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She’d seen the guest list, obviously, had noticed his name, and she’d idly asked Henry why he’d invited some Italian billionaire to the party. Because the man wanted to buy some island that Henry owned, or something to that effect. Matilda hadn’t really been listening.
She’d still been struggling with her shock at seeing his name on the list.
Enzo Cardinali. Billionaire property developer and heir to a kingdom that no longer existed. A cold, ruthless, driven businessman who, along with his brother Dante, had taken Cardinal Construction, a small construction start-up, and turned it into Cardinal Enterprises, a huge multi-national that had expanded beyond building houses and into property development as well as various other industries. Hotels. Real estate. Manufacturing. Technology.
He was well known in the kind of Fortune 500 circles Henry also moved in, and had a reputation for being an icy force of nature, both feared and respected for the ruthless way he did business. He was a shark, a cold-blooded predator through and through—or at least, that was what the articles she’d read about him all said.
Not that she’d read a lot of articles. But she did like to keep up with what he was doing every now and then. It always paid to know the direction from which any potential threats might come.
Except he hadn’t been a threat four years ago on that island. And he’d been neither cold-blooded or ruthless.
He’d burned like the sun and she, utterly defenceless against a man like him, had burned along with him.
She gave a little moan, the wall pressing hard against her back, the urge simply to slide down it and sit on the expensive Turkish runner that covered the floor almost overwhelming.
Why had she thought it wouldn’t be a problem? Why had she believed that she could easily avoid him? Why hadn’t she taken Simon and gone away to visit her aunt and uncle for the weekend? Or gone to London, or basically gone anywhere else?
But there wasn’t any point thinking about the whys and what ifs. She hadn’t gone anywhere. She’d stayed and he’d seen her. And, worse, he’d seen Simon.
He knows.
Of course he did. There was no disguising the colour of her son’s eyes. So different. So unique. So beautiful.
A family trait, or so Enzo had told her one night as they’d lain curled up on the beach in each other’s arms looking at the stars, and he’d told her about the island kingdom to which he’d once been heir.
There had been a warmth to him that, after living with her emotionally distant aunt and uncle, had felt like walking into summer after long years of winter. It had been irresistible to her, so intensely attractive, she’d given herself to him without thought.
She’d been on that island for one last holiday before her official engagement, a gift from Henry, who’d known all along that she hadn’t wanted to marry him but who’d been trying to make it easier for her. Not that she’d known it at the time. All she’d understood was that, if she didn’t marry Henry, her aunt and uncle would lose their beautiful stately home deep in the Devonshire countryside.
It had been a very English, almost mediaeval arrangement.
After the death of her parents when she’d been seven, she’d been taken in by her childless uncle and aunt, and although they’d distantly been kind to her she’d never managed to get rid of the feeling that she was only there on sufferance. That they’d been forced to take her.
So she’d tried to make herself useful. Tried to be no bother. Her uncle didn’t like fusses or distractions, so she’d kept herself quiet and tried to behave herself, not put a foot out of line. She hadn’t wanted them to get rid of her or regret giving her a home.
And it had all worked very well.
So well that, when her aunt and uncle had been refused more money by the bank for the upkeep of their house and their family friend Henry St George had stepped in, offering money in return for marriage to Matilda, they’d naturally assumed she’d agree.
And she had. Because they’d taken her in, had given her a home and sacrificed the later years of their lives bringing her up. Marrying Henry St George so they could keep their house had seemed a small sacrifice to make in return.
That she actually hadn’t wanted to marry Henry, she’d kept quiet about. He was her aunt and uncle’s age and, even though he was a nice enough man, she hadn’t been in love with him. She hadn’t been even attracted to him. He’d told her that he didn’t require sex in the marriage, that all he wanted was companionship in his later years, yet Matilda had still been apprehensive about it.
So when Henry had offered her a holiday by herself at a Caribbean resort before the engagement—a kind of last hurrah as a single woman—she’d decided to take it as a treat for herself.
And that was when she’d met him.
Enzo.
He’d been talking to the resort manager as she’d been on her way to the pool, dressed—rather improbably, given the fact that they were on a tropical island—in a three-piece suit.
He should have looked ridiculous, standing there in the hot sun dressed in layers of fine Italian wool. But he hadn’t. He’d looked dark, commanding and fierce. And utterly, devastatingly, gorgeous.
She’d never bothered much with men, preferring to stick to her studies at school, and then her English degree at university, but Enzo Cardinali had been a man completely outside her experience.
She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him.
And then he’d looked at her, that intense, amber gaze slamming into hers, stealing her breath, stealing her thought.
