His Reluctant Bride: The Marchese's Love-Child / The Count's Blackmail Bargain / In the Millionaire's Possession. Sara Craven

the faint dip of the bed as he took his place on the far side of the bolster.

      There was a silence, then he said, ‘Paola, you are permitted to stop acting when we are alone together. And I know you are not asleep.’

      She turned reluctantly, and looked at him over her shoulder. In the shadows of the room, she could see the outline of him, leaning on the bolster, watching her, but she was unable to read the expression on his face.

      She kept her voice cool. ‘But I’d like to be. This has been one hell of a day.’

      ‘Crowned, I imagine, by your meeting with my cousin Emilio,’ he drawled. ‘Where did you encounter him?’

      Polly, unprepared for the question, hunched a shoulder. ‘He happened to be on the terrace while I was there,’ she said evasively.

      ‘Emilio does not “happen” to be anywhere, cara,’ he said drily. ‘His locations are always intentional.’ He paused. ‘Did you share a pleasant conversation?’

      ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not particularly. I hope he isn’t a frequent visitor.’

      ‘I believe he comes mainly to see Zia Antonia,’ he said. ‘Usually when I am not here. As he is leaving early in the morning, he has asked me to pass on a message to you.’

      Polly shifted uncomfortably. ‘Oh?’

      ‘He sends you his homage,’ Sandro went on silkily. ‘And hopes that tonight will provide you with wonderful memories for the rest of your life.’

      She punched the pillow with unnecessary vigour, and lay down again. ‘Well, neither of us are likely to forget it,’ she said shortly.

      ‘That is true,’ he said. ‘But I am surprised to find you on a level of such intimacy with Emilio.’

      ‘I’m not,’ she returned heatedly. ‘He’s a loathsome little worm, and I’m amazed that someone hasn’t dealt with him by now.’

      ‘They have tried,’ Sandro said drily. ‘He has been pushed off a balcony in Lucca, and thrown into the Grand Canal in Venice. And he was nearly the victim of a drive-by shooting in Rome, but it seems that was a case of mistaken identity.’

      Polly was surprised into a giggle. ‘What a shame.’

      ‘As you say,’ he agreed solemnly. ‘But, in a way, he can be pitied. For years he has been waiting confidently for me to break my neck on the polo field, be caught in an avalanche or drown while sailing. The car crash must have made him feel that his dream could come true at last.

      ‘Yet here I am with a wife and a son, and his hopes of the Valessi inheritance are finally dashed.’

      She put up a hand to her pillow, hugging it closer. Her voice was faintly muffled. ‘Is that why you were so determined to take Charlie? To put Emilio out of the running?’

      ‘It played its part. But I wanted him for his own sake, too.’ His voice sharpened. ‘Paola, you cannot doubt that, surely.’

      ‘No,’ she said. ‘I—know you did.’

      It was almost her only certainty, she thought. Emilio’s vile insinuations were still turning like a weary treadmill in her brain, reminding her yet again just how tenuous her position was. And how easily she might lose everything in the world that mattered to her.

      And in spite of the warmth of the night, she gave the slightest shiver.

      He noticed instantly. ‘Are you cold? Do you wish for a blanket?’

      ‘It’s not that.’ She sat up, making a little helpless gesture. ‘I—I just don’t know what I’m doing here—why I let myself do this. I don’t understand what’s happening.’

      He was silent for a moment, then he said wearily, a trace of something like bitterness in his voice, ‘Currently, you and I, cara mia, are about to spend a very long and tedious night together. When it is over, we will see what tomorrow brings, and hope that it is better. Now, sleep.’

      He turned away, and lay down with his back to her, and, after a pause, she did the same.

      Time passed, and became an hour—then another. Polly found herself lying on the furthermost edge of the bed, listening to Sandro’s quiet, regular breathing, scared to move or even sigh in case she disturbed him.

      She felt physically and emotionally exhausted, but her brain would not let her rest. She was plagued by images that hurt and bewildered her, images of fear and isolation, but she found them impossible to dismiss, however much she wanted to let go, and allow herself to drift away into sleep.

      At one point, she seemed to be standing at one end of a long tree-lined avenue, watching Sandro, who was ahead of her, walking away with long, rapid strides. And she knew with total frightened certainty that if she allowed him to reach the end of the avenue, that he would be gone forever. She tried to call out, to summon him back, but her voice emerged as a cracked whisper.

      Yet somehow he seemed to hear, because he stopped and looked back, and she began to run to him, stumbling a little, her legs like leaden weights.

      She said his name again, and ran into his arms, and they closed round her, so warm and so safe that the icy chill deep inside her began to dissolve away as he held her.

      And she thought, This is a dream. I’m dreaming … And knew that she did not want to wake, and face reality again.

      When she eventually opened her eyes the following day, that same feeling of security still lingered, and she felt relaxed and strangely at peace.

      The first thing she saw was that the bolster was back in its normal place, and that the bed beside her was empty. She was completely alone, too, with only the whirr of the ceiling fan to disturb the hush of the room. Sandro had gone.