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

by Jackie Ashenden

  Except that anger in her eyes fascinated him, challenged him. Demanded a response from him. A response he wanted to give.

  Perhaps he would have to find another woman in Milan. It didn’t have to be her.

  Matilda looked away again out of the window of the plane. ‘How long are you expecting to have him in Italy?’

  Enzo had thought of this. He’d spent all night thinking about it. ‘Four years. You had him in England for four, he can spend four with me in Italy. After that, well, I’m a reasonable man. We can discuss more formal custody arrangements.’

  She glanced back at him sharply. ‘Four years?’ The colour in her cheeks ebbed, her dusting of freckles stark against her pale skin.

  ‘Of course four years.’ He stared back, letting her see how serious he was. ‘You really think I’d want him for a week or two, only to send him back like an unwanted gift?’

  ‘But...he doesn’t speak any Italian. And he’s never lived anywhere else. And he doesn’t know anyone. England is his home.’

  ‘No,’ Enzo said. ‘Italy will be his home. Isola Sacra will be his home.’

  An expression that looked like anguish crossed her face. ‘But...he’s just a little boy, Enzo. He doesn’t know he’s not coming back. He didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to anything.’

  Neither did you.

  Enzo ignored the thought, hardening himself. ‘Yes, and it’s easier when they’re young. He won’t remember.’

  ‘You did,’ Matilda said, her eyes glittering.

  And there it was, the reminder again. Of what he’d told her, everything about himself that he’d laid bare. The pain of losing his home, of losing his history, of losing his roots. A glimpse of his soul.

  Dio, he should never have told her.

  ‘I was fifteen.’ He ignored the past she’d been stupid enough to bring up. ‘Simon is four. He won’t remember. My brother didn’t.’ That Dante had been eleven and Enzo knew full well he actually had remembered was beside the point.

  Simon was young. And if Enzo did his job properly his son wouldn’t even remember he’d been English in the first place.

  Matilda held his gaze for a second and he could see the anger blazing in it, the fire at the heart of her burning high and hot in defence of her child.

  He approved. His own mother hadn’t fought for him; she’d simply left.

  Maybe she’d been right to leave.

  Perhaps she had been. Again, though, beside the point. The fact was that if Matilda thought that getting angry would force him to do what she wanted she was mistaken.

  Her lashes lowered all of a sudden, gazing down at her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her fingers were long, delicate, and he remembered what they’d felt like on his body. Wrapped around his shaft...

  ‘I’m sorry, Enzo.’ Her voice sounded scraped raw. ‘I know you’re angry. I made a mistake. I’m not sure what else I can do.’

  There was a note in the words that hooked into a part of him he thought he’d buried after he’d returned to Italy from the island. A part he didn’t want to acknowledge.

  He ignored it, hardening himself even further.

  ‘There is nothing you can do,’ he said. ‘Except give me everything I want.’

  * * *

  Matilda fought the anger that smouldered inside her like a hot coal. She wanted to get up and scream in his face that it was okay to punish her, but how could he take his anger at her out on their son? Because, no matter what he thought, that was exactly what he was doing.

  But she stayed silent. Things were already as bad as they could get. She didn’t want to make them any worse.

  It’s your own fault. You should have told him. You shouldn’t have let fear get in the way.

  As if she didn’t know that already.

  She took a deep breath, attempting to calm herself, but the scent of his aftershave surrounded her, rich and spicy, and all she could think about was how delicious he smelled.

  God, she did not want to think about that.

  Getting Simon up that morning and ready to leave had been a small nightmare in itself, especially when she hadn’t slept for more than an hour the previous night.

  Henry had been distant saying goodbye to Simon—understandably—and even more so when he’d said goodbye to her. He hadn’t offered her any reassuring words or even a hug. He’d simply nodded and told her he’d see her later.

  It had felt as if he was saying goodbye for good.

  An old and familiar pain laced through her anger. His apparent lack of interest had made her feel like she was ten years old again, an orphan thrust on her uncle and aunt who’d been too busy dealing with their own grief and shock to spare much in the way of comfort for her.

  They’d taken her without protest but she knew deep down that they’d never wanted kids. And they really hadn’t wanted her.

  No one does.

  Matilda’s jaw tightened. She shoved the thought away. No, giving in to her anger at Enzo and letting the past he brought trailing in his wake get to her was not what she was going to do. That wasn’t what was best for Simon and that was what she had to concentrate on now.

  Her son was the most important thing in her life. And, yes, she’d made a mistake in not contacting Enzo about him, but she couldn’t keep focusing on that. She had to move on.

  She didn’t want to look at the man lounging in the lush comfort of the private jet’s leather seats, all lean, muscular physicality and electric presence.

  He was in another of his exquisitely tailored suits—dark-blue this time, the contrast making his eyes look even more golden than they already were—the cut drawing attention to his wide, powerful shoulders, lean hips and long legs. He had one ankle resting on the opposite knee, leaning back in the seat, his elbow on the arm rest, his chin in his palm. He watched her with all the focus of a bird of prey, all unblinking golden eyes and an unmistakable hunger.

  He wants you, no matter how cold he sounds.

  Matilda kept her gaze on her hands. She’d thought he wanted her last night. Was it still true?

  The anger inside her became shivery, excited almost. Which only made her angrier. She didn’t want to feel this way about him. Didn’t want to remember those nights she’d spent with him. Didn’t want to be so painfully, physically aware of him.

  You can use that if need be, remember?

  ‘So,’ Enzo said when she didn’t break the silence. ‘Tell me everything there is to know about my son. And when I say everything, cara, I do mean everything.’

  She ignored the voice in her head. Shoved away the unwelcome pull of physical desire.

  ‘Okay.’ She steeled herself, lifting her gaze to his. ‘Where shall I start?’

  His amber eyes burned. God, how could she have forgotten how fierce he could be? This merciless, uncompromising man might not be the Enzo Cardinali that she’d met and nearly fallen for but the ferocity she remembered was still there—or at least a colder, harder version of it.

  ‘Where else should you start but at the beginning? From the moment you realised you were pregnant and decided not to tell me.’

  So, he wasn’t going to let her forget it nor was he going to forgive her for it. Well, he’d already told her he wouldn’t, and he was apparently a man of his word.

  She’d simply have to deal with it.

  ‘Okay,’ she said and began.

  He hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he wanted to know everything. He had questions about every aspect of Simon’s life, from what kind of food he’d liked as a baby to what kind of toys he’d preferred as a toddler. Enzo wanted to know all about Simon’s milestones, whether he had friends and how well he slept. What kinds of things he liked to do and whether he’d had any illnesses. Enzo’s interest was so focused and intent that she found herself almost relaxing as she told him about Simon’s life, becau
se she was as interested in talking about her son as Enzo was interested in hearing about him.

  ‘And did you work?’ Enzo asked eventually. ‘Was he in day care?’

  ‘No.’ Resolutely she didn’t think about the degree she’d had to put on hold. ‘Simon was my sole focus.’

  He gave no sign of whether he approved of this or not, his handsome face expressionless. ‘But you wanted to go to university. I remember you telling me.’

  The words gave her a brief electric shock. He’d remembered that? She’d remembered everything that he’d told her, but she hadn’t thought he’d remember what she’d said to him. The hopes and dreams she’d revealed that first night, caught up in the intensity of his touch and the sheer wonder that someone like him would want her.

  She fought to keep the shock from her face. ‘I decided to put that on hold. Simon was more important.’

  ‘But you could have gone. Your husband surely would have been able to afford a nanny or day care.’

  Henry had indeed offered, but she’d refused. Her son came first and always had done. ‘It was better for Simon to be my sole focus,’ she said stiffly.

  Enzo’s gaze was sharp and she had the uncomfortable feeling that he was seeing things in her she didn’t understand herself. ‘You wanted to go. That was your dream, you said.’

  ‘Yes, and I didn’t. What does it matter what I did or didn’t do, anyway? You wanted to know about Simon, not me.’

  ‘And you are his mother. You have an effect on him.’

  ‘I was fine with the decision.’ She could feel her hands clasping each other more tightly at the faint hollow echo in her voice, as if she didn’t believe it herself. ‘University could wait. Simon was only going to be little once.’

  The words fell into the space between them, heavy as lead.

  Enzo’s expression tightened at the reminder of all he’d missed out on.

  Oh, God, why had she said that? Then again, there was nothing about this situation that wouldn’t be hurtful. There were sharp edges everywhere and neither of them was exempt from the pain of those cuts.

  He shifted in his seat, the fabric of his suit trousers tightening over his thighs. ‘St George didn’t seem to be too upset at losing his wife. He didn’t even give you a goodbye kiss.’

  The observation hurt, and she was under no illusions; somehow Enzo knew that. He was hell-bent on punishing her, apparently.

  ‘No,’ she said levelly, swallowing back the pain, determined not to show him that he was getting to her. ‘Henry is very old school. He doesn’t do public displays of affection.’

  ‘How strange then that he married you so soon after you returned to England. Four months, wasn’t it? Or was it more that you had to hide the fact that you were pregnant with my child?’

  He didn’t know that she’d been promised to Henry. That was the one thing she hadn’t told him. As far as he knew, she’d been single, taking some time out for a holiday before she went home and started university.

  She was powerless against the flush that she could feel creeping up her neck and heating her cheeks. ‘Like I told you, Henry knew from the beginning that Simon wasn’t his.’

  ‘He must have been very much in love with you to marry you anyway.’

  She could tell Enzo the truth right now. Tell him that her marriage was in name only and that Henry had never been a husband to her, only a friend. But there was a small, stubborn part of her that didn’t want to. Her marriage had nothing whatsoever to do with him. She might owe him the truth when it came to Simon, but not when it came to her reasons for marrying Henry.

  He’d told her on their last night on the island, when they’d shared their hopes for the future, that he wanted to reclaim his lost kingdom. Oh, he knew he could never go back to what he’d once had, but he could recreate a home somewhere else. A home that included a wife and children. A family.

  He’d even told her what his ideal wife would be like: strong and passionate. Brave. Beautiful. A woman who knew her own mind. A woman who was his equal, a queen to his king.

  Not her, in other words.

  She’d told herself it was just as well, since she’d already committed to marrying Henry, but those words had stuck inside her like a thorn, settling deep inside her heart. And she’d never managed to get them out.

  Of course she wasn’t any of those things. She’d never been any of those things and never would be. She was simply the orphan that nobody wanted, who’d been passed on from her aunt and uncle to Henry as easily as Henry had passed her on to Enzo in turn.

  But then, Enzo didn’t know that, did he?

  ‘Yes.’ She held his gaze with sudden ferocity, daring him to contradict her. ‘Henry was desperately in love with me. He couldn’t wait to marry me.’

  Enzo’s gaze flared, bright, brilliant and hot. ‘And did he bed you just as desperately?’

  The words sent a bolt of electricity shooting down her spine. ‘That’s none of your business.’ She managed to keep her voice cold. ‘In fact, my entire marriage is none of your business. This is about Simon, not me.’

  Enzo didn’t move, his posture radiating a kind of leashed tension that made the very air between them vibrate.

  Her muscles tightened, her skin prickling all over.

  She wanted to breathe but couldn’t. As if taking a breath would make something snap, or break something that couldn’t be repaired.

  A muscle flicked in his jaw then abruptly he reached down and pulled out his phone from his pocket, looking down at the screen as if the moment of electric tension between had never existed. ‘I need to prepare for Simon’s arrival. Tell me everything he might need.’

  Her heart raced, awareness of him prickling all over her skin, restlessness coiling inside her.

  She dug her nails into her palms, gritting her teeth. She didn’t want to tell him anything more. She didn’t want to tell him anything at all. But that wouldn’t be fair on Simon, so she gave him the information he wanted.

  He didn’t say a word, merely nodded then pushed himself out of his seat, pacing down the length of the cabin as he began issuing orders into his phone in rapid Italian.

  Matilda tried to drag her gaze from him, tried to concentrate on thinking about what the hell she was going to do next, because she had no idea. But it was next to impossible with Enzo pacing up and down, filling the cabin with his intense, electric presence.

  It made the rest of the journey to Milan almost intolerable.

  Enzo didn’t sit down for the remainder of the trip and didn’t speak to her again. Instead he kept pacing while he talked into his phone, and it didn’t matter how much Matilda tried to block him out, her brain seemed intent on concentrating on him and the rise and fall of his deep, cold voice to the exclusion of everything else.

  By the end of the flight she felt like she’d been through the wringer.

  Simon, on the other hand, was a ball of electric excitement.

  After the jet touched down and they were disembarking, he showed no sign of his apparent dislike of Enzo, keeping up a running commentary and peppering him with questions as one of Enzo’s staff showed them to the car that waited for them and their luggage was loaded.

  Matilda tried to quiet him, not wanting him to keep bothering his father, but Enzo shook his head. ‘Let him talk,’ he said. ‘He can ask me anything.’ Then he proceeded to give his son all his attention, not at all bothered by the boy’s constant questions.

  Matilda sat back in the seat as the long, sleek black car moved through the dense Milan traffic, a strange sensation sitting inside her.

  Enzo was pointing at something out of the window, Simon kneeling on the seat and peering out, asking yet more questions. He hadn’t looked at her once since getting off the plane, all his attention totally taken up by Enzo.

  Even Henry didn’t get quite this much attention. Then a
gain, Henry hadn’t shown quite as much interest in him as Enzo had.

  Certainly it made her feel almost...superfluous.

  What if Enzo was right? What if Simon didn’t miss England? What if he didn’t miss Henry? What if he settled into life in Italy as though he’d born here? What if he never wanted to go home?

  And, if he doesn’t, what are you going to do?

  Cold seeped through her.

  Four years, Enzo had said. Four years he was going to keep her son. And where did that leave her? She could fight him, could drag this to the courts, drag her son through the media circus that would no doubt ensue. But she’d get no support from Henry—he’d already made that clear—which meant that if she did she’d have to pay her own legal fees. An impossibility considering that her money all came from Henry anyway.

  Which left her only options either staying in Italy to be near her son or going back to England and home, her contact with Simon reduced to visiting whenever she could.

  God, she hated the thought of both options. If she stayed in Italy, she’d be a stranger here. She knew no one except Enzo, didn’t speak the language and wasn’t qualified to get any kind of job. She’d be here without support, alone.

  Her throat closed.

  Unwanted by anyone yet again...

  No. What a pathetic thing to think. Her son might be caught up with his father right now, but he wanted her. And, if she had to stay here to be with him and bear being a bit lonely for four years, then she would.

  She would do what she had to for him.

  And what about Henry?

  Another thing to think about. Would he be upset if she chose to stay in Italy with Simon? After all, the whole basis for their marriage was that she would be his companion. Would he mind if she only visited him? Would he demand the return of the money he’d paid to her aunt and uncle after he’d married her?

  That wouldn’t be Henry’s style. Then again, she hadn’t thought he’d let her go without even a protest when Enzo had demanded her presence in Italy, so what did she know?