His Reluctant Bride. Sara Craven

immaculate white shirt set off a sombre silk tie, and a thin platinum watch encircled his wrist.

      Whatever path he’d chosen to follow, it had clearly brought him serious money, Polly thought, anger and pain tightening her throat. And she didn’t want to contemplate how it might have been obtained. Who said crime didn’t pay?

      Nor was he staying silent out of weakness, or any sense of guilt. Instinct told her that. He was simply exercising restraint. Under the stillness, Polly could sense his power—and the furious burn of his anger, rigorously reined in. Could feel the violence of his emotions in the pulse of her blood and deep within her bones, just as she’d once known the naked imprint of his skin on hers, and the intimate heat of his possession.

      As if, she thought with a sudden sick helplessness, she lived within his flesh. Part of him. As she had once been.

      Now that the impossible had happened, and she was face to face with him again, she was shocked by the intensity of her physical reaction to him. Ashamed too.

      She had to make herself remember the cruel brutality of his rejection. The cynical attempt to buy her off, and the explicit threat that had accompanied it.

      She needed to remind herself of the abyss of pain and loneliness that had consumed her after she’d fled from Italy. And, most important of all, she had to get out of here, and fast.

      She sat upright, lifting a hand to her head as the room swayed about her.

      The movement riveted everyone’s attention, and Sandro took a hasty step forward, pausing when Polly flinched away from him involuntarily, his mouth hardening in an icy sneer.

      ‘No,’ he said. ‘It is not pretty. You should have been prepared in advance, perhaps. Warned what to expect.’

      As he came closer, Polly saw his face clearly for the first time. Saw the jagged scar that had torn its way from the corner of his eye, across the high cheekbone and halfway to his jaw.

      For a brief moment she was stunned, as shocked as if she had seen some great work of art deliberately defaced.

      He looked older too, and there was a weariness in the topaz eyes that had once glowed into hers.

      Oh, God, she thought, swallowing. He thinks that I find him repulsive, and that’s why I turned away just now.

      A pang of something like anguish twisted inside her, then she took a deep breath, hardening herself against a compassion he did not need or deserve.

      Let him think what he wanted, she thought. He’d chosen his life, and however rich and powerful he’d become he’d clearly paid violently for his wealth. And she’d been fortunate to escape when she did, and keep her own wounds hidden. That was all there was to be said.

      She looked away from him. ‘I don’t understand.’ Her voice was small and strained. ‘What am I doing here? What—happened?’

      ‘You fainted, signorina.’ It was the contessa who answered her. ‘At my cousin’s feet.’

      ‘Your cousin?’ Polly repeated the words dazedly, her mind wincing away from the image the older woman’s words conjured up of herself, unconscious, helpless. She shook her head, immediately wishing that she hadn’t. ‘Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?’

      The contessa drew herself up, her brows lifting in hauteur. ‘I do not understand you, signorina. There is no joke, I assure you. Alessandro is the son of my husband’s late cousin. Indeed, his only child.’

      ‘No,’ Polly whispered. ‘He can’t be. It’s not possible.’

      ‘I am not accustomed to having my word doubted, Signorina Fairfax.’ The contessa’s tone was frigid. She paused. ‘But you are not yourself, so allowances must be made.’ She handed Polly a glass of water. ‘Drink this, if you please. And I will ask for some food to be brought. You will feel better when you have eaten something.’

      ‘Thank you, but no.’ Polly put down the empty glass and moved to the edge of the bed, putting her feet to the floor. She was still feeling shaky, but self-preservation was more important than any temporary weakness.

      She’d fainted—something she’d never done in her life before, and a betraying sign of vulnerability that she could ill afford.

      She spoke more strongly, lifting her chin. ‘I would much prefer to leave. Right now. I have a flight to catch.’

      ‘You are not very gracious, Paola mia.’ Sandro’s voice was soft, but there was a note in it that made her quiver. ‘Especially when I have had you brought all the way from England just to see you again.’

      Had you brought … The words echoed in her head, menacing her.

      ‘Then you’ve wasted your time, signore.’ Was that how you addressed the supposed cousin of an Italian countess? Polly had no idea, and didn’t much care. ‘Because I have no wish to see you.’

      There was a bitter irony in this, she thought. This was supposed to be the first day of her new life, and instead she seemed to have walked into a trap.

      Ironic, inexplicable—and dangerous too, she realised, a shiver chilling her spine.

      The contessa had deliberately set her up, it seemed. So she must be in Sandro’s power in some way. But however scaring that was, it couldn’t be allowed to matter, Polly reminded herself swiftly. She didn’t know what was going on here, nor did she want to know. The most important thing, now, was to distance herself, and quickly.

      ‘“Signore”?’ Sandro questioned, his mouth twisting. ‘Isn’t that a little formal—for us, bella mia?’

      Her pulses quickened at the endearment, putting her instantly on the defensive.

      ‘To me this is a formal occasion,’ she said tautly. ‘I’m working—escorting the contessa. And there is no “us”,’ she added. ‘There never was.’

      ‘You don’t think so?’ The topaz eyes were watchful. ‘Then I shall have to jog your memory, cara.’

      ‘I can remember everything I need to, thanks.’ Polly spoke fiercely. ‘And it doesn’t change a thing. You and I have nothing to say to each other. Not now. Not ever again.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And now I wish to leave.’

      Sandro shook his head slowly. ‘You are mistaken, carissima.’ His voice was soft. ‘There is a great deal to be said. Or else I would not be here. But perhaps it would be better if we spoke alone.’

      He turned to the contessa. ‘Would you excuse us, Zia Antonia?’ His tone was coolly courteous. ‘I think Signorina Fairfax and I should continue our conversation in private.’

      ‘No.’ Polly flung the word at him, aware that her voice was shaking. That her body was trembling too. ‘I won’t stay here—and you can’t make me.’

      He looked at her, his mouth relaxing into a faint smile. ‘You don’t think so, Paola mia? But you’re so wrong.’

      ‘Contessa!’ Polly appealed as the older woman moved towards the door. ‘You had no right to do this. Don’t leave me alone—please.’

      The contessa gave her a thin smile. ‘You require a chaperone?’ she queried. ‘But surely it is a little late for that?’ She paused, allowing her words to sting, then turned to Sandro. ‘However, Alessandro, Signorina Fairfax might feel more at ease if you conducted this interview in the salotto. A suggestion, merely.’

      ‘I bow to your superior wisdom.’ Sandro spoke briskly.

      Before Polly could register what he intended, and take evasive action, he had stepped forward, scooping her up into his arms as if she were a child. She tried to hit him, but he controlled her flailing hands, tucking her arms against her body with insulting ease.

      ‘Be still,’ he told her. ‘Unless,