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The sound of his name in her soft, husky voice made a bolt of lightning shoot straight down his spine, helplessly reminding him of other times when she’d said it.
‘Good.’ He kept his voice hard, trying not to let the heat creep into it. ‘Then if you know who I am you can explain to me why you didn’t tell me that I have a son.’
She was already pale; now she went the colour of ashes. But that defiant slant to her chin remained, the expression in her eyes guarded. ‘Like I said, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Enzo’s rage, already inflamed by his body’s betrayal, curdled into something very close to incandescence and it burned like fire in his blood, thick and hot.
He’d never been so angry in all his life, some distant part of him vaguely appalled at the intensity of his emotions—a reminder that he needed to lock it down, since his iron control was the only thing that set him apart from his power-hungry father.
But in this moment he didn’t care.
This woman, this beautiful, sexy, infuriating woman, hadn’t told him he had a son and, more, she’d kept it from him for four years.
Four. Years.
He took another step towards her, unable to help himself, the heat in his veins so hot it felt as if it was going to ignite him where he stood. ‘I see. So you are going to pretend you know nothing. How depressingly predictable of you.’
‘Simon is my son.’ Her hands had gone into fists at her sides and she didn’t move, not an inch. ‘And H-Henry’s.’ Her gaze was as cool as winter rain, but that slight stutter gave her away.
‘No.’ Enzo kept his voice
honed as a steel blade. ‘He is not. Those eyes are singular to the Cardinali line. Which makes him mine.’
‘But I—’
‘How long have you known, Matilda? A year? Two?’ He took another step, forcing her back against the wall.
Enzo put a hand on the wall at one side of her silky red head and leaned in close so she had no choice but to stare straight at him. ‘Look at me, cara. Look at me and tell me that you don’t see your son staring back.’
