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