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 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.

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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.

And most especially she tried not to think about that flare of heat deep inside her the moment his gaze had met hers, or the ache that had gripped her, an ache she’d tried all these years to forget in an attempt to put it behind her.

A futile attempt, as it turned out.

She put Simon back into his bed and tucked him in, singing him one of the lullabies he used to like as a baby. Then she stroked his back until he drifted off.

After making sure he was definitely asleep this time, Matilda moved out of his room and shut the door gently. Then she leaned her back against the wall in the hallway outside, put her shaking hands over her face and quietly allowed herself to freak out.

She’d seen the guest list, obviously, had noticed his name, and she’d idly asked Henry why he’d invited some Italian billionaire to the party. Because the man wanted to buy some island that Henry owned, or something to that effect. Matilda hadn’t really been listening.

She’d still been struggling with her shock at seeing his name on the list.

Enzo Cardinali. Billionaire property developer and heir to a kingdom that no longer existed. A cold, ruthless, driven businessman who, along with his brother Dante, had taken Cardinal Construction, a small construction start-up, and turned it into Cardinal Enterprises, a huge multi-national that had expanded beyond building houses and into property development as well as various other industries. Hotels. Real estate. Manufacturing. Technology.

He was well known in the kind of Fortune 500 circles Henry also moved in, and had a reputation for being an icy force of nature, both feared and respected for the ruthless way he did business. He was a shark, a cold-blooded predator through and through—or at least, that was what the articles she’d read about him all said.

Not that she’d read a lot of articles. But she did like to keep up with what he was doing every now and then. It always paid to know the direction from which any potential threats might come.

Except he hadn’t been a threat four years ago on that island. And he’d been neither cold-blooded or ruthless.

He’d burned like the sun and she, utterly defenceless against a man like him, had burned along with him.

She gave a little moan, the wall pressing hard against her back, the urge simply to slide down it and sit on the expensive Turkish runner that covered the floor almost overwhelming.

Why had she thought it wouldn’t be a problem? Why had she believed that she could easily avoid him? Why hadn’t she taken Simon and gone away to visit her aunt and uncle for the weekend? Or gone to London, or basically gone anywhere else?

But there wasn’t any point thinking about the whys and what ifs. She hadn’t gone anywhere. She’d stayed and he’d seen her. And, worse, he’d seen Simon.

He knows.

Of course he did. There was no disguising the colour of her son’s eyes. So different. So unique. So beautiful.

A family trait, or so Enzo had told her one night as they’d lain curled up on the beach in each other’s arms looking at the stars, and he’d told her about the island kingdom to which he’d once been heir.

There had been a warmth to him that, after living with her emotionally distant aunt and uncle, had felt like walking into summer after long years of winter. It had been irresistible to her, so intensely attractive, she’d given herself to him without thought.

She’d been on that island for one last holiday before her official engagement, a gift from Henry, who’d known all along that she hadn’t wanted to marry him but who’d been trying to make it easier for her. Not that she’d known it at the time. All she’d understood was that, if she didn’t marry Henry, her aunt and uncle would lose their beautiful stately home deep in the Devonshire countryside.

It had been a very English, almost mediaeval arrangement.

After the death of her parents when she’d been seven, she’d been taken in by her childless uncle and aunt, and although they’d distantly been kind to her she’d never managed to get rid of the feeling that she was only there on sufferance. That they’d been forced to take her.

So she’d tried to make herself useful. Tried to be no bother. Her uncle didn’t like fusses or distractions, so she’d kept herself quiet and tried to behave herself, not put a foot out of line. She hadn’t wanted them to get rid of her or regret giving her a home.

And it had all worked very well.

So well that, when her aunt and uncle had been refused more money by the bank for the upkeep of their house and their family friend Henry St George had stepped in, offering money in return for marriage to Matilda, they’d naturally assumed she’d agree.

And she had. Because they’d taken her in, had given her a home and sacrificed the later years of their lives bringing her up. Marrying Henry St George so they could keep their house had seemed a small sacrifice to make in return.

That she actually hadn’t wanted to marry Henry, she’d kept quiet about. He was her aunt and uncle’s age and, even though he was a nice enough man, she hadn’t been in love with him. She hadn’t been even attracted to him. He’d told her that he didn’t require sex in the marriage, that all he wanted was companionship in his later years, yet Matilda had still been apprehensive about it.

So when Henry had offered her a holiday by herself at a Caribbean resort before the engagement—a kind of last hurrah as a single woman—she’d decided to take it as a treat for herself.

And that was when she’d met him.

Enzo.

He’d been talking to the resort manager as she’d been on her way to the pool, dressed—rather improbably, given the fact that they were on a tropical island—in a three-piece suit.

He should have looked ridiculous, standing there in the hot sun dressed in layers of fine Italian wool. But he hadn’t. He’d looked dark, commanding and fierce. And utterly, devastatingly, gorgeous.

She’d never bothered much with men, preferring to stick to her studies at school, and then her English degree at university, but Enzo Cardinali had been a man completely outside her experience.

She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him.

And then he’d looked at her, that intense, amber gaze slamming into hers, stealing her breath, stealing her thought.

She’d led a fairly sheltered life since she’d gone to live with her aunt and uncle, keeping to the straight and narrow, never having put a foot wrong. But there was something about this man that had reached right down inside her and woken a part of herself that she’d put on ice the day her parents had died.

An angry, hot, rebellious part.

He’d looked furious, standing there in the sun, and in the heated gold of his eyes she’d seen a challenge. So she’d answered it.

She’d smiled and arched an eyebrow, met him stare for stare as she’d walked past, every cell of her being suddenly alive and aware, thrilled at her own daring.

It had been like poking a tiger in a cage, safe in the knowledge that she wouldn’t get eaten because of the bars, yet still having the wild adrenaline rush of baiting such a dangerous creature.

But she hadn’t thought he’d bother following her until he’d suddenly appeared in the pool area. Every eye in the place had been drawn to his electric presence as he’d strode towards her lounger. But he’d ignored them all.

His focus had been entirely on her.

And the good girl she’d been since her parents’ death had burned to ash right there and then.

Back at the villa, he’d kissed her as soon as the door had closed, his mouth hot, demanding and desperate. She’d been overwhelmed. The only kisses she’d ever had had been from one shy boy back in school at a dance and they’d been nothing—nothing—compared to the hard mastery of Enzo’s mouth.

He’d pushed her against the wall and she’d let him, her heartbeat like a drum in her head, hoping like hell he wouldn’t notice her inexperience and leave, because more than anything she didn’t want him to go.

But he’d given no sign of noticing anything but the chemistry burning out of control between them.

He’d ripped the bikini from her body, leaving her no time for shyness or nerves. No time for second guessing. And then his large, warm hands had been on her, cupping her bare breasts, teasing her nipples with his thumbs...

Matilda gave another soft groan, pressing her hands harder against her closed lids, the memory in her head replaying no matter how much she didn’t want it to.

All she’d been able to hear was her own frantic breathing and the soft gasp that had escaped her as his hand had slid lower, down between her thighs to where she’d been aching and wet. His fingers had glided over her slick flesh, sending sharp, electric bolts of pleasure through her, making her shudder and arch against the wall.

No one had ever touched her there before, not in her entire life, and she hadn’t been able to believe she was letting a man she’d only just met do it then. But she had. And it had felt illicit, thrilling and so unbelievably good...

She let out a sharp breath, forcing the memories away and ignoring the subtle throb between her thighs.

No, she couldn’t think of that. The woman she’d been on that island wasn’t her any more, and she didn’t want to be that woman anyway. Not these days. Not now she was a mother with responsibilities.

When she’d returned to England, she’d worked hard to fit herself back into the good-girl box. She’d married Henry like she’d promised she would and put her studies on hold so she could care for Simon. It hadn’t been so bad.

She hadn’t found out she’d was pregnant until four months into her marriage, but luckily by then she’d realised that Henry truly had meant it when he’d said that he only wanted friendship. He’d been good to her, drying her tears when she’d confessed about her pregnancy, and deciding to save them both a scandal by claiming Simon as his own. He’d never asked for the name of Simon’s father and she’d never volunteered it.

He’d been a good man and a kind husband.

But she really, really wished that he hadn’t invited Enzo Cardinali to his stupid house party.

She swallowed and let some of the tension bleed out of her. God, what a mess. Still, it wasn’t all bad. The party ended tonight and tomorrow everyone would be gone, including Enzo, with any luck.

She’d never have to see or think about him again.

You really think he’s going to let Simon go now he knows?

Dread rose inside her because she knew the answer to that.

Of course he wouldn’t.

The quality of the silence changed abruptly in the hallway, and all the hairs on the back of her neck rose.

Slowly, carefully, her heartbeat going double-time, Matilda lowered her hands from her face.

And found Enzo Cardinali standing right in front of her.

‘Buono notte, Mrs St George,’ he said in that deep voice she knew so well, the one that had once been full of heat and yet now was so cold. ‘I think you and I need to have a little chat.’

CHAPTER TWO

SHOCK FLASHED THROUGH Matilda St George’s lovely grey eyes, along with a certain amount of fear, and there was an instant where a deep part of him regretted that fear, remembering how it had felt when she’d looked at him with nothing but desire.

But then that instant was gone.

Good. She should be afraid. She should be very afraid.

Because he’d never been so furious.

Not that he would ever hurt her—he’d never hurt a woman in all his life and he wasn’t about to start now. Still, he certainly wasn’t about to make things easy for her.

He could forgive her for walking out on him that morning after their weekend together, even though the way she’d left, without even having had the decency to say goodbye to his face, had been cowardly in the extreme.

He could even forgive her for the desire he still felt running through him, thick and hot as lava, despite the four years that had passed.

But what he couldn’t forgive was that she hadn’t told him about his son.

Because that boy was his son. Of that he had no doubt at all.

Her eyes widened as they stared up into his, her pale throat moving convulsively. Her pulse was beating fast and hard at the base of her throat and he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off it.

It had beat like that for him when he’d first touched her. Getting fast, then faster. Out of control as he’d bent his head to taste it...

‘A chat?’ she said huskily, her chin firming, the shock and fear in her gaze quickly masked. ‘A chat about what?’

With an effort, Enzo dragged his gaze from her throat.

So, she was going to pretend she didn’t know what he was talking about, was she? Well, unfortunately for her, he wasn’t having it.

‘I’m not here to play games with you, Summer,’ he said coldly. ‘Or should I say Matilda. I’m here to talk about my son.’

Another burst of quicksilver emotion flashed in her eyes, then it was gone, nothing but a cool wall of grey in its place. ‘Yes, that’s my name. You don’t have to say it like a pantomime villain. And as to a son... Well.’ Her chin came up. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

The challenge made his anger flare hot at the same time as the physical hunger inside him tightened.

The blue cotton of her T-shirt was loose but the quickened way she was breathing made the fabric pull across the generous curves of her breasts. And he was very aware of how close she was, of how warm she was.

Which only made him angrier. He didn’t know why this chemistry between them was still burning the way it was, but it needed to stop.

She’d taken his son and there was nothing more important than that.

‘Is that how you’re going to play this?’ He didn’t bother to temper the acid in his tone. ‘You’re going to pretend you don’t know anything about that child you just rescued downstairs? The child with eyes the same colour as mine?’ He took a step towards her. ‘Perhaps you’re going to pretend that you don’t know who I am either.’

She held her ground, even though she didn’t have anywhere to go, not when there was a wall behind her. ‘No, of course not.’ Her gaze didn’t flicker. ‘I know who you are, Enzo Cardinali.’

The sound of his name in her soft, husky voice made a bolt of lightning shoot straight down his spine, helplessly reminding him of other times when she’d said it.

Such as on the daybed of the villa, when he’d been deep inside her and her legs had been wrapped around his waist. Or out beside the private pool, on the sun lounger, where he’d spent a long time tasting her, his name echoing off all those tiled surfaces, drowning out the sound of the waves of the beach beyond.

She’d turned him inside out, made him think that perhaps there was more to him than the ruthless, selfish businessman he’d always accepted he was. A man more like his father than he should have been comfortable with.

That perhaps he was something else, something better.

Only to have that hope ripped away by her disappearing the next day.

He’d searched the resort for her, thinking that maybe she’d simply gone to the pool, the gym or the restaurant. But she hadn’t been in any of those places. She hadn’t been anywhere. And it hadn’t been until a good hour later that he’d come back from his search and realised that all her belongings had gone.

She’d left the island entirely.

He hadn’t chased her. It had been her choice to leave and so he’d let her go. There were plenty of other women he could find the same kind of release with; after all, it wasn’t as if he had a shortage.

He’d been wrong to think that perhaps he was a different man. Wrong to believe that she was special. He wasn’t different, she wasn’t special and he was done with her.

Except right now, with her standing in front of him—those soft red curls falling around her face and with the way that T-shirt draped reminding him of how the silky curves of her breasts had felt in his palms—done was the last thing he felt.

It made him want to snarl at the same time as it made him want to push her against the wall, pull those jeans off her, lift her up and sink into the tight wet heat that he’d never been able to forget.

‘Good.’ He kept his voice hard, trying not to let the heat creep into it. ‘Then if you know who I am you can explain to me why you didn’t tell me that I have a son.’

She was already pale; now she went the colour of ashes. But that defiant slant to her chin remained, the expression in her eyes guarded. ‘Like I said, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Enzo’s rage, already inflamed by his body’s betrayal, curdled into something very close to incandescence and it burned like fire in his blood, thick and hot.

He’d never been so angry in all his life, some distant part of him vaguely appalled at the intensity of his emotions—a reminder that he needed to lock it down, since his iron control was the only thing that set him apart from his power-hungry father.

But in this moment he didn’t care.

This woman, this beautiful, sexy, infuriating woman, hadn’t told him he had a son and, more, she’d kept it from him for four years.

Four. Years.

He took another step towards her, unable to help himself, the heat in his veins so hot it felt as if it was going to ignite him where he stood. ‘I see. So you are going to pretend you know nothing. How depressingly predictable of you.’

‘Simon is my son.’ Her hands had gone into fists at her sides and she didn’t move, not an inch. ‘And H-Henry’s.’ Her gaze was as cool as winter rain, but that slight stutter gave her away.

‘No.’ Enzo kept his voice honed as a steel blade. ‘He is not. Those eyes are singular to the Cardinali line. Which makes him mine.’

‘But I—’

‘How long have you known, Matilda? A year? Two?’ He took another step, forcing her back against the wall. ‘Or did you know the moment you returned to England? With my seed inside you? Come to think of it, is that why you married him? Because you were ashamed? Because you didn’t want my son to be a bastard? Did you think he would make a better father than I would?’

Fear flickered through her expression like lightning through clouds at the relentless barrage of questions, but he wasn’t sorry.

He was only inches away from her now, the heat of her body and the subtle scent of jasmine suddenly filling his senses. A familiar sweetness. He remembered how it had mixed with the musk of her arousal, making him hard almost instantly.

Dio, it was making him hard now.

He tried to control it the way he controlled all parts his life because, really, his responses seemed disproportionate. Especially considering that children had never been part of his plan, or at least not immediately. He’d wanted to find a home first before he settled down with a family.

But now he had a son. A son. A child he’d never known existed and would never have known about if he hadn’t come to this house party. If the boy hadn’t wandered into that room at that very moment.

Enzo was a king with no kingdom. His inheritance had been denied him, his birth right taken from him. His mother had walked out not long after they’d left Monte Santa Maria, taking Dante with her, leaving Enzo alone with his bitter, enraged father. A father who’d then ignored his existence. Both parents had since died and, though he didn’t mourn them, they’d taken his history with them. And, despite the fact that he still had his brother and his billion-dollar company, it wasn’t enough. It had never been enough.

But now he had a child and this child was his. A part of him in a way that nothing and no one else could ever be, and he was furious—no, he was enraged—that she’d even entertained the possibility that she could keep him from the child.

If she recognised his anger she either didn’t let it get to her or she dismissed it, because even backed up against the wall she gave him nothing but cool self-possession. ‘Simon is Henry’s. Like I told you. And that’s all there is to it.’

Oh, no, she wasn’t doing that. Not when the truth of it was so easy to spot a blind man could have seen it.

Enzo put a hand on the wall at one side of her silky red head and leaned in close so she had no choice but to stare straight at him. ‘Look at me, cara. Look at me and tell me that you don’t see your son staring back.’

Her gaze flickered as it met his and, as he watched, her pupils dilated. Her breathing had got faster and he could hear the slight hitch in it.

The air around them grew dense, heavy.

She was looking at him the way he remembered. The way she had when he’d been deep in her wet heat and her thighs had been wrapped tight around him, as if she’d been starving for something only he could give her.

So, she wasn’t as cool and self-possessed as she seemed.

And he wasn’t the only one who felt this.

This is a mistake. Step back.

But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away. There was nothing but satisfaction inside him and a certain kind of male triumph. Even after all these years, even after she’d married another man, she still wanted him.

All he had to do to kiss her would be to lower his head just a little and that perfect red mouth would be in reach.

Yes—married, remember? To someone who is not you.

At that moment she blinked, as if she’d remembered the very same thing, and the glazed expression in her eyes vanished. ‘Mr Cardinali,’ she said with only the faintest trace of huskiness. ‘I must insist that you—’

‘The island. The villa,’ he interrupted because, even with the reminder that she had a husband, apparently he still couldn’t help himself. ‘You, naked on the daybed beside the window. You, naked on the floor just inside the door. Me inside you. Come, now, don’t you remember?’

She flushed a deep, fascinating red. ‘I don’t know what—’

‘Remember when I took you so hard you thought we’d broken the bed?’ There was a devil inside him, wanting to push her, or maybe simply to punish her. ‘But we hadn’t. The only thing that broke was the condom. I told you we’d deal with it in the morning. But in the morning, you were gone.’

Her flush became even deeper, matching her hair. Making her eyes glow silver. She’d looked exactly like that in his arms those two nights he’d had with her, burning like a flame, just as hungry as he was, just as desperate.

And he knew he shouldn’t get any closer, but he couldn’t stop himself from putting the other hand on the wall on the other side of her head, caging her between his palms. ‘You got pregnant,’ he went on, rage and desire burning a hole inside him. ‘And you didn’t tell me. You didn’t even bother to send a message. No, you went ahead and married another man and let him claim my son.’

She was very still, her jaw tight, her chest rising and falling fast and hard. Another couple of inches and the tips of her breasts would be brushing up against his chest. And he’d stake all his money on the fact that her nipples would be hard. He remembered how sensitive she was there.

‘Come any closer and I’ll scream for help,’ she said tautly.

He gave a short, hard laugh. It would be so easy to push. To put his mouth to her throat, taste that frantically beating pulse and see whether she’d really scream for help or whether she’d just scream. For him.

But she wasn’t his. And he wasn’t that desperate.

‘Oh, don’t worry. I wouldn’t dream of it. I only wanted to discuss what do about our son like civilised people, but I see you’re not capable of that. Which unfortunately leaves me with no choice.’ He shoved himself away from the wall, disturbed by how difficult it actually was to step away from her. ‘If you continue to deny the truth staring us both in the face, I must insist on having a paternity test done. As soon as possible.’

Anger flickered through her fascinating eyes. ‘I won’t allow it. You can’t—’

‘I can,’ he interrupted harshly. ‘I will.’

‘But Henry—’ She stopped all of a sudden, as if she’d given herself away.

‘But Henry what?’ Enzo demanded, fighting the sudden need to reach down, take that determined little chin in his hand and hold it so she’d have to look at him. But touching her would definitely be a mistake so he clenched his hands into fists instead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now the only thing he wanted was his son.

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her heartbeat was loud in her ears, deafening her.

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

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

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

Not even for herself this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re selfish. Just like your parents were.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. Hell, no.

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER THREE

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

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

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

He was wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps stronger.

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

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

And Isola Sacra, the island you want to buy?

Ah, yes, that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Your son. Or rather, my son.’

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

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

There was a heavy silence.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Excuse me?’

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

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

Another silence fell, even heavier than the last.

‘Ah,’ St George murmured. ‘I see.’

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

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

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

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

Well, she could try.

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

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

‘It wasn’t your place to do so.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But of course. She was protecting her child.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like your father did to you?

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

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

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

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