A Mother for His Daughter. Ally Blake

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      ‘I am suggesting you stay and become Mila’s new mother. Stay, bella, and marry me.’

      Luca knew from the look on Gracie’s face that she hadn’t seen his suggestion coming any more than he had. But now that he had said it aloud, it felt…right.

      Her throat worked. “Luca, you don’t mean that.”

      He took her by the hands. “If I didn’t mean it I would not have said it. It is a sensible idea. We get along. We both love Mila. I think it is actually an excellent solution.”

      Her cheeks warmed so fast and so pink he knew that he had shocked her. He reveled in what that choice would mean in terms of companionship, in terms of Mila’s happiness, in terms of having her all to himself, of being able to count on waking up to her warmth and beauty for the rest of his life….

      It took a few moments before he noticed her vehemently shaking her head….

      ALLY BLAKE

      worked in retail, danced on television and acted in friends’ short films until the writing bug could no longer be ignored. And as her mother had read romance novels ever since Ally was a baby, the aspiration to write romance novels had been almost bred into her. Ally married her gorgeous husband, Mark, in Las Vegas (no Elvis in sight, thank you very much), and they live in beautiful Melbourne, Australia. Her husband cooks, he cleans and he’s the love of her life. How’s that for a hero?

      A Mother for His Daughter

      Ally Blake

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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      To Gianni and Christine, for doing such an extraordinary job in parenting my very own Italian hero.

      CONTENTS

       CHAPTER ONE

       CHAPTER TWO

       CHAPTER THREE

       CHAPTER FOUR

       CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER ONE

      GRACIE LANE was in Rome looking for a man. And not just any man. Her father.

      Peering into the mystical waters of the Trevi Fountain, she blinked dry, tired eyes. She had half-heartedly thrown one coin already. According to local myth, she would now one day return to the eternal city.

      A second coin now warmed her palm. The second coin was the important coin. The second coin was the wish coin. Searching for her father on her own had produced no results and the Australian Embassy had not come back with anything helpful, so a wish seemed to be her only remaining hope.

      ‘I wish to find Antonio Graziano,’ Gracie said aloud, hoping with all of her might that somehow this enchanted old fountain would be able to help. She turned, tossed the coin over her left shoulder, and listened for the soft, fateful splash.

      But the statue of Neptune looked down on her, benign as he ever was, and unless he had come to life a quarter century before and had a fling with her then nineteen-year-old mother, her last-ditch desperate wish had not produced instant results.

      Gracie managed a flickering smile at the thought, even though it meant there was nowhere else to turn. She was down to her last several euros in the bank, she was paid up in her hostel for only one more night, and her wallet held little more than the return train ticket from Termini Station to Leonardo da Vinci Airport. She had very little choice other than to make a phone call to the airline in order to use her open-ended ticket to book a flight home the next day.

      She slumped down onto the low concrete wall with her back to the fountain. She was so exhausted her limbs ached, her heart ached, even her hair ached.

      But it was not enough to make her cry. The ability had abandoned her. And right when she needed it most. Since that dreaded phone call from her stepfather, she had not cried once. She hadn’t had the chance. She had had to be brave for those around her. For her distraught stepfather, for her much younger half-sister and half-brother. For her best friends.

      But in Rome she was alone. She didn’t have to be brave for anyone but herself, and still she could not enjoy the release that came with a good cry. She covered her face with her hands and willed it to happen.

      Success eluded her.

      Then she felt a tiny hand clasp her denim-clad knee. Suspecting one of the many beggars prowling the area for spare change and open handbags, Gracie jumped out of her skin. When her backside landed back upon the concrete wall, she found herself face to face not with a beggar but with a little girl in designer clothes.

      Gracie rubbed a hand over her aching face and sat up straight. It was like looking at a picture of herself at that age; creamy fair skin, glossy dark curls, serious dark blue eyes, except Gracie had tell-tale Australian freckles across her nose and cheeks. Freckles she had proudly cultivated as a child as they were the one feature that linked her to her lanky blonde, suntanned school friends.

      ‘Hello, sweetie,’ she said once she located her voice.

      After a brief moment in which the little girl assimilated the English word, she said, ‘Hello,’ also in English but with a thick Italian accent. ‘My name is Mila.’

      ‘Pleased to meet you, Mila. I’m Gracie.’

      Mila was not smiling, or frowning, just watching Gracie with her head tipped to one side. ‘Are you OK?’

      Gracie cracked an unexpected grin. But there was nothing to be gained from confiding in the little girl. ‘Sure, I’m OK. Thank you for asking.’

      Gracie looked