The Sicilian's Scandalous Secret

He drummed his fingers on the desk. Where would the paper statements be from the years before that? His father had been a terrible hoarder so they would be here somewhere…

The filing cabinet, of course.

An hour later and he was sat on the carpeted floor, paperwork strewn around him. In his hand was the evidence he’d been seeking but praying he wouldn’t find.

Until nine years ago, coincidentally the year Orla had turned eighteen, his father had paid the sum of two thousand euros every month to a bank account in Ireland.

* * *

Aislin hovered by the front window of the cottage, peering out intermittently while she waited for Dante.

Nerves in the form of butterflies rampaged in her belly.

Her bags were packed and waiting by the front door. She’d spent most of the night fighting the urge to flee to the airport.

A hundred thousand euros was a substantial amount of money but a million was life-changing. Orla could buy a home, modify it to cater for all Finn’s needs and have change to spare at the end of it. She could take him on holiday. She could buy him a high-tech wheelchair. She could buy a car.

So Aislin had stayed in the cold cottage, hardly sleeping, her mind whirling like a dervish, trying to understand why her instinct was to run.

A million euros to attend a wedding! All her family’s problems solved in one weekend!

Restless, she paced the living area.

She’d been prepared to break into the cottage and stage a sit-in in defiance of a powerful billionaire; had been prepared to stay there for as long as it took for him to develop a conscience.

She had not expected it to develop so quickly or easily.

His agreement to give Orla half the value of the cottage and its land had proven his conscience. That he was insisting on a DNA test was not surprising and not something she could blame him for. Dante was no fool. No one who reached the heights in business he had got there by taking people at face value.

She had expected an arrogant monster and found, instead, an arrogant man who could be compelled to listen to reason.

So why was she so resistant to spending a few days with him when the reward for doing so was so great?

A loud rap on the front door made her jump and, when Dante strode through the front door, her heart jumped too, right into her throat.

She’d opened the shutters earlier and spring sunlight poured into the cottage. Dante seemed to glow with it.

Dressed in a navy shirt, snug black jeans and an obviously expensive straight leather jacket, his handsome features were more pronounced than they’d been the evening before, the texture of his dark hair thicker and smoother, the green eyes that found hers brighter.

But there was something unkempt about his appearance too. He looked like a man who had spent the night at the bottom of a bottle of rum rather than in a bed. The effect only made him sexier. A pulse set off deep inside her, warmth gathering low in the most intimate of places…

Her reason for resistance suddenly became obvious.

This wasn’t mere appreciation of a handsome, sexy man. She was attracted to him.

Aislin was attracted to Dante Moncada. Properly, heart-beatingly, swoon-makingly attracted.

‘You are still here,’ he stated as he closed the door.

‘Well spotted, Einstein.’

Okay, so she was attracted to him. That was nothing to panic about. It didn’t mean her brain cells had to become goo around him. She had overcome much worse than an unwelcome attraction to a gorgeous man before. If there was one thing Aislin had it was an abundance of self-control. How else could she have sat through all those awful meetings with the patronising social workers and other officials who’d all seemed determined to deny her the right to be Finn’s legal guardian, while Orla had recovered from her horrific injuries, and not have punched any of them?

The slightest spark emerged in the green of his bloodshot eyes. ‘Einstein would have killed for my IQ.’

Her lips twitched to break into a smile. ‘And your modesty, I’m sure.’

He grinned. ‘Am I to assume you’re going to accept my offer?’