The Italian's Baby of Passion: The Italian's Secret Baby / One-Night Baby / The Italian's Secret Child. Catherine Spencer

would depend on the female—’

      ‘I’m so glad you find this amusing.’

      ‘Do you ever let anyone finish what they’re attempting to say?’

      ‘For heaven’s sake, I’m not asking for a personal audience with the Pope, I just want to speak to Mr O’Hagan.’

      Roman leaned his head into his hands. ‘Obviously she doesn’t—’

      ‘I think it’s extremely bad manners to speak about someone in the third person when they…me…I can hear every word you’re saying! As I’ve already explained to umpteen people, this really is important.’

      Roman’s lips twisted in a cynical grimace. Hands clasped behind his head, he leaned back into his upholstered leather chair.

      ‘I’d be surprised if it wasn’t,’ he observed drily.

      The people who wanted to speak to him inevitably considered what they had to say was important. Ninety per cent of them wanted to make him a fortune; all they needed was just a bit of his own money to get their schemes up and running. Very few of these cranks got to tell him about their projects in person because as a rule his calls were screened.

      This was one of the concessions he’d been forced to make to security after he’d badly misjudged a situation. He’d turned up at the office one morning to find his stalker—a mild middle-aged woman whom he, in his wisdom, had considered sad, not dangerous—had already been there complete with kitchen knife delusions and a hostage in the shape of his terrified PA.

      Alice still had the scar. Unconsciously his hand went to his face. Fortunately you couldn’t see hers, but his own reminded him of his poor judgement every time he looked in the mirror.

      ‘Alice,’ he yelled, swivelling his chair around and positioning it to face the open door, ‘I’ve got a damned crank on this line, can you do something about it?’

      ‘I’m not a crank!’ The disembodied voice filled the room with husky outrage.

      ‘Fair enough,’ he drawled. ‘However, you are on a private line so hang up! If you have a message there are channels you can go through.’

      ‘Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve said? I don’t have time for channels. Has anyone ever told you that you’re an extremely rude man?’

      ‘This has been said, but rarely to my face.’

      ‘Very ironic,’ came the blighting response. ‘But I’m not talking to your face. If I was I might be able…listen, are you Mr O’Hagan?’

      ‘I am Roman O’Hagan. If you’re not going to hang up, do you think you might get round some time in the next hour to telling me who the hell you are? If only so that I can make sure you never have an opportunity to harangue me in the future.’

       This threat produced an audible sigh at the other end. ‘Well, I do think you might have said so straight away instead of wasting my time.’

      ‘Wasting your time…?’ Roman hoped his silent and invisible executives would stay quiet.

      ‘My name is Scarlet Smith.’

      Scarlet…Roman found he was thinking long legs again and, definitely, blonde hair. Not that any amount of hair or legs would make the woman who had this runaway mouth someone he’d ask for a second date…or even a first!

      ‘I manage the crèche at the university.’

      So he’d been halfway right with schoolteacher.

      ‘Your mother is officially opening it today.’

      ‘My mother is in Rome.’ Roman stopped, having a vague recollection, now that he thought about it, of his mother having mentioned she was interrupting her holiday with her family to fly back and fulfil some commitment…it could well have been this one.

      ‘No, she’s in my office, and I’m afraid she isn’t very well.’

      Roman levered his long-limbed frame into an upright position, his languid air vanishing. ‘What’s happened?’

      ‘I don’t mean to alarm you—’

      ‘Well, you are, so get to the point,’ he advised tersely.

      ‘Your mother fainted a little while ago. She seems better now.’

      His mother didn’t faint. ‘What does the doctor say?’ Roman asked, settling his loose Italian-designed jacket smoothly across his broad shoulders.

      ‘She hasn’t seen a doctor.’

      Roman picked up on the defensive note that had entered the attractive voice and his brows drew together in a disapproving straight line.

      ‘Why the hell not?’ he demanded. ‘I need the car,’ he added seamlessly as he turned to his attentively hovering PA, who, like all good assistants, knew when to say nothing. ‘And cancel all my appointments for the rest of the morning, then tell Phil to meet me at the university.’

      ‘Our flight…?’

      ‘Cancel.’

      ‘What if Dr O’Connor is busy—?’

      Roman turned his head and looked at her; Alice took the hint.

      ‘Right, I’ll tell him to drop everything, though that might be hard if he’s in the middle of heart surgery.’

      ‘He’s a medical man; he doesn’t operate,’ Roman retorted. ‘Just explain to him what’s happened, Alice, and tell him to bring his bag.’

      ‘Your mother wouldn’t let me call a doctor or an ambulance.’

      Roman turned around as if to face the bleating voice. ‘Let you? She was unconscious,’ he derided scornfully.

      ‘For less than a minute.’

      Roman knew when he heard someone covering their back; there was nothing he despised more. He came down hard on people who preferred to shift the blame because they lacked the guts to carry the can for their own mistakes.

      ‘Let me tell you, Miss Smith, if my mother suffers a broken fingernail that could have been avoided if you had called for medical assistance I’ll sue the pants off you and your university!’ he promised darkly before cutting her off.

      His PA was unable to remain silent. ‘Really, you can be so mean!’

      ‘What is this? Sisterly solidarity?’

      ‘I don’t think you realise how much you terrify people,’ she reproved, shaking her head.

      ‘No, Alice, I know exactly how much I terrify people.’ He gave a white wolfish smile. ‘It’s the secret behind my success.’

      ‘Nonsense,’ returned Alice. ‘The secret of your success is you live for your work and don’t have a life,’ she observed disapprovingly. ‘You lack balance.’

      ‘A little more terror, Alice, and a little less lip would be appreciated,’ Roman drawled.

      ‘That poor girl is probably crying her eyes out.’

      ‘Pardon me but I don’t empathise with incompetence, especially when that incompetence puts my family in danger,’ he explained grimly.

      Contrary to Alice’s prediction, the ‘poor girl’ in question was neither terrified nor crying. She was walking down a university corridor where people who would normally have called out a cheery greeting took one look at her usually sunny face and changed their minds.

      Others stared curiously when she walked past practising out loud—the acoustics were excellent—one of the cutting home truths she would like to deliver personally to Mr Roman O’Hagan.

      ‘Get to the point,’ he’d