“Welcome, Miss Higginbotham,” he said in that voice that she still dreamed of, all these months later.

“I’m pleased that we were able to come to an arrangement. As you are already aware, my sister is a handful.”

It took her spinning head entirely too long to catch up. To catch on. Because this didn’t make sense. Or maybe Beatrice didn’t want it to make sense.

But all that shivery heat changed inside her as the penny dropped. It twisted all around, turned cold, then seemed to flood straight through her to hit the hard marble floor.

She understood too many things in that moment.

Almost too much to bear—but one thing above all.

This was Cesare Chiavari. There was no doubt. And he was not only her new employer, he was the man she’d met in Venice. He was the only lover she had ever taken into her body. He was the father of the child she carried.

And she could tell by looking at him, and that vaguely impatient, arrogantly polite expression on his face, that he didn’t recognize her at all.