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A voice in her head whispered, ‘You’re safe—you’re safe …’ But somehow she couldn’t believe it. She even found herself picking her way in the darkness to her living-room window, and drawing the curtains before she switched on the lights.
Then she sank down on the sofa, and tried to stop trembling.
I didn’t suspect a thing, she thought. To me, the contessa was simply another very demanding client, nothing more—but it was all a trick.
She had to be deeply in Sandro’s power to agree to something like that, Polly told herself, and shivered as she remembered how nearly she’d surrendered to that power herself.
Oh, God, she thought. He only had to touch me …
But it had always been like that. From the first time his hand had taken hers as they walked together, her body had responded with wild yearning to his touch. She had hungered and thirsted for his mouth on hers—for the brush of his fingers over her ardent flesh. For the ultimate mystery of his body joined to hers.
Sandro had enraptured her every sense, and she had mistaken that for love. And he had cynically allowed that—had said the words she wanted to hear—whispered the promises that would keep her enthralled until he chose to leave her.
She’d been just one more girl in his bed, easily discarded, instantly replaced. Except that he’d caught a fleeting glimpse of her on television and discovered, for some inexplicable reason, that he still wanted her.
Sandro Domenico, she thought painfully. A man rich enough to pay for his whims, and powerful enough to pull the strings that would satisfy them.
And yet he’d let her go, outraged at the idea that he could rape her physically, but too arrogant to realise he’d already done far worse damage to her emotionally.
Still, it was over now, and she had nothing more to fear. She’d insulted his sense of honour, such as it was, and he would never come near her again.
In fact, she’d got off comparatively lightly, she told herself. Yes, she was bruised by his anger and disgust, but she’d recover from that—given time. And her future held plenty of that.
In some ways, it all seemed like a bad dream—some torment dredged up from the depths of her unconscious. But the faint lingering tenderness of her lips forced her to face reality.
Wincing, she touched her mouth with her fingertips, telling herself that it could all have been so much worse. That at this moment, she might have been in his bed, and in his arms, with a whole new cycle of heartbreak and regret to endure.
For all she knew he could be married to someone ‘suitable’. A dynastic union from the criminal network he belonged to, she thought with a pang.
But she—she was all right, she rallied herself. She’d had a narrow escape, that was all.
Just the same, her vague plans for a change of location had become a firm resolve as a result of the past twenty-four hours.
She and Charlie would move, somewhere anonymous and preferably far away. And, to ensure she could never be so easily traced again, she’d find out the legal implications of changing her name.
Drastic measures, she thought, but, in view of her recent scare, perfectly justified.
She stripped in her tiny bathroom, putting her clothing in the laundry basket, then took a shower, scrubbing herself from top to toe, and even shampooing her hair to make sure she erased every trace of him.
She only wished she could wash away the memories of the heated pressure of his mouth, and the familiar, arousing scent of his skin just as easily.
Dear God, she thought, towelling her hair with more than necessary vigour, that is—frighteningly pathetic.
She put on her cotton housecoat, belting it securely round her slim waist, and trailed into the kitchen.
She needed a hot drink, but not with the additional stimulus of caffeine. She’d have enough trouble sleeping as it was through what little was left of the night.
No, she’d have a herbal tea instead, she decided. A tisana at bedtime was a habit she’d acquired in Italy. One of the good ones, she amended wryly.
While the kettle was boiling, she wandered back into the living room, and, for reasons she couldn’t properly explain, crossed to the window, and pulled back the edge of the curtain slightly.
The road below seemed empty, or was there an added density among the shadows opposite, in a gateway just out of the range of the street light?
No, she thought, hurriedly letting the curtain fall back into place. It was simply her imagination. Sandro had traced her through her work, simply and easily, so there was no need for him to compile a complete dossier on her.
Because if he’d done so, he’d have realised at once that her ‘live-in lover’ was pure invention, and told her so. And he’d have known, too, about Charlie …
She turned her head, staring at the chest of drawers, and the framed photograph that occupied pride of place. Charlie, on his second birthday. His father’s image smiling at her.
Sandro’s out of your life, she told herself feverishly. He’s gone.
Nevertheless, on the way back to the kitchen, Polly found herself taking Charlie’s portrait off the chest, and stowing it in the top drawer instead.
Better, she thought, safe than sorry, and shivered again.
Polly slept badly, in spite of her tisana. When morning came, she telephoned Safe Hands, said quite truthfully that she felt like death, then crawled back into bed and slept until lunchtime.
She woke with a start, thinking of Charlie. Why was she wasting time, when she could have the bonus of a whole afternoon in his company without the distractions of shopping and housework?
She rang her mother’s house but there was no reply, so she left a message on the answering machine to say she would be over to collect him in an hour.
She took a quick shower, then dressed in a casual blue denim skirt, topping it with a crisp white cotton shirt, and sliding her feet into flat brown leather sandals. She brushed her hair back from her face and secured it at the nape of her neck with a silver barette, and hung small blue enamel cornflowers on delicate silver chains from her earlobes.
She had some work to do with the blusher and concealer she kept for emergencies, or her mother would guess something was wrong. And Polly had enough bad news to give her without mentioning Sandro’s shock reappearance in her life.
But that was all over, so there was no need to cause her further distress, she told herself firmly, applying her lipstick and attempting an experimental smile which, somehow, turned into a wry grimace.
Positive thinking, she adjured herself, and, grabbing her bag, she left.
The house seemed unusually quiet when she let herself in, and Polly paused, frowning a little. Surely her mother hadn’t taken Charlie out somewhere, she thought, groaning inwardly. Was this the latest move in the battle of wits between them? She hoped not.
She kept her voice deliberately cheerful. ‘Mum—Dad—are you there?’
‘We’re in the living room.’ It was her mother’s voice, high-pitched and strained.
Her frown deepening, Polly pushed open the door and walked in.
It wasn’t a particularly large room, and her instant impression was that it had shrunk still further in some strange way.
The first person she saw was her mother, sitting in the chair beside the empty fireplace, her face a mask of tension, and Charlie clasped tightly on her lap.
The second was a complete stranger, stockily built with black hair and olive skin, who rose politely from the sofa at her entrance.
And the third, unbelievably, was Sandro, standing silently in the window alcove, as if he had been carved out of granite.
For a moment the room seemed to reel around her, then she steadied herself, her hands clenching into fists, her nails scoring her palms. She was not, under any circumstances, going to faint again.
She said hoarsely, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Is it not obvious?’ The topaz eyes were as fierce as a leopard’s, and as dangerous. His voice was ice. ‘I have come for my son. And please do not try to deny his parentage,’ he added bitingly. ‘Because no court in the world would believe you. He is my image.’ He paused. ‘But I warn you that I am prepared to undergo DNA testing to prove paternity, if it becomes necessary.’
Polly stared at him, her stomach churning, her heart pounding against her ribs. ‘You must be mad.’
‘I was.’ His smile was grim. ‘Before I discovered quite what a treacherous little bitch you are, Paola mia. But now I am sane again, and I want my child.’
Her low voice shook. ‘Over my dead body.’
He said softly, ‘The way I feel at this moment, that could easily be arranged. Do not provoke me any further.’
‘He’s going to take him away from us,’ her mother wailed suddenly. ‘Take him to Italy. I’ll never see him again.’
Horror caught Polly by the throat. She turned on Sandro. ‘You can’t do that.’
‘And what is there to stop me?’ His glance challenged her.
‘It—it’s kidnapping,’ Polly flung at him. She took a breath. ‘Although I suppose that’s an everyday occurrence in your world.’
And it was more common than she wanted to admit in her own, she thought numbly. There’d been numerous headlines in the papers over the past few years where children had been snatched and taken abroad by a parent. They called them ‘tug of love’ babies …
She looked with scorn at the other man, who had got quietly to his feet. ‘And what are you—another of his tame thugs?’
His brows rose. ‘My name is Alberto Molena, signorina, and I am a lawyer. I act for the marchese in this matter.’
Polly gave him a scornful glance. ‘Don’t you mean you’re his consigliere?’ she queried with distaste.
He paused, sending Sandro a surprised look. ‘May I suggest that you sit down, Signorina Fairfax, and remain calm? It would be better too if the little boy was taken to another room. I think he’s becoming frightened.’
‘I have a better suggestion,’ Polly flared. ‘Why don’t you and your dubious client get out of here, and leave us alone?’
His tone was still quiet, still courteous. ‘I’m afraid that isn’t possible. You must understand that your child is the first-born son, and thus the heir of the Marchese Valessi, and that he intends to apply through the courts for sole custody of the boy. Although you will be permitted proper access, naturally.’
He looked at Charlie, who was round-eyed, his knuckles pushed into his mouth. ‘But, believe me, it would be better if the little boy was spared any more upset from this discussion. We have a trained nanny waiting to look after him.’
He walked to the door and called. A pleasant-faced girl in a smart maroon uniform came in and removed Charlie gently but firmly from his grandmother’s almost frenzied grasp, talking to him softly as she carried him out of the room.
‘Where’s she taking him?’ Polly demanded shakily.
‘Into the garden,’ the lawyer told her, adding less reassuringly, ‘For the time being.’
She swallowed convulsively, turning to the silent man by the window. ‘Sandro.’ Her voice was pleading, all pride forgotten. ‘Please don’t do this. Don’t try to take him away from me.’
‘I have already been deprived of the first two years of his life,’ he returned implacably. ‘There will be no more separation.’ His lip curled. ‘How remiss of you, cara mia, not to inform me of his existence. Even last night, when we talked so intimately about your living arrangements, you said nothing—gave no hint that you had borne me a child. Did you really think you could keep him hidden forever?’
She moistened her dry lips. ‘How—how did you find out?’
He shrugged. ‘I employed an agency to trace you. They suggested broadening the scope of their enquiries.’ His voice was expressionless. ‘I received their full report last night after you left. It made fascinating reading.’
She stared down at the carpet. ‘So there was someone watching me when I got back,’ she said almost inaudibly.
‘Can you wonder?’ Sandro returned contemptuously. ‘I have a beautiful son, Paola, and you deliberately barred me from his life. You preferred to struggle alone than ask me for help—or give me the joy of knowing I was a father.’ His gaze was cold, level. ‘How can such a thing be forgiven?’
‘It was over between us.’ Polly lifted her chin. ‘What did you expect me to do—beg?’
‘I think,’ he said softly, ‘that is something you may have to learn for the future.’
There was a silence. Polly could hear her mother weeping softly.
‘No court in the world,’ she said huskily, ‘would take a baby away from his mother.’
‘Yet it is his grandmother who has the care of him each day.’ His tone was harsh. ‘I was watching when you came into the room, and he did not try to go to you. Is he even aware that you are his mother?’
Polly gasped, and her head went back as if he had slapped her.
She said unsteadily, ‘I go out to work to support us both. As the contessa has probably told you, the hours can be long and difficult. But I needed the money, so I had no choice.’
‘Yes,’ he said, his voice quiet and cold. ‘You did. You could have chosen me. All that was needed was one word—one sign.’
There was an odd intensity in his voice, which startled and bewildered her. And also rekindled her anger.
He talks, she thought, as if I deserted him.
A sudden noise from her mother—something between a sigh and a groan—distracted her, and she went over and sat on the arm of her chair, putting an arm round her shoulders.
Oh, God, she thought. To think I was going to tell her that I was taking Charlie away. But how could I have guessed this was going to happen?
‘It’s going to be all right, Mum,’ she said softly. ‘I promise.’
‘How can it be?’ Mrs Fairfax demanded, almost hysterically. ‘He’s going to take my little treasure to Italy, and I can’t bear it.’ She reared up from Polly’s sheltering arm, glaring venomously at Sandro, who was regarding her with narrowed eyes, his mouth hard and set. ‘How dare you come here, ruining our lives like this?’ she stormed. ‘Get out of my house. And never come back.’
‘You are not the only one to suffer, signora.’ His tone was almost dismissive. He looked at Polly. ‘But it would be better for my son to be looked after by someone else until the custody hearing. The nanny I have engaged will move in with you.’
‘She can’t,’ Polly told him curtly. ‘My flat is far too small for that.’
He shrugged. ‘Then you will be found somewhere else to live.’
‘I don’t want that,’ she said raggedly. ‘I don’t want anything from you. I just need you to go, and leave us in peace.’
‘The marchese is being generous, Signorina Fairfax,’ Alberto Molena intervened unexpectedly. ‘He could ask for the child to be transferred to the care of a temporary guardian while the custody issue is decided.’
‘And, of course, he’s so sure he’ll get custody.’ Polly got to her feet, her eyes blazing. ‘So bloody arrogant and all-conquering. But what court’s going to hand over a baby to someone with his criminal connections? And I’ll make sure they know all about his underworld background,’ she added defiantly. ‘Whatever the cost.’
There was a stunned silence. Then Sandro muttered, ‘Dio mio,’ and turned sharply, walking back to the window, his fists clenched at his sides.
Signor Molena’s voice was hushed. ‘I think you’re making a grave mistake, signorina. Since the death of his father, the marchese has become head of an old and much respected family in southern Italy, and chairman of a business empire with strong interests in the tourist industry among other things.’
He spread his hands almost helplessly. ‘You must surely have heard of the Comadora chain of hotels? They are internationally famous.’
‘Yes.’ Polly had to force suddenly numbed lips to form the words. Her shocked gaze went from his embarrassed face to Sandro’s rigid back. ‘Yes, I know about them.’
