The Italian Billionaire's Secret Love-Child

‘The name is Charlotte.’ She opened the front door, which had a series of locks, and switched off the alarm. All this was done without looking at him, although she could feel him right there next to her, sending her nervous system into panicked overdrive.

Riccardo ignored the interruption. ‘No. There I was, thinking that I was dealing with a woman, and instead I was dealing with an adolescent.’

Charlotte stuck her chin up and refused to rise to the taunt. Not that she could. She hadn’t felt like an adolescent, not when she had been around him. She had felt all woman then. But she had just been a teenager after all, as his mother had triumphantly pointed out, having rummaged in her backpack the minute Charlie had been in the shower, crying and trying to figure out what to do next. His mother had rummaged and found her passport which Charlie had brought with her rather than leave behind just in case.

‘I point that out just in case you raise any more arguments about being the poor, deceived victim.’

‘I wasn’t about to raise any more arguments,’ Charlotte informed him coolly. ‘I was, in fact, about to point out features to the house which you might be interested in. The flooring is all original oak, as is the balustrade and banister leading up to the first floor. If you would like to follow me, there’s a cellar just there…’

‘Not that I intend to have a vast collection of wines stored here.’

She wanted to tell him that she really didn’t give a damn what he intended to store or not store in the house, should he choose to buy it, because he and whatever he chose to do was none of her business and she could not care less.

‘Oh, and that would be because…?’

‘Why don’t you look at me when I speak to you?’

‘You were a huge mistake in my life.’ She looked at him squarely in the face and thanked the Lord that he couldn’t hear the wild beating of her heart. ‘And why would I want to look at my past mistake?’

Riccardo forgot that over the years she had crystallised in his head as a narrow escape. The bottom line was that no one had ever referred to him as a mistake. No one. He was, frankly, outraged by her remark. Success and power accumulated rapidly over the years had built a circle of devotees around him, insulating him from the effects of personal criticism. But she was already moving on, vanishing through the door ahead of him, and he followed her with an angry scowl.

‘The breakfast room.’ Charlotte swept a glance round a room that was the size of most people’s living areas. A huge circular table dominated the centre. To one side were two sofas, and opposite a fireplace which had retained its original Victorian tile surround. She dutifully pointed this out, aware of him behind her, releasing a force field of invisible energy that she found draining and disturbing.

‘And did you manage to rectify the mistake?’ Riccardo moved smoothly to stand in front of her. He wondered how he could have forgotten the blueness of her eyes and the fringing of dark eyelashes that was so dramatic against the colour of her hair.

‘This is why I didn’t think it a good idea to show you around this house,’ Charlotte told him bluntly. ‘Because I didn’t want to be bombarded with personal stuff. There’s no point to rehashing the past. It’s long forgotten.’ Ha. But to make her point, to show him that she was now a fully fledged adult, she smiled. It wasn’t a warm smile but she hoped that it would prove to him that, whatever she had said, he no longer affected her.

The smile infuriated Riccardo almost as much as the ‘mistake’ remark. It was patronising. Yet another novel and deeply unpleasant insult to his personal pride. Thank God their relationship had ended when it had, he told himself. The woman had turned out to have the makings of a shrew in her.