It was just stupid schoolgirl gossip, she told herself rea.s.suringly, but, as she stood by the long black limousine while the chauffeur packed her case in the boot she wasn't so sure.

'Get in the car,' Luc said curtly, and she did.

An hour later, as she walked up the steps to the waiting Lear Jet, her suspicions had grown to gigantic proportions. Luc had whisked her through Gatwick airport, the Customs, and out to the plane without speaking a word, and as she entered the cabin of the aircraft and looked around her she felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

A dark-suited man asked, 'May I take your coat?' Too stunned to protest, she untied the belt and allowed the man to slip it from her shoulders. 'Take-off is in five minutes. Please be seated.'

He led her, unprotesting, across deep, plush green carpet, past two soft leather sofas and matching armchairs and a gilt-edged coffee table, to where a row of aircraft seats were placed at the rear of the plane. She sat down, her blue eyes wide with amazement. A private plane, no less.

She looked up to find Luc towering over her. With a shrug of his broad shoulders he handed his overcoat to the waiting steward and settled his huge frame in the seat next to her.

'Who does this plane belong to?' she demanded.

"The company, of course. Now fasten your seatbelt, Parisa.' And he deftly flicked the catch on his own.

She turned her head away from his dark presence and looked out of the window. The company! Oh, my G.o.d! she thought helplessly, was that another name for the Mafia? What did she know? No casino manager, however well paid, swanned around in chauffeur-driven limousines, or used private airplanes. Luc might possibly have saved and bought the casino, but he was obviously no small-time crook. Her own bet was he was probably a member of or had connections to an organised crime syndicate! After all, what did she really know about Luc Di Maggi? She had met the man three times in ten years. What had she got herself into? she wondered fearfully.

She looked down, fumbling with her seatbelt, and a strong arm stretched in front of her, the sleeve of his sweater brushing lightly across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Instantly tense, she turned back to the window as long fingers clipped the catch firmly closed. Her fear turned to terror, and her mind went blank. She held her breath as the ground rushed away from them. Her heart racing, her hands clutched at the arm rests, knuckles white with the force of her grip.

A large, warm hand covered hers, and she clung, her nails digging into the hard flesh. She didn't care what she was revealing; she hated flying.

"The impulsive Parisa, scared of flying,' a mocking voice drawled in her ear.

'I am not,' she lied. 'I just don't like the take-off and landing, and I'm not impulsive,' she said through clenched teeth.

Luc, his dark head turned towards her, his eyes lit with unholy amus.e.m.e.nt, caught her tense gaze. 'No? You're on this plane, engaged to a man you hardly know, and no idea of your destination...' His lips curled back over perfect white teeth in a wicked grin, and she wanted to thump him. 'I would say that is pretty impulsive by anyone's standards.'

He was right, and she hated him for it. The one thing she prided herself on was being a calm, rational adult woman, but her own innate honesty forced her to admit that for the past few days she had acted recklessly, to say the least. But with Moya's happiness at stake, she had had no choice! Slowly she eased her hand from his and, looking down, unfastened her seatbelt, avoiding his laughing black eyes.

'No comeback, Parisa?' he mocked and, unclipping his seatbelt, he pushed his long legs out in front of him.

Blue eyes flashing angrily, she turned to him. 'Yes... No...' she stammered, her stomach lurching at the sight of him. He was stretching his long arms above his head like a great jungle cat, his black trousers pulled taut across his hard thighs. The soft cream and black crew- necked sweater, which moulded his muscular chest, rose up, revealing a bare tanned midriff with a teasing line of black hair. She could not seem to tear her eyes away from the patch of tanned skin. She felt the colour flood her face as the steward spoke.

'Would the lady like coffee, breakfast?'

She looked up, her face burning. 'Just coffee, please.'

Luc stood up. 'The lot for me, please, Max.' And, stooping slightly, he held out one strong hand to Parisa. 'Come along, we may as well make ourselves comfortable. We have a lot of ground to cover in the next few hours, both literally and figuratively speaking.'

She ignored his hand and rose to her feet. His sensuous mouth twisted in a cynical smile at her obvious action, but he made no comment, simply walked across to an armchair placed beside the coffee-table, and lowered his huge frame into it.

'What do you mean, figuratively?' she asked warily, moving to a sofa at the opposite side of the table. His dark eyes followed her every step of the way. Studying her, from the top of her pale blonde head, down over the proud tilt of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against the smooth wool of her sweater to her narrow waist, bound by a tan leather belt, and on over her slim hips in the short straight blue and beige tweed skirt, to the soft curve of her calves, and her short boots. 'You have great legs,' he said, ignoring her question.

'My legs are no concern of yours,' she said flatly, sitting down on the sofa, and self-consciously trying to pull her skirt over her knees. 'We have a bargain, you and I: two days with your mother, and I get Moya's photographs.' She was desperate to redefine the limit of their relationship, to quell her mounting fear.

The steward arrived and placed a loaded tray on the table. In seconds a steaming cup of coffee was in front of Parisa. As for Luc, a plate of ham and eggs was placed in front of him.

He looked down at the plate as she watched, and then lifted his head, his black eyes catching hers. 'You're right, of course, Parisa. By figuratively I meant we have to appear to know each other intimately.'

She stiffened, her hand stopping on the cup, her imagination going into overdrive: a vivid image of Luc as he had been on Sat.u.r.day morning, part naked, and herself enfolded in his strong arms. To know him intimately! She shivered at the thought and felt the colour rise in her cheeks.

'No, not in the biblical sense,' he drawled mockingly, easily reading her mind. 'But my mother is an intelligent and very astute woman. She will expect me to know your family, your past history, that sort of thing, Lady Parisa.' And, picking up a knife and fork, he added, 'While I eat, perhaps you will oblige, hmm?' Turning his attention to the food in front of him, he proceeded to eat.

She took a deep breath, reminding herself wryly that she was a mature woman, not a stupid teenager indulging in erotic thoughts, and Luc's request was reasonable, she supposed. 'Well, for a start I am not a Lady.'

A burst of laughter greeted her remark. 'Thank G.o.d you said that, and not some unsuspecting male. No doubt you would slap his face.' Luc grinned.

'I didn't mean it like that,' she said, fl.u.s.tered by his open grin. 'My father was Lord of Hardcourt Manor- the t.i.tle went with the estate. When my parents died, and then my grandmother, six months later, leaving me the last of the line, I suppose some people automatically a.s.sumed I should be addressed as Lady Hardcourt- Belmont. But it doesn't really apply any more.'

'Because you live in London now,' Luc said, adding, 'How old were you when your parents died?'

'Fourteen.'

'Before I met you.'

'Yes. Anyway, I left school.'

'How did they die?'

'My father was a budding racing driver when he met mother. Later he tried powerboat racing, then he changed to hot-air ballooning, and they went missing over the Atlantic in a balloon. Satisfied?' She didn't like talking about their death. She had been completely devastated. They had been such a laughing, happy family, and she had felt so lost. Then her grandmother had spent the last few months of her life impressing upon Parisa that she was the sole heir, and stressing the responsibilities that went with it, pointing out the dangers of impulsive behaviour-and then her grandmother had died as well. Parisa had cried herself to sleep for months. Didi and Joe had done their best but it wasn't quite the same as one's own family. Over the years she had found the loss easier to manage. But it still hurt, and the loneliness lingered.

'You take after him.'

'No, I do not.' She had loved her parents dearly, but she had spent most of her adult life determined to quell any spark of recklessness in her own nature.

'All right, don't get excited. Who took care of you when you lost your parents and grandmother?'

She looked across the table and was surprised to see a fleeting glimpse of some emotion in his black eyes.

'The family solicitor. Anyway, I finished school, went to university, and I now teach sport at an independent school, south of London, in Suss.e.x.' She hurried to finish her life history, telling the truth, but not all. 'Now, what about you?' she asked. 'I know you're Italian and have a mother and cousin Tina. You successfully blackmail people, enough to buy a casino, and probably have quite a few dubious connections if this plane is anything to go by. Do I need to know any more?' she asked snidely.

For a second she thought she had gone too far. His tanned face flushed dark with some inner rage; his black eyes narrowed on her face, hard as ice. She watched as his fingers clenched on the knife in his hand. But by a terrific effort of will he brought his rage under control and leant back in the chair.

'No. I think you have me covered very well, Parisa. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some business to attend to.' And, picking up a briefcase from the side of the chair, he shoved the plate and cups along the table, banged the case down, and opened it. Withdrawing some papers, he began to read, completely ignoring Parisa.

She was pleased, she told herself, and, laying her head back against the sofa, she closed her eyes, pretending to sleep. For three days she had been living in a state of nervous tension, and finally nature had caught up with her. She felt her eyelids droop, and her last conscious thought was that he had not denied her taunt about his other crooked activities...

The trip to Italy was forced upon her: there was no way she could have lived with herself if she had allowed Luc to destroy Moya's life; but she had to be on her guard at all times...

Parisa stirred, her lips parting on a sigh. She was curled up comfortably, her head resting against soft fabric, one hand burrowed between hard heat and soft warmth. She rubbed her face against the welcoming wool, trying to ignore the low sounds bringing her back to consciousness. With a wide yawn she opened her eyes. For a moment she was disorientated.

'We have almost reached our destination, Parisa.'

Oh, G.o.d! Her head was nestled against a very masculine shoulder, but worse-much worse-somehow one hand had slipped very intimately under his sweater to the tanned midriff she had admired earlier. She jerked upright, her face flushing crimson. She looked sideways at Luc. He was watching her, his dark eyes amused, and with a trace of something more she refused to acknowledge.

'My...my hand. I'm sorry... You should have woken me. She stuttered to an embarra.s.sed halt.

'Don't be-I am not. Frustrating, but very pleasant,' he opined smoothly. 'Unfortunately we are about to land in five minutes.'

Parisa jumped off the sofa and almost ran to the aircraft seat, and buckled herself in without daring to look at him. She should have known better than to try to apologise. The man was a s.e.x maniac, with his Margot, and trying it on with Moya and heaven knew how many more.

Gritting her teeth as he sat down beside her once again, she closed her eyes and made herself keep her hands tightly clasped in her lap. Refusing to give in to the terror the ground rushing up to meet them induced in her, she opened her eyes.

'Oh, my G.o.d! The sea!' she exclaimed, and all her good intentions flew out of the window as she grabbed Luc's arm with both hands.

'Genoa Airport-the approach is over the sea,' Luc said calmly. 'Nothing to worry about.'

She turned frightened eyes up to his and, before she could speak, his dark head bent and his mouth covered hers, hot and hard against her softly parted lips. She stared up at him through a hazy blackness. Her breath stopped. His tongue touched hers, teased the roof of her mouth, and she closed her eyes against the blazing light she saw in his. Her pulse rocketed as the most shocking hot, pleasurable sensation rushed through her. His groan of pleasure made her realise just what she was doing, and she began to struggle, but suddenly she was free.

Luc leant back in his seat, and calmly unfastened his seatbelt.

'You had no right to do that...' Parisa spluttered, amazed at his cool control when she felt as though she had been run over by a ten-ton truck. 'Our bargain is strictly business.'

'So it is, Parisa, but you've got to admit it worked: you never noticed the landing.'

She glanced out of the window. He was right, d.a.m.n him! Silently fuming at his arrogance, she swiftly unfastened the seatbelt, picked her handbag off the floor and, making sure he moved first, she slowly stood up. The steward held out her coat, and she slipped it on, tying the belt around her small waist with a vicious tug. She was still shaking from the force of his kiss, and hating herself for it. That is the last time he will catch me like that, she swore, as she meekly followed Luc's broad back down the steps of the airplane. Think of David, she told herself.

The Customs officer appeared to know Luc, as the two men conversed in rapid Italian. Parisa, standing stiffly with her pa.s.sport held in front of her, hadn't a clue what was said, but recognised 'fidanzata' The officer turned to her, a brilliant smile on his olive-skinned face, and by the voluble speech he made she guessed he was congratulating her. She gave him a weak smile in return, and muttered one of the few Italian words she knew. 'Grazie.'

Luc smiled down at her from his great height. 'You speak my language, cam,' he mocked and, taking her arm, ushered her out of the terminal to a lethal red car.

She eyed the long, low vehicle warily. She knew very little about motors, but even she recognised the formidable lines of a Ferrari, and she knew they did not come cheap. More and more, she was convinced he must be a big-time crook. The few thousand Luc had demanded from Moya could only be a drop in the ocean to a man who flew in private planes and owned such a car. So why the blackmail? She glanced uneasily at her companion as he bowed courteously to open the pa.s.senger door and stood, back straightening to his full height. Maybe he had never wanted the money, only Moya in his bed. As a gangster, he would have no moral compunction about how he got any woman he fancied.

'Get in,' he commanded. Catching her wary eyes on him, he added, 'You will be perfectly safe. I am an excellent driver.'

She did not doubt it for a minute. This dark, arrogant, ruthless man had the uncanny ability to do anything he wanted to do. She was sure of it. Parisa shivered and slid into the car. She was completely out of her depth and she knew it. Quickly fastening the safety-belt, she flicked a wary glance at Luc as he climbed into the driving seat.

'Does your mother live in Genoa?' she asked politely, making up her mind to get through the next forty-eight hours with the least possible aggravation. It was none of her business what he did, or who with, she told herself. The less she knew about him, the better...

'Sometimes, but I have a villa along the coast at Portofino. The party is to be held there.'

'How nice. I have heard of the place-didn't Rex Harrison live there at one time?' she asked, making social conversation.

'I believe so.' Luc cast her a brief sidelong glance. 'But you have no need to pretend with me, Parisa. Save your act for when you meet my mother.'

Right, you swine, I will, she thought mutinously. So much for being polite... For the rest of the journey she stared out of the window, and eventually, as they left the city built on the hillside, she became fascinated by the rugged coastline, the colour-washed stone cottages, and the deep blue of the Mediterranean.

From the warmth of the car she could almost believe it was a summer's day. The sun was shining, the sky was a clear blue, and only the bright green shoots, the fresh buds and the soft unfurling of an occasional leaf on the pa.s.sing trees told her it was barely spring. The car swung to the left between two ma.s.sive stone pillars topped off with the sculpted head of lions, and they were travelling up a dark avenue of tall deep green pine trees.

Suddenly the car was in brilliant sun again, and Parisa could not help her gasp of amazement. On what looked like the top of a cliff was the most fantastic villa she had ever seen.

Luc stopped the car and turned towards her. 'You like my home?' he asked, a devilish twinkle lighting his dark eyes, and the smile on his handsome face almost boyish.

It was a joke, a fantasy. Parisa could not stop her lips curving in a smile. 'I don't believe it,' she said in awe. Before them was a huge circular pink-washed building with white stone tr.i.m.m.i.n.g around long, arched windows. Halfway up the wall, at the first floor, a delicate, ornate white ironwork balcony circled the building, beneath another set of arched windows. It was a bit like a lighthouse, but squatter, with a ma.s.sive arched entrance door. But it was the roof that truly caught the eye: almost white tiles rising to the centre, and another circular room with a domed copper top.

'It looks like a giant birthday cake,' she chuckled. 'I can't believe anyone would build a house like that.'

'Neither could I when I first saw it,' Luc said wryly. 'Some rock star in the sixties designed and built it. The roof-top room is an observatory. Apparently he enjoyed watching the stars as well as being one. I bought it because it is on a prime piece of land, and with the intention of pulling it down and rebuilding, but somehow I fell in love with the place; eccentric and not at all like me... but. He gave a very Latin shrug and a rather wry smile.

Parisa was still grinning as Luc helped her out of the car, and, with a hand cupping her elbow, led her up the marble steps to the great door. Before they reached the top step, the door was flung open, and a magnificent white-haired lady dressed all in black flung her arms wide and Luc, releasing Parisa, stepped into them.

Parisa stared. His little old mother in bad health was almost six feet tall and huge with it. It was obvious who Luc took after, she thought, watching the embracing couple.

'Parisa, darling, allow me to introduce you. My mother.'

Her mouth fell open at the darling, and quickly she closed it again. Taking the last step, she held out her small hand to the old lady.

'How do you do?' she said softly. Her hand was tugged, and before she knew what was happening she was folded against a more than ample bosom in a great bear-hug.

'No formality. You-you, my child, will be my daughter.' And Parisa was soundly kissed on both cheeks before being set free. She looked into the dark, sparkling eyes of the older woman and was touched to see them moist. 'Come. Come inside...'

Parisa did not know how it happened, but within minutes she was divested of her coat and seated in the curve of Luc's arm on a comfortable sofa in a beautiful room, one wall of which was curved with elegant windows. Rich blue velvet drapes, braided and ta.s.selled, shaded the bright sunlight from the soft cream furnishings. The obviously excellent paintings and objets d'art scattered around all screamed good taste and great wealth.

'We must have champagne... a toast... Yes...

Parisa shook her head in an effort to clear her thoughts, and tensed as Luc spoke softly, his breath warm against her ear.

'Remember why you are here. Upset my mother, and I will make you pay.'

Startled by the threat in his whispered words, she glared suspiciously at him. For a moment she had forgotten he was her enemy and had found comfort in his protective arm about her shoulders.

'What do you mean?' she asked, puzzled by his anger.

'I will not allow you to dismiss my mother with a toss of your elegant head. You will accept the champagne and smile,' he hissed with sibilant softness, so only she could hear.

He was wrong about her action. It had not been a refusal, but now was not the time to argue, and, turning, she smiled at the other woman, and in a calm voice said, 'Yes, I would love some champagne.'

A smart dark-suited young man appeared, carrying an ice-bucket with the plump gold-topped bottle nestling inside, and a tray bearing fine crystal gla.s.ses, which he placed on the table by the old lady. The young man picked up the bottle and with swift expertise opened it. The cork flew across the room and bounced off Parisa's thigh.

'That is good luck, Parisa,' Signora Di Maggi cried delightedly, but Parisa wasn't so sure, as she almost jumped out of her skin in surprise. But when Luc held out a br.i.m.m.i.n.g gla.s.s she took it, her fingers brushed his, and she flinched at the contact. She told herself it was with loathing.

'To Parisa, my betrothed. May we have a long and happy union,' Luc said, raising his gla.s.s, but the dark knowing look in his brilliant eyes told her he had noticed her reaction and was amused by it.

Bravely she raised her own gla.s.s and sipped the sparkling liquid. She accepted his mother's effusive congratulations in a mixture of Italian and English with as much grace as she could muster, blushing furiously when the old lady exclaimed over the beauty of the engagement ring, and conscious all the time of Luc's dark eyes watching her, waiting to pounce on her least mistake.

She heaved an inward sigh of relief when his mother suggested, 'You must be tired. So long you travel. Luc will show you your room. We will talk later tonight, before the mob arrive, yes?'

Out in the huge circular hall Parisa turned baleful eyes on Luc. 'Your poor, weak little mother,' she sneered. 'What a liar you are-the woman is built like an amazon and looks as fit as a fiddle.' She used anger to hide her fear: the old lady had quite openly mentioned the mob. Was that not another name for the Mafia?

'Shut up and follow me,' and, striding to a wide marble staircase, he ascended the stairs.

He was doing it again. Follow me! Parisa fumed, but had no real alternative but to do what he said. How in G.o.d's name she had got herself in this mess? She couldn't believe it. Perhaps she did have some of the wild Hardcourt genes after all, and the thought terrified her. She had spent years convincing herself she was safe from that particular hereditary fault, but now she was not so sure.

'This is your room. I trust you will be comfortable here. If you need anything, there is a bell-rope beside the bed. I am in the room next door.'

Her head shot back and she looked up at him, not at all happy at the thought of only a single wall separating her from Luc.

'I'm sure it will be fine, thank you,' she replied formally, successfully masking her apprehension. She glanced around the room. It was beautifully decorated in soft white and pale rose, entirely feminine, but exquisite. A queen-sized bed, the coverlet delicately embroidered white lace with a pink undercover. A small satin settee was at one side of a real fireplace, the surround of which was in a white and pink veined marble with a bra.s.s grate and antique fender. The dressing-table was built into one of the straight walls, along with mirrored wardrobes and a door.