In The Count's Bed: The Count's Blackmail Bargain / The French Count's Pregnant Bride / The Italian Count's Baby. Catherine Spencer

stationed unobtrusively under her chair, and he’d even joined her on the bed for siesta on a couple of occasions, she admitted guiltily.

      ‘I see you have acquired a bodyguard,’ was Alessio’s only comment when he encountered them together once, delivered with a faint curl of the mouth.

      Watching him walk away, she scooped Caio defensively into her arms. ‘We’re just a couple of pariahs here,’ she murmured to him, and he licked her chin almost wistfully.

      But she never took Caio to Paolo’s room, instinct telling this would be too much for the Signora, who had no idea of the scope of her pet’s defection to the enemy.

      And I don’t want her to know, Laura thought grimly. I’m unpopular enough already. I don’t want to be accused of pinching her dog.

      On his own admission, Paolo’s cold symptoms had all but vanished, but he refused to leave his room on the grounds that he was still suffering with his chest.

      Laura realised that her impatience with him and her ambiguous situation was growing rapidly and would soon reach snapping point.

      These ten-minute stilted visits each evening wouldn’t convince anyone that they were sharing a grand passion, she thought with exasperated derision. And if the Signora was listening at the door, she’d be justified in wagering her diamonds that she’d soon have Beatrice Manzone as a daughter-in-law.

      But: ‘You worry too much,’ was Paolo’s casual response to her concern.

      Well, if he was satisfied, then why should she quibble? she thought with an inward shrug. He was the paying customer, after all. And found herself grimacing at the thought.

      But as she left his room that evening the Signora was waiting for her, her lips stretched in the vinegary smile first encountered in Rome. Still, any calibre of smile was a welcome surprise, Laura thought, tension rising within her.

      She was astonished to be told that, as Giacomo would be driving to the village the next morning to collect some special medicine from the pharmacy, she was free to accompany him there, if she wished.

      ‘You may have some small errands, signorina.’ The older woman’s shrug emphasised their trifling quality. ‘But the medicine is needed, so you will not be able to remain for long.’

      Well, it was better than nothing, Laura thought, offering a polite word of thanks instead of the cartwheel she felt like turning. In fact, it was almost a ‘get out of jail’ card.

      Saved, she thought, with relief. Saved from cabin fever, and, hopefully, other obsessions too.

      She’d have time to buy some postcards at least—let her family know she was still alive. And Gaynor, too, would be waiting to hear from her.

      In the morning, she was ready well before the designated time, anxious that Giacomo would have no excuse to set off without her. She still couldn’t understand why the Signora should suddenly be so obliging, and couldn’t help wondering if the older woman was playing some strange game of cat and mouse with her.

      But that makes no sense, she adjured herself impatiently. Don’t start getting paranoid.

      Seated in the front, Laura kept her eyes fixed firmly ahead as the car negotiated the winding road down to the valley, avoiding any chance glimpse of the mind-aching drop on one side, and praying that they would meet no other vehicles coming from the opposite direction.

      She only realised when the descent was completed that she’d been holding her breath most of the time.

      Giacomo drove straight to the main square, and parked near the church. Pointing to the hands on his watch, he conveyed that she had fifteen minutes only to spend in Besavoro, and Laura nodded in resigned acceptance.

      Well, that was the deal, she told herself philosophically as she set off. And she would just have to make the most of it.

      She soon realised that Besavoro was in reality a small town, and not what she thought of as a village at all. The square was lined with shops, selling every sort of food, as well as wine, olive oil, hardware and clothing. It all had a busy, purposeful air, without a designer boutique or gift shop in sight.

      But the little news agency she came to sold a few postcards, featuring mainly Assisi and the Majella national park, and she bought four, deciding to send one to Carl, her immediate boss at Harman Grace as well.

      No one in the shop spoke English, but with great goodwill the correct stamps for Britain were offered, and her change was counted carefully into her hand.

      A few doors away was a bar with tables on the pavement, and Laura took a seat, ordering a coffee and a bottle of mineral water.

      She glanced across the square, checking the car, and then, carefully, her watch, before starting to write her cards.

      At the same time she was aware that people were checking her, not rudely, but with open interest. English tourists were clearly a rarity here, she realised, turning her own attention back to the task in hand.

      She was sorely tempted to put, ‘Having ghastly time. Glad you’re not here,’ but knew that would involve her in impossible explanations on her return. Better, she decided, to stick to the usual anodyne messages. To Gaynor alone could she eventually reveal the grisly truth, and wait for her to say, ‘I told you so,’ she thought ruefully.

      Although there were things about her stay at the villa that she wasn’t prepared to talk about—ever. Not even to Gaynor.

      Now all she needed was a postbox, she thought, rifling through her small phrase book for the exact wording. On the other hand it was probably quicker and easier to ask Giacomo.

      She slipped her pen back into her bag, and felt for her purse, looking again towards the church as she did so.

      But where the car had stood only minutes before, there was an empty space.

      Laura shot to her feet with a stifled cry of dismay. It couldn’t have gone, she thought wildly. There were still minutes to spare. And if Giacomo had just looked across the square he’d have seen her. So why hadn’t he come across to her—or sounded his horn even? Why—simply drive off?

      The bar owner came dashing out, clearly worried that she was about to do a runner, his voice raised in protest.

      Laura pointed. ‘My lift—it’s vanished. I—I’m stranded.’

      The owner spread his hands in total incomprehension, talking excitedly. She became aware that people were pausing—staring. Beginning to ask questions. Hemming her in as they did so. Making her uncomfortably aware of her sudden isolation, in a strange country, and unable to speak a word of the language.

      Then, suddenly, across the increasing hubbub, cut a drawl she recognised. ‘Ciao, bella mia. Having problems?’

      Alessio had come through the small crowd, which had obediently parted for him, and was standing just a couple of feet away, watching her from behind dark glasses, hands on hips. The shorts he was wearing today were marginally more decent than the first pair she’d seen him in, but his dark blue shirt was unbuttoned almost to the waist.

      And if she was pleased to see him, she was determined that he wasn’t going to know it.

      She faced him furiously. ‘Actually—yes. The damned car’s gone without me.’ She almost stamped her foot, but decided against it. ‘Oh, God, I don’t believe it.’ She bit her lip. ‘I suppose this is your aunt’s idea—to make me walk back up that hill, in the hope I’ll die of heatstroke.’

      He grinned. ‘Calm yourself, Laura. This time Zia Lucrezia is innocent. I told Giacomo to return to the villa.’

      ‘But why?’ She stared at him. ‘There was no need. We had a perfectly good arrangement…’

      Alessio shrugged. ‘I felt you needed a break. Also, that Besavoro deserved more than just fifteen minutes of your time. Was I so wrong?’

      ‘Well, no,’ she conceded without