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

by Jackie Ashenden

  Simon was chattering on about something, pointing as he did so, completely absorbed in the sights outside the window. Enzo responded calmly, his hand resting on the seat next to his son, his body angled protectively at the boy’s back despite the seatbelt.

  Enzo had only known of Simon’s existence for less than twelve hours and already he was acting like a father.

  Henry had been good to Simon, of that there was no doubt, but in four years he’d never acted particularly fatherly.

  ‘He needs his father,’ Enzo had told her.

  Tears pricked unexpectedly behind her eyes and she had to blink hard to get rid of them. Of course Simon needed him. That was why she was here, so her son could get to know him. So Simon could have both his parents.

  She knew what it was like to have neither, so how could she even contemplate leaving him and going back to Henry? There was no other option for her. She would have to stay.

  The certainty of it settled down inside her as the car moved through the traffic, leaving the city.

  Wait...leaving the city?

  She frowned. ‘I thought you lived in Milan?’

  ‘I do. I have several properties there. But you and Simon will be going to my villa just outside the city.’ He looked at his son. ‘It has a private park with woods you can play in.’

  The little boy’s eyes lit up. ‘And a pool?’

  ‘Yes. There is a pool.’

  Finally Simon deigned to look at her. ‘Mummy! There’s a pool! Can I go swimming?’

  A private park. With woods. And a swimming pool. She wasn’t going to be able to compete with that, was she? Even Henry’s home in England didn’t have a swimming pool.

  ‘Of course.’ She made herself smile. ‘Good thing I put in your swimsuit, isn’t it?’

  But Simon was already asking Enzo more about the woods and whether there would be a horse there. Or even a dog, because he liked dogs, and could he have a puppy?

  A heavy feeling settled down on her, one that didn’t lift even when half an hour later the iron gates that guarded Enzo’s estate opened and the car drove through a stately avenue of trees, pulling up outside an historic Italian villa of pale honey-coloured stone.

  The grounds were beautiful, the house even more so, decorated along luxurious yet uncluttered lines with nods to the past in the art on the walls and the antique furniture that graced the rooms. There were plenty of modern touches here and there too, such as a state-of-the-art home entertainment system, including security, central heating and Internet streaming.

  Simon loved the room that Enzo had given him, with a curtained bed and a big toy box in the middle. There were views out over the woods at the back of the villa and glimpses of the promised pool. But what made Matilda’s throat feel tight all over again were the small personal items that Enzo had somehow managed to fly from Henry’s house in England and get here in time for their arrival. A stuffed giraffe that Simon had accidentally left behind and his favourite Lego spaceship. The giraffe was on the blue curtained bed, while the spaceship took pride of place on a dresser.

  Simon shrieked with delight and launched himself at his giraffe, while Enzo strolled into the room behind him, his eyes full of the same fierce satisfaction that had burned in them all day.

  ‘Signora St George?’ It was Maria, the housekeeper who’d greeted them as they’d arrived.

  Matilda turned.

  ‘Come this way,’ Maria said. ‘I will show you to your room.’

  She didn’t want to go. She wanted to stay with her son, make sure he was okay. Make sure he didn’t forget her in the excitement of being in this new place with his father.

  But she let herself be led away, Simon’s excited voice fading as she was led down various cool tiled hallways with luxurious silk runners on the floor and art in ornate frames on the whitewashed walls. Tall windows let in the buttery late-summer light, giving everything a warm glow.

  Would Enzo want her living here? Or would she have to find a place nearby? He’d said he had no objections to her living in his house with Simon, but...would she want to?

  It’ll be no different than it was living with Henry. What’s the problem with that?

  She didn’t know. Because, yes, that was exactly what she’d been doing the past four years. There wouldn’t be anything different about living here except the country and the language.

  The room the housekeeper showed her to was beautiful.

  Pale blue walls and an antique four-poster bed hung with thick white curtains. Beneath one tall window was a couch upholstered in white linen, with lots of silk cushions scattered on it in many shades of blue.

  There was no sign of the single bag she’d brought with her that had been whisked away as soon as she’d got out of the car, but a closer investigation of the drawers in a beautiful oak dresser soon revealed that the meagre lot of clothes she’d brought with her had been folded and put away.

  Along with a whole lot of other clothes that she hadn’t brought with her. Expensive clothes. In what looked like her size.

  An uncomfortable feeling gathered inside her.

  She went into the beautiful, white-tiled en suite bathroom to discover that, not only had her toiletries been put away, they’d also been added to: expensive bath products and skin care, along with a few other feminine things.

  She went back out into the bedroom again and stood there, the uncomfortable feeling growing bigger and heavier inside her, and she wasn’t sure why.

  It was Enzo, obviously, who’d bought all that stuff.

  For her.

  Slowly, she sat down on the embroidered white quilt that was spread over the bed, the uncomfortable feeling becoming oddly painful.

  A memory sat in her head, of being shown to her room at her aunt and uncle’s house. There had been nothing of hers in there, nothing except what she’d brought in her suitcase. Her aunt and uncle hadn’t bought her anything special or made any effort to make the room feel less like a guest room. They hadn’t noticed that she’d been growing and that she’d needed new clothes. Not noticed like a mother would notice. She’d had to tell them that her jeans were too short and that her T-shirts were too tight.

  But here, now, Enzo had bought her clothes. And toiletries. There were none of the personal things that he’d brought for Simon, but still. He’d thought about it. He’d thought about her. And, more, he was clearly expecting her to be staying here. In this villa. With him and her son.

  She didn’t know how she felt about that.

  ‘Do you have everything you need?’

  Enzo’s deep, cold voice was like a slap of icy water against her skin, making her jump.

  She looked up sharply to find him in the doorway of the bedroom, leaning one shoulder against the frame. His arms were folded across his broad chest, his gaze sharp, the expression on his beautiful face impenetrable.

  ‘Yes.’ She rose from the bed. ‘I thought I’d brought everything I needed with me, but apparently I hadn’t. There seems to be a lot of additional clothing in the drawers.’

  ‘It’s for you.’ He tilted his head, staring at her like an eagle staring at a rabbit. ‘You wanted to stay here with Simon, which means you’ll be here a while.’

  ‘Four years, or so I hear.’

  He lifted a shoulder casually, as if he didn’t care one way or another. ‘That’s up to you.’

  A small devil needled at her, wanting to disturb his apparent disinterest. ‘My husband might have something to say about that.’

  ‘Really?’ One black brow rose. ‘Didn’t seem like it.’

  She flushed, humiliation sweeping through her the way it had when he’d mentioned Henry’s lack of response on the jet. She tried not to let him see it. ‘You seem quite fascinated with my marriage. What’s up with that?’

  ‘Purely academic. Your relationship with St George will obviou
sly have had an effect on my son.’

  ‘Henry has been nothing but good—’

  ‘And I don’t dispute that,’ Enzo interrupted. ‘But how has St George treated you?’

  She blinked. ‘What do you mean? What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘A strong, loving marriage has an effect on children, as has a cold, distant one. Or a violent one.’ The words were casual but the look in his eyes was anything but. ‘I want to know what kind of marriage yours is.’

  Give him what he wants otherwise he’ll never stop asking.

  It was true. Easier by far simply to tell him and then he’d never have to ask her again.

  Except then she’d have to confess to the reality of her marriage with Henry. How she’d done it for her aunt and uncle. For money. How she’d been bought and paid for because he’d wanted a companion rather than a wife. How he’d told her he was fond of her, only to let her go the moment Enzo had snapped his fingers and threatened a scandal...

  ‘It is a loving marriage.’ The lie came so easily. ‘Henry was desperately in love with me and I was with him. Simon has been treated as a son.’

  Something sharp and hot glittered in the depths of Enzo’s eyes. ‘He didn’t protest when I told him I would take you with me. He didn’t even kiss you goodbye.’

  Matilda lifted her chin. ‘Henry is a very private man. I told you, public displays of affection aren’t his style. And what was the point in protesting? He knows I’ll come back to him.’

  ‘And how exactly is that going to work? With your son here?’

  Anger was growing inside her at his questions and the harsh note of condemnation in his voice. Yes, she’d made a mistake with Enzo. But marrying Henry and the past four years spent creating a happy home for her son was not one. ‘I’ll figure it out,’ she said just as coldly. ‘It won’t affect you and it won’t affect Simon.’

  ‘But it will affect both me and Simon if you’re going off every weekend to bed your husband.’

  ‘Why?’ she said before she could stop herself. ‘Are you jealous? It’s been four years, Enzo, come on.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MATILDA STOOD IN the middle of the room with her hands clasped in front of her, the curls falling down around her shoulders the colour of fire and passion, yet her grey eyes remained cool as mountain mist.

  Finally, she was here. In his house. In the room he’d set aside for her.

  And now she was talking about her husband, how in love with him she was and how in love St George was with her.

  It shouldn’t have mattered to him and yet he couldn’t deny the furious, almost territorial anger that coiled and twisted inside him like a cut snake.

  He didn’t understand it. What did he care that she loved her husband? As far as he was concerned love didn’t exist anyway since he’d certainly seen no evidence of it. And why did it matter to him that St George hadn’t even kissed her goodbye as they’d left that morning? Why had he even noticed? It hadn’t bothered him before on the jet, but it was bothering him now, and he couldn’t work out what his problem was.

  Surely it should be irrelevant to him where she stayed? As long as her absence didn’t affect Simon, it shouldn’t affect him.

  But that anger wouldn’t leave him alone. And the way she was standing there staring at him, so coolly self-possessed, made him want to go over there and do...something. Turn those grey eyes of hers hot. Make her pale, creamy skin go pink. Affect her the way she was affecting him.

  Jealous. You’re jealous.

  His muscles felt tight, his jaw ached. His hands curled into fists under his arms.

  Impossible. He wasn’t jealous. He had nothing to be jealous about. She was right. Four years had passed since she’d left him on the island so, why any of this should still matter to him, he had no idea.

  ‘I’m not jealous,’ he said coldly, ignoring the way the lie sat on his tongue. ‘I couldn’t care less about what you do with your husband. My only concern is Simon.’

  ‘As if that’s not what I think about all the time.’ The words echoed sharply between them, a slight wash of pink staining her cheeks.

  So. Was he getting to her after all?

  ‘Except when it came to telling your son about his father,’ he said, twisting the knife a little further, because he could. Because he wanted her to suffer. To hurt the way he’d been hurt.

  ‘No,’ she said steadily, her head held high. ‘I was thinking of him then too.’

  ‘Lies. You were thinking of yourself.’

  The pink in her cheeks deepened into red, but she didn’t flinch. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe I was. But everything I did, I did for him.’ There was a quiet strength to the words, a glimpse of steel in her grey eyes.

  Whether it was actually true or not, she believed it. The respect he’d felt for her back in England returned, bringing along with it a sense of unease.

  Haven’t you learned anything? Only a petty man takes his anger out on a woman.

  A petty man like his father, for example? Yes, well, the problem with his father was that he had no control over his emotions. He let them rule him.

  Enzo did not. He was aware of the danger of turning into Luca Cardinali. So he’d taken those same emotions and, unlike his father, he’d honed them. Turned them into a single-minded determination not to be like him.

  He’d channelled his own anger, selfishness and greed, and all the other things his mother had accused him of, into building his empire. And he’d done it. Now he was channelling them into making a home for himself and his son.

  He had no need to take them out on Matilda.

  Which meant he couldn’t let her get to him. Couldn’t let himself give in to the rage he felt about those lost years without his son. Or the anger at how she’d left him, even though that shouldn’t have any power over him.

  He had to be cold and hard. Distant. He had to be controlled.

  ‘And so you should,’ he said, keeping his voice icy. ‘You are quite welcome to stay here in the villa for as long as you want. I’m happy to provide anything you might need.’

  Her eyelashes fluttered, clearly caught off-guard by the change in subject and the formality with which he’d said it. ‘Thank you.’ Her tone was just as formal and distant as his. ‘I would prefer to stay here with Simon, if that’s okay with you.’

  ‘Certainly.’ Enzo pushed himself away from the doorframe. ‘Though I would prefer not to host your husband if he comes to visit.’

  She blinked again, as if the thought had never occurred to her, which was interesting. Didn’t she want to be with him? Sleep with him? Strange, when he knew what a passionate woman she was.

  ‘No,’ she said, her voice gone a little husky. ‘Of course not. And I expect the same of you. Any...girlfriends of yours need to be kept away from our son.’

  Our son. Our son.

  The words were a hot jolt of electricity.

  He gritted his teeth, shoving away the sensation and concentrating instead on the other word. Girlfriends.

  Because of course he would have girlfriends. Just because he was a father, didn’t mean he was going to be celibate. And, anyway, he’d always wanted a wife at some point, the start of his own family that would be part of the home he wanted to build for himself.

  He’d just keep any likely wife candidates away from Simon until he’d settled on the right one. Which wouldn’t be for a while, as he wanted to get to know his son before he made any other plans.

  ‘Naturally,’ he said stiffly. ‘Though I will be marrying at some point and my future wife will of course meet Simon and be expected to treat him as one of her own.’

  Matilda’s eyes widened. ‘Your future wife?’

  ‘You look surprised. Surely you remember what I told you that night by the fire on the beach?’ He shouldn’t bring it up. Shouldn’t mention that ni
ght and what they’d shared. Not when he’d already mentioned it once on the trip to Milan.

  Abruptly, she looked away, the deep pink in her cheeks fading, leaving her skin pale, the scattering of freckles stark. ‘Yes. I remember.’

  Yes, and he’d been very clear about what he wanted in a partner. Too clear. Giving her a list of the qualities that he was sure she couldn’t mistake: all qualities he’d seen in her.

  And yet the next day she’d disappeared.

  ‘You’re just like your father. You’re greedy, Enzo.’

  That was what his mother had told him in those dark months after they’d been exiled. He’d seen how unhappy she was and had tried to make things better for her, even though he hadn’t really known how. He’d helped her clean the tiny apartment, had brought her flowers, had looked after Dante when she’d needed space. But nothing had worked. She’d simply pulled away from him even further.

  ‘I don’t know what you want from me,’ she’d snapped, irritated by his clumsy attempts to make her smile. ‘Whatever it is, I haven’t got it.’

  ‘I want you to be happy,’ he’d told her. ‘That’s all.’

  She’d just looked at him. ‘You want too much. You always have.’

  And, on that island once again, he’d wanted too much. Demanded more. And she hadn’t been able to handle it. He should never have said anything.

  A curious silence fell between them, weighted and heavy with the past.

  He wanted to leave, and yet he couldn’t, unable to look away from her. She was different now from what she’d been on the island, quieter and far more contained. Except, when she’d fought him back in England, there he’d seen that strength blaze, catching fire from the passion he knew lurked inside her. It was there still, he could sense it. But now it burned behind a glass wall, the flames bright but without heat.

  He didn’t like that. Not one bit.

  You want that fire. You want it to burn you again.

  He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.

  ‘I thought one day it might be you,’ he said before he could stop himself.