down such an offer.
Two hours later the private jet was airborne. Lucenzo, his long legs stretched out in front of him, extracted a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and tried to concentrate, to shut out the presence of the female at his side.
But that was proving difficult while she was playing with the baby who was gurgling back at her. And today she looked different from when he’d first seen her six weeks ago. Not so bunchy-looking now, in clean but well-worn jeans and a plain white T-shirt, her hair shining with health and caught into her nape with a scarlet ribbon.
Better, but in his jaded experience still not the type the unfaithful Vittorio had been constitutionally unable to resist—he had liked glitz and glamour, trophy women. But something had drawn him to this one. Perhaps, he thought as the flight attendant approached with a feeding bottle, perhaps it was the smile.
It was radiant as she took the bottle, lighting up her otherwise unremarkable face, and her voice was soft and lilting as she answered the attendant’s, ‘I hope it’s not too hot?’
‘It’s just right—and thank you so much. It’s very kind of you!’
Butter wouldn’t melt, Lucenzo thought sourly, trying to blot out the sound of the two women admiring his half-brother’s baby. The child looked contented and well cared for, and as far as he could tell she appeared to be a good mother. But then, he reminded himself cynically as his eyes were reluctantly drawn to the gentle hand that caressed the baby’s soft cheek as he hungrily suckled, Vittorio’s son was her trump card, her passport to the Verdi wealth. No wonder she treated him as though he were the most precious thing on earth.
Sighing irritably, he rustled his papers and answered the flight attendant’s offer of coffee with a terse negative.
As the other girl moved away Portia decided she had to do something about this tense state of affairs. She didn’t mind for herself, but the spiky atmosphere couldn’t be good for little Sam. Hadn’t she read somewhere that even tiny babies could pick up vibes and be affected by them?
‘I’ve never flown before,’ she confided, to start the conversational ball rolling, casting him a wary smile. This not-speaking business was ridiculous. He’d made his dislike of her obvious, but surely they could be polite to each other? The only words he’d said to her had been icy orders, telling her where to go and what to do.
She lifted Sam and laid him against her shoulder, gently rubbing his back. She’d pretend the disapproving Lucenzo Verdi was an ordinary human being, just another fellow traveller. She’d always enjoyed talking to people.
From where she was sitting that wasn’t going to be too easy. The expression on his austerely handsome profile would have done a hanging judge proud. Even so, she launched out cheerfully, ‘When I was growing up my parents took me for improving holidays. Museums, art galleries, sites of historical interest—they didn’t believe in lying in the sun on Mediterranean beaches. Then, when I was earning for myself and they’d thrown in the towel when it came to improving me, I didn’t take holidays. I just saved all I could for—’
Her cheeks going fiery red, Portia stopped herself just in time. She’d been babbling. Her mother always said she never thought before she opened her mouth. It really wouldn’t do to tell him she’d been saving for what she had always dreamed of: a wedding, a home of her own and children. That after she’d met and fallen in love with Vito she’d redoubled her efforts, believing him when he’d said they’d marry as soon as it was financially possible.
Lucenzo probably missed his brother dreadfully, still mourned his untimely death, she thought compassionately. She was not going to rub in the fact that Vito had been a liar and a cheat. She wasn’t into hurting people, even if they were patronising beasts.
He didn’t seem to notice that her torrent had broken off mid-sentence; he appeared to be intent on what he was reading. But his eyes weren’t moving. Those fabulous lashes were making inky shadows against the harshly beautiful line of his cheekbones.
Asleep? No way. She’d never seen a pair of shoulders look less relaxed.
Pointedly ignoring her? Most certainly. Her soft mouth twitched. It wouldn’t do the wretched man any harm to unbend a little. ‘I think he’s just about to drop off,’ she imparted chirpily, meaning Sam, who was lying in her arms, his little arms stretched above his head, his eyelids drooping.
No response. But Portia wasn’t ready to give up yet. Surely he didn’t intend to spend the whole of the flight in this forbidding silence? There were things she wanted to know about the family she was about to meet, the place she was expected to inhabit for goodness only knew how long—a week, a month, a year?
This darkly handsome, coldly unresponsive persona surely wasn’t all there was to this man. Someone, somewhere, must see the other, more human side?
‘Are you married, Lucenzo? Do you have a family?’ she asked impulsively.
People he loved, who loved him back? Children he played with who knew how he looked when he threw back his head and laughed at their antics? A wife who saw melting adoration in those dark, hostile eyes, who knew every inch of that lithe and powerful body…?
Portia swallowed painfully, the now all-too familiar frisson of intense excitement taking her breath away, accelerating her heartbeat. She shouldn’t be thinking that way, picturing him naked, with desire softening his mouth, heating his eyes. Imagining what it would be like to be held in his arms…
She’d never indulged in erotic fantasies, not ever, she thought with growing alarm. The inclination simply hadn’t been there, not even with Vito. Or the couple of boyfriends she’d had before him. Their interest in her had fizzled out rapidly after they’d met her parents and come up against the brick wall of their restrictions.
Her mother had warned her. ‘Always remember, most men are only after one thing. It takes brains and looks to attract the honourable attentions of a man of the right calibre.’ And she had neither brains nor looks. That had been the implication.
Confused and miserable, Portia glared at the fluffy blanket of clouds which was all she could see out of the window, wishing she was anywhere in the world but here.
Sliding the papers back into his briefcase, Lucenzo glanced at her. So she wanted to talk, did she? A nice chatty little dialogue to while away the time? She was too self-absorbed and thick-skinned to take on board the fact that the last thing he wanted was idle conversation with a husband-stealer who was the next best thing to a blackmailer.
So he’d talk, and she’d only have herself to blame if she didn’t like what he had to say.
Ignoring her question about his marital status, because she, of all people, had no damned right to pry into that painful part of his life—any part of his life, if it came to that—he drawled silkily, ‘Your parents seemed glad to be rid of you. No fond farewells, no promises to phone or write. I wonder why?’
He could well imagine, he thought drily as he watched what had to be guilty colour steal over her face. She’d probably been trouble since the day she was born. Feckless, irresponsible, with an eye for the main chance.
Mindful of the bad atmosphere that could affect her baby, Portia swallowed an angry retort. Besides, if she’d viewed their parting from where he’d been standing she might have jumped to that conclusion.
Always ready to extend the benefit of the doubt, she turned to face him, explaining softly and earnestly, ‘You
