In the short time that she’d been living in Marco’s penthouse she had become far too complacent. She’d be cleaning his shoes and running his bath next. She didn’t even have morning sickness to use as an excuse any more—so what was she doing letting the days drift by?
Things had to change.
She carried her tray back to the kitchen. Who cared what the unfriendly maid and chef thought of her doing things for herself? She had strong arms and a pair of perfectly capable hands, and she didn’t need people to run after her. She thanked the chef for breakfast, and apologised for not finishing it, with the excuse that she had eaten too much at supper the night before.
‘But it was delicious,’ she said, thanking him.
‘Do you need anything else, signorina?’ the maid asked her.
‘Nothing. Thank you.’
She closed the door and then cursed her acute hearing.
‘Is there something wrong with my food?’ the chef complained.
‘She’s pregnant,’ the maid whispered. ‘That’s why she can’t face food.’
‘He’s made one pregnant?’
Cass froze, then tensed as they both started to laugh.
‘About time too,’ the chef declared, forgetting Cass might overhear him, or perhaps not caring if she did. ‘A man like that needs an heir.’
Hearing her own thoughts echoed sent a chill down Cass’s spine. She stilled as the maid hummed in disapproval.
‘I don’t know why he picked this one when there are plenty of society women who would oblige him with an heir.’
There was a silence, and then the maid added, ‘News like this is worth money.’
Cass had heard enough. It wasn’t her business to berate Marco’s staff, so she bit her tongue and walked away. She had to believe the chef and the maid would remain loyal to their employer and keep what they knew to themselves. Loyalty in any household was an unspoken rule, surely?
* * *
The news about his staff’s disloyalty broke while he was in a meeting. His PA texted him so he couldn’t be caught out by the reports already appearing online. He remained outwardly impassive, but inwardly he was furious. He was a private man, and he didn’t care for his private life to be on anyone’s lips. He hadn’t wanted that for Cassandra, which was why he’d kept her presence in his penthouse quiet. He had wanted her to have these last few months of pregnancy calmly, and in private. No one should be talking about her, let alone his trusted staff—
Trusted staff?
‘My PA selects a short list of potential staff members, and you are supposed to vet them,’ he railed at his team of investigators. ‘You’re supposed to be the best. That’s why you get my work. You’re fired.’ He cut the line when they launched into an excuse that the chef and the maid at the penthouse had been thoroughly checked out but there was no accounting for human nature.
Everyone has a price, he conceded angrily, showing nothing of his mounting fury as he cancelled his next appointment. Why was business so straightforward, and everything to do with Cassandra so complex?
Was he really worried about people talking? Or had he finally been forced to face the fact that life was changing for him? It would never be the same again now there was a child in the equation—a child that was probably his.
Possibly his, he amended.
Now he had to wonder why he could never trust his feelings. Why couldn’t he believe Cassandra? Would the past always haunt him?
The staff at the penthouse had been fired by the time he got there, but there was no sign of Cassandra. His heart rate soared as he hunted for her. He checked everywhere, knowing it didn’t make sense for her to leave him. Where would she go? She had been recovering her health in Rome, and already looked so much better. He called the cab company—he called every cab company in the city—but no one had taken a young, pregnant, English woman to the airport—or anywhere else, for that matter.
So where was she?
Absentmindedly, he turned on the TV to scan the news as he paced the apartment. The news item shocked him—angered him. It focused on him and Cassandra, picking over the history between them. The shot they used of him made him look like a demon out of hell, unshaven and riding a Harley—God knew where they’d found it. The picture of Cassandra showed an angel, fair of face and sweet of temperament—like a martyr he’d pinned to the stake. The press wasn’t just milking the story, they were making a production number out of it. He had to find her before the paparazzi swarmed all over her—