Demanding His Hidden Heir
A sizzling weekend...
Changes the Italian’s life—forever
Enzo Cardinali had never known a passion like the one he shared with Matilda St George during their red-hot Caribbean fling. Beautiful, irresistible Matilda made brooding Enzo crave something more for the first time. But when she left abruptly, he vowed to forget her, rebuilding the walls around his damaged heart. Now Matilda has reappeared—with his son! Enzo demands his heir, but will he claim vibrant Matilda, too?
Feel the heat in this tantalizing tale—with a hidden heir twist!
JACKIE ASHENDEN writes dark, emotional stories with alpha heroes who’ve just got the world to their liking only to have it blown wide apart by their kick-ass heroines. She lives in Auckland, New Zealand, with her husband, the inimitable Dr Jax, two kids and two rats. When she’s not torturing alpha males and their gutsy heroines she can be found drinking chocolate martinis, reading anything she can lay her hands on, wasting time on social media or being forced to go mountain biking with her husband. To keep up to date with Jackie’s new releases and other news, sign up to her newsletter at jackieashenden.com.
Demanding His Hidden Heir
is Jackie Ashenden’s debut title for Mills & Boon Modern
Look out for more from Jackie Ashenden
Coming soon!
Also by Jackie Ashenden in
Mills & Boon DARE
The Knights of Ruin miniseries
Ruined
Destroyed
Kings of Sydney miniseries
King’s Price
King’s Rule
King’s Ransom
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.
Demanding His Hidden Heir
Jackie Ashenden
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ISBN: 978-1-474-08798-8
DEMANDING HIS HIDDEN HEIR
© 2019 Jackie Ashenden
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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Version: 2020-03-02
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To discussions about fairytales
that can lead to all sorts of good things…
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
EPILOGUE
Extract
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
ENZO CARDINALI WAS not a man who appreciated parties. They were, in his opinion, nothing more than an excuse for people to waste time talking about trivialities while drinking themselves insensible and generally behaving badly.
He was not a fan of trivialities or bad behaviour either.
He stood in the corner of Henry St George’s lavishly appointed drawing room, watching all the gorgeously attired people in it laugh and bray and talk nonsense to each other, nursing the same tumbler of Scotch he’d been holding for the past hour, impatient and not a little irritable.
The house party he’d been invited to had gone on for what seemed like an eternity and he was done with it. He’d been done with it the moment he’d arrived. His usual state of being, in other words.
He had no tolerance for waiting and, since other people didn’t move at the speed he did, it felt as if waiting was all he did. Which made him constantly irritable.
Dante, his brother, had often told him he needed to cultivate a little patience, but Enzo didn’t see why he should. He hadn’t been put on this earth to make other people comfortable and, if they couldn’t keep up with him, that was their problem. Of course, that then made it his problem and that was the part he didn’t like.
He should have had Dante handle the particular bit of business he was in England for, but at the last minute he’d decided it was too important to let his laid-back brother handle it and so here he was. At a weekend-long house party at St George’s extensive stately home deep in the Cotswolds.
St George was a rich industrialist with deep pockets and a taste for old-fashioned parties, during which he conducted most of his business. A state of affairs with which Enzo was not particularly happy. However, he was putting up with it because St George also owned an island just off the coast of Naples that Enzo was desperate to get his hands on.
So far the party had been useful, in that he was halfway to convincing the old man to sell the island to him, and now all he needed was to close the deal.
Except St George was baulking—for what reason, Enzo didn’t know, nor did he care. What he cared about was having to exert himself and make nice, something that didn’t come easy to him, in order to close the deal this weekend.
Across the room St George’s white head bent as he leaned down to listen to a woman at his elbow. He was apparently a popular host and many of London’s business elite jockeyed to get invites to his house parties.
Enzo shifted restlessly on his feet. Dio, this was interminable. He’d been waiting for an opportune moment to corner St George and present him with a final offer, but the man was constantly surrounded by people.
Dante had warned Enzo to be polite about it, but maybe his brother could go to hell.
Enzo wanted that island, Isola Sacra. It was the closest thing to Monte Santa Maria he’d come across, the tiny island kingdom in the Adriatic that had once been his home before his father, the king, had made one petty power play too many and parliament had decided it had had enough of royalty, declaring itself a republic and politely inviting the royal family to leave. For good.
The Cardinalis had found a place for themselves on mainland Italy, in Milan, but it had never felt like home to Enzo. He’d been fifteen when they’d left Monte Santa Maria and he’d felt rootless ever since.
Once, he’d been heir to a kingdom. Now, he had nothing.
Well, nothing except a multi-billion-dollar property development company, but that wasn’t quite the same.
It was a home he wanted. And, since he could never go back to the one he’d had, he needed to find himself another somewhere else.
The guests in the drawing room swirled, the laughter and noise putting him on edge, making him feel even more restless.
St George was still talking to that woman and Enzo decided that, if he hadn’t finished talking to her in another couple of minutes, he was going to go over there and make St George an offer regardless of politeness. His brother’s advice be damned.
He wasn’t a stateless fifteen-year-old boy cowering in an apartment in Milan any more. He was the CEO of a billion-dollar company with offices in cities around the globe.
He might not have a country, but as far as the business world was concerned he was still a king.
Across the room the door opened suddenly, the movement catching Enzo’s attention, and a small child peered round it, scanning the room with wide eyes.
Enzo frowned. What was a child doing up at this time of night? It was nearly eleven p.m.
The child—a small boy—took a step into the room, looking around uncertainly. He wore blue pyjamas and his black hair was spiked up. There was something familiar about him. Something that Enzo couldn’t quite put his finger on.
The boy had to be St George’s young son—a surprise late-in-life baby, since St George was in his early sixties. He’d married a woman around half his age four years ago and her subsequent pregnancy so soon after the wedding had caused a minor sensation.
Not that Enzo had ever been particularly interested in gossip, and why he remembered it now was anyone’s guess.
But still. There was something about that boy.
The child took another few steps into the room, his eyes wide. They were an unusual colour. Gold. Like new-minted coins.
The familiarity tugged harder at Enzo. There weren’t many people with eyes that colour, not so clear and startling. In fact, he only knew of two: his father and himself. Golden eyes were a Cardinali family trait and in Monte Santa Maria they’d traditionally been a sign of royalty.
Strange that this child should have them too, though obviously a coincidence.
There was another movement by the door and it opened wider this time, another figure standing in the doorway. A woman.
She wasn’t dressed in high-end couture like the other guests, just a simple pair of jeans and a loose dark blue T-shirt. Her hair was piled up on top of her head in a messy bun, and it was as red as a fire against a twilight sky.
The tug of familiarity became a pull, deep and hard.
Her hair lying soft across his chest, a silken rope between his fingers as he’d pulled her towards him. Red as that hot mouth he’d kissed...
The woman scanned the room, giving him a good look at her face. High forehead and a sharp nose, a pointed, determined little chin. Freckles across her equally sharp cheekbones. Freckles that she’d fussed about in the tropical sun. Freckles scattered like gold dust across the luscious curves of her breasts, and he’d kissed every single one...
No. It couldn’t be.
She gave the room another scan and then, as inevitably as the sun rising, her gaze met his and he found himself staring into eyes the colour of storm clouds and ice, a pure, clear grey that belied the passion that burned inside her.
A passion he’d tasted for more hours than he cared to count.
A passion he’d never felt before or since.
A passion that had gone as cold as ashes the morning he’d woken up in the villa to find she’d gone.
Four years ago, on an island in the Caribbean, at his brother’s new resort, he’d met a woman.
A woman with red hair and freckles who’d turned him inside out. Who’d made him so hungry he hadn’t been able to think straight.
Who’d made him forget, just for a couple of days, the constant ache in his heart for what he’d lost.
And who’d left him without even a goodbye.
Her gaze went wide as it met his, blanking with shock, and he knew instantly that, yes, it was her. The red-headed, passionate woman he’d had a two-day fling with four years ago.
He’d tried to forget her. Dio, he’d even convinced himself that he had.
But as she stared at him with those wide grey eyes, and he felt the burn of a sudden physical hunger, he knew that he’d been lying to himself.
He hadn’t forgotten. Not the passion that had consumed them or the sense of homecoming that had come over him when she’d put her arms around him.
Or the fury when he’d woken up two days later, alone. His bed empty. His sheets cold.
The fury hit him again now, a hard punch to his gut, twisting with the hunger to become something so intense and volatile he could hardly breathe through it.
Four years, he’d dreamed of her. Four years, he’d woken up hard and aching, wanting something that all the money in the world couldn’t buy him.
Something that only she had been able to give him.
He hadn’t gone looking for her; he’d been too proud, telling himself that one woman would do as well as any other, but that was a lie and he knew it.
And now here she was, years later and thousands of miles from their island, standing in the doorway of an Englishman’s drawing room and staring at him as if what was happening to him was happening to her too.
What was she doing here? Where had she been?
He’d taken one unconscious step towards her when the child turned around suddenly and said, ‘Mummy.’ And launched himself towards the doorway, running to her and wrapping his arms around her legs.
Enzo stopped dead as another punch of shock hit him.
Mummy.
The woman—Summer, she’d told him her name was—put her hand on the boy’s head, but that smoky-grey gaze remained pinned to Enzo’s. As if she couldn’t look away.
That was St George’s child wrapping his arms around her legs. St George’s child, calling her ‘Mummy’. Which meant...
She’s St George’s wife.
The shock got wider, deeper, spreading out inside him.
It shouldn’t matter who she was. It shouldn’t mean a thing. He shouldn’t care, not after all this time.
He hadn’t wanted to visit Dante’s resort anyway. He’d just lost his first attempt at buying Isola Sacra after someone had bought it from under him, and the very last thing he’d felt like doing was checking up on a potential management issue on Dante’s behalf.
But his brother hadn’t been able to do it himself because of various commitments and Enzo was control-freak enough not to want to leave it to someone else.
He’d hated it the moment he’d got off the plane. There had been something about the dense tropical air and the brilliant blue of the sea that had crawled beneath his skin and unsettled him. Made him remember the land he’d come from and the home he hadn’t been able to forget.
He’d stood underneath the palms, listening to the resort manager catalogue the problems the resort had been having, sweating in his custom-made suit, his hand-made leather shoes full of sand, restless and impatient to be home.
And then he’d seen her, a pale, curvy woman in a bright-red bikini that somehow matched her hair. She was on her way to the pool, a towel around her shoulders and a book in one hand, and she’d glanced at him as she’d walked past. She’d had the body of a fifties pin-up and a mouth made for sin, and it had curved as her gaze had met his. And that in itself had caught him by the throat.
Because people didn’t look him in the eye—they were too afraid of him. But she had. In fact, there had even been a certain amusement in her gaze, as if she hadn’t seen the icy, powerful CEO that everyone else saw. The ruthless king of business he’d turned himself into.
It was as if she’d seen the man he was underneath instead.
It had suddenly made his trousers feel two sizes too tight.
He hadn’t thought twice about breaking off his conversation with the resort manager and following her to the pool.
She’d already settled herself on the lounger and, when he’d approached her, she’d given him a cool look from over the top of her book.
It hadn’t remained cool for long.
Electricity had crackled in the air as their eyes had met and an hour later he’d been in her villa, his suit on the floor along with her bikini.
He’d had her against the wall that first time, fast and hard, no time for niceties. There had only been desperation for them both. She’d gasped as he’d pushed inside her, and she’d felt so hot and tight, her silky thighs wrapped around his waist. Incredible. Her eyes had gone dark as they’d met his, and there had been no fear in them whatsoever. Only wonder. As if she’d never seen anything like him before in her entire life. Nothing had ever turned him on more. And then that wonder had fractured into pleasure as he’d begun to move inside her, driving her against the wall, driving them both into insanity...
Two days they’d had. Two days when he’d touched and tasted every inch of her, when he’d held her in his arms and shared things he’d never shared with another person before; had given her pieces of his soul that he’d never shared with anyone else.
And he’d thought that maybe he’d been mistaken when he’d thought home could be a place. That, maybe, home could be a person too.
Until she’d left him without a word.
No, it shouldn’t matter. She shouldn’t matter.
‘Matilda?’ St George finally ended his conversation with the woman to whom he’d been talking, his craggy face turning puzzled. ‘Is there anything wrong?’
And the redhead—his Summer—finally tore her gaze from his to look at St George. ‘N-no,’ she said in that familiar smoky voice, the one that had turned husky when he’d been deep inside her. Or when his mouth had been between her thighs. Or when his hands had cupped her breasts, her skin silky against his palms. ‘Simon woke up and got out of bed.’ She bent and scooped the little boy up into her arms. ‘I think he wandered in here by mistake.’
Matilda. Her name was Matilda. And she was St George’s wife.
Enzo stood there, frozen, as St George came over to her and bent to the boy in her arms, murmuring something to him. The child turned his head to his father, but for a second looked over St George’s shoulder, his bright golden gaze meeting Enzo’s.
And realisation hit Enzo like a skyscraper falling.
Matilda St George was Summer, the island fling whose ghost had haunted him for four long, lonely years.
And really, even apart from the timing, there was only one way a child could have eyes that colour.
Enzo’s fist tightened on his tumbler and a crack ran down the side of the glass.
That boy wasn’t St George’s.
That boy was his.
* * *
Matilda held Simon tightly as Henry murmured to him, her heart beating so fast and so loud she couldn’t hear anything else.
She’d made a mistake. She’d made a terrible mistake.
She’d thought she’d been so clever, making sure she’d avoided him the whole weekend—going on a couple of day trips and then in the evenings keeping both Simon and herself to the upper levels of the house away from the guests.
There had only been tonight to get through and she’d been congratulating herself on how well that had worked out, Simon in bed early and herself curled up in bed too, watching a movie and eating ice-cream.
Forgetting all about the one guest she must avoid at all costs.
And then Simon had woken up and, because he liked people very much, the sounds coming from the drawing room had been irresistible.
Too concerned with finding her son, Matilda hadn’t noticed the man in the corner at first. She’d given the room a quick scan, spotted nothing and had taken a step further into it before she’d recognised the crackle of electricity that had suddenly hummed over her skin.
A horribly familiar electricity.
So she’d stopped. And she’d looked. And there he’d been, standing near the sofa. So impossible to miss, she wondered how she hadn’t seen him the first time.
Impossibly tall, impossibly broad. Radiating the same fierce, kinetic energy she remembered from years ago, all impatience, restlessness and heat.
He was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit of dark charcoal and his ink-black hair was cut ruthlessly short, highlighting those aristocratic cheekbones and the strong, sharp line of his jaw, the long blade of his nose and the carved sensuality of his mouth. A beautiful face, intensely compelling. Predatory, fierce and utterly unforgettable.
But it was his eyes that had caught her, held her. Making her freeze in place right where she’d stood.
Bright, burning gold. Like the tropical sun on an island years ago and full of the same searing heat.
Now a shudder coursed through her, a fire inside her that had long been cold suddenly bursting into flame. And, helplessly, she found herself glancing at him again, just to be sure it was actually him. As if the instant response of her body hadn’t been enough.
But his attention wasn’t on her this time. He was looking at Simon. And she had one second to think that perhaps he wouldn’t notice the colour of her son’s eyes, then his gaze lifted to hers once more.
And the weight of his fury descended on her.
He knows.
Henry was still talking but Matilda had long since ceased to listen. The fight or flight response had kicked in and all she could think about was getting out of the drawing room and away from the man she could still feel staring at her.
The man with whom she’d spent two intoxicating days.
The man from whom she’d run without even a goodbye.
The man who’d fathered the boy she held in her arms.
She felt strangely hot and cold at the same time, a bit sick too, and it was all she could do not to jerk away from Henry and run from the room there and then. But he wasn’t one for public fusses so she stayed until he’d soothed Simon. Then, before he could do anything else, such as introduce her to his guests, she took her son and fled.
Back upstairs, Matilda tried to calm her frantically beating heart and attempted not to think about the man and the fury in his golden eyes. About how he’d taken a step towards her and how he’d stopped dead as Simon had run to her.