Dante didn’t smile, only looked into her eyes. ‘I had a visit from my brother. He told me that you’d called him because you were worried about me.’
She was still shaking and she couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop from running her fingers along his cheekbone either, his skin warm and real beneath her fingertips. ‘I did and I was. And I’m not sorry I called him.’
‘I’m not sorry either.’ Dante’s gaze was dark, fathomless. ‘Enzo told me I was doing exactly what my mother had done, sitting there blaming everyone else for my pain and pushing away the people I loved. Hurting them...’ He stopped. ‘You wanted more from me and I hurt you. I was selfish and I blamed you.’
‘Dante—’
‘No, you were right to want more, Stella. Do you understand? You were right.’ He lifted his hand and caught hers where it was pressed to his cheek and held it there. ‘I needed to stop pretending I didn’t care. To accept that I did. I needed to stop thinking only of myself, stop turning into my own damn mother.’ Gently he lowered her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers. ‘And, most important of all, I needed to realise that I was in love with you. Because I am, Stella Montefiore. I think I’ve been in love with you since the moment I woke up to find you pointing a gun at my head.’
Her chest went tight, her heart so full it felt as though it was pressing on the sides of her ribs. ‘Is that why you’re here?’
‘Yes. I wanted to apologise.’ The ghost of his charming smile turned his mouth, but there was something desperate in his dark eyes. ‘And to tell you that I will love our child too, with the same desperation with which I love you. And also that my heart is yours, if you want it. But, if you don’t, I’ll leave you in peace. I won’t ever bother you with it again.’
A tear leaked out despite her best intentions and, because her voice didn’t work, she leaned forward and gave him her answer by brushing her mouth over his instead.
And instantly he moved, his arms going around her, holding her hard against him and then rolling her beneath him.
‘You know that’s it, don’t you?’ he growled, intense gold flames burning in the depths of his eyes. ‘That means I’m never letting you go.’
Stella got her arms free then raised them and wound them around his neck, holding onto him as tightly as he was holding on to her. ‘I don’t want you to let me go. I want you to hold me for ever, Dante Cardinali.’
‘And if I don’t?’
Stella thought about it. ‘Then I might be forced to kill you.’
Dante gave her a sudden fierce, brilliant smile. ‘Don’t kill me, kitten. Love me instead.’
So that was what she did.
EPILOGUE
‘WHERE IS MY COUSIN?’ Simon Cardinali demanded, fixing his uncle with a fierce stare.
Enzo, who was standing outside Stella’s hospital door and holding Simon’s hand, frowned. ‘Simon, where are your manners? You know better than that.’
The little boy pulled a face. ‘Sorry, Papa,’ he muttered. ‘But...where is my cousin, please?’
Dante gazed down at his small nephew and grinned. ‘She’s asleep.’
‘But I’ve got a present,’ Simon complained.
‘She’s still a baby,’ Dante explained reasonably. ‘And she needs her sleep. She can see your present tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Simon looked aghast. ‘But that’s for ever!’
An exasperated expression crossed Enzo’s face. ‘I’m going to take you back to your mother.’ He gave Dante a glance—he’d already congratulated his brother on the new addition to the Cardinali family. ‘How is Stella?’
‘She’s doing well,’ Dante said, and she was. The birth had been tough going, but his kitten had been strong. Stronger than he’d been, at any rate.
‘And Sofia?’
Dante thought about his daughter and grinned like a lunatic. ‘She’s perfect.’
Enzo gave a brisk nod. ‘Well, you get some rest too. You look like hell.’
Dante didn’t feel like hell. He felt incredible. As if he could do anything.
After his brother and nephew had gone, he went silently back into the private hospital room where Stella and their new daughter were sleeping.
Sofia was awake in her crib, her dark eyes—that he knew would end up being silver-blue, just like her mother’s—staring up into his. And he found he could only look at her for a couple of moments at a time because it was either that or his heart would burst out of sheer joy.
He was going to have to learn how to deal with that.
Dante made sure the soft blanket was pulled snugly around his daughter and that she was quiet before moving over to the bed where his wife lay.
Stella blinked sleepily as he sat down beside her and smiled, her hand reaching for his.
He took it, the joy inside him becoming complete.
‘You were amazing, my kitten,’ he said quietly. ‘I never knew how much strength it took to bring a new life into the world.’
Stella’s smile deepened. ‘You were pretty amazing yourself.’
Dante gave a rueful laugh. ‘I did not handle it well.’
‘You only swore and shouted twice. And you didn’t threaten anyone with death, not once.’
Stella was being kind. Being with his wife while she’d been in pain and he’d been unable to help her had been one of the most difficult things he’d ever had to do.
‘You set me a great example,’ he said. ‘I got my strength from you.’
‘Because you were with me.’ Her fingers tightened around his. ‘We got our strength from each other.’
And she was right, they had. Because they loved each other.
Dante lifted his wife’s hand to his mouth and kissed it. ‘I love you, Stella Cardinali.’
Her smile was the one she kept for him and him alone. ‘I will never get tired of hearing you say that.’
He turned her hand over and kissed her palm, staring into her shattered sky eyes. ‘That’s good, because I plan to keep saying it every day for the rest of our lives.’
And he did.
Because, as dedicated as he’d once been to being a reckless playboy who didn’t feel a thing, he was even more dedicated to being a loving husband and father.
And, as it turned out, he was very good at that.
He was very good indeed.
* * *
If you enjoyed Claiming His One-Night Child by Jackie Ashenden, why not look out for the first instalment in her Shocking Italian Heirs duet?
Demanding His Hidden Heir
Available now!
And why not explore these other Jackie Ashenden stories, from our fantastic DARE series?
Ruined
Destroyed
King’s Price
King’s Rule
King’s Ransom
Available now!
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Prince’s Virgin in Venice
by Trish Morey
CHAPTER ONE
PRINCE VITTORIO D’MARBURG of Andachstein was fed up. Bored. Even in Venice at the height of carnival season, even on his way to the most exclusive party of the festival, still the Playboy Prince couldn’t ignore the overwhelming sense of frustration that permeated his skin and drilled straight down into his bones.
Or maybe it was just the icy pricks from the February pea soup fog needling his skin that were turning his thoughts from carnival to cynical. It was a fog that turned the magical city invisible, precisely when the calles and narrow bridges were more crowded than ever with waves of costumed partygoers surging to and fro, competing for the available space—brightly garbed men and women for whom the fog failed to dampen the air of excitement and the energy that accompanied Carnevale.
It was if the floating city had been let off a leash and, fog or no, it was going to party.
Vittorio cut a swathe through the endless tide of carnival-goers, his cloak swirling in his wake, his mood blackening with every step.
The thronging crowds somehow parted and made way for him. He didn’t think too much about it. Maybe it was his warrior costume—a coat of mail and blue leather dressed with chain and gold braid—or maybe it was his battle-ready demeanour. Either way, it was as if they could read the hostility in his eyes as he headed towards the most exclusive party of the night.
And they could all see his eyes. Vittorio had given up playing with disguises when he was a child. There’d been no point. Everyone had always known it was him behind the mask.
Before the ancient well in the square that housed the Palazzo de Marigaldi, Vittorio’s long strides slowed. Ordinarily he would have been relieved to reach his destination and escape the exuberant crowds—should have been relieved—except for the fact that his father had all too gleefully shared the news in his latest call, just minutes earlier, that the Contessa Sirena Della Corte, daughter of one of his oldest friends, was opportunely going to be in attendance.
Vittorio snorted—just as he’d done when his father had told him.
Opportunely.
He doubted it.
Opportunistically would no doubt be a better word. The woman was a human viper draped in designer artistry, lying in wait for a royal title—which marriage to him would bestow upon her. And his father, despite Vittorio’s blanket protests, had encouraged her to pursue her desperate ambition.
Little wonder Vittorio was in no hurry to get there.
Little wonder that, despite the assurances he’d made to his old friend Marcello that nothing would stop him attending his party tonight, Vittorio’s enthusiasm had been on the wane ever since his father’s call had come through.
Dio.
He’d come to Venice thinking the famous carnival would offer an escape from the stultifying atmosphere of the palace and the endless demands of the aging Prince Guglielmo, but it seemed they had stalked him here—along with the Contessa Sirena.
His father’s choice for his next bride.
But after the experience of his first doomed marriage Vittorio wasn’t about to be dictated to again—not when it came to the woman who would share his marriage bed.
The crowds were thickening, party deadlines were calling, and their excitement was at odds with his own dark thoughts. He was a man out of place, out of time. He was a man who had the world at his feet, and destiny snapping at his heels. He was a man who wanted to be able to make his own choices, but he was cursed with the heritage of his birth and his need to satisfy others before he could entertain his own needs.
He all but turned to walk away—from his destiny as much as from the party. He wasn’t in the mood for going another few rounds with Sirena—wasn’t in the mood for her blatant attempts at seduction, the pouting, and the affected hurt when her all too obvious charms went ignored.
Except there was no question of his not going. Marcello was his oldest friend and Vittorio had promised him he would be there. Sirena would just have to keep on pouting.
But curse his father for encouraging the woman.
Something caught his eye. A flash of colour amongst the crowd, a static burst of vermilion amidst the moving parade of costumes and finery, a glimpse of a knee, down low, and a hint of an upturned angular jaw up high—like snatches of a portrait in oils when all around were hazy watercolours.
His eyes narrowed as he willed the surging crowd to part. Catching a glance of a dark waterfall of wavy hair over one shoulder when the crowd obliged, he saw the woman turn her masked face up to the bridge, moving her head frantically with every passing costume, scanning, searching through the short veil of black lace that masked the top half of her face.
She looked lost. Alone. A tourist, most likely, fallen victim to Venice’s tangle of streets and canals.
He looked away. It wasn’t his problem. He had somewhere to be, after all. And yet still his eyes scoured the square. Nobody looked as if they had lost someone and were searching for her. Nobody looked anywhere close to claiming her.
He glanced back, seeking her between richly decorated masks topped with elaborate wigs and feathers, their wearers resplendent in costumes that spoke of centuries long past, when men wore fitted breeches and women wore gowns with tight bodices spilling their plump white breasts. For a moment he couldn’t find her, and thought her gone, until a group of Harlequins with jester hats ringing with bells passed. And then he saw her raise one hand to her painted mouth before seeming to sag before him.
He watched as she thumbed off the mask and shook her hair back on a sigh—the long hair that curled over one shoulder. She swept it back with one hand, and her cloak slipped down to reveal one bare shoulder and a satin gown riding low over one breast, before she shivered and hurriedly tucked herself back under the cover of the cloak.
She was lost.
Alone.
With the kind of innocent beauty and vulnerability that tugged at him.
And suddenly Vittorio didn’t feel so bored any more.
Copyright © 2019 by Trish Morey
ISBN-13: 9781488044724
Claiming His One-Night Child
Copyright © 2019 by Jackie Ashenden
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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