The Marchese's Love-Child (8 page)

Sandro shrugged. 'I see little point in losing, bella mia,' he returned. 'But I am prepared to offer a draw—a negotiated settlement.'

She stared at him. 'Would it mean that Charlie stayed with me?'

"That would depend on you,' he said. 'Carlino is coming to Italy with me. As my son, he needs to learn about his heritage. I am merely inviting you to accompany him.'

'As what? Some kind of glorified nanny?' she demanded. She shook her head. 'I think I'd rather have my day in court.'

'He already has a nanny,' Sandro told her evenly. 'And another waiting in Italy to love him. But what he really needs is the stability of both parents in his life. So, Paola mia, I am asking you once again, as I did three years ago, to be my wife.'

For a long, dazed moment Polly was too shaken to speak.

At last, she said huskily, 'Is this some grotesque joke?'

'No,' he said. 'We are, if you remember, already engaged to each other,' he added cynically.

Her breathing quickened. 'Was I really supposed to believe that—that nonsense? I—I don't think so. And whatever happened between us, it was all over a long time ago, and you know it. You can't simply revive it—on a whim.'

'Very well, then,' Sandro returned equably. 'Let us forget it ever took place. Pretend that, for the first time, I am making you an offer of marriage, Paola mia.'

She shook her head. 'But you don't—you can't want to marry me.'

'I have no particular desire to be married at all,' he retorted. 'But there are good reasons why I should sacrifice my freedom.'

'Your freedom?' Polly almost choked. 'What about mine?'

He looked around him. 'You call this liberty? Working long hours. Living in little more than one room? I don't think so.'

'I could always sue you for child support.' She drew a breath. 'That would improve my circumstances by a hundred per cent.'

'But I am already offering to support our child—as the Marchese Valessi,' he said silkily. 'Besides, our marriage would remove any possible objections to Carlino's right to inherit when the time comes, and it would mean that his well-being and nurture becomes the concern of us both from day to day.' He paused. 'I suggest it as a practical alternative to a custody battle.'

'Which I might win,' she said swiftly.

'You might, but could you fight the appeal which would follow?' Sandro countered. 'Or the appeal against the appeal?' His smile was chilly. "The case might last for years.'

'Or until I run out of money, of course,' she said bitterly. 'You don't need a cattle prod, signore.'

His brows lifted. 'You regard marriage to me as some kind of torture, signorina’ he asked softly. "Then perhaps I should make something clear to you at once. What I am offering is only a matter of form. A way of legalising the situation between us. But it would not be a love match. Too much has taken place for that. We would share nothing more than a roof, if that is what concerns you.'

He gave her a level look. 'I accept now that any feelings we had for each other belong in the past. That we are different people, and we have both moved on.'

'You say that now.' Her voice was husky. 'Yet only last night you told me I was still in your blood.'

'But a lot has happened since then,' Sandro said harshly. 'And my feelings towards you have naturally changed as a result.' He paused. 'Now our child remains the only issue between us, and his ultimate welfare should be our sole consideration. You agree with that, I hope?'

Polly nodded numbly.

'Bene,' he said briskly. 'In return, I promise that your life as the Marchesa Valessi will be as easy as I can make it. You will be made a suitable allowance, and asked occasionally to act as my hostess.' His smile was hard. 'But you may spend your nights alone.'

She swallowed. 'And—you?'

'I hardly think that concerns you,' he said coldly. 'However, I will ensure that any liaisons I have are conducted discreetly.'

She bit her lip. 'As ours was?'

'Dawero,' he nodded. 'Precisely.'

She said with difficulty, 'And what about me—if I met someone?'

His brows lifted. 'I should require you to behave with equal discretion. I would tolerate no open scandal in my family.'

He paused. 'So what is your answer, Paola? Will you be my wife?'

'I don't know what to say.' Concealed by the skirts of her robe, her hands were clenched painfully into fists. 'I mean—you might want more children at some point.'

'I have a son to safeguard the inheritance. That was always my priority in such matters. As to the rest...' He shrugged again. 'I have cousins, both married with bambini. At times my house seems full of children. Although that, of course, will be good for Carlino,' he added thoughtfully. 'He does not talk as well as he should, and he hardly knows how to kick a ball. That must change.'

Polly's lips parted in sheer outrage. 'How—dare you? Last week you didn't even know you were a father. Now you're a bloody expert on child-rearing.'

'I made no such claim,' Sandro returned mildly. 'But Julie had concerns which she mentioned to me.'

"Then she had no right,' Polly flared. 'Charlie's absolutely beautiful, and he can do all kinds of things,' she added hotly, burying the memory of various clashes she'd had with her mother on that very subject.

'And could do far more, I suspect.' Sandra's smile was cold, 'if he was allowed to—and once keeping his clothes clean from every speck of dust is no longer a major priority.' He allowed her to absorb that, then went on, 'Can he swim?'

She reddened, still stung by his last comment, but honestly unable to refute it. He hadn't missed much during his first encounter with her mother, she thought ruefully.

'No, not yet,' she said in a subdued voice. 'I meant to take him to the local baths, but weekends are always so busy.'

'It's not a problem,' he said. He smiled at her for the first time that night without edge, the sudden unforced charm making the breath catch in her throat. 'I shall enjoy teaching him myself in our own pool.'

She caught her lower lip in her teeth, struggling to regain her equilibrium. Trying to disregard the image his words had presented. 'Yes—I suppose...'

'So,' he said, after a pause, 'shall we settle this thing now? Will you marry me, and come to Italy with our son?'

'I don't seem to have much of a choice,' she said in a low voice.

Something unreadable came and went in his face. 'And if you could choose? What then?'

'I would wish to be as far from you,' she said passionately, 'as it's possible to get.'

His head went back, and his eyes narrowed. 'Well, do not despair, bella mia,' he drawled scornfully. 'My home at Comadora is large, a palazzo, with thick walls, and many rooms. You should be able to avoid me easily.'

'Thank you,' she said huskily.

'Tonight, however, you will not be so fortunate,' he added.

She stiffened. 'What are you talking about?'

'I intend to spend the night here.'

She gasped. 'But—but you can't...' She tried not to look at the all too obtrusive sofa bed. 'There's no room.'

'It will be cramped,' he agreed. He took off his jacket, and began to loosen his tie. 'But it is only for one night.'

She said in a choked voice, 'You promised me—you swore this wouldn't happen. Oh, why did I think I could trust you?'

"The boot is on the other foot, cara mia.' He began unhurriedly to unfasten his shirt. 'I do not trust you. Who knows what you might be tempted to do, if you were left alone?

'But I have no intention of breaking my word,' he added. 'This armchair looks comfortable enough, so I shall use that.' His smile grazed her skin. 'And you can have that congegno quite undisturbed. I hope you sleep well.'

He draped his shirt over the back of the chair, sat down and removed his shoes and socks, while Polly watched in growing alarm. But when he stood up, his hands going to the waistband of his trousers, she intervened.

'Kindly stop right there,' she said grittily.

'You have some problem?'

'Yes.' Her green eyes were stormy. 'Of course I do.'

"Then deal with it.' He unzipped his trousers, stepped out of them, then placed them, folded, with the rest of his clothes. He was wearing brief silk shorts, and the rest of him was smooth tanned skin. For one burning moment of self-betrayal she found herself remembering the taste of him, and felt her body clench in uncontrollable excitement.

'Why, Paola, you are blushing,' he jeered softly. 'But not even to spare you will I sleep in my clothes. And you were not always such a prude,' he added drily. He indicated his shorts derisively. 'These, as you know, are a concession. But if the sight of me is still too much, you could always close your eyes.' He paused. 'Have you a towel I can use?'

Dry-mouthed, she muttered acquiescence, and went to the chest of drawers. As she reached for a towel, she uncovered Charlie's photograph.

'What is that?' Sandro came to her side, and took it from the drawer. He studied it for a moment, brows lifted, then turned to her. 'Is this where you usually keep it?'

'No.' she admitted reluctantly.

'You hid it,' he asked, incredulously. 'In case I came here?'

'Think whatever you wish,' she flung at him. 'I don't give a damn.'

He set the photograph carefully on top of the chest of drawers. 'And you wonder why I do not trust you,' he said silkily. He rescued the towel from her nerveless hand and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

For a moment she stood irresolutely, trying to decide what to do. She could hardly go to bed in her robe, without exciting the kind of comment from him she most wished to avoid. And what nightgowns she possessed were far too thin and revealing.

However...

Polly knelt, opening the bottom drawer of the chest, searching with feverish fingers. There were some oddments of winter clothing here, she knew. Among them...

She drew out the pyjamas with a sigh of relief. They were worn out, washed out, and she'd never liked them, but they were good old-fashioned winceyette, and they covered her from her throat down to her feet.

She was just fastening the last button on the mandarin-style jacket when Sandro returned, and stopped dead at the sight of her.

'Santa Madonna,' he breathed, with a kind of fascinated horror. 'No wonder you sleep alone. I think I shall have to choose your trousseau myself, particularly the biancheria intima.'

'Thank you,' Polly returned icily. 'But I prefer to pick my own lingerie. And if you don't like the way I look, you can close your eyes too,' she added triumphantly.

'That is one solution,' he admitted musingly. 'But I can think of others that I would enjoy more.' He saw her blench, and grinned. 'Calm down, cara mia. I intend to keep my word. But sometimes to cover too much can be a mistake, because it excites the imagination.' He paused. 'I suppose a spare blanket is too much to hope for.'

She wanted to scream at him that she hoped he caught galloping pneumonia and died alone in a ditch. Instead she heard herself say unwillingly, 'Yes, there is one.'

She fetched it from the comer cupboard, pale blue and still in its wrappings. 'I bought it for Charlie,' she told him, gruffly. 'For when he moves into a bed instead of his cot.'

There was a silence. 'Then I am doubly grateful,' he said quite gently. 'Because this is a sacrifice for you. And I will make sure it goes with us to his new home.'

For a moment, there was a note in his voice that made her want to cry. She turned away hurriedly, and got into bed, pulling the covers over her, the metal base creaking its usual protest as she settled herself.

'Dio,' Sandro muttered. 'And that—atrocity will remain here.'

Well, she wasn't going to argue about that, Polly thought wearily. Aloud, she said, past the constriction in her throat, 'Will you turn the light off, please? When you're ready.'

'I am ready now.'

She lay, eyes tight shut, as he went past her, and the room was plunged into darkness. Waited for him to return to the chair.

Instead, she was aware of him standing beside her. He said quietly, 'Paola, do you ever wish you could turn back the clock? Wipe out what has been?'

'No,' she said. 'Because I know it's impossible, and I prefer to deal with reality.'

He sighed. 'Then could we not declare a truce for this one night? Be together for old times' sake?'

She wanted so badly to yield. To reach up and draw him down to her. She was starving for him, her body quivering with need, aching for him. Reminding her that she'd never shared a room with him before without eventually falling asleep in his arms in the drugged sweetness of sensual exhaustion.

But if she surrendered, she would be lost forever. And if she resisted, as she knew she must, at least she would retain what remained of her pride. Which might be all she had left to sustain her in the weeks, months, even years ahead.

'Even if I was in the mood for casual sex,' she said stonily, 'you gave me your word.' And paused. 'Besides, you flatter yourself, signore.' she added, coolly and distinctly. 'The old times weren't that special.'

She heard his swift intake of breath, and flinched, knowing she had gone too far. Waiting for a retribution which seemed inevitable.

But there was nothing.

She felt rather than heard the moment he moved away. Listened, all her senses tingling, as he wrapped himself in the blanket. Then, in the heavy silence which followed, she turned her face into the single pillow, and lay like a dead thing.

It had never occurred to her that she would sleep. She was too aware of his even breathing only a few feet away, demonstrating quite clearly, she realised, that her rejection couldn't have weighed too heavily with him after all.

She sighed silently, searching for a cool place on the pillow. She needed to look calm and rested in the morning, not wan and heavy-eyed.

Because Sandro must not be allowed to think that he still mattered to her.

That was what she needed to remember above all. Anything else would be a disaster, because, as those few moments in the darkness had proved all over again, it was going to be difficult to remain immune to the devastating allure of his sexuality.