The Di Sione Secret Baby (The Billionaire's Legacy 2)

She didn’t waste time wondering why he would be bitter about her intentions. ‘Yes.’

‘And you expect me to drop everything to help you on this whimsical quest?’

‘Well, I...’

‘It seems we’re both to be losers in this little tale. You never had any intention of offering me the services of your foundation, and I have better things to do than to chase after little trinkets. Even you will agree that my time is better suited elsewhere?’ He flicked a glance at his wrist and continued without waiting for an answer. ‘It’s late, and seeing as I’ve wasted precious time with you that I could ill afford, I must get back to work. I will have an aide escort you to your chambers. A driver will take you to the airport in the morning. You and I will not meet again.’

He started to walk away. Panic held Allegra rigid before she wrenched herself out of it. ‘You’ll deny an old man his dying wish?’

He froze with his hand on the doorknob, then turned with a grace that was fascinating to behold. ‘Excuse me?’

‘The box...it’s for my grandfather. It belonged to him a long time ago. Please, he’s dying, you see...’

If she’d expected sympathy or any softening, she got the opposite. Rahim’s face hardened until it was a stony, hauntingly beautiful statue. But his eyes were alive with pure, incandescent condemnation.

‘If there’s one thing I detest more than subterfuge, it’s emotional manipulation. Trust me when I say, you’ve just destroyed any chance of getting what you wanted. Even if I felt inclined to go hunting for an ornament in a palace full of thousands of them—which I don’t—you’ve assured yourself an even firmer refusal. Goodnight.’

He left, leaving behind a seething silence disturbed only by her rough, stunned breathing.

She’d failed.

The gnawing realisation made her double over, her heart hammering loud in her ears as she fought not to hyperventilate. Visions of how the conversation would go with her grandfather reeled across her mind as she stumbled back to the chair and dropped her head into her hands.

As close as she was to her grandfather, she knew he’d found her lacking in most things except the running of her foundation. The thought of returning empty-handed, telling him that she’d screwed up what could be his last request of her, and severely angered the ruler of a powerful kingdom to boot, wrenched a despairing sob from her.

Allegra had no idea how long she sat there staring into the lamplit distance. She didn’t know the story behind the box Giovanni wanted back so desperately, but the look in his eyes when he’d pleaded with her to find it was stamped vividly in her memory. Her eyes prickled, but she dashed the tears away.

She’d failed this time, but she refused to believe all was lost. Perhaps what she needed was to give Rahim time for his anger towards her to cool. Or she could make him a better offer.

Determinedly, she stood, but a few steps later she faltered. What had she to give except a tainted proffer of help after she’d condemned him so thoroughly? Anything she suggested now would be soured and firmly refused.

Biting her lip, she paced the floor in front of the sofa, discarding each idea she came up with as weak and useless. Rahim would see through every ploy to secure the box now he believed she’d come to Dar-Aman under false pretences. About to leave the office, she stopped to pick up the wrap she’d dropped on the sofa, and saw the glossy coffee table book. She picked up the publication, the title—The Treasures of Dar-Aman—jumping at her. The name of the world-renowned photographer/author leapt out at her and she knew that he wouldn’t have left a stone unturned in documenting everything that was worth documenting.

Hands shaking, Allegra dropped back on the sofa and turned the first page. Quickly scanning the table of contents, her breath snagged in her lungs when she saw the subtitle—For the Love of Fabergé.

Flipping over to the relevant page, she speed-read the introduction. Rahim’s mother had possessed a weakness for trinket boxes, especially priceless ones with rich histories. Objets d’art from the House of Fabergé had been her particular favourite and she’d been an avid collector from a very young age. Once she’d married, her husband had made it his personal mission to gift her with as many boxes as possible.

Allegra scanned the pictures. On the third page, she stopped. Heart pounding, she stared at the perf

ect image.

The gold and lapis lazuli scrollwork, including the central chinoiserie hanging basket motif and delicate eagle’s wings on the box, was just as her grandfather had described it. Set on a bed of blue silk, the box stood on its own fragile but exquisitely designed gold pedestal. Both box and pedestal seemed to have been kept in perfect condition in the decades since Giovanni had parted with it.

When she managed to peel her gaze away from the picture, she read the single line beneath it and froze. The reason she hadn’t been able to locate the box earlier was because the late queen, Rahim’s mother, had kept the box in her bedroom.

The bedroom now used by the current sheikh.

Allegra closed the book with a thump, her body growing numb as reality slid like an insidious fog over her. Until that moment, she hadn’t wanted to entertain the thought that she would truly be returning home empty-handed. She’d even toyed with the idea of finding the box herself and getting Rahim to reconsider his position in the morning, with the benefit of time and a little clarity.

From his earlier attitude, it was clear the priceless objects his mother had loved didn’t mean as much to him. They were merely flimsy things he’d grown up with. Surely, he wouldn’t be as bullheaded in the morning at the thought of parting with one of them?

Shaking her head, she stood a final time and walked out of the office.

The aide waited outside as promised, and walked her to her suite, where Nura greeted her with her usual effervescence. After apologising for keeping her up past midnight, Allegra dismissed her, undressed and pulled on her negligee. She was brushing her hair out when her mobile phone lit up with a voicemail message icon. Dropping the brush, she picked it up and accessed her calls. The Long Island code displayed sent a cold wave of dread through her.

Willing her hands not to shake, she dialled home.

‘Miss Allegra, thank God!’ Alma exclaimed.