His Reluctant Bride. Sara Craven

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      When she finally returned to the other room, she discovered gratefully that the sofa bed had been opened and made up for the night, and the glass of wine was waiting with a note that said, ‘See you in the morning. J.’

      She took a first sip, then carried the wine into the bathroom, and began to half fill the tub with warm water, softened by a handful of foaming bath oil. No shower tonight, she told herself. She wanted to relax completely.

      She took off her clothes and slid with a sigh into the scented water, reaching for her wineglass.

      It would help her sleep, she thought. And tomorrow, when she was more rested, things might seem better. After all, she knew now the worst that could happen to her, and there must be a way of dealing with it that would not leave her utterly bereft.

      She leaned back, resting her head on the rim of the bath, and closing her eyes.

      Yes, tomorrow she would make plans. Find out if she qualified for legal aid, and get herself a lawyer of her own. Someone who would negotiate with Sandro on her behalf, and allow her to maintain some kind of distance from him.

      I really need to do that, she thought. To stay calm—and aloof. I can fight him better that way.

      And at that moment, as if he were some demon she’d conjured up from her own private hell, she heard his voice, low, mocking and far too close at hand.

      ‘Falling asleep in the bath, mia bella? That will never do. Surely you don’t wish Carlino to become motherless so soon?’

CHAPTER FOUR

      POLLY started violently, giving a strangled cry of alarm as the glass jerked and the wine spilled everywhere.

      She looked round and saw Sandro leaning in the doorway, watching her with cool amusement.

      She tried to sit up, remembered just in time that there weren’t enough bubbles to cover her, slipped on the oily surface, and was nearly submerged. She grabbed the rim of the bath, gasping in rage, and saw Sandro walking towards her.

      ‘Keep away from me.’ Her voice rose in panic.

      ‘I am coming to rescue your glass, nothing more,’ he countered silkily. ‘If it breaks, you could hurt yourself badly.’ He took it from her hand. ‘Besides, how shameful if I had to tell people that the mother of my child drowned while drunk,’ he added, his mouth slanting into a grin.

      ‘Just keep me out of your conversations,’ Polly said hotly, aware she was blushing under his unashamed scrutiny. ‘How the hell did you get in here?’

      ‘I told Julie not to lock the door when she left.’

      ‘You did what?’ Polly almost wailed. ‘Oh, God, how could you? You realise what she’ll think?’

      He shrugged. ‘I am not particularly concerned.’ He gave her a dry look. ‘Anyway, I imagine one look at Carlino told her all that she needs to know. We cannot hide that we once had a relationship.’

      ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘With the emphasis on the “once”. But not now, and not ever again, so will you please get out of here? Before I call the police,’ she added for good measure.

      Sandro shook his head reprovingly. ‘Your skills as a hostess seem sadly lacking, cara mia. Perhaps you feel at a disadvantage for some reason?’

      ‘Or maybe I prefer company I actually invited here,’ Polly threw back at him. ‘And you’ll never be on any guest-list of mine.’

      ‘You entertain much, do you—in this box? I’m sure you find the sofa that turns into a bed a convenience—for visitors who linger.’

      ‘This is my home,’ she said. ‘And I assure you it caters for all my needs.’ She paused. ‘Now I’d like you to go.’

      Quite apart from anything else, it was uncomfortable and undignified crouching below the rim of the bath like this. And the water was getting colder by the minute, she thought angrily.

      His brows lifted. ‘Without knowing why I am here? Aren’t you a little curious, Paola mia?’

      ‘I can’t think of one good reason for you to inflict yourself on me again,’ she told him raggedly. ‘Can’t you understand you’re the last person I want to see?’ She sent him a hostile glance. ‘Unless you’ve come to tell me that you’ve had a change of heart, and you’ve decided not to proceed with the custody application.’

      ‘No,’ Sandro said gently. ‘I have not. I simply felt that we should talk together in private. Maybe even in peace. Who knows?’

      ‘I know.’ Her voice was stormy. ‘And we have nothing to discuss. You want to rob me of my son? I’m going to fight you every step of the way. And my parents will be behind me.’

      ‘No.’ Sandro inclined his head almost regretfully. ‘They will not.’ He raised the glass he was still holding. ‘Now, I am going to pour you some more wine. I think you are going to need it.’

      He allowed her to absorb that, then continued. ‘So, I suggest you stop trying to hide in that inadequate bath, and join me in the other room.’ He took a towel from the rail and tossed it to her, then walked out, closing the door behind him.

      Polly scrambled to her feet, holding the towel defensively against her as she stepped out gingerly onto the mat. She began to dry herself with hasty, clumsy hands, keeping an apprehensive eye on the door in case Sandro chose to return.

      Not that she could do much about it even if he did, she thought, grimacing. And it was ridiculous, anyway, behaving like some Victorian virgin in front of a man who’d seen her naked so many times before. Someone who’d kissed and caressed every inch of the bare skin she was now so anxious to conceal.

      Instead of this burning self-consciousness, she should have pretended it didn’t matter. Demonstrated her complete and utter indifference to his presence whether she was dressed or undressed.

      Fine in theory, she thought. But much trickier in practice. Especially if Sandro had interpreted her apparent sang-froid as provocation …

      Her mouth felt suddenly dry, forcing her to abandon that train of thought for one just as disturbing. What was that comment about her parents meant to imply? What had been said in her absence—and, dear God, what pressure had been brought to bear?

      She needed to find out, and quickly.

      She looked down at the small pile of clothing she’d discarded earlier. Common sense suggested she should put it back on. Use it as part of the armour her instinct assured her that she was going to need.

      But in the end, she opted for the elderly cotton robe hanging on the back of the door. It was plain and prim, without an ounce of seduction in its unrevealing lines, she thought, fastening the sash in a tight double bow. Her equivalent of a security blanket, perhaps.

      Then, drawing a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and marched defiantly into the living room, only to halt, disconcerted, when she found it deserted.

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