One Night: Sizzling Attraction: Married for Amari's Heir / Damaso Claims His Heir / Her Secret, His Duty

“Why don’t I trust people? Because I see what happens when you trust people. My father is a con man. He always has been. The quality time I remember with my dad consisted of running scams that required playing on people’s sympathy for children. Not exactly a weekend at the ballpark. Why would I trust people?”

He pushed open the double doors that led outside to an expansive terrace that overlooked the ocean. He turned to face her, his lean figure backlit by the sun. “You shouldn’t trust people. At least not in my experience. Certainly don’t trust me.”

She followed him outside, to a table that was set for two. There was a Mediterranean platter including olives and various other Italian delights, a basket of bread, a glass of wine for him and water for her.

“Oh, I don’t trust you.”

He pulled her chair out and indicated that he wanted her to sit. “Good. I don’t need you to trust me. I simply need you to stay with me. Sit.”

She kept her eyes on his and she obeyed his command, deciding that in this instance, it wouldn’t do any good to push against him. “What do you mean you want to keep me?”

“I have done some thinking. I want to be in my child’s life. And I want you to be in the child’s life. You see, I was denied both my parents at a very early age. I cannot knowingly do the same to my own flesh and blood.”

“Well, I...I feel the same way. At least as far as I’m concerned.” It was the truth. Growing up without a mother, it had never been an option for her to give her child up. Knowing that her mother had left her with a con artist for a father and never bothered to contact her again, had caused Charity pain all of her life. Doing the same to her own child was unthinkable.

“Then it is decided. Shall we set a wedding date?”

“I am not marrying you.”

He waved a hand. “Marriage is not necessary. I’m flexible on that score. But I do think we should share a household, don’t you? It would only be jarring for the child to bounce back and forth between your tiny apartment and one of my homes.”

“Are you suggesting we live together?”

“If you refuse to marry me, cohabitation works just as well.”

“But...I don’t understand. You can’t possibly want a relationship with me.”

“Of course I don’t.” He tossed the words out casually, no venom in his tone at all. “I don’t care about you at all. Except in the context of what you mean to our baby. Even if we were to marry we would continue to conduct our lives separately.”

“I don’t want to marry you.”

“I did not say I wanted to marry you,” he said, taking a seat across from her. “Only that I feel it is an option.”

She studied him hard. “You believe me. About the baby?”

“Yes.”

“And you want the baby. You want to be a father.”

“I am going to be a father. That means I...have to be one,” he said, sounding slightly less confident than he typically did.

“Why did you change your mind?”

“I lived in Rome when I was a boy.” He leaned back in his chair and picked up his glass of wine, swirling the liquid inside slowly. “We lived in a very poor neighborhood. I never knew my father. I woke up one morning and the house was empty. Everything had been taken. And there were strangers there. My mother was gone. And I kept asking them where she was, but no one would answer me. I found out later that she was killed on her way home from work. I assume the landlord took all of our possessions and left me alone. But I don’t know the details, and things like that are always difficult to sort through. Childhood memories. The recollections of a five-year-old are not always clear. But I know what it means to be alone. I know what it is like to feel lost.” There was a faraway look in his dark eyes, a deep well that she could not see the bottom of. So different to the flatness that was usually there. “I do not wish that for our child. I wish for them to have a full house. I wish for them to have both of us. If he wakes in the middle of the night I do not want him to be alone.”

Her chest tightened to the point of discomfort. She looked down at her plate, picked up an olive and rolled it in between her thumb and forefinger. Emotions made her uncomfortable. Especially the emotions of other people. In her experience connecting was dangerous. Empathy was dangerous. It had made it impossible to do what her father asked growing up. Because if she started to think too deeply about what other people would feel when they discovered they had been cheated, she had to contend with her conscience.

And if ever she connected with people, it only dissolved once the con ended and she had to run.

It was why she could never engage herself. Why she had to play a character wholly and completely, so that she was wrapped in it, so the real her was protected.

But she found that she was not protected now. She was not distant. Because it was too easy to picture a lonely boy in an empty house. Because she had felt that, too.

“Some nights,” she said, questioning the words even as she spoke them, “my father would go to events, and he could not bring me with him. He would tell me to lock the doors, not open them for anyone. We had a password. So when he came home in the early hours of the morning, he would say it, and I would know not to be afraid. But sometimes he didn’t come home. And I would be by myself all night. Normally I would sleep through it, but sometimes I would wake up, go get a glass of water, something like that. And the house was so empty. It’s a very scary feeling late at night.” She met his gaze. “I don’t want that for our child, either. I want what you want.”

Her stomach twisted hard. She didn’t really want to deal with him, because he frightened her. Because he had used her. Because he had scraped away the layers of rock she kept between herself and the world, made her vulnerable to him. Exposed her to him. She could not forget that.

“He will have it,” Rocco said, a certainty in his voice that she found oddly comforting. “It is a terrifying thing as a child. Being alone in that way. I am...sorry that you were alone. I know that feeling. It is... I avoid it at all costs now.”

She swallowed hard, an unexpected wave of emotion washing over her. “Thank you.”

Then, as though he had not just softened for her, he straightened, his eyes unreadable again. “Then it is settled. We are staying here for the foreseeable future.”

“Why?” Her heart was pounding fast, fluttering in her chest like a panicked bird.

“Because I don’t trust you. I do not trust that you will not find a way to make off with my money and my baby. Your word has limited value to me.”

His words cut close to the bone, because there was so much truth to them. Because initially she had intended to take his money and go. Because she was a liar, and she had proven herself to be. And she could not even find a shred of righteous indignation to throw back at him. “I am being honest with you,” she said. It was all she could say.

He looked at her, his gaze hard. “I cannot read you, and I find that disturbing. Are you a practiced con woman? Are you an innocent virgin? Are you a tough girl from the wrong side of the tracks forced into criminal activity because of your circumstances and your upbringing? I don’t know. Because I have seen you play all those roles. And you play them all very well.”

“Maybe I’m all of them.” She reached down and put her fingers on her water glass, turning it in a circle. “And what about you? Who are you? A lonely boy without a mother? The wicked predator who blackmailed me into bed?”

“I am definitely the second. I decided long ago to move past where I began. Feeling guilty doesn’t benefit you, Charity. You make decisions—you must own them.”

“So, you don’t think I should feel guilty about the money my father took and the part I played in it?”

He took a sip of his wine. “If I were you? I wouldn’t feel guilty in the least. However, I am not you. I am me, and I had to ensure that you paid for what you did.”

“With sex.”

“I already told you,” he said, his eyes meeting hers. “That was not part of the plan.”

“And I already told you I don’t trust people. I’m not sure why you think I should take you at your word.”

“Because I have no reason to lie to you. Not on that score.”

Charity laughed and took a piece of bread from the basket at the center of the table. “Who is going to teach our child morals? It seems that you and I both lack them.”

How was she supposed to teach a child right and wrong? How was she supposed to enforce consequences for wrong behavior when she’d spent so much of her life dodging consequences.

When she’d been a thief for so long.

For the first time she wondered if she deserved to go to prison. She didn’t want to. But she was guilty of all she was accused of.

She clenched her hands into fists, a sick feeling settling in the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t go to jail. Then her child wouldn’t have a mother.

She could be better, though. Something was changing in her. For the first time she didn’t just know that stealing from him was wrong. She felt it.

Rocco frowned. “We should get a nanny.”

Charity was about to disagree, but then realized he was probably right. She didn’t know the first thing about babies, after all. Someone was going to have to show her how to change a diaper.

“We...we probably should.”

“We will worry about that a little bit later. For now, I suggest we get used to dealing with each other.”

“Do we have to?” she asked, picking up her glass of water. “We could always just ignore each other.”

“I would much rather sleep with you again.”

She sputtered. “What?”

“Why not? We are attracted to one another. And you will be here indefinitely. It could benefit us both.”

“Yeah. No.” She picked up another piece of bread and ate it. “I spend most days feeling a lot like I just licked the underside of a shoe. So I can honestly tell you that sex is the furthest thing from my mind. In fact, I’m a little bit angry at sex. I blame sex.”

He shrugged, looking completely unconcerned by her refusal. “Fair enough.”

She was slightly wounded that he didn’t press. Which was ridiculous. She should not be wounded. She should be thrilled. Or something. She didn’t want to sleep with him again. He hated her. He had only brought her here because she was having his baby.

Come to that, she wasn’t that fond of him.

Yes, in that hotel suite, in the heat of the moment, with a veil of fantasy drawn around them that had begun with that note and that lingerie, something had caught fire between them. But here, with the brine from the ocean playing havoc with her sensitive stomach, the cool breeze blowing across her skin, raising goose bumps on her arms, things felt all too real.

Still, the rejection stung a little bit, even if she didn’t know why. Some sort of previously unknown feminine sexual pride that had been uncovered by their indiscretion.

Just another bit of evidence to prove that sleeping with him in the first place was incredibly stupid.

“So that’s it then?”

“Did you think I was going to pine after you?” He looked her over, his dark eyes conveying a kind of dismissiveness that cut deep. “I’m used to much more experienced women, cara mia, and while your innocence had a certain charm I prefer a partner who understands the way a man’s body works.”

Heat assaulted her cheeks. “You were the one who propositioned me.”

“Because it made sense. I’m not a man prepared to go without sex. I’m hardly going to be celibate, so the decision is yours. Either I sleep with you or I will find someone else.”

A ball of rage lodged itself in her chest. She couldn’t quite work out why. She had refused him, so, by that logic, he should be free to share his body with whoever he wanted. But she didn’t feel that he should be. His body belonged to her. At least, that was what it felt like. He was the only man she had ever touched like that. The only man who had ever been inside her. How could that not feel significant to him? It didn’t seem fair.

But she would not show him her feelings. She would not reveal herself. “Do what you want. I’m not bothered. Just don’t touch me.”

“I always do what I want. But your gesture of offering permission was cute.” He stood, picking up his glass of wine and swallowing the rest of the contents before setting it back on the table. “And on that note, I believe I will go out and do what I please. Have a good evening.”

He turned and walked off the terrace, leaving her sitting there. Alone.

She picked up another piece of bread and bit into it with no small amount of ferocity. She didn’t care what he went to do. She did not own him. She did not own his body, in spite of her earlier thoughts on the subject.

She didn’t want to go out. She wanted to sit here. And eat. Go to bed early.

Master of the Manor aside, the house was beautiful, and she should just enjoy being here. The money her father had stolen would never gain him admittance into a place like this. To a man like Rocco a million dollars was a drop in an endless sea.

So, she would sit here and enjoy the fact that, although her father had abandoned her and left her to take the fall, she was the one sitting in a villa in Italy.

With a man who had blackmailed her into bed. And had got her pregnant. And was headed out to undoubtedly have sex with another woman.

So, except for all those things, she would sit here and enjoy the fact that she was in an Italian villa. She would ignore the other things. For as long as she could.

CHAPTER SIX

ROCCO WRENCHED HIS tie off and cast it down to the marble floor in the entryway of his home. He had gone out, and he had stayed out all night. He had found a beautiful woman, and he had bought her a drink. However, when it had come time for him to take the beautiful woman to bed, he had changed his mind. He had not even kissed her, not even tried to seduce her. He had bought her a drink, chatted with her and realized that his body had no interest in her.

He wasn’t entirely certain what to do with that realization. She was a beautiful woman, and there was no reason for him to do anything but take her to bed. However, he found he simply lacked the desire. And so he had spent the rest of the night drinking, attempting to get himself into a place where he might not be so aware of the woman he wanted to seduce. But still, as he had approached a blonde later in the night, Charity—her dark curls, beautifully smooth skin, like coffee and cream—swam before his vision, the pale beauty before him washing out into insignificance.

He had ended his time out as the sky began to turn gray, the sun preparing to rise over the sea, walking through the city using the frigid early-morning air to help sober him up.

And then he had walked back to the villa. He would send someone for his car later.

But, though his head was clear, he was not in a better mood.

He did not understand why he had been immune to those women.

He started up the stairs, unbuttoning the top couple of buttons on his shirt, and the cuffs, pushing the sleeves up to his elbows.

As he made his way down the hall toward his bedroom he heard a thump and a groan.

He paused, turning in the direction of the sound. It was coming from Charity’s room.

He did not stop and think; rather he charged toward the door and pushed it open, just in time to see her crawling on all fours into the bathroom. He frowned and strode across the room. In the bathroom, he saw her kneeling in front of the toilet, retching.

He walked in behind her, lifting her hair from her face, until she was finished being sick.

“Go away,” she said, her voice pitiful.

“No, I will not go away. You are ill.”

“I’m not,” she said, sputtering, before leaning back over and being sick again. He made sure her dark curls were pulled away from her face, his fingers making contact with the clammy skin on her forehead, the back of her neck.

“Yes, you are.” She slumped backward, her limbs shaking, a shiver racking her frame. “Are you finished?” he asked.

She nodded feebly, and he scooped her up into his arms, conscious of how cool her skin felt, even though it was beaded with perspiration. “Water,” she said.

“Of course, but let me get you back into your bed.”

“You getting me into bed is what caused this in the first place,” she mumbled.

“This is because of the pregnancy?” He set her down at the center of the bed, debating whether or not he should put a blanket over her.

“Well, it isn’t food poisoning.”

“I have no experience with pregnant women,” he said, feeling defensive. “I knew that pregnancy could make you ill, but I did not realize how severe it might be.”

She drew her knees up to her chest, curling into a little miserable ball. “Mine is quite severe.”

“You seemed well yesterday.”

“It usually only does this in the morning.”

“Are you cold?”

She shivered. “No, I’m hot.”

“You are shivering.”

“Okay, now I’m cold.”

Rocco didn’t know the first thing about caring for another person. He had never done it before. Since the death of his mother he had spent his life renting out connections. Foster families that never kept him for longer than a couple of months, lovers who lasted a couple of nights. In his experience, the only thing that was permanent were the things he could buy. So he invested in things. In brick, and marble. In cars and land. People were too transient in nature. Too temporary.

He remembered—a hazy image—that when he had been ill as a child his mother used to bring him a drink. With a lemon. Or maybe it wasn’t a real memory at all. Maybe it was just something his mind had given him, something he had created for his mother’s image to replace the more concrete memories of her looking desolate, tired.

Either way, he imagined Charity might like tea.

* * *

Charity watched as Rocco turned wordlessly and walked out of the room. She hadn’t really expected him to leave without a word, but all things considered she was relieved. Having him walk in while she was throwing up had to be one of the most humiliating experiences of her life. Vomiting was bad enough. Vomiting in front of Rocco was even worse.

She did not want him seeing her when she was so low. He didn’t deserve it.

She crawled to the head of the bed and slipped beneath the covers, exhaustion rolling over her in a wave.

Dimly, she registered that he was wearing the suit he had been wearing last night, though he did not have his tie or jacket on. So that meant he had gone out all night. Very likely, he had slept with someone else.

Misery joined the exhaustion, and she shivered. At least when he’d come into the bathroom he hadn’t been cruel. He’d held her hair. Had carried her to bed. It had almost been as if he cared about her comfort.

Which was silly. Because he didn’t care about anything. Least of all her.

A few moments later, Rocco reappeared, carrying a tray, his black hair disheveled, his shirt open at the collar, revealing a wedge of tan skin and dark chest hair. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, the weight of the tray enhancing the muscles of his forearms. And the strength of his hands.

He really did have wonderful hands.

She liked his hands much better than she liked his mouth, though that was beautiful, too. His hands had only given her pleasure. His mouth did a lot to administer pain.

“What are you doing?” she asked, as he set the tray, which she now saw had a teapot, a cup, a small plate with toast and a little jar of jam, down on the bed.

“This is what you do when people aren’t feeling well. Isn’t it?”

“Well, it can’t hurt.” She readjusted herself so that she was sitting, leaning back against the nest of pillows that were on the bed, and the headboard.

Rocco picked up the teapot and the cup, pouring a generous amount for her before handing it to her. “Careful,” he said, the warning strange and stilted on his lips, “it’s hot.”

She lifted the cup to her lips and blew on it gently, before looking over the rim at her delivery service. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

He cleared his throat, a wrinkle appearing between his brows. “I’m not being nice. I am being practical. It does not benefit either of us for you to die.”

She sighed heavily into the sip of her tea. “I don’t know. If I died you wouldn’t have to deal with any of this. You wouldn’t have to face fatherhood.”

His expression turned grim. “I have dealt with quite enough loss, thank you. I should like to keep you alive. And the baby.”

She looked into her tea. “Sorry. That was gallows humor at its worst.”

“I think you believe I’m a bit more of a monster that I really am.” He said the words slowly, cautiously.

“Probably. But can you blame me, considering our introduction?”

“Can you blame me, considering our introduction?” His dark gaze was level, serious. And that guilt, that newfound guilt she felt deep down, bit her.

“I suppose not.” She didn’t really know what to say to that. Because she couldn’t justify her actions, not anymore. She had spent a lot of years doing just that. Because from the cradle, her father had educated her in an alternate morality that was not easy to shake. But the older she got, the more difficult it had become to justify what she knew was stealing.

It had been easy to hold on to righteous indignation where Rocco was concerned because of what had happened between them.

“I’m sorry,” she said, before she could fully think it through.

“Why are you apologizing?” he asked, his lips thinning into a grim line.

“Because we stole from you. It was wrong. You can dress things up...you can call them cons. You can call your victims marks. You can pretend it’s okay because they have money and you don’t. But at the end of the day it is stealing. And regardless of the fact that there was a time when I truly didn’t know better, I do now. But...if you knew my father, you would understand how easy it is to get sucked into his plans. There is a reason he is able to talk people into parting with their money, Rocco. He’s very convincing. He has a way of making you think everything will be okay. He has a way of making you think that somehow, you deserve what it is you’re going after. Regardless, my involvement was wrong. And I’m sorry.”

Hopefully, he wouldn’t have her thrown in jail.

But she felt that these things had to be said before they could move forward. Or maybe she was just half-delirious because she still didn’t feel very well. Or maybe his little gesture with the tea had meant a little bit more than she should let it. Either way, here she was. Confessing.

And she wasn’t just confessing to him, but to herself.

Suddenly, she felt drained. Dirty. Desolate.

Acquiring a moral compass was overrated.

“Do you suppose there’s a place in life where you become past the point of redemption?” she asked.

“I’ve never considered it.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “But then, that could be because I never imagined I had the option of redemption.”

“I probably don’t either then.”

“Is it so important? What’s the purpose, anyway? Is it that you want to be considered good?” he asked.

“I...I never really thought very much about whether or not I was good or bad. I remember asking my father one time why we were afraid of the good guys. The police. Because, even I knew from watching TV that they were supposed to be good. And people who ran from them were bad. So, I asked him if we were bad. He said it isn’t that simple. He said sometimes good people do bad things, and bad people do good things. He said that not everyone in a uniform is good. But I just wanted to know if we were good. Maybe I still do.”

“Does it matter?”