Sabrina felt a tiny hook-like tug somewhere in the middle of her chest at the thought of all the women he would continue to see if she married him. ‘A marriage of convenience’ was the term, a mutual agreement that benefited both parties, this time for the sake of a small, tragically orphaned child. Mario would continue his playboy lifestyle while she would act the role of the long-suffering wife. Oh, she would be well and truly compensated, of that she was sure. Money was no object when it came to the Marcolini bloodline. Upon his father’s death a few months ago, Mario had taken over the Marcolini investment business even though he was not the eldest son. His older brother Antonio was a high-profile plastic surgeon who travelled the world lecturing on his ground-breaking techniques for facial reconstruction surgery.
Between the two of them the money they had inherited and earned was beyond anything Sabrina could imagine. When she had lost her mother at the age of ten, the foster family who had taken her in had by no means been on the breadline, but they’d been frugal and conservative with their spending and their lifestyle. Necessities were saved for and purchased, but never luxuries. Sabrina had not even been to a proper restaurant until the age of sixteen, when she had saved up enough money from her various babysitting jobs to go out to celebrate a friend’s birthday.
Mario Marcolini on the other hand had probably been fed by five-star chefs all his silver-spooned life. The suit he was wearing looked as if it was a designer label; the silver watch on his tanned wrist probably cost more than her car. Everything about him spoke of wealth and privilege, which was no doubt where he had obtained his air of arrogance. His cleanly shaven jaw had a hint of stubbornness to it, and although she knew from experience how sinfully sensual his mouth could be she suspected it too could be equally intransigent if anyone stood in the way of what he wanted.
The sound of a tiny cry came from the pram, and Sabrina blinked herself out of her stasis to soothe Molly, who was due for a feed and change. ‘Hey there, little one,’ she cooed as she picked up the little pink bundle. ‘What is all the fuss about, hmm? Are you hungry?’
‘May I hold her?’
Sabrina turned with the baby in her arms, surprised at how deep and scratchy Mario’s voice had sounded. ‘Of course,’ she said, stepping towards him.
He took the baby carefully from her arms, one of his hands brushing against her breast as he did so. Sabrina tried to disguise her reaction, but she could feel the heat pooling in her cheeks all the same.
She watched as he cradled Molly against his broad chest, his large hands and long, strong forearms making the infant look so small in comparison. A corner of his mouth began to lift in a wistful smile as he looked down at the little girl, one of his long fingers stroking her tiny cheek. ‘Ciao, piccolo; sono il vostro nuovo papa,’ he said.
Sabrina found it amazing how one small infant could effect such a change in a man’s demeanour. Gone was the cynical glint in his dark gaze; in its place was a tender warmth that made her wish he would look at her like that. She pulled back from her traitorous thoughts, shocked at how she was reacting to him. Perhaps it was his out-of-the-blue proposal that had weakened her normally rigid resolve. Like him, she would do anything to protect Molly, but what he was suggesting made her feel as if she was wading out of her depth into very murky, dangerous water.
Being formally tied to him would mean much more than sharing a house and the care of a child. In spite of his assurance, the marriage would not be a real one. She couldn’t help but think living with him over any period of time would blur the boundaries, for her if not for him. From the first moment she had met him at Laura and Ric’s wedding eighteen months ago, she had felt a zapping sensation when his deep brown eyes had meshed with hers. It had made every nerve beneath her skin tingle with awareness; her stomach had felt hollow and her legs watery. He had flirted with her outrageously, and yet somehow she had managed to play it cool even though inside she had been simmering with reaction, a reaction she had not been able to control when she had met him again just a few weeks ago. She was not normally the sort of woman to have her head turned with suave good looks. She had always been so guarded around men, which made the fiasco with the Roebournes all the more ridiculously ironic.
There was a sound at the door, and Ingrid Knowles came sweeping in. ‘Where is my grandchild?’ she asked, her words slurring slightly. ‘I want to show her off to some of my friends who have just arrived.’
Sabrina felt her back come up like the fur of a cornered cat. ‘Molly needs changing and feeding first,’ she said. ‘And she is not your grandchild—she is no relation to you whatsoever.’
Ingrid’s mouth pulled tight as she gave Sabrina an up-and-down look that had talons attached. ‘You think you’re going to keep her, don’t you? Well, you are not. I have already spoken to my lawyer. You don’t stand a chance—not after what you did to poor Imogen Roebourne, seducing her husband behind her back.’
Sabrina felt one of Mario’s arms go round her waist, while the other cradled the baby against his broad chest. ‘You have been misinformed, Mrs Knowles,’ he said with cool authority. ‘Sabrina was totally innocent in the Roebourne affair. The press made it out to be something it was not.’
Ingrid gave a grating laugh. ‘And you believe her?’
‘Yes, I do, actually,’ he responded smoothly. ‘I would not be marrying her otherwise.’
Ingrid’s penciled eyebrows shot upwards. ‘You’re marrying her?’ she choked in stunned surprise.
His arm subtly tightened around Sabrina’s waist. ‘We will be married as soon as it can be arranged and take Molly with us back to Italy.’
Ingrid turned her attention to Sabrina. ‘Is this true?’ she asked, with a gaze as narrow as a starling’s. ‘Are you really marrying this man?’
Sabrina felt the seconds ticking by as she hesitated before she answered. The band of Mario’s arm was warm about her; she could feel every one of his splayed fingers on her hip, the warmth spreading to her inner thighs like a trail of slow-burning fire. By opening her mouth and agreeing to his plan she knew she was not just stepping onto hot coals but throwing herself into the flames.
Her eyes flicked to where Molly was nestled against Mario’s chest, her sweet little doll-like face turned in Sabrina’s direction. Her little Cupid’s bow mouth smiled as she looked at her, and for Sabrina that clinched it. How could she possibly say no now?
‘Um…I…yes,’ she said. ‘That’s right. We’re, er, getting married.’
Ingrid gave her another scathing look. ‘Then you are an even bigger gold-digger than I thought. You hardly know the man. You’ve met him—what?—twice? How can you possibly think of marrying him unless it’s for money? That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You’ve always fancied being the wife of a rich man, and who is richer than a Marcolini?’
Sabrina felt her face suffuse with colour. ‘This is not about money.’
‘That is correct,’ Mario interjected. ‘It is about what is best for Molly. It’s what her parents wanted for her.’
Ingrid threw Mario a malevolent glare. ‘You don’t stand a chance. Stanley will engage a top lawyer who will make mincemeat of you.’
Mario’s eyes glinted with steely implacability. ‘Before he does that, perhaps you had better tell him I know all about what he has been doing with the Whinstone account.’
There was a throbbing pause.
Sabrina could see how Laura’s stepmother was clenching and unclenching her teeth, her green eyes darting about nervously. She almost felt sorry for the woman. For all Ingrid’s beverage-fuelled bravado, what chance did she stand with Mario Marcolini as an opponent?
‘You’re not going to win this,’ Ingrid said through thin lips, although her defiant stance had visibly sagged.
Mario’s