The Brunellesci Baby. Daphne Clair
she should abandon her mission, leave. But the cowardly thought was quickly dismissed. One glimpse didn’t tell the whole story.
She turned her attention to the woman, probably in her mid-thirties, with a pleasantly attractive face framed by short brown curls, and a curvy but fit-looking body, the waist accentuated by a white belt about a plain green dress worn with white flat-heeled sandals. A nanny. Someone they’d hired to take charge of the baby.
When the child was lifted from the swing and the group went down to the beach she made herself stay where she was, then after a while get up and go back to the car, where she watched until they returned to the house and disappeared inside the gates.
After some time had passed with no further activity discernible she started the car, drove slowly by once more, then accelerated and turned a corner, taking a route that passed the rear of the mansion.
There were other homes backing onto it, but she glimpsed behind them the same high brick wall. Any thought of secretly making her way into the house was unfeasible. Not that she’d seriously considered that, knowing it was burglar-alarmed to the teeth.
At least now she knew where the baby was, that he hadn’t been sent off to some secret hideaway or remote country estate to be raised in isolation.
Time to consider her strategy.
The next morning she parked in the same place and waited. Again the trio of woman, elderly man and baby appeared. The woman carefully looked right and left and right. Her gaze seemed to linger on the parked car, and she turned to say something to the white-haired man before stepping onto the road with the pushchair.
Imagination, surely. But caution warned, Don’t be conspicuous. Stay in the car, out of sight.
The child was enjoying his swing. When the woman lifted him out he pointed to a low slide, and she took him to it and supported him as he swooped to the ground, then repeated the process. Each time he reached the bottom he clapped his hands together in gleeful approval.
His grandfather took a seat under the shade of the awning and placed the walking stick between his knees, a slight smile on his thin lips. For a man who had built an empire from nothing after entering Australia as a penniless Italian immigrant fifty-odd years ago, earning a reputation for drive and hard-nosed business practice equalled only by the son to whom he had passed the reins, he looked almost benign.
Tough, strong men, according to medical studies, grew mild in old age with the gradual loss of testosterone.
His son Zandro was in his early thirties, with a long way to go before that happened. Maybe old Domenico would be an easier target. And he must surely still have some influence with his son.
Intent on the group in the park, she hadn’t seen the big black car approach—so silently she didn’t hear it either until it swerved across the road and stopped in front of hers, nose to nose.
Immediately a man flung open the driver’s door and leapt out. Her heart plunged even before he’d covered the few strides to her side and hauled open the door. Her hand went to the ignition key in an automatic but futile attempt at escape.
Long, hard fingers closed about her wrist. She was jerked from her seat with no time to put up more than the feeblest resistance, and backed against the rear door, her assailant’s broad shoulders blocking her view.
The hand that wasn’t holding her wrist in an iron grip slammed down on the roof of the car, trapping her while fiery, obsidian eyes in a spare, strong face seared her with an expression at first suspicious, then disbelieving.
‘Lia?’ His voice was tempered steel in a velvet sheath.
She swallowed, in danger of melting under the gaze that now held a heat like banked coals. There was no mistaking who he was. ‘Zandro,’ she said.
Unlike the father he strikingly resembled, the younger Brunellesci showed no hint of benignity. Suffocatingly aware of his size, his physical power, the furious incredulity in his eyes, and her veins throbbing in the wrist encircled by his bone-breaking hold, she tried to gather courage to stand up to him.
Black brows snapped together. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’
Don’t crack. He’s only a man. ‘I’m not playing at anything.’ She thrust her chin forward. ‘Let go my wrist.’
Zandro Brunellesci blinked, thick dark lashes momentarily blanking out the fiery stare, and when they lifted, a faint surprise lit his eyes.
Lia had never directly challenged his authority, his right to do as he liked with her or any member of his family.
But this was another Lia, one who wouldn’t be pushed around, who knew what she wanted and had come to get it. Who’d refuse to take no for an answer, regardless of what it cost her—or him.
For a second longer he stared down at her, not moving, before abruptly releasing his hold, but his other hand didn’t leave the car roof and he still loomed over her.
Automatically she cradled her aching wrist with her free hand, then dropped them both to her sides, not wanting to show him any weakness.
To her surprise he reached down and took her hand, more gently this time, though firmly overriding her resistance.
He frowned down at the reddened skin, and she saw his mouth tauten, a sudden whiteness appear at one corner. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you,’ he said, his voice altering to a low rasp. ‘I got a shock.’
‘You gave me one too,’ she said tartly. ‘Not to mention a bruise, probably.’
His remarkable eyes flashed as he let go her hand. A hint of puzzlement flickered across his face when she stared defiantly back at him. Again there was a change in the dark depths, a spark of something that caught her unawares and made her breath quicken.
Impatiently he shook his head, and shifted, bending to remove her car key from the ignition. He closed the door and, ignoring her protest, locked it, shoving the key into his pocket. ‘You’d better come to the house and get some ice on that.’ Once more he glanced at her wrist, then he laid a careful but compelling hand on her arm, just above the elbow.
Her instinct was to draw away, condemn his high-handedness and demand her key before driving off. But although it could hardly be called an invitation he was suggesting an entrée to the house, and expediency dictated she shouldn’t turn the offer down.
This confrontation had been inevitable sooner or later, and so what if she didn’t feel prepared for it right now? The fact was she never would be. She’d been procrastinating under the excuse of scouting the enemy territory and refining her plan. Now an unexpected opportunity had arrived she should grasp it with both hands.
Zandro’s fingers at her elbow seemed to emanate tongues of fire and her nerves were jumping. Strange sensations that she’d never felt before, but then she’d never before been in this situation. Normally a scrupulously honest person, she was about to embark on a reluctant deceit that it would take all her resolution and strength of mind to carry out.
It’s not too late, whispered a craven inner voice. She could still back out. Insist on leaving, take the first flight straight back to New Zealand.
She looked up at Zandro Brunellesci’s face, a face set like granite in an expression of controlled ferocity. Her heart quailed, and the words she’d been about to utter dried on her tongue. The man was frightening in his very restraint. But she’d faithfully, solemnly promised to go through with this. If she didn’t live up to that promise she would never forgive herself.
He locked his own car and she allowed him to guide her along the pavement. At the entrance to the drive a numbered keypad and a discreet microphone with a sign saying Press For Entry were fixed to one of the brick posts. But Zandro slid a hand into a breast pocket of the impeccable suit he wore and must have touched some remote-control gadget. The gates silently parted and he ushered her inside.
When the gates clicked shut behind them she shivered visibly, irrationally feeling