The Italian's Rags-To-Riches Wife. Julia James

of your grandfather. Your existence has only just come to light to him.’

      There was no change in her expression.

      ‘Well, bully for him! And if that’s all you’ve come to tell me, then you can be on your way!’

      Allesandro felt his features stiffen.

      ‘On the contrary. I am here to inform you that your grandfather, Tomaso Viale, wishes you to come to Italy.’

      Now her expression changed.

      ‘Wishes me to come to Italy?’ she echoed. ‘Is he mad?’

      Allesandro’s mouth thinned and he tamped down his rising temper at the girl’s attitude.

      ‘Miss Stowe, your grandfather is an old, frail man. The death of his son has hit him hard, and he—’

      There was a rough gasp from the girl.

      ‘My father is dead?’ Her voice was blank with shock. For a moment Allesandro felt he had been too blunt, but the girl was so aggressive he didn’t care. ‘Stefano was killed in a power-boat crash last summer,’ he said matter-of-factly.

      ‘Last summer…’ The echo of his words trailed from her. ‘He’s been dead all that time…’

      Something seemed to shift in her eyes. Then, abruptly, the same resentful expression resumed.

      ‘You’ve had a wasted journey, Signor di Vincenzo. So you might as well leave now.’

      ‘That is not possible.’ Allesandro had not raised his voice in any way, but there was an implacable note in it. ‘Your grandfather wishes me to escort you to Italy.’

      ‘I’m not going.’ The flash came again in the unlovely eyes. ‘My father treated my mother unforgivably. I want nothing to do with his family!’

      She had spoken with a low, grim vehemence that was at one with her unappealing appearance. It irritated Allesandro. He had no wish to be here, none whatsoever, and now, for his pains, this fright of a girl was trying to send him off with a flea in his ear.

      He sat back in the chair. It was time to cut to the chase.

      ‘Perhaps you do not realise,’ he said, and his dark eyes rested unreadably on his target, ‘that your grandfather is a very wealthy man. One of the richest in Italy. It would be, Miss Stowe, to your clear material advantage to accede to his wishes.’

      For answer she leant forward slightly, her hands touching the top of the table across from him.

      ‘I hope he chokes on his wealth!’ she bit out. ‘Just go! Right now! Tell him, since you’re his messenger boy, that so far as I’m concerned I have no grandfather! Just like his son had no daughter!’

      Anger seared in Allesandro’s face.

      ‘Tomaso was not responsible for your father’s refusal to acknowledge you!’

      ‘Well, he clearly did a lousy job of bringing up his son! That was something he did have responsibility for, and he failed miserably! His son was despicable—so why should I have the slightest time for a man who brought up his son to be like that?’

      Allesandro got to his feet. The sudden movement made the chair legs scrape on the flagstoned floor.

      ‘Basta!’ More Italian broke from him, sounding vehement. Then he cut back to English. ‘It is as well that you are refusing to visit your grandfather. You would be a great disappointment to him. As it is,’ he said cuttingly, ‘I am now facing the task of telling an old, sick man, mourning the tragic death of his only son, that his last remaining relative on earth is an ill-mannered, inconsiderate, self-righteous female prepared to condemn him sight unseen. I’ll take my leave of you.’

      Without another word he strode out of the room, back down the corridor to the front door. She heard the front door thump shut, and then the sound of an engine starting, of a car moving off, soon dying away.

      She was, she realised, shaking very slightly.

      Aftershock, she thought. Out of nowhere, for the first time in her life, contact had been made by her father’s family in Italy. All her life his name had been excoriated, all mention of him—and they had been few and far between—prefixed by condemnation and unforgiving hostility. She had grown up from infancy with her mother dead, and her grandparents making it extremely plain to her just how despicable her father had been.

      But now he’s dead…

      A stab of pain went through her again. She had never expected—let alone wanted—to see him, or meet him, or know anything more about him. Yet to have been told so bluntly that he was dead had still been a shock. For a second so brief it was extinguished almost as soon as it occurred, a sense of grief went through her.

      My father is dead. I never knew him, and now I never will…

      Then she rallied. She knew enough about him to know that he would not have been worth knowing.

      He rejected you. Rejected you so entirely that he completely and absolutely ignored your existence. He didn’t give a damn about you…

      He was nothing but a spoilt, self-indulgent playboy, who used women like playthings. Getting away with it because he was rich and handsome.

      Like the man who was sent here.

      Unwillingly, her eyes flicked to where he had been sitting, and her expression soured even more. Then she straightened her shoulders. There was work to be done, and she had better get on with it. Grim-faced, she plodded back out into the yard, and set off to gather another load of kindling in the rain.

      Allesandro sank into the soft chintz-covered armchair with a sense of relief and looked around the warm, elegant drawing room of the Lidford House Hotel, which his PA had booked for an overnight stay before flying back to Rome. Now this was the way a country house in England should be—not like Laura Stowe’s decaying ruin.

      He took a sip of martini, savouring its dry tang as if it were washing a bad taste out of his mouth. Dio, but the girl was a termagant! Without a redeeming feature—in appearance or personality—to her name. Though he had resented Tomaso’s manipulation of him, now he could only pity the man for his granddaughter. He wouldn’t wish her on anyone! Allesandro’s face shadowed momentarily. Tomaso’s disappointment would be acute. It did not take much to realise that what he had been hoping for was not just comfort in his bereavement but also, eventually, a hope of his own progeny.

      Well, he could whistle for a husband for the girl—that much was plain. As plain as she herself was.

      He took another sip of his martini, enjoying the warmth from the roaring fire in front of him.

      In other circumstances he would have pitied the girl for her complete lack of looks. But her manners and personality had been so abrasive, so unpleasant, that they put her beyond pity.

      Impatiently he reached for the leatherbound menu to decide what to have for dinner. Tomaso’s unlovely granddaughter was no longer his concern. He had done what Tomaso had asked, and if she were refusing to come to Italy, so be it.

      It was not his problem.

      Except when Allesandro returned to Italy, he discovered that Tomaso did not see it that way.

      ‘He’s done what?’ Two days later, Allesandro’s voice was rigid with disbelief.

      But the question was rhetorical. The answer to it was in front of his eyes, in the tersely worded memo that his PA had silently handed him. Signed by the chairman of Viale-Vincenzo, informing him that his services as chief executive would no longer be required.

      A rage such as he had never known permeated through Allesandro. He might still be a major shareholder in Viale-Vincenzo, but now he would no longer even have day-to-day control of the company, let alone the long-term control that the chairmanship would have given him. He knew exactly what was behind this. Tomaso had not accepted Laura Stowe’s refusal to visit him.