‘My sister was not a supermodel, she was just starting out on her career—just making a name for herself. No journalist would be interested in her. But your brother—the man she…she had a child by. Was he—I don’t know—someone well known in Italy? Was he a film star there, or on the television? Or a footballer, a racing driver? Something like that? Some kind of celebrity? Is that what you mean by Ben’s parentage?’
She stared at him, a questioning look on her face. Slowly, it changed to one of bewilderment.
He was looking at her as if she were an alien. Fear stabbed her again.
‘What—what is it?’
His eyes were boring into her face. As if he were trying to penetrate into her brain.
‘This cannot be,’ he said flatly. ‘It is not possible.’
Lizzy stared. What was not possible?
He was holding himself in; she could see it.
‘It is not possible that you have just said what you said.’ His expression changed, and now he was not talking to her as if she were retarded, but as if she were—unreal. As if this entire exchange were unreal.
‘My brother—’he spoke, each word falling as heavy as lead into the space between them ‘—was Paolo Ceraldi.’
Nothing changed in her expression. She swallowed. ‘I’m sorry—the name does not mean anything to me. Perhaps in Italy it might, but—’
A muscle worked in his cheek. His eyes were like black holes.
‘Do not, Miss Mitchell, play games with me. That name is not unknown to you. It cannot be. Nor can the name of San Lucenzo.’
Her face frowned slightly. San Lucenzo? Perhaps that was where Ben’s father had come from. But, even if he had, why the big deal?
‘That’s…that’s that place near Italy that’s like Monaco. One of those places left over from the Middle Ages.’ She spoke cautiously. ‘On the Riviera or somewhere. Lots of rich people live there. But…but I’m sorry. The name Paolo Ceraldi still doesn’t mean anything to me, so if he was famous there, I’m afraid I just don’t—’
The flash in his eyes had come again. With cold, chilling courtesy he spoke, but it was not civil.
‘The House of Ceraldi, Miss Mitchell, has ruled San Lucenzo for eight hundred years,’ he said sibilantly.
There was silence. Complete silence. Some incredibly complicated arcane equation was trying to work itself out in her brain, but she couldn’t do it.
Then the deep, chilling voice came again, icy with a courtesy that was not courteous at all.
‘Paolo’s father is the Ruling Prince.’ He paused, brief and deadly, while his eyes speared hers. ‘He is your nephew’s grandfather.’
CHAPTER TWO
MIST was rolling in, like thick cotton wool. She felt the room start to swirl around her. Instinctively, she grabbed out with her hand and caught the edge of the kitchen table. She clung on to it.
Not true.
Not true. Not true. Not true.
If she just kept saying it, it would be true. True that it was not true. Not true what this man had just said. Because of course it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. It was absurd. Stupid. Impossible. A lie. Some stupid, absurd, impossible lie—or joke. Maybe it was a joke. That must be it. Just a joke. She threw her head back to suck in deep draughts of air. Then she steadied herself, forcibly, and made herself look across at the man who had just said such a stupid, absurd, impossible thing.
‘This isn’t true.’
Her voice was flat. As flat, she realised, with a hideous, gaping recognition in her guts, as his had been when she’d said she had no idea who…
Ben’s father. Ben’s father was.
‘No.’ She’d spoken out loud. Her legs were starting to shake. ‘No. This is a joke. It’s impossible. It has to be. It’s just not possible. I haven’t understood it properly.’
‘You had better sit down.’ The voice was still chill, but less so. Lizzy gazed at him with wide, shock-splintered eyes. Her eyebrows shot together in a frown.