me by hopeful matrons who probably know to the last euro what I am worth. And of course there have been other women—socialites and so on—who thought they would like to become Signora Carella and continue to live in the manner to which they were accustomed. A few have even said this outright.’
She stared at him. ‘Are you saying women only want you for your money?’ Had he looked in the mirror lately?
He laughed—a throaty chuckle. ‘Not only my money, no. If there was a choice between a rich old man and a rich young one most red-blooded females would prefer the latter, I have no doubt. But wealth and position are powerful aphrodisiacs.’
Cherry thought he was doing himself—and probably the vast majority of the women he’d spoken of—a grave injustice. Vittorio Carella was the epitome of a man with everything, and she didn’t doubt women would find it easy to fall in love with him. She found the thought uncomfortable, and because of this her voice was uncharacteristically sharp when she said, ‘Something tells me you have been mixing with the wrong type of woman. Or maybe it’s a case of “live by the sword, die by the sword”?’
‘An interesting suggestion.’ His voice was smooth, silky, but there was the slightest of inflexion in the cool foreign voice that hinted he wasn’t as relaxed and nonchalant as he’d have her believe. ‘You are intimating I get what I deserve, signorina?’
‘My father always used to say that water finds its own level.’ She smiled, determined not to be intimidated by this arrogant individual who had put womankind into a box. ‘And I happen to have lots of female friends who couldn’t care less about the balance of a man’s bank account but put a high price on faithfulness and commitment.’
‘And you, Cherry? Do you put a high price on faithfulness?’
For a second she wondered if Sophia had told him about Liam and Angela, but almost immediately dismissed the thought. Brother and sister weren’t into cosy conversations just at the moment. She took a deep breath and spoke from the heart. ‘It’s priceless.’
The grey eyes narrowed before he raked back his wet hair with bronzed fingers. Changing the subject with an abruptness which was unnerving, he said, ‘I saw Sophia talking to you earlier.’ He gestured towards the house. ‘From the window. The conversation appeared… intense.’
Cherry’s chin tilted upwards. To anyone who knew her it was a warning signal, but her voice was controlled and without heat when she said calmly, ‘I have no intention of repeating my conversation with your sister, Signor Carella.’
‘I didn’t think you would, Miss Cherry Gibbs from England. Not for a moment. You think Sophia is hard done by?’
The overt mockery was galling. He was galling, with his to-die-for body and filmstar good-looks. Horrified such a thought had entered her mind, Cherry said crisply, ‘I would just say that I consider your treatment of your sister archaic at best and stupid at worst.’
The smile hovering about his mouth disappeared. ‘Stupid?’ he ground out. Clearly ‘archaic’ was permissible, but ‘stupid’ had most definitely touched a nerve.
He sat up on the sun-bed, the subtle sensual odour of his brown skin overlaid with the tang of the swimmingpool water filling her senses as he leant closer. ‘Why stupid?’ he murmured, his eyes like cold steel. ‘Explain yourself.’
He had asked. ‘I happen to think Sophia is far more emotionally mature than you intimated,’ she said carefully, ‘but when all is said and done she is still a sixteen-year-old girl. I’ve been that age, and if there is one thing absolutely set in concrete it’s that you do whatever the older generation says it’s foolish to do. Call it rebellion, finding your own feet, whatever, but it’s guaranteed you’ll go against the grain. And that is what Sophia is doing.’
‘Santo?’ he said flatly.
‘Santo.’ Cherry nodded. ‘You are driving her into his arms by trying to keep them apart.’
‘The problema romantico?’ The hard, autocratic face was thoughtful. ‘Si, maybe. Perhaps you have a point.’
‘Yes, definitely.’ Her voice was cool. ‘It’s Romeo and Juliet all over again.’
‘An exaggeration, but I get your drift,’ he drawled mockingly.
Hateful man. ‘Of course it’s none of my business,’ she said crisply, sliding out of the hammock and walking towards the swimming pool. ‘And I’m sure a man as well acquainted with the female sex as you obviously are knows exactly what he’s doing.’
She dived into the cool water before he could reply, needing to put some space between them. It didn’t work. When she surfaced he was right there beside her, grey eyes glinting in the baking hot sunlight.
He didn’t mince his words. ‘You think I am a womaniser?’ he asked, treading water by her side. ‘A philanderer?’
Feeling far more vulnerable than she would have liked, Cherry blinked and shook her hair out of her eyes. ‘I’ve no idea what you are,’ she prevaricated. ‘I don’t know you, do I?’
‘This is true, but I do not think it has stopped you forming an opinion.’ As she began to swim, he kept by her side. ‘Are you always so quick to make erroneous judgements?’
His voice was mild, but it didn’t fool her for a moment. She had got under his skin, it was obvious, but any satisfaction she might have felt about denting his giant ego was negated by a feeling of defencelessness. Not that she thought he would hurt her—she didn’t—but…
Forcing a calmness into her voice that was all at odds with her wildly beating heart, she said, ‘I told you. I have no opinion about you one way or the other, OK? You might have a woman for every day of the week or you could live like a monk. You were the one who talked about all those daughters of marriagable age being paraded before you, remember?’
They had reached the shallow end of the pool, where large circular steps led gently into the water. Cherry didn’t know whether to climb out or continue swimming, but in the next moment Vittorio murmured, ‘Ah, here is Margherita. I thought it would be nice to have cocktails by the pool tonight before dinner.’
He seriously expected her to sit half-naked drinking cocktails with him? Worse, the scrap of material posing as swimming trunks which all Italian men seemed to favour left nothing, absolutely nothing, to the imagination. The water was cold but Cherry felt hot all over as she watched the housekeeper’s approach.
Would she be reacting differently to his intimidating masculinity if she’d gone to bed with a man before? she asked herself feverishly as Vittorio stood up, offering his hand to her as he stood on the bottom step leading out of the pool. Possibly because she knew Angela had always slept around, even having two or three boyfriends on the go now and again, Cherry had always determined she would wait for ‘the one’ before she gave herself body and soul. She supposed in hindsight it said a lot for her lack of confidence that she and Liam would actually last, that she hadn’t given in to his constant demands that their lovemaking progress beyond the petting stage. Introducing him to Angela had been the big test. And he’d failed. Spectacularly. But had it really been a surprise?
Realising she couldn’t do anything other than take Vittorio’s hand, she, too, stood up, blessing the fact she was wearing her chaste swimming costume, its colour and cut modest. What she didn’t comprehend was that when the material was wet it
