The Sicilian's Stolen Son

Luciano turned frowning eyes on her.

‘Have you forgotten that I was adopted? I don’t remember anything about my birth parents but what I do know now, thanks to Julie’s research, is that there’s nothing there to be proud of. Our birth mum was a drug addict and I’ll never know who our father was.’

The grim edge stamped round his beautiful mouth eased. ‘Ignorance could be bliss.’

‘Leave it in the past where it belongs,’ she urged, closing her hand round his. ‘We’re not responsible for what our parents did, nor do we have to resemble them.’

Luciano smiled at her simplistic advice and her unsubtle attempt to offer him comfort. He didn’t need comfort. He knew who he was and where he had come from and what he had to avoid to achieve a reasonably happy and successful life. Caring too much about anything, be that women, work or money, was what he had surrendered to embrace peace of mind.

Nicky was surfacing from a nap when they entered the nursery and he held out his arms to Jemima with a huge smile. She hauled him up and turned to Luciano with a grin, wanting to include him, wanting to encourage father and son to get to know each other properly. ‘Let’s take him down to the beach. He’s never seen the sea.’

She changed into her serviceable and rather faded blue racer-back swimsuit, unable to face the challenge of modelling one of the daring ‘barely there’ bikini sets in her new wardrobe. Luciano joined her in swim shorts, lifting a delighted Nicky high and smiling with satisfaction when the little boy laughed. She watched the long, lithe line of his muscled back flex as he tucked Nicky securely below one arm and strode downstairs. Not an ounce of fat clung to his well-built physique and it showed in his narrow waist and lean hips.

A picnic lunch was delivered and food for Nicky. The baby loved getting his toes wet in the surf. He loved even more being held up in the air and looking down at his father. Jemima watched father and son, relieved at how naturally they could interact in a more relaxed setting. Clearly no longer uneasy in Luciano’s presence, Nicky dug his hands into his father’s hair and touched his face with growing familiarity.

‘That was a good suggestion,’ Luciano told her appreciatively as they headed back to the castello.

A blonde waved and smiled at them from the terrace as they climbed the steps up from the beach. She surged forward to greet Luciano and kiss him Continental-style on both cheeks. She was a beauty, a tall, slender blonde with dark eyes and great dress sense.

‘Jemima, meet Sancia Abate...’ Luciano made the introduction casually. ‘Sancia, my wife-to-be, Jemima, and my son, Niccolò.’

Sancia barely glanced in Jemima’s direction but fussed in a very feminine way over Nicky.

‘Who is she? Does she work for you?’ Jemima asked as they walked away.

‘No. She’s Gigi’s kid sister,’ he confided, startling her. ‘I still let her use the guest house here when she needs a break. Nicky gets tired quickly, doesn’t he?’

Jemima watched the baby stick his thumb in his mouth and close his eyes against her shoulder and she smiled in spite of her surprise at that revelation concerning the svelte blonde. ‘You exhausted him. He’s not used to that kind of play. My father’s past that stage.’

‘But he’s very fond of him,’ Luciano cut in.

‘Yes, he is. Did you have grandparents?’

‘No, my grandfather died soon after my parents married.’ His strong jaw clenched, his mouth flattening. ‘Agnese was my nurse when I was a child. She was the closest thing I had to a grandparent.’

‘I didn’t have any either. Mum and Dad met and married later in life,’ Jemima told him as she passed Nicky over to Carlotta in the hall and joined Luciano on the stairs. ‘You lost your mother young.’

‘Yes.’

‘How did it happen?’

Luciano strode across the landing without answering her.

‘Was she ill?’ Jemima persisted, following him down the stone passageway and into his room.

‘No,’ Luciano gritted impatiently, slamming the door closed behind him with a frustrated hand. ‘Don’t you take hints? I don’t want to talk about this...’

Jemima reddened uncomfortably, feeling like a rude nosy parker for having continued to ask questions even after he walked away. ‘I’m sorry...’

His lustrous dark golden eyes glittered. ‘No, I don’t want to lie but I don’t want to tell you the truth either.’

She turned round and smoothed her hands up over his cheekbones in what was meant to be a comforting and apologetic gesture. ‘I’m a horribly nosy person,’ she confessed guiltily. ‘Give me an inch and I’ll take a mile. Don’t even hint at a secret...it turns me into a bloodhound that won’t quit!’