Aurora looked at the heavy keys she held in her palm and laughed. ‘Nico, the only thing that kept me sane in Silibri was the fact that one day I would marry you.’
‘I love you,’ he told her again. Aurora had always been his fabled wife.
‘You really bought the cottage?’
She held the keys now. Or rather, they shared them.
‘I bought the cottage, Aurora. At the time I didn’t know why, but I do now—I guess I didn’t want that dream of being with you to die completely.’
‘But...’ She looked at him. ‘You said you could think of nothing worse than living opposite my parents.’
‘And I still can’t,’ Nico admitted. ‘But for holidays, and for things like Christmas, when there are too many Messinas in your parents’ house, we can just head over the road to our own little home. And for the times when we are fed up with the hotel...’
And Aurora’s tiny, grating percentage of doubt faded under a million Sicilian stars and the softest kiss.
‘Tomorrow,’ Nico said as he removed her dress and her pretty underwear, ‘we will take the steps down to the beach and I am going to have you in the water.’
‘What about now?’ She liked the thought of a naked swim, but Nico was already laying her down.
‘No, no,’ he said, and parted her legs, ready to dive into her. ‘For tonight, all you have to do is look to the stars.’
* * *
If you enjoyed The Sicilian’s Surprise Love-Child by Carol Marinelli you’re sure to enjoy these other One Night With Consequences stories!
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Cinderella’s Scandalous Secret
by Melanie Milburne
CHAPTER ONE
THE PENTHOUSE IN the grand old Edinburgh hotel was the last room on Isla’s shift. The irony didn’t escape her that she was now cleaning penthouses rather than occupying them.
She knocked on the door and called out, ‘Housekeeping.’ When there was no answer she swiped her pass key, opened the door and brought her cleaning trolley inside.
It was like stepping into another world—a world she had once briefly visited and fooled herself she could belong to... Had it only been five months ago?
Isla placed a protective hand over the slight swell of her abdomen, where the soft flutter of tiny developing limbs moving in their sac of amniotic fluid reminded her that in another four months her life would change yet again.
For ever.
Isla closed the door of the suite, tried too to close the door on her thoughts, but they lingered, floating around her head like black crows circling above a carcass. The carcass of her short but passionate relationship with her baby’s father.
Rafe Angeliri, who didn’t even know he was going to be a father.
‘Relationship’ was probably too generous a word to describe what she had experienced with Rafe. A fling. An affair. Two months of madness. Magical, mind-altering, body-fizzing madness. Two months where she had forgotten who she was, where she came from, what she represented. They had met in a bar and in under an hour she had ended up in bed with him. Her first ever one-night stand—except it hadn’t been a one-night stand because Rafe had asked to see her again. And again. And again. And within a few days they were enmeshed in a passionate relationship she hadn’t wanted to end.
But it had.
She had made it end.
Isla swept her gaze over the plush furnishings of the suite. During her fling with Rafe, spending a night in a luxury room such as this had become the norm. Sleeping between one thousand thread Egyptian cotton sheets, sipping French champagne from sparkling crystal flutes, eating at Michelin starred restaurants, wearing designer clothes and shoes and glittering jewellery that cost more than a car. Going to charity balls and opera and theatre shows and premiere red carpet events dressed like a supermodel instead of a foster kid from the wrong side of the tracks.
Trailer trash, tarted up to look like royalty.
The penthouse had been slept in the night before—the bed was rumpled on one side, the covers thrown back over the mattress in a way that snagged on her memory like a rose thorn on silk. Even the air smelled faintly familiar—a subtle blend of bergamot and citrus that made the skin on Isla’s arms lift in a tide of goosebumps, the hairs on her scalp tightening, tingling, tensing at the roots. The room seemed to have a strange energy, as if the presence of a strong personality had recently disturbed the air particles and they hadn’t quite yet recovered.
Isla gave herself a concussion-inducing mental slap, strode to the bed and stripped the linen off like a magician ripping a tablecloth from under a full setting of crockery. She had work to do and she couldn’t allow her imagination to get the better of her. She had made her own metaphorical bed and she was happy to lie on it.
Alone.
Telling Rafe about her pregnancy had never been an option. How could it be? She couldn’t risk him pressuring her into a termination. Couldn’t risk him rejecting her and the baby. She had experienced repeated rejections throughout her childhood. Even her own father had sent her back to foster care for others to raise. How could she risk Rafe sending her away? She couldn’t risk him offering to marry her out of a sense of duty. She knew first-hand how duty-motivated marriages worked out—with unwanted, unloved, unnurtured kids ending up in long-term foster care.
Isla remade the bed with the fresh linen from the trolley, stretching it over the mattress and straightening it to perfection, plumping up the pillows and neatly arranging them, along with the navy-blue scatter cushions and throw rug for the end of the bed. She stepped back to admire her handiwork when the door of the suite opened behind her.
Isla turned to face the guest with her best apologetic housemaid smile in place. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not quite fin...’
Her smile faded along with her apology and her heart leapt like a ping-pong ball and lodged high and tight in her throat. She couldn’t find her voice, couldn’t stop her heart from thudding against her chest wall like it was trying to punch its way out. Bumph. Bumph. Bumph. Her
skin tightened all over her body, pulling away from her skeleton in panic. She ran her eyes over her baby’s father before she could stop herself, her gaze drawn to him by a force the passage of time hadn’t changed. There should be a law against looking so good, so fit and healthy and virile. So very irresistible.
Unlike her, Rafe Angeliri hadn’t changed in the three months since she had seen him last. His dark blue designer business suit and crisp white shirt paid homage to the superior athletic build it covered. Long muscled legs, broad chest and toned arms and an abdomen so hard and flat you could have cracked open a coconut. The open neck of his shirt revealed the tanned column of his throat and a tiny glimpse of masculine black chest hair. Aftershave-model-handsome, tall and lean with a clean-shaven, take-no-prisoners jaw, he commanded a room just by entering it. His slightly wavy black hair was neither long nor short but somewhere stylishly in between, brushed back from his intelligent forehead and curling against the edges of his shirt collar. The loosely casual hairstyle belied the relentless drive and meticulous focus of his personality.
However, his hazel eyes were even more cynical and there were vertical lines running down each side of his mouth that hadn’t been there before.
But there was one other difference Isla detected before he quickly masked it—shock. It rippled across his features, sharpened his gaze, froze his movements until he was as still as a marble statue. But only for a microsecond. He had always had far better self-control than anyone she knew, certainly better than her, and yet she had always prided herself on her ability to mask her feelings. How else had she survived all those childhood foster home placements with perfect strangers?
‘Isla.’ Rafe gave a nod that somehow managed to be both formal and insulting. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of finding you waiting beside my bed?’
Isla stepped away from the bed as if it had suddenly burst into flames. Being anywhere near a bed when Rafe was within touching distance was a bad idea. A very tempting but bad, bad, bad idea. They had spent more time in bed than out of it during their short and volatile fling. Sex had brought them together in a thunderclap of attraction at their first meeting in a bar—an explosion of lust that had sent shockwaves through her entire body. She hadn’t really enjoyed sex until she experienced it with Rafe. It had been out of this world sex and even now she could feel the memories of it coursing through her body. Little pulses and tingles in her flesh—the flesh he had awakened with his lips and tongue, as if being in the same room as him triggered her body into remembering, longing, wanting.
Isla snatched up some fresh towels from her trolley, desperate to hide the slight bulge of her belly. No one was going to be cracking coconuts on her abdomen any time soon. She had never had a particularly flat stomach, which made her hope Rafe wouldn’t notice the slight change in it now. It had always surprised her that he had found her so attractive. She was nothing like the super-slim and glamorous women he normally dated. She was desperate to occupy her hands in case they were tempted to slap that imperious look off his too-handsome face. Or worse—pull his head down to crash his mouth against hers to make her forget everything but the heat and fire of his masterful, mesmerising, bone-melting kiss.
‘I work at this hotel. Now, if you’ll let me finish your room, I’ll get out of your way and—’
‘I thought you were going back to London to resume your Fine Arts degree?’ A frown tugged at his brow, his green and brown flecked gaze holding hers with the force of a searchlight. ‘Wasn’t that the plan?’
‘I...I changed my mind.’ Isla swung away and strode into the bathroom with the towels. She placed the new ones on the towel racks and then gathered up the damp ones, bundling them against her body like a barrier. Her plans had changed as soon as she found out she was pregnant.
Everything had changed.
Rafe followed her into the palatial bathroom, his presence shrinking it to the size of a tissue box. Isla caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the twin basins and inwardly groaned. She had never been more conscious of her lack of make-up, the dark circles under her eyes, the lankness of her red-gold hair under her housemaid’s cap. Or the secret swell of her belly beneath her housemaid’s white frilly apron. Was he comparing her to his latest lover? She had seen photos of him with numerous women in the time since she had brought their relationship to an end. She wondered if it had been deliberate on his part—to be seen out and about with as many women as possible as an I’ll show you how quickly I can move on from you slap to her ego. After all, Isla had been the one to end their fling, which clearly wasn’t something he was used to. Women were queuing up to be with him, not rushing to leave.
‘That was rather sudden, was it not?’ His voice contained a note of scepticism that matched the piercing focus of his gaze. ‘I thought you liked living in London?’
Isla sucked in her tummy to her backbone. She straightened the toiletries on the marble counter for something to do with her hands, annoyed they weren’t as steady as she would have liked. ‘I felt ready for a change of scene. Anyway, I could no longer afford living in London.’
His top lip curled and his glittering eyes pulsated with barely controlled anger. ‘Is there someone else? Is that why you called time on us?’
Isla met his gaze in the mirror, her stomach freefalling at the bitterness shining in his eyes. ‘Us? We weren’t an “us” and you know it. It was a fling, that’s all, and I wanted it to end.’
‘Liar.’ The word came out like a bullet. Hard. Direct. Bullseye. ‘At least have the decency to be honest with me.’
Honest? How could she be honest about anything about herself? About her background. About her shame. It didn’t matter if she was wearing haute couture or hand-me-downs, the shame burned like a flame inside her. ‘There’s no one else. I told you in my note—I simply wanted out.’
Finding out she was carrying Rafe’s baby had thrown Isla into a terrifying world of uncertainty. The thought of him rejecting her, throwing her and their baby out of his life like her father had done to her had been too painful. She couldn’t think of any way she could tell him about her pregnancy that wouldn’t cause irreversible destruction in his life. She hadn’t known him long enough or well enough to trust he wouldn’t try and pressure her into having an abortion. Not that she would have allowed him or anyone to do that. She had enough doubts about her own mothering ability. She had been in and out of foster care since she was seven; her memories of her own mother were patchy at best, painful at worst. What sort of mother would she make? It was a constant nagging toothache type of worry that kept her awake at night. The doubts and fears throbbed on the inside of her skull like miniature hammers.
‘Ah, yes. Your note.’ There was a disparaging bite to Rafe’s tone.
Isla forced herself to hold his searing gaze. She put on her game face, the one she had perfected over the years. The face that had helped her survive yet another placement with strangers. The mask of cool indifference that belied the churning, burning, yearning emotions fighting for room in her chest.
‘You’re the one who needs to be honest. You’re only angry because I was the one to leave you. But you would’ve called time sooner rather than later. None of your flings last longer than a month at the most. I was already on borrowed time.’
A muscle worked in the lower quadrant of his jaw, his eyes still brewing and boiling with bitterness. ‘Couldn’t you have waited until I got home from New York to speak to me face to face? Or is that why you didn’t come with me on that trip while I negotiated that deal? Because you’d always planned to leave while I was away. You didn’t want to risk having me try to change your mind.’
Isla pressed her lips together, struggling to keep her own temper in check. She had known how important that deal was to him. The biggest of his career. The man he was negotiating the deal with was a deeply religious family man who might not have signed off on the deal if news broke about Rafe’s pregnant
lover with the salacious background. She had started to feel nauseous just before he’d suggested she come with him to New York. Thinking at first it was a mild stomach bug, she had decided to stay at his villa in Sicily while he went abroad. She had gone everywhere else with him during their two months together, slotting into his life without giving too much thought as to why she shouldn’t be subsuming her life so readily, so recklessly into his. But then a wriggling worm of suspicion about the possibility of pregnancy had tunnelled into her brain to such a degree it was all she could think about. She’d had to know one way or the other. And she’d wanted to be alone when she did. She hadn’t wanted him finding her with a test wand in her hand, or finding her bent over the toilet heaving her insides out.
Once she’d seen the test was positive, she’d known what she had to do.
End it.
End their fling and get the hell out of his life before more harm was done. Because she would have brought him harm. Great harm. Harm from which there would be no easy recovery. The Pandora’s Box of her past would have created havoc and mayhem in his well-to-do circles. The New York deal would have been compromised—the deal he had worked on for months and months. One leaked photo of her in lingerie, dancing in that sleazy gentlemen’s supper club, and Rafe’s desire to chair a prominent children’s charity would be destroyed. Future business deals of his would be jeopardised from the stain of her background.
Isla had pictured the headlines—Exotic dancer pregnant with billionaire Italian hotelier Raffaele Angeliri’s love-child! He would not have come back from that easily, if at all. Scandals stuck to high-profile people, sometimes for the rest of their lives. She couldn’t do it to him; she couldn’t do it to their child. To have it surrounded by shame from the moment it was born, even before it was born.
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