Carrying His Scandalous Heir

She gave a laugh. A savage, vicious laugh.

‘Which do you think, Cesare?’ Her face convulsed. ‘I should be used to it, shouldn’t I? Being thrown aside!’

She took a shuddering breath. Lifting her chin, her eyes flashing like daggers, she clutched the material of her robe across her breasts, as if keeping him at bay. But she didn’t need to keep him at bay, did she? He didn’t want her...he would never want her again.

She slashed a hand through the air. ‘So get out, Cesare! Get out of my apartment and out of my life—just get out!’

He stood motionless while she hurled her diatribe at him. Then, when all the fury of her words was spent, he stepped towards her.

‘Get out...’ she said again. Her voice was hoarse.

She should move...she should retreat. Flee. Barricade herself in her bedroom.

She could not move.

‘You should not have tried to marry him,’ said Cesare. His voice was strange.

There was a choking sound from her throat, but she had no words to answer him. He did not need any.

‘When I saw that photo of you, that announcement in the financial press, I—’ He stopped. Could not continue.

Emotion welled in him. Dark and blackening. Somewhere, far across the Atlantic Ocean, was the woman he was supposed to marry. While here...

‘You should not have tried to marry him,’ he said again.

From the depths of his mind he tried to conjure Francesca’s face. But she was not there. He tried to say her name in h

is head, but he could not. That guillotine had descended across his mind, cutting him in half. There was a woman’s name he needed to say—

The name of the woman who stood before him.

Her eyes were huge in her face, her hands convulsing on the silk of her robe. A robe he knew well. Raw silk, peacock-blue, shot with violet like her eyes. He’d said as much to her once as he’d slid it from her naked body, letting it pool on the floor.

He stepped towards her, reaching out his hand for the shoulder of her robe, letting his fingers slide over its silken surface. He felt her body shudder beneath his touch. Saw her close her eyes as if to shut him out, her long lashes wet.

‘Carla...’

He said her name—the name he needed to say. Felt his hand fasten on her shoulder, his other hand graze down the edge of the material across her collarbone. Her delicate, intricate collarbone... The pale satin skin below yielded to his touch. And only to his.

No one else’s! No other man should touch her.

His blood pulsed like a hammer in his veins. He could not do without her. Not tonight.

Memory drummed across his mind. This was why he was here. To make those memories real again.

He lifted her chin, cupping it with his fingers. Her eyes flared open. There was terror in them—and more than terror.

‘Don’t do this...’ Her voice was faint.

He shook his head. ‘Then tell me to go,’ he said. ‘You’ve said it to me over and over again. Say it to me now. Say it, Carla—tell me to go. To get out of your life.’

She could not speak. Could only stare.

‘Tell me to get out, Carla.’

His voice was a harsh, raw husk, his mouth twisting as he spoke, his eyes spearing hers. A pulse throbbed at his throat and his long fingers plunged into her hair, indenting into her skull. Holding her for himself...only for himself...

‘Tell me to get out,’ he said again, one final time.