âI donât know what you think you are doing.â
As her head disappeared into the folds of the dress she wondered why she should harbor the utterly wanton wish that his hands had followed the quite blatant track of his eyes.
âI am trying to hurry proceedings along,â he answered, forcing a lazy tone to disguise his sudden feeling of breathlessness. That had been his true intention, but it had been a mistake.
She had a truly beautiful bodyâlush, ripe and tempting. Looking at the bountiful curves that almost seemed to be pleading to be freed of the unnatural constraint of confining white cotton was not enough. He wanted to touch.
âIâLL get it,â Portia offered much too brightly as the strident ring of the doorbell broke the tense silence.
Visitors to the small semi on the outskirts of the industrial Midlands town of Chevington, where she had lived with her parents for the whole of her twenty-one years, were rareâand certainly not expected at nine oâclock on a damp April evening.
She was out of the neatly furnished sitting room before her father could get to his feet and tell her to stay where she was. The idea of leaving baby Sam with her mother did not even enter her head. Dealing with the caller, even if it turned out to be just someone asking for directions, would be a welcome distraction from her parentsâ tight-lipped unspoken disapproval.
Enfolding her tiny baby more securely in his shawl, Portia tucked a wandering strand of pale blonde hair behind her ear and opened the front door just as an impatient finger jabbed again at the bell-push. Her always-ready smile was wiped away when she saw who it was.
One of the frighteningly powerful, disgustingly wealthy Verdi clan. It just had to be!
How many times had she told herself that they would never know what had happened, and that even if they didâthrough some cruel quirk of fateânot a single one of them would be interested in either her or her illegitimate child.
It looked as if she couldnât have been more wrong, she thought sickly as her stomach nose-dived down to the soles of her feet and shot right back again.
Everything about this stranger betrayed his Italian heritage, from the proud tilt of that arrogantly held dark head, the black eyes that regarded her so narrowly from beneath slashing brows, the high-bridged aquiline nose, to the shockingly sensual mouth. The family connection was painfully obvious, she conceded as her stomach tied itself in knots again.
He wasnât as playboy-pretty as Vito had been; the cynical lines that bracketed his mouth, the harsher cast of his features saw to that. And he was a good head taller and at least half a dozen years older than Vito had been.
Vito, the father of her baby, had been twenty-six years old when heâd died, six weeks and four days agoâ¦
Vito had deceived both her and his wife, and probably dozens of other gullible females as wellâ¦
Jumbled thoughts raced around inside her headâthe head that her parents had always disappointedly maintained to be empty of anything more solid than fluffâand the stranger intoned, âPortia Makepeace?â
She couldnât speak. Her vocal cords, usually so active, had gone into shock. Sheâd been found and she hadnât wanted to be. Who knew what the powerfully influential Verdi clan would do? Try to take Vitoâs son from her because he was one of their own? It didnât bear thinking about!
Too late she attempted what she should have done earlierâto shut the door in his faceâbut he shouldered his way into the cramped hall. His narrowed eyes tracked a disparaging path over her tumbled shoulder-length hair, the old blue dressing gown belted tightly around her far too generous curves, the ridiculous slippers that looked like frogsâa going-to-maternity-hospital gift from her friend Bettyâand back up to lock with huge grey eyes that were annoyingly swimming with tears, before sliding down to stare intently at two-week-old Sam, held protectively in her arms.
âToo ashamed to speak? That I can understand, although I admit itâs unexpected,â he said grimly, his voice deep, only slightly accented. âBut I donât suppose youâre going to try to pretend you are not what you areâa husband-stealerâor that I am not uncle to your child. That wouldnât suit your purposes, would it? Youâll be happy to know that I recognise you from the day of Vittorioâs funeral.â