The Passionate Italian 11 DECEMBER EPUB (21 page)

He reached out to her tentatively, as if to reassure—either her or himself—before he thrust both hands back into his pockets.

“Come, I will take you back.”

Of course he would.

He had no interest in her. Why would he? There was a room full of beautiful women awaiting his pleasure. His responses to her were automatic—the result of a lust-filled woman, wearing very little, throwing herself at him.

She’d just made a fool of herself. And now he was trying to get rid of her.

They walked in silence until they came to the villa.

She stepped away, too embarrassed to look him in the eye. “I must go now.” She shook her head at her own stupidity and confusion.

“Come inside. I’ll have someone drive you home.”

“Thank you, but no. I’ve troubled you enough. I’ll find my own way home.”

“The same way you found your own way here. Tell me, why did you come?”

“I came to find someone.”

“Who?”

“Conte di Montecorvio Rovella.”

It was as if a shadow fell across his face. He looked toward the room, almost angry.

“You were looking for the conte. You know him?”

“Sure. I’ve met him a number of times. Do you know him?”

He ignored her question.

“And what do you want with the conte?”

“It’s business.”

“Personal business, no doubt. The conte is a lucky man. It is a shame he’s proved elusive.”

“Yep. Misinformed, I guess.”

“I’m sorry you wasted your time on me. Presumably you had your sights set higher.”

“You think I’m a gold digger?” She shook her head in sudden defeat. “You’re probably right. I need his money. But it’s business, not personal.”

Without his funds she’d never complete the ancient Roman mosaic at her dig, never piece together the fragments of the past into one unified, beautiful, perfect whole. She chewed her lip in an effort to stem the tears that threatened. She turned away and looked up into the night sky for the same reason.

A stray gust of wind caught her shawl and it slipped, drifting down past her bare shoulders and back.

Alessandro looked at the beautiful woman, as the wrap descended in a cloud of silk, and his breath suddenly halted, his heart ached.

He had never seen such scars—luminescent white under the moonlight, pearly slivers of pain criss-crossed around her shoulders, and back. No doubt she barely felt the downward slide of the silk against the desensitized skin.

He reached his hand to touch one of the scarred shoulders, but stopped short.

“I’m sorry.” He swallowed back the impulse to place a kiss where his hand had nearly touched. “Perhaps I can help. I know the conte and will arrange for you to meet with him.”

She turned quickly back to face him and he dropped his hand. The beauty of her eyes, dark and passionate in the dim light took his breath away once more. What was it about this woman?

“Really? I’d appreciate it. A lot.”

She looked up at him, completely unaware that the tracery of scars was on display. He focused on her beautiful eyes: eyes that could create magic, could create love, could create a future.

He turned away suddenly. He’d vowed never to live for the future or the past—always to stay in the present.

When he turned back she was standing, her wrap back in place, seemingly unaware of it having fallen. She looked at home in the luscious garden: sensual and arousing, demanding more than a physical response. But surely that was something he couldn’t give?

She looked up at him, a complex blend of hope, embarrassment and pride combining in that one glance. Then she turned and began walking away.

She was different to anyone he’d ever met. Even simply in this one act. Because no woman had ever walked away from him since his wife had done so.

The thought of the resemblance cut through the heat of his passion like a blade. He’d help her if he could. But that was it. No-one, but no-one must be allowed to touch him. He had enough guilt and hurt to last him a life-time. But the sight of the scars on this beautiful woman had already cut through his defenses.

“M,” he called. She stopped without turning. “Where can the conte reach you?”

“He knows.”

“He may have forgotten.”

“Unlikely. I’m living on his estate.”

Emily didn’t hear him reply. It was obvious she’d never hear from him again. And she began walking back, back to the road, back to the past. It was the only thing that mattered after all.

The Sheikh’s Bargain Bride

Available now from
All Romance

CHAPTER ONE

Sheikh Zahir al-Zaman narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun-bleached stony plains and focussed on the slowly materializing dark speck. Within minutes the helicopter’s low rhythmic thrum filled the overcast spring sky like an angry locust intent on devastation.

She hadn’t wasted any time. But then he’d made sure she couldn’t refuse his invitation. He banished a flicker of discomfort with practiced ease. Sometimes you had to lure the prey to you. Sometimes, in a way that wasn’t palatable.

But the ends always justified the means. She
would
be his and he was prepared to do whatever it took to make it happen.

He watched the helicopter alight in a cloud of dust before the palace. The pilot lifted out a small case and began to open the door before it was pushed open abruptly from within and two long, jean-clad legs emerged. A tall blonde jumped down and looked around the palace, her head twisting and turning impatiently.
 

She’d changed. She was thinner, her hair longer, her face no longer sun-kissed but as pale as the desert under moonlight. Still, his body responded the same to her now, as it did when she visited him in his dreams.
 

He’d lived with his obsession with her for four long years; cursing and nurturing the anger at her deceit and betrayal while still longing to relive the passion of their one night together. But his brother’s death meant he no longer had to live with the madness.

Then, with an imperceptible movement of her head, she looked up and caught his gaze. Zahir frowned and his breath caught unexpectedly in his chest. Ice blue eyes stared at him, challenging him, demanding an explanation from him. How could eyes so cool and northern spark such fire? She turned away suddenly and slid the door of the helicopter shut with a force that belied her fragility. The metallic crash echoed around the palace, destroying its peace and order.

He’d get what he wanted but he knew, without a doubt, that it wasn’t going to be easy.

“You are to wait here. The Sheikh is busy at present but he will see you when he is free.”

“No way!” Anna threw down her bag onto the nearest chair. “I don’t care if he’s with the President of the United States, tell him I’m here and tell him I
will
see him immediately.”

The Bedu servant simply nodded and withdrew from the room.

Anna strode across the vast, stone-flagged reception hall, threw open the wooden shutters of the nearest window and looked out, searching for any signs of her son in the tiled courtyard below. There were none.

She turned her gaze up to the lofty ceiling, its ornately carved pillars and beams shrouded in shadows, and tried to hold back the despair and grief that filled her.

Zahir, you bastard, where’s my son?

He knew she’d arrived. She’d seen him watching her from above. She had a sixth sense where he was concerned, where anyone was concerned if they threatened her liberty.

She raked her hair back into a fresh ponytail and smoothed down her shirt. As much to give her trembling hands something to do as to prepare herself for the meeting.

But her hands continued to shake as her body readied itself for a confrontation. She sat down in the nearest chair and gathered her anger to her. It had been anger that had stopped the grief from taking over. And she needed it now.

A month without her son and now so near but still she couldn’t get to him. She could scream with frustration and something else that she tried to ignore. It made her skin prickle, it made her feel sick to her stomach. She dropped her head in her hands and took a deep breath in order to control it. But despite her best efforts it would not be beaten. Fear was like that.

The smooth slide of soft leather sandals alerted her to the return of the servant. She looked up into the weathered face of the old Bedu expectantly.

“This way madam.”

Her booted footsteps rang loudly on the ancient stone corridors, worn smooth by the footsteps of generations of the al-Zaman dynasty. They walked for what seemed like an age through beautifully proportioned rooms that unfolded one on to another, down echoing colonnaded walkways that skirted magnificent gardens, past perfumed courtyards and mysterious corridors that seemed to disappear directly into the rocky hillside upon which the palace was built.

At last the Bedu servant opened a heavy set of dark teak doors.
 

‘You may wait here.’

She stepped into the room and looked around, awed despite herself.

The room was obviously part of the domestic wing of the palace. While it bore the same marks of antiquity as the grand reception hall, it possessed none of its austerity. Here, light from high clerestory windows warmed the sandstone rock and imbued the amber and creams of the tiled wall with a magical glow. She could hear the splash of a fountain coming from the courtyard beyond the open windows and she could smell sweet jasmine.

It was furnished for comfort too, with simple, over-sized suede sofas in neutral tones grouped around a huge wooden table, shining with a patina created from years of care.

She sat down wearily and looked around. It was a room designed to appeal to the senses: a seductive room. God help her.

 
She dropped her bag and her hand instinctively caressed the geometric inlay that edged the wooden table. It was smooth, worn by generations of hands, seeking to engage with its beauty. But even as her fingers sought the same engagement, her eyes searched the shadows.

A cool breeze alerted her to a door opening on the far side of the room, behind a wooden screen.

She didn’t see him at first but she knew he was there. Just the feel of his powerful presence close to her kick-started something deep inside that had lain dormant since she’d seen him last. Her heart hammered against her chest and she could feel heat rise through her body that had nothing to do with the warmth of the spring afternoon.
 

Then he emerged, all dark and light. There had never been any half measures with Zahir—physically, intellectually or emotionally. It had been a part of the initial attraction to be with someone so
definite
, so
sure
. Now, the white of his robes accentuated the rich nutmeg of his skin and the shadows that gathered in the vertical lines of his face: the off-centre groove between his brows and the finely etched lines that framed his mouth. His eyes, too, seemed to absorb the light. They held no subtlety of expression or color, only intensity.
 

She felt that intensity connect with her at an elemental level, just as it had when they met nearly four years ago. It was the same as before except for the quiet rage that she could sense within him and except for the fact that she was a mother now with more to lose than herself.

Then he moved forward into the light and the impression evaporated. He was the powerful, charismatic sheikh still, but civilized. While a smile curled at his lips, his eyes showed reserve, distance.
   

“Salamm w aleykum Anna.” He nodded to her in greeting. “How was your journey? I hope my staff were attentive?”

She jumped up. “Where is he?”

“Surely that is no way to greet your brother-in-law? Not in my country, nor yours, I believe.”

“It’s the way we treat people—family or not—who are trying to take their child away from them.”

“I agree, such circumstances don’t warrant the usual courtesies. However, I am old-fashioned in such things.”

“Spare me the lecture in manners and tell me where I can find my son. We’ll be leaving on the next plane out.”

“Please sit. I have ordered you mint tea. Is that satisfactory?”

“Where is he?”

He smiled and sat down.
 

“Anna. I am being polite. I am asking questions that you should, in turn, answer politely. Didn’t your mother-? No. Of course not. With your upbringing I doubt you were taught anything other than how to find yourself a man. Preferably a wealthy one.” His eyes glittered. “And you managed that well didn’t you? Managed to dupe my romantic brother so easily.”

“Stop right there. I haven’t travelled nearly seven thousand miles to pretend we’re on polite terms. I want my son. God knows how much money it took for you to get the court to rule that he come here for a holiday. And how much more to keep him here.” She pushed her fingers through her tightly-bound hair. “Where is he?”

He sat back and looked her slowly up and down, from the scuffed toes of her boots to the hair that hadn’t seen a hair-cut in more than a year. Well, what of it? She stood straight and eyed him directly. She had no money. He’d made sure of that by tying up her husband’s money in trust funds for her son. She didn’t care except that she’d been unable to come to him until now, until Zahir had sent his jet for her.

At the thought of her son she could feel tears prick her eyelids and the maelstrom of emotions that churned in her heart threaten to destroy the cool of her composure. But still she determinedly held his gaze. He
would
tell her where to find her son and she
would
not weaken.

“Anna.” It was his gentle tone that did it. She felt the pain crack through the anger that was her shield. She turned away but not before she saw the reaction to her anguish revealed in his face.
 

“Anna, my nephew is with Muma Yemena—his nurse, resting before dinner.”

She nodded, trying to control her leap of excitement at getting through to him. “He’s well?”

“Of course. He’s been well cared for. Muma Yemena has been his nurse since birth.”