ALEX was nothing like her expectations. From Virginia’s description, Camilla had imagined a man in late middle-age, with a balding pate, and a paunch. A man who was mean and cruel, more concerned with making money and running his business empire than with taking care of his young wife. He had married her because he’d needed a wife to provide him with an heir, Virginia had written, and after making her pregnant he had eschewed his responsibilities. Consequently, she was left alone and neglected on this isolated country estate, desperate for company, desperate for a friend.
And, of course, all that could be true, she conceded now, steeling herself to meet his dark-eyed gaze without flinching. Just because he was younger than she had expected, and infinitely better looking, was no reason to doubt that his character was every bit as black as Virginia had painted it. The trouble was, it seemed that Virginia wasn’t here, and now Camilla felt like the protagonist and not the defender.
‘You’re … Virginia’s cousin?’ he enquired politely, and Camilla, who had told the lie in order to get beyond the gates of the estate, felt a faint trace of colour invade her pale cheeks.
‘Not—not exactly,’ she admitted, wishing Virginia had not chosen today of all days to absent herself from the estate.
‘Not exactly?’ Alessandro Conti’s dark brows ascended towards the dark swathe of hair that dipped on to his forehead. ‘Either you are, or you aren’t. Don’t you know?’
‘My name is Camilla Richards——’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’ His drawl, which had echoes of the west coast of America in its depth and resonance, was attractive, but she refused to be diverted. ‘Um … Virginia … and I went to school together. We’ve known one another for … for over fifteen years.’
Alessandro Conti’s expression didn’t alter. It was still cold, and watchful, and infinitely suspicious. It made Camilla feel as if she had done something unforgivable by coming here, and she began to believe that Virginia had not been exaggerating.
‘So—you’re not my wife’s cousin,’ he said at last, and Camilla reluctantly shook her head. ‘Then do you mind telling me what the hell you are doing here?’
Camilla swallowed. ‘Well, really——’
‘Well, really—what? Did Virginia send you here, is that it? Did she tell you to get in here by whatever means you could? What does she want? Are you her messenger? Because if so I should tell you, Miss Richards——’
‘No!’ Camilla broke into his angry tirade with a denial that fairly trembled off her tongue. ‘No, of course Virginia didn’t send me here! I don’t know what you’re talking about. Virginia invited me to come. I’m her guest. And … and when your … your bloodhound at the gate refused to allow me to come in I said I was Virginia’s cousin, because it seemed the only thing to do!’
Alessandro Conti’s eyes narrowed. ‘D’you want to run that by me again? You say—Virginia invited you here?’
‘Of course.’ Camilla held up her head proudly, becoming aware, as she did so, that the knot she had secured so confidently in the hotel in Los Angeles that morning, was rapidly loosening, and fiery strands were beginning to tumble about her nape. ‘We … we went to school together, as I said, and when she wrote and told me——’
‘Told you what?’
‘That … that …’ Camilla faltered. She could hardly tell him exactly what Virginia had said, but at the same time she had to give some reason for her precipitous arrival from London. ‘She—er—she said why didn’t I take a holiday in Hawaii? That … that it would be fun to … to talk over old times. I … I naturally thought you knew about it.’
‘Me?’
Alessandro Conti pointed towards his chest, and Camilla couldn’t help noticing the shadow of hair and skin beneath the fine material of his shirt. The shirt was made of silk, she thought, and it encased a broad chest and muscled biceps, the cuffs rolled back to reveal hair-covered wrists. Like the dark trousers that covered his legs, and moulded the undeniable evidence of his sex, it had obviously been made by an expert hand, and in one aspect at least, she guessed, Virginia had not been mistaken: her husband was obviously a wealthy man.
‘Me?’ he said again now, shaking his head. ‘You thought Virginia would have discussed it with me?’
Camilla licked her dry lips. ‘Yes.’
‘Then you obviously don’t know your … friend … very well,’ he declared harshly. ‘Exactly when was this invitation issued? And what do you propose to do now?’
Camilla frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I said——’
‘I know what you said.’ Nervousness had made her defensive. ‘Are … are you implying that I can’t stay here?’
The look he gave her was incomprehensible. ‘You expect to stay? Now? In the present circumstances?’
Camilla gave a helpless little shrug. ‘What circumstances?’
‘The fact that Virginia’s not here,’ declared Alessandro Conti impatiently. ‘I understood someone had told you that.’
‘Well—yes.’ Camilla was confused. ‘But … she’ll be back, won’t she?’
‘Will she?’ He took a couple of steps nearer to her, and all at once she was aware of her own vulnerability in the face of this tall, daunting stranger. ‘You tell me. When will she be back?’
Camilla swallowed. ‘Well—I don’t know exactly, of course. La … later today, I suppose.’
‘Later today?’ He was barely an arm’s length from her now, and, although she kept telling herself that he had no reason to suspect her of any wrong-doing, his attitude was so strange that she inwardly retreated.
‘I … don’t you expect her back at any time?’ she stammered, resisting the impulse to raise her hands in front of her. For God’s sake, what had she said? He was acting as if she herself were responsible for Virginia’s absence.
There was a pregnant silence while she fought the urge to put some space between them, and he studied her face with those dark, disturbing eyes. And then, almost dismissively, he told her, ‘Considering that Virginia disappeared almost a week ago, I should say it was highly unlikely that I’d expect her back today, wouldn’t you?’
The room she had been shown to was unlike any room Camilla had occupied before. As a fairly successful solicitor, working in Lincoln’s Inn in London, she had used her fairly generous salary to travel all over Europe, and on one occasion she and a friend had even ventured as far as Sri Lanka for a holiday. But no hotel room had ever compared with the luxury of this apartment in Alessandro Conti’s house, and, although she didn’t want to be, she was impressed.
And why not? she thought ruefully, after the incredibly fat Polynesian woman, who had originally admitted her to the house, had left her alone. She might consider herself moderately sophisticated, but she wasn’t used to split-level rooms, with velvet carpets on the upper level and polished floors strewn with expensive Chinese rugs on the lower. She wasn’t used to beds the size of a small football field, or ceilings with curved fanlights, angled so that there was