The Count's Blackmail Bargain. Sara Craven

he occupied a fairly junior position at the bank’s London branch. What she hadn’t expected to hear was that he was related to the Italian aristocrat who was the Arleschi chairman.

      ‘We are the poor side of the family,’ he explained. He was smiling, but there was a touch of something like peevishness in his voice. ‘Which is why my mother is so eager for me to marry Beatrice, of course. Her father is a very wealthy man, and she is his only child.’

      ‘Of course,’ Laura echoed. Who are these people? she wondered in frank amazement. And just what planet do they inhabit?

      She thought of her mother struggling to make ends meet. Of herself, spending long evenings in the wine bar so that she could help towards her shy, clever brother having the marvellous education he deserved.

      When Paolo used the term ‘poor’ so airily, he had no idea what it really meant.

      Her throat tightened. She’d treated herself to some new clothes for the abortive French holiday, but they were all chain-store bought, with not a designer label among them.

      She was going to stick out like the proverbial sore thumb in this exclusive little world she was about to join, however briefly. So, could she really make anyone believe that she and Paolo were seriously involved?

      But perhaps this was precisely why he had chosen her, she thought unhappily. Because she was so screamingly unsuitable. Maybe this would provide exactly the leverage Paolo needed to escape from this enforced marriage.

      ‘Anyone,’ his mother might say, throwing up her hands in horrified surrender. ‘Anyone but her!’

      Well, she could live with that, because Paolo, in spite of his smoothly handsome looks and august connections, held no appeal for her. In fact, Laura decided critically, she wouldn’t have him if he came served on toast with a garnish.

      He was arrogant, she thought, and altogether too pleased with himself, and, although no one should be forced to marry someone they didn’t love, on balance her sympathies lay with his would-be fiancée.

      ‘I must insist on one thing,’ she said. ‘No mention of Harman Grace.’

      ‘As you wish.’ He shrugged. ‘But why? They are a good company. You have nothing to be ashamed of by working for them.’

      ‘I know that. But we’re now the bank’s official PR company in London. Your cousin must know that, and he’ll recognise the name if it’s mentioned. He may not appreciate the fact that you’re supposedly dating someone who’s almost an employee.’

      ‘Don’t disturb yourself, cara. I am nothing more than an employee myself. Besides, the chances of your meeting my cousin Alessio are slim. But Harman Grace shall remain a secret between us, if that’s what you want.’

      ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I really do. Thank you.’

      She was astonished to find that they were flying first class, proving that poverty was only relative, she thought grimly, declining the champagne she was automatically offered.

      A couple of glasses of wine had got her into this mess. So, from now on she intended to keep a cool head.

      She was also faintly disconcerted by Paolo’s attempts to flirt with her. He kept bending towards her, his voice low and almost intimate as he spoke. And she didn’t like his persistent touching either—her hair, her shoulder, the sleeve of her linen jacket.

      Oh, God, she thought uneasily. Don’t tell me Gaynor was right about him all along.

      She was aware, with embarrassment, that the cabin staff were watching them, exchanging knowing looks.

      ‘What are you doing?’ she muttered, pulling her hand away as he tried to kiss each of her fingers.

      He shrugged, not in the least discomposed. ‘For every performance, there must be a rehearsal, no?’

      ‘Definitely no,’ Laura said tartly.

      She was also disappointed to hear there’d been a slight change of plan. That instead of hiring a car at the airport and driving straight to Tuscany, they were first to join the Signora Vicente at her Rome apartment.

      ‘But for how long?’ she queried.

      Paolo was unconcerned. ‘Does it matter? It will give you a chance to see my city before we bury ourselves in the countryside,’ he told her. He gave a satisfied smile. ‘Also, my mother employs a driver and a car for her journeys, so we shall travel in comfort.’

      Laura felt she had no option but to force a smile of agreement. It’s his trip, she thought resignedly. I’m just the hired help.

      The Signora’s residence was in the Aventine district, which Paolo told her was one of the city’s more peaceful locations with many gardens and trees.

      She occupied the first floor of a grand mansion, standing in its own grounds, and Laura took a deep, calming breath as they mounted the wide flight of marble stairs.

      You’ve got your passport in your bag, she reminded herself silently. Also, your return ticket. All you have to do, if you really can’t hack this, is turn and run.

      When they reached the imposing double doors, Paolo rang the bell, and Laura swallowed as he took her hand in his with a reassuring nod.

      It’s only a couple of weeks, she thought. Not the rest of my life.

      The door was opened by a plump elderly maid, who beamed at Paolo, ignoring Laura completely, then burst into a flood of incomprehensible Italian.

      Laura found herself in a windowless hall, its only illumination coming from a central chandelier apparently equipped with low-wattage bulbs. The floor was tiled in dark marble, and a few pieces of heavy antique furniture and some oil paintings in ornate frames did little to lighten the atmosphere.

      Then the maid flung open the door to the salotto, and sunlight struggled out, accompanied by a small hairy dog, yapping furiously and snarling round their ankles.

      ‘Quiet, Caio,’ Paolo ordered, and the dog backed off, although it continued its high-pitched barking, and growling. Laura liked dogs, and usually got on with them, but something told her that Caio was more likely to take a chunk out of her ankle than respond to any overtures she might make.

      Paolo led her into the room. ‘Call off your hound, Mamma,’ he said. ‘Or my Laura will think she is not welcome.’

      ‘But I am always ready to receive your friends, figlio mio.’ The Signora rose from a brocaded sofa, and offered her hand.

      She was a tall woman, Laura saw, and had been handsome once rather than a beauty. But time had thinned her face and narrowed her mouth, and this, together with her piercing dark eyes, made her formidable. She wore black, and there were pearls round her neck, and in her ears.

      ‘Signorina Mason, is it not so?’ Her smile was vinegary as she absorbed Laura’s shy response. ‘You would like some tea, I think. Is that not the English habit?’

      Laura lifted her chin. ‘Now that I’m here, signora, perhaps I should learn a few Italian customs instead.’

      The elegantly plucked brows lifted. ‘You will hardly be here long enough to make it worthwhile, signorina—but as you wish.’ She rang a bell for the maid, ordered coffee and cakes, then beckoned Paolo to join her on the sofa.

      This, thought Laura, taking the seat opposite that she’d been waved towards, is going to be uphill all the way. And she was still inwardly flinching from ‘my Laura’.

      It was a beautiful room, high-ceilinged and well proportioned, but massively over-furnished for her taste. There were too many groups of hard-looking chairs, she thought, taking a covert glance around. And far too many spindly-legged tables crowded with knick-knacks. The windows were huge, and she longed to drag open the tall shutters that half-masked them and let in some proper light. But she supposed that would fade the draperies, and the expensive rugs on the parquet floor.

      ‘I have some