Italian Mavericks: Forbidden Nights With The Italian: The Forbidden Ferrara / Surrendering to the Italian's Command / The Unwanted Conti Bride

It was Santo who asked the relevant questions. Santo who discussed treatment options and truthfully she was grateful to him because once again her brain seemed to be working in slow motion.

Eventually all the questions were answered and the consultant nodded. ‘He wants to see you. Normally I would refuse at this point because he needs rest but it’s clear that something is causing him stress. He is very agitated and he needs to be reassured.’

‘Of course.’ Fia flew to the door but the consultant stopped her.

‘It was Santo he asked for. He was quite specific about that. Your grandfather asked for Santo Ferrara.’

Fia felt her knees shake and she glanced at Santo in horror. ‘No! Seeing you will upset him badly.’

‘He is already upset. Apparently there are things he needs to say,’ the consultant told them, ‘so I think it might be helpful for him. But keep it brief and keep any stress to a minimum.’

Santo would tell him that Luca was his child.

How was that keeping stress to a minimum?

Apparently suffering from none of her doubts, Santo strode through the door. ‘Let’s do this.’

She shot after him. ‘Please don’t.’ She kept her voice low. ‘Whatever you think of me, don’t do this. Please don’t tell him yet. Wait until he’s stronger.’ She almost stumbled as she tried to keep up with him, panicking madly, unable to see a single way that this encounter was going to have a happy ending. Why was her grandfather asking to see him? At this stage he couldn’t even know that it was Santo who had saved his life.

Reluctantly, she walked into the room and caught her breath at the sight of the machines and wires that dominated her grandfather’s frail form.

For a moment she couldn’t move and then she felt a warm strong hand close over hers and the reassuring squeeze of male fingers.

Shocked, Fia stood for a moment, distracted by the novel experience of being comforted.

And then she heard a sound from the bed and saw her grandfather’s eyes open. And she realised Santo’s touch wasn’t about comfort, but manipulation.

Instantly she snatched her hand away. ‘Nonno—’ She tried to catch his eyes and reassure him but her grandfather wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at Santo.

And Santo, being who he was, didn’t flinch or look remotely discomfited.

‘You gave us all a shock,’ he drawled, approaching the bed with a confidence that suggested he was a welcome visitor.

‘Ferrara—’ her grandfather’s voice was weak and shaky ‘—I want to know your intentions.’

There was a long pulsing silence and Fia shot Santo a pleading glance, but he wasn’t looking at her. He dominated the room, the power of his athletic physique a cruel contrast to the fragility of the man in the bed.

‘I intend to be a father to my son.’

Time stood still.

She couldn’t believe he’d actually said that. ‘I don’t—’

‘About time!’ Her grandfather’s eyes burned fiercely in his pale face. ‘For years I have been waiting for you to do the right thing—not even allowed to mention your name in case she walked out—’ He glared at Fia and then coughed weakly. ‘What sort of a man makes a woman pregnant and then leaves her to cope alone?’

‘The sort of man who didn’t know,’ Santo replied in a cool tone, ‘but now intends to rectify that mistake.’

Fia barely heard his response. She was staring at her grandfather.

‘What?’ He snapped the words. ‘You thought I didn’t know? Why do you think I was so angry with him?’

She sank into the nearest chair. ‘Well, because—’

‘You thought it was because of a stupid piece of land. And because of your brother.’ Her grandfather closed his eyes, his face pale against the hospital sheets. ‘I don’t blame him for your brother. I was wrong about a lot of things. Wrong. There. I said it. Does that make you happy?’

Fia’s heart clenched. A lump formed in her throat. ‘You shouldn’t be talking about this now. It isn’t the time.’

‘Always trying to smooth things over. Always wanting everyone to love each other and be friends. Keep an eye on her, Ferrara, or she’ll turn your son into a wimp.’ Her grandfather’s frame was racked by a paroxysm of coughing and Fia fumbled for the buzzer. Within moments the room filled with staff but he waved them away impatiently, his eyes still on Santo. ‘There’s one thing I want to know before they pump me full of more drugs that are going to dull my mind—’ his voice rasped ‘—I want to know what you’re going to do now that you know.’

Santo didn’t hesitate. ‘I’m going to marry your granddaughter.’

CHAPTER FIVE

HE HATED hospitals.

Santo scrunched the flimsy plastic cup in his hand and dropped it into the bin.

The smell of antiseptic reminded him of the night his father had died and just for a moment he was tempted to turn on his heel and walk right out again.

And then he thought of Fia, keeping vigil over her grandfather, hour after hour. His anger was still running hot. He was furious with her. But he couldn’t accuse her of not showing loyalty to her family. And he couldn’t leave her alone in this place.

Cursing softly, Santo strode back towards the coronary care unit that brought back nothing but bad memories.

She was sitting by the bed, her hair a livid streak of fire against her ashen skin. Those green eyes were fixed on the old man as if by sheer willpower and focus she might somehow transmit some of her youth and energy to him.

He’d never seen a lonelier figure in his life.

Or perhaps he had, he thought grimly, remembering the first time he’d seen her in his boathouse. Some people automatically sought human company when they were upset. Fia had taught herself to survive alone.

He compared that to his own big, noisy family. He knew from experience that had it been a Ferrara lying in the hospital bed the room would have been bulging with concerned relatives, not just his brother and sister but numerous aunts, uncles and cousins all clucking and fussing.

‘How’s he doing?’

‘They gave him a sedative and some other stuff. I don’t know what. They say the first twenty-four hours are crucial.’ Her slim fingers were curled around her grandfather’s. ‘If he wakes up now he’ll be angry that I’m holding his hand. He’s not great at the physical stuff. Never has been.’

Santo realised that this woman’s whole life revolved around the man currently lying in the bed and the child fast asleep in his car.

‘When did you last eat?’ It was the automatic Ferrara response to all moments of crisis and he almost laughed at himself for being so predictable.

‘I’m not hungry.’ Her voice was husky and she didn’t shift her gaze from her grandfather. ‘In a minute I’ll go and check on Luca.’

‘I just checked him. He hasn’t stirred. He and Luigi are both asleep.’

‘I’ll bring him in here and tuck him up on the chair. Then you can go home. Gina will come and I need to call Ben and ask him to cover tomorrow.’

Santo felt an irrational surge of anger. ‘He doesn’t need to. I’ve already sorted that out. My team will take over running the Beach Shack for the time being.’

Her spine tensed. ‘You’re taking advantage of this situation to take over my business?’

Santo held on to his own temper. ‘You need to stop thinking like a Baracchi. This is not about revenge. I’m not taking over your business, just making sure you still have one to come home to. I assumed you didn’t want to leave your grandfather’s bedside to cook calamari for a bunch of strangers.’

Her cheeks were pale. ‘I’m sorry.’ Her gaze skated back to her grandfather. ‘I am grateful to you. I just assumed—’

‘Well, stop assuming.’ Her fragility unsettled him. And it wasn’t the only thing that unsettled him. The response of his body was equally disturbing. His feelings were entirely inappropriate for the surroundings. ‘You can do no more here tonight. Your grandfather is going to sleep and it’s not going to help anyone if you collapse. We’re leaving now. I’ve told the staff to call me if there is any change.’

‘I can’t leave. It’s too far to get back here again if something happens.’

‘My apartment is only ten minutes from here. If something happens, I’ll drive you. If we leave now you can still get some rest and my son can wake up in a proper bed.’ He’d been trying not to think about that side of things, putting his own emotions on hold in order to maintain the delicate balance of a situation that could only be described as difficult.

Perhaps it was the logic of his argument. Perhaps it was the words ‘my son’. Either way, she ceased arguing and allowed him to lead her away from the bedside to the car.

Ten minutes later Luca was tucked up in the centre of an enormous double bed in one of his spare bedrooms.

Santo watched as she spread pillows on the floor next to the bed. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Sometimes he rolls. I don’t want him to fall onto the tiled floor,’ she muttered. ‘Do you have a baby alarm?’

‘No. Leave the door open a crack. Then we’ll hear him if he wakes.’ Santo strode out of the room and she followed, her eyes tracing every detail of his apartment.

‘Do you live alone?’

‘You think I’m hiding women under the sofa?’

‘I just mean it’s very big for one person.’

‘I like the space and the views. The balconies face over the old part of the town, not that I think Luca will be that discerning. What can I get you to eat?’

‘Nothing, thank you.’ Restless and tense, she walked over to the doors that led to the balcony and opened them. ‘Don’t you keep these locked?’

‘You’re worrying about my security?’

‘I’m worrying about Luca’s security.’ Biting her lip, she stepped onto the small area and ran her finger along the iron railings. Then she gauged the height of the balcony. ‘This is a real hazard. Luca is two years old. His favourite pastime is climbing. He climbs anything and everything he can find. We’re going to have to lock the doors to the balconies and remove the keys.’ She was brisk and practical, but then she walked past him and he caught the scent of her hair. Flowers. She always smelt like flowers.

Irritated with himself for being so easily distracted, Santo followed her back into the apartment. This time her eyes were on the large sunken living room that formed the centrepiece of his luxurious apartment. ‘You’re worrying about the welfare of my white sofas? Don’t. My niece has already spilled something unmentionable on them. I don’t care. People are more important than things.’

‘I agree. And I’m not thinking about your sofas, I’m thinking of Luca. More particularly, I’m thinking about the step down to your living room.’

‘It’s an architectural feature.’

‘It’s a trap for a fearless toddler. He’s going to fall.’

Santo digested that. ‘He walks perfectly well. We will teach him to be careful.’

‘He gets enthusiastic and excited. If he sees something he wants, he runs. If he does that here, he’ll trip and smash his head on your priceless Italian tiles.’

Santo spread his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘So this place is not exactly child-proofed; I accept that. I will deal with it.’

‘How? You can’t exactly remodel the apartment, can you?’

‘If necessary. And in the meantime I will teach him to watch the step.’ He tried to hide his exasperation. However angry he was, he was well aware that she’d been through the most stressful twenty-four hours of her life and yet, apart from her visible panic when she’d found her grandfather, she hadn’t shown any emotion. She was frighteningly calm. The little girl who had refused to shed a tear had grown into a woman with the same emotional restraint. The only sign that she was suffering was the rigid tension in her narrow shoulders. ‘Are you always like this? It’s a wonder Luca isn’t a bundle of nerves, living with you.’

‘One minute you accuse me of not taking good care of your son and then you accuse me of taking too much care. Make up your mind.’ She picked up a slender glass vase and transferred it to a high shelf.

‘I was not accusing you of anything. Just pointing out that you’re overreacting.’

‘You have no idea what it’s like, living with an active toddler.’

Her words snapped something inside him. ‘And whose fault is that?’ Bitterness welled up and threatened to spill over. Afraid he might say something he’d later regret, Santo strode towards the kitchen, struggling with the intensity of his own emotions.

‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice came from the doorway.

‘What for?’ He dragged open a cupboard. ‘Keeping my son from me or casting doubt on my abilities as a father?’

‘I wasn’t casting doubt. Just pointing out the hazards of having an active toddler in a bachelor pad.’ She looked impossibly fragile standing there with her hair pouring over her shoulders in soft waves of wicked temptation.

He didn’t want to feel anything but anger yet he was sufficiently self-aware to know that his feelings were much, much more complicated than that. Yes, the anger was there and the hurt, but mixed in with those emotions was a hefty dollop of something far less easy to define but equally powerful.

The same thing that had brought them together that night.

‘We’ll do what needs to be done, Fia.’ He left the statement purposefully ambiguous and pulled plates out of the cupboard. ‘We need to eat. What can I get you?’

‘Nothing, thank you. I think I’ll go to bed. I’ll sleep with Luca. That way, if he wakes up he won’t be frightened.’

Santo thumped a fresh loaf of bread in the centre of the table. ‘Who is frightened, tesoro? You or him?’ He sent her a black look. ‘You think if you don’t sleep in his bed you’ll be sleeping in mine?’

Wide green eyes fixed on his face. Those eyes that said everything her lips didn’t. The first time he’d caught her in the boathouse he’d seen misery and fear, but also defiance. Even though she hadn’t said a word, he’d had no trouble reading the message. Go on and tell. See if I care.

He hadn’t told.

And he knew she would have cared.

She showed nothing, and yet he knew she was a woman who felt everything deeply. He wouldn’t have been able to list her favourite colour or whether she liked to read, but he’d never doubted the intensity of her emotions. He’d always sensed the passion in her, simmering beneath the silent surface. And eventually, of course, he’d felt it. Touched it. Tasted it. Taken it. He could clearly remember the feel of her bare skin under his seeking fingers, the scent of her as he’d kissed his way down her body, the flavour of her under his tongue.

Sexual arousal was instant and brutal.

He dragged his gaze from the wicked curve of her hips back to her face.

Those green eyes had gone a shade darker and her cheeks were flushed.

Santo strode over to the fridge and yanked open the door. Maybe he should just thrust his whole body into it, he thought savagely. He had a feeling that was the only way of cooling himself down.

He was about to pull out a dish of caponata when another memory revealed itself. Frowning, he let go of the dish. It wasn’t true to say he knew nothing about her, was it? There was something he knew. His mouth tightening, he put the caponata back and removed pecorino and olives instead. Putting them on the table next to the bread, he gestured. ‘Eat.’

‘I’ve told you I’m not hungry.’

‘I make it a personal rule only to resuscitate one person a day so unless you want me to force-feed you, you’ll eat.’ He tore off a hunk of bread, added a slice of pecorino and some olives and pushed the plate towards her. ‘And don’t tell me you don’t like it. The fact that you love pecorino is one of the few things I do know about you.’

A tiny frown touched her smooth brow as she stared at the plate and then back at him.

Santo sighed. ‘When you hid in the boathouse you always brought the same food.’ For a moment he thought she wasn’t going to respond.

‘I didn’t want to have to go home to eat.’

‘You didn’t want to go home at all.’

‘I know.’ She gave a strangled laugh and pushed the plate away. ‘You do know this is ridiculous, don’t you? Just about the only thing you know about me is that I like pecorino and olives. And all I know about you is that you like really fast, flashy cars. And yet you’re suggesting marriage.’

‘I’m not suggesting marriage. I’m insisting on marriage. Your grandfather approved.’

‘My grandfather is old-fashioned. I’m not.’ Her eyes lifted to his. ‘I run a successful business. I can support my son. We would gain nothing from marriage.’

‘Luca would gain a great deal.’

‘He would live with two people who don’t love each other. What would he gain from that? You’re punishing me because you’re angry, but in the end you will be the one who suffers. We are not compatible.’

‘We know we’re compatible in the one place that counts,’ Santo said in a raw tone, ‘or we wouldn’t be in this position now.’

Colour darkened her cheekbones. ‘You may be Sicilian, but you are far too intelligent to truly believe that all a marriage takes is good sex.’

Santo took the chair opposite her. ‘I suppose I should be grateful you’re at least admitting it was good sex.’

‘You’re impossible to talk to.’

‘On the contrary, I’m easy to talk to. I say what I think, which is more than you do. I won’t tolerate silence, Fia. Marriages are about sharing. Everything. I don’t want a wife who locks away her feelings, so let’s get that straight now. I want all of you. Everything you are, you’re going to give it to me.’ Clearly she hadn’t expected that response from him because she turned white.

‘If that’s what you want, then you really do need a different wife.’

There was a certain satisfaction in having flustered her. ‘You’ve taught yourself to be that way. That’s how you’ve survived and protected yourself. But underneath, you’re not like that. And I’m not interested in the ice maiden. I want the woman I had in my boathouse that night.’

‘That was … It was …’ she stumbled over the words ‘… that wasn’t me.’

‘Yes, it was. For a few wild hours you lost control of this persona you’ve constructed. That was the real you, Fia. It’s the rest of this that is an act.’

‘Everything about that night was crazy—’ her fingers were curled into her palms ‘—I don’t know how it started, but I do know how it ended.’

‘It ended when your brother stole my car and wrapped it around a tree.’ He’d hoped the direct approach might shake her out of her rigid control but apparently even the shock of his blunt comment couldn’t penetrate that wall she’d built around herself.

‘It was too powerful for him. He’d never driven anything like it before.’

‘Neither had I,’ Santo said icily. ‘I’d only received it two days earlier.’

‘That is a monumentally tactless and unfeeling thing to say.’

Then show some emotion. ‘About as tactless and unfeeling as the wordless implication that I was in some way responsible for his death.’

There was a throbbing silence. ‘I have never said that.’

‘No, but you’ve thought it. And your grandfather thought it. You say you don’t know me, so learn this about me right now—I’m not good with undercurrents or people who hide what they’re really thinking and I sure as hell am not going to feed this damn feud that we’ve both grown up with. It ends here, right now.’ The fire burned hot inside him, strengthening his resolve. ‘If what you said to me this morning is true then I presume you want that, too.’

‘Of course. But we can kill the feud without getting married. There is more than one way of being a family.’

‘Not for me. My child will not grow up being shuttled from one parent to another. We’ve never talked about that night, so let’s do it now. Whatever you’re thinking, I want it out in the open, not gnawing holes in that brain of yours. You blamed me for the fact that he took the car. And yet you know what happened that night. I was with you. And we had other things on our mind, didn’t we, bellissima?’

‘I never blamed you.’

‘Really?’ His sardonic tone made her lift her head and look at him.

‘Yes, really.’

He waited for her to elaborate but of course she didn’t and that failure to break through her defences exasperated him because he wasn’t a man who liked to fail. Jaw tense, he breathed deeply, his emotions at war with each other. ‘It’s late and you’ve had a hell of a night. One thing I know about toddlers is that they don’t lie in just because adult life is collapsing around them. What time does he wake up?’

‘Five.’

His working day frequently began at the same hour. ‘If you’re not going to eat, then get to bed. I’ll lend you one of my shirts to sleep in.’

A faint smile touched the soft curve of her mouth. ‘So you don’t have a wardrobe full of slinky nightwear for overnight guests? The world would be disappointed to discover that.’

‘I don’t encourage overnight guests. They can grow roots fast.’ He watched her steadily. ‘This once, I’ll let you retreat. Make the most of it because once we’re married there will be no hiding. Be sure of that.’

‘We’re not getting married, Santo.’

‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow. But everything I said in my office still stands.’

‘No, it doesn’t. You were concerned that Luca had been harmed, but you can see now that he has had a happy childhood.’

‘I admire your efforts to create the family you didn’t have, but my son doesn’t need paid employees to fill that role. He has the real thing. A family ready and willing to welcome him. He’s a Ferrara and the sooner we make that legal the better for everyone.’

‘Is it?’ Her voice suddenly seemed to gain strength. ‘Is it really better for him to be brought up by parents who are strangers?’

Santo’s mouth tightened. ‘We’re not going to be strangers, tesoro. We’re going to be as intimate as it’s possible for a man and a woman to be. I’m going to rip down those barriers you’ve built. When you’re with me you might as well be naked because there is going to be no hiding. Now get some sleep. You’re going to need it.’

As intimate as it’s possible for a man and a woman to be.

What was intimate about that cold, emotionless statement? He was blisteringly angry. Furious. How did he think they could achieve intimacy under those circumstances?

She wasn’t going to marry him. It would be wrong.

Once he calmed down, he’d see sense. They’d come to an agreement about how to share Luca. And perhaps the three of them would spend some time together. But there was no need to make it legally binding.

Worry about her grandfather mingled with worry for her son and herself and Fia curled up in the bed, but there was no rest to be found in sleep, the dreams racing over her in a dark, tangled rush of disturbing images. Her mother, huddled in a corner of the kitchen, trying to make herself as small as possible while her husband lost his temper. The sight of her walking away, leaving her eight-year-old daughter behind. ‘If I take you, he’ll come after me.’ Standing with her grandfather as they buried her father after the drunken boating accident that had taken his life, knowing that she was supposed to feel sad.

She awoke to find herself alone in the bed. A lurch of fear was followed by a brief moment of relief as she heard the sound of Luca giggling. And then she remembered that they weren’t at home, but in Santo’s deathtrap apartment.

Almost tripping in her haste to get to her child, she shot out of the bedroom and followed the sound, ready to drag him out of trouble.

Expecting to find an energetic Luca fearlessly scaling a cupboard or plunging his curious fingers into a piece of high-tech electrical equipment, she instead found him sitting on a chair in Santo’s sleek, contemporary kitchen watching as his father deftly cut shapes out of brioche.