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Her solicitor had got in touch after she’d disappeared, asking if Nico would grant her a divorce. He’d flatly refused.
What irritated Nico, though, was the fact that it hadn’t been the possibility that she might be pregnant that had made him refuse—it had been a knee-jerk instinctive reaction. He didn’t want to let her go. And he wasn’t even sure why. He had the castello now, he could divorce and remarry—someone eminently more suitable. Exactly as she’d suggested.
But Nico had never been good at taking other people’s suggestions. Especially when he didn’t want to do something.
None of the women he’d met in the last five months had interested him in the slightest. He’d found himself comparing their sleek thoroughbred thinness with the lush curves of the women he’d married.
Damn her.
Nico heard the distinct ping of a new email from behind him and went back to his desk. He sat down and clicked on the link. Images filled the screen. Images of his wife. Entering and leaving what looked like a small, intimate Italian restaurant on one of Dublin’s leafy city streets. The same kind of Italian establishment that populated cities the world over. This one was called Bella Toscana. Unoriginal and utterly pedestrian.
She was dressed in a black top and trousers and a white apron. He tensed as his gaze narrowed on the very evident swell of her
belly. Pregnant. She’d be five months pregnant now. That small waist had stretched to accommodate her pregnancy.
Nico had always seen having a family as an abstract thing. A promise to his father. A duty to fulfil. A burden, almost. But now, as he looked at the image of his pregnant wife, he didn’t feel abstract or dutiful... He felt a surge of something very primal. Possessive.
Mine. My seed.
Nico was shocked at this evidence that their wedding night had borne fruit. If you’re the father, said a snide inner voice. Who was to say Chiara hadn’t slept with another man just after him?
The thought of her sharing that look of wide-eyed wonder with another man made something even more primal and possessive beat through him. She wouldn’t. But then...what did he know? He barely knew her. But she had a hold on his libido he didn’t like.
He ignored the snide inner voices and let the prospect sink in for a moment. He had a family. The revelation sent conflicting emotions through him.
He immediately thought of his father, heard his gruff voice... ‘Nicolo, you have to have a family or our name will be gone for ever. You are all that is left of what was once a great and powerful dynasty. The Santo Domenicos cannot be allowed to fade away with such a stain on our name. You cannot let that happen... Promise me, Nicolo... Promise me.’
And he’d promised him. Just as he’d promised him to regain the castello, whatever it took, along with restoring their fortune and good name.
Nico looked at the pictures again and focused on Chiara’s face. She looked much the same. Her long hair was pulled back into a ponytail that swung over her shoulder. She still wore no make-up. She looked pale. Tired. That realisation made him feel uncomfortable.
He recalled the unusual light green of her eyes all too easily. And the way they had glowed like translucent emeralds as he’d joined their bodies. His gaze caught on her full breasts, pushing against the top she wore.
His body rose to rampant life.
Inferno!
He closed down the images and picked up his phone. When the call was answered at the other end he said tersely, ‘It’s her...yes. Definitely.’
Nico stood up again and walked back over to the window, the lingering heat in his body being replaced with icy cold resolve and anger.
‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and get her myself.’
* * *
‘They want the short pasta, Tony. Not the linguine.’
Chiara stifled a smile as the head chef scowled and made a rude comment about people not knowing how to eat Italian food properly. She put a hand instinctively on her neat bump, rubbing it distractedly. The baby hadn’t moved in a while, but she wasn’t concerned. It usually seemed to sleep when she was active, and then bounced around when she was trying to sleep—which didn’t help her energy levels.
All she wanted to do was sleep...except sleep let the demons take over her mind. The nights were the hardest...when she couldn’t block out the memories of him. Her husband. The man she’d left after one night of marriage.
One night had been enough to tell her that she was way out of her depth. She’d known she was out of her depth but she’d ignored the voices telling her so, too greedy to experience what he was offering. And it had burnt her. Badly.
She’d spent the first couple of months cursing herself that she hadn’t tried harder to negotiate a deal in which marriage hadn’t been necessary. Surely he would have agreed to something if she’d pushed him enough?
Now she’d never know. And you would never have had that night, reminded an inner voice. The night that had changed her life. Literally.
At first she’d tried to ignore the signs that she was pregnant—missed periods—telling herself it was stress. And it had been stressful. Her first time out of Italy, living in a foreign country with minimal English. But she’d done well, and she was proud of how she’d survived and thrived.
