Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian

Now she basked in the sunshine of yet another glorious Roman afternoon, watching crowds of people mill about the Piazza di Spagna while she waited for Pia, who’d vanished on a one-woman mission for fresh lemon gelato.

She pushed her sunglasses up on her nose and smiled at the antics of two young boys playing at the foot of the centuries-old steps. Both had dark hair and olive skin and didn’t look dissimilar to how she imagined her son would have looked as an energetic boy of five or six.

Just like that her meandering thoughts caught her like a sucker punch, and she hugged her knees into her chest.

It had been impossible to sleep with Leo these last two nights and not think at least once about the life they’d inadvertently conceived. About the child she’d carried in her womb with such deep maternal love and the tiny grave where every year, on a frigid February morning, she would kneel on the cold, damp ground and mourn the loss of their son.

But she wasn’t ready to tell Leo about Lucas. To inflict pain where so much hurt had gone before. Not when this truce between them was so new. So fragile.

Their revelations—hers yesterday and Leo’s this morning—had caused a subtle shift in their understanding of each other. A sense of growing mutual respect. She couldn’t bear it if they slipped backwards. Not now. Not when she had a tiny bubble of hope inside her. A blossoming belief that maybe—just maybe—once the dust had settled from the takeover, they could have something more. Something real.

‘Helena!’

Pia called out from the foot of the steps and Helena rose, shelving her thoughts. This was not the time to sit and ruminate. Leo had no doubt paid good money for Pia’s services. The best way Helena could show her gratitude was to enjoy the day.

Aware that eating on the steps was forbidden, she descended to the bottom. A minute later, around a mouthful of cold, creamy gelato, she said, ‘Oh, Pia, this is divine!’ And then muttered, ‘Darn it...’ when a muffled ringtone came from her bag.

‘Here—let me.’ Her ebullient, ever-present smile in place, Pia relieved Helena of her cone so she could rummage for her mobile.

She checked the display and frowned. ‘Mum?’

But it wasn’t her mother on the line; it was her mother’s housekeeper. And as the woman started to speak, her words rushed, the line scratchy in places, a chill that bore no relation to the cold gelato she’d eaten slid down Helena’s spine.

She gripped the phone and stared at Pia, thinking dimly that the look on her face must be quite a sight. Because suddenly Pia’s smile was gone.

* * *

Leo slouched in his office chair, threw his pen across his desk and scowled at the strategy paper he’d been attempting to red-pen for the last ninety minutes.

Buono dio! Had he ever had a day at the office this unproductive? And since when had a weekend of sex so completely annihilated his ability to focus?

He rolled his shoulders, twisted his head and felt a small pop of release in his neck.

Better. Marginally.

He blew out a heavy breath. Blaming his lack of concentration on the sex—no matter how spectacular—was a cop-out. It was the hot tangle of emotion in his gut that he couldn’t unravel that had him distracted and on edge. He glared again at the papers on his desk and conceded he’d have to open his laptop and start from scratch.

He rubbed his eyelids, not thrilled by the prospect. His board of directors was expecting a detailed plan for divesting ShawCorp’s assets. Instead he was drafting a recommendation for keeping the company intact—at least in the short term.

No doubt they’d all think he’d lost his mind.

Chances were they’d be right.

Aware of a dull ache taking root in his temples, he hit the button labelled ‘Gina’ on his phone and waited impatiently for his PA to pick up.

When she burst into his office moments later, a stricken-faced Helena hot on her heels, a jolt of surprise drove him to his feet. He strode around his desk, the pain in his head forgotten.

‘Cara?’

She walked into his arms, her body trembling, her eyes enormous saucers of blue in a face as pale as porcelain.

‘I need to go home,’ she said, her grip on his arms verging on painful. ‘My mother’s had a fall. She’s in Intensive Care—in an induced coma.’

CHAPTER TEN

MIRIAM SHAW REMAINED in a medically induced coma for two days.

Though her recollection of the incident was hazy, it was apparent she’d suffered a severe knock to the head that caused a swelling on her brain. Her sprained wrist, the bruising along her left hip and thigh, the presence of alcohol in her blood and the location in which the housekeeper had found her all pointed to an unfortunate and—though Helena balked at the idea—drunken tumble down the stairs.