Demanding His Hidden Heir

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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.