Spaniard's Baby Of Revenge

His vengeance was strictly business...

Until he discovers she’s carrying his heir!

Antonio Herrera’s plan is simple: persuade innocent Amelia diSalvo to sell the shares in his rival’s business. But what the Spanish billionaire didn’t plan on was their intense connection. Now Antonio has only one aim...the ultimate seduction! So he’s stunned to discover their nine-month consequence. To secure his heir, he’ll do the unthinkable—and shockingly pleasurable—and make Amelia his wife!

Enter a world of revenge, romance and shocking consequences...

CLARE CONNELLY was raised in small-town Australia among a family of avid readers. She spent much of her childhood up a tree, Mills & Boon book in hand. Clare is married to her own real-life hero and they live in a bungalow near the sea with their two children. She is frequently found staring into space—a surefire sign she is in the world of her characters. She has a penchant for French food and ice-cold champagne, and Mills & Boon novels continue to be her favourite ever books. Writing for Modern Romance is a long-held dream. Clare can be contacted via clareconnelly.com or at her Facebook page.

Also by Clare Connelly

Bought for the Billionaire’s Revenge

Innocent in the Billionaire’s Bed

Her Wedding Night Surrender

Bound by the Billionaire’s Vows

Christmas Seductions miniseries

Bound by Their Christmas Baby

The Season to Sin

Mills & Boon DARE

Off-Limits

Forbidden

Burn Me Once

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Spaniard’s Baby of Revenge

Clare Connelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08762-9

SPANIARD’S BABY OF REVENGE

© 2019 Clare Connelly

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Esther Scott and Hunter Smith—

two of my favourite babies.

May your futures be as bright and sparkly

as all the stars in the night sky.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

BENEATH HIM, MADRID sparkled like a thousand jewels, the night lights twinkling against the inky black of the sky. It was a city of history, a city rich with stories, but in that moment Antonio Herrera was conscious of only his own history.

A history that had been defined by a family feud, a hatred that was as ingrained in his heart and soul as any one man could ever have felt. Some might say that his life had been charmed, but Antonio knew the truth. Hatred for the diSalvo family ran through his Spanish blood, poisoned his mind, and he would stop at nothing to fight this war. No, to end it.

His father had been destroyed by diSalvos’ machinations. A corporate empire, decades in the making, had been systematically pulled apart, and it had needed Antonio to set things to rights. At eighteen, he’d taken over the business, side-lining his father to arrest the financial bleed. He’d triaged their losses, strengthened their assets, and now, at thirty, he was a single man in charge of a billion-euro corporation, known the world over for being a titan of all types of industries.

His eyes drifted to the gleaming oak of his desk, and the file that had arrived that afternoon.

How strange the timing was. Less than a month after his father had died—a man who had been made to suffer at the hands of the diSalvos, a man Antonio would do anything for—and she had been found.

After a year of searching, a year of waiting for his elite investigator to turn over some hint of the elusive woman, and finally he had some answers.

Amelia diSalvo. Or Amelia Clifton, as she was calling herself. But a name changed nothing—she was still undeniably a diSalvo.

The missing piece of the puzzle, the woman in control of the vital shares he needed to take the jewel in the diSalvo empire into his own hands—Prim’Aqua—the shipping company that had, at one time, been owned jointly by the diSalvos and the Herreras, until both patriarchs had fallen in love with the same woman and bitterly broken their business alliance, turning friends into sworn enemies.

And now, this diminutive woman owned the shares Antonio needed, and he’d stop at nothing to convince her to sell them to him.

He stared at the photograph, looking for any resemblance to her half-brother Carlo.

There was none. Where Carlo was cast from a similar Mediterranean mould as himself, with dark hair, honeyed skin and jet-black eyes, Amelia was fair and slight.

Like her mother, he thought, remembering the world-famous supermodel who’d evidently, at one time, been the mistress of Giacomo diSalvo. Only Penny Hamilton had been tall and Amelia was tiny—as diminutive as some kind of fairy, he thought, looking at the way she was walking down the street in this photograph. It must have been a warm day, for she wore a simple cotton dress with thin straps and buttons down the front. It fell to just above her knees and the sun streamed from behind her, showing her tantalising silhouette through the dress’s fine fabric.

A jolt of very masculine awareness splintered through him. Desire? For a diSalvo? How could that be, when she was part of the family that had set out to destroy his?

Regardless of his determination, his body tightened and his eyes lingered a little longer than was necessary on the photograph, taking in the details of her pale peaches-and-cream complexion, a smile that was wide on a petite angular face, hair that was long and blonde—whether it fell naturally in those loose Botticelli curls or had been styled that morning, he would only be able to say after he’d met her in person.

And that would be soon.

In a small English village near Salisbury there was a billion-pound heiress, the daughter of a world-famous British supermodel and an Italian tycoon, a woman who’d been born into wealth and a blood rivalry. And she would be the key in winning this ancient family war.

His eyes dropped to the photograph once more. She was beautiful, but beauty was not uncommon. She was also a diSalvo, and for that he would always hate her. For one night, though, he would appeal to her sense of decency, he would implore her to return to him what should always have been his. And if she didn’t, he’d find another way to secure the shares.

One way or another, he would succeed. Because he was Antonio Herrera, and failure simply wasn’t an option.

CHAPTER ONE

IT HAD BEEN a perfect day. Warm and cloudless, so that the late afternoon sun filtered through the windows of her home, bathing it in a timeless golden light. But as the evening had drawn around her, the sky had clouded over and the air had begun to smell different, a portent of summer rain.

The first day of school holidays had been everything Amelia could have hoped. She’d slept late, read a book from start to finish, walked into the village for a cider at the local pub, and now she was home, making a fish pie with episodes of The Crown playing in the background. She’d seen the whole show already, but she loved to have the television on for company—and who better to keep company with than the Queen?

She scooped some flour from the canister in her fingertips and added it to the roux she was stirring, thickening it and breathing in the aroma gratefully—she always made a roux with garlic and saffron, and the fragrance caused her stomach to give a little groan.

Yes, the first day of school holidays had been deliciously perfect, Amelia told herself, ignoring the little pang of emptiness that pushed into her mind. It was only that a month and a half was a very long time to have off work, particularly when work was the purpose for one’s life.

Teaching wasn’t necessarily a calling for everyone, but it was for Amelia, and the idea of having seven whole weeks out of the classroom wasn’t a prospect she entirely relished.

She’d been invited to Egypt with some of the faculty, but she’d declined. She’d done enough travelling to last a lifetime—a childhood that had seen her dragged from pillar to post depending on where her mother’s latest assignment or lover had taken them, Amelia preferred to stay right where she was, in this charming village in the middle of England.

Her bluebell-shaded eyes drifted around the cottage, and a rueful half-smile touched her pink lips. It was pretty safe to say that Bumblebee Cottage was as far from the life she’d experienced as a child as possible. Her first twelve years had been spent mostly in five-star hotels, sometimes for months at a time. School had been a luxury her mother hadn’t seen the necessity of, and it was only Amelia’s keen desire for knowledge and the never-ending string of questions which Penny had no patience for that had led to the hiring of a tutor for Amelia.

But then Penny had died, and twelve-year-old Amelia, already so like her supermodel mother, had been shunted into another life completely. As rarefied and glamorous, but so much more public. In the wake of the supermodel’s drugs-related death, Amelia had been followed everywhere she went, and her father—a man she hadn’t even known about—simply hadn’t been able to comprehend what life had been like for the young Amelia.

Talk about going from the frying pan and into the fire! If being the daughter of a woman like Penny Hamilton made Amelia a magnet for paparazzi, then becoming a diSalvo made her even more so.

And she’d been raised, from that moment, as a diSalvo. Loved, adored, cherished, but she couldn’t outgrow the feeling that she didn’t really belong.

She hadn’t belonged anywhere until she’d moved to this tiny village and taken up a teaching position at Hedgecliff Academy. Unbidden, her eyes drifted to the fridge and the artwork that covered it. ‘Thank you’ pictures from the students she’d taught, colourful drawings with their childish swirls and squiggles—happy pictures that almost always made Amelia smile.

Fish pie finished, Amelia slipped the dish into the old Aga—it had come with the cottage and she couldn’t bear to modernise the thing when it worked perfectly—and then stared around the room for a few moments. It was ridiculous to feel so lonely already.

The summer holidays had just begun. Only the day before she’d been surrounded by twenty-seven happy, curious eight-year-olds. Besides, she was the one who’d turned down invitations for the summer break. She had elected to stay at home.

So what good was it to dwell on the gaping void of people and company in her solitary existence? She’d chosen this life.

She’d turned her back on her father, her half-brother and the world they inhabited.

And she wouldn’t have it any other way. Would she?

* * *

The cottage could not have been quainter if it had been brought to life from between the pages of a Beatrix Potter storybook. Stone, painted a pale cream, roses in the front garden, wisteria scrambling over an arch that led to the front steps and a thatched roof that showed the house to be two-storey, with little dormer windows shaped into the roof. Lights were on inside, making the cottage glow with a warmth that did something strange to Antonio’s chest.

He studied it for a moment, a frown on his face as, for a brief and uncharacteristic moment, he rethought the necessity of this.

He had already bought his way into—through shell companies and entities—many of Carlo diSalvo’s businesses, giving him if not a controlling interest in their operation, enough of a stake to be difficult and a nuisance to the man he had been raised to hate.

But this was different. He would gladly let the rest go if he could only get this one company under his control. And if Amelia diSalvo proved difficult, if appealing to her sense of decency didn’t win her over, then he’d show her what he’d been doing and how close he was to ruining her brother.

He crossed his arms over his chest as the first drop of rain began to fall, quickly followed by another. It was a summer storm that brought with it the smell of sun-warmed grass and the threat of lightning. Inside the cottage a shape moved and he narrowed his gaze, homing in on its location.

Amelia.

He held his breath unconsciously as, with blonde hair scraped into a bun, she moved into his vision. Her face was pale; at this distance it was hard to tell, but he would say she wore no make-up. She stared out of the window for several moments and then turned away.

Certainty fired in his gut.

She was a diSalvo.

That made her fair game.

It had been less than a month since he’d buried his father and in that moment Antonio’s only regret was that Javier had not lived to see this final, deeply personal revenge be enacted.

With renewed determination, his stride long and confident, he walked up the winding path. Gravel crunched underfoot and the moon peeked out from behind a storm cloud for a moment, casting him in an eerie sort of silver light. Foreboding, some might have called it, but not Antonio.

Bumblebee Cottage, a brass sign near the door proclaimed, and he ignored the image it created—of sweetness and tranquillity. Amelia diSalvo might be playing at this life, but she was the daughter of a supermodel and the most ruthless bastard on earth. And she was also the piece of the puzzle he needed—victory was within reach.

* * *

As if her loneliness had conjured a companion, the doorbell rang. Olivia wasn’t so maudlin and self-indulgent to forget all common sense. It was almost nine o’clock at night—who could be calling at this hour?

She’d bought Bumblebee Cottage because of its isolation. No prying neighbours, no passing motorists—it sat nestled into a cul-de-sac of little interest to anyone but her and the farm that bordered the cottage on one side. It was a perfect, secluded bolthole. Just what she’d needed when she’d run from the life she’d found herself living.

She adored it for its seclusion but a frisson of something like alarm spread goosebumps over her flesh. She grabbed a meat cleaver, of all things, from the kitchen bench then moved to the door.

‘Who is it?’

A man’s voice answered, deep and gravelled, tinged with a European accent. ‘Can you open up?’

‘I can, but I’m not going to,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Who are you?’ she called more loudly. ‘What do you want?’

‘Something that is easier to discuss in person.’ He was hard to hear over the falling rain.

‘What is it?’

‘I just said—’ He released a soft curse in Spanish. When she was eight, she’d mastered curse words in French, Italian, German, Spanish, Greek, Mandarin and Polish. She’d been bored on a yacht and the staff—one from each of these nationalities—had spent one late night teaching her. ‘It’s important, Amelia,’ Antonio said.

The fact he knew her name got her attention. With a frown on her face, she unlocked the door, keeping the chain lock firmly in place so that it only cracked open a wedge.

It was dark on the porch, but enough light filtered out to show his face and it was strong and interesting.

‘How do you know my name?’

There was a beat of silence and then, ‘I’m a business acquaintance of your brother’s. I need to speak to you.’

‘Why? What about? Is it Carlo? Is he okay?’

The man’s eyes flickered with something and for a moment Amelia was worried, but then he smiled. ‘So far as I know, Carlo is fine. This is a proposition just for you.’

At that, Amelia frowned. ‘What kind of proposition?’

His look was mysterious. ‘One that is too confidential to discuss through the door.’

‘It’s late at night. This couldn’t have waited until tomorrow?’

‘I just flew in.’ He shrugged, his eyes narrowing. ‘Is it a bad time?’

She wanted to tell him to go away, because something about him was making her pulse fire and her heart race. Fear, surely?

‘It will not take long,’ he said once more, appeasing, and her eyes lifted to his.

When had she become so suspicious? True, she’d had a baptism of fire when she’d gone to live with her father and half-brother. She’d learned that there were many people out there who would hurt you—not physically, necessarily, but with any means it took. His so-called friends had proved to be wolves in couture clothing. But she’d fled those people, that world. She’d moved across the earth, to the sweetness of a tiny village, and the homeliness of Bumblebee, and she’d become not Amelia Hamilton, nor Amelia diSalvo, but Amelia Clifton—her mother’s real surname. A normal name. An unrecognisable name. A name that didn’t attract attention or interest, a name that was all her own.

Intrusions from her other life weren’t welcome.

‘Fine,’ she said crisply, pushing the door shut so she could unchain it and then opening it wide.

She did a double-take. Through the one inch of open door it hadn’t been possible to see exactly how handsome he was. But now? His dark hair sat straight and spiky, enhancing the sharpness of his bone structure and, rather than looking as though it had been styled that way, it was more like he’d dragged his fingers through it enough times to make the hair stand on end. His was a face that was all angles and planes, symmetrical and pleasing, with a square jaw and a chin that looked as though it had been carved from stone. Only there was a divot in its centre, as if his creator had enjoyed pressing a thumb into it, a perfect little indent that drew her curious gaze.

His lips were broad and his jaw covered in stubble. His nose was long, straight and autocratic, but it was his eyes that robbed her lungs, momentarily, of the ability to pump air out of her body. They were eyes shaped like almonds, a dark grey in colour, rimmed in thick black lashes that curled in a way Amelia was both dumbfounded by and jealous of. They were eyes that seemed to tell stories, flickering with emotions and thoughts she couldn’t decode.

‘Well?’ he asked again, gruff, but a smile on his lips softened the word. ‘May I enter?’

‘Yeah.’ The word was breathy. She cleared her throat. ‘Of course.’

He shrugged out of his jacket, revealing a shirt that had suffered several drops of rainwater. It was a simple gesture—showing the breadth of his chest and the sculptured perfection of his torso.

She swept her eyes shut for a moment and then collected herself, offering an apologetic grimace before moving in a little. ‘I’m sorry; I don’t get many visitors.’

‘Apparently,’ he drawled. And then his smile deepened to reveal even white teeth. Her stomach flipped in on itself. ‘And so a meat cleaver is how you choose to defend yourself?’

She found herself nodding with mock gravity. ‘I feel it’s only fair to warn you: I have a black belt in kitchen instruments.’

‘Do you?’

‘Oh, you should see me wield a potato peeler.’

His laugh was a low rumble from deep in his belly and his eyes were assessing. She wanted to look away but found her gaze held by his, as though trapped. ‘Another time,’ he said.

‘You can unarm yourself,’ he added. ‘I assure you I don’t mean you any harm.’

‘I’m sure you don’t but I feel I have to point out that very few murderers announce their intentions, do they?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘So it’s quite possible you’re just planning the best way to kill me without making a fuss.’

‘Except that I’ve already explained why I’m here,’ he responded with a grin that seemed to breathe butterflies into her belly. He looked around her cottage with lazy curiosity.

Amelia didn’t have guests often—a few of the teachers from school had come around for her birthday earlier in the year, and once she’d had a student after school, as a favour for the parents, but generally Amelia kept to herself.

What was the point of country solitude if you chose to surrender it?

She tried to see the house as an outsider might—the quaint decorations, the homely simplicity of her furnishings, the absence of any photographs, the abundance of paperback novels and fresh flowers.

‘Ah, yes, your proposition,’ she murmured. ‘Please—’ She gestured towards the lounge.

He moved ahead of her and she realised she was staring at his rear, distracted by the way his trousers framed his tight, muscular bottom. Distracted by the way just looking at him was making her nerves buzz into overdrive.

She had practically no experience with men, besides a few casual lunch dates with Rick Steed, the deputy headmaster. And those had ended with chaste kisses to the cheek, nothing particularly distracting or tempting.

As a teenager, she’d railed against the life she’d been sucked into, hating the expectation that because her mother had been renowned both for her beauty and sexually free attitude Amelia must be exactly the same.

She’d begun to suspect she was, in fact, frigid. Completely devoid of any normal sexual impulse or desire. That had suited her fine. What did she need a man for when she had all the men the books in her life afforded?