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.’
Demanding His Hidden Heir (Mills & Boon Modern) (Secret Heirs of Billionaires, Book 26) Page 3