Hot-Blooded Italians: Sicilian Husband, Unexpected Baby / A Tainted Beauty / Marriage Scandal, Showbiz Baby!

‘I can think of a pretty good reason,’ he retorted sourly. ‘Missing my wealth and deciding you want a sizeable chunk of it might be enough to make you go ahead with some kind of scam—’

‘Scam?’ she echoed in horror. ‘You think I’m some kind of…some kind of…cheap con-merchant?’

He shrugged, his heart pounding furiously in his chest. ‘You’ve already proved that, Emma. You fooled me into believing that we were still trying for a baby, when all the time you knew that it was impossible. If that isn’t conning someone, then I’d be interested to hear your definition of the word, cara.’

Never had a term of supposed affection carried with it such a wealth of withering scorn, and Emma almost recoiled from the look of disdain which sparked from his black eyes. Her tongue snaked around lips which suddenly felt like crumpled parchment. ‘I never meant to deceive you,’ she whispered.

‘No?’

‘I was frightened to let you know what the results were,’ she said.

‘So you treated me like a fool!’ he accused. ‘You just thought you’d keep me in the dark about something as important as that?’

‘No. Of course not. It wasn’t meant to be like that. I was going to tell you—’

‘And what precisely were you going to tell me, Emma?’ he questioned in a suddenly silken voice.

Emma relaxed a little. ‘That I couldn’t…couldn’t have a baby.’

‘Yet now you are telling me that the doctor was wrong? That all those months of trying vainly to conceive were an illusion—and that you could conceive after all?’

‘Yes! My obstetrician said that these things do happen occasionally—’

‘Miraculous,’ he commented sarcastically. ‘And when did this marvel occur? How old is the child?’

A part of her wanted to tell him to forget it—that she wasn’t going to beg him to acknowledge his son, and that she had more than enough love to go round.

But Emma recognised that she must do this for Gino’s sake. Because what if one day he turned round and demanded to know where his father was? She must be able to look him in the eye and tell him truthfully that she had told Vincenzo everything—every single fact—even if she’d told them to him rather late in the day. How Vincenzo chose to interpret and then act on those facts was up to him, but her conscience would be clear.

‘He’s ten months old,’ she said—knowing that this was the big one and watching while Vincenzo’s eyes narrowed in silent calculation. He was clearly doing some kind of rapid mathematical assessment about whether or not it was possible for him to be the father. And, yes, it was insulting, but her feelings were not the issue here.

‘And when are you claiming that this conception took place?’

‘It must have been that…that last time we were together. Do you remember?’

Now he gave a grim kind of smile. ‘Do I remember? I am hardly likely to forget,’ he said bitterly. It had been the first time they’d been together for weeks. Their relationship had gradually been eroding, but in the light of the news that she could not bear his child and all the accompanying deceit they had become strangers to one another. The letter she had hidden had become the symbol of all that was wrong between them. He began to doubt whether anything about her had been genuine.

‘So were you really a virgin when I met you, Emma?’ he had demanded icily one day, over breakfast. ‘Or was that, too, a fabrication?’

He remembered the way that the light had gone out of her eyes and, yes, he had taken pleasure in that, too.

‘Oh, what is the point, Vincenzo?’ had been her dull response. ‘If you can think so poorly of me, then there is no point in going on, is there?’

He remembered the feeling of relief which had washed over him, telling himself that he would be glad to see the back of her lying little face. True, he would have to live with the mockery of his cousins, who had always cautioned him against the marriage—but he could deal with that.

Yet the reality of their separation had proved harsher than he had anticipated. He had missed her bright blonde hair and her sunny smile and the way that her delicate frame used to complement his own powerful body so perfectly. Until he reminded himself that those were external things which were easily replaceable and that, in truth, he didn’t really recognise the Emma he had married. His trust in her had been destroyed—and to a proud Sicilian man trust was everything.

He was aware of the bizarre situation in which he now found himself—aware of Emma standing wide-eyed on the opposite side of the luxury hotel suite, her cheeks still flushed from their lovemaking and her hair in disarray. So what was he going to do about her extraordinary revelation that he had fathered her child?

Giving himself time to sift through his options with a chilly detachment, which his business rivals would have recognised with sinking hearts, Vincenzo poured himself another glass of mineral water and drank from it. For once, he could have done with the slightly numbing effect of alcohol, but he needed his wits to be as razor sharp as they had ever been.

His black gaze bored into her like the twin barrels of a shotgun. ‘The question is—whether or not I believe you,’ he pondered. ‘Or whether you’re just spinning me a line to try to get your hands on as much of my money as possible.’

Emma choked back her instinctive gasp of distress. ‘You think that I’d choose this particular method as a means of extorting money from a man like you? That I’d put myself through all this grief?’ she demanded. ‘Why, I’d rather scrub floors to earn a crust than do that!’

‘So why don’t you?’ he challenged icily.

His words were the final straw—pushing her and pushing her until all her determination to stay calm flew out of the window and something inside Emma snapped. All the worry and the struggle of the preceding months, the huge decision to tell Vincenzo and then her own weakness in having just had sex with him—all these factors now ignited to explode into a debilitating cocktail of anger and indignation and sheer anxiety.

‘Because I have a baby to look after and it’s actually very difficult, if you must know! I’d pay more in childcare than I’d earn! But how would you know—when you’ve been cushioned by wealth all your life? Everything you’ve wanted has always been there for the taking. Money may have made your life easier, Vincenzo, but it has tarnished it, too, because you are unable to see anything except through its dark and corrupting influence. Every time you meet a new person the barriers go up and you’re thinking, Does this person want to know me, or do they want to get their hands on my millions?’

‘That’s enough!’ he snapped. ‘I don’t really think that you are in a position to give me a lecture on the morality of money, when your own morals are in radical need of an overhaul.’ Deliberately, he let his gaze rake over her crumpled dress, at the sting of colour which still flushed her face. ‘Tell me, did you have sex with me because you thought it would put you in a better bargaining position—because if I were you, I would really rethink your strategy in future, cara. Your worth would be greatly enhanced if you withheld the sex until after you had agreed the price.’

That did it. Her rage so blinding, her fury and her frustration and sense of self-recrimination were all so overwhelming that Emma just flew across the suite, launching herself at him, raining a battery of blows at the unforgiving wall of his chest.

But Vincenzo merely laughed, capturing her drumming little fists easily within the restraining grasp of his hands and stilling her with a contemptuous curve of his lips as he brought his mouth up close to her ear.

‘Did you imagine that such a spirited display would have me eating out of your hand?’ he whispered. ‘Or eating you?’

‘Vincenzo!’

‘Vincenzo!’ he mocked. And wasn’t the fiercely hot kick of desire hitting him hard in the groin—and didn’t he just want to press it against her warm, soft mound, to seek a quick and urgent release from this infernal desire? But sex without strings was one thing—having sex with her after what she had just told him was something entirely different.

Dropping his hands from her as if she were contaminated, he walked over to the other side of the room, his back facing her. People always said that Vincenzo’s face was cold and shuttered—that working out what was going on in his head from the look on his face was like trying to read a stone. But Emma was better at it than most because inevitably she knew him better than most. And so he needed to be careful.

Staring out of the window, he studied the dark gleam of the river and the dazzling light from the buildings which were reflected on its rippling surface. Logic told him that she was lying—and it also told him that if she persisted with her crazy contention, then he should simply refer it to his lawyers. It wasn’t exactly unheard of for fabulously wealthy men to be hit on by women with spurious paternity claims—but these days, fortunately, there were the means to establish the truth in such a claim.

He should tell her to get out, to leave the suite now—and he should put someone onto it in the morning. Why, he need not even meet with her again—it could all be put into the hands of his legal experts.

But some instinct made Vincenzo loath to follow the voice of logic, and he wasn’t sure why. Was it because the sex between them had been utter dynamite—just as it always had been with her—and because it had awoken in him a hunger which she could feed better than any other woman he’d ever known?

Wouldn’t it make more sense to play along with her—so that he could enjoy her body for a little longer before they parted for good? And wouldn’t renewed evidence of her duplicity finally help dull the magic enchantment which she could still wield over his senses?

Turning back, he surprised her chewing on her bottom lip like a nervous exam candidate. So was she? Nervous? Of course she was.

‘Where do you live?’ he questioned.

‘In a little place called Boisdale—it’s about an hour’s drive from here.’

‘Did you drive here today?’

Still smarting from all the hurt and the pain—some of it admittedly self-inflicted—Emma wondered which planet he lived on, until she remembered. He lived on Planet Wealth. Vincenzo had guessed that she was short of money, but someone in his position would have no idea of what that would mean in real terms. To him, being broke might mean having a pretty standard car—the idea that she would simply be unable to pay for road tax and petrol, let alone the cost of learning to drive would be completely outside his experience.

‘No, I still haven’t got my licence,’ she said, just wanting to get away now and as soon as possible. Away from that disdainful face and the memory of what she had just allowed to happen. All she wanted was to wash away every trace of him… She would blow the expense, put the immersion heater on and submerge herself in a hot, deep bath the minute she got home. ‘No, I came by train.’

Emma glanced at her watch, but the blur of numbers danced in front of her eyes. At least she had told him, and he hadn’t believed her. Gino would be unable to blame her and maybe this was all for the best. She need never see him again and she would manage. Somehow. ‘And, in fact, I ought to be getting back.’

‘Yes. I will order a car,’ said Vincenzo, sliding his mobile phone from his pocket.

‘That won’t be necessary, thank you. I’ll be fine.’

‘You think perhaps I am playing the gentleman, cara?’ he taunted silkily, with a shake of his dark head. ‘Alas, you are mistaken. You may be content to take public transport, but I can assure you that I am not.’

Emma stared at him, putting her confusion and interpretation of mixed messages down to the fact that she was tired and aching. ‘I don’t quite understand what you mean.’

‘Don’t you?’ questioned Vincenzo softly. ‘Haven’t you realised that I shall be coming with you?’

Emma stared at him in alarm. ‘What, you mean—to Boisdale? But I thought…’

‘What did you think?’ he put in as her strained whisper faded into an open-mouthed look of disbelief.

‘That you didn’t believe me.’

‘I don’t.’ His mouth hardened as he punched out a number on his phone, and said something swiftly in his Sicilian dialect, before meeting her gaze with cold, hard eyes. ‘But the easiest way to rule out a whole load of unnecessary paperwork and time is to see the baby for myself.’

‘You think you’ll be able to establish his paternity just by looking at him?’

‘Of course I do. The Cardini genes are unmistakable,’ he said, his voice harsh as he called her bluff. ‘You know that as well as I do.’

Emma swallowed. ‘He’ll be asleep.’

So now she had backed herself into a corner. ‘So much the better—for I have no wish to unsettle the child.’ A low beeping sound emitting from his phone alerted his attention and he shot Emma a disparaging glance. ‘Now put your shoes back on, cara—and let’s get this over with. The car’s here.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

IT WAS the journey from hell.

Despite the quietly opulent luxury of Vincenzo’s chauffeur-driven car, Emma sat bolt upright on the soft leather seat as if she were facing a firing squad. Yet that was exactly how it felt—only she happened to be facing the lethal weapons of his words rather than the cold metal of a gun.

But if she stopped to think about it—what had she really expected to happen? She knew what kind of man Vincenzo was—had she really imagined that he would just calmly accept such a momentous piece of information from her? Perhaps that he would just nod sagely and give her a divorce and then politely ask when it might be convenient for him to visit his son? As if.

What a fool she had been not to have anticipated this.

But at least this way it would soon be all over and there would be no awful delay to endure. No feeling threatened while she waited anxiously to see just what he would do next. Vincenzo would soon set eyes on Gino and would know instantly that the baby had sprung from his loins. Emma knotted her fingers together. And of course that would bring up problems all of its own—but at least she would have done the right thing, and after the initial anger had subsided, surely they were mature enough to work out some kind of effective compromise.

‘So who has been looking after him today?’

The question shot at her from out of the gloom and somehow her estranged husband had managed to turn it into an accusation. ‘My friend Joanna.’

‘I see.’ In the dim light Vincenzo’s mouth twisted, but Emma noticed, as no doubt he had intended her to do. ‘She is experienced in the care of children?’

‘She’s got a little boy about the same age,’ Emma put in hastily, hating the fact that she felt the need to defend herself and yet wanting to impress on him that she was a good mother. ‘And she’s brilliant with him. This evening she’s left her son with her husband so that she could put mine to bed in his own home.’

A long finger drummed a slightly menacing little beat on the taut surface of one tensile thigh. ‘So tell me, Emma—how often do you leave your child with someone else while you go off to London to have casual sex?’

It was a bitter and damning allegation and Emma felt her body begin to shake with the injustice of it. She shook her head and stared up into his face, unable to help the indignant tremble of her lips. ‘How dare you say something like that?’

‘You mean, that the way you behaved today with me isn’t the way you usually behave with men?’

‘You know damned well it isn’t!

Yes, deep down he knew that. It had been evident in the hungry way she had responded to him today—and in the general and conflicting air of untouchability which she had always possessed. Hadn’t it been that very quality which had first so ensnared him and which had made him lose control more times than he cared to remember?

But Vincenzo was a Sicilian man—and that carried with it a whole lot of complex issues about how women should and shouldn’t behave when it came to sex. Back there in the Vinoly suite, Emma had behaved with the wild abandon of a mistress—not a young mother who had left her baby for the day with someone who wasn’t family! And although he had revelled in the experience they had just shared, there was a part of him which also despised it.

Vincenzo turned his head to stare at the darkened English countryside which was rushing past the window, watching as the car slowed and then passed through a surprisingly impressive entrance gate, before making its way up a wide, tree-lined drive. On the far horizon, he could see an imposing-looking house which stood in an elevated position, all lit up and glowing golden.

‘You live here?’ he demanded.

For one moment, Emma was so tempted to tell him that, yes, she did. That really she was simply pretending to be hard-up as some kind of diversion in order to amuse herself!

‘Hardly,’ she said drily. ‘I rent a cottage in the grounds. It’s over there. Can you tell the chauffeur to turn to the right and then travel straight on past the lake?’

Vincenzo clicked on the intercom and spoke to the driver in rapid Italian as the limousine changed direction. It purred its way to a smooth halt in front of March Cottage and he found his eyes narrowing in surprise, for this was not what he had been expecting, either.

It was tiny; one of those cute little houses which always seemed to feature on the front of postcards—with its stone walls and some sort of leafy thing scrambling around the front door, over which hung an old-fashioned lantern.

Although a gust of cold wind whirled round them as they stepped from the car, Emma’s palms were clammy with sweat as she turned to him, wondering what was going on behind that forbidding profile as he stared up at the front of the cottage. ‘I’d better go in first and warn—’

‘No.’ The word silenced her just as much as the hand placed lightly on her forearm, his fingers curling briefly around her tiny wrist. He saw her blue eyes darken, and widen. His voice dipped to a silky threat. ‘You do not need to warn anyone, caramia. Come, I will accompany you.’

Emma felt trapped—but presumably that was what he had intended—and yet why on earth should she feel trapped? This was her territory now, not his. He was only here because he wanted to convince himself that the baby was not his. Well, you are in for the shock of a lifetime, Signor Cardini, she thought fiercely.

‘Hello!’ she called, pushing open the door, and saw a light coming from the sitting room.

Joanna was lying on the sofa, wrapped up in a blanket and watching TV—a banana skin and an empty coffee cup on the floor beside her. ‘It’s bloody freezing,’ she complained as Emma walked in and then her face froze into a look of utter disbelief when she registered the rugged olive face of the man who was following her.

Pushing the blanket off, she sat up immediately. ‘Ooh! Good grief! You must be—’

‘This is Vincenzo Cardini,’ said Emma without any further explanation, giving Joanna an I’ll-tell-youeverything-later look. ‘How’s he been?’

Joanna appeared to judge the look correctly, though Emma saw her shooting curious glances at the tall, dark man who stood dominating the small space with a moody look. ‘Oh, no trouble really,’ she said. ‘Though he didn’t really want to settle—missing his mum, I guess. But he ate an enormous tea and afterwards I gave him a bath—though you really ought to see about getting Andrew to install a heater in the bathroom, Emma.’

‘Andrew?’ questioned Vincenzo dangerously. ‘And just who is Andrew?’

‘Andrew is my landlord,’ said Emma quickly.

Black eyes bored into her. ‘Oh, is he?’

She wanted to say that Andrew’s identity was none of his business, but she had made it his business, in a way—first by allowing herself to be intimate with him, and then by announcing that he was the father of her child. Given Vincenzo’s track record with jealousy and possession, was it any wonder that he looked like a volcano just about to erupt?

Joanna jumped up. ‘Look, I’d better get off home.’

Emma nodded and flashed her friend a grateful smile. ‘Thanks, Jo—I really appreciate it and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

There was an uncomfortable kind of silence while Joanna picked up her coat and bag and went to reach for the discarded banana skin.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ said Emma quickly.

‘I’ll let myself out, then,’ said Joanna.

But Emma barely heard her go. She felt rooted to the spot—not knowing what the hell she should do next—but it seemed that Vincenzo had no such problems with indecision.

‘Where is he?’ he demanded.

‘In…in there.’ She pointed at the bedroom door, which was slightly ajar, noticing almost dispassionately that her finger was shaking. ‘Please don’t wake him.’

Vincenzo’s mouth twisted into a mocking parody of a smile. ‘I have no desire to wake him. Believe me when I tell you that this is simply to put my mind at rest. One look and I’m out of here. Just show me the child.’

It was the most bizarre of all situations, creeping into Gino’s bedroom, her heart frozen with fear and love, trying to see him as Vincenzo would be seeing him—as if for the first time in the soft glow of the night-light. And, no matter what lay ahead, Emma felt the sharp rush of maternal pride as she gazed down on her son.

He was lying on his back, little fisted arms bunched up alongside his head—as if he were spoiling for a fight. As usual, he had managed to kick off his covers and automatically Emma moved forward to pull it back over him.

‘No.’ Vincenzo’s word stopped her. ‘Leave it.’

‘But—’

‘I said, leave it.’

Her breath caught in her throat, Emma watched as Vincenzo walked slowly to the side of the cot, ducking his dark head and only narrowly avoiding missing the animal mobile which was swirling madly around above it.

For a moment Vincenzo just stood there, staring down—as motionless and as formidable as a statue constructed from some cold, dark ebony.

Emma felt her fingernails digging into her palms, wanting to break the spell of this terrible and uneasy situation, but somehow not daring to. This was his right, she realised—to take as long as he liked.

With a fast-beating heart, Vincenzo committed the scene to memory. The riot of dark curls and the rather petulant curl of the sleeping mouth, which was so like the one which stared back at him from the mirror each morning when he was shaving. Though the light was dim, nothing could disguise the unmistakably goldenolive glow of the child’s perfect skin—nor the hint of height and strength lying dormant in his baby frame.

Vincenzo expelled a long breath of air—the harsh sound penetrating the stillness in the room like an over-pumped tyre which had just been punctured. And then, without any kind of warning, he turned and walked from the room.

Emma fussed around, straightening the covers and feathering her fingertips through the silken mop of Gino’s hair—almost as if she were willing him to wake up. But he was deeply asleep—worn out, no doubt—and she could not continue to hide here like some kind of fugitive, just to escape Vincenzo’s wrath.

And you haven’t done anything wrong, she told herself.

She walked back into the sitting room, where Vincenzo was standing waiting for her with the grim body language of an executioner, his black eyes filled with a cold look of rage.

His mouth twisted as the word was wrenched from him like bitter and deadly poison. ‘Puttanesca!’

As an insult it happened to be grossly inaccurate—but Emma knew that it was the macho insult of choice whenever a woman was considered to have wronged.