Claiming His Scandalous Love-Child

‘Vito?’ Her mother’s voice sharpened down the line. ‘Eloise, do not tell me he’s the waste-of-space Italian you got so disastrously involved with—’

Eloise’s throat tightened. She had never told her mother Vito’s identity, and her mother had never asked—had specifically told her that, given Eloise’s decision, she had no need to know, and that it was irrelevant anyway.

‘Yes,’ she admitted grittily. ‘Vito Viscari. He found out where I was working and—’

Again her mother interrupted her, in her usual forthright manner. ‘Viscari? As in...Viscari Hotels?’

‘Yes,’ said Eloise.

She did not want an inquisition about Vito’s identity. All she wanted right now was her mother’s help in a very practical way. But her mother’s attention had snapped on Vito’s name.

‘Vito Viscari! Good grief! I had no idea.’ There was open surprise in her voice. Then her tone changed. ‘Why are you meeting him?’ she asked sharply.

‘I...I have to talk to him,’ Eloise got out.

‘Well, make sure that’s all you do! This is no time for rushing into anything! You’ve been quite rash enough as it is—’

She broke off, and Eloise could hear a voice in the background. Then her mother was back on the line, her voice crisp and brisk.

‘Eloise, I have to go now. Let yourself into the apartment—I’ll be working late.’

She rang off. Slowly, Eloise replaced the handset. Emotion was roiling within her. Phoning her mother had been the easy phone call to make...

With slightly shaking fingers she dialled the number for the Viscari Manhattan. He would be staying there—wouldn’t he?

But it isn’t even his hotel any more...

She felt a stab in her stomach. That stab came again as the voice down the line intoned, ‘Falcone Manhattan—how may I direct your call?’

She made herself focus on what had to be done, and left the message she had to leave.

‘My name is Eloise Dean. Please tell Mr Viscari, when he arrives back at the hotel, that I urgently need to see him. I’m coming into Manhattan tonight and will be at the hotel at eight.’

It was all she could bring herself to say. All she could bring herself to hope.

CHAPTER SEVEN

TENSION WAS RACING through Vito. Was he insane to put himself through this for a second time in one day? He’d been intending to head straight for JFK, ready to take the next flight to the Caribbean as if all the hounds of hell were tearing at his heels.

And now—

Now he was waiting in the elegant bar of the hotel that had once been his but was no longer, with a dry martini in front of him, doing his damnedest to steady his nerves. Watching the entrance like a hawk.

Eight o’clock, the message had said. It was five past now. Would she come at all? And why was she coming?

He felt emotion spike in him, and clamped down on it.

I’d hoped so much, pinned so much on telling her what I wasn’t able to tell her in Rome...and it made no difference to her at all.

He remained unforgiven.

A sense of bitter irony assailed him. All his life women had come easily to him. His looks, his charm, his wealth, his social position—all had meant that his love-life had been sunny, plentiful, effortless. Any woman he’d smiled at had responded to him. Including Eloise.

Did I expect Eloise to be like all the other women? So keen on me that she would snap me up again after a simple apology?

He frowned. No, that had not been it. It had been because he’d longed for her to forgive him—to accept him back in her life.

> The searing sense of loss he’d felt when she’d fled from Rome came again, with double intensity. A humourless smile thinned his mouth. He’d questioned himself as to what Eloise meant to him. Well, losing her had shown him, hadn’t it? Losing her not once, but twice...