The Sicilian Duke's Demand

The double doors at the other end of the room opened and the old butler, whom they had learned to call Turi, stepped in.

‘The Duke of Mandalà,’ he announced, in a cracked voice.

They all straightened up from whatever treasure they had been examining and faced the door expectantly.

The man who strolled in, however, was not the patrician figure with a white beard and horn-rimmed glasses, familiar to all of them from photographs.

Not even close.

This was a very tall, very well-built man who looked like a demigod in evening dress, and who could not have been more than thirty-five. His jet-black hair was immaculately cut and his face—surely the most beautiful male face Isobel had ever set eyes on—was clean-shaven and wore a tiger’s smile.

‘Please accept my apologies for my late arrival,’ he greeted them in a deep, husky voice, speaking perfect but accented English. ‘A bad habit of mine. I trust you have not been too incommoded by my absence. Signor Zaccaria, how do you do? And surely this is Theoharis Makarios, the famed numismatist?’

Theo mumbled a modest reply, flushing as the big man wrung his hand.

‘Which means that you must be David Franks, of Harvard University?’ their host continued, shaking David’s hand briskly. ‘I enjoyed your recent article on the Etruscan bronzes very much. I have some bronzes myself, which you may be interested to see.’ Finally, he turned to Isobel, who was watching the performance frozen and open-mouthed. Dancing blue eyes met hers with a jolt that shook her right down to her feet. ‘And thus, by a process of elimination, you must be Dr Isobel Roche,’ he informed her with a wicked grin. He bowed over her hand, brushing it with warm lips that were all too familiar to her.

Familiar because she no longer had any doubt—if there had ever been any in her heart—that this demigod in evening dress, clean-shaven and barbered as he was, could only be one man.

The man who had given her a golden coin in exchange for a searing kiss that very morning.

Her Poseidon.

CHAPTER THREE

AS THEY all took their seats—Isobel finding herself seated at Poseidon’s right hand—David stammered out, ‘Won’t the duke be joining us, after all?’

‘But, my dear fellow, I am the duke,’ Poseidon replied, with courteous surprise. ‘Ah—you were expecting my grandfather?’

‘Your grandfather?’ Isobel echoed hollowly.

He turned to her. His face was solemn, but those amazing eyes were full of laughter. ‘I do apologize yet again. A perfectly natural mistake. My beloved grandfather, Ruggiero, the twelfth Duke of Mandalà, died six months ago. I am Alessandro Massimiliano, the thirteenth duke. But my friends call me Alessandro.’

‘So it was you who asked us here?’ Theo said.

‘Oh, yes. As I have told you, my revered grandfather died just before Christmas. A fisherman spotted the wreck only a few weeks ago, and it was plainly a matter of urgency to excavate it as soon as possible, before the sea reclaims it.’ The butler had been filling all their glasses with champagne, and now he raised his glass in a toast. ‘Let us drink to my late grandfather. And may I add what an honour it is for me to host such a gathering of archaeological talent!’

They all raised their glasses and drank. But as the icy bubbles sank down her throat, Isobel’s mind was racing. Alessandro Mandalà.

Good God. Of course. Now that the beard and the long hair were gone, how familiar that film-star face was! Alessandro Mandalà, international art dealer, playboy, rogue, jet-setter, boyfriend of pop-stars and supermodels, the latest wild branch on the Mandalà family tree!

She dared not look at him, in case her eyes betrayed the thoughts that were racing through her mind.

Pity for the decent old philanthropist whose place had been taken by this rogue filled her. What an heir for a great man!

Hadn’t there been that huge scandal just last year? A marble torso he had sold to the Getty Museum for millions, which had turned out to be a fake?

And that other business, a flagrant liaison between him and a vampy rock singer at least ten years older than he was? High-octane media fuel, with lots of public fighting and kissing, splashed all over the tabloids?

And something just recently, a rumbling from the British Museum about some sculptures he had supplied them with, now suspected of having been stolen?

She caught David Franks’s eye, and knew he was thinking about exactly the same stories.

‘But tell me, Dr Roche,’ Alessandro Mandalà purred, laying a warm hand on the bare skin of her arm, making her jump and sending goose-flesh shivering up her spine, ‘how is the excavation going? Have you recovered any artefacts from the wreck?’

She forced herself to look into that beautiful face. He had shaved immaculately—she caught a hint of some costly cologne from his skin—and if he had been stunning as a bearded pirate that morning, he was ten times more so as the suave aristocrat. His eyebrows were thick and black, his nose straight, with flaring nostrils. His mouth was pure sin, passionate and mocking and totally erotic. ‘We’ve been able to recover quite a lot of pottery,’ she said. Her mouth was still dry with shock and she licked her lips. His warm blue eyes watched the quick movement of her pink tongue appreciatively. ‘And today—today we found a hoard of ancient coins in a jar.’

‘But how fascinating.’ His fingers were caressing her arm intimately. ‘Any gold coins among them?’ he asked innocently, cocking his head.

She almost choked on her champagne. She pulled her arm away from those caressing fingers. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact. A rather nice gold Poseidon of Syracuse.’

‘Ah, one of my favourite coins,’ he replied, looking smug. ‘One could buy something really special with one of those—in ancient times.’

Isobel felt the colour rise into her pale cheeks. ‘It’s a valuable coin,’ she said tersely.

‘Perhaps you will give me a guided tour of the artefacts after supper?’

‘If you like.’ Her teeth clicked shut on the words. The hypocrite!

‘We had an intruder on the wreck this morning,’ Antonio Zaccaria said, oblivious to Isobel’s discomfiture. ‘He nearly made off with the gold coin, but Dr Roche confronted him and chased him off.’

Alessandro raised shocked eyebrows. ‘But how unpleasant. Some local mafioso, no doubt. Give me a description of the villain and we’ll see if we can track him down.’

‘I didn’t get a good look at him,’ she muttered. ‘He had long hair and a beard.’

‘Well, you showed great fortitude, Dr Roche. How exactly did you manage to—er—frighten this fellow away?’

By now her face was flaming, and she could sense the others looking at her curiously. He was teasing her deliberately, playing with her like a big cat. His expression was all concern, but those eyes held the hot blue memory of what had happened between them only hours earlier. ‘He heard the boat coming and left of his own accord,’ she replied thickly.

‘He didn’t hurt you in any way?’

‘No,’ she snapped, ‘but it was certainly one of the most unpleasant experiences of my life!’

He nodded gravely. ‘The perils of archaeology are great. One has to make many sacrifices—in order to preserve the historical record.’

She felt like throwing the champagne in his face. Luckily, Theo Makarios addressed their host.

‘You’re a dealer in antiquities, aren’t you, Duke?’

‘Oh, please call me Alessandro. I think we should be on first-name terms, don’t you? And, yes, I am an art dealer, for my sins.’

‘Something of a change in the family business,’ David put in meaningfully. He was a thin, earnest man, and always spoke very directly. ‘Your grandfather was a great conservator of the past. He dedicated his life to preserving treasures for future generations. Whereas you buy and sell them to the highest bidder.’

‘Are you making some point, my dear David?’ Alessandro purred, his eyelids lowering.

‘Yes. That your grandfather might not have approved of your career choices.’

‘But my grandfather and I loved one another dearly, I assure you,’ Alessandro replied easily. ‘There was no disapproval. In fact, my work grew out of his in a very real sense.’