to mention a bruise, probably.’
His remarkable eyes flashed as he let go her hand. A hint of puzzlement flickered across his face when she stared defiantly back at him. Again there was a change in the dark depths, a spark of something that caught her unawares and made her breath quicken.
Impatiently he shook his head, and shifted, bending to remove her car key from the ignition. He closed the door and, ignoring her protest, locked it, shoving the key into his pocket. ‘You’d better come to the house and get some ice on that.’ Once more he glanced at her wrist, then he laid a careful but compelling hand on her arm, just above the elbow.
Her instinct was to draw away, condemn his high-handedness and demand her key before driving off. But although it could hardly be called an invitation he was suggesting an entrée to the house, and expediency dictated she shouldn’t turn the offer down.
This confrontation had been inevitable sooner or later, and so what if she didn’t feel prepared for it right now? The fact was she never would be. She’d been procrastinating under the excuse of scouting the enemy territory and refining her plan. Now an unexpected opportunity had arrived she should grasp it with both hands.
Zandro’s fingers at her elbow seemed to emanate tongues of fire and her nerves were jumping. Strange sensations that she’d never felt before, but then she’d never before been in this situation. Normally a scrupulously honest person, she was about to embark on a reluctant deceit that it would take all her resolution and strength of mind to carry out.
It’s not too late, whispered a craven inner voice. She could still back out. Insist on leaving, take the first flight straight back to New Zealand.
She looked up at Zandro Brunellesci’s face, a face set like granite in an expression of controlled ferocity. Her heart quailed, and the words she’d been about to utter dried on her tongue. The man was frightening in his very restraint. But she’d faithfully, solemnly promised to go through with this. If she didn’t live up to that promise she would never forgive herself.
He locked his own car and she allowed him to guide her along the pavement. At the entrance to the drive a numbered keypad and a discreet microphone with a sign saying Press For Entry were fixed to one of the brick posts. But Zandro slid a hand into a breast pocket of the impeccable suit he wore and must have touched some remote-control gadget. The gates silently parted and he ushered her inside.
When the gates clicked shut behind them she shivered visibly, irrationally feeling that she was being locked into some kind of sinister prison.
‘Are you all right?’ Zandro paused under one of the trees, the softly twisting leaves overhead making moving patterns of sunlight that gleamed on his sleek, almost black hair. The question sounded grudging, reluctant.
‘Yes. It’s just coming from the sun into the shade.’
The broad tree-lined drive wasn’t very long and soon they were mounting stone steps beneath a cool overhang supported by substantial pillars.
Zandro punched numbers into another keypad by the heavy door and swung it open, then steered her across a tiled floor to a large, airy room furnished with dark-wood occasional tables and cabinets, and tapestry-fabric chairs. ‘Sit down, Lia,’ he said, halting at a deep, velvet-covered antique sofa. ‘I’ll get some ice.’
She wondered why he didn’t just summon a servant. Perhaps he didn’t want them asking how she’d been hurt; it could be embarrassing for him.
He was back quite quickly, carrying a bowl of crushed ice and a hand-towel which he fashioned into a cold compress. Then he knelt on the floor before her to wrap the cloth firmly about her wrist, tucking the end in to hold it.
‘You’re good at this,’ she said involuntarily, unable to hide her surprise.
‘I’ve dealt with sports injuries.’ He was on a level with her now, and only inches away as he looked up from his task, his gaze somehow distant despite his physical proximity.
She could see a few fine lines at the corners of his eyes, and the faint beard-shadow on his taut, closely shaved cheeks. A hint of some pleasant, woodsy scent came from him—aftershave or something like it. His hair was glossy black, with a slight wave. He’d removed his tie and opened the collar of his white shirt, revealing naturally olive skin. She found herself fascinated by the almost invisible beat of a pulse at the base of his throat.
Dragging her attention from it, she said, ‘You still play?’ Vaguely she recalled some mention of him having been a tennis champion in his earlier years.
‘Enough to keep me fit. Rest your arm here.’
He placed it on the arm of the sofa, but she immediately lifted it away to support it with her other hand. ‘I’ll make the upholstery wet.’
Zandro looked briefly nonplussed. With the kind of money his family had, she supposed a spoiled sofa would be a minor inconvenience. But he said, ‘I’ll fetch another towel.’
He brought a larger one and folded it so there was little chance of water seeping through. When he straightened from arranging it for her he stood regarding her with a penetrating stare before swinging away to sit in a chair facing her.
‘What are you doing here, Lia?’
She hesitated, moistening her lips. This was the point of no return. Her last chance to retreat, walk away. Steadying her voice with an act of will, she said, ‘I’ve come for my baby. To take him home.’
Zandro was so still, so expressionless, he might not have heard her. Seconds passed, and then an almost infinitesimal movement showed in his cheek, a slight tightening of the muscles in his jaw. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
Raising her chin a fraction, she fixed her gaze unwaveringly on his darkling one. ‘He belongs with…with me.’
Something glimmered in his shadowed, hostile eyes. ‘You think I’ll give him up to you, just like that?’
‘I’m his mother!’ Putting every ounce of conviction she could into her voice.
‘And I’m his legal guardian, committed to looking after his interests.’
The words sounded more suited to a business meeting than a discussion of a child’s needs. ‘You mean the interests of the Brunellesci dynasty.’
The resolute brows rose a scant millimetre. ‘I hardly think the family business qualifies as a dynasty.’
‘Isn’t Pantheon listed as one of the top ten richest Australian companies, worth how many millions? Or is it billions?’
His gaze sharpened. ‘Is that what this is about?’ The steel in his voice was unsheathed. ‘It isn’t your son you’ve come for, is it? Let’s dispense with the pretence, shall we?’
Her eyes widened, and her stomach made a sickening revolution. ‘How—’ she started to say weakly.
But he wasn’t listening. ‘You’re hoping we’ll pay you to go away again and leave him with us.’
The accusation stunned her at first. Then she shot to her feet. ‘That’s a foul suggestion! You’re even worse than I thought!’
He too stood up, meeting her hot-eyed gaze with
