Bound to the Tuscan Billionaire

Too late!

The news had moved on from stock photographs to live shots. He didn’t hang around to switch off the set. Cassandra was in the park across the road, and the paparazzi were already swarming.

* * *

She understood now, Cass thought, shoving her hands in the pockets of her maternity jeans as she marched along with her head down, looking neither to the left nor to the right. This must be how her parents had felt all the time, not just some of the time. She had never understood the pressures they’d been under before today. She had only tasted fame briefly—or should that be infamy, she mused, chewing her lip.

The papers had been full of the small child playing amongst discarded syringes and empty bottles, and the internet had a long memory, which the bullies at school had taken full advantage of. Even her godmother hadn’t been able to shield her from everything. In her turbulent teenage years, when her hormones had been racing, she had thought differently about her parents’ notoriety, imagining it must have been glamorous and wonderful to be surrounded by so much attention all the time.

She could see now that those had been the misguided musings of a hormonal only child, looking back at her mixed-up childhood through a veil of resentment. Her parents had thrown their lives away on drugs and alcohol, but they must have been running scared in a doomed attempt to keep up with failing celebrity. And then that stupid fight that ended with them both dead in the swimming pool. It still bemused her to think that it had been over nothing more important than which of them got the last bottle of beer!

But they must have been under incredible pressure if they’d had to contend with this on a daily basis, she reflected as she glanced back over her shoulder at the following pack. She wasn’t easily intimidated, but this frightened her. It was relentless, and if the reporters would chase her in her maternity clothes, looking a fright with her hair bundled up in a knot, they’d have no mercy on anyone. They weren’t interested in pretty shots—there was no money in them, she supposed. They were like hyenas, feeding on trouble and misery—hyenas with cameras, shoving them in her face. Microphones, mobile phones, television cameras—even members of the public were joining in with anything they could lay their hands on, and all to have a better look at the pregnant mistress of Marco di Fivizzano—to scrutinise her, to examine every blemish and weakness, so they could expose them to the world. Especially her belly. She almost laughed out loud when one man knelt in front of her to get a shot of it, and then darted around to the side to capture another view.

‘This is ridiculous!’ she exclaimed, only to be hit by a barrage of questions:

‘Do you have a statement?’

‘Do you know the sex of the baby?’

‘Will you live with Marco when it’s born?’

And then, like a miracle, he was there at her side—shielding and protecting her, his strength and power, and sheer presence alone enough to scatter the following pack.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ he demanded, directing his fury at the paparazzi as he tucked her firmly beneath the protection of his arm.

For once she didn’t try to resist him as he marched her away. ‘What does it look as if I’m doing? I wanted some fresh air.’

‘I can understand that, but why didn’t you call me?’

‘I didn’t want to trouble you,’ she admitted. ‘And I couldn’t stay in the penthouse a moment longer with people who were laughing at me.’

‘The staff? They’ve been fired. That was a misjudgement on my part—I should have checked their references myself.’

‘And I shouldn’t be so pathetic, but this pregnancy is making me emotional all the time.’ She turned around, and was glad to see the reporters falling back. She guessed they weren’t too keen to take on Marco in his present mood.

‘Do you think your staff at the penthouse did this?’ she asked.

‘Who else do you think would alert the press?’ he said as he flashed his security card at the controls on the private entry system. He held the door for her and then let it slam in the hyenas’ faces.

‘They said there was money to be made,’ she remembered.

‘A short-term gain,’ Marco rapped crisply, standing back as the elevator doors slid open. ‘Neither of them will work in this city again. They’ll never be trusted after this.’

‘So their blood money will prove a double-edged sword?’

‘It will,’ he confirmed. ‘But I’m only interested in you. Are you okay?’