Sicilian Millionaire, Bought Bride. Catherine Spencer

FLUNG HIM a baleful look and tried to return the envelope to him, but the wretched thing fell open and released its contents, which slithered in disarray over the leather upholstery. By the time she’d scooped them up, the door had clicked shut and the car was moving smoothly into the downtown traffic.

      Wearily—she seemed to have been fighting one thing or another ever since the evening began, starting with Matthew’s tantrum at once again being left in Mrs. Lehman’s care—Corinne stuffed the photographs into her purse. Just because Raffaello Orsini had decreed that she should accept them didn’t mean she had to look at them, did it? She’d send them back to him by courier tomorrow, along with her rejection of his proposal.

      When the limousine driver at last dropped her off at the entrance to the town house complex, she knew a sense of relief. It might not be much by most people’s standards, especially not the obscenely rich Mr. Orsini’s, but it was home, and all that mattered most in the world to her lay under its roof. Hugging her coat collar close against the freezing night air, she hurried to her front door, her heels ringing like iron on the concrete driveway she shared with her neighbors.

      Once inside the house, she realized at once that it was too quiet. As a rule, Mrs. Lehman watched television in the family room adjoining the kitchen, and being a little hard of hearing, turned up the volume. But tonight, she met Corinne in the tiny entrance hall, her own front door key in her hand, as if she couldn’t wait to vacate the premises. In itself, this was unusual enough, but what really dismayed Corinne was the dried blood and ugly bruise already discoloring the baby-sitter’s cheekbone, just below her left eye.

      Dropping her purse on the floor, Corinne rushed forward for a closer look. “Good heavens, Mrs. Lehman, what happened? And where are your glasses? Did you fall?”

      “No, dear.” Normally the most forthright of women, she refused to meet Corinne’s gaze. “My glasses got broken.”

      “How? Oh…!” Sudden awful premonition sent Corinne’s stomach plummeting. “Oh, please tell me Matthew isn’t responsible!”

      “Well, yes, I’m afraid he is. We had a bit of a run-in about his bedtime, you see, and…he threw one of his toy trucks at me. It was after ten before he finally settled down.”

      Corinne felt physically ill. She’d spent the evening being wined and dined with the very best, by a man she’d never met before, and for what? A proposition so absurd it didn’t merit a second thought. And meanwhile, her son was abusing the kindness of the one woman she most relied on to help her out when she needed it.

      “I hardly know what to say, Mrs. Lehman. An apology just doesn’t cut it.” Then, biting her lip at her poor choice of words, she examined the cut more closely. It had stopped bleeding and didn’t appear to be deep, but it must be sore. “Is there anything I can get for you? Some ice, perhaps?”

      “No, dear, thank you. I’d just like to get to my own bed, if you don’t mind.”

      “Come on, then. I’ll walk you home.” Taking her arm, Corinne steered her gently to the door.

      “Don’t trouble yourself, Corinne. It’s only a few yards. I can manage by myself.”

      But Corinne waved aside her objections. Frost sparkled on the path, and she wasn’t taking a chance on the poor woman slipping and breaking a hip. Enough damage had been done for one night. “I insist. And tomorrow, Matthew and I will be over to see you—after I’ve dealt with him, that is.”

      She barely slept that night for worrying. What if Mrs. Lehman’s injury was worse than it looked, and she suffered a concussion? Lapsed into a coma? What if her sight had been damaged? She’d claimed not to have a headache, had seemed steady enough on her feet during the short walk to her front door and had no trouble inserting the key in the lock, but she was well into her seventies and at that age…

      Aware she was letting her imagination run riot, Corinne focused on the underlying cause of so much angst. What was happening to her son, that he would behave so badly? A “run-in,” Mrs. Lehman had called it, but in Corinne’s estimation, broken glasses and a black eye amounted to a lot more than that.

      Yet if she was brutally honest with herself, she shouldn’t be altogether surprised. Lately she’d come close to a few such “run-ins” herself. How did she put a stop to them before they escalated beyond all control and something really serious happened?

      Finally, around four in the morning, she fell into an uneasy sleep riddled with dreams in which all the town houses in the complex fell down. Mrs. Lehman rode away in a big black limousine with every stick of her furniture piled next to her on the backseat. Corinne fought her way out of the rubble that she’d once called home, to look for Matthew who was lost, and came face-to-face with Raffaello Orsini shuffling a deck of playing cards. “This is all your house was made of, signora,” he said, fanning them out for her to see. “You have nothing.”

      She awoke just after eight, her pulse racing, to find that some time while she slept, Matthew had left his own bed and now lay curled up beside her, safe and sound, and such a picture of innocence that her heart contracted in her breast.

      She loved him more than life; too much, she sometimes thought, to be a really effective disciplinarian. When things went horribly wrong, as they had last night, the full brunt of being the only parent weighed heavily on her conscience. Yet she knew that, had he lived, Joe would have sloughed off his share of that responsibility, just as he had every other. He’d been no more cut out for fatherhood than he had for marriage.

      Dreading the morning ahead, she inched out of bed, showered and dressed in comfortable fleece sweatpants and top, and went down to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Should she make her son pancakes, as she’d promised, she wondered, or would that be condoning his bad behavior? Did his transgression justify her breaking her word? Did two wrongs ever make a right?

      She was still debating the matter when Matthew came downstairs, trailing his blanket behind him, and climbed up on the stool at the breakfast bar. He looked such a waif, with his hair sticking out every which way, and one side of his face imprinted with the creases in his bedding, that her heart melted.

      Okay, pancakes but no blueberries, she decided, pouring him a glass of juice. And for her, coffee, very strong. She needed a jolt of caffeine to drive the gritty residue of too little sleep from her eyes and give her the boost she needed to face what lay ahead.

      Overnight, the sky had turned leaden. A persistent drizzle shrouded the trees in mist and reached its damp aura past the ill-fitting window over the sink to infiltrate the house. Next door, Mrs. Shaw screeched for Mr. Shaw to come and get his oatmeal before it grew cold. In Corinne’s own kitchen, Matthew, also out of sorts from too little sleep, stabbed his fork into his pancakes and spattered himself with syrup.

      Steeling herself to patience, she waited until he’d finished his meal before tackling him about the previous night. As she expected, the conversation did not go well.

      “I don’t have to,” he said, when she scolded him for not obeying Mrs. Lehman. “She’s not my mommy. She’s silly.” Then, sliding down from the stool, he announced, “I’m going to play with my trains and horses now.”

      Swiftly Corinne corralled him and hauled him back to his seat. “You most certainly are not, young man. You’re going to listen to me, then after you’re dressed, we’re going next door and you’re going to tell Mrs. Lehman you’re sorry you hurt her.”

      “No,” he said, aiming a kick at her shin. “You’re silly, as well.”

      Barely nine o’clock, and already time-out time, she thought wearily. But when she went to take him back to his room, he turned limp as a piece of spaghetti, slumped on the floor and burst into tears. He was still screaming when the doorbell rang. Leaving him to it, Corinne trudged to answer.

      Mrs. Lehman stood outside, her eye almost lost in the swelling around it, her bruise a magnificent shade of purple. “No, dear, I won’t come in, thank you,” she said in response to Corinne’s invitation. “I’m going to stay with my married daughter,