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‘I—I don’t know!’ she mumbled, unable to take in what he was saying. It made horrible sense suddenly. ‘I s-suppose,’ she said slowly, leaping to a conclusion that made sense to her and stumbling over her words, ‘he was desperate. He’d lost his money and needed his daughter to marry someone rich to preserve—’
‘He’s wealthy. Always has been.’
With her idea shot down in flames, she shook her head slightly to clear the confusion there. ‘Then why did he insist on this loveless marriage?’
‘You have to be careful of fortune hunters,’ Rozzano said abruptly. ‘If wealth marries wealth, the partners are equal.’
Sophia let her horror show. ‘No wonder Mother ran away if that’s the way you aristocrats think!’ she said indignantly, putting the notebook firmly away. ‘Love is the only reason for marriage! Anything else would make a mockery of marriage vows taken before God! I’m proud that she valued love more than money—’
‘She could have had both.’ The prince smiled a little wryly at her raised eyebrows and spoke slowly and with emphasis as if aware that her fuddled brain was working at a snail’s pace. ‘Your mother was an heiress with a fortune of her own.’
Silence. Stunned by his claim, she stared at him, frowning. That couldn’t be right. They’d been horribly poor. They’d shivered in the draughty vicarage and worn extra jumpers and socks against the cold. If there had been money, it had long since gone.
She tried to speak, to tell them this, but the words wouldn’t come.
Rozzano had moved closer and was now standing over her. She had to look up to see his face, her eyes skittering nervously over his superb body.
Was he deliberately dominating her? she wondered. She contemplated jumping up and doing a bit of striding around herself, but she knew that right at this moment her legs would buckle. A weak, rubbery goo seemed to have replaced her bones.
He pushed back his jacket and thrust his hands into his pockets, drawing her unwilling attention to his narrow waist and slim hips. She lowered her eyes. He was speaking and his purring voice curled into her with remorseless insistence, distracting her even from the staggering claim he’d made about her mother.
He is unbelievably magnetic, she thought, terrified that he’d realise—rightly—that her shallow breathing wasn’t entirely due to his revelations. Desperately she struggled to stop herself reacting so stupidly to Rozzano’s highoctane sex appeal and to attend to what he was saying.
‘But you’ll find that your grandfather,’ he was telling her smoothly, ‘is a kind and generous man. He would be very happy to see you take your place in Venetian society.’
She gave a short laugh, seeing herself parading in a tiara and ermine-trimmed robes, or whatever count’s granddaughters wore. Probably fluorescent Versace and a baseball cap nowadays, she thought mefully, trying to make herself see the funny side.
Rozzano frowned faintly at her scathing expression. ‘You’re amused?’
‘No. Yes. I’m sorry. But it’s so crazy! I apologise if my reaction has offended you. It’s just that I think you should check your facts. Far from being an heiress, my mother was impoverished.’
‘How do you know?’
She gave him a pitying glance. ‘Because of the way we lived. I know she adored us. She would have shared her money with us, then left it to Father. But he and I lived from hand to mouth! He never had a bean. Look at me! Look at these clothes! They hardly shout “Heiress!”, do they? They come from the local nearly new shop!’
She cast a realistic glance at herself. It wasn’t surprising that he’d been riveted by her appearance. Having compared her to the photo of Violetta D‘Antiga, he would have begun to wonder how Violetta could have given birth to such a poorly dressed shambles of a woman!
‘All I know is that she didn’t touch her trust fund. It’s still intact in a Venetian bank,’ Rozzano said relentlessly.
‘But... why would she do that, deliberately make herself poor?’ Sophia demanded in disbelief.
‘Pride and fear,’ answered Frank. ‘Violetta’s father was—is—one of the trustees. She would have had to ask him to release the money. From what your father said, I gather she felt her happiness would have been compromised by wealth—something she didn’t want to risk. I had the whole story from your father; it’s in this letter.’ He held it out to her.
‘I can’t believe that!’ she cried vehemently, desperate to deny it all, afraid of the doubts crowding her mind, afraid there might be some truth in this preposterous story.
Suddenly she felt very scared, as if the ground had been swept from under her to leave a gaping hole beneath. And she was falling into it, like it or not.
Words spun around her mind. Italian. Venice. A count. An heiress. Obviously she’d fallen asleep by the window in Frank’s waiting room and this was a dream, prompted by thinking of the prince. She drove her top teeth into her lower lip.
And knew she was awake.
Shaking, she clapped a hand to her forehead. It burned, yet her cheek felt clammy. A fever. Hallucinations, then.
‘Please... ’ she whispered, feeling hot and unbearably dizzy. ‘I—I can’t breathe...’
Strong arms enfolded her, one slipping around her back, one tucking beneath her knees. He’d done this before, she thought muzzily, and pouted, irrationally resenting all the women he’d carried to bed. Her head swam as she was raised in the air as if she weighed nothing.
Nauseous, with the room seeming to whirl about her, she allowed herself to be borne a short distance to an old sofa by the window, where Rozzano gently laid her.
Her eyes closed as she fought the swirling mist filling her head. She mustn’t pass out. She had to focus her mind, deal with this mad suggestion... And yet Frank had been so certain. It couldn’t be true...could it?
A moan whispered through her pale lips. The evidence was overwhelming. Why else had the prince come to England? The facts were staring her in the face. Frank was convinced. So was the prince. That meant... She groaned, then shuddered when Rozzano whispered something to her and his fingers lightly smoothed her furrowed brow.
‘Water, please!’ he called urgently.
Warm silk touched her chin. A jacket lining, she thought hazily, as its weight settled across her body. It smelled of him, a fragrance that was faint and elusive but wonderfully enticing, like the natural perfumes her mother had used. And she wanted to reach up her arms and pull him down to her till his cheek rested against hers and she could inhale those delicious scents.
Instead she kept her eyes tightly shut, giving herself thinking space. And time to settle her wild and shocking urges. Something awful had happened to her. The news had weakened her, torn her apart and left her defences open to the first devastatingly handsome man who crossed her path. And Rozzano was more devastating and handsome than most.
‘Goodness!’ exclaimed the temp, tapping in on her tottery heels.
Sophia blessed the woman for ripping into her panic-stricken thoughts. Nevertheless, she remained still, listening to Frank’s muttered dismissal. Cool water was being dabbed on her temples and wrists.
And then Rozzano’s moistened finger brushed a few times across her trembling mouth. It was terribly, wonderfully sexy and she didn’t know how she kept her eyes shut or stopped herself from catching his fingertip between her lips and tasting it, perhaps letting it wander into the moistness of her mouth...
At the contraction of her loins, Sophia moaned again, aware she needed to release her deep and terrifying feelings. She was in a state of turmoil, and no wonder. Desperately she gritted her teeth, appalled at the way her barriers were tumbling.
His hand stroked hers rhythmically—she knew it was his, recalled its strength, the sinews, the dryness of his palms and the suppleness of his long fingers. And she realised that she could also recall every line of his face, the angles of his eyebrows, the way he stood, walked...
‘Sophia, just relax,’ he murmured somewhere near her ear.
Relax! Suppressing a sharp gasp when his cool breath feathered over her face, she went through every muscle of her body, one by one, in an attempt to do as he said.
She opened her eyes and wished she hadn’t. He was leaning over her, kiss-close, an expression of concern softening his autocratic features.
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ he said. ‘Nothing bad will come of this, Sophia. You and your grandfather will be reunited. You won’t have to worry about money ever again—’
‘My grandfather!’ she breathed raggedly, feeling emotion sweep over her.
She was too choked to continue. All these years and the old man had aged and become ill, unaware that she existed. Without any warning, she began to cry as she lay there, the hot tears squeezing themselves pathetically from the corners of her eyes and running down her cheeks to the top of her jaw.
‘Why’s she upset?’ she heard Frank hiss. ‘I thought she’d be pleased! She deserves a break after all she’s been through,’ he said, warming to his theme while Sophia cringed with dismay at being openly discussed. ‘She gave up everything to look after her father. It can’t have been easy. No fun, no boyfriends, all those years of devoted attention—’
‘Frank,’ she mumbled hastily before the violins started playing, ‘you don’t understand! I’m crying because I have a grandfather who doesn’t even know I’m alive. He might have died and I would never have met him! How could my mother have done this to me?’ she cried passionately, so distressed that she forgot her reserve. ‘Why did she keep me from her family? She was married. She would have been beyond her father’s interference! Surely they could have made up their differences! It seems so cruel—’ She faltered, her eyes filling with tears again. ‘My mother’s become a mystery. I hate that,’ she finished miserably.
‘Then find out. Come to Venice and talk to your grandfather,’ suggested Rozzano gently. ‘Let him explain.’
‘Venice?’ she cried in blank amazement, sitting up.
‘Of course,’ the prince said patiently. ‘He can’t come to you. He isn’t strong. Any day now I fear the worst...’
She bit her lip, getting his drift. Her grandfather didn’t have long to live and time was running out. She hesitated. ‘I couldn’t afford the trip—’
‘You can. You’re rich,’ he reminded her.
‘I don’t have a passport,’ she said stubbornly, blanking her mind to all the things she didn’t want to deal with.
And she knew she was clutching at any straw to stop her from making the journey, even though she longed to meet her grandfather. Fear and love were vying with one another.
‘No passport?’ Rozzano exclaimed in amazement.
‘There’s never been any need,’ she said stiffly. ‘My birth certificate was lost and—’
‘Not lost. In my safekeeping.’ Frank held it out to her.
And there it was. Mother. La Contessa Violetta D‘Antiga. Sophia stared at it but her fingers were shaking so much that it fell from her fingers to the floor. Rozzano reached out to retrieve it and as he bent his cheek came so close that it almost brushed hers.
She felt her chest become banded with iron and her breath suck in sharply.
‘I know this must be difficult for you, but I’ll help you,’ he said, so softly that she strained closer to hear. ‘I’ll be with you every step of the way if you wish.’
There was a sudden violent movement in the open doorway to the waiting room. Almost simultaneously she was dazzled by a series of blinding flashes which made her scream in fear.
Rozzano shot to his feet, muttering ferociously in Italian under his breath, and in a matter of seconds he was roaring through the door in hot pursuit of the intruder.
Sophia saw Frank move to the window. She jumped up with a sudden surge of energy and joined him. Her heart leapt to her mouth. In the street below, Rozzano was shouting and clinging onto the door of a car, which was accelerating away.
‘He’ll be killed!’ she croaked in horror.
Without thinking, she dashed out of the office and down the stairs, running like the wind after the careering car. Rozzano fell, and rolled away from it.
And lay motionless.
He was deeply shaken, though not by his fall, or the brush with danger. He’d taken too many risks paragliding and skiing and had faced fear too often for it to affect him any more. It was his reaction that staggered him.
Astonishingly, he’d wanted to protect Sophia from press exposure—from the lies, and the stories they’d weave about them both. Her scream of terror had aroused in him a response so visceral and primitive that he might have been a caveman, defending his woman!
And so he’d done the unthinkable, broken his own rules, and acted like a fool. He could have kicked himself. The press would have a field-day with this one.
Furious at his stupidity, he lay without moving, allowing his anger to fade and his bruised muscles to recover. He became aware that his head throbbed. A gentle hand touched it. Sophia’s. Wonderful.
His body responded immediately, much to his annoyance, generating warmth in his loins. To his astonishment, the heady combination of virgin and siren had fired an almost uncontrollable desire in him, a desire more powerful than anything he’d felt for years.
Her dreamy smile had driven him mad. He’d wanted to know what she was thinking whenever she ‘drifted’. And, he wanted to be a part of her fantasies. Dammitl He’d have to get a grip.
She checked his pulse. He felt it falter then accelerate and she murmured in tender concern. And he felt cherished for the first time in his life.
Guilt crawled all through him. She was so honest and trusting. He knew he shouldn’t lie there inert—but the urge to play patient to her nurse was overwhelming. Even the thought of that scenario brought a skin-tingling frisson curling through his every nerve, tightening every sinew and heating his blood.
He knew why he’d reacted so violently. The opportunity for action had seemed almost welcome and it had released some of the exquisite agony which had been building up in his love-starved body.
He could smell her now. Wanted to lift his face and inhale her intoxicating fragrance. Disgusted with his lack of control, he pressed his hands harder into the ground and let the gravel take his mind off his carnal needs.
But it was a struggle. Her hands were now systematically feeling his limbs for breakages and he all but groaned, the warmth in his loins becoming searing hot. Desperate to curb any physical reaction to the electric sensation of her hands on his body, he concentrated doggedly on the sounds of the small crowd gathering around them.
They knew her. Liked her. Felt concern for her. He could hear the love in their voices and he was glad. Such a good and decent woman would bring delight to frail Alberto D‘Antiga’s soft heart and the old man would die in peace, knowing that his family name was in good hands.
Unless, of course, some good-looking, gold-digging parasite turned her head! His brows drew together moodily. That mustn’t happen. She’d be hurt. Or worse... corrupted. His jaw tightened. He was back in caveman mode again, taking up his cudgel to crack the head of any man who harmed her. Was that the reaction Violetta had prompted in men?
‘He’s in pain!’ she cried.
He felt the light touch of Sophia’s fingers on his forehead smoothing out the frown lines and heard her soft murmur as she spoke to him, pleading with him, an appealing little catch in her voice giving him immense problems with his self-control.
‘Please open your eyesl’ she begged.
‘Now don’ thee be upsettin‘ theself,’ came a deep, Dorset voice above him.
Warmth and caring flooded to the distressed Sophia. She was clearly a much loved and exceptional woman. It confirmed his initial assessment that Violetta’s daughter was a woman in a million, imbued with rare qualities...
No wonder he’d been intrigued by her. Had wanted to make love to her, then and there! How he’d stopped himself he didn’t know. It was like being a teenager again, ruled by sudden unbridled lust!
And it unnerved him because he wouldn’t be able to walk away from her unwelcome attractions. He’d have to be with her, hour after hour, day after day, introducing her to Venetian society, worrying about her innocence...
He stopped breathing. Something had occurred to him and his brain went into overdrive. Sophia’s hand lay on his chest and she was beginning to panic at its lack of movement, so he let his breath out slowly. He had the answer to all his problems. And as she relaxed in relief he neatly fitted her into his momentous decision.
He would marry her.
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS a brilliant solution, he thought. A strange, breathless excitement stole over him. He didn’t love her-never could love any woman. But she would make the perfect wife.
Her hands had moved to his upper thigh. They trembled as she tested the movement of his femur. It was obvious from her hesitant touch that she knew little of men. A surge of excitement almost betrayed him as he imagined teaching her the pleasures of the flesh.
His breathing rasped harshly. He could hardly wait. Sophia even had money of her own! Too many titleseekers and materialistic women had propositioned him. But Sophia...she was different. She had values he admired. She had an eagerness to work and concern for others. She had nursed her ailing father and, more important, she adored children.
Children. He bucked as a shaft of pain sliced through him when the nightmare memory forced its way to the surface. Her hand rested gently on his chest and thinking of her sweet face helped him to drive the dark hell away again.
‘He may have cracked a rib,’ she said anxiously. ‘Did you see how his chest contracted then?’
Racked with guilt, he suffered the gentle exploration of her hands. The pain was deeper than she knew. Deep enough to shut off his heart for ever. Like his father, he had married into the D‘Antiga family. He’d been twentyeight, and had fallen head over heels for the recently divorced Nicoletta who, unknown to him, had a highly colourful sexual past.
A dainty, extravagant thirty-two, she had worked her wiles on him and stolen his heart. They’d only been married for two years when she’d died, pregnant with his child.
Desperately he pushed back the rest of the horror. He couldn’t deal with it, couldn’t make it known. If he did, the Barsini name would be vilified.
But Sophia could ease his nightmares. He needed her tenderness. Hope began to surge through him, and for the first time in years he believed he could find some kind of happiness.
And she? He tried to see his intentions from her point of view. She had shown an appealingly bewildered interest in him. The sex would be fantastic. Her passions ran deep, with an intensity that matched his own. He’d read that in her eyes, in every gesture of her highly charged body.
He could make her happy. He would make her happy. And he could help her to cope, too. It would be hard for her, he argued, to dive head first into Venetian society without a guide. And who better than him to be her mentor?
‘He’s still not responding! I think we should call the doctor,’ she said anxiously.
‘Gone to Durbridge,’ came the reply. ‘Vet’s not far, though. Or the baby nurse’ll be along in a minute.’
Rozzano held back a grin. He’d better ‘recover’ before he experienced some interesting medical practices! Then all he had to do was to win her over—and quickly, before the wolf pack moved in, intent on her money and title. Opening his eyes slowly, he saw the relief on her pale, wide-eyed face.
‘You’re all right!’
He wanted to take her in his arms and reassure her. And felt a fraud for his deception. ‘Shaken,’ he said uncomfortably, even though it was the truth.
There was a murmur from the crowd and he was immediately bathed in smiles and friendly words of warning to be careful, to take it easy, to sit up slowly when he felt ready, no rush, don’t you fret...
He felt bad and couldn’t meet their eyes. Many hands helped him to sit and then stand. Someone brushed dust from his back. Someone else offered to fetch him a brandy from the nearby pub. The local midwife—presumably the baby nurse-anxiously offered her services and he declined with gravity yet with a twinkle in his eyes which set everyone laughing.
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