The Count's Blackmail Bargain. Sara Craven

her and his family.

      There was a table on the terrace, and comfortable cushioned chairs. Alessio held one for her courteously, then took the adjoining seat. There was a silence, and Laura took a nervous sip of her drink.

      ‘You and Paolo aren’t very alike—for cousins,’ she ventured at last.

      ‘No,’ Alessio said, contemplating his whisky. ‘There is very little resemblance between us. Physically, I believe he favours his late father.’

      ‘I see.’ She hesitated, then said in a small wooden voice, ‘His mother, the Signora, is a very—striking woman.’

      ‘She has a forceful personality, certainly,’ he said drily. ‘I understand that, when she was young, she was also considered a great beauty.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Tell me, Laura, how did you meet my cousin?’

      ‘I work in a wine bar,’ she said. ‘He was one of the customers.’

      ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘So you are not always as shy as you are with me.’

      ‘But then,’ she returned, ‘I wasn’t expecting to meet you, signore.’

      ‘You have forgotten,’ he said. ‘We agreed it would be Alessio.’

      No, she thought. I haven’t forgotten a thing. I’m not ready to be on first-name terms—or any terms at all—with someone like you.

      There was a loud sneeze from inside the salotto, and Paolo emerged, flourishing a large handkerchief. ‘Maledizione, I am getting a cold,’ he said peevishly. ‘Some germ on the plane, indubbiamente.’

      Laura decided this was her cue. ‘Darling.’ She got up and went to his side, sliding her arm through his. ‘How horrid for you. Summer colds are always the worst.’

      For a second, he looked at her as if he’d forgotten who she was, then he pulled himself together, kissing her rather awkwardly on the cheek. ‘Well, I must take care not to pass it on to you, carissima. Che peccato, eh? What a pity.’ He slid an arm round her, his fingers deliberately brushing the underside of her breast.

      Laura, nailing on a smile, longed to pull away and kick him where it hurt. Alessio drank some more whisky, his face expressionless.

      If she’d hoped that the arrival of his mother a short while later would impose some constraint upon Paolo, Laura was doomed to disappointment. He’d drawn his chair close beside hers at the table, and appeared glued to her side, his hand stroking her arm and shoulder possessively, his lips never far from her ear, her hair, or her cheek, nibbling little caresses that she found positively repellent.

      She knew, of course, that the Signora was watching, her mouth drawn into a tight line, because that was the purpose of the exercise. And there was nothing she could do about it. But she was also sharply aware that the Count was sending them the odd meditative glance, and this, for some reason, she found even more disturbing than the older woman’s furious scrutiny.

      She found she was silently repeating, ‘Think of the money. Think of the money,’ over and over again like a mantra, but it was not producing the desired calming effect, and she was thankful to her heart when dinner was finally announced, and Paolo reluctantly had to relinquish his hold.

      The dining room was a long, low-ceilinged room, with a wonderful painted ceiling depicting some Bacchanalian revel, with people wearing bunches of grapes instead of clothes.

      The scene below was much more decorous, the polished table gleaming with silver and crystal in the light of several elaborate candelabra. Alessio sat at the head of the table, with his aunt facing him at its foot, and Laura was seated halfway down, opposite Paolo, the width of the table putting her beyond the reach of any more amorous overtures.