The Secret Kept from the Italian

by Kate Hewitt

  He couldn’t let her words pass, even though he knew he was hurting them both. It wasn’t fair for her not to know, to think her feelings weren’t returned when they were, a hundredfold. ‘I do love you,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I have for a while, even if I’ve been deceiving myself. And that’s why I’m doing this. To spare you—’

  ‘You call this sparing me?’ she cut across him, her voice rising. ‘Antonio, love means pain. It means getting hurt, and it also means forgiveness. I know you still suffer from what happened with your brother, and if your parents still blame you in some way, that is on them, not on you.’ Her voice turned as fierce as her expression as she crossed the room and grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘Love forgives. Love doesn’t remember wrongs. Love never fails.’ She shook him gently. ‘Do you believe that? Because if we love each other, then we can move past this. If we love each other, we can move past any hurt or wrong, because we forgive. Even if you were to blame. Even if I’d messed up. Even if Ella had died. That’s what love does, Antonio. That’s what it is. I’ve lost everything before and I can’t bear to again. That’s what kept me being afraid with you, but I don’t want to be afraid now. I want to be brave, for you, for me, for us. Don’t let this one thing sink us, not when we have so much to live for. To love for. Please.’

  While he stared at her, shocked, his mind reeling from the truth and power of her words, Maisie stood up on her tiptoes and, wrapping her arms around him, brushed a kiss across his lips.

  ‘I love you,’ she whispered against his mouth. ‘I love you so much, and you’ve said you love me. There’s no reason on earth to walk away from what we have together. No sin or mistake or anything can separate us.’ She leaned back, scanning his face, the fierce light still brightening her eyes. ‘Tell me, do you believe that?’

  Antonio gazed into his beloved’s face and knew only one answer could be given. The truth, which he’d been blinded to for so long. The truth that was the only thing that could set him free. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do.’

  He took Maisie into his arms, burying his face in her fragrant hair as his body finally relaxed, his soul finally spilling out its pain and guilt. ‘How did you become so wise?’ he murmured against her hair, and she let out a shaky little laugh.

  ‘By loving you. By realising, over these last few months, what love is, and what it means to be strong. You’ve shown me, Antonio, in so many wonderful ways.’ She leaned back to press her palm against his cheek. ‘And the fact that you do love me...’

  ‘I do, so very much. I should have said it long before now.’ Recrimination made him grimace, but then Maisie shook her head.

  ‘No more regret. No more guilt, please, for both our sakes. We’re free. Love has set us free.’

  ‘Yes, free,’ Antonio agreed. He’d been imprisoned for so long, but the bars had been of his own foolish making. ‘I’m free to love you and love Ella, which is all I want to do.’ He smiled and kissed her tenderly. ‘Thank you for being patient with me. For not letting me walk away.’

  ‘I could never have done that,’ Maisie admitted. ‘Forget pride or self-respect or anything else. I need you, Antonio. I need you in my life, and so does Ella.’

  ‘And I promise, I’ll never leave. Never.’

  A small smile curved Maisie’s mouth and lit her eyes. ‘Then this is our happily-ever-after,’ she said teasingly as Antonio drew her into his arms and sealed it with a kiss.

  EPILOGUE

  MAISIE GAZED IN the mirror at her reflection, feeling both incredulous and happy. It was two years since she’d first met Antonio, and it was their wedding day. Max had flown over for the occasion, a quiet yet joyful ceremony in the small village church. Later there would be a reception in Milan for all of Antonio’s business acquaintances and colleagues, but they’d wanted this ceremony to be just for family.

  And there was more family than Maisie could have ever hoped for... Max and Ella, and, wonderfully, Antonio’s parents. After hearing about Ella, they had reached out to him and begun to be reconciled with their son. Her heart was full.

  Max knocked on the door and then poked his head in. ‘My sister, the beautiful bride. Are you ready? Everyone is waiting.’

  ‘Yes.’ Maisie twitched her veil, glancing once more at the simple dress of broderie-anglaise that she’d chosen for her wedding gown.

  ‘You look wonderful, Maisie.’ Max reached for her hand. ‘I’m so proud of you, and happy for you.’

  ‘I’m happy for me,’ Maisie said with a laugh. The last few months had been amazing, as she and Antonio had grown closer together. They’d purchased a larger family home on the outskirts of Milan, and Maisie couldn’t wait to begin their life there together.

  Taking Max’s hand, she left the sacristy of the church and paused on the threshold of the sanctuary, her heart overflowing with love and thankfulness and joy. Antonio turned slightly, his eyes flaring with love and desire as he caught sight of her. A small smile quirked his lips, and Maisie grinned back with all the joy she felt. Then, her head held high, she started down the aisle.

  * * *

  If you enjoyed The Secret Kept from the Italian by Kate Hewitt, you’re sure to enjoy these other Secret Heirs of Billionaires stories!

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  Carrying the Sheikh’s Baby

  by Heidi Rice

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dr Smith, you need to come to my office ASAP. You have a very important visitor who cannot be kept waiting.

  CATHERINE SMITH PEDALLED through the gates of Cambridge’s Devereaux College at breakneck speed, her boss Professor Archibald Walmsley’s curt text making sweat trickle down her forehead and into her eyes.

  Braking at the side of the redbrick Victorian monolith that housed the faculty offices, she leapt off the bike and rammed it into the cycle rack before swiping her brow. Rounding the building, she spotted a limousine with blacked-out windows and diplomatic flags parked in the no-parking zone by the front entrance. Her heartbeat kicked up several extra notches.

  She recognised those flags.

&nb
sp; So that solved the mystery of who had come to visit her: it had to be someone from the Narabian embassy in London. Panic and excitement tightened around her ribs like boa constrictors as she raced up the steps—her mind racing ahead of her.

  A visit from the Narabian embassy could either be very good, or very bad.

  Walmsley—who had taken over as Devereaux College’s dean after her father’s death—was going to kill her for going over his head and applying for official accreditation for her research into the recent history of the secretive, oil-rich desert state. But if she got it, even he wouldn’t be able to stand in her way. She’d finally be able to get more funding for her research. Her heart thudded against her chest wall in a one-two punch. She might even get permission to travel to the country.

  Surely this had to be good news. The country’s ruler, Tariq Ali Nawari Khan, had died two months ago after a long illness and his son, Zane Ali Nawari Khan, had taken over the throne. A darling of the gossip columns as a baby—Zane Khan was half-American, the product of Tariq’s short-lived marriage to tragic Hollywood starlet Zelda Mayhew—he’d disappeared from the public eye, especially after his father had won custody of him in his teens. But there had been several credible stories the new Sheikh was planning to open the country up, and bring Narabia onto the world stage.

  Which was why she’d made her application—because she was hoping the new regime would consider lifting the veil of secrecy. But what if she’d made a major mistake? What if this visit was actually very bad news? What if the diplomat was here to complain about her application? Walmsley could use it as an excuse to end her tenure.

  She rushed down the corridor towards Walmsley’s office, breathing in the comforting scent of lemon polish and old wood.

  The pulse of grief hit her hard as she took the stairs to her father’s old office. This place had been her whole life ever since she was a little girl, and her father had taken over as the new dean. But Henry Smith had been dead for two years now. And Walmsley had wanted her gone—as a reminder of the man whose shadow he’d lived in for fifteen years—for almost that long.

  Buck up, Cat. It’s time. You can’t spend the rest of your life hidden behind these four walls.

  Turning the corner to Walmsley’s office, she spotted two large men dressed in dark suits standing guard outside his door. Her heart rammed into her throat, the crows of doubt swooping into her stomach like dive-bombers.

  Why had the Narabian embassy sent a security detail? Wasn’t it a little over the top? Maybe Walmsley’s reaction wasn’t the only thing she had to worry about?

  She brushed her hair back from her face and retied the wayward curls to buy time. The snap of the elastic band was like a gunshot in the quiet hallway. Both men stared at her as if she were a felon, instead of a twenty-four-year-old female professor with a double PhD in Middle Eastern studies. They looked ready to tackle her to the ground if she so much as sneezed.

  She forced herself to breathe. In, out—that’s the spirit.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she murmured. ‘My name’s Dr Catherine Smith. Professor Walmsley is expecting me.’

  One of the man mountains gave a brusque nod, then leaned round to shove open the door. ‘She is arrived,’ he announced in heavily accented English.

  Cat entered the office, the hairs on her neck prickling alarmingly as Walmsley’s head snapped up.

  ‘Dr Smith, at last, where have you been?’ Walmsley said, his exasperated enquiry high-pitched and tense.

  Cat jumped as the door slammed shut behind her. Her anxiety levels increased, the boa constrictors writhing in her belly. Why was the dean fidgeting like that with the papers on his desk? He looked nervous, and she’d never seen him nervous before.

  ‘I’m sorry, Professor,’ she said, trying to read her boss’s expression—but his face was cast into shadow by the pale wintry light coming through the sash window behind him. ‘I was in the library. I didn’t get your text until five minutes ago.’

  ‘We have an esteemed visitor, who is here to see you,’ he said. ‘You really shouldn’t have kept him waiting.’

  Walmsley held out his arm and Cat swung round. The prickle of awareness went haywire. A man sat in the leather armchair at the back of Walmsley’s office.

  His face was cast into shadow. But even seated he looked intimidatingly large, his shoulders impressively broad in an expertly tailored suit. He had his left leg crossed over his opposite knee, one tanned hand clasping his ankle. The expensive gold watch on his wrist glinted in the sunlight. The pose was indolent and assured and oddly predatory.

  He unfolded his legs and leaned out of the shadows, and Cat’s wayward pulse skyrocketed into the stratosphere.

  The few photographs she’d seen of Sheikh Zane Ali Nawari Khan didn’t do him justice. High slashing cheekbones, a blade-like nose and his ruthlessly cropped hair were offset by a pair of brutally blue eyes, the colour of his irises the same true turquoise his mother had once been famous for.

  He had clearly inherited all the best genes from both sides of his bloodline—his features a stunning combination of his father’s striking Arabic bone structure and his mother’s almost ethereal Caucasian beauty. In truth, his features would almost be too perfect, but for the scar on his chin—and a bump in the bridge of his nose, which marred the perfect symmetry.

  Cat’s lungs contracted.

  ‘Hello, Dr Smith,’ he said in a deep cultured voice, his English still tinged with the lazy cadence of America’s West Coast. He unfolded his long frame from the chair and walked towards her—and she had the weirdest sensation of being stalked, like a gazelle who’d accidentally wandered into the lion enclosure at London Zoo. She struggled to get her breathing back under control before she passed out at his Gucci-clad feet.

  ‘My name is Zane Khan,’ he said, stopping only a smidgen outside her personal space.

  ‘I know who you are, Your Highness,’ she said breathlessly, far too aware of her height disadvantage.

  He spoke again in that same clipped, urbane tone. ‘I don’t use the title outside Narabia.’

  Blood rushed to her face and flooded past her eardrums. Then a dimple appeared in his left cheek, and her lungs seized again.

  Oh, for Pete’s sake, a dimple? Isn’t he devastating enough already?

  ‘I’m sorry, Your High... I mean, Zane.’ Heat charged to her hairline when his lips quirked.

  Oh. My. God. Cat. You did not just call the ruler of Narabia by his first name.

  ‘Sorry. I’m so sorry. I meant to say Mr Khan.’

  She sucked in a fortifying breath and the refreshing scent of citrus soap, overlaid with the spicy hint of a clean cedarwood cologne, filled her nostrils. She shuffled back, and her bottom hit Walmsley’s desk.

  He hadn’t moved any closer, but still she could feel that concentrated gaze on every inch of her exposed skin.

  ‘Are you here about my request for accreditation?’ she asked, feeling impossibly foolish.

  Why on earth would he have come all this way, to see her, over something that could be sorted out by one of his minions in the Narabian embassy in London?

  ‘No, Dr Smith,’ he said. ‘I’m here to offer you a job.’

  * * *

  Zane had to resist the unprecedented urge to laugh when Catherine Smith’s hazel eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

  She hadn’t expected that. Then again, he hadn’t expected her. The only reason he’d come in person was because he already had a business meeting in Cambridge today with a tech firm who would be helping to bring superfast internet access to Narabia. And because he’d been furious once he’d received the reports from his tech people that someone at Devereaux College had been doing research on Narabia without his express permission.

  He hadn’t bothered to read the file they’d emailed to him about the female academic who had asked for accreditation. He’d simply a
ssumed she would be frumpy and middle-aged.

  The very last thing he’d expected was to be introduced to someone who couldn’t be much older than a high-school student, with eyes the colour of caramel candy. She looked like a tomboy, dressed in slim-fit jeans, a pair of biker boots and a shapeless sweater that nearly reached her knees. Her wild chestnut hair—barely contained by an elastic band—added to the impression of young, unconventional beauty. But it was her candy-coloured eyes that had really snagged his attention. Wide and slightly slanted, giving them a sleepy, just-out-of-bed quality, her eyes were striking, not least because they were so expressive, every one of her emotions clearly visible.

  ‘A job doing what?’ she said, her directness surprising him as she eased further back against her boss’s desk.

  Looking past her, he directed his gaze at Walmsley. ‘Leave us,’ he said.

  The middle-aged academic nodded and shuffled out of the room, well aware his department’s funding was at stake because of this woman’s research.

  The woman’s eyes widened even more, and he could see the jump in her pulse rate above the neckline of her bulky sweater.

  ‘I require someone to write a detailed account of my country’s people, the history of its culture and customs to complete the process of introducing Narabia on the world stage. I understand you have considerable knowledge of the region?’

  His PR people had suggested the hagiography. It was all part of the process of finally bringing Narabia out of the shadows and into the light. A process he’d embarked upon five years ago when his father had let go of his iron grip on the throne. It had taken Tariq Khan five years to die from the stroke that had left him a shadow of his former self, during which time Zane had managed to drag the country’s oil industry out of the dark ages, begin a series of infrastructure projects that would eventually bring electricity, water mains and even internet access to the country’s remote landscape. But there was still a very long way to go. And the last thing he needed was for any gossip to get out about his parents’ relationship and the difficult nature of his relationship with the man who had sired him. Because that would become the whole story.