The Sicilian's Stolen Son

The panoramic view and the sunlight blinded her and she had a split-second sizzling snapshot of Luciano, rising with fluid grace from his seat, his lean, powerful body sheathed in an exquisitely cut pale grey suit teamed with a black shirt. ‘Buon giorno,’ he murmured smoothly. ‘You look amazing.’

Jemima flushed. ‘Let’s not get carried away,’ she told him reprovingly. ‘I’m wearing this because it’s so hot and I have nothing suitable and—’

‘Rest assured I will not assume that you are wearing it either to please or attract me, piccolo mia,’ Luciano incised as drily as though he could read her mind.

Her flushed cheeks turned a solid mortified red and she averted her eyes as she dropped down hurriedly into a seat. Dishes were proffered by one manservant, beverages by another. Her attention briefly falling on the bodyguards standing several yards away, it occurred to her that Luciano lived rather like a king in a medieval court with an army of staff and everyone bowing and scraping and doing their utmost to ensure his protection and his comfort. It was an isolated lifestyle, divorced from normality, and she wondered how it would affect Nicky to grow up like a crown prince in the lap of such indescribable luxury.

From below her lashes she stole a helpless glance at Luciano. He was looking out to sea, his flawless classic profile turned to her. Her heart thumped very loudly in her ears because she was remembering his mouth, that wide, sensually skilled mouth, roaming over her and making her writhe with raw need and then the dynamic flex and flow of his lithe body over hers, driving her to the apex of excitement. Perspiration broke out on her skin and she quickly looked away from him again. No, try as she might to be sensible, she could not forget the intimacy, the first she had ever known and, much like Luciano, utterly unforgettable.

‘So, what next?’ she muttered in the pulsing silence.

Lustrous dark golden eyes ensnared hers and her breath tripped in her throat. ‘That’s what we have to decide.’

Jemima tore her eyes free and bit into her fresh fruit. He was using the royal ‘we’; she didn’t think she would have much actual input into what happened next.

‘Tell me how your sister got hold of your passport,’ he invited, startling her with that request.

‘It happened by accident. The first time we met she showed me her passport because she had worn her hair long then too, and I got out mine and we were laughing and somehow our passports got mixed up.’

‘And?’ Luciano prompted.

‘Julie only realised she had my passport when she was flying out to Italy and she travelled on it because she didn’t want to miss her flight.’

‘She lied,’ Luciano murmured without any expression at all. ‘She had already used your passport in her application to be the surrogate I hired. And the reason she lied was that she had several criminal convictions in her own name. She probably tracked you down quite deliberately. She set you up to steal your identity, Jemima. Accept that.’

Jemima paled. She was remembering laughing with her sister as they compared unflattering passport photos. ‘It was months before I found out about the...er...exchange and when I contacted her about it, she said she’d give it back when she returned from Italy.’

‘Only she never did,’ Luciano completed.

‘Obviously you think I’m very stupid,’ Jemima said tartly, burning her mouth on an unwary sip of coffee and swallowing hard, burning her throat into the bargain, tears starting into her eyes at the discomfort.

‘No, I think you were scammed. She was a practised, confident trickster and she was your sister and you didn’t want to accept the truth,’ Luciano said in a surprisingly uncritical tone. ‘I can understand ignoring the evidence and wanting to believe the best of someone close to you. It happened to me once.’

‘Oh...’ Jemima was taken aback by that admission. ‘I loved her—I felt an immediate sense of connection with her.’

‘Scammers have to be attractive to pull people in.’

Jemima concentrated her attention warily on eating.

‘Why didn’t you go to the police about your passport when she refused to give it back?’

‘I didn’t need my passport because I couldn’t afford to travel at the time...and I didn’t want to get her into trouble. For a long time she made excuses about why she wasn’t returning it and I believed her,’ she admitted with a rueful roll of her eyes.

A manservant topped up Luciano’s black coffee. He rose lithely from his seat and lounged back against the stone balustrade girding the terrace. He surveyed her with satisfaction. She was elegant as a swan in the tailored blue sundress, her hair restrained in its usual braid, only stray little golden hairs catching the slight breeze round her troubled face. She had loved and cared for her sister, contriving to mourn Julie Marshall’s passing in spite of all the damage her sibling had done. Jemima had a lot of heart and a generosity of spirit that he admired even though he couldn’t emulate it. And he wanted what she had to offer for his son. He sensed that she could be the greatest gift he would ever give him.