The Forbidden Ferrara. Sarah Morgan
might have happened next she’d never know because Gina walked in and when Fia saw who she was carrying she wanted to shout out a warning. She wanted to tell the other girl to run and not look back. But it was too late. Her luck had run out. It was over. It was over because Santo was already turning to locate the source of the interruption, an irritated frown scoring the bronzed planes of his handsome face.
‘He had a bad dream—’ Gina cooed, stroking the sobbing toddler. ‘I said I’d bring him to his mamma as you’ve finished cooking for the night.’
Fia stood, powerless to do anything except allow events to unfold.
Had circumstances been different she would have been pleased to see a Ferrara shocked out of his customary cool. As it was the stakes were so high she watched with the breath trapped in her lungs, reluctant witness to his rapidly changing emotions.
His initial irritation at the disturbance gave way to puzzlement as he looked at the miserable, hiccuping child now stretching out his little arms to Fia.
And she took him, of course, because his welfare mattered to her above all other things.
And two things happened.
Her son stared curiously at the tall, dark stranger in the kitchen and stopped crying instantly.
And the tall, dark stranger stared into black eyes almost identical to his own, and turned pale as death.
CHAPTER TWO
‘CRISTO—’ His voice hoarse, Santo took a step backwards and crashed into some pans that had been neatly stacked ready to be put away. Startled by the sudden noise, the child flinched and hid his face in his mother’s neck. Aware that he was the cause of that sudden display of anxiety, Santo struggled for control. Only by the most ruthless application of willpower did he succeed in hauling back the searing anger that threatened to erupt.
From the security of his mother’s arms, the child peeped at him in terror, instinctively hiding from danger and yet intrigued by it.
And she would have been hiding, too, Santo thought grimly, if she had anywhere to hide. But she was right out in the open, all her secrets exposed.
He didn’t even need to ask the obvious question.
Even without that instant moment of recognition he would have seen it in the way she held herself. That raw, undiluted anxiety was visible to the naked eye.
He’d come here to negotiate the purchase of the land. Not for one second had he anticipated this.
From the moment he’d walked into the kitchen she’d been in a hurry to get rid of him, and now he understood why. He’d assumed their past history was to blame for her response. And of course it was. But not in the way he’d thought.
There was a heaviness in his chest, as if his heart were being squeezed in a clenched fist.
Confronted by a situation he hadn’t anticipated, he struggled with emotions that were new to him. Not just anger but a deep, primitive desire to protect.
The weight in his chest bloomed and grew into something so huge and powerful he felt the force of it right through his body.
I’m a father.
But even as he thought it, he also thought, this is not how it was supposed to be.
He’d always assumed that he would eventually fall in love, marry and then have children. He was a traditional guy, wasn’t he? He’d seen his brother’s joy and his sister’s joy and he’d arrogantly assumed that the same experience awaited him.
He’d missed it all, he thought bitterly. The birth, first steps, first words—
Tormented by those thoughts, Santo gave a low growl.
The toddler’s eyes widened with alarm as he sensed the change in the atmosphere. Or perhaps it was just that he detected his mother’s panic. Either way, Santo knew enough about children to know that this one was about to dissolve into screams.
With another huge effort of will, he forced himself to suppress his feelings. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done. ‘It is late for someone so young to be up.’ He injected his voice with the right amount of gentleness, focusing on the child rather than the mother. Even looking at the boy sent a searing pain through his chest. It was a physical effort not to grab him, strap him into the seat of his Lamborghini and drive away with him. ‘You must be very tired, chicco. You should be in bed.’
Fia stiffened, clearly taking that as criticism. ‘He has bad dreams sometimes.’
The news that his son suffered from bad dreams did nothing to improve Santo’s black, dangerous mood. What, he wondered darkly, had caused those dreams? Reminded of just how dysfunctional this family was, anger turned to cold dread.
‘Gina—is it Gina?’ He glanced at the pretty waitress and somehow managed to deliver the smile that had never failed him yet and it didn’t fail him now as the girl beamed at him, visibly overwhelmed by his status.
‘Signor Ferrara—’
‘I really need to speak to Fia in private—’
‘No!’ Fia’s voice bordered on desperate. ‘Not now. Can’t you see that this is a really bad time?’
‘Oh, it’s fine,’ Gina gushed helpfully, blushing under Santo’s warm, approving gaze. ‘I can take him. I’m his nanny.’
‘Nanny?’ The word stuck in Santo’s throat. No one in his family had ever employed outside help to care for their children. ‘You look after him?’ He didn’t trust himself to use the words ‘my son’. Not yet.
‘It’s a team approach,’ Gina said cheerfully. ‘We’re like meerkats. We all look after the young. Only in this case there is only one young so he’s horribly spoiled. I look after him when Fia is working, but I knew she’d finished cooking tonight so I thought I’d bring him for a cuddle. Now he’s calmed down he’s going to be just fine. He’ll go straight off again the moment I put him in his bed. Come to Auntie Gina—’ Cooing at the sleepy child, she drew him out of Fia’s reluctant arms and snuggled him close.
‘We still have customers—’
‘They’re virtually all finished,’ Gina said helpfully. ‘Just waiting for table two to pay the bill. Ben has it all under control. You have your chat, Boss.’ Apparently oblivious to the tension crackling around them, Gina cast a final awestruck glance at Santo and melted from the room.
Silence reigned.
Fia stood, her cheeks pale against the fire of her hair, dark smudges under her eyes.
Words were some of the most deadly tools in his armoury. He used them to negotiate impossible deals, to smooth the most difficult of situations, to hire and fire, but suddenly, when he needed them more than ever before, they were absent. All he managed was a single word.
‘Well?’
Despite his heightened emotional state, or perhaps because of it, Santo spoke softly but she flinched as if he’d raised his voice.
‘Well, what?’
‘Don’t even think about giving me anything other than the truth. You’d be wasting your breath.’
‘In that case why ask?’
He didn’t know what to say to her. She didn’t know what to say to him.
Their situation was painfully difficult.
Before tonight they’d never actually spoken. Even during that one turbulent encounter, they hadn’t spoken. Not one word had been exchanged. Oh, there’d been sounds. The ripping of clothes, the slide of flesh against flesh, ragged breathing—but no words. Nothing coherent from either of them. He was a man confident in his sexuality, but he still didn’t really understand what had happened that night.
Had