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The Brunellesci Baby
Daphne Clair
From mistress to mother…Italian tycoon Zandro Brunellesci's brother has died. Zandro has no hesitation in deciding that his brother's baby must be raised as a Brunellesci–and taken away from the woman he considers a most unsuitable mother!…to marriage?Lia won't let her baby go. She seems to have changed more than Zandro could have imagined…and he finds himself feeling a powerful desire for his brother's mistress. Could a convenient marriage give them both what they want?
“I have an idea,” he said abruptly. “A solution.”
She stiffened. It entered her mind that he was quite deliberately using his considerable sexual magnetism to persuade her into something she might regret. With an effort, she took a step away in an attempt to escape that seductive aura.
He reached for her, his hands closing about her upper arms. “Listen.” He paused, and for a moment she thought doubt, uncertainty, entered his eyes. Then he said, “There’s one way out of this dilemma, if you agree.”
Warily, she stared at him. She mustn’t be influenced by the effect he had on her, the physical responses that clamored to be set free from the stern restraint she kept on them. “Agree to what?”
He was looking at her as though willing her to something, his gaze hypnotic. His jaw jutted, and she saw the muscles of his throat move as he swallowed. He said, “To marry me.”
DAPHNE CLAIR lives in subtropical New Zealand, with her Dutch-born husband. They have five children. At eight years old she embarked on her first novel, about taming a tiger. This epic never reached a publisher, but metamorphosed male tigers still prowl the pages of her romance novels, of which she has written over 30 for Harlequin Presents®. Her other writing includes nonfiction, poetry and short stories, and she has won literary prizes in New Zealand and America. Readers are invited to visit Daphne Clair’s Web site at www.daphneclair.com, e-mail her at daphne@daphneclair.com or write to her at Box 18240, Glenn Innes, Auckland 1130, New Zealand.
The Brunellesci Baby
Daphne Clair
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
THE passport control officer quickly scrutinised the dark-haired, green-eyed young woman waiting at the other side of the desk.
She tensed, trying not to show apprehension as he returned his gaze to the photograph in the passport he held. Finally he said, ‘Liar.’
Her heart accelerated its beat and her cheeks flushed.
He looked up again. ‘Liar Cameron?’
Nearly fainting with relief, she said, ‘No, it’s Leeah.’ And more firmly, ‘My name is Lia Cameron.’
‘Sorry—Lia.’ He flipped over the page. ‘You’ve been to Australia before?’
‘Yes.’
The man stamped the page before handing back the passport with a grin. ‘You kiwis just can’t stay away, eh? Enjoy your holiday.’
Her knees shook as she proceeded to the arrivals hall and found the baggage carousel for the Auckland to Sydney flight. It wasn’t the first time ‘Lia’ had been mispronounced. A guilty conscience was responsible for her almost making a fool of herself back there.
When her suitcase appeared she lifted it off the carousel and flipped the label to check. Lia Cameron. ‘That’s me,’ she muttered aloud.
She took a bus to the Sunshine Coast, found a hotel and paid cash in advance for her room, not wanting to use her credit card.
Tomorrow she would hire a car and find the Brunellesci mansion. And Zandro Brunellesci.
Ice snaked down her spine. Alessandro Gabriele Brunellesci was a formidable foe, accustomed to crushing anything—or anyone—who got in his way. Including Lia.
Anger sharpened by grief dispelled the cold fear. Stress and tragedy had given her a strength she hadn’t known she possessed. Zandro would discover she couldn’t be crushed, bullied, and he wouldn’t find it so easy to get rid of her. Too much was at stake—a child’s whole life. The righting of a terrible wrong.
She couldn’t return to New Zealand until she’d done what she’d come here to do. And she would not go home alone.
The Brunellesci home was guarded by wrought-iron gates set in a high brick wall. Tall gum trees and silver birches screened the house, allowing through the iron bars only glimpses of mellow golden stone and big windows. There seemed to be a garage underneath that lifted the first floor enough to give the rooms a view over the wall to the sea, and a third level shaded a wide balcony.
After driving slowly past she parked a little farther along the broad street, in the shade of a tree overhanging the wall of another expensive-looking home. Across the road an expanse of dark, coarse grass was broken by more trees, and an awning sheltered a children’s play area from the Queensland sun that was still wintry-mild, as yet not holding the full force of the coming summer. Beyond the swings and slides and a jungle gym, a swathe of silvery sand was licked by milk-white tongues of foam edging the blue-green ocean.
Cars intermittently left the street or cruised into it. A young woman holding the hands of two small girls sporting identical blond ponytails emerged from one of the houses and crossed to the park.
Twins? But leaning forward with naturally quickened interest to peer through the windscreen, she saw that one was a little bigger than the other; perhaps a year or so separated them.
A sleek black saloon with tinted windows slid from between the imposing gateposts of the Brunellesci house. Impossible to see inside the car, or even guess if it held only the driver or had passengers.
People strolled down to the beach as the sun moved higher up the pale sky, but not many walked along the street.
This wasn’t getting her anywhere. She rummaged in her bag, donned wraparound sunglasses, then twisted her hair and piled it inside a wide-brimmed natural-straw hat that she pulled low over her forehead, and took a brand-new paperback book from the glove box.
There were wooden seats near the play area, back-to-back sets. She chose one facing the road and the wrought-iron gates of the Brunellesci house, pretending to read while watching the gates. The seat escaped the shade cast by the awning, and the morning sun gently warmed her shoulders, bared by the sleeveless cream shirt she wore with cotton shorts.
Still no sign of movement from the house. Then after some time a woman with a child in a pushchair emerged, accompanied by a tall, white-haired man walking with the help of a stick.
The gates slid open to let them through, and they paused at the edge of the pavement before crossing to the park and the play area, passing the young woman apparently absorbed in her reading.
They hadn’t even noticed her. Lowering the book to her lap with shaking hands, she took a deep breath, willing herself not to turn, not to give herself away. She could hear the woman’s voice, rising and falling in the exaggerated way people spoke to babies, and a brief, deep male rumble from the man, over a stream of happy babble from the child.
Her heart contracted. Feigning nonchalance, she stood up, closing the book, and without looking directly at them skirted the group and settled herself on the grass under a tree, her back against the trunk.
The old man leaned on his stick, watching while the woman pushed the child on a baby swing, not too high.
Small, round face shaded by a blue hat, chubby legs emerging from blue cotton overalls, clearly the little boy was enjoying himself. The sound of his delighted laughter carried on the clear air.
He’s being well cared for.
Maybe she should abandon her mission, leave. But the cowardly thought was quickly dismissed. One glimpse didn’t tell the whole story.
She turned her attention to the woman, probably in her mid-thirties, with a pleasantly attractive face framed by short brown curls, and a curvy but fit-looking body, the waist accentuated by a white belt about a plain green dress worn with white flat-heeled sandals. A nanny. Someone they’d hired to take charge of the baby.
When the child was lifted from the swing and the group went down to the beach she made herself stay where she was, then after a while get up and go back to the car, where she watched until they returned to the house and disappeared inside the gates.
After some time had passed with no further activity discernible she started the car, drove slowly by once more, then accelerated and turned a corner, taking a route that passed the rear of the mansion.
There were other homes backing onto it, but she glimpsed behind them the same high brick wall. Any thought of secretly making her way into the house was unfeasible. Not that she’d seriously considered that, knowing it was burglar-alarmed to the teeth.
At least now she knew where the baby was, that he hadn’t been sent off to some secret hideaway or remote country estate to be raised in isolation.
Time to consider her strategy.
The next morning she parked in the same place and waited. Again the trio of woman, elderly man and baby appeared. The woman carefully looked right and left and right. Her gaze seemed to linger on the parked car, and she turned to say something to the white-haired man before stepping onto the road with the pushchair.
Imagination, surely. But caution warned, Don’t be conspicuous. Stay in the car, out of sight.
The child was enjoying his swing. When the woman lifted him out he pointed to a low slide, and she took him to it and supported him as he swooped to the ground, then repeated the process. Each time he reached the bottom he clapped his hands together in gleeful approval.
His grandfather took a seat under the shade of the awning and placed the walking stick between his knees, a slight smile on his thin lips. For a man who had built an empire from nothing after entering Australia as a penniless Italian immigrant fifty-odd years ago, earning a reputation for drive and hard-nosed business practice equalled only by the son to whom he had passed the reins, he looked almost benign.
Tough, strong men, according to medical studies, grew mild in old age with the gradual loss of testosterone.
His son Zandro was in his early thirties, with a long way to go before that happened. Maybe old Domenico would be an easier target. And he must surely still have some influence with his son.
Intent on the group in the park, she hadn’t seen the big black car approach—so silently she didn’t hear it either until it swerved across the road and stopped in front of hers, nose to nose.
Immediately a man flung open the driver’s door and leapt out. Her heart plunged even before he’d covered the few strides to her side and hauled open the door. Her hand went to the ignition key in an automatic but futile attempt at escape.
Long, hard fingers closed about her wrist. She was jerked from her seat with no time to put up more than the feeblest resistance, and backed against the rear door, her assailant’s broad shoulders blocking her view.
The hand that wasn’t holding her wrist in an iron grip slammed down on the roof of the car, trapping her while fiery, obsidian eyes in a spare, strong face seared her with an expression at first suspicious, then disbelieving.
‘Lia?’ His voice was tempered steel in a velvet sheath.
She swallowed, in danger of melting under the gaze that now held a heat like banked coals. There was no mistaking who he was. ‘Zandro,’ she said.
Unlike the father he strikingly resembled, the younger Brunellesci showed no hint of benignity. Suffocatingly aware of his size, his physical power, the furious incredulity in his eyes, and her veins throbbing in the wrist encircled by his bone-breaking hold, she tried to gather courage to stand up to him.
Black brows snapped together. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’
Don’t crack. He’s only a man. ‘I’m not playing at anything.’ She thrust her chin forward. ‘Let go my wrist.’
Zandro Brunellesci blinked, thick dark lashes momentarily blanking out the fiery stare, and when they lifted, a faint surprise lit his eyes.
Lia had never directly challenged his authority, his right to do as he liked with her or any member of his family.
But this was another Lia, one who wouldn’t be pushed around, who knew what she wanted and had come to get it. Who’d refuse to take no for an answer, regardless of what it cost her—or him.
For a second longer he stared down at her, not moving, before abruptly releasing his hold, but his other hand didn’t leave the car roof and he still loomed over her.
Automatically she cradled her aching wrist with her free hand, then dropped them both to her sides, not wanting to show him any weakness.
To her surprise he reached down and took her hand, more gently this time, though firmly overriding her resistance.
He frowned down at the reddened skin, and she saw his mouth tauten, a sudden whiteness appear at one corner. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you,’ he said, his voice altering to a low rasp. ‘I got a shock.’
‘You gave me one too,’ she said tartly. ‘Not to mention a bruise, probably.’
His remarkable eyes flashed as he let go her hand. A hint of puzzlement flickered across his face when she stared defiantly back at him. Again there was a change in the dark depths, a spark of something that caught her unawares and made her breath quicken.
Impatiently he shook his head, and shifted, bending to remove her car key from the ignition. He closed the door and, ignoring her protest, locked it, shoving the key into his pocket. ‘You’d better come to the house and get some ice on that.’ Once more he glanced at her wrist, then he laid a careful but compelling hand on her arm, just above the elbow.
Her instinct was to draw away, condemn his high-handedness and demand her key before driving off. But although it could hardly be called an invitation he was suggesting an entrée to the house, and expediency dictated she shouldn’t turn the offer down.
This confrontation had been inevitable sooner or later, and so what if she didn’t feel prepared for it right now? The fact was she never would be. She’d been procrastinating under the excuse of scouting the enemy territory and refining her plan. Now an unexpected opportunity had arrived she should grasp it with both hands.
Zandro’s fingers at her elbow seemed to emanate tongues of fire and her nerves were jumping. Strange sensations that she’d never felt before, but then she’d never before been in this situation. Normally a scrupulously honest person, she was about to embark on a reluctant deceit that it would take all her resolution and strength of mind to carry out.
It’s not too late, whispered a craven inner voice. She could still back out. Insist on leaving, take the first flight straight back to New Zealand.
She looked up at Zandro Brunellesci’s face, a face set like granite in an expression of controlled ferocity. Her heart quailed, and the words she’d been about to utter dried on her tongue. The man was frightening in his very restraint. But she’d faithfully, solemnly promised to go through with this. If she didn’t live up to that promise she would never forgive herself.
He locked his own car and she allowed him to guide her along the pavement. At the entrance to the drive a numbered keypad and a discreet microphone with a sign saying Press For Entry were fixed to one of the brick posts. But Zandro slid a hand into a breast pocket of the impeccable suit he wore and must have touched some remote-control gadget. The gates silently parted and he ushered her inside.
When the gates clicked shut behind them she shivered visibly, irrationally feeling that she was being locked into some kind of sinister prison.
‘Are you all right?’ Zandro paused under one of the trees, the softly twisting leaves overhead making moving patterns of sunlight that gleamed on his sleek, almost black hair. The question sounded grudging, reluctant.
‘Yes. It’s just coming from the sun into the shade.’
The broad tree-lined drive wasn’t very long and soon they were mounting stone steps beneath a cool overhang supported by substantial pillars.
Zandro punched numbers into another keypad by the heavy door and swung it open, then steered her across a tiled floor to a large, airy room furnished with dark-wood occasional tables and cabinets, and tapestry-fabric chairs. ‘Sit down, Lia,’ he said, halting at a deep, velvet-covered antique sofa. ‘I’ll get some ice.’
She wondered why he didn’t just summon a servant. Perhaps he didn’t want them asking how she’d been hurt; it could be embarrassing for him.
He was back quite quickly, carrying a bowl of crushed ice and a hand-towel which he fashioned into a cold compress. Then he knelt on the floor before her to wrap the cloth firmly about her wrist, tucking the end in to hold it.
‘You’re good at this,’ she said involuntarily, unable to hide her surprise.
