ENZO SAT IN the comfort of his private jet and regarded the small boy sitting opposite him, who was watching him in turn with equal seriousness.
The child’s black hair was spiked up, his Cardinali golden eyes large. He had his mother’s freckles sprinkled across his nose, and her chin too, angled right now with the same determination.
A fine-looking boy. But that was no surprise; he had the Cardinali royal genes.
You’d better hope he has none of the royal flaws.
Enzo ignored the thought, aware of Matilda sitting beside her son, pale and silent. She hadn’t said a word to Enzo the entire morning.
He didn’t like it. It reminded him too much of his mother’s pointed silences. Then again, pressing would make it look as if he cared and he didn’t. No, this wouldn’t be easy for her, but then spending four whole years not knowing he had a son wasn’t easy for him either.
‘I don’t like you,’ his son said with finality after a moment.
Matilda stiffened. ‘Simon, don’t say—’
‘It’s fine.’ Enzo wasn’t bothered. He didn’t expect instant love from the boy, especially given he was a complete stranger to him. ‘You don’t have to like me,’ he went on, addressing the child. ‘But I’m still your father.’
Simon had taken in his stride the news that his father had turned up out of the blue and was intent on taking him and his mother to Italy. As long as there was a swimming pool, he’d said, he didn’t mind.
The boy frowned and for a second Enzo saw his own father in him, which wasn’t a comfortable thought. ‘Why didn’t you come before?’
Enzo didn’t have to ask what Simon meant and for a second he caught Matilda’s grey stare. Colour flushed her cheekbones, a pretty stain of pink.
She was lovely this morning, even in another jeans and T-shirt outfit, with her hair pulled back from her face, the rest of it tumbling over her shoulders in a riot of red.
Desire shifted inside him, lean and hungry as a starving leopard, but he ignored it the way he ignored the anger that shifted along with it.
He would never let himself be at the mercy of his emotions or his baser desires. Not again.
‘I didn’t come before because I didn’t know I had a son,’ he said, because why should he spare her feelings when she hadn’t spared his? ‘Not until your mother told me last night.’
The boy’s frown deepened. ‘And will you be my father for ever?’
‘Yes,’ he said, meeting his son’s gaze. ‘I will be your father for ever.’
Simon chewed his bottom lip. ‘Okay. But I already have a daddy. I can’t call you Daddy too.’
Enzo’s anger twisted, though it wasn’t directed at his son. Because, of course, the boy was presumably talking about St George, which was understandable, given that St George was the only father figure he’d ever known.
Enzo didn’t look at Matilda, though he could feel the distress radiating from her. He didn’t feel sorry for her, not one single iota.
She was the one who’d created this situation. She could deal with it.
‘Of course not,’ Enzo agreed. ‘You’re part Italian. You will call me Papa.’
‘Papa,’ the boy echoed, copying Enzo’s accent. Then he shrugged as if he had no feeling about it one way or the other. ‘Can I play on your phone, Mummy?’
Enzo reached for his own phone before realising belatedly that the child probably wouldn’t want it since there were no games on it.
But Matilda had already taken hers out and had given it to her son, who took it happily. ‘Go and sit over there, Simon,’ she murmured, indicating a long, low couch on the other side of the cabin. ‘I need to talk to Mr Cardinali.’
‘I think you mean “Papa”,’ Enzo corrected, because he did not want her forgetting, not for one second, who the boy’s father was.
Something flashed in Matilda’s eyes, but she didn’t say anything, shooing the boy away to the couch where he could play his games in peace.
Once the child had settled, she said, ‘I think it’s time you told me what the plan is.’
Enzo sat back in his seat, staring at her. Oh, yes, she was certainly beautiful today. Her T-shirt was grey, deepening the storm-cloud colour of her eyes. She wore no make-up and when she’d met him in the car that morning, although she’d brought plenty of luggage for Simon she’d brought only a small bag with her.
Obviously she was driving home the point that she wasn’t making an effort for him, nor was she intending to stay very long.
Unfortunately for her, he was going to ensure that she stayed as long as Simon needed her to, regardless of how she felt about it. Because when he’d said he would take her last night, he’d meant it.
He wouldn’t leave his son without something familiar. And she was that something familiar. At least, until the boy had got to know him, naturally enough.
The satisfaction of the night before returned, settling the coal of anger that smouldered inside him. Yes, taking the boy and Matilda too had been the right decision. The only decision.
He’d met with St George that morning before they’d left and had made an offer on Isola Sacra, doubling his previous offer, because he didn’t want to mess around now he had his son. St George had taken it without argument, the same way he’d accepted Enzo’s insistence on Matilda coming with him the night before.
It had puzzled Enzo a little that the man had made no protest, especially considering that he and St George’s wife had once been lovers. Enzo himself wouldn’t have been so accepting if the positions had been reversed, after all. But he hadn’t thought about it in any depth at the time, too pleased with how everything had turned out with so little fuss.
However, reflecting on it now, St George’s lack of protest was...odd.
‘Plan?’ Enzo murmured, studying her. ‘What plan?’
Her lovely mouth tightened. ‘You know what I’m talking about. You haven’t told me a thing about what’s going to happen when we get to Milan.’
‘I haven’t told you anything because you haven’t asked.’
The colour in her cheeks intensified, anger glittering in her eyes.
Well, that was better than silence. Oh, yes, a lot better. Strong women had always appealed to him, which made it a great pity that she was someone else’s. Because, now that he thought about it, he wouldn’t mind revisiting a few old memories. It was only sex. And perhaps he would be the one to leave her with nothing but an empty bed and cold sheets.
‘Well,’ Matilda said tightly, folding her hands in her lap. ‘Now I’m asking.’
‘What will happen?’ he echoed. ‘Simon will stay in my villa until Isola Sacra, the island I’ve just purchased from your husband, is ready for guests. And then I will take him there.’
She blinked, her lashes glinting red in the sun coming through the plane’s windows. He remembered that rusty colour, the same glint as when she’d lain back on the blanket he’d put down on the sand and looked up at him, smiling as she’d idly stroked his bare shoulder...
‘Island?’ Matilda’s voice was sharp. ‘What island?’
Enzo controlled the heat that curled through him at the memory, ignoring the small tug of something that felt uncomfortably like pain. ‘The island your husband refused to sell to me unless I attended his ridiculous house party.’ He kept his voice cold. ‘Luckily, whatever scruples he had about selling it were easily dispensed with when I doubled the price.’
She looked away, as if something about his statement had bothered her. ‘And what about me?’
‘What about you?’ He couldn’t quite drag his gaze away from her profile, fixating on the shape of her mouth. It was full, the bottom lip sulky. He remembered biting on that bottom lip and making her shiver.
She didn’t appear to notice his stare, too busy gazing out of the window. ‘Presumably you want me to stay with Simon?’
‘Of course I want you to stay with Simon. That’s the whole reason you’re here, after all.’ He also wanted to reach out, take her chin in his fingers and tilt her head back so he could look into her stormy grey eyes. See what she was thinking, though why he wanted to do that he had no idea.
Very suddenly, she turned her head and her gaze met his head-on, and the challenge glowing deep in it hit him like a punch to the gut. ‘Simon and I can find our own accommodation,’ she said, as if she were throwing down a gauntlet. ‘We don’t need to stay with you.’
He went still as the hot coal in his gut flared into life.
Dio, did she really think that challenging him about this was a good idea? Now? After what she’d done to him? And not only him, but her son too. Because, yes, in depriving Enzo of Simon she’d also deprived Simon of Enzo.
A boy needed his father.
Pity yours was never there for you when you needed him.
The small flame of anger burned higher. No, of course his father hadn’t been there for Enzo. He’d been too full of rage and blame at the change of their circumstances, shouting and railing at his wife. Shouting and railing at Enzo and Dante too. It had been like water off a duck’s back for Dante, but not for Enzo. He was the oldest son. He was the heir. He was responsible.
Quite literally.
A shiver of ice snaked down his spine but he shoved the thought from his head before it could form.
His father had been a terror after he’d lost his throne, and after his wife had left him he’d been even worse. He’d simply pretended Enzo didn’t exist.
But you deserved that.
Yes, well, maybe he had. He and his father deserved each other, at least that was what his mother had flung at him after she’d discovered he’d emptied down the sink all the bottles of wine she’d had stashed away. He’d only been trying to help her, but she hadn’t seen it that way.
‘How dare you?’ she’d shouted at him. ‘So selfish and judgmental and controlling. Just like your father.’
Whatever... Right now, Simon didn’t deserve it, and Simon was what mattered. He would make sure he’d never treat his son the way his father had treated him. Or his mother, for that matter.
‘No,’ Enzo said with finality. ‘He will not be staying anywhere but with me. And so will you.’
Anger glittered in her eyes, like small shards of lightning. ‘Have you really thought about what having a child around is like? Four-year-olds aren’t exactly quiet. They have no concept of—’
‘I don’t care. You both will remain with me and that is final.’
Her chin adopted a mutinous slant and he found himself almost hoping she would push him further, harder, so he could...
So you can what?
Enzo shifted in his seat, annoyed with himself. He was letting her get under his skin, which was stupid in the extreme. Four years ago he’d let her do more than that; he’d let her almost find her way to his soul and he would never allow that to happen again. Most especially given that she was someone else’s.
Except that anger in her eyes fascinated him, challenged him. Demanded a response from him. A response he wanted to give.
Perhaps he would have to find another woman in Milan. It didn’t have to be her.
Matilda looked away again out of the window of the plane. ‘How long are you expecting to have him in Italy?’
Enzo had thought of this. He’d spent all night thinking about it. ‘Four years. You had him in England for four, he can spend four with me in Italy. After that, well, I’m a reasonable man. We can discuss more formal custody arrangements.’
She glanced back at him sharply. ‘Four years?’ The colour in her cheeks ebbed, her dusting of freckles stark against her pale skin.
‘Of course four years.’ He stared back, letting her see how serious he was. ‘You really think I’d want him for a week or two, only to send him back like an unwanted gift?’
‘But...he doesn’t speak any Italian. And he’s never lived anywhere else. And he doesn’t know anyone. England is his home.’
‘No,’ Enzo said. ‘Italy will be his home. Isola Sacra will be his home.’
An expression that looked like anguish crossed her face. ‘But...he’s just a little boy, Enzo. He doesn’t know he’s not coming back. He didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to anything.’
Neither did you.
Enzo ignored the thought, hardening himself. ‘Yes, and it’s easier when they’re young. He won’t remember.’
‘You did,’ Matilda said, her eyes glittering.
And there it was, the reminder again. Of what he’d told her, everything about himself that he’d laid bare. The pain of losing his home, of losing his history, of losing his roots. A glimpse of his soul.
Dio, he should never have told her.
‘I was fifteen.’ He ignored the past she’d been stupid enough to bring up. ‘Simon is four. He won’t remember. My brother didn’t.’ That Dante had been eleven and Enzo knew full well he actually had remembered was beside the point.
Simon was young. And if Enzo did his job properly his son wouldn’t even remember he’d been English in the first place.
Matilda held his gaze for a second and he could see the anger blazing in it, the fire at the heart of her burning high and hot in defence of her child.
He approved. His own mother hadn’t fought for him; she’d simply left.
Maybe she’d been right to leave.
Perhaps she had been. Again, though, beside the point. The fact was that if Matilda thought that getting angry would force him to do what she wanted she was mistaken.
Her lashes lowered all of a sudden, gazing down at her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her fingers were long, delicate, and he remembered what they’d felt like on his body. Wrapped around his shaft...
‘I’m sorry, Enzo.’ Her voice sounded scraped raw. ‘I know you’re angry. I made a mistake. I’m not sure what else I can do.’
There was a note in the words that hooked into a part of him he thought he’d buried after he’d returned to Italy from the island. A part he didn’t want to acknowledge.
He ignored it, hardening himself even further.
‘There is nothing you can do,’ he said. ‘Except give me everything I want.’
* * *
Matilda fought the anger that smouldered inside her like a hot coal. She wanted to get up and scream in his face that it was okay to punish her, but how could he take his anger at her out on their son? Because, no matter what he thought, that was exactly what he was doing.
But she stayed silent. Things were already as bad as they could get. She didn’t want to make them any worse.
It’s your own fault. You should have told him. You shouldn’t have let fear get in the way.
As if she didn’t know that already.
She took a deep breath, attempting to calm herself, but the scent of his aftershave surrounded her, rich and spicy, and all she could think about was how delicious he smelled.
God, she did not want to think about that.
Getting Simon up that morning and ready to leave had been a small nightmare in itself, especially when she hadn’t slept for more than an hour the previous night.
Henry had been distant saying goodbye to Simon—understandably—and even more so when he’d said goodbye to her. He hadn’t offered her any reassuring words or even a hug. He’d simply nodded and told her he’d see her later.
It had felt as if he was saying goodbye for good.
An old and familiar pain laced through her anger. His apparent lack of interest had made her feel like she was ten years old again, an orphan thrust on her uncle and aunt who’d been too busy dealing with their own grief and shock to spare much in the way of comfort for her.
They’d taken her without protest but she knew deep down that they’d never wanted kids. And they really hadn’t wanted her.
No one does.
Matilda’s jaw tightened. She shoved the thought away. No, giving in to her anger at Enzo and letting the past he brought trailing in his wake get to her was not what she was going to do. That wasn’t what was best for Simon and that was what she had to concentrate on now.
Her son was the most important thing in her life. And, yes, she’d made a mistake in not contacting Enzo about him, but she couldn’t keep focusing on that. She had to move on.
She didn’t want to look at the man lounging in the lush comfort of the private jet’s leather seats, all lean, muscular physicality and electric presence.
He was in another of his exquisitely tailored suits—dark-blue this time, the contrast making his eyes look even more golden than they already were—the cut drawing attention to his wide, powerful shoulders, lean hips and long legs. He had one ankle resting on the opposite knee, leaning back in the seat, his elbow on the arm rest, his chin in his palm. He watched her with all the focus of a bird of prey, all unblinking golden eyes and an unmistakable hunger.
He wants you, no matter how cold he sounds.
Matilda kept her gaze on her hands. She’d thought he wanted her last night. Was it still true?
The anger inside her became shivery, excited almost. Which only made her angrier. She didn’t want to feel this way about him. Didn’t want to remember those nights she’d spent with him. Didn’t want to be so painfully, physically aware of him.
You can use that if need be, remember?
‘So,’ Enzo said when she didn’t break the silence. ‘Tell me everything there is to know about my son. And when I say everything, cara, I do mean everything.’
She ignored the voice in her head. Shoved away the unwelcome pull of physical desire.
‘Okay.’ She steeled herself, lifting her gaze to his. ‘Where shall I start?’
His amber eyes burned. God, how could she have forgotten how fierce he could be? This merciless, uncompromising man might not be the Enzo Cardinali that she’d met and nearly fallen for but the ferocity she remembered was still there—or at least a colder, harder version of it.
‘Where else should you start but at the beginning? From the moment you realised you were pregnant and decided not to tell me.’
So, he wasn’t going to let her forget it nor was he going to forgive her for it. Well, he’d already told her he wouldn’t, and he was apparently a man of his word.
She’d simply have to deal with it.
‘Okay,’ she said and began.
He hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he wanted to know everything. He had questions about every aspect of Simon’s life, from what kind of food he’d liked as a baby to what kind of toys he’d preferred as a toddler. Enzo wanted to know all about Simon’s milestones, whether he had friends and how well he slept. What kinds of things he liked to do and whether he’d had any illnesses. Enzo’s interest was so focused and intent that she found herself almost relaxing as she told him about Simon’s life, because she was as interested in talking about her son as Enzo was interested in hearing about him.
‘And did you work?’ Enzo asked eventually. ‘Was he in day care?’
‘No.’ Resolutely she didn’t think about the degree she’d had to put on hold. ‘Simon was my sole focus.’
He gave no sign of whether he approved of this or not, his handsome face expressionless. ‘But you wanted to go to university. I remember you telling me.’
The words gave her a brief electric shock. He’d remembered that? She’d remembered everything that he’d told her, but she hadn’t thought he’d remember what she’d said to him. The hopes and dreams she’d revealed that first night, caught up in the intensity of his touch and the sheer wonder that someone like him would want her.
She fought to keep the shock from her face. ‘I decided to put that on hold. Simon was more important.’
‘But you could have gone. Your husband surely would have been able to afford a nanny or day care.’
Henry had indeed offered, but she’d refused. Her son came first and always had done. ‘It was better for Simon to be my sole focus,’ she said stiffly.
Enzo’s gaze was sharp and she had the uncomfortable feeling that he was seeing things in her she didn’t understand herself. ‘You wanted to go. That was your dream, you said.’
‘Yes, and I didn’t. What does it matter what I did or didn’t do, anyway? You wanted to know about Simon, not me.’
‘And you are his mother. You have an effect on him.’
‘I was fine with the decision.’ She could feel her hands clasping each other more tightly at the faint hollow echo in her voice, as if she didn’t believe it herself. ‘University could wait. Simon was only going to be little once.’
The words fell into the space between them, heavy as lead.
Enzo’s expression tightened at the reminder of all he’d missed out on.
Oh, God, why had she said that? Then again, there was nothing about this situation that wouldn’t be hurtful. There were sharp edges everywhere and neither of them was exempt from the pain of those cuts.
He shifted in his seat, the fabric of his suit trousers tightening over his thighs. ‘St George didn’t seem to be too upset at losing his wife. He didn’t even give you a goodbye kiss.’
The observation hurt, and she was under no illusions; somehow Enzo knew that. He was hell-bent on punishing her, apparently.
‘No,’ she said levelly, swallowing back the pain, determined not to show him that he was getting to her. ‘Henry is very old school. He doesn’t do public displays of affection.’
‘How strange then that he married you so soon after you returned to England. Four months, wasn’t it? Or was it more that you had to hide the fact that you were pregnant with my child?’
He didn’t know that she’d been promised to Henry. That was the one thing she hadn’t told him. As far as he knew, she’d been single, taking some time out for a holiday before she went home and started university.
She was powerless against the flush that she could feel creeping up her neck and heating her cheeks. ‘Like I told you, Henry knew from the beginning that Simon wasn’t his.’
‘He must have been very much in love with you to marry you anyway.’
She could tell Enzo the truth right now. Tell him that her marriage was in name only and that Henry had never been a husband to her, only a friend. But there was a small, stubborn part of her that didn’t want to. Her marriage had nothing whatsoever to do with him. She might owe him the truth when it came to Simon, but not when it came to her reasons for marrying Henry.
He’d told her on their last night on the island, when they’d shared their hopes for the future, that he wanted to reclaim his lost kingdom. Oh, he knew he could never go back to what he’d once had, but he could recreate a home somewhere else. A home that included a wife and children. A family.
He’d even told her what his ideal wife would be like: strong and passionate. Brave. Beautiful. A woman who knew her own mind. A woman who was his equal, a queen to his king.
Not her, in other words.
She’d told herself it was just as well, since she’d already committed to marrying Henry, but those words had stuck inside her like a thorn, settling deep inside her heart. And she’d never managed to get them out.
Of course she wasn’t any of those things. She’d never been any of those things and never would be. She was simply the orphan that nobody wanted, who’d been passed on from her aunt and uncle to Henry as easily as Henry had passed her on to Enzo in turn.
But then, Enzo didn’t know that, did he?
‘Yes.’ She held his gaze with sudden ferocity, daring him to contradict her. ‘Henry was desperately in love with me. He couldn’t wait to marry me.’
Enzo’s gaze flared, bright, brilliant and hot. ‘And did he bed you just as desperately?’
The words sent a bolt of electricity shooting down her spine. ‘That’s none of your business.’ She managed to keep her voice cold. ‘In fact, my entire marriage is none of your business. This is about Simon, not me.’
Enzo didn’t move, his posture radiating a kind of leashed tension that made the very air between them vibrate.
Her muscles tightened, her skin prickling all over.
She wanted to breathe but couldn’t. As if taking a breath would make something snap, or break something that couldn’t be repaired.
A muscle flicked in his jaw then abruptly he reached down and pulled out his phone from his pocket, looking down at the screen as if the moment of electric tension between had never existed. ‘I need to prepare for Simon’s arrival. Tell me everything he might need.’
Her heart raced, awareness of him prickling all over her skin, restlessness coiling inside her.
She dug her nails into her palms, gritting her teeth. She didn’t want to tell him anything more. She didn’t want to tell him anything at all. But that wouldn’t be fair on Simon, so she gave him the information he wanted.
He didn’t say a word, merely nodded then pushed himself out of his seat, pacing down the length of the cabin as he began issuing orders into his phone in rapid Italian.
Matilda tried to drag her gaze from him, tried to concentrate on thinking about what the hell she was going to do next, because she had no idea. But it was next to impossible with Enzo pacing up and down, filling the cabin with his intense, electric presence.
It made the rest of the journey to Milan almost intolerable.
Enzo didn’t sit down for the remainder of the trip and didn’t speak to her again. Instead he kept pacing while he talked into his phone, and it didn’t matter how much Matilda tried to block him out, her brain seemed intent on concentrating on him and the rise and fall of his deep, cold voice to the exclusion of everything else.
By the end of the flight she felt like she’d been through the wringer.
Simon, on the other hand, was a ball of electric excitement.
After the jet touched down and they were disembarking, he showed no sign of his apparent dislike of Enzo, keeping up a running commentary and peppering him with questions as one of Enzo’s staff showed them to the car that waited for them and their luggage was loaded.
Matilda tried to quiet him, not wanting him to keep bothering his father, but Enzo shook his head. ‘Let him talk,’ he said. ‘He can ask me anything.’ Then he proceeded to give his son all his attention, not at all bothered by the boy’s constant questions.
Matilda sat back in the seat as the long, sleek black car moved through the dense Milan traffic, a strange sensation sitting inside her.
Enzo was pointing at something out of the window, Simon kneeling on the seat and peering out, asking yet more questions. He hadn’t looked at her once since getting off the plane, all his attention totally taken up by Enzo.
Even Henry didn’t get quite this much attention. Then again, Henry hadn’t shown quite as much interest in him as Enzo had.
Certainly it made her feel almost...superfluous.
What if Enzo was right? What if Simon didn’t miss England? What if he didn’t miss Henry? What if he settled into life in Italy as though he’d born here? What if he never wanted to go home?
And, if he doesn’t, what are you going to do?
Cold seeped through her.
Four years, Enzo had said. Four years he was going to keep her son. And where did that leave her? She could fight him, could drag this to the courts, drag her son through the media circus that would no doubt ensue. But she’d get no support from Henry—he’d already made that clear—which meant that if she did she’d have to pay her own legal fees. An impossibility considering that her money all came from Henry anyway.
Which left her only options either staying in Italy to be near her son or going back to England and home, her contact with Simon reduced to visiting whenever she could.
God, she hated the thought of both options. If she stayed in Italy, she’d be a stranger here. She knew no one except Enzo, didn’t speak the language and wasn’t qualified to get any kind of job. She’d be here without support, alone.
Her throat closed.
Unwanted by anyone yet again...
No. What a pathetic thing to think. Her son might be caught up with his father right now, but he wanted her. And, if she had to stay here to be with him and bear being a bit lonely for four years, then she would.
She would do what she had to for him.
And what about Henry?
Another thing to think about. Would he be upset if she chose to stay in Italy with Simon? After all, the whole basis for their marriage was that she would be his companion. Would he mind if she only visited him? Would he demand the return of the money he’d paid to her aunt and uncle after he’d married her?
That wouldn’t be Henry’s style. Then again, she hadn’t thought he’d let her go without even a protest when Enzo had demanded her presence in Italy, so what did she know?
Simon was chattering on about something, pointing as he did so, completely absorbed in the sights outside the window. Enzo responded calmly, his hand resting on the seat next to his son, his body angled protectively at the boy’s back despite the seatbelt.
Enzo had only known of Simon’s existence for less than twelve hours and already he was acting like a father.
Henry had been good to Simon, of that there was no doubt, but in four years he’d never acted particularly fatherly.
‘He needs his father,’ Enzo had told her.
Tears pricked unexpectedly behind her eyes and she had to blink hard to get rid of them. Of course Simon needed him. That was why she was here, so her son could get to know him. So Simon could have both his parents.
She knew what it was like to have neither, so how could she even contemplate leaving him and going back to Henry? There was no other option for her. She would have to stay.
The certainty of it settled down inside her as the car moved through the traffic, leaving the city.
Wait...leaving the city?
She frowned. ‘I thought you lived in Milan?’
‘I do. I have several properties there. But you and Simon will be going to my villa just outside the city.’ He looked at his son. ‘It has a private park with woods you can play in.’
The little boy’s eyes lit up. ‘And a pool?’
‘Yes. There is a pool.’
Finally Simon deigned to look at her. ‘Mummy! There’s a pool! Can I go swimming?’
A private park. With woods. And a swimming pool. She wasn’t going to be able to compete with that, was she? Even Henry’s home in England didn’t have a swimming pool.
‘Of course.’ She made herself smile. ‘Good thing I put in your swimsuit, isn’t it?’
But Simon was already asking Enzo more about the woods and whether there would be a horse there. Or even a dog, because he liked dogs, and could he have a puppy?
A heavy feeling settled down on her, one that didn’t lift even when half an hour later the iron gates that guarded Enzo’s estate opened and the car drove through a stately avenue of trees, pulling up outside an historic Italian villa of pale honey-coloured stone.
The grounds were beautiful, the house even more so, decorated along luxurious yet uncluttered lines with nods to the past in the art on the walls and the antique furniture that graced the rooms. There were plenty of modern touches here and there too, such as a state-of-the-art home entertainment system, including security, central heating and Internet streaming.
Simon loved the room that Enzo had given him, with a curtained bed and a big toy box in the middle. There were views out over the woods at the back of the villa and glimpses of the promised pool. But what made Matilda’s throat feel tight all over again were the small personal items that Enzo had somehow managed to fly from Henry’s house in England and get here in time for their arrival. A stuffed giraffe that Simon had accidentally left behind and his favourite Lego spaceship. The giraffe was on the blue curtained bed, while the spaceship took pride of place on a dresser.
Simon shrieked with delight and launched himself at his giraffe, while Enzo strolled into the room behind him, his eyes full of the same fierce satisfaction that had burned in them all day.
‘Signora St George?’ It was Maria, the housekeeper who’d greeted them as they’d arrived.
Matilda turned.
‘Come this way,’ Maria said. ‘I will show you to your room.’
She didn’t want to go. She wanted to stay with her son, make sure he was okay. Make sure he didn’t forget her in the excitement of being in this new place with his father.
But she let herself be led away, Simon’s excited voice fading as she was led down various cool tiled hallways with luxurious silk runners on the floor and art in ornate frames on the whitewashed walls. Tall windows let in the buttery late-summer light, giving everything a warm glow.
Would Enzo want her living here? Or would she have to find a place nearby? He’d said he had no objections to her living in his house with Simon, but...would she want to?
It’ll be no different than it was living with Henry. What’s the problem with that?
She didn’t know. Because, yes, that was exactly what she’d been doing the past four years. There wouldn’t be anything different about living here except the country and the language.
The room the housekeeper showed her to was beautiful.
Pale blue walls and an antique four-poster bed hung with thick white curtains. Beneath one tall window was a couch upholstered in white linen, with lots of silk cushions scattered on it in many shades of blue.
There was no sign of the single bag she’d brought with her that had been whisked away as soon as she’d got out of the car, but a closer investigation of the drawers in a beautiful oak dresser soon revealed that the meagre lot of clothes she’d brought with her had been folded and put away.
Along with a whole lot of other clothes that she hadn’t brought with her. Expensive clothes. In what looked like her size.
An uncomfortable feeling gathered inside her.
She went into the beautiful, white-tiled en suite bathroom to discover that, not only had her toiletries been put away, they’d also been added to: expensive bath products and skin care, along with a few other feminine things.
She went back out into the bedroom again and stood there, the uncomfortable feeling growing bigger and heavier inside her, and she wasn’t sure why.
It was Enzo, obviously, who’d bought all that stuff.
For her.
Slowly, she sat down on the embroidered white quilt that was spread over the bed, the uncomfortable feeling becoming oddly painful.
A memory sat in her head, of being shown to her room at her aunt and uncle’s house. There had been nothing of hers in there, nothing except what she’d brought in her suitcase. Her aunt and uncle hadn’t bought her anything special or made any effort to make the room feel less like a guest room. They hadn’t noticed that she’d been growing and that she’d needed new clothes. Not noticed like a mother would notice. She’d had to tell them that her jeans were too short and that her T-shirts were too tight.
But here, now, Enzo had bought her clothes. And toiletries. There were none of the personal things that he’d brought for Simon, but still. He’d thought about it. He’d thought about her. And, more, he was clearly expecting her to be staying here. In this villa. With him and her son.
She didn’t know how she felt about that.
‘Do you have everything you need?’
Enzo’s deep, cold voice was like a slap of icy water against her skin, making her jump.
She looked up sharply to find him in the doorway of the bedroom, leaning one shoulder against the frame. His arms were folded across his broad chest, his gaze sharp, the expression on his beautiful face impenetrable.
‘Yes.’ She rose from the bed. ‘I thought I’d brought everything I needed with me, but apparently I hadn’t. There seems to be a lot of additional clothing in the drawers.’
‘It’s for you.’ He tilted his head, staring at her like an eagle staring at a rabbit. ‘You wanted to stay here with Simon, which means you’ll be here a while.’
‘Four years, or so I hear.’
He lifted a shoulder casually, as if he didn’t care one way or another. ‘That’s up to you.’
A small devil needled at her, wanting to disturb his apparent disinterest. ‘My husband might have something to say about that.’
‘Really?’ One black brow rose. ‘Didn’t seem like it.’
She flushed, humiliation sweeping through her the way it had when he’d mentioned Henry’s lack of response on the jet. She tried not to let him see it. ‘You seem quite fascinated with my marriage. What’s up with that?’
‘Purely academic. Your relationship with St George will obviously have had an effect on my son.’
‘Henry has been nothing but good—’
‘And I don’t dispute that,’ Enzo interrupted. ‘But how has St George treated you?’
She blinked. ‘What do you mean? What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘A strong, loving marriage has an effect on children, as has a cold, distant one. Or a violent one.’ The words were casual but the look in his eyes was anything but. ‘I want to know what kind of marriage yours is.’
Give him what he wants otherwise he’ll never stop asking.
It was true. Easier by far simply to tell him and then he’d never have to ask her again.
Except then she’d have to confess to the reality of her marriage with Henry. How she’d done it for her aunt and uncle. For money. How she’d been bought and paid for because he’d wanted a companion rather than a wife. How he’d told her he was fond of her, only to let her go the moment Enzo had snapped his fingers and threatened a scandal...
‘It is a loving marriage.’ The lie came so easily. ‘Henry was desperately in love with me and I was with him. Simon has been treated as a son.’
Something sharp and hot glittered in the depths of Enzo’s eyes. ‘He didn’t protest when I told him I would take you with me. He didn’t even kiss you goodbye.’
Matilda lifted her chin. ‘Henry is a very private man. I told you, public displays of affection aren’t his style. And what was the point in protesting? He knows I’ll come back to him.’
‘And how exactly is that going to work? With your son here?’
Anger was growing inside her at his questions and the harsh note of condemnation in his voice. Yes, she’d made a mistake with Enzo. But marrying Henry and the past four years spent creating a happy home for her son was not one. ‘I’ll figure it out,’ she said just as coldly. ‘It won’t affect you and it won’t affect Simon.’
‘But it will affect both me and Simon if you’re going off every weekend to bed your husband.’
‘Why?’ she said before she could stop herself. ‘Are you jealous? It’s been four years, Enzo, come on.’