‘A few hours.’ His thumb stroked up and down the stem of his glass in an absent movement. ‘You should eat. If you’ve been feeling sick, food will help.’
‘I’m well aware of that, thank you.’ She knew she should be good and fill her plate, not cause a fuss. But for some reason she felt stubborn and not inclined to do what he said.
Before Monte Carlo, she hadn’t thought of him as anything but a target. And then, when she’d finally come face to face with the man, she’d had to think of him as a caricature rather than an actual person in order to do what had to be done.
But since the apartment, when he’d unexpectedly been protective of his child, she had the sense that perhaps he wasn’t the caricature of the selfish playboy she’d turned him into. That perhaps there was more to him than she’d thought.
A mistake to think that, though. She could not afford to see him as a person. Once she started identifying with him, revenge would be beyond her, which meant it would be best not to feel anything at all for him. However, if that wasn’t possible, then anger was her best bet.
He didn’t appear to notice her being stubborn, putting his wine glass down, reaching for a plate and beginning to heap food on it. ‘I know you can’t have the ham, but you can eat all the rest.’
‘So you’re an expert on pregnancy now? Tell me, how many other children have you fathered?’
‘Believe it or not, I have none,’ he said calmly. ‘And, as far as being an expert on pregnancy, my sister-in-law just gave me a quick rundown.’ He sent her a quick, burning glance, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly. ‘Don’t worry, kitten. If I’m not an expert now, I will be by morning.’
She frowned, distracted from her anger for a moment. Dante Cardinali was famous for his determination not to settle down, no matter how many women had tried to make him change his mind over the years. At least that was what her research had indicated.
So why was he suddenly now interested in her pregnancy? And why had he been so quick to take responsibility for the baby back at the apartment?
She’d asked him about it back then, but he hadn’t responded and she hadn’t pushed, remembering that she wasn’t supposed to rock the boat. But now...curiosity grabbed at her and she couldn’t help herself.
‘What does that mean?’ She took another sip of her orange juice, the ice-cold liquid tart and delicious on her tongue. ‘You can’t tell me you actually want to be involved in being a father, or be desperate to settle down? And especially not with the woman who tried to kill you.’
Something glittered in his eyes and she couldn’t tell what it was, though his voice when he spoke was mild. ‘I don’t know. Are you likely to try and kill me again?’
‘I might.’ She tried to echo his mild tone. ‘I would advise sleeping with one eye open.’
He didn’t say anything for a long moment and she found she was holding her breath, the hand holding her glass on the point of trembling. Then the sharp, glittering thing in his eyes faded, though the wicked glint that replaced it wasn’t any better. ‘Or I could just sleep with you and keep you thinking of...other things,’ he murmured.
Unexpected heat rose in her cheeks, a gentle ache between her thighs, and try as she might she couldn’t make either sensation go away.
‘You’re not going to try again, though,’ he went on before she could speak. ‘You weren’t able to do it five weeks ago and I think it’s highly unlikely that you’ll manage this time round.’
He was right, but still she hated his arrogant assumption.
‘How would you know?’ she snapped before she could think better of it. ‘You know nothing about me.’
‘Au contraire, darling.’ He put the plate he’d been filling with food down in front of her. ‘I know quite a bit about you. In fact, in the five weeks I’ve spent hunting you down, I compiled quite the dossier.’
Sitting back, he picked up his wine glass again, the movement of his thumb on the stem oddly hypnotising. ‘Stella Montefiore, youngest child of Stefano Montefiore. An avid supporter of my father’s, even after our family was exiled. But then the Monte Santa Marian government found out about all the money your father tried to send mine, and all the plans they’d made to try and get his throne back. Yet for some reason they couldn’t find your father. They could only find his son, Matteo. Who was the one who ended up in jail.’ Dante’s gaze was unwavering. ‘And who died there.’
Old pain twisted in her gut, the guilt she’d thought she’d long put aside welling up and threatening to swallow her whole.
It was still there, that memory. Of the police coming to their house and demanding to know the whereabouts of Stefano and Matteo Montefiore. Her mother had wept incoherently, not able to tell them anything, which had only made them angry. And Stella had been terrified. She’d thought they were going to hurt her fragile, lovely mother, so she’d told the police what they’d wanted to know. That she’d seen her brother and father going down to the old caves by the beach near their house.
She knew that she shouldn’t have told them anything, that she should have let her mother get hurt. That she should have let herself get hurt too, because the good of the family mattered more than any one person. Certainly more than herself.
But she’d only been ten and she’d always had a soft heart. She hated to see another creature in pain and it had been more than she could bear to hear her mother crying. So she’d told them.
And, while her father had managed to get away, her brother hadn’t been so lucky. He’d been captured and had gone to prison, only to die there five years later.
It was her fault. All her fault.
She tried to hold Dante’s gaze, to be hard and cold, the way her father had tried to drum into her to be. ‘Yes,’ she said steadily. ‘He did. Your point?’
‘My point, darling, is that I know why you tried to kill me. Your father wants an eye for an eye.’ Dante swirled the wine in his glass. ‘Or, rather, a son for a son.’
Of course. He wasn’t a stupid man by any stretch.
Stella took another measured sip of her orange juice, using the movement to cover the harsh bite of guilt and anger. ‘You seem to have all the answers.’
‘But I’m right, aren’t I?’ He glanced at the plate she hadn’t touched yet. ‘Eat, kitten. Or I might be forced to make you.’
Oh, she would love not to. Or simply to push the plate away. But she wasn’t supposed to be fighting him, and besides, she did need something to eat or else she was only going to feel more sick later.
Picking up an olive, she pointedly held his gaze, then put the olive in her mouth, the sharp, salty taste suddenly making her aware of how ravenous she was. Damn. She swallowed and picked up another. ‘My dead brother is no concern of yours,’ she said, trying to stay cool, if only to prove to herself she had no issue with talking about it. ‘Or, if we’re digging up dead family members, perhaps we can talk about yours instead?’
The research she’d done on him had delivered a few truths of its own. Such as the father who’d died in penury in Milan. And the mother who’d abandoned her husband and her other son, taking Dante with her when he’d been only twelve. She’d died too, or so the records suggested, of a head injury in a hospital in Naples.
Dante’s gaze flickered at that, which meant she’d scored a point. Good. And then he said, ‘You want to talk about my parents? Fine. My father was a power-hungry, selfish man who loved his throne more than his family and who spent the rest of his miserable life trying to get it back. My mother was a drunk who took me away when I was twelve in search of a new life. And we certainly found it in the slums of Naples. She died when I was sixteen, leaving me to find my own way as a gutter rat. Which I did quite well until my brother Enzo found me.’ At last, he lifted his glass and took a sip of the wine, watching her from over the rim. ‘Any more questions?’
None of that came as a surprise to h
er—she’d known the facts. But he’d said everything so casually, as if none of it had touched him in any way.
She gazed back at him, curiosity tugging at her again. No, he’d sounded casual, but he wasn’t. She could see the faint gleam of gold deep in his dark eyes. Was it anger? Pain? Or something else?
You’re not supposed to be curious. He’s not supposed to become a person to you.
He wasn’t. And asking him questions about his past was a dangerous road to take.
Stella reached for a piece of the bread he’d cut for her, slathering some olive pesto onto it instead. ‘No more questions. I have all that information already.’ She took a bite of the bread, the sharp taste of the olive exactly what she’d been craving, then chewed and swallowed it. ‘You’re not the only one with a dossier.’
He lifted one shoulder in an elegant movement. ‘In that case, why talk about the past? That’s not what’s important here. The important thing we have to discuss is what’s going to happen with my baby.’
‘Our baby,’ she corrected before she could stop herself, a tiny shock going through her. Since when had she decided that the baby was ‘theirs’?
Dante’s eyes gleamed. ‘Oh, so is that how it’s going to be?’
‘How is what going to be?’ Tension coiled inside her.
‘We’ve already decided that you’re going to keep the child. But what happens now? Are you laying claim to it, kitten?’
Her hand had slipped to her stomach, as if she could somehow touch the baby inside her. The baby she’d tried very hard not to think about.
You will be a mother. How can you not think of that?
But how could she think of it? When she still had an important task in front of her?
Taking petty revenge while you have a life growing inside you.
Her throat tightened unexpectedly. It wasn’t petty. Matteo had died. And he’d died because of her, as her father had never stopped telling her. It was up to her to make up for that death. To make it mean something.
She’d been the one to take on the assassination of Dante Cardinali and she’d failed. Which meant she had to be the one to try and salvage something from that failure. No matter what happened.
She would think about her baby afterwards. When she had the time and the space to concentrate. When Matteo’s death had been avenged.
Until then she needed to give Dante what he wanted. Play nice, be meek, mild and biddable. And definitely don’t argue with him.
Except that wasn’t what happened.
‘What if I did lay claim to it?’ The words came out despite herself, torn from somewhere deep inside, the tiny part of herself that had remained the soft-hearted ten-year-old she’d once been. ‘What if I did want my baby?’
Dante’s gaze intensified. ‘That, kitten, is a whole other conversation.’
CHAPTER FIVE
SHE LOOKED SO cool and untouchable sitting there staring at him, challenge in her eyes. Completely unruffled by his attempts to disturb her by talking about her family. Coolly telling him she’d probably try and make another attempt on his life. And then challenging his claim on their child.
As if she hadn’t been the one to point a gun to his head the month before.
As if she hadn’t been the one to take off her clothes and slide down on him, riding them both into the kind of ecstasy he’d only ever dreamt of.
Dio, it turned him on.
And it shouldn’t, it really shouldn’t. He’d already decided that he wasn’t going to sleep with her, that it would make an already complicated situation infinitely worse, and yet...
She was so small and lovely, with the cashmere throw he’d tucked around her while she was asleep now snugly wrapped around her narrow shoulders. She had a bit more colour to her face, the shadows beneath her eyes less like bruises.
But the cool determination in her silver-blue eyes hadn’t changed one iota.
Had what he’d said meant nothing to her? Not even the mention of her brother? He thought he’d detected a faint tightening of her mouth when he’d mentioned Matteo, and had experienced a fleeting sense of regret that he’d hurt her. Then again, she’d tried to kill him. And he’d wanted confirmation that she’d targeted him because of the blood debt incurred due to her brother’s death.
She hadn’t specifically answered that, but her change of subject had told him everything he needed to know.
Yes, he’d been right. Her brother had died, Stefano obviously held Dante’s father responsible and he now demanded a price: Dante’s life in recompense for the loss of his son’s.
It was all very old school, and he might have found it amusing if the predicament he now found himself in hadn’t totally been his fault.
But it was.
As much as he mightn’t like it, Stella Montefiore was carrying his child. And he needed to make a decision about what to do.
He’d already decided that keeping her near was in his best interests, especially when he couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t make another attempt on his life, and he’d always been a fan of the ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer’ approach.
But it wasn’t just his life he was concerned about. It was the life of their baby too. He didn’t trust her, which meant she wasn’t going anywhere until the danger period of the pregnancy had passed. That would involve keeping her here, as he didn’t want the media catching wind of it, plus he could ensure that she had the best medical care and treatment on hand should it be required.
Once the danger period was past, well...that was another discussion they would have to have. He certainly wasn’t going to let her go free while she was still a danger to him and he hadn’t seen any evidence that she wasn’t.
It was either that or he called the police and he didn’t want to do that.
They would find out who she was and then the proverbial would really hit the fan.
Since when have you cared what anyone would think?
Well, he didn’t. It was his child that he cared about and he didn’t like the thought of his son or daughter being born in jail.
Dio, he’d always thought that Enzo had gone slightly mad when he’d discovered he was a father, but now... Now Dante understood his brother in a way he hadn’t before.
‘And what conversation would that be?’ Stella asked coolly. ‘Is this the one we’re going to have about what happens to our child when he or she is born?’
He stared back at her, just as cool. ‘It’s the one we’re going to have where I tell you that when our child is born he or she will be staying with me.’
Oh, really? Since when did you decide that?
Apparently since right this instant.
Something flared in her eyes, anger probably. Good, let her be angry. She had to know where his line was and this was it right here. He’d lost both his parents—his father to his obsession with the throne, his mother to her obsession with the bottle—and that had been a painful lesson. And, even though he wasn’t any better than either of them, he at least had the opportunity to do better, not to cause his own child that pain.
It was a surprise to him that he was considering someone other than himself for a change, but he didn’t take the words back. He only met her gaze, letting her see the certainty in his own.
‘You?’ The word was layered with utter disdain. ‘A reckless playboy who cares for nothing but himself? You seriously want your child with you?’
Her tone made his hackles rise, but he knew what she was doing. She was pushing him, just like she’d pushed him the night they’d met, which meant that he’d got under that cool veneer of hers in some way.
He smiled, relaxing against the stone of the terrace parapet at his back. ‘You have to admit, it’s better than having a murderer for a mother.’
She flushed, the anger in her eyes flaring hotter, and he could feel himself harden.<
br />
Dio, why did knowing he got to her affect him that way? Desire had got them into the situation they were in now and giving into it again would only make it worse.
‘I know, kitten,’ he purred, studying her face. ‘You’re not actually a murderer yet, but note that you did tell me to sleep with one eye open. And you have pointed a gun in my face and declared that you wanted me to die. The intention was there, no matter that you didn’t do it.’
Her jaw had gone tight, her whole body stiff. Which was interesting. What didn’t she like? Him pointing out what they both already knew? A sudden distaste about that particular word?
‘What do you want me to say?’ she asked tightly. ‘That I’m not going to make another attempt on your life? Would you even believe me if I said it?’
Dante absently stroked the stem of his wine glass, noting the anger burning in her eyes despite her cool and contained veneer.
You don’t believe she’d kill you.
Of course he didn’t.
He knew sex. It was as close to a real connection with another person as he’d allow himself. Women showed their true faces to him in bed. When they were under him, transported with ecstasy, they allowed their souls to shine through and Stella had been no different.
He’d seen her soul that night in Monte Carlo and it was made of passion, joy and a wonder that had extended to include him.
It was not the soul of a killer.
He’d known it when she’d had the chance to pull that trigger and hadn’t. And he’d known it the moment he’d watched pleasure overwhelm her.
But maybe she didn’t.
‘Put it this way,’ he said slowly. ‘I’d believe you. But I’m not sure you’d believe yourself.’
Shock flared in her eyes, a burst of bright silver as that cool veneer of hers cracked a little. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I mean, I don’t think you’re a murderer, kitten. I never have.’ He studied her, fascinated by the gleam of emotion in her eyes that she couldn’t quite hide. ‘But you didn’t like it when I pointed that out in Monte Carlo and I think you don’t like it now. So you tell me. Are you happy to be called a killer, Stella Montefiore?’
Claiming His One-Night Child Page 7