Claiming His Wedding Night Consequence

by Abby Green

  Her hand went to her belly again. She could be pregnant. Already. And she could imagine him greeting that news with a smug satisfaction that the Santo Domenicos were on their way back to domination.

  All Chiara was to Nico was a pawn. And the worst thing about it was that he’d never tried to dress it up as anything else.

  But last night had given Chiara a glimpse into another part of herself. She’d become a woman. And for a moment she’d believed there was something between them. She’d indulged in a vision of a real marriage. And she’d been utterly, astoundingly naive.

  Last night might have been a sensual revelation for Chiara. But for Nicolo—no matter what he’d said about chemistry—it had to have been a very pedestrian experience. She’d given him a tool with which to coerce her to commit to this marriage fully. And that tool was her own weakness.

  Chiara could see the future stretching out before her. She would be endured. Much as her father had endured her, disappointed that she wasn’t a boy. She realised now that her fear of leaving the castello was far less than her fear of getting lost completely in the whirlwind of Nicolo Santo Domenico’s life. Of finding herself pregnant and trapped for ever with a man who saw her only as a pawn. Never mind herself—she couldn’t do that to an innocent child.

  A sense of panic gripped her. She wasn’t pregnant. She couldn’t be. Life wouldn’t be so cruel.

  But she had to seize her chance now, before Nico came back. Before he touched her again and saw that he’d touched her emotions as much as her body.

  She should never have thought she could manipulate Nico by marrying him. She’d underestimated him at every turn. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Five months later

  ‘I THINK WE’VE found your wife, Mr Santo Domenico. I’m sending you over some pictures so you can see for yourself. She’s in Ireland, working in a restaurant in Dublin. Also, there’s something you should be prepared for... She’s pregnant. When you confirm it’s her you’ll have her back within twenty-four hours.’

  Nico’s private investigator’s words rang in his head. One word in particular: pregnant.

  Nico got up from behind his desk and walked over to the window, which showcased a titan’s view of Manhattan here at the heart of his global corporation which encompassed everything from real estate to media and tech industries. Enough to keep ten men busy, never mind just him. But his mind hadn’t been focused on his businesses for weeks now. Months. Five months, to be exact.

  He scowled, still incensed that his very meek and innocent Sicilian wife had had the temerity to leave him and disappear into the ether like a ghost the day after their wedding night.

  His satisfaction that Chiara had been found was eclipsed by anger, because she’d put him in a very awkward position for these last few months. All his peers knew that he’d married, and yet he had no wife to show for it. His explanation that she was renovating the castello in Sicily was beginning to wear thin. Only a week before, at an exclusive charity auction, one of his adversaries had slyly questioned if his wife was, in fact, real.

  Oh, she was real all right.

  The erotic charge of their wedding night lingered in Nico’s blood, much as he wanted to deny it, and the thought of having her back in her rightful place was precipitating a very unwelcome sense of anticipation.

  For a man who didn’t dwell on his past actions—and certainly none involving his lovers—their wedding night and the following morning had played ad infinitum in his head for the past five months.

  Specifically, that first image of his wife naked. That memory was burned into his brain like a provocative brand. He could still see the luscious curves, the heavy breasts, the tiny waist and full hips. Her hair long and wild. She’d looked like a beautiful nymph.

  He hadn’t considered that she might be so innocent, in spite of her being so unsophisticated. An anomaly in this day and age. It was no wonder that she’d been so affected.

  But it had been a mistake to give in to his hormones like that. It had exposed him. And it was only because she was so inexperienced that she hadn’t capitalised on his momentary weakness, like another, more cynical woman might have.

  When she’d appeared in the kitchen the following morning and he’d seen the look on her face—shy, and still suffused with the same wonder he’d seen the night before—he’d felt a lead weight sink into his belly.

  He hadn’t tried too hard to refute her accusation that he had deliberately tried to get her pregnant because it was better that she think him capable of that rather than reveal that he had lost all sense and reason.

  Coward... whispered a snide inner voice. He ignored it.

  As much as he wanted their marriage to be a real and practical one, he didn’t want her to develop feelings for him—because he would never return those feelings and it would make the marriage untenable. And so he’d left her under no illusions that there had been anything remotely romantic about their wedding night.

  If Nico hadn’t learnt to divorce himself from his emotions he would still be in Naples, hustling to make a few euros from stolen phones, or seducing rich and lonely female tourists.

  He would never have fulfilled his father’s dying request—to reclaim the Santo Domenico rightful inheritance and bring respect back to the name. Finally.

  But now, even though he’d achieved what he’d set out to do—and much more besides, having created a vast personal fortune in the process—Nico couldn’t rest. He had an errant pregnant wife to track down.

  She’d left him a note, the contents of which were also burned into his memory—much as he didn’t like to admit it.

  Dear Nico,

  As you will no doubt have noticed, I have left. I made a mistake in agreeing to marry you. We are not suited to each other. I only agreed to marry you because I felt it would be one way of securing my right to retain contact with the castello and the burial place of my family.

  I think you would have to agree that you can find someone eminently more suitable than me. I don’t want any of your money. I just want a divorce and access to the castello a couple of times a year.

  Please take care of Spiro. He is old, and probably won’t live much longer, but I’d like to think of him enjoying his last months in comfort. I’ve left instructions for his care and the details of his vet.

  Yours,

  Chiara Caruso

  Chiara Caruso. Not Chiara Santo Domenico. As if they hadn’t even married! And she cared more for that dog than him. That stung.

  Her solicitor had got in touch after she’d disappeared, asking if Nico would grant her a divorce. He’d flatly refused.

  What irritated Nico, though, was the fact that it hadn’t been the possibility that she might be pregnant that had made him refuse—it had been a knee-jerk instinctive reaction. He didn’t want to let her go. And he wasn’t even sure why. He had the castello now, he could divorce and remarry—someone eminently more suitable. Exactly as she’d suggested.

  But Nico had never been good at taking other people’s suggestions. Especially when he didn’t want to do something.

  None of the women he’d met in the last five months had interested him in the slightest. He’d found himself comparing their sleek thoroughbred thinness with the lush curves of the women he’d married.

  Damn her.

  Nico heard the distinct ping of a new email from behind him and went back to his desk. He sat down and clicked on the link. Images filled the screen. Images of his wife. Entering and leaving what looked like a small, intimate Italian restaurant on one of Dublin’s leafy city streets. The same kind of Italian establishment that populated cities the world over. This one was called Bella Toscana. Unoriginal and utterly pedestrian.

  She was dressed in a black top and trousers and a white apron. He tensed as his gaze narrowed on the very evident swell of her
belly. Pregnant. She’d be five months pregnant now. That small waist had stretched to accommodate her pregnancy.

  Nico had always seen having a family as an abstract thing. A promise to his father. A duty to fulfil. A burden, almost. But now, as he looked at the image of his pregnant wife, he didn’t feel abstract or dutiful... He felt a surge of something very primal. Possessive.

  Mine. My seed.

  Nico was shocked at this evidence that their wedding night had borne fruit. If you’re the father, said a snide inner voice. Who was to say Chiara hadn’t slept with another man just after him?

  The thought of her sharing that look of wide-eyed wonder with another man made something even more primal and possessive beat through him. She wouldn’t. But then...what did he know? He barely knew her. But she had a hold on his libido he didn’t like.

  He ignored the snide inner voices and let the prospect sink in for a moment. He had a family. The revelation sent conflicting emotions through him.

  He immediately thought of his father, heard his gruff voice... ‘Nicolo, you have to have a family or our name will be gone for ever. You are all that is left of what was once a great and powerful dynasty. The Santo Domenicos cannot be allowed to fade away with such a stain on our name. You cannot let that happen... Promise me, Nicolo... Promise me.’

  And he’d promised him. Just as he’d promised him to regain the castello, whatever it took, along with restoring their fortune and good name.

  Nico looked at the pictures again and focused on Chiara’s face. She looked much the same. Her long hair was pulled back into a ponytail that swung over her shoulder. She still wore no make-up. She looked pale. Tired. That realisation made him feel uncomfortable.

  He recalled the unusual light green of her eyes all too easily. And the way they had glowed like translucent emeralds as he’d joined their bodies. His gaze caught on her full breasts, pushing against the top she wore.

  His body rose to rampant life.

  Inferno!

  He closed down the images and picked up his phone. When the call was answered at the other end he said tersely, ‘It’s her...yes. Definitely.’

  Nico stood up again and walked back over to the window, the lingering heat in his body being replaced with icy cold resolve and anger.

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and get her myself.’

  * * *

  ‘They want the short pasta, Tony. Not the linguine.’

  Chiara stifled a smile as the head chef scowled and made a rude comment about people not knowing how to eat Italian food properly. She put a hand instinctively on her neat bump, rubbing it distractedly. The baby hadn’t moved in a while, but she wasn’t concerned. It usually seemed to sleep when she was active, and then bounced around when she was trying to sleep—which didn’t help her energy levels.

  All she wanted to do was sleep...except sleep let the demons take over her mind. The nights were the hardest...when she couldn’t block out the memories of him. Her husband. The man she’d left after one night of marriage.

  One night had been enough to tell her that she was way out of her depth. She’d known she was out of her depth but she’d ignored the voices telling her so, too greedy to experience what he was offering. And it had burnt her. Badly.

  She’d spent the first couple of months cursing herself that she hadn’t tried harder to negotiate a deal in which marriage hadn’t been necessary. Surely he would have agreed to something if she’d pushed him enough?

  Now she’d never know. And you would never have had that night, reminded an inner voice. The night that had changed her life. Literally.

  At first she’d tried to ignore the signs that she was pregnant—missed periods—telling herself it was stress. And it had been stressful. Her first time out of Italy, living in a foreign country with minimal English. But she’d done well, and she was proud of how she’d survived and thrived.

  If you could call waitressing thriving.

  She could imagine the scathing look her husband might give her. Because he was still her husband. He’d comprehensively rebuffed any overtures from her solicitor to agree to a divorce. Why? She kept circling back to that question.

  And then her conscience struck with the other constant refrain. You have to tell him about the baby. She knew she did. Some time. But not right now. When she felt ready.

  Heartburn crept up Chiara’s oesophagus just at the thought of initiating a meeting with Nico. Coming out of her hiding space...seeing him again in the flesh...

  ‘Chiara... Earth to Chiara.’

  Chiara blinked and the restaurant came back into focus. One of her fellow waitresses was standing in front of her with her hands full of plates.

  She jerked her head towards the door. ‘Someone has just come in...can you seat him?’

  Chiara lambasted herself for spacing out and snapped into action. ‘Of course—sorry, Sarah.’

  She grabbed a couple of menus and turned around to greet the new customer, planting a fake smile on her face. But it soon slid off.

  Recognition was swift and brutal, because this customer stood head and shoulders above all other mere mortals. The menus fell out of her nerveless fingers.

  It would appear as if she didn’t have to worry about initiating contact with her husband. Because Nicolo Santo Domenico was right here. In the flesh.

  Somehow Chiara managed to form some words. ‘Can I help you?’

  Those dark eyes flashed. ‘I’ve found what I’m looking for, but I’ll take a black coffee. Strong.’

  Chiara’s brain felt sluggish with shock. Her husband was here, in this small, unremarkable restaurant. I’ve found what I’m looking for. He’d been looking for her.

  She could feel the simmering tension. The barely banked anger. She saw it in his eyes and fought against putting a hand on her belly, where his dark gaze had just rested. She’d felt it like a physical touch. Or the lash of a whip. Censorious.

  She finally kicked into gear—before her boss came over to see what the stand-off was about. She picked up the menus and said, ‘Of course. Please take a seat and I’ll bring your coffee right away.’

  Nico was lowering his tall, broad frame into a chair as she turned away, her heart palpitating. She felt sick. Clammy. She was all fingers and thumbs at the coffee machine, cursing herself for not thinking more clearly. She spied the open back door nearby and for a second thought wistfully of making a run for it. But at that moment she looked back into the restaurant and caught her husband’s eye.

  He shook his head very slowly and deliberately. Don’t even think about it.

  Chiara finished making the coffee and carried it out from behind the counter, praying she wouldn’t spill it all over the floor. She put it down in front of Nico with a clatter, belatedly taking in his pristine suit and tie. His clean-shaven jaw. Ridiculously, she found herself wondering if he had to shave twice a day or once? She’d slept with him but she didn’t even know that useless information.

  She was about to turn away when a large warm hand clamped around her wrist. The shock of his touch was blistering. A rush of X-rated memories filled her head, making her dizzy.

  ‘Sit with me, mia cara moglie. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you.’

  Beloved wife. She was no beloved wife. She’d been a means to an end and she’d walked herself into the situation, believing that she could somehow emerge unscathed. She was far from unscathed now, at five months pregnant. And, as much as she knew this wasn’t the ideal situation for a baby, from the moment she’d had to accept she was pregnant she’d felt a fierce love and protectiveness for her unborn child.

  A child that didn’t deserve to be born into this mess.

  Anger rose and she welcomed it, pulling her hand and wrist free of his hold. ‘What do you want, Nico? I’m working.’

  He cast a disdainful look around the resta
urant and then looked back to her. He said coolly, ‘No wife of mine needs to work.’

  Feminist hackles Chiara hadn’t even known she possessed rose. ‘I like working and I need to survive.’

  ‘Because you ran away.’

  ‘I told you—the marriage was a mistake.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Ah, yes, your kind note. I never lied to you, Chiara. I never pretended emotions were involved. I thought you understood it was a logical business agreement. A marriage of convenience.’

  Chiara tensed. She was giving too much away. ‘Yes, I did understand that. But I changed my mind.’

  Now he was accusing. ‘You married me just so you would be in a better position to negotiate terms?’

  She sat down, defeated by Nico’s presence. ‘Can you blame me? You weren’t giving me any options.’

  Nico regarded his wife across the small table and felt the pull of desire in his groin. He cursed silently. He couldn’t remain unaware of how lush she looked. Her breasts were bigger, straining against her top. And suddenly he thought of other men looking at her fertile body. Desiring her earthy beauty.

  Because he could see it now. She was beautiful—in spite of her lack of adornment. She had stunning bone structure and a wide lush mouth. He had to fight off the memory of how swollen it had looked after his kisses. And those unusual light green eyes that seemed to change colour every second. They were like rare jewels.

  He forced his attention away from her body and the desire she was sparking with an effort he resented.

  He drawled, ‘There are plenty of women who wouldn’t consider marriage to me such a chore.’

  Chiara sat back and folded her arms. ‘Well, by all means divorce me and marry a more willing woman. I won’t stand in your way.’

  Nico let his eyes drop expressively to the swell of her belly. ‘I think it’s a bit late for that.’

  She blanched, as if she’d forgotten for a moment. ‘How do you know it’s yours?’

  Nico looked up again at her tart tone and assessed her show of bravado. It was all too flimsy. He felt the truth in his bones. This baby was his. A sense of satisfaction he couldn’t ignore rippled through him.