Claiming His One-Night Child

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It had indeed been Stella Montefiore who’d drugged him and cuffed him. As soon as he’d got out of the hotel room, he’d called his personal assistant and asked her to find out everything she could about the Montefiore family. She’d given him a complete dossier the next day and he’d spent most of the day going through said dossier, trying to work out why on earth Stella had targeted him.

Not that it was all that difficult to find out once he knew her family history.

The Montefiores had been one of the leading aristocratic families on Monte Santa Maria until Dante’s father, the king, had been exiled.

After that, because the Montefiores had supported the old regime, they’d suffered a terrible fall from grace that had led to Stefano Montefiore sinking everything he owned into Luca Cardinali’s plans to retake his throne. The family had been beggared and then, to add insult to injury, the authorities somehow had found out about Stefano’s machinations. While Stefano had escaped being implicated, his oldest son Matteo had not. Matteo had been imprisoned, along with various other of Luca’s supporters, and then, years later, had died while still incarcerated.

It didn’t take a genius to work out why Stella Montefiore had been trying to kill him: she and her father wanted Dante’s blood in return for the death of a brother and son.

It was a vendetta worthy of a Sicilian.

Except she hadn’t gone through with it.

‘You know how it is,’ Dante said aloud. ‘The right woman can be...lethal in certain circumstances.’ Though not so much in his case, except for the lethal blow she’d dealt to his self-control.

Enzo lifted a brow. ‘Is that a fact? Care to talk about this particular woman?’

Dante looked back blandly. ‘Not really.’

‘In that case, can I please have your attention concerning this—?’

Dante’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he forgot about his brother entirely, pulling it out and turning round to look down at the screen.

It was a text from one of the private investigators he’d hired to locate Stella, giving him an address in Rome.

He smiled, an intense feeling he couldn’t quite name filling him. It was mainly satisfaction, but there was something else there too. An undeniable, feral kind of excitement.

It had been frustrating not being able to find her, that she’d somehow managed to escape all the people he’d sent out looking for her.

But now, now, he had her.

She wasn’t going to escape him again.

Seems like you do care about something after all.

Of course he cared when it was about his own life. Though what he was going to do with her once he’d found her, he hadn’t quite decided. Probably, if he was feeling particularly merciful, he’d give her a warning that if she made another attempt on his life he’d report her to the police. And, if he wasn’t feeling merciful, he might just call the police then and there.

That’s not what you want to do to her...

Well, no, of course it wasn’t. He wanted to punish her a little too, for how she’d taken up so much space in his head and for the sensual memories that had tormented him for the past month. The memories that she’d given him.

It wouldn’t be a painful punishment, naturally, but she’d definitely scream. With pleasure.

‘You’re looking pleased with yourself,’ Enzo murmured. ‘Does this mean you’re going to listen now or are you going to interrupt me yet again?’

‘It means,’ Dante said, putting his phone back in his pocket, ‘that something’s come up. Looks like I have to head back to Italy.’

‘I see,’ Enzo said dryly. ‘Nothing at all to do with a woman, I suppose?’

He gave his brother a brilliant smile. ‘Not in the slightest. You won’t need the jet? Good. I’m flying out ASAP.’

Enzo snorted. ‘What about Tokyo?’

But Dante was already heading to the door. ‘You know what to do about Tokyo,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Don’t wait up, brother mine.’

It only took a few hours for him to land in Rome, but he was impatient as he went straight from the jet to the car his assistant had organised for him.

Dante had never bothered with his own car, or even his own home for that matter, preferring the number of hotel suites in various different cities that he kept for his private use. He didn’t like to stay in one place for too long, as he didn’t like getting too attached to anything, so hotels suited his impermanent lifestyle.

He gave his driver the address the investigator had sent to him and told the man to get there ASAP. The traffic as per usual was hideous, and Dante tried to curb his impatience but, as the driver turned down increasingly narrower sets of streets lined with rundown-looking apartment buildings, his impatience turned into uneasiness.

The area reminded him of the dirty tenements in Naples where he and his mother had ended up after she’d dragged him away from his father and Enzo back in Milan. She’d told him they’d be going somewhere exciting where they’d begin a new life. A better life far away from Luca’s petty rages and selfishness. And wouldn’t that be nice? No, he wouldn’t have his brother, but he’d have her and wasn’t that important? Didn’t he love her?

Naturally, he’d loved her, so he hadn’t argued. Not that he’d minded leaving his frightening father, but he’d been upset at leaving his big brother behind. He’d hidden his distress, though, as it had upset his mother and he hadn’t liked upsetting her. Especially when it had made her drinking worse.

The driver pulled up onto the narrow footpath and gave a dubious look out of the window at the graffiti on the walls of the nearest apartment block and the garbage in the gutter. ‘You want me to get your bodyguard, Mr Cardinali?’ he asked, glancing at Dante in the rear-view mirror.

Dante snorted. ‘Please, Giorgio. I was raised in the gutters of Naples. I think I can handle a few tenements in Rome.’

He pulled open the door and stepped outside, giving the area a quick scan, his unease deepening still further.

The Montefiores had little money these days, but as far as he was aware they were still on Monte Santa Maria. So why was Stella living here? Presumably because it was easier to hide in a slum, but still. Not a good place for the small, delicate, lovely looking woman he remembered from back in Monte Carlo. Then again, she’d seemed very capable with a gun, so maybe she was perfectly able to fight off all manner of thugs.

He approached the address the investigator had given him—a large and rundown apartment block—ignoring the group of surly youths standing around outside the door. One of them said something to him as he went past, but all he did was pin the boy with a look. He still remembered the street-fighting skills he’d learned back when he’d been thirteen and he’d been beaten up for the fifth time while his mother had done nothing, passed out from another of her drunken binges. He’d decided that night that he was sick of being the neighbourhood punching bag and so had gone out to find someone to teach him how to defend himself. That was the last time anyone had laid a punch on him.

The teenagers, making the right choice in deciding they didn’t want to take him on, didn’t say anything else, leaving him to enter the building.

It was dark and dingy inside, the lift out of order, half the lights in the lobby out.

He ended up walking all the way to the fifteenth floor, grimacing at the dirty floors, stained walls and huddled shapes of people in the doorways and clustered in the stairwells. It was all too familiar to him. It was the ‘new life’ his mother had promised him when she’d taken him away. Only it had ended up with her dead a few years later, and him alone to fend for himself at sixteen.

An old anger twisted inside him, but he ignored it, as he’d been ignoring it for years.

There was nothing to be angry about, not now. Things had turned out well despite that. Enzo had come for him four years later, and together they’d eventually claimed that new life for both of them. His mother would have been proud.

On the fifteenth floor Dante scanned the hallway for the number the investigator had given him and eventually found it right down the end. He paused outside the door, aware that there was some kind of complicated emotion burning in his veins. However, since he didn’t care to examine his more complicated emotions, he ignored it, lifting his hand to knock hard on the door instead.

There was silence.

‘I know you’re in there, Stella Montefiore,’ he said without raising his voice. ‘So you’d better open up, darling. Or, if you prefer, I can get the police involved. I’m sure your father would love that.’

There was another brief moment of silence and Dante found his heart rate accelerating for no good reason that he could see.

He had his hand in his pocket ready to pull out his phone and call the police when the door suddenly opened, a small, fragile-looking woman in jeans and a faded red T-shirt standing in the doorway. Her golden hair was in a messy ponytail, loose strands hanging around her lovely, if rather pale, face. Familiar cool blue eyes fractured through with silver met his.

And desire hit him in the gut like a freight train.

‘There’s no need for that,’ Stella Montefiore said calmly, looking for all the world like she’d been waiting all day for him to show up at her door unannounced. ‘Though, if you’re afraid to be in a room alone with me, then by all means call the police.’

* * *

Stella’s heart was racing, fear coiling tightly in her gut. The hard edges of the door handle were digging into her palm, but she didn’t want to let go. Given the weak state of her knees, she’d probably collapse onto the floor without support, and there was no way in hell she was doing that. And definitely not right in front of him.

He’d found her. Somehow, he’d damn well found her.

Dante Cardinali stood in the doorway of her grotty apartment, blazing like an angel sent straight from God, the reality of his physical presence hitting her like a blow.

In the past five weeks, when she’d gone over that night in her memory—and she went over it a lot—she’d told herself that what had happened between them was an aberration. A momentary weakness on her part, brought on by inexperience and a failure to prepare herself properly for what she’d had to do. She’d also told herself that she’d overestimated the intensity of his personal magnetism. But all it took was one look to know that, if anything, she’d underestimated it.