by Penny Jordan
Later, as long shadows crept across the garden and their voices were drowsy with content, James reached for her again. This time there was tenderness and sensitivity in the drift of his hands over her body; as though both knew and acknowledged that there would be many many times like this when they could give and take pleasure from one another. Tara, revelling in her freedom to touch and draw from him a response he no longer made any attempt to hide, marvelled that she had not seen before that it was more than simply a desire to humiliate her that had driven him to touch her, but she had been held fast in her own despair.
‘The twins,’ she murmured drowsily, as his fingers cupped her breast, stroking the pale flesh. ‘What are we going to tell them?’
James bent his head to place sensuously warm lips against the swelling flesh before answering.
‘The truth—when they’re old enough to understand,’ he said firmly, ‘For now let it simply be enough for them that we’re going to be married. It’s my opinion that fatherhood is something that has to be earned. They like me, and I think will accept me in their lives. It’s the man who shows his Jove by being there during their childhood who merits the term father, not the one who gives them life!’
Tara knew he was right. Mandy would be ecstatic to have James as her father, and so would Simon in his quieter way, and as James had said, there was time enough to tell them the truth when they were old enough to accept it. She looked down at the dark head pillowed against her breast, and love stirred inside her, her fingertips moved sensitively over a bronzed shoulder, pleasure curling through her as she felt James’s warm breath against her skin.
‘Love me?’
James raised his head and smiled teasingly, ‘Is that a question or an invitation? Either way the answer is yes. Do you love me?’
Happiness flowed through her veins like wine, making her lightheaded. ‘More than words can say,’ she told him. ‘Shall I show you?’
His answer was in the kiss they shared, the rising need she felt in his body, the urgency of his hands as they caressed her willing flesh. She remembered how she had fantasised about making love with him on the beach such a short time ago, believing the reality impossible. She grinned inwardly. Not tomorrow but perhaps tomorrow night she might suggest a walk along that moon-drenched sand.
‘Why are you smiling?’ James demanded against her lips.
‘Because I’m so happy,’ she told him simply, and responded joyously to his murmured, ‘Show me.’
* * * * *
She resisted him once…
But this billionaire is playing to win!
A luxury villa on Capri will be the latest jewel in playboy Leonardo Fabrizzi’s crown—until he discovers Veronica Hanson stands to inherit it. She’s the only woman to ever resist his charms, but he’s determined to tempt her into sensual surrender! He seduces her cleverly and slowly, and their explosive chemistry is spectacular. But so are the consequences when Veronica reveals she’s pregnant!
Enjoy this entertaining story of pregnancy and passion!
The Italian’s Unexpected Love-Child
Miranda Lee
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
LAURENCE SHOOK HIS head as he read the investigator’s report for the second time. Frustration consumed him, along with dismay. He’d assumed his daughter would be married by now. Married with children. She was twenty-eight, after all. Twenty-eight and beautiful. Very beautiful.
His eyes moved over to the photo attached to the report, his heart filling with pride when he saw that his genes had produced a truly gorgeous creature. Gorgeous, but childless.
Such a waste!
Sighing, he returned to re-read the report.
Veronica had been engaged three years earlier to a doctor she’d met at the children’s hospital she worked in. She was a physiotherapist and her fiancé an orthopaedic surgeon. Tragically, he’d been killed in a motorcycle accident two weeks before their wedding. After that, there was no evidence of her ever dating anyone again. She didn’t even seem to have many friends. She’d become a loner, still living with her mother and not doing much of anything besides work, which she did from home now, rather than in hospitals.
Laurence understood grief. He’d been devastated when his wife of forty years had died several years ago, not of the cancer—which they’d both expected would take her, given she’d carried a dangerous cancer gene—but of a stroke. He’d retreated into himself after that, retiring permanently to the holiday home they’d bought together on the Isle of Capri, never looking at another woman, never wanting to move on, as the saying went. But he’d been seventy-two at the time of her death, not in his twenties. His daughter was still young, for pity’s sake.
But she wouldn’t stay young for ever. Men could father children for a long time, but women had a biological clock ticking away in their bodies.
As a geneticist, Laurence knew all about human bodies and human genes. His in-depth knowledge on the subject was the reason behind his having donated his sperm to Veronica’s mother in the first place. His gesture had been inspired more by hubris than caring, however. Male ego. He hadn’t wanted to go to his grave without passing on his oh-so-brilliant genes.
Laurence shook his head from side to side, remorse filling his soul, as well as guilt. He should have contacted his daughter after Ruth died. Then he would have been there for her when her fiancé had been killed.
But it was too late now, he accepted wretchedly.
He was dying himself—ironically, of cancer. Liver cancer. Too late to do anything, really. His prognosis was not good. Advanced liver cancer was not very forgiving, though he only had himself to blame. After Ruth had died, he’d drunk far too much for far too long.
‘I did knock,’ a male voice intruded. ‘But you didn’t answer.’
Laurence looked up and smiled.
‘Leonardo! How lovely to see you. What brings you home so soon after your last visit?’
‘It’s Papa’s seventy-fifth birthday tomorrow,’ Leonardo said as he walked along the terrace and sat down in the afternoon sunshine, sighing appreciatively as he gazed out at the sparkling blue Mediterranean. ‘Dio, Laurence. What a lucky man you are to have a view like this.’
Laurence glanced over at his visitor with admiring eyes. How well Leonardo looked. How handsome. And how full of life. Of course, Leonardo was only thirty-two, and a man of many talents—not least of which was everything women would find both fascinating and irresistible.
This last thought evoked a deep thoughtfulness.
‘Mamma said she invited you to the party but you declined. It seems you have to go back to England tomorrow to see your doctor.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Laurence agreed as he folded the report carefully so that Leonardo couldn’t see it. ‘My liver’s playing up.’
‘You do look a little jaundiced. Is it serious?’
&
nbsp; Laurence shrugged. ‘At my age, everything is serious. So, have you to come to play chess and listen to some decent music, or to try to buy my home again?’
Leonardo laughed. ‘Can I do all three?’
‘You can try. But my answer to selling this place will be no, as usual. When I’m dead and gone you can buy it.’
Leonardo looked startled, then uncharacteristically sombre. ‘I hope that won’t be for some years yet, my friend.’
‘That’s kind of you to say so. Now, do you want me to open a bottle of wine or not?’ he asked as he rose from his chair, carrying the report with him.
‘Are you sure that’s wise, under the circumstances?’
Laurence’s smile was wry. ‘I don’t think a glass or two is going to make much difference at this stage.’
CHAPTER ONE
VERONICA SMILED AS she accompanied her last client of the day to the front door. Duncan was eighty-four, and a darling, despite suffering terribly from sciatica. But he wasn’t a complainer, which Veronica admired.
‘Same time next week, Duncan?’
‘Can’t, love. Wish I could. You keep me going, you really do. But it’s my granddaughter’s twenty-first next week and I’m flying up to Brisbane for her party. Thought I might stay a week or two at my son’s place while I’m there. Be warmer, for starters. This last winter in Sydney has got right into my bones. I’ll give you a call when I get back.’
‘Okay. Now, you have a good time, Duncan.’
She watched Duncan shuffle his way down Glebe Point Road in the direction of the small terraced house where he lived. Most of her clients were locals, elderly people with lots of aches and pains, though she did treat a smattering of students from nearby Sydney University. Young men, mostly, who played rugby and soccer and came to her for help with their various injuries.
Frankly, she preferred dealing with her older male clients. They didn’t try to hit on her.
Not that she couldn’t handle the occasional pass. Veronica had been handling male passes since she’d reached puberty, the natural consequence of having been born good-looking. No point in pretending she wasn’t. She’d been very blessed in the looks department, with a pretty face, dark, wavy hair, good skin and large violet eyes.
Jerome had called her a natural beauty.
Jerome…
Veronica closed her eyes for a few seconds as she tried to wipe all thought of that man from her mind. But it was impossible. Jerome’s sudden death had been hard enough to handle, but it was what she’d learned after his death that had truly shattered her.
She still could not believe that he’d been so…so wicked.
Naive of her, she supposed, given what her mother had suffered at the hands of the man she’d married. Still, as she’d grown up, Veronica had never bought into her mother’s cynicism towards the opposite sex. She’d always liked men. Liked and admired them. Yes, she’d grown up understanding that some men were players. But she’d always steered well clear of those. When a couple of her boyfriends had proved to be a bit loose on the moral side, neither of them had lasted long.
Veronica wasn’t a prude. But she couldn’t abide men who flouted society’s rules just for the hell of it—who were disrespectful, insensitive or downright reckless. Her perfect man—the one she’d always envisaged marrying—would be none of those things. He’d be successful, and preferably handsome. But most importantly he would be decent and dependable. After all, he wasn’t going to be just her husband. He was going to be the father of her children. At least four children, she’d always pictured. No single-child family for her.
When Jerome had come along, she’d thought he was perfect husband-and-father material.
But Jerome had not been perfect at all. Far from it.
Veronica gritted her teeth as she walked down the hallway towards the kitchen. She supposed she still had her work. Her personal life might be a non-event, with her dreams of a happy family shattered and her trust in relationships totally destroyed, but her professional life was still there. There was a lot of satisfaction in easing other people’s pain.
Veronica was just filling the kettle with water when her mobile rang.
Probably someone wanting to make an appointment, she thought as she pulled her phone out of her pocket. She didn’t get many personal calls these days.
‘Yes?’ she answered a little more abruptly than usual. Thinking about Jerome had left a residue of simmering anger.
‘Is that Miss Veronica Hanson?’ a male voice asked; a rich male voice with a slight accent. Possibly Italian.
‘Yes, speaking,’ she confirmed.
‘My name is Leonardo Fabrizzi,’ he said, at which point Veronica almost dropped her phone. Her fingers clutched it more tightly as she tried to get her head around who was on the other end of the line.
Because surely there couldn’t be too many Italians called Leonardo Fabrizzi in this world?
It had to be him. Though perhaps not. The world was full of coincidences.
‘Leonardo Fabrizzi, the famous skier?’ she blurted out before she could think better of it.
There was dead silence for a few tense seconds.
‘You know me?’ he said at last.
‘No, no,’ she denied quickly, because of course she didn’t know him. Though, she’d met him. Once. Several years ago, at an après ski party in Switzerland. They hadn’t been properly introduced, so of course he would not recognise her name. But he’d been very famous at the time, a world-champion downhill racer with a reputation for recklessness, both on the slopes and off. His playboy status was well deserved, she’d learned that night, shuddering at how close she’d come to becoming just another of his passing conquests.
‘I… I’ve heard of you,’ she hedged, her voice still a little shaky. ‘You’re famous in the ski world and I like skiing.’
More than liked. She’d been obsessed with the sport for a long time, having been introduced to it as a teenager by a classmate’s family. They’d been very wealthy and had taken her along on their skiing holidays as company for their very spoilt but not very popular daughter.
‘I am no longer a famous skier,’ he told her brusquely. ‘I retired from that world some time ago. I am just a businessman now.’
‘I see,’ she said, not having skied herself since Jerome had died. Her interest in the sport—and most other things—had died along with the man she’d been going to marry.
‘So how may I help you, Mr Fabrizzi?’ It suddenly occurred to her that maybe he’d come here to Australia on business and was in urgent need of treatment after a long flight. He might have looked up Sydney physiotherapists online and come up with her website.
‘I am sorry,’ he said in sombre tones, ‘But I have some sad news to tell you.’
‘Sad news?’ she echoed, startled and puzzled. ‘What kind of sad news?’
‘Laurence has died,’ he told her.
‘Laurence? Laurence who?’ She knew no one called Laurence.
‘Laurence Hargraves.’
Veronica was none the wiser. ‘I’m sorry, but that name means nothing to me.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive.’
‘That is strange, because your name meant something to him. You’re one of the beneficiaries in his will.’
‘What?’
‘Laurence left you something in his will. A villa, actually, on the Isle of Capri.’
‘What? Oh, that’s ridiculous! Is this some kind of cruel joke?’
‘I assure you, Miss Hanson, this is no joke. I am the executor of Laurence’s will, and have a copy of it right in front of me. If you are the Miss Veronica Hanson who lives in Glebe Point Road, Sydney, Australia, then you are now the proud owner of a very beautiful villa on Capri.’
‘Goodness! This is incredible.’
‘I agree,’ he said, w
ith a somewhat rueful note in his voice. ‘I was a close friend of Laurence and he never mentioned you. Could he have been a long-lost relative of some kind? A great-uncle or a cousin, perhaps?’
‘I suppose so. But I doubt it,’ she added. Her mother was an only child and her father—even if he knew of her existence—certainly wouldn’t have an English name like Hargraves in his family. He’d been an impoverished university student from Latvia who had sold his sperm for money and wasn’t even on her birth certificate, which said ‘father unknown’. ‘I’ll have to ask my mother. She might know.’
‘It is very puzzling, I admit,’ the Italian said. ‘Maybe Laurence was a patient of yours in the past, or a relative of a patient. Have you ever worked in England? Laurence used to live in England before he retired to Capri.’
‘No, I haven’t. Never.’ She had, however, been to the Isle of Capri. For a day. As a tourist. Many years ago. She recalled looking up at the hundreds of huge villas dotted over the hillsides and thinking you would have to be very rich to live in one of them.
Veronica wondered if Leonardo Fabrizzi was still rich. And still a playboy.
Not that I care, shot back the tart thought.
‘It is a mystery, all right,’ the man himself said. ‘But it doesn’t change the fact that you can take possession of this property once the appropriate papers are signed and the taxes paid.’
‘Taxes?’
‘Inheritance taxes. I have to tell you that, on a property of this considerable value, the taxes will not come cheap. Since you are not a relative, they stand at eight percent of the current market value.’
‘Which is what, exactly?’
‘Laurence’s villa should sell for somewhere between three-and-a-half and four million euros.’
‘Heavens!’ Veronica had a substantial amount of money in her savings account—she spent next to nothing these days—but she didn’t have eight percent of four million euros.
‘If that is a problem, then I could lend you the money. You could repay me when you sell.’