The Sheikh's Unwilling Wife. Sharon Kendrick

now, and none of the normal rules counted. How she dressed was nothing to do with him, for he was interested only in seeing her without any clothes on at all.

      His eyes flickered over her, to where her glorious hair tumbled down in windswept strands over her breasts. ‘At least you’ve let your hair down,’ he observed softly.

      ‘Giovanni, we aren’t here to…’

      ‘To what, cara?’ he questioned innocently.

      ‘To—to make personal remarks like that.’ To make her feel like a real woman for the first time in years and remind her of his consummate skill as a lover. And wasn’t she in danger of regarding even that through rose-tinted spectacles? She must force herself to remember the reality of their wedding night and its bitter conclusion. ‘It isn’t appropriate,’ she finished.

      Giovanni heard the slightly despairing note of appeal in her voice and bit back his smile. This was good. What was it that the English said? He was getting under her skin. Just as she had once got under his, playing disingenuous games in order to hook him, as women had been attempting to do since he’d first started shaving.

      ‘Sit down,’he said, his eyes narrowing at her look of genuine hesitation.

      ‘I don’t know if I should.’

      His mouth curved into a mocking line. Did she really imagine that he would let her walk away from him a second time?

      ‘I said, sit down,’ he repeated silkily.

      Come to think of it, she wasn’t sure she could walk straight out again—even if he’d told her she could. The feelings which had surged over her since he’d entered the shop suddenly took their toll, and with legs which were suddenly weak Alexa sank down onto one of the overstuffed leather sofas, glancing around her as nervously as if she was a woman on a blind date.

      Sometimes when she was out she felt self-conscious, or paranoid as if people were staring at her. But today they really were. And it was nothing to do with a winds-wept woman on her way home from work—but everything to do with the exotic man who had just sat down opposite her. He was lounging back in his chair like a dangerous, undiscovered species who needed a warning notice attached to him.

      He pushed a glass of wine towards her. ‘You look as if you could use it.’

      Alexa took the drink but didn’t touch it. Just looked straight into his eyes and willed herself not to respond to all those potent signals he was sending out. But most potent of all was the heartbreaking similarity between him and Paolo. The same thick forest of black lashes, and the slash of high, slanting cheekbones. The same dark curls—though Paolo’s were more of an ebony tumble and Giovanni’s had been expertly clipped to lovingly define the proud shape of his head. She shook the thoughts away.

      ‘How did you find me?’ she questioned, curling her fingers around the glass, as if doing that would warm their frozen stiffness.

      ‘Oh, finding you was simple, cara—far easier than I expected.’He shrugged. He had been surprised she was still here—but then, didn’t women always go back to somewhere they’d known? She had lived here before she had come out to Italy. Before her mother had moved off to live in the wilds of Canada, and before he had foolishly decided that Alexa needed looking after and had married her.

      His mouth hardened. ‘I tried your old phone number and got your voice on the answer-machine.’

      ‘And if you hadn’t?’

      He shrugged, but his eyes glittered. ‘Then I should have had to employ someone to find you. Anything is possible.’

      ‘A…detective?’

      ‘Something like that.’

      ‘But you didn’t? Get a detective, I mean?’ she questioned, until she saw his face and realised that she’d said too much. Underestimated his razor-sharp intelligence. He must surely have noticed her wide-eyed fear and be questioning its source. So better start back-tracking before it was too late.

      ‘Whatever is the matter, Alexa? Anyone would think you had something to hide from me.’

      ‘Oh, don’t be so melodramatic!’ she said brightly, though inside she hated herself for the unspoken lie which fell from her lips. ‘I’m just fascinated to find out what has brought you here.’

      ‘Are you?’He traced his forefinger along his bottom lip thoughtfully. Of course she was going to be jumpy—what woman wouldn’t be, in her situation? Was she looking at him now and realising what a stupid mistake she had made? But she was the one who had to live with the consequences of her own stupidity—and that was not the reason he was here.

      ‘Yes, in truth it is a fascinating story,’ he agreed, but for once in his life the words did not come easily—there was no template for this kind of situation. He ran his finger around the rim of his wine glass and realised that although they were separated he was still treating her like a wife. For simply by marrying they had forged a deep bond he had experienced with no other woman—no matter what had happened between them subsequently. Why else would he be about to confide in her an incredible story he had told no other? ‘You remember my mother?’ he asked suddenly.

      It was not the opening Alexa had been expecting, and it took her off guard. ‘Yes, of course I remember her,’ she answered slowly. ‘She’s a pretty unforgettable character.’ Natala—his glamorous, gorgeous mother, with her penchant for diamonds and those slinky black satin dresses which were as tight as a second skin. Until Alexa had met Natala she hadn’t realised that mothers could look like film stars.

      ‘How is she?’ she questioned, not quite sure of the etiquette in asking after a woman who had once been overheard pronouncing her as—‘ordinary. And she has no money, Gio!’

      His lashes came down, concealing all but a dark gleam of light in his eyes. ‘She died last year,’ he said bluntly.

      Alexa gasped, everything else forgotten—because his mother had been relatively young. ‘Oh, Giovanni—I’m so sorry,’ she said instinctively, and only just stopped herself from leaning forward to touch him.

      Giovanni’s eyes narrowed and she saw in them the brief chink of pain. But then it was gone—clicked out—like the shutter of a camera.

      ‘Did you come here just to tell me that?’ she questioned uncertainly.

      His black eyes hardened. ‘No. Of course not.’

      There was a pause as he seemed to search for the right words. It was so uncharacteristic of Giovanni to hesitate that Alexa felt herself stiffening with apprehension.

      ‘What, then?’ she said nervously, because precious minutes were ticking away—and it wasn’t just that she wanted to be back on time for Paolo and not to alienate the childminder by taking advantage. She also wanted to be away from the still-powerful sexual pull her husband exerted—away from the foolishness in her heart which made her want to put her arms around him and draw him close in a gesture of comfort.

      He tapped his long olive fingers against the polished surface of the table. ‘After she died I was going through her papers and I made a discovery.’

      ‘What…kind of discovery?’

      Sifting and sorting through the files of information in his mind, Giovanni began for the first time to place them in some kind of coherent order. ‘The unwelcome kind—that informs you that you have been labouring under an illusion for most of your life,’ he said, and his voice sounded suddenly harsh.

      ‘What illusion?’

      His voice hardened. ‘As you are aware, I grew up believing that my father was a Spanish aristocrat—one who refused to publicly acknowledge me, even though he was prepared to pay generously for my upkeep and my mother’s jewels. My mother told me that her silence about his identity to the rest of the world would guarantee her a lifetime’s riches. And it did.’ The stony expression in his eyes matched the sentiment at the heart of his words. ‘She also led me to believe that