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

Why, in the name of God, had he let her walk away like that? He’d felt her trembling when he’d touched her. Why hadn’t he pressed home his advantage—thrown the cushions on the ground, and drawn her down there with him, peeling the damp swimsuit from her body, and silencing her protests with kisses as he’d taken her, swiftly and simply?

Winning her as his woman, he thought, while he appeased the hunger that was tearing him apart.

Afterwards, he would have sent her to pack her things while he enjoyed another kind of satisfaction—the moment when he told Paolo, and his damnable mother, that he was taking Laura away with him. His mission accomplished in the best possible way.

Then, off to Sorrento to make plans—but for what? The rest of their lives? He frowned swiftly. He had never thought of any woman in those terms. But certainly the weeks to follow—maybe even the months.

At some point, they would have to return to Rome. It would be best, he decided, if he rented an apartment for her. A place without resonances, containing a bed that he’d shared with no one else.

But what was the point of thinking like this, he derided himself, when none of it had happened? When she’d rejected him, using Paolo’s name like a shield, as she always did. And he’d let her go…

Dio, he could still taste the cool silkiness of her skin.

And now she wished to leave altogether—to go back to London. Well, so she might, and the sooner the better. Because he would follow.

In England, he could pursue her on his own terms, he thought. He’d have the freedom to date and spoil her exactly as he wished, until her resistance crumbled. And there would be no Zia Lucrezia to poison the well.

Yes, he thought with a sigh of anticipation. London was the perfect answer.

Unless… He sat up suddenly, mind and body reeling as if he’d been punched in the gut. Was it—could it be possible that he’d misjudged the situation completely? Might it be that she was genuinely in love with his weasel of a cousin after all? The idea made him nauseous.

Yet she’d wanted him very badly to kiss her. His experience with women left him in no doubt about that, while her own female instinct must have told her that, once she was in his arms, it would not stop at kissing.

She’d allowed Paolo to kiss her, of course, and all the other intimacies he dared not even contemplate, because they filled him with such blind, impotent rage that he longed to go up to the house, take his cousin from his sick bed, and put him in hospital instead.

He looked down at the book beside him, his mouth hardening. Ah, Francesco, he thought. Was that the image that haunted you every night—your Laura in her husband’s arms?

He supposed in some twisted way he should be grateful to his aunt for persuading her malingering son that he was far more sick than he really was, and keeping the lovers apart. At least he didn’t have the torment of knowing they were together under his roof.

Santa Madonna, he thought. Anyone might think I was jealous. But I have never been so in my whole life.

And I do not propose to start now, he added grimly.

No, he thought. He would not accept that Laura had any serious feelings for Paolo. Women in love carried their own protection like a heat-shield. No one existed in their private radiant universe but the beloved. Yet he’d been able to feel her awareness of him just as surely as if she’d put out her hand and touched his body.

So, maybe she really believed that, with Paolo, she would be marrying money—or at least where money was. The thought made him wince, but it now had to be faced and dealt with. Because it was clear that, living in one room and working in a bar, she was struggling near the bottom of the ladder.

And, if he was right, he thought cynically, then he would have to convince her that he would be a far more generous proposition than his cousin. That, financially, she would do much better as his mistress than as Paolo’s wife.

A much pleasanter task, he resolved, would be to set himself to create for her such an intensity of physical delight that she would forget all other men in his arms. It occurred to him, wryly, that it was the least she deserved.

But what do I deserve? he asked himself quietly. And could find no answer.

‘What is this? What are you saying?’ Paolo’s face was mottled with annoyance.

‘I want to go home,’ Laura repeated levelly. ‘I—I’m totally in the way here, and it’s becoming a serious embarrassment for me.’

‘An embarrassment for which you will be well paid,’ he snapped. He paused. ‘But what you ask is not possible. My mother will become suspicious if you go home alone—think that we have quarrelled.’

‘I fail to see how,’ Laura said coldly. ‘We haven’t spent enough time together to have a row.’

He waved an impatient hand. ‘I have worked too hard to convince her to fail now.’ He thought for a moment. ‘But we could leave earlier than planned, if we go together—in two or three days, perhaps.’

‘Will you be well enough to travel?’ Laura asked acidly, but her sarcasm was wasted.

He shrugged. ‘We must hope. And Mamma intends me to take a little trip with her very soon, so we shall see.’

She said quietly, ‘Paolo, I’m deadly serious about this, and I don’t intend to wait indefinitely. In twenty-four hours, I’m looking for another flight.’

I can survive that long, she thought bleakly as she went to her room to change for dinner. But this time, I’ll be the one adopting the avoidance tactics.

CHAPTER EIGHT

NOTHING happened. Nothing happened. The words echoed and re-echoed in Laura’s head, matching the reluctant click of her heels on the tiled floor as she walked to the salotto that evening.

But even if that was true, she could hardly take credit for it, she acknowledged bitterly. Nor could she pretend otherwise for her own peace of mind. And she felt as guilty as if she and Paolo had been genuinely involved with each other.

She’d stayed in her room as long as possible, pacing restlessly up and down, frankly dreading the moment when she would have to face Alessio again.

She still seemed to feel his touch as if it were somehow ingrained in her. She’d been almost surprised, as she’d stood under the shower, not to find the actual marks of his fingers—the scar left by the graze of his lips on her skin.

But, invisible or not, they were there, she knew, and she would carry them for ever.

Guillermo was hovering almost anxiously in the hallway, emphasising how late she’d left her arrival, and he sprang forward, beaming, to open the carved double doors to admit her to the salotto.

She squared her shoulders and walked in, braced—for what? Mockery—indifference? Or something infinitely more dangerous…

And halted, her brows lifting in astonishment. Because she was not to be alone with Alessio as she’d feared after all. Paolo was there, reclining on a sofa, looking sullen, while the Signora occupied a high-backed armchair nearby, her lips compressed as if annoyed about something.

And, alone by the open windows, looking out into the night, was Alessio, glass in hand.

All heads turned as Laura came forward, and she was immediately aware of an odd atmosphere in the silent room—a kind of angry tension. But she ignored it and went straight to Paolo, who rose sulkily to his feet at her approach.

‘Darling,’ she said. She reached up and kissed his cheek. ‘You didn’t say you were getting up for dinner. What a wonderful surprise.’

‘Well, I shall not be able to take the time I need to recuperate, when you are in such a hurry to fly home,’ he returned peevishly, making her long to kick him.

‘Signorina Mason—at last you join us.’ The Signora’s smile glittered coldly at her. ‘We were just talking about you. We have a small predicament, you understand.’

‘I can’t see what that could be. Paolo’s well again.’ Laura slid a hand through his arm as she faced the older woman, chin up. ‘That’s all that really matters.’

‘Then I hope you are prepared to be gracious,’ said the Signora, her smile a little fixed. ‘Because tomorrow I must tear him away from you. We are to pay a visit to my dearest friend, and remain for lunch. She is not aware of your presence here, so I regret that you have not been included in her invitation. You will, I hope, forgive our absence.’

She turned her head towards Alessio, who looked back, his face expressionless.

‘And now it seems that you will also be deserted by our host,’ she went on, her voice faintly metallic. ‘My nephew tells me he has business in Perugia tomorrow that cannot be postponed. We were—discussing the problem.’

Laura found herself torn between relief and a sense of desolation so profound that she was ashamed of herself. She dared not risk a glance in the direction of the tall young man standing in silence by the window.