Bronte felt a lead-booted foot of apprehension press down on her chest until she could barely breathe. ‘I didn’t say and I am not going to.’
His smile had a hint of cruelty about it. He reached into the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket and handed her a silver embossed vellum business card. ‘My contact details,’ he said. ‘I will expect you at eight this evening at my hotel. I have written the name and address on the back. I am staying in the penthouse suite.’
‘I won’t be there,’ she warned him as he turned to leave.
He stopped at the door of the studio and turned to look at her. ‘Perhaps you had better speak to your previous landlords before you make your final decision,’ he said.
‘Previous?’ Bronte’s eyes flared as the realisation dawned. ‘You mean you bought the building?’ Her heart gave a stutter like an old lawnmower refusing to start. ‘Y…you’re my new landlord?’
He gave her a self-satisfied smile. ‘Dinner at eight, Bronte, otherwise you might find the sudden rise in rent too much to handle.’
Bronte felt anger rise up like lava inside an ancient volcano. Her whole body was shaking with it. Her hands were so tightly fisted her fingers ached, and her blood was pounding so hard in her veins she could hear a roaring in her ears. ‘You’re blackmailing me?’ she choked.
He met her excoriating look with equanimity. ‘I am asking you on a date, tesore mio,’ he said. ‘You know you want to say yes. The only reason you are making all this fuss is because you are still angry with me.’
‘You’re damn right I’m still angry with you,’ she spat.
‘I thought you said you were over me,’ he returned with an indolent smile.
Bronte wanted to slap that smile right off his face and only a smidgen of self-discipline and common sense stopped her. ‘There is a part of me that will always hate you, Luca,’ she said. ‘You played with me and then tossed me aside like a toy that no longer interested you. You didn’t even have the decency to meet with me face to face to discuss what had gone wrong.’
The hot spot of tension was beating beside his mouth again but Bronte continued regardless. ‘What sort of man are you to send one of your lackeys to do your dirty work for you?’
His eyes darkened as he held her burning gaze. ‘I thought it would be less complicated that way,’ he said. ‘I don’t like deliberately upsetting people. Believe me, Bronte, meeting you in person would have been much harder on both of us.’
Bronte rolled her eyes again. ‘That is such an arrogant thing to say. As if for a moment you had any feelings. You’re a heartless, cruel bastard, Luca Sabbatini, and I wish I had never met you.’
The studio door opened again. ‘Sorry I’m late. You would not believe the traff—Oh, oops…sorry,’ Rachel Brougham said. ‘I didn’t realise you had company.’
Bronte walked stiffly to the reception desk, using it as a barricade. ‘Mr Sabbatini is just leaving,’ she said with a pointed glare at Luca.
Rachel’s gaze went back and forth like someone at a Wimbledon final. ‘You’re not one of the parents, are you?’ she asked Luca.
‘No,’ he said with a crooked smile. ‘I have not had the pleasure as yet of becoming a father.’
Bronte couldn’t look at him. Her face felt like a furnace as she silently prayed Rachel wouldn’t mention Ella.
‘So…’ Rachel smiled widely, her grey eyes twinkling with interest. ‘You know Bronte, huh?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We met a couple of years ago in London. My name is Luca Sabbatini.’ He held out his hand to Rachel.
Please, God, please don’t let her join the dots, Bronte begged silently.
‘Rachel Brougham,’ Rachel said, taking his hand and shaking it enthusiastically. ‘Hey, I think I read something about you in the paper a couple of weeks ago. You’re in hotels, right?’
‘That’s right,’ Luca said. ‘I have some business here and thought it would be a good opportunity to catch up again with Bronte. We’re planning to have dinner tonight.’
‘Actually, I have something on to—’ Bronte began.
‘She’d love to come,’ Rachel said quickly, giving Bronte an are-you-nuts-to-turn-him-down look. ‘She hardly ever goes out. I was only telling her the other day how she needs to get a life.’
Bronte sent her friend a look that would have stopped a charging bull in its tracks. Rachel just smiled benignly and turned back to look at Luca. ‘So how long are you in Melbourne?’ she asked, leaning her elbows on the reception counter as if she was settling in for a good old natter, her expression rapt with interest.
‘A month to start with,’ he said. ‘I will use Melbourne as a base as I have some distant relatives here. I will also be spending a bit of time in Sydney and the Gold Coast.’
Bronte hadn’t realised Luca had family here. Although, now that she thought about it, Melbourne had a huge Italian community so it was not all that unlikely he would have cousins or second cousins, even perhaps uncles and aunts. They hadn’t really talked too much about their backgrounds when they were involved. Bronte had always found his reticence about his family one of the most intriguing things about him. It was as if he wanted to forget he was from wealth and privilege. He rarely mentioned his work and, although they had dated for six months, he had never flashed his money around as some rich men would have done. They had eaten in nice restaurants, certainly, and, apart from that hideously expensive parting gift delivered by one of his minions, she had never received anything off him other than the occasional bunch of flowers. But then hadn’t he unknowingly given her the most priceless gift of all?
‘Well, I am sure you’ll have a fabulous time while you’re in Australia,’ Rachel went on, just shy of gushing. ‘You speak fabulous English. Have you been here before?’
‘Thank you,’ Luca said. ‘I was educated in England during my teens and have spent the last few years travelling between my homes in Milan and London. I haven’t so far had the chance to travel to Australia but both of my brothers have. My older brother’s wife is Australian, although they met abroad.’
The first of the afternoon class began to arrive. Bronte watched as Luca turned to look at the group of small children who filed in with their mothers or, in a couple of cases, with their nannies. He smiled softly at them and several mothers did double takes; even the girls beamed up at him as if he was some sort of god or well known celebrity.
‘If you’ll excuse me,’ Bronte said to him stiffly as she moved from behind the reception desk, ‘I have a class to conduct.’
‘I will see you this evening,’ he said, locking gazes with her. ‘I have a hire car so I can pick you up if you give me your address.’
Bronte thought of the modest little granny flat she and Ella lived in at the back of her mother’s house. She thought too of all the baby paraphernalia that would require an explanation if he was to insist on coming inside. She was not ready to explain anything to him after what he had done. He’d had his chance to find out about his baby and he’d callously thrown it away. ‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘I can make it on my own.’
He gave her a gleaming smile. ‘So you’ve made up your mind to come after all?’
She gave him a beady look in return. ‘It’s not as if I have much choice in the matter. You’re hanging the threat of charging me an exorbitant rent if I don’t comply with your wishes.’
He reached out and trailed the point of his finger down the curve of her cheek, the action setting off a riot of sensation beneath her skin. ‘You have no idea what my wishes are, cara,’ he said softly and, before she could