Heiress's Pregnancy Scandal

‘It is,’ he said. ‘That’s my birth name. I took the name Falcone when I decided to make something of myself.’

She took a step backwards, not realising that she had. It was an instinctive gesture—a withdrawal. Emotion was pounding within her, drumming in her ears.

‘Why lie to me?’ Her voice was a blade, accusing him.

Emotion flashed in his eyes. Those blue, blue eyes she had gazed into so often, for so long—eyes that crinkled at the corners when he laughed, that changed from laughter to desire, to hot, burning passion.

‘I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you.’

His voice seemed to be coming from very far away. As if the man she knew was receding from her. Because the man she’d thought she knew didn’t exist.

I thought he was one person, but he’s another.

The hollowness was spreading. It was as if her whole being were now nothing but a shell, surrounding an emptiness that was yawning inside her. Then, suddenly, she saw his expression change, his eyes snap past her. She heard footsteps, then a voice. Deep. Commanding. Speaking in Italian.

‘Francesca, are you all right?’

It was Cesare. Cesare was moving to her side, being very much the imperious Il Conte, throwing the aura of his protection around her, casting an inquisitorial look towards the man opposite her that kept him at a distance, that wanted to know why he was importuning her.

Instinctively—because Cesare was an old friend, because she’d known him all her life, because once she’d thought to live her life with him—Fran clutched at his

arm, leaning her weight on it, which he supported instantly.

She said his name, faintly. ‘Cesare...’

She saw that Nic heard it—Nic, the fabulously rich billionaire who owned the hotel she’d stayed in for the conference—owned that hotel, owned dozens more.

But not, as it happened, this one. For right now someone else was approaching them. Vito Viscari was stepping up beside her on her other side, flanking her just as Cesare was, throwing his protection around her as well. But the focus of his attention was on Nic.

‘Falcone.’ The voice was tight, borderline hostile.

She saw Nic’s head turn. Nod. His mouth was set, his eyes steeled suddenly, acknowledging the presence of the man whose hotel this was. She heard Vito Viscari continue, in that same chill, tight tone of voice.

‘I don’t recall your name being on the invitation list, Falcone.’ He, too, spoke in Italian—the language they all shared.

Fran saw Nic’s mouth curl. ‘That didn’t prove necessary.’

‘With you, what else should I expect?’ There was a twist in Vito’s voice. Then, with studied coolness, he challenged, ‘So, have you come to admire? Or dismiss?’

‘To assess,’ came Nic’s answer, his voice deeper than Vito’s but just as clipped.

‘And what is your assessment, Falcone?’ Vito’s eyes were unreadable. But Fran was dimly aware it was a taunt.

Nic gave a slow nod. ‘Impressive,’ he said—as if he begrudged the compliment but would not demean himself by denying it.

Vito tilted an eyebrow. ‘Good of you,’ he said sardonically.

The stand-off between them was palpable, and then dimly, through the frozen blankness that was the inside of her head, Fran became aware that someone else was joining them. Harry, her cousin, was sauntering up to them with all the casual self-assurance of someone who had been born an earl and would one day be a marquess and then a duke—a youth who had an entrée everywhere, however exclusive. The kind of inherent self-assurance that came with five hundred years of being bred to it.

‘Hi,’ he said cheerfully, in his upper-class public schoolboy accent, speaking English, utterly oblivious of the net of tension in the frozen tableau. ‘Fantastic bash, this, Vito,’ he said with a grin, raising his glass to his host. Then his gaze widened to throw an enquiring glance at the man opposite.

Stiffly, as if jolted into social niceties, Vito spoke. ‘Falcone, allow me to introduce you to my guests...’ There was a slightest emphasis on the word ‘guests’, as if to indicate that his rival was not one.

‘Lord Cranleigh...’ He nodded towards Harry, who waved his champagne glass airily as Vito continued, in English, his voice as tight as his expression. ‘Il Conte di Mantegna you will obviously know of—have you met before? Perhaps not...’ he said dismissively.

His expression changed very slightly, his eyes suddenly speculative, and he threw the briefest glance towards Fran, in the same protective manner Cesare had used.

‘Though it would seem you have already made the acquaintance of Lord Cranleigh’s cousin—Il Marchese d’Arromento’s daughter, Donna Francesca di Ristori.’