In the Italian's Sights by Helen Brooks Page A

turning her insides to melted butter. ‘We’re all sisters under the skin,’ she managed fairly lightly. ‘And I like Sophia. That’s all.’
    She didn’t expect him to bend his head towards her, or the hard sweet kiss that followed. And then he stepped back a pace, steadying her when she swayed slightly. ‘Go to bed, Cherry,’ he said expressionlessly, his hands leaving her body. ‘It has been a long day, si ? Breakfast is at seven-thirty.’
    Vittorio had not prolonged the kiss, so why was it that this man only had to touch her and a wild kind of exhilaration filled her? She didn’t even know if she liked him, for goodness’ sake. It was humiliating at best and dangerous at worst, but thank goodness he couldn’t read her mind.
    ‘Goodnight.’ She suddenly needed the safety of her room. ‘And—and thank you again for your hospitality.’
    He smiled cynically. ‘In spite of the fact you would have preferred the peace and quiet of your little car?’
    She’d asked for that one, she thought as she turned and left. She glanced back at him before walking into the house. He was standing where she’d left him, gazing over the dark grounds, his big figure dark and brooding.
    Go to bed , a little voice at the back of her mind spoke firmly. You’ve done all you can. It’s up to them now.
    Once in her bedroom she undressed and showered quickly, pulling on one of the two pairs of cotton pyjamas she’d brought with her for the trip before climbing into bed. It was extremely comfortable, but in spite of that she lay staring into the shadowed room, lit only by the moonlight streaming in through the windows. The night sky was black, with myriad tiny stars sparkling like diamonds, and the perfume of the Carella gardens drifted through the window, bathing the room in a soft rich scent. England seemed a million miles away, and Angela and Liam and all the heartache connected withthem might have happened in another lifetime. All her thoughts and emotions were tied up with the tall dark man standing, waiting on the veranda, and she found herself praying desperately he wouldn’t do or say anything he would regret.
    What happened in this family shouldn’t really matter. They were nothing to her after all. She had only known Vittorio and his sister for a matter of hours, and she hadn’t even met Santo, but in spite of telling herself this over and over again she couldn’t deny the fact it did matter. Terribly. Which was crazy. She wrinkled her nose at herself. Crazy woman, that was her.
    She lay, her ears straining for any sound which would indicate Sophia and Santo were downstairs, but the night was quiet. Maybe Sophia had gone to see Santo and he wasn’t at home? Or perhaps she had told him about the baby and he wanted nothing to do with her? Or it could be that the pair of them had come to the house and Vittorio had thrown Santo off the property? But she would have heard the sound of raised voices, surely? Or maybe Sophia was too frightened to return?
    These and a hundred and one other possibilities went round and round in her head until it began to ache. Giving up all hope of sleep, she slid out of bed and walked over to the windows, stepping out on to the balcony which was still warm from the heat of the day. Sitting down, she sighed softly. It was beautiful and so peaceful here, she thought idly. Not like the pensioni in Lecce, where the suitor of the young Italian girl in the house next door had used to rev up his Vespa under her window each night before leaving, presumably to impress her. This followed the same philosophy of every young Italian male to prove his voice, motor-bicycle or radio to be louder than anyoneelse’s—the necessity of cutting a dash was of prime importance, she reflected ruefully.
    Cherry shifted in the chair, leaning her elbows on the stone surround of the balcony as she drank in the perfumed air.
    But then, she thought on, it was hardly surprising that the Italians were a people of strong