The Italian's Demand. Sara Wood

his life with happiness and laughter, had made him sway on his feet and clutch at the door for support, taking away his very breath and robbing him of the great physical and mental strength for which he was renowned.

      Darkness clouded his eyes as he remembered the reason his son would be returning. His estranged wife had died two months ago, the loan company had said on the phone.

      And he, apparently was liable for the loan on her London house because she had named him as the guarantor.

      He shuddered, suddenly sobered by a thought. If she hadn’t forged his signature, Lio would have been lost to him forever. An ironic twist of fate.

      ‘Poor Linda,’ he murmured, offering thoughts for her salvation.

      Oh, he wasn’t a saint to be so forgiving of his late wife. Initially he had vilified her for depriving him of the son he loved. Yet now he felt unbelievably sad that she had died so young. Thirty years old. A tragedy.

      A fear struck him. The line of his perfectly smooth jaw hardened as his white teeth jammed tightly together in an attempt to control a sharp and searing cry of visceral dread that turned his loins to water.

      Dio! He didn’t know that Lio was in the London house. He might not be. Anything could have happened to his son on Linda’s death, though she’d stolen enough money to live well, to employ staff. His mother’s jewels had been worth a fortune alone, and Linda had taken her own as well, plus everything in their joint bank account.

      Knowing her dislike of motherhood, he assumed she would have employed an au pair or a nanny. With any luck, Lio would still be in the house under suitable care.

      Unless his son had been taken away by a lover of Linda’s, or some distant relative of hers. Worse, he thought, his black brows lowering in anger, the unwanted Lio could have been placed in a children’s home!

      He banged the steering wheel in frustration and scowled as he negotiated a tight turn in the tortuous road that snaked around the spectacular cliff.

      Santo cielo! He could hardly bear it. Wanted to take chances on the slow, murderous bends, though logic curbed such rashness. It would hardly help if he were killed or seriously injured. But he longed for some means of obliterating the terrible waiting and the scouring uncertainty that was ripping his hopes to shreds.

      It would be too cruel if Lio was snatched from his grasp again. He didn’t deserve that.

      His black eyes blazed with an intense passion. Excitement and fear created a painful chaos in his stomach and knotted his muscles even more tightly till they brought a welcome discomfort to divert his tortured mind.

      Nothing, and no one must stop him this time. All his wealth, all his power, were meaningless in the face of his love for Lio.

      He shuddered at the frightening intensity of his feelings, knowing that decency and caution would be thrown to the winds in his quest. The way he was feeling now, he knew he’d stop at nothing; would breach any barrier and take any steps necessary—legal or otherwise—to reclaim his beloved son.

      Verity creaked her stiff body low over the sleeping child and kissed the achingly soft cheek, all the ghastliness of the past few hours forgotten in a rush of love and compassion.

      What a gorgeous child. She grinned ruefully. And what a hell of a day! Amused that one had caused the other, she slowly stretched her aching limbs.

      It amazed her that she felt more tired than she’d ever been in the whole of her life—even though she’d never been happier.

      ‘Dearest Lio. Rascal.’

      Her fingertips lightly touched his cute, droopingly relaxed mouth. Tenderly she smiled then lifted his sweetly dimpled arms to tuck each one, floppy and unresisting, under the sheet.

      ‘Night, sweetheart,’ she murmured lovingly. ‘Little scamp, little limpet, sleep well.’

      Outside the room she was forced to pause, swaying from a tide of exhaustion that rushed over her like an express train. All her energy had drained away. It felt as if she couldn’t move even if her life had depended on it.

      Not surprising. Her little limpet clung to her all day every day, not leaving her alone for a second. But how could she complain or push him away? It was understandable. His mother had died only two months ago. Poor Lio. Poor Linda.

      Verity’s expressive face folded into sorrowful lines. She thought sadly of her late, adoptive parents John and Sue Fox, who’d picked Linda and herself from the Children’s Home so many years ago. She sighed. They couldn’t have found two more dissimilar kiddies if they’d tried.

      Life in the beautiful—and favoured—Linda’s shadow had been tough. Not surprisingly, she hadn’t seen her adoptive sister for ten years, their only communication being catch-up letters with their annual Christmas cards.

      Nevertheless, Linda’s death was tragic and Lio had suffered badly as a consequence, poor lamb.

      She grimaced. So had her job, her social life and her sanity since Linda had left that note asking her to be his guardian. But she had never regretted one second of her time with Lio. The grimace became an amused smile.

      It had been a moment of amazing contradictions when she’d held her orphaned nephew in her arms: joy and sheer terror had combined to confuse her. Joy because she had someone of her own at last to love. Terror because Lio wouldn’t stop screaming and she knew nothing about toddlers at all.

      But her mothering instincts had been awoken from that very moment and knew instantly that she would surrender everything for him. He needed her desperately—even more than she needed him, though her tender heart was still bruised from when she’d been unloved and ugly as a child and yet with vast, untapped reserves of love to give.

      Lio could have every scrap of that love, she thought. And as vacant as a zombie, she dragged herself downstairs and staggered out onto the pool terrace.

      Hitching up her long, floaty white sundress, Verity collapsed weakly into a welcoming sun lounger, her bones apparently non-existent amidst a mass of complaining muscle.

      How could a toddler do so much damage to a grown woman? she wondered ruefully.

      Her feet throbbed, her head throbbed, everything—including parts she’d never known existed—warned her not to move for hours or they’d give her hell.

      She did giggle, though, when a couple of daisies fell onto her chest. Her hair must still be scattered with them after she and Lio had de-flowered the lawn and he’d solemnly stuffed every single daisy into her thick, gypsy curls. A lovely moment, she thought tenderly.

      In a while, when she’d found a muscle that hadn’t gone on strike, she’d have a lovely long soak in the bath. For now, she’d admire the sunset and build her strength up for the next day.

      Despite a whole raft of friends, her life had been empty and meaningless. Now it was complete because of the arrival of one small baby. She sighed contentedly.

      With Lio’s dreadful father dead and no family to claim her nephew, it was obvious that she must adopt him. It would be only a matter of time before they were officially mother and son. She quivered with delight.

      ‘My son,’ she practised. ‘Hello, I’m Verity and this is my son, Lio.’

      She hugged herself. Could there be any words more wonderful than those? Could there be anything better than the slow, sweet smile of a child who adores you?

      Well, perhaps it equalled a loyal, kind, tender man who smiled at her with love in his eyes and heart, she conceded. But she was all of twenty-nine and hadn’t found one of those yet. Despite a huge circle of friends pushing men at her as if they were in danger of going out of fashion.

      Turning her head to one side, she checked the video link with the nursery and beamed dotingly at Lio’s small face.

      ‘See you at six a.m., sweetheart,’ she murmured warmly.

      Soon, with the dire financial situation