Her head spinning giddily, Portia gulped. Happy? Of course she wasn’t! Having one of them track her down was the last thing she’d wanted.
But she might have known. Hadn’t her parents warned her that attending her dead lover’s funeral, running the gauntlet of his prestigious family, not to mention his grieving widow, would be a mistake of the most tasteless kind?
But she’d gone anyway; she’d felt as if she simply had to—intending only to slip in quietly, hide at the back of the congregation where she would be unnoticed. The softness of her heart had overridden the shock of her recent discovery: the knowledge that Vito had never loved her and had run the proverbial mile when she’d told him she was expecting their child. She’d needed to pay her last respects to the father of her unborn baby, to say one last goodbye, to pray for him.
Eight months pregnant, and huge with it, hiding hadn’t been easy, and remaining unnoticed had become out of the question when, overcome with mixed but strong emotions, she had fainted.
She had only vague memories of being helped outside. Someone had fetched a glass of water. A female and two males, talking in rapid Italian above her spinning head, dark suspicious eyes inspecting her closely, had made her want to sink right back into oblivion. But when she’d recovered enough to reluctantly mumble her home address, when pressed, one of the men had used his mobile to summon a taxi. Into which she’d been thankfully and discreetly bundled—something rather suspect to be removed from the scene as quickly as possible.
She had thought—devoutly hoped—that that was the end of it. But plainly it hadn’t been. Unconsciously running a feather-light finger over her sleeping baby’s velvet-soft cheek, she at last found her tongue and uttered staunchly, ‘I’ve nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing!’
She’d loved Vito, admired him when he’d told her he was working hard, saving to open his own restaurant, had believed him when he’d told her he loved her, too, and that they’d marry as soon as it was financially possible.
She hadn’t known he was already married, that everything he’d said to her was untrue. He had promised marriage and happy-ever-after because he must have thought it was the only way to get her to agree to spending that weekend with him.
So what right had this hard-faced man to look at her as if she were something utterly despicable? Her voice thickening, she demanded, ‘Why are you here?’
‘Good question,’ he responded drily, noting the way she deliberately drew attention to the newest member of the Verdi family. He pushed his fists into the pockets of the exquisitely tailored mohair coat he was wearing, his impressive shoulders stiffening. ‘Not by my own wish, you understand. To set the record straight, I was dead against the family having any contact whatsoever with you.’
His mouth thinned as he explained, ‘A crumpled letter from a Portia Makepeace was found on the floor of the wreck of Vittorio’s car. It gave this address.’ His face darkened with distaste. ‘It was hysterical. I thought it had been written by a schoolgirl, not a full-grown educated woman. Then I recalled the unknown pregnant female at the funeral, the attention she’d drawn to herself, the home address she had given. After that it didn’t require the services of an Einstein to arrive at the facts. The child is my half-brother’s.’
The thought of denying it didn’t enter her head, but his disparaging words had lit a rare spark of rage in her brain.
She hadn’t been hysterical when she’d written to Vito at the classy London restaurant where he’d worked as a pastry chef—remembering his instructions never to phone him there because it would get him in deep trouble with his boss—she’d simply been worried half out of her mind.
She hadn’t heard from him for weeks, not since she’d told him the last time he’d phoned her of her pregnancy. She’d been sure something dreadful had happened to him. It had been the only thing she’d been able to think of to explain his failure to keep in touch with her.
Now she knew why he’d washed his hands of her, knew that everything he’d ever said to her had been lies, and in her own essentially practical way she was learning to accept it. But this stranger’s unforgivable scathing comment about her lack of ability when it came to the written word touched a nerve that had been raw since her early childhood.
Grey eyes glinting, she bit out sarcastically, ‘I’m sorry I’m not a reincarnation of William Shakespeare.’ She clamped her teeth together to stop them chattering. She was shaking all over. Whether from rage or the chilliness of the narrow hallway she didn’t know, but she strongly suspected the former. ‘I’d like you to leave,’ she ordered tightly.
She should have saved her breath, she thought irately. The patronising brute simply stood his ground, one ebony brow lifting derisively, a smile that held not even a flicker of warmth lifting one corner of that long, sensual mouth. ‘Pushing your luck, aren’t you? I might just take you at your word and report my mission as a failure.’ The ersatz smile disappeared at the speed of light, and his features were hard-edged as he added softly, ‘I’m quite sure that is not what you have in mind.’
He’d bet his last million lire it wasn’t! Despite the impression given by that deranged-sounding letter—bleating on about wedding plans and the baby they were expecting—this woman was no dumb klutz.
She would have continued to bombard the holding address—the astronomically expensive restaurant Vittorio had habitually frequented—with those whining, schoolgirlish letters no doubt changing in tone after the birth to demands for high levels of maintenance—or else!
But Vittorio had been tragically killed behind the wheel of one of the fast cars he’d been addicted to. So her modus operandi had changed.
Watching her intently, he expelled a sigh between his gritted teeth. He might have been inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt had she not muscled in on the private family funeral with that fainting fit which, with hindsight, he decided had to have been manufactured to make double sure of being noticed.
As if that large lumpen thing, covered in a shabby brown coat and making snuffling noises into a huge handkerchief, could have been overlooked by any one of the elegantly black-attired members of the family!
It had been the action of a woman who was out to make trouble. He sighed, not liking what he was having to do. But his father, once the contents of that letter had been made known, had been adamant.
He dragged air deep into his lungs. It stuck in his craw, but he was going to have to extend the invitation.
‘Portia—what are you doing? Who is it?’ At that moment Godfrey Makepeace emerged from the sitting room, his voice tight with the strain he’d been under since learning of his daughter’s pregnancy and the simultaneous disappearance of the man responsible—the man he’d taken an instant dislike to on the one and only occasion they’d met.
‘It’s OK, Dad.’ She turned to him, her heart contracting guiltily. He looked so careworn, with his fawn cardigan buttoned so neatly across his narrow chest, his bald head gleaming in the overhead light. Once again she’d failed him—and her mother—this time monumentally.
Portia felt really dreadful about it. They’d both impressed on her all the logical reasons why she should have had an abortion, and when logic had failed they’d resorted to pleading. But she had adamantly refused to destroy the new little life growing inside her. It wasn’t the poor mite’s fault that his father had been a lying deceiver.
‘This gentleman,’
