The Sicilian's Banished Bride Page 3

  And now he was touching her again and she could hardly remain still for the surge of excitement that fizzed through her veins. She wanted to lean into his touch, press his fingers more deeply against her, imprint his skin on hers until she didn’t know where he ended and she began.

  ‘Answer me, Mia. Do you know this child?’

  Mia jerked away, stung and ashamed.

  What was she doing playing right into the hands of her enemy? Rocco no longer had sexual power over her, so why was she standing there, gazing up at him like...like...?

  She took a hasty step back, tried to remain calm as her gaze dropped to the picture. A cherubic face smiled back at her with cheeky impertinence. The child’s dark blue eyes twinkled with mirth and the mop of black curls danced in a slight breeze. She wanted to reach out and caress the slightly dimpled chin, which some day would deepen like his father’s.

  Did she know this child?

  Of course she knew him.

  She’d carried him in her womb for nine months, loved him with every fibre of her being long before he’d delivered the first of many vicious kicks inside her, and adored every strand of hair, every soft velvety inch of him from the moment he was placed in her arms.

  ‘Of course I know him,’ she replied, her voice strong and steady with the power of emotion she felt for her son.

  Shock detonated in Rocco’s eyes.

  For a moment there, she’d almost given into the urge to deny knowledge of her own son to keep him safe. After all, Rocco had never met him, so he didn’t know what Gianni looked like.

  But her innate honesty and fierce pride as Gianni’s mother had overridden that urge immediately. Besides, from the look in his eyes, Rocco had expected her to lie. After all, she was an expert at it, right? Well, wrong.

  Gianni was her son, and she would do anything to protect him.

  Rocco’s already ashen pallor—from whatever Mrs Hart had said to him—faded even more. Intrigued, she watched the picture waver as his hand trembled.

  That in itself was so shocking, so out of character, her eyes flew to his. Rocco? Tremble? Never. Even in bed, in the throes of ecstasy, he’d trumpeted his dominance, much like a lion roaring in triumph.

  * * *

  ‘And how, exactly, do you know the child?’ His voice tremored, his accent thickening on the hoarse whisper.

  She gulped, tried to calm the near hysterical warning voice shrieking in her head—he’s playing games with you. Stop him at all costs. ‘You know very well how I know him. And stop calling him the child. His name is Gianni.’

  He absorbed that with another round of jaw-gritting. ‘How do you know him, Mia?’

  ‘I don’t appreciate whatever game you’re playing, Rocco. Get out of my house. Right now, or I’ll call the pol—’

  He whirled away from her, clawing visibly trembling fingers through his hair. The action killed off her words long before he reversed direction, closed the gap between them and gripped her arms.

  Desperately, she tried to wrest herself from his hold, to curb the sensation stealing through her senses, but he held her easily. And the sorry thing was, Mia didn’t really want to fight the torrid sensation cascading through her. The intoxicating memory of how it’d felt to be held like this by Rocco.

  ‘You will tell me what I want to know. Now.’ Eyes as dark as a stormy sea threatened to flay her.

  The command spurred her to do something other than languish in painful memories. ‘No. Go to hell. I will not indulge in this stupid game with you.’

  ‘According to Mrs Hart, he’s asleep. His afternoon nap, am I right? Perhaps you’d like me to wait for him to wake? See for myself what you’re hiding from me?’

  The blood drained from her face. Rocco hadn’t changed. If anything, the laser-sharp intellect that had seen him rise from a renowned architect to iconic innovator had been honed even sharper. With a few words, he’d whittled away her resistance.

  ‘No, I think not,’ he emphasised with calm incisiveness. ‘Instead, you’ll answer my question.’

  * * *

  ‘Why should I?’ she croaked through lips tingling with a thousand firing nerves.

  ‘Because I dropped everything to come here to find out and I will not be toyed with.’

  Her fists slammed against his chest as anger fired up within her. ‘Yet you’re happy to do the same with other people? Does it give you a sick thrill to hold the power of life and death in your hands, Rocco?’

  His lips twisted. ‘You’ve developed quite a taste for melodrama since we last met, cara. But it’s a taste I don’t have the time or inclination to indulge in.’

  She shivered at his chilling tone. ‘Why now, Rocco? Do you have some sadistic urge to see how I live? See what you’ve reduced me to?’

  He started to frown but she waved him away.

  ‘Don’t bother pretending. Thing is, I never took you for a sadist. More fool me, right? Because when it comes down to it, what had I really known about the man I was once engaged to marry?’ Nothing because, in the end, the man she’d loved, the man who’d purportedly respected her intellect and creativity by day and whispered heated, magical promises to her as he’d worshipped her body with his own by night, had morphed into a snarling, heartless, vitriol-spewing monster.

  A monster who was now asking her a question to which he already knew the answer!

  He dropped his arms and paced the living room once more, his expression bewildered. The action focused her gaze on his stunning, harsh beauty. Unforgiving blue eyes glowered at her, giving her no quarter from their lethal demand. Cheekbones seemingly fashioned from polished marble stood out in haughty relief; his dark stubbled jaw made her fingers tingle wildly.

  ‘You’re talking in riddles and my patience is running thin, Mia.’

  She could verify that from the frantic pulse throbbing in his temple. ‘Then you can leave the same way you came. The door is still open.’

  Use it. Please, please leave.

  ‘Christo! Answer me!’ he barked.

  ‘Why?’

  He growled and uttered a single curse. It was a curse she’d heard him utter only once before, when it had seemed her begging and grovelling for a chance to explain had got too much for him to stomach three years ago. Then, he’d thrust her away from him and marched out, telling her in no uncertain terms that she had twenty minutes to pack her bags and clear out of his Palermo villa before his security detail gave her a firm hand.

  Now those hands were braced on his hips, his eyes narrowed on her face. She forced herself not to cower as she witnessed his failing patience in the hectic colour slashing his contoured cheekbones.

  Lifting her head, she glared right back. ‘You know exactly who he is, Rocco. What I don’t know is why you’re pretending otherwise. You know Gianni’s my son. Just as you know he’s yours!’

  * * *

  Silence, thick and monumental, circled them, rising, whipping up her bewilderment until it threatened to choke her.

  Rocco’s hands dropped to his sides in shock. Then he trembled. She had to hand it to him. His acting skills were impeccable. Oscar-worthy.

  ‘You lie.’ His voice was a strangled rasp, barely audible over her thundering heart. ‘You lie,’ he insisted, his voice growing deadlier with each word.

  His skin was stretched taut over frozen features and his eyes—although they bored into hers—held the stunned glaze of disbelief and made her think he wasn’t really seeing her.

  ‘For goodness’ sake. Why would I lie about something like this?’ Something he already knew.

  Her answer seemed to rouse him from some dark, unknown place. He focused on her, and the look in the stormy depths stilled her breath.

  ‘This child is mine?’

  Again the warning shrieked in her head. Rocco Vitelli was playing a very dangerous game with her; a game she had no w
ay of winning unless she focused. To do that she needed to get away from him, put some space between herself and his heady, mind-altering proximity.

  She took a step out of his immediate orbit. He didn’t follow. Because he was too stunned?

  Certainly the way his eyes had darkened, the way his hand wasn’t quite steady when he raked through his dark hair again, implied he was.

  But...why? He’d known about his child as soon as she’d found out she was pregnant with Gianni. And she’d kept him apprised of every single milestone in her early pregnancy in the hope that he’d come around, that he’d let her explain—again—her version of the events that had ended their engagement. Of course, in the end, that had backfired on her big time. Her life had been hurled into a hellish nightmare the likes of which she could never have imagined.

  Rocco had seen to that.

  Rocco, the same man who now stood before her, feigning aggrieved innocence.

  She backed towards the door. With any luck, Mrs Hart would still be lurking outside, greedy for gossip. This time Mia didn’t mind who saw her. She’d need witnesses who’d testify that she hadn’t invited Rocco here. Mrs Hart would be perfect—

  ‘I want to see him.’

  The simple, hoarse words stopped her in her tracks.

  She whirled to face him. ‘No. What you need to do is leave my house.’

  ‘You tell me I have a son, sleeping upstairs, a child I have never seen, and you expect me to leave?’ His accent was even thicker, his voice rising with incredulity.

  The injustice of the accusation stung deep. She abandoned her plan to seek witnesses and stalked back to him. ‘And whose fault is that, Rocco? You had endless chances and chose not to take them. So don’t you dare act as if any of this is my fault.’

  ‘Not your fault? Who should I blame, then, cara, hmm?’ The vibrant olive tinge to his skin hadn’t quite returned, but his eyes were alive again, threatening to tear chunks out of her with each glance.

  ‘I know it’s very hard for you, but perhaps you could try pointing the finger at yourself? Instead of getting to know him, of taking the chance to be a part of your son’s life, to watch him grow, you decided to punish an innocent child instead.’ Her voice threatened to crack, but she swallowed away the pain. ‘Well, you’ll see him over my dead body!’

  ‘Maledizione! From the melodramatic, you’ve now descended into the downright absurd. Punish an innocent child? If by that you mean depriving him of his right to know his father, then you should be pointing the finger at yourself. Dio mio, you sound delusional!’

  Neon lights lit up in her head as her worst fears were confirmed. ‘Finally. I was wondering when you’d get round to making that accusation. You’ve changed, Rocco. You used to get to the point pretty much instantly. Now you go around the houses, and what for? Playing the puppet master is now your thing, is it?’

  ‘Che? What in heaven’s name are you talking about?’ He shook his head, reached out and grasped her wrist. ‘Something’s not right with you. Since I got here, nothing you’ve said has made any sense.’

  Mia couldn’t stop the hysterical laughter that bubbled up in her throat or the cheap thrill it gave her when Rocco’s frown intensified. Her laughter grew until warm tears streamed down her cheeks. ‘You...you are really priceless, Rocco, you know that?’

  His jaw tightened. ‘Enough! I’ve had more than enough of your histrionics. I want to see the child, and I want to see him now.’

  That dissolved the laughter instantly. Somewhere in her mind, she registered he still hadn’t used Gianni’s name, almost as if her son wasn’t real to him. But if Rocco didn’t want to acknowledge their child, why was he insisting on seeing him?

  ‘Not until you tell me why. Why do you want to see him, Rocco? Why now?’

  * * *

  Rocco tried his damnedest to stop his senses spinning. To still for a moment so he could formulate one clear, coherent thought.

  But the moment he focused on Mia, on the feisty woman whose pulse hammered beneath his hand, everything began to blur again.

  Mia.

  His child.

  Here. Living in this sleepy village in the middle of Nowhere, England.

  Mia, spouting some garbage about him ignoring his child, not taking the chance to know his own flesh and blood. The blur intensified, threatening to spin out of control. A door cracked open in his mind, throwing more light on the long-buried yearning he’d sealed drum-tight. Dreams of a family, of love, hope, everything that had callously been denied him, until Nonna had taken control, sacrificed everything for her grandson, shown him a different way, not knowing the scars were already too deep to heal—

  He slammed the door shut, gritted his teeth and forced himself to focus.

  How could Mia believe that he’d ignore his child’s existence? When he’d made no secret of how much he’d wanted an heir. A fact she’d known but had had no intention of fulfilling with him when she’d rapturously accepted his proposal...

  From what the neighbour had said, the child looked healthy and seemed well taken care of. Seemed. But who knew what went on behind closed doors?

  Madre di Dio! He couldn’t believe Nonna had been right. The sheer, fragile coincidence, the flimsiness of fate, of what he could’ve missed all his life, terrified him to his very soul. Made him want to curse. And punish.

  What if his grandmother had taken another route to mass? What if she hadn’t been paying attention to the electronic billboard on the side of the road?

  The thought that he could’ve remained oblivious to his son’s existence, his own flesh and blood, sent a renewed wave of anguish and anger through him. And all because of the selfishness of the woman in front of him.

  What had she asked him? Why now?

  As if he’d ever been given the chance before. He took a calming breath, stifling the urge to deliver a tiny dose of what he was going through.

  As an only child, he had been so desperately lonely, what with his parents’ callous and blatant neglect, and Nonna working all hours to provide for him. At the age of ten, watching his grandmother scrimp and save to make ends meet, he’d vowed first to make enough money to see her in luxury in her old age, a vow he’d made come true hundreds of millions of times over. His second vow had been that no child of his—should he ever have them—would grow up experiencing the deep scars of neglect and cruel indifference. For Nonna’s sake, he’d never ruled out marriage. But to do that he’d also vowed to find a suitable wife who would fulfil his strict parameters of care for his future children.

  That particular goal had been elusive, and over the years it’d slowly eroded until he’d eventually given up any hope of ever fulfilling it.

  Then he’d met Mia Gallagher. With her, he’d contemplated the rebirth of all his long-cherished but slowly abandoned goals. Or so he’d thought.

  She’d led him on with promises of a future he’d all but encouraged Nonna to give up on. Right up to the weeks before he’d placed his wedding ring on her finger. Then he’d had the scales pulled viciously from his eyes.

  Her lies he could tolerate, if not forgive. But this! Keeping his own flesh and blood from him?

  ‘Are you insane to ask me why I want to know the existence of my own child? You think anything will come between me and my flesh and blood?’ The ugly sneer he heard in his own voice made his anger rise. He never lost control like this. Never. But this woman had driven him to the very brink of sanity. Once three years ago. And now.

  Her eyes had widened. Clear green eyes he’d once upon a time drowned in; eyes he’d seen fill with tears when he’d gone down on one knee in the presence of his beloved grandmother and proposed to her; eyes he’d watched darken in passion as she’d whispered how much she adored him, how he meant everything to her, how much she couldn’t wait to join her life with his.

  Of course, she’d had a different interpretat
ion of just what she’d been hoping for from their union.

  Clear, luminous, almond-shaped deceptive eyes. Eyes that held his without a hint of remorse even in the face of her barefaced lies. Add that slight tremble to her plump, kissable lips and any man was destined to believe every insincere word she uttered.

  Any man but him. He’d taken her measure when she’d lied through her teeth even in the face of concrete evidence three years ago.

  So why was he standing here, trying to reason with her? Could he even believe the child was his? Well, only one way to find out. He whirled away from her and stalked to the stairs. A house this small, it wouldn’t be difficult to find the child.

  An affronted gasp sounded behind him as she scrambled after him.

  ‘Wait! Where do you think you’re going?’

  Good, that was the reaction he wanted. Maybe now she’d drop this crazy pretence and take him seriously.

  His foot was on the second step when her small hands closed over his bicep. The kick of lust he’d felt earlier returned, sharper, deeper, awakening senses he’d thought long dead. His anger only escalated and he stiffened against the reaction, ready to pull away.

  ‘Rocco, wait! You can’t go up there!’

  He glanced down into her heart-shaped face and read real terror there. Dio! Did she think he intended to harm the child?

  Or was she reacting to something else? He stepped down quicker than he’d climbed.

  ‘Why are you so afraid to let me see him? Is he unwell? Is that why you’ve kept me in the dark about his existence? If so, know that nothing will—’

  She jerked back with a frown. ‘No, of course not. Gianni is a perfectly happy and healthy little boy,’ she defended hotly.

  Rocco let out the breath locked in his lungs and regained the step. ‘Bene, then nothing should prevent me from seeing him. Do you want to lead the way, or should I just wander from room to room until I find him?’