The Sicilian's Scandalous Secret

by Sarah Morgan

  Santo Ferrara was the most dangerous man she’d ever met.

  Without exchanging words, she’d fallen. Even now, years later, she didn’t understand what had happened that night. One moment she’d been alone with her misery. The next, his hand had been on her shoulder and everything that had happened after that was a blur. Had it been about human comfort? Possibly, except that comfort implied gentle emotions and those had been in short supply that night.

  He watched her now, his face giving no hint as to his thoughts. ‘I’ve heard good things about your restaurant. I’ve come to find out if any of them are true.’

  He didn’t know, she thought. If he knew, he wouldn’t be toying with her.

  ‘They’re all true, but I’m afraid I can’t satisfy your curiosity. We’re fully booked.’ Her lips formed the words while her mind raced over the possible reasons for his visit. Was that really all this was? An idle visit to check out the competition? No, surely not. Santo Ferrara would delegate that task to a minion. Her brain throbbed with the strain of trying to second-guess him.

  ‘We both know you can find me a table if you want to.’

  ‘But I don’t want to.’ Her fingers tightened on the knife. ‘Since when did a Ferrara dine at the same table as a Baracchi?’

  His eyes locked on hers. Her heart beat just a little bit faster.

  The searing look he sent her from under those dense, inky lashes reminded her that once they hadn’t just dined; they’d hungered and they’d feasted. They’d devoured each other and taken until there was nothing left to take. And she could still remember the taste of him; feel the rippling power of his body against hers as they’d indulged in dark, forbidden pleasure, the memory of which had never left her.

  In a crowded room she wouldn’t have known his voice, but she knew how he’d feel and her palms grew hot and her knees weakened as her thoughts broke free of the restraints she’d imposed, liberating memories so vivid that for a moment she couldn’t breathe.

  He smiled.

  Not the smile of a friend, but the smile of a conqueror contemplating the imminent surrender of a captive. ‘Eat at my table, Fia.’

  His casual use of her name suggested a familiarity that didn’t exist and it unbalanced her, as he’d no doubt intended. He was a man who always had to be in control. He’d been in control on that night and there had been something terrifying about the force of passion he’d unleashed.

  She’d taken him because she’d been in desperate need of human comfort.

  He’d taken her because he could.

  ‘This is my table we’re talking about,’ she said in a clear voice, ‘and you’re not invited.’ She had to get rid of him. The longer he stayed, the bigger the risk to her. ‘You have your own restaurant next door. If you’re hungry then I’m sure they’d accommodate you, although I admit that neither the food nor the view is as good as mine so I can understand why you find both lacking.’

  There was a stillness about him that made her uneasy. A watchfulness that she didn’t trust.

  ‘I need to speak to your grandfather. Tell me where he is.’

  So that was why he was here. Another round of fruitless negotiations that would lead the same way as the others. Thanks goodness he’d made this visit at night, she thought numbly. No matter what happened, she had to ensure he didn’t return during the day. ‘You must have a death wish. You know how he feels about you.’

  Those eyes were hooded as he watched her. ‘And does he know how you feel about me?’

  His oblique reference to that night shocked her because it was something that had never been mentioned before.

  Was he threatening her? Was he about to expose her?

  Relief had been replaced by sick panic as various avenues of horror opened up before her. Was that why he’d done it? To have a hold over her in the future? ‘My grandfather is old and unwell. If you have something to say you can say it to me. If you want to talk business, then you’ll talk to me. I run the restaurant.’

  ‘But the land is his.’ His soft voice was a million times more disturbing than an explosion of temper and that control of his worried her because she felt none where he was concerned. She thought about what she’d read—about Santo Ferrara more than filling his brother’s large shoes in his running of their global corporation. And suddenly she realised how foolish she’d been to think that the Beach Club was too insignificant to be of interest to the big boss. It was precisely because it was too insignificant that it had caught his attention. He wanted to expand the Beach Club, and to do that he needed—

  ‘You want our land?’

  ‘It was once our land,’ he said with lethal emphasis, ‘until one of your unscrupulous relatives, of which there have been all too many, chose to use blackmail to extract half the beach from my great-grandfather. Unlike him, I am willing to propose a fair deal and pay you a generous price to regain that which should never have left my family.’

  And it was all about money, of course. The Ferraras thought everything could be bought.

  Which was what frightened her.

  The initial feeling of relief that had flooded her had been replaced by trepidation. If he were intent on developing the land then she’d never be safe.

  ‘My grandfather will never, ever sell to you so if that is what this visit is about you’re wasting your time. You might as well go back to New York or Rome or wherever it is you live these days. Pick another project.’

  ‘I live here.’ His lip curled. ‘And I am giving this project my personal attention.’

  It was the worst news she could have had. ‘He hasn’t been well. I won’t let you upset him.’

  ‘Your grandfather is tough as boots. I doubt he is in need of your protection.’ A few layers of ‘civilized’ had melted away and the dangerous edge to his tone told her that he meant business. ‘Does he know that you’re deliberately attracting my customers away from the hotel to your restaurant?’

  He was six foot three of prime masculinity, the force of his nature barely leashed beneath that outward appearance of sophistication. And Fia knew just how much heat bubbled under the cool surface. She’d been burned by that heat. His passion has shocked her, but nowhere near as much as her own.

  ‘If by “deliberately” you mean that I’m cooking them good food in great surroundings, then I’m guilty as charged.’

  ‘Those “great surroundings” are exactly the reason I’m here.’

  So that was what had brought him back. Not the night they’d shared. Not concern for her welfare or anything that was personal.

  Just business.

  If she weren’t so relieved that there wasn’t a deeper reason, she would have been appalled by his insensitivity. Whatever else had happened, a death lay between them. Blood had been shed.

  But one inconvenient death wouldn’t be enough to stand in the way of a Ferrara on the path to acquisition, she thought numbly. It was all about empire building. ‘This conversation is over. I need to cook. I’m in the middle of service.’ The truth was she’d all but finished, but she’d wanted him out of here.

  But of course he didn’t leave because a Ferrara only ever did what a Ferrara wanted to do.

  Instead of walking away he lounged against the door frame, sleek and confident, those eyes fixed on her. ‘You feel so threatened by me you have to have a knife in your hand while we talk?’

  ‘I’m not threatened. I’m working.’

  ‘I could disarm you in under five seconds.’

  ‘I could cut you to the bone in less.’ It was bravado, of course, because not for one moment did she underestimate his strength.

  ‘If this is the welcome you give your customers I’m surprised you have anyone here at all. Not exactly warm, is it?’ The fringe of thick lashes made his eyes seem darker. Or
maybe the darkness was something they created together. She knew that the addition of just one ingredient could alter flavour. In this case it was the forbidden. They’d done the unforgivable. The unexplainable. The inexcusable.

  ‘You’re not a customer, Santo.’

  ‘So feed me and then I will be. Cook me dinner.’

  Cook me dinner. Just for a moment her hands shook.

  He’d walked away without once glancing back. That, she could handle because, apart from one night of reckless sex, they’d shared nothing. The fact that he’d played a much bigger role in her dreams wasn’t his fault. But for him to walk back in here and order her to cook him dinner, as if his return was something to celebrate…

  The audacity of it took her breath away. ‘Sorry. Fatted calf isn’t on the menu tonight. Now get the hell out of my kitchen, Santo. Gina manages the bookings and tonight we’re full. And tomorrow night. And any other night you wish to eat in my restaurant.’

  ‘Gina is the pretty blonde? I noticed her on the way in.’

  Of course he would have noticed her. Santo Ferrara not noticing a blonde, curvy woman would be like a lion not noticing a cute impala. That didn’t surprise her. What surprised her was the ache in her chest. She didn’t want to care who this man took to his bed. She’d never wanted to care and the fact that she did terrified her more than anything. She’d grown up witnessing that caring meant pain.

  Never love a Sicilian man had been the last words her mother had flung at her eight-year-old daughter before she’d walked out of the door for ever.

  Afraid of her own feelings, Fia turned her back and finished chopping garlic, but they were the ragged, uneven cuts of an amateur, not a professional.

  ‘It’s dangerous to handle a knife when your hands are shaking.’ Suddenly he was right behind her, too close for comfort, and she felt her pulse sprint because even though he wasn’t touching her she could feel the warmth of him, the power of him and feel her answering response. It was immediate and visceral and she almost screamed with frustration because it made no sense. It was like salivating over a food that she knew would make her ill.

  ‘I’m not shaking.’

  ‘No?’ A strong, bronzed hand covered hers and immediately she was back in the darkness of that night, his mouth burning against hers, his skilled fingers showing her no mercy as he drove her wild. ‘Do you think about it?’

  She didn’t need to ask what he meant.

  Did she think about it? Oh, God, he had no idea. She’d tried everything, everything, to wipe the memory of that night from her mind but it was always with her. A sensual scar that was never going to heal. ‘Take your hand off mine right now.’

  His hand tightened, the strength in those fingers holding hers still. ‘You finish serving food at ten. We’ll talk after that.’

  It was a command not an invitation and the sure confidence with which he issued that command licked at the flames of her anger. ‘My work doesn’t finish when the restaurant closes. I have hours of work and when that is done I go to bed.’

  ‘With that puppy-eyed boy who works for you? Playing it safe now, Fia?’

  She was so shocked by the question that she turned her head to look at him and the movement brought her physically closer. The light brush of her skin against the hardness of his thigh triggered a frightening response. It was as if her body knew. ‘Who I invite into my bed is none of your business.’

  Their eyes met briefly as they acknowledged privately what they’d never acknowledged publicly.

  She watched, transfixed, as his gaze turned black.

  A long dormant feeling slowly uncurled itself inside her, a response she didn’t want to feel for this man.

  What might have happened next she’d never know because Gina walked in and when Fia saw who she was carrying she wanted to shout out a warning. She wanted to tell the other girl to run and not look back. But it was too late. Her luck had run out. It was over. It was over because Santo was already turning to locate the source of the interruption, an irritated frown scoring the bronzed planes of his handsome face.

  ‘He had a bad dream—’ Gina cooed, stroking the sobbing toddler. ‘I said I’d bring him to his mamma as you’ve finished cooking for the night.’

  Fia stood, powerless to do anything except allow events to unfold.

  Had circumstances been different she would have been pleased to see a Ferrara shocked out of his customary cool. As it was the stakes were so high she watched with the breath trapped in her lungs, reluctant witness to his rapidly changing emotions.

  His initial irritation at the disturbance gave way to puzzlement as he looked at the miserable, hiccuping child now stretching out his little arms to Fia.

  And she took him, of course, because his welfare mattered to her above all other things.

  And two things happened.

  Her son stared curiously at the tall, dark stranger in the kitchen and stopped crying instantly.

  And the tall, dark stranger stared into black eyes almost identical to his own, and turned pale as death.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘CRISTO—’ His voice hoarse, Santo took a step backwards and crashed into some pans that had been neatly stacked ready to be put away. Startled by the sudden noise, the child flinched and hid his face in his mother’s neck. Aware that he was the cause of that sudden display of anxiety, Santo struggled for control. Only by the most ruthless application of willpower did he succeed in hauling back the searing anger that threatened to erupt.

  From the security of his mother’s arms, the child peeped at him in terror, instinctively hiding from danger and yet intrigued by it.

  And she would have been hiding, too, Santo thought grimly, if she had anywhere to hide. But she was right out in the open, all her secrets exposed.

  He didn’t even need to ask the obvious question.

  Even without that instant moment of recognition he would have seen it in the way she held herself. That raw, undiluted anxiety was visible to the naked eye.

  He’d come here to negotiate the purchase of the land. Not for one second had he anticipated this.

  From the moment he’d walked into the kitchen she’d been in a hurry to get rid of him, and now he understood why. He’d assumed their past history was to blame for her response. And of course it was. But not in the way he’d thought.

  There was a heaviness in his chest, as if his heart were being squeezed in a clenched fist.

  Confronted by a situation he hadn’t anticipated, he struggled with emotions that were new to him. Not just anger but a deep, primitive desire to protect.

  The weight in his chest bloomed and grew into something so huge and powerful he felt the force of it right through his body.

  I’m a father.

  But even as he thought it, he also thought, this is not how it was supposed to be.

  He’d always assumed that he would eventually fall in love, marry and then have children. He was a traditional guy, wasn’t he? He’d seen his brother’s joy and his sister’s joy and he’d arrogantly assumed that the same experience awaited him.

  He’d missed it all, he thought bitterly. The birth, first steps, first words—

  Tormented by those thoughts, Santo gave a low growl.

  The toddler’s eyes widened with alarm as he sensed the change in the atmosphere. Or perhaps it was just that he detected his mother’s panic. Either way, Santo knew enough about children to know that this one was about to dissolve into screams.

  With another huge effort of will, he forced himself to suppress his feelings. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done. ‘It is late for someone so young to be up.’ He injected his voice with the right amount of gentleness, focusing on the child rather than the mother. Even looking at the boy sent a searing pain through his chest. It was a p
hysical effort not to grab him, strap him into the seat of his Lamborghini and drive away with him. ‘You must be very tired, chicco. You should be in bed.’

  Fia stiffened, clearly taking that as criticism. ‘He has bad dreams sometimes.’

  The news that his son suffered from bad dreams did nothing to improve Santo’s black, dangerous mood. What, he wondered darkly, had caused those dreams? Reminded of just how dysfunctional this family was, anger turned to cold dread.

  ‘Gina—is it Gina?’ He glanced at the pretty waitress and somehow managed to deliver the smile that had never failed him yet and it didn’t fail him now as the girl beamed at him, visibly overwhelmed by his status.

  ‘Signor Ferrara—’

  ‘I really need to speak to Fia in private—’

  ‘No!’ Fia’s voice bordered on desperate. ‘Not now. Can’t you see that this is a really bad time?’

  ‘Oh, it’s fine,’ Gina gushed helpfully, blushing under Santo’s warm, approving gaze. ‘I can take him. I’m his nanny.’

  ‘Nanny?’ The word stuck in Santo’s throat. No one in his family had ever employed outside help to care for their children. ‘You look after him?’ He didn’t trust himself to use the words ‘my son’. Not yet.

  ‘It’s a team approach,’ Gina said cheerfully. ‘We’re like meerkats. We all look after the young. Only in this case there is only one young so he’s horribly spoiled. I look after him when Fia is working, but I knew she’d finished cooking tonight so I thought I’d bring him for a cuddle. Now he’s calmed down he’s going to be just fine. He’ll go straight off again the moment I put him in his bed. Come to Auntie Gina—’ Cooing at the sleepy child, she drew him out of Fia’s reluctant arms and snuggled him close.

  ‘We still have customers—’

  ‘They’re virtually all finished,’ Gina said helpfully. ‘Just waiting for table two to pay the bill. Ben has it all under control. You have your chat, Boss.’ Apparently oblivious to the tension crackling around them, Gina cast a final awestruck glance at Santo and melted from the room.

  Silence reigned.