Billionaires: They're powerful, hot, charming and richer than sin...

by Clare Connelly

  His gut wrenched.

  “Mama?”

  She jerked her gaze back to Jack, the smile forced. “Right. Where were we?” She reached for another block and placed it on the top. “Four.”

  “No,” she murmured kindly, and pointed to the bottom. “One, two, three, four…”

  She watched their son expectantly. Something glinted in his eyes, a dimple scoring deep in one cheek, and he lifted his hand to the middle of the tower of blocks and swiped at them. “Crash,” he grinned, and Elodie laughed, reaching for him and tickling his sides.

  “Oh, you are a cheeky monkey, aren’t you, little Master?”

  Fiero stood, his ribs feeling as though they were being cracked wide open. Jack was his son. And she, Elodie was…a beautiful mother.

  His eyes swept shut; he turned away from them for a moment, uncertainty shifting through him. She’d been here a little over a week, and he’d promised her six months. How the hell was he going to endure this?

  All of his calmly laid out plans of the night before evaporated.

  He no longer knew what made sense.

  “There is a playground near here. Let’s go and see it.”

  He chose not to turn around to face her. Something strange was happening to him, it was as though his being was being unstitched, piece by piece.

  “Do you mean now?”

  “Si. Andiamo.”

  It was a warm day. Hot and cloying but with the hint of a breeze shifting through Rome’s ancient, cobbled streets. The Via Condotti – famous for its exclusive boutiques and restaurants – was only a few minutes walk from Fiero’s home – in one direction – but in the other, there was this: winding, beautiful streets lined with buildings. Each was painted an earthy colour and the walls were an uneven texture, bumpy and gnarled, so she wanted to run her hands over them and feel their stories.

  Little pops of colour relieved those earthy tones: red geraniums tumbling from the window boxes, potted plants stuffed with lavenders and herbs and the smell of basil was sweet in the summer’s air. A gelataria was set up in a small caravan at the end of the strada on which they walked and as they passed it, Jack clapped his little hands together. “Ice cream! Ice cream!”

  Fiero crouched down, his jeans straining over his muscular thighs so Elodie had to look away because the sight was doing something funny to her tummy. Not something funny – something familiar. She was so aware of how those legs felt, pinning her to the mattress, the wall, straddling her – strong and masculine. She looked away.

  “Would you like a gelati?” He spoke in Italian but she understood because the last word gave the question context.

  Jack however stared in wonder at these strange words, his little expression almost seeming overwhelmed.

  Fiero repeated his question, more slowly, and this time, with gestures. First he pointed at Jack, and then at the shop, and then towards the colourful ice creams. Each one was artfully arranged, scooped high in its tray with a haphazard pattern, and their tops were adorned with more of their flavours. The nocciolo had hazlenuts sprinkled across it, the banana was the same, citrus slices adorned the limone.

  “That one!” Jack pointed to the chocolate, with its glossy dark brown colour and cubes of chocolate arranged on top.

  Fiero grinned so Elodie’s heart thumped into her chest so hard it hurt, then he stood, pinning her with the same smile. “And you?” He prompted, something unspoken in the depths of his eyes.

  She swallowed, shaking her head on autopilot before reconsidering. It was so hot, and the gelati all looked so good. She rarely indulged in sweets, but suddenly, she wanted something. She hovered above the display, scanning to see what they had on offer, before selecting a scoop of strawberry. They watched as the young man behind the counter spooned the ice cream into small, paper cups, then handed them over. Fiero was reaching for his wallet but Elodie shook her head.

  “I’ll get it.” She pulled some euro from her pocket and slid them across the top of the counter before Fiero could say anything. She was conscious of the way he was watching her though, his eyes heavy on her face. They turned and walked, Jack concentrating on getting the chocolate into his mouth.

  “You have euro.”

  Elodie jerked her gaze to Fiero’s in surprise. “Yeah. Why?”

  “I didn’t think about this, that you would need local currency.”

  “Oh.” She frowned. “Yeah. I went and got cash out.”

  He nodded, but there was a look on his face, a look that was part disconcerted. “When?”

  “Um, Tuesday, I think?”

  Another nod, but his frown was deepening. “I should have organised this. I’m sorry.”

  It was so absurd, she almost laughed. “You threatened to send me home without my son but you’re apologising for overlooking the fact I’d need euro?”

  She had the satisfaction of seeing his features tighten, his eyes flash with something she couldn’t comprehend.

  “Believe it or not,” she didn’t push her point. “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”

  “I know that.” Again, a look of consternation crossed his face.

  “You’re surprised?” They began to walk once more, Jack between them with a broad smile on his face as he lifted scoop after generous scoop of ice cream into his mouth. He was doing well, but Elodie scanned the street, her eyes landing on a bench seat across the road. “Let’s sit while he eats,” she murmured.

  Fiero nodded, his expression still taut.

  Once Jack was settled on the bench, in the middle of both of his parents, Fiero spoke. “I’m surprised I overlooked it, not that you sourced your own cash.”

  “Why would you think it’s your place to arrange money for me?” She tasted her own gelati – it was delicious. The sun was warm around them, the air thick with summer, and ice cream was the perfect antidote to that.

  “You’re here as my guest,” he said after a beat.

  “Not your hostage?” She couldn’t help responding, and was pleased to see his expression tighten. He was uncomfortable about threatening to take Jack away. Good. So he should be!

  He turned to look at her though and her sense of satisfaction evaporated. There was steel in his eyes. “You’re free to leave at any point.”

  Her stomach rolled, as though she’d fallen out of a high rise. She jerked her head away, stabbing her gelati with the spoon and quickly filling her mouth with the ice cream, as an excuse not to answer, not to respond. What could she say to that?

  Without Jack? No, not ever. But it wasn’t so simple as even that. Sleeping with Fiero had changed something inside of her, and now the idea of going back to London – even with Jack at her side – seemed wrong and unwelcome.

  This wasn’t fair – not even a little bit. She felt as though nothing made sense anymore.

  “How do you feel?” The question speared deep inside of her, because she had no idea how to answer it. Confused. Angry. Hurt. Sad. “You seem to have recovered completely?”

  “Oh, right.” He was talking about the accident. She swallowed, glad for the conversation change, glad she could concentrate on facts rather than the turmoil that was living inside of her now. “Fine. My ankle gets a bit stiff in the evenings, but only if I’ve walked a lot that day. The doctor said general aches and pains are normal while I’m getting back to normal.”

  He nodded without looking at her. “I’ll never forget the sight of you in the hospital bed that day.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “You were so broken, your face so bruised.”

  Knowing that he’d seen her like that ripped a part of her open anew; a sense of vulnerability sliced through her.

  “I wish…” She shook her head. What had she been intending to say? She wished that he hadn’t seen her like that? That the hospital hadn’t called him? She followed that thought through, imagined how different this would all have been – imagined what would have happened to Jack, and knew that she wouldn’t change a thing. “I’m glad you were the
re. For Jack.” The words were hoarse – how could they be anything else? Emotions were overflowing inside of her.

  Only it brought them back to the pain of that discovery, to the fact she hadn’t told him about Jack, to the betrayal he felt.

  She took another scoop of gelati, wondering at the mess she’d found her way into. She’d been so sure raising Jack on her own was the right decision, but the more she’d got to know Fiero, to see him with Jack, the more that certainty had eroded, so now she was left with a torrent of doubts.

  “Jack.” His face shifted and their eyes locked over their son’s head. Her throat felt raw with unshed tears. “Where does his name come from?”

  “You don’t like it?”

  His frown was just a flicker in his face. “On the contrary, it suits him.”

  She forced herself to relax. There was no point seeing attacks in everything he said, accusations and blame. He was making conversation without agenda. He was asking questions about their son, just like he said he would. He wanted to know everything. “It was my father’s name,” she breathed slowly, making a conscious effort to relax. “I hadn’t really thought about it, but when I first held him in my arms, it just felt right.”

  Fiero nodded. “It’s a strong name. Wilful. Confident. I like it.”

  His approval warmed her. “Me too.”

  She tousled Jack’s hair on autopilot, her smile distracted. “He was a strong baby. He did everything early. Lifting his head. Rolling over. Crawling. Standing. He’s always been determined to move, to explore the world on his own.”

  “It can’t have been easy for you, recovering from his delivery and being on your own, on the other side of the world.”

  “No,” she agreed. “It’s funny, I didn’t exactly have a plan in mind when I left Australia. I thought I’d travel. Clear my head.” Her expression was wistful. “After mum and dad died, I just needed to get away. Everything reminded me of them – not in a good way. In the ‘I failed them’ kind of way. I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear to slip back into my old life, my old job, putting my energies into the things that had seemed so vitally important before they died, knowing how much I’d let them down.”

  “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself for this,” he murmured.

  She had another scoop of gelati, thinking back to that time in her life. “The thing is, I didn’t really have any great friends in Australia, no one who would have helped me with a baby. It’s not as though going home would have made things easier.”

  “Surely there must have been someone?”

  She shook her head. “I worked such long hours. Most of my friendships from high school and university fell by the wayside and my work friendships were kind of superficial. I told you, I focussed on my career to the exclusion of all else.”

  “Relationships?”

  “You mean with guys?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Or women, if that’s your thing.”

  She smiled. “Not that I know of.” She sobered. “I mean, I dated. Nothing serious. I get bored easily.”

  He turned to face her and now there was heat in his eyes, a heat that sparked low down in her abdomen. “I beg to differ.”

  She bit back what it had been on the tip of her tongue to say – that he was different. His ego didn’t need the praise and she didn’t welcome the admission, even to herself. His eyes probed hers and it was as though a spotlight was pointing at her, highlighting every dip and crevice of her soul.

  She shifted a little in the seat, turning to look at the ancient streetscape, noting the sweep of the road, the cobbled pavers laid eons ago, the flowers tumbling from window boxes. A little way down, a man and woman walked arm in arm, their faces close, their smiles broad. Something pulled in Elodie’s chest.

  Envy.

  Envy of their happy, relaxed, enamoured state. Envy of the love that obviously surrounded them.

  She turned back to Fiero. He was looking at the couple as well, his expression inscrutable. “Why did your marriage break up?”

  The question had his eyes shifting back to hers. “Many reasons.”

  “That’s not fair,” she murmured softly. “I’ve answered all of your questions.”

  “That was the deal we made.”

  She swallowed, acid in her mouth. The feeling of being on tenterhooks was not one she relished. She stood abruptly, walking across the street and putting what remained of her gelati in the bin. When she returned to the seat, she didn’t meet Fiero’s eyes and she didn’t sit down, instead, she stayed where she was, hovering a couple of feet away, the distance feeling strangely important.

  Frustration was pummelling her. Frustration at their uneven footing, at the way he was so in control, like a closed book, determined to feel certain things and then nothing, determined to keep himself at arm’s length from her gnawing at her insides. Even his proposition the night before had been so tempered and calm, like a business proposal, the clear delineations between sex and sanity ones he felt comfortable keeping.

  She jammed her hands in the pockets of her denim skirt, looking around the corner. They’d wandered for quite a while and she had no idea where they were, but suddenly, she was impatient to be home. “We should get Jack back to the villa. He’s had a big morning.”

  “He’s fine. We’re almost at the playground.”

  Great. Just what she needed. She bit down on her lip, the emotions exploding through her proving almost impossible to control. “Why don’t you take him? I’m feeling a bit tired.”

  But his eyes were on her face, scanning her features, reading every feeling and thought. “Are you?”

  She looked away from him, the lie caught in her mouth. He stood, coming to stand in front of her, close, so close she tasted him in her mouth when she inhaled. “You’re running away.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “You’re angry with me because I didn’t answer your question and now you’re running away.”

  “No,” she contradicted after a moment, her voice hushed so Jack wouldn’t pick up on the tone of their conversation. “You’re the one who’s running away. I have every right to ask about your marriage.” Her eyes flashed and anger surged inside of her. She was grateful to that emotion, grateful to feel something other than hurt. “But you clam up whenever I try to get beneath the surface. You have made running away an art form.”

  Surprise showed in his face. “My marriage was between Alison and me. I don’t feel comfortable discussing it.”

  “With me.”

  “With anyone.”

  “So you’re fine to sleep with me in the death throes of your marriage but not to tell me why it ended? You’re right – that would be a real betrayal.”

  The flesh at the base of his jaw shifted, as he ground his teeth together. “My marriage was over.”

  “Not legally.”

  “No.”

  “Did she know about me? Did you tell her about that night?”

  His eyes flared. “No.”

  “Because you knew what we did was wrong. You didn’t want to tell her.”

  “I didn’t want to hurt her,” he corrected.

  “But you hurt me.”

  His eyes widened and she looked away, the breeze lifting her hair, pulling it across her face. He lifted a hand and brushed it, tucking it behind her ear. “I know.”

  Pain sliced through Elodie. She took a small step backwards, to break the spell of their conversation, the proximity of their bodies.

  His eyes were locked to hers in a silent but unmistakable battle of the wills.

  She refused to look away, but her anger was still there, pushing at her flesh from the inside out. “How come you didn’t tell me who you were?”

  “My marriage wasn’t relevant.”

  “Liar,” she scoffed, shaking her head, forcing herself to whisper when she remembered Jack was right by them. “And that’s not what I mean. Why didn’t you tell me who you are?” She jabbed a finger at his chest. “You gave me your fi
rst name, not your last.”

  His expression didn’t shift but something in his eyes twisted, a darkness, a coldness, a doubt, that pricked at her belly. “That didn’t seem relevant either.”

  She glared at him. “I don’t believe you.”

  “No?”

  “I’ve had a long time to think about this. Three years, in fact.” Her eyes sparked with his, hurt in the depths of hers. “You went out of your way not to tell me who you were. At any point you could have mentioned your family, your job, the fact you’re one of the richest men in the world.” She swallowed back her resentment. “You didn’t, and I think it’s because you didn’t want me to know. A simple google search of your name brought up thousands of photos of you and your wife. It was likely that if I knew you were a Montebello I would have put two and two together and realised you were married.”

  He watched her with a stony silence.

  “You chose not to tell me who you were because you thought I might realise you were married and put an end to what we were doing. And I would have.” Tears sparked on her lashes. “Damn you, Fiero, I would have. What right did you have to take that choice from me? To lie to me and put me in the position of being the other woman?”

  “My marriage was,” – he didn’t get to finish the sentence.

  “Over, you keep saying that, but it wasn’t, or you would have been honest with me. You would have told me your name, and the fact you were in the midst of getting divorced. You would have told me about your grandfather. But it was always going to be just a one-night stand for you – an illicit bit of fun on the side with no strings, no complications, no consequences. Right?”

  He looked away from her, his expression impossible to interpret.

  “That’s why you crept out while I was still asleep.”

  “I took precautions. And I left a note,” he muttered. “And a clear way for you to contact me.”

  “But you were glad when I didn’t, right?”

  He didn’t answer; he didn’t need to. She knew she was right.