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was intimate and therefore unwelcome to her. His eyes mocked her indignant glance. 'Only think? Shall I change your mind for you?'
    'Certainly not!' she said with resolution. Her eyes fell before his. 'It isn't fair to take advantage of me when I'm supposed to be your guest. It isn't fair!' she added in harassed tones, thus completely ruining her effect.
    'You have a ready tongue with which to defend yourself, however,' he murmured.
    Her eyes flashed. 'I am still your prisoner!'
    His amusement disconcerted her. 'Remember that,' he warned her, 'before you tempt me to forget your reluctance to be here. I should find it very easy to forget,' he added with an irony that made the back of her neck prickle.
    'I'm scarcely likely to forget it!' she retorted tardy. 'But if you so much as lay a finger on me, I'll scream the house down! What would your family think then, signore?'
    His casual shrug made her temper flare within her. 'That I am a man and easily tempted,' he answered her. 'What else should they think?'
    'I'm sure they'd be very shocked if they saw you kissing me against my will. Why, my mother would blow a fuse if she were to find me '
    He pushed her hair back behind her ears. 'That is one of the advantages of being a man, signorina . My family, like yours, would undoubtedly be far more shocked at your allowing me to kiss you than by my doing so. It's the way of the world!'
    She opened her eyes wide. 'You mean they'd blame me ?'
    He considered her in silence for a moment. 'I am sure you would consider that to be unfair also,' he commented at last, 'but they would undoubtedly do so. Shall we go in now so that you can meet them?'
    She nodded, wishing she had the power to devastate his arrogant confidence in himself with a few well chosen words. She cast a last, brief look at herself in the glass and caught a glimpse of someone who shared her features but whom she didn't know at all. This stranger was far from looking the reluctant, misused captive of her imagination. On the contrary, there was a distinct sparkle in her eyes that spoke volumes about the anticipation with which she looked forward to seeing more of the Manzu palace and the treasures it contained. Her spirits were obviously, nay blatantly, uncrushed by the adventure in which she was an unwilling participant.
    The drawing room was large by any standards. The huge expanse of marble floor was covered here and there by expensive rugs, and groups of exquisite French furniture huddled together for support at intervals with a lack of cosiness that made Deborah wonder why the Manzus didn't close the room and meet elsewhere. But apparently she was alone in feeling overwhelmed by such surroundings. Domenico's mother, dressed in the inevitable black of Mediterranean widowhood, was seated on one of the fragile gilded chairs at the far end of the room, the cane in her hand resting on the floor between her immaculately shod feet. She watched her son's approach through half-closed eyes, seeming not to see Deborah at all.
    'You are late,' she greeted her son.
    'But in a good cause,' he returned with a faint smile. 'We have a guest from England, Mamma. Unhappily, her luggage has been mislaid, so she asks you to excuse her choice of dress for luncheon.' He led Deborah forward by the hand, his fingers as hard as steel against her wrist as she momentarily hung back. 'Miss Deborah Beaumont, Mamma. Debbie, my mother, the Signora Manzu.'
    Deborah extended her hand. 'How do you do?'
    The Signora inclined her head graciously. 'Do you speak any Italian, Miss Beaumont? Not that it matters in this household, but my daughter's fiancé is not a linguist.'
    'I'm afraid I don't,' Deborah admitted. 'I tried to learn a few words before I came, but until you hear people actually speaking all around you, it's hard to believe in it as a serious proposition.'
    'I understand exactly,' the older woman acknowledged. 'I used to feel like that about German. Surely, I would tell myself, they don't actually