Affairs Of The Heart: The Italian Boss's Secret Child

‘Sympathetic? Is that what you call it when someone’s angling to get into your pants?’

‘How dare you?’ The crack of her palm against his cheek was as loud as it was satisfying. Her victory was short-lived though as he snared her still open hand in one swift-moving fist. His other hand stroked the region, a red weal already brightening under his fingers.

‘You deserved that.’ She spat the words out over a gasping breath, refusing to give in to her first instinct to apologise.

He looked down at her, dark fire burning in his eyes, his breathing strangely calm under the circumstances. ‘And this,’ he said, pulling on her wrist so that she collided full length with him, ‘is what you deserve.’

Still half off balance, she felt his arm surround her and haul her tightly against him as his head dipped lower. Panic, outrage and sheer bliss all welled within her as his lips meshed with hers; panic that he would somehow recognise her as the woman he’d made love to on Saturday night; outrage that he could treat her this way, and sheer unadulterated bliss that he had.

Since their encounter at the ball she’d dreamed of nothing else but to be in Damien’s arms once more. Those dreams had ended in disappointed awakenings and frustrated tomorrows. But now he was here, really here, holding her, kissing her and it was no dream.

Her thin sand-washed satin dress might not have been there. She could feel all of him, the length of him, the heat of him, searing her through the fine fabric.

He let go of her wrist and his hand went behind her head, drawing her closer, holding her firm and somewhere his anger turned into something else. It was desire she could feel from him now, a hot, urgent thing that was as tangible as the flesh beneath her hands and it called to her, tempting her, insisting she give herself up to it.

Why shouldn’t she?

It would be so easy.

She knew the pleasure she’d find. She’d only had a sample of what he had to offer, but there was no doubt there was so much more that she’d like to experience. Why should it matter if she did?

But how could she?

Things were complicated between them already. Already there were secrets. Already there was too much to explain. This wasn’t going to help.

Besides, he didn’t want her. He’d made that perfectly plain when he’d set the boundaries for this trip. What was happening now had more to do with his competitive nature and showing her who was boss than any real interest he had in Philly Summers. Because he’d made it perfectly clear that he had none.

And that was the killer punch. If she’d thought for a moment that he felt something for her other than pure animal lust, if she thought she had something else going for her in his eyes other than simply being available, then yes, she’d like nothing more than to give herself up to the pleasures he promised.

But this was no fancy dress ball where he had no idea of her identity. This was no masquerade. Here there was no avoidance of the truth. He’d never wanted her and, whatever his motives, he didn’t really want her now.

This was simply wrong.

His hands slipped to her shoulders, sliding her thin straps away. She gasped as his hands followed the curve of her shoulders, around to the front, lower, capturing her breasts, thumbs hooking in her bodice top, easing it lower.

Her hands found his chest as she dragged her face away from his. She pushed but his hands caught her and pulled her back. She pushed again, harder, turning her face so that he couldn’t kiss her.

‘No,’ she said, her breath choppy. ‘Stop this.’

His mouth was at her neck, cajoling, insisting and panic gripped her.

‘No!’ she yelled. ‘Just because you bought these clothes don’t assume you own what’s in them.’

‘The clothes are yours,’ he muttered, ignoring her jibe, his breath hot and persuasive against her skin. ‘Keep them.’

She squeezed her eyes shut, praying for strength.

‘You promised!’

His head lifted but he didn’t let go. ‘What did I promise?’

‘Not to maul me. You promised me there was no chance you would seduce me on this trip. You made it perfectly clear there was not a snowball’s chance in hell—remember? So let me go—now.’

He had promised, he remembered. Why the hell had he done that?

His arms slackened their grip around her and she eased herself away, hitching up her shoulder straps before flicking back her hair with her fingers. Her face was flushed, her lips bruised and swollen from his attention and he ached to take her back into his arms and finish what he’d begun.

He’d made that promise to someone else, though—someone else who wore ill-fitting brown suits and glasses that wouldn’t be out of place on a welder. He hadn’t made that guarantee to the woman standing in front of him. He would have been mad to have done that.

‘I think you should leave,’ she said, not moving, clutching her arms over her chest like a shield. ‘Now.’

He took a deep breath. He would go. After all, he had promised.

But he definitely wouldn’t make that mistake again.

CHAPTER SIX (#u4f93203d-362b-520d-9d07-6c75ca30ba3e)

CHRISTMAS came early to the Summers’ household.

Five mornings before the big day, Philly clutched the white stick, hand shaking, eyes disbelieving, mind unable to comprehend. She looked again at the instructions, reading the last section twice over until she was sure she had it clear in her mind, then she looked back at the stick.

There was no mistake.

She had read it right.

She was pregnant.

Elation zipped through her. She’d done it! She was carrying a child. Having a baby was no longer just a dream, just a hope. It was now a reality. And in less than forty weeks, all going well, she would hold that baby in her arms. And her mother would hold her grandchild.

Please God it wouldn’t be too late for it to make a difference.

But it couldn’t be too late. It was a miracle. She was having a baby.

Her baby.

Elation suddenly gave way to another emotion.

Dread.

This wasn’t just her baby. It was Damien’s too.

Guilt gripped her heart, squeezing it as tight as the instructions now crumpled within her fist as her body swayed into the bathroom vanity unit, knocking the soap dish to the floor.

This was not some IVF pregnancy, where the sperm had been donated with the intention and hopes of furnishing someone with a child anonymously. This child’s father was no phantom, no unnamed donor whose chosen part in conceiving a child was over.

This child’s father was Damien DeLuca, about as far from a phantom as ice was from the sun. And he would have to be told.

Oh, he wouldn’t like it. The self-confessed career bachelor and man about town was hardly likely to be excited at the prospect of discovering he was to be a father. But if he was angry about it he could hardly blame her. Neither of them had given a moment’s thought to protection that night. Sure, she was the one who was pregnant, but he wasn’t exactly the innocent party in all this.