He was tall, powerfully built, with broad shoulders and a muscular shape. His hair was dark and mussed. His eyes were black and they burned right through her. Rosalie gripped the edge of the marble fireplace mantel for support as her knees trembled beneath her.
“You are—Alex Falconeri?” she croaked.
His dark eyes narrowed as he stalked into the room, then stopped directly in front of her. He was dressed all in black, a button-down shirt, perfectly tailored trousers, and leather shoes with a dull shine. His stark clothing seemed perfect for a palace like this—and totally wrong for real life, for the hot, sunny Italian weather outside, on the last day in May.
“You didn’t answer my question.” The man’s gaze was a weapon, freezing her in place as he slowly looked her over. “Who are you? What is this ridiculous story you told my butler?”
How many different surrogates did they have that he didn’t immediately know who she was? Frowning, she blinked in bewilderment. “I’m Rosalie. Rosalie B-Brown.”
“Well. Rosalie, Rosalie Brown,” he mocked, “Is this some kind of joke? Are you truly claiming to be pregnant with my baby?”
Claiming? She frowned, bewildered. “You know I am.”
“And how could that be?” he said scornfully, folding his powerful arms. “I never cheated on my wife, not in three years of marriage, not once, not even when she—”
He cut himself off, his jaw clenching.
Rosalie gaped at him. “I saw your signature on the surrogacy contract!”
“Contract?” he growled. “What are you talking about?”
Was it possible—he didn’t know?
“Your wife—Mrs. Falconeri—I mean, the countess or whatever she’s called, hired me through the surrogacy clinic in San Francisco last November. She told me you were—” she hesitated “—um, too busy to leave Italy. But she said you were happily married, and all you needed was a child to make your happiness complete.”
“Happy?” He looked at her incredulously. “You cannot have actually met my wife. She would never have said that.”
“Well—she said that once I had the baby, you’d be happy, because a baby was all you wanted. And she said once I gave birth, she could finally be happy too.”
Alex Falconeri stared at her coldly.
She licked her lips. “Just ask her,” she said weakly. “She’s the one who arranged everything. She—”
“I can’t ask her anything,” he bit out. His black eyes narrowed, hard as stone. “My wife is dead. In a car accident four weeks ago—”
“I’m so sorry—” Rosalie gasped.
“With her lover,” he finished. “So I know everything you’re saying is a lie.”
Alexander Falconeri, the Conte di Rialto, stared at the beautiful young pregnant woman in the salon of his palazzo.
She was obviously lying. Her ridiculous story couldn’t be true. Even Chiara wouldn’t, couldn’t, have done what this girl claimed. Create a child through a surrogate, without Alex’s knowledge? No. Impossible.
Was it?
Impossible, he repeated to himself harshly. The girl claimed to have been impregnated in some fertility clinic in San Francisco. How could an American clinic even have gotten hold of Alex’s DNA?
It had to be a trick.
Now that, he could believe. Chiara was—had been—clever and ruthless. For two years, she’d desperately wanted a divorce. Not just that, she’d wanted to take his fortune with her.
Alex had refused. He saw no reason to accept a divorce, much less tear up the prenup and meekly give her his inheritance. She’d done nothing to deserve it, and besides, he’d spoken vows. A man without honor was no man at all. For him, marriage, happy or unhappy, was forever.
Chiara had felt differently. After her wealthy father had died, a year into their marriage, she’d received her eagerly awaited inheritance and saw no reason to remain married to Alex. She’d been desperate to be free, so she could marry the penniless, drug-addicted musician she’d loved for years.
But she’d soon realized that even her large inheritance wouldn’t last long, not the way she and Carraro bled money on their jet-set lifestyle. Her married lover had hinted that only a truly spectacular fortune could tempt him to leave his wife, and suddenly, a mere divorce wasn’t enough for Chiara. She’d demanded that Alex forget their prenuptial agreement, and instead give her half his family’s fortune.
When Alex had refused, she’d vengefully flaunted her affair, rubbing his nose in it, drunkenly partying with her lover in all the hot spots of Venice and Rome. She’d done everything possible to force Alex’s hand.