Heiress's Pregnancy Scandal

Nic knew he had to speak. Had no choice but to do so. He tried to think what to say and failed. Failed to do anything but let his eyes cling to her hungrily. If even a fragment of his mind was registering that she was gowned in haute couture, her hair dressed high on her head in convoluted coils and her throat emblazoned with an ornate sapphire necklace—a look utterly at odds with the casually styled way she’d been in the USA—he shook it aside. Only her beauty mattered, and in that she was radiant. As beautiful as ever.

How could I have let her go? I must have been crazy to let her go!

The words leapt in his head, knocking down all the principles he lived his life by. His mind was ragged, but he had to force himself to find words to answer her.

‘I—it’s—complicated.’ His voice sounded terse as he urgently pulled a mask over his expression, trying to pull together his thoughts, trying to work out how to handle this, how to cope with what was inevitably going to happen.

She was going to discover that, no, he was not working here at the Viscari St James’s...

He saw her react to his blank expression, saw the withdrawal in her face as she backed away slightly.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Fran halted. The leap that her heart had taken collapsed.

Belatedly she realised that if Nic were indeed working here at the Viscari in London, then maybe he shouldn’t be mingling with the guests. Maybe the easy-going atmosphere at the Falcone Nevada did not prevail here at the Viscari. Maybe he was still on approval only, had to be cautious. Maybe he was supposed to be low-profile, here to keep an eye out for the security of guests who, like her, glittered with jewels at this gala event. Maybe—

Maybe you are the last person he wants to see—maybe that’s why he’s not exactly opening his arms to you.

Brutally, she reminded herself of what she’d said to herself often enough in the months since their road trip.

He’s had every chance to get back in touch if he wanted to. He knows where you worked, where you lived, and could easily have found out you’d moved to Cambridge. He could easily have looked you up now that he’s come over to the UK. But he didn’t. So what does that tell you?

The answer was stark. It told her that he wasn’t interested in her any more.

With that same hollowing inside her she watched the woman in the red evening dress come up to them. The woman was beautiful, and Fran felt it like a blow. Nic had moved on.

She felt emotion churn within her, shocking her with its power—a power it should not have, but did. Then, out of nowhere, the emotion was wiped away. Another took its place.

The beautiful brunette was lightly touching Nic’s sleeve, her voice diffident. ‘Would you excuse me for a few moments, Mr Falcone? I’ve just seen someone I should speak to...’

Her words wiped everything from Fran’s hectic brain. She heard her own intake of breath sharply.

Then, the word ‘What?’ broke from her like a gunshot.

What had that woman just called him? Mr Falcone? She couldn’t have.

CHAPTER FIVE

FRAN’S FEATURES FROZE, her eyes widening in disbelief.

As if in slow motion, Nic moved. Took Lorna’s arm from his sleeve. Nodded in dismissal, his face thunderous.

For a second longer Fran’s eyes stayed blankly on the woman as she smiled her thanks uncertainly and then hurried away, as if sensing some untoward incident had just occurred and she wanted to be out of it.

Then Fran’s eyes slewed back to Nic. There was a drumming in her ears, a blankness in her head. She stared at Nic. His face was masked, as if a steel screen had been slammed down over it. The face that was as familiar to her as her own. Nic’s face.

Nic. Nic Rossi. Who worked in Security at the Falcone Nevada.

Mr Falcone.

It can’t be—I misheard. I must have misheard.

‘Tell me I misheard.’ She spoke aloud, her voice as hollow as the gaping hole inside her.

She saw him give a quick, unmistakable, unarguable shake of his head, felt that wash of disbelief go through her again as he did so.

‘No, you didn’t,’ he said. His voice sounded curt. ‘I’m Nicolo Falcone.’

She stared, not taking it in. ‘You said your name was Nic Rossi.’ Her voice was hollow.