Carrying His Scandalous Heir

by Julia James

  ‘I want one last time,’ he said, his voice still a husk, his eyes still burning with that black fire. ‘One last time, Carla. One last time to show you why you should not have agreed to marry another man. Any other man—’

  He grazed her mouth with his again, his hand slipping the silk from her shoulder, exposing a single breast.

  ‘So tell me to go, Carla...or tell me to stay...or tell me nothing at all.’ His hand moved, to cup the lush curve of her breast, so rich and ripe, to feel its crest peak and bloom within his palm,

  And then the time for speaking was done. With a surge of his blood, he opened her mouth beneath his, his hand tightening at her breast, kneading the soft, aroused flesh.

  A moan escaped her throat. Helpless. Hopeless.

  She could not speak, could not protest. She could do only what every part of her body, her being, wanted...craved her to do.

  Her hands snaked around his back, hauling him to her, crushing his hips into the cradle of her body, feeling her body surge, his body answer hers.

  And then the black fire took them both...

  * * *

  Carla moved slowly, as if emerging from paralysis. Consciousness seeped through her. For a moment she lay there, motionless. At her side, his limbs heavy upon her, Cesare slept. His face was in repose, and for a long, timeless moment Carla looked upon it.

  Behind her eyes, thoughts ran.

  There was a sickness inside her.

  Slowly, infinitely slowly, she began to move. He did not stir. Weak with gratitude for that one small mercy, she slid from the bed. Silently, desperately, she found clothes, crept from the bedroom, forced unwilling limbs into them, found her handbag, her keys.

  The morning light was dim—dawn barely broken. Her heart was pounding...the sickness was overwhelming her. She stepped forward, as if impelled by a power she could not resist.

  At the door of the bedroom she halted. Her eyes, stricken, went to the figure lying in her bed, sprawled across it, the strong planes of his muscled back delineated in the dawn light. Emotion, like a wolf, leapt in her throat to devour her. Her hand was pressed to her mouth, and a sound that might have been a sob was stifled before it could be born.

  Then, as if it required all the strength in her body, she turned away.

  Left the apartment.

  Left the city.

  Fled for her very life.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE SPANISH SUN was warm on Carla’s bare arms and legs as she sat on the terrace of her mother’s huge, newly purchased villa on this most exclusive stretch of the Costas. It seemed a lifetime ago since she had been in Rome. Yet only a handful of months had passed since she’d fled like a wounded creature.

  A haunted expression filled her eyes. Then, deliberately, she picked up the newspaper at her side, turning, as she often did now, to the financial pages.

  Her expression tensed. Yes, there was another news item—small, but immediately eye-catching to her—about Viscari Hotels. Something about yet another fraught board meeting, now that Nic Falcone was co-owner of the whole company and helping himself to the pick of Viscari Hotels across the world, dismembering Vito’s inheritance piecemeal.

  Guilt, familiar and shaming, fused through Carla. Guilt and remorse.

  How could I have done that to him? How could I?

  But she knew how—knew, even as the hot Spanish sun beat down on her, how her whole being had writhed in the torment of Cesare’s rejection of her, in the humiliation of knowing that she had only been exactly what her mother had feared she was.

  Nothing better than his mistress. To be set aside the moment his aristocratic bride beckoned!

  She closed her eyes, fighting the emotion that swept up in her. What good was it to remember? Cesare had treated her by his own rules—and it had been she who had been the fool! A fool to fall in love with him—a fool ever to think she could have her happy ending...that Cesare could return her love for him...

  She felt her stomach churn again. And the worst fool of all to have let him into her apartment that last, disastrous, fatal night after Vito’s jilting of her. Fool upon fool!

  And now...

  Her hand dropped the newspaper, slid across her stomach to ease the nausea that bit there.

  Dear God, how great a fool she was!

  ‘Carla, darling, there you are!’

  Her mother’s voice was a welcome distraction as Marlene emerged out of the villa. She paused, surveying her daughter.

  ‘How are you feeling this morning?’ she asked carefully.

  Carla stood up. ‘I’m OK, Mum.’

  ‘Are you?’ Marlene’s eyes worked over her, concern in their expression.

  She was about to say more, Carla could tell, and she needed to stop her. She picked up the newspaper.

  ‘There’s another piece in here about Viscari and Falcone,’ she said.

  There was reproof in her voice, and she could see her mother’s colour heighten.

  She held up a hand. ‘Mum, don’t say anything—we’re never going to agree on this. But I did treat Vito appallingly.’ She took a breath, saying what she had resolved. ‘I’m going to go to Rome. I have to see him—to...apologise. And also,’ she carried on, still not letting her mother speak, ‘I want to put my apartment on the market.’ She paused. ‘I’m never going to live in Italy again, so there is no point owning it. And besides—’

  She halted. She would not tell her mother that she intended to do more than merely apologise to Vito. Since her mother had profited hugely from selling Guido’s shares to Vito’s rival, she would make what amends she could by gifting the proceeds from the sale of her flat—bought, after all, with Guido’s legacy to her—to Vito. He could use it to help fund his financial recovery. Pittance though it was, it was the only thing she could think of doing.

  ‘Darling...’ Her mother’s voice was openly worried. ‘Are you sure you want to go back to Rome? I mean—’

  Carla shook her head. ‘No, I don’t want to—but I must.’

  * * *

  It was what she’d kept repeating to herself—right up to the grim moment when she bearded Vito in his office in Rome.

  The ordeal was gruelling. From the moment she arrived she could feel eyes on her—curious...openly hostile.

  Vito himself was stone-faced as she made her stumbling, tight-throated expression of her remorse.

  ‘I’m desperately sorry, Vito, and deeply ashamed of myself. I let my own misery over Cesare consume me. It made me behave vilely to you—and...’ she swallowed ‘...to...to your girlfriend.’ She paused again, uncomfortable. ‘I hope... I hope you were able to make it up with her after...well...since then.’

  A bleak look passed across his face. ‘That wasn’t possible,’ he said.

  Carla felt guilt bite at her again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Would...would it help if I...if I went to see her? Apologised for what I said...what I did?’

  The bleak look came again. ‘I have no idea where Eloise is. She’s vanished. I’ve been trying to find her since—’ It was his turn to break off.

  ‘Oh, Vito, I’m sorry!’

  Carla’s voice was even more apologetic, her guilt ever deeper. There had been something in her step-cousin’s voice that she recognised in herself—a bleakness that matched her own.

  Her face twisted. ‘I didn’t realise she was so important to you... I mean, you usually—’ She broke off again.

  Vito looked at her, his eyes strained. ‘Yes, I know. I do usually have some long-legged blonde on my arm,’ he said, echoing the words she’d used. ‘But Eloise—’

  He broke off again, and now Carla knew she could see something in his drawn face that she recognised only too well. Vito’s dark eyes looked at her with a nakedness in them that smote her.

 
‘Eloise was different. I wanted so much to spend time with her—to discover if...if she was the one woman I’d ever met whom I could—’

  He broke off again.

  ‘And now I’ll never know,’ he said.

  The bleakness in his voice broke Carla. Impulsively she stepped forward.

  ‘Vito—let me help! Please let me help you find her. There must be a way—there must!’

  He looked at her. ‘How? She won’t answer my texts or my calls. I don’t have any address for her in London, where she lives, because she works as a nanny. I’ve had investigators checking nanny agencies, but nothing—absolutely nothing! She’s vanished!’

  Frustration and pain were clear in his voice. Carla felt her mind racing. An idea was forming in her mind.

  ‘Vito—listen. Even if you can’t find her—and neither can your investigators—maybe...maybe the press can!’

  Vito looked at her blankly. Carla felt words tumble from her in her desperation to make amends—any kind of amends—to the step-cousin she had treated so shamefully.

  ‘Vito, I’m a journalist—I know how the press works. What about this? I’m fairly friendly with the features editor on one of those glossy international celebrity magazines. She loves it that I know loads of the people she likes to put in it, especially you! I’ve always been very discreet, but this time—’

  Swiftly she outlined her idea.

  Vito looked at her. For the first time the lines around his eyes seemed to lighten. ‘Do you think it has a chance?’ he asked.

  Carla looked at him. ‘It’s worth a shot, isn’t it? A centre spread of you, with a glamorously romantic photo of you both, and a headline asking, “Can you find my beautiful Eloise?” Those glossy celebrity magazines have a huge readership!’

  ‘Can you set it up for me? A meeting with this features editor?’ There was sudden urgency in Vito’s voice.

  Carla smiled. The first time she’d smiled for a long time. If this was some way to make amends to Vito, however belated, she would do it.

  ‘I’ll phone her now,’ she said.

  Five minutes later she put the phone back on Vito’s desk.

  ‘She almost bit my hand off,’ she told him.

  She could see her step-cousin’s eyes flare—fill with hope.

  He got to his feet, came round to her. Took her hands. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  Emotion welled up in her. ‘Oh, Vito, don’t thank me! Not after what I did to you! I can never forgive myself—never! I was just so...so twisted up inside. So—’

  She broke off again. Half turned away. But Vito did not let her go. Instead he put his arms around her, hugged her tightly. She felt tears prick at her eyes.

  Then, abruptly, Vito stood back from her, looked at her with shock in his face.

  ‘Carla—’ There was disbelief in his voice.

  Too late, she realised why. She stepped away, disengaging her hands.

  ‘Cesare?’ Vito’s voice was hollow.

  Colour stained her cheekbones. ‘After...after you refused to marry me he...he turned up at my apartment. It was—’

  ‘Does he know?’ There was a steely note in Vito’s voice.

  Violently, Carla shook her head. ‘No! And he mustn’t! Vito—he mustn’t!’

  Vito’s brows snapped together, giving him a quelling appearance. ‘He must know at once!’ he retorted. ‘Before he goes any further with his engagement!’

  Carla caught at his sleeve. ‘No! Please, Vito! I couldn’t bear it!’ There was panic in her face.

  For a moment his quelling expression held. Then, abruptly, it vanished.

  ‘I understand,’ he said. His voice changed. ‘Carla, look...now that we’ve made our peace with each other I think we should show Rome that the family rift...is no more.’

  He held up his hand decisively. ‘I know that the gossips couldn’t decide just why our wedding never took place, but I want to show them that whatever has happened since—’ he did not spell out what her mother had done ‘—you and I, at least, are friends. So I think we should be seen out socially, while you’re here in Rome, to confirm that.’

  She looked at him uncertainly. ‘If...if you want,’ she said.

  How could she refuse anything that Vito asked of her, given how badly she had treated him? Socialising in Rome might be the most gruelling ordeal she could imagine right now, but she must face it for Vito’s sake.

  And if I fear I might see Cesare—well, why should I? Viscari circles don’t usually overlap with his, and anyway Cesare’s probably in his castello planning his wedding...

  She felt the nausea bite again—and something worse than nausea. Much, much worse.

  ‘Good.’ Vito nodded. He smiled. ‘How about tonight?’

  She paled. ‘Tonight?’ she echoed faintly.

  Vito quirked an eyebrow. ‘You have something more pressing?’

  Slowly she shook her head, realised that in all conscience she could not refuse.

  * * *

  That evening, as she stood staring blankly at her reflection in the mirror, she knew the last thing she wanted was to go out into society—even though she owed it to Vito. So, ignoring the knots in her stomach, she threw one last glance at herself, reassured by the dark indigo evening gown, generously cut—nothing clinging or curvaceous now—and her immaculate hair and make-up.

  Her phone buzzed to tell her that Vito was waiting for her in his car below, and she left her apartment.

  She had spent the afternoon with estate agents and her solicitor, booking a removal company to transfer her possessions to her mother’s house. She would tell Vito this evening that she was going to hand him the proceeds of the sale—it wasn’t much, compared to the loss he’d suffered, thanks to her mother, but it was all she could do.

  She paid little attention to where he was taking her, but as they walked inside an ornate palazzo, the venue for the fundraising reception for a museo di antiquity that Vito was attending, she suddenly froze.

  Her hand clawed on Vito’s sleeve. ‘This is the Palazzo Mantegna!’

  He glanced at her. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘That’s why I brought you here—Cesare will be here as one of the museo’s patrons.’

  Desperately, Carla tried to pull away.

  But Vito’s hand clamped over hers. ‘Carla—he has to know. He has to!’

  A drumming filled her senses.

  * * *

  Cesare was talking to his fellow museo patrons, but for all his polite conversation he had no inclination to be there. His mood was grim.

  Francesca was still in America, vacating her apartment, making ready to move back to Italy and become his contessa. He was glad of her absence. How could he face her after what he had done? Committing an act of folly so extreme he could not now believe that he had done it.

  Folly? Was that what it had been? That final, self-indulgent, devil-driven night with Carla? The sour taste of self-disgust filled him. Of shame.

  I went to her with my betrothal ring on Francesca’s finger! And yet I presumed to accuse her of being prepared to marry another man! As if she had betrayed me...spurned me for another man.

  In that one shameful night he had behaved unforgivably to the woman he’d undertaken to marry and the one whom he could never marry. Could never again possess. Could never again see, or have anything to do with.

  She is lost to me for ever.

  As he said the words, he felt something twist inside him, as if the point of a knife had broken off, stayed in his guts. It would stay there, lodged for ever. Scar tissue would grow around it, but it would remain for all his life. A wound that would not heal...

  ‘Signor Conte—’

  He was being called to the podium to make a short speech. The moment he’d done that he’d leave. Tomorrow he’d
head back to his castello and ready it for his future bride.

  He felt his mind veer away. Contemplating his wedding—his bride—was not what he wanted to do. Memory sifted in his mind. It had been a function similar to this—the opening of that exhibition he’d lent the triptych to—where he’d first had his interest caught by Carla Charteris.

  He could see her now instantly, in his mind’s eye, her figure sheathed in that cobalt blue cocktail dress, her svelte brunette beauty immediately firing his senses. Calling to him...

  His gaze flickered blankly over the throng of guests milling around in the palatial hall of his ancestors’ former residence in Rome.

  Flickered—and stilled.

  No—he was imagining it. He must be. It could not be—

  Without volition he was walking forward. Striding. People were stepping aside for him.

  She had seen him. He saw it in her paling face, her distended eyes. Her hand was clutching at the sleeve of the man with her.

  Viscari! With an inner snarl that came from some deep, primitive part of him, Cesare felt jealous rage spear up inside him as he reached the couple.

  He could see Vito Viscari step forward slightly, as if to shelter Carla, whose face was still bleached and stark. Then, with a little breathless sigh, she started to crumple.

  * * *

  There were voices—deep and masculine, angry and agitated—penetrating her brain. Her eyelids flickered feebly, and she became aware that she was perched dizzily on a chair in a small antechamber—and that Vito and Cesare were standing over her.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Cesare’s demand was stentorian, his face grim. The question was directed at her—he was ignoring Vito totally.

  But it was Vito who was answering for her. ‘No,’ he said tersely, ‘she is not.’

  Carla’s heart was hammering, the blood drumming in her ears.

  Cesare’s gaze snapped to Vito. ‘What is wrong?’

  Vito started to speak, but Carla reached for his arm.

  ‘Vito, no! No!’ Terror was in her now. She had to stop him—she had to!

  But the expression on Vito’s face was one she’d never seen before. Angry—stern. He was squaring up to Cesare, who was glaring at him, his face dark and closed.