Baby By Accident: International Billionaires III: The Italians

by Caro LaFever

  But she had spine. And she had terror. “The women. The partying. You barely have time for anything else.”

  “Really?” The menace gritted around the word. “You know this how?”

  “Well.” She couldn’t meet his green-gold gaze any more. The look in those tawny eyes no longer made her shiver, it made her quake. “It’s perfectly clear you’d rather be free to…”

  “To?”

  “To…” She waved her hands in the air. “To play. You don’t want the responsibility.”

  His sudden move to stand made her jerk her head back to stare at him with a wary gaze. The menace now emanated from his body in the tight fisting of his hands, the flash of fury in his eyes, the hard edge of his jaw.

  What? What had she said that was anything other than the truth? She took a step backward even though she hated to think of it as a retreat.

  “Can you look at what is happening in the company and deny my ability to take responsibility?” The words punched from his mouth.

  “That is not the same—”

  “Can you look me straight in the eye and deny the success my plans have achieved in only six months?”

  Lise balled the front of her nightgown in her sweaty hands. She wasn’t going to lie again. Not again.

  “Maybe,” he growled. “This has nothing to do with my lifestyle.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe the real reason you object to letting me know if this child is mine is because you don’t want to sully its life with my presence.”

  His words were so bitter she felt them like a lash. What was he talking about? She stared at him in complete bewilderment. “I just don’t think you want to be a father. I don’t think you’d be very good at it.”

  He flinched. And then his eyes blazed at her with passionate hate. “It doesn’t matter what you think of me.”

  “But—”

  “What matters is if this child is mine. I will find out.”

  “You can’t possibly care—”

  “I care.” His gaze was fierce, his words taut with conviction. “I care.”

  She stared at him, stunned. This couldn’t be the playboy pirate she knew him to be. “You aren’t thinking—”

  His arm slashed through the air, cutting off her objection. “Enough,” he snarled. “Taverwood Grange.”

  Her heart stopped. Then pounded in her chest. “What of it?”

  The tiger strode past her to stare down at the cold fireplace. The muscles of his back clenched and then relaxed as if he’d made a hard decision. She held her breath, waiting for his threat.

  Why was she surprised he’d use threats to get his way? Why was she hurt?

  He spun around, his face pale yet composed. “I own the mortgage on it.”

  Ruddy hell. Her knees trembled, but she refused to sit, to cower in front of him. Still, the news was brutal and devastating. Instinctively, she understood what it meant immediately. She would have to do what he demanded. Or else her mother would lose her home and Lise would lose her memories. Bittersweet though they may be, they were her memories and precious.

  “I hate you,” she whispered.

  “I don’t think I need to spell anything else out, do I?” Ignoring her words, he continued to methodically mow her down. “A DNA test, Princesse. I want the results on my desk by next Monday.”

  “Don’t call me that nickname.” Her objection to such a slight issue was laughable, but it was the only thing she could think to say. Her arguing was futile now and yet, she couldn’t stop trying. “No—”

  “Si.” Prowling over to her, he gave her a grim smile.

  Her breath chopped in her throat. What could she say? What weapon could she use to stave off this attack? There was none. Her arsenal was empty. Once more, this man had won. Conquered and dominated her until she was forced to submit. The knowledge ate at her, spilled acid into her belly where her child, his child lay.

  The nausea flood through her body, washing away thought and will, swamping her.

  “One more thing,” he said, his voice low and blunt.

  She lifted her chin, met his gaze despite knowing she’d lost.

  “No abortion.” His gaze was savage. “Not until I know it’s not mine.”

  The last cut sliced through her like a cruel slash. He thought…he thought she would actually kill her baby? He thought so badly of her he would accuse her of this?

  Lise swayed, bile billowing in her throat. A dark haze blurred the edges of her sight and she heard his muffled voice as she fell into his arms and blacked out.

  Fainting once more into Vico Mattare’s grasp.

  Chapter 8

  He was going to be a father.

  Vico stared at the report. The one she’d forward by email earlier this morning.

  With no comment.

  How he hated her. The woman who lied to him once again. The woman who would have callously deprived him of his baby. His rightful place. Because she thought him unworthy.

  You are unworthy.

  The thought gutted him as always. However, there was no choice any longer. All choice had been taken away from him at the moment of conception. A conception he’d willingly, if stupidly, participated in. A pregnancy he was responsible for.

  The trick. The temptation.

  And now, the trap.

  One he’d sprung on himself when he’d succumbed to his worst nature and brought her home to his bed. He had no one else to blame other than himself.

  Except he did. He blamed her.

  He blamed her for the pearl sheen of her skin. He blamed her for the strands of gold and white in her hair that caught the light in every room she entered. And he blamed her for the way she moved, elegance mixed with sex.

  A lady masking a siren.

  Restless, he stood and paced to his office window. None of this blame or hate mattered. What mattered was the baby. The time for freedom and choice was over. He’d thought he’d have more time to figure things out, figure himself out. He’d thought he’d have more time to come to peace with his past. He’d hoped someday he’d forgive himself and move on.

  This will never happen.

  He’d known it, deep in what was left of his worthless soul. There was no way back to redemption. A million more euros or dollars or pounds could be spent on his charity for boys in trouble. A thousand more useless prayers could be spoken as he lay in the darkness of his bedroom. A hundred more times his family could forgive him, his friend’s family could tell him what happened was not his fault. But he’d known. There was nothing he could do to make it right.

  How could he reasonably expose a child to a man like himself? His recklessness, his carelessness, his sin. Vico strode back to his computer and stared at the report once more and laughed softly.

  Fate had other ideas.

  How ironic to the extreme that one more of his impetuous decisions would throw him back into a hell he’d tried to climb out of for fifteen years. He’d been so good for so long. Had curbed his impulses, made restitution, did everything right. He’d learned, though, hadn’t he? All the good deeds in the world could never wipe out the evil deed he’d committed.

  So be it.

  What mattered was the child. His bambino. He would do anything to make sure everything was right. As much as he could make this situation right.

  No matter what Lise Helton said.

  He knew why she’d lied. He wasn’t good enough to be a father. She was right. He’d give her credit for instinctively sensing the truth. Nevertheless, his pride rebelled and raged at her and her condescension and contempt.

  You can’t possibly want anything to do with a child.

  Si. She was right. But not for the reasons she assumed.

  You’d rather be free to play. You don’t want the responsibility.

  It wasn’t the playing he would miss. It was the responsibility he was terrified of.

  I just don’t think you’d want to be a father.

  Wanting had nothing to do with this.


  I don’t think you’d be very good at it.

  Vico wondered for a moment if he was having a heart attack. Because the pain in his chest threatened to bring him to his knees. Because Lise Helton might be a cheat and a liar, but she was right in this case.

  He wasn’t capable of being a good father.

  He’d lost his papa at six. A crushing blow that had changed his life. Not that he’d realized it or acknowledged it until many years later. The loss had turned him from a secure, happy boy in love with his strong papa, into a troubled kid who’d grown into an angry, rebellious delinquent. A stupid boy who’d made many, many stupid decisions. One especially stupid decision that had cost an innocent’s life.

  And now, because of his continued stupidity, he’d placed an innocent baby into his care. A light film of cold sweat broke out over his entire body. He was going to fail. Somehow, somewhere in this child’s life, he would come up short.

  Still, he was the only father this child had.

  The knock on his door shattered his focus on his painful past and scary present.

  Vico sucked in a breath and walked back behind his desk. There would be another fight with her. Another battle he would win. This was one thing he could do for his bambino. Be there. Claim him or her. Give the baby his name, his family, and his heritage.

  “Vene,” he barked as he sat down in his leather, high-back chair.

  Lise Helton walked in with a stiff gait and a glint of rebellion in her eye.

  The memory of her, limp in his grasp, came to him. He’d caught her before she’d fallen in a heap at his feet. He’d held her in his arms, guilt at doing this to her weighing heavier than she did. Her long blonde lashes soft on her white cheeks. The warmth of her body sinking into his skin. The sharp, sweet scent of lavender swirling in his head.

  She’d finally murmured.

  Then she’d opened her eyes and stared at him with the same hazy smile she’d given him when they’d been in bed together. His blood pressure had soared, yet now it was lust driving it, not worry. Every thought was driven from his mind as he’d leaned down to kiss her, take her lips with his.

  Which had earned him a big fat wallop on the side of his face.

  He’d left. Angry once more. Tortured once more.

  But also determined to get what he wanted from her.

  A week had gone by since he’d seen her. If he had to guess, he would say she’d lost even more weight. Her power suit hung on her like she was a clothesline. Her skin was pasty, waxy. Her hair, tugged back in a bun, made her appear forty years old.

  “What do you want?” Her words were strong and clipped, refuting the weakness of her body.

  Not you, his pride responded.

  Yet this wasn’t true, even if he willed it so. His body ignored his turmoil as usual with her. His skin burned with need. All his muscles tightened in an instinctive urge to lunge for what he wanted.

  “Sit down before you fall down,” he growled.

  She huffed, but slumped into a chair anyway. He noticed her fingers were white as her hands clasped in her lap.

  Did she realize, like him, they were both doomed? Did she understand they’d be together now, forever? Forever linked by this child?

  “Did you have something to say to me?” she demanded, her tone harsh.

  Her defiance, her stubbornness in the face of certain defeat, was a complete anomaly in his experience. No woman he knew wanted to defeat him. They wanted to have him. No woman rejected him. They all wanted him. No woman spat at him, cursed him, cussed at him. Every woman cooed and complimented him instead.

  “Well?” Her tone had turned to waspish disdain.

  Frustration roiled in him. This woman should be begging for forgiveness for her lies. She should be wanly excusing her mistake. She should be asking for his help.

  The urge to crush was overwhelming.

  “You know why I called you in here,” he said. “You lied to me.”

  The Princesse simply glared her hate.

  The anger turned to fury. “You lied to me again.”

  “It was for the best.”

  He shot out of his chair. “The child is mine.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters.”

  She lifted her chin and met his gaze. “You were merely the sperm donor.”

  Could he hate this woman any harder or deeper? Lust was nothing compared to the rage running through his veins. Vico forced himself to pace away from her to the windows. He was very sure if he found himself within a foot of her, he’d have his hands around her neck.

  London’s blue sky blazed down on the streets. The warmth didn’t penetrate the cold, stony silence inside his office. Breathing through his nostrils, he finally captured his temper and remembered his commitment. To his child.

  “I am the father.” He swiveled around to face her. Forced himself to say the words that sealed their fate. Their miserable fate. “We will marry.”

  A gasp escaped her.

  She couldn’t be surprised at his proposal, could she? Neither of them was important now. Only the child. Leaning against the window, he folded his arms on his chest. His hands shook.

  “You have got to be kidding.”

  The exact same words when he took over her company. Now, he would take over her life and his child’s.

  “Princesse,” he responded in exactly the same way. “The time for kidding has long since passed.”

  A flush of red rose in her cheeks, showing she also remembered. The color was a stark contrast to the white of the rest of her skin. “I hate you,” she snapped.

  He sensed the energy between them. The wretched, ugly connection that had drawn them disastrously to this awful point. “I hate you too.”

  The tension filled the room. A wall of anger and fear and distrust.

  And lust.

  “But we will marry,” he stated. “We will definitely marry.”

  * * *

  I hate you too.

  Why did his words hurt? Why did it feel as if they sliced right through her?

  Lise’s nails cut into the skin of her palm. The pain seemed appropriate somehow, as if it could overwhelm and envelop the pain his statement caused.

  He watched her, those cat eyes waiting for her next move. So he could make the final kill, no doubt. The weariness and lethargy she carried around with her day after day called at her to give up, to give in. Yet her baby’s fate hung in the balance. Also, her own.

  “I can’t believe you mean this seriously.” She forced herself to lower her voice, speak in a calm tone instead of screaming like a crazed maniac. “You don’t want to marry. It would ruin your lifestyle.”

  “You know me so well.” The lilt of his accent gave the words a mocking tinge.

  She looked at him, but couldn’t detect an iota of amusement in his eyes or his face. But the man was joking about marriage. Surely. “You’re pulling my chain, aren’t you?”

  “Pulling your chain?” His frown showed his confusion and she was reminded suddenly of his foreignness, how different he was in so many ways from her reality and experience.

  He ran a hand through his long, dark curls, as if he wanted to sweep this entire situation behind him. Why didn’t he do just that and walk away? His stubborn demand to be a part of this was incomprehensible to her. “What I mean is you are only playing tricks with me and mocking me with this absurd proposal.”

  “Tricks?” The tiger eyes flashed over to meet her gaze.

  What was in them? A swift flicker of shame?

  “I can assure you,” he said. “This is no trick and certainly no treat for me.”

  “For me either.” She banked her embarrassment at his barb. “So let’s agree this was a crazy idea. I’ll never marry you. The thought is absurd.”

  His eyes narrowed and flamed, the gold searing her, the green cutting her. “Absurd it might be. Nevertheless, it will happen.”

  “I would be miserable. You would be miserable.”

>   “Si.” He still leaned against the window, his body screaming tension although his pose was distant and aloof. “It makes no difference, however. We did the deed and now must pay the price.”

  “I had nothing to do with the deed as you put it.” She couldn’t help the dig. “So I will not pay the price.”

  “Do not try that again.” He waved her words away with a dismissive motion. “You know perfectly well you were the one who initiated the sex.”

  A flush rose in her cheeks. “After you threw me into your bed.”

  His fingers tapped their impatience on his crossed arm. “Whatever the lead up to the sex was, one thing is certain. We both wanted it.”

  His stare dared her to disagree. She tried to summon her sense of injustice, but her honor told her it was a useless protest. Especially in the circumstances. “I might have wanted sex that night, for my own reasons.”

  He continued to stare at her as if trying to penetrate her skull.

  “That doesn’t mean I want anything more to do with you now.”

  “Too late.”

  “It’s not too late.” She dug her nails deeper into her palms. “You can easily walk away from this whole thing with your conscience completely clear. I absolve you of any responsibility.”

  “But I do not absolve myself.” His frown returned. “And I do not reject the responsibility for my child.”

  This man couldn’t possibly be Vico Mattare. Not in a million years. “You might feel this way for a moment, but when reality sets in—”

  “I have been thinking of this for several weeks now.” His voice was harsh and hard. “This marriage proposal is not some random thought that only just entered my head.”

  Shock rocketed through her. Weeks? In between business meetings and nights on the town, he’d been contemplating marriage to her? “You can’t—”

  “You have thought the worst of me from the moment we met.” His tawny eyes simmered with temper. “You might want to rethink some of those conclusions.”

  “I did not—”

  “Because they are causing you to underestimate me,” he stated. “Once more.”

  They glared at each other. The room was closed in and hushed, the only sound the dull murmur of his PA on the phone.