Heiress's Pregnancy Scandal

It started, as she’d hoped, a conversation—very civil, very anodyne, and completely masking the inherent strain of the situation—about the variety of islands to be found in the Caribbean. All seemed perfectly fine places to get married. Perfectly lovely. Perfectly acceptable. Perfectly—

Fran ran out of words to describe the place where she and Nic were likely to join their lives together. Unexpectedly. The word was utterly inadequate to describe the situation, as the prospect had only become real that morning.

Emotion jolted through her, but she pushed it aside. Not the time, not the place.

However, the subject of the Caribbean served its purpose and got them to the point of having menus discreetly handed to them. A discussion about food then followed, which got them through some more of the evening and was in turn followed by a discussion about which wines to choose.

A sommelier glided up to help them select the best from the extensive cellars the Viscari Roma had to offer its guests.

Nic glanced at the sommelier and recognised him. He raised a brief hand in casual greeting. ‘Pietro—ciao.’

The other man’s eyes flickered slightly, but all he said was, ‘Good evening, Signor Falcone.’

Nic knew why, and acknowledged his professionalism. But there was no way he was going to blank this man he’d worked with when both of them had been juniors. Pietro in the kitchens and Nic as general dogsbody, his strong physique making him ideal for shifting furniture, unloading delivery lorries, and doing any other heavy lifting that was required.

He smiled. ‘How are Maria and the children?’

Pietro had married his sweetheart—one of the chambermaids—and babies had swiftly followed.

Pietro nodded, but only as any member of staff might do to a guest. ‘They are all very well, Signor Falcone.’

Nic’s smile wide

ned. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

He could see that Fran was looking at him, her gaze questioning. The Conte was looking as if the conversation were not taking place. His Contessa was observing with a look of lively curiosity on her face.

‘Remember,’ Nic went on addressing his erstwhile fellow staffer, ‘if you ever want a change of scene from Viscari let me know—’

Tactfully, Pietro said nothing.

Nic’s gaze swept back to his hosts. ‘Pietro and I go back a long way. We both started work here at the same time, as teenagers,’ he said.

The questioning look on Fran’s face deepened. She was about to speak, but a voice behind Nic pre-empted her.

‘Here to poach my staff now, Falcone, as well as my garden designer?’

Nic turned, not rushing the movement. He’d half expected this approach. His eyes glinted sapphire. ‘Only if they want to improve their prospects—as I did,’ he returned with pointed acerbity.

Vito Viscari did not deign to reply to that. Instead he simply went on, his cultured voice cool, his eyes watchful. ‘And is headhunting the purpose of your patronage tonight?’ he probed.

His body’s stance radiated whatever the opposite of welcome was. Nic was only too aware of that. But before he could reply, he heard the Contessa interject.

‘Vito, I left a message for you. Obviously you never picked it up.’ She spoke casually, but there was a determined brightness to her voice. ‘Signor Falcone is here with Francesca.’

Vito’s cool gaze was suddenly sharp. ‘Is he?’

‘Yes,’ corroborated Fran, knowing it was time to defuse the situation. She lifted her chin. ‘I do hope that won’t cause any problems, Vito?’ Her question was as pointed as Nic’s comment had been.

Vito smiled—a tight smile, but a smile nevertheless. It was a professional smile, Nic could tell instantly—one to use with an influential and favoured guest as, of course, was Donna Francesca di Ristori.

His own hackles were rising, just as they always did when he encountered Vito Viscari. The only time they had not done so had been during those heady days a year ago when, armed with half the Viscari shares in his back pocket, he’d been able to stride into Viscari board meetings, and throw down a list of prime properties he intended to move to the Falcone brand.

A familiar stab of anger flared in him. Thanks to Vito’s mother-in-law his triumph had turned to ashes. Nepotism had struck again, balking him of his due.

‘Not at all,’ Vito was saying now, in reply to Fran.

As if belatedly aware that one of his sommeliers was waiting to discuss their wine for the evening, he nodded across at Pietro.