The Sicilian's Secret Son

He reached the dining room and found it empty. Cursing under his breath, he spun on his heel and encountered Victor.

‘Drawing room,’ Victor said before Luca could open his mouth.

‘Both?’

‘Yes. Enjoying a digestif, I believe.’

Great. Two potentially unhappy women to pacify. He blew out a big breath, tempted to retire to his room and face the music tomorrow. But no. He owed Annah an explanation. And he needed to see her tonight. Reassure himself that all his efforts to earn her trust thus far hadn’t been totally negated.

When he walked into the drawing room, she and his mother looked surprisingly cosy sitting on a gold velvet chesterfield sofa, large snifters of brandy on the low table in front of them. They stopped talking and looked at him. He scrutinised Annah’s face, but her features were impassive, her mood impossible to read.

‘I apologise for missing dinner,’ he said stiffly. He crossed to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a whisky. The silence behind him spoke volumes. He turned to face them, feeling rather like a man standing in front of a firing squad. He dropped into an armchair, looked at his mother and tried for a civil tone. ‘Are you feeling better?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’ Her gaze moved over his face for a moment. ‘You look tired, Luca.’

He took a slug of whisky. He was tired. Exhausted, in fact. He and Mario had spent thirty-plus hours orchestrating a sting operation to catch an employee fencing stolen goods through one of the company’s warehouses—exactly the kind of illegal activity he was determined to stamp out. Several more hours had been devoted to dealing with the authorities and their endless layers of bureaucracy.

But suddenly all of that seemed like too much to explain. ‘I’ve been working,’ he said succinctly.

‘I realise. But must you work so hard?’

His temper snapped. She knew why he worked the hours he did. Because his father—her husband whose side she’d stood by for over thirty years—had left behind a godawful mess that Luca was trying his damnedest to clean up. ‘Your concern for my welfare is about twenty years too late, Mother.’

Annah gasped. ‘Luca!’

It was the first thing she’d said since he’d walked into the room, and the reproach in her tone darkened his mood further.

Dammit. He didn’t want her seeing him like this, at his worst. This had been a mistake. He knocked back his whisky, snapped

his tumbler onto the table, and stood. ‘Forgive me. I’m clearly not in a socialising mood.’

He stalked out of the room and started up the stairs.

‘Luca.’

Annah’s voice floated up to him. Abruptly, he stopped and turned. She walked up, pausing two steps below him, and he let his gaze travel down her body and up again. In white jeans and a simple apple-green top, she looked beautiful and fresh—the perfect counterpoint to all the ugliness he’d dealt with over the past thirty-six hours. Since he’d last seen her she’d caught the sun. Or maybe the brandy had put the glow in her cheeks.

A kick of lust lent his mood a dangerous edge. ‘Leave me,’ he growled. ‘I’m not the best company right now.’ He turned his back on her and continued up the stairs, hoping she had the sense to heed his warning.

‘Luca.’

He discerned frustration in her voice. And hurt. Tamping down his guilt, he strode past the study and on to his room. If she had any sense of self-preservation, she’d know better than to follow him into any room that contained a bed. He shoved the door open, flipped on the light, and swung around, forcing her to slam to a stop in front of him.

Panting a little, she stood on the threshold and glared. ‘Don’t you dare shut that door in my face.’

He flared his nostrils. Shut the door, a voice in his head commanded. But it was too late. The devil was already rising in him. He stood back and motioned her into the room with a flourish of his hand. ‘Be my guest.’

She walked past him, then stopped in mid-stride.

Luca raised an eyebrow. ‘Changed your mind?’

She swung around to face him, turning away from his massive four-poster bed. Her cheeks glowed bright pink. ‘Isn’t there somewhere else we can talk?’

‘I’m not in a talking mood.’ He trailed his gaze slowly over her figure, deliberately stoking his hunger so it would show on his face—a fair warning to her to get the hell out while she still had the chance.

She didn’t budge.

‘Last chance, cara,’ he said in a low voice, his hand braced on the edge of the door. ‘Staying or going?’