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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 (#u44ba8aaf-5acf-57a9-8910-84b229dfd840)
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.
