But he was right behind her, his hands catching her just as she was about to reach for the handle. He laced his fingers through hers and pulled her, jerking her into his chest.
“That,” he growled, “will happen whenever I say so. You know why? You want me. You need me, like you need air. Even now, so angry, you need me.” And he kissed her again, this time, a bitter kiss of heated passion that broke her and fixed her all at the same time.
He was right.
She groaned into his mouth and his hands found the hem of her dress, lifting it up and bunching it around her hips so that he could lift her and wrap her legs around his waist, pressing her back against the door.
“This is how it’s always been for us,” he said, pulling her lower lip between his teeth and using his hand to free his pants once more. He pushed inside of her and she cried at the rightness of it, the need, and she cried because wild horses wouldn’t let this stop.
“I hate you,” she said thickly, and she did in that moment.
“It’s mutual, believe me,” he returned. She hadn’t been expecting it. She froze, the passion in her veins momentarily stilled by the foul, vile words. She had just delivered them to him without apology and yet having them volleyed back was excruciating.
“But I want you like I’ve never wanted another soul.” He pushed into her hard and fast and she was lost again, her ankles crossed behind his back, her lips seeking his. There was nothing gentle in the way they kissed. It was as though each was looking to possess the other. To own, punish, enslave.
Is that what they were? Both slaves to this?
Two years had passed and yet the same whirlwind of need that had consumed them was back.
Grace cried as her orgasm mounted and she knew she should say something, anything, to explain her actions. But she didn’t. She simply rode the wave with him, her body feverish, her mind weak.
They exploded simultaneously, their bodies wracked by the same urgent pleasure, their needs satiated but in a way that would be brief and temporary.
“I will have you when I want you,” he said darkly. “I am not letting you walk away from me again.”
The words were strangely discordant in the midst of what they’d just said and done, and Grace wanted him to explain. He almost made it sound as though he hadn’t wanted her to leave, and she knew for a fact that wasn’t the case. He’d sent her packing in no uncertain terms.
Were you using me to expand your horizons, cara? Before going back to the man you love? Was that what you wanted me for? Well then, consider it done. Now get out of my house.
And he lifted a finger to her lips, tracing the outline before sliding it deep into her warm, moist mouth. Her eyes were wide; she stared at him and then she bit down on him, just hard enough to show her anger.
His laugh rumbled over her but he eased her down to her feet and then handed her the pale pink underpants she’d been wearing earlier. She hadn’t even realized he’d picked them up. She was too embarrassed to slip them on in front of him. She just needed to get away from him.
“Sign the contracts,” he said softly, his head jerking towards the table.
Indecision tore at her. She wanted to sell Steve’s company. Not just to sell it to anyone, but to sell it to someone who would see it go from strength to strength. She had every confidence Marco Dettori would do just that.
But the complications that followed were impossible to accept. Her need for him; his for her. Ben! Ben was by far the biggest risk factor in all of this.
She had to step away from Marco now and never seen him again.
“I’m sorry,” she said with a shake of her head. “I can’t sell you Steven’s company.”
His eyes narrowed but she didn’t wait to see anymore of his response. She turned and fled, wishing it were so easy to run from the past.
* * *
Marco stared at the house with a growing sense of anger. When he’d imagined her back here in America, he hadn’t imagined this. A mansion in Winnetka, on the outskirts of Chicago, surrounded by other enormous homes and well-kept gardens.
No, he’d envisioned her in a penthouse in the urban heart, miserable because she loved flowers and trees and the feeling of sunshine on her skin. He’d imagined – hoped – her life here didn’t suit her.
Because she deserved that.
He hadn’t wanted to think she’d walked away from him and straight into everything she could ever want.
That her life was so picture-perfect, like a damned advertisement for elegant family living.
Though it wasn’t perfect, he reminded himself sharply as he stepped out of the Range Rover, contracts in hand. Her husband had died. He’d only met Steven Cox once yet the details of that conversation were etched in his mind.
It had been a week after Grace had called him. He’d been drunk that night. And so angry with her.
But when Steven had turned up at his office all American blond and tanned with those bright white teeth and green eyes, Marco had wanted to pulverize something. The emotion didn’t diminish when he realized Grace’s boyfriend was at least fifteen years her senior.
“I know about you and Grace,” Steve said. “And I don’t care. We’ve been together a long time; I can forgive her a single indiscretion.”
“An indiscretion?” Marco drawled, careful not to react visibly.
“Sure. It was a one off. And I love her. I’ve loved her since she was a teenager.”
Marco’s jaw clenched. “And you were what?” He couldn’t help asking, mentally calculating the other man’s age to be in his late thirties to Grace’s twenty-three.
“Completely besotted by her the minute we met,” Steve inserted silkily. “Which is why I’m here. We’re getting married. Trying for a baby, too. I didn’t want you to give Grace another moment’s thought. I know she won’t be thinking about you.”
Tension wound through Marco.
He couldn’t say when he’d decided to take over Steven’s company. Before the man’s death, certainly. But the discovery that Grace had inherited the successful property empire and was in charge of its operations had given him an even greater impetus.
He strode towards the front door, wilfully ignoring the signs that a happy child lived here. The tricycle tossed haphazardly on the front lawn, beneath the large American Elm that dwarfed the pale cream house with its slate grey tiles.
He went to press the doorbell just as it opened inwards and a pretty young woman with dark hair and darker eyes stood on the other side.
“Oh!” She startled and laughed good-naturedly. “Sorry. That’s good timing.” A frown tugged at her lips as her eyes scanned his face and then a sense of reserve seemed to overtake her easy affability. “Can I help you?”
He nodded. “Does Grace Williams live here?”
“Grace Cox?” The young woman queried. Marco stiffened; the use of her married name only firmed his resolve.
“Yes.”
Emma had worked as a nanny for Grace since Ben was a month old, and she’d never seen Grace anything but calm. Even when Steven had died and she’d been bereft and loaded with grief, she’d still been so dignified.
But when Grace had returned from the city that afternoon, she’d been uncharacteristically perturbed.
Emma would have put all the money she possessed on this man having something to do with that.
“Um, let me go and check,” she said thoughtfully and was about to do just that when a familiar little shape came barreling down the corridor towards her. She couldn’t help but smile as Ben, dressed in his fluffy grey pajamas, came running towards her, his grin gleeful.
“Oh, no you don’t, little opportunist,” she laughed, scooping him up and propping him on her hip. “No more bike today.” She turned to face Marco, her own amusement blinding her to his complete and utter shock. “He loves that darn trike. He’d be on it all day every day if he could.”
Their eyes were identical. Their hair, too. But beyond that, this little boy was the spit
ting image of Marco as a baby. Heat spread through him, then ice.
“How old is he?” The words came out as affably curious when his insides were shrieking, betrayal making his chest thick.
“This little guy? He’s fifteen months going on fifteen years,” she laughed. “Come and wait inside. It’s getting cold out now. Grace is here somewhere.”
And she padded down the hallway, as though everything was fine and normal.
But it wasn’t. Marco’s whole world was tipping off its axis, his mind was tripping, his body shifting as though the very reality of his being no longer existed.
“Grace?” Emma called from the bottom of the wide staircase. “Someone’s here for you.” Then, she spun back towards him and he had a split second to assume a look of unconcern. “I’m just going to get little master here settled for bed.”
“Fine,” Marco nodded firmly.
It wasn’t fine.
Time seemed to stand still; silence echoed around him and through him, like the eye of a storm that had the power to tear him to shreds.
There were photos on the wall. He was vaguely aware of them. A wedding shot – Grace beautiful in white, Steven just as he remembered. A baby photo of Ben. Was that his name? Was that what the woman had said?
Marco moved toward the picture, and the ache in his chest grew.
That was him alright. The baby was a carbon copy of Marco as he had once been.
He was still staring at the enormous photograph when Grace spoke a moment later. “Emma? Did you need me for something?”
He turned towards the voice, upstairs somewhere, and then Grace appeared. Something inside of him snapped. Something dark and angry.
She’d changed into a pair of leggings and an oversized sweater. Her face scrubbed of makeup and her blonde hair was loose around her face, tumbling over her shoulders.
Her eyes locked to his and he felt the surge of panic from her.
It only solidified his anger.
“She is putting our child to bed.”
Three
GRACE BLANCHED, REACHING out for the banister to steady her. Only two years of worry and uncertainty, guilt and doubts rolled around her, and looking at his face and feeling his pain was too much.
For the first time in her life, she began to faint. A proper, world-blackout, consciousness-losing faint. At the top of a sweeping set of timber steps, had Marco not reacted so swiftly, it could have been disastrous. But he saw the way all the blood drained from her face and instincts galvanized within him, pumping his legs before he was consciously aware of what was about to happen.
He took the steps three at a time, reaching Grace just as she began to slide to the floor. His arms wrapped around her, almost knocking him off balance, but then he steadied her and she was safe. It was the last thing she felt before she completely passed out.
A curse escaped him as he lifted her awkwardly, moving her away from the top of the stairs, deeper into the first floor of her house. He barely noticed the small signs of her that were everywhere. The bunches of old-fashioned roses that adorned the tables, the pictures of Steve, her, Ben. The sense that this was a family home.
Her family home.
He ground his jaw together as he lifted her properly, cradling her against his chest and moving further down the hallway. He stepped into the first bedroom he found, laying her down on the bed.
But she stirred as soon as he’d released her, enormous blue eyes awash with guilt as she met his gaze, and then quickly looked away again.
Grace was at a distinct disadvantage, lying on the bed. She scrambled into a seating position and then stood, gingerly, supporting herself on the edge of the bed when a rush of dizziness threatened to engulf her.
“What are you doing here?”
Marco arched a dark brow, his expression almost feral. “I came to apologise,” he said with disbelief. He swore again, a rich, loud noise that punctuated the stillness of the room.
Grace flinched as though he’d slapped her. She was shaking from head to toe and, at any other time, Marco would have pitied her. He would have done what he could to end her misery. But then he saw the little boy in his mind, the boy he hadn’t known existed until a moment ago, and anger flooded through him.
A patriarchal gene he hadn’t felt before began to strum in his soul.
And the fact she’d denied him a place in the little boy’s life was all he could focus on. How could she have done that? Fifteen months! His gut was squeezed with outrage and disgust; anger and despair.
“How dare you?” He demanded curtly, his expression leaving her in little doubt as to his feelings. “How dare you keep him from me?”
Tears moistened Grace’s eyes. “I tried to tell you…”
His laugh was completely devoid of humour. “When, Grace?”
“When I called you,” she said weakly.
His eyes flashed. That was worse than if she’d never tried at all. “Once! One time.” He lifted a finger into the air, emphasizing his point. “That is manifestly unsufficient.”
“You’d moved on,” she groaned. “And you were hardly father material. We were … we were a stupid fling, nothing more. I wasn’t going to upend my life just because I happened to fall pregnant.”
“That is my child!” He roared, so loudly the house seemed to shake and Grace made a sound of surprise. She lifted her hands to her lips and shook her head, but what for? What was she denying? Hadn’t she always felt it was wrong to keep the truth from him?
“That is my child,” he said again, quieter but with the same devastating intensity.
“I know that.” It was a sob. A sound of desolate acceptance. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” His eyes narrowed as he assimilated this new reality. “Do you think this makes it better? Do you think this makes up for the fifteen months I have missed?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, anguished and broken. “You live in Italy.”
“So geography is your excuse? You don’t think I would have come here for my child? Or that I wouldn’t have made it easy for you to join me? I would have moved heaven and earth to be that child’s father!” He shouted once more, the words slamming into her.
“And then what?” She asked bleakly. “I would have had the baby there, alone, miserable, and you would have continued your … lifestyle?”
“What lifestyle?” Marco demanded with disbelief.
“Oh, come on! You’re the ultimate bachelor. Was I supposed to move to Rome for you so you could spend a few hours a week with our son?” Grace tilted her chin and an answering degree of anger coursed through her now. “Biologically, you might be Ben’s dad but that doesn’t make you a parent. I know that better than anyone,” she snapped.
“Why? Why should you know this?”
“Because!” She thought of her childhood, marred by so many foster homes she’d lost count. “I know that being a parent is about being there. About wanting that child, regardless of who the mother or father is.”
“I would have been there,” he denied angrily. “And you can be damned sure I’m going to be there now.”
She jerked her head towards his, her mind spinning. “What?”
“That is my son!” He said angrily. “My son.”
Ice was flooding through her. “He’s not a toy. Not a possession. He’s a little boy and I’m his mom.”
“You don’t deserve to be,” Marco spat. “You were pregnant when he came to see me.”
“When who came to see you?” She asked, nothing in that moment making any sense.
“Your husband,” he snapped. “He told me you were getting married. That you and he were going to have a baby. But he meant my baby. My baby. That bastard.”
Grace’s eyes were huge, like plates in her face. She hadn’t known about that. Steven had gone to see Marco? They hadn’t discussed Marco once Grace had agreed to marry Steve. He’d simply told her that what had happened ‘in Rome’ didn’t change the fact he wanted to help her. As though ‘
in Rome’ was a byline to her life that could be neatly side-stepped.
Their marriage had been his answer. She would raise her child with him, and live with him, enjoy his security and partnership, his support. But even as she’d accepted his proposal, she’d been honest with him. She didn’t want a relationship. Not a romantic one.
The idea of another man touching her was anathema, as was lying to Steve. She cared for him too deeply to lead him on.
No. She’d been Marco’s ever since their first kiss. Two years of longing for him, needing him…
Was it any wonder she’d practically exploded at his touch?
“Did you really think I would let you get away with this? That I would never find out?”
Something like warning flooded her spine. “It wasn’t like that. I did you a favour, Marco. You like sex. That’s not the same thing as wanting to be a parent.”
“But I am a parent.”
“No, you’re not!” She shouted. “One night in bed doesn’t qualify you to raise a child…”
“Oh, but it does you?” He retaliated with disbelief. “And your husband?” He thought of the much older man, knowing it was wrong to feel such barbaric hatred for the deceased.
“Steven was a wonderful dad,” she interjected, the words drenched by regret.
Marco balled his hand into a fist and punched the wall to his right, breaking a hole through it. Grace stared at the damage and destruction, at his knuckles that were now red-raw and tears streamed down her cheeks.
“I would have been a wonderful dad,” he said, with such grave anger that her heart tripped. “You didn’t give me a chance.”
“I tried,” she said urgently. “I called you but you were angry. You hardly remembered me.”
“So what? This was my punishment? You believed I had forgotten about you and I therefore somehow forfeited any claim on my own son?”
“I thought,” she corrected emphatically, “You’d be happier without him and me in your life. I thought I was doing it for the right reasons, for everyone.”
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