The Count's Blackmail Bargain (19 page)

She swallowed. ‘Did—did you find Fredo?’

‘Sì, alla fine.’ He walked to the drinks table and poured himself a whisky. ‘We traced him because his dog was beside him barking.’

She gasped. ‘Keeping the wolves away?’ she asked huskily.

‘Perhaps. It is all too possible.’ He drank deeply, then brushed his knuckles across his mouth. ‘Fredo is now in hospital, with a badly broken leg.’ The words were hoarse and staccato. ‘But he was also out all night, lying in that storm, and that is regarded as far more serious. Luca is with him, but his father has not yet regained consciousness.’

He did not tell her of the nightmare journey made by the search party, carrying the badly injured old man on an improvised stretcher across the side of the mountain unaffected by the landslide to the place on the road where the ambulance was waiting.

Nor did he say that the mental image of her face had gone with him every step of the way. That the sight of her now filled him with an illicit joy he could neither excuse nor condone.

Her voice was quiet. ‘You said—we could try prayer.’

He walked slowly back and stood by the empty hearth, staring ahead of him. ‘I have,’ he said. ‘I went to the church in Besavoro, and lit a candle.’ His smile was twisted. ‘I have not done that for a long time.’

As she looked at him Laura caught her breath. ‘Your hands—

they’re bleeding.’

His own downward glance was indifferent. ‘It is not important.’

‘But you need to take care of them,’ Laura insisted. ‘Those cuts could easily become infected…’

Her voice tailed away as his brows lifted coldly.

‘Your concern is touching, but unnecessary,’ he said. ‘I can look after myself.’

He spoke more brusquely than he’d intended, because he was fighting an impulse to go and kneel beside her, burying his face in her lap. He saw her flinch at his tone, and cursed himself savagely under his breath.

Yet it was for her own protection, he thought grimly. He dared not soften. He could not take the risk of going near her, or allow himself even the fleeting luxury of touch.

He finished the whisky and set down the glass. ‘I had better bathe and change quickly,’ he said, striving for a lighter tone. ‘No storm will be as bad as Emilia’s mood if her dinner is spoiled.’

Laura watched him go, then made her way slowly to her own room. She showered quickly, but made no attempt to dress afterwards. Instead, she sat on the edge of the bed in her cotton robe, staring into space, a prey to her own unhappy thoughts.

She was aroused from her reverie by a tap on the door, and Guillermo’s voice telling her that dinner was served.

She got up quickly, and opened the door a fraction. ‘I’m not very hungry tonight, Guillermo,’ she said. ‘I—I think it’s the weather.

It’s so sultry. Will you—explain to His Excellency, please?’

Guillermo’s face said plainly that he would prefer not to, and that his wife might also wish to know the reason for the signorina being absent, but he gave a small bow of reluctant acquiescence and departed.

But a few minutes later he was knocking again, and this time he presented her with a folded sheet of paper.

The words it contained were terse. ‘Laura—do not force me to fetch you.’ And it was signed ‘Ramontella’.

‘Scusi, signorina.’ Guillermo spread his hands apologetically. ‘I tried.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you did. Tell the signore that I’ll be there presently.’

The silver dress was out of bounds, and probably ruined anyway.

She was sick of the sight of the blue shift, so she dressed almost defiantly in one of the few outfits she hadn’t worn before—a pair of sage-green linen trousers, and a sage and white striped blouse, which buttoned severely to the throat.

Last night’s rain hadn’t done the pewter sandals any favours either, but they were all she had, so she slipped her feet into them and set off mutinously for the dining room.

Alessio was leaning on the back of his chair, waiting for her.

She lifted her chin, and met his gaze without flinching. She was trying to play it cool, but inside she was melting—dying. The day’s wear and tear had been showered away, and, apart from a dressing on one hand, he looked his lean, dangerous self again.

He was wearing the usual black trousers and snowy shirt, and another of those amazing waistcoats—this time in black and gold.

Alessio’s own first thought was that if she’d dressed deliberately to disguise her femininity, she had seriously miscalculated. The cut of the linen trousers only accentuated the slight curve of her hips and the length of her slim legs, while the wide waistband reduced her midriff to a hand’s span. As he would have had pleasure in proving under different circumstances, he thought with a pang of longing.

And now that he had seen her naked, the prim lines of that blouse were nothing more than a tease. An incitement to remember the delicate beauty beneath.

He felt his heart thud suddenly and unevenly, and snatched at his control, straightening unsmilingly as she walked to the table and sat down.

‘Prayer is one thing,’ he said softly as she unfolded her napkin.

‘Fasting, however, is quite unnecessary.’

She gave him a defiant look. ‘I’m just not hungry.’

He shrugged as he took his own seat. ‘And I do not care to eat alone,’ he retorted. ‘Besides, when the food arrives, your appetite will soon return.’

‘Is that an order?’ she inquired in a dulcet tone.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Merely a prediction.’

She bit her lip, knowing that an icicle had more chance in hell than she had of turning up her nose at Emilia’s cooking. ‘I notice we’re dining by candlelight again.’

‘There is not much fuel for the generator,’ Alessio returned casually. ‘Guillermo wishes to conserve what is left.’ His smile was swift and hard. ‘Be assured it is not a prelude to romance, signorina.’

She met his gaze squarely. ‘I never imagined it would be, signore.’

‘But I understand that work to restore the electricity supply has already begun,’ he went on. ‘Also the telephones.’

‘And the road?’

‘I am promised that digging will commence at first light. As soon as there is a way through, you will be on your way to Rome. Does that content you?’

‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘Of course.’

‘Bene,’ he commented sardonically. There was a silence, while his dark eyes dwelled on her thoughtfully, before he added, ‘Believe me, signorina, I am doing all I can to hasten your departure.’

Laura stared down at the polished table. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I do—

believe it.’ She swallowed past the sudden constriction in her throat. ‘And I’m—sorry that you’re being put to all this trouble, signore. I realise, of course, that I—I should never have come here.’

‘Well, we can agree on that at least,’ Alessio said with a touch of grimness. She thought she was being sent away for all the wrong reasons, he told himself painfully. But how could he possibly explain that he was, for once in his life, trying to do the right thing?

He could not, so maybe it was better to let matters rest as they were. To allow her to go away hurt and hating him—just as long as she did not turn to Paolo instead. The very idea sent a knife twisting inside him.

He found himself trying to hope that she would wait instead for someone decent and honourable who would treat her gently, and with tenderness, when the time came. But he knew that was sheer hypocrisy. That the thought of his Laura in any other man’s arms was intolerable anguish, and would always be so.

It was a largely silent meal. Both of them, locked into their own unhappiness, ate just enough of her delicious food to appease Emilia, but without any real relish.

Afterwards, they went to the salotto for coffee, but more for convention’s sake than a desire to endure more awkward time in each other’s company. There were altogether too many no-go areas to avoid, and they both knew it.

Alessio, physically and mentally exhausted by the events of the past twelve hours, was tortured by his longing to have the right to go with Laura to her room, crawl into bed beside her and sleep the clock round in the comfort of her arms.

For her part, Laura felt as if she were suspended in some wretched limbo, waiting for a death sentence to be carried out, but not knowing when the blow might fall.

Everything that occurred tonight—each word, each action—might well be for the last time, she thought, and the knowledge that she would soon go from here and never see him again was almost destroying her.

I can’t leave like this, she thought suddenly. Not when, even now, I want him so terribly. I know I don’t have the experience he wants, but surely there must be something—something—I can do to capture his interest…

‘May I offer you something with your coffee?’ His tone was coolly formal, and Laura looked up with a start.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘May I have grappa?’

His brows lifted. ‘If that is what you wish.’ He paused. ‘I did not think you cared for it.’

Dutch courage, Laura thought, but did not say so.

‘I certainly found it a shock the first time,’ she said with assumed calm. ‘But I’d like to—try again. If I may.’

Their eyes met in an odd tingling silence, then Alessio turned away abruptly, and went to the drinks table, returning with two glasses of the colourless spirit.

He handed her one and raised the other, his mouth twisting slightly. ‘Salute.’

She repeated the toast, and drank, hoping that her eyes wouldn’t water or her nose bleed. That was hardly the impression she wanted to make.

She was sitting on one of the sofas, but Alessio had gone back to stand by the fireplace, she noticed—which was about as far away as it was possible to get without leaving the room. It was not a promising beginning.

Taking a deep breath, she swallowed the remainder of the grappa and held out her empty glass, trying for nonchalance. ‘I think I’m developing a taste for this.’

‘I do not advise it.’ His tone was dry.

‘It’s my last night in Italy.’ Her glance held a faint challenge.

‘Maybe I should take a risk or two.’

His mouth tightened, but he refilled her glass without comment and brought it back to her.

As he turned away she said, ‘Alessio…’

He looked down at her, frowning slightly. ‘Cosa c’e? What’s the matter?’

‘Last night, you asked me for a favour,’ she said. ‘You wanted me to play the piano for you.’

‘I have not forgotten.’

‘I was thinking that tonight it’s my turn—to ask you for something.’

His sudden wariness was almost tangible.

‘I am sorry to disappoint you,’ he said with cool courtesy. ‘But I do not, alas, play the piano.’

‘No,’ she said, feeling the swift thud of her heart against her ribcage. ‘But you do play poker—and you offered to teach me—if you remember.’ She took a breath. ‘I would like to—take you up on that offer—please.’

He was very still. ‘Yet, as you yourself pointed out, signorina, a poker school requires more people, and you have no money to lose. Nothing has changed.’

She said softly, ‘Except I think you had a very different version in mind.’ She detached one of her earrings and held it out to him on the palm of her hand. ‘Isn’t that so?’

‘Perhaps.’ The dark face looked as if it had been carved from stone, and his voice was as austere as an arctic wasteland. ‘But it was a disgraceful—an unforgivable suggestion, which it shames me to think of, and I must ask you to forget that it was ever made.

Also to excuse me. I wish you goodnight, signorina.’

He made her a slight, curt bow, and made to move away. She caught at the crisp sleeve of his shirt, detaining him, all pride gone, swept away by the starkness of her need.

Her voice was low, and shook a little. ‘Alessio—please. Don’t leave me. You—you made me think you wanted me. Wasn’t it true?’

‘Yes,’ he said harshly. ‘Or, true then, certainly. But—situations change, and now I wish you to go back to your own country, and get on with your life, as I must continue with mine. Tell yourself that you were never here—that this never happened. Forget me, as I shall forget you.’ He released himself implacably from the clasp of her fingers.

‘I recommend that you get some sleep,’ he added, with chilling politeness. ‘You have a long journey ahead of you when tomorrow comes.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And I’ll make it without fuss—tomorrow. I swear it. I—I’ll never even ask to see you again. But—oh, Alessio, won’t you please give me—tonight?’

‘I cannot do that.’ His throat felt raw, and a heavy stone had lodged itself in his chest. ‘And one day, Laura mia, you will be grateful to me. When you can look into the eyes of the man you love without shame.’

She watched him go, mind and body equally numb.

‘The man you love,’ she whispered, brokenly. ‘The man you love.

Is that really what you said to me? Oh, God, Alessio, if you only knew the terrible irony of that.’

And she buried her face in her hands, sitting motionless in the corner of the sofa, unconscious of the passage of time, until, one by one, the candles guttered and burned out.

Somehow, in the small hours, she got herself back to her own room, undressed and crept into bed, pulling the covers over the top of her head as if she wanted to hide from the coming day.

Or at least from the man she’d be forced to share it with. The man to whom she’d humbled herself for nothing.

No, she thought wretchedly. Not for nothing. For love.

Had he guessed? she wondered yet again. Had he realised that even this brief time in his company had been long enough for her to fall hopelessly, desperately in love with him? To build a pathetic fantasy where some kind of happy ending might be possible?

And was it the knowledge that he could break her heart, rather than his discovery of her inexperience, that had made him turn away from her?

He could hardly have expected such an outcome, after all. And it had clearly turned her from an amusing diversion into a potential nuisance.

And no amount of assurances on her part, or pleading, would convince him otherwise. She was now a serious embarrassment and he wanted her gone. That was totally clear.