CATHERINE GEORGE - The Italian Count's Defiant Bride

 INTERNATIONAL BILLIONAIRES

Life is a game of power and pleasure. And these men play to win!

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International Billionaires coming in 2009

The Prince’s Waitress Wife by Sarah Morgan, February.

At the Argentinean Billionaire’s Bidding by India Grey, March.

The French Tycoon’s Pregnant Mistress by Abby Green, April.

The Ruthless Billionaire’s Virgin by Susan Stephens, May.

The Italian Count’s Defiant Bride by Catherine George, June.

The Sheikh’s Love-Child by Kate Hewitt, July.

Blackmailed into the Greek Tycoon’s Bed by Carol Marinelli, August.

The Virgin Secretary’s Impossible Boss by Carol Mortimer, September.

8 volumes in all to collect!

Catherine Georgewas born in Wales, and early on developed a passion for reading which eventually fuelled her compulsion to write. Marriage to an engineer led to nine years in Brazil, but on his later travels the education of her son and daughter kept her in the UK. And, instead of constant reading to pass her lonely evenings, she began to write the first of her romantic novels. When not writing and reading she loves to cook, listen to opera and browse in antiques shops.

Recent titles by this author:

*CHRISTMAS REUNION THE MILLIONAIRE’S REBELLIOUS MISTRESS THE MILLIONAIRE’S CONVENIENT BRIDE THE RICH MAN’S BRIDE

*In the anthology Married by Christmas

Dear Reader

Welcome to my contribution to International Billionaires ! Since I come from Wales, where Rugby is not just a game but almost a religion, I was only too delighted to write one of the stories.

Over the years my father, husband and son all played Rugby in the first fifteen at their various schools, and my brother captained his university team, which meant the game was in my blood from early childhood. It was soon the same for my son (who played at fly half), also for my daughter, who is as hotly enthusiastic a fan as her brother. They watch Six Nations matches together, kitted out in the red shirts of Wales and yelling their heads off for the home team. (I do my share of shouting, too.)

As a background to a romantic novel, the game of rugby football provides great heroes: big, muscular men, doing battle like gladiators in a packed arena, with fans cheering them on. So with them in mind the rest soon fell into place.

I hope you enjoy my Rugby story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Happy reading!

Love

Catherine

BY

CATHERINE GEORGE

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To rugby players of all nationalities,

with a special dedication to the men

who wear the red shirts of Wales.

CHAPTER ONE

THE atmosphere in the city was electric. Alicia Cross felt it tingle in her veins as she joined the Welsh rugby fans streaming into Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium. As always they had arrived in their thousands to support their heroes, with the added excitement that today a victory against Italy would mean a step forward towards the holy grail of the Six Nations contest, the grand slam; victory over all five of the other teams. Wales were now level with England on wins.

After weeks of travel and hard work to organise parties and press events, Alicia had begged a couple of hours off duty this afternoon to watch the match with friends. Earlier she had checked the arrangements for the sponsor’s lunch at the stadium, then hurried back to Cardiff Bay to ensure that all was ready in the hotel chosen for the party later that night. But now at last, instead of joining the sponsors in their hospitality box, she was on her way to her seat in the stands, and she was cutting it a bit fine. In her rush she almost bumped into the man who stepped in front of her, barring her way. She opened her mouth to apologise then snapped it shut, the colour draining from her face. In a knee-jerk reaction she flung away, but he was too quick for her and seized her hand. Conscious of curious glances beamed in their direction, she forced herself to stand still, her heart thudding against her ribs as she looked up into the handsome, unforgettable face of the man who had once changed her girlhood dreams into nightmares.

‘Alicia,’ he said in the voice that had not, to her intense disgust, lost the power to send shivers down her spine. Eyes locked with hers, he held her hand captive.

She returned the intent, heavy-lidded gaze for the space of several, deliberate heartbeats, then wrenched her hand away and turned on her heel.

But Francesco da Luca caught her by the elbow. ‘Alicia, wait. I must speak with you.’

She stared at him in silent disdain, refusal blazing in her eyes as a crowd of late arrivals surged through the turnstiles to jostle them, and with a smothered curse he let her go.

‘Do not think you can escape me again so easily, Alicia!’

The hint of menace in the deep, husky voice sent her racing up after the other fans as though the devil were after her. She shot into the cauldron of noise and music in the famous arena, and dived down the steep steps at such breakneck speed that Gareth Davies leapt up from the end of a row to seize her by the arm.

‘Steady on, you’ll break your neck.’

‘Where have you been ?’ demanded Meg indignantly, as her brother thrust Alicia into the seat between them. ‘The teams are just about to come on— Hey, what’s up?’

‘Big rush.’ Alicia leaned across to smile at Meg’s husband. ‘Hi, Rhys.’

‘Are you all right, love?’ he said, reaching to pat her hand.

‘Fine.’ Or she would be in a minute.

‘You don’t look it,’ Gareth told her.

Alicia’s reply was drowned by the roar from the Italian supporters as their team ran onto the pitch. Then the entire arena erupted as Billy Wales, the famous ram mascot of the Welsh Guards, was led out from the players’ tunnel. The big Welsh captain came next, holding a tiny red-shirted boy by the hand as he led his team to line up for the royal presentation.

The smiling prince went along the line, shaking the hands of players on both teams, saying a word here and there. Once he was escorted back to his seat the band of the Welsh Guards struck up the first bars of the Italian national anthem, and the Italian fans in the arena roared out the words to encourage their team. There were cheers as it ended, but a hush fell as the band played the first chords of the Welsh national anthem and every Welsh man, woman and child in the stadium—including those in the home team line-up not too choked with emotion—sang in one voice. Hairs rose on every patriotic neck present as the sound filled the stadium.

The band marched off to cheers, the referee blew the whistle, and from the moment the first ball was lofted to start the match excitement wound the crowd to fever pitch. Alicia cheered and gasped with the others as the tide of play went first one way, then the other. Like everyone else she screamed encouragement when a long pass from the Welsh scrum-half began a running movement which brought the crowd to its feet as Welsh backs surged towards the line, dodging the tackles of their Italian opponents as they passed the ball from hand to hand. The noise from the crowd mounted to a frenzied crescendo when the quicksilver Welsh wing caught the final pass from the full back, danced his way through the chasing Italian defenders and dived over the line to score. Alicia applauded wildly, then after a moment’s hush joined in the cheers as the outside half sent the ball sailing over the bar, plum between the posts, to convert the try.

But through it all, even as she hugged Meg in triumph, one part of Alicia’s brain was still numb with shock from the confrontation with Francesco da Luca. She had known only too well that he might come here to support his country in such an important match. But in the throes of the Six Nations season there was no way she could have taken time off from her job today purely on the off-chance that he might turn up, even less explain why. None of her colleagues knew about her connection to Francesco.

When the final whistle blew at last to confirm Welsh victory, the crowd went wild. Not a soul in the stadium moved to leave, and the crowd cheered and yelled as the euphoric Welsh squad saluted their supporters.

‘How absolutely wonderful! But duty calls. I’ve got to go now, folks,’ said Alicia, getting up. ‘You stay here and enjoy the celebration.’

‘Are you sure?’ said Gareth, torn between seeing her out safely and wallowing in national euphoria.

‘Of course. I’ll see you at lunch tomorrow.’ As Alicia leaned down to kiss Meg, her friend gave her an anxious look.

‘I hope you’re not too late to bed tonight, Lally. You look tired.’

‘I’m fine, Mother Hen. Cheers, boys.’

Alicia made her way up the tiers of wildly cheering fans, returning the jubilant smiles on all sides as she went. But her smile vanished when she spotted the elegant, raincoated figure waiting just outside the exit. For a split second she considered racing back down to the others. Instead she stiffened her spine and mounted the remaining steps, head high. She ignored the hand Francesco held out, but in silent, icy acquiescence accompanied him down to ground level and outside to the entrance of the stadium. As silent as Alicia, he put up a large black umbrella and put an arm round her rigid waist to draw her under its shelter as the first of the exultant Welsh crowd began streaming past them on their way to begin celebrating their team’s magnificent victory.

‘I must talk with you,’ said Francesco at last, dropping his arm as he leaned close to speak in her ear.

‘No,’ she said flatly.

‘I understand your hostility—’

‘No one better!’

His eyes blazed. ‘You know very well how many, many times I have tried to contact you, Alicia, but you do not return my calls; my letters come back to me unopened. And appeals to your mother have been useless. She would tell me nothing.’

‘Of course not. She was acting on my instructions.’ Her chin lifted. ‘And you can’t have appealed to her lately. She moved from Blake Street ages ago.’

He drew her aside to avoid being buffeted by the crowds. ‘ Dio , this is impossible. Come with me to my hotel.’

She gave him a look like a thrown dagger. ‘After what happened last time we were in a hotel room? In your dreams, Francesco!’ She tried to thrust his arm away, but he held her fast.

‘Dreams of you are all I have!’ His eyes locked with hers. ‘I felt hope when I finally received a letter from you, but it was merely your—your condoglianze for the death of my mother.’

‘And you only had that because my mother insisted I write it after your letter was forwarded to her.’

His eyes darkened. ‘Do you hate me so much then, Alicia?’

She gave him a pitying smile. ‘Good heavens, no. I feel nothing at all for you any more, Francesco. This urgent talk you want,’ she added briskly, ‘I assume it’s a divorce you’re after? If so you don’t need me to agree to it after all this time, unless the law’s different in your part of the world. And to set your mind at rest, Signor Conte, I don’t want a single thing from you, legally or any other way. So go ahead, get on with it. I’ll sign whatever papers you want. As far as I’m concerned you’re a free man.’