Married for His One-Night Heir

by Jennifer Hayward

  The lump in her throat grew to the size of Manhattan. Santo’s gaze darkened as he read the emotion on her face. “You do, however,” he murmured, tracing a thumb along the edge of her jaw, “have to get up. We have things to do.”

  She frowned. Snagged the coffee from the dresser. “It’s Saturday,” she said, taking a sip. “What do we have to do?”

  “We’re going house shopping. My agent gave me a call this morning. There’s a property in Southampton that just came on the market. Ocean front. Amazing views. It won’t last the day.”

  Southampton. It was one of her favorite places on earth, with its ethereal views and windswept beaches. Heaven. To buy a house there was her dream.

  “Ocean,” Leo echoed happily. “We need shovels.”

  * * *

  Southampton, situated on the south-eastern end of Long Island’s South Fork, had been home to famous family dynasties for over a decade. Its rugged beauty had attracted some of the great industry titans, New York’s most influential financiers, as well as a who’s who of the Manhattan social circuit. Alight with glamour in the height of the summer, the village was buzzing with flashy cars and designer outfits.

  The house the agent showed them lived up to its billing. Located just a short walk from the village’s trendy Main Street, with its high-end galleries, restaurants and shops, it sat at the end of a wide, tree-lined street, directly on the beach. A magnificent, traditional colonial-style Hamptons home, it had five bedrooms and a wraparound porch that offered up the most spectacular sunset views.

  Gia adored its rugged ocean ambience, high-vaulted ceilings and massive fireplaces. It felt like a home even though it was clearly a showpiece, and it gave her a taste of the serenity she’d had in the Bahamas. Santo loved the beautifully manicured tennis courts, the expansive bluestone patios and the waterside gunite pool. Leo, as predicted, tripped over himself gushing excitedly about the ocean and the boats.

  “You love it,” Santo observed, as they stood side by side on the terrace drinking in the view while the real estate agent showed Leo the beach.

  “You love it,” she countered. “You are drooling over those tennis courts.”

  “And the running trail along the water. It would be incredible in the morning. You would enjoy the view while I annihilate you.”

  The thought of running here in the morning with him, like they’d used to, exchanging the confidences they’d had, squeezed something tight in her chest. “You mean while I annihilate you.”

  “As I recall,” he murmured, “you only did that once. And it was because I had a leg cramp.”

  Which was true. She hated that. But she did love the house.

  They bought it, on the spot. Leo, thoroughly overexcited by the whole adventure, was drooping by the time they walked through the door that evening, having missed his afternoon nap. Santo carried him upstairs to his bedroom and set him down on the bed to change him into his pajamas, while Gia went on a search of his blue blanket.

  “Want my bed,” Leo pronounced as he lifted his arms for Santo to slide off his T-shirt.

  “You are almost there,” said Santo, slipping off the T-shirt. “Supaheroes need their suit, you know.”

  Leo’s bottom lip quavered. “Want my bed.”

  Gia paused in her search for the blanket. She’d known this was coming—the moment when her son’s new reality began to sink in. When he began to realize the big adventure was a permanent thing. When he started to miss everything that was familiar to him. But the desolate look on his face made her heart plummet to the floor.

  “We live here now,” Santo said gently. “Remember that blue room you saw today? It’s going to be yours. We’ll make it into a supahero hideout.”

  Leo shook his head. “Want my room. Friends. Want to go home.”

  Santo tried to comfort his son, but Leo was too overtired and too overwhelmed to see straight. A tear slid down his cheek, and he kicked his hands and feet, refusing to let Santo slide on his pajama bottoms. Gia scooped the blanket off the floor and moved swiftly to intercept, but it was too late. In the blink of an eye, her son descended into a full-scale meltdown, pummeling his fists against Santo’s chest and demanding to go home.

  She took Leo from her shell-shocked husband. Leo clutched his blanket, his sobs of “Mamma” dampening the fabric of her T-shirt. She sat down and pressed him to her chest, holding him tight.

  “Leave him with me,” she murmured to Santo. “It’s been a big day.”

  * * *

  Santo made himself an espresso in the kitchen, intent on returning a couple of urgent emails. The deadlines were piling up with the massive launch he had in front of him, so Saturday was no obstacle to the work that had to get done. But he was so thoroughly shaken by his son’s temper tantrum, by the transformation of his earlier, sunny demeanor into the frightened, miserable boy upstairs, by his inability to comfort him, he was utterly distracted.

  It sent him back to the day his own world had been pulled from beneath his feet. He’d been thirteen. His father barely compos mentis in the wake of the collapse of his life, his mother gone in its dissolute aftermath. He’d spent the next week wondering which bike to take with him to the tiny apartment they’d rented above the hardware store where Nico had gotten a job, while attempting to process the fact that his mother was gone for good this time.

  Walking into that dingy apartment for the first time had shocked him. Unnerved him. Everything had felt foreign to him—the neighborhood, with its gritty, boarded-up feel, the cramped, two-bedroom space he and his family had crammed themselves into. There’d be no defense against his father’s first bender in their new, so-called home that night. The buffer of his mother’s protection, her only nod to a maternal instinct, was gone for good. His new reality a shock to the system.

  He’d had a massive temper tantrum that first night, unable to cope with all the changes. At having to share a bedroom with Lazzero. At becoming a part-time caregiver to his father, an experience he’d found terrifying with the shell of a man his father had become. At the train he would now have to take to school. Before Nico had put a halt to it with a grim command to “suck it up” because they were going to make this work.

  And maybe, he recalled, his insides shifting, that was what had frightened him the most. How his eldest brother, strong, stoic Nico, had looked as lost and displaced as he had.

  His brothers had been consumed by their own internal battles. The bonds between them back then had been all about survival. The difference for Leo, he determined, drawing in a deep breath, was that his son would never grow up in an emotional vacuum. He would have all of the love and support Santo had never had. The rock-solid stability of his world going forward.

  He leaned back in his chair, coffee cup in hand, eyes on the skyline spread out in front of his office window. He’d been so focused on doing what he thought was right, what he thought was best for his son, he hadn’t fully considered the impact it would have on him. But clearly, he conceded, the knot inside of him twisting tighter, he should have considered it. Because hadn’t he done to Leo exactly what had been done to him? Pulled his world out from beneath his feet? Stripped him of everything that was familiar to him?

  Except Gia. His head went back to how trustingly his son had curled into her. She was his world. The constant in his life. She made all the difference.

  What he needed to do, he concluded, was stay the course. Keep the promises he’d made.

  Gia padded into his office a short while later and perched herself on the corner of his desk. He looked up from the report he’d been studying. “How is he?”

  “He’s asleep.” Her mouth softened. “The last couple of weeks have been a lot for his little brain to absorb. He has one of those meltdowns every once in a blue moon.”

  Santo’s stomach coiled. He never wanted to see his son like that again. Ever.

  “He�
�s fine,” she murmured, lifting a hand to brush against his cheek. “What,” she queried, a wry note in her voice, “is going on in that head of yours? You’re in another world.”

  He pushed aside the complex ball of emotion winding his insides tight. Moved his gaze over her in an effort to distract, finding himself more than occupied by the white cotton T-shirt she had on with cherry-red shorts that barely skimmed her thighs.

  She flushed under the heat of his gaze. “I wasn’t talking about that.”

  “I am.” He pulled her onto his lap with a tug of his fingers around the slim curve of her wrist. He acknowledged why no other woman had ever been enough for him as he absorbed the flare of fire in her beautiful eyes, the voluptuous perfection of her body that fit so easily in his arms. Because none of them had ever been her.

  Rather than consider that discomforting thought, he slid his fingers up to her nape and brought her mouth down to his for a kiss that soothed the ache inside of him.

  * * *

  Gia spent the next couple of weeks taking care of the details on the Southampton house, working on a design for the breezy, contemporary great room she’d envisioned. It kept her busy while Santo worked like a mad man getting ready for his big launch, gone by six every morning, home just in time to have dinner with them and put Leo to bed.

  Which meant the only real time she had with him were the nights. Stomach-clenchingly hot affairs in which they couldn’t seem to get enough of each other. As if once unleashed, their hunger was unquenchable. Which wasn’t helping with her vow to keep her feelings for him on an even keel.

  He might have said he’d thought they’d been worth it, but that had been then and this was now. Even if he did learn to forgive her for what she’d done, she would be a fool to think he’d ever let himself feel the way he once had about her.

  Distraction seemed preferable. Particularly when the Met Young Patrons party lay ahead. It was one of the city’s most prestigious events, thrown every summer to fund its annual initiatives, and would mark her debut as Santo’s wife. Her reintroduction to Manhattan society. It was like being thrown to the wolves all over again. But since Chloe, one of the museum’s largest donors in her role as chairwoman of Evolution, was patroness of the event, skipping it was not a possibility.

  It wasn’t until the afternoon of the party that she discovered her dress for the event had somehow acquired a stain on the front of it. Clearly, her efforts at distraction had been a little too successful.

  She hadn’t done any socializing in Nassau. Her wardrobe was limited. And since she couldn’t just pull something out of her closet in the hopes that it would work, Chiara, thank goodness, came to the rescue. Not only did she have impeccable, trendy fashion sense, but she also had a curvy figure just like Gia’s.

  With Leo safely installed with Chloe’s nanny, Anna, for a sleepover with his cousin Jack, she and Chiara went to a tiny boutique owned by a friend of Chiara’s on West Broadway. Her sister-in-law made it clear she didn’t need to pick one of her own designs, but Gia immediately fell in love with a sultry, bohemian number from her collection. A rich shade of cream, its twisted neckline was done in a halter style, her favorite, with the front plunging to a wrap waist.

  Dress in hand, she set off for the quirky, luxe fitting rooms to try it on. She presented herself for Chiara’s inspection, taking in her reflection in the large horizontal mirrors in the lounge. “Is it too much?”

  Chiara inspected her from top to bottom, a slow smile curving her lips. “It’s just enough. The color is amazing with your skin.”

  “But this,” Gia said, gesturing to the expanse of skin the keyhole effect bared, including the tiniest hint of the swell of her breasts. “I can’t wear anything underneath it.”

  “That would be the point.” Chiara’s dark eyes sparkled. “It’s sexy without being overt. Perfect. Santo will be picking his jaw up off the ground. Trust me.”

  She did trust Chiara. Although she wasn’t at all sure what she wanted Santo’s reaction to be anymore. Her head was too muddled. So she bought the dress instead.

  Now, if she could only get rid of her raging nerves about the night ahead.

  * * *

  The Met Young Patrons party was hosted at The Cloisters, one of New York’s hidden gems. The replica medieval monastery in Upper Manhattan, which housed the museum’s superb collection of medieval art and architecture, was spectacular, harkening back to a different age.

  Built in the 1930s by the American oil magnate John D. Rockefeller, to showcase the large collection of medieval art he’d recently acquired, then gifted to the Met, the Cloisters sat in a picturesque setting overlooking the Hudson River. All of the guests agreed it was worth the forty-minute trip from the center of the city as they made their way up the red carpet to the top of the steps, greeted by waiters carrying trays of champagne.

  The main hall, where the cocktail hour was being held, was bathed in purple and pink light projections that cast the ancient artwork and stained glass windows in a luminous glow. For Gia, the dark atmosphere fit the tone of the night. Everyone who was anyone in Manhattan was in attendance tonight.

  Some of the faces were familiar, some had changed. What hadn’t evolved was Manhattan’s predilection for gossip—the eternal, inexorable fuel it operated on. Santo was too high-profile a personality for there not to be talk about his sudden change in marital status. Which, of course, unearthed the subject of who she was and all the salacious gossip that surrounded her father.

  It was the evening’s tasty tidbit. She could see it in the sideways looks thrown her way. Hear it in the sly questions disguised as social niceties. She would have had to have been deaf, dumb and blind not to notice it. The difference from every other occasion in which she’d endured such speculation was that tonight, she had Santo by her side.

  Lethally attractive in a silver-grey suit and a dark blue shirt, he curled his fingers around hers, his hawklike gaze never leaving her as they made the rounds of the affluent crowd. Which was helpful as they came face-to-face with a particularly notorious clique of women she’d known from school.

  The three organizers of the evening had frozen her out in the past and they did so again tonight. A knot formed in her stomach as they fawned all over Chloe and Chiara, inviting them to join the committee they were chairing for the Central Park Conservatory, while ignoring her completely.

  Her smile faltered, her carefully constructed exterior giving way beneath one too many knocks. Santo closed his fingers tighter around hers and murmured in her ear, “Tougher and stronger, remember?”

  The low prompt took her back to another place and time. To the afternoon she’d found out that her father had strong-armed her coach into giving her a position on the track team at school. But she hadn’t known that part.

  It had been the best day of her life as she’d walked off the field confident in her win, cheeks flushed with victory, only to overhear two of the other girls talking about her father in the tunnel on the way to the locker rooms. How unfair it was.

  She’d turned and walked in the opposite direction, tears burning her eyes. She’d thought she’d earned it. That, for once in her life, she hadn’t been defined by who she was—she’d been judged by her performance on the field instead. Which had once again turned out to be an illusion, like everything else.

  Santo, on the field for his football practice, had taken one look at her face and walked away from his scrimmage, which had nearly gotten him booted off the team. But instead of giving her the sympathy she’d expected, he’d shaken his head instead and told her that quitting wasn’t an option. That she needed to be “tougher, stronger than all the rest. Prove herself better,” because that was the only thing that would put the naysayers to rest.

  So she had. She’d turned the other cheek. Trained harder, longer than all the rest. And recorded the fastest time for a female runner that year in the city champions
hips.

  She pushed her shoulders back as they moved on through the crowd. Lifted her chin. He was right. She was better than this. Stronger than this. She would not let them get to her.

  Chiara, resplendent in a midnight blue beaded dress of her own creation and Chloe, elegant in white, ankle-length Roberto Cavalli, soon stole her away for a gossip as they enjoyed the atmospheric artwork. Gradually, enveloped by the warmth of the other two women, her stomach began to unfurl. She’d never had allies. Friends. Women who would look out for her, other than Delilah. A family who would protect her. And now she clearly did.

  * * *

  Santo leaned a hip against the bar, keeping one eye on Gia while he caught up with Lazzero after his brother’s trip to Europe. The most beautiful women in New York were in the room tonight, but none of them made his pulse accelerate like his wife did in the knee-length cream dress that plunged nearly to the waist. She had the most jaw-dropping legs he’d ever seen. Followed by every other part of her anatomy that had held him spellbound for weeks, with no sign of that particular affliction waning.

  She had handled all the gossip tonight with a quiet dignity he was coming to expect from her. With that iron spine she’d acquired. She might be thrown, but she was holding her own. Glittering like the brightest jewel in the night. It was a sexy, empowering transformation he couldn’t take his eyes off.

  “Everything okay in paradise?”

  He transferred his gaze to his brother. Ignored his mocking gibe just as he’d avoided every other conversation about his wife over the last couple of weeks, because then it would devolve into a debate about Stefano Castiglione and how he continued to dominate the headlines. Which was already enough of a distraction, quite frankly.

  “Actually,” he drawled, “it’s perfect. Thanks for asking.”

  His personal life was exactly where he wanted it to be. He had a beautiful wife, an amazing sex life and a confident, happy son who made him smile at the end of every day. As close to perfection as it came.