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CHAPTER ONE

‘I’LL get it,’ Portia offeredof the doorbell broke the tense silence

Visitors to the small seton, where she had lived with her parents for the whole of her twenty-one years, were rare—and certainly not expected at nine o’clock on a da

She was out of the neatly furnished sitting rooet to his feet and tell her to stay where she was The idea of leaving baby Sa with the caller, even if it turned out to be just so for directions, would be a welcoht-lipped unspoken disapproval

Enfolding her tiny babystrand of pale blonde hair behind her ear and opened the front door just as an iain at the bell-push Her always-ready smile iped ahen she saho 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 knohat had happened, and that even if they did—through sole one of theitimate child

It looked as if she couldn’t have been ht sickly as her stoht back again

Everything about this stranger betrayed his Italian heritage, froantly held dark head, the black eyes that regarded her so narrowly froed aquiline nose, to the shockingly sensual mouth The family connection was painfully obvious, she conceded as her stoain

He wasn’t 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 he’d died, six weeks and four days ago…

Vito had deceived both her and his wife, and probably dozens of other gullible females as well…

Juhts raced around inside her head—the head that her parents had always disappointedlyer intoned, ‘Portia Makepeace?’

She couldn’t speak Her vocal cords, usually so active, had gone into shock She’d been found and she hadn’t wanted to be Who knehat the powerfully influential Verdi clan would do? Try to take Vito’s son fro about!

Too late she attempted what she should have done earlier—to shut the door in his face—but he shouldered his way into the cra path over her tuown belted tightly around her far too generous curves, the ridiculous slippers that looked like frogs—a going-to-ift frorey eyes that were annoyingly swi down to stare intently at teek-old Sam, held protectively in her arms

‘Too ashah I adrihtly accented ‘But I don’t suppose you’re going to try to pretend you are not what you are—a husband-stealer—or that I am not uncle to your child That wouldn’t suit your purposes, would it? You’ll be happy to know that I recognise you from the day of Vittorio’s funeral’