In The Count's Bed: The Count's Blackmail Bargain / The French Count's Pregnant Bride / The Italian Count's Baby. Catherine SpencerЧитать онлайн книгу.
sat in the Jeep and watched with some amusement. The old man stood like a rock, leaning on his cane, occasionally moving his head in quiet negation as Alessio prowled round in front of him talking rapidly in his own language, his hands gesturing urgently in clear appeal.
When at last he paused for breath, the old man reached up and clapped him on the shoulder, his wrinkled face breaking into a smile. Then they talked together for a few more minutes before Fredo turned away, making his slow way up a track on the hillside, and Alessio came back to the Jeep, frowning.
‘Still no luck?’ she asked.
‘He makes his own goats seem reasonable.’ He started the engine. ‘Also, he says that the weather is going to change. That we shall have storms,’ he added, his frown deepening.
Laura looked up at the cloudless sky. ‘It doesn’t seem like it,’ she objected.
‘Fredo is rarely wrong about these things. But it will not be for a day—perhaps two.’ He slanted a smile at her. ‘So make the most of the sun while you can.’
‘I’ve been doing just that.’ She paused. ‘In fact,’ she went on hesitantly, ‘I was—concerned in case I’d kept you away from the pool. If you preferred to have it to yourself. Because I’ve noticed that you—you haven’t been swimming for a while.’
‘I swim every day,’ he said. ‘But very early. Before breakfast, when there is no one else about, but that is not through any wish to avoid your company, mia bella, but because I like to swim naked.’
‘Oh.’ Laura swallowed. ‘Oh, I—I understand. Of course.’
‘Although,’ he went on softly, ‘you could always join me if you wished. The water feels wonderful at that time of day.’
‘I’m sure it does,’ Laura said woodenly, all sorts of forbidden images leaping to mind. ‘But I think I’ll stick to my own timetable. Grazie,’ she added politely.
‘Prego,’ he returned, and she could hear the laughter in his voice.
Furiously aware that her face had warmed, Laura relapsed into a silence that lasted until their arrival at the villa.
As she left the Jeep she thanked Alessio for the lunch in the tone of a polite schoolgirl taking leave of a favourite uncle, and went off to her room, trying not to look as if she was escaping.
Her clothes were clinging to her in the heat, so she stripped quickly and took a cool shower. Then, she put on her robe and lay down on the bed, trying to relax. But her mind was still teeming with thoughts and impressions from the morning.
It was weird, she thought, that Alessio—the Count, she amended hastily—should just turn up like that, out of the blue. And even more disturbing that she should have enjoyed being with him quite so much.
She’d been unnerved too by his suggestion that she was hiding something. He might have dressed it up in poetic language about veils, she thought ruefully, but basically he was issuing a warning that he was on to her.
And in turn she would have to warn Paolo, on her evening visit, that his lordly cousin was growing suspicious.
She found herself sighing a little. These visits were becoming more problematic each time. Quite apart from his obsession about his cold, it was difficult to hold a conversation with someone she hardly knew, and with whom she barely had a thought in common, especially when she suspected his mother was listening at the door.
I wish all this had never happened, she told herself vehemently. That I’d never agreed to this ridiculous pretence. And, most of all, that I’d never come here and set eyes on Count Ramontella. Better for me that he’d just remained a name on a letterhead.
Easy to say, she thought, but did she really mean it? Would she truly have wanted to live her life without having experienced this frankly dangerous encounter? Without having felt the lure of his smile, or reacting to the teasing note in his voice? Without realising, dry-mouthed, that he had simply—entered the room?
No, she thought sadly. If I’m honest, I wouldn’t have wanted to miss one precious moment with him. But now the situation’s getting altogether trickier, and I really need to distance myself. Put the width of Europe between us, and become sane again.
It’s safer that way, and I’m a safety-conscious girl. I have to be.
She sighed again. Alessio Ramontella was just a dream to take back with her to mundane reality, she thought wistfully. A private fantasy to lighten up her fairly staid existence. And that was all he ever would, or could be…
Until one day, when he would become nothing but a fading memory. And she could relax, lower her guard, and get on with her own life.
Perhaps, in time, she might even convince herself that none of this had ever happened.
She sat up, swinging her legs to the floor. She was obviously not going to sleep, so she might take the Count’s advice, and exploit the fine weather while it persisted.
She changed swiftly into her swimsuit, slipped on the filmy voile shirt she used as a cover-up, and went down to the pool.
As she reached the bottom of the steps she was disconcerted to see that she would not be alone that afternoon either. That Alessio was there before her, stretched out on a lounger, reading.
He seemed deeply absorbed, and Laura hesitated, wondering if she should turn quietly and make a strategic withdrawal before she was noticed. But it was already too late for that, because he was putting down his book and getting to his feet in one lithe movement, the sculpted mouth smiling faintly as he looked at her.
‘So you came after all,’ he said softly. ‘I had begun to wonder.’
‘I—I decided to take your friend at his word.’ She paused. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
He said lightly, ‘Not in any way that you think, mia cara.’ He moved a lounger into the shade of a parasol for her, and arranged the cushions.
‘Thank you.’ She felt self-conscious enough to have stood on one leg and sucked her thumb. And he’d placed her sunbed far too close to his own, she thought with misgiving. However, it seemed unwise to make any kind of fuss, so she walked across and sat down, forcing a smile as she looked up at him. ‘Heavens, it’s hotter than ever.’
‘Yes.’ Alessio glanced up at the mountains with a slight frown. ‘I begin to think Fredo may be right.’
Laura reached down and retrieved his book, which had slipped off his lounger onto the marble tiles between them. ‘Francesco Petrarca’ was emblazoned in faded gilt letters across its leather cover.
‘Reading more poetry about veiled ladies, signore?’ She handed it to him. Literature, she thought. Now there’s a safe topic for conversation.
‘There is much to read,’ he said drily. ‘The great Francesco made his Laura’s name a song for twenty years.’
‘How did they meet?’
‘He saw her,’ Alessio said, after a pause. ‘Saw her one day, and fell in love for ever.’
‘And did they live happily ever after?’ ‘They lived their own lives, but not together. She—belonged to another man.’
She made a thing of adjusting her sunglasses. She said lightly, ‘Then maybe he shouldn’t have allowed himself to fall in love.’
‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘But perhaps, Laura mia, he could not help himself. Listen.’ He found a page, and read aloud. ‘”I was left defenceless against love’s attack, with no barrier between my eyes and my heart.’’’
He put the book down. ‘Is there a defence against love, I wonder?’ The dark gaze seemed to bore into hers. ‘What do you think, bella mia? Did Paolo travel straight from your eyes to your heart when you saw him first?’