This wasn’t getting her anywhere. She rummaged in her bag, donned wraparound sunglasses, then twisted her hair and piled it inside a wide-brimmed natural-straw hat that she pulled low over her forehead, and took a brand-new paperback book from the glove box.
There were wooden seats near the play area, back-to-back sets. She chose one facing the road and the wrought-iron gates of the Brunellesci house, pretending to read while watching the gates. The seat escaped the shade cast by the awning, and the morning sun gently warmed her shoulders, bared by the sleeveless cream shirt she wore with cotton shorts.
Still no sign of movement from the house. Then after some time a woman with a child in a pushchair emerged, accompanied by a tall, white-haired man walking with the help of a stick.
The gates slid open to let them through, and they paused at the edge of the pavement before crossing to the park and the play area, passing the young woman apparently absorbed in her reading.
They hadn’t even noticed her. Lowering the book to her lap with shaking hands, she took a deep breath, willing herself not to turn, not to give herself away. She could hear the woman’s voice, rising and falling in the exaggerated way people spoke to babies, and a brief, deep male rumble from the man, over a stream of happy babble from the child.
Her heart contracted. Feigning nonchalance, she stood up, closing the book, and without looking directly at them skirted the group and settled herself on the grass under a tree, her back against the trunk.
The old man leaned on his stick, watching while the woman pushed the child on a baby swing, not too high.
Small, round face shaded by a blue hat, chubby legs emerging from blue cotton overalls, clearly the little boy was enjoying himself. The sound of his delighted laughter carried on the clear air.
He’s being well cared for.
Maybe she should abandon her mission, leave. But the cowardly thought was quickly dismissed. One glimpse didn’t tell the whole story.
She turned her attention to the woman, probably in her mid-thirties, with a pleasantly attractive face framed by short brown curls, and a curvy but fit-looking body, the waist accentuated by a white belt about a plain green dress worn with white flat-heeled sandals. A nanny. Someone they’d hired to take charge of the baby.
When the child was lifted from the swing and the group went down to the beach she made herself stay where she was, then after a while get up and go back to the car, where she watched until they returned to the house and disappeared inside the gates.
After some time had passed with no further activity discernible she started the car, drove slowly by once more, then accelerated and turned a corner, taking a route that passed the rear of the mansion.
There were other homes backing onto it, but she glimpsed behind them the same high brick wall. Any thought of secretly making her way into the house was unfeasible. Not that she’d seriously considered that, knowing it was burglar-alarmed to the teeth.
At least now she knew where the baby was, that he hadn’t been sent off to some secret hideaway or remote country estate to be raised in isolation.
Time to consider her strategy.
The next morning she parked in the same place and waited. Again the trio of woman, elderly man and baby appeared. The woman carefully looked right and left and right. Her gaze seemed to linger on the parked car, and she turned to say something to the white-haired man before stepping onto the road with the pushchair.
Imagination, surely. But caution warned, Don’t be conspicuous. Stay in the car, out of sight.
The child was enjoying his swing. When the woman lifted him out he pointed to a low slide, and she took him to it and supported him as he swooped to the ground, then repeated the process. Each time he reached the bottom he clapped his hands together in gleeful approval.
His grandfather took a seat under the shade of the awning and placed the walking stick between his knees, a slight smile on his thin lips. For a man who had built an empire from nothing after entering Australia as a penniless Italian immigrant fifty-odd years ago, earning a reputation for drive and hard-nosed business practice equalled only by the son to whom he had passed the reins, he looked almost benign.
Tough, strong men, according to medical studies, grew mild in old age with the gradual loss of testosterone.
His son Zandro was in his early thirties, with a long way to go before that happened. Maybe old Domenico would be an easier target. And he must surely still have some influence with his son.
Intent on the group in the park, she hadn’t seen the big black car approach—so silently she didn’t hear it either until it swerved across the road and stopped in front of hers, nose to nose.
Immediately a man flung open the driver’s door and leapt out. Her heart plunged even before he’d covered the few strides to her side and hauled open the door. Her hand went to the ignition key in an automatic but futile attempt at escape.
Long, hard fingers closed about her wrist. She was jerked from her seat with no time to put up more than the feeblest resistance, and backed against the rear door, her assailant’s broad shoulders blocking her view.
The hand that wasn’t holding her wrist in an iron grip slammed down on the roof of the car, trapping her while fiery, obsidian eyes in a spare, strong face seared her with an expression at first suspicious, then disbelieving.
‘Lia?’ His voice was tempered steel in a velvet sheath.
She swallowed, in danger of melting under the gaze that now held a heat like banked coals. There was no mistaking who he was. ‘Zandro,’ she said.
Unlike the father he strikingly resembled, the younger Brunellesci showed no hint of benignity. Suffocatingly aware of his size, his physical power, the furious incredulity in his eyes, and her veins throbbing in the wrist encircled by his bone-breaking hold, she tried to gather courage to stand up to him.
Black brows snapped together. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’
Don’t crack. He’s only a man. ‘I’m not playing at anything.’ She thrust her chin forward. ‘Let go my wrist.’
Zandro Brunellesci blinked, thick dark lashes momentarily blanking out the fiery stare, and when they lifted, a faint surprise lit his eyes.
Lia had never directly challenged his authority, his right to do as he liked with her or any member of his family.
But this was another Lia, one who wouldn’t be pushed around, who knew what she wanted and had come to get it. Who’d refuse to take no for an answer, regardless of what it cost her—or him.
For a second longer he stared down at her, not moving, before abruptly releasing his hold, but his other hand didn’t leave the car roof and he still loomed over her.
Automatically she cradled her aching wrist with her free hand, then dropped them both to her sides, not wanting to show him any weakness.
To her surprise he reached down and took her hand, more gently this time, though firmly overriding her resistance.
He frowned down at the reddened skin, and she saw his mouth tauten, a sudden whiteness appear at one corner. ‘I didn’t mean
