There. He’d said I’m sorry, which he rarely did.
But she didn’t seem particularly impressed. She lifted her chin, her green eyes shooting emerald sparks in the light of the foyer.
“My name is Honora Callahan, my grandfather is Patrick Burke and he thinks you’ve disrespected both of us. That’s why he’s on his way here right now with his old hunting rifle, intending to shoot your head off.”
Nico almost laughed at the image. He stopped himself just in time. “Why would he?”
She stared at him, her pretty face bewildered. He shifted his feet, growing uncomfortable beneath her searching gaze.
“I’m sure you can guess,” she said finally.
He snorted. “How would I know?”
She licked her lips, glancing nervously at Frank Bauer, his security chief, and the other bodyguard still standing by the front door. Both men were pretending not to hear, though they’d moved their hands to their holsters when Honora mentioned her grandfather’s rifle.
“Fine,” she said. “If that’s how you want to play it. But when Granddad gets here, he’ll be waving his rifle and shouting crazy threats. Just tell your bodyguards to ignore him. Don’t let them hurt him.”
“What would you prefer? That I just let your grandfather kill me?” he said acidly. “Burke is a good gardener, but there are limits to what I’ll do for employee morale.”
“As soon as he gets here, I’ll go outside and calm him down. Just stay in here, and tell your men not to pull out their guns. That’s all.”
“Hide like a coward in my own home?”
“Oh, for the love of—” Honora stamped her small foot. As she did so, Nico’s gaze fell unwillingly on the bounce of her full breasts. He could even see— His mouth went dry. The shape of her hard nipples were clearly visible beneath the wet, thin fabric. “Just stay inside and don’t respond.” Her voice changed. “Should be easy for you.”
There was some criticism there he didn’t understand. Forcing his gaze upward, he said, “You still haven’t explained why Burke would do this. I haven’t spoken to the man for months.”
Honora’s pale cheeks seemed to burn. Ducking her head, she glanced down at her belly and mumbled, “You know why.”
Nico’s heart dropped to the floor, as if somehow his body knew what she was about to say, even though his brain protested it was impossible. “No.”
Honora huffed with a flare of nostrils. “I’m pregnant, Nico. With your baby.”
* * *
Lightning flashed, flooding the foyer with brief white light as Honora stared up at Nico’s handsome face, her heart pounding. Thunder followed, rattling the windows of the oceanfront mansion. Her whole body was shivering. Not from cold, but from fear.
She’d spent six months dreading the thought of seeing Nico Ferraro again. But she’d never imagined it could be as bad as this.
It shocked her now to remember the schoolgirl crush she’d once had on her grandfather’s boss. Her infatuation had lasted throughout her teenage years, all those afternoons she’d helped Granddad after school, or done homework sitting at a bench in the far corner of the penthouse terrace.
She’d been in awe of Nico Ferraro, billionaire real estate tycoon, watching him with big eyes every time he came or went—equally handsome whether wearing a tuxedo with a beautiful woman on his arm as they left for some glamorous ball, or in a black leather jacket, going motorcycle racing; or even in casual khaki shorts, flying off to the Maldives in his private jet. It was a world that Honora couldn’t even imagine, even though she’d spent her entire childhood adjacent to it. And now, at thirty-six, he was the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen, a James Bond of the society set.
While Honora often felt invisible. When Granddad was done with his work tending the enormous rooftop garden, treating every plant and flower with loving care, they would head home on the subway to their two-bedroom walk-up in Queens. He’d raised Honora since she was eleven, after her parents had died. He’d been patient, gruffly kind and dutiful in his care of her.
But he saved his true devotion for his plants. Sometimes, Honora had wished she might have been a rhododendron bush, or perhaps a cypress or juniper, in order to get more of his warmth and attention. He seemed to save all of his true love, and most of his conversation, for them. He could chat and coax and croon to his plants in a way he never did to Honora.
But when she felt unloved, she told herself she was lucky her grandfather had taken her in and given her a home. She had no right to ask for more. Patrick Burke had always put duty ahead of all else. Honor was important in their family. So important her mother had named her for it.
That had made it all the more shocking and painful when Honora had had to tell her old-fashioned grandfather that she was pregnant—pregnant and unwed.
She’d known he would find out sooner or later. She’d hidden her pregnancy with loose clothing as long as she could, hoping with increasing desperation that Nico Ferraro would either answer her messages, or return to New York City. But he’d done neither. Which was really all the answer she needed, and it broke her heart.
As spring had turned to summer, it had become increasingly difficult to come up with good excuses to wear oversize hoodies. When New York City suffered its first blast of sticky humid heat in June, she was already so hot in her pregnant state, and their Queens apartment had no air-conditioning. Her grandfather caught her standing in front of the open refrigerator, gasping the cool air in her T-shirt and shorts. His eyes had gone to her belly.
“Oh, no,” he’d gasped, and for the first time since her parents’ funeral thirteen years before, he’d cried in front of her. Then his tears had turned to rage. “Who is the bastard who did this to you?”
Honora had refused to reveal the father’s identity, even to her friends. The chauffeur at the penthouse, Benny Rossini, an Italian American from the Bronx, had offered to marry her, which was very kind. Too kind, in fact. She’d thanked him, but couldn’t take advantage of their friendship. For a month, she’d held her breath, hoping somehow it would all blow over.