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Legacy Of Shame
Diana Hamilton


Dealing With DesireFull of the cocky confidence of youth and conscious of her beauty, Venetia had practically thrown herself at sexy Italian businessman Carlo Rossi. Stunned at his cold rejection, she'd managed, over time, to put the shame of that experience behind her. She'd never expected the tables to turn, to find Carlo back in her life - charismatic, seductive… and proposing marriage!But the proposal was all business - and all blackmail. Only Carlo wasn't dealing with a naive teenager anymore. Venetia wa a woman who knew what she wanted… and despite his cold-blooded intentions, she understood exactly what Carlo wanted… .







Legacy of Shame

Diana Hamilton






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE (#ua87b811f-82fe-5400-93a2-6b80d7a43bf4)

CHAPTER TWO (#ud83c4e76-f3e3-5691-9b6f-457348c7e0a7)

CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE


VENETIA ADELE ROSS strode into the drawing-room without a thought in her head, the especially affectionate smile she reserved for her father curving her lush mouth, the pleasure of an afternoon’s successful shopping spree making her pale blue eyes sparkle like fine crystal.

And then the world stood still. She actually felt it tilt on its axis and stop.

‘Venny, darling, what kept you?’

No peevishness in the question, just warmth and affection. During the eighteen years of her life her father had never once chided her and meant it. She barely registered his voice, hardly saw him as he rose from his chair to walk to her side. And, for once, the room wasn’t dominated by the huge oil portrait of the mother she’d lost when she was only a few months old. It was dominated instead by the man who had made the world stand still.

Carlo Rossi.

She had almost forgotten he was coming to visit, put it out of her mind, because the arrival, for a few weeks, of her father’s cousin’s unknown son hadn’t put her in danger of dying from over-excitement!

And now this moment when time stood still gave her a sense of inevitability, a deeper understanding of fate than she had ever experienced before. A single second, such a tiny fragment of time, had been enough to face the shocking immediacy of meeting the one man she would love all her life, of falling in love, quite literally at first sight.

He was smiling at her across the width of the room. A smile that hovered between mannerliness and a kind of cynical interest. And her father was at her side now, taking her hand and giving it a small tug, as if he feared she’d grown roots into the Axminster-covered floorboards, and he was saying, ‘Come and say hello to Carlo, sweetheart.’ She turned her black-fringed eyes to his, bewilderment reaching out to him as if he could solve this ancient enigma for her, as if it were a problem he could smooth away as he’d smoothed her path through life ever since she’d been born.

But this was no minor peccadillo; this was something major, beyond the control of a doting father’s love and lavish financial generosity. Besides, he didn’t know what had happened, did he? He didn’t know how she was shaking inside her skin with the suddenness of it all, with the enormity, the shock of what had her rooted to the spot.

And his own bewilderment at her behaviour helped. He had no way of knowing why his normally confident, outgoing offspring looked as if she’d lost her wits. And his slightly impatient, ‘Shake hands with your cousin,’ had her smiling to herself, tugging all that confidence, the joy of living, the conviction that life was great, back into place. She set her long legs striding easily over the room, her smile frankly dazzling as Carlo Rossi held out a hand and disclaimed in a deep, slightly accented and thoroughly fascinating voice,

‘As our fathers are merely cousins then our relationship is almost too remote to be significant.’

Venetia ignored the formally outstretched hand, but stood on tiptoe to brush a kiss on the side of his hard, tanned face instead, and did a little husky disclaiming of her own.

‘In Italian families, any relationship, no matter how remote, is prized,’ she said, and was astonished to find that he towered above her own five feet and ten inches, astonished moreover by how ultra-feminine she felt when she had to tilt back her head to meet his eyes. Heavily lidded, dark, magnificent eyes.

Steadying herself to impart that supposedly cousinly embrace, she had grasped his upper arms, and, even though she was now firmly back on the soles of her feet, she held on.

Venetia had a physical nature; she liked to touch, and the contact between the palms of her hands, the pads of her fingers and the warmth of the steel-hard muscles beneath the elegant pale grey suiting was little short of sensational.

Carlo Rossi was gorgeous! He stole away her breath, not to mention her heart! And never mind that a slightly sardonic tilt of one heavy dark brow accompanied the firm yet insistent pressure of his hands as he removed her clutching fingers, because one day she would hear him begging her to touch him, she vowed with an inner giggle she was at pains to suppress, her lush mouth curling provocatively as she enquired in the husky tones that were so uniquely her own, ‘Has anything made any impact on you since your arrival?’ her eyes teasing, challenging him to admit that she had! ‘Though maybe it’s a little soon,’ she conceded with the smouldering pout, the Latin shrug that came from her Italian genes. ‘It’s your first time in England, isn’t it?’

‘Far from it. I know your country very well. I travelled extensively during my time here at university.’ His answer was smooth and suave, and definitely cool, and she could have bitten her tongue out because she remembered, now, about some age-old rift between the two branches of the family. Not even something romantic like a feud over a woman, but some boring business thing.

Always highly perceptive where her father was concerned, she could sense his embarrassment over the forced admission that his cousin’s son had visited before, had actually lived here for a time, and had not felt obliged to trouble himself to pay his respects. She wished the inane words unsaid, because upsetting her father was about the last thing she ever wanted to do.

‘We’ll be dining late this evening, Venny. So if you’re ravenous, as usual, get Potty to give you some tea in the kitchen. And if I know you, you’ll have half a ton of shopping littering up the hall.’

Her father’s intervention had covered up her gaffe and the slight embarrassment it had presented, and she was thankful for that. But need he have emphasised her healthy young appetite quite so strongly? Not to mention the way she never seemed to know when to stop when she indulged her passion for shopping in London?

Her light-coloured eyes flicked sideways to Carlo, and sure enough he was smiling, merely a lazy curl at the corners of that sexy mouth, a slight glint of patronising amusement deep in the dark depths of his magnificent eyes. Enough to tell her, quite explicitly, that he was seeing her as a child who was not yet, not quite, boring him.

Trying to check an emotion that was nearer to rage than melting adoration, she murmured something about seeing him later and headed for the door. She’d show him, she fumed, closing the panelled wood with unnecessary force. She’d show him she wasn’t a slightly amusing child!

Venetia was fully aware that she drew men’s attention wherever she went, that admiring male eyes followed her on the street, in restaurants, at parties. And she knew that the few chaste kisses she’d allowed her carefully vetted escorts were not nearly enough for them, that they were greedy for much more. So what right had Carlo Rossi to look at her as if she were barely out of nappies!

He was, however, she had to concede as she stamped across the panelled hall that was fragrant with the scent of roses from the sprawling, picturesque garden, more of a man than most. He was everything that the escorts her father permitted were not. He was cultured, sophisticated, older—and dangerous.

Venetia shivered as something as wicked as it was scary lapped the length of her spine then churned around in her stomach. Carlo Rossi was like rare brandy after tepid cocoa!

Moreover, she could remember her father trying to work out the age of the cousin’s son he hadn’t seen since he’d worn short trousers. Thirty-one or -two. And he wasn’t married, she knew that much, so he would hardly have got to that age without notching up more female conquests than was decent—not with his brand of heart-shattering looks, he wouldn’t!

And his chosen female companions would not be teenagers—God, how she hated that twee appellation! They would be poised, as sophisticated as he, intelligent, independent women who didn’t have appetites any navvy would be proud of, who dressed impeccably, in the best of taste, and were discreet enough not to leave a mountain of frivolous shopping cluttering up the floor space. Women who didn’t screw their hair back in a plait, who wouldn’t be seen dead in washed-out jeans and baggy T-shirt.

If only she had known she was about to be pole-axed by the very sight of him, she would have shot upstairs to change into something more alluring and released her waist-length hair and brushed it until it resembled a fall of jet-black silk, she mourned, her confidence deserting her for the first time in her life, leaving her feeling uncharacteristically unsure of herself, and quite miserable.

But the untidy mound of classy carriers and boxes did something to restore it. She had practically cleaned out her allowance, but she had bought some utterly delicious things! And she had plenty of time before dinner to make herself over, appear before him at her most glamorous. She had always managed to get whatever she wanted before, able to twist her doting father round the end of her little finger.

And she wanted Carlo Rossi.

And she would get him, too!

Without any help from her father, because this was something she would enjoy doing all by herself!

She was halfway up the stairs, boxes sliding this way and that as she desperately clutched at them with carrier-laden hands, when she met Mrs Potts coming down. A short, comfortably curved woman, her placid nature allowed her to take any crisis in her stride. She had become Venetia’s father’s housekeeper after her mother’s tragic death, and as soon as Venetia had begun to talk she had named her Potty, and it had stuck.

‘Let me help.’ Potty took the teetering layer of boxes and headed back up the stairs, dumping them on Venetia’s crimson satin-covered bed. ‘Been spending another fortune, by the look of it.’

‘You know I can’t resist.’ Venetia disregarded the token grumble in the older woman’s tone. Like Venetia’s father, Potty was a push-over; she had learned to twist them both around her tiny fingers before she’d begun to toddle. ‘Besides, I found the most fantastic dress.’ She opened one of the larger boxes and fished out a slither of black silk. ‘What do you think? Isn’t it just the sexiest thing you ever saw? And isn’t it fortuitous? Just the thing to knock Carlo’s eyes out!’

‘Looks more like a petticoat, if you ask me,’ the housekeeper disapproved. ‘Scarcely decent. And that cousin of yours is far too old and sensible to take any notice of what you wear. So don’t waste your efforts. Now—’ having said her piece, she turned back to the door ‘—how about a nice cup of tea and a slice or two of my chocolate cake? You can have it in the kitchen and tell me what else you’ve wasted your father’s money on while I do the veggies for dinner.’

Just for a moment, Venetia was sorely tempted. No one made chocolate cake like Potty did, and she’d enjoy a good gloat over her varied purchases, and lunch did seem a long time ago... But, ‘No, thanks, Potty. I’ll just get this lot unpacked and take a bath,’ she resisted firmly.

At the moment, her figure could justifiably be described as luscious, but if she didn’t curb her appetite she could end up as just plain fat! She smiled seraphically into Potty’s astonished face and turned to do her unpacking.

If falling in love could give her the will-power to turn down the offer of great wodges of deliciously wicked chocolate cake then love had to be, as many a ballad-maker had proclaimed, a sweet miracle indeed!

But it had its serious side, too, and could frighten her a little if she let it, she admitted as she luxuriated later in a lavishly scented bath. She knew she’d been pampered and petted all her life, but when her father did put his foot down he really meant it, and no amount of wheedling and coaxing on her part would make him change his mind.

Which was why her dates had been limited, her escorts carefully vetted. And, coupled with her expensive education at a girls’ convent school where the nuns’ zealous strictness had meant that even the most inventive and headstrong of the pupils had not been able to step out of line for one moment, Venetia was woefully inexperienced, her sexuality a complete mystery.

Nothing had prepared her for the way Carlo Rossi made her feel, for the way her heart twisted and leapt inside her when she looked at him, performing acrobatic somersaults even when she only thought of him!

And the sweet-sharp melting sensation which was afflicting her entire body right now as she lay in the warm water picturing their next meeting, when she would appear as a sensual woman and not as a pigtailed, over-large schoolgirl, was totally new to her, ragingly exciting and definitely a little frightening.

Not even Simon Carew, her most regular escort, who made his sexual interest in her plainer than most when they were alone together, had come near to rousing these deliciously wicked sensations within her.

Simon, at twenty-five, was sharp as a needle and undeniably attractive in his blond Anglo-Saxon way. Recently promoted to the position of her father’s personal assistant in the family-owned wine, shipping and retail business, he was her usual escort to those parties and first nights her father had no inclination to attend.

Her father trusted Simon completely. He would have forty fits if he knew how often his blue-eyed boy had tried to seduce his precious daughter.

What he didn’t understand was that she could take care of herself, that she’d had no trouble deflecting Simon’s amorous advances. She just wasn’t interested, not even when he’d mentioned marriage, and had told him so. And she certainly wouldn’t dream of telling her father where Simon’s interests lay, because his duties as escort would have ceased at once, leaving her kicking her heels at home while he vetted and checked out some other young man.

She could handle herself, she thought, a complacent smile curling her mouth as she stepped out of the bath in a shower of watery droplets and reached for one of the thick white towels. But complacency vanished on a shudder of exquisite excitement as she recalled the smouldering depths of Carlo’s magnificent eyes. She wouldn’t even try to take care of herself if those deep, dark eyes warmed to passion! If Carlo Rossi attempted to seduce her she would abandon all those moral principles that had been drummed into her head and whole-heartedly do all she could to encourage him!

Dressing for dinner was almost impossible given the state she was in. Her whole body was trembling with liquid excitement, seeming to have no more substance than an ill-set jelly, her fingers all thumbs and her legs mere columns of cotton wool.

Having mangled two pairs of sheer black silk stockings, Venetia pulled her mind together and, instead of concentrating on the amazing sensations she’d been experiencing since setting eyes on the dark Italian, turned over the facts as she knew them.

During the run-up to Carlo’s visit her father had often spoken of the Italian branch of the family, and Venetia, dutifully, had listened, pretending an interest she certainly hadn’t felt. But now the facts were vitally important; everything pertaining to Carlo was suddenly utterly riveting!

Over a hundred years ago the family wine-exporting business had been split, her great-grandfather coming to England to found the import and retail side. Since then, her branch of the family had been anglicised, and, as the retail outlets had proliferated, so had the wine-shipping side of the business.

But the Italian Rossis had prospered too, maintaining a forty-nine-per-cent interest in the British company while expanding and diversifying themselves, acquiring ever more vineyards, both in Italy and France, vast acres of rich farmland around Valencia and luxury hotels in every major city in the world.

Which would make Carlo infinitely wealthier and far more powerful than her own father, she mused. Particularly since, from what she recalled of her father’s conversations, Carlo’s father was ailing, had been for the past few years, leaving Carlo himself practically, if not nominally, in charge of the vast Rossi empire.

Furthermore, Carlo’s visit was an olive-branch, a means of ending the family feud which had existed since her father had been a boy, hinging on a disputed package of shares in the UK side of the business. It would be really dreamy, she decided with an ecstatic wriggle of inner excitement, if she and Carlo, respectively the last of the two branches of the family, were to marry and so begin the foundation of a once-more united dynasty!

And it wasn’t impossible, was it?

Standing back and viewing her reflection in the full-length mirror, she assured herself that it was completely, utterly, gloriously possible!

For this evening she had chosen to leave her silky straight waist-length hair loose, caught back from the sides of her face with gilded combs, and her heavier than usual use of make-up emphasised the creamy skin that never seemed to tan, the thickness of her sweeping dark lashes and the luscious pout of her full mouth.

And the new, outrageously expensive dress was well worth every penny, she thought, noting how the fine black silk clung so lovingly to every ripe curve, the short length of the skirt revealing the elegance of endless black silk-clad legs, the tiny shoe-string straps and scoopy bodice emphasising the wide milky-white shoulders and generously full breasts of a woman who was in full bloom, totally feminine, and proud of it!

Tonight, Carlo Rossi wouldn’t be seeing her as an overgrown teenager—on that she would stake her life!

The unstoppable self-confidence of one to whom everything in life came easily had her practically floating down the staircase on expensively nonsensical shoes which were a mere cat’s-cradle of gold kid wispy straps and impossibly slender high heels, and the bubbly excitement that made her feel as if she were intoxicated on the finest champagne didn’t subside by the merest notch when she found Potty to be the sole occupant of the elegantly yet comfortably furnished drawing-room.

‘Your father’s in the library with his guest and I shouldn’t think they’ll show their faces until dinner. And don’t you think you should cover up with a cardigan or something?’

‘Cardigan?’ Venetia scoffed affectionately. ‘How old-fashioned can you get?’ The housekeeper had been refilling the heavy Georgian sherry decanter, and Venetia helped herself to a glass. ‘Anyway, it’s a beautiful evening. I’m not in the least bit cold.’

‘I’m not worried about the temperature,’ Potty snorted, eyeing the generous dose of sherry Venetia had given herself with the same disapproval she had given the slinky dress. ‘You’re not decent, that’s the long and short of it. What your poor father will think, not to mention your cousin, I shudder to imagine! That—that thing you’re wearing shows everything you’ve got!’

Which was precisely what it was meant to do, Venetia thought with a wicked smile that made her eyes sparkle like clear, pure rain-water as she ignored Potty’s continued grumbles and took herself and her sherry out through the French windows and on to the paved terrace.

The warm evening air was rich with the scent of roses and touched her skin with the softness of a lover’s caress, making her tremble with the renewed onslaught of emotions that were entirely new to her. And the sight of the open French windows to the library, further along the terrace, was too much for her self-control.

Never before would she have dreamed of interrupting her father when he was in a business or private discussion; she had far too much respect for him. But her need to feast her eyes on the superlative masculinity that was Carlo Rossi, to allow him to see her as a mature and desirable woman, was too strong to resist right now.

The height of her heels and the tightness of her skirt made her curvaceous hips sway with unself-conscious sexual provocation as she walked through from the terrace into the book-lined room, a slow smile tilting her lush mouth, her eyes half veiled by thick black lashes as she chided huskily, ‘The evening’s too beautiful to waste indoors. Won’t you let me show you the gardens, Carlo?’

Her eyes met his with taunting challenge, her heart skipping several beats as he rose from the shabby leather chesterfield. He, too, had dressed for dinner, and he looked sensational, the formal black jacket and crisp white linen shirt suiting his dark, predatory looks to perfection. And for one long moment those magnificent black eyes searched hers, alert with tacit questions, then glittered darkly as his hard mouth softened to something that was almost a smile, an answer to her own unspoken challenge.

On the periphery of her vision she saw her father rise from the chair behind his huge leather-topped desk, sensed his disapproval at her unprecedented interruption, perhaps—who knew?—guessing at her reason for it, and dismissed him from her mind, hearing only the silence, sensing only the guarded drift of Carlo’s eyes as they appraised the voluptuous curves beneath the thin black satin.

‘Why not?’ He dipped his sleek dark head, not quickly enough to hide the dent of amusement at the side of his mouth, before turning to her father. ‘Perhaps you will join us, sir? It is, as Venetia says, a beautiful evening.’

Don’t! Venetia pleaded fiercely inside her head. Having her father tag along wasn’t part of her plans!

Then she exhaled the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding as the older man said slowly, ‘No, you two go ahead.’ And then, more briskly, ‘Be sure to show Carlo the water garden, Venny. And don’t forget the time. Potty will be serving dinner in under an hour.’

‘I won’t,’ Venetia assured, the radiance of her smile undimmed by her parent’s faint, puzzled frown as she stepped to Carlo’s side and tucked her hand beneath his arm and led him out on to the terrace.

After the cool, almost cloistered atmopshere of the library, the early evening sun on her naked arms and shoulders brought a sybaritic smile to her glossy lips and her eyes drifted shut for an instant of sensual pleasure, the deep tones of his voice sending a frisson of delight right through her, even though his words were vaguely patronising in content.

‘Wouldn’t you prefer to leave your glass behind? You can drink your sherry later; no one’s going to steal it from you.’

As if she were a child who couldn’t be persuaded to part with a sticky lollipop! But Venetia refused to be put down. Pausing at the top of the steps that led down from the terrace, she gave him her most dazzling smile and told him huskily, ‘You can steal anything of mine, any time you please.’ She placed the rim of the glass to her pouting lips, her pale, translucent eyes smouldering between thickly fringing lashes as she touched the tip of her tongue to the cool crystal. ‘But why don’t we share?’ She took a long swallow of the pale, aromatic liquid then slowly lifted the glass to his strangely unsmiling mouth. And he drained it as if he had no option, as if it were an inescapable ritual, his eyes never leaving the pure, almost imperiously beautiful lines of her face as she watched the controlled ripple of his throat as he drank, her fingertips aching to follow the track of her fascinated gaze.

‘The water garden, then.’ The incisive cut of his voice broke the spell of that strangely ritualistic bonding, as if he were making some violent repudiation. And she shrugged slightly, hating this new sensation of uncertainty, watching from clouded eyes as he set the glass carefully on top of the stone balustrading and descended the steps.

Venetia jerked herself together and followed. But too quickly, one of her ridiculous heels twisting beneath her in her haste.

But what she lost in dignity she gained in the exquisite sanctuary of his arms as he caught and steadied her, holding her warm, soft body against the steel-hard litheness of his, and for a timeless moment she knew what heaven on earth must feel like. She was melting into him, completing him, just as he was making her truly whole. He was her other half, her alter ego, and the recognition made her giddy.

‘You’re hardly dressed for out of doors, I think.’

The steel in his voice was only just covered in silk and he was putting her aside, his hands firm; she recovered her equilibrium enough to tell him lightly, ‘Nonsense. It’s just a stroll. I caught my heel in a crack between the stones. Too silly!’ And she grabbed his arm with a firmness that almost matched his own and set out along the gravelled walkway.

She could sense his withdrawal, the deliberate remoteness he was using like a shield, but it didn’t really bother her. Why should it, when he could have turned back to the house, refused to go along with the pretext of seeing the grounds? But he hadn’t refused, beat a tactical retreat, she exulted. He kept right beside her, not even brushing her hand away from his arm, slowing his long-legged stride to accommodate her shorter steps.

So he could look as remote as he liked. She smiled softly to herself as she glanced at the proud, stern lines of his profile; he wasn’t fooling her! She had witnessed the awakening of something far more than cousinly interest when he’d made that thorough appraisal of her body, and she’d felt the magic chemistry that had made her feel they were one flesh when he’d briefly held her in his arms. It had been too strong, too blindingly insistent for him to have been unaware of it.

‘Nearly there,’ she said, her voice smoky, breaking the silence, reflecting that he’d been right when he’d said she wasn’t dressed for out of doors. Short, tight skirts and impossible heels were hardly suitable for traversing even the most carefully raked gravelled paths or the most smoothly kept lush green lawns. ‘How long will you be staying?’ she asked, her fingers tightening around his iron-hard arm as they descended mossy stone steps beneath a deep arch in the high yew hedge which separated the grounds.

‘One week. Two. Who knows?’ The upward shift of his wide shoulders was eloquently, fluidly dismissive, but she ignored it. If he was pretending he wasn’t aware of her then she could pretend she hadn’t noticed the subterfuge!

‘Plenty of time for me to show you around,’ she stated, her eyes gleaming up at his impassive features as she pictured long walks into the countryside, intimate dinners for two at secluded restaurants, maybe even a drive into the Welsh mountains where she could successfully lose them in all that wildness, maybe for long enough to necessitate an overnight stay at some remote farmhouse...

‘You are not studying, at school maybe? Or working?’

He waited politely as she hopped down from the final and deepest stone step and, that obstacle negotiated, she answered airily, ‘School? Good lord, no!’ She managed to convey that her schooldays were a dim and distant memory, not prepared to tell him that her final term had ended a scant three weeks ago and so remind him of her age. ‘Look—we’re here,’ she told him unnecessarily as they entered the grotto filled with the scent and sound of water.

But he didn’t appear to be remotely interested in the water garden. His dark eyes gave her a cool glance as he questioned, ‘Do you plan a career? Within the company, perhaps?’

‘Oh, who knows?’ Venetia frowned, biting down on her full lower lip. ‘Let’s not talk about that.’ Why waste time discussing the possibility of a career in her father’s business when all she wanted to do was spend the rest of her life with him? And she did want that, want it with a sudden desperation that left her feeling devastated.

Hesitantly, she searched his eyes and found nothing there but cold disinterest. A pain, like a splinter of ice, stabbed at her heart. He didn’t even like her. Had she lived through her life, effortlessly receiving everything she’d ever wanted, only to be denied the most important, the thing she craved above all else?

Venetia shivered, cold to her bones as shameful tears stung the backs of her eyes. And Carlo stated, a curl of cynical amusement playing around his mouth, ‘This place is dank. You should have worn your mink. I take it you do own a couple, at least?’

‘Half a dozen at last count!’ she snapped back at him, stung to immediate, hurting rage by his patronising, cynical, coolly mocking attitude. She wouldn’t demean herself by explaining she wouldn’t be seen dead in a fur, that she passionately believed they looked better on the animals they were designed to grace!

The emotional turmoil she’d experienced since setting eyes on him had turned to passionate hatred. She wanted to hit him, but contained the violence, curling her fingers into her palms until the painted nails dug deeply into the soft flesh. And she met the intimidating censure of his narrowed eyes with open hostility until raw pain sliced through her, the sensation of the wounding mirrored in the translucent depths of her eyes as she lowered them, blinking back the scalding flow of tears.

She hadn’t meant it to be like this. Oh, she surely hadn’t! And she was cold again now. So cold. Nothing really to do with the moist, shaded air, the watery silence of the quiet pool, the moss-grown rocks, the still, heavy leaves of the gunnera and ornamental rhubarb—nothing to do with them at all.

Venetia turned quickly, the silky fall of her hair flying around her shoulders as she tottered as rapidly as she could back towards the steps, her heart leaping inside her, her throat closing with solidified breath as he stopped her, his large hands on her shoulders swinging her round to face him.

‘You’ll break your neck if you go at that pace, or, at the very least, spoil your pretty shoes.’ His voice went husky as he watched the play of emotions cross her pale features, saw them spring to tumultuous life in the translucent depths of her beautiful eyes.

‘I...’ Venetia tried to speak, but couldn’t. And her lashes lowered as his hands gentled, the pads of his fingers lightly massaging the tender, responsive flesh below her collarbone.

‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ he said, his voice rough, his mouth compressed. His fingers slid upwards, slowly, resting against the long, pure line of her throat. And she felt the tremor take hold of his lean body, ripple through him, and the words she would have said dried again in her throat.

Fluttering, her long lashes drifted upwards, and what she saw in those dark, hooded eyes made her heart stand still. Slowly the tip of her tongue moistened her parched lips, and she saw him close his eyes, heard the raw sound he made deep in his throat, and melted towards him instinctively, her hands splaying against his chest, nudging aside the elegant jacket to feel the warmth of his body beneath the thin covering of crisp linen, feel the heavy beat of his heart. Then she heard the rough intake of his breath as he gently set her aside and said unevenly, ‘We’ll be late for dinner. Come along, now, there’s a good girl.’

And Venetia tilted her head and gave him a long, lancing glance of triumph, gave him her bewitching smile before demurely falling in step beside him. He might treat her as if she were a child. But that wasn’t the way his body reacted to her at all!

And soon, very soon now, she would insinuate herself beneath his guard and make him admit that he wanted her just as much as she wanted him!




CHAPTER TWO


BUT it wasn’t easy. Carlo Rossi had a will of iron. Days passed, and then a full week had gone by, and he had turned down all her sightseeing suggestions with that slight, ironic smile, preferring, obviously, to spend time with her father at head office, returning with him in the evening, leaving Venetia kicking her heels at home, fuming.

And over the long, unhurried dinners that had lasted well into the amethyst evenings he’d kept his conversation with her to a polite minimum, and when he wasn’t discussing business with her father he talked of his homeland, reminding the older man of his forsaken roots.

But Venetia hadn’t given up hope. On a few occasions she’d turned and surprised the hooded, hungry look in his eyes, and known that he was deliberately erecting a wall between them, and set herself the problem of how to break through it.

On some deeply primitive masculine level he did want her, she knew it. She’d seen the need smouldering darkly in his fantastic eyes, catching him unawares, her own need leaping to match his before he’d pulled the shutters down, locking her out with a tiny derisive smile, the hunger masked by a blank indifference that made her want to throw back her head and howl, stamp her feet with frustration.

Because every day that passed, every hour, reinforced her love, her wanting. Nothing else mattered; her need of him had bitten deep into her psyche, expanding until it filled her whole being. And for the first time in her life she was not being given what she wanted!

‘Phone, for you.’ Potty trundled out on to the terrace, where Venetia was kicking her heels, furious because, early as she had risen, pulling on a pair of shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, Carlo had beaten her to it.

Today was Saturday and he wouldn’t be going in to the office with her father, and she’d been determined to persuade him to spend time with her, walking, making use of the swimming-pool, anything.

But when she’d arrived downstairs the housekeeper had told her that Carlo had set out on foot an hour ago to ‘see something of the countryside’, and she’d been out here ever since, cursing herself for sleeping until seven when, if she’d surfaced an hour earlier, she could have set out with him. The man was impossible! How could she break down that wall if he refused to stay still long enough to give her the opportunity to try?

Her mind, as usual, totally preoccupied with thoughts of Carlo Rossi, she took the call in the library, frowning impatiently as Simon said in his light, pleasant voice, ‘Sorry to call you at the crack, but I wanted to confirm the time for tonight.’

‘Tonight?’ Venetia echoed blankly, hooking a strand of long silky hair behind a small, perfectly shaped ear, and Simon reminded amusedly,

‘Your friend’s eighteenth birthday party, remember? What time shall I pick you up?’

‘Oh, that.’ She had forgotten all about Natasha’s coming-of-age celebrations. Normally, she wouldn’t have missed it for a king’s ransom. But circumstances weren’t normal. Nothing could drag her away, no matter how glittering the party, while there was the remotest chance of spending time with Carlo. ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she said. ‘I’m not going.’ Then, because the silence on the other end of the line was speaking volumes, she tacked on, ‘I’m sorry, I should have let you know earlier. But we have a house guest. I’m fully occupied keeping him entertained...’ Oh, would that that were true! ‘You must have met him. Carlo Rossi...’ Even the sound of his name on her tongue sent hungry yearnings skittering through her, and she went on breathlessly, ‘He’s been following my father to the office each day.’

‘Hardly following.’ Simon gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘Dragging everyone behind him is more like it! He’s turned the distribution network upside-down, gone through the accounts with a magnifying glass, and got everyone working in top gear.’

‘Can he do that?’ Venetia queried, her eyes shining. She didn’t doubt his ability to take complete and total charge wherever he was. His aura of domination, of utter self-assurance, had been one of the many characteristics that had made such an immediate impact on her. But she asked the question all the same because, apart from feasting her eyes on him, talking about him was her favourite occupation.

‘You’d better believe it,’ Simon told her drily. ‘His father handed over his forty-nine per cent of the shares in Ross UK to him, and that gives him a whole lot of clout. But, that apart, he’s a natural top dog; one look at him is enough to make anyone with any sense toe the line! Mind you,’ he added grudgingly, ‘his organisational abilities come out of the top drawer, you can’t argue with that. He sees solutions to problems before the rest of we lesser mortals recognise there’s a problem at all.’

Venetia could have listened to this kind of thing for hours, but Simon had other ideas.

‘Are you sure about tonight? It could be a whole load of fun, and we could go on to a nightclub later, just the two of us,’ he coaxed. ‘The old man doesn’t need to know what time we leave your friend’s birthday party.’

‘Get lost!’ Venetia pulled a face at the receiver before crashing it down.

Simon was getting too uppity. He must know she tolerated his sexual come-ons, parrying them with firm good humour, only because to refuse to have anything more to do with him socially would mean she’d be stuck at home missing out on all the fun until her father came up with a replacement escort he felt he could trust with his precious offspring!

But if he was starting to refer to her father as ‘the old man’ in that disrespectful tone, suggesting they deceive him, then she was prepared to slap him down in no uncertain manner and stay home every night into the foreseeable future!

Besides, she thought as she hunched her shoulders and wandered listlessly out of the room, Carlo was the only man she wanted to be with. The trouble was, he was making it clear that he had no wish to be with her!

And then she stopped right in the middle of the huge hall as the perfect idea hit her. It was so perfect—it couldn’t be faulted!

A smile curved her full lips, her eyes sparkling with the resurgence of the confidence that had gone missing for days. And she turned as the housekeeper walked in through the front door, leaving it open so that the warm morning sunlight streamed in. She had been cleaning the lion’s head doorknocker, dusters and metal polish in her hands, and Venetia bit back a bubble of excitement and asked, ‘Did Carlo say what time he’d be back?’

‘He didn’t say and I didn’t ask,’ the older woman said drily. ‘But I dare say he’ll show up in time for lunch.’ She drew level, settling the wooden box that held her cleaning materials more securely under her arm. ‘So I shouldn’t waste the morning hanging around for him, if I were you. And a word of advice—’ her round face went as stern as it was possible to get ‘—don’t make your crush on him so obvious. You’ll soon get over it and when you do you’ll feel a fool. You’ll regret the way you’ve been hanging around him.’ Then, at the flash of pure fury in Venetia’s pale eyes, her expression softened as she added, ‘It’s your pride that will hurt most in the end, pet. I can understand the attraction; what woman couldn’t? But apart from him being too old for you, he’s probably got half a dozen or so elegant ladies waiting for him back home. Now—’ the lecture over, she glanced at the long-case clock on the wall ‘—it’s gone half-past nine; has your father come down yet? It’s not like him to lie in this late, is it?’

‘I haven’t seen him,’ Venetia responded icily. How dared Potty call what she felt for Carlo a crush! She wasn’t a child. She loved Carlo and always would. And what would Potty know about it? She was fifty if she was a day!

Swinging round on her heels, her shoulders huffily rigid, she marched to the main door, dragging the summer-scented air through pinched nostrils. No one understood how she was hurting, how her need to get close to Carlo both spiritually and physically was an ache that grew larger every day because he simply wouldn’t let her through the wall he had deliberately erected around himself.

It was going to be hot, she decided, feeling the sun burn against her exposed skin as she wandered out on to the drive. Normally, on a day like today was going to be, she would have happily idled away several hours in or beside the outdoor swimming-pool. But she was too restless to even contemplate it, even though the heat seemed to be growing more sultry with every moment that passed.

Besides, she needed to see Carlo; she couldn’t run the risk of missing him on his return. She had formulated the perfect plan to get him to herself, and he couldn’t refuse, surely he couldn’t?

Settling down on the last of the stone steps that led to the main door, she leant against the plinth that carried an urn which billowed with scarlet geraniums, breathing in their spicy scent and determined to stay exactly where she was until she took root, if necessary, then saw that she wouldn’t have to wait that long because Carlo was already approaching the house along the drive.

Her heart beating rapidly enough to choke her, she scrambled to her feet and tried to look cool and calm. Everything depended on how she extended the invitation. She had to put it in a way that would make it impossible for him to turn down, make him feel that he would be behaving discourteously as a guest in her father’s home if he were to do so.

It was the first time she had seen him in anything but lightweight, impeccably elegant business suits or formal evening wear and, if anything, he looked even more impossibly attractive in slim-fitting tan-coloured cotton jeans topped by an open-necked black shirt. Come to me; love me as I love you! she commanded desperately inside her head, then, as she felt the helpless tears suddenly glaze her eyes, she blinked them back and hauled herself together.

Slowly, she began to walk towards him, trying to look as if she had nothing more important on her mind than the enjoyment of the glorious weather. But inside she was a mess. Her heart was beating thickly, suffocating her, her breathing going haywire, because if he refused to agree to her request she would know she had lost the only remaining chance she had to get him to fall in love with her a little.

Desperately she reminded herself that there was no room in her head for thoughts of failure, and deliberately avoided looking directly at him as they met. She turned her head instead to contemplate the façde of the house as she swung on her heels and fell in step beside him.

‘Enjoy your walk?’ She kept her voice cool, devoid of anything but polite interest, and that was good. And successfully fought the temptation to reach out and hold on to his arm, even though her fingers ached to touch that firm, sun-warmed, tanned flesh.

‘Very much.’ His response was terse. If he was pleased to see her he wasn’t showing it. ‘Is your father around? I need to speak to him.’

‘I haven’t seen him this morning.’ Vaguely she recalled Potty remarking on his lateness, and quickly dismissed the thought from her head, because this whole scenario looked like running away from her.

Carlo had increased his stride and she was having to trot to keep up with him, and nothing was going as she’d planned it in her head.

‘Would you do me a favour?’ The words came out in a breathless gabble, the sophisticated, almost bored approach she’d decided on nowhere in sight, because he was making for the house as if the hounds of hell were on his tail!

And then he seemed to freeze; she could see the wide, rangy shoulders stiffen as he slowly turned to face her, his stunning features perfectly blank as he assured her with formal politeness, ‘Naturally. If I can.’

Suddenly, the butterflies in her stomach became a flock of crazed eagles, and she almost turned and fled, and had to force herself to stay right where she was.

‘Well?’ The indifferent enquiry was accompanied by a small, hard smile as he thrust his thumbs into the side pockets of his trousers and rocked indolently back on his heels.

‘I...’ All those carefully planned words had fallen out of her head and, to steady herself, she took a deep breath and watched in a kind of wondering triumph when his hooded eyes dropped to her breasts as the long gulp of air into her lungs thrust them against the soft fabric of her skimpy top.

He was aware of her. He was! As much as he tried to hide it from her, and possibly from himself, these were the tiny, give-away signs that had stopped her from abandoning all hope days ago!

And she said, only a little shakily, ‘Well, actually, a friend of mine is having a birthday party at the Savoy tonight. I said I’d go, and you know how it is—’ she managed a slight shrug ‘—I don’t want to disappoint her. But Father has this bee in his bonnet about letting me loose on my own, and I wondered if you could do me a favour and act as my escort?’

She held her breath, willing him to agree, and all the time she watched his face, her eyes wide with unknowing entreaty, the tip of her tongue nervously flickering between her lips as she watched his mouth tighten, his nostrils flare just briefly, before he coolly informed her, ‘I’m sure the party will be delightful. However, as I’m leaving for Rome tomorrow my time will be fully occupied this evening.’

She stared at him with shocked, bewildered eyes. Two body-blows in one cruel sentence. Not only had he refused her request, but he was leaving the country tomorrow. How could she stand it? She hated herself for being so vulnerable, hated him for being the cause of all this pain. And heard him say, a strange softness in his voice, ‘Try to forgive me, Venetia. In a little while, a few weeks—days, even—you will forget all this—’ he shrugged eloquent shoulders, his face softening, his smile crooked as he found the words he wanted ‘—this infatuation. I am too old for you, too hard and, most probably, too intolerant.’ He lifted his beautiful, strong hands, as if he was about to touch her, then dropped them back to his sides, his brows drawing together in a frown that told her something was irritating him. Her, most probably! And she scarcely registered what he said, an unusual curtness clipping his tone. ‘You are young and exquisitely lovely. Go to your party tonight and enjoy yourself with people your own age. Forget you ever asked me. I certainly will. Believe me, it could have been the biggest mistake either one of us is ever likely to make.’

‘I hate you!’ Colour came and went in her face, tears of rage spiking her lashes, trembling there before falling, streaking her cheeks and dripping off the end of her elegant nose. And she didn’t care. He knew how she felt about him and had denigrated it as a schoolgirlish infatuation, given her tattered emotions about as much concern as he would extend if she’d caught a head cold! Over and forgotten in a few days—nothing that couldn’t be cured by a few doses of fun with a few other juveniles! She couldn’t be more humiliated than that! And she repeated ferociously, ‘God, how I hate you!’

‘Then you must be heartily relieved that I didn’t take you up on your invitation, mustn’t you?’ His smile was sheer, infuriating irony. ‘And I’m sure young Carew could be prevailed upon to escort you this evening. Although if I were you I’d take care where he’s concerned; he’s a chancer, and I don’t think he’s entirely to be trusted, even though your father appears to do so—enough to pay him handsomely to chaperon you!’

His black eyes impaled her, as they were no doubt meant to do, and she went cold with the shock of discovering how hateful he could be.

He had set out to humiliate her and had effortlessly succeeded. How could he lie like that, say that Simon had to be paid to take her out? Was he trying to tell her that no man in his right mind would be seen with her unless he was paid to do so? She didn’t believe him; she couldn’t! And she dashed the tears from her face with the tips of her fingers as she flung at him grittily, ‘I wonder if you know how vile you really are! Do you always get your kicks out of hurting people?’

His reply was lost beneath the crunch of gravel as she ran back to the house, and she was too emotionally ragged as she entered the hall to notice her father until his thready voice burst through the pounding in her head. ‘Venny, now don’t worry, sweetheart, but could you call Dr Fielding?’

Venetia’s heart gave a massive, painful thump as her eyes flew to her father. He was standing at the foot of the stairs, leaning against the newel post, still in his dressing-gown, his face grey and slicked with perspiration.

‘Daddy! What’s wrong?’ The question was torn from her as she ran to him, picking up one of his hands and holding it against her cheek, fear in her wide, water-clear eyes.

‘Probably nothing more serious than a stomach-ache.’ His wan smile was meant to reassure her but it did nothing of the kind, and for the first time in a week she wasn’t aware of Carlo’s presence, hadn’t realised he’d followed her into the house until he spoke behind her, his voice calm.

‘Phone, Venetia. At once.’

Reluctantly, she dropped her father’s hand, stepping back on legs that felt distinctly unsteady, her eyes flying up to Carlo’s impassive features, willing him to tell her everything would be all right.

But he wasn’t looking her way, his eyes assessing the elderly man before lifting him effortlessly into his arms, still not looking at her as he commanded, ‘I said at once, Venetia.’

Guiltily, she ran over to the phone, her fingers shaking as she punched in the numbers of the surgery, gnawing on the corner of her mouth as she waited for the receiver to be lifted at the other end. And her incoherent babblings must have made some sense because the receptionist said that Dr Fielding was as good as on his way, and she turned away, butting into Potty, who was now standing directly behind her, her eyes anxious in her parchment-pale face.

‘Is he coming?’ she asked quickly, and Venetia nodded, her throat too choked with fear to allow her to speak.

‘Good. That’s all right, then.’ The housekeeper visibly relaxed, as if she was convinced that all the doctor had to do was wave a prescription. Venetia wished she had such blind, unquestioning faith. She couldn’t forget how desperately ill her father had looked.

And something of this must have shown in her face, because Potty stroked a strand of silky black hair away from her clammy forehead, her voice reassuring as she soothed, ‘It won’t be long before the doctor gets here, and Carlo’s with him. He took him to the library and asked me to fetch a blanket. Run along, now; go and hold his hand, why don’t you?’

Venetia tried to pull herself together as she watched the older woman hurry to complete her errand. It wouldn’t help her father if she appeared at his side looking distraught. And somehow, clinging on to the thought that Carlo was with him helped her. Nothing bad could happen while he was there. He wouldn’t let it!

Nothing this traumatic had happened to her in her entire life and she’d been young enough, inexperienced enough—until ten minutes ago—to believe it never would.

She had been only a few months old when her mother had died. The horse she had been riding had fallen at a gate, crushing the life out of the slender young woman. Venetia had been unaware of the tragedy, and her father had done all he could to ensure that she never felt the lack of a maternal parent too keenly. He had, all her life, lavished enough love, care and patience on her for two.

She remembered now the look on his face when, at the age of eleven, she had asked for a pony of her own. At the time, she hadn’t translated that haunted expression as fear. It hadn’t been until years later, when her undoubted equestrian skills had led her to take calculated risks, that she had finally put two and two together, tying the look of agony deep in his kindly eyes to the tragic death of her mother.

Parting with Bliss, her lovely grey mare, had been the hardest thing she had ever had to do; convincing her father that she was giving up riding because the sport was beginning to bore her had called upon all her acting abilities.

But it had been worth it for the look of soul-deep relief in his eyes. It had been the first completely unselfish act of her young life and she prayed it wouldn’t be her last.

She felt guilty as she recalled how, a full year before she had been due to leave the convent school, she had flatly refused to make any plans for future career training, and, when the time had come for her to wipe the cloistered dust of the convent from her feet, had brushed aside her father’s suggestion that she join the family business, working her way through every department right up to the top.

What she had wanted, she had lovingly teased him, was to stay home and have fun for at least six months before having to think of anything as dreary as working for her living. After the nuns’ stern discipline she had deserved that much, hadn’t she?

She knew she had disappointed him, although he had tried not to let it show. And now she regretted her frivolous attitude to life more keenly than she would ever have believed possible.

Potty caught up with her as she reached the library door, pushing a folded blanket into her arms.

‘Take this to him, while I wait around to show the doctor through,’ she instructed. ‘Then I’ll make us all a nice cup of tea. I dare say you could do with one. I know I could.’

Consciously relaxing her shoulders, Venetia pushed open the library door, giving a terse nod at Carlo’s, ‘Well, is he on his way?’

‘How are you feeling now?’ she wanted to know as she tucked the blanket around her father’s legs. He was stretched out on the chesterfield and he smiled at her.

‘Better. Fielding’s going to read me the riot act for wasting his time. I stayed in bed, hoping the pain would pass off, but it didn’t. Now he’s actually coming there’s no sign of it. Typical!’

‘It’s his job,’ Carlo said, moving into her line of vision. ‘Even if the pain’s gone now, something caused it.’

Quickly, Venetia lowered her lashes, turning her head away from the Italian as a slow flush of guilt covered her face. Potty had remarked on her father’s lateness, but she, Venetia, hadn’t given it a moment’s thought. She’d been too busy lying in wait for Carlo, plotting how to get him to go with her to Natasha’s party. She should have gone to his room to check, she castigated herself, instead of trying to attract a man who was plainly bored by what he called her infatuation, who had taunted her cruelly, as good as telling her that a man would have to be paid in hard currency before he could bring himself to be seen with her on his arm in a public place!

Thankfully, she heard the sounds of the doctor’s arrival and hurried to meet him, grateful, at least, for the colour that was gradually returning to her father’s face. And, over an hour later, with the elderly man safely tucked up in bed, she walked with the doctor to his car.

‘Grumbling appendix,’ he told her, opening the door of the sturdy Volvo, putting his bag on the passenger seat. He had kind eyes in a weary face and he glanced up at Carlo, who had followed them out, ‘Nothing to panic about, but call me if the pains recur. And liquids only for twenty-four hours. He should be fine in a couple of days.’

‘I’ll go up to him,’ Venetia stated as the Volvo left, her voice stiff. She couldn’t bear to look at Carlo. She would burst into noisy sobs if she did, remember just how cruel he had been, how he’d reduced what she felt for him to the level of juvenile infatuation, remember that by this time tomorrow he would be gone, and she would never see him again. Already her whole body was starting to shake.

‘No.’ His hand on her shoulder stopped her in her tracks, and she froze and closed her eyes, afraid that he would see the pain, the humiliation, the sheer blinding power of her love for him in the revealing depths. ‘He was already falling asleep when I left him,’ he stated. ‘He had a restless night; a peaceful few hours will do him more good than anything. Besides—’ he had two hands on her shoulders now, turning her round to face him ‘—Potty has promised to look in from time to time, to keep an eye on him.’

He was so close to her now. So close. She could feel the warmth of his body, the nearness of him, the indefinable, exquisitely potent force field of his masculinity as it reached out, as always, to enthral her, hold her spellbound.

Her lips began to tremble. Why couldn’t he feel it too? Why did the only man she could ever love feel nothing for her except exasperation? She couldn’t stay here with him a moment longer; it was too much to bear! Venetia felt the build-up of a sob inside her and tried to contain it, pushing at his body with her fists as the shameful tears welled up in her eyes, spilled over.

And he saw them, of course he did. He didn’t miss a trick. And he would begin to taunt her again, call her a child; she knew he would, she thought hysterically, trying to hold her body rigid to counteract the weak trembling that was such a give-away.

But there was no cruelty in his husky voice as he pulled her into his arms.

‘Ssh,’ he whispered, dipping his dark head so that his cheek lay on hers. ‘Don’t cry. It’s been a worrying couple of hours for you, but it’s over now. Your father’s going to be fine. You’re suffering from reaction, that’s all.’

All? Her sobs began in earnest as he held her, allowing her to cry all over his shirt, his hands gentling her as she clung to him, sliding rhythmically from her shoulders to her waist and back again. The way he was holding her, their bodies so close they might be one being, would have been sheer ecstasy if she hadn’t already known he thought of her as a silly child, with as much sense in her head, as much capacity for real emotion, as a gaudy butterfly. The knowledge that he was leaving tomorrow was breaking her heart.

Gulping back a renewed spasm of sobbing, she tightened her arms around him, as if the sheer force of her love could keep him with her, now and for always. And felt his hands grow still against her back, felt the hard warmth of his palms burn through the thin fabric of her loose, sleeveless top, felt, beneath the pressure of her lush breasts and hips, the sudden rigidity of his lean masculine body.

And knew he was about to draw away, that he had been comforting her as he would have comforted an upset child, but, in the moment of her sexual initiative, the instinctive movements of her body against his, the way she had tried to use the power of her love for him to hold him, she had reminded him of her sexuality.

She wouldn’t let him push her away, withdraw again behind that wall. She couldn’t let him. She had broken through that wall. She had! He could no longer pretend she was a tiresome, overgrown child! Never more would he push her away!

But he did. Did it with a stark suddenness that left her reeling, searching his suddenly tight features with hurt, uncomprehending eyes.

Desperately her hands reached for him, but he took them in the iron-hard grip of one of his own, stepping back, holding her at a distance she felt as an aching void, making her throat tighten with anguish. And her huge, translucent eyes brimmed with unshed tears as she protested chokily, ‘Don’t push me away.’

‘Just thank your lucky stars I have some self-control,’ he came back tautly, his black eyes burning into hers with a ferocity she had never encountered before. ‘If you were five years older, things might be different.’ His magnificent eyes hardened to chips of jet, his browline a frowning black bar as he told her tightly, ‘But you’re just a child.’

‘I’m not,’ she cried wildly, twisting her hands within his iron grip. If she could only touch him again, tenderly yet with all the passion she now knew she was capable of, he would know she was all woman. She would show him that much. But his grip was cruel, ungiving, and she blurted frantically, her pride in tatters, ‘I love you, Carlo! Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me!’ And heard him draw a rough breath deep into his lungs, his voice all ragged edges as he bit back ferociously,

‘You tempt me too much! Do you know what you’re doing to me? Do you?’ He gave her a long black stare, his mouth tight, then dropped her hands as if her touch disgusted him, and walked rapidly back towards the house, taking her poor bruised heart with him.

* * *

Venetia woke feeling smothered, anxious to the point of panic, not knowing the cause.

Agitatedly she pushed at the bedcovers, flinging them off the bed, till they lay in a slithery scarlet satin pool on the thick white carpet, and gazed around her with wide, bewildered eyes.

Then the feeling of being in a waking nightmare subsided as she pin-pointed the source of her anxiety. It wasn’t her father, that was for sure. Oh, she was still concerned after yesterday’s fright, but nothing more than that. As long as he kept to a liquid-only diet today and took a few days off work, there was every reason to expect that the grumbling appendix would behave itself.

The root of her misery lay with her beloved Carlo. She drew her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around them, her long black hair all over the place. Despite her protestations of love, the way she’d pleaded with him to stay—she went hot with shame when she recalled her impassioned outburst—he had every intention of leaving, setting out for the airport in his hired car at noon.

After he’d walked away from her, back to the house, she had felt more alone and miserable than ever before in her young life. She hadn’t known how to handle the sensation of utter despair, especially when, a few minutes later, she’d seen him shoot off down the drive in the hired Fiesta.

In between checking on her father, she’d hung around waiting for Carlo to return, restlessly pacing the terrace, trying to work out what she should say to him when she saw him next. She’d felt physically and mentally shattered by what had happened, by the way she’d behaved.

But the hours had stretched into a day that had seemed endless. No sign of him. And she hadn’t been able to touch the salad Potty had given her for lunch, or the delicious grilled trout that had been produced at dinner.

‘He’s certainly making sure he sees plenty of the area before he leaves tomorrow,’ Potty had remarked drily as she’d removed the plate of fish Venetia had mangled with her fork, her shrewd eyes on the unused place-setting on the opposite side of the table, the empty chair.

Venetia had dredged up a pale smile, the small, defeated shrug of her shoulder telling all there was to tell, and Potty had said, her voice gruff, ‘Don’t take on so. He’s not the only pebble on the beach.’

Watching the housekeeper trundle out of the room, Venetia had cursed herself for being so transparent. She had laid herself open to Potty’s platitudes and Carlo’s scorn. He had known what she felt, even before she had told him she loved him, and had reduced it to the level of mere infatuation.

And Potty was wrong. As far as she was concerned he was the only man she would ever love with this level of passionate intensity. But it wasn’t any use, she thought miserably; he had made that very plain. So she was simply going to have to come to terms with it, somehow, and try to decide how she would react when she saw him next, what she would say.

But she needn’t have agonised so deeply because her confidence had taken the final annihilating blow when, while she’d been playing Scrabble with her father late last evening, Carlo had at last put in an appearance.

He hadn’t looked at her; she might not have been in the room as he’d made suitably concerned enquiries about the state of her father’s health.

And her face had turned pale when he’d gone on to say, ‘If you’re sure you’re on the mend, I’ll take my flight to Rome tomorrow, as arranged. But if you’ve the slightest doubt and would like me to stay on, I can cancel it.’

And Venetia had held her breath, willing her father to ask Carlo to stay. But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

‘I’m fine,’ the older man had stated. ‘Once I’ve survived the starvation diet I’ll be better than new! And I’ve asked Carew to drop by first thing in the morning. I’ll brief him to cover my absence for the next couple of days. So don’t alter your plans because I had a stomach-ache—there’s absolutely no need.’

‘If you’re sure...’

A flicker of something—relief?—had moved across the hard profile, then the sensual mouth had firmed as he’d added, ‘After a great deal of thought, I’ve reached a decision of some importance, and I’d like to discuss it with you. Tomorrow morning—after you’ve seen Carew?’

‘Why not now?’ The older man gestured to the armchair on the other side of his big old-fashioned bed, his smile expansive. ‘And pour yourself a Scotch, why don’t you? The decanter’s on top of the dressing-chest.’

Involuntarily, or so it seemed to Venetia, the black eyes were at last turned in her direction. And almost immediately back to her father, the slightly accented, fascinating voice uncompromising as he insisted, ‘Tomorrow would be better.’

So he had reached some decision, to do with business—what else?—and refused to discuss it in front of her, Venetia had thought on a spasm of stinging pain. He wouldn’t discuss anything of importance while she was around. He thought she was a bird-brain.

She had kept her eyes on her clenched hands during the short silence that had preceded his exit and had gone to bed herself soon after, every last bone in her body weakened by the myriad hurts he was so good at inflicting—intentionally or otherwise.

And this morning she felt no better, she decided hollowly as she pushed the hair back from her face and gazed blearily around her room. Twelve months ago she’d insisted on having it redecorated to her own specifications, sweeping away the girlish frills and flower-speckled wallpaper, the pink and fawn carpet and flounced pink curtains. Now the furniture was matt black and, apart from the white carpet, everything else was scarlet.

She had been thrilled with it, she remembered, revelling in the sensuous velvets and satin. Now, looking around her at the beginning of what promised to be another hot summer day, she knew it was tacky, and a part of her looked back and mourned the passing of her ebullient self, the wonderful adventure of her emergence from childhood, all that fantastic self-confidence that had been so ruthlessly destroyed when she’d fallen in love with the unattainable.

When she finally got out of bed and went to stand under the shower, she found she was shaking. Carlo was leaving today and they weren’t likely to meet again. Her father and Simon were more than capable of running the business he had shares in; it had ticked over for years without the Rossi family doing any more than pocket the dividends. Besides, he was running the diverse Rossi business empire virtually single-handedly now that his father had opted to take a back seat because of failing health. It wasn’t likely he’d visit England again in a hurry.

Covering her dripping, voluptuous nakedness with a bath-sheet, she wondered forlornly if he would ever spare her a passing thought, and decided he wouldn’t. The flock of lovely, elegant ladies whose undoubted existence Potty had guessed at would ensure that she, Venetia, the overgrown schoolgirl whose protestations of love must have embarrassed him so, would be pretty promptly erased from his memory.

Indifferent now to how she looked, she pulled on a pair of shabby cotton jeans and the only school blouse that hadn’t been cut up for polishing rags, then mooched along to see her father.

Potty had taken him a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice, and his bed was covered with papers and files.

‘Should you be working?’ she asked concernedly, twisting her long, shiny hair back behind her head, wishing she’d taken the time to plait it, because today was going to be boiling.

‘I’m not,’ he told her, staring at her over the top of his glasses. ‘Just getting things in some sort of coherent order to pass on to Simon when he arrives. Which should be any time now. Would you like to ask him to stay to lunch, to keep you company?’

There was only one man’s company she wanted. Trouble was, he didn’t want hers. She shook her head mutely and her father frowned.

‘What’s wrong? You look drained. You’re not still worried about me? Because if you are—don’t.’

‘It’s the heat,’ she lied, wondering if she would ever feel happy again, fully alive and carefree. She couldn’t imagine it, somehow.

‘Then go and cool off in the pool, poppet. Simon can find his own way up and Carlo’s busy in the library—dictating reports, he said. So you can have a nice, relaxing morning all to yourself.’

Returning to her room, she decided that her father’s idea wasn’t a bad one at that. She wasn’t going to make a fool of herself a second time. She’d keep right out of Carlo’s way; there was no point in trying to make her peace with him. When Simon had been and gone Carlo would have his business discussion with her father and take off to the airport. Until then she would make herself scarce. The pool in the old walled courtyard would be as good a place as any to hide out.

Her old school regulation swimsuit was now too tight in various places, and the bikinis she’d lashed out on to replace it were, on consideration, barely decent. Shrugging her square shoulders, she decided it didn’t matter. No one would see her and she’d use a towelling robe to cover up as she walked through the house.

The water was deliciously cool, and a few punishing lengths of the pool left her feeling more relaxed as she finally turned over and floated idly on her back. If she didn’t think, if she simply concentrated on staying afloat, then she might be able to stay calm enough to say goodbye to Carlo in an hour or two, with some composure, at least.

The knife-thrust of pain at the very idea of having to say goodbye to him at all made her clench her teeth, made her knees jerk up to her chest in a purely reflex action, sending her down to the blue tiles six feet below. And she didn’t care if she never surfaced, but she bobbed up to the top, shaking the water out of her eyes, and saw Simon silhouetted against the sun, and wished herself down at the bottom again because she didn’t want to have to talk to anyone. She was too depressed.

‘That looks good.’ He sounded amused, breathless, too, as if he’d been running. ‘If someone would lend me a pair of briefs, I’d join you. Unless—’ his voice thickened ‘—you’d like to see me in the nude?’

‘Why on earth should I want to do that?’ she retorted crossly, diving for the steps and hauling herself up, because she had to get out of here. He had spoiled what little pleasure there’d been in the morning.

Frowning, she planted her feet on the tiled surround. On the last two occasions they’d been out together Simon had been far too pushy, his language at times too coarse for her liking. She had put up with it only because the only other option had been to stay home, miss out on all the fun, hardly ever see her friends.




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