Nicolo’s discovered his runaway bride...

And the secret she’s kept from him!

Nicolo Santo Domenico’s marriage to heiress Chiara is purely for convenience...until their explosively passionate wedding night! But when Chiara realizes that Nico’s reasons for seducing her are as cold as his heart, she flees their fledgling marriage. Months later, Nico tracks down his errant wife, only to find she’s expecting! To claim his baby, Nico must make Chiara his—for real!

An emotionally charged marriage of convenience romance

Irish author ABBY GREEN threw in a very glamorous career in film and TV—which really consisted of a lot of standing in the rain outside actors’ trailers—to pursue her love of romance. After she’d bombarded Mills & Boon with manuscripts they kindly accepted one, and an author was born. She lives in Dublin, Ireland, and loves any excuse for distraction. Visit abby-green.com or e-mail abbygreenauthor@gmail.com.

Also by Abby Green

An Heir to Make a Marriage

Awakened by Her Desert Captor

An Heir to Make a Marriage

Married for the Tycoon’s Empire

Claimed for the De Carrillo Twins

The Virgin’s Debt to Pay

Rulers of the Desert miniseries

A Diamond for the Sheikh’s Mistress

A Christmas Bride for the King

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Claiming His Wedding Night Consequence

Abby Green

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07247-2

CLAIMING HIS WEDDING NIGHT CONSEQUENCE

© 2018 Abby Green

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 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.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This is for Franca Poli,

for all of her wonderful support

and very generous help.

Grazie! X

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

‘I AM VERY sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, Signorina Caruso, but the fact is that your father had borrowed for years to keep the castello afloat and the bank is threatening to take possession of it now, unless you can buy it back at market value—which I’m afraid is impossible, considering the lack of funds in your family bank account...’

Chiara stood at the huge window of the drawing room where she’d had a meeting with the family solicitor after her parents’ double funeral just a couple of days before. Her arms were wrapped around herself as if that might offer some comfort.

For the last two days and sleepless nights the words had swirled in her head in a confusing painful jumble: bank, take possession, lack of funds. And she was no nearer to seeing a way out of this mess that didn’t end up with her losing everything.

The family castello was an imposing centuries-old castle, set dramatically on the southern coastline of Sicily. Prime real estate that had once functioned and thrived as a farm, growing and exporting lemons and olives. Staples of Italian agriculture.

But once the recession had hit, and the market had taken a nosedive, their crops had all but dried up and died due to lack of demand. They couldn’t afford to keep staff on and, while her father had done his best, clearly it hadn’t been enough. Chiara had offered help time and time again, but her father—old-fashioned and conservative—hadn’t deemed it ‘appropriate work’ for a girl. And she hadn’t realised just how much he’d been borrowing to keep their heads above water.

She castigated herself now. She should have known. But her mother had been ill with cancer, and Chiara had been preoccupied with caring for her. The only reason Chiara was alive today and her father wasn’t was because he’d decided to take his wife to her weekly chemotherapy appointment at the hospital in Calabria.

That morning a week ago he had said to Chiara, ‘You need to go down to the village and see if you can get a job. It’s not enough to just care for your mother any more.’

His tone had been sharp. He’d never made any secret of the fact that he was disappointed Chiara hadn’t been a boy, and that after suffering complications with Chiara’s birth her mother hadn’t been able to have any more children.

So Chiara had gone down to the village—to find that there were no jobs available. She’d never been more aware of her lack of qualifications, and the looks she’d received from the locals had made her feel paranoid.

As a child she’d been sickly, so her mother had home-schooled her. But even when she’d recovered and become strong they’d kept her at the castello. Her father had always had a paranoia about privacy and security, forbidding Chiara to bring anyone back to the castello—not that she’d had any friends! And then her mother had fallen ill, and Chiara had become her carer.

After humiliating herself in the village, looking for work, Chiara had returned home to find her parents still not returned from the hospital. So she’d gone down to her secret place—a small beach tucked out of sight of the castello—and indulged in her favourite pastime, daydreaming, unaware that her parents were breathing their last in a tangle of metal after a catastrophic car crash.

What had made her feel even guiltier afterwards was the dream she’d indulged in—the same one she’d always had: leaving the castello and travelling the world. Meeting a handsome man and finding love and excitement. Yearning for...more.

Now Chiara’s guilty sense of entrapment mocked her. She was finally free, but at such a cost that it left her breathless. She’d lost both her parents, and now it would appear she was about to lose the only home she’d ever known.

It was at a time like this that she felt her isolation even more keenly. Chiara had always lamented her lack of siblings, and had promised herself from an early age that she would have a large family one day. She never wanted any child of hers to feel as alone as she had, in spite of her mother’s love and affection which had never quite made up for her father’s disappointment.

Except now, if the bank took possession of the castello, the least of her worries would be a sense of isolation. She’d have much bigger concerns. Where would she go? What would she do? Her fruitless search for a job in the village was surely the tip of the iceberg when it came to finding work.

The truth was that she wasn’t prepared for life beyond the castello walls at all. In spite of her dreams, she’d always counted on the castello being the anchor of her life, so that no matter where she went or what she did it would always be there to come back to. And eventually—some day—she’d hoped to fill it with a loving family.

The thought of having to leave her home now was agonising...and more than terrifying.

She felt a nudge at her leg and looked down to see their ancient family dog, Spiro, a Sicilian Shepherd. Shaggy and big. He looked up at her with mournful eyes and whined. He’d melted Chiara’s heart when he was a pup, almost fifteen years ago, the runt of the litter and almost blind.

Chiara stroked his head and murmured soft words, wondering what on earth she would do with Spiro when she had to leave.

Just then she heard a noise coming from outside, and Spiro tensed and let out a feeble-sounding bark. Chiara looked out of the window to see a very sleek silver sports car prowling its way up the drive. The automatic main gates had stopped functioning years ago, in spite of her father’s attempts to fix them.

Belatedly she recalled the solicitor saying something the other day about a businessman who had a proposition to put to her. She’d barely taken it in at the time, too overwhelmed with all the other news. But this could be the man he’d been talking about.

The car drew to a halt in the main courtyard, which suddenly looked very shabby and rundown next to such gleaming perfection. Feeling a spurt of irritation that a complete stranger thought it would be okay to discuss anything just days after a funeral, Chiara made reassuring noises to Spiro and then turned from the window and went through the castello to the main door, fully intending to tell whoever it was to come back on a more suitable day.

She doused the feeling of panic that there might not be a more suitable day. She had no idea how fast banks acted in this scenario when taking possession. She could be tossed out by the end of the week.

Feeling more vulnerable and raw than she’d ever felt in her life, Chiara pulled open the massive oak door. For a second she was blinded by sunlight, so all she had was an impression of a very tall dark shape climbing the steps.

She was about to put her hand over her eyes to shade them when the visitor stepped into her eyeline, blocking the sun with his height. Chiara blinked, and blinked again, her hand dropping to her side ineffectually as she took in the sight before her.

It was a man. But such a man as she’d never seen before. The kind of man she’d only seen in her fantasies or read about in stories.

Thick black hair, slightly messy, framed the most savagely beautiful face Chiara had ever seen. High cheekbones and an aquiline nose lent it more than a hint of regality, and his tall, proud bearing reinforced the impression. His mouth was as sculpted as the rest of him—firm and strong.

An intriguing air of decadent sensuality and steeliness made a quiver of something very feminine go through Chiara, all the way to the centre of her being.

She struggled to rouse herself out of the strange lethargy that seemed to have taken hold of her, hindering her ability to function. ‘I’m sorry...can I help you?’

The man’s eyes narrowed on her and Chiara saw they were a very dark brown—and totally unreadable. Something cool slid down her spine and she unconsciously felt for Spiro’s reassuring presence behind her, even though he was so old and blind he was totally ineffectual as a guard dog.

The man looked emotionless, but Chiara sensed something almost volcanic under the surface and it was very intimidating. Strangely, though, she didn’t fear for her safety. It was a much more ambiguous fear. A fear for something deep within her that was coming to life...desire.

‘I am here to see Chiara Caruso. Maybe you would be so kind as to fetch your mistress for me.’

His voice was deep and gravelly, tugging on Chiara’s senses. He hadn’t posed it as a question. She realised that he must think she was the housekeeper. They’d let the housekeeper go a long time ago. Hence the general air of decay and dishevelment in and around the castello. But, effectively, she was now the housekeeper, so it was silly to feel something shrivel up inside her that he might assume her to be menial staff.

She was very aware of her plain black mourning dress, make-up free face, and long unruly hair. She knew she was no great beauty, with her unfashionably full figure and average height.

She tipped up her chin. ‘I am Chiara Caruso.’

His eyes narrowed even more and a look of sheer incredulity crossed his face. ‘You?’

Tension and self-consciousness stiffened Chiara’s whole body. ‘I’m not sure exactly what you were expecting but, yes, I can assure you that I’m Chiara Caruso. Who, may I ask, are you?’

Those eyes seemed to get even colder, if that was possible. ‘I am Nicolo Santo Domenico.’

He seemed to be waiting for some kind of response—as if his name should mean something. But it didn’t.

Chiara prompted, ‘And...? How can I help you?’

Confirming her suspicion, he said, ‘You don’t know who I am?’

Chiara felt bewildered now. ‘Should I?’

The man emitted a sound like an incredulous laugh. ‘You’re seriously expecting me to believe you don’t know who I am?’

The man’s arrogance was astounding!

Chiara took her hand off the door and folded her arms across her chest. ‘No, I don’t know who you are. Now, if you have nothing better to do than interrogate me on my own doorstep then I’ll ask you to leave. We had a funeral here this week—it is not an appropriate time.’

His eyes gleamed. ‘To the contrary...now is the most appropriate time for this conversation. May I?’

He sidestepped her neatly and was walking into the vast stone hallway before she could stop him.

Spiro whined and Chiara whirled around. ‘Excuse me, what on earth do you think you’re doing? This is my property!’

Except it’s not really, reminded a little voice.

The man turned around to face her and Chiara got the full impact of him. It was almost too much. He made the majestic reception area seem small. He had to be well over six feet, and broad with it. He wore a dark suit that could only be custom-made as it clung to his well-honed physique like a second skin. His air of intense physicality made Chiara think of bare-knuckle fighters she’d seen in a documentary once. It was as if his suit was just a flimsy concession to urbanity.

His gaze slid down to beside Chiara and his lip curled. ‘What is that?’

Chiara glanced down to see Spiro, looking in the general direction of the man and emitting a low growl. She put her hand on his head and looked at her uninvited guest. ‘He’s my dog and you’re upsetting him. This is my home and I’d like you to leave.’

His gaze came back to rest on her and Chiara fought not to fidget under that exacting expression.

‘This is precisely what I’ve come here to discuss—the fact that this home is not actually yours at all.’

Chiara’s insides seized. Was this man from the bank? She forced herself to ask, ‘What are you talking about?’

He didn’t answer right away. Instead he put his hands in his pockets, drawing Chiara’s eye to his mid-section. Heat climbed up her neck and face and she diverted her gaze before he might notice. But he didn’t notice. He was looking up at the walls and turning around in a small circle.

He said, as if to himself, ‘I’ve waited a long time to be here...’

Then he started walking towards the reception room Chiara had just vacated. She went after him. ‘Excuse me, Signor Domenico...’

He turned to face her from the middle of the room and Chiara had the strangest sensation that she was the guest—and not a very welcome one.

‘It’s Santo Domenico.’

Chiara bit out the name. ‘Signor Santo Domenico. I insist you tell me what on earth this is all about or I will call the police.’

Now she was beginning to panic. He must be from the bank. But were they allowed to show up like this? Why had the solicitor not warned her this might happen so soon?

Chiara’s head was starting to hurt again.

He looked around. ‘Where are the staff?’

Chiara felt defensive and wasn’t sure why. ‘There are no staff—not that it’s any business of yours.’

He looked at her, incredulous again. ‘How have you kept this place?’

Chiara knew that was also none of his business, but this whole meeting had taken a surreal turn and she found herself saying, ‘We closed up the rooms we weren’t using and just maintained the few we needed.’

‘You and your parents?’

‘Yes. They were buried in a double funeral two days ago, in case you weren’t aware.’ She was hoping to shock him into some kind of realisation that he was here at a very inappropriate time.

He nodded his head. ‘I am aware, and I’m sorry for your loss.’

He couldn’t have sounded less sorry.

Before Chiara could formulate another word he said, ‘You had a meeting with your solicitor the other day?’

‘Yes,’ Chiara said faintly. ‘How did you know?’

‘It’s customary to have the reading of the will and such after the funeral.’

‘Of course.’

She cursed herself for feeling paranoid. She had no reason to feel paranoid. If he wasn’t from the bank then he had to be the businessman her solicitor had mentioned. She forced herself to calm down. There would have to be due process before anyone evicted her from her own home.

‘So you will now be aware that this castello is in danger of being possessed by the bank unless you can drum up the necessary funds.’ Here he stopped, and looked around again before saying, ‘Forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, but I don’t think that’s likely.’

Chiara wanted to point out that he’d been speaking out of turn since the moment he’d materialised on the doorstep, but that wasn’t the issue here. ‘Are you from the bank?’

He shook his head and a small smile played around that disturbing mouth, as if her question was amusing for some unknown reason. It made her want to slap him when she’d never before felt violent towards anyone in her life.

‘So how do you know that information, then?’

He shrugged minutely and looked back at her. ‘I have my sources and I’ve had a...a keen interest in the castello for some time now.’

‘A keen interest...?’ Chiara struggled to make sense of his cryptic response.

He faced her squarely then, and she had the uncomfortable sensation that he was about to be a lot less cryptic.

‘Yes, a keen interest. For my whole life, in fact. Because, you see, the truth of the matter is that this castello actually belongs to me. To my family, specifically—the Santo Domenicos.’

* * *

Nico looked at the woman standing just a few feet away. She couldn’t be more nondescript, in a black shapeless dress, with long light brown hair and not a scrap of make-up. His first impression of her had been that she had to be the housekeeper, but now he noticed the proud bearing of her form. Spine straight, shoulders back...

His conscience pricked—her parents had just died. But he quashed the spark of compassion. This day had been coming for decades and now it was finally here.

His father had died a bitterly disappointed man, and countless other members of his family had suffered as a result of this woman’s family’s actions. He’d suffered too, enduring jeers and taunts his whole life.

‘You’re not one of the powerful now, Santo Domenico—you’re nothing...’

But he wasn’t nothing any more. He had singlehandedly pulled himself out of the streets of Naples and achieved stunning success, and now he was finally ready to reclaim his family’s heritage from the people who had stolen it so many years ago.

His one regret was that his father hadn’t lived to see the castello returned. That he hadn’t lived to see where his ancestors were buried and pay his respects. His father had come here once, with his own father’s ashes, and asked if he could scatter them in the family plot, but he’d been turned away like a beggar.

Nico would never forget the humiliation etched into his father’s face and the rage burning in his eyes.

He’d said to Nico that day, ‘Promise me you’ll walk through those gates one day and reclaim our legacy...promise me.’

And here he was, finally on the verge of fulfilling that promise—except much to Nico’s frustration he wasn’t feeling exactly satisfied. He was distracted by the realisation that Chiara Caruso’s eyes were a very light green. And that she wasn’t perhaps as plain as he’d first thought. She was...intriguingly fresh-faced. Untouched. He was used to women covered in so many layers of artifice, or filled with so many chemicals, it was hard to know what they looked like underneath it all.

She shook her head now, frowning. ‘What are you talking about? This castello can’t belong to you. It’s belonged to my family for hundreds of years.’

Anger made Nico’s voice tight. ‘Are you sure about that?’

Suddenly she seemed hesitant. ‘Well, of course...’

‘Perhaps you’re an expert denier of history, like your father was. Are you really expecting me to believe that you aren’t aware of what happened?’

She went pale. ‘Leave my father out of this. How dare you appear on my doorstep with some fantastical tale?’ She stood back and extended her arm towards the door. ‘I’d like you to leave now. You are not welcome here.’

For a moment Nico’s conscience pricked again, he thought that perhaps he should leave and at least allow her a period of private mourning before returning in a couple of days. But then he registered her words: you are not welcome here. Exactly the same words her father had said to his father when he’d tried to gain access to the family burial plot.

Nico planted his legs wide. He wasn’t going anywhere.

The dog standing beside her emitted another pathetic growl.

He said, ‘I’m afraid that it’s you who is not welcome here. Not for much longer anyway. It’s merely a matter of time before the bank moves to take possession.’

* * *

Chiara stared at this man who looked as immovable as a stone statue. Against every instinct, her curiosity was aroused. Maybe he wasn’t mad—maybe he believed what he was saying.

‘What gives you the right to say such things...that the castello belongs to you?’

‘Because it’s true. My family built it in the seventeenth century.’

Chiara wanted to shake her head, as if that might make order out of what he was saying. She’d known the castello was old—especially some parts of it—but not that old.

He went on. ‘At that time the Santo Domenicos owned this estate and all the land and villages from here to Syracuse.’

What he was talking about was a huge swathe of land, and if it were true—Chiara shook her head. It couldn’t be. ‘My family have been the sole owners of this castello for as long as I know—our name is above the door, etched in stone.’

He dismissed that with a curl of his lip. ‘Anyone can carve words into a slab of stone. Your family took ownership of this castello before the Second World War. The Carusos were the Santo Domenico family’s accountants. When we were in financial difficulty they agreed to bail us out, using the castello as collateral, the agreement being that as soon as we had the money again we would buy the castello back at an agreed price. Then came the war.

‘After the war, your family made the most of the chaos at that time. They claimed to have no knowledge of the agreement and destroyed all the paperwork, saying our claims were bogus. So many people were trying to reclaim ownership of land and possessions after the war that the authorities chose to believe that we were being opportunistic. We were a powerful family, and some were only too happy to see us brought down and destroyed.’

He continued.

‘The war decimated our savings—we lost everything. We became destitute. Your family refused to negotiate or to give us a chance to regain our property. Our very proud Sicilian family was scattered. Most emigrated to the United States. We ended up in Naples. My grandfather refused to leave Italy, always hoping he’d see our lands returned before he died. As did my father. Both were thwarted.’

Chiara struggled to take this in. ‘You can’t have proof of this. I’ve never heard mention of the Santo Domenicos in my life.’

He cast her a jaundiced look. ‘I don’t believe that. Our story is part of local legend around here.’

Chiara flushed when she thought of her very sheltered upbringing. Their housekeeper—before she’d been let go in recent years—had done all the shopping, and her father had gone into the village for supplies since then. Whenever Chiara had ventured out she had noticed the way people looked at her, and she’d burned with self-consciousness because she’d assumed they were judging her less than fashionable clothes and figure.

However, if there was any grain of truth to this man’s claims, perhaps they’d been judging more than her appearance.

Feeling very exposed, and more vulnerable than ever, she repeated, ‘You have no proof of this.’

He arched a brow. ‘Come with me.’

He strode out of the room, and Chiara just looked after him stupidly before she kicked into gear. The sensation that he somehow belonged here struck her again and it wasn’t welcome.

He walked out of the main door and Chiara had the urge to slam and lock it behind him. But something told her that this man wouldn’t be so easily locked out.

He stopped in the main courtyard of the castello and looked left and right, as if trying to figure something out, and then strode confidently to the left, towards where the family church and graveyard were situated. The graveyard she’d only walked away from a couple of days ago, after seeing her parents interred.

When she realised where he was headed she hurried to catch up and called out, ‘This is ridiculous—you must stop this!’

But he didn’t stop. It was as if he couldn’t hear her. He got closer and closer to the graveyard, but at the last moment veered away from it and walked to another gate nearby, overgrown with foliage.

She arrived behind him, slightly out of breath. ‘What are you looking for? That is the old family plot.’

A place she’d never been into herself, because the housekeeper had used to tell her that it was haunted. A shiver went down Chiara’s spine now. Had the housekeeper known something of this man’s fantastic claims?

He thrust aside the foliage and located the latch on the gate. At this moment he barely resembled a civilised man. She could see his muscles moving under the material of his suit and felt another disconcerting pulse of awareness in her lower body. Totally inappropriate and unwelcome.

He pushed open the gate and said in a grim tone, ‘Come on.’

Chiara had no choice but to follow him into the shadowed and dormant graveyard. Sunlight barely penetrated through the gnarled branches of the trees overhead and it was very still. She picked her way gingerly over the uneven ground, not even sure what she was walking on, hoping it wasn’t graves.

He had reached the far corner and was pulling leaves and branches away from something. When she got closer she saw that it was a headstone. He turned to face her with an intense look on his face, and for a moment she was almost blinded by his sheer raw beauty.

Then he took her arm and said impatiently, ‘Look.’

Chiara stood beside him, very aware of his hand on her arm and the disparity in their sizes. It took her eyes a moment to adjust, but when they did she could make out faint writing, her heart stuttered and stopped as a dawning dread moved through her.

There, etched in the stone, was the following:

Tomasso Santo Domenico, born and died at Castello Santo Domenico, 1830-1897

She couldn’t believe it. Castello Santo Domenico. Not Castello Caruso.

‘He was my great-great-grandfather.’

Chiara looked around, and now she could see the unmistakable shapes of headstones underneath foliage all around her. They seemed to loom at her accusingly in the gloom. The space closed in on her and claustrophobia rose swiftly. She pulled free of Nicolo Santo Domenico’s grip and turned and made her way out, her skin clammy with panic.

She almost tripped over a mound, and a small sob came out of her mouth, but then finally reached the gate and stepped into bright comforting sunshine, her head reeling.

* * *

Nico stood in the overgrown graveyard, only vaguely aware that Chiara had all but run out of the graveyard. This proof of his family’s legacy was almost too much to take in.

Standing in that grand room just a few moments ago, facing a stricken-looking Chiara Caruso, he’d actually felt a sliver of doubt. Could this grand, crumbling estate really have belonged to his family? Had they truly once been the most powerful family in southern Sicily? It had seemed almost too much to believe when all he could think of was his grandfather’s bitter countenance and then his father’s. Maybe they’d dreamed it up, frustrated by the struggles they’d faced. Their fall from grace.

But, no. This graveyard was cold, hard evidence that that they had existed in this place. That they had once lived, loved and died here. His ancestors had built it, stone by stone.

A cold sense of satisfaction filled Nico’s bones. He had a right to claim this place now. He was right to be here.

He knew it wasn’t necessarily compassionate to confront Chiara Caruso just days after her parents’ funeral, but he’d never been accused of having compassion.

Faced with this knowledge of how his family had been left to rot in an overgrown graveyard, on land that should have been returned to them decades before, he felt even less inclined to be merciful.

He walked out of the graveyard into the sun, undoing his tie, feeling constricted. Chiara Caruso had disappeared, and yet strangely he found that her stricken expression and those unusual green eyes stayed with him.

He could still feel her arm under his hand. It had been supple and slim, hinting at a more defined body beneath the shapeless clothes. To Nico’s shock, the awareness had exploded into more than a frisson, and still hummed in his blood. Disconcerting and not welcome. He put it down to his heightened emotions.

He walked over to the edge of a large uncultivated lawn that rolled down to the sea. There were pine trees along one side and gnarled bushes on the other.

His land.

It beat in his blood now, gathering force. Anger was still high as he thought of his ancestors lying in their cold graves, ignored and left to moulder.

It was one thing to have an intellectual knowledge that something belonged to you, but another thing entirely to experience it. From the moment he’d driven up towards the castello he’d felt a sense of ownership that went deeper than the sense of injustice he’d grown up with.

He wasn’t usually one to give any credence to intangibles, but right now, for the first time in his life, he felt a sense of home. It was as disconcerting as the awareness he felt for Chiara Caruso. It was also something he’d never thought he’d experience after growing up in Naples and being constantly reminded that it wasn’t his home.

But as he looked out on this view that the Carusos had stolen from the Santo Domenicos, things didn’t feel as clear-cut as they had just a short while before. Nico didn’t want to admit it, but Chiara Caruso’s reaction to the news had seemed like genuine shock. Either that or she was an undiscovered acting genius.

He’d come here today to present her with a deal she couldn’t refuse. A deal that would get him the castello within as short a space of time as possible: offering her enough money to sign over the castello to him and then go far away, somewhere she, the last of the Carusos, would fade into obscurity.

But that growing awareness of her in his blood and in his body was blurring the lines and making him hesitate for a moment.

A recent conversation with his solicitor came into his head, a well-worn refrain...

‘Nico, you’re an outsider, and that has served you well. You’ve made your fortune by upsetting the status quo and punishing those who’ve underestimated you. But now it’s time to consolidate and expand. It’s all very well to be the rogue operator once you have a more respectable life in the background. Right now you’re losing out on deals because people feel they can’t trust you. You’ve no family, nothing to lose...’

Nico scowled at the view. He’d been at an exclusive charity event in Manhattan recently, discussing a deal with one of Manhattan’s titans of construction. The man’s wife had come on to Nico, making her attraction obvious. And, even though Nico had rebuffed her advances, the next day when he’d followed up on a promise to meet and discuss things further, the construction giant had cut off all contact and Nico had lost out on a potentially hugely lucrative deal.

The truth was that he’d had marriage on his mind for some months now. Before his solicitor had even had to say anything it had become evident to Nico that the absence of a wife by his side was damaging his reputation amongst his more conservative peers. And so he’d been facing the unpalatable fact that he should make some adjustments to his very free lifestyle.

To his surprise, the prospect hadn’t been totally repugnant. Nico had lived a hedonistic existence for a long time and, to be perfectly frank, he’d been feeling more and more jaded. Tired of the games women played. Tired of the avaricious gleam in their eyes. Tired of not knowing what their agenda was.

While he might once have appreciated the need for a wife who knew how to navigate that world, the thought of a woman like that made something curdle inside him now. As did the idea of growing old amidst the soaring soulless buildings of New York or London.

That might have been where he’d made his fortune, and restored the Santo Domenico pride and name, but standing here on Sicilian land—the land of his ancestors—he knew that the final piece had to be in this place. Nowhere else.

With the evocative scent of the sea and earth all around him, he found that a new vision was coming to life inside him.

A vision of a future that would help him to achieve the kind of success that he’d only dreamed of up to this point. A vision of a future that included a wife who would give his reputation the sheen of respectability he so badly needed. A wife who would give him a family and breathe the life force back into the Santo Domenico name. A wife who would complement him...who knew the value of legacy.

What he needed was as clear to Nico now as the glittering sea in front of him. It was totally audacious, and contrary to his original plan, but it was taking root inside him and would not be dismissed.

After a few more long minutes Nico turned around to face the castello. The only person who had been standing between him and his future—Chiara Caruso—was now the only person who could make sure it happened.

CHAPTER TWO

CHIARA TOOK A sip of the dark golden brandy and winced as it burnt her throat. It was her first time ever taking a drink from the walnut drinks cabinet in the main reception room and she could understand the appeal now, as the alcohol settled in her stomach and radiated a warm, comforting glow.

Her hand still shook, though, and when she heard determined footsteps coming across the stone hall floor beyond the room she put the glass down on a silver tray.

By the time Nicolo Santo Domenico entered the room Chiara’s hands were behind her back and she was as composed as she could be, considering she felt as if she’d just been body-slammed by a ton weight.

He stopped in front of her, too close for comfort.

‘Well? Is that enough proof for you? A graveyard full of my ancestors?’ His voice rang with cold condemnation.

He towered over Chiara and she moved away, across the room, Spiro trotting loyally beside her. She put her hand on the dog’s head, as if he could offer protection or a way out of this madness.

Eventually she said truthfully, ‘I... I don’t know what to say. I had no idea about any of this...’

He lifted a hand. ‘Please. I don’t know why you insist on this charade of ignorance, because it serves no purpose.’ He dropped his hand and his gaze narrowed on her. ‘Unless, of course, your parents warned you that this could happen. That once the castello was vulnerable again the Santo Domenicos might return to stake our claim...’

Chiara shook her head, feeling sick, wondering just how much her parents had known. ‘No, they never said anything. I never heard anything.’

He sounded disgusted now. ‘That’s impossible—unless you were a total recluse.’

Chiara wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole. His words cut far too close to the bone.

She forced out, ‘Whether or not what you say is true...and I have to admit that the graveyard does support your claim...the castello is out of your reach as much as mine now. Shouldn’t you be talking to the bank instead of me?’

She couldn’t stop the bitter note to her voice, still coming to terms with this news herself, so soon after her parents’ deaths.

Nicolo Santo Domenico looked at her for such a long moment that Chiara almost snapped at him to stop. She felt like a specimen on a laboratory table, never more aware of her drabness next to his glorious vitality. She would bet that he’d travelled all over the world and probably hadn’t been that impressed by it.

And then he said abruptly, ‘I presume if you had a choice you would prefer to retain ownership of the castello?’

The sharp pang of loss just at the thought of leaving struck Chiara right in her heart. ‘Of course. It’s my home—the only home I’ve ever known. My whole family is buried here.’

Like his. Her conscience pricked.

‘The only thing standing in your way of retaining the castello is a lack of funds.’

Chiara curbed her irritation. ‘I’m aware of that, but unfortunately I don’t have the funds.’ She had nothing.

‘I do have the funds.’

Chiara looked at him trying to ascertain where he was going with this. ‘Is that why you’ve come? To humiliate me on behalf of your family by pointing out that you now have the power to buy the castello?’

He shook his head, still looking at her with that disconcerting intensity. ‘Nothing so petty as that. What I’m saying is that I could give you the funds to pay off the debt and retain the castello.’

‘Why would you do that?’ He didn’t strike her as remotely charitable. Certainly not to his family’s bitter enemy. He’d been barely civil since he’d arrived.

‘I would do that because if I was to engage with the bank to buy the castello it would be a lengthy and tedious process. The castello needs serious refurbishment, and the sooner this happens, the better. I’ve waited a long time for this opportunity.’

Chiara struggled to try and understand. ‘But how do I fit into this?’

‘Until the bank takes possession you’re still the owner. If you pay off the debt you retain the castello. I am offering you a deal to do that on your behalf.’

She looked at him suspiciously. ‘Why would I agree to that?’

‘Because you’d get to remain at the castello. You wouldn’t have to leave your home. Isn’t that what you want?’

Chiara felt seriously confused now. ‘Yes, but...how on earth would that work?’

His dark eyes seemed to bore all the way through her. ‘It’s very simple, really. You would marry me as soon as possible.’

* * *

Chiara looked at Nicolo Santo Domenico in shock. Eventually she managed to formulate words. ‘Why on earth would you want me to marry you?’

Apart from anything else, she had to be a million miles removed from the type of woman a man like this went out with. She’d pored over glossy magazines for years, lamenting her untameable hair and full figure. Not to mention her zero fashion sense. She knew her limitations.

‘Like I told you, dealing with the bank would be tedious and time-consuming. It would take months—maybe even longer. Through marriage to you the castello will become mine within a much shorter space of time.’

Understanding finally sank in. So that was why he wanted to marry her. He was so arrogant and preposterous she could barely take it in. The thought of even considering any kind of intimate relationship with someone like him was totally ludicrous. And yet... She couldn’t deny the very illicit beat of awareness deep within her. It shamed her. She wanted his disturbing presence gone.

‘I think you’ve said enough. Your proposal—’ She stopped for a second as that word rang in her head. ‘It’s not even a proposal... What you’ve just said is frankly ridiculous. I have no desire to marry a complete stranger—for any reason.’

For a moment he looked at her, and then he turned abruptly and went to the window. Much to her disgust, Chiara couldn’t stop her gaze moving over his broad shoulders, where the material of his jacket moulded to hard muscles.

He turned back to face her and she lifted her gaze guiltily.

‘I should have expected that you would take this as an opportunity to thwart the Santo Domenicos one last time, but you should know that my acquisition of the castello is going to happen—with your help or not.’

Chiara felt frustrated. ‘I told you—I had no idea about any of this. Why would I want to thwart you? What happens to the castello once the bank takes possession is out of my control!’

‘Not if you marry me.’

He really was serious.

For a moment Chiara let herself imagine what it might be like not to have to leave the place where she’d just buried her parents and a wave of emotion nearly felled her. But at such a cost!

It was all too much.

Chiara felt Spiro nudge her thigh and she went over to sit down in a chair, afraid her legs wouldn’t keep holding her up.

She looked up at Nicolo Santo Domenico. ‘You can’t possibly mean to marry me. You despise me. My family. And why would I agree to such a union? With a man who has married me solely for the castello?’

* * *

Faced with Chiara Caruso, back in this room, Nico was more convinced than ever that his plan was a good one. He knew exactly why she should agree to such a union. To give him what he wanted. To repay some of the huge debt her family owed his family. What better wife could he choose for himself than a traditional Sicilian woman? And one who was indebted to him.

‘You owe me. You are the last Caruso, and I am the last Santo Domenico.’

She stood up, agitated. ‘I don’t owe you my life!’

‘My deceased ancestors lying outside in the graveyard have had their lives all but wiped out of history.’

Nico realised that if they married the Caruso name would disappear for ever. It called to the devil inside him. Karma.

Chiara’s hands were clasped in front of her and Nico was aware of her breasts, full and high, moving rapidly under her dress. A spike of arousal went straight to his groin and he had to control his response with an effort that was surprising.

He had to admit that this attraction he felt was unprecedented, and had inspired this audacious plan even though she wasn’t remotely his type. But something about her lush and curvy body called to a very base part of him that seemed biologically programmed to recognise a mate, regardless of what his head might want.

He’d done some research on Chiara Caruso before this meeting and had found no pictures and little or no information. She didn’t appear to have done much at all. Not attended university nor worked.

She was looking at him now with wide, clear green eyes and he felt very warm all of a sudden. It was as if she could see all the way through him and right into his mind. Read his thoughts. It was a very disconcerting sensation for someone who kept his innermost thoughts private.

But it wasn’t disconcerting enough to make him change his mind. He’d come to Sicily to reclaim his family’s legacy and he vowed right now that he wouldn’t be leaving without making this woman his wife. Whatever it took.

He said, ‘What I’m proposing is a marriage of convenience. A business transaction. I will put up the money to pay off the bank and in return you will marry me and sign a contract that gives me sole ownership of the castello. However, through marriage to me, you will have the right to live here for the rest of your life.’

She went pale. ‘Are you totally out of your mind?’

‘Not at all. In case I’m not making myself absolutely clear, I don’t see this marriage as anything more than a business merger and a way to have heirs. Through them, the Santo Domenico name will flourish again after being all but decimated.’

Heirs? Chiara barely registered that as shock reverberated through her body. ‘But me... Why would you want to marry me when you could marry any woman in the world?’

‘Like I said, I have no desire to deal with the bank on this matter. And as I never intend to marry for love—’

‘Why not?’ she interrupted, momentarily distracted enough to want to know if there was some reason for his cold-bloodedness.

Nico’s insides clenched. Because his mother had abandoned him and his father when Nico was just weeks old and left his father a bitter, broken man all his life. Because people used love as a way to manipulate and distract. Nico had almost lost everything he’d built up because he’d fancied himself in love with a woman. Thankfully he’d come to his senses just in time. It was a lesson he’d never forgotten.

He looked at Chiara. ‘Because I don’t believe in it. As for choosing you as my wife... Marriage to you gets me the castello and, on a practical level, you have grown up on this estate. You’re part of it and you know it. I plan to do extensive renovations, and as I have offices in New York, London and Rome it will help to leave the project in the hands of someone who cares about the estate.’

Chiara shook her head as if to try and clear it. ‘You’re talking about a project manager, not a wife. How could you propose to bring heirs...children...into a loveless marriage like that?’

Something caught his eye behind her and he strode over to a small table and picked up a framed photo of her and her parents. He held it up, his lip curling contemptuously. ‘Are you expecting me to believe you were a blissfully happy family?’

Chiara squirmed inwardly. She and her mother were smiling, but her father had that look of perpetual disappointment on his face.

Hating Nicolo Santo Domenico with a ferocity that shocked her, she went over and took the picture out of his hand, saying, ‘We weren’t perfectly harmonious, but we were happy in our own way.’

Liar, whispered an inner voice.

Chiara put the picture down and moved out of the man’s dangerous proximity.

He said coolly, ‘You’ve just proved my point. There’s no such thing as a harmonious family. Surely it’s better for children to grow up in an environment where they see their parents working as a team, with mutual respect, rather than something as ephemeral as love?’

‘But how can you say you’d respect me?’

‘I personally have no grudge against you, Chiara, in spite of what you may think. My father and every generation before him grew up despising the Carusos for what they did. They were emotional about it and that’s why they failed to get anywhere. My success came from taking out the emotion.’

He’d cut out emotions long ago. The day he’d found his lover in bed with his best friend.

Nico and his friend had been about to sign a lucrative deal with one of Naples’s biggest entrepreneurs, but his girlfriend had believed his friend to be the one instrumental in the deal and so had seduced him in a bid to feather her nest.

She’d begged forgiveness when she’d realised her mistake, but Nico had cut her out of his life and embraced that cold focus ever since.

Chiara Caruso was not the kind of woman who would arouse disturbing emotions or passions. She was perfect.

He said, ‘As much as I’m restoring the Santo Domenico name to where it belongs, I’m also proposing this for sound business reasons. This region of Sicily has been woefully neglected and is full of potential. My plans go far beyond this estate. I’ve already bought all the neighbouring land. I see you as an asset to this estate, Chiara. You’ll be invested in it and in its success in a way that no other woman could be.’

Chiara looked at the man and realised the extent of his ruthlessness. Even if she didn’t agree to marry him—and of course she wasn’t going to marry him!—she had no doubt he would do everything he’d just said. Including marrying someone for convenience and heirs. All she represented to him was a means to get to his destination faster.

She stood up. ‘I don’t understand why it has to be marriage—you could offer me a deal to buy the castello before the bank gets involved.’

‘That was my plan originally. But since coming here...meeting you...it’s changed. Now the stakes are higher, and I’m offering you an opportunity to stay in your home.’

As your chattel, thought Chiara, shocked at the lengths to which he would go, the depth of his need for vengeance.

She refused to let him see how intimidated she was. ‘Well, as of this moment, I’m still the owner of the castello, Signor Santo Domenico, and quite frankly you’re the last man on this earth I’d ever think about marrying.’

He looked completely unperturbed. ‘So you’re willing to walk away and never see the castello again? You strike me as the kind of woman who dreamed of getting married and having a family here.’

Chiara flushed all over. Was her innermost fantasy of dispelling the loneliness of this place with a large and loving family so painfully obvious? But in her fantasy she’d meet the love of her life, go travelling, and then return to the castello to live out the life she’d never had here, filling the place with happy sounds and not the echoing silence of her youth.

Feeling exposed, she said tightly, ‘You have no idea what kind of woman I am, signor. Now, if you’ve said your piece, please leave.’

* * *

Once again Nico’s conscience struck when he thought of the freshly dug graves he’d seen in the newer graveyard just a short while before. Perhaps this was evidence of what a life denying your emotions did to you. You became numb to everything except the goal. And the goal was almost in sight.

But something about the shadows under Chiara Caruso’s eyes and the way she held herself made him feel uncomfortable. She looked delicate all of a sudden. Very alone in this huge room, with only an ancient dog for company.

Maybe she was a recluse?

He ignored the spark of curiosity—she was perfect for what he needed in his life, and that was all that mattered.

He took a business card out of his pocket and held it out. With palpable reluctance she reached out and took it from him. Nico noticed that she had small graceful hands. Unvarnished practical nails. His body stirred against his will, an image of those hands reaching out to touch his naked flesh surprising him with its vividness.

He gritted his jaw. ‘Those are all my numbers, including my private one. I’m staying at a villa not far from here till tomorrow lunchtime. You have until then to consider my offer. If I don’t receive a call I’ll assume you’re not interested.’

Chiara’s head was bent down over the card as if she was studying it intently. A lock of long hair trailed over one shoulder and it gleamed a light mahogany in the light. His eye was drawn to her waist. Once again he could sense that her clothes were disguising a very classic feminine shape. The kind of shape that had been out of fashion for years but which was proving to be potent enough to snare his interest.

For a moment he hesitated, wondering if he was crazy to seek commitment with this woman. She intrigued him now, but could she sustain his interest for the length of a marriage? His sexual interest?

If the strength of his attraction was anything to go by, his body was telling him yes. And he was reminded of how little had sparked his interest in recent months. Certainly none of the tall, angular women he’d favoured before.

His wife would also be the mother of his children, and Nico surprised himself with a surge of conviction that he wanted a woman who would care for her children and not abandon them as he had been abandoned.

He couldn’t trust any woman not to abandon her children, but at least Chiara Caruso knew about legacy—even if it hadn’t been rightfully hers. She understood it. And evidently, if the state of the castello was any kind of indication, she was a woman who had been deprived of the better things in life. In Nico’s experience it wouldn’t take much to accustom her to the kind of luxuries he could provide.

But she was refusing to meet his eye now. Nico was used to women gazing at him with naked adoration and a lust that barely masked their instant summing up of his net worth. It was a silent dialogue he knew well and which he welcomed—because there was no game-playing or pretence of emotions that weren’t there.

He wasn’t used to this...this uninterest. Or antipathy. And he found that, refreshing as it was, it irritated him.

‘Chiara.’ His voice sounded tight.

Eventually she looked up and he saw fire in the depths of her eyes, making them glow. ‘I did not give you leave to call me by my name.’

His pulse throbbed. A sizzle of something deeper than arousal infused his blood. Nico had to admire her spirit. Not many had the confidence to speak back to him and he realised that he’d underestimated her.

He dipped his head slightly. ‘Scusami. Signorina Caruso. I am offering you an opportunity to stay in your family home, which is more than anyone in your family ever did for anyone in mine. Think about it.’

Chiara desperately wanted to look away from those deep-set dark eyes but she couldn’t. It was as if his gaze was winding a spell around her, holding her captive. The air vibrated with a kind of electricity between them.

She wanted him gone, so she could try and process everything that had just happened, so she said the only thing she knew that would make him leave. ‘Fine. I will consider your offer.’

Nicolo Santo Domenico inclined his head and then he walked out.

Spiro trotted after him, as if to make sure he really was leaving.

Only when Chiara heard the powerful throttle of his car’s engine did she move and go back over to the window, catching a flash of silver as it disappeared down the drive. She shivered, as if a cold finger had just danced down her spine.

The first thing Chiara did was to ring her solicitor and ask him for the deeds of the castello.

His sharp response—‘Why do you want to see them?’—merely heightened the churning in her gut.

She asked him bluntly, ‘Is it true that this castello once belonged to another family?’

The man was silent for a long moment and then Chiara heard muffled sounds, as if he was instructing someone to close a door.

He asked again, ‘Why are you asking for this information now, Signorina Caruso? All you need to know is that the castello belongs to you until such time as the bank takes possession.’

‘Please tell me the truth.’ Her hand was gripping the phone receiver.

He sighed. ‘Yes, I believe so—the castello did belong to another family, but they lost it around the time of the Second World War. The deeds have been in the Caruso name for decades... I really don’t see how this has anything to do with—’

Chiara let the phone drop back into its cradle.

It was true.

When she was small she’d been fascinated by history and she’d used to beg her Papa to tell her stories about the castello and who had built it centuries ago. She’d wanted to know all about her ancestors—had they been Arab Moors? Or maybe marauding Greeks? Her father had used to laugh off her questions, telling her that her imagination would get her into trouble one day... She saw now how he’d neatly avoided telling her anything about the history of the castello.

Because he hadn’t known? Or hadn’t he wanted to admit the truth—that it didn’t really belong to them?

Chiara felt the castello closing in on her, as if now that she knew, it was silently condemning her.

She walked outside, needing to shake off that uncomfortable feeling, Spiro loyally following at her heels. It was cool in the January sunshine and she drew in deep breaths of air infused with the evocative scents of the earth and sea. She’d often thought that if she could bottle this scent she would wear it for ever. It was home.

A home she was about to lose.

She’d spent so long yearning to see the world, but she’d never expected to be thrust out into it so precipitately. She didn’t feel ready.

Chiara avoided the area near the small chapel and the graveyard and went down to her private place by the shore. It was a tiny sandy cove, sheltered on all sides by rocks. She sat on the rough sand and pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. Spiro sank down beside her.

It was only now that she could let the tears flow—for her parents and for the shock of learning just how precarious her position was. She cried for a few minutes, until her face started to feel puffy, and then she forced herself to stop, wiping at her cheeks with the sleeves of her dress. She never usually indulged in self-pity.

She thought of Nicolo Santo Domenico in his bespoke suit, oozing sophistication and success. Arrogance. Retribution. Threat and a kind of redemption all at once. She’d never met anyone so ruthlessly compelling.

Giving in to an urge to find out more about the man who had just blown apart what little security she’d felt she had left, Chiara went back into the castello and fired up her father’s ancient desktop computer.

Eventually it came to life, and she sat down in a worn leather chair to search for information on the Santo Domenicos.

The first thing to come up were pictures of him, looking even more astoundingly handsome than she remembered, dressed in a tuxedo at glittering functions. And in each one there was a stunning woman on his arm. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. He didn’t appear to have a preference. They were all tall, slim and intimidatingly beautiful.

He wasn’t smiling in any of the pictures. He looked driven. Stern.

Chiara quickly clicked on some other links that told the fabled story of how Nicolo Santo Domenico had displayed his entrepreneurial skills from an early age in Naples. He’d honed those skills and at the tender age of twenty-one had gone to New York and become a millionaire. Within five years he’d become a billionaire and a legend.

She unearthed a very old article from an Italian newspaper, asking what had happened to the once all-powerful Santo Domenico family from Sicily. There was no mention of the castello, just a general reference to the fact that they’d once owned huge tracts of land in Sicily but had lost it all. The implication was that perhaps the Santo Domenicos had run foul of the mafia.

Chiara shivered again, absorbing the information. Of course all this didn’t mean that Nicolo Santo Domenico would have a leg to stand on if he was to challenge ownership of the castello in a court, but the fact was that the bank now owned the castello—or as good as. Nicolo Santo Domenico was merely capitalising on the fact that the castello was now available to him in a way it had never been before.

She stood up and walked slowly through the castello, noting how many of the rooms had long been shut up, with their furniture covered in dustsheets. Everywhere was crumbling and falling apart. It had been in disrepair for as long as Chiara could remember. The truth was that they’d never really been able to afford it—even when their crops had been providing an income.

The castello deserved to have new life breathed into it. Chiara’s heart squeezed to think that she wouldn’t be here to see it. And then she realised she also wouldn’t be here to tend her parents’ grave. Or her grandparents’.

It was unutterably cruel to think of the castello being shut to her when her own family were laid to rest here.

As Nicolo Santo Domenico’s were.

But, reminded a small inner voice, Nicolo Santo Domenico is offering you a chance to stay.

Through marriage.

The thought of marrying a man like him left her breathless with a number of conflicting emotions.

She’d never in a million years imagined that the faceless man she’d fantasised about all her life would actually appear on her doorstep, but as soon as she’d seen Nicolo Santo Domenico’s hard and beautiful features she’d felt a pull of recognition deep inside, as if finally she had a face to put to the handsome prince of her dreams.

She felt disgusted at herself now. At the years of naive dreaming in a home that hadn’t even been rightly hers.

And Nicolo Santo Domenico hadn’t come for her. He’d come for the property, she reminded herself soberly. She was just a convenient by-product. Or a bonus. She shivered again, but this time it was in reaction to imagining what sharing intimacies with Nicolo Santo Domenico would be like.

Chiara saw her reflection in the window. She knew how she looked—plain and boring. Unvarnished. She’d inherited her large breasts from her paternal grandmother, along with her average height and the hourglass shape which had gone out of fashion about fifty years ago.

One day Chiara had heard her father say to her mother, ‘Our daughter won’t turn heads, but she’ll make some man a fertile wife.’

Her cheeks burned again as the humiliation came back. And then she crushed the thought. She shouldn’t be thinking ill of her father. But he had grown bitter after his wife hadn’t been able to have any more children and he’d been denied the son he’d desperately wanted. Chiara wondered now how much of that had had to do with his knowledge of the provenance of the castello.

Had he wanted a son to ensure the Caruso name stayed alive within the castello because he’d known of the history?

Chiara let herself consider Nicolo Santo Domenico’s...proposition. Surely he couldn’t really mean to marry her? Was he really ruthless enough to convince himself that marriage to an unsophisticated Sicilian woman was worth the price of regaining his family inheritance?

Anger rose inside Chiara at the thought that he could treat her like a pawn. And that he’d assumed to know her, based on what he had judged of her appearance and demeanour. The fact that he hadn’t been completely wrong made her pride smart. But there was so much more to her than a mere dream to marry and love in this place.

No matter what he’d said here today, he couldn’t truly mean to go through with a marriage to a complete stranger.

Chiara thought of Nicolo Santo Domenico’s expression when he’d left—almost smug. As if he’d achieved exactly the outcome he’d expected and knew she’d come around in the end, in spite of her refusal.

She wanted to dent that smugness. She wanted to shock him as he’d shocked her. She wanted to see him look as surprised as she must have looked this afternoon. She wanted to call his bluff and witness his panic when he really thought through the repercussions of his arrogant assumptions and demands.

CHAPTER THREE

NICO DIDN’T LIKE the sense of anticipation he felt as he waited for his driver to return with Chiara Caruso. When she’d rung him earlier that morning he’d offered to meet her at the castello, but she’d told him she’d prefer to meet him at his villa, so he’d sent someone to fetch her.

He paced back and forth on the terrace that wrapped around the side of the modern villa with its stunning view of the sparkling sea. From here he could see the land around the castello but not the actual building, which was a mix of architectural styles dating all the way back to his early ancestors, who had been Spanish. There were elements of Moorish architecture, and then more classical bits had been added over the years.

The effect was a snapshot of Sicilian history—a potent symbol of longevity and survival which had withstood the ages on its dramatic promontory overlooking the sea.

The emotional punch from his first view of the castello and his visit to the graveyard yesterday still lingered. The sense of urgency to reclaim what was his was even stronger now. As was his urge to claim Chiara Caruso. Last night he’d found her image stealing into his brain with a vividness that had unnerved him. He’d told himself it was only due to the fact that he’d decided to include her in his plans. Not because he hungered to know the secrets she hid under her shapeless outfit. Not because base instincts he hadn’t indulged since he was a teenager had resurfaced. He was more than that now.

He heard a noise behind him and turned around to see the uniformed housekeeper leading Chiara out to meet him. He settled back against the wall and watched her walk towards him, unconsciously tensing himself against those base instincts she’d ignited so effortlessly within him.

But it was no use. In spite of the fact that she looked as if she belonged to another era, wearing a starchy white shirt with a big collar and a boxy dark jacket, arousal hummed in his blood. It was almost galling. A calf-length skirt did nothing to enhance her figure, and nor did practical flat shoes. Her hair was pulled back from her face and left loose and wavy around her shoulders.

It had been a long time since Nico had had any woman presented to him who wasn’t coiffed to within an inch of her life. If he hadn’t been so unnerved by the strength of his attraction to her he might have found it refreshing.

She walked out into the sunshine and he saw she was pale. The vivid green of her eyes stood out, unusual and arresting. He fought not to let his gaze drop to the full line of her breasts and straightened up, indicating for her to take a seat at a table nearby set with coffee and tea and small cakes.

She looked at the table, and then back at him. ‘I’d prefer to stand.’ She held a capacious black bag in front of her like a shield.

He faced her. ‘Very well. Have you thought about what I said?’

Chiara could hardly breathe. Nicolo Santo Domenico was—unbelievably—even more gorgeous than she remembered. With his back to the astounding view, dressed in a white shirt with its top button open and sleeves rolled up and dark trousers, he could have stepped directly from the pages of a fashion magazine for men.

The villa was breathtaking too, in its modern simplicity, built into a cliff overlooking the sea. A total contrast to the castello and its ancient crumbling history. She’d never seen so much pristine white furniture.

It hurt to look directly at the man, but she forced herself to meet his dark gaze. She’d felt full of bravado yesterday, but right now that was in short supply. Why had she thought it was a good idea to come here? What had she wanted to prove? She couldn’t turn back now—he expected her to say something...

And then she remembered. The shock and humiliation. The desire to see him lose some of that cool sense of entitlement.

She took a breath. ‘I have thought about what you said, Signor Santo Domenico, and I’ve decided that I’ll accept your offer.’

Chiara’s heart was beating so hard she felt light-headed. She waited for Nicolo Santo Domenico to register what she’d said and then panic. Except he didn’t look like a man who would ever panic about anything. He looked supremely assured. Not a flicker of reaction crossed his face. Had he heard her?

She felt panicky. ‘I said—’

‘I heard you,’ he said. ‘Are you sure about this?’

Chiara had a sickening sensation that she’d misjudged how to handle this situation badly. She forced herself to nod. ‘Yes. I’m sure. I want to marry you.’

‘Va bene.’

He pushed himself away from the wall and strode back into the villa. Chiara turned to watch him, her panic intensifying. She followed him inside. He picked up a mobile phone and made a call. She heard him speak to someone on the other end.

‘We will proceed with drawing up the contracts. Chiara Caruso has consented to be my wife.’

When he’d terminated the conversation he looked at her and frowned.

‘What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘I thought... I thought if I said yes that you’d come to your senses.’

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