His Reluctant Bride - Sara Craven Mills & Boon M&B

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Naples is going to be my jumping-off point for a whole new life. And I plan to live every moment of it.

      She couldn’t say she’d enjoyed the flight. The contessa might need her physical assistance, but she certainly hadn’t wanted her company. Which was why she was seated in first class, while Polly herself was in economy, with a neighbour who considered her presence his personal bonus.

      Never mind, she thought. In a few moments I’ll never have to see him again, or the contessa either.

      She’d sipped mineral water throughout the flight, in spite of her fellow traveller’s unceasing efforts to buy her what he called a proper drink. And the irony was that she’d have welcomed some alcohol, to dispel the shaky chill which had settled in the pit of her stomach. The closer they had got to their destination, their progress cheerfully marked by the captain, the more nervous she’d become.

      I shan’t relax until I’m safely back in Britain, she thought.

      On the surface, she was calmness itself. She was wearing the company uniform of a slim-fitting, button-through dress in navy linen, with the distinctive silver brooch showing a pair of clasped hands pinned to her left shoulder. Her pale hair was in a loose knot on top of her head, and she wore her usual dusting of powder, and soft pink lipstick.

      As they touched down, and the plane began to taxi to its stand, Polly reached under the seat, and extracted the navy leather satchel which held the travel documents and a few basic necessities in case of delay. Her client, she was sure, would have an eagle eye for the slightest lapse in efficiency.

      Her companion nudged her again. ‘Dangerous city, they say,’ he whispered. ‘If you’re on your own tonight, I’d be happy to show you around.’

      ‘Tonight,’ she told him, ‘I intend to be back in London.’ And left him gaping.

      Contessa Barsoli was a tall woman, rake-thin, with immaculately coiffed white hair and still handsome in a chilly way. A member of the cabin staff was permitted to help her descend the aircraft steps while Polly followed, instinctively lifting her face to the brilliant warmth of the southern sun.

      Once inside the terminal, she found her charge a chair, retrieved her luggage and guided her through the formalities.

      ‘There has been a small change of plan,’ the older woman informed her abruptly. ‘I am too tired to undertake a long car journey down to the Campania, so my cousin has arranged a suite for me at the Grand Hotel Neapolitana. You will accompany me there.’

      Polly knew resignedly that she shouldn’t be surprised. Most of the arrangements she’d made for the contessa during her stay in Britain had been subject to alteration, usually at the last moment. Why should this time be any different?

      But this wasn’t just irritating, she reminded herself, schooling her expression. It was seriously inconvenient. She had a return flight to catch, and the contessa knew it.

      ‘Do you wish me to get us a taxi?’ she asked quietly. If she could find a driver who knew a few short cuts through Naples’ crowded streets, she might still be in with a chance.

      ‘A taxi?’ The contessa made it sound like a tumbrel. ‘My cousin has sent a car and chauffeur for us. Oblige me by finding him.’

      That was easily achieved. Transferring the contessa and her luggage to the roomy depths of the limousine was a completely different matter. The lady liked to take her time, oblivious to Polly’s simmering frustration as the minutes ticked past.

      The traffic was a nightmare, and when they did reach the hotel at last, Polly accepted that she probably wouldn’t make it back to the airport in time for her flight.

      I haven’t a prayer, she told herself resignedly. It’ll take me half an hour to get her to the lift.

      But to her astonishment, the contessa suddenly became quite sprightly. She conducted her own registration at the desk, waving Polly regally away, and made no fuss about the prompt unloading of her luggage.

      An under-manager escorted her, bowing, to the lift, where Polly caught up with her.

      She said awkwardly, ‘I need to say goodbye now, contessa, if I’m to get my flight.’

      She got a severe look. ‘But I wish you to accompany me to the suite, signorina. I have ordered coffee and biscotti to be served there. Besides,’ she added, seeing that Polly was on the verge of protest, ‘there is still the question of the money I offered you. I do not conduct such transactions in the foyers of hotels. If you want to be paid, you will come with me now.’

      Groaning silently, Polly stood beside her as the lift made its way upward. They emerged onto a crimson-carpeted corridor, opposite a heavily carved door.

      The under-manager produced a key with a flourish, and unlocked the door, and, still bowing, showed them ceremoniously into the suite.

      Polly found herself in a large drawing room, shaded by the shutters which had been drawn over the long windows to combat the force of the mid-June sunlight. She had a confused impression of brocaded sofas and fresh flowers in elaborate arrangements, their scent hanging languidly in the air.

      And realised suddenly that the room wasn’t empty as she’d first thought. Because someone was there—someone standing by the windows, his figure silhouetted against the slatted light. Someone tall, lean and unforgettably—terrifyingly—familiar.

      Even before he spoke, Polly knew who he was. Then his voice, low-pitched and faintly husky, reached her, and there was no longer room for any doubt. Or any hope, either.

      He said, ‘Paola mia. So, you have come to me at last.’

      He moved—came away from the window, and walked towards her with that long, lithe stride she would have known anywhere, his shadow falling across the floor as he approached.

      She tried to speak—to say his name, but her trembling mouth could not obey her and shape the word.

      Because this could not be happening. Sandro could not be here, in this room, waiting for her.

      As he reached her, she cried out and flung up her bare and unavailing hands in a desperate effort to keep him at bay. Only to find the shadows crowding round her, welcoming her, as she slid helplessly downwards into the dark whirl of oblivion.

      AWARENESS returned slowly, accompanied by an acrid smell that filled her nose and mouth with its bitterness, making her cough and mutter a feeble protest.

      She lay very still, fighting against a feeling of nausea, hardly daring to open her eyes. Her senses told her that she was cushioned on satiny softness, and that she was not alone. That in the real world behind her closed eyelids, there was movement—people talking. And the heavy noise of traffic.

      She propped herself dizzily on one elbow, and looked around her. She was lying in the middle of a vast bed, covered in deep gold embroidered silk. She was shoeless, she realised, and the top buttons of her dress had been unfastened.

      The first person she saw was the contessa, as she stepped back, replacing the stopper in a small bottle. Smelling salts, Polly thought, dazedly. The older woman always insisted on having some handy in case travel motion upset her.

      And, standing in silence a few yards away, was Sandro, head bent, his face in profile.

      Not a figment of her imagination, as she’d hoped, but a nightmare that lived and breathed, and would not go away.

      And not the laughing, dishevelled lover, wearing frayed shorts and an old T-shirt, and badly in need of a haircut, that she’d once known and desired so passionately, but that other, hidden man whose identity she’d never even suspected as she lay in his arms.

      This other Sandro wore a dark suit that had clearly emanated from a great Italian fashion house.

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