Claimed by the Italian: Virgin: Wedded at the Italian's Convenience / Count Giovanni's Virgin / The Italian's Unwilling Wife

But all he said was, ‘Then, provided you don’t overtire yourself, we will humour you, Mamma.’

Paolo heard Lily’s rush of indrawn breath, saw her slender white shoulders—revealed by the black silk slip dress she was wearing—stiffen, before they sagged as she slipped a little lower in her chair, as if she were trying to hide herself under the table.

Poor sweet Lily! An iron band tightened around his heart. He’d put her through one ordeal after another. He would make amends, he vowed silently. He would make things right if it was the last thing he did.

She had looked strained and subdued since she’d joined them. Because of what had happened—almost happened—back in her bedroom?

His body hardened intolerably as mental images flooded his brain.

He felt he had shown quite remarkable restraint in the circumstances. He had been driven wild by need, yet he had done the honourable thing and backed off. Surely she would understand that by doing that and not following his primal instincts it showed he had grown to respect her, admire her and care for her? That he had put her physical and emotional well-being before his own desire to possess her enticingly sexy body?

When she understood that he had respected her innocence, not taken advantage of what she had undoubtedly unknowingly offered, she would begin to respect him too. Would grow to like him and forget how he had manipulated her into a situation he knew she felt deeply uncomfortable about. For some reason it was vitally important.

What was it about Lily Frome that brought out the male protective instinct in him? The need to look good in her eyes? Until now he had never cared how other people saw him.

His brooding golden gaze rested on her, and his heart squeezed painfully inside his chest. That dress made her look so fragile, threw the pallor of her skin into prominence. She looked achingly delicate. Fragile and breakable.

He didn’t want to break her. He wanted to—

Muttering his excuses, he left the table and went to take a long cold shower.

‘Lily said she wanted some fresh air,’ Fiora said in answer to Paolo’s question, not raising her eyes from the lists she was writing, rapidly covering the sheets of paper, underlining some items several times, starring or circling others.

To-do, or Have-done lists for the coming party, he guessed, helping himself to a much-needed cup of unsweetened dark coffee from the pot on her breakfast tray.

His night had been passed in deep thought. His body and mind had thrown up a problem. But, as always, having looked at the problem from all possible angles, he had found the answer.

All he had to do was persuade Lily to reach the same conclusion.

Since his ill-fated disaster of a marriage, and before that his farcical engagement, he had cynically distrusted his judgement where women were concerned. He had found, and subsequently taken it as read, that women would bend over backwards in their haste to fall in with his slightest suggestion because of what was in it for them—being seen with one of Europe’s most eligible unattached men in all the right places, being pampered for as long as his interest lasted, and finally departing from his life in receipt of a handsome pay-off.

But he wasn’t thinking about his usual type here; he was thinking about Lily. And she was so very different. Which was why—

His brow furrowed as Fiora laid aside a sheet of paper, which from where he was standing looked decidedly covered in hieroglyphics, and remarked with a touch of rebuke, ‘The dear girl looked pale and strained. I hope you haven’t done something to upset her.’

‘Of course not.’

The words stung like acid in his mouth. He’d done nothing but upset her since he’d as good as blackmailed her into playing a part she found demeaning and distasteful! He shifted his feet uncomfortably. He wasn’t used to being in the wrong. He didn’t like it.

‘Good. Mind you don’t.’ The glance his mother gave him was admonitory. ‘She is a lovely young woman in all respects, and nothing at all like those dreadful painted harpies you kept getting yourself photographed with—much to my despair!’

Paolo stuffed his hands into the pockets of his off-white chinos. ‘Don’t nag, Mamma.’

‘I am your mother. I shall nag if I wish.’

His long mouth twitched. ‘The days of the harpies are over, I assure you.’ Had been for quite some time now. He had discovered that casual affairs were not only a bore, they left him deeply unsatisfied.

‘I should think so, too! While you’re here I would like your permission to ask my dressmaker to attend. Primarily to create Lily’s wedding gown, but I’d also like him to run up something for me—the mother of the groom must look her best.’

His golden eyes lit with laughter. She was priceless. Her ‘dressmaker’ was one of the most talented and internationally sought-after designers in Italy.

‘As you wish, Mamma.’ He stooped to drop a kiss on her forehead, anxious now to be off and begin to put his plans into operation, but she caught his hand, holding him, her eyes fond, and gazing up at the son who inspired frustration, exasperation, and above all absolute devotion in the maternal heart.

‘As you know, I see that surgeon person in three weeks’ time. I would like you to arrange the marriage for as soon as possible after that.’

He raised her hand to his lips, serious now, his eyes darkening. ‘Only if you have a clean bill of health and the doctor gives you the go-ahead. Not even my desire for the wedding will allow me to let you overtire yourself.’

‘I’ll waltz through the consultation—you’ll see!’ Her smile was radiant. ‘And waltz at your wedding! Now, run along—go to your fiancée.’

But finding Lily was no longer his most pressing priority. Things were moving at breakneck speed. What had started off as a deception to make what he had genuinely believed to be his mother’s last few days happy had turned into something quite different.

Strong white teeth showed in an unrepentant grin as he strode into his study. There were things to arrange before he set about persuading his pretend fiancée to become his real one and agree to be his wife.

Kill two birds with one stone. Assure Mamma’s happiness, her peace of mind, her interest in a bright future, give her the prospect of grandchildren, and at the same time assuage his now deeply felt need to care for Lily, protect her, make love to her, make her his own.

The idea of marrying again didn’t seem as distasteful as it had done. Lily would be a wife he could trust, honest and straightforward—except when he coerced her into betraying her principles. His mouth tightened.

He knew he wanted her permanently in his life. And what he wanted he always got.

Didn’t he?

His mouth set, he lifted the receiver and began, rapid-fire, to punch in numbers.

Feeling light-headed, Lily sat on the herb-strewn grass, drew her legs up, looped her arms around them and dropped her head down onto her knees.

She’d risen early, creeping through the villa like a thief, intent on avoiding Paolo because being anywhere near him with the memory of the way she’d behaved last evening still raw between them was out of the question.

But her conscience had pricked her when she’d met Carla, taking a breakfast tray into Fiora’s room. Paolo’s mother had shown her nothing but warmth and kindness since her arrival. She was a lovely lady, and would only worry when her absence was discovered—an absence Lily was determined would last for several hours.

So, worrying the elderly lady being the last thing she wanted to do, she’d poked her head around the door in Carla’s wake and said, as brightly as she could, ‘Fiora, buongiorno!’ Paolo’s mother had been already up and dressed, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, a huge notepad on her lap. ‘As it’s such a lovely morning I thought I’d explore the gardens and maybe grab an hour or two of sunbathing.’ And she’d headed off as quickly as she could.

The beautiful gardens were extensive, with many secluded areas where she could sit in solitude. And even though she was sure Paolo wouldn’t set out to look for her—his abrupt departure from the dining room last night instead of spending the remainder of the evening with her and his mother, as had been his custom, told her that he’d found that bedroom scene deeply distasteful and would want as little to do with her as possible during the remainder of her stay here—she needed to get right away from the villa’s immediate environs for the few hours she desperately needed.

And so when she’d found a wooden door in the high stone perimeter wall she’d pushed it open and found herself out on the open hillside, where she’d sunk down on the grass and scrunched up in a bundle of exhausting emotions, knowing she would need far more than a few hours to get her silly self sorted.

She’d fallen in love with Paolo Venini.

She’d done her best to convince herself that what she felt was nothing more serious than a normal female reaction to a powerfully charismatic and sexy male. Lust. Something that would thankfully and quite rapidly fade when she was no longer constantly in his presence, when all the contact with him she had would be his promised regular and long-distance funding of the charity organiser he’d set in place back in England. A case of out of sight, out of mind.

But he would never be out of her mind. That was the stark, unpalatable truth of it. He would always have a place in her heart, and her heart would ache for him. And her body would cringe with shame whenever she remembered how she’d stood before him, naked and needy.

He had turned his back on her and walked away. After pointedly draping a robe around her, demonstrating his uninterest. And why wouldn’t he walk away? she asked herself brutally. He could grit his teeth and act a part when they were in his mother’s company, for the sake of the deception he had instigated, and he might be highly sexed—one only had to look at the succession of busty blonde bimbos who passed through his life—but skinny, unsophisticated nobodies would leave him cold.

She was just someone he’d paid to play a part. Someone he would never have noticed if he hadn’t had a brainstorm and decided to manufacture a fiancée to ease his mother’s mind, back when it had seemed unlikely she would survive her operation, let alone recover from it. She had to remember that. It would help her recovery from the illness of falling in love. Someone, somewhere had likened it to an illness, hadn’t they?

About to get to her feet and walk off some of her pent-up emotions, Lily tensed, her breath solidifying in her lungs, her pulse going haywire.

She sensed his presence even before he spoke, and her mouth ran dry.