angry face as he stepped forward with all the spine-tingling predatory grace of a great jungle cat, his hand outstretched.
‘Mr Makepeace—Lucenzo Verdi. Vittorio was my half-brother. I apologise for intruding at this hour, but I’ve only just returned from Florence with an urgent communication from my father, Eduardo Verdi, the head of our family.’ He paused for a moment to let the information sink in and Portia could have slapped him.
Because of the press coverage following Vito’s fatal accident everyone knew of the awe-inspiring international success of the Verdi Mercantile Bank and the position Vito had held in its London headquarters. Trust this creep to rub their humble noses in his family’s power and wealth!
One of Sam’s hands escaped from the shawl and his tiny body stiffened in her loving arms. Portia barely registered her father’s guarded ‘And?’ as she gazed, entranced, at the shock of dark soft hair, the unfocused milky blue eyes that she was sure would one day turn to grey, just like her own.
Her baby was ready for his next feed and that, for the moment, was her overriding priority. Let whatsisname—Lucenzo—make his ‘communication’ and sling his hook. Her father would relay the details and she would ignore them.
And if there was a threat—implied or openly stated—that the family would fight for custody of her son, then she and Sam would simply disappear.
On that heartening but slightly scary determination she inched past the overbearing presence of the Italian, and the much smaller frame of her father, and headed for the kitchen to warm up the bottle of formula she’d stored in the fridge.
Forty-five minutes later she reluctantly laid a sleepy, contented Sam in the crib at the side of her single bed and went downstairs, her ridiculous slippers sliding on the shiny linoleum that covered the narrow treads.
The Italian would have left by now. Such humble surroundings wouldn’t be to his exalted taste. She would ask her parents what his famous communication had been about. Not that she was interested, but to ignore the Visitation from On High would rub her parents up the wrong way. And that, she admitted on a draining sigh, was something she’d been doing for most of her life.
Hooking her long, unkempt hair behind her ears, she took a deep, fortifying breath and walked into the sitting room. Her face drained of colour when she noted the impressively lean and moody frame reclining in the place of honour—her father’s armchair at the side of the electric fire—his elegantly long legs and obviously disgustingly expensive shoes stretched out on the hearthrug.
The way the arrogantly held dark head turned to her, those black eyes glittering beneath slightly lowered lids studying her as if she were a hitherto undiscovered and not very pleasant form of insect life, made her heart contract violently beneath her breastbone and then perform a series of lazy somersaults.
‘Portia—’ Her mother’s voice, far softer, lighter than usual, gave her the impetus to drag her part-fascinated, part-horrified gaze from that wickedly handsome, chillingly intimidating face. She gulped in a lungful of air and felt something prickly dance up and down her spine.
Joyce Makepeace was patting the empty space beside her on the sofa in invitation. Portia’s soft mouth fell open. Her mother’s cheeks were a becoming pink, her hazel eyes bright, her mouth smiling. The stern retired schoolmistress was actually looking fluttery!
Obeying the summons because she couldn’t think of anything else to do, Portia blundered forwards, tripping over her cumbersome slippers, feeling hot and bothered, ridiculous. She wished she’d never set eyes on the things. She was only wearing them because Betty had bought them for her. That had been really sweet of her, and her conscience would have pricked unbearably if she’d put them in the bin as her father had suggested.
Making it to the sofa without further mishap, she glanced nervously at her mother, expecting the usual frown of pained displeasure for her clumsiness. Instead she received an amazing smile, a fond pat of her hand—just as if she’d done something her parents could be proud of for once, instead of falling over her feet, making a spectacle of herself.
‘Signor Verdi—Lucenzo—’ Joyce Makepeace dimpled ‘—has something to say to you, Portia.’
A fleeting smile for Joyce curled his satanically beautiful mouth as he got lithely to his feet. His piercingly dark eyes fastened on Portia’s nervous face as he reached for the elegantly tailored charcoal overcoat he’d discarded and draped the soft folds over his arm.
If it weren’t for the facts he wouldn’t believe it. The charming, feckless, utterly faithless Vito had had many affairs—a gene he had inherited from the English girl his father had married five years after his first wife, Lucenzo’s mother, had died. A year later Christine had given birth to Vittorio and, her duty done, as she’d seen it, she’d embarked on a string of unsavoury affairs.
Lucenzo tightened his mouth with grim distaste. His half-brother had favoured svelte, stylish, long-legged blondes. So what had he been doing with this over-weight, clumsy creature? A blonde, admittedly, but there any point of reference ceased. Her hair was a mess and no self-respecting female would stick her feet into bright green things that looked like giant bloated frogs!
She must have caught Vittorio in an off-moment, possibly when he’d been drunk, and thrown herself at him…
‘You must excuse me. I’m already late for an appointment.’ Lucenzo made a point of glancing at the thin gold watch on his flat wrist. He’d had as much as he could take. Despite his warnings to his father, Portia Makepeace was about to receive all her avaricious, scheming little heart had dreamed of. The knowledge made him want to punch holes in the wall.
He eyed her coldly. ‘Your parents will relay my father’s wishes.’ He gave her a bleak, informal nod of the head. It was more than he’d thought he could manage. ‘I will see you in six weeks’ time. One of my secretaries will contact you regarding the exact time and date.’
‘One’ of his secretaries? How many did the man have? And just what did he mean about seeing her again in six weeks’ time? That was all Portia could think about as her father, looking really sprightly for a change, showed the Italian out.
And her mother said knowingly, ‘If you ever want to know the meaning of the word “exotic” just think about Lucenzo Verdi! And such a gentleman, too. Quite unlike that half-brother of his. I knew he was a rogue the moment I set eyes on him.’
‘You only met him once,’ Portia reminded her glumly.
She’d practically had to drag Vito here. But they’d been talking about getting engaged and she’d insisted he must meet her parents. And he’d been begging her to spend a weekend with him.
‘Somewhere quiet and off the beaten track,’ he’d said. ‘It needn’t be expensive, and if you’re adamant about not wasting money on an engagement ring a weekend together would be a wonderful way of marking the occasion, making it special—you know how much I love and want you, carissima—or do you like torturing me?’
‘Once was quite enough. Anyone with a grain of intelligence would have seen through him,’ Joyce remarked drily, and Portia felt the too-ready tears sting the backs of her eyes.
Did everyone else on the planet have more nous than she did? Were her parents right when they accused her of being everyone’s best friend, of being too naive to see harm in any living soul, reckless enough to fill the outstretched palms of every beggar she came across?
Not really, she defended
