by Maisey Yates
Yes, he had said all that. But at the time he’d been knocked so flat by her revelation his reaction had been...much less than gracious. And he’d decided he didn’t believe her, because it was easier. She couldn’t be pregnant, not by him. Not when he’d used a condom.
He had decided that she probably wasn’t pregnant at all. But then the dreams of that wide-eyed little girl had continued to plague him. And so he’d decided to come down to the doctor’s appointment and prove it.
But Charity had been at the appointment. And then...and then the heartbeat.
And he had known in that moment it was his child. Had believed that, in this instance, she spoke the truth.
But he didn’t want her to be too confident in that just yet. Not while he was still sorting through his feelings.
“And you seemed to want me in the child’s life.”
“I don’t need you in the child’s life,” she said, “I only need child support.”
“I disagree.”
“You said that you didn’t want to be a father,” she said.
“And yet, it seems I’m going to be one. Want has nothing to do with it. But for stronger scruples or a stronger condom, we wouldn’t be in this mess. But alas, we had neither. Still, I think the situation can be salvaged.”
“I felt it had been salvaged rather well already.”
“Why? Because you got my money?” Perfect, chilled rage, rushed through his veins. “What do you plan to do with the child? Farm it out to relatives? An elderly aunt? No doubt while you continued to collect my money.”
“No, I intend to raise my baby. But I don’t need you to do it,” she said, lifting her chin, her expression defiant.
“I have as much right as you. I am the child’s father.”
“And, not to put too fine a point on it, I hate you.”
He chuckled. “Am I supposed to be bothered by that? You are not the first woman to hate me, and I daresay you will not be the last. However, you are the first woman to carry my child. And I will have you both. This is nonnegotiable.”
“Or else?” she asked, crossing her arms beneath her breasts, her dark eyes glittering.
“Prison is still an option,” he ground out.
She blinked rapidly. “You wouldn’t really send me to jail.”
“They take very good care of pregnant women in prison.” He looked at her, watched as the fear took hold of her. Good. Let her understand that he wasn’t giving hollow threats. He was not a man to be trifled with. Most especially by a woman who had wronged him. “I would hate to explain to our child that its mother was a criminal, but I will do what I must.”
“You bastard,” she said.
“Guilty. And you might want to be careful throwing that term around, as technically, our child is a bastard, too.”
Her dark eyes glittered. “How dare you?”
“That is the reality of the situation we find ourselves in, cara mia. If you do not like it, take steps to change it.”
“What steps?”
He lifted a shoulder. “You could always marry me,” he said.
It was the most extreme version of his plan, but not one he was entirely uncomfortable with. He saw no reason why marriage should affect his lifestyle in any way. Or hers. But it would at least provide a comfortable framework for his child’s life. That was something he had lacked growing up, and he didn’t want his child to lack in the same ways.
It was part of his growing obsession.
Ever since that night, the night after she had come to tell him about the baby, he had been plagued by the same nightmare over and over again. The empty house, the searching child. The child that eventually became his.
And he had known then what he had to do.
He had grown into an entirely selfish man over the years. He knew that. He had not connected with a single person since the death of his mother. The homes he had bounced between offered him nothing—no comfort, no love. And when he had gone into the workforce, he had approached things with a single-minded ruthlessness. Life on the street had taught him early on that you had to look out for yourself, because no one else would.
His mother’s fate had taught him that you had to be the most dangerous person in the alley, or you would become a victim.
Rocco Amari refused to become a victim.
And yet, he felt connected to this child. The child in his dream. He had no way of knowing if it was a vision of some kind. In fact, he was certain it wasn’t, because he didn’t believe in such things. But he didn’t feel he could ignore it, either.
His sleeplessness had driven him here. To confirm the pregnancy, to confirm what he must do. The moment the sound of the baby’s heartbeat had filled the room, he had known. No matter the cost, he would create a family. A stable environment.
He was determined.
“Are you insane?” she asked, taking a step back.
“No.”
“You say that with a lot of confidence, for someone I’m pretty certain is insane,” she said, shaking her head, a curtain of glossy curls swirling around her. She truly was beautiful. It was a shame she was a criminal.
“You don’t need to answer that now. But you will come back to the island with me now.”
“Or prison?”
He smiled. “Or prison. Yet again, I feel it’s a fairly easy choice.”
“I should have run.”
“Before or after the con?”
She paled, an ashen tone running beneath her cream-and-coffee skin. “I don’t want to talk anymore,” she said.
“Too close to the bone?”
“I don’t have a choice, do I?”
He advanced on her, closing the space between them. And as the air shrank, his chest tightened, his blood running harder, faster. There was something about her, something that called to him. Something elemental. He could not fathom it.
“Did we ever?” They were not the words he meant to speak, and yet he found it was an honest question.
He wondered if there had ever been a choice where she was concerned. If, rather than being the woman he was certain had been a part of stealing his money, he had spotted her in a crowded bar, they would have ended up in bed together.
If, no matter the circumstances, their connection would have been forged.
“I didn’t,” she said.
“You made your choice when you agreed to help your father steal my money. And now I am the one making the choices. You will come with me. Now. I do not make empty threats, and I think you know that.”
“Well then,” she said, her voice strangled. “Perhaps you should show me to your private jet.”
“I will. Make no mistake, cara, you are mine now. And by the end of next week, I will decide what exactly I am going to do with you.”
* * *
For the second time Charity found herself looking at a set of written instructions, and a garment bag.
She still felt as if she was dreaming. Only, it wasn’t a particularly good dream. They had left the doctor’s appointment, only to get on a plane and fly overnight to Italy. Rocco had spent the entire flight ignoring her, which suited her just fine. She’d slept most of the way, and she assumed he had been working, or whatever it was he was doing on his computer. Possibly looking at pictures of women in bikinis. She didn’t really care.
He’d continued his silence on the car ride through the city and up a winding mountain road. Charity had tried to appear blasé about the whole experience. From the moment they had boarded his private plane, until they had touched down in a country she had never even dreamed of visiting. But she’d found it was impossible. Especially when faced with the beauty of Italy.
The narrow streets, tall buildings, cluttered balconies and brightly colored flowers on climbing vines were too bea
utiful for her to ignore. She’d pressed her nose to the glass of the limo they were riding in and watched as the road widened, the buildings became more sparse, stared in awe at the intense jade ocean down at the bottom of the rocky cliffs.
And once the expansive villa had come into view, she’d had to fight to keep her mouth from dropping open.
Now she was inside, installed in her bedroom, which was larger than the New York hotel suite Rocco had seduced her in. It was expensive, light and airy, with white curtains and flowing white linens cascading over the wrought-iron frame of the bed.
And yet, there was a heaviness in her chest that she could not shake.
And now the note.
You will join me for dinner. You will wear the dress that I have provided. We have much to discuss.
—R
This scenario felt far too familiar for her liking. And the worst part was, much like the first time, she was in no position to refuse him.
She blinked, her eyes feeling gritty. The time change and restless sleep on the airplane was starting to catch up with her. She took her shirt off, and her skirt, then unzipped the garment bag to find a bright yellow dress made of a light fabric that looked as if it would be comfortable in the heat.
She had expected a corset and garter belt, so it was a pleasant surprise.
She slipped the dress on over her head and turned to look at herself in the mirror. Unfortunately, she looked as tired as she felt. Deep purple circles marked the skin beneath her eyes, and she was certain that there was a permanent line etched in her forehead that had not been there BR.
Before Rocco.
She sighed and took her hair out of its clip, running her fingers through the glossy dark curls that she had always imagined were a gift from her mother. A thick, unruly gift that made getting ready a chore. A fitting present from a woman who had never once bothered to check on the child she had given birth to.
She reached down and picked up her purse, taking out her bright pink lipstick and smearing a bit over her lips. The effect brightened her face some, made her look less tired. Made her look less worn down. She needed that. That little bit of armor in place so that he didn’t just think he had won. So that he didn’t assume he had the upper hand.
She arched one dark brow at her own reflection. “You are in his villa, in a foreign country. A country where you don’t speak the language. He’s a billionaire. And you are not even a thousandaire. There is no question who has the upper hand.”
She sighed and turned away from the mirror.
She didn’t know how she was going to get out of this, but she would be damned if she betrayed herself to him.
She opened the door to the bedroom, running a countdown in her mind as she walked slowly down the hallway that led to the sweeping curved staircase. She put her hand on the polished wooden banister and let her fingers glide across the smooth, cool surface as she made her way down to the opulent entryway.
Ten. Nine. Eight.
She was strong. She would hold her own.
Seven. Six. Five.
He might have brought her here, but he did not control her.
Four. Three. Two.
All of the vulnerability he had made her feel back in the hotel room was over now. She was impervious to it. Impervious to him.
One.
She stepped off the bottom stair and looked up. Rocco was there, his dark eyes clashing with hers, his hand extended toward her.
She sucked in a sharp breath, her heart hammering hard, her stomach twisting.
“So pleased you could join me,” he said, appraising her slowly. “I knew that color would suit you.”
“You can’t imagine how relieved I am that you approve of my appearance. I was deeply concerned.”
“Come now, must everything be a fight?” He kept his hand extended. “Take my hand.”
“No thank you, I can walk just fine. Probably better without you leading me off a cliff. Oh, look. I suppose everything does have to be a fight.”
He arched a brow and lowered his hand. “Dinner is back this way on the terrace. And while it does overlook a cliff, I have no desire to walk you off it.”
“You expect me to trust you? I don’t trust anyone,” she said, following him through the expensive living area, her shoes loud on the marble floor.
“I see. And why is it that you don’t trust anyone? Because I find that a curious stance for someone like yourself. I could understand a victim of yours no longer trusting people.”
“I don’t have victims,” she said, her tone crisp. “They’re called marks.”
“Admitting something?”
“No,” she said, looking away, her heart beating a bit faster, “I’m not.”
“You will not convince me of your innocence. You might as well drop the denial.”
She rolled her eyes. “So I should give you a full, signed confession?”
“You could start by simply answering my question.”
“Why don’t I trust people? Because I see what happens when you trust people. My father is a con man. He always has been. The quality time I remember with my dad consisted of running scams that required playing on people’s sympathy for children. Not exactly a weekend at the ballpark. Why would I trust people?”
He pushed open the double doors that led outside to an expansive terrace that overlooked the ocean. He turned to face her, his lean figure backlit by the sun. “You shouldn’t trust people. At least not in my experience. Certainly don’t trust me.”
She followed him outside, to a table that was set for two. There was a Mediterranean platter including olives and various other Italian delights, a basket of bread, a glass of wine for him and water for her.
“Oh, I don’t trust you.”
He pulled her chair out and indicated that he wanted her to sit. “Good. I don’t need you to trust me. I simply need you to stay with me. Sit.”
She kept her eyes on his and she obeyed his command, deciding that in this instance, it wouldn’t do any good to push against him. “What do you mean you want to keep me?”
“I have done some thinking. I want to be in my child’s life. And I want you to be in the child’s life. You see, I was denied both my parents at a very early age. I cannot knowingly do the same to my own flesh and blood.”
“Well, I...I feel the same way. At least as far as I’m concerned.” It was the truth. Growing up without a mother, it had never been an option for her to give her child up. Knowing that her mother had left her with a con artist for a father and never bothered to contact her again, had caused Charity pain all of her life. Doing the same to her own child was unthinkable.
“Then it is decided. Shall we set a wedding date?”
“I am not marrying you.”
He waved a hand. “Marriage is not necessary. I’m flexible on that score. But I do think we should share a household, don’t you? It would only be jarring for the child to bounce back and forth between your tiny apartment and one of my homes.”
“Are you suggesting we live together?”
“If you refuse to marry me, cohabitation works just as well.”
“But...I don’t understand. You can’t possibly want a relationship with me.”
“Of course I don’t.” He tossed the words out casually, no venom in his tone at all. “I don’t care about you at all. Except in the context of what you mean to our baby. Even if we were to marry we would continue to conduct our lives separately.”
“I don’t want to marry you.”
“I did not say I wanted to marry you,” he said, taking a seat across from her. “Only that I feel it is an option.”
She studied him hard. “You believe me. About the baby?”
“Yes.”
“And you want the baby. You want to be a father
.”
“I am going to be a father. That means I...have to be one,” he said, sounding slightly less confident than he typically did.
“Why did you change your mind?”
“I lived in Rome when I was a boy.” He leaned back in his chair and picked up his glass of wine, swirling the liquid inside slowly. “We lived in a very poor neighborhood. I never knew my father. I woke up one morning and the house was empty. Everything had been taken. And there were strangers there. My mother was gone. And I kept asking them where she was, but no one would answer me. I found out later that she was killed on her way home from work. I assume the landlord took all of our possessions and left me alone. But I don’t know the details, and things like that are always difficult to sort through. Childhood memories. The recollections of a five-year-old are not always clear. But I know what it means to be alone. I know what it is like to feel lost.” There was a faraway look in his dark eyes, a deep well that she could not see the bottom of. So different to the flatness that was usually there. “I do not wish that for our child. I wish for them to have a full house. I wish for them to have both of us. If he wakes in the middle of the night I do not want him to be alone.”
Her chest tightened to the point of discomfort. She looked down at her plate, picked up an olive and rolled it in between her thumb and forefinger. Emotions made her uncomfortable. Especially the emotions of other people. In her experience connecting was dangerous. Empathy was dangerous. It had made it impossible to do what her father asked growing up. Because if she started to think too deeply about what other people would feel when they discovered they had been cheated, she had to contend with her conscience.
And if ever she connected with people, it only dissolved once the con ended and she had to run.
It was why she could never engage herself. Why she had to play a character wholly and completely, so that she was wrapped in it, so the real her was protected.
But she found that she was not protected now. She was not distant. Because it was too easy to picture a lonely boy in an empty house. Because she had felt that, too.
“Some nights,” she said, questioning the words even as she spoke them, “my father would go to events, and he could not bring me with him. He would tell me to lock the doors, not open them for anyone. We had a password. So when he came home in the early hours of the morning, he would say it, and I would know not to be afraid. But sometimes he didn’t come home. And I would be by myself all night. Normally I would sleep through it, but sometimes I would wake up, go get a glass of water, something like that. And the house was so empty. It’s a very scary feeling late at night.” She met his gaze. “I don’t want that for our child, either. I want what you want.”
