In The Count's Bed: The Count's Blackmail Bargain / The French Count's Pregnant Bride / The Italian Count's Baby

‘Perhaps you should have stuck to plan A,’ he went on. ‘Then you would have avoided a meeting with Zia Lucrezia.’

‘Indeed,’ she said lightly. ‘And Paolo might not have caught a cold.’

‘Not with you to keep him warm, I am sure,’ he said softly, and watched with satisfaction as the inevitable blush rose in her face. ‘Have you been to see him?’

‘I tried,’ she admitted. ‘But his mother wouldn’t allow it. Apparently he’s running a temperature.’

‘Which you might raise to lethal limits.’ He paused. ‘And she may have a point,’ he added silkily. ‘But would you like me to speak to her for you—persuade her to see reason?’

‘Would you?’ she asked doubtfully. ‘But why?’

‘Who am I to stand in the way of love?’ He shrugged a negligent shoulder, and Laura tried to ignore the resultant ripple of muscle.

Abruptly, she said, ‘Do you know Beatrice Manzone?’

‘I have met her,’ he said. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I was wondering what she was like.’

The dark gaze narrowed. ‘What does Paolo say?’

She bit her lip. ‘That she’s rich.’

‘A little harsh,’ he said. ‘She is also pretty and docile.’ He grinned faintly. ‘And cloying, like an overdose of honey. Quite unlike you, mia cara.’

She bit her lip. ‘I wasn’t looking for comparisons.’

‘Then what do you want? Reassurance?’ There was a sudden crispness in his tone. ‘You should look to Paolo for that. And according to him, the Manzone girl is history.’

‘His mother doesn’t seem to think so.’

There was an odd silence, then he said, ‘Mia bella, if you and Paolo want each other, then what else matters?’ He swung himself off the lounger, as if suddenly impatient. ‘And now it is time we went up to the house for some lunch.’

Once again only two places had been set for the meal, which, this time, was being served in the coolness of the dining room. And her seat, Laura observed uneasily, had been moved up the table to within touching distance of his. It made serving the food more convenient, but at the same time it seemed as if she was constantly being thrust into close proximity with him—suddenly an honoured guest rather than an unwanted visitor—and she found this disturbing for all kinds of reasons.

But in spite of her mental reservations, her morning in the fresh air had certainly sharpened her appetite, and she ate her way through a bowl of vegetable soup, and a substantial helping of pasta. But her eyes widened in genuine shock when Guillermo carried the next course—a dish of cod baked with potatoes and parmesan—to the table.

‘More food?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t believe it.’

Alessio looked amused. ‘And there is still cheese and dessert to follow. You are going to be an Italian’s wife, Laura. You must learn to eat well in the middle of the day.’

‘But how can anyone do any work after all this?’

‘No one does.’ Alessio handed her a plate of food. ‘Has Paolo not introduced you to the charms of the siesta?’ He kept his voice light with an effort, knowing fiercely that he wanted to be the one to share with her those quiet, shuttered afternoon hours. To sleep with her wrapped in his arms, then wake to make slow, lazy love.

‘We rest and work later when it is cooler,’ he added, refilling her glass with wine.

‘I think Paolo is used to London hours now,’ she said, looking down at her plate.

‘But he will not always work there, you understand.’ He gave her a meditative look. ‘How would you like living in Turin—or Milan?’

‘I haven’t thought about it.’

‘Or,’ he said slowly, ‘it might even be Rome.’

She said, ‘Oh, I expect I’d adjust—somehow.’

Except, she thought, that it will never happen, and began to make herself eat.

She wished with sudden desperation that she could confide in him. Tell him exactly why she was here, and how Paolo had persuaded her into this charade.

But there was no guarantee that he would understand, and he might not appreciate being made a fool of, and having his hospitality abused in such a way.

And although he and his aunt were plainly not on the best of terms, he might disapprove of the older woman being deliberately deceived.

Besides, and more importantly, thought Laura, it would render her even more vulnerable where he was concerned, and she could not afford that.

She’d come this far, she told herself rather wanly. She might as well go on to the bitter end—whenever that might be.

His voice broke across her reverie. ‘What are you thinking?’

Quickly she forced a smile. Spoke eagerly. ‘Oh, just how good it will be to see Paolo again. We don’t seem to have been alone together for ages.’ She managed a note of anxiety. ‘You really do think you’ll be able to persuade your aunt?’

‘Yes,’ Alessio said quietly, after a pause. ‘Yes, I do.’

And they ate the rest of the meal in silence.

Siestas were probably fine in theory, thought Laura. In practice, they didn’t seem to work quite so well. Or not for her, anyway.

She lay staring up at the ceiling fan, listening to its soft swish as it rotated, and decided she had never felt so wide awake. She needed something to occupy her.

Her book was finished, its ending as predictable as the rest of the story, and she had no wish to lie about thinking. Because her mind only seemed to drift in one direction—towards the emotional minefield presided over by the Count Alessio Ramontella.

And it was ludicrous—pathetic—to allow herself to think about a man who, a week ago, had been only a name on the paperwork from the Arleschi Bank’s head office. A distant figurehead, and nothing more.

And no matter how attractive he might be, that was how he would always remain—remote. No part of any world that she lived in, except for these few dreamlike, unforgettable days.

Except that she had to forget them—and pretty damned quickly too—as soon as she returned to England, if not before.

She slid off the bed. She’d have a shower, she decided, and wash her hair. She’d brought no dryer with her, but twenty minutes or so with a hairbrush in the courtyard’s afternoon sun would serve the same purpose.

Ten minutes later, demurely wrapped in the primly pretty white cotton robe she’d brought with her, and her hair swathed into a towel, she opened the shutters and stepped outside into the heated shimmer of the day.

She was greeted immediately with a torrent of yapping as Caio, who was lying in the shade of the stone bench, rose to condemn her intrusion.

Laura halted in faint dismay. Up to now, although he was in the adjoining room, he hadn’t disturbed her too much with his barking. But she’d assumed that the Signora had taken him with her to the other end of the house to share her sick room vigil. She certainly hadn’t bargained for finding him here in sole and aggressive occupation.

‘Good dog,’ she said without conviction. ‘Look, I just want to get my hair dry. There’s enough room for us both. Don’t give me a hard time, now.’