The Italian Billionaire's Secret Love-Child

Riccardo sighed. ‘We’re just going over old ground here, Charlie. Why fight the inevitable?’ He glanced to where Gina was dangling a swimsuit and gesticulating madly. She wanted them both to swim, and had picked out an especially charming swimsuit for Charlotte in horrible hues of blues and reds which was clearly designed for maximum exposure. Charlotte declined, preferring to watch them both from the sidelines of the pool where she could stew in frustrated silence. Riccardo, she noted sourly, was doing extraordinary things on the bonding front—teaching Gina how to swim breast stroke, tossing her into the air, balancing her on his shoulders so that she could stumble off with squeals of laughter. He didn’t look at Charlotte once. But then why should he? she thought. He had got his own way after all.

The whole afternoon, drifting into early evening, was a nightmare. They ate in the restaurant, with Riccardo playing the good dad and compelling her into the role of either good mum or utterly miserable sour-faced mum.

By the time they were on their way back to the house, Charlotte’s face ached from the strain of having to pretend.

But as promised the work was done, everything tidied up, by his personal assistant, she’d been told while they’d been at the club ‘having fun’. And Gina was exhausted. Too tired for anything more than her nightie and half a story.

Which just left them and a quiet house.

‘You’ll need a towel,’ she said wearily, sinking into a chair in the sitting room, all the better to contemplate the unravelling of her life. ‘Lord, Riccardo, I can’t believe you’ve done this.’ She rubbed her eyes with her thumbs and then closed them.

‘So, why don’t you try making the most of it?’

Charlotte opened her eyes to him sitting on the arm of her chair, but she was just too tired to respond to the invasion of privacy. ‘How? We don’t like each other, and yet I’m supposed to be happy sharing my space with you.’

For some reason, that hurt him. He stood up and walked towards the door, pausing to glance at her over his shoulder. ‘Well, if it’s any consolation, my routine at my office will continue as usual, and yes, I’ll be around in the evenings, but if this arrangement really doesn’t work out then we’ll reconsider the whole thing.’

‘Meaning what?’

Riccardo shrugged. ‘Meaning we’ll do the amicable joint-custody thing and I’ll just have to reconcile myself to not being around in a full-time capacity.’

‘You should have thought of that before you embarked on this crazy moving in idea!’

‘I’m going to have a shower. If you need me I’ll be working at the desk in my bedroom.’

He shut the door quietly behind him, leaving Charlotte a little disappointed that the argument she was fired up to conduct had fizzled out like a damp squib. But at least he had agreed to clear off if things didn’t work out. Which, naturally, they wouldn’t. Any fool would have predicted that. He didn’t like her and she didn’t like him. There was just too much water under the bridge, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

Except…except…

There had been moments at that wretched spa when she had forgotten her anger and experienced a little taste of family life, ordinary family life with laughter and teasing and fun, and someone else there sharing the little things. The frightening thing was that it could get to be a habit, but…

She stood up and headed up the stairs. It was a small house. Just the three bedrooms and a shared bathroom—and he wasn’t in it. There was no sound of running water and there was a crack of light under his bedroom door. At least for the time being she would have to get used to this inconvenience. She grabbed her clothes from her room and, head still full of ridiculous but tantalising thoughts, she gave a brief knock on the bathroom door and opened it.