Excerpt of The Mancini Marriage Bargain by Trish Morey

THE noise woke her — the insistent dull pounding that crashed its way into her receding dreams and brought Helene Grainger to wakefulness in a foggy panic. One blurred glance at the red electronic display and her head momentarily flopped back onto her pillow with relief. She'd been asleep less than an hour — she wasn't late for her early morning taxi after all.

The thumping cranked up a notch and she staggered out of bed, shrugging into her silk robe and slippers, her mind clicking into gear. So if it wasn't a burly taxi driver anxious not to lose his hefty fare to Charles de Gaulle airport, who the hell would be beating their fist against her door at this time of night? Unless Agathe from the apartment next door had had another seizure.

Her slippered feet padded faster along the passageway. Maybe she'd fallen? Eugene wouldn't be able to lift her on his own. 'Je viens!" she called. I'm coming.

Throwing security measures aside in her rush to help, she pulled open the door only to instantly recoil, her insides performing a slow roll, her mind turning cartwheels while she absorbed the frozen snapshot before her.

His fist was curled and raised ready for another blow, his eyes were wild and tormented and his dark hair mussed and troubled, as if his hand had been giving it grief until he'd taken to pounding her door with it instead. His other hand gripped white-knuckled onto some kind of leather folio.

"Paolo." She whispered his name on a breath, aching under the weight of years of pointless longing and wasted nights. But it was cold dread that flavoured her thoughts right now. She'd always known that one day he'd come — but she'd never imagined it would be like this, that Paolo would look so strained, so intense. "What is it?"

He sucked in a lungful of air, holding it in his broad chest as he let his fist slowly melt back into a hand and drop down to his side. A muscle in his whiskered unshaven jaw twitched, pulling up one side of his mouth into a half- smile, half-grimace as he suddenly let go the breath he'd been holding. A hint of coffee laced with whiskey, overlaid with the unmistakable essence of Paolo himself — the very taste of him curled into her senses as his agonised eyes continued to hold hers.

Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, he shook his head. "It's over."

The sound of locks being pulled back, of a security chain being hooked into place and a doorknob turning, all of these things leapt to centre stage in her consciousness even as Paolo's words struck a chilling void in her heart.

It's over. But why should that come as such a shock? She'd been expecting this moment for nearly half her life yet all those years of waiting, all those years of knowing, in no way diminished the pain.

Because she'd never wanted it to be over.

The door to the adjacent apartment opened on a creak, jerking to a stop against the short chain.

"Helene! Dois-j'appeler la police?" Eugene's voice croaked from behind the door, frail and betraying its owner's octogenarian status. Late-night visitors to her apartment were unheard of; no wonder he had thoughts of calling the police.

Stepping past Paolo and into the dim glow of the night- time hall lighting, she could just make out Eugene's gnarled features peering inquisitively around the door. 'Mais non, Eugene," she said, setting her voice to soothe. 'C'est juste un vieil ami."

Through the crack in the door Eugene's scowl deepened. She could almost see the cogs in his ancient mind turning — an old friend who made such a racket?

"Je suis désolée du bruit," she said, apologising for the noise.

"Bon," he said gruffly, as if he didn't mean it, with a last nervous sideways twitch of his eyes before retreating inside his apartment, his door closing behind him and the bolts sliding home once more.

She turned back to Paolo and their eyes collided. His dark scrutiny held such raw pain she could feel its jagged edges reaching out to scrape uncomfortably against her own feelings. Yet he was a man who would soon be free. What had happened to cause him such anguish?

"I guess you'd better come in," she said at last, reverting to her native English, her heart thumping louder under the weight of his leaden gaze. Even Eugene's interruption couldn't stall the mounting trepidation in her body, the dread as she battled to come to terms with Paolo's spoken words.

Because this was no social call. "I should come back tomorrow," he said, backing away as if suddenly struck by the late hour. "I'm disturbing your neighbours."

"You've disturbed all of us already," she stated plainly. "But I'm leaving in the morning. Let's get this over with."

Instinctively she reached for his forearm as she stepped back into the doorway, looking to draw him inside, but one touch of his arm, one hint of the tight flesh, the corded muscles hidden beneath his leather coat, and her hand jerked away.

He wasn't hers to touch.

He never had been. A pity that hadn't stopped the thrill. He watched her turn and lead the way into her apartment as he sucked in a breath. She seemed as strung out as he felt, though that was hardly surprising. She'd probably done her best to forget about him — to forget all about the circumstances that had brought them together in the first place.

Dio — he'd done his best to as well! And for the most part it had worked — until just lately, when their shared past had come crashing back in glorious wide-screen detail.

His eyes followed her progress into the apartment. He could still walk away. Come back at a better time. Maybe even just send a fax and make the whole deal more official. He was a lawyer, for God's sake; he dealt with much bigger stuff than this unemotionally all the time.

And he almost did. But there was something about her — the crazy waves her ash-blonde hair had formed when pressed against her pillow, the shadowed eyes that hinted of secrets, the full lips plumped and pink with the scraping action of her upper teeth...

She was so much like the girl he'd known years ago, her genteel British accent unchanged, her attitude the same mixture of defiance and vulnerability, and yet he could see there was more.

He closed his eyes and called upon a mightier strength. Because the seductive sway of her hips underneath the silky robe made him forget the pain of why he was here, and made him ache for much more than anything to which he was entitled.

With a sigh he followed her into the apartment, unable to pull his eyes from her retreating form even if he'd wanted to.

Had Helene been so beguiling twelve years ago? Had their problems back then been so paramount that he'd simply never noticed, or was it just that time had transformed a pretty young student into a stunning woman?

With a struggle his mind clicked back into logic mode. It was academic really — it was a bit late to start noticing how good-looking a woman was a mere ten minutes before you divorced her.

She turned and waited for him in her tastefully decorated reception room, switching on a low leadlight table lamp in deference to the late hour, the coloured glass segments of the shade casting a soft, comfortable glow over the room. The truth was stark enough without illuminating it in the glare of one hundred watts. "Can I get you a drink?" He definitely looked as if he needed one, but that wasn't the only reason she'd asked. Right now she needed space to breathe. Because no matter that she'd anticipated this moment for twelve long years it was still too sudden, too unwanted, too damned painful.

It was time to get rid of her. She concentrated on keeping her breathing calm, on keeping her hands from tangling with each other as she awaited his response. He seemed to fill the space in the modest-sized room, making the furniture look too small. He warmed the air around her until her face felt bright and flushed. He made her wish she had a whole lot more on under this robe than one tiny pair of pink cotton panties.

He seemed to think about her question for a while and then, "Coffee?"

With relief she darted for the kitchen. If the silence between them had stretched out any longer, something would have snapped — probably her. She flicked on the kettle, piled the grounds into the plunger, tinkering with cups, but her mind refused to focus on simply making coffee.

Twelve years had seen the lean, good-looking student turn into a man who looked as if he could have been carved from stone. Even sporting a late-o'clock shadow, troubled eyes and mussed hair Paolo looked good. Better than good, and in fact better even than the pictures of him she'd pored over from time to time when she'd stumbled upon them in her hairdresser's magazines. Somehow in those he'd always seemed to be glaring at the photographer, as if resentful of being captured on film.

The woman on his arm had been less camera-shy, smiling radiantly as they had been captured on film. But who could blame her for looking so happy? She had it all. A successful designer for the Milan-based fashion house of Bacelli, she was simply stunning, and she had Paolo.

Sapphire Clemenger.

There was no way Helene could forget her name. The woman- in-waiting, the imminent Mrs Paolo Mancini, according to the social pages. Well, if Paolo's sudden visit was any indication, it looked as if she was about to get her opportunity. Paolo obviously couldn't wait to be free so they could tie the knot.

"You don't seem very happy to see me." Her spine stiffened and she took the time to draw in a fortifying breath, depressing the plunger before she turned. He was standing in the doorway, one arm resting up against the jamb. He'd taken off his coat and the white shirt fitted without clinging, showing off the width of his chest and the long, lean line of his body. Her mouth went dry.

"It's late," she said on a swallow. "I thought something had happened to Agathe next door; she's got a bad heart. I was worried about her and Eugene. They know to call me if anything happens..."

Her rambling words trailed off, evaporated, in the heat from his gaze.

"You must know why I'm here."

She nodded, fighting her shoulders' determination to sag. She couldn't show him how much she was affected by this. "Khaled's married, then."

"Yes."

The word sliced through her heart. Knowledge wasn't power. Knowledge was pain.

Yet it was crazy. She should be happy to escape from the shadows of Khaled Al-Ateeq, the man she'd been promised to when barely seventeen, brokered as part of a deal with Khaled's father to further her own father's oil interests in the Middle East, and the man she'd enraged by running off with Paolo and marrying him first.

Their short, civil ceremony had sounded the death knell for the arranged marriage and for the deal. And still she'd been so terrified that Khaled might persist in his attempts to come after her that Paolo had vowed to stay married to her until Khaled had taken another wife.

It had been such a simple plan — foolproof — and neither of them had thought Khaled would take longer than a year or two to find a new wife.

Instead, for more than a decade the threat of retribution had loomed long and large over their lives, a permanent and poisoned cloud that had threatened to snuff out any and all relationships she'd had with men and any chance that Paolo had had to start a real family of his own.

Until now.

Now that Khaled was married they were both free. Except that, for her, freedom meant severing the very tie she had with the only man she'd ever wanted.

"He certainly took his time about it." A muscled worked in his jaw. Something fleeting skidded across his eyes and she realised her attempt to lighten the mood had fallen flat.