Claiming His Scandalous Love-Child

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Listlessly, Eloise opened the lid of the suitcase she’d extracted from the closet. It was ungrateful of her, she knew, but she really didn’t want to go down to Amalfi. For weeks and weeks now her life had been a non-stop parade of packing and unpacking, one hotel after another.

But Vito wanted to be off—yet again.

Another frown furrowed her brow, anxiety pecking at her eyes as she mechanically started to transfer her clothes from where she’d hung them up only a couple of days ago. What had Vito meant when he’d suggested that she might like to stay on in Amalfi after the weekend?

She felt a stab in her side.

Oh, Vito—don’t you want to be with me?

Was that it? The stab came again. Was this his way of finishing with her? Of turning her into one more of his legion of ex-blondes, like that woman in France.

She felt her expression tighten, a clawing in her stomach. Whatever uncertainties she had as to how much Vito meant to her, the thought of him finishing with her like this was showing her a mirror to her feelings, throwing them into sharp focus.

I don’t want him to finish with me!

That was the cry that came now, silently, as she folded and packed her clothes. That was what dominated her mind as emotion welled in her. She did not know if she was in love with Vito—did not know whether she wanted him to be the one and only man in her life, to make her life with him—but she knew by the stab that came again that she did not want him finishing with her...

I don’t want us to be over! I don’t! I don’t!

She closed her suitcase, heart heavy, and as she did so heard the bell at the door to the suite ring. A long, insistent sound. She frowned—then realised it must be for Vito. Maybe he’d sent to the office for some documents to be delivered.

She walked into the reception room, hearing his voice in rapid Italian coming from the office. He sounded...different. Though she could not understand what he was saying, there was a terse, insistent tone to his voice, and it was bereft of his usual laid-back, full-on charm.

The doorbell sounded again—longer this time. Eloise pulled open the door.

A woman sailed in. She was around her own age, with dark, striking looks, chicly dressed in a vivid cerise outfit, her face in immaculate full make-up, dramatic violet eyes, and brunette hair coiled in a serpentine mass at the nape of her neck. She looked, Eloise could not help but register, a total knock-out.

For a moment—just a moment—Eloise thought she could detect a kind of stricken look on the woman’s face. Then it vanished. Hardened. The dark violet eyes looked past her, through the open door to the bedroom to the suitcase on the bed.

‘Good,’ said the woman, ‘you’re packing.’

Eloise blinked. It seemed an odd thing to say, especially as Eloise had no idea who this woman was. But presumably, she reasoned, the woman was something to do with Vito.

‘Er...yes,’ she made herself reply. ‘Vito and I are going to Amalfi.’

In a flash, the woman’s expression changed, emotion ripping across it. ‘Oh, no, you’re not!’

She strode in, pushing right past Eloise.

Dazed and shocked, Eloise could only stare at her, bewilderment on her face. She was bewildered, too, as she registered that the woman had spoken to her in English—English that was completely unaccented.

‘Excuse me,’ she said faintly, ‘but who are you?’

The woman rounded on her. strong emotion in her eyes. ‘Vito hasn’t told you yet, has he?’ she said.

That stricken look flashed again in those violet eyes. She took an intake of breath, hissing like a snake. It was audible to Eloise, who was standing there looking even more bewildered.

‘Told me what?’ Eloise uttered falteringly.

The woman stared at her, her eyes like points of light. ‘I’m Vito’s fiancée,’ she said.

The world seemed to tilt, as if Eloise were hurtling off a plunging platform. Her mouth gaped open. There seemed to be a vacuum in her lungs. No air could get in. No oxygen. She gasped, but still no oxygen went in. She could feel dizziness in her head and then, out of nowhere, nausea biting like a wolf in her stomach.

She stepped back. Staggered. Clutched the wall for support. ‘What?’ she gasped. ‘You can’t be!’

Daggers knifed from the brunette’s eyes. ‘Well, I am,’ she said.