‘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
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.
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 sor
ry? 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.
Unless...
The idea sat inside him, burning like a hot coal, the rightness of it making him wonder at himself that he hadn’t thought of it initially.
There’s a reason you didn’t.
He ignored the thought and smiled. Then turned to St George, who was still holding his tumbler of brandy and staring at them, his expression impassive.
‘My plans have changed,’ Enzo said shortly, looking the other man straight in the eye. ‘I’ll take my son. And I’ll take your wife as well.’
* * *
Silence crashed over the room, heavy and final.
Matilda didn’t think it was possible to be any more shocked than she already had been, but apparently it was very possible. Very possible indeed.
Enzo was going to take her? What on earth did he mean by that?
You know what you want him to mean.
Her breathing quickened and despite herself all she could think about was that moment in the hallway, when he’d had his hands on either side of her head, his golden eyes pinning her like a butterfly on a board. And his body had been inches away, the heat of it burning through all that expensive wool. His beautiful mouth had been right there and she thought he might have kissed her. And part of her had been afraid that he would while another part had wanted it desperately.
But he hadn’t. And thank God. She didn’t want to go there again and most certainly not with him.
Because you know what will happen when you do.
No. Nothing would happen. She was stronger than that now.
Henry’s white eyebrows had risen into his hairline. ‘I think you’ll find my wife might have other ideas,’ he sa
id mildly.
But Matilda remained silent, shock still pulsing through her.
It had taken her a couple of moments to get herself together in the hallway upstairs, and then a couple more for it to filter through that Enzo probably hadn’t left to re-join the party as if nothing had happened.
He’d probably gone to arrange the kidnap of her son, which meant that she had no time to sag against the wall trying not to have a breakdown.
So she’d sprung into action, rushing off to see where he’d got to, tracking him down—much to her horror—to Henry’s study.
That he’d told Henry he was Simon’s father was bad enough, but the fact that he’d also told Henry he was going to take Simon away was even worse.
Simon loved Henry. He knew Henry wasn’t his father—Matilda had made sure of that—but he and Henry had forged a relationship all the same, and for him to be taken away not only from her but from Henry as well...
It made her throat tighten. Made her chest feel as though someone had ripped her heart straight from it.
She’d lost her parents when she’d been a child and she knew all too well what it felt like to lose the only people in the world who wanted you. Who loved you. And, even though she and Henry wouldn’t actually be dead, they still wouldn’t be there.
She couldn’t bear the thought of not being there for Simon.
Which meant she couldn’t let that happen, and if that involved doing battle with Enzo Cardinali then she’d have to do battle. Rocking the boat and making a fuss went against everything she’d been brought up to believe, but she’d do it for her son.
Except that Enzo clearly had other ideas.
‘What do you mean you’ll “take” me?’ she asked, her voice sounding strange and shrill in the silence of the room.
Enzo turned his head, blazing amber pinning her to the spot. ‘I mean, you’re correct. I can’t take the child away from everything that is familiar to him. I will have to take something familiar to him with me instead.’ Something shifted in his gaze, something that made her throat close and a perverse kind of excitement tighten inside her. ‘That’s you, in case you were wondering.’
Demanding His Hidden Heir (Mills & Boon Modern) (Secret Heirs of Billionaires, Book 26) Page 4