The Italian's Ruthless Seduction. Miranda Lee

willing to listen to her sing, or watch her dance. Looking back, she realised he’d been amazingly patient with her, not a virtue one often associated with teenage boys. Sergio had only been fifteen when her mother had married his father, she a rather silly and very precocious ten-year-old. He’d been a quiet boy, rather reserved in personality but awfully clever. And surprisingly good at sport. They’d often played basketball together in the backyard when he’d wanted a break from his studies.

      She’d missed him terribly when he’d been sent away to a university in Rome, his father not wanting him to forget his Italian roots. She’d been thirteen at the time, a very skinny thirteen, the only girl in her class not to have hit puberty. She’d only seen Sergio three times a year after that, at Easter and Christmas when he’d flown back to Sydney for a few days, then for the two weeks during July when the family had holidayed at the family villa on Lake Como.

      Oh, how she’d loved those holidays! What fun the two of them had had together, swimming and boating and just generally larking around.

      Not the last time, though, she recalled, Sergio spending most of his time in his room, studying for his final exams. By the following year, their parents had already separated, Sergio had gone to Oxford for further studies and she’d been on her way to Broadway, and stardom. Their relationship—which she’d imagined had been close—had suddenly no longer existed. She’d missed her big brother at first but soon she’d been consumed by her career and the attention that went with it. Out of sight had eventually been out of mind.

      They’d crossed paths only once in the years since, at an after-concert party in London. She hadn’t recognised him at first, he’d been so handsome and impressive looking, having finally filled out his tall, lanky frame. But his eyes had been the same. Hard to forget eyes like that. So dark and so beautiful, and she’d felt unsettled by the hardness in his gaze. It hadn’t taken her long to realise he’d still been angry with her mother—and with her too, she’d supposed—his politeness having a chilly edge to it.

      There’d been no chilliness in his eyes at his father’s funeral, however, only sadness and a gentleness, which by then she hadn’t felt she deserved. Thank God she’d been wearing dark glasses, because behind them she’d been weeping silent tears of wretchedness and remorse. She knew that she should have contacted both him and his father after the divorce. Should have shown some regret and gratitude. Some decency! But she’d been too caught up at the time with the sudden burst of fame, with finally being on the verge of fulfilling her mother’s rabid ambition, and yes, Bella, admit it...fulfilling your own. She could excuse herself by saying she’d only been eighteen, but that was no excuse. No excuse at all!

      Bella had been quite overcome when Sergio had written down his private number on a business card and told her to ring him if she ever needed anything, anything at all. His compassionate and unexpectedly generous gesture had threatened the last of her emotional control, so when a very attractive redhead had come up to them and linked arms with him, she’d stuffed the card into her handbag, said a hurried goodbye and fled before she’d burst into noisy tears in front of everyone.

      Tears threatened again now. Tears of frustration and misery. She hadn’t slept well last night. She hadn’t slept well in ages. Truly, she could not go on like this. She had to get away. Away from everyone who she knew down deep didn’t have her best interests at heart. They only wanted what they could get out of her, which was why they kept pressuring her to take on more and more work. Bella had acquired a long list of hangers-on over the last few years. At present she had a manager, a Hollywood agent, a PA, a publicist, plus her own personal stylist. Then, of course, hovering in the background, was her mother.

      They all wanted their cut. All wanted their piece of her.

      She had no time to herself. No time for a personal life. No time for anything but work.

      Lately, she’d begun to feel as if she were on a roller-coaster ride that never stopped. She never stopped. Well it had to stop. She had to stop. And she had to stop right now!

      ‘So stop being such a lily-livered coward and ring Sergio back,’ she ordered herself.

      Stiffening her spine, Bella ignored her suddenly pounding heart, grabbed her phone and hit redial.

       CHAPTER THREE

      SERGIO WAS SITTING at the table with the best view of the river, sipping a glass of Scotch on the rocks and doing his best to relax, when his phone rang.

      His heart jumped, his gut twisting into knots as he glanced at the caller ID, a wave of relief hitting him with the force of a tsunami. Because it wasn’t Alex, ringing again to say they would be even later. The caller ID was blocked. Which meant it was Bella, calling him back. Thank God. Sergio suspected he would not have been able to sleep tonight if she hadn’t. He would have had to do something really ridiculous, like hire a private investigator to find out her number, or her address. Or some way of contacting her.

      How pathetic was that?

      Truly, Sergio, get a grip!

      But it was futile advice, his fingers tightening around the phone as he lifted it to his ear. But his voice—when he spoke—sounded wonderfully calm and seemingly relaxed. ‘Hello, Bella.’

      ‘Heavens! How did you know it was me?’

      ‘You blocked your ID,’ he explained. ‘No one else who uses my private number does that.’

      ‘Oh, I see...’

      ‘So what happened earlier? Why did you hang up?’

      ‘Sorry about that. But Mum suddenly came to my door and I didn’t want her to know I was ringing you.’

      Sergio was truly taken aback. ‘Your mother lives with you?’

      ‘Lord, no. I live by myself in New York. But I came back to Sydney a few days ago for a holiday. More fool me,’ she added drily. ‘Look, have I called you at a bad time? Are you too busy to talk? Where are you? I can hear quite a bit of noise in the background.’

      A loud group of men had just passed by Sergio’s table.

      ‘I’m in a restaurant, waiting for some friends of mine to arrive. But they’re running late. London traffic is not conducive to punctuality.’

      ‘New York’s just as bad. So you’re still living in London?’

      ‘I bought an apartment here,’ he told her, wondering what she was getting at. He was also beginning to see that his earlier concern for her welfare had been ridiculous. But that was typical of his reactions where Bella was concerned. They were always over the top and dangerously lacking in logic.

      ‘So how can I help you, Bella?’ he asked, knowing full well that her problem would be nothing like he’d been imagining.

      ‘I was wondering...do you still have that villa on Lake Como? You didn’t sell it after your father passed away, did you?’

      ‘No. I would never sell the villa. It’s been in the Morelli family for generations. Why?’

      ‘I...I need to get away, Sergio. Somewhere private and peaceful. I was hoping to rent it from you for two or three weeks. Maybe even a month.’

      ‘I see,’ he said, suppressing his annoyance with difficulty. If she wanted to rent a damned villa on Lake Como there were plenty on the market. Why ask for his? One part of him wanted to tell her to go to hell. But that other part—the one that still wanted her, despite everything—could not resist the opportunity to see her again. In the flesh. Her absolutely gorgeous exquisite flesh.

      ‘So when would you be wanting to stay there?’ he asked, casually.

      ‘Straight away,’ she said. ‘Or at least as soon as I can get there. Like I said, I’m in Sydney at the moment.’

      At her mother’s house, he thought bitterly, the one his father had generously given to that gold-digger as part