Bound to the Tuscan Billionaire

When the door closed she turned full circle slowly. Everywhere was beautiful and light, and very spacious, but though it was all incredibly impressive, Marco’s magnificent penthouse had more of an air of an exclusive hotel than a home. People slept here, and occasionally ate here, but they never left a personal mark. There were no photographs, no trophies, no memorabilia at all. There was absolutely nothing to give a hint of the type of man who lived here. Maybe that was Marco’s intention. He had the reputation of being a cold, aloof man.

But not in bed.

That was all over now, she told herself sensibly. She was pregnant. He was suspicious. They were at an impasse. And for now there was nothing to be done about it.

The maid brought her a light supper of delicious salad and freshly baked bread. When the phone had rung earlier she had nearly jumped out of her skin, and had rushed to answer it, only to hear the dispassionate tones of Marco’s chef, enquiring what she would like to eat and where she would like to eat it. She had said that she would prefer to remain in her suite. She couldn’t face rattling around the opulence of the grand salon on her own, or the even grander dining room.

She had picked at the food and now she pushed it away. Crossing the room, she opened the door. It was all still and quiet on the corridor leading to the kitchen. Guessing the staff must have gone home, she took her tray back, only to find the chef and the maid eating supper there.

‘Oh, I’m sorry— I didn’t mean—’

They stared at her as she backed her way out again. The kitchen was their preserve, not hers, their hostile stares clearly told her. This was a very different set-up from Marco’s country estate, where Maria had always welcomed Cass into the kitchen for a friendly chat.

Marco’s kitchen in Rome might have every sort of appliance known to man, but it lacked the one thing Maria’s kitchen could boast, which was heart, Cass concluded. If only she could have gone to Tuscany to wait for her baby. It wasn’t nearly as formal there, and Maria and Giuseppe had always treated her like a member of their family.

It wouldn’t be so easy for Marco to keep an eye on her in Tuscany, Cass suspected.

Hugging herself, she returned to her room. She felt cold and lost. And she was stuck here. Until the sickness lessened she couldn’t look for a job.

The vista beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows seemed to echo her feelings. The sky was uniformly grey, and the giant panes of glass were flecked with rain. A stubborn mist had descended over Rome, obscuring the stunning view. Pressing her hands flat against the cold, unyielding surface, she stared out, knowing Marco was out there somewhere...but where? She didn’t know who he was with, or even if he’d be home tonight.

And it was none of her business.

With nothing else to do, she ran a bath in a tub big enough for two. The tub took ten minutes to fill, and it took her two minutes to take a bath. Climbing out, she grabbed a towel and headed off to bed. Drawing the covers up to her chin, she stared around what had to be the most luxurious bedroom she had ever spent the night in. It felt like a prison cell.

* * *

He spent a couple of nights away from the apartment, knowing Cassandra would be well looked after. His staff were under strict instructions not to let anyone in.

And no one out?

Cassandra needed to rest. He’d been quite firm about that. She’d been overdoing it and she still didn’t look well. He had arranged a check-up for her with one of Rome’s top doctors, a man known to be discreet. She would remain in the apartment until then. He had sent her a text with the man’s contact number should she need to call him, together with his own emergency number, which was manned by his staff twenty-four seven.

Thx. That was her response.

He couldn’t blame her for being abrupt. He was hardly a wordsmith himself. The less said the better, he concluded, remembering his mother’s drunken confessions once she had accepted that the man he had called Papa would never take them back. He had always thought the embarrassing confidences she had shared with an eight-year-old boy had damaged him for life. He had certainly never shared his feelings with anyone since. He would never impose that type of situation on anyone else.

His life had changed overnight at the age of eight. From having two loving, if distant parents he had become the sole carer for his alcoholic mother and estranged from his fathers—both of them—not that there had been any sign of the handyman who’d spawned him once the gravy train had crashed and burned.

He glanced at his phone and was tempted to call Cassandra, but he killed that idea. It was better that he stayed away from her.