Scandal: Unclaimed Love-Child. Melanie Milburne

      The staircase led to a classy bar area with deep leather sofas placed in intimate formations to give privacy to guests as they socialised over a drink. Bronte saw Luca rise the moment she stepped into the bar. She felt a flutter in her chest as he came towards her and she noted that practically every female head turned to look at him as he moved across the carpeted floor.

      He was dressed in a charcoal-grey suit, teamed with a snow-white business shirt and wearing a tie that was red with stripes of silver. He seemed even taller than he had in the studio earlier that day, even though Bronte was now wearing heels.

      She felt his gaze move over her, taking in her little black dress, cinched in at the waist with a black patent leather belt which matched her four-inch heels and clutch purse. She was glad she had taken some extra time with her make-up. She had dusted her skin with mineral powder and blush and had made her eyes smoky with eye-shadow and kohl pencil, and her lips ripe and full with a glossy pink lipstick. Her dark brown hair she had smoothed back into a chignon that gave her an added air of sophistication. Let him look and regret what he threw away, she thought with a gleam of satisfaction as his pupils flared with male appraisal.

      ‘You are looking quite stunning, cara,’ he said as he came to stand in front of her, his eyes running over her asssessingly.

      She gave him a tight formal smile. ‘Let’s get this over with, shall we?’

      He drew in a breath that pulled at the edges of his mouth. ‘Bronte, there is no need to be so prickly,’ he said. ‘We are just two old friends catching up, sì?’

      Bronte’s fingers dug into her clutch purse. ‘You are no friend of mine, Luca,’ she said. ‘I think of you as a stupid mistake I made. Something I would like to forget about. I don’t like reminding myself of failure.’

      His forehead furrowed as he looked down at her. ‘It was not you that failed, Bronte. It was my problem. My issues. It was never about you.’

      Bronte blinked up at him in surprise. Was that some sort of apology? Or was it part of the softening up process? She was well aware of the Sabbatini charm. It was a lethal potion that could bewitch any unsuspecting woman. And she had not just been unsuspecting but naïve and innocent with it. She had fallen for him so easily. It embarrassed her now to think of how easily. One look, one smile and that bottomless dark chocolate gaze locking on hers had done it. ‘So you are prepared to admit you handled things rather callously, are you?’ she asked in a wary tone.

      He gave her a rueful movement of his lips that fell just short of a smile. ‘I have regrets over a lot of things, Bronte. But the past is not something any of us can change. However, I would like to compensate for the hurt I caused you in ending our affair so abruptly and without proper explanation.’

      She gave him an embittered look. ‘How are you going to compensate me? By blackmailing me into seeing you? It’s not working, Luca. You can blackmail me all you like but it won’t make me fall in love with you again.’

      His dark eyes flickered for a pico-second, a fleeting shadow of something she couldn’t identify or understand. ‘I realise that is rather a lot to ask after all this time,’ he said. ‘I would be happy to take it one day at a time, for now.’

      Bronte set her mouth. ‘You have one evening, Luca, and this is it. I am not doing this again. Say what you have to say and let’s leave it at that.’

      An arm in arm couple moved past them, the female half turning back to look at Luca. She whispered something to her partner and then he too stopped and stared.

      Luca smiled politely but stiffly at the couple and then took Bronte’s elbow in the cup of his palm, saying in an undertone, ‘Let’s get away from the eyes of the public. Before we know it, the press will be tipped off.’

      Bronte couldn’t bear the thought of being alone with him in his hotel room, but neither could she bear the thought of having her image splashed with his over tomorrow’s papers. She could almost imagine the headlines: Italian hotel tycoon dates ballet teacher single mother. She would never hear the end of it from the parents of her students, let alone Rachel and her mother.

      She followed him to the bank of lifts and silently stepped in beside him as one opened. The doors whooshed closed and she felt as if the air had been cut off along with the background noise of the hotel. It was like being in a capsule with him. The lift was large but it felt like a matchbox with him standing within touching distance. Her stomach gave a nervous quiver. She hadn’t been alone with a man since…well, since him. Her one recent date with Rachel’s newly divorced older brother had been in a crowded public restaurant. David Brougham hadn’t even touched her the whole time they’d worked their way through an eight course degustation menu. Note to self, she thought. Never go to a fine dining restaurant with a morose, newly divorced man. Bronte had listened patiently as he had relayed his angst about his marriage breakup and the custodial arrangements for his children, and silently prayed for the evening to be over.

      As the lift soared to the penthouse floor Bronte looked at Luca from beneath her lowered lashes. He had a frown of concentration on his forehead and there were twin lines of tension running either side of his mouth. His arms were hanging by his sides, but she saw him clench and unclench his hands as if he was mentally preparing himself for something.

      ‘I thought you would be used to the intrusion of the media by now,’ she said into the humming silence.

      He turned his head to look at her. ‘Believe me, Bronte, you never get used to it. Do you know what it’s like having every moment of your life documented? The lack of privacy is unbelievable. There are times when I cannot even have a cup of coffee without someone wanting to take a picture. It drives me completely crazy.’

      ‘I guess it’s the price of success,’ she said. ‘You were born into an extremely wealthy family. The public are fascinated by how the other half lives.’

      He gave her a quirky smile as the lift stopped at his floor. ‘Are you fascinated, cara?’

      She pursed her lips and stepped past him, holding her head at a proud angle. ‘You and your family hold no fascination for me whatsoever. I have too much to do in my own life to be keeping track of someone else’s.’

      As they came to the correct number he inserted his key card into the penthouse suite door and held it open for her to precede him. ‘So you haven’t kept yourself up to date on all my affairs over the last two years?’ he asked.

      Bronte spoke without thinking. ‘There’s been hardly anything about you in the papers and magazines. It always seems to be about your brothers. It’s as if you disappeared off the face of the earth the first year after we broke up.’

      He gave her a long thoughtful look as he closed the door behind him. ‘For a time that’s exactly what I wanted to do,’ he said, leading the way through to the large lounge. ‘What would you like to drink?’ he asked over his shoulder.

      Bronte was still thinking about why he’d wanted to disappear without trace. There had been something in his tone that seemed tinged with regret and a part of her wondered if it had something to do with her.

      Of course not! she chided herself crossly. He was a playboy who had had numerous affairs before she had come along. The only thing that might have set her apart was her innocence and naivety. He had obviously found that a novelty and was hoping for a rerun. She could see it in the dark depths of his eyes every time they meshed with hers. She felt the rush of her blood too, which reminded her rather timely that she was not quite as immune to him as she would have liked.

      ‘Bronte?’ he prompted, holding up a bottle of champagne.

      ‘Oh…yes, thanks,’ she said, feeling gauche and awkward.

      After a moment he handed her a fizzing glass of French champagne, the price of which, Bronte noted, would have paid her last electricity bill, not just for her granny flat but most probably the studio as well.

      ‘To us,’ he said, touching his glass against hers.

      Bronte