In a Storm of Scandal. KIM LAWRENCE

now they were family, Gianluca had stepped up to the mark and done what was expected of him—did that make him a hero or a coward?

      Aware that such speculation was futile, he pushed away the question. His future was mapped out and he had no regrets, he told himself. He had done the right thing … the only thing.

      Duty had been drummed into him since birth. He had made his choice and he would live with it. He would make his marriage work.

      Next year Alessandro Cosimo would retire, his own father had already stepped down from his position as CEO, and Gianluca would take charge of the merged business empires.

      He had hurt Poppy. It didn’t matter how often he told himself she was young, she would get over it, move on, be happy with someone else … someone who wasn’t him … the knowledge she was hurting because of him ate away at him like corrosive acid.

      The thought of her being with someone else—this pain he locked away waiting until it would pass, because it would.

      It had to!

      She had come today. That he hadn’t expected—why?

      He’d never seen Poppy in heels before. The ones she wore today were high and spiky, the bare skin of her shapely calves a toasty pale gold. Attired in a silk shift a shade paler than her green eyes, she looked poised, effortlessly elegant and supremely desirable.

      The service in the cathedral with a strategically placed marble column to hide behind had been the place to shed tears, or even during the speeches, but not out in the sunlit gardens while a lady in a very large hat was waiting for her to respond to a question.

      Not now, thought Poppy as she took a deep breath and, ignoring her aching cheek muscles, produced an utterly fake smile of brilliant proportions as she snatched a glass from the tray of a passing waiter.

      It was a struggle to swallow the fizzing liquid past the emotional lump that lay like a lead weight lodged behind her breastbone. She tossed it back in one deep swallow before excusing herself from large-hat lady in her halting Italian.

      Luca had been teaching her, and, though each summer she had increased her vocabulary, her grammar was still shaky. He was a good teacher. Poppy had always planned that he teach her other things. Eyes scrunched closed, she shook her head, causing the dangling beatengold discs suspended from her ears to ring like bells as they brushed her neck.

      God, she hated him!

      She heard her grandmother call her name and pretended not to hear as she wound a hasty path between the guests who had spilled out onto the manicured lawns overlooking the hillsides covered in olive groves and topped with the darker green of pines.

      She held back the tears until she reached the relative seclusion of a small gazebo hidden behind a hedge of tall fragrant lavender.

      How had this happened? Life had been perfect and now … had Luca fallen out of love with her? In her head she could hear his voice telling her that it had been a mistake.

      Had he ever loved her?

      Did he love the perfect Aurelia?

      What was not to love? she thought darkly, seeing the tall raven-haired beauty standing at his side and feeling the familiar knife thrust of jealousy. Aurelia didn’t have a mother who made the cover of every European scandal sheet on a monthly basis!

      Shaking her head to stem the constant flow of tortured thoughts, Poppy reached into her bag for the wad of tissues inside.

      ‘Damn!’ She sniffed as they fell to the floor. Bending to pick them up, she froze.

      And then he was there, she could feel him.

      Poppy lifted her head and he just stood there. Even though he was twenty feet away she could feel the emotion coming off him in waves as he walked towards her.

      ‘You’re crying.’

      Poppy scrunched the tissues in her hand and got to her feet. ‘No—hay fever,’ she lied.

      ‘Why did you come, Poppy?’

      ‘I didn’t believe you’d really do it … but you did. Wow, you really did … Did you mean any of it, Luca? Or was it just some sort of sick game?’

      His hand extended then dropped to his side. ‘You feel bad now, Poppy, but you’ll forget—’

      ‘I don’t want to forget.’ She gave a sniff and managed a watery smile. ‘I hope you’ll both be very happy.’

      His jaw clenched as his eyes fell from hers.

      ‘I meant it. I meant everything.’ The words seemed wrenched from his throat against his will.

      Seeing the pain in his eyes, Poppy told herself she was glad he was suffering. He deserved to suffer—this was his doing. So why did she want to run to his side and hug him?

      ‘And that makes it better how?’ Poppy tried to make her voice cold but it quivered pathetically.

      She watched his expression grow blank until the muscle clenching in his jaw was the only visible evidence of emotion.

      ‘Why, Luca? Why have you done this?’

      ‘Things …’ He dragged a hand through his dark hair. ‘It is complicated.’

      ‘Do you love her …?’ She let out a soft wail and, teeth gritted, covered her ears with her hands. ‘No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know and don’t you dare feel sorry for me,’ she hissed fiercely.

      Luca took her face between his hands and looked down into her tragic tear-stained face. ‘Have a great life, Poppy,’ he said, kissing her lips gently before he turned and walked away.

      CHAPTER ONE

      POPPY left her overnight bag in the hallway and walked into the dining room of her parents’ garden flat. The remains of breakfast still on the table, her father was working his way through a stack of Sunday newspapers and her stepmother’s fingers were flying with the nimble precision Poppy always envied across the current tapestry she was working on while chuckling at the programme she was listening to on the radio.

      The comforting familiarity of the domestic scene smoothed the furrow etched in Poppy’s smooth brow. It hadn’t always been this way. Until the arrival of Millie on the scene Sundays, and for that matter every other day in the Ramsay household, had been very different. At ten Poppy had not realised some fathers did not spend the entire weekend at the office. Millie, she reflected fondly, had changed their lives utterly and very much for the better—it was just a shame that her grandmother still refused to recognise this.

      Millie Ramsay glanced up, the smile of welcome on her pretty freckled face fading into a look of concern as she took in her stepdaughter’s troubled expression. ‘A problem, Poppy?’ she asked, laying aside her work.

      ‘Yes,’ Poppy admitted, perching on the arm of her father’s chair as he laid down his newspaper with a rustle. She paused and shot an apologetic look Millie’s way before responding.

      ‘It’s Gran,’ she said, thinking, Cue awkward silence.

      Robert Ramsay’s expression had iced over before his newspaper came up with a rustle. Millie, her serenity unruffled, switched off the laughter on the radio.

      It was Millie who broke the growing awkward silence.

      ‘Is your grandmother not well, Poppy?’ she asked, getting to her feet.

      Behind his newspaper her husband cleared his throat noisily. Millie sighed at the strangled sound as she said quietly, ‘She’s an old lady, and she’s your mother, Rob.’

      A second snort then silence from behind the newspaper greeted this quiet reproach.

      ‘She’s fine—well, not ill at least,’ Poppy said, addressing her response to Millie. ‘On Thursday when we spoke on the phone, I could tell from