ever met drooled when his name was mentioned, but she found his brand of arrogance and raw, in-your-face sexuality a total turn-off.
When she had said as much to Emma, during Jonny and Kat’s belated wedding party, her best friend, who had a pretty warped sense of humour, had grinned slyly and suggested innocently that maybe all this hostility was because Sam was secretly attracted to the Italian.
Well aware that if she showed how repugnant she found the joking suggestion Emma was going to take the she protests too much route, she had rolled her eyes and joked, ‘Sure I am—I dream about him every night.’ Trying not to think about that one shameful occasion she had almost successfully blanked from her mind—the one when she had woken with her entire body bathed in sweat and her heart pumping so fast she’d felt as if she was choking.
Fortunately a girl couldn’t be held accountable for what her subconscious got up to.
‘I think we’ll make a lovely couple,’ she’d added.
Disregarding the irony heavily lacing this prognosis, Emma grinned. ‘So, you think you’re the woman to get our famously commitment-phobic Italian stud to the altar? You do realise that the only time his name has ever been linked with marriage was with that woman…the lawyer…messy divorce, husband a junior minister or something.’ Her smooth brow furrowed as she failed to retrieve the name. ‘What was her name…?’
‘Marisa Sinclair.’ When the ring everyone had expected to see appear on her finger hadn’t materialised Marisa Sinclair had responded to prying questions by saying that Alessandro was and always would be one of the most important people in her life.
‘That’s the one. Stunning-looking—half-Scottish, half-Italian, and super smart. But she didn’t get her man in the end. You fancy taking a shot, Sam…?’
‘You don’t think I’m his type?’
Emma ran a mock critical eye over her friend. ‘You scrub up pretty well when you make the effort, Sam, but…’
Sam held up a hand. ‘I’m no Marisa Sinclair. All right, stop right there, while I still have some self-esteem left,’ she pleaded.
‘Don’t fret, Sam. You’re too deep for him. I think he goes for superficial and obvious. You want to know what my theory is about our enigmatic Italian?’ Taking Sam’s silence as assent—wrongly, as it happened—she went on to explain. ‘When they were handing out the pheremones he got a treble dose. Have you seen the way women act when he walks into a room? Honest to God, an expert in body language would have a field-day!’
Thinking about the uncomfortable all over tingle she had personal experience of, Sam nodded.
‘All that and money too.’ Emma sighed. ‘They do say that the palazzo on his Tuscan estate is out of this world—though I don’t see how anyone knows, because nobody ever gets to go there except a few really close friends.’
‘I’m surprised he has any.’
From Emma’s amused expression Sam could tell that there were more comments about hostility masking attraction heading her way, so she added quickly. ‘Well, maybe now you’re related you’ll get to see it in person.’
‘I hope so. I could do with a couple of weeks in Tuscany this summer. However, if my brother’s connections don’t get me an invite, I’ll just have to rely on my best friend to remember when she lands her dream man.’
Nightmare man, Sam thought, maintaining a long-suffering, smiling silence as her friend dissolved into fits of helpless laughter once more.
Sam sighed and pushed aside the recollections as across the room the man who had been the subject of that long-ago conversation carried on staring, with that same unnerving intensity.
Damn the man, she fumed. He has no manners at all!
It was childish, she knew, and maybe the challenge she thought she read in his eyes was all in her imagination, but Sam was determined that she wasn’t going to be the one to look away first. Consciously allowing her own smile to fade, because making an effort to be polite was clearly wasted on him, she picked up her glass of orange juice and raised it to him in a mocking salute.
The defiant gesture fell rather flat when he didn’t respond. His enigmatic dark eyes, with their heavy fringe of curling lashes, just continued to drill into her from across the room.
Sam’s resolve was wilting fast, but she was saved a humiliating climb-down when an attractive blonde sidled up to him…sidled so close that her breasts were almost touching his chest. Actually, they were touching.
Sam recognised the blonde, who had come with one of Emma’s cousins. The girl had been stalking Alessandro with single-minded determination all day. Sam saw her catch hold of his sleeve and thought viciously, Serve you right! It wasn’t until he turned his head away that she realised she had been literally holding her breath.
Gasping a little, to draw air into her oxygen-deprived lungs, she put her glass down on a table. What a conceited bore the man is, she thought, her lips thinning contemptuously.
A conceited bore with the ability to make your hands shake just by looking at you.
The warm fingers on her shoulder tightened and Sam’s eyes widened. It was kind of shocking to realise that, far from struggling to keep a lid on her feelings for Jonny, she had forgotten he was there! And it was utterly irrational—considering he was not only another woman’s husband, but oblivious to the fact she adored him—that Sam felt a pang of guilt.
As if I’ve been unfaithful! Now, how crazy is that?
‘And how are you, my gorgeous one?’
Sam relaxed a little and felt wistful. Jonny’s voice was exactly like him. Warm, solid, uncomplicated and reliable. Everything, in fact, that the Italian was not, she thought, unable to repress a tiny shudder as an image of those dark, lean, impossibly symmetrical features formed in her head.
Feeling irritated with herself for allowing Alessandro Di Livio to intrude once more into her thoughts, she angled a warm smile at Jonny. And of course she hadn’t for a second made the mistake of thinking that his crooning question had been addressed to her.
She’d known it never would be.
It hadn’t always been that way, and it was deeply embarrassing to recall that for a long time she had firmly believed that one day the scales would fall from Jonny’s eyes and he would finally realise that little Sam Maguire was the only woman he could love.
A rich fantasy life was one thing, Sam mused, but her fantasy had become so firmly embedded that she had believed totally that it was going to happen—to the extent where it had affected the decisions she’d made. This belief had persisted right up to the moment Jonny had arrived home with a stunning girl whom he had proudly introduced to his family as ‘my wife.’
‘She’s pretty much perfect,’ Jonny observed now, awkwardly stroking the smooth cheek of his baby niece with a finger.
Much like yourself.
Sam guiltily lowered her eyes and turned her attention back to the baby on her lap, who gave a contented gurgle and captured the pendant around Sam’s slim neck.
‘She
