The Italian Duke's Wife. Penny JordanЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Savagely Lorenzo depressed the accelerator of the black Ferrari, letting the powerful car take his anger and turn it into a speed that demanded every ounce of his driving skill as he negotiated the twisting road in front of him.

      Caterina had been very clever, working on his grandmother in the way that she had. Had he been here…But he had not. He had been abroad, visiting the scene of the latest world disaster, helping to find ways of alleviating the misery of those who had been caught in it via his unofficial and voluntary role within the government, unifying different charities and providing hands-on administrative practical help and expertise.

      The severity of this particular crisis had meant that he had not even been able to return to Italy for his grandmother’s funeral, although he had managed to find time within his meeting-packed day to go into a local place of worship and add his prayers to those of her other mourners.

      A gentle, unsophisticated woman, who had once told him she had hoped as a young girl to become a nun, she had died peacefully in her sleep.

      The Castillo had come to her through her first husband who, in the way of things in aristocratic circles, had also been the second cousin of her second husband, Lorenzo’s own father, which was why the Castillo had been hers to leave as she wished.

      He had always been her favourite out of her two grandsons, Lorenzo knew. He had spent his holidays with her after the divorce of his parents, and it had been his grandmother he had turned to when his mother had announced that she was marrying her lover—a man Lorenzo detested.

      He had never been able to bring himself to forgive his mother for that. Not even now when she, like his father, was dead. Her actions had opened his eyes to the deceitful, self-serving ways of the female sex, and their determination to put themselves first whilst laying claim to a sanctity they did not possess. His mother had always insisted that her decision to divorce his father had been taken to spare him the pain of growing up in an unhappy home. She had lied, of course. His feelings had been the last thing on her mind when she had lain in the arms of her lover and chosen him above her husband and her son.

      The Ferrari snarled and bucked at the bad condition of the road. Lorenzo ignored its complaints and changed gear, hurling it into a sharp corner, and then cursed beneath his breath as, right in front of him, he saw a car blocking the road and a young woman standing beside it.

      Jodie winced as she heard the screech of brakes, choking on the dust raised by the Ferrari’s tyres as it skidded to a halt only inches away from the side of the hire car. Automatically she had made herself stand upright, instead of leaning on her vehicle for support, the moment she had seen the other car.

      What kind of madman drove like that down a road like this—and in the dark, too? she wondered shakily, holding on to the door of the car for support as she watched him uncoil himself from the driver’s seat and come towards her.

      ‘Disgraziata!’ A stream of Italian followed the snarlingly contemptuous word he had already hurled at her. But Jodie was not going to let herself be cowed by him—or by any man—ever again.

      ‘When you’ve quite finished…’ Jodie interrupted him, her own voice every bit as hostile as his. ‘For a start, I’m not Italian. I’m English. And—’

      ‘English?’ He made it sound as though he had never heard the word before. ‘What are you doing here? Why are you on this road? It is a private road and leads only to the Castillo.’ The questions were thrown at her like so many deadly sharp stiletto knives.

      ‘I took a wrong turning,’ Jodie defended herself. ‘I was trying to turn round, but a wheel got stuck, and now the tyre is flat.’

      She was pale and thin, her eyes huge in the exhausted triangle of her small face, her fair hair scraped back. She looked about sixteen, and an underfed sixteen at that, Lorenzo decided unflatteringly, as he swept her from head to toe with an experienced male glance that took in the droop of her shoulders, the hardly discernible shape of her breasts, the narrowness of her waist and her hips, and the unexpected length of the denim-clad legs attached to such a small frame. Was she wearing heels, or were they really as long as they looked?

      ‘How old are you?’ he demanded.

      How old was she? Why on earth was he asking her that?

      ‘I’m twenty-six,’ Jodie responded stiffly, tilting her chin as she looked up at him, determined not to be intimidated by him despite the fact that she was already aware that he was so spectacularly good-looking she wanted to run away and hide before he realised how pathetically inferior as a woman she was to him as a man. Automatically, her hand went to her bad leg. It was really hurting her now.

      Twenty-six! Lorenzo frowned as he looked down at her hands. No rings. ‘Why are you here on your own?’

      Jodie was beginning to feel she had had enough. ‘Because I am on my own. Not that it is any business of yours,’ she informed him.

      ‘On the contrary, it is very much my business—since you have seen fit to trespass on my land.’

      His land? Of course it would be his land; it possessed exactly the same harsh, arrogant inhospitality as he did.

      ‘And what do you mean, you are on your own?’ she heard him demanding. ‘Surely you have a…a husband, or a lover. A man, a partner, in your life.’

      Jodie winced, and then laughed bitterly. He didn’t know about the still tender nerves he was brutalising. ‘I thought I did,’ she agreed angrily, ‘but unfortunately for me he decided he wanted to marry someone else. This—’ she gestured towards the landscape and the car ‘—was supposed to be our honeymoon. But now…’ Just saying the words still hurt, but strangely there was also