Salvatore hadn’t given a damn about finding out whether or not he had a half-sister—as long as she was kept far away from him and his millions. That was what Raffaele had begun to realise. Protecting Kyla had been the last thing on Salvatore’s mind. And the thin veil of patience and brotherly love that Raffaele had spent a lifetime keeping intact was beginning to disintegrate in front of his eyes.
The security team had uncovered nothing that they didn’t already know. Lynda Dahl, a young, beautiful, struggling artist from Sweden, had taken a job as cabin crew. She’d worked for Argento and had definitely come across Giancarlo. There were pictures of him surrounded by his pretty staff in various locations and she was among them.
She had delivered a baby girl seven months after she’d stopped working for him. But there was no documentary evidence to suggest that the child she’d carried was his. That child now lived in Islington, London, and worked as a waitress. Her promising career as a photographer was not nearly so promising any more.
He’d tried to banish the whole thing from his mind but things had slid too far. The blind loyalty he’d felt for his adoptive father had been washed away like the tide on drying shingle, leaving behind a mess worse than any detritus. Giancarlo hadn’t been a doting husband and father. He’d been a lousy husband. And the jury was out on his qualities as a father...
If only he could wipe his hands of the whole affair, leave the Di Viscontis to work out Di Visconti business. But he was mired in it. He owed Giancarlo everything. A fact that bound him to Salvatore more than any bond of blood.
And, more than that, he owed it to himself to find out the truth about Coral Dahl. Because the indolence and deceit he so despised in others were choking him now.
He’d discounted Salvatore’s insane idea that Mariella or anyone at the magazine had had anything to do with it. The fact that she had won the competition had been a complete coincidence. She was a great photographer. It was that simple.
He was more and more sure with every day that passed that she’d had no motive to be on the island other than to take a giant step in her career.
He’d run over it in his mind again and again. Every word she’d said about Giancarlo. Everything about her mother. She had been desperately trying to contact her all the time she’d been there. She’d stated her hatred for her father but she hadn’t named him. Had said she didn’t know who he was.
She would know by now. The non-disclosure wouldn’t last between her and her mother after what had happened. But there had been no attempt to contact him—no attempt to make a move, if claiming her birthright really was her big idea. But with her mother’s debts and the meagre wages of a waitress there was no way she was going to turn her back on it. It simply didn’t add up.
If Raffaele went to her it would inflame Salvatore’s anger. He would immediately suspect a plot. No good would come of it other than to salve his conscience.
Whoever she was, she’d been a match for him. She’d taken control of Kyla’s ego and delivered the best photograph to grace the cover of Heavenly in the six years it had been in print.
Except it hadn’t happened. He’d pulled it. Ruthlessly and mercilessly. Without any explanation to anyone, he’d vetoed it. He had been just too angry, and coverage of the wedding the following week was all he’d been willing to schedule.
There were other features, bigger stories, better news. He’d told Mariella in no uncertain terms to find them and to make sure that Coral Dahl was never hired to work on anything connected with Romano again. Nothing.
End of story. Job done. Finito.
But it was nowhere near finished.
Burying the feature had not buried the memory. Or the increasing feeling that he had made a very, very bad decision.
Too many times he had listened to Salvatore, but this was going to blow up one way or another. It was like the string at the end of a stick of dynamite, and he wanted to control it when the explosion happened.
He’d go to London himself. The least he could do was offer her some kind of work. No matter how Salvatore felt about it, he couldn’t live with himself if he left things as they were. And in doing so he’d clear up the paternity issue.
Within an hour he had cleared his inbox of emails. Within two he was on his way to the airport. And within ten he was sliding into the back of the company limousine and purring along the motorway towards central London.
His first stop was MacIver Press. The buy-out was going as sweetly as he’d hoped and it just so happened that MacIver was about to start recruiting. An invitation to present her portfolio ought to tempt Coral out from hiding and get her to force her hand...
* * *
Coral found her most stretchy leggings and pulled them over her legs. She rummaged in her drawer for something that wasn’t faded or shapeless or too hideously dull. A red tunic with wide sleeves was the best she could find. Block shapes simply weren’t her, but what else would fit the wide, lumbering creature she had become. Her fifties’ skirts and cigarette pants were all consigned to the back of the wardrobe. And high heels...? Forget it.
She dragged a brush through her hair and rubbed cream on her face. She stained her lips with lipstick and added some mascara. A pair of small hooped earrings and a chunky bracelet and she was done. This was as good as it got.
After months of rejection—months of no, thanks and not now and not really our thing—and with her heart sinking at the thought of waitressing being her lifetime career, her luck had finally turned. An interview with a brand-new magazine for a small publisher. More art house than high-glam. Six months earlier she might have turned her nose up at it, but now she was grateful for the crumbs from any publisher’s plate.
She bent awkwardly to pull on her worn boots—yesterday’s grudging purchase from the local charity shop now that the November rains had arrived. That left her exactly fifteen pounds until the end of the month. Four weeks after that until Christmas and then she’d definitely be sacked. Who needed an eight-months-pregnant waitress in January? Absolutely no one.
Of course she could lift the phone and ask to be put straight through to Signor Rossini. Or she could walk in to Romano Publishing at London Bridge and demand a meeting. Or she could call the tabloids. Or a lawyer.
Because, yes, he absolutely should be providing for her and the baby. He should put her up in a flat and pay for the best antenatal care, hire a housemaid, a nanny, and a driver for the Mercedes. She should have the baby’s name down for the right prep school already.
She’d thought of all that. Over and over again. Thought of letting him know that he was going to be a father. And then putting out her hand to ask for a fat wad of cash.
But history had a habit of repeating itself. So she wouldn’t. She couldn’t risk the chance of being told to take a hike. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction a second time.
She put on her raincoat, knotted her scarf.
Finding out that she was a Di Visconti had shaken her to the very core of her being. She felt untethered—afloat like a cork in the ocean. Everything that had seemed solid was now strange. Instead of feeling complete, she felt raw.
She’d always wondered, imagined, dreamed about who her family were. Visualised some romantic reunion with long-lost half-brothers and half-sisters and the love of a homecoming. But that was never to be, and now that she knew who her father was she felt utterly isolated, completely unwanted. Lost. She felt lost.
And her own child was condemned to be part of this. That was the worst thing of all. She could take any pain, but she would not knowingly allow her baby to feel even a fraction of the hurt she felt. The crushing rejection that had eroded every ounce of her confidence. The one thing on this earth that was driving her now was the need to shield and protect.
So there was no way—no way on this earth—that she was going to go anywhere near Raffaele Rossini.
>
He would have no part in her life. Or the life of her child.
But he has a right to know.
That stupid voice.
Her own father had had a right to know! And he hadn’t been interested. There was no way she would face rejection again!
There was only one person she could rely on—herself.
She closed the door to the flat and went out into the street, dredging up every last ounce of energy she could muster.
Forty minutes later she was on the street outside MacIver Press. It was choked with traffic and people. She paused on the pavement and stared at the smoked glass doors of the converted church that housed her last chance. Through the windows of a passing bus she stared at the blur of the city. Everyone seemed to have somewhere to go, something to do. This was the world she wanted to be part of. This was where her heart lay.
Hugging her bag, she made her way across the road. She stepped up to the entrance just as two smart young women walked out of the building, chatting together. Coral glanced at their soft leather boots and city clothes.
She pulled out her portfolio and looked up at the imposing stone portico. She had to nail this—she absolutely had to nail this. Her mother was counting on her. Her child was counting on her. There was nobody who had her back.
She pressed the buzzer and stepped inside.
CHAPTER SEVEN
RAFFAELE STOOD IN the boardroom of this tiny but very precious jewel in his publishing crown and waited. It was almost eleven o’clock. Almost time for this gnawing mystery to reach its conclusion. Either she was Giancarlo’s daughter or she wasn’t. Either she was going to sue for her share of the estate or she wasn’t. But, no matter what, he was taking the fight to her. He was tired of waiting for her to make a move. Because if he was sure of anything in this world it was the fact that he hadn’t heard the last of Coral Dahl.
He poured another coffee and walked over to the glass walls. He’d had a busy, productive morning with the senior staff, talking about his plans for the business, reassuring them that there would be very few changes to the old titles, that his buy-out was not a wipe-out. All he wanted was to preserve what had brought him to the company in the first place: the weekly comic he’d read as a boy—the one constant in his life, devoured in secret while his world fell apart around him.
He sipped the coffee and looked down on the floor below. Cold November light flooded in through the stained glass onto the staff, scattering coloured light like confetti on the desks below.
At the back of what had once been the altar, above two empty sofas, hung huge illustrations from that comic—the ten-year-old super-sleuth Stefano and Petra, his faithful German Shepherd—pictures that he could draw himself from memory. Just staring at the inked lines took him all the way back to those hours under his bed, with his books and his comics, hidden away from a world he didn’t understand, craving comfort in all that pain.
If even one boy got the same comfort he’d got, it would be worth it. Not everything in life was about making money. Eight-year-old orphans didn’t care about that. All they wanted was to feel again the love, the warm body, the safety that had been ripped from their life. And when that wasn’t there they’d look for it in other things—in dogs, books and in weekly comics that would transport them to other worlds.
That was why it meant so much to him that MacIver Press should be kept alive. The staff here understood. Fiercely loyal to the old characters and their art, they were more than happy to keep it going. But their business couldn’t survive on the comic alone. He’d told them the price was a new celebrity weekly. None of the current staff had any experience or interest in this market, but they understood that it would balance the books. No one would lose their jobs and the brand would be intact.
All he needed was some competent staff to launch the new publication.
And, right on time, here came the woman who thought she might be one of them.
He stared down as she followed the receptionist through what had been the nave of the church to the rear offices. His eyes were drawn to her striding walk, her beautiful rich auburn hair, lying thick and long down her back. He felt his heart beat faster.
He looked closer. Something jarred. She looked like Coral, but this woman was bigger. Had none of her style. This woman was pregnant...
He stared as the picture editor came towards her, smiling. The woman turned and then he saw the side of her face. The smile. Then she twisted round and he saw the leather bag, held close to her large stomach. It was Coral, all right.
In a trance, he crossed the room, pulled open the heavy glass door and took the stairs, his mind slowly coming to terms with what he had just seen. He’d known she wouldn’t be a nun after their night together. So she was pregnant with another man’s child? It was of no interest to him.
He strode across the floor between the desks. People glanced round from their screens, paused on phone calls. Ahead were the steps, the twin sofas, the pictures and her rapidly retreating back as she went into a glass-walled meeting room. Two more steps and he laid his hand on the steel handle, turning it.
As she looked over her shoulder, the picture editor’s eyes drew into a frown and then opened in surprise.
Coral turned her head. Under dark lashes, her eyes lifted to his.
In that moment recognition was replaced by shock, then anger. And then, if he wasn’t mistaken, fight.
‘I’ll take this from here,’ he said.
Her hand moved to the strap of her bag, tugging it to her side protectively. A tiny move. He looked at the bulge of her belly, the jut of her jaw as she raised it. The picture editor dropped her eyes and slipped past him. He heard the door close.
‘Hello, Coral.’
‘What’s going on? Is this your idea of a joke?’
He shook his head as he took in all the signs of her pregnancy. Even in shabby clothes she looked radiant. Her skin glowed with health, softening her features, adding to her allure.
‘No, there’s no joke,’ he said slowly. ‘We’re launching a new magazine and I liked the look of your résumé.’
Her eyes widened, and then filled with defeat. But only for a moment. ‘It was your idea to set up this interview? You own MacIver?’
He nodded. Then she turned right round, shamelessly flaunting her pregnancy.
‘Seems like we’re both catching up with the news,’ he said.
‘I didn’t come here to shoot the breeze with you, Raffaele, so let’s get that straight. If this is another attempt to humiliate me, then you’re even sicker than I thought.’
‘OK, I deserve that.’
‘You don’t deserve to breathe the same air as me!’
‘I apologise,’ he began carefully. ‘I should never have asked you to leave Hydros the way I did.’
‘Apology rejected. Your word isn’t worth a damn to me right now. In fact—let’s not pretend—we’re only having this conversation because of who my father is.’
‘Who is he?’ he asked softly.
‘You knew him a hell of a lot better than I did.’
He straightened up. ‘Did you know you were Giancarlo’s daughter when you landed that commission?’
‘What difference does that make?’ she said.
‘None. You’re right.’
She glared at him, and in those few seconds he took in the sweep of her hair over her brow, the unflinching, unapologetic stare, and it all fell into place. She might not look much like Giancarlo, but his spirit burned in her.
His eyes fell to her stomach. He swallowed.
‘Congratulations. How far along are you?’
Her eyes flicked down to the side. He saw a small movement in her throat as words hesitated on her lips. He looked at the shapeless dress, the outline of her bump, her breasts—large and heavy. She was pre
tty big, now that he really looked at her.
He looked again. Wait a minute. Maybe she was as much as six months pregnant? No, that could not be possible! That was not possible. She’d said it was safe! She’d told him so. Hadn’t she?
She couldn’t possibly be.
‘Is that...my baby that you’re carrying?’
He heard the crack in his voice at the same time she did and it shocked him as much as it shocked her. Her eyes flew to his, but he bit the emotion down, furiously.
‘Answer me,’ he repeated.
There was no apology now.
She stared—defiant, mute. Finally... ‘Yes.’
Yes? His heart thundered into his throat.
‘You didn’t take precautions?’
Her eyes widened, she bared her teeth.
She stepped towards him like a fury. ‘You mean you didn’t take precautions! You! I’m not the one with the reputation.’
‘You told me it was safe,’ he said, as quietly as he could, almost choking on the white-hot rage that was building inside him.
She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. ‘Don’t blame me! You got me pregnant. Not the other way round.’
‘I didn’t know I was getting you pregnant, for the love of God! I thought it was safe. You...’
But he couldn’t quite remember anything other than the passion and the pleasure. Couldn’t actually recall her saying anything. Or him. This was bad. Too, too bad.
‘Well, you did! And nothing you can say makes the slightest difference now. You’re blaming me—just as I expected. I’m getting out of here. This conversation is going nowhere.’
Raffaele turned his head. The door was closed but even from where he was standing he could see heads bobbing up like meerkats, staring to see what the new boss was doing with the visitor.
‘You can bet this conversation is going somewhere. We’ll finish it at my house. Give me your bag.’
‘Are you insane?’
‘Pass me your bag and then we’re going to walk quietly and calmly out to the front, where my car is waiting. I’m not discussing my private business in here with the world watching.’
The Consequence She Cannot Deny Page 9