The Sicilian's Secret Son

‘It was three years ago,’ he said, his tone dismissive, as if his brother’s violent, totally unavoidable death was ancient history and not still a dark, festering wound on his soul.

The plane juddered briefly, rattling a glass of water on the table beside him before stabilising again.

Annah’s hands gripped her armrests so tightly, the skin over her knuckles appeared in danger of splitting.

‘It’s only turbulence,’ he reassured her.

She nodded, her grip on the chair easing. ‘I’m not used to flying.’

He frowned. He’d put her lack of a passport down to her having let an old one expire, as opposed to being a novice traveller. ‘You’ve never flown before?’

‘Only once. A long time ago.’

Her wan smile stirred an acute craving in him to see the more radiant version he knew existed. The one so incandescent it could chase the shadows from the corners of the darkest room—or the blackest soul.

He waited for her to elaborate.

She didn’t.

‘A family holiday?’ he prompted, her reticence becoming a touch irksome. Women liked to talk, didn’t they?

‘A school trip.’ She unfolded her legs, as long as a model’s but without that stick-insect look he’d never found appealing. Annah’s legs actually had definition and shape. ‘I should check on Ethan.’

‘It’s only been a few minutes,’ he pointed out.

‘I know.’ Her gaze skipped away from his. ‘But the turbulence might have woken him. It’s his first time on a plane.’

Luca stood. ‘Relax. I’ll go.’

‘No.’ She jumped up. ‘It’s all right. I—Oh!’

The plane jolted as they hit another rough pocket of air. Like before, the turbulence lasted only seconds, but the motion was more jarring this time, ending with a sharp dip and bump.

Luca kept his footing, but Annah stumbled and pitched forward—straight into his arms. Her hands landed on his chest; his went to her hips to steady her, settling over luscious curves that enticed him to pull her closer, not set her away.

He didn’t move, and neither did Annah. She stared up at him, her face scant inches from his.

His brain said let go.

His body said don’t.

His hands—as if they weren’t attached to a man who prided himself on his self-control and his ability to resist his baser urges—strengthened their hold, his thumbs finding the delicate protrusion of her hip bones and his fingers splaying until his pinkies brushed the swell of her backside.

Her pupils dilated, her gaze dropped to his mouth, and an unmistakable flush of desire stained her cheeks.

A corresponding heat blasted through Luca’s body. A visceral acknowledgement of the stunning chemistry between them. He wanted to kiss her again like he had the other night and to hell with the complications.

‘Signor Cavallari?’

A soft female voice, respectful and slightly apologetic, came from behind him. He felt Annah’s body tense and then she blinked, snatched her hands off his chest and stepped back as if he were suddenly radioactive.

Cursing inwardly, willing the heat inside him to disperse, he turned to look

at his flight attendant. ‘Yes?’

‘The pilot is anticipating more turbulence,’ she informed him. ‘He suggests everyone fasten their seat belts for the next half-hour.’

He nodded. ‘Thank you.’