. But the most conflicting emotion was—how much more hero worship would Brett Spencer earn as the one person Simon could talk to about Tom?

Coffee came but Simon decided to take himself to bed.

He shook his head as he yawned mightily and said quaintly, ‘It’s all that fresh air! Night, Mum.’ He kissed her and took himself off.

Brett sat down.

‘What…what did you tell him?’ Ellie asked.

‘How good Tom used to be at cricket, how he’d always been fascinated by building bridges and roads, how he was the only person I ever knew who could imitate a fish perfectly—that kind of thing.’

‘And polo? I’ve only ever told him it was a riding accident.’

Brett seemed to go quite still for a moment. Then he said, barely audibly, ‘No. I didn’t mention polo. About his schooling, Ellie?’

She sighed and thought for a bit. Tom’s old school had an excellent academic as well as sporting record, not to mention conferring considerable status in the old-school-tie stakes. ‘There’s no way I could afford it even if I could get him in.’

‘I could.’

It was Ellie’s turn to go still. Then she said awk-wardly, ‘I know you could afford it but what about the waiting list? I’m sure there is one.’

He stared at her for a long moment. ‘There is, but there are also places for old boys’ sons.’

‘That might have helped if Tom and I had been married but we weren’t,’ she said, ‘so I don’t suppose it applies. And I couldn’t accept any more financial help from you, Brett.’

‘I was talking about—as my son.’

Ellie blinked rapidly. ‘You mean…?’

‘If we got married, Ellie, I could get Simon into the school his father went to and his best friend is going to, but those aren’t the only reasons—it’s a damn good school and he has so much potential, he deserves it.’

‘Brett,’ she whispered, ‘I can’t believe this!’

‘Why not?’ he asked impatiently.

‘Is there…’ she hesitated and made herself think as clearly as she could ‘…is there something that’s made you decide you need a wife? And since I’m—virtually—in place, so to speak, I might as well be it?’

‘No. I wouldn’t put it like that.’ He paused and nar-rowed his eyes. ‘But we are “in place”. We’re virtually living a phantom marriage right now. And the reason we got here was because we both have the same person’s interests very much at heart. That has never changed. Only it’s got more critical now, and up until now I’ve had the easy part.’ He paused again. ‘I also have Simon’s blessing.’

‘How?’

‘He saw us that night.’

‘I know but…’ She was lost for words.

‘He came to me the next morning very much man-to-man and explained how it had happened. He also gave me to understand I had his blessing, and he gave me some advice.’

‘I don’t believe it!’ But it was more out of sheer frus-tration that she said it—she could quite believe it of Simon.

‘When did he tell you?’ Brett enquired.

‘The morning he rang from camp. Advice?’ she repeated with deep misgiving. ‘What kind of advice?’

‘He explained that in his opinion you were a very cautious person, you didn’t take easily to new ideas and it was all in the handling.’

Ellie all but choked.

‘He is your son,’ Brett commented wryly.

‘I just hope you…didn’t get his hopes up, Brett Spencer!’

He watched her for a moment. ‘I’ve discovered that with Simon there are times when you don’t need to say much. So I was essentially noncommittal. Although I think I gave him to understand that he needn’t play an active role in any negotiations between you and I.’

‘Brett, has it occurred to you that you seem to spend a lot of time giving people advice they don’t take?’

He raised an eyebrow at her.

‘Well, there’s Chantal Jones, still more than convinced you’re the right man for her, and Simon—’ She broke off and bit her lip.

‘He gave you some advice despite my advice?’ Brett suggested wryly. ‘Even his blessing perhaps?’

Ellie was silent, in itself a dead give away.

‘There you go, then,’ Brett said. ‘As for the romantic side of things, that’s also “in place”, wouldn’t you say?’ There was more than a tinge of irony in his grey eyes.

She shivered suddenly. ‘Romance is one thing, love is another and that’s what I need. It’s been too long and hard a road to…compromise.’

‘Love can come and go,’ he said evenly. ‘It could even be the most misunderstood emotion of all. But what might make it prosper is a common goal such as providing a child with a stable family life.’

She flinched this time.

He saw it and added, ‘As a matter of fact I not only have Simon’s best interests at heart, but yours as well. Can you honestly tell me, Ellie, that a stable married life to me wouldn’t be a better bet than a succession of—artists, musicians and back-to-nature freaks?’

She was silent, feeling hurt and foolish, and, because of it, on the defensive but what came next wiped the floor with her pride.

‘Can you honestly say—’ he sat forward ‘—that cer-tain emotions the long, hard road froze are not cla-mouring for expression now? Eleven years is a long time to clamp down on wanting to…live and love.’

She closed her eyes.

‘In that sense,’ he went on quietly, ‘I am a much better bet than the choices you’ve made up to now.’

He saw it in her eyes as her lashes fluttered up, as if a shutter had come down, and knew he’d gone too far and hurt her pride. But he couldn’t seem to help himself. In fact it was worse. He didn’t care that he couldn’t help himself. Why? Because he’d never before acknowledged to himself how hard he’d had to clamp down on the interest she’d aroused in him all those years ago? The interest that had caused him to wonder about his best friend’s girl in ways that he shouldn’t have. That interest and curiosity about her essence as a woman…

Had it then become habit, he wondered, that clamping down? Helped along by a streak of guilt because he’d thought of her the way he had while she’d been Tom’s girl? Although one thing had never changed. He had always been determined to do as much for Tom King’s son as he could.

She drained her coffee and stood up. ‘On the other hand, I think Chantal is a much better bet for you, Brett.’

‘Ellie.’ His voice was suddenly hard. ‘I have no intention of letting Tom’s son be subjected to your dubious choice in men.’

She gasped as he got up and towered over her looking determined enough to do anything. But she stood her ground and paid the price. He took her in his arms.

‘Brett, this is not what I would have believed of you,’ she said stiffly.

A flicker of amusement chased through his eyes. ‘Why not? I’m a man and I’ve been wanting to kiss you for eleven years.’

‘No, you haven’t,’ she contradicted. ‘It may have crossed your mind once or twice eleven years ago, that’s all.’

‘It not only crossed my mind, I did it a few days ago.’ His words were barely audible but they came across to her with a comprehensive glance of an intensity that shook her a little. Then he added with another flicker of humour, ‘You may be able to turn these things on and off like a tap; I can’t.’

Ellie’s mouth fell open as his words mirrored what she’d mentally accused him of in relation to Chantal.

‘That’s struck a chord?’ he said slowly.

She closed her mouth with a click.

‘As in suspecting…me of it?’ he hazarded.

She went crimson and he started to laugh softly. ‘Well, well, Ms Madigan,’ he drawled, ‘my reputation if nothing else is at stake here. I think I need to prove you wrong!’

‘Reputation—or ego?’

‘Could be both,’ he said blandly. ‘There’s only one way to find out—’ He stopped as a flash of lightning right above them lit the night, then a crack of thunder followed.

Ellie shivered and clutched at him.

‘Scared,’ he said softly and folded her closer.

‘Mmm…’ She flinched at another flash of lightning. ‘Brett, let’s get inside!’

‘OK.’ He picked her up as if she were a feather and carried her into the lounge as the first raindrops fell like bullets. ‘Would you like to check on Simon?’ he suggested as he put her on her feet.

‘Yes! Although he doesn’t mind storms.’

‘I’ll do it, you sit down.’

She sank onto the settee and waited until he came back.

‘He’s fine,’ he said a few minutes later, sitting down beside her. ‘He’s out like a light. Does he always take Guinness World Records to bed?’ And he took her in his arms as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

She smiled. ‘Always. It’s his great ambition to be in it one day, he just hasn’t decided what for.’ And, as if the cork on the bottle of her emotions had suddenly popped, there were tears in her eyes although she was still smiling. She dashed at them impatiently. ‘Sorry, don’t know what’s got into me.’

‘Oh, Ellie,’ he said on a breath, and started to kiss her.

When he stopped, she was feeling far from tearful. Warm, cherished, drowsy and completely relaxed. And completely at home. In fact she fell asleep in his arms.

He looked down at her face nestled against his shoulder, and could feel her gentle curves against him, and found himself feeling protective.

He laid his head back, careful not to disturb her, and examined with some surprise what had transpired this evening. He had actually articulated the thought that had come to him several times down the years—that they get married for Simon’s sake. Little to know that he was now questioning how much of it had to do with Simon, and questioning his difficulty in seeing past marrying her for all the wrong reasons. Although, he reflected with a tightening of his mouth, there was one wrong reason she didn’t even know about.

But if he was questioning his motives, what of hers?

He looked down at her sleeping so peacefully in his arms.

There was no doubt she responded to him physically but would she, could she fall in love again? With him? Because, he acknowledged, unless they got it right, all other considerations aside, they might not benefit Simon at all. In other words, he would have to go out of his way to make Simon’s mother happy, if that was what he wanted to achieve for Simon himself.

He looked down at Ellie again as she moved slightly but didn’t wake. And there was, of course, his thoughts ran on, his part in Tom King’s son, a boy he was growing more attached to by the day, being fatherless…

Ellie woke up in her bed the next morning, still fully clothed although her shoes had been removed.

She sat up suddenly, then it all fell into place. But a glance at her bedside clock saw her scatter bedclothes left, right and centre; she’d slept in and had a bare half-hour to get Simon off to school and herself off to work.

But Brett was already up and Simon was dressed and ready for school, calmly eating his cereal and fruit as she flew into the kitchen, still buttoning up her blouse.

She skidded to a stop, eyed the situation and said lamely, ‘Oh.’

‘Hi, Mum! You look a bit frazzled.’

And Brett, whom she had no idea how to face, put a cup of tea down in her place at the table with a mur-mured greeting.

‘Thanks.’ She slid into her chair and sipped the tea gratefully. She was never much good for anything until she’d had a cup of tea in the morning. ‘Uh…how come you two are up so bright and early?’

‘We’ve been for a jog and a swim,’ Simon said virtuously. ‘You should try it.’

‘I…maybe I will one day.’

Brett sat down. He wore his usual attire for work, moleskins and a checked shirt, and as usual he looked alert and altogether too much man for any woman to have to cope with at that time of the day. ‘Guys,’ he said casually, ‘I have to go away for a few days. Think you’ll manage without me?’

‘Sure.’

‘Definitely!’

Simon and Ellie spoke at the same time with Ellie being the most emphatic of the two and Brett flicked her a quizzical little look.

‘Where to?’ Simon enquired.

‘A board meeting of a company I’m involved with in Sydney. I’d actually forgotten about it until I got a call from someone last night. And while I’m down there I have a few other things to do but I’ll be back on Thursday.’

Ellie said airily, ‘Not a problem. We’re used to being on our own, aren’t we, kid?’

Simon saluted her. ‘You gotta admit it’s nice to have a man around the place, though, Mum.’

‘Oh, I do—lunch!’ Ellie got up distractedly.

‘All taken care of,’ Brett said. ‘And I’ll drop Simon off at school—when you’re ready, mate.’

‘I’ll just clean my teeth. Meet you in the car! Bye, Mum!’

Brett waited until Simon was out of earshot, then he came over to where Ellie was standing looking shell-shocked. ‘I’m sorry about this,’ he said quietly. ‘I did forget all about it.’

‘That’s OK.’

‘Is it?’ There was a humorous little glint in his eyes.

She twisted her hands together. ‘About last night.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Nothing happened—that you weren’t aware of.’

She bit her lip. ‘I didn’t mean that. But I…got a bit carried away again.’

‘No, Ellie, we got carried away again. It’s almost becoming a habit with us.’

She said bravely, ‘What about the rest of it?’

‘Maybe…’ he paused ‘…a few days apart isn’t such a bad idea. To get things into perspective?’

A flash of amusement made the golden flecks in her eyes more noticeable. ‘You’re suggesting I “think” about it?’

A cheeky tiddly-pom sounded on the hooter of Brett’s Range Rover, courtesy of Simon.

‘I did hesitate to use that word,’ he conceded gravely, ‘in case you felt like screaming. But—why not?’

Ellie took a breath. ‘All right, but I’m not promising anything,’ she warned.

‘Of course you’re not!’ he said bracingly. ‘In the meantime, your son is getting impatient. So, hasta luego, muchacha!’

Ellie looked surprised, then her lips quivered. ‘And the same to you, muchacho.’

Unfortunately, the next few days proved to be incredibly busy as not one but two colleagues were laid low by a gastric bug doing the rounds, thereby doubling her work-load. It was a busy week for Simon as well with the school swimming carnival approaching, the end of year school play and the cricket season was under way.

Therefore he needed an enormous amount—or so it sometimes felt—of transporting to and from the school pool, the school hall, the cricket field, not to mention the making of his costume for the play—he was to be a trooper in a Ned Kelly saga.

‘I suppose it could have been worse,’ Ellie muttered to herself one evening. ‘He could have been Ned Kelly—then I’d have had to come up with a tin and metal costume.’

‘I tried out for Ned Kelly,’ Simon commented, over-hearing her. ‘But I’m not so sure he was the hero every-one seems to think he was.’

‘He was a bush ranger,’ Ellie agreed. ‘But circum-stances, they claim, made him one.’ She put down the jacket she was sewing buttons onto and concentrated more closely on what Simon had said. ‘Did you knock back being Ned Kelly? Because you’re not sure he was such a hero?’

‘Yep.’

‘You didn’t tell me that!’

‘I was afraid you’d accuse me of un-Australian inclinations.’

Ellie blinked, then started to laugh. ‘You are a char-acter, Simon. To be honest, I’ve never felt quite comfort-able with Ned Kelly myself. So I’m glad you decided to stay on the side of the law.’

Later, however, on her own and getting ready for bed, Ellie reflected that, for ten, Simon was unusually per-ceptive and enquiring of mind. Which brought her face to face with the issue of his schooling and the short hop to the issue of marrying Brett Spencer.

She changed into a cotton-knit nightshirt and stretched wearily before she climbed into bed and pulled a pillow into her arms for comfort. But, tired as she was, her imagination took wings. It would be no penance to take Brett into her arms night after night, it would be sheer bliss, she thought, and moved restlessly as her body reacted to her thoughts.

And she knew enough now to know that it would be no penance for him to make love to her. But forever? she wondered. Or, would it one day turn to duty and, if so, how could she bear that?

Yet, are there forevers for anyone? she wondered. And what about Chantal Jones? Wasn’t he attracted to her as well?

The next morning, she had a later start, thanks to her laid-low colleagues being back at work, and the subject of Chantal came up in the form of Dan paying her a visit. A chastened, supremely embarrassed Dan.

‘You don’t have to explain,’ she said as she poured him a cup of coffee and told him to sit down. ‘I quite understand.’

‘I do, Ellie,’ he insisted. ‘I don’t know what came over me!’

Ellie studied his earnest expression. ‘Dan,’ she said slowly, ‘I hope you aren’t still hoping that you and I—’

‘Ellie—’

‘No, listen to me, Dan, I’m not for you and that’s the way things are.’

‘I just didn’t want you thinking badly of me. But I guess most men would get in a bit of a flutter over someone like Chantal,’ he said slowly. ‘I mean—it doesn’t really mean anything and, anyway, heaven alone knows who the right guy is for her, but I’m sure it wouldn’t be me.’

Ellie grimaced inwardly at these revealing, less-than-flattering sentiments, did he but know it, but she returned resolutely, although obliquely, to the main issue. ‘How much leave have you got left, Dan?’

‘Two weeks.’

‘Good, because there’s no reason on earth that you mightn’t be just the right guy for Chantal and you’ve got a bit of time to put it to the test.’

He stared at her with his mouth open. ‘Ellie—’

‘Dan, really,’ she said firmly, ‘I’m not for you. But you’ll never know about Chantal unless you give it a try.’

‘How…?’ He cleared his throat. ‘How would you go about it? If you were me?’

‘I think,’ Ellie said seriously, and thought rapidly at the same time as she controlled an insane desire to laugh, ‘persistence might be the key with Chantal. And I think she might like a good time—you do know she’s…a dancer?’ There was sudden anxiety in Ellie’s eyes.

‘Yes—remember, she told us about the revue she’s in?’

Ellie relaxed although she couldn’t remember if the word ‘topless’ had featured. ‘Of course. But I think she would also appreciate a fairly subtle approach—keep trying, in other words, but don’t be too obvious.’

Dan sat up, looking like a new man. ‘I’ll do it! But just remember, Ellie, if ever you need a friend, give me a call.’

Her gaze softened. ‘Thanks, Dan.’

When he’d left, she put her hand to her mouth and wondered wildly what she’d let him in for, not to mention Chantal. Well, she was pretty sure Chantal could take care of herself but…She heaved a sigh and wondered instead what Brett would make of her meddling.

Then she stood up and tossed her head. Who gave a damn? They were both grown men.

‘So?’

It was Friday again, Brett had been delayed in Sydney and he’d got home just in time for dinner. Simon had had his earlier and was at a rehearsal.

And Ellie had blinked when he’d come in the back door. She’d never seen him so formally dressed, in a dark suit, a grey and white pinstriped shirt, a charcoal and green tie, and he’d taken her breath away.

He’d shed his jacket and tie and sat down at the kitchen table where she’d just started her dinner—home-made lasagne—and asked his one-word question.

‘Uh…hi!’ Ellie said, and after an uncertain start rushed on, ‘I hope you made sure that no woman sitting next to you switched overnight bags.’

He glanced at the bag he’d dropped to the floor wryly. ‘No chance of that. She was eighty if she was a day.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t get too blaseé, Brett.’ She bit her lip and wondered where she was coming from—out to make him aware of how attractive he was? Or talking from fright because of the effect he’d had on her and because she hadn’t decided anything?

‘So?’ he said again. ‘How’s it going?’

She breathed a discreet sigh of relief. ‘Fine. Well, incredibly busy.’

He served himself some lasagne. ‘How so?’

She explained, causing him to look at her rather narrowly, then get up and open a bottle of wine.

And her eyes widened as he placed a glass beside her plate and murmured, ‘You look as if you could do with it.’

‘How am I looking?’

He studied her simple apple-green top and cargo shorts, then her face and eyes. ‘A bit stressed out. What you need is some relaxation. Such as Delia’s party tomorrow night.’

Ellie grimaced. ‘I’d forgotten all about it.’

‘I don’t know much about women,’ Brett Spencer said then with a most wicked little glint in his grey eyes, ‘but as an antidote to stress mightn’t all the trappings of a party help?’

‘What exactly do you mean by all the trappings?’

He shrugged. ‘A new dress, a visit to the beauty parlour perhaps, a lazy afternoon—I’ll do all Simon’s trans-porting—then a night of good food, good music and a bit of fun?’

Ellie closed her eyes and visualized it all even though she knew that the feminist part of her soul should be outraged, and that Brett Spencer knew too much about women for her good.

‘There’ll have to be explanations of why we’re sharing the same house—I don’t think I could cope,’ she said simply.

‘Why don’t you leave all that up to me?’

‘But what…how will you explain it? I mean, then we have to go into whose child Simon is—don’t you see how difficult it all is for me?’

He shrugged. ‘Ellie, this will not be the Spanish Inquisition. We don’t have to say a word on any of those subjects. But it so happens that Delia has a child from an earlier relationship.’

‘Oh!’

He smiled slightly. ‘The world has moved on from the days when that kind of thing was taboo, Ellie.’

‘I know that, but the biggest problem of all,’ she soldiered on, ‘is going out as a couple when nothing is resolved between us. You seem to think it can be on the basis of two kisses, I don’t—’

‘Two very pleasurable kisses.’

‘Maybe.’ She moved restlessly, then squared her shoulders with more spirit than she actually felt.

‘What exactly are you looking for, Ellie?’ he said slowly. ‘A declaration of undying love from me?’

‘Of course not.’

His eyes flickered and she had the sensation of being on dangerous ground, although she didn’t exactly know why. She swallowed and pushed her plate away frustratedly.

‘Look, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. But if you are still divided on the benefits of marrying me…’ he paused and eyed her until she started to colour ‘…the more we see of each other in different situations, the more it might help you to make an informed judgement.’

‘Why do I get the feeling that’s another twisted bit of logic?’ she murmured and got up to clear the dishes.

But he got up too and detained her with a hand on her wrist. ‘We could always stay at home and carry on where we left off the other night,’ he said softly, and glanced significantly down at her breasts beneath the apple green top.

And his lips twisted into an absent smile as her nipples started to push against the cotton knit.

‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t…do this to me,’ she said with an effort.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘But I haven’t done a thing, Ellie.’

‘You…Let me go, please, Brett,’ she said, even more hotly embarrassed.

‘Will you come to the party?’ He caressed the soft skin on her inner wrist with his fingers.

‘That’s blackmail…’

‘Yep. But look at it this way, we wouldn’t be on our own.’ His eyes danced with sheer devilry.

‘Oh, all right! But I could be—’

‘Don’t say it, I can guess,’ he drawled. ‘Be very an-noyed about it?’

‘Well, I could!’ She stopped as the phone rang. ‘That’ll be Simon. He took my mobile so he could ring when the rehearsal was over.’

‘I’ll go and get him,’ Brett said. ‘While you work on your sense of grievance.’ He raised her wrist to his lips and kissed the back of her hand.

Chapter Six

BRETT was already out when Ellie left her bedroom the next morning but there was a note on the fridge for her saying that he’d consulted with Simon and they’d or-ganised their day so she was a free agent.

And despite all her misgivings she took herself out to do all the things he’d recommended.

She had a facial and a manicure, got her hair done, then went to shop for something to wear. Delia had told her—what seemed like an eternity ago now—that the party would be chic casual. And she finally found just the right outfit. The top was in the latest fashion, a deep rose-pink, while the skirt was a light, airy material over a lining, white with rose-pink flowers on it. About an inch of her midriff was bare where the top ended and the skirt began. And she found an elegant pair of matching pink high-heeled sandals.

Then, on a bizarre impulse, she bought herself some new lingerie, silk and lace and light as a feather and including a gossamer nightgown and robe in a pale silvery grey trimmed with ice-coloured lace. She also splurged on new cosmetics, thereby blowing all the hard-earned extra money the week had brought her and some more.

‘Wow!’ Simon stared at her. ‘You look stunning!’

‘Thank you, young man,’ Ellie said seriously. ‘I take that as a great compliment. Have you got everything?’

He was going to spend the night with Martie Webster who lived a few houses away; it was a baby-sitting arrangement Ellie and Martie’s parents had shared for years.

‘Think so. OK, have fun!’ He hugged her and took off, only to come running back for the container of Anzac cookies she’d baked. ‘And don’t do anything I wouldn’t!’ he added with a cheeky grin.

‘Why do I get the feeling there’s a lot of role reversal going on in this house?’ she asked the empty kitchen.

Brett strolled in. ‘Role reversal?’

‘I feel just like James James Morrison Morrison Weatherby George Dupree’s mother,’ she told him. ‘Mind you, let’s hope I don’t get lost like she did.’

‘I…feel I’ve missed the boat somewhere along the line,’ he said ruefully.

‘Funnily enough, so do I!’ Ellie said with irony. ‘In your case I wouldn’t worry about it.’

He blinked, then shook his head. ‘One thing I do know, you’re looking good enough to eat.’ His gaze dwelt on the satiny skin of her bare shoulder and her slim outline in her new outfit; her shining cloud of curls in their elegant bob, the tiny gold rings she wore in her ears and the perfection of her make-up; her glossy lips…

‘Yes, well—’ Ellie turned away rather hurriedly and picked up her purse ‘—let’s go.’

‘In case…we get a little carried away again?’ he postulated.

She turned back and said tartly, ‘Brett Spencer, sheer pride has rendered me into cast iron!’

He laughed softly. ‘Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said of me.’ He picked up his car keys. ‘So, you’re right, let’s go.’

As a conversation killer, his last comment worked well all the way out to Raby Bay, but he put on a favourite classical CD of hers, and she relaxed to the music and the lack of conversation didn’t seem to be a problem. Although it did occur to her that they had similar taste in music.

As he nosed the magenta Range Rover, which Simon so desired to learn to drive, into the kerb beside a brightly lit house, Ellie stared out of the window and suffered another bout of nerves.

But Brett got out and came round to open her door and give her his hand to descend the steep step to the ground. And she walked up the path beside him but stopped abruptly a few paces from the front door.

He turned to her with a raised eyebrow.

‘I won’t know a soul.’

‘Ellie—’ he took her hand ‘—you have me.’ And he dropped a light kiss on her hair. At the same time the front door swung open and Delia called a greeting.

There were about fifty people at Delia and Archie McKinnon’s anniversary party, which turned out to be a very up-market barbecue on their waterfront terrace. And while quite a few of them knew Brett, they were so out of touch with him that her place in his life and her back-ground went completely unremarked.

And she started to enjoy herself. The canapeés were excellent, the wine flowed, the background music appealed to her and the conversation was stimulating. Archie McKinnon, a barrister, was very tall and thin and had a brilliant sense of humour and both he and Delia went out of their way to make Ellie feel welcome. Archie, it also turned out, had a passion for flying kites.

Then a late guest arrived; Gemma Arden, Brett’s law-yer. As Ellie’s only contact with Brett for a number of years, she’d had quite a bit to do with Ellie and they’d become friends.

‘This is a pleasant surprise!’ Gemma said warmly. ‘How’s Simon?’

‘Fine, thank you!’

‘And how…’ Gemma looked around and lowered her voice, although Brett was helping Archie at the barbecue ‘…is our mutual friend coping with the rigours of civilization?’

A smile trembled on Ellie’s lips. ‘I don’t think it’s that easy, to be honest. It…may even have given him some strange ideas.’

Gemma’s intelligent eyes glinted a question. ‘Such as?’

Ellie grimaced and sipped some wine, regretting what she’d said.

‘I was at university with Brett,’ Gemma said quietly, ‘and I’m not only his lawyer, we’ve been friends for years, so why don’t you and I have lunch one day, Ellie? I also feel as if you and I are friends but you’re right, this probably isn’t the time or the place to discuss things—if you would like to?’

‘I would,’ Ellie said, making a sudden decision.

As they settled on Monday at twelve noon the main course was served. Reef and beef kebabs, grilled mush-rooms, potatoes Idaho, ratatouille and a marvellous array of salads. If that was not enough there was pavlova, apple pie, fruit salad and ice cream to follow.

So, when couples began to dance and Brett looked a question at her, she was lulled by food, wine and good conversation and she couldn’t resist the music. Also, Gemma had left the party—Ellie was sure she would have felt self-conscious about dancing with Brett in front of Gemma Arden.

The terrace lighting was turned off and only the underwater pool lights were left on, although lights did twinkle up and down the canal.

A jasmine creeper was perfuming the warm, sultry night air, and she felt good about herself—dressed right, not so much a single mother with all the burdens that encompassed, but an intelligent, sometimes witty person able to hold her own with a career others had found interesting. She felt as she hadn’t felt for a long time, she discovered. Yes, she’d been to parties down the long road of single-motherhood, but not often and never as enjoyable as this.

So why not? she wondered as she started to dance with Brett. And realized that some of her new-found confidence had come from his presence. He had, mysteriously, contributed moral support.

Perhaps it was gratitude, perhaps it would have happened anyway—he was great to dance with—but being in his arms gradually unlocked that pure physical delight she’d felt the last time she’d been there until she stum-bled suddenly.

He raised an eyebrow at her and stopped dancing.

‘I don’t do this very often,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I must be out of practice. I think I’d like to sit down.’

But he shook his head and drew her closer. ‘You don’t lie very well, Ellie.’ And started to move to the rhythm again.

‘Brett…’ she said shakily. ‘I thought this was what we were staying away from home to avoid?’

He glinted a look down at her that was so nakedly intimate her breath caught in her throat. A look that seemed to strip away her clothes and remove the two of them to some utterly private place where they could in-dulge their fascination with each other to the limit.

Then he said very softly, ‘It doesn’t seem to be working—and we can’t spend the rest of our lives away from home. Should we make a discreet exit?’

She looked at him helplessly. ‘I knew there was something wrong with your logic!’

‘Logic?’ he said wryly.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘The only logic that seems to apply is that we want each other, Ellie.’

‘But I’m not ready to make that decision, Brett.’

He loosened his arms. ‘Then let’s stay,’ he said dryly. ‘Why miss out on a good party for a—possible lost cause?’

A flicker of anger lit her eyes. ‘Saying something like that leads me to think you only have one thing in mind, Brett Spencer.’

‘My dear Ellie,’ he drawled, ‘have you forgotten about Chantal Jones again?’

‘No! Yes! I mean, oh, hell—she may not be very happy with me at the moment.’

‘Why on earth not?’ He stopped dancing.

Ellie explained briefly.

He stared down into her eyes for a long frozen moment, then his shoulders shook and he started to laugh. But what he said next really shook her. ‘Do you know, that’s exactly what I needed.’

‘Needed? What do you mean?’

‘I have to confess—’ he started to dance again ‘—I’ve been battling a certain element of guilt in regard to Ms Jones. It’s now gone.’

‘Guilt?’ Ellie stopped abruptly and frowned. ‘Gone?’

‘Yep.’

‘How? Why?’

He shrugged. ‘The thought of Dan Dawson falling out of love with you and into love with her has—dissolved it.’

‘Thank you,’ she said with a tinge of bitterness, but then shook her head in a mystified kind of way. ‘I still don’t understand.’

‘Look, I should never have let things go the way they did on the plane, especially as I had no intention of—following up.’

‘Because she was a topless dancer?’

‘No, well, I tried to tell myself that. But now Dan has succumbed, I don’t feel so bad about myself.’ He shrugged and looked rueful. ‘She packs a powerful punch and we’re only human.’

‘Why didn’t you have any intention of following up?’ Ellie asked with a frown.

‘I had someone called Elvira Madigan on my mind.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Even then? But you hadn’t seen me for five years!’

‘I wasn’t disappointed when I did.’ He looked down at her. ‘I should have thought,’ he added, ‘that much was obvious.’

An expression of such confusion crossed her face, he laughed softly and said, ‘Still looking for logic, Ellie? When will you understand these matters don’t respond to logic? They’re there or they’re not, they come and they go. But if you prefer to ignore them, be my guest.’ And he swung her around with a flourish and brought her to a standstill. ‘I don’t know about you but I’m thirsty.’

‘And I’m not the person who has just confessed to being attracted to two women at the same time—or did I get it wrong?’ she said tautly.

‘You got it dead right. But with Chantal it was only a prickle, just one of those things.’

‘That still doesn’t make me…feel very good,’ she said desolately. ‘Or present you in a very good light!’ she added with more spirit.

He smiled lazily down at her. ‘On the other hand I know a way to make you feel very good. What a dilemma for you, Elvira Madigan!’ he said with a sardonic glint in his eye. ‘But it’s up to you.’

He released her, waited for a moment, but when there was only confusion in her eyes he took her hand and led her towards the drinks table.

They didn’t stay until the bitter end but close to it, and the only good thing to come out of the rest of the party was that she sold a kite unseen to Archie McKinnon.

And while they maintained a friendly front for the rest of the evening, the tension in the Range Rover on the way home was tangible.

She glanced at him a couple of times beneath her lashes and saw a side of him she hadn’t seen for the past couple of weeks. The hard side of Brett Spencer, and it made her shiver inwardly. Then she cautioned herself to take it into account should she ever decide to marry him. Although, she thought with a tremor, perhaps the offer of that privilege was about to be withdrawn?

She soon discovered it wasn’t.

They went into the house by the front door and she hesitated in the hall. ‘Goodnight. It was a nice party,’ she said lamely.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked down at her impassively, his gaze lingering on the faint blue shadows beneath her eyes—and his mouth tightened for a moment. ‘You look more stressed than you did when I came home. Look, forget Chantal and think about Simon. But most importantly, think of yourself.’

She swallowed.

‘You know,’ he continued, ‘it’s come as a bit of a surprise to find that you have such reservations about me, Ellie. It makes me wonder why you didn’t move on years ago.’

Her eyes widened. ‘If…if this seems like ingratitude, it’s not that at all.’

‘Blow gratitude,’ he said roughly. ‘It’s the last thing I want. But it might be worthwhile remembering that I’ve always done what I could for you and Simon.’

There was sudden anguish in her eyes. ‘I do remember that, Brett, but this is marriage you’re talking about. It’s—’

‘It’s something we can make heavy weather of, Ellie, or not. I’m in favour of “not” but I have no doubt it’s what we should do. Go to bed,’ he said, sounding weary himself, and he turned away.

Ellie got up late on Sunday morning, just as Simon returned from Martie’s place. Brett was working in the study although he came out to get a cup of coffee.

‘You guys look as if you had a late night,’ Simon observed.

Ellie smiled feebly.

‘Good party, Mum?’

‘It was very good!’ She tried to sound enthusiastic and winced inwardly as Simon shot her a piercing little look.

‘Great food and great music,’ Brett supplied as he poured his coffee. ‘By the way, Archie rang a bit earlier. He wanted to know if he could come over and see your kites, Ellie.’

‘Oh. Well, sure!’

‘Good. I thought you’d say that so I invited them this afternoon. Why don’t we take some tea and stuff up to the park and give him a demonstration?’

‘Them?’

‘He’s bringing Delia and Grace, Delia’s daughter—she’s about your age, Simon.’

‘Ripper! I mean, I feel like flying kites in the park, although girls aren’t much good at it usually. Which ones shall we take, Mum?’

‘You choose, Simon,’ Ellie said slowly and looked around the kitchen. ‘I better do something for afternoon tea.’

‘Ellie,’ Brett said firmly, ‘you don’t have to get into hausfrau mode. I thought it would be a nice, relaxing break for you this afternoon.’

‘Just one cake, perhaps?’ she suggested.

‘Let her,’ Simon chimed in. ‘She loves cooking, I think she finds it therioptic.’

‘In that case—’ Brett looked at Simon amusedly ‘—I bow to your greater knowledge of your mum, mate—if you meant therapeutic.’

‘That’s it!’ Simon was unfazed. ‘A bit like speech therapy only occupational. Takes her mind off things, in other words.’

‘Would you two,’ Ellie said dangerously, ‘get out of my kitchen before I’m tempted to use a few choice words myself?’

‘Uh-oh! A conniption coming on!’ Simon warned. ‘I’m gone—hey, Mum, don’t forget how much I love gingerbread!’ was his parting shot. Brett followed him out after casting Ellie a look full of wry humour.

It was a perfect day for kite-flying.

Clear skies, a light breeze and not too hot. The park had sweeping views of the river, and Ellie unpacked a minor feast on one of the tables. A gingerbread cake, wafer-like savoury sandwiches and pikelets with cream and strawberry jam. There were a flask of tea and soft drinks for the children.

‘If I’d known you were going to go to so much trouble I’d have brought something myself,’ Delia protested laughingly.

‘She likes doing it,’ Brett commented.

‘Don’t start,’ Ellie warned and turned to Delia. ‘This is only a fraction of the trouble you must have gone to yesterday and—’ she grimaced ‘—I have to admit it’s true. I enjoy it.’

‘A woman of many talents!’ Archie remarked, helping himself to a pikelet.

‘How on earth you remain so thin is a complete mystery to me,’ his wife said ruefully. ‘He never stops eating!’

‘I’m still growing,’ Archie replied as he examined one of the kites and his eyes started to shine with enthusiasm. ‘Can’t you see the boy in me?’

They all laughed and Grace, who was as fair as her mother was dark and as pretty as a picture with shy blue eyes, took her stepfather’s hand lovingly. ‘Can you show me how to fly one?’

Simon stepped forward. ‘I will, if you like. Why don’t we try the butterfly? It’s one of the easiest to handle and it looks great.’

They had two hours of glorious kite-flying. Ellie was in her element. She had on her cargo shorts and a floral blouse and as she demonstrated her expertise she felt as free as a bird, lithe and lissom—almost like a girl again but not only that. It was when she was flying the kites she’d designed and made that all sorts of fantasies claimed her. That one day she’d be acclaimed for her work with speech-impeded children; that one day she’d fly over the Serengeti in a balloon or sail the South Pacific or at least see the icy peaks of the Himalayas…That one day she’d see her son in Guinness World Records as was his dream.

Today, though, the fantasy went in a different direction. That one day she’d be the confident, slightly mysterious, ever fascinating woman Brett Spencer couldn’t get enough of. As opposed, she thought as her kite soared, to the woman who ran his home efficiently and was already in place…

Several times she felt Brett’s eyes on her, taking her in from her wind-tangled curls to her bare toes; once looking slightly amused as she and Archie discussed up-draughts and down-draughts and the right wind velocity to get a kite to spin. But there was no way he could read her mind, she assured herself.

Two hours later she also realized with a pang that Simon had fallen in love for the very first time. Girls hadn’t featured much in his life until now but Grace, after she’d got over her shyness and proved an apt pupil, had changed that.

And she was watching them frolicking without a care in the world with a lump in her throat.

‘Those two have really hit it off,’ Brett said from behind her.

She turned to him. ‘Haven’t they? I may no longer be the only woman in Simon’s life.’

‘Would that be so bad if you were the woman in my life?’ he asked barely audibly.

Her eyes widened at the concept and his understanding of the situation, but she was saved from answering as Archie came up to tell them he would like to buy not one but two kites—one for Grace as well.

And shortly afterwards they packed up and went back to the house where Brett invited the McKinnons to stay for drinks.

They stayed for about an hour and it was so pleasant, Ellie felt more relaxed than she had for days.

But finally Archie stood up and drew Delia to her feet. ‘Well, beloved—’ he kissed her ‘—we should go but—do you think we’ll be able to tear Grace away?’ Grace and Simon were watching television together in the den.

They all laughed and it was arranged that Grace would receive an invitation to the school play.

But although Simon watched the car all the way down the drive, he was reticent on the subject of Grace McKinnon. In fact they were all reticent, Ellie noticed, but as if a peace of sorts had descended on the house after a lovely afternoon—or, more accurately, on herself and Brett. She made macaroni cheese for supper, then she went out to water the garden.

That was where Brett found her, barefoot and enjoying the smell of damp earth.

‘I can’t get over what you’ve done for this garden.’ He looked around. She was watering the herbs and the air was fragrant with, not only damp earth, but pepper-mint and rosemary, thyme and dill. ‘Enjoy yourself?’

‘Yes. They’re very nice. Why did Delia only marry Archie three years ago? You said something last week about always thinking they were made for each other. And they do seem to be.’

He pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘I guess you don’t always see what’s right in front of you. Archie was always crazy about Delia but she…I don’t know, maybe she wanted to spread her wings. Then she fell for a married man, had Grace, but when it came to the crunch he didn’t leave his wife.’

‘Nice that it’s had a happy ending,’ Ellie commented and moved along to the roses.

Brett followed, untangling the hose for her where it had got into a knot. ‘It took him at least three years to convince her that he didn’t feel sorry for her.’ He pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands.

‘He told you that?’

‘Yes, he did. Could that be the problem with us, Ellie?’

For a moment the spray of water strayed to the path. ‘There’s a vast difference between you and Archie McKinnon, Brett,’ she said eventually.

‘Because he was always in love with Delia? Possibly, but pity doesn’t come into it now, with us.’

‘Pity must have come into it to start with,’ she said and moved to the hibiscus hedge. The hose tangled itself once more.

‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered as he straightened it and wiped his hands again. ‘Would you mind standing still for while, Elvira Madigan?’

‘I wish you wouldn’t call me that.’

‘I told you once before I thought it was a pretty name.’

‘It’s also a tragic name.’

‘Ellie…’ he paused and studied her bent head with a frown ‘…are you feeling tragic?’

She swallowed something in her throat. ‘No, of course not.’

‘What, then?’

She glanced up at him swiftly, then she said straightly, ‘When you see two people in love like that, it’s probably quite natural to feel a little discontented, that’s all.’

‘I see. So you could never imagine feeling that way about me?’

She opened her mouth to say that wasn’t the problem, but saw the trap. So she said nothing, and moved on.

Only to have the hose taken out of her hand and the water shut off at the nozzle.

‘Brett, I haven’t finished.’

‘Well, I’m tired of untangling hoses and having this conversation on the run.’ He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him with something unusu-ally grim in his expression. Then he sighed and his expression changed to quizzical. ‘You’re a hard woman to deal with, you know? OK, back to the drawing-board.’

Her lips parted. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Wait and see.’ He released her. ‘By the way, Chantal called on the phone this morning while you were asleep.’

‘She did? What…about?’

‘Apparently, she underestimated Dan Dawson when you and she cooked up the plan to get him off your back.’

‘Ah. Oh, well—’

‘Exactly what advice did you give him?’

‘I…er…told him to be persistent but not too obvious,’ Ellie said awkwardly.

Brett grinned.

He moved his palms on her shoulders and bent his head to kiss her very delicately until her lips parted be-neath his. Then he drew her closer and his kiss deepened. When they stopped he was breathing heavily and she was trembling like a taut bow line in his arms, her body ready to sing to any tune he liked to call.

‘How persistent do I have to be, Ellie?’ he asked with a tinge of irony.

Her breath came in a little jolt and colour flooded beneath the clear skin of her cheeks.

But the interrogation wasn’t over, she discovered as he said then, ‘You do realize only Simon stands between us going to bed right now?’

It was all too true but brought her no comfort in any sense. Physically it was a form of torture to contemplate going to bed with him and knowing it couldn’t happen. Mentally it was a form of torture to even attempt to tell herself, Forget about ‘couldn’t’ happen, ‘shouldn’t’ is the operative word.

And, sensually, she was lost in the heaven of his hard embrace, the roughness of his jaw against her cheek, the wisdom of his lean, strong hands that touched her exactly where she wanted to be touched, needed it desper-ately, even…

It was sheer hell as he gradually released her.

‘But Simon won’t always be around.’ He touched his fingers gently to her cheek—and walked away.

The next morning, Gemma Arden rang to say that her day wasn’t going as planned and could she postpone their lunch? Ellie agreed but it turned out that Monday fortnight was the soonest they could fit together.

It was on Tuesday that Ellie remembered Brett’s remark about ‘back to the drawing-board’ and his advice, when she’d queried it—to wait and see.

On Tuesday evening, she began to see the light…

At dinner of roast pork and all the trimmings, Brett made a series of suggestions. That on Saturday they and the McKinnons go to the movies. A new comedy had hit town and Simon was delighted with the suggestion, although he posed the question of whether the adults would enjoy it.

‘You know Archie,’ Brett said wryly. ‘Sounds right up his street! How about you, Ellie?’

‘I would love to see it,’ Ellie said simply.

‘Done, then. If we go to a matinée, we could have a meal afterwards. Next thing—’ he helped himself to some more of the pork crackling she’d crisped to perfection ‘—I think we should hire a cleaning lady.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind—’ Ellie began.

‘I do,’ he said firmly. ‘You have too many talents to be a good little handmaiden to two messy blokes so I propose someone who comes in twice a week to do the heavy cleaning and the ironing. We won’t interfere with your therioptic cookery—that would be like shooting ourselves in the foot,’ he said gravely. ‘What do you reckon, Simon?’

Simon looked at his mother with new eyes. ‘Sec-onded!’ he said crisply.

‘And last but not least,’ Brett went on, ‘I’ve been offered a dog.’

‘Yes!’ Simon shot up from his chair.

‘What kind of a dog and who by?’ Ellie enquired.

‘One of my staff. They have eight little Blue Heeler puppies to dispose of in about two weeks’ time.’

‘Uh-h-h!’ Simon closed his eyes in sheer bliss. Since a Blue Heeler with black points had been used in a series of motor car ads, Simon had longed for one himself. ‘Mum?’ He turned to her, his blue eyes pleading.

Ellie hesitated, conscious of Brett’s rather narrowed gaze on her as well. What if we leave? It ran through her mind. What if we have to move to a unit? Why are you doing this—tying me down like this, Brett Spencer?

‘Mum, I swear I’ll look after it—hey! They run dog-training classes on the cricket oval every Saturday morning. I bet you I could make it as smart as any dog you know.’

Ellie stared into his blue eyes. In fact, Simon had been dying for a dog for years. She’d refused for the same reason she should be refusing now—just in case they had to move. But was it not another facet of his life? And how could she refuse the one breed of dog Simon would be devastated to miss out on?

She sighed inwardly. If they did move on they’d just have to move to a place that took dogs…‘OK…’

She received a bear-hug of pure joy from her son but Brett said nothing. Was it her imagination, though, or did she see a faint glimmer of satisfaction in his grey eyes? she wondered. He went out shortly after dinner so she was unable to put it to the test or take issue with his methods.

That was Tuesday. On Wednesday evening he arrived home with a desk-top computer and enquired whether either of them would have any use for it.

Simon and Ellie looked at each other.

‘Could we ever!’ Simon pronounced.

‘Simon—’

But her son went on blithely, ‘The situation is, Brett, that Mum and I have done a computer course together, and I get to use them at school, she does at work, but so far we haven’t been able to afford one of our own. We’ve got a fund going—hey! Let’s make it a joint ven-ture! We’ll contribute our fund towards it.’

‘Simon,’ Ellie said firmly, ‘our fund at this stage would contribute to about one twentieth of a computer. And it’s very important work Brett does so I’m sure he wouldn’t want anyone else on his computer.’

‘The situation is, Ms Madigan,’ Brett said smoothly, ‘when we ordered computers for the laboratory, we over-estimated our needs so this one is redundant. On discovering this, I purchased it at a discount thinking that this…household could probably use one. As for my “very important work”, I will be doing all that on my new laptop.’

‘May I have a word with you in private?’ Ellie said to Brett.

‘Sure,’ Simon replied for Brett. ‘I was just going to nip over to Martie’s anyway. When will dinner be ready, Mum?’

‘Dinner?’ Ellie looked at him distractedly, as if dinner were in league with flying to the moon. ‘Uh—in an hour.’

‘OK, I’ll be back. That should give you plenty of time to sort this out.’ He slung on his baseball cap, back-wards, and disappeared through the kitchen door.

‘There are times,’ Ellie said slowly and with perfect enunciation, ‘when…’ She paused and looked suddenly stricken.

‘You could strangle him?’ Brett suggested. ‘Don’t worry, my mother had the same problem with me.’

‘I can believe that!’ Ellie replied fervently and looking slightly less stricken. ‘Between the two of you, you’re enough to drive me insane!’

‘What’s so bad about bringing home a redundant computer that would only gather dust otherwise?’ he asked.

‘Couldn’t you have returned it and got a refund?’

He shrugged. ‘Probably. As a research tool for your profession, though, I thought it would be—helpful.’

Ellie moved a couple of pots around on the stove, not quietly. ‘When do I get the time for that?’ she asked bitterly.

‘Well, that’s my other point. Once you have some help in the house, you should have a lot more time for doing the things you enjoy.’

Ellie sighed and turned away from the stove, to study him. ‘Brett, you’re trying to buy me.’

‘Why would I want to buy you, Ellie,’ he countered with a dangerous glitter in his eyes, ‘when I could have you free, gratis and for nothing?’

She flushed brilliantly but soldiered on. ‘You’re making it impossible for me to tear Simon away, you’re using Simon to keep me as a hostage and you’re doing it deliberately. You went back to the drawing-board and this is what you came up with! It’s blackmail. You even d…You even diabolically,’ she repeated as her voice got clogged up, ‘hit on the one breed of dog Simon adores.’

‘There was nothing diabolical about it,’ he denied. ‘I had no idea he was such a fan of that dog but most boys love dogs, they love the companionship, and you were the one who was trying to round out Simon’s life as much as you could, although disastrously to date. No pun on words intended,’ he added with irony. ‘Or was there? Some of your dates were obviously disasters.’

Ellie literally saw red at this piece of logic—for all that she herself had thought along exactly the same lines, at times. ‘If you say one more word about dates—’ she gripped the handle of an empty pot ‘—I’ll do something I won’t regret!’

He eyed the pot warily, then moved forward and prised her fingers off the handle. ‘Ellie, you’re overreacting.’

‘I’m not,’ she whispered as he towered over her. ‘I’m doing everything I can to prevent us making an awful mistake, Brett, that’s all.’

‘What could possibly be so awful about it?’ he asked dryly.

She stared at him.

‘Do you object to living with me as we are and have been for the past few weeks?’ he persisted.

‘No, but—’

‘So I don’t have any habits that drive you crazy or make your skin crawl?’

Ellie licked her lips. ‘No…Well, you do like to get your own way.’

He smiled briefly. ‘Is there anything I’ve done that hasn’t benefited both you and Simon?’

‘Brett, all right.’ She swallowed. ‘Most things you say make sense but what happens when you fall out of lust with me? What happens to Simon then?’

‘Or—do you mean—what happens to Elvira Madigan then?’

‘I can never separate myself from Simon,’ she said, wilfully choosing to misunderstand him because she was terrified that he’d seen right through to her heart.

‘Who doesn’t take that risk, Ellie?’ His gaze was in-tent and probing. ‘But is it only lust between us?’

‘I’ve been here for eleven years, Brett.’ It came out against her better judgement and she closed her eyes briefly.

‘Things change,’ he said slowly. ‘Then again, others don’t. You were fascinating then although I chose not to act on it; you’re fascinating now.’

‘And in between times?’

‘We both got on with our lives. Why don’t you just give in, Ellie? Believe me, you’d love it.’

Something flickered in her eyes. ‘Simon…’

‘There’s something else I had in mind for Simon but I’d never do it without consulting you first.’

‘What?’ she asked. ‘Not boarding-school—I’d never agree to that!’

‘I’d hardly be suggesting getting him a dog and sending him to boarding-school in the same breath.’ He paused and studied her. ‘I don’t know if you remember but I was the one who packed Tom’s things up and settled his affairs?’

She took a breath. ‘Yes.’

‘I’ve still got them—his personal things. Some photos, his cricket bat, his golf clubs, his old school tie, the pen he won as a maths prize at school—odds and ends like that. I thought, the next time Simon mentions him, we might, all three of us, go through them together.’

This time Ellie exhaled deeply and there was a suspicious dampness about her eyes.

‘Would that be a yea or a nay, Ms Madigan?’ he asked softly.

Her shoulders slumped and she looked at the floor.

He put his arms around her and rested his chin on her head. ‘There are so many things I admire about you, Ellie. Your spirit and grit, the wonderful home you make, your dedication to your career, the free soul I see in you when you fly your kites.’

He moved her away a little so he could look down into her eyes and disturbed a look of surprise in them. ‘You didn’t realize I saw it?’

‘No.’

‘I did. Then,’ he went on, his gaze moving lower, ‘well, I won’t go into details, this being the G-rated hour before dinner, but—well, we both know how—expressive—you can be.’ He waited, his gaze firmly fixed on her breasts.

But for once fate, or something, was on her side. She was wearing a dress. Sleeveless, with a square neck, loose, apricot and white gingham with a fine blue stripe added, but not only was it loose, it was made of seer-sucker cotton, full of little bobbles of fabric, in other words, that made it quite concealing.

When this began to dawn on Brett he raised his eyes to hers to find the little golden points in her eyes gleaming in a way that told him she had scored against him and not only knew it but was amused by it.

What followed took him even more by surprise, how-ever. She freed herself from his arms and stood gazing at him with her expression rearranged to serious. Then she stepped forward, cupped his face in her hands and murmured, ‘Two can play that game, Brett Spencer.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ he agreed, but found himself suddenly mesmerized by the sheen of her lips, the clean shine and perfume of her hair, the slender line of her throat.

‘And this.’ She drew her palms down to his chest and moved closer.

Almost of their own accord, his arms circled her and she moved even closer so that the slender lines of her body were imprinted on his—and his immediate reaction was to take an unexpected breath at the involuntary response this drew from him.

She smiled, not in triumph but something wiser and eternally feminine. And she stood on tiptoe and rested her lips against his, but just as he made a move to crush her to him she slipped away from him.

‘Ellie,’ he said huskily, ‘what was that all about?’

She shrugged delicately. ‘Something for you to think about, perhaps?’

‘Think?’ he repeated.

‘It’s what I get told to do a lot and I’m sure it’s good for anyone to shake up their thoughts occasionally.’ She looked at him gravely. ‘For example, you seem to be so sure of a lot of things in relation to me, Brett, but what do you really know about it?’

And she moved serenely into the dining room where she began to set the table.

‘What about the computer?’ He stood in the doorway watching her.

She looked over her shoulder. ‘It can stay so long as there are no more similar gestures.’

‘How kind of you, Ellie,’ he said harshly.

But not even that dented her composure. She glinted him an enigmatic little look and went on with what she was doing. And Simon came noisily through the back door.

Chapter Seven

A TRUCE reigned for the next few days.

Brett and Simon consulted on a suitable kennel for the new dog and decided to build one themselves.

The computer was installed and a cleaning lady, rec-ommended by Delia, was acquired. A vigorous woman in her mid-forties who’d come armed with a list of the products she preferred to use. After her first day, Ellie felt jittery and as if her privacy had been invaded despite the gleaming floors and absence of an overflowing ironing basket to make her feel guilty.

‘What’s wrong?’

Brett stopped on his way out to the garage where the great kennel construction was under way with a lot of banging. He had a saw in one hand and a metal tape measure in the other, having requested leave to borrow them from her kite-making tools.

She was sitting at the kitchen table in a brown study. ‘Nothing.’

‘You don’t seem to be jumping for joy over your clean house,’ he observed.

‘I am, well, I found it a little hard to handle, that’s all.’

He hesitated. ‘Perhaps you’d be better away from the house while she’s here—is that the problem? Feeling underfoot all the time?’

‘That,’ Ellie agreed, ‘and the fact that she rearranged all the ornaments and I found it hard to…give orders, I suppose.’

‘How do you treat a cleaning lady kind of thing?’ he hazarded. ‘Simple. Be friendly, have a cup of tea with her occasionally, but be quite clear on what you want her to do. Don’t leave it all up to her, in other words. That’s a sure way to lead to complacency.’

‘How do you know all this?’ Ellie enquired with a glimmer of humour.

‘Handling staff requires a universal technique whether they’re lab assistants, interns or cleaning ladies. A friendly but firm touch.’ He looked at the tools in his hands and became rueful. ‘Building kennels, on the other hand, is not my area of expertise.’

‘Why did you agree to it, then?’

A look of frustration crossed his face. ‘It’s only a box with a roof on it, I thought it would be a piece of cake!’

‘Would you like a hand?’

‘No. Thank you, but no,’ he said with dignity. ‘My pride has taken a bit of a hammering as it is so I intend to succeed here.’

‘Your…?’

‘As you very well know,’ he said softly.

Ellie looked away first and he went back to the kennel.

But in the peace of the kitchen she pondered the na-ture of the truce that reigned at 3 Summerhill Crescent. Had she really given Brett something to think about? If so, what was he thinking? What would be his next step?

His very next step was to hammer a finger instead of the nail he’d been intending to bang into the kennel, with an accompanying yell and a string of curses that nearly took the roof off.

When the tumult had subsided somewhat, i.e. he’d been taken to hospital, had it X-rayed to establish whether he’d broken it—he hadn’t but it was severely bruised—and had it bound up securely with all his fingers on that hand immobilized on a splint for pain relief, and they were back home, she said, ‘I thought doctors were particularly nimble-fingered?’

He looked at her broodingly over the tea she’d made to revive them all. ‘Surgeons are. I’m a different kind of doctor.’

‘But surely all doctors learn to operate to a certain level?’

‘There’s a vast difference between building a kennel and operating on a human being, Ellie!’

‘Mum, leave it,’ Simon advised. He turned to Brett. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it, mate,’ he said kindly. ‘We can’t all be good at everything and Martie’s dad has all the right tools. He’ll finish it off for us. I’m going to bed, I’m worn out. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight,’ Ellie and Brett chorused.

‘He’s right,’ Ellie said reasonably. ‘We can’t all be good at everything.’

‘When has your son being right, even if you damn well know it, not produced a sense of ire in you if not to say all the indignity of role reversal?’ he enquired acidly.

Ellie hid a smile. ‘It can be a bit demoralising, I agree. But—’

‘Hell! Don’t you start humouring me, Ellie!’

She sat back. ‘OK. I won’t say another word.’

He watched her darkly as she sipped her tea then folded her hands in her lap. ‘That doesn’t mean to say you have to stop talking to me!’

‘What would you like to talk about?’

He regarded his immobilized left hand with huge ir-ritation. ‘As a matter of fact I don’t want to talk at all. What I would really like is something quite different.’

‘Such as?’ she asked, unwisely as it happened.

‘I’d like someone to take me to bed and make love to me very gently, then hold me in her arms until I fell asleep. I’d like some TLC, in other words.’

For a moment Ellie was truly tempted as they stared into each other’s eyes. To be able to kiss away his blues and lead him down a path of delight for both of them would be heaven, she freely acknowledged. To know that he actually needed her…No, don’t even think about it, she advised herself.

She stood up. ‘Brett, if I were ever to do that, I think you would be much happier to have full use of both hands. But I do have a light sedative they gave me at the hospital in case you had trouble sleeping.’

Several expressions chased through his eyes. ‘I told you this once before, but you’re a hard woman, Ellie. It’s going to take more than a light sedative to get me to sleep now.’

‘Don’t you believe it. Goodnight,’ she said.

He stood up himself. ‘Before you go, Ellie.’ He slipped his good arm around her waist, pulled her close with surprising strength and said to her look of surprise, ‘Just thought I’d give you a demonstration of what I can do one-handed.’ He bent his head and started to kiss her in a way that told her plainly he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

In fact he kissed her breathless and managed to bal-ance his injured hand lightly on her shoulder at the same time. Then he let her go. ‘There. Take that to bed with you, Elvira.’

She licked her bruised lips and put her hands to her heart in an attempt to slow it down while her body was racked with sensual anticipation that was going to go unrequited because, apart from anything else, she was quite sure she hated him at the moment at least. And her eyes were distinctly stormy as she said tautly, ‘Talk about a boyish attempt to salvage your pride!’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ he drawled. ‘Some pride may have been involved.’ His lips twisted. ‘But if you can’t take the heat with a real man, perhaps you should get out of the kitchen?’

Ellie looked around wildly. They so happened to be in the kitchen.

Which caused him to look briefly amused. ‘That was a figure of speech.’

‘It had better be,’ she said between her teeth and clenched her fists. ‘What’s more, if you weren’t already injured, I’d…’

She stopped as he took one of her hands and uncurled her fingers. And to her great surprise he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers. Then, with a rather weary sigh, he said, ‘Go to bed, Ellie. This is getting all out of proportion.’

He returned her hand to her and turned away.

She went to bed but not to sleep, for ages, anyway.

First of all, she was still seething about men. Men, who could kiss you against your will and issue insults when their pride got trampled—when had she ever in-sulted him? she asked herself bitterly. Surely her remark about doctors being nimble-fingered couldn’t have dented his ego to that extent? And then, she marvelled, they could accuse you of making mountains out of molehills.

But finally the seething gave way to some inexplicable tears and a tired feeling of confusion—and loneliness. So lonely and muddled and unhappy, in fact, she even got up once and stood beside her door desperate for some kind of relief…

If anyone needs some TLC, she thought ruefully, it’s me.

But in the end she didn’t have the nerve to do it, and she went sadly back to bed.

‘What the hell happened to you?’ Archie McKinnon stared at Brett’s hand.

‘Don’t ask,’ Brett replied. They’d just met up with the McKinnons outside the cinema complex.

‘Could have happened to anyone,’ Simon offered.

‘Thanks, pal,’ Brett said. ‘In fact it probably could not, but the least said the better. Shall we?’ He gestured for them to enter the cinema foyer.

Causing Delia to cast Ellie a laughing little look of enquiry as they dropped back a bit behind the rest of the party.

Ellie explained briefly, finishing up, ‘But don’t tell him I told you. He’s not in a very good mood.’

‘Cross my heart,’ Delia promised. ‘Men!’ she added with so much feeling Ellie had to laugh, and found herself feeling a lot better. A process that had actually be-gun on seeing Grace in a denim overall dress with a red and white striped T-shirt and her hair in two bunches with red ribbons—and the way Simon’s face had lit up at the sight of her.

And, satisfyingly laden down with popcorn and Coke, they all made their way to their seats.

Approximately ninety minutes later they emerged and even Brett was still laughing.

They had a lively dinner at a pavement restaurant and finally took their respective offspring to their respective homes.

‘Thank you for that,’ Ellie said to Brett. ‘I hope it wasn’t too…young for you.’

‘I enjoyed it and I especially enjoyed seeing Grace and Simon enjoy it so much. You too,’ he added rather wryly.

Ellie grimaced. ‘There is still, obviously, a bit of a kid in me. How’s your finger?’

‘Throbbing a bit.’

She hesitated.

He waited, giving her his grave attention.

‘Er…nothing,’ she said lamely.

He smiled like a tiger at play; lazily, humorously, but never leaving you in doubt that, verbally anyway, he could demolish you.

‘I’m going to bed,’ Ellie said hastily.

‘Why not?’ he mused gently. ‘We both probably need a good night’s sleep.’

Ellie set her lips at the innuendo—that she had spent as uncomfortable a night as he had—and decided to counter it. ‘I certainly do.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s my market morning tomorrow so I have to be up at the crack of dawn.’ And she strolled away to her bedroom.

She’d always loved a market atmosphere, and to have her own stall amidst the bustle was an extra pleasure.

There were a myriad products for sale: clothes, fresh produce, pot plants, cut flowers, art and craft work, homemade jams, chutneys and preserves, biscuits and cakes—but only one kite stall. And she’d recently ac-quired a folding canopy so she and her kites were pro-tected from the elements. She also had two folding chairs and a picnic hamper. In fact, during a lull, she was pouring herself a cool drink from a Thermos flask when Chantal strolled past, did a double take, and came back.

‘Ellie!’

Ellie looked up, and froze for a moment. ‘Hi!’ she said belatedly. And added, because she felt guilty on several fronts in regard to Chantal Jones, ‘Have you got time for a cold drink?’

‘Sure do!’ Chantal plonked herself down in the other chair, removed the picture hat she wore with very short, tight shorts and a bikini top, and fanned herself with it. ‘It gets bloody hot in this part of the world!’

Ellie delved into the basket and produced another plastic glass. ‘Here you go. Very cold, home-made lem-onade. Chantal…’ she paused and sat down herself ‘…I hope you don’t hate me?’

Chantal studied her glass, then raised her remarkable violet eyes. ‘I thought about it,’ she said slowly, and Ellie held her breath. Then the other girl giggled suddenly and went on, ‘Do you have any idea how persis-tent Dan Dawson can be?’

Ellie grimaced. ‘I’m afraid I told him to be…well, I actually told him to be persistent but not too obvious,’ she confessed.

‘That explains why I’m here—’ Chantal looked around ruefully ‘—at a market.’

Ellie’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You’re here with Dan? At his suggestion?’

‘Yep! Nice, clean, not too obvious fun, I guess. Although we are going to South Bank for lunch.’

Ellie’s lips quivered, although she still looked a bit mystified. ‘But he knows I have a stall here—and where is he?’

Chantal waved a hand. ‘There’s a toy-train exhibition over there. He was entranced so I left him to it—told him I’d wander around on my own for a bit. And he obviously doesn’t mind the thought of me bumping into you—men are really weird sometimes.’

Their gazes locked.

‘What did Brett tell you about us?’ Ellie asked nervously.

Chantal continued to study her. ‘He told me he was going to marry you come hell or high water, Ellie,’ she said at last.

Ellie’s mouth dropped open.

Chantal frowned. ‘You didn’t know?’

Ellie looked confused. ‘I know now—I mean, not the come hell or high water bit, although I’ve started to sus-pect it lately—but, for Simon’s sake, he’s decided it’s a good idea.’

‘And for your sake?’

Ellie dropped her gaze from the acute little query in Chantal’s eyes and sipped some lemonade.

‘How long have you been in love with him?’

Chantal’s words hung in the air.

‘From the day he rescued me beside a parking meter eleven years ago,’ Ellie said barely audibly and closed her eyes briefly. ‘That is so unbelievable,’ she added.

‘Why?’

Ellie hesitated. ‘I told you about Tom? Well, he’d barely gone from me, it was only a few months so it makes me feel…terrible.’

Chantal sat forward. ‘Honey, these things happen.’ She grimaced. ‘If it’s any consolation, I was coming home to get engaged to a guy when I happened to sit next to Brett Spencer on a plane. Next minute,’ she said dryly, ‘I’ve forgotten all about that guy.’

Ellie had to smile, although faintly. And she said, ‘I know you’re trying to help but that makes it worse, not better. I feel as if I’ve joined a club.’

‘Oh, eleven years puts you into a category of your own, Ellie,’ Chantal assured her, and paused thoughtfully. ‘But, for all that I sometimes go over the top there’s one thing I hold very dear.’

Ellie looked at her questioningly.

‘In relation to men especially—my self-esteem.’

Ellie glanced up and down the gorgeous length of Chantal Jones. ‘You…you have the firepower to be able to do that,’ she suggested.

‘Don’t you believe it. If I let myself, I could be just as vulnerable as the next girl, if not more so. I don’t. If I make a mistake, I pick myself up and start all over again. What I’m trying to say is, don’t feel guilty because you fell in love with another man when you thought you shouldn’t. If that’s what’s colouring your feelings for Brett, a lack of self-esteem because of that, throw it out of the window with the bath water because it happens, is all.’

Ellie opened her mouth to deny the charge but she paused suddenly, and frowned.

‘I thought so,’ Chantal murmured.

‘It’s not the only reason,’ Ellie said slowly.

‘Maybe not but it’s a start. What else is there?’

‘He…seems so certain he can make me deliriously happy!’

They looked at each other, and started to laugh together.

‘All right,’ Ellie said, ‘maybe he can. I don’t know if I can do the same for him.’

‘What’s that got to do with the price of eggs?’ Chantal asked.

Ellie stared at her.

‘If you don’t, you don’t—so you pick yourself up and move on.’

‘There’s Simon, though.’

‘Kids live through it all the time. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think Brett Spencer is one to fool around lightly with a kid’s well-being and happiness.’

‘Are you suggesting I marry him?’ Ellie asked bluntly.

Chantal waved her hat. ‘I did my best—worst, maybe,’ she said wryly, ‘and now it’s time to move on, if that’s what you mean.’

‘With…Dan, perhaps?’

Chantal shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ She looked around. ‘I guess no one could have dragged me to a market if I wasn’t just a touch intrigued.’

Ellie gave a genuine smile.

‘But I’ll tell you something else, Ellie,’ Chantal commented. ‘If it’s not your money they’re after, men marry for a variety of reasons—sex, sex and sex. If you get that right, you’re in with a heck of a chance.’ She stood up. ‘But if there’s one thing Brett Spencer taught me—they still like to be the hunters rather than the hunted.’

Ellie stood up herself, laughing. ‘I’ll remember your words of wisdom. It’s been a pleasure knowing you, Chantal—I hope we meet again!’

‘Sell many kites today?’ Brett asked when she got home.

He was lazing beside the pool in a pair of colourful board shorts with the Sunday papers spread haphazardly around him and weighted down with stones from the rockery.

‘Four. An average day. How’s your finger?’

He looked at her gravely. ‘Improving. Why don’t you have a dip yourself? You look a little hot and bothered.’

‘Yeah, I think I will when I’ve unloaded the car. Where’s Simon?’

‘He and Martie Webster have gone with Martie’s father to watch some trail bike trials up Mount Coot-Tha. I didn’t think you’d mind so I gave my permission on your behalf.’

Ellie pulled a face.

‘You do mind?’

‘No! I just hope Simon doesn’t put in an order for a trail bike, that’s all.’

Brett laughed and levered himself off the lounger. ‘I’ll give you a hand with your stuff. I’ve never said that literally before.’ He looked at his immobilized hand wryly.

‘I can manage, don’t worry. You relax,’ she said and turned away.

‘But I do worry, Ellie,’ he said slowly. ‘You take so much on yourself.’

‘Well, I guess I’m used to it,’ she replied prosaically, and turned to back to him suddenly. ‘You seem to be in a much better mood!’

He looked quizzical. ‘That’s one of my good points. I may not be all lightness and joy at times but I don’t sulk.’

‘I’m glad to hear it!’ She chuckled.

And, companionably, they unloaded her car. Then she changed into her scarlet one-piece swimsuit, had a dip and came out to find he’d prepared a couple of Margaritas for them.

‘This is decadent,’ she proclaimed as she dried herself and sank down into a lounger.

‘But a nice way to spend a Sunday afternoon?’ he suggested.

‘Mmm.’

‘I was thinking,’ he said after a while.

Ellie tensed.

But he surprised her. ‘This coming Tuesday is the first Tuesday in November.’

‘Melbourne Cup day?’

‘The race that stops the nation,’ he agreed. ‘I have tickets.’

‘So?’

‘Could you get a few days off?’

She sat up and regarded him askance. ‘You mean—go to the Melbourne Cup with you?’

‘Ellie—’ he grinned ‘—what’s so impossible about that? It’s not the moon.’

‘It is about a thousand miles away!’

‘Two hours by plane—I’m not suggesting we drive or hitchhike or—’

‘Why me, Brett?’ she broke in firmly and with an ‘I’m standing no nonsense’ look.

‘Why not?’

She floundered for a moment. Then, ‘It costs money to fly about the place on a whim!’

‘It won’t cost you a thing and, before you get your knickers in a knot,’ he stressed, ‘I won’t be paying either.’

‘How come? I don’t understand.’ She frowned.

‘The company I have some shares in is a sponsor and they’re providing it, but I also happen to be a member of the VRC—the Victoria Racing Club.’

‘What on earth for? You don’t seem to be a racing type—you’ve hardly been home for so many years!’

‘My mother passed it down to me. Her family came from Melbourne. There is actually a house down there that she also passed down to me. At Portsea. On the Mornington Peninsula. It’s been leased out for years but the lease has expired and I’d like to have a look at it before I decide whether to sell it or keep it. I also have some other business down there so I could kill several birds with one stone.’

He looked into the distance for a while, then back at her, and remarked gravely, ‘I’m so glad you didn’t fall back on the “nothing to wear” excuse. That’s terribly unoriginal.’

Ellie shut her mouth with a click. ‘The only reason for that is because I haven’t had time to consider that angle. Brett, no, thank you very much, but—’

‘We’d be flying down very early on Tuesday morning, Ellie. We’d spend Tuesday night at the Sofitel after the Cup, you’d have your own room. We’d go down to Mornington on Wednesday and you could fly home on Thursday morning—I might have to stay on until Saturday.’

‘Apart from anything else,’ Ellie said with exaggerated patience, ‘I’m just not in a position to go flying off at a moment’s notice.’

‘The Websters are fine to have Simon. Simon is fine about staying with them and feels the break will do you good.’

‘You…you…’ But she was essentially speechless.

‘And, by my reckoning, all the extra work you did while Simon was away at camp should earn you a few days off,’ he continued placidly.

Then something sharpened in his grey eyes. ‘But, let’s be honest. We seem to have reached a stalemate, you and I.’ He looked around. ‘It may be partly due to this environment. Perhaps things will clarify themselves in a different setting.’

Ellie reached for her Margarita and took a decent sip. Was it a threat? she wondered. Or—it made sense. They couldn’t go on the way they were. But what kind of pressure could he exert on her on a trip to the Melbourne Cup? It was—she shook her head—a bizarre suggestion, really.

‘You don’t think this is an attempt to seduce you, Ellie?’ he queried softly.

She gazed at him over the salty rim of her glass and decided to be honest in return. ‘It did just occur to me, yes.’

‘So I gathered.’

A fleeting smile tugged at her lips. ‘You must admit it’s an odd way to break a deadlock.’

‘Difficult circumstances often require unusual solutions.’ He looked at her steadily. ‘Or would you really prefer to slug it out here?’

She shivered suddenly and not because she was cold. ‘Brett, if I say no after we’ve taken a rather pointless jaunt to the Melbourne Cup, will you accept it?’

‘Yes. But it won’t be pointless, Ellie, believe me.’

Simon sat on the end of her bed the next evening while she packed, and offered helpful suggestions.

‘What are you going to do about a hat?’ he asked. ‘You can’t go to the Melbourne Cup without a hat. It’s unheard of.’

‘It probably isn’t, you know.’

‘Still, you are my mum so it’s only natural for me to want you to look your best.’ He gazed at her seriously.

‘Then just to put your mind at rest, kid—da-da!’ She pulled the lid off a box that had been sitting unnoticed on a chair, exposing a supremely chic pale green hat with a wide wavy brim and a green and white silk trim gathered around the base of the crown and tied in a stylish bow at the back.

‘Wow!’ Simon’s eyes widened.

‘There’s more,’ Ellie warned, and she reached into her wardrobe to produce a slim linen dress that exactly matched the hat and a very elegant pair of white high-heeled sandals.

Simon clapped his hands and asked her to model the outfit for him. She did so, taking care to position the hat carefully.

‘There.’ She turned back from the mirror and stood regally in the middle of the room. ‘A mum to be proud of, you reckon?’

Simon jumped off the bed. ‘You bet!’ He hugged her carefully. ‘I’m sure Brett will be proud of you too.’

Ellie grimaced and took the hat off. ‘That’s the computer fund and a little bit of the kite fund gone—oh, well.’

‘It’s all in a good cause,’ Simon assured her.

She hesitated. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You need a break and a bit of fun! Now don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine at Martie’s—we’re going to work on the kennel with Martie’s dad. Martie is green with envy, by the way!’

Ellie smiled a bit mechanically but Simon didn’t notice.

And she tossed and turned a bit before she fell asleep later that evening because it all seemed to come back to one thing—how was she ever going to tear Simon away?

But a vision of Chantal swam into her mind—and her advice ran through Ellie’s mind. She grinned to herself as she remembered the more outrageous bits of it. Then she sat up suddenly at the question of self-esteem Chantal had raised. Did she lack self-esteem with regard to Brett? Was that as much the core of her problem as anything else?

She lay back and thought dryly that circumstance had had a lot to do with that, but she’d always been aware of it. How much had her perceived defection from Tom to Brett Spencer poisoned her confidence in herself as a woman, though, she wondered, and her ability to make choices? She certainly didn’t have a good record in that line.

Then it occurred to her that perhaps the one lesson she could learn from Chantal was, if a man let you down, you picked yourself up and moved on. And she fell asleep thinking of going to the Melbourne Cup…

Since they were going straight to Flemington racecourse by helicopter from Tullamarie airport, Ellie dressed for the races before she left home, although she carried her hat. She also carried a raincoat because the Melbourne weather was notoriously fickle and renowned for producing all four seasons in one day.

But it was a beautiful day as they stepped onto the hallowed turf of Flemington, the roses were glorious, the crowd already huge and the buzz of excitement in the air was incredible—and infectious. Ellie started to feel excited herself and very pleased she’d splurged on a new outfit and hat as they were ushered into the members’ stand.

Not only on her own account was she pleased—Brett was looking particularly distinguished in a blue suit, a crisp white cotton shirt and the club tie. His bruised finger was the only finger now bandaged and encased in a leather finger-guard. He had also commented flatteringly on her outfit. And he was an attentive companion. But something else came home to Ellie during the afternoon. He’d always played his background down and, while she knew it was wealthy, she hadn’t realized the extent of it or how influential it was.

Now, she couldn’t doubt it as many obviously wealthy and influential people greeted him delightedly, people who hadn’t seen him for five years but remembered him well.

However, all of these impressions sank beneath the sheer excitement of the races; the august privileges of being in the members’ stand such as being able to get into the mounting yard to watch the horses parade; to actually touch and smell the roses that lined it and the corridor that led to the track. And she partook of a champagne lunch as the tension in the air grew and finally it was time for the big race.

She made her selection, backed the horse she liked and they climbed up into the stand to watch the pre-Melbourne Cup festivities. Against the background of the city of Melbourne, there were skydivers who landed on the track, there was a pipe band that paraded up and down the track; there were the weird hats and outfits amongst the huge—over a hundred thousand people—hugely good-humoured crowd. And finally, the horses.

‘Oh, I’m so excited!’ She bounced up and down in her chair. ‘What have you backed?’

He looked at her wryly. ‘I’ve never seen you like this, Ellie. Uh—’ He told her which horse he’d backed.

‘Very wise,’ she commented.

‘You know something I don’t?’

‘Not a thing!’

‘So?’

‘I backed it too, for the princely sum of five dollars—because I like the name.’ She bestowed a beatific smile on him. ‘Brett,’ she said on a sudden thought, ‘talking horses, are you going to get back into polo?’

His expression changed rather drastically for a moment, then he said simply, ‘No.’

She raised an eyebrow at him.

‘I don’t have the time, Ellie. Look, they’re starting to load the horses into the barrier. Our horse is being a bit fractious.’

‘Oh, no!’ Her attention flew back to the track and she took the binoculars he offered her. Then she breathed a sigh of relief as their horse consented to be led into his stall. ‘He’s in!’ She handed the binoculars back and gripped her hands tightly in her lap.

Minutes later the red light blinked on top of the barrier stalls, indicating that the field was under starter’s orders, and moments later, to an enormous roar from the crowd, the gates flew open and the race was under way.

Approximately three minutes and twenty seconds later, Ellie leapt up and tossed her hat into the air—a winner!

Brett caught the hat and took her in his arms.

‘How clever was that?’ she enthused, her eyes shining.

‘Not only clever but gorgeous as well, Ms Madigan,’ he said, and kissed her soundly.

And a mysterious change seemed to creep into how things were between them from that moment on; a subtle closeness developed so that they were no longer two people enjoying the Melbourne Cup together, but two people enjoying each other.

After watching the presentation, he took her down and out into the public areas to enjoy the crowd but kept her hand in his as they laughed at the novelties they saw and the antics of the crowd. They found a stall that sold Cup memorabilia and bought Simon a cap, then one for Martie Webster as well.

And when they got in a crowd jam, he put his arms around her and she took her hat off and rested her cheek below his shoulder, feeling safe and secure while they waited for it to clear. And at the end of the day, there was a limousine to take them to their hotel.

They had a two-bedroomed suite in the soaring tower at the Sofitel on Collins Street.

Ellie looked round at the elegantly beautiful luxury of it all and turned to Brett. ‘Thank you so much for a wonderful day. I had no idea I was going to enjoy it so much.’

He shed his jacket and pulled off his tie. ‘It’s not over yet.’

She looked a little blank.

‘I thought we’d have dinner here in the hotel. Then, if you felt like it, a little flutter at the casino. But there’s no rush. You could have a rest.’

Ellie stared at him. ‘I don’t…know what I feel like doing.’

He came over to her but didn’t touch her. And the mysterious current that had flowed between them since he’d kissed her at the races grew stronger.

She frowned and tried to analyze it. Desire—yes. But different from other times. There was more warmth to it in an emotional sense; there was the sheer pleasure of his company and the thought that he’d organised a wonderful day for her.

There was an irresistible urge to let down her guard completely and tell him that, for her, there was only one fitting way to go now—into his arms and his bed.

‘Ellie?’ he said very quietly.

‘Oh, Brett,’ she whispered, and against all odds found herself smiling at him because he was in so many ways all that she wanted. She brought her hands up and placed them on his chest. ‘I don’t want to rest.’

He looked down into her eyes with a gleam of a question in his.

‘I want,’ she said slowly, ‘to be brought to life again. I don’t want to make any decisions but I really…need to end this special day in a special way, with you.’ She stood on her toes and kissed him lingeringly.

‘Ellie.’ He hesitated and put his hands on her waist. ‘Just promise me one thing—no regrets.’

‘No regrets, Brett,’ she vowed.

‘Because I can think of no better way to end this day either—it’s been on my mind for the last few hours.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. Since you threw your hat in the air, as a matter of fact.’

‘Why would that do it?’ she asked in a fascinated sort of way.

‘Why would that do it?’ he repeated. ‘It was an expression of pure joy over so much more than winning the princely sum of twenty dollars. It was…’ he paused ‘…a delight to see you being—just you. Not a mother or a housewife or a girl juggling two jobs.’

‘That’s how I feel—liberated,’ she said with a sigh of pleasure.

He kissed the corner of her mouth and his hands moved on her. ‘Let’s see if we can further that process.’ He wound his arms around her and began to kiss her in earnest.

And when she was dizzy with delight, he slipped the zip of her dress down and helped her to step out of it, to reveal her new underwear, worn only once before, to Delia and Archie’s anniversary.

‘This is very sexy, Ellie,’ he said, running his hands down her sides. ‘Just as well I didn’t know about it earlier, I could have been a basket case.’ He looked ruefully into her eyes.

‘I like the thought of that!’

‘I always knew you were a hard woman.’

‘I feel anything but at the moment,’ she responded, and gasped as he slid her briefs down and his fingers explored the curls at the base of her stomach.

‘Tell me.’

She tilted her head back and closed her eyes as she was racked by delicious tremors. ‘On fire…’

She felt him take an unexpected breath, then he was kissing her throat and the valley between her breasts and all the while exploring her more and more intimately. Then he picked her up and carried her into a bedroom.

She made a little murmur of distress as he placed her on the bed and left her.

‘I’ll be right back, Ellie.’ He dropped a kiss on her hair—and was as good as his word but this time strong, lean, hard and naked.

And he immediately gathered her into his arms and he talked to her while he stroked her—nothing serious, but odds and ends to do with their day—until the magic started to build again. Then she helped him to take her bra off and dispense with her briefs completely, and, if he’d assaulted her senses before, she was helpless and humming with desire and delight like a bird on wire beneath this new assault.

In fact she thought she couldn’t bear any more and told him so.

‘Yes, you can.’ He kissed her all the way down to her navel.

‘Brett…’ She clutched his arms urgently.

He raised his grey eyes to hers. ‘Ellie, if it’s been a while we need to take certain precautions.’

‘It feels as if it’s been all my life! What kind of precautions?’

‘The last thing I want to do is hurt you so I need to make sure you’re really ready.’ And he started at the top again, kissing her that was, but this time he didn’t stop at her navel.

‘Brett, Brett,’ she pleaded as she ran her fingers through his hair, ‘I’ve never been more ready in my life…’

He lifted his head and glinted her a wicked little smile. ‘Thank heavens, this is sheer torture!’

But still he was circumspect and her heart beat heavily with gratitude—then the moment came and everything else fled from her mind as she surrendered to incred-ible joy.

Chapter Eight

‘WHAT would you like to do now?’

Ellie opened her eyes to find Brett staring down at her with his head propped on his elbow and his hand lying proprietorially on her waist.

‘Now?’ she said dreamily. ‘Well. Dinner here, a flutter at the casino, perhaps a stroll along the Yarra—how does that sound?’

‘Far too energetic for a man in my position.’

‘What’s that? Your position?’

He thought for a bit and said very seriously, ‘Be-witched, bothered and bewildered—and the owner of a bruised thumb.’

‘Oh!’ Ellie sat up and picked up his hand. ‘Did I hurt it? I’m so sorry.’ She kissed his palm gently, then placed it over her breast with her nipple nestled into it.

He groaned.

‘Surely that’s not hurting?’ she said innocently.

‘Maybe not, but it could be classified as imposing a severe trial on me,’ he returned.

She raised her eyebrows.

‘In light of your determination to dine, gamble and walk,’ he supplied ruefully.

‘I see. Still, if your finger is hurting, those things would be much better for it than—any other activities you might have had in mind,’ she said gravely.

He scanned her figure, so slim and pretty, so silky. His gaze lingered on some faint marks on her skin that he himself had made during his possession of her, and finally their gazes locked.

‘That’s—increasingly—becoming not an option,’ he said.

‘Ah! Oh, yes, I see! Well, you put your hand out of harm’s way,’ she suggested, ‘and I might be able to come up with a plan.’

Several minutes later, he said, ‘Has it occurred to you I could die of this plan?’

Ellie moved cautiously. She was lying on top of him and she said, with the golden glints in her eyes teasing him, ‘It’s not having that effect on me!’

‘How about this?’ He caressed her bottom with his good hand.

She took a breath. ‘Now that—is rather remarkable but I’m still not dying.’

He made a rough little sound in his throat and, regardless of his sore finger, clamped her hips to his, and together they shot to sheer ecstasy.

‘Wow!’ Ellie breathed when she could speak again. ‘You’ve wrecked me.’

He stroked her damp curls off her forehead and kissed her lightly.

‘It was either that or, well, I told you at the time.’

She snuggled up against him. ‘I’m not complaining. In fact being wrecked by you is rather unique.’

‘Thank you, Ms Madigan. So. Should we consider our options again?’

‘All right. Maybe we should forgo the walk along the Yarra?’

‘Good thinking. And the casino might just be a bit lively for us, don’t you agree?’

‘Definitely. As for getting dressed and going to dinner, even in the hotel—’

‘Not a good idea at all,’ he broke in.

‘Well, we need not make a very long meal of it.’

‘The thing is, I have this aversion to you being dressed at the moment,’ he said, trailing his fingers down her body. ‘And while I’m quite sure you’d create a sensation undressed, I don’t think I’d like that at all!’

‘Heaven forbid, Mr Spencer!’ But her eyes were full of laughter. ‘How about room service?’

‘Done! You know…’ he sobered a little ‘…you soared like one of your kites, and took me with you, just now. What were you thinking?’

She trailed her fingers down his arm. ‘Just that—it was like soaring up to heaven. I didn’t know I was ca-pable of…’ She stopped.

‘Taking a man to heaven with you?’

‘Not really, no.’ She looked into his eyes with a faint frown.

‘I think you should bear it in mind.’ He dropped a kiss on her head and went to order room service.

When he came back she was showering.

He stepped in to join her. ‘Good thinking—unless you’ve changed your mind about going out?’

‘Far from it. But I do have an outfit that’s perfect for…uh…this kind of thing.’

‘What exactly is this kind of thing?’ He soaped himself vigorously.

‘Dining at home—that kind of thing.’ She raised her arms and the water streamed all over her from head to toe.

‘Damn,’ Brett said and took her wrists in one hand.

‘Damn?’ She tilted her head back so as not to have water in her eyes.

He looked up and down her body. ‘I’ve never seen a lovelier waterfall, that’s all.’ He released her wrists and stepped under the jet himself. ‘You’re like a perfect sprite.’

She touched the smooth, sleek muscles in his upper arms. ‘You’re amazingly well put together for a doctor.’

‘How should doctors be put together?’ he enquired gravely.

She grimaced. ‘I don’t know but it’s not very physical work, is it? Whereas you’re…very physical.’

He turned the water off, picked her up and took her out of the shower, where he wrapped her in a towel and slung one round his waist.

‘Enough of that, my lovely sprite. It was getting dangerous.’

She raised her eyebrows.

‘Three times in as many hours,’ he elucidated. ‘I don’t want to wear you out.’

‘Thank you for your concern.’ She stood on tiptoe and planted a butterfly kiss on his mouth. ‘But I just wanted to say something. I may have impugned your…lack of co-ordination when it came to building kennels?’ She looked a question at him.

‘You did,’ he agreed. ‘You gave me to understand that in your estimation I was not only downright unhandy as a kennel builder but also a doctor.’

‘I take it back—well, kennels may not be your forte but in certain other respects you’re…absolutely brilliant!’

He looked down at her wryly, then his eyes softened. ‘If you mean what I think you mean, I had the finest material to work with. You.’

She felt a sudden lump in her throat, and sniffed—and there was a knock at the door just as he was about to put his arms around her.

He dropped them. ‘Dinner has arrived,’ he said, looking wicked, ‘at a very fortuitous moment.’

‘Danger time again?’

‘Uh-huh.’ He pushed some tendrils of hair behind her ears and studied her luminous hazel eyes. ‘Why don’t I go and organise that while you—didn’t you say you had something to wear?’

‘Yes! Off you go, we’ll eat in the lounge. I’ll join you shortly.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said meekly and cast away the towel to stride through to the bedroom and rummage in his bag for a pair of shorts. ‘Just don’t be too long about it,’ he added over his shoulder. ‘I could get lonely.’ He pulled the shorts on and walked into the lounge, closing the door behind him.

Ellie stared at it for a moment, then she too discarded her towel and waltzed into the bedroom—literally waltzed. She came to rest in front of the dressing-table mirror with her arms extended and her feet crossed and could never remember feeling better or happier in her life. In fact she took a bow to her reflection and smiled at herself. Then she opened her bag and took out the lovely silvery-grey negligeée and nightgown she’d so in-explicably purchased when she’d been shopping for something to wear to Delia’s party.

The nightgown had a square neck, no sleeves and the neckline was heavily encrusted with ice-coloured lace. The negligée had the same neckline, sleeves and did up at the front via tiny pearl buttons. They were both mid-calf length and when she twirled they fanned out in a beautiful bell. But before she put them on she dried her hair to get most of the moisture out of it, then ran her fingers through it, which was all she had to do—one of the consolations of curly hair. And she smoothed mois-turizer all over her body.

Finally, she presented herself in the lounge, but paused on the threshold and looked down at herself. Even two layers of gossamer silk were not exactly concealing.

Brett was twisting the wire off the cork of a bottle of champagne and he said, simply, ‘Wow!’

She looked at him with a touch of anxiety in her eyes. ‘I’ve never worn one of these before.’

He put the bottle down. ‘Never?’

‘No. I’ve been strictly a pyjama or a cotton nightshirt girl up to now.’

He came over to her and stood looking down at her enigmatically. ‘What wrought the change?’

‘On your suggestion I went to buy a new outfit for Delia’s party and—went a little crazy,’ she said in a rather puzzled sort of way.

‘A sort of consumer conniption?’ he suggested.

She hesitated.

‘Or—you had this in mind?’ he said softly and took her chin in his hand.

‘Possibly,’ she whispered. ‘But you don’t think it’s too…?’ Words failed her.

He looked down her body. ‘I think it’s gorgeous, and perfect to dine in.’

‘Only in these circumstances, of course!’

‘Of course,’ he agreed, and put his arm through hers. ‘Well, now we’ve established that you’re dressed right for the occasion, may I show you to your seat, ma’am?’

Ellie laughed and relaxed. ‘Please do, sir! And if that is champagne, it’s exactly what I need!’ she said grandly.

He laughed and kissed the top of her head.

They ate oysters, rolled roast pork stuffed with apri-cots, prunes and rice and a pear galette with ice cream for dessert.

‘Fantastic food,’ Ellie pronounced as she spooned up the last of her galette.

‘Coming from you that is a compliment.’

‘Mind you,’ she said ruefully, ‘by rights we should go for a run around the block.’

‘I’ve got a better idea.’ He got up and poured their coffee and topped up their champagne, and set it on the coffee-table in front of the settee. ‘Let’s relax and watch the ten o’clock news. We may even see ourselves.’ He flicked on the television and invited her to sit down next to him.

And they watched the highlights of the Melbourne Cup with much enjoyment although they didn’t see themselves.

‘What a day!’ Ellie laid her head on his shoulder, then she sat up abruptly. ‘I didn’t ring Simon…’

He pulled her back. ‘It’ll be OK. Do it tomorrow morning.’ He flicked the remote and the television went dark.

She snuggled against him. ‘Tell me about Africa, Brett.’

He laid his head back. ‘It’s rather like a mistress—of the worst kind. Capricious, wilful, then more beautiful than you’d believe so that just when you’re convinced it’s driven you crazy and frustrated the life out of you, it gets you in again. My last clinic got burnt down twice, once from natural causes, a direct lightning strike, and once from human error—someone watered a pot plant and didn’t notice, or even think about it for that matter, that they were also watering a live multiple adapter board. It had four plug placements on it but only two were in use. Electricity is still a novelty in some of the really remote areas.’

‘What got you “in again” that time?’

He grinned and nuzzled the top of her head. ‘How everyone in the village from grandmothers down turned up to help rebuild the place.’

‘That’s lovely,’ she said. Then she frowned. ‘What is their biggest problem? Ebola?’

He sighed. ‘The biggest killer in Africa these days is AIDS. Then there’s malaria, my speciality and still a huge problem.’

‘Still?’

‘Still and all.’

‘Is that why Ross River Fever interests you? Because it’s also mosquito-borne like malaria?’

‘It’s my speciality, if you like.’

Ellie was quiet for a time. Quiet and drowsy but lis-tening as he went on to talk about Africa and his times there. And a question mark began to hover on the edge of her mind. Or, she thought, the conviction that he would go back one day and the question mark was to do with herself…

But she didn’t have the energy to ask herself anything—and she fell asleep in his arms.

Brett raised his head and looked down at her. She was sleeping absolutely peacefully. Not so surprising, he reflected. She’d packed an awful lot into one day. I’d like to see her come up with a good reason for not marrying me now, he thought with a faint smile, and paused.

Talking about Africa had opened all the old magic up for him, but there was a subtle difference, one that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Then he yawned and got up to take his sleeping, silken burden to bed.

Ellie woke the next morning to the aroma of freshly ground coffee on the air. She sat up and pushed her hands though her hair, looked at her bedside clock but it wasn’t there—she wasn’t even in her own bed.

Of course! It all came back to her and she lay back with her lips parted in, if not horror, absolute astoundment—a favourite word of Simon’s. Brett came in from the lounge at that moment and put a cup of tea down on the bedside table.

‘Good morning! You look…astonished.’

He was dressed in jeans and a navy shirt, shaved, brushed and immensely good-looking.

Ellie closed her mouth and sat up again. ‘I…am. This…is tea?’ She pointed to the cup.

‘It is. I thought you were useless without a cup of tea to get you going.’

‘I am. Thank you!’

He sat down on the side of the bed. ‘So what’s so astonishing about me bringing you a cup of tea, Ellie?’

She gazed at him over the rim of the cup she’d picked up. ‘I…I smelt coffee, that’s all.’

‘There is also coffee out there, and breakfast, and there’s a hire car waiting for us. I still don’t understand the amount of astonishment tea over coffee produced,’ he said lightly, but with a wicked little glint in his eye.

She brooded for a moment, then put the cup down and said carefully, ‘It wasn’t altogether that. I woke up thinking I was at home.’

He looked around. ‘So this came as a bit of a shock?’

She followed his gaze. ‘This and everything else I did yesterday,’ she confessed, and bravely met his gaze.

He picked up her hand and kissed her knuckles. ‘You promised me one thing—no regrets.’

‘Oh, I don’t have any regrets!’ She broke off and coloured at the enthusiasm in her voice. ‘I just thought you might be a bit surprised, that’s all.’

‘Ellie…’ But he was laughing at her and it was a while before he could speak again so instead he lay down beside her.

‘I feel an awful fool,’ she said against the cotton of his shirt. ‘Uh…things just came out wrong.’

‘I hope not.’ He cradled her against him. ‘Because it sounded to me like a very genuine endorsement of what happened yesterday, and it sounded pretty good to me!’

She relaxed.

‘Unfortunately, I know it’s early,’ he said a few minutes later, very pleasurable minutes, ‘but I need to get this show on the road. I’m meeting someone at the house, it’s nearly a two-hour drive, and if we don’t leave soon we’ll be late.’

Ellie sat up. ‘How long have I got?’

He glanced at his watch. ‘Half an hour.’

‘You’d be amazed at what I can do in half an hour, Brett!’

‘I wouldn’t be at all amazed—I’ve seen you at work, on me, that is.’

She turned to look at him over her shoulder with the golden glints in her eyes most noticeable. ‘Don’t tempt me,’ she warned.

He sat up swiftly. ‘So—you did mean that rather than how fast you can dress, pack and breakfast?’ he challenged.

She pretended to consider. Then she said with an el-egant little shrug, ‘On second thoughts, I’d rather take my time the next time I do it—incidentally,’ she added, ‘you were the one who…rushed us the last time.’

‘For my sins—I was dying, thanks to you.’

She put her hand over his. ‘I presume we’re staying somewhere where we can be together tonight?’

‘We are.’

‘There you go, then.’

‘Ellie—this is a phone.’ He pointed to the bedside table.

‘I know that, Brett,’ she said, her eyes serenely innocent.

‘Well, all I have to do is lift it and make a couple of cancellation calls—and we would have all the time in the world!’

She gazed at him, then touched the back of her hand to his cheek as her mouth curved into a smile. ‘Actually, you got it right. What I meant was—I’ve had years of experience in getting dressed, et cetera, in no time at all!’

For a moment his expression defied description, then he said, ‘Hell, I knew that but I don’t think it’s much good to me now.’

‘I’d better remove myself,’ she suggested, and slipped out of the bed. ‘Besides which, since this is a phone, I need to ring my only son.’

She picked up the phone and Brett lay back with his hands behind his head, looking wry. ‘It’s just as well I’m such a good-natured guy otherwise I could be rather annoyed. As you have said to me from time to time.’

Ellie dialled the Websters’ number, conferred briefly with Martie’s mother, then Simon came on. ‘How’s it going, mon?’ he asked cheerfully.

‘I’m having a wonderful time, Simon! How’s it with you?’

He told her in detail, then asked if he could speak to Brett. Ellie said goodbye and handed the phone over, and, seeing that ten minutes of her half-hour had elapsed, dashed into the shower.

Brett was eating breakfast when she emerged from the bedroom wearing white cotton trousers and a blue and white checked blouse and carrying her bag. ‘There—five minutes to spare,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Are you rather annoyed?’

He gestured for her to sit down, removed the cover from a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs and poured her coffee. ‘I’m rolling with the punches,’ he advised her. ‘Your only son’s as well.’

‘What would they be?’

‘The kennel has been perfected. He’s even chosen a name for the dog and they’ve painted it above the entrance.’

Ellie grimaced. ‘Sorry—but I did point out to you an area where you had considerable expertise. What’s he going to call the dog?’

Brett eyed her lazily. ‘Guess.’

‘Uh—I have no idea.’

‘What’s his other passion?’

‘Cricket?’ Ellie said incredulously.

‘No, but close—Flipper.’

‘I should have known that!’ They laughed together and presently left the hotel together to drive down to Portsea.

It was another lovely day and a pleasure to be driving down the Mornington Peninsula. Names she’d heard of often rolled past. Frankston, Mount Eliza, Mount Martha and Port Phillip Bay.

But the house Brett had mentioned rather casually at Portsea was a real eye-opener. Old, solid and white behind impressive gates, it had its own beach and beautiful grounds. In fact both Portsea and its neighbouring sub-urb of Sorrento shouted one thing to her—old money.

There was a real estate agent to greet them at the house and as he showed them around all sorts of questions bubbled up in Ellie—had Brett ever lived here? Why would anyone sell it unless they had to?

But she asked none of them as she followed in their wake and tried not to look too dazzled.

Finally the inspection was over and they got back into the car. ‘So—we’re not spending the night here?’ she queried as she did up her seat belt.

‘No. Down the road a bit. What do you think of it?’

Ellie looked back at the house. ‘I think it’s wonderful but…’ she paused ‘…I seem to sense—I don’t know, something not quite right?’

He shrugged. ‘It came down on my mother’s side of the family. And it was always the cause—one of the many causes,’ he amended, ‘of bitter disagreement between my parents. Look, Ellie, I need to go back to the office with the estate agent. Would you like to browse around Portsea for a bit? It’s not exactly huge but it’s pleasant.’

‘Sure.’

So he dropped her off and arranged where to pick her up in an hour. She window-shopped for a while, then sat down to have a long cool drink. And it came to her that she’d learnt quite a bit about Brett over the last twenty-four hours—and not only how much she loved being made love to by him.

There was the Africa bit, as she remembered how he’d spoken of it last night—with true, deep affection, she thought with a little pang. And now there was the rev-elation that his parents had not got on and a house that brought back unhappy memories. How much had that shaped the man he now was? she wondered. How much bearing did both those things have on the decision that was looming in front of her? A decision she had thrust out of her mind yesterday…

‘Penny for them?’

She looked up with a start to see Brett standing beside her. ‘Oh, this and that.’

He paused and looked at her narrowly, ‘I think I may have been away too long,’ he said and held out his hand.

She put hers into it and stood up. ‘Not really.’ But even to her ears she sounded a bit uncertain.

He smiled into her eyes, causing her to go a little weak at the knees. ‘Only a few minutes away, and we’ll be in paradise.’

‘Paradise?’

‘You’ll see. Come.’ He led her to the car.

A few minutes later she did see. Almost at the end of the peninsula, before it gave way to national park, was Peppers, Delgany, a private home resembling a castle that had been taken over by the Peppers chain and converted to a luxury hotel. And once again Ellie was almost bowled over by, this time, the exquisite taste and wonderful aura of this large country-house-style hotel.

‘It’s wonderful,’ she said as she looked around their suite that overlooked a golf course.

‘So are you—but I’m glad you like it.’ Brett took her in his arms and kissed her leisurely. ‘Tired?’

She leant against him gratefully. ‘A bit.’

‘It’s only to be expected. Here’s what I propose. A rest, maybe a long soak in the tub, then I’ll take you out to dinner—not here, unfortunately, I neglected to book and the restaurant’s full. But the Portsea Hotel is also very nice.’

‘Anywhere,’ she said, and looked longingly through to the king-size bed.

He laughed. ‘Go to it, Ms Madigan.’

‘What about you?’

‘I’ve got a few calls to make, I’ll do it in here so as not to disturb you.’

‘I feel…like a wimp.’

‘No, you’re not. Will you just do as you’re told, Ellie?’

‘Yes, sir!’

He woke her an hour and a half later with a kiss and a cocktail, a cre‘me de menthe frappeé, and the news that he’d run the bath for her.

Ellie sat up and made a small, heartfelt sound in her throat, indicative of feeling quite lousy.

He looked amused. ‘Take this into the bathroom with you.’ He put the glass in her hand. ‘Sip it gently while the bubbles do their work and I guarantee you’ll get out feeling a million dollars. There’s also a nice view from the bathroom.’

‘Bubbles?’

‘Have a look.’

She followed him into the bathroom and the bath was full of bubbles towering above the rim. ‘I could get lost in there,’ she observed, then, on an impulse, turned to him and kissed him. ‘You’re so sweet,’ she told him.

He looked down at her ironically. ‘Sweet?’

‘Well, sweet, stunning, sensational and very sexy.’

‘Thank you—as an ego massager that was first class!’

She grinned at him and recommended he take himself off while she restored herself to full vitality.

The Portsea Hotel had a venerable façade but had been modernized inside. And decks had been added so you could sit outside and look over the bay. There was also a lively crowd in attendance. Brett found them a table on the deck and went to the bistro to order for them.

Ellie looked out over Port Phillip Bay as a blue dusk drew in and acknowledged that Brett’s remedies had restored her. She felt relaxed and peaceful. She’d put on blue jeans and the top of the outfit she’d worn to Delia’s party, so she also felt trendy and in tune with the rather yuppie crowd.

He came back with a bottle of wine in a cooler, a number and the news that their dinner would be ready in about twenty minutes.

‘Do you know this part of the world well, Brett?’ she asked as he poured the wine.

‘I used to spend holidays down here as a kid, with my grandparents. They owned the house. When they died, they left it to my mother and she leased it out.’

‘Why did it cause dissension between your parents?’

He sat back and shrugged. ‘My grandparents always felt that my mother married beneath her—and not even a Victorian but a brash Queenslander. You may not realize it but—’

‘I had,’ she broke in. ‘Very old money in this part of the world.’

‘Exactly.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Naturally, my father objected to that. And any evidence of her wealth was anathema to him. It also spurred him on to succeed so that he could provide her with as much as her parents had. The long hard road of that took its toll, unfortu-nately, and there was often a state of war in their relationship.’

Ellie twirled her glass and frowned.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said. ‘I wondered it often enough myself—those things were only periph-eral, or should have been, so were they just ill-suited from the start? Were they two people always destined to have a love-hate relationship? To this day, I don’t know.’

‘Actually, I was wondering how it affected you,’ Ellie said.

He moved restlessly. ‘Some of it rubs off, obviously. So. We both suffered a bit at the hands of our parents. Here’s to us, then. Survivors.’ He raised his glass and she did the same. ‘Although, you’re the ultimate survi-vor, Ellie.’

‘No.’ She put her glass down. ‘No better or worse than the next,’ she said tranquilly.

He opened his mouth but their number was called and the delicious meal he brought back steered them towards brighter topics of conversation.

‘Ellie?’

They were lying together in a pool of light from the bedside lamp, naked and exploring each other intimately.

‘Yes?’

‘You’re very lovely.’ He swept his hands down her flank. ‘Soft and delicate but with an inner core of fire and strength—it’s a fascinating combination.’

‘Thanks. I guess it would be fair to say I find you fascinating.’

‘What you’re doing right now is extremely—fascinating.’

She raised her head and smiled into his eyes.

He smoothed her hair. ‘Home tomorrow. For you, anyway.’

She tensed slightly. ‘Are you staying?’

‘For a day or two, that’s all. I really want to tie up all my loose business ends so I don’t have to keep coming south once the lab is fully functioning.’ He moved and rested his head on his elbow so he could look down at her. ‘Is that a problem?’ He toyed with her nipples.

‘No. I can take myself home.’

‘So why did you react to the thought of going home?’

‘Only because,’ she said with an effort, ‘I’ve been living minute to minute for the last two days.’

‘No decisions yet?’ he said with a wryly raised eyebrow.

‘No. Well, one—if you don’t stop doing that shortly I’ll…have a conniption on my own.’

‘Like hell you will,’ he said, and eased himself on top of her. ‘See?’ he teased. ‘We’re in this together whether you like it or not.’

‘I didn’t say that…’ But she didn’t say any more either as he gradually upped the tempo between them until they were moving rhythmically then more and more ur-gently, on the brink of that lovely sensation—then it was there and she arched her body beneath his and cried out huskily in sheer joy.

Nor did there seem to be much to say afterwards because it was as if what had happened between them had said it all, and he wrapped her loosely in his arms until they fell asleep.

The Melbourne weather did an about-turn the next morn ing and they drove back to town through mist and rain.

‘I can’t believe it, it’s freezing!’ Ellie said.

‘It might be as hot as hell at home.’

‘At least you know where you are at home.’

‘True.’

‘Brett, have you made a decision about the house?’ she asked.

‘No.’ He put the windscreen wipers up a notch and swore beneath his breath as the rain pelted down. ‘It’s a real dilemma. One part of me says get rid of it, it has unhappy associations, another says it is part of my her-itage. But there is a buyer on the horizon. What would you do, Ellie?’

She blinked at him. ‘It’s got nothing to do—’

He stopped her rather abruptly. ‘It could.’

She looked out of her window. ‘I still can’t answer for me in any way, Brett. But if you’re undecided, if I were you, I’d keep it.’

‘When will you be able to answer for yourself, Ellie?’

She hesitated briefly then put her hand over his. ‘I’m very close to being there, Brett. Would you…could you understand that…difficult times make you very wary, though?’

His grey gaze rested on her and he looked as if he was about to say something impatient, then his eyes soft-ened and he sighed. ‘Yes. All right. But I may not be home until Saturday so don’t get any strange ideas in the meantime.’

‘Such as?’ Her lips quivered.

‘I don’t know! But it might be an idea to talk it over with your only son.’

‘My only son,’ she said slowly, ‘is such a fan of yours he’s not exactly an unbiased observer.’

‘Good,’ he replied as they took the flyover to Tullamarine airport. ‘Perhaps some of it will rub off on his mother.’

And at the airport he made very sure he would leave an impression on her that would be hard to shake. In full view, he kissed her goodbye extremely passion-ately—so much so, she was shaken to the core and had to cling to him for a few moments while her breathing subsided and her knees stopped wobbling.

‘Brett,’ she breathed, her eyes huge and wondering.

‘That has to last for two days so I thought I better make it double strength.’

She looked around and turned pink. ‘But everyone’s watching.’

‘Let them.’ He took her face in his hands. ‘Now, promise me, no strange fancies while I’m not there to…keep all the tough times at bay. I won’t let you go until you do promise.’

‘My flight…’

‘You’ll just have to miss it.’

‘I can’t!’

He shrugged.

Ellie closed her eyes and breathed deeply. ‘All right, I promise.’

‘Thank you.’ This time he kissed her very gently. ‘See you soon.’

Chapter Nine

ELLIE got home without incident just as Simon got home from school and was treated to a most enthusiastic welcome.

So enthusiastic she asked him if everything was all right.

He screwed up his face. ‘I’ve found out it’s OK to be the one going away but not so hot to be the one sitting at home.’

Ellie laughed and hugged him. ‘I know what you mean—hey, look at this!’ And she produced the two Melbourne Cup caps.

Simon was immediately filled with awe. ‘Bloody hell! I mean—holy moly, Mum! Martie and I will be the only guys in the whole school with these caps. You’re brilliant!’

‘My pleasure.’

‘So you had a good time? Where’s Brett?’

She described Cup day for him and explained about Brett. Then she paused and was about to test his reaction to the idea of her marrying Brett but something held her back.

Simon didn’t notice the hesitation, though, and, apparently completely restored, asked if he could take Martie’s cap over to him right there and then.

‘Sure.’ She ruffled his hair and watched him scoot out of the back door with affectionate eyes.

To her surprise, Gemma Arden came to call that evening after Simon was in bed.

‘This is a surprise, Gemma,’ she said as she answered the door. ‘I thought our lunch date was next Monday.’

‘I know.’ Gemma plunked a heavy briefcase down beside her and fanned herself vigorously; it was a hot humid evening. ‘But I have to go to Sydney on Monday and I felt so bad about postponing lunch yet again, I thought I’d call in on the off chance that you were here. I know Brett’s not. He rang me about some business from Melbourne this morning.’

‘Oh. Well, it’s great to see you anyway! Come out onto the terrace, I’ve just made a jug of orange, mango and passion-fruit juice. It’s very cold.’

‘Glory be, you’re a life saver, Ellie!’

Gemma was a big girl and, as always when she was working, clad in black and white. A long loose black jacket and skirt, white blouse and black-framed glasses. But she had a pretty face and long blonde hair, and over the years Ellie had come to know her as a shrewd, straight-talker with a rather acerbic wit that was refreshing.

‘So,’ Gemma said with a frosted glass of juice in her hand, ‘how’s Brett now? Still got those strange ideas you mentioned at the party?’

Ellie hesitated and suddenly knew the time had gone when she could discuss her relationship with Brett with Gemma. ‘Well, I’m sure he was having difficulty read-justing,’ she said slowly. ‘Complicated by the presence of a topless dancer in his life.’

‘Come again?’ Gemma blinked several times and took her glasses off.

Ellie explained about Chantal and they laughed together for a bit.

Gemma polished her glasses and put them back on. ‘I believe he’s moved in here with you and Simon?’

‘Yes—that was another problem. He feels at home here with us.’

‘Is that a problem?’ Gemma enquired.

‘Well, no. It is his house. What I meant was, I as-sumed he’d either want his house back or we’d go back to the previous arrangement. I didn’t imagine he’d be happy to live with us.’ She shrugged. ‘So I realized he was lonely and dislocated.’

Gemma thought for a bit. ‘Of course it could all be to do with Simon. I think Brett used to feel quite useless when Simon was a baby.’

Ellie frowned. ‘But he did so much for us.’

‘Financially, yes. But now that Simon is older, and very much like Tom, I gather—well, it’s probably all come back to him although time and again I’ve tried to tell him it was never his fault.’

‘What?’

Gemma hesitated, as if suddenly sensing she’d stepped into quicksand.

‘Gemma, Simon is my son and Tom was his father. Not only that but for years I’ve felt like Cinderella to Brett’s Prince Charming, in a financial way at least, but I’ve always told myself it was because Tom was almost like a younger brother to Brett. Is there another reason?’

Gemma sighed.

‘Don’t you think I deserve to know the full story?’ Ellie asked.

Still Gemma hesitated, then she came to a decision. ‘Yes. He always felt responsible for Tom’s death.’

Ellie’s mouth fell open and she paled. ‘But he wasn’t even playing that day,’ she whispered. ‘That can’t be true!’

‘You may not know this but he has never played polo again from that day to this. And he was supposed to play that day but he had to pull out at the last minute and Tom, who was only a reserve, came into the team against an opposition he wasn’t quite up to.’

Ellie’s mind roamed back to that awful day but she hadn’t been at the match either. ‘He seriously thinks that?’ she asked, stunned. ‘How do you know?’

‘Forgive me, but when he came to me to talk about setting things up for you and Simon, I told him I hoped he had a very good reason for embroiling himself with a woman he barely knew. That’s when he told me.’

Ellie had a sudden mental image of Brett at the Melbourne Cup and the way his expression had changed when she’d brought up polo…

She released a slow breath. ‘So that explains it.’

‘Does it make it better or worse?’ Gemma asked straightly. ‘I don’t know whether I should have told you but since I have—because it goes against the grain with me to think of any woman playing Cinderella to any man—how do you feel about it?’

Ellie tried to compose her thoughts. ‘As if the missing piece of the puzzle has finally fallen into place.’

‘On the other hand,’ Gemma said thoughtfully, ‘it struck me at Delia and Archie’s party that you and Brett make quite a couple. And that things may have changed from his—original thoughts on the matter.’

Ellie smiled but said nothing.

Once again Gemma hesitated, then she steered the conversation to the mundane and finally she left.

Ellie barely slept that night.

It must have shown on her face because Simon asked her if she was OK the next morning.

‘Just a headache—too much gallivanting around the country, probably.’ She smiled at him. ‘How are the rehearsals going?’ The play was the next evening.

‘Pretty good, but don’t get too excited about my part, Mum. It’s not a big one. They probably wouldn’t even miss me if I stayed home.’

Ellie smiled and presently waved him off to school. Then she sat down and dropped her head into her hands. This is not a strange fancy, she told herself. This is the truth at last and I don’t think I can bear it…

She got up and wondered briefly how she could dis-mantle eleven years in a few hours. But she squared her shoulders, poured herself a cup of coffee and set to work.

Two hours later she was in Simon’s bedroom sur-rounded by partly packed boxes when she heard a car in the driveway. I’ll just pretend I’m not home to whoever it is, she decided, and went on packing.

But whoever it was unlocked the front door with his own key and she stood like a trapped rabbit until Brett found her in Simon’s room.

‘So,’ he said harshly, throwing his keys onto the bed, ‘this is how little you believe in me, Elvira Madigan. Either that or you’re extraordinarily well named.’

He wore a dark suit and a tie and she’d never seen him look more imposing—or harder.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asked through stiff lips, unaware that she was as pale as paper.

‘Hell-bent on tragedy,’ he supplied and looked around. ‘Prepared to uproot a kid to heaven knows where at a moment’s notice. What about the school play? What about the kennel—how are you planning to explain it all to Simon?’

‘Brett—’ she dashed at some angry tears ‘—why are you here? You weren’t supposed to arrive until tomorrow.’

‘I’m here because Gemma got in touch to tell me her famous habit of calling a spade a spade might have back-fired. Where did you plan on going, incidentally?’

Ellie swallowed several times. ‘There’s no “did” about it, Brett, I am going. To my father’s for the time being—he and Simon get on like a house on fire. And this is for you.’ She drew a piece of paper out of the pocket of her gingham dress, a cheque, and handed it to him.

He glanced at it contemptuously and immediately tore it up. ‘Didn’t the last few days mean anything to you, Ellie?’

‘Brett…’ she cleared her throat ‘…yes. And it so happens I was prepared to marry you even though I strongly suspect you’ll be slipping off to Africa from time to time; even though your parents’ marriage might have left a bitter taste in your mouth and made you something of a loner. But I will not be forced into a marriage with you out of a sense of guilt over Tom!’

‘Ellie…’ He stared at her.

‘Gemma may feel she’s backfired but she doesn’t usu-ally pass on disinformation.’

‘No,’ he said slowly and his shoulders slumped suddenly.

‘So it’s true?’ she whispered.

‘It’s true that if I hadn’t pulled out of the match that day it mightn’t have happened. It’s true that…’ he paused and she noticed lines scored beside his mouth she’d never seen before ‘…Simon reminds me so much of Tom. It is not true that I’ve ever kissed you or made love to you with a sense of guilt in my heart. It just doesn’t work that way.’

She turned away. ‘But the whole concept of anything between us is flawed, it always was and it always has to be—the only difference is that now I know why.’

He put his hand on her shoulder and turned her back to him. ‘Did things feel flawed between us at Peppers?’

Her breath caught in her throat. ‘Brett,’ she said with an effort, ‘I wouldn’t put too much credence on what happened in Melbourne. Something about being away from home, needing a break perhaps, a wonderful day—I don’t know, it all went to my head.’

‘You tried to tell me that once before—why don’t we really deal in the truth, Ellie?’

Her eyes widened.

‘I’ll go first if you like,’ he said, and took her hand. ‘Come.’

She resisted for a moment, then allowed him to lead her into the kitchen. There was a pot of coffee on the stove and he heated it up while Ellie cleared the table of its usual paraphernalia and sat down.

‘I was right about it being hot at home,’ he said rue-fully as he pulled off his tie and shrugged off his jacket.

Ellie didn’t smile—she couldn’t.

He watched her for a moment, then turned back to the stove as the coffee bubbled.

Presently he set two mugs on the table and sat down, and without preamble he said, ‘You told me once you didn’t think it could ever happen for you the way it had with Tom—falling in love.’

Ellie opened her mouth but closed it immediately.

‘I wouldn’t ever want to supplant that, or…erase it. And Simon, and what you feel for him, is living proof of it. The ultimate tie to a man you told me about your-self once.’

She made a strange, husky little sound in her throat.

‘But this is what happened to me,’ he said very quietly. ‘Yes, there was guilt involved at first and I will probably always regret what happened. But falling in love with you, Ellie, was an entirely different matter. That spark you first aroused in me all those years ago fanned and grew without me realizing it at first.’

‘How?’

‘Little things. How you make and fly kites, how you love to cook, your voice, your hair, your skin, your sense of humour…Then I realized I always looked forward to coming home to this place.’ He looked around. ‘And how it irritated me not to be coming home to you in the true sense. And I found myself making suggestions out of the blue and realizing, a little to my amazement, that I meant them.’

He paused. ‘Ellie, I know you can cite eleven years, Africa, Chantal Jones—it was none of that, it was you. But there was always, at the back of my mind, Tom’s shadow. Not the guilt but the fear that you didn’t ever want to love again.’

Her lips parted but no sound came.

‘I don’t know if you remember but I once asked you if you were expecting a declaration of undying love from me—you very quickly knocked that on the head.’

‘I didn’t…I thought…’ Her eyes widened as she remembered that feeling of dangerous ground his question had aroused but also the sense of mystery.

‘You thought I was mocking the idea? I wasn’t. If anything it was a form of self-mockery—I got the answer I expected but wasn’t hoping for.’

‘I…didn’t realize.’

‘So,’ he went on, ‘when I had a fair intimation that it had to be you and no one else for me I have to admit I…used Simon and what I could do for him as a form of pressure on you. It was—’ he shrugged, looking sud-denly tired and unhappy ‘—blackmail pure and simple. But I couldn’t help myself.’

‘Brett…’

He put his hand over hers. ‘If you’ve been wondering why I haven’t even during and after Melbourne…burdened you with undying declarations of love, it’s not because I haven’t wanted to. I suppose I’ve been scared witless about what I might hear in return.’

She found her voice at last. ‘I think I fell in love with you when you rescued me from that parking meter. I didn’t know it at the time, or—I wouldn’t admit it because it didn’t seem possible. I suppose,’ she said, with her voice clogged with emotion, ‘I’ve felt guilty ever since.’

He went quite still and for a moment his eyes seemed to burn a hole through to her soul.

She waited with her heart beating like a drum.

He said her name on a breath, then he got up and drew her to her feet and into his arms. ‘Thank heavens—’

‘But don’t you understand? It was only three months after I lost Tom.’ Her eyes were anguished.

‘Ellie, the point is, you had lost Tom.’

She stared into his eyes.

‘Things don’t stay the same, sweetheart. Things change in those circumstances.’

‘Is that…is that what you meant about dealing in the truth?’ she asked. ‘Did you suspect all along?’

‘No. I was hoping to get you to admit that you wouldn’t sleep with any man the way you did with me unless you were in love with him.’

She was racked by the memory of their love-making and buried her head against his chest.

‘Ellie?’ His hands moved on her very gently.

She raised her head and her eyes were full of tears but she was smiling. ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

She felt the reaction in his body—a jolt of intense relief—then he was kissing her as if he were starved of her.

He lifted his head abruptly. ‘How can I make up for all those years and for being such a blind fool?’

‘Shall I show you?’

His gaze narrowed, then he nodded.

She took his hand and led him to her bedroom.

‘I think I get the picture,’ he murmured.

She laid his hand over her heart. ‘Do you? I was going to suggest some wild, glorious sex but if you have any other ideas?’

‘Not a one, my mind is a complete blank—that part of it that is not reeling from the thought of being wild and glorious in bed with you!’

They laughed together, then helped each other to undress with growing urgency. And the flame between them was more intense than it had ever been so that they lay in each other’s arms speechless and shaken after-wards.

Until he said, ‘About Africa.’

Ellie moved cautiously in his arms and kissed his shoulder softly. ‘I do understand.’

‘No, I don’t think you do. I didn’t understand myself until the other night when you fell asleep in my arms after I’d been talking about it. All of a sudden I felt different—yes, I’ll always have great memories. Yes, one day I’d like to take you there.’ He stroked her hair. ‘But it’s not in my blood any more. You’ve replaced it.’

She sat up. ‘You don’t have to say that.’

‘It’s true.’ He cupped her breast. ‘I always thought of it with this…niggle of discontent because I wasn’t there. Now I think of it with warmth and affection but the niggle has gone. As for being a loner, that has well and truly gone. I would have come home this morning any-way because I was missing you like hell.’

She sighed with sheer contentment and lay back in his arms.

‘Happy?’ he queried.

‘Blissfully,’ she conceded. ‘And I know someone else who is going to be over the moon. You know—he missed me.’

‘Why wouldn’t he?’ Brett asked.

She shrugged.

‘You don’t seem to understand what a special person you are, Ellie.’ He rolled her onto her back and leant up on his elbow so he could look into her eyes.

‘What can anyone say to that?’ she answered ruefully.

‘Then I see that I’ll just have to remind you on a regular basis.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t want you to have to work at it,’ she protested.

‘Work? That’s a strange name for pure pleasure,’ he said quizzically, and kissed her to stop her laughing.

They told Simon as soon as he got home from school.

His reaction was pure Simon. ‘Yippee!’ He threw his cap in the air, hugged Ellie enthusiastically and shook Brett gleefully by the hand. Then he sobered. ‘That’s a big weight off my mind, guys! I was only saying to Martie yesterday how grown-ups like to make things aw-fully complicated.’

Ellie closed her mouth after a moment and said, ‘You’ve been discussing this with Martie Webster?’

‘Sure. He’s my best friend. We’d even cooked up a little plan.’ He grinned mischievously. ‘I’m really happy I don’t have to go through with it!’

‘What sort of plan?’ Brett asked in a strangled kind of way.

‘I was going to fall off my bike, not too seriously, just enough to get Mum in a tizz so you could comfort her and patch me up and…’ he shrugged ‘…be a hero.’

With a perfectly straight face Brett turned to Ellie. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’

But she was laughing helplessly although presently she said, ‘Listen, you two, I just think I ought to issue a general warning. You have ganged up on me in the past—don’t even consider it in the future!’

‘We wouldn’t do anything like that, would we, Simon?’

‘Only when it’s really necessary, Brett,’ Simon returned gravely. ‘Hey—’ he sat down at the table ‘—we’ve got a wedding to plan!’

They got married two weeks later.

Ellie wore a simply styled white dress encrusted with tiny white voile flowers and she carried yellow rosebuds.

Simon and her father accompanied her down the aisle, Simon bursting with pride and happiness and wearing his first suit. And although her father left her at the altar, Simon stayed at her side throughout the ceremony. After Brett had kissed the bride, he threw his arms around his mother and whispered into her ear, ‘You did good, mon!’

The reception was small but lively—the McKinnons, Gemma Arden, the Webster family and her father and stepmother. And Chantal and Dan Dawson.

Chantal looked sensational. She was poured into an aquamarine silk dress and wore a cartwheel hat smothered in feathers. And she too, as she hugged Ellie, said, ‘You did good, honey!’

Ellie laughed and thanked her, adding, ‘How goes it with you and Dan?’

Chantal glanced over her shoulder to where Dan was standing beside Brett. ‘You know, there’s a lot more to Dan Dawson than meets the eye. Not that I’ve made any decisions! But he’s getting to be a bit like a fixture in my life.’

Ellie squeezed her hand warmly. ‘I’m—’

‘Don’t say it,’ Chantal warned. ‘But I’ll keep you posted.’

After the reception, Brett took her away to a hotel for the night—they were to fly to Tahiti for their honeymoon the next day. Simon was staying with her parents.

Still in her slim, lovely dress, she waited while Brett tipped the bell hop. Then he came to stand in front of her and he took her roses and laid them on the bed and put his hands around her waist.

‘You’re looking very serious, Mrs Spencer.’

‘That’s because I’m seriously in love with you, Mr Spencer,’ she replied, and added softly, ‘Thank you for a lovely day.’

He drew her closer. ‘I can see this is one of those occasions when I need to remind you how special you are—if any thanks are due for a lovely day, they’re due to you, my darling.’

‘Maybe it’s just—us,’ she suggested.

‘You could be right. We are special.’ He kissed her lingeringly.

‘Although—’ the little golden points in her eyes glinted at him ‘—you have done one thing for me that I’ll be eternally grateful for.’

‘What’s that?’

Her lips curved into a gorgeous smile. ‘I’m no longer Elvira Madigan.’

‘Oh—is that why you married me?’

‘Of course! Didn’t you guess?’

‘So…’ his hands moved up her back and he released her zip and eased her dress off her shoulders and down her body ‘…it had nothing to with this?’ Her bra came off next and she stepped out of her dress, and he removed his hands.

‘That’s…wicked,’ she breathed as he stared at her breasts.

‘Wicked, wanton—ah, wonderful,’ he said softly as her nipples peaked and he covered them with his palms and looked into her eyes. ‘Could this be a prelude to the kind of wild and glorious sex you specialize in, Mrs Spencer?’

‘Try me, sir.’

He did.

Eighteen months later the first note on the fridge said:

Dear Mum, now that Lucy is 3 months old can I start teaching her to talk? And walk? By the way, I don’t think it’s good 4 her 2 b in her own room, she can share mine if you and Brett are going 2 b so heartless about this.

Your loving son, Simon.

The second note read:

Simon, talking, yes, but, going on yourself, you didn’t walk until you were about fifteen months old so it’s probably too early for that. Thanks for the offer ofyour bedroom, dude! But she’ll be fine in her ownroom, promise. And I really appreciate all your help,I don’t know what I’d have done without you.Your loving Mum.

P.S. Brett says thanks a million too! And just to show we mean it, there’s a frozen pizza in the freezer with your name on it.

Can these paper marriages lead to lasting passions?

Convenient Brides

Three red-hot, glamorous romances from three favourite Mills & Boon authors!

In January 2010 Mills & Boon bring you two classic collections, each featuring three favourite romances by our bestselling authors

CONVENIENT BRIDES

The Italian’s Convenient Wife
by Catherine Spencer
His Inconvenient Wife
by Melanie Milburne
His Convenient Proposal
by Lindsay Armstrong

MILLIONAIRE’S WOMAN

The Millionaire’s Prospective Wife
by Helen Brooks
The Millionaire’s Runaway Bride
by Catherine George
The Millionaire’s Reward
by Angie Ray

All the 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 the incidents are pure invention.

All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

First published in Great Britain 2009
Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited,
Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

The Italian’s Convenient Wife © Spencer Books Limited 2005
His Inconvenient Wife © Melanie Milburne 2003
His Convenient Proposal © Lindsay Armstrong 2002

ISBN: 978-1-4089-1546-2

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Full Title Page

The Italian's Convenient Wife

About The Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

His Inconvenient Wife

About The Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

His Convenient Proposal

About The Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Preview

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