The Italian's Doorstep Surprise

Nico wondered now how it was possible that he’d never noticed his gardener’s granddaughter. Looking at Honora now, here, in the body-skimming sundress with thin straps that revealed her full pregnant glory, she looked intoxicatingly beautiful, her dark hair tumbling over bare shoulders. Her big eyes shone in the candlelight.

“I lived in Rome till I was eight,” he said. “Then my mother married an American and moved us to Chicago.”

“Does your family still live there?”

He blinked at the word family. Was that what they’d been? “My mother died when I was seventeen. My stepfather last year.”

“I’m sorry.” Honora put her hand over his on the wooden table. Her hand was soft, comforting, warm. “Were you close?”

Close. His throat closed. He still couldn’t bear to remember his mother’s death, the silent cancer that had showed no symptoms until it was too late. There had been an experimental treatment that might have saved her, if they’d had three hundred thousand dollars to pay for it. Desperate, Nico had buried his pride and phoned Prince Arnaldo. It was the first and only time he’d ever spoken directly to his father. “Please,” he’d choked out in Italian, “help her. And I’ll never ask you for anything again.”

“Why would I give you so much money?” the man had replied coldly. “I’m not some fool to throw away my fortune on quack treatments with no chance of success.”

“But you owe her. You owe us.”

“Maria is nothing to me, and neither are you.” And he’d hung up.

Arnaldo had been right about one thing—the experimental treatment had turned out to be a mirage. But it might have saved her, Nico told himself stubbornly. His mother might have been the exception. After her death, Nico had taken his hurt and rage and thrown himself into working around the clock. Starting at eighteen, he’d bought his first Chicago property with credit, using his beat-up Mustang as collateral. He’d gotten lucky when a car wash chain had offered to buy the land from him at nearly double the price. He’d taken that profit and moved to New York, determined to make himself so rich and powerful that he could never be hurt again.

But after he’d become rich, he’d found he still felt an overwhelming restlessness inside.

That was when he’d decided to make Prince Arnaldo Caracciola pay—for everything.

“No,” Nico said in a low voice. “We weren’t close. But she was still my mother.”

Honora didn’t move her hand from his. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “Like I said. I know how it feels.”

She couldn’t possibly know how he felt. But as she pulled her hand away, he thought how pretty she was, how enticing, with her pink lips and warm green eyes, as alive as a sunlit forest.

Nico changed the conversation to lighter things, to a project he was building in London that he knew would interest her, because it was surrounded by five acres of green space. It seemed like mere minutes before their dinners were served, chicken potpie for her, and his usual steak in peppercorn sauce. As they ate, he enjoyed listening to her talk, her brightness, her cheerful optimism, her kindness—all so different from the entitled world-weariness and humblebragging he was accustomed to hearing from mistresses. Honora Callahan was honest and enthusiastic and lovely. She was a breath of fresh air. Any man would be lucky to have her in his life, he thought suddenly.

“This potpie was amazing.” Setting her fork down on her empty plate, she sighed in pleasure. Her full breasts and baby bump pressed against the small table as she leaned forward. “By the way, thanks for being with me at Granddad’s today. I’m not sure I would have survived otherwise...”

He forced himself to lift his gaze from her curves. “I’m glad I could help.”

Honora shook her head wryly. “He actually said he loved her. Aloud. I can hardly believe it.” She gave a wistful smile. “He’s never said that to me, not once.”

Her tone was cheerful, but he could feel an ocean of sadness beneath it. He recognized that ocean. Everything he’d done as a man had been in order to leave that sad, lonely boy behind and become powerful, and impervious to hurt. He shrugged.

“My mother used to say it to me all the time.” He took a drink of the sparkling water. “She never meant it.”

“I’m sure she loved you.” But her voice was uncertain.

He gave a small smile. “It’s hard to love the person who blows up your life and forces you to give up your dreams and live in poverty.”

“Your father didn’t help?”

He shook his head. “He was a married aristocrat. She was a maid in his palace. The last thing he was going to do was recognize me as his own.”

The words hung in the air like a toxic cloud. He’d never said them to anyone before.

“Oh, Nico, how could he?” she said softly. “He didn’t even pay child support?”

He realized his hand was clenching the edge of the oak table so tightly that it hurt. Strange. One might think he was still angry about it. But he felt nothing. “My mother tried, but she was young, without family, and no one to give her advice. And he was powerful, untouchable, behind guarded palace walls.” He took a deep breath. “She worked three jobs to support us. Then she met my stepfather, who worked in the American base. He told her loved her and swore he’d take care of her.”

“What happened?”

“She married him and we moved to the States. She thought her life would be easier, but it wasn’t. She never felt at home in Chicago. Then Joe started complaining that she wasn’t the same girl he’d fallen in love with.” He gave a hard smile. “He complained about me, too.”