Demanding His Hidden Heir

She bent her head, her reddish lashes sweeping down to hide her gaze, and raised a hand to her forehead, rubbing at it as if she had a headache.

If it had been at a different time and she a different woman, he a different man, he might have been sympathetic. But the time was now and she wasn’t a different woman. And he wasn’t different man.

She was the mother of his child, a child he’d had no idea even existed until now, which made sympathy the very last thing he felt towards her.

‘Henry doesn’t know,’ she said at last, quietly, her attention still on the floor. ‘He knows that Simon isn’t his. He just...doesn’t know that you’re Simon’s father.’

The triumph that went through him at the acknowledgement surprised him. Not that he needed it when the truth of the boy’s parentage was so obvious. But there was something about her saying it that got to him, that made possessiveness turn over inside him.

He wanted to put his hand on her lovely throat, claim her the way he had years ago with a kiss. And more.

But she wasn’t his and, as he already knew, he wasn’t that man. Not any more.

Now the only thing he wanted was his son.

Ignoring the urge to touch her, he shoved his fists into his pockets instead. ‘Well, that was easy.’ He kept his voice hard, not giving anything away. ‘Feels good to tell the truth, does it not? But tell me, Matilda, would you ever have admitted it to either of us if you hadn’t seen me downstairs? Or would you have remained the coward you were when you ran out on me that morning?’

* * *

The wall at Matilda’s back was the only thing holding her up. Or at least, given the current state of her knees, she was pretty certain it was the only thing holding her up. Certainly, if she’d taken even one step away from it, she probably would have fallen into a heap at Enzo Cardinali’s expensively shod feet.

The questions he kept firing at her were like a thousand tiny cuts. Each one not so painful on its own but, thrown all at once and with such fury, they had the power to make her bleed.

And it didn’t help that he was right. That he was entitled to every single ounce of his righteous anger.

Or that, apart from her son, he was the single most beautiful thing she’d ever seen in her life.

When he’d caged her against the wall, she’d thought she was going to catch fire right where she stood.

He’d been so close, radiating rage, those mesmerising golden eyes making her breath catch hard in her throat. Making her so aware of him she could feel it in every cell in her body. And, even though his deep, rough voice was frozen all the way through, the way his accent curled each word only deepened that awareness still further.

God, how she’d loved that accent of his. Loved how it had made the name she’d chosen for herself sound exotic, especially when she’d known she was anything but. And then the dialect of Italian that he’d whispered to her in the depths of the night, words she didn’t understand, soft and lyrical as he’d touched her, as he’d moved inside her...

Matilda sucked in a silent breath, fighting the relentless pull of desire. But it was difficult.

Although he’d pushed himself away, it felt as if he was still close, the warm, spicy scent of his aftershave lingering, the heat of his body like a furnace in front of her.

Her heartbeat was loud in her ears, deafening her.

Henry had always told her that, as long as she kept everything out of the media, she could have lovers. He hadn’t wanted to deprive her of sex if that was what she wanted. But she hadn’t wanted. The passion she’d shared with Enzo had scared her for reasons she couldn’t articulate, so she hadn’t wanted to go there again. Not with anyone.

She’d thought it would be easy, that she wouldn’t miss it but, now that Enzo himself was standing right in front of her, she realised that it hadn’t been easy. And she did miss it. She missed him.

No, she couldn’t do this with him. Not again. Not with Henry downstairs and Simon in his bedroom behind her.

Not even for herself this time.

Forcing the ache away, she made herself concentrate on the here and now, not the past, because she was in danger and so was her son. Not physical danger—Enzo would never hurt either of them; she knew that for truth—but she was wary of the emotional chasm that awaited her if she played this wrong.

And she’d already taken a misstep by denying him the truth. She didn’t even know why she’d pretended she didn’t know what he was talking about, only that she’d been scared. Frightened of how angry he was with her and how badly she wanted to justify herself and explain. But she had a horrible feeling all he’d see in her was excuses.

She had a horrible feeling that that was what she’d see in herself.

But she didn’t want to think about that right now. If she got this wrong, he would more than likely try to take her son from her, and there was no way she was going to let that happen. She wasn’t a particularly brave person, but Simon was hers. She’d lost her parents and her home and she wasn’t about to lose anything more.

And if he wanted the truth? Well, she’d give it to him.

‘Henry told me that he didn’t need to know who Simon’s father was,’ she said, pleased with how steady her voice sounded. ‘So I didn’t tell him. And as for you...’ She swallowed, clutching onto her bravery with everything she had, Enzo’s furious stare making all the words clump together in her throat. ‘I didn’t know about the pregnancy until four months after I came back to England. And then I...took a while to figure out who you were because you didn’t give me your last name.’

He was so tall. So full of indignant Italian fury. He made the air in the hallway around them crackle with the force of his anger. She could feel it pushing against her, wild electricity against her skin.

‘I’m not that difficult to find, cara,’ he said, dark and low, a caress down her spine. ‘Easy enough if you have the will and the determination. If you really wanted to find me.’

‘I did find you.’ Her throat was dry, a sick feeling in her gut as she remembered how her hands had shaken as she’d punched in the number she’d found in the course of a web search. And how she’d felt like throwing up as the phone had rung and rung, because she’d never made a mistake so big before. ‘And I called you. But you didn’t answer. It was some other man. And, when I explained, he called me a liar and told me never to bother you again.’

‘What man?’ Enzo’s eyes glittered. ‘And that’s all it took? Someone told you not to call so you didn’t?’

‘I don’t know who he was,’ she shot back, knowing it sounded weak, yet saying it anyway because it was the only defence she had. ‘He didn’t give me his name. And I...I thought you probably wouldn’t remember me. And that you probably wouldn’t want some inexperienced redhead showing up telling you that you were a father.’

She hadn’t been able to bear that particular thought. Of finding him, only to have him either not recognise her or call her a liar the way the man on the phone had. Or both. And most especially not after what they’d shared on the island together. Where for once in her life she’d felt like someone had actually wanted her.

‘I’m glad you could read my mind so easily.’ Enzo’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘From all the way over in England.’

She flushed, biting down on all the things she wanted to say. Defensive things that only sounded hollow, like excuses. ‘I’m sorry.’ It came out stiff and stilted. ‘I know I should have got in touch with you. There was no excuse for me not to. I just...’

Time had passed. And the longer she’d left it the harder it had become to pick up the phone. Until she’d decided that it was easier on both of them not to do it at all.

You’re selfish. Just like your parents were.

Her uncle’s voice floated through her head, angry and hurt, from the day she’d made that one, cursory protest about marrying Henry.

No, she wasn’t selfish. She wasn’t. She’d given up a lot to marry Henry. And she’d done it for them.

‘If you think a sorry will cut it, you’re sadly mistaken.’ The fierce, predatory lines of Enzo’s face were hard with anger. ‘I can forgive you for walking out on me that morning without a word. But I will not forgive the four years I missed with my son.’

The thread of fear that had been winding round and round her pulled tight. There was no mercy in those beautiful golden eyes; none to be had in his handsome face either.

God, why hadn’t she made sure Simon was asleep before creeping back to her room for ice-cream? Normally, she didn’t allow herself to relax until he was. But she’d been feeling so...jittery.

So what are you going to do? Just give Simon up without a fight?

An unfamiliar determination filled her, crowding out the fear, steeling her spine. No, there was no way in hell she’d do that. Bravery wasn’t her strong suit but she couldn’t bear not to fight for her son.

He might not have been what she’d planned, but there would never be a day when he wasn’t wanted. When he wasn’t loved. And she wouldn’t give him up, not for anyone, still less some arrogant Italian who thought he was God.

No matter what history she might have had with said Italian.

She might once have run from Enzo. But she wasn’t going to run now, not with Simon on the line.

Forcing the fear back, Matilda straightened against the wall. ‘I’m not asking for forgiveness, Enzo. But for what it’s worth, you have my—’

‘Enough,’ he interrupted brutally. ‘Whatever it is you’re offering, it is worth nothing.’ The fire in his eyes blazed. ‘There is only one thing I will accept from you—and make no mistake, Matilda, if you do not give it to me I will take it.’

The fear wrapped around her throat, strangling her. Because there could be only one thing he was talking about. Only one. And he was sleeping in the bedroom at her back.

No. Hell, no.

She’d moved in front of Simon’s door before she’d even thought about it, her gaze meeting Enzo’s head on. ‘No,’ she said, injecting every ounce of strength she had into the word. ‘You’ll take him over my dead body.’

Enzo hadn’t moved a muscle and yet the sense of threat he radiated filled the hallway around them, a pressure so intense she could hardly breathe.

‘The child is mine,’ he said, almost gently. ‘And I will have him.’

Then, before Matilda could think of a reply, he turned and stalked off down the hallway.

CHAPTER THREE

ENZO’S FURY HAD crystallised into something hard and cold and lethal that glittered like the edge of a steel blade.

The way Matilda had gone to stand in front of Simon’s door, as if she’d thought that Enzo would hurt him...

Dio, he’d thought it wasn’t possible to be any more furious.

He was wrong.

First there had been her acknowledgement that she’d made only one attempt to contact him, an attempt that had been half-hearted at best. Then she’d admitted that she hadn’t tried again after that because she’d thought he wouldn’t remember her...

He couldn’t understand how she could think that. How she could assume that he’d forget what had happened between them. That all those moments of intimacy, of connection, had been unimportant to him.

It didn’t seem possible. What was more likely was that she was using that as an excuse for her own cowardice.

The very thought made him incandescent with rage, not helped by the fact that as he strode down the hallway he was still hard. For her.

He hadn’t expected their chemistry still to be there, but it was. And just as strong as it had been all those years ago.

Perhaps stronger.

No. That was the rage talking. It had to be. Not that it made any difference whatsoever. No matter how badly he might want her, he wanted his son more. And she could make all the excuses in the world for her behaviour, but he was taking Simon, whether she liked it or not.

First, though, since this was St George’s house and she was St George’s wife, it was only fair that he inform the other man of his intentions. Not to mention the truth.

And Isola Sacra, the island you want to buy?

Ah, yes, that.

If he handled it right, maybe he could have both, his son and a place to take him. A place they could both call home.

Ignoring the pressure in his groin, he strode back into the drawing room, paying no attention to the crowd of people standing around St George this time.

The older man looked up as Enzo approached, but the expression on Enzo’s face must have given him away because St George’s ready smile faded. ‘What can I do for you, Cardinali?’ A frown creased his forehead. ‘Is there something wrong?’

‘I need to speak with you.’ Enzo didn’t bother to make it anything but the order it very much was. ‘Now, if you please.’

St George’s expression flickered minutely, his mouth tightening. ‘Of course. Come to my study.’

The English. They did so hate public unpleasantness. And unfortunately for St George things were about to get ten thousand times more unpleasant.

Curious stares followed them as St George led the way out of the drawing room, but Enzo ignored them. He didn’t care what other people thought of him at the best of times and he cared even less now.

St George’s study was decorated along very English aristocratic lines, with lots of wood panelling and tall bookshelves full of books that no one had read nor would ever read. A heavy oak desk stood in front of the window, a couple of red velvet armchairs positioned nearby. There was even a stag’s head over the fireplace opposite and the usual ode to the glories of hunting in the form of paintings of horses and hounds on the walls.

Enzo hated it. He preferred clean lines and modernity, not an overcrowded, cluttered space like this one.

He paced over to the fire, antsy and restless as St George headed for the drinks cabinet, getting out the brandy.

‘There’s no need for that,’ Enzo snapped, in no mood for niceties. ‘This won’t take long.’

St. George frowned and put down the decanter. ‘And what is “this” all about, then?’

‘Your son. Or rather, my son.’

A puzzled look appeared on the other man’s face. ‘I’m sorry? I’m not sure I follow.’

‘Simon is not your son.’ Enzo shoved his hands into his pockets in an effort to keep himself still. ‘He’s mine.’

There was a heavy silence.

A hard light gleamed in St George’s dark-brown eyes. ‘I think you’d better explain.’

‘I spoke to your wife,’ Enzo said coolly. ‘She said that you know Simon isn’t your son, but that she never told you who his father is. Well, I’m here to tell you that I’m his father. Four years ago she had an affair while on holiday at an island resort in the Caribbean. And she had that affair with me.’

St George said nothing, merely looked at him. Then he sighed heavily and glanced away, picking up the decanter again and pouring himself a hefty glass. ‘Are you sure you don’t want any?’ he asked, waving the bottle in Enzo’s direction. ‘Seems like this is a conversation that will require it.’

‘No,’ Enzo said flatly. ‘What I want is my son.’

St George took a large swallow of his drink. ‘Took you long enough.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Well, Simon is four now. That’s a long time to leave a boy—’

‘I didn’t know,’ Enzo interrupted, making no effort to temper the harsh note in his voice. ‘Your lovely wife apparently didn’t see fit to tell me she was pregnant.’

Another silence fell, even heavier than the last.

‘Ah,’ St George murmured. ‘I see.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you do. Now.’ Enzo’s hands clenched into fists in his pocket. ‘The fact that I’m talking to you is purely a courtesy. Tomorrow I will be taking my son back to Milan.’

St George stiffened, his mouth opening as if to say something.

But at that point the door of the study opened and Matilda stood on the threshold, flushed and lovely, steel in her gaze.

Enzo wasn’t surprised that she’d come after him, not after the way she’d protested about him taking Simon. No doubt she was here to stop him.

Well, she could try.

Matilda glanced at her husband then looked back at Enzo, and he knew that she’d realised what he’d done, because her eyes went silver with anger. ‘You told him, didn’t you?’ she said in a low voice. ‘You told my husband what—’

‘Someone had to,’ Enzo shot back, his fury igniting anew.

‘It wasn’t your place to do so.’

‘I am Simon’s father.’ He said the words with a certain relish, liking the way her expression tightened at the sound of them. ‘It is absolutely my place to do so. And, besides, I am a guest here and it is only polite that I let my host know that I will be taking Simon back to Italy with me in the morning.’

Shock flickered over her pointed face, closely followed by something bright and sharp that was probably pain.

And for a second that pain found an echo in himself, as if hurting her had hurt him as well. But he shoved that thought aside before it could find purchase.

He couldn’t afford mercy or sympathy. He couldn’t afford to be gentle.

His father had always told him that the softer emotions were useless in a king. That they undermined a man, hollowed him out, made him weak. Ruthlessness, strength and ice-cold determination were infinitely better.

Of course, his father wasn’t exactly a great example to follow, not considering how his own ruthlessness had nearly beggared his country, not to mention nearly crushed his own wife; but, when life forced you down the same path, you had to take what advice you could get. Certainly that particular piece had helped Enzo grow his company into what it was today and he’d never seen any reason to change his approach.

Not even to spare this woman pain. Especially not this woman...

But, whatever hurt she’d felt, it was gone the next second, the colour of her eyes darkening into storm clouds as she strode straight up to him. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re not taking Simon anywhere.’

He stared down at her, trying to ignore the visceral thrill that gripped him at the way she challenged him. ‘Oh, no? Just watch me.’

‘You won’t.’ Her chin lifted. ‘I won’t allow it.’

The desire he’d been fighting caught at him yet again. Dio, had she been like this on the island with him? Surely he would have remembered if she had. Because there was something about her opposition that he found intensely sexy. It made him want to fight her, push her. See what she was really made of.

She had a strength to her that he hadn’t seen before, glimpses of an iron determination that equalled his own.

But of course. She was protecting her child.

He almost would have approved if he hadn’t been the thing she was protecting his child from.

‘You think you can stop me?’ he growled.

‘I think that ripping a child away from the only home he’s ever known is criminal, so yes. Yes, I bloody well would.’

Her choice of words hit him in a place he shouldn’t have been vulnerable, and certainly not these days.

Ripping a child away from the only home he’s ever known...

It had been night when his father’s bodyguards had woken him, dragging him and a still sleepy Dante from their beds and onto the boat that would take them from Monte Santa Maria and to the Italian mainland. They’d had no time to take anything with them, no time to say goodbye to their friends or the places they’d loved. It had taken twenty minutes to be ripped away from his home and everything he’d known, and two days later he’d found himself in a one-roomed apartment in Milan, his father raging at his ‘ungrateful subjects’, his mother pale and silent, saying nothing at all.

Could he really do the same thing to his own child?

Like your father did to you?

His jaw was so tight it ached. No, he couldn’t do what had been done to him, no matter how intensely he wanted to take his son and hold him fast. Keep him safe.

Selfishness had been a characteristic of his father’s that he’d inherited, something his mother had flung in his face before she’d left, and he owned it. But right now Simon and what was best for him seemed more important.

And Matilda was right. He couldn’t simply take the boy from everything that was familiar to him.

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