Demanding His Hidden Heir (Mills & Boon Modern) (Secret Heirs of Billionaires, Book 26)

by Jackie Ashenden

‘Who might be me?’

  ‘My future wife.’

  She’d gone statue-still, her expression a mask, half-turned away from him. Her whole posture was stiff with tension and he had the sense that he’d hurt her somehow, though why that would be he had no idea. If she’d truly wanted to be his wife, or even thought that there might be more for them than a couple of days, she would have stayed. But she hadn’t. She’d left. And that had been her decision, not his. If she was hurt then that was her own fault.

  Except the thought sounded wrong inside his head, like a justification, and he didn’t like that either.

  Control, remember? You’re not supposed to be petty.

  He’d taken a couple of steps towards her before he’d even thought about it, driven by something he didn’t understand.

  She didn’t move. The sun was collecting in her hair, turning it into fire, and he suddenly wanted to touch it, wind that softness around his fingers, have her turn to him, smiling, the way she’d done down on the sand in the darkness, her eyes full of starlight.

  Except he couldn’t touch her. He couldn’t touch her hair or put his hands on her shoulders to soothe her. He couldn’t do anything but use words to exorcise his anger and cut her to shreds.

  Petty, petty man.

  ‘But you were gone,’ he said hoarsely, not really sure why he was continuing with this nonsense. ‘You left before we could find out.’

  Matilda slowly turned to face him, her eyes gone a dark, steely grey, her hair a blazing coronet in the sun. Her mouth was a hard line and he wanted to take her determined chin and tip her head back, cover that mouth, make it go soft and yielding under his. Taste the fire inside her.

  But of course he couldn’t, even if he hadn’t been controlling himself. That fire wasn’t his to taste. She was another’s.

  ‘Good thing I did leave.’ Her voice was very calm, very steady. ‘Because I didn’t want to be your wife. In fact, that was the very last thing on earth I wanted.’

  He might have believed her if he hadn’t seen the glitter in her eyes or the stiff way she was holding herself, the tight angle of her jaw and the slant of her chin.

  She was lying. And in leaving she’d denied both of them what they could have had.

  Just like she’d denied him his son.

  It wasn’t supposed to matter. She wasn’t supposed to matter. And yet the need to do something, anything, became almost overwhelming, and he’d reached out and taken her chin in his hand before he was even aware he’d done it.

  She went still, her eyes widening, and all he could think about was how soft her skin felt. How silky and warm. How delectable her mouth was and how badly he wanted to kiss it. Taste it.

  How much he wanted to punish her for leaving him, for taking his son and hiding him away. Punish her in a way that would both satisfy her and wreck her, devastate her with pleasure so that she knew exactly what she’d thrown away.

  A moment passed, the air shivering around them electric with tension.

  He could hear her breathing, fast and erratic, as she stared at him, her pupils dilating, the grey of her eyes growing darker.

  But there was a fire deep in them and it was blazing hot.

  He should let her go. He should. She wasn’t his to touch, not like this.

  Except her skin was so warm and felt like satin and he couldn’t stop his thumb from stroking across it. Desire gathered inside him, getting hotter, reflecting the same heat he saw in her eyes.

  ‘You shouldn’t tell lies, cara.’ His voice was roughened and dark. ‘Not when I know how to make you tell the truth.’

  She didn’t pull away, only met him stare for stare. ‘And how exactly would you do that?’

  It was a challenge and every part of him wanted to take it.

  He was hard and ready, and the bed was right there. She wouldn’t protest. She’d take him the way she’d taken him back on the island, with fire and passion, as fierce for him as he’d been for her.

  But he couldn’t. She was another man’s wife and that was a line he would not cross.

  ‘I wish I could show you. But I can’t.’ He had to make himself release her and step away, struggling to ignore the sweet heat of her body and the scent of jasmine that wound around him. ‘You’re already married. In case you’d forgotten.’

  Colour ebbed and flowed in her cheeks, making her eyes glow even brighter. She made no move towards him, but her quickened breathing told him everything he needed to know.

  No matter what she said about her husband, she still wanted him.

  ‘I haven’t forgotten.’ Her voice was husky and her gaze kept dipping to his mouth, as if she couldn’t help herself. ‘Perhaps I only wanted to see if you had.’

  So was that what this was? A test? And, if so, of what?

  His groin ached and the need inside him showed no signs of abating. And the way she kept pushing him was only going to end up with one result if he stayed in this room any longer.

  So he said nothing, merely turned and left her standing there before he forgot himself and did something he’d regret.

  * * *

  The next few days passed with agonising slowness for Matilda.

  Enzo absented himself from the villa, leaving early every morning for Milan, not coming home till late every night presumably to manage his billion-dollar property company.

  She would have thought he’d forgotten about Simon if she hadn’t stumbled out of bed early the first morning, intending to see how her son was, only to find him sitting with Enzo in the kitchen.

  Enzo was dressed in dark suit trousers and a white shirt, and was sitting next to Simon at the scrubbed wooden kitchen table, eating eggs and toast that clearly he’d made, and chatting to his son as if he’d been doing it all his life.

  It had made something in Matilda’s chest ache seeing them like that, Enzo’s focus entirely on Simon as the boy chattered away about racing cars, horses and pools.

  She didn’t want to interrupt them, so she crept back to bed, thinking she’d go back to sleep. Except she didn’t go back to sleep. She lay there in her curtained bed and stared at the canopy above her, replaying the sound of Enzo’s voice in her head, full of warmth as he’d talked to their child. A warmth she remembered.

  There was no doubt that Enzo wanted him, and not just because he was his, but because he wanted to get to know the boy. It should have made her feel good, but it didn’t. All she felt was guilty.

  * * *

  Over the course of the next few days Enzo had breakfast with his son every morning, leaving Matilda to have a few precious hours to herself. She thought she’d enjoy it, but she didn’t.

  Not when there was nothing to do but think.

  She tried to distract herself by exploring the villa, poking around in the old library and the bookshelves full of interesting books, or staring at the paintings on the walls of the dining room. She wondered if they were of Enzo’s family—he hadn’t told her much about them on the island, only that he had a brother—but she couldn’t see any resemblance in the pictures.

  Of course, what she should have been doing was picking up the phone and calling Henry, telling him what was happening with Simon, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it, mainly because she didn’t know what to say.

  That she was staying in Italy to be with her son was certain. But how that would affect her marriage to Henry, she had no idea.

  She was afraid; she had to admit that to herself. Afraid that he’d be angry with her for going back on her word to be his companion. Afraid that he’d insist that she stay in England. But the thing she was more afraid of was that he’d simply shrug his shoulders and tell her to do whatever she thought best. As if she didn’t matter to him any more.

  As if he didn’t want her.

  He might not. But Enzo does.

  That thought st
ayed with her, plagued her for days. That moment in her bedroom when he’d touched her for the first time in four years.

  She’d been an idiot to push him, to goad him the way she had, but she hadn’t been able to help it. He’d told her that he wanted to marry and that, once, he’d wanted to marry her. And that had hurt. It had hurt. As he must have known it would.

  Because she hadn’t realised, when he’d said all those things about the qualities he’d wanted in a wife, that he’d been talking about her. And why would she? No one else had ever thought those things about her so what had made him different?

  So she’d told him that she’d never wanted to be his wife anyway, because she’d been made of nothing but hurt, and then he’d reached out and taken her chin in his hand. And, the moment his fingers had touched her skin, she hadn’t been able to breathe.

  His golden eyes had blazed and she’d felt herself catch fire, every inch of her coming alive in a way she hadn’t for far too long. Making her aware of how lonely she’d been, and how cold. How badly she’d been starved for touch, because no one touched her these days. No one but her son.

  You don’t want just anyone to touch you. You want him.

  Matilda tried not to think about that as she busied herself during the day with Simon. She took him for walks in the woods and swims in the long, beautifully tiled swimming pool. She thought Henry might try to contact her, but he didn’t, leaving her with only a deafening silence.

  It made her feel isolated and very, very alone.

  But she couldn’t let it go on. She’d learned her lesson with Enzo; she couldn’t let her fear get in the way of doing what was right.

  So, five days after arriving at Enzo’s villa, she finally gathered her courage to call Henry. She left it until the evening, after she’d put Simon to bed, and then went and sat on the butter-soft leather sofa in the old library, her phone in one shaking hand as she pressed the call button.

  Henry answered after a couple of rings. ‘Matilda?’ He sounded pleased, with music and people talking loud in the background. ‘I’ve been wondering what was happening. How’s Simon?’

  ‘He’s good.’

  ‘And you? When can I expect you home?’

  She swallowed. ‘Well, that’s the thing. Enzo wants to keep Simon with him in Italy for a while.’

  There was a pause down the other end of the phone, the music and laughter continuing.

  ‘I see,’ Henry said after a moment. His voice betrayed nothing. ‘I wondered if something like that would happen. Cardinali isn’t a man who gives up easily.’

  ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘He doesn’t.’

  ‘So what does that mean for you? Are you going to stay in Italy, then?’

  The question sounded casual, as if it didn’t matter to him either way.

  ‘I don’t have much of a choice.’ She tried not to let the hurt show in her voice. ‘I could fight him for custody, but...’

  ‘But you’re not going to do that.’ Henry was firm. ‘We don’t need that and neither does Simon. Is he happy?’

  ‘Yes,’ Matilda said, because she couldn’t lie about that, not to Henry. ‘He is.’

  ‘Then he’s where he belongs.’

  She gripped the phone tighter. ‘So...what about us?’

  ‘Us?’ For a second there was only puzzlement in his voice. ‘Oh, right. Well, what do you want to do?’

  The question made her chest feel tight. Was he really going to make her choose? Did he not even care enough to state a preference?

  He never married you for love, idiot. What do you want from him?

  She wanted him to be sorry that she was going to stay in Italy. She wanted him to tell her to come home, even though she wouldn’t.

  She wanted to know that the four years she’d spent with him had meant something, even if it was just friendship.

  ‘I don’t know, Henry,’ she said thickly. ‘We’re supposed to be married. I mean, that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?’

  There was another silence.

  ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘I did. But it’s a little difficult to be married when you’re going to be in Italy.’ Another pause. ‘Not that we had a real marriage anyway.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  Henry sighed. ‘Look, you never wanted to marry me in the first place, and I know that. You did it for your aunt and uncle, and I appreciate that. But...maybe it’s time you found someone else your own age.’

  The words sent a strange shock through her. ‘So, you don’t want me after all?’

  ‘Mattie.’ Henry’s voice was kind. ‘That’s not what our marriage was about. Friendship, remember? And that’s what I got. But, I have to admit, maybe I want to move on myself now.’

  She didn’t know why that hurt her. She didn’t love him. What did she care? ‘You do?’

  ‘I’ve...met someone,’ he said hesitantly. ‘Someone my own age. We get on well and I like her very much.’

  ‘Oh.’ She couldn’t think of what else to say.

  ‘So perhaps it’s time to end our little arrangement,’ he went on, with more enthusiasm now, not seeming to notice her shock. ‘It was good for the both of us four years ago, but I don’t think we need it any more. You want to move on with your life and I want to move on with mine.’

  ‘I...’

  ‘Leave all the details to me.’ He didn’t wait for her to finish. ‘I’ll get it all sorted out. I can pull a few strings to make things move a little quicker, get the PR people onto it to make sure there’s no press backlash, that kind of thing.’

  He said it so quickly it was almost as if he’d been preparing for this moment for quite some time. And maybe he had. Maybe he’d just been waiting for the right time to get rid of her. As her aunt and uncle had got rid of her.

  Her throat closed, pain a tight ball in her chest, but she didn’t let herself give into it. That wouldn’t help anyone, and perhaps this was for the best after all. She could concentrate on being here for Simon and not have to worry about Henry.

  ‘Okay.’ She was pleased she sounded so calm and accepting. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  ‘It is. And what you want also, I assume.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘Of course.’ She gritted her teeth. ‘Thank you, Henry.’

  ‘No problem.’ There was a burst of noise down the other end of the phone. ‘Righto, better go. I’ll be in touch.’

  Silence fell as he hit the disconnect button.

  Matilda stared at the screen. So that was that. After four years. He’d met someone else and now he was letting her go.

  So many people let you go.

  Henry. Her aunt and uncle. Enzo...

  And, as if the thought of him had summoned him up like the bloody devil, the library door opened and Enzo strode in.

  The sheer impact of his presence, after days without having caught more than a glimpse of him, was like an electric shock delivered straight to her heart.

  He was in a dark charcoal suit with a plain white shirt and a silk tie that echoed the gold of his eyes, the sharp, ferocious energy he brought with him everywhere he went flooding the room like static from a thunderstorm.

  It made her jerk up in her seat, her breath catching as he shut the door behind him, casually flicking open his suit jacket and shrugging out of it before throwing it over the back of a nearby armchair as he went over to the empty fireplace and stood in front of it.

  Matilda put her phone down and tried to calm her suddenly racing heartbeat. ‘You look like you have something to say.’

  ‘You need to prepare Simon for another trip,’ Enzo said. ‘We’ll be leaving next week.’

  Yet another shock.

  She blinked. ‘What? What do you mean, another trip?’

  Enzo undid his cufflinks and put them on the mantel above the fireplace then began to fo
ld back one of the sleeves of his shirt, exposing the strong bones of his wrist and the bronze skin of his muscled forearms.

  She found herself staring at the movement of his hands, a sudden, intense physical hunger gripping her.

  You can touch him now. You’re free.

  ‘The island I bought from your husband,’ Enzo said, as if he hadn’t noticed her staring. ‘Isola Sacra. There’s an estate on it that I’ve been in the process of preparing for our eventual arrival. Luckily it didn’t need much in the way of work.’

  Oh, God, the island. He’d mentioned he’d bought it the day they’d flown to Milan, but she’d forgotten about it.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, forcing her gaze from his hands. ‘I see.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you do. Will you be joining us there? You’re most welcome to, though you might prefer to stay on the mainland.’ He paused, his eyes glinting. ‘Or even go back to England. I’m sure your husband must be missing you.’

  The comment slid under her skin like a piece of glass, sharp and painful. As she was sure he’d meant it to. Though, of course, he didn’t know that Henry hadn’t missed her. Not when he’d had someone else.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ she said, goaded. ‘He wants me home.’

  The glint in Enzo’s eyes became a glitter, making her breath catch. He began to roll up his other sleeve, his movements slow; clearly he’d noticed her staring after all. ‘And what have you told him so far? Does he know that you’re going to stay here with Simon? With me?’

  There was no mistaking the emphasis on those last two words, Enzo’s gaze making her feel hot and restless, making the hunger inside her deepen.

  Yes, he wants you. Unlike Henry.

  She met his hungry stare, felt the hot scorch of it over her skin. ‘Yes.’ Her voice sounded husky. ‘He does.’

  Enzo stopped rolling up the sleeve of his shirt for a moment, going still, his focus on her narrowing even further.

  Tension crackled between them, making her breath catch.

  ‘And he was okay with that?’ There was an edge to the words, making them sound like a demand. ‘I thought you said he was missing you.’

  ‘He is missing me. But he doesn’t tell me what to do. I can make my own decisions.’