by Jennie Lucas
“You never told me you had a stepmother!”
“Are you kidding? Her? She’s not family.”
“Of course she is.” She lifted her chin. “No wonder you bought a villa so close to Trevello. You said you were going to knock down your father’s ancestral home. You neglected to mention someone was still living in it—a sweet old lady!”
“Sweet old—” He stared at her, speechless. “You’ve got to be kidding. That woman is horrible. A snooty aristocrat who believes she’s better than everyone else.”
“If you ask me, you’re the one who thinks you’re better,” she said coldly. “You make your own rules. You want what you want, and don’t give a damn who gets hurt while you get it.”
Nico stared at her, feeling sick as he stood on the deck of his yacht in the fading purple twilight. Honora’s lovely eyes were hostile and angry—the eyes of an enemy. In his home. In his yacht. With his name. Carrying his baby inside her.
Beneath his feet, he could feel the sway of the waves unsettling him, making him feel like at any moment he could get knocked down.
How had it happened that his sweet, kind wife, the woman he’d thought would never challenge him or work against him, was hurling accusations from the same sensual lips he’d kissed so passionately?
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said in a low voice. “Egidia Caracciola is not some gentle, helpless old lady.”
“No? She can’t even carry her own groceries, and you’re trying to drive her from her home without a cent!”
“It’s not my fault my father left her a pile of debts.”
Honora lifted her chin. Her green eyes glittered in the red sunset. “It is your fault, Nico, and you know it. You gathered up all his debts and then demanded that he pay them all in full at once. As his creditors never would have done.”
“So what are you saying? That I killed him? That I caused his heart attack? You’re doing her dirty work, Honora—using the very words she insulted me with, over his grave.”
“She was probably upset, lashing out—”
“I’m the one who should be lashing out. Did you know I called my father after my mother’s cancer diagnosis?” His heart was pounding, flooded with emotion he didn’t want to feel. “The only time I ever asked him for anything. I begged for money to try to pay for an experimental treatment, and he refused. He said we were nothing to him. And she died.”
Her expression changed. She whispered, “Maybe he didn’t have the money...”
Nico looked away. “He was rich back then. He just didn’t care. So I promised myself that someday I’d show him how it feels, to be desperate and poor and to ask your own blood for help, only to have the door slammed in your face.”
“He hurt you,” Honora said quietly.
“Yes.”
“You’ve spent your whole life trying to get revenge.”
“Yes.”
“But your father is dead.” She lifted her chin. “Why are you punishing her?”
When she put it like that, it did seem strange that Nico would go to such obsessive lengths to get revenge on an elderly woman he’d met only twice in his life. After all, he couldn’t blame Egidia for his mother’s death—at least not directly.
And yet something in his heart yearned to get the woman’s attention, since he could no longer get his father’s. He wanted to force his father’s wife to admit she’d been wrong, and that she was sorry. So very, very sorry.
He set his jaw. “What do you know about her?”
“I met her a few weeks ago in Trevello while I was walking the dog. I helped her carry some groceries, and this morning she realized who I was.”
He set his jaw. “She was probably targeting you all along, as a soft touch to try to get to me.”
“No. She wasn’t.” She glared at him. “She has almost nothing, but you’re trying to take her house.”
“I did offer to pay her for it. It’s not my fault she’s forced me to play hardball.”
“Is that what you call it? You didn’t even try to go to court to legally claim your father’s estate. He had no other children. That would have been kinder. No, instead you slowly ruined him, humiliated him, as you’re now doing to her.”
“You think I’d want to claim Arnaldo as a father after he rejected me? No. He made me a stranger so I’m taking his estate like a stranger. By force.”
“And what about Egidia? His devoted wife of fifty years?”
Devoted. Nico realized he was trembling. “I don’t give a damn. She’s nothing to me.”
His wife stared at him for a long moment in the darkness as their yacht approached the glittering lights of the Trevello marina. “You’re lying. You hate her. Why? What did she ever do to you?”
Honora was right, Nico suddenly realized. He did hate Egidia Caracciola. With a passion. Gripping the railing, he turned away.
“I saw her with my father once, on the street in Rome. I was just seven years old. My mother pushed me forward, begged Arnaldo to recognize me as his son. Egidia wouldn’t let him even look at me. She couldn’t admit her husband had a bastard son. Because of her pride.”
“Or maybe she was distracted with her own grief. She lost three sons of her own. Did you ever think of that?”
Nico blinked, turning to her. “What are you talking about?”
“I asked her why she was living alone in that old mansion with no one to help her. She said long before she lost her husband, she’d lost their three children as babies, one by one.” Wrapping her hands protectively over her baby bump, Honora whispered, “Can you even imagine? Three?”
He stared at her, his heart pounding. Then he pushed away what was obviously an attempt at emotional manipulation. “She probably made it up. To try to get sympathy.”
“How can you be so cold? Just go talk to her!”
“No.” Nico’s voice was like ice. The sunset that had been so vibrant and bright had turned dark shades of bruises and blood, and the sea now seemed deathly black. “Put her from your mind. She’s not family. You are.” He set his jaw, clenching his hands at his sides. “Don’t let her drive a wedge between us, Honora. Do you want to be my wife?”
She sucked in her breath. “Now you’re threatening to leave me?”
“I’m simply stating a fact.” Nico looked at her, and felt nothing. “Either you’re with me, or you’re against me. You must choose.”
“I choose you,” she choked out. “Of course I do.”
He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he exhaled. He held out his arms, and after a brief hesitation, she walked into his embrace, leaning her cheek against his heart.
But as he stroked her hair, Nico had the unsettling feeling that something had changed between them.
His sweet wife had betrayed him, attacking him without warning. He would have to be on his guard from now on. Raise walls to protect himself. Make sure he didn’t feel too much. Stay distant. Stay numb.
Because Nico would never let anyone hurt him, ever again. Not even her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE NEXT EVENING, Honora looked at herself in the full-length mirror. She took a deep breath.
The formal gown she’d had made for her in Naples was simple but pretty. The length was short, as it was still August, and soft pink, with an overlay of beadwork. Her dark hair was in a chignon high on her head, glossy and sleek.
At over eight months pregnant, she felt like a whale, but her husband’s eyes still lit up when he came into the bedroom. “You look beautiful, cara.”
“Thank you.” Her cheeks burned hot. Nico looked almost unbearably handsome to her. His powerful body was barely contained by the civilized, perfectly tailored tuxedo.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a fistful of sparkling jewels. “I brought you a gift.”
Stepping behi
nd her, he placed a cold necklace of enormous rectangle-cut emeralds over her collarbone. As he attached the clasp, he lowered his head and kissed the crook of her neck, making her shiver with dangerous desire.
“Perfect,” he said huskily.
She wondered if he would think her so perfect if he knew whom she’d invited to the ball tonight.
Honora faced him, her heart pounding. After his ultimatum on the yacht, he thought she’d given up the issue of his stepmother. But she could not let him keep going down the path he was on. It could only lead to the destruction of his soul. And hers.
Last night, after they’d returned to the villa, he’d kissed her with such sweet tenderness, stroking her body so slowly, so gently, taking his time, so when he’d finally brought her to aching fulfillment, she almost couldn’t bear the intensity of her own joy.
But even then, beneath it all, she’d known she still had to stand up for what was right. She couldn’t remain silently, passively married to a man who was so intent on destroying his own family. After all, if Nico couldn’t forgive the stepmother who’d once been too lost in her own pain to do the right thing, how could Honora expect anything but the same for her and the baby—that they’d be punished or exiled for the slightest transgression?
Either you’re with me, or you’re against me. You must choose.
She was married to him, pregnant with his baby. She was in love with him. She was on Nico’s side. Of course she was.
But sometimes, being on someone’s side had to mean being able to tell them when they were wrong. Even if it made them angry. Even if it caused trouble.
If you don’t like something, don’t suffer in silence, he’d told her. Be honest. Speak up.
And that had just been about a plate of sautéed mushrooms. This was about the rest of their lives.
But she was afraid. More afraid than she’d ever been in her life. Inviting Egidia was a huge risk. Honora knew that if Nico could just see her, talk to her in person, they would finally reconcile. He would either forgive her and be glad, or—
Or he wouldn’t.
“Nico.” She swallowed hard. “There’s something you should...”
“Yes?” He looked down at her expectantly.
Her courage failed her. She looked down, putting her hand on the cool, hard emeralds at her throat. “They’re beautiful. You didn’t have to do this.”
“Of course I did. They match your eyes, and you deserve every luxury.” Leaning forward, he whispered wickedly against her skin, “Especially after last night.”
Her blush deepened as she remembered the previous night’s passion. Every night of their honeymoon he’d found new ways to give her intoxicating pleasure.
She just prayed Nico would forgive her for the public ambush, and eventually understand why she’d had no choice but to do this, to make him face the past he’d gone to such lengths to avoid...
“Are you ready?” Nico murmured, holding out his arm.
“I hope so.” Nervously, she took his arm. Would he still smile at her so warmly when the night was over?
Together, they left the master bedroom and went down the sweeping staircase of the Amalfi Coast villa as guests began to arrive.
They greeted each guest in the foyer, beneath the soaring crystal chandelier high overhead, and above it, the frescoes of cherubs. But there was no sign of Egidia. Honora felt more and more nervous as the minutes ticked by.
Nico seemed proud to introduce her to his glamorous European friends, many of whom were from Rome or farther away still—Milan, Paris, Athens. For once, Honora had no energy to feel insecure when she met the extravagantly thin, gorgeously dressed supermodels and heiresses and female tycoons. She was too anxious about the coming confrontation to care what strangers thought of her.
The villa’s ballroom was as exquisite as a jewel box, filled with flowers, and a string quartet was playing music. Holding a crystal flute of sparkling water, Honora stood beside her husband as he spoke to a small group of people, switching from Italian to English for her sake. She tried to smile and nod and appear as if she were interested in their discussion, which was apparently about some land deal in Malaysia. She felt Nico’s hand stroking her bare upper back. Her shoulders felt tense. Her gaze kept straying to the door.
Then she gave an intake of breath.
Nico noticed at once. He looked down at her with a bewildered frown. Then he followed her gaze. His body stiffened.
“What the hell—” His voice choked off in a strangled gasp as he saw the new guest in the ballroom’s doorway.
“Forgive me,” Honora said quietly. “I had no choice.”
An elderly white-haired woman, round and slightly stooped, dressed in a formal gown that looked like couture, though it was two decades out of fashion, entered the room. Principessa Egidia Caracciola.
* * *
Nico’s head was spinning.
For the last twenty-four hours, he’d been congratulating himself that he’d convinced his wife to stop fighting for his enemy, aka his stepmother, and to keep her loyalty where it belonged, with Nico. He’d tried to bind her to him more thoroughly, making love to her last night with agonizing slow gentleness—though it damn near killed him to go slow—and buying her an emerald necklace worth half a million euros, which had once belonged to a tsarina of Russia.
He’d introduced her to the cream of European society, which he’d bulldozed into with his wealth, power and charm. He wouldn’t call them all friends, exactly, but they were entertaining, and useful, and anyway, it gave him satisfaction to think he’d earned his way into the aristocratic circle his father had tried to deny him.
For the last hour, he’d watched Honora, in her sparkling pale pink cocktail dress, her green eyes brighter than the emeralds at her throat, hold her own against them all, talking easily to even the most arrogant Milanese heiress. His heart had burst with pride for his beautiful, clever, kind wife.
Nico had started to relax again. Maybe he’d overreacted. Maybe he could still trust her. Maybe he didn’t need to permanently be on his guard.
And now...this ambush!
He pulled Honora to the side. His jaw was tight. “Is this about revenge?” he said in a low voice, for her alone. “Is that why you invited her here? To win the argument? To hurt me?”
Honora’s forehead furrowed.
“No, Nico,” she said, looking bewildered. “I’m trying to help you make peace with your family. With yourself—”
“Peace!” He’d never heard anything more ridiculous. He felt like his heart was about to explode. He couldn’t believe she would attack him like this, in such an underhanded fashion, trying to humiliate him in front of European society! What had he ever done to deserve this? Nothing! All he’d ever done was treat her like a queen!
With an intake of breath, he turned back to the grand doorway of the ballroom. Egidia Caracciola. His dead father’s widow.
Their eyes met, and his whole body was engulfed in ice.
The ballroom seemed to fall silent, first the guests, then the musicians discordantly cutting off midsong. Nico knew there’d been gossip about the lengths he’d gone to, gathering up Prince Arnaldo’s debts, then trying to force the sale of the Villa Caracciola. There had been commentary about the physical resemblance between the two men. Gossiping about secret parentage was always an enjoyable pastime for the jet set, but he’d thought he’d quashed that rumor. Now, he could feel new whispers building around him like wildfire.
“What have you done?” he said hoarsely.
“Please, Nico.” Honora’s lovely face looked scared. “Just give her a chance. I’m trying to help you. I love you.”
Help. Yes, help him into public humiliation. Love. Love him into an early grave. He felt his chest tighten and squeeze and suddenly remembered how his father had keeled over of a heart attack last Christmas without warning.
You killed him! his stepmother had screamed at Nico at the funeral. I hope you’re proud of what you’ve done, you awful, awful boy!
And now they were facing each other in person for only the third time in their lives. The first time had been on a street in Rome, when he was seven years old. His mother had pushed him forward, both of them hungry, and he’d been wearing clothes that were too small.
Please, Arnaldo, this is your son. Help us.
His stepmother, wearing her sleek designer clothes, had grabbed his father’s arm and gasped, No. I can’t bear it. Tell me it’s a lie.
His father had said coldly, It’s a lie.
Tension pulsed through Nico’s body as he faced his stepmother. This was supposed to be a party. A celebration. Around the elegant ballroom, all his so-called friends, men in tuxedos and the women in shimmering gowns, were watching and listening with interest, the better to gossip about later.
He had to pull it together.
With an intake of breath, Nico walked forward, his traitorous wife trailing behind him. His guests parted, creating a path between him and the elderly Italian woman.
He stopped in front of her.
“Buonasera, signora,” he said with a coolly courteous nod. “Welcome to my home.”
Lifting her chin, his stepmother replied in the same cool tone, “Thank you for inviting me.”
But you weren’t invited, Nico raged inside. He forced himself to smile, to take his wife’s hand. “We are so glad you could come.”
Egidia stood in front of him in her dated gown, her white hair carefully done, and her bright coral lipstick not quite straight on her feathered lips. She drew herself to her full height, which wasn’t much, and looked at him, her forehead creased.
Then she sucked in her breath. Her eyes roamed his face, then filled with tears.
“You do look like him,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to believe it. But you look like Arnaldo when he was young.” Her wrinkled face crumpled, as if she were about to cry. “All this time I never realized...” She choked out, “Villa Caracciola should be yours. I will no longer fight it. You are his son. You are.”