Sheikh's Pregnant Cinderella

by Maya Blake

  She shook her head now, frowning. ‘What are you talking about? This castello can’t belong to you. It’s belonged to my family for hundreds of years.’

  Anger made Nico’s voice tight. ‘Are you sure about that?’

  Suddenly she seemed hesitant. ‘Well, of course...’

  ‘Perhaps you’re an expert denier of history, like your father was. Are you really expecting me to believe that you aren’t aware of what happened?’

  She went pale. ‘Leave my father out of this. How dare you appear on my doorstep with some fantastical tale?’ She stood back and extended her arm towards the door. ‘I’d like you to leave now. You are not welcome here.’

  For a moment Nico’s conscience pricked again, he thought that perhaps he should leave and at least allow her a period of private mourning before returning in a couple of days. But then he registered her words: you are not welcome here. Exactly the same words her father had said to his father when he’d tried to gain access to the family burial plot.

  Nico planted his legs wide. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  The dog standing beside her emitted another pathetic growl.

  He said, ‘I’m afraid that it’s you who is not welcome here. Not for much longer anyway. It’s merely a matter of time before the bank moves to take possession.’

  * * *

  Chiara stared at this man who looked as immovable as a stone statue. Against every instinct, her curiosity was aroused. Maybe he wasn’t mad—maybe he believed what he was saying.

  ‘What gives you the right to say such things...that the castello belongs to you?’

  ‘Because it’s true. My family built it in the seventeenth century.’

  Chiara wanted to shake her head, as if that might make order out of what he was saying. She’d known the castello was old—especially some parts of it—but not that old.

  He went on. ‘At that time the Santo Domenicos owned this estate and all the land and villages from here to Syracuse.’

  What he was talking about was a huge swathe of land, and if it were true—Chiara shook her head. It couldn’t be. ‘My family have been the sole owners of this castello for as long as I know—our name is above the door, etched in stone.’

  He dismissed that with a curl of his lip. ‘Anyone can carve words into a slab of stone. Your family took ownership of this castello before the Second World War. The Carusos were the Santo Domenico family’s accountants. When we were in financial difficulty they agreed to bail us out, using the castello as collateral, the agreement being that as soon as we had the money again we would buy the castello back at an agreed price. Then came the war.

  ‘After the war, your family made the most of the chaos at that time. They claimed to have no knowledge of the agreement and destroyed all the paperwork, saying our claims were bogus. So many people were trying to reclaim ownership of land and possessions after the war that the authorities chose to believe that we were being opportunistic. We were a powerful family, and some were only too happy to see us brought down and destroyed.’

  He continued.

  ‘The war decimated our savings—we lost everything. We became destitute. Your family refused to negotiate or to give us a chance to regain our property. Our very proud Sicilian family was scattered. Most emigrated to the United States. We ended up in Naples. My grandfather refused to leave Italy, always hoping he’d see our lands returned before he died. As did my father. Both were thwarted.’

  Chiara struggled to take this in. ‘You can’t have proof of this. I’ve never heard mention of the Santo Domenicos in my life.’

  He cast her a jaundiced look. ‘I don’t believe that. Our story is part of local legend around here.’

  Chiara flushed when she thought of her very sheltered upbringing. Their housekeeper—before she’d been let go in recent years—had done all the shopping, and her father had gone into the village for supplies since then. Whenever Chiara had ventured out she had noticed the way people looked at her, and she’d burned with self-consciousness because she’d assumed they were judging her less than fashionable clothes and figure.

  However, if there was any grain of truth to this man’s claims, perhaps they’d been judging more than her appearance.

  Feeling very exposed, and more vulnerable than ever, she repeated, ‘You have no proof of this.’

  He arched a brow. ‘Come with me.’

  He strode out of the room, and Chiara just looked after him stupidly before she kicked into gear. The sensation that he somehow belonged here struck her again and it wasn’t welcome.

  He walked out of the main door and Chiara had the urge to slam and lock it behind him. But something told her that this man wouldn’t be so easily locked out.

  He stopped in the main courtyard of the castello and looked left and right, as if trying to figure something out, and then strode confidently to the left, towards where the family church and graveyard were situated. The graveyard she’d only walked away from a couple of days ago, after seeing her parents interred.

  When she realised where he was headed she hurried to catch up and called out, ‘This is ridiculous—you must stop this!’

  But he didn’t stop. It was as if he couldn’t hear her. He got closer and closer to the graveyard, but at the last moment veered away from it and walked to another gate nearby, overgrown with foliage.

  She arrived behind him, slightly out of breath. ‘What are you looking for? That is the old family plot.’

  A place she’d never been into herself, because the housekeeper had used to tell her that it was haunted. A shiver went down Chiara’s spine now. Had the housekeeper known something of this man’s fantastic claims?

  He thrust aside the foliage and located the latch on the gate. At this moment he barely resembled a civilised man. She could see his muscles moving under the material of his suit and felt another disconcerting pulse of awareness in her lower body. Totally inappropriate and unwelcome.

  He pushed open the gate and said in a grim tone, ‘Come on.’

  Chiara had no choice but to follow him into the shadowed and dormant graveyard. Sunlight barely penetrated through the gnarled branches of the trees overhead and it was very still. She picked her way gingerly over the uneven ground, not even sure what she was walking on, hoping it wasn’t graves.

  He had reached the far corner and was pulling leaves and branches away from something. When she got closer she saw that it was a headstone. He turned to face her with an intense look on his face, and for a moment she was almost blinded by his sheer raw beauty.

  Then he took her arm and said impatiently, ‘Look.’

  Chiara stood beside him, very aware of his hand on her arm and the disparity in their sizes. It took her eyes a moment to adjust, but when they did she could make out faint writing, her heart stuttered and stopped as a dawning dread moved through her.

  There, etched in the stone, was the following:

  Tomasso Santo Domenico,

  born and died at

  Castello Santo Domenico,

  1830-1897

  She couldn’t believe it. Castello Santo Domenico. Not Castello Caruso.

  ‘He was my great-great-grandfather.’

  Chiara looked around, and now she could see the unmistakable shapes of headstones underneath foliage all around her. They seemed to loom at her accusingly in the gloom. The space closed in on her and claustrophobia rose swiftly. She pulled free of Nicolo Santo Domenico’s grip and turned and made her way out, her skin clammy with panic.

  She almost tripped over a mound, and a small sob came out of her mouth, but then finally reached the gate and stepped into bright comforting sunshine, her head reeling.

  * * *

  Nico stood in the overgrown graveyard, only vaguely aware that Chiara had all but run out of the graveyard. This proof of his family’s legacy was almost too much to take in.

 
Standing in that grand room just a few moments ago, facing a stricken-looking Chiara Caruso, he’d actually felt a sliver of doubt. Could this grand, crumbling estate really have belonged to his family? Had they truly once been the most powerful family in southern Sicily? It had seemed almost too much to believe when all he could think of was his grandfather’s bitter countenance and then his father’s. Maybe they’d dreamed it up, frustrated by the struggles they’d faced. Their fall from grace.

  But, no. This graveyard was cold, hard evidence that that they had existed in this place. That they had once lived, loved and died here. His ancestors had built it, stone by stone.

  A cold sense of satisfaction filled Nico’s bones. He had a right to claim this place now. He was right to be here.

  He knew it wasn’t necessarily compassionate to confront Chiara Caruso just days after her parents’ funeral, but he’d never been accused of having compassion.

  Faced with this knowledge of how his family had been left to rot in an overgrown graveyard, on land that should have been returned to them decades before, he felt even less inclined to be merciful.

  He walked out of the graveyard into the sun, undoing his tie, feeling constricted. Chiara Caruso had disappeared, and yet strangely he found that her stricken expression and those unusual green eyes stayed with him.

  He could still feel her arm under his hand. It had been supple and slim, hinting at a more defined body beneath the shapeless clothes. To Nico’s shock, the awareness had exploded into more than a frisson, and still hummed in his blood. Disconcerting and not welcome. He put it down to his heightened emotions.

  He walked over to the edge of a large uncultivated lawn that rolled down to the sea. There were pine trees along one side and gnarled bushes on the other.

  His land.

  It beat in his blood now, gathering force. Anger was still high as he thought of his ancestors lying in their cold graves, ignored and left to moulder.

  It was one thing to have an intellectual knowledge that something belonged to you, but another thing entirely to experience it. From the moment he’d driven up towards the castello he’d felt a sense of ownership that went deeper than the sense of injustice he’d grown up with.

  He wasn’t usually one to give any credence to intangibles, but right now, for the first time in his life, he felt a sense of home. It was as disconcerting as the awareness he felt for Chiara Caruso. It was also something he’d never thought he’d experience after growing up in Naples and being constantly reminded that it wasn’t his home.

  But as he looked out on this view that the Carusos had stolen from the Santo Domenicos, things didn’t feel as clear-cut as they had just a short while before. Nico didn’t want to admit it, but Chiara Caruso’s reaction to the news had seemed like genuine shock. Either that or she was an undiscovered acting genius.

  He’d come here today to present her with a deal she couldn’t refuse. A deal that would get him the castello within as short a space of time as possible: offering her enough money to sign over the castello to him and then go far away, somewhere she, the last of the Carusos, would fade into obscurity.

  But that growing awareness of her in his blood and in his body was blurring the lines and making him hesitate for a moment.

  A recent conversation with his solicitor came into his head, a well-worn refrain...

  ‘Nico, you’re an outsider, and that has served you well. You’ve made your fortune by upsetting the status quo and punishing those who’ve underestimated you. But now it’s time to consolidate and expand. It’s all very well to be the rogue operator once you have a more respectable life in the background. Right now you’re losing out on deals because people feel they can’t trust you. You’ve no family, nothing to lose...’

  Nico scowled at the view. He’d been at an exclusive charity event in Manhattan recently, discussing a deal with one of Manhattan’s titans of construction. The man’s wife had come on to Nico, making her attraction obvious. And, even though Nico had rebuffed her advances, the next day when he’d followed up on a promise to meet and discuss things further, the construction giant had cut off all contact and Nico had lost out on a potentially hugely lucrative deal.

  The truth was that he’d had marriage on his mind for some months now. Before his solicitor had even had to say anything it had become evident to Nico that the absence of a wife by his side was damaging his reputation amongst his more conservative peers. And so he’d been facing the unpalatable fact that he should make some adjustments to his very free lifestyle.

  To his surprise, the prospect hadn’t been totally repugnant. Nico had lived a hedonistic existence for a long time and, to be perfectly frank, he’d been feeling more and more jaded. Tired of the games women played. Tired of the avaricious gleam in their eyes. Tired of not knowing what their agenda was.

  While he might once have appreciated the need for a wife who knew how to navigate that world, the thought of a woman like that made something curdle inside him now. As did the idea of growing old amidst the soaring soulless buildings of New York or London.

  That might have been where he’d made his fortune, and restored the Santo Domenico pride and name, but standing here on Sicilian land—the land of his ancestors—he knew that the final piece had to be in this place. Nowhere else.

  With the evocative scent of the sea and earth all around him, he found that a new vision was coming to life inside him.

  A vision of a future that would help him to achieve the kind of success that he’d only dreamed of up to this point. A vision of a future that included a wife who would give his reputation the sheen of respectability he so badly needed. A wife who would give him a family and breathe the life force back into the Santo Domenico name. A wife who would complement him...who knew the value of legacy.

  What he needed was as clear to Nico now as the glittering sea in front of him. It was totally audacious, and contrary to his original plan, but it was taking root inside him and would not be dismissed.

  After a few more long minutes Nico turned around to face the castello. The only person who had been standing between him and his future—Chiara Caruso—was now the only person who could make sure it happened.

  Copyright © 2018 by Abby Green

  ISBN-13: 9781488083679

  Sheikh’s Pregnant Cinderella

  First North American publication 2018

  Copyright © 2018 by Harlequin Books S.A.

  Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Maya Blake for her contribution to the Bound to the Desert King miniseries.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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