The Count's Blackmail Bargain. Sara Craven
with a figure that would incline to plumpness in middle age. But the Count was fully six feet tall, with a lean, muscular golden-skinned body that she’d had every opportunity to admire. The shorts he’d been wearing, slung low on his narrow hips, just erred on the right side of decency, she thought, her face warming slightly at the recollection.
And he was nowhere near middle life—hardly more than in his early thirties, if she was any judge. Not, she supposed, that she was.
As for the rest of him—well, his face was more striking than handsome, with a high-bridged beak of a nose, a frankly cynical mouth, and eyes as dark as midnight that looked at the world with bored indifference from under their heavy lids. Or at least, she amended, that was the way he’d looked at her.
And he wasn’t his aunt’s greatest admirer either, as Paolo had suggested. She hadn’t understood their brief exchange, but she’d detected a certain amount of snip, all the same.
But, if that was how he felt about his visitors, why was he here, when he wasn’t expected and it was clear that he had better places to go? It seemed to make no sense.
Whatever, she could not imagine him being pleased to find he was entertaining a very minor cog from his London branch’s PR machine. All the more reason, she told herself, for her connection with Harman Grace to remain a closely guarded secret. So—she’d continue to be the girl Paulo had met in a bar, and let his noble relative pick the bones out of that.
But her troubled musings ceased when Emilia, a comfortably built woman with a beaming smile, flung open a door with a triumphant, ‘Ecco, signorina,’ indicating that this was her bedroom.
Laura took a step inside, and looked round, her eyes widening with delight. It couldn’t have presented a greater contrast to the opulent and cluttered apartment where she’d stayed yesterday. For one thing, it was double the size of the room she’d occupied there, she realised, with a floor tiled in a soft pink marble, while the white plaster walls still bore traces of ancient frescos, which she would examine at her leisure.
But that was the only suggestion of the villa’s age. For the present day, there was a queen-sized bed, prettily hung with filmy white curtains, which also graced the shuttered windows. A chest of drawers, a clothes cupboard, and a night table comprised the rest of the furniture, and a door led to a compact but luxurious shower room, tiled in the same shade of pink. The only other additions to the bedroom were a lamp beside the bed, and a bowl of roses on the chest.
She turned to Emilia. ‘Perfect,’ she said, smiling. And, managing to ignore Signora Vicente’s disdainful glance, ‘Perfetto.’
When she was alone, she went over to the window, and pulled it wide. It opened, she saw, onto a three-sided courtyard, bordered by a narrow colonnade, like a medieval cloister, and she stepped through, gazing around her. There was a small fountain in the centre of the paved area, with a battered cherub pouring water from a shell into a shallow pool, while beside it stood a stone bench.
Directly ahead of her, Laura saw, the courtyard itself opened out into the sunlit grass and flowers of the garden beyond, and from somewhere not too far away she could hear the cooing of doves.
But it wasn’t all peace and tranquillity, she realised wryly. From even closer at hand, she could hear the raised autocratic tones of the Signora, mingled with Emilia’s quieter replies.
A salutary reminder that this little piece of Eden also had its serpents, not to mention wolves and bears, she thought, gazing up at the thickly forested slopes that brooded above her.
Suddenly, she felt tired, sticky and a little dispirited. She’d seen that there were towels and a range of toiletries waiting in the shower room, so decided she might as well make use of them.
She stood under the powerful jet of warm water, lathering her skin luxuriously with soap that smelt of lilies, feeling as if her anxieties were draining away with the suds and she were being somehow reborn, refreshed and invigorated.
Most of the towels were linen, but there were a couple of fluffy bath sheets as well, and when she was dry she wound herself in one of them, and trailed back into the bedroom.
While she’d been occupied, her case had arrived and was waiting on the bed, so she busied herself with unpacking. She hadn’t brought nearly enough, she thought, viewing the results with disfavour, and very little that was smart or formal enough for someone who found herself staying with a count at his private villa.
The outfit that had survived with the fewest creases was a wrap-around dress in a silver-grey silky material, and she decided to try and create a good impression by wearing it for dinner that night.
She had a solitary credit card, kept for emergencies, and maybe she could persuade Paolo to risk the road from hell on a trip to Perugia, so that she could supplement her wardrobe a little.
Whatever she wore, the Signora would sneer, and she accepted that. But for reasons she could not explain, or even admit to, she did not want Count Ramontella looking at her with equal disdain.
She wanted him to accept the fiction that she and Paolo were an item. Perhaps to acknowledge, in some way she hadn’t worked out yet, that she was an eligible bride for his cousin, and welcome her as such.
And pigs might fly, she thought morosely.
In the meantime, she wasn’t sure what to do next. The whole villa seemed enveloped in sleepy heat. There was even silence from the adjoining room, the only sound being the faint soothing splash of the fountain.
Laura felt she could hardly blunder about exploring her new surroundings, alone and uninvited, in case she committed some kind of social faux pas.
So, she decided, she was probably better off remaining where she was until summoned.
She was just about to stretch out on the bed with her book when there was a knock at the door.
Paolo, she thought instantly, wishing she were wearing something more reliable than a big towel. But when she cautiously opened the door, and peeped round it, she found Emilia waiting with a tray.
Beaming, the older woman informed her in halting English that His Excellency thought the signorina might need some refreshment after her journey, then placed the tray in her hands and departed.
Laura carried the tray over to the bed and set it down with care. It held a teapot, with a dish of lemon slices, a plate of tiny crustless sandwiches containing some kind of pâté, and a bowl of golden cherries faintly flushed with crimson.
It was a kindness she had not anticipated, she thought with faint bewilderment. In fact the Count Ramontella seemed positively full of surprises.
But perhaps she was reading too much into this. Clearly his hospitality was primarily aimed at his aunt, and she’d been included as an afterthought.
Because her host didn’t seem like a man who went in for random acts of kindness, Laura thought, remembering uneasily the faint curl of that beautifully moulded mouth.
So, she might as well make the most of this one, while it was on offer.
She ate every scrap of the delicious sandwiches with two cups of tea, then lay back with a contented sigh, savouring the cherries as she read. Later, she dozed for a while.
When she eventually awoke, the sun was much lower in the sky, and shadows were beginning to creep across the courtyard outside.
She donned a lacy bra and briefs, then sat down to make up her face with rather more care than usual, before giving her glossy fall of russet hair a vigorous brushing and fastening silver hoops in her ears. Finally, she sprayed her skin with the fresh, light scent she used, then slipped into the chosen dress, winding its sash round her slender waist and fastening it in a bow.
She’d brought one pair of flattish evening sandals in a neutral pewter shade—light years away from the glamorous shoes with their dizzyingly high heels that Italy was famous for. But even if she’d possessed such a pair, she wouldn’t have been able to wear them, she conceded regretfully, because that would have made her