Rags To Riches Collection. Rebecca Winters

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      CHANTELLE SHAW lives on the Kent coast and thinks up her stories while walking on the beach. She has been married for over thirty years and has six children. Her love affair with reading and writing Mills & Boon stories began as a teenager, and her first book was published in 2006. She likes strongwilled, slightly unusual characters. Chantelle also loves gardening, walking and wine!

CHAPTER ONE

      THE road twisted up the mountainside like a sinuous black snake, its wet surface gleaming in the glow from the car headlamps. The rain seemed to fall harder the higher they climbed. They had left Oliena some fifteen minutes ago, and as the car rounded another bend Beth watched the lights from the town disappear from view.

      She leaned forward in her seat to speak to the taxi driver. ‘How much farther?’

      She had already discovered that he spoke little English and sighed when he shrugged. But perhaps he had understood her, because a few moments later he glanced over his shoulder.

      ‘Soon you see Castello del Falco…er…Castle of the Falcon, I think is how you say,’ he explained in a heavy accent.

      Beth frowned. ‘You mean Mr Piras actually lives in a real castle?’ She had assumed that the owner of the Piras-Cossu Bank’s private residence in Sardinia would be a luxurious villa, and that ‘castle’ was simply an extravagant title he had given to his home.

      The taxi driver did not reply, but as the car crested another ridge of the Gennargentu Mountains, Beth caught her breath at the sight of a great grey fortress looming out of the darkness. Peering through the rain, she saw that the road stretched ahead until it disappeared through a cavernous black gateway. The outer walls of the castle were illuminated by lamps which revealed the sheer vastness of the structure, and grotesque gargoyles leered out of the shadows like portents of doom.

      For heaven’s sake! She gave herself a mental shake, angry that she had allowed her imagination to run away with her. But as the taxi drew nearer to the castle entrance she could not dismiss an inexplicable feeling of apprehension, and she was tempted to ask the driver to turn around and take her back to the town. Maybe she was being over-imaginative, but she sensed that her life would change for ever if she crossed the threshold of the Castello del Falco.

      She had come to Sardinia for Sophie’s sake, she reminded herself, glancing at the baby-carrier affixed to the seat beside her. She could not turn back now. Nevertheless, her heart lurched as the car sped between the black gates, and she cast a last look behind her, feeling as though she had passed from a safe and familiar world into the unknown.

      * * *

      The party was in full swing. From his vantage point on the balcony overlooking the ballroom Cesario Piras watched the guests dancing and drinking champagne, and through a doorway leading to the banqueting hall he could see more people crowded around tables laden with food.

      He was glad they were enjoying themselves. His staff worked hard, and deserved his thanks with this lavish reception in recognition of their services to the Piras-Cossu Bank. The guests were not to know that their host was counting the hours until he could be alone again. He regretted now that he had not instructed his PA to rearrange the date she had picked for the party. Donata had only worked for him for a few months, and was unaware that the third of March was a date that would forever be branded on Cesario’s soul.

      Unconsciously he traced his fingers over the deep scar that began at the corner of his left eye and sliced down his cheek to his mouth. Today was the fourth anniversary of his son’s death. Time had moved on inexorably, and the savage grief he’d felt in the first months and years after the tragedy had slowly turned to dull acceptance. But anniversaries were always difficult. He had sanctioned the party date hoping that his duties as host would distract his thoughts. But all evening images of Nicolo had filled his mind, and the memories had evoked a pain inside him that felt like a knife through his heart.

      A faint noise from behind him alerted Cesario to the fact that he was no longer alone. He swung round, his frown clearing when he saw his butler.

      ‘What is it, Teodoro?’

      ‘A young woman has arrived at the castle and has asked to see you, signor.’

      Cesario glanced at his watch. ‘A guest has arrived this late?’

      ‘She is not a party guest. But she is most insistent that she must speak with you.’ Teodoro could not hide his disapproval as he recalled the bedraggled-looking woman shrouded in an enormous grey coat whom he had reluctantly admitted to the castle. She had been soaking wet from the storm raging outside, and was no doubt dripping water onto the silk carpet in the drawing room where he had instructed her to wait.

      Cesario cursed beneath his breath. The only person he could think of who would dare to turn up at the Castello del Falco uninvited was the journalist who had been hounding СКАЧАТЬ