The Italian's Unexpected Love-Child

She resisted him once...

But this billionaire is playing to win!

A luxury villa on Capri will be the latest jewel in playboy Leonardo Fabrizzi’s crown—until he discovers Veronica Hanson stands to inherit it. She’s the only woman to ever resist his charms, but he’s determined to tempt her into sensual surrender! He seduces her cleverly and slowly, and their explosive chemistry is spectacular. But so are the consequences when Veronica reveals she’s pregnant!

Enjoy this entertaining story of pregnancy and passion!

Born and raised in the Australian bush, MIRANDA LEE was boarding-school-educated, and briefly pursued a career in classical music before moving to Sydney and embracing the world of computers. Happily married, with three daughters, she began writing when family commitments kept her at home. She likes to create stories that are believable, modern, fast-paced and sexy. Her interests include meaty sagas, doing word puzzles, gambling and going to the movies.

Also by Miranda Lee

A Man Without Mercy

Taken Over by the Billionaire

Rich, Ruthless and Renowned miniseries

The Italian’s Ruthless Seduction

The Billionaire’s Ruthless Affair

The Playboy’s Ruthless Pursuit

Marrying a Tycoon miniseries

The Magnate’s Tempestuous Marriage

The Tycoon’s Outrageous Proposal

The Tycoon’s Scandalous Proposition

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Italian’s Unexpected Love-Child

Miranda Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07260-1

THE ITALIAN’S UNEXPECTED LOVE-CHILD

© 2018 Miranda Lee

Published in Great Britain 2018

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 my daughter Veronica, who has read all my books,

and said nice things about every single one.

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

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

LAURENCE SHOOK HIS head as he read the investigator’s report for the second time. Frustration consumed him, along with dismay. He’d assumed his daughter would be married by now. Married with children. She was twenty-eight, after all. Twenty-eight and beautiful. Very beautiful.

His eyes moved over to the photo attached to the report, his heart filling with pride when he saw that his genes had produced a truly gorgeous creature. Gorgeous, but childless.

Such a waste!

Sighing, he returned to re-read the report.

Veronica had been engaged three years earlier to a doctor she’d met at the children’s hospital she worked in. She was a physiotherapist and her fiancé an orthopaedic surgeon. Tragically, he’d been killed in a motorcycle accident two weeks before their wedding. After that, there was no evidence of her ever dating anyone again. She didn’t even seem to have many friends. She’d become a loner, still living with her mother and not doing much of anything besides work, which she did from home now, rather than in hospitals.

Laurence understood grief. He’d been devastated when his wife of forty years had died several years ago, not of the cancer—which they’d both expected would take her, given she’d carried a dangerous cancer gene—but of a stroke. He’d retreated into himself after that, retiring permanently to the holiday home they’d bought together on the Isle of Capri, never looking at another woman, never wanting to move on, as the saying went. But he’d been seventy-two at the time of her death, not in his twenties. His daughter was still young, for pity’s sake.

But she wouldn’t stay young for ever. Men could father children for a long time, but women had a biological clock ticking away in their bodies.

As a geneticist, Laurence knew all about human bodies and human genes. His in-depth knowledge on the subject was the reason behind his having donated his sperm to Veronica’s mother in the first place. His gesture had been inspired more by hubris than caring, however. Male ego. He hadn’t wanted to go to his grave without passing on his oh-so-brilliant genes.

Laurence shook his head from side to side, remorse filling his soul, as well as guilt. He should have contacted his daughter after Ruth died. Then he would have been there for her when her fiancé had been killed.

But it was too late now, he accepted wretchedly.

He was dying himself—ironically, of cancer. Liver cancer. Too late to do anything, really. His prognosis was not good. Advanced liver cancer was not very forgiving, though he only had himself to blame. After Ruth had died, he’d drunk far too much for far too long.

‘I did knock,’ a male voice intruded. ‘But you didn’t answer.’

Laurence looked up and smiled.

‘Leonardo! How lovely to see you. What brings you home so soon after your last visit?’

‘It’s Papa’s seventy-fifth birthday tomorrow,’ Leonardo said as he walked along the terrace and sat down in the afternoon sunshine, sighing appreciatively as he gazed out at the sparkling blue Mediterranean. ‘Dio, Laurence. What a lucky man you are to have a view like this.’

Laurence glanced over at his visitor with admiring eyes. How well Leonardo looked. How handsome. And how full of life. Of course, Leonardo was only thirty-two, and a man of many talents—not least of which was everything women would find both fascinating and irresistible.

This last thought evoked a deep thoughtfulness.

‘Mamma said she invited you to the party but you declined. It seems you have to go back to England tomorrow to see your doctor.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Laurence agreed as he folded the report carefully so that Leonardo couldn’t see it. ‘My liver’s playing up.’

‘You do look a little jaundiced. Is it serious?’

Laurence shrugged. ‘At my age, everything is serious. So, have you to come to play chess and listen to some decent music, or to try to buy my home again?’

Leonardo laughed. ‘Can I do all three?’

‘You can try. But my answer to selling this place will be no, as usual. When I’m dead and gone you can buy it.’

Leonardo looked startled, then uncharacteristically sombre. ‘I hope that won’t be for some years yet, my friend.’

‘That’s kind of you to say so. Now, do you want me to open a bottle of wine or not?’ he asked as he rose from his chair, carrying the report with him.

‘Are you sure that’s wise, under the circumstances?’

Laurence’s smile was wry. ‘I don’t think a glass or two is going to make much difference at this stage.’

CHAPTER ONE

VERONICA SMILED AS she accompanied her last client of the day to the front door. Duncan was eighty-four, and a darling, despite suffering terribly from sciatica. But he wasn’t a complainer, which Veronica admired.

‘Same time next week, Duncan?’

‘Can’t, love. Wish I could. You keep me going, you really do. But it’s my granddaughter’s twenty-first next week and I’m flying up to Brisbane for her party. Thought I might stay a week or two at my son’s place while I’m there. Be warmer, for starters. This last winter in Sydney has got right into my bones. I’ll give you a call when I get back.’

‘Okay. Now, you have a good time, Duncan.’

She watched Duncan shuffle his way down Glebe Point Road in the direction of the small terraced house where he lived. Most of her clients were locals, elderly people with lots of aches and pains, though she did treat a smattering of students from nearby Sydney University. Young men, mostly, who played rugby and soccer and came to her for help with their various injuries.

Frankly, she preferred dealing with her older male clients. They didn’t try to hit on her.

Not that she couldn’t handle the occasional pass. Veronica had been handling male passes since she’d reached puberty, the natural consequence of having been born good-looking. No point in pretending she wasn’t. She’d been very blessed in the looks department, with a pretty face, dark, wavy hair, good skin and large violet eyes.

Jerome had called her a natural beauty.

Jerome...

Veronica closed her eyes for a few seconds as she tried to wipe all thought of that man from her mind. But it was impossible. Jerome’s sudden death had been hard enough to handle, but it was what she’d learned after his death that had truly shattered her.

She still could not believe that he’d been so...so wicked.

Naive of her, she supposed, given what her mother had suffered at the hands of the man she’d married. Still, as she’d grown up, Veronica had never bought into her mother’s cynicism towards the opposite sex. She’d always liked men. Liked and admired them. Yes, she’d grown up understanding that some men were players. But she’d always steered well clear of those. When a couple of her boyfriends had proved to be a bit loose on the moral side, neither of them had lasted long.

Veronica wasn’t a prude. But she couldn’t abide men who flouted society’s rules just for the hell of it—who were disrespectful, insensitive or downright reckless. Her perfect man—the one she’d always envisaged marrying—would be none of those things. He’d be successful, and preferably handsome. But most importantly he would be decent and dependable. After all, he wasn’t going to be just her husband. He was going to be the father of her children. At least four children, she’d always pictured. No single-child family for her.

When Jerome had come along, she’d thought he was perfect husband-and-father material.

But Jerome had not been perfect at all. Far from it.

Veronica gritted her teeth as she walked down the hallway towards the kitchen. She supposed she still had her work. Her personal life might be a non-event, with her dreams of a happy family shattered and her trust in relationships totally destroyed, but her professional life was still there. There was a lot of satisfaction in easing other people’s pain.

Veronica was just filling the kettle with water when her mobile rang.

Probably someone wanting to make an appointment, she thought as she pulled her phone out of her pocket. She didn’t get many personal calls these days.

‘Yes?’ she answered a little more abruptly than usual. Thinking about Jerome had left a residue of simmering anger.

‘Is that Miss Veronica Hanson?’ a male voice asked; a rich male voice with a slight accent. Possibly Italian.

‘Yes, speaking,’ she confirmed.

‘My name is Leonardo Fabrizzi,’ he said, at which point Veronica almost dropped her phone. Her fingers clutched it more tightly as she tried to get her head around who was on the other end of the line.

Because surely there couldn’t be too many Italians called Leonardo Fabrizzi in this world?

It had to be him. Though perhaps not. The world was full of coincidences.

‘Leonardo Fabrizzi, the famous skier?’ she blurted out before she could think better of it.

There was dead silence for a few tense seconds.

‘You know me?’ he said at last.

‘No, no,’ she denied quickly, because of course she didn’t know him. Though, she’d met him. Once. Several years ago, at an après ski party in Switzerland. They hadn’t been properly introduced, so of course he would not recognise her name. But he’d been very famous at the time, a world-champion downhill racer with a reputation for recklessness, both on the slopes and off. His playboy status was well deserved, she’d learned that night, shuddering at how close she’d come to becoming just another of his passing conquests.

‘I... I’ve heard of you,’ she hedged, her voice still a little shaky. ‘You’re famous in the ski world and I like skiing.’

More than liked. She’d been obsessed with the sport for a long time, having been introduced to it as a teenager by a classmate’s family. They’d been very wealthy and had taken her along on their skiing holidays as company for their very spoilt but not very popular daughter.

‘I am no longer a famous skier,’ he told her brusquely. ‘I retired from that world some time ago. I am just a businessman now.’

‘I see,’ she said, not having skied herself since Jerome had died. Her interest in the sport—and most other things—had died along with the man she’d been going to marry.

‘So how may I help you, Mr Fabrizzi?’ It suddenly occurred to her that maybe he’d come here to Australia on business and was in urgent need of treatment after a long flight. He might have looked up Sydney physiotherapists online and come up with her website.

‘I am sorry,’ he said in sombre tones, ‘But I have some sad news to tell you.’

‘Sad news?’ she echoed, startled and puzzled. ‘What kind of sad news?’

‘Laurence has died,’ he told her.

‘Laurence? Laurence who?’ She knew no one called Laurence.

‘Laurence Hargraves.’

Veronica was none the wiser. ‘I’m sorry, but that name means nothing to me.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘That is strange, because your name meant something to him. You’re one of the beneficiaries in his will.’

‘What?’

‘Laurence left you something in his will. A villa, actually, on the Isle of Capri.’

‘What? Oh, that’s ridiculous! Is this some kind of cruel joke?’

‘I assure you, Miss Hanson, this is no joke. I am the executor of Laurence’s will, and have a copy of it right in front of me. If you are the Miss Veronica Hanson who lives in Glebe Point Road, Sydney, Australia, then you are now the proud owner of a very beautiful villa on Capri.’

‘Goodness! This is incredible.’

‘I agree,’ he said, with a somewhat rueful note in his voice. ‘I was a close friend of Laurence and he never mentioned you. Could he have been a long-lost relative of some kind? A great-uncle or a cousin, perhaps?’

‘I suppose so. But I doubt it,’ she added. Her mother was an only child and her father—even if he knew of her existence—certainly wouldn’t have an English name like Hargraves in his family. He’d been an impoverished university student from Latvia who had sold his sperm for money and wasn’t even on her birth certificate, which said ‘father unknown’. ‘I’ll have to ask my mother. She might know.’

‘It is very puzzling, I admit,’ the Italian said. ‘Maybe Laurence was a patient of yours in the past, or a relative of a patient. Have you ever worked in England? Laurence used to live in England before he retired to Capri.’

‘No, I haven’t. Never.’ She had, however, been to the Isle of Capri. For a day. As a tourist. Many years ago. She recalled looking up at the hundreds of huge villas dotted over the hillsides and thinking you would have to be very rich to live in one of them.

Veronica wondered if Leonardo Fabrizzi was still rich. And still a playboy.

Not that I care, shot back the tart thought.

‘It is a mystery, all right,’ the man himself said. ‘But it doesn’t change the fact that you can take possession of this property once the appropriate papers are signed and the taxes paid.’

‘Taxes?’

‘Inheritance taxes. I have to tell you that, on a property of this considerable value, the taxes will not come cheap. Since you are not a relative, they stand at eight percent of the current market value.’

‘Which is what, exactly?’

‘Laurence’s villa should sell for somewhere between three-and-a-half and four million euros.’

‘Heavens!’ Veronica had a substantial amount of money in her savings account—she spent next to nothing these days—but she didn’t have eight percent of four million euros.

‘If that is a problem, then I could lend you the money. You could repay me when you sell.’

His gesture surprised her. ‘You would do that? I mean...it could take some time to sell such a property, couldn’t it?’

‘Not in this circumstance. I would like to buy Laurence’s villa myself. I often visited him there and I love the place.’

Veronica should have been grateful for such an easy solution. But for some reason she was reluctant just to say yes, that would be great, yes, let’s do that.

He must have picked up on her hesitation, despite her not saying a word.

‘If you’re worried that I might try to cheat you,’ he said, sounding somewhat peeved, ‘you could get an independent valuation. Which amount I would be happy to pay in full. And in cash,’ he added, highlighting just how rich he was.

Veronica rolled her eyes, never at her best when confronted by people who trumpeted their wealth. Jerome’s parents had been very rich. And had never let her forget it, always saying she was a very lucky girl to be marrying their one and only child.

Hardly lucky, as it turned out.

‘Perhaps you would like some time to think about all this,’ the Italian went on. ‘I imagine this has all come as a shock.’

‘More of a surprise than a shock,’ she said.

‘But a pleasant one, surely?’ he suggested smoothly. ‘Since you didn’t know Laurence personally, his death won’t have upset you. And the sale of his villa will leave you very comfortably off.’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she mused aloud.

‘I do hope you don’t think me rude, Miss Hanson, but I noticed your birth date on the will. I know women don’t like to talk about their ages but could you please confirm for me that the details are correct?’ And he rattled off the date.

‘Yes, that’s correct,’ she said, frowning. ‘Though how this Laurence person knew it, I have no idea.’

‘So you were twenty-eight as of last June.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re a Gemini.’

‘Yes. Though I don’t think I’m all that typical.’ According to a book on star signs she’d once read, she could be light-hearted and fun-loving one day, and serious and thoughtful the next. That might have been true once but she seemed to be stuck these days on the serious and thoughtful. ‘You believe in star signs, Mr Fabrizzi?’

‘Of course not. It was just an idle remark. A man is master of his own destiny,’ he stated firmly.

Spoken like a typically arrogant male, Veronica thought, but didn’t say so.

‘You’re sure you know of no one called Laurence Hargraves?’ he persisted.

‘Absolutely sure. I have a very good memory.’

‘It is all very curious,’ the Italian admitted.

‘True. I’m finding it pretty curious myself. So, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Firstly, how old was my benefactor?’

‘Hmm. I’m not quite sure. Let me think. Late seventies, is my best guess. I know he was seventyish when his wife died, and that was some years back.’

‘Quite elderly, then. And a widower. Did he have any children?’

‘No.’

‘Brothers and sisters?’

‘No.’

‘What did he die of?’

‘Heart attack. Though I found out after the autopsy that he also had liver cancer. He told me the weekend before he died that he was going to London to see a doctor about his liver. Instead, all he did was make a will, then dropped dead shortly after leaving his solicitor’s office.’

‘Goodness.’

‘Perhaps a mercy. The cancer was end stage.’

‘Was he a heavy drinker?’

‘I wouldn’t have said excessively so. But who knows what a lonely man does in private?’

Veronica was taken aback at how sad he suddenly sounded. This evidence of empathy made her like Leonardo Fabrizzi a little bit, which was a minor miracle. Playboys were not her favourite species.

Though maybe she was doing him an injustice. Maybe he had changed. It was, after all, several years since the night he’d cast his charismatic eye on her and casually suggested she join him and the blonde dripping all over him for a threesome.

No, she thought with a derisive curl of her top lip, men like that didn’t change. Once a player, always a player.

‘If you give me your email address,’ he continued, ‘I’ll send you a copy of the will and you can get back to me with your decision in a day or two. Alternatively, I could ring you at this time tomorrow and we can talk some more. Would that be suitable?’