The Italian's Doorstep Surprise

Her courage failed her. She looked down, putting her hand on the cool, hard emeralds at her throat. “They’re beautiful. You didn’t have to do this.”

“Of course I did. They match your eyes, and you deserve every luxury.” Leaning forward, he whispered wickedly against her skin, “Especially after last night.”

Her blush deepened as she remembered the previous night’s passion. Every night of their honeymoon he’d found new ways to give her intoxicating pleasure.

She just prayed Nico would forgive her for the public ambush, and eventually understand why she’d had no choice but to do this, to make him face the past he’d gone to such lengths to avoid...

“Are you ready?” Nico murmured, holding out his arm.

“I hope so.” Nervously, she took his arm. Would he still smile at her so warmly when the night was over?

Together, they left the master bedroom and went down the sweeping staircase of the Amalfi Coast villa as guests began to arrive.

They greeted each guest in the foyer, beneath the soaring crystal chandelier high overhead, and above it, the frescoes of cherubs. But there was no sign of Egidia. Honora felt more and more nervous as the minutes ticked by.

Nico seemed proud to introduce her to his glamorous European friends, many of whom were from Rome or farther away still—Milan, Paris, Athens. For once, Honora had no energy to feel insecure when she met the extravagantly thin, gorgeously dressed supermodels and heiresses and female tycoons. She was too anxious about the coming confrontation to care what strangers thought of her.

The villa’s ballroom was as exquisite as a jewel box, filled with flowers, and a string quartet was playing music. Holding a crystal flute of sparkling water, Honora stood beside her husband as he spoke to a small group of people, switching from Italian to English for her sake. She tried to smile and nod and appear as if she were interested in their discussion, which was apparently about some land deal in Malaysia. She felt Nico’s hand stroking her bare upper back. Her shoulders felt tense. Her gaze kept straying to the door.

Then she gave an intake of breath.

Nico noticed at once. He looked down at her with a bewildered frown. Then he followed her gaze. His body stiffened.

“What the hell—” His voice choked off in a strangled gasp as he saw the new guest in the ballroom’s doorway.

“Forgive me,” Honora said quietly. “I had no choice.”

An elderly white-haired woman, round and slightly stooped, dressed in a formal gown that looked like couture, though it was two decades out of fashion, entered the room. Principessa Egidia Caracciola.

* * *

Nico’s head was spinning.

For the last twenty-four hours, he’d been congratulating himself that he’d convinced his wife to stop fighting for his enemy, aka his stepmother, and to keep her loyalty where it belonged, with Nico. He’d tried to bind her to him more thoroughly, making love to her last night with agonizing slow gentleness—though it damn near killed him to go slow—and buying her an emerald necklace worth half a million euros, which had once belonged to a tsarina of Russia.

He’d introduced her to the cream of European society, which he’d bulldozed into with his wealth, power and charm. He wouldn’t call them all friends, exactly, but they were entertaining, and useful, and anyway, it gave him satisfaction to think he’d earned his way into the aristocratic circle his father had tried to deny him.

For the last hour, he’d watched Honora, in her sparkling pale pink cocktail dress, her green eyes brighter than the emeralds at her throat, hold her own against them all, talking easily to even the most arrogant Milanese heiress. His heart had burst with pride for his beautiful, clever, kind wife.

Nico had started to relax again. Maybe he’d overreacted. Maybe he could still trust her. Maybe he didn’t need to permanently be on his guard.

And now...this ambush!

He pulled Honora to the side. His jaw was tight. “Is this about revenge?” he said in a low voice, for her alone. “Is that why you invited her here? To win the argument? To hurt me?”

Honora’s forehead furrowed.

“No, Nico,” she said, looking bewildered. “I’m trying to help you make peace with your family. With yourself—”

“Peace!” He’d never heard anything more ridiculous. He felt like his heart was about to explode. He couldn’t believe she would attack him like this, in such an underhanded fashion, trying to humiliate him in front of European society! What had he ever done to deserve this? Nothing! All he’d ever done was treat her like a queen!

With an intake of breath, he turned back to the grand doorway of the ballroom. Egidia Caracciola. His dead father’s widow.

Their eyes met, and his whole body was engulfed in ice.

The ballroom seemed to fall silent, first the guests, then the musicians discordantly cutting off midsong. Nico knew there’d been gossip about the lengths he’d gone to, gathering up Prince Arnaldo’s debts, then trying to force the sale of the Villa Caracciola. There had been commentary about the physical resemblance between the two men. Gossiping about secret parentage was always an enjoyable pastime for the jet set, but he’d thought he’d quashed that rumor. Now, he could feel new whispers building around him like wildfire.

“What have you done?” he said hoarsely.