what kind of car it actually was…
Against his will Marco found himself being both intrigued and impossibly almost even amused as he witnessed her confusion as she hunted wildly for a rational explanation to cover both her behaviour and her protective fib. Anyone with any remote pretence to being a car lover would not have had to look wildly at the bonnet to realise what make of car they’d been driving.
‘Maseratis,’ he supplied dryly for her, his voice drowning out Louise’s frantically whispered, ‘Ferrari!’
‘Yes. Maseratis,’ Alice agreed, gratefully seizing on the name he had given her. ‘Well, I’ve always loved them and when I saw yours, just couldn’t resist. It was so tempting. And you had left the keys in the ignition,’ she told him reprovingly.
‘So in effect it was my fault that you stole the car,’ Marco suggested dryly.
She had the most revealing eyes, he decided, their colour a clear blue-green that was almost turquoise.
‘Have you any idea just what his car means to an Italian man?’ he asked her, speaking swiftly in Italian.
Without the slightest pause, she responded in the same language, telling him simply, ‘I shouldn’t have done it, I know.’
So she hadn’t lied about her ability to speak his language, Marco recognised, and despite all reasons he knew he should summon the police and set about finding himself another nanny for Angelina, he knew that he was going to do no such thing.
A woman who for whatever reason was prepared to implicate herself in a crime to protect a younger person in her charge must have a protective instinct that would keep any child entrusted to her care safe and loved. And, so far as Marco was concerned, what Angelina needed more than anything else was just that very kind of security, even if it came wrapped up in a tantalising package with ‘danger’ written all over it!
‘By rights I should summon the police and hand you both over to them,’ he told Alice sternly, waiting for a few seconds as the colour drained from her face and she made a small, instinctive sound of protest and distress.
‘However…you say that you are both booked on an afternoon flight back to England…but you,’ he told her smoothly, ‘or so I thought, were supposed to be being interviewed for a post here in Italy…’
Alice gaped at him. ‘How do you know that?’ she began, and then stopped as the unwanted, impossible, appalling truth began to seep hideously into her shocked brain.
‘No!’ she whispered, her eyes huge with despair.
‘No. You can’t be!’
‘I can’t be who?’ Marco challenged her grimly.
Nervously Alice flicked her tongue-tip over her suddenly nervously dry lips, a gesture which Marco’s eyes monitored whilst his body registered her action in a way that made him glad of the strength of will-power! Glad that it was strong enough to prevent him from covering the softness of her full lips with his own mouth. Richly pink, free of make-up, they reminded him unwantedly of the taut thrust of her nipples against her top.
Angrily he pushed his wanton thoughts away. He had neither the time to waste on self-indulgent analysis of them, nor the inclination to do so. Some things were best left undisturbed, unexamined…Her skin would be delicately pale, her breasts crowned with rose-red nipples and when he touched them with his lips she would…
As Alice heard him curse beneath his breath she jumped nervously. The heat beating down on her uncovered head was beginning to affect her. She felt confused and muzzy, and she wanted badly to be able to lie down somewhere cool—somewhere cool that did not include this formidable, sexy, downright disturbing man, she corrected herself shakily.
‘I…My interview was with…I was supposed to be seeing…’ she began to protest.
‘Me,’ Marco supplied for her with a softness that belied the steel-hard look he was giving her. ‘Only you did not keep our appointment, which makes you unreliable as well as untrustworthy—and yet according to your agency…’
‘I-I’m sorry I was late,’ Alice began to stammer with what she knew to be ludicrous consternation. He thought she had stolen his car, after all, and here she was apologising for being late.
‘To be late is an offence against the laws of good manners, and thus punishable by one’s own conscience,’ he agreed urbanely. ‘But theft is an offence against the laws of the land and as such it is punishable by a term in prison…’
The way he was looking at her, his eyes now almost the colour of obsidian and just as empty of any kind of humane emotion as a piece of unfeeling stone, made her blood quite literally run icily cold in her veins. Shock and then fear crept over her in a painful tide. Prison! She knew that her fear showed in her face, and only her pride stopped her from protesting out loud.
Out of the corner of her eye she could see Louise, silent now, her shock as obvious as Alice’s own in her suddenly very youthful, drawn white face.
As she struggled to find something to say a mobile phone started to ring imperiously. Almost as though she were observing the whole scene at a distance, Alice saw the man she now realised must be her once-prospective employer, the aristocratically named Conte di Vincenti, reaching to his pocket and removing his phone, swiftly responding to the call.
With her excellent grasp of Italian, Alice easily translated what he was saying and a fresh surge of anxiety seized her body, not this time for herself, but on behalf of the baby, whose sudden inexplicable and frightening sickness was the cause of the telephone call.
Swiftly instructing that a doctor was to be called, Marco ended the call, his face drawn into lines of harsh anxiety.
The nursemaid Angelina’s mother had hired to look after the baby was not in his opinion a suitable person to have charge of such a young child. Bored and slovenly, she had no proper training for such a job, and so far as he could see no real love for the baby, but she was, apart from himself, the only person who was truly familiar to her and for that reason, until he found a suitable replacement nanny, he had felt unable to terminate her employment and send her back to Rome where he knew she would feel much more at home than in the Tuscan countryside.
It had been left to his housekeeper to telephone him and advise him of baby Angelina’s sickness. The palazzo was over an hour’s fast drive away, and Marco had no time now to waste on a mere car accident in which mercifully no one had been hurt.
On Alice’s CV had been the fact that she had some nursing experience, having done voluntary work in a local hospital, both as teenager and later too, when her employment commitments had allowed. Had it not been for his own too stubborn wariness where Englishwomen were concerned, Marco knew that Alice’s obvious dedication to others would have inclined him towards selecting her as Angelina’s nanny even over more highly qualified applicants.
However, now a new complication had entered the equation. The one thing that Marco had not been prepared for when he had mentally reviewed and tabulated the pros and cons of hiring Alice was that he himself might find her desirable! His reaction to her had caught him off guard. He had believed that he was armoured against any woman who was made in the same mould as the free-living, free-loving girl students he had encountered in England. So what was he saying? he asked himself sardonically, whilst he worried about Angelina.
That he could not control his own libido? No way!
Quickly Marco came to a decision. He would normally have been averse to having his hand forced by events, but now he wasn’t concerned about that. He did not want to examine his decision more analytically—because of his concern for Angelina, he told himself. After all, his physical reaction to Alice was something he could control; baby Angelina’s sickness was not.
‘What time did you say your flight left?’ he demanded.
White-faced with contempt and disbelief, Alice stared at him. What kind of man…what kind of father was he to give something as minor as a small car accident precedence over the